It wasn`t until the age of seven that the Lightning King finally seemed to notice his son. By then, Anryn had done all that he could to fight this mysterious deficiency everyone seemed to see in him—even stabbing the tutor in the thigh with a pen for suggesting the prince was too short to sit at a writing desk. King Anathas had beaten Anryn for that, but grudgingly arranged for the prince to have fencing lessons.

　　Eventually the King packed Anryn off to Amwarren University and looked for a bride for him. Only then did Anryn finally start to feel like he could become a king. His tutor was Haley Lawson, Amwarren`s top professor of Law and Diplomacy. The professor helped the King negotiate with Sanchia for the match, and explained to the prince exactly what was expected of him. Anryn`s task now was to bring Sanchia`s Golden Fleet under Ammarish influence.

　　Soon after the wedding, Professor Lawson said, the King planned for Anryn to lead the ships into a third war with Nynomath in his father`s name. At well past seventy, the Lightning King could hardly expect to live long enough to see the outcome. But, Professor Lawson said, all the rest of the world would be watching Anryn.

　　How nice it would be to hide from it behind a veil, Anryn thought.

　　Just now, he thought of wearing a veil as a disguise. The assassins` attempt at Dorland blindsided him. His father never would have made such a mistake, traveling without any of his usual attendants, allowing himself to be called to royal business when he was meant to be incognito. Professor Lawson would have said no to it as well—but Gruffydd the Younger, his friend and lifelong companion, convinced Anryn a few days of sledding in Dorland would be fun. No one would even know that they were gone, Griff said.

　　And they wouldn`t have—if there hadn`t been a witch trial that needed a lord to read the sentence. Prince Anryn tried to see the King`s justice done, and instead had almost cost Ammar its future. It was a miracle he hadn`t died there, or up on the mountain.

　　But that was no miracle—it was witchcraft, Anryn thought, glancing at Maertyn`s back as they trudged on foot toward Amwarren.

　　The prince pushed the thought away. It was too frightening, too dangerous to think about. To admit to himself that he traveled in the company of a witch, or worse, a rogue mage& The Lightning King wouldn`t just beat his son for breaking the witch laws; he might outright imprison him.

　　Anryn found it easier to think of the assassins instead, and how he might avoid another knife in his back. A veil would only be a temporary solution. Getting back to Professor Lawson was better.

　　Maertyn led them down the mountain over deer trails, avoiding the North Road until they reached the valley. Anryn did not want to go back to Dorland—he convinced Maertyn to take them around the town instead, over smaller roads that connected little towns to the north of Amwarren. In each place, Maertyn wanted to stop and look for his whiskey. The best he found was sour barley beer, which he spiked with the flask that he carried. Anryn paid for these inferior brews with some of the silver coins he had left in his pocket, and borrowed Maertyn`s coat to pull over himself while they took turns sleeping in haylofts or on dirt floors.

　　At night, Anryn would pray with the words he was taught from childhood.

　　Look on me, O God, and deliver me from misery and woe. Distance me from wrongdoing. For You, God, watch over us and deliver us. For You, God, are gracious and merciful.

　　God might`ve been merciful like the priests said, but King Anathas was not. If Anryn`s father had seen his son reduced to this—after the decades the Lightning King fought to restore the prestige and glory of Ammar`s monarchy—the old man would have had a stroke. Anryn lay awake for long hours in the night, praying over and over for God to deliver him, first from the assassins, and then from his father`s disappointment. He dreamed of his wedding and woke up with gritted teeth.

　　Three days out from Amwarren, they came to a river with a village on the far bank. Maertyn wanted to go there to look for more whiskey. Anryn wanted to lie down for the night, to pray, and to agonize.

　　Just as they reached the narrow wood bridge that would take them across the water, three men emerged from the trees. Anryn hid behind Maertyn. One hand went to the hilt of his sword.

　　"Assassins," he whispered to Maertyn.

　　"Them? No," Maertyn reassured him. "They only want to rob us."

　　Only? Anryn thought, tightening his grip on his sword.

　　The prince gave the men a second glance, and Anryn thought Maertyn might be right. They were dirty peasants with a hungry, lean look. Like wolves in winter desperate enough to attack prey that they would normally keep well away from. These men likely had trade in the summer, felling trees and chopping lumber to sell. Summer was still months away.

　　The largest brigand stood only as high as Maertyn`s shoulders. The man stepped forward to block their way. In one hand, he held an old sword with a broken tip. The wide, flat kind Ammar`s infantry carried. He held out the other hand to them, palm up.

　　"Toll road," he said. "Fifty silver to cross."This narrative has been purloined without the author`s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

　　Maertyn shrugged his shoulders. "I do not carry money."

　　"That`s too bad," the brigand replied. He lifted the broken sword.

　　Anryn flared at the outrage of being robbed in broad daylight.

　　"This is a public road," the prince argued, as if it were Professor Lawson`s freshman seminar. "My fath—the King guarantees the right of every man in Ammar to walk on it."

　　"You are not going to talk someone out of robbing you," Maertyn started to say.

　　Before he could get the rest of the remark out, the one with the sword lunged for them. Maertyn stepped back, the broken edge just missing his chest. The other two rushed toward them with fists and sticks.

　　Determined never to be stabbed again, Anryn jumped back and swung his blade fast and wide.

　　One of the brigands tried to grab the tip of it. Anryn felt only a slight resistance as metal met flesh. The tips of the man`s fingers went flying.

　　Out of the corner of his eye, Anryn saw Maertyn swing his walking stick. It caught the side of the sword-carrying brigand`s face with a sickening crack. Blood flecked into the snow.

　　The third brigand, thus far unharmed, took one look at the blood in the snow and panicked. He ran back over the bridge toward the village. The fingerless one made another lunge for Anryn, only noticing his missing fingers when he struggled to make a fist. He cursed and broke off, making a run for the trees.

　　Anryn started to chase after him, but Maertyn grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

　　"What are you doing?" Maertyn asked. "They only wanted to rob you& Now they will not."

　　"How can you be sure?" Anryn asked.

　　Maertyn went to the man he downed with his walking stick. He used his foot to turn the brigand over. Anryn saw that Maertyn had dislocated the man`s jaw. Kneeling down beside him, Maertyn jammed his fingers inside the man`s mouth. He yanked the joint back into place with a sharp crack.

　　"This is true, what I said? You will not rob us, now?" Maertyn asked the man.

　　"Mercy," the brigand groaned around his wounded jaw. "Mercy, please& We only wanted money."

　　Maertyn turned to Anryn. He raised his brows, expectant.

　　"You can`t be serious," Anryn said. "I`m not going to pay him. He tried to rob us!"

　　"He is hungry. He is only going to rob someone else until he can eat," Maertyn said.

　　For a moment, Anryn thought of leaving Maertyn there with the brigand. Let the peasants stay together if they insist on being absurd! the prince thought.

　　Then the brigand on the ground began to sob. The sound reminded Anryn of the witch of Dorland. That piteous man had wept at the stake when the prince read out the death sentence. Anryn remembered how the sobs echoed in the town square. No one was there to speak for the witch. No one was here to speak for the brigand—save Maertyn, who did not even know him.

　　Anryn reached into his pocket and fished out a silver coin. He tossed it in the snow beside the brigand. Only then did Maertyn push himself to his feet with his walking stick, and continue on over the bridge.

　　They stayed the night in one of the houses huddled close to the riverbank. The cottages were humble wood and stone. A few had arched awnings over their doors from which the villagers hung decorations. Anryn saw scraps of faded red cotton hanging outside a few doors beside Winze dolls—sticks of birch tied together to resemble a man, decorated with glass and blackened with ash from the hearth. Former soldiers, he supposed, trying to claim their status and ward off the ghosts of those they killed in wartime.

　　Maertyn did not want to stay at any of the houses with the banners or Winze dolls. He chose another house instead with barrels stacked out in front, guessing rightly that they would find at least beer there. Anryn paid the man who lived in this house another silver coin, which bought them a roof for the night, a small meal of salted fish, and some more beer for Maertyn. Anryn chewed his food and tried not to think about whether a meal for the Prince of Ammar had cost someone else in the house their supper.

　　Not long after settling down for the night, someone knocked on the door to the house. Anxious, Anryn stood, then relaxed when he saw that it was only a woman. She was wrapped in an old stained veil with a wreath of dried flowers anchoring it to her head. Though she was alone, unescorted by husband or son, the man who owned the house let her in. After a furious whispered conversation by the door, she approached Anryn.

　　The woman bobbed up and down three times, sending some brittle dried petals from her flower crown onto the floor. She held out her hand to Anryn, the silver coin the prince had thrown to the brigand in the palm of it.

　　"My lord, this one is too new. Too shiny and too heavy," the woman complained, her voice tremulous and thin. "The merchants we buy from will wonder how we got it. There will be trouble."

　　Anryn took back the coin. The prince had been reared to courtly manners, to always treat the lesser sex with graciousness and respect. But he couldn`t stop himself from berating her: "There is already trouble, woman. When the King learns of highway robbery on the roads here, the judiciary court will arrive to dispense penalties to these men. And those who harbor them."

　　"Mercy, lord," the woman begged. "There are children here with no fathers. If the courts come, they will lose their mothers, too. There is no church here to do penance& They`ll burn us as witches&"

　　Prince Anryn felt Maertyn`s eyes on him. Watching to see what the prince would do. Those eyes were the first thing Anryn could remember clearly after his mad dash up the mountain. Before that, it was all the flash of the assassin`s knife, the fire of the witch`s pyre crawling up his arm—and the wind, the terrible wind, crashing down from the sky when the witch screamed.

　　Anryn clung to the memory of Maertyn`s eyes. The prince wanted to keep those eyes on him for a little while longer.

　　The prince fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. The buttons were mother-of-pearl, polished to a milky shine. He pulled off three of these and gave them to the woman.

　　"Blessings on you, lord," the woman said. She handed him the dried flower crown from her head.

　　Anryn kept the coin, but threw the flower crown into the river when they left the next day.