Page 45 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
Under cover of kissing his cheek, I breathed, “I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
When I straightened, I looked around at the seven sorcerers of the Cursed Palace—the entire retinue of natural-born magic-wielders employed by the Dreadlord. Only Andreas was missing.
What an opportunity. If only I had the poison handy, I could remove their powers, leaving them as weak and helpless as the Prince.
An idea slithered out of the darkest places of my heart, the places nearest to the poisonous truth of my name. Amarylla, named for the amaryllis flower, toxic and beautiful.
I released my most brilliant smile, the one that had dazzled the Fiend Prince himself on the night of our celebratory dinner.
“You’re all so amazing,” I told the sorcerers, with a breathy simper. “We have no one so wonderful in Brintzia. I’m completely in awe of your power, truly. And you’ve done such a wonderful job reviving and renewing His Highness! I wonder—would you all do me the inestimable honor of attending a special luncheon with me tomorrow? I’ll order the very finest foods in the Cursed Palace. It will be a thank-you for your impressive work here today.”
Inwardly I wanted to scream that they hadn’t really fixed him, that they were useless for anything but war and damage. But I kept my saccharine smile in place, and I swept its dazzling ray over every face until their stern expressions softened a little. Grudging murmurs of acceptance—and a few enthusiastic ones—rippled along the circle of dark-clad figures.
“That’s settled then!” I feigned a little wriggle of delight. “Oh, this is so exciting! Maybe you can demonstrate a little bit of magic for me, too? I would love to know who’s the most powerful!”
“I’d be happy to show you some magic, Princess,” said one haughty-looking woman. “If I may say so, I believe I hold the distinction of ‘most powerful’ in the absence of Andreas.”
“You’d like to think so, Fidusa,” intercepted a squat redheaded man. “But have you felled a contingent of enemy soldiers three rows deep with one conjured scythe of fire?”
“Fire isn’t the greatest element, Ghorn,” muttered another sorcerer. “Ice is far more effective at both immobilizing and dispatching the enemy.”
“Tomorrow, then,” I said loudly and cheerfully over the disgruntled mutterings.
As they filed out of the room, my smile narrowed to something that probably looked a lot less pleasant. When I turned to the Fiend Prince, he cocked an eyebrow. “You look dreadfully sadistic,” he said. “What are you concocting?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “Rest, and get well. I’m not done with you yet.” In my mouth, with the smile I gave him, the phrase was far less threatening than his father’s had been. I was glad he hadn’t heard those words from the Dreadlord. They might have dragged down his spirits, just when he needed every bit of his hope and willpower.
I pulled the curtains around the Prince’s bed so he could rest undisturbed, and I summoned the servant Sil. She was the one who had stayed with me during my first day in the Cursed Palace, the one who wouldn’t answer any of my questions about the palace or Terelaus. Today she smiled vacantly at me while I communicated the Prince’s need to see Onwe.
“I will pass the word to the right people,” she said cheerfully, but there was a glimmer of steel and ice in her gaze, gone so quickly I thought maybe I had imagined it. As she pranced away I wondered if perhaps her vacant good humor was a mask as solid and effective as that of the Dreadlord himself.
My invitation to the sorcerers had been impulsive, perhaps foolish, and definitely sinister. For my plan to work, I would need the toxin from that ancient monster chafing in its cell, deep in the secret parts of the Cursed Palace. Hopefully the servant I’d spoken to, the one who wanted revolution, would take advantage of the Dreadlord’s absence and search his chambers. She’d served in those rooms before—she should know where to check. And now that she understand what to look for, maybe, just maybe this would work.
But no word came from her that afternoon. Onwe did not appear, and I paced the room more times than I could count, gnawing the inside of my cheek and fretting while servants whisked in and out of the Prince’s bedcurtains, bringing him water and soup and handkerchiefs he could cough into. Each time they carried more bloody cloths away, my heart died a little.
From behind the black drapery of the bed, I heard the Prince say, “I will rest now, thank you. No more ministrations, I beg. Please go and tend to your other duties, or eat something, or see your families.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. May the gods minister to your health,” said one of the servants, and the other echoed, “May they minister.”
They slipped out, with sympathetic bows to me.
The minute the door closed, the Prince called through the heavy curtain. “Amarylla.”
I scrunched up my face. “Yes?”
“Would you come here, please?”
“Do you need something?”
“Only your company. I’ve grown fond of it. Strange, I know—you’re so prickly and feral and prone to punching things. But I like it.”
I sidled along the curtain, my fingertips brushing the velvety folds. “I don’t do well with sick people. I don’t—I can’t—”
“You’re strong and determined, so this kind of irreparable weakness makes you uncomfortable,” he said. “You don’t know what to say or do—how to fix it. So you’d rather not see it, or be near it.”
My jaw dropped. How did he understand me so perfectly?
“It’s not that I don’t care about you,” I muttered.
