Professor Lawson left Prince Anryn`s rooms with his mind knotted at both ends. He paced the quadrangle between the dormitories and the professor`s tower, circling the stone fountain at its center while he stared at the icy ground beneath his feet. The sun crept over the high stone walls, glistening on the frost like silver scattered before him.

　　So the rumors about the prince`s arrest were true, the professor thought.

　　His mind picked at this knot on the one side of his mind, coiled around the lifelong habit of cultivating trust. He thought that he must write to the King right away. To tell him, at the very least, that his son`s life had been threatened.

　　In a bizarre way, Professor Lawson was flattered on his student`s behalf. Prince Anryniel`s importance had grown to such an amount as to warrant an attempt on his life. Such a heinous act felt almost like an initiation—a grim but necessary rite of passage for a future king about to come into his majority. It was not a pleasant thought to Professor Lawson, but at least the nature of the threat was prosaic.

　　As to Prince Anryn`s flirtation with witchcraft& The knot at this end of his mind was larger, more intricate. The complexity drew Professor Lawson in, and he continued to pace the quadrangle even as his feet went numb from the chill.

　　The Lightning King could not live forever. It was not beyond the pale to assume that his successor would have to confront the legacy he left behind. Thus far, Professor Lawson had avoided engaging on the subject of the witch laws with Prince Anryn—because the laws were a matter of domestic policy, not international diplomacy.

　　As to his own feelings& Professor Lawson had been called on to give counsel to witches bound for the stake. He prayed with them. Cried with them. It was not their fault that they were born in this terrible state—magic in their blood, voices in their head, or simply with an uncanniness that attracted the attention of mages. Yet Haley Lawson knew that while he served the Lightning King, not much could be done for these unlucky souls beyond tucking a Winze doll into the kindling of their pyres.

　　Now, perhaps, Prince Anryniel would change all of that. Could change all of that—if he lived long enough to become king. The boy was poised to become Ammar`s first new king in more than a lifetime. This was a time of fantastic turmoil& and an opportunity for Professor Lawson to do something other than grade papers.

　　I could rewrite the law of the land itself, Haley Lawson thought.

　　He stopped in his icebound tracks, frozen by his own temerity. Never before had he allowed his personal ambition to overbalance his sense of self-preservation. Yet now that he had, Professor Lawson found that he could correct the disparity. Once Prince Anryniel married and graduated, he would need trusted advisors by his side. Should it be some witch he met in a back alley pub, or would it be Haley Lawson, professor of diplomacy?

　　I will not write to the King—I will go and pack my bag, Professor Lawson decided. If he hurried, he could collect Gruffydd the Younger before lunch and be on the road by afternoon. He just needed to review his appointment book to revise their schedule.

　　Professor Lawson had just turned to go into the professor`s tower when he noticed that he was not alone in the quadrangle. The bitter cold morning kept the students inside—even the groundsmen kept to the stone arcade between buildings to avoid the chill of the wind. Yet there, sprawled over the lip of the marble found, Professor Lawson spied a man dressed only in pants and a shirt. With a half empty bottle beside him.

　　"Hello there, son," Professor Lawson called out.

　　When he received no response, he shuffled over to the fountain. This would not be the first student or servant of Amwarren to freeze to death after a night out drinking. The professor leaned down and set his fingers against the man`s neck to find whether or not he still lived. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

　　At his touch, the man groaned and rolled over, tumbling to the ground. The sharp, sour smell of whiskey snaked across the air.

　　"I need a drink," the tall man groaned.

　　"That`s the last thing you need at this hour, my boy," Professor Lawson said. He squinted at how the man dressed, and tried to guess his social standing. He could swear that he recognized the embroidery on the cuffs of the shirt. "Where is your dorm? What room did you come from?"

　　"From Anryn`s," the man murmured. He crossed his arms beneath his head and pillowed his check into the embroidered sleeves of the shirt.

　　Professor Lawson felt all the hairs along his neck rise. He`d never seen this man before, and few were permitted to use the prince`s familiar name. For a moment, he was tempted to call the guard. Then, he recalled the circumstances of Prince Anryniel`s arrest. Calling attention to this stranger would feed the rumors already surrounding the incident.

　　It could get back to the King before we arrive for the wedding, Professor Lawson thought. The professor reached for the shirt the drunk man wore and peeled back the collar. He recognized Gruffydd`s sigil sewn onto the tag there—three gold coins on a green field slashed with black. Ah, it may already be too late&

　　"Come on, lad. Come on& We are going to get you inside, now&" Professor Lawson reached beneath the drunk man`s arms and hauled him up off the frozen ground. "Come along, before you freeze to death out here&"

　　"Oh, I will not die," the man said. His legs seemed to fold in every direction, bony knees colliding with the professor`s shins.

　　Professor Lawson offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he`d found this rambling drunk before anyone else could. The professor followed it with another for his knees, which complained loudly as he half-carried the man back to the professor`s tower. While he worked to coax the drunk up the stairs to his office, Professor Lawson took in the features of his face—pale skin, brown hair. For some odd reason, the rough look of him reminded Professor Lawson of Ciamon Caelt.

　　"What`s your name, son?" the professor asked.

　　"Blackfire," the man muttered.

　　An earned name, the professor thought. He wondered whether the man blacksmithed somewhere near Amwarren. Perhaps that was how he`d made the acquaintance of Gruffydd the Younger and Prince Anryniel.

　　After struggling up the eight flights of steps to his office, they at last reached his copper door. Professor Lawson fumbled at his belt for the key. He`d barely touched it to the lock when the door drifted inward a crack—unlatched.

　　He stood there a moment, baffled. Then the drunk Blackfire murmured, "They are gone—we can go in."

　　Foreboding threaded through Professor Lawson`s mind as he stared at the black seam where the door should have the frame with the lock to secure it. He kicked it open the rest of the way, and looked inside his office. At first, it seemed as though nothing was out of place. His wine cabinet was undisturbed, the books on his shelves just where he`d left them and in the order he arranged them. Yet something in the room felt amiss.

　　Professor Lawson helped Blackfire stretch out on the floor. He twitched the fringed edges of the Boccean rug away from the man`s face, lest he be sick. Then he went to his desk and ran his hand along the drawers, tugging each to see if it was still properly locked.

　　One by one, they each slid open. The state papers had been rifled through. The blank sheets of vellum and bottles of ink were disturbed. His red leather appointment book was gone. Only the students` papers, still to be graded, were untouched.

　　"Winze take the hindmost!" he cursed. Then, abashed, he blessed himself.

　　"They got what they wanted," Blackfire called to him from the floor. "They will not come back."

　　Still flustered, Professor Lawson almost snapped at the man. He stopped himself when he saw Blackfire`s face. He started up at the ceiling, his eyes unblinking. A strange sobriety clinging to them where only a moment ago, he`d seemed entirely drunk.

　　This is the man Prince Anryniel seeks, Professor Lawson realized. Just the man he needed at that moment. Now he signed again, and this time it was sincere.

　　"Stay right where you are while I pack, son," the professor said. "The Prince of Ammar has need of you—and before the week is out, I may yet find you that drink."

　　He gathered up the student papers to pack into his valise. He resolved to grade them on the road to Java.