Page 11 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
The Fiend Prince’s eyes widened, and his lips parted a bit. He was still staring at me when a guard murmured, “Your Highness? Are you ready?”
“What? Oh… yes.” The Prince straightened his tailcoat. “Proceed.”
The guard nodded and tapped on the doors in front of us. From beyond them I heard a herald’s voice, “Announcing His Infernal Highness the Fiend Prince of Terelaus, Warrior of the Gods, Builder of Empires, and his bride the Princess Amarylla of Brintzia.”
The doors parted, probably by magic—I could see no one touching them. I laid my hand on the Prince’s proffered arm and we glided into the room beyond—a room scattered with strangers dressed in dark clothing. Other than the occasional jewel-toned cape, accessory, or headpiece, most of the crowd wore black.
“Is black your national color?” I whispered to the Prince.
“It would seem so,” he replied, with a salacious smirk, as if we were whispering naughty secrets. For a moment I wondered what devilish things he might whisper to me if we really were enamored with each other. Looking at him now, at his fine features and flawless skin, I could not imagine what had made him so reluctant to remove his mask last night. Could there be some magical reason, or perhaps a cyclical plague that affected him at certain times? I’d never heard of such a thing, but then again, not much was known about Terelaus and its people, beyond their apparent yearning to conquer every nation that touched their current borders.
We both smiled and waved to the dour-faced courtiers we passed. Most of them watched me with narrowed eyes—displeased, curious, or suspicious—or perhaps all three at once. I had no doubt there were families of noble blood in the crowd who had hoped their own son or daughter might catch the Fiend Prince’s eye and become a royal. And here I was, daughter of an enemy kingdom, taking that coveted place as the broodmare for Terelaus’s prize stud.
Was I only a convenient bride, a political chess-piece that happened to become available at the right time? Or was there another reason why the Dreadlord had chosen a daughter-in-law from beyond his own borders?
Too many questions, and they all swirled behind my bright eyes and saccharine smile as I floated along at my new husband’s side.
We approached the grand banquet table on the dais at the head of the room. The Dreadlord sat there, wearing a half-mask beneath which I glimpsed a hard, stubbled jaw and thin lips.
The Fiend Prince and I bowed and curtsied before him, then moved around the table and took our places at his right hand. Thankfully we did not have to sit immediately beside him—our chairs were set farther along the table, leaving a wide berth between us and the Dreadlord. I was immensely grateful for the distance. The Dreadlord cowed me with his very presence, and I did not enjoy feeling small and subdued.
The other guests all took their places at various tables throughout the room, and a low hum of conversation began. I could only imagine what the nobles might be saying about me and the Fiend Prince. My stomach tightened, my bowels spasming with nerves. When the servants brought out a thin creamy soup as the first course, I could barely sip it. I took a few of the small dry crackers that accompanied it, relishing the crunch and the hint of salt.
“Keep smiling at everyone,” the Prince murmured. “I know looking pleasant is a terrible chore for you, but you must make a greater effort. To be honest, you look rather ill.”
“Ifeelrather ill,” I whispered back.
“Nerves.” He nodded so companionably that I wanted to smack him and remind him that we were not friends. “I sometimes have them before a battle.”
“You mean you get nervous before you go out to slaughter people and steal their land?” I said sweetly. “You poor darling.”
He cast a baleful look at me, but he did not reply, because servants were delivering the next course—tender pink slices of meat on beds of greens. Once the servants had retreated again, he jabbed a piece of meat with his fork and said in an undertone, “My life is far less simple and barbaric than you believe, Princess.”
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I picked at the rest of the courses. Delicious though they looked, I was too anxious to eat much. I felt tense, drawn tight like the string of a crossbow. When a group of musicians at the other end of the chamber began to play, I let out a quick gasp of relief and seized the Prince’s hand. “Let’s dance.”
He stared. “You want to dance? With me?”
“You said we would need to.”
“Yes, but not until later in the evening.”
“In my country, the royals always open the dance.”
“Fine.” The Fiend Prince beckoned to the herald, who stood by the wall, behind the Dreadlord’s seat. When the man approached, the prince said, ‘Please announce that in accordance with the customs of the Princess’s homeland, she and I will begin the first dance.”
The herald halted the musicians with a sharp gesture. Then he cleared his throat and made the proclamation, while the Fiend Prince led me around the table, off the dais, and into the middle of the room.
Why did I think dancing would make me feel better? Now I was truly the center of attention, the oddity for all eyes to fix upon. My fingers trembled in the Prince’s hand.
“Losing your nerve already, wife?” He gave me an insolent smile that sent steel right into my bones.
“Just wondering if you’re any good as a dancer,” I said airily. “I’m about to put you to shame.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m good at fighting,” I told him. “And dancing is all about rhythm and footwork.” Music flooded the space, swirling around us, merging with my blood and singing in my bones. Whatever they lacked in color, the Terelonians had good music with a seductive beat.
