Chapter 15 #2
“There are old war machines in the lower levels,” Tamerlan supplied, rifling through the palace inventory he always brought with him to meetings. “Several ballistae and catapults, as well as two fireproof trebuchets.”
Well, well. Seems this wasn’t the first time Fallorian had worried about dragons overhead.
“Aren’t they in the miasmatic area?” Marcades asked.
Tamerlan’s lips thinned. “Yes, but perhaps with a bit of cleaning…”
The council fell silent. Another problem without a solution. No one would look at Leita, and she was grateful when Charis began talking again.
“We’ll bring the spellcasters back in. Perhaps their powers will yield better results on single items.”
Leita nodded with the rest of them, holding little hope, but it was something to do, at least.
With the issue apparently as concluded as it could be, Charis turned the floor over to Inara for a fuller report on the northern mines and the poor yield to be expected.
Leita’s weren’t the only set of eyes to begin to glaze as numbers and percentages were presented, but everyone did their best to listen.
“It seems the main mineshaft, which has followed the same silver vein for a century, has collapsed. No one was injured, thankfully, but it’s unlikely the shaft can be reopened.
We’ll need to begin work at a new location.
” From the mess of papers on her lap, Inara pulled a map, already crowded with circles and lines over the topographic rendering of the northern faelands.
“Lord Venartarian suggests these three possibilities but warns it could take years to find a vein as productive as the last.”
“Why so long?” asked Tamerlan.
Inara’s gaze turned nervous and darted toward Leita before skittering away again. “Lord Venartarian says the miners can’t hear the earth’s song anymore. They used to easily find veins, listening to the singing, but it’s gone quiet.”
A cold fist of dismay clenched around Leita’s stomach. It only squeezed harder when Lady Idrisil made a disturbing connection.
“There are reports from the city that some fae are losing connection to their own magic. They feel weakened or cannot tap into it at all.”
The council looked amongst themselves in horror, but only Charis was brave enough to turn to Leita.
She wanted to shrink back in her seat, or better yet, flee the council chamber entirely, but she made herself stay. Leita knew what Charis couldn’t ask, knew what was on the mind of every councilor.
Fae losing their magic, the faelands rejecting her, the border weakening, even dragons encroaching from above—all of it could be solved if the new Queen could simply do as every single one of her predecessors had and connect with the faelands and its magic.
That was all a Queen needed to do, all that was actually required of her.
Connect. Unite the circuit. Without a center, the whole system would fail.
And it was failing. That was clear, day by day. The faelands was going feral, the fae themselves anemic.
“Perhaps,” said Lady Eilean, “we’d best suspend the food and drink policy. We can’t have fae growing weak.”
“We must rely less on magic.”
Everyone finally looked at Leita. A myriad of emotions laid before her, and she felt ill-equipped to deal with any of it, not their fears, not their dread, not even their hopes.
“We cannot let the people starve,” Lady Eilean retorted.
“Then they should eat.”
Leita had little sympathy for the fae of Fallorian. She knew it was callous, but in light of being asked so much of as Queen, she really didn’t think it was unreasonable to expect the people to wean themselves off a magic subsistence. Allarion had done it. The fae of Hallevale still ate and drank.
Charis cleared her throat delicately. “It seems there is a…general distaste for the foodstuffs on offer currently.”
Leita just barely contained her huff. Magic was poisoning the fae slowly, over centuries. Yet they still wanted to live off of it, even as their connection to it grew tenuous. She knew better than to say this aloud, but the unkind thoughts were there nevertheless.
“I see,” she managed to say.
Ever the diplomat, Charis suggested, “It may be because the foods have been provided by orcs and prepared in the orcish way. Perhaps if we found methods more to the fae taste…?”
Leita sighed and took the hand that was offered.
“Send word to Glenys Berengion of Hallevale. Have the duana-daín send a supply of their best meats and wines, as well as five of their best cooks.” Quickly, Leita explained how the fae of Hallevale, and possibly other hinterland towns, had never fully given up eating and drinking.
“Perhaps their way of preparation will be to the people’s liking. ”
No one missed her venomous tone. Leita wished she’d been able to soften it, but honestly, she was tired. Even after a good long sleep, her body strangely ached. Most of all her heart.
She was tired of chasing her own tail, going in circles.
No, she wasn’t an ideal Queen. She hadn’t been exceptional amongst her kin; had Amaranthe been a good Queen and chosen a successor, it wouldn’t have been Leita. There’d been far better choices—and they would have had a guiding hand to help them.
But Leita was on her own—and she’d never felt more so, sitting there in the council chamber surrounded by her troubles.