Page 48 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
“The Dreadlord said he would return by the thirteenth hour,” said one of the sorcerers. “He will probably go to the Prince’s chambers at once.”
My smile froze. The thirteenth hour—that was a scant few minutes away. And once the Dreadlord visited his son, he would know that Galanrae wasn’t healed, that he was edging closer to the brink of death. And what would the Dreadlord do then? Rage at the sorcerers who had failed to cure his son? Would he burst into this very room, right as my plan took effect—if it ever did?
I inhaled, trying to calm myself. The scent of fresh warm bread and savory soup filled my nostrils, but it sickened rather than tantalized me. This wasn’t my forte, this kind of courtly drama, these toxic machinations. I’d prefer a head-on fight with the Cursed Palace guard.
What if the Dreadlord returned to Galanrae’s chambers and decided that his son was entirely useless, both as a warrior and as breeding stock? What if he decided to finish the Prince off then and there, while he lay helpless in bed? I’d left Galanrae with books and tea, and promises that I’d report on the results of the poisoning as soon as I could. He had protested, claiming he was strong enough to dress and come with me—but I’d positioned guards at his bedside, with orders not to let him rise except for trips to the bathroom.
The Fiend Prince was in no state to defend himself if Andreas and the Dreadlord decided to end his life.
A spoon thunked to the table, sucking my attention back to my guests. The sorcerer who’d dropped the spoon choked out, “I—I feel—strange.”
The ice wielder’s hands had gone rigid, his face frozen in shock as his body began to tremble.
I wanted to stay, to enjoy what seemed to be the first hints of my victory—but I couldn’t stop worrying about my husband. “Excuse me.” I rose with a swift rustle of skirts. “I must—check on the next course—I’ll return shortly.”
“She’s poisoned us,” squawked a woman. “Stop her!”
Hands thrust out toward me, but the magic that sparked from them died in midair, fizzling like flames under the rain.
Untouched, I ran from the room, while the wails of the impotent sorcerers swelled behind me.
41
I burst into the back room where the luncheon courses were lined up in silver warmers, ready to be delivered. The servants stared at me, and Emlin stepped forward. “Your Highness, what is it?”
I dragged her into a corner and whispered, “They’re beginning to react. I think it’s working. Do you have any more of the toxin?”
“A few drops, but—”
“Give me the bottle. I have this feeling that I need to get to the Prince, before the Dreadlord returns.”
“Go.” She handed over the tiny bottle. “My people and I will deal with the sorcerers.”
I rushed along corridors, trying to follow my memories of the way without overthinking the left and right-hand turns.
This entire scheme was clumsy and ill-conceived. If the toxin was working—and every sign indicated that it was—the sorcerers would be reduced to common people. They wouldn’t be able to defend the Dreadlord or try to take over the rule of Terelaus themselves. But that didn’t solve the problem of any ichor-enhanced guards who might be in the Cursed Palace. I hadn’t really accounted for them—I’d been primarily concerned with eliminating the Dreadlord and his sorcerers as a threat. I’d assumed that the other guards would swear loyalty to the Fiend Prince once the Dreadlord was killed or imprisoned. But what if they didn’t?
Why had I assumed I could do this? Why had I rushed into it without taking more time, thinking through every aspect of the plot, every possible sequence of events? Why hadn’t I created fail-safes and backup plans?
I cursed my own name as I raced toward the Prince’s quarters, arriving breathless at the door. I pressed a hand to my waist, my ribs battling the corset for deep breaths. The guards flanking the door watched me impassively as I panted, “Has anyone—entered—”
“The Dreadlord and Andreas are within, along with the Dreadlord’s personal guards,” said one of the sentinels.
Without waiting for more information, I burst into the room.
The Dreadlord was in full battle armor, a mountain of black metal crowned with a helm of wicked spikes. The plates of the armor were scored by blades, stained with blood, and a massive sword was slung across his back. His belt bore a screaming skull at the center, flanked by an array of bristling knives and gleaming chains. Massive claw-toed boots dented the soft carpet by the Prince’s bed. Where the Dreadlord had crossed the floor, smears of earth and blood marred the rug.
Andreas stood behind the Dreadlord, a sneer of sick pleasure on his narrow face as he watched Galanrae’s thin chest rise and fall. The Fiend Prince’s eyelids were closed, and his features looked frighteningly transparent.
Quickly I scanned the bodyguards in the room—four of them, all powered up with ichor, judging by their muscles. They would be tough to take down. Normal guards I could handle—like the ones who had battled me in the training room. Guards with ichor in their bodies, and a bit of combat magic at their disposal—I wasn’t so sure.
If I’d planned this better, I’d have secured some ichor for myself. I could have used it just once and powered myself up to their level.
Time to face facts—I might be smart and strong, but I wasn’t good at crafting foolproof plots. No use chafing about it now, though—I’d have to make up for my mistakes with luck, skill, and on-the-spot thinking.
The Dreadlord drew off his massive right gauntlet and laid a hand on his son’s forehead. “He is dying,” he said. “We should have taken the girl for him months ago.” His helmet swiveled, his gaze apparently centering on me, though I couldn’t see his eyes through the dark eyeholes. “Do you still want to know why I chose you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself with words.
