Page 13 of Foundling

Even Attalus’s mood soured at the mention of Pyrrha. She and one illegitimate brother, Nikodemos, had been casualties in the years’ long struggle for the dais, along with many, many cousins, soldiers, and retainers.

Diometrios had taken as many as he could with him.

The old lizard had been a mean bastard, and while that should’ve united his spawn against him, they were all too terrorized. Huddled within their factions, only his eldest sons had been strong enough to finally defeat him and the challenges that came after his death.

It’d been about a year since the last major attempt to overthrow Araxos. Perhaps they’d all been lulled into a false sense of security.

Attalus wouldn’t have guessed that possible, given how terrified the whole court was from centuries of the mad king, but there were stranger ways of coping.

It was within that sullen, contemplative silence that they heard the echoing clink of talons on stone. All four of them looked down the corridor, watching on as a contingent of gorgoroi marched down the warped corridor, Tychon himself at their head.

Phiobos climbed to his feet, but Attalus didn’t bother until one of the gorgoros stuck the key into the lock of his cell and nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket.

“Up,” barked Tychon.

With a sigh, Attalus stood. His wings twitched agitatedly when two gorgoroi hurried to grab him by the upper arms, but he suppressed his instinct to bat them away. If he was going to fight, he needed more room to maneuver.

Phiobos similarly secured, the two of them were led from their cell—leaving Eudora and Chrysanthe behind.

“Where are you taking them?” called Eudora.

“What about my sister?” Chrysanthe asked at the same time.

Tychon didn’t bother turning around. “Your mother’s still arguing your case. Your time will come soon.”

Well, well. It seemed Clymestra was indeed scheming. He expected no less. With the weight of her clan behind her, no daughter of hers could be accused without a serious fight.

Meanwhile, Phiobos’s clan was far less powerful, and he was illegitimate.

Attalus was princeps but had no clan.

They were the easier prey.

Attalus met Phiobos’s rounded eyes as they turned a corner and were marched to the first of many staircases up to the Pinnacle. There wasn’t any consolation he could give Phiobos other than a halfhearted lift of his mouth.

No point in worrying now. They’d learn their fate soon enough.

The only thing that surprised Attalus about what Araxos and Erastus were calling a trial was that most of the court was once again present. He’d half expected to be led up to the top of the Pinnacle, had his wings belted to his back, and thrown into the sea. Tidy, efficient, effective.

Instead, they were brought into a crowded great hall, Araxos presiding over everything from the dais. Honestly, not much had changed from a few days ago, making Attalus wonder if time had begun to slip down in the Maw—or whether Araxos had kept everyone else there in the room until the trial.

A display of power all around.

The courtiers and retainers certainly looked tired enough to have been there for days. Strain pulled at mouths, and eyes were a bit dazed as they skipped suspiciously between Araxos and his accused.

Whatever this was, only Araxos, Erastus, and their guards seemed to know what was planned. Even grumpy Aristander hadn’t been allowed to leave and looked as flummoxed as the rest of the court.

Phiobos stood shoulder to shoulder with Attalus, each of them with a gorgoros on their other side and another behind them, dirks trained between their wings. That was the quickest way to a dragon’s hearts, between the wings.

“Will they kill us?” Phiobos whispered, sounding braver than Attalus expected.

“Not until after speeches.” He got a warning shove from Tychon but didn’t heed it. Looking about the court, he spotted who he was looking for and nodded in their direction. “Your mother and kin are here. Take heart in that.”

Phiobos managed a wan grin.

No, it wasn’t consolation to die in front of family. But if given the choice, Attalus would’ve chosen to meet his death while holding his mother’s gaze. He’d also rather be standing shoulder to shoulder with his full-brother, but then, Theron had been smart enough to flee when he could.

Attalus had always pitied the gamblers in the drinking dens, miserable and sullen as they tried to win back their losses. The key was to know when luck had run out and cut your losses.