Page 47 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
When Sil and Onwe moved on toward the Prince’s bed, Emlin whispered, “I won’t put the poison in the wine—too obvious, and the sorcerers are a suspicious lot. I’ll have it added to the soup. How quickly does it work?”
“I have no idea.”
She frowned. “I’m risking a lot, doing this. You have to promise me that if it doesn’t work, and I’m punished for it, you’ll find another way to take him down.”
“I’m hosting the luncheon,” I told her. “They’ll know it was my plan. If anyone is going down for it, it’ll be me. I’ll take the blame.”
Sil peeked around the corner of the Prince’s bed, eyeing us. “A lot of whispering going on over there,” she said lightly.
“We’re talking of pleasure, and of bed partners,” I said. “I was curious about how—how women delight other women—”
“And I told her that’s a private matter,” interrupted Emlin. “I should return to my duties now.”
With her safely out of the room, I hurried over to the Prince’s bedside. Onwe had removed his hood and was applying a glowing herb poultice to the Prince’s chest and forehead. The Prince hadn’t roused, and the depth of his sleep concerned me.
“Will he be all right?” I whispered. “He’s been coughing up a lot of blood.”
“His heart is weakening faster than I expected,” said Onwe. “What happened right before this episode of fever and sickness? Did anything distress him, or cause him to overexert himself?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened—except—” My fingers fluttered to my lips. “Oh—oh, gods—he and I, we—we—”
“You consummated,” Onwe finished, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “I see you took my warning to heart.”
“Yes, but also—I love him.” The words dropped from my lips like a death knell. They tasted like weakness. “I don’t want to love him. He’s going to die.”
“As we all are,” said Onwe. “And those closer to the grave deserve love just as much as those with years of life left ahead of them.” He patted my hand. “I will do what I can for him, but you should rest, Your Highness. You look exhausted.”
40
I stood at the head of the luncheon table, dressed in a gown of dark blue trimmed with silver—the brightest thing I could find among the clothes appointed for me.
The luncheon had been spread in a room with actual windows—precious few of those in the Cursed Palace—and through their frosty panes shone an anemic winter sun. Earlier, I had walked past them and glimpsed the sparkling ice-coated branches of trees, and beyond those, black stone walls slick with ice, their parapets and towers glinting sharp in the sun. A stark reminder of the obstacles between me and freedom.
More obstacles to my freedom sat around the table—seven of them, all black-robed, all keen-eyed and ready to show me their power, to cement their status in the eyes of the new Princess. Not that they cared much what I thought—they were more likely concerned with how they were ranked in the minds of their peers. I hoped that their hubris would blind them to my true purpose. Pride was the most effective distraction for the powerful.
“My lords and ladies of magic, true-born sorcerers, healers of my royal husband, His Highness the Fiend Prince,” I said, lifting my goblet. “Let us drink together to the health of the heir, to the Seat of Ghast, and to the most glorious and gifted among you!”
The sorcerers exchanged glances, as if trying to sort out whom I meant by “most glorious and gifted.” I saw a couple of them pass a hand over their wine before drinking it—likely a magical test to detect poison. My stomach jumped with nerves, even as my heart pulsed with gratitude to Emlin for putting the toxin in something besides their drinks.
We all sipped the wine together, and when I sat down, the servants brought out the first course, a creamy soup much like the one we’d been served at the wedding celebration. My gut contorted, but I forced myself to smile and say, “So, who would like to tell me about their powers and how you have served the Dreadlord? I have a weakness for lurid stories of valor and glory and bloodshed!”
A few of them began to speak at once, voices clamoring over each other. I raised my hand and pointed to the ice-wielding sorcerer. “If you would tell your tale first, I would be grateful. But please take a moment to eat as well—I would not wish to deprive you of these fine flavors.”
“You are very kind, Your Highness,” said the sorcerer. I held his gaze, smiling warmly, and his stiff frozen features cracked a smile in return. These men and women were used to the vagaries and wrath of their Dreadlord, and they seemed desperate for kind words and praise. I had to steel myself against sympathy, to remind myself that the toxin would only take their powers, not kill them. I had no idea what the toxin might to do me, a woman without magic. Probably nothing. And I had to sip the soup myself, or they might notice that I wasn’t eating and become suspicious.
I took a spoonful, sipping delicately, while everyone else did the same. Some of the sorcerers even dipped in for a second spoonful. The ice sorcerer swallowed his mouthful of broth and began to speak.
But I could barely listen to him. My brain kept spinning with questions: How much toxin was in the soup? How much would it take to affect these people? When would I began to see them having symptoms—or would the effects be visible at all? The Prince’s loss of his innate magic had been noticeable at once, because his superhuman strength had disappeared immediately, and his wounds had resisted healing. But these sorcerers had no outward physical traits related to their magic. How would I know if the toxin was working?
I forced myself to refocus, to listen to the ice sorcerer’s tale of freezing an entire village solid. He spoke of it as his greatest achievement. “And the Dreadlord’s army simply walked through the town, smashing the frozen villagers into chunks. Easiest conquest ever.” He laughed, a cold, creeping sound that sent ice into my bones.
Grimly I smiled as he took another spoonful of soup, and another. This one deserved the loss of his powers, and more. The Fiend Prince took no delight in his kills, but this man reveled in the horrific deaths of defenseless men, women, and children.
Perhaps we should have put deadly poison into the soup, instead of an untested substance that we hoped might steal the sorcerers’ magic. But it wasn’t in me to commit so many murders at once, no matter how much those wielders deserved death.
“A lurid tale indeed,” I said. “I look forward to seeing if any of you can match it. But first, does anyone know when the Dreadlord and Andreas might return? I would like to personally inform the Dreadlord of his son’s recovery.”
If any of the sorcerers had bothered to check on him since the fever broke, they would know I was lying, that the Prince hadn’t truly recovered. They would know that his malady went deeper than a temporary illness. Perhaps some of them had realized that while treating him, and they simply didn’t care. They accepted my lies because they didn’t wish to be bothered with their mortally ill Prince.
