Page 63 of Foundling

You’re pouting, Thalia told her. Not very queenly.

Those who don’t have to go don’t get to tell me how to wear my face. Indeed, Thalia hadn’t been required to accompany them—in fact, Charis had very nearly insisted to the point of being rude that Thalia not come with them.

“The Queen’s Guard will be intimidating enough,” Charis had assured her, “and I’m sure we wouldn’t want to make Marcades think you don’t consider his protection sufficient.”

Also not for the first time, Leita considered what a better Queen Charis would make than her. She was so good at managing people. Right that very moment, striding begrudgingly down into the city, Leita was being masterfully managed.

At least Charis had the grace to accompany Leita on the plan she had concocted. Charis thought the people might be reassured by seeing their Queen walk amongst them, especially if she stopped in on one of the local bakeries to see how the grains from Balmirra were being processed. And so Leita marched with Charis, Marcades, two triads of his soldiers, and Ondra, who’d insisted on coming should Leita need anything.

On another day, Leita might’ve seen to the errand with a modicum of grace. She didn’t enjoy this festering ill-will growing between her and the city folk, and she didn’t necessarily just want them to give way to her demands. Although, that would be mighty helpful. No, Leita was determined not to be a Queen like Amaranthe—and that meant no draconian enforcement of edicts. Even if she did fantasize about shoving a few faces into bowls of cream.

Instead, once again, Charis and all the fae were getting a grumpy Leita. Despite taking a short rest yesterday afternoon, Leita felt no better for it. Perhaps the miasma throughout the palace was finally affecting her. Perhaps it was the stress of nothing going her way.

She was supposed to be the most powerful person in all the land, but here she was, cranky, feverish, and nauseated. Fae weren’t known to suffer illness, and yet she seemed to be afflicted with something.

Yes, a hard head, Thalia offered unhelpfully.

I’m not feeling very supported, mama mare.

Believe me, I’m the epitome of noble suffering when it comes to raising you. Chin up. Be pleasant. And it’ll be over soon.

That was…honestly not the worst advice—although, she’d never admit it to Thalia. All the mare got was a grumble down their bond.

The wide, flat cobblestones lining the streets were freshly swept, those that’d been missing in months past finally replaced. Angled drainage made a shallow V in the center, just a trickle of water flowing down toward the harbor. The structures nearest the palace were large civic buildings, their colonnades newly cleaned. The columns were more bulbous at the base, gently narrowing as they sloped upward into a gilded or painted capital.

When Leita had first taken the throne, these buildings hadn’t just been empty, they’d been derelict, decrepit. Amaranthe had long ago dismissed any civic officials, instead keeping a short rein on Fallorian herself. Everything had been managed from the palace.

Now, with Lady Idrisil installed here as duana-daín, the capitals wore fresh gilt and paint, the streets were clean and bright, and many windows had been skirted with flowerboxes.

Yet, for all its dressing up, there was still something forlorn, almost sickly about Fallorian. Although the majority of fae had historically lived in Fallorian, with only a few towns and major estates in the east, as Amaranthe’s tyranny grew, so too did the population of the hinterland.

Some had returned to the city by now, but it was nothing compared to the splendor of what it was a millennium ago. So many homes and shops sat empty, boarded up by families who’d no intention of returning. Whereas a predecessor might’ve expected to walk through throngs of her people out to greet her on the streets, Leita instead was met by a few dozen curious, sometimes glowering faces.

Those faces, still so skeletal to her, sent a shiver down her back.

Charis nodded to those people who met them, looking for all the world the Queen who should have been. In her plain tunic and worn trou, Leita felt downright dowdy beside the immaculate Charis, whose sapphire gown and robes flowed behind her as though she were a waterfall tumbling down the city slope.

There were dozens of dresses and thrice that many jewels stuffed into closets and wardrobes back in Leita’s chambers. She just never had a mind to wear them. Silks and brocade and jewels were like a costume to put on, as though she meant to fool anyone who saw her in such finery. It wasn’t the true Leita.

Although, lately, that true Leita wasn’t the most pleasant person to be.

Biting her cheek, Leita tried to meet the gazes of those poking their heads from doors or windows, offering nods and acknowledgement. She got little in return, but she didn’t expect anything anyway.

By the time they made the establishment Charis wanted to visit, Leita was almost dizzy from all the nodding.

The great iron and stud door had already been thrown open, and a burly fae in a leather apron awaited them. Leita was surprised to see his white sclera, and she received his deferential bow with astonished pleasure.

“May I introduce Corran Erengar, my Queen. Our very first volunteer baker.”

The fae man nodded politely before ushering them inside.

The ground floor was already crowded with curious onlookers—it seemed whoever wasn’t out in the street was in here, waiting to see the Queen try some bread. The air had already grown warm with so many bodies and so much bated breath packed together. It carried a hint of yeast and something earthier Leita couldn’t put her finger on.

“What did you do before becoming a baker?” Leita asked, remembering Charis had encouraged her to put questions to the people.

“Ran a pottery, my Queen.”

Ah, that would be clay she smelled, then. Indeed, the more she looked, the more she saw how the space hadn’t been built to accommodate baking. Had there been fewer people inside, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find a potter’s wheel sitting in the back corner.