The stone cells of the prison at Amwarren University were cozy, compared to the dark pits of Nynomath. Maertyn rolled over on the stone bench, untroubled to find himself behind bars. It was far from his first time—there wasn`t a jail in the world he couldn`t walk out of, and not a man alive who could stop him when he did.

　　He rubbed his face to bring blood back into his cheeks. He peered out from between his fingers and thought of fire.

　　I should burn those dolls when I see them. Maertyn couldn`t tell if this was a new thought, or perhaps a memory of something he said to Anryn when they were in the village by the river.

　　There had been so many of the dolls there. Them and the witches` flower crowns. It had been hard not to hear the words everyone in the village muttered as they`d passed—every time Maertyn stepped on a person`s shadow, it was as if he could hear someone whispering in his ear.

　　"Maimed Lorraine`s boy, he did. Look at the hilt—high born, that one. Would fetch a good price if the big one weren`t with him&"

　　Anryn! Maertyn thought. He sat up, his head swimming. The prince was no longer in the cell with him. Bright morning sun streaked into the cell. He blinked back tears at the sting it brought to his eyes. It filtered through a narrow glass paned window in the highest part of the cell where most ordinary folk could not reach. When he stood on the slab and stretched, Maertyn could just brush the pane with his fingertips.

　　Glass! He hadn`t seen it in years, not since he`d punched the last of the windows out in his house in a drunken rage. He almost turned to tell Anryn about it, but then remembered the prince was not there.

　　Maertyn felt dismay wind its way through the sticky, sluggish mire of his hangover. Anryn, the lonely, angry prince—a woman ensnared in the body of a boy. Drunk as he`d been, he could never mistake a curse when he Saw it. When she yanked down her pants to yell at him, he Saw lines all through her skin and bones—little threads of magic that held both in place. The hidden strands stretched so tight, they looked like they might snap.

　　Now, the shame and anger found him through his hangover. He thought of how many must run through his own body to keep his bones and his skin the same age they had been on the day he was cursed. Anryn`s curse must have been on her nearly her whole life, Maertyn thought. Which, he reckoned, might explain why the prince defended her false form. Perhaps she was too young to remember when it was carved.

　　Stretching helped his headache, but the anger stayed in his stomach, spreading. He reached underneath his shirt to feel the top of the scars on his back, the long lines of his curse carved into the flesh. He wondered where on Anryn`s body the mages carved hers.

　　It had to be a mage, he thought. Witches couldn`t control magic the way a mage could, to enspell an entire body like that. When a witch opened the seam between light and shadow, it came and went like a storm blowing down from the mountain. At least, that was what it had been for Maertyn when his wife died. He hadn`t known what he was doing until he`d burned the roof of the church away.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　He became aware that someone was standing outside the cell, looking at him. Maertyn blinked and thought the Sight played a trick on him. It looked like Prince Anryn, but taller, with black hair and the shadow of a beard on the jaw. He rubbed his face and came to stand close to the bars to look again.

　　"Are you a man called Martin Shorefire?" the boy asked him. "I"m Gruffydd, son of Lord Gruffydd. I am a friend of His Grace, the Prince Anryniel of Ammar. He sent me to collect you."

　　The bearded boy with the ridiculous name led Maertyn through the cramped, narrow paths that ran between the stone towers of Amwarren University. He thought that some of them looked familiar. Of course, this was impossible; Maertyn Blackfire had never been to Amwarren. Yet the sight of the towers stirred little whispers in his mind, like memories passed through a half-waking dream. Maertyn knew he would need to find more liquor for his flask, soon.

　　Gruffydd led Maertyn into one of the towers, lined with wooden doors to the cells instead of iron bars. All the halls had glass windows, here, some of them with little colored panels.

　　"You may use this room," the boy told Maertyn, stopping outside one of the carved wooden doors. "You`ll find a bath and some& more suitable clothes waiting. When you are dressed, please come outside to the hall and one will guide you to the prince`s apartments."

　　Maertyn squinted at him, still hungover and piecing together the events of the night before. The prince wanted to see him? Maertyn wondered how much of the night she remembered. He supposed he should find out before he told her about the curse. She might not want to buy him any whiskey after he told her.

　　The room beyond the wooden door felt like another world to Maertyn. It was half again the size of his own cottage, the window facing his mountain as big as gate to his front yard. A four-poster bed took up the far wall, made up with matching embroidered bedspread and pillowcases. Two low, carved wooden tables flanked it, topped with silver trays and small vases tucked full of fresh flowers. One wall was taken up entirely by shelves lined with leather bound books; the wall opposite, filled by a brick-lined fireplace, crackling and warm.

　　Beside the fireplace, he found a copper tub filled with steaming hot water. Maertyn went right to it, awed and overwhelmed. In all his eighty years alive, he`d never once had a hot bath. Even on his wedding day, it was cold river water, or nothing.

　　It took Maertyn a moment to work out how to step into the water, gripping the sides of the tub to steady himself as he folded his long legs under him. The heat of it made his skin prickle with sweat. It leached off the last bitterness of the hangover. He gave in to the urge to lift his feet up out of the water so that he could sink his head under the surface, hoping it would work on his headache.

　　He stayed like that for a long time, untroubled when he ran out of air. Water couldn`t kill him. He`d spent long hours in the river near his farm, looking up at the smooth mirror of water from beneath it, seeing himself reflected there. Wondering why he couldn`t drown, though his lungs ached and seized. They would stay like that until later, when Maertyn emerged from the water and they could draw air once more—as if every inch of him knew that there would always be a later.

　　The hangover deserted him, leaving a trickle of shame to drip from him like the hot water that pooled at his feet on the floor. He looked down at himself, and remembered with aching clarity pulling his pants down to mock Anryn. The rush of regret left him cold and shivering. He knew he would need to apologize, though he barely remembered how to after all that time alone on the mountain.