Page 113 of Foundling

He inclined his head, acquiescing at least in theory. But Attalus intended to do all he could to keep his mate and her lands safe. If he couldn’t rend his mate’s assassin limb from limb, a few gorgoroi or even Araxos himself would do.

27

After the third day of Ondra’s captivity, Attalus was finally allowed to assess the traitor. He’d been given strict instructions only to frighten her, that her interrogators had gleaned being caught in his mouth upon her capture had disturbed her greatly.

He was delighted to hear it—and accepted her interrogators’ instructions as friendly advice.

Attalus followed Marcades down into another palace pit. The stairwell reminded him of the one down to the grotto, but the dark cavern at its base was nothing like the ethereal place. If the faelands was smart, it didn’t reside down here.

Low firelight in rusting braziers cut weakly through the gloom. Although the miasma had burned away, this place retained an aftertaste of dust and soot. Fresh air hadn’t permeated down here in some time.

Cells had been hewn from the bedrock, stone on all sides except the door. The fae being the fae, even the latticework of spelled metal that made up the cell doors was beautiful, in a twisted, stark kind of way. The shapes of the bent metal created visual illusions as one walked past, allowing guards to see in but keeping prisoners blind.

Attalus was led all the way down, past a guard at every empty cell. He refused to let the unsavory memory of being thrown in a dungeon himself, not that long ago, spoil his mood.

His long purple robes fluttered around him when they at last came to a halt outside the final door on the right. Marcades stepped forward to run his gloved finger across the metal in a precise pattern, and the mechanism unlocked.

Pulling the door open, Marcades reminded him, “Two minutes, my prince.”

Attalus’s grin was his answer before poking his head into the cell. While unlikely, he didn’t think it totally beyond his wily mate to have him confined to a cell until this business with Araxos was concluded. Even after the council meeting, they’d yet to see eye to eye on the matter.

A figure crouched in the far corner, both ankles chained to either wall.

Attalus stepped inside the cell, pleased when Ondra shuddered at the sound of him coming. His talons on the stone were unmistakable.

“I’ve come to finish what I started, vroul.”

Ondra’s head shot up from the cradle of her arms, her eyes white-rimmed. Attalus laughed at her terror.

She looked far more hale than he’d anticipated. Only a few scratches and the grime of the cell on her face. Oh, her eyes were bloodshot and underscored by lines, but she had all her limbs. What exactly were these interrogators doing—or not doing?

She also wore the same clothes she’d been caught in, the garb that marked her as a servant of the palace. Attalus wondered which of the stains was his Leita’s blood.

Ondra lifted her chin defiantly, her lip curling in a sneer. Determined to be strong, it seemed, but her trembling hands belied her bravery.

“I’m not afraid of you, lizard,” she spat.

“Yessss, you are,” he taunted, letting his forked tongue hang on the ssss. He crouched in the center of the cell, taking up her vision and blocking the only escape.

“You’re nothing but a pampered dog.”

“But one that attacks on command.” Attalus peeled his lips back, revealing the maw of his throat glowing behind his teeth. Her false bravery fell away at the threat of flame, and she likely didn’t need him to tell her, “Fire is one of the worst ways to die. Did you know?”

“I’ll die one way or another,” she muttered.

“Indeed you will. You can spare yourself much suffering if you admit to the depths of your plot, though. Reveal your plans and your conspirators and you may yet atone for your crimes.”

Ondra snorted. “I haven’t come this far to spare her now.”

She jumped when Attalus’s humorless laugh boomed through the cell. The mad sound rebounded off the rock, growing louder with each pass.

“Spare her? They were wrong to tell me you aren’t mad yet. Leita doesn’t need sparing, vroul, for neither you nor your pathetic plotters will come near her again.”

“I may have failed, but we are many,” Ondra growled. “It only takes a single blade to change our fate. The faelands will be free.”

Attalus chuckled. “Free from what, precisely?” He didn’t wait for her answer, standing suddenly to loom over her. “Your last Queen was a tyrant, I’ll grant you that. But even she didn’t compare to my father. I’ve seen true madness, vroul. Cruelty you cannot comprehend. My father deserved his death, as Amaranthe did hers. Leita is nothing like them.”

Ondra’s lower lid twitched, and her mouth screwed into a line. A moment of conflict before she declared, “A Queen is a Queen, and the faelands must be free of them.”