Anryn lay in bed, his head throbbing and his nose stuffed with dried blood. He couldn`t say whether it was the whiskey or the witchcraft that caused his headache. Either might have given him the chill that now racked his body. He pulled the thick blanket around him, swaddling every inch of skin—as if he could protect his flesh from what he saw in the sorcerous mirror.

　　It`s a trick. Just some mean thing Maertyn did to get a rise out of me like when he pulled his pants down& Anryn buried his face into his pillow, his pulse stabbing his temples. It beat in time to the rapping on the door to his bedroom.

　　"Your Highness? Haley Lawson to see you," an attendant called.

　　Anryn pulled his head out from beneath his pillow, the silk slipcase clinging to his face where the blood from his nose dried. The curtains were still drawn, but the room had been cleaned. The tray with the empty glasses was gone, and a new fire crackled merrily in the hearth. The scorch silver tray was nowhere to be seen.

　　He cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound bigger than he felt, "He may come."

　　Professor Lawson strode into the room. The familiar sight of him—tall and wide with eyes that always seemed to smile—lifted Anryn`s spirits. The prince sometimes wished that this man had been his father. He did a better job of it than the Lightning King.

　　The professor`s hands fluttered against the front of his robe when he saw Anryn struggling to sit up in bed. "Are you quite well, Your Highness? An attack of nerves&?"

　　At the concern in the professor`s voice, Anryn felt like he might weep. He clapped a hand to his nose to pinch the bridge before it could bleed. The professor came close to the bed and knelt down beside him.

　　"Prince Anryn& Even in chapel, I`ve heard such strange things! Dorland was smashed flat by a tornado. You were missing for nearly two weeks& Now campus is abuzz with rumors that you were found drunk in some back alley pub engaging in experimentation with witchcraft?"

　　Goddamnit, Griff! Anryn thought.

　　"Professor, I& There has been an attempt on my life. In Dorland. At the witch burning," Anryn blurted out. "The men who drove my sleigh& I was standing on the scaffold. The witch was praying while the smoke choked him& And then, the one behind me, he& he had a knife, and& I think the witch saw it. He screamed and then the wind came down. It all happened so fast."

　　He hated the sound of his voice echoing in the cold, dark room. Crying like a little girl—what would the King say? He balled up his fists, and fought with the knot in his throat to keep tears back.

　　"May God grant the departed peace however troubled they may have been in life." Professor Lawson moved his fingers in a gesture of mourning and then reached to rest his hand on Anryn`s back, warm and heavy. "Breathe& Be patient with yourself, and the right words will come to you."

　　Anryn drew a shuddering breath. He felt the knot slide down into his chest, and at last he could get words out again, in a low and urgent whisper. "Professor—do you think my father wants me dead?"

　　He felt a kind of calm settle over him now that he`d said it aloud. A stillness that came from saluting an opponent in a fencing match, when he faced an enemy head-on. Even bloodied and hungover as he was at that moment, Anryn was determined not to hide.

　　"Why would you think this?" Professor Lawson asked. He sounded more curious than aghast. The professor continued as if he were at a lecture, his tone measured and patient. "Be rational—what gain could the King have in your death? Rather, consider that someone who wished you harm might disguise himself. To appear to be in service to your father as a means to get close to you."

　　Anryn wavered. Maertyn had seemed so sure—and the sleigh drivers were dressed in the royal colors. Yet that wasn`t any kind of proof that would hold up in a trial. And Maetyn had said all manner of strange things that couldn`t be true. "Then& Griff?"Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

　　The professor`s eyes turned misty as it did in seminar, as if his mind disappeared behind a cloud. "Assassination is an extraordinary leap for a vassal. And, like your father, what would be gained? If you were not to wed Beatrice, a conciliatory match between Duchess Sofia`s sister and Gruffydd the Elder would take place. If you were to die after the wedding and leave no sons, your widow could not remarry without the King`s permission—and would lose her rank as princess."

　　Anryn heard more than felt himself sigh in relief. On paper, at least, Griff had no obvious reason to want him dead. He wished that he could shake Professor Lawson until more comforting words fell from his mouth. "What do I do, then? Shall I just& wait here for another assassin to appear and hope to interrogate him&?"

　　"No, no, of course this will not do! We must be on our way to the wedding&!" The gold tassel of Professor Lawson`s four-corned cap swung as he surged to his feet. He strode from one end of the room to the other, eyes on the floor. Every so often, his hands smoothed down the front of his robes as he paced.

　　Anryn eased himself out of bed. For a disorienting moment, it felt as though he looked at himself from somewhere far away. His eyes lingered on his naked limbs, his hairless chest.

　　It`s only a hangover, he told himself. He reached for the silver bell on his bedside table and rang for a valet.

　　At the gentle peel, the servants` door sprang open and the room swarmed with servants. Two men helped him dress while a third discreetly collected the bloodstained pillowcase to launder. Another servant opened the curtains to let the watery morning sunshine into the room. The faint light rekindled Anryn`s headache.

　　"Yes—yes, that could work," the professor muttered to himself. He went to the desk and rifled through Anryn`s papers. He came to stand at the prince`s side with a map of Ammar in his hands. "It was Young Gruffydd`s idea to go to Dorland, yes? Even though he knew you were due to return to Mahaut? Fair enough! The little lord will not mind another detour. We will go to the spa at Java."

　　Anryn slid his arms into a fresh black tunic. He tugged the collar away from his neck, imagining his father`s fingers gripping him there. "The King wants me home—he must be so angry already&"

　　"Java lies near enough to Mahaut to create the impression that we are bound for the wedding—just four days by carriage. If we leave here by week`s end, they will be expecting us in Mahaut in around ten days," Professor Lawson said. His eyes were sharp and clear again. "Should your assassin strike before we arrive in Java, this would tell us that the plot was conceived in Mahaut. If it should occur in Java, that tells us that the plan originated from somewhere closer in proximity to Your Highness."

　　"But you believe that one will strike," Anryn said.

　　He pulled on his sword belt and fastened it around his hips. The priests` saying struck him again—If you find yourself on the same road twice, be sure to read the signs the second time. If he had to face an assassin again, what would make him ready, this time?

　　"When that happens, I`ll need someone with me," Anryn heard himself say. To his own ears, his voice sounded like a stranger`s. Strong and calm. Kingly.

　　"We should of course bring Young Gruffydd with us," Professor Lawson said. "Though we will send his retinue ahead this week—this will limit opportunities for the plan to go awry and curb the young man`s wagging tongue&"

　　"No—professor, I mean someone else. Someone who could see if an assassin was in the room with me," Anryn said. He tried not to say the word the way that Maertyn did. He tried, as Professor Lawson would have advised him, to suss the professor`s position out before he revealed his own. "Someone with& more skills than what money can buy."

　　Now Professor Lawson`s eyes narrowed. It was alarming how quickly they could change from merry to shrewd. Perhaps that was what the Lightning King liked about him.

　　"Your Highness needs a witch?" the professor said.

　　Anryn met his gaze. Until that moment, he hadn`t known how Professor Lawson felt about witchcraft. Professor Lawson had been King Anathas`s advisor for many years. He was one of the chief architects of the marriage contract with Sanchia. The King must have liked him, Anryn thought—but that did not mean that Professor Lawson always agreed with him.

　　He thought of Maertyn, staring at him. Of the eyes of the world all over him. Watching to see what the future King of Ammar would do.

　　"The witch laws define witchcraft as the will to do harm. A lonely man on his own does not meet the legal standard," the prince said, carefully. "The witch of Dorland was convicted of wishing doom on the town—and that turned out to be a just conviction. But& if I could find a lonely man who would use his heresy to my advantage& it would not be witchcraft, by law. Would it&?"

　　For a long moment, the professor said nothing. Then, he smiled again and replied, "I am pleased that Your Highness has paid so much attention in your ethics seminar."

　　Anryn noticed that the professor`s fingers fluttered up toward his neck.