“I said no such thing.” Pinning Aiden to the floor, I kneeled next to him, searching for any sign of sanity in his mad gaze. “He’s desperate to fulfill his word and we’re preventing him. He’s losing his mind.” And I’d never seen anything like this before. At least, not in a human. Did my father know his peon had been rendered useless and this was his way of disposing of him? Or…

“Help him.” Marie’s fingernails dug into my arm.

“I can’t. The only way to end this is to kill my father.” Or to let my father win.

“If he dies, I’ll make you pay.” Her voice was a whisper, but the threat was clear. And I didn’t think it mattered to her that the world might pay along with me. I needed to think of a solution, and quickly.

“We could drug him.” Fred was leaning over my shoulder, his breath coming in short little whistles past my ear. “Can’t harm himself or anyone else if he’s out cold.”

“Do you have something?”

“I’ve a sleeping draught in my chambers,” Marie answered, but she didn’t move.

“Go get it,” I snapped. “And Fred, linger in the corridor and keep everyone out. The last thing we need is an interruption.”

Both leapt into action, leaving me alone with the ailing lord. I watched his labored breathing for a long moment before asking, “Is there anything of you left in there, Aiden du Chastelier?”

There was power in a name – even in a human one, and he slowly turned his head, some level of sanity returning to his gaze. “Yes.”

“Good.” I sat back on my heels. “If you endeavor to hold on to that, I’ll endeavor to see you freed of this foolish promise you made.”

“Do I have your word on that, Your Highness?” He cackled softly, throat convulsing.

“No.” I tilted my head, listening to the frantic beat of his heart. “I’ve made a few foolish promises of my own of late, and I’m finding them quite taxing.”

“Wise.” He rested his forehead against the stone. “I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing when I made those promises to your father.”

“I’m not interested in your excuses,” I said, wishing Marie would hurry up. “And blaming one’s poor choices on youth is a derivative excuse most often employed by the old.”

“Not excuses,” he said. “Just an explanation. And I might never have another chance to voice it.”

Talking seemed to have improved his lucidity, if nothing else, so I shrugged. “Confess away.”

“I promised to cede the Isle to him peaceably should the trolls ever be freed of the curse.”

“I’d gathered that much,” I said, then bit my tongue to keep any further sarcasm from passing my lips. “Why?”