Prince Anryn sat on a wicker chair set in the woods, and listened to the witches of Ammar plead for their lives.

　　Only a few days had passed since the failed witch burning in the clearing. The witches of Java would not go back to their town without the Prince of Ammar there to offer protection. Anryn wanted to get back on the main road to Mahaut, but he was afraid to move while Professor Lawson was so badly injured—barely able to speak or breathe.

　　Maertyn was no help. He laid in the dirt and snored like an alleyway drunk. Dead to the world. The prince considered leaving Maertyn there in the woods. His fearsome fire with its unholy black tinge would cause a panic if it were seen anywhere near a church. Yet, Anryn knew he would never do it. That secret part of Anryn understood that she and Maertyn were on the same path of fate, now, connecting them.

　　The witches offered help. The men and women brought food and supplies to the clearing in the woods. At first, it was only the dozen or so they`d rescued packing canteens and bedrolls. Then more started to arrive, along with fine tents, strong horses, and even a few coaches. The tale of the clearing spread from the woods down to the main road, teeming with people on their way to the wedding. When witches heard that the Prince of Ammar might offer them mercy, they turned toward the woods and found their way to Anryn.

　　It`s like I`m holding court, Anryn thought. A handful of times in his life, he`d stood in for his father at ceremonies—but it had never felt like this.

　　Griff stood by his side, and asked the names of the witches who came to seek out the Prince of Ammar. He made them swear to do the prince no harm. One by one, they knelt and told stories of their persecution. Lost inheritances, banishment from towns. Violence at the hand of their neighbors for even the merest suspicion of witchcraft.

　　"Burned my garden, they did," said a pitiful old man with a mouth of broken teeth. "On account I put down beer for the snails. It were no witchcraft. It drowns the wee fuckers afore they get my cabbages&"

　　"I didn`t want to marry a man who already had a wife, but the priest wouldn`t listen!" a woman barely older than Anryn wept. Her tears left long dark stains in the thin green veil she wore. "I threatened to bewitch him so that he would refuse to marry me& Now they won`t let me go to church. My mother won`t even speak to me&"

　　Each story sounded sadder than the last. So many of them reminded Anryn of the witch of Dorland, of Maertyn. Lonely and sad. Cut off from family and friends. The prince was still unsure what he could do for them. But he listened, which was more than his father had ever done for the witches of Ammar.

　　Just then, an old woman approached the makeshift throne. She wore a white veil over a simple gray wool dress with the gold suns of Ammar embroidered at the hems. A holy woman, Anryn realized.

　　 "I am Aerona, Your Majesty," she said as she bowed. "I am an abbess at Kemeld Priory. Some dozen witches take sanctuary with me there. I would ask for Your Majesty`s protection for the priory to harbor these poor souls."

　　 "What sorcery do these women practice?" Griff asked. He gripped his sword a little tighter.

　　Anryn noticed that he was sharper with women, now. The would-be gallant knight who rescued maidens and peeped at naked stepmothers was all but forgotten now that Griff had seen women conjure magic.

　　"A few can do such things as find lost needles or boil water at a glance, my lord," said the abbess. "These women came to me after their own villages named them witches. Most are unmarried or widowed. With neither father nor husband to speak for them, they have nowhere else to go. I will not refuse them shelter. God commands compassion, and I answer to God before my King."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　Anryn thought of the mother of brigand who refused his silver coin. She`d said something like this—not having fathers or husbands to protect the children. How was it that everyone knew the sorry state of these subjects in Ammar, and no one talked of it? Anryn stopped himself from grinding his teeth, and made himself answer the abbess graciously.

　　"Women who come to your priory and declare themselves witches may dwell with you as you see fit, Abbess," he said. "But season your compassion with caution. None who use magic to harm may escape justice by hiding behind the Church."

　　 Aerona bowed low. "Your Majesty is merciful and forgiving. We would come with you to the wedding at Mahaut and join in celebration of your holy union."

　　 "How much longer can this go on&?" Griff asked in a low voice as the abbess glided away and the next witch approached. "I thought there would be only a few dozen at most. But if we meet with every witch in Ammar, we could be here for a year, Ryn."

　　There were nearly two hundred witches there in the woods by then. Too many people to send back to Java, as Griff kept suggesting. Most of the witches who found them had come from the road to Mahaut, on their way to the wedding anyhow.

　　Anryn struggled with what to do. He argued with Griff by day, and slept very little at night. When he closed his eyes, the Sight sometimes thrust its way into the dark and Anryn would snap awake with a prayer on his lips. Some part of him still believed that witchcraft was evil, and he`d be damned for being one.

　　Yet how could that be completely true? The witches who helped them now weren`t evil, they were ordinary. Maertyn was not evil, he was cursed. Was it really evil of him to kill the mages that came for them? He was only acting in self defense. Anryn had done the same with the assassins.

　　I prayed to God to deliver me, to keep me from wrongdoing, Anryn thought. And He sent me to Maertyn and now I have the Sight&

　　He gave up on praying. That very same morning, Maertyn Blackfire woke up from his slumber. Somehow, he healed Professor Lawson without so much as a word spoken aloud. Anryn saw the professor sitting up, drinking from Maertyn`s flask, and decided right then that he would not abandon him—or any witch.

　　"It`s a miracle," Griff said. He gripped Professor Lawson`s hands and helped him to his feet.

　　The witches all around them whispered it.

　　The miracle of the clearing, they called it.

　　The next day, there were another hundred lined up to meet with the Prince of Ammar. Each new witch convinced that this was a sign from God—the fate of witches in Ammar was about to change. They bowed to Anryn, and when they saw Maertyn standing with him, muttered little prayers to the Winze under their breath.

　　"I am out of gin," Maertyn complained. He stood behind Anryn`s chair while he heard the witches` pleas, and nudged it with his foot when he was bored.

　　"There`s plenty to drink here." Anryn gestured around the growing camp. Some carts nearby were piled with barrels full of wine and beer bound for the wedding. "If we stay another week, they may even bring the wedding feast to us."

　　"And lose the deposit on the dining halls in Mahaut? My father would have a stroke," Griff said. "We`ve got to get moving, Ryn. Professor Lawson can ride in one of the carriages if he`s not well enough to sit on a horse, but we should go on ahead. We could be in Mahaut in two days."

　　"Where an assassin probably waits for me," Anryn said. He scanned the growing crowd again, eyes straining against the haze of green made by the trees. So far, neither mage nor assassin had come for them in the woods.

　　The prince squinted a little, and felt the Sight creep into his eyes. All around them, the lines cast by the witches glowed—their hope, their vitality like the waters of Java in the walls. Brimming with possibility.

　　This must be the way that mages See them, Anryn reasoned.

　　The more witches gathered here, the brighter it would be. Perhaps such a large crowd of witches scared both the mages and the assassins away. Just as Maertyn had done when they first met.

　　This gave Anryn an idea.