Professor Haley Lawson had lost many students in twenty years of teaching—to matriculation, attrition, even death by misadventure. He had yet to lose one by sheer misplacement. So he did not immediately panic when he noted Prince Anryniel`s absence from class after the winter break.

　　At first, he felt dismayed to see that the prince was not in his usual place at the front of the class. Anryniel was a diligent student—he wrote cogent essays in his own hand, made fair copies of maps, and even sought the professor out to borrow rare tomes of history smuggled out of Nynomath usually kept under lock and key. The professor fancied they had a close relationship—he was even permitted to call the prince "Anryn," in private. Surely the lad would`ve sent a note if he`d planned to be absent.

　　In Prince Anryn`s place at the head table sat Gruffydd the Younger, his books and papers colonizing every inch of lumber. This table was meant to be shared by the sons of the great lords, mirroring their fathers` positions around the King`s council table. Gruffydd had made the sons of Eyiffoen, Teqwyn, and Mayelor move back to other tables. Students of lesser families occupied these.

　　Professor Lawson hid his irritation at the arrogant display behind a benign smile. His chief skill in life—diplomacy—often required the facade, especially when it came to grading young lords` papers. Amwarren`s students of today would become the powerful lords of tomorrow; their favor was Professor Lawson`s path to influence. One stray comment on an essay not properly couched in diplomatic terms could be the difference between keeping his position at court when Prince Anryniel came of age, or consignment to grading papers for the rest of his life.

　　Professor Lawson went to his place at the front of the hall. He stood by the piece of slate he had hung on the wall, and began to draw a map free-form. He turned his head slightly to lecture over his shoulder.

　　"Welcome back from the break. I trust you all are well-rested and not still resting," he said over his shoulder. "We will pick up where we left off with our examination of power differential dynamics as expressed in the Hellachraen Proxy War of eight-hundred ninety-five. Does anybody remember the belligerents in this conflict?"

　　Professor Lawson felt the anxious silence build behind him. Students spun it up around them like a caterpillar weaving a cocoon. Each hoped that if he stayed silent long enough, some metamorphosis might occur. The professor turned to face them, sweeping his eyes over the room, hoping to see even a small flutter of a hand starting to rise.

　　It was often like this in lecture, now—overcrowded with eager students who hadn`t done the reading. Ever since the Prince of Ammar`s engagement to Beatrice of Sanchia was announced, the professor`s lectures filled up as people sought to learn more about the bride`s home country, and about what might happen when the Golden Fleet sailed. He squinted at the room. Four decades of reading dulled his eyesight somewhat, but he could just make out some forty-odd heads in the room. None of whom dared raise his hand.

　　When the silence had gone on uncomfortably long, Professor Lawson called on Gruffydd. The man liked to be flattered with the thought that he might know an answer. "M`lord? Any guesses?"

　　"Hellachrae, I presume," Griff drawled. In a show of deep thought, he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, and cupped his elbow with the opposite hand.

　　"And their patron-state, yes? Might you recall who that is?" Professor Lawson raised his brows, imploring the young man to continue the answer. When Griff couldn`t come up with it, the professor turned his nearsighted gaze on the rest of the room. "Anyone?"

　　Unnerving silence. The professor clung to his smile—all too aware that the small fluttering movement of his hands betrayed his annoyance. All the answers to his questions, and more, were written down in the trove of books Amwarren University boasted in its library. Yet, it was as if the little lordlings never bothered to read them, despite the enormous sums of money their fathers paid for the privilege.

　　When the silence stretched to its thinnest point, a lesser lord`s son behind him attempted the answer. "That was& Nynomath, I believe?"

　　"Yes, yes," Professor Lawson said, rocking up on the balls of his feet. "Who else? Who was on the opposing side of this conflict?"

　　"Sanchia," someone called out from the back wall.

　　Professor Lawson rewarded the brave voice by raising a palm overhead in a gesture of praise.

　　"Yes, and?" he called, building on the hope that at least one student in the class had completed the assigned reading over the break. "Who is Sanchia`s overlord?"

　　This one was easy. Several students shouted it out at once: "Ammar!"

　　Now Professor Lawson smiled in earnest. Not everyone in that room could one day become a king, but anyone there could learn to become a great mind upon which kings relied. He urged his students on: "And why might Hellachrea and Sanchia go to war on behalf of Nynomath and Ammar? Hm? What possible reason would motivate a sovereign state to challenge the hierarchy of world powers? Anyone?" This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

　　More silence. Then, timidly, the grandson of Lord Teqwyn sputtered, "They& don`t they& I think that they might&"

　　Yes, yes, scratch at the cocoon of ignorance, blue-blooded butterfly. Break free! Professor Lawson silently urged.

　　"Share a border&?" the lad finished.

　　"Yes!" Professor Lawson clapped both his hands together so hard, he broke his chalk. He bent to recover the longer piece of it and turned back to the board to continue the lecture.

　　He built on the momentum of his enthusiasm and lost himself in the lecture. This was the work, Professor Lawson told himself. All his life, he`d striven to rise above the muck man made for himself in conquest, adventure, and warfare. He was an unregarded fifth son given to the Church, to be raised in the divine calling to end human suffering. This was what brought him to the study of diplomacy and the paradox it presented: Diplomacy`s chief aim was to avoid war. Yet without war, he would not be a professor of diplomacy& and would not be an advisor to the Kings of Ammar—present and future.

　　Where is that boy? Professor Lawson thought as he sketched out the map of Ammar`s border. This part of the lecture he`d hoped Prince Anryn would hear—of how geography played a critical role in the pattern of diplomatic relations.

　　Nynomath and Ammar had a long history, but only a handful of wars thanks in large part to the mountains that divided them. Before Ammar was its own country, it had been a part of the mage kingdom—until the mages murdered their last king. At that time, some three hundred years before Professor Lawson stood in his classroom, the land divided itself into thirds. The Empire of Bocce with its many client-states took a third of the world, Nynomath and Hellechrae another, and Ammar carved out the last third for itself—colonizing its near-neighbors in the sea and elevating them to powerful city-states. Sanchia was the mightiest of these thanks to its light sailing ships with the capacity to sail windward.

　　An alliance with Sanchia was more than a means to secure Ammar a navy. Professor Lawson spent the better part of twenty years crafting an alliance that would elevate Ammar`s standing in the world arena. The Lightning King could not live forever, and the blessing of his memory would not be enough to keep trade strong and borders protected. Prince Anryn`s marriage to Lady Beatrice was a signal to the world powers that Ammar`s future was protected.

　　Ammar`s future will also be marked down on his next paper for an unexcused absence, Professor Lawson decided. He called halt to the lecture—and caught up to Griff before the little lordling could ensconce himself in the company of the other sons.

　　"His Highness led me to believe he would be back immediately following the break. Was he waylaid?" Professor Lawson asked.

　　"I haven`t seen him," Griff said. His face had stretched over the past four years, taking on the appearance of manhood, if not the responsibility. The lord ran his fingers through his shining black curls and laughed, "Perhaps he has cold feet after all."

　　"I am shocked that you would lose track of the prince so easily, your lordship," said Professor Lawson in rebuke. "He is the son of your King. Was the prince as easy to lose sight of as the thesis of your midterm paper?"

　　He saw a red flush creep up the boy`s neck. This was a trait that he shared with his father. Professor Lawson had seen the Elder`s neck and face redden many times in the debates over the marriage contract. At the sharpness in the professor`s tone, Gruffydd the Younger seemed to deflate a little.

　　The son is not the father, the professor reminded himself. As an educator, the professor had the opportunity to influence the growth of the young men who would become the lords of the land. He had to earn that influence through trust.

　　The professor placed a hand over his heart and softened his voice. "Tell me what happened, son."

　　The compassion in the professor`s tone reached Griff in a way that his lectures didn`t. The young man`s arrogance unraveled. He lowered his eyes and the red flush receded.

　　"We slipped out to go sledding—in Dorland. We argued," Griff admitted. "There was a witch trial in the town. They needed a lord to come and read the sentence. I& went off to sled instead."

　　"Ah," said the professor. He moved his fingers in a gesture of blessing. "God grant the poor soul peace."

　　He said no more than this. The Lightning King`s antipathy toward witches was well known. It would not have been diplomatic to reveal his personal distaste for the practice to Gruffydd the Younger before he sussed out how the young man felt about it first.

　　It was like the prisoner`s dilemma he taught in first-year seminar: if two prisoners collaborated, they might both escape the prison. But if one were to confide in the other and be betrayed& This outcome was marked on the four-square diagram with a dull red X. Should that come to pass, Professor Lawson would not be the first chief counselor to a King of Ammar to find his head on a spike.

　　"Did he not return to your lodgings at Dorland before you made your way back to Amwarren?" Professor Lawson pressed. "Were you able to attempt a reconciliation?"

　　"Haven`t you heard? Dorland is in shambles. A storm blew up while we were on the mountain and by the time we walked back, our lodgings were completely destroyed! Stripped down to the foundation," Griff said.

　　"Blown down?" Professor Lawson asked. The professor made another sign with his fingers, this one a warding against evil—three fingers to form the rough shape of a Winze doll. "Extraordinary& Though, if it were a witch`s spell, I suppose anything is possible&"

　　Griff copied the gesture. "I had to return here in a hired sleigh. Anryn took mine and our drivers with him to go back for the witch trial. I thought maybe he continued on when he saw the wreck of the town. Or maybe he went straight back home to teach me my place."

　　Now Professor Lawson made his voice hard again. While Griff was his student, it was the professor`s job to guide him on the path of power his family`s influence had bought for him. "Your place is by the Prince of Ammar`s side. The future of your family rests on the crown."

　　The red flush spread itself over Griff`s cheeks. He lowered his head in shame. "I shouldn`t have left him. I was angry. I`ll& I`ll apologize. When I see him next."