Far away, miles beneath the knife that moved across his chest, Anryn floated. Somewhere above, he thrashed while blood ran over his skin and spit stung his throat. Beneath, she drifted, shivering from the cold of the mage`s knife while it cut through his skin to reach her. The knife moved like a needle through cloth, piercing their flesh, drawing them close.

　　 Anryn drifted up toward where the knife pulled flesh and soul together. The Dome was there. A glittering arc across the night sky, reflecting all the stars God hung in heaven to guide man on earth. Anryn imagined hands moving across it, fingers pinching the stars and placing them in lines, forming angles. A brilliant design magnified by the lens of Nynomath`s Great Dome, reflected for miles around in mirror pools where the mages gathered to read the stars.

　　 A dark spot moved among those stars. Sucked down their light so fast that it could not escape. Blotting out the pattern. Obscuring God`s design from view. The Unlucky Star was out there, pulling the light from the sky.

　　 Leave him alone, Anryn wanted to scream. If God made the stars, He made Maertyn, too.

　　 The white hot light moved over Anryn`s chest. A shadow spread beneath it. The Dome resolved into two perfect curves that would fit in their hands. God made Nature; Nature made men and women. God could not reach past Nature to make one or the other.

　　 Anryn chased the image backwards and forwards across the heavens. Now him, now her. All the things that Anryniel of Mahaut might have been, all the things yet to be. The pattern of the stars spinning around the Prince of Ammar.

　　 Until they stopped, frozen in place.

　　Anryn saw a tornado blotting out the horizon. She moved toward it, her black hair whipped all around her by the wind. Out of the storm, another self strode forward to meet her, mirroring her steps. Tall, with the same black hair and blue eyes, in the full flush of his youth. Anryn hadn`t known until that moment that he and his father looked exactly alike, when Anathas was young and when Anryn was a woman.

　　 "You`re late," said Anathas, the Lightning King. "Always late. Even when you said you`d meet me in Hell, son."

　　 "I`m not your son," she said. In the dream, she stood before the King naked, and full grown. There was no way for him not to see her now, hovering here together at the edge of death.

　　 "Yes you are. In any way that counts. They will know that you are Ammar`s prince, now her King. It doesn`t matter what else they see, as long as they see that you are my son."

　　 In some way, Anryn understood what her father`s shade meant. To God, it didn`t matter. The light from the stars both was and wasn`t. An instantaneous thing. Nature was more mutable. It burned off bits of a star when it fell to earth, so that it better fit the shape She chose for them. Both parts of Anryn were no less divine. He was the King of Ammar`s son, and a woman. God found no contradiction. Nature only chose the form best suited to her destiny.

　　 A cry rang out overhead, shaking the stars out of their pattern. The cracks in the Dome spidered out across the sky. The wind was in her ears. The horrific rhythm of the tornado. Sh-sh-sh-sh, it roared. Sh-sh-sh-sh&!

　　Anryn stirred, and felt her limbs burning. All the muscle and tendon stretched, torn, and healed over. The mark on her chest burned and stung, so fiercely she gagged from the agony of it. Something cool pressed against her chest where the mark stung. Anryn felt water on her skin.

　　"Sh& shhh." It wasn`t the wind. It was her mother`s voice.

　　Anryn woke, and found that she could not sit up. Her mother leaned over her, the gauze of her veil tickling Anryn`s arms.

　　"Look at you," said Queen Eva, her voice hoarse and heavy with grief. "My baby. My only baby&"

　　"Mom," Anryn said. Her own voice was hoarse from days without use. "What happened?"

　　She tried again to sit up and now her limbs obeyed, clumsy and shaking as she pulled herself upright. The room spun for a moment. Anryn looked down and saw the mark, the size of a palm print, high up on the mound of bone that joined the ribs near the heart.

　　It shone under the lines of the Sight. Three angled lines pointing down to join one straight bar right over the top of the bone. Each of the three lines was crowned with a crescent moon.

　　Anryn recognized it: aiyin, the twenty-seventh character in Nynomath`s alphabet. It was a symbol painted onto pocket watches and clocks, written into marriage contracts and licenses. It was carved on Maertyn`s back. All time contained in one word, depending on how it was read. The emphasis in one syllable versus another was all the difference between a fixed term, and an indeterminate one. The difference between a lifetime and an eternity.

　　Queen Eva reached out to touch it. Her fingers trembled. Anryn heard her mother`s breath hiss out from behind her black satin veils. The Queen dropped her hand and turned her head away.

　　"I can`t stand to look at you," her mother whispered.

　　"Your Majesty," Professor Lawson was there. He approached Anryn`s bed, his hands wrung together, fingers digging into one another. His merry eyes were dim—they seemed to look through Anryn rather than at her. "You must get up. There was a riot ten days ago. Many witches were killed, more escaped. The criminal, Maertyn Blackfire, slew the King and was extradited to Nynomath."

　　"What?" Anryn stared at him, uncomprehending. Maertyn is back in Nynomath?

　　"Your father is dead, Your Highness," Professor Lawson repeated. His faraway gaze filmed over with unshed tears. "You are the King of Ammar. You must get up—we are waiting to crown you."

　　Dead. The word echoed in Anryn`s mind. She stared at her mother. Now she took in the full sight of Queen Eva`s black mourning clothes. Five layers of black veils pulled down over a plain black gown. No jewelry, no crown, not even a hint of embroidery. A void of grief made flesh.

　　A clatter of armor startled Anryn out of her shock. She reached for her sword beside the bed, but it was not there. The door to the room swung open. Beatrice stood there. She cleared her throat and glanced at the attendant quivering by the door.

　　"Her Royal& Ah. Her Majesty, Queen Beatrice of Ammar," the attendant stammered.

　　Beatrice stepped into the room. Like Queen Eva, she was dressed all in black from head to toe—but with a silver belt around her hips glittered with her throwing knives.

　　Her mother rose from the bed. In one smooth motion, the Dowager Queen sank into a deep curtsey to Beatrice, one knee touching the floor.

　　That was the moment that it all became real to Anryn. The Lightning King was dead. His widow yielded the rank of Queen to the wife of the new king.

　　Beatrice swept gracefully to the bed, almost as if she danced. When she reached out her hand, Anryn took it. Beatrice`s palm felt warm and solid under her fingers. It was a relief to grab on to her, to hold something steady while everything around Anryn seemed to spin.

　　"My liege," said Professor Lawson. "Do we have your leave to go and prepare?"

　　Anryn nodded. The professor and the Dowager Queen bowed to her. Beatrice did not let go of her hand until the door swung shut behind them. Then, the new Queen darted to the servants door. She opened it, checking for anybody hiding behind. When she was sure they were alone, Beatrice tossed back her veil and sank down beside the bed.

　　"Thank God you`re alive—the priests gave you last rites three times," she said. "They want you to get dressed and go down to the throne room, if you are strong enough to stand."If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

　　Anryn started to stretch her legs. A flare of pain shot through her joints. She peeled back the covers and did not recognize her own legs at first. They were longer.

　　Beatrice slipped an arm behind her back and Anryn leaned on her to stumble out of bed. More than her legs had grown—the boniness in Anryn`s arms and legs stretched into lean lines. The hips folded into an angular waist. There were no breasts on her chest, but a new fullness of muscle and skin dragged down on the raw lines of the mark.

　　I grew& but did I change? Anryn wondered. She steeled herself and looked down. There was thick blond hair between the legs. A pale white shaft nestled among the curls, longer than what Anryn remembered. It looked odd to her, but it was not disappointing.

　　Everything that Anryn had been born with was still there.

　　They still see a man& everyone will still believe that I am a man, the prince thought. But she had changed. For the first time in her life able to look at herself and feel something other than disappointment. The last eighteen years of her life hadn`t been swept away. Only now there was more of Anryn there along with it. The altered curse shifted the bars of the prison just enough to make room for her in the body she was born with, even if it did not match the terms by which the world knew Anryniel of Ammar. I`m here. It`s really me.

　　"Put this on," Beatrice handed her a robe. "It`s so drafty in the castle now. Almost all the windows broke when the tornado touched down&"

　　"A tornado?" said Anryn. She looked around the room, and saw all of the furniture had been moved. The glass in the windows was gone. The chilly wet air of early spring filled the room. "A witch`s tornado?"

　　"Yes—they were killing them in the street. They must have been so scared& just like at the wedding," Beatrice said. She blinked and there were tears in her eyes. "It was& Anryn, it was horrible. Hundreds are dead. My brother went home& Without you, I`m all alone here&"

　　Anryn grabbed Beatrice`s shoulders. They clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, thrown onto a foreign shore.

　　"You are not alone," Anryn said against her hair. "You`ll always have me, no matter what. I meant my vows."

　　"I meant mine, too. I will be Queen of Ammar—and I can`t do it without you," Beatrice pulled back a little and looked up into Anryn`s face. "Is it& is it alright to kiss you, still?"

　　"Kiss me forever," Anryn said. She gazed at Beatrice, grateful and relieved to have an ally like her at her side.

　　Her wife now had to stand on tiptoe to kiss her mouth. It felt every bit as good as it had on their wedding night. Only now that feeling bubbled up from Anryn`s soul through to her body, and all the places that tingled felt real and whole.

　　Beatrice broke off the kiss. "What should I& I mean, how shall I call you, now? Nobody knows about the mirror& Word got out that a mage broke into your bedroom and cursed you, but that`s all anyone can see&"

　　"That`s all that they need to see," Anryn said. Her voice was deeper, but she found that she could pitch it in a pleasing way—no longer as shrill as she used to be. "You can still call me Anryn. The rest of them will have to settle for Your Majesty.`"

　　Together, they planned how Anryn would dress for the hurried crowning. Beatrice laid out tunic after tunic—but Anryn could not stand to have anything touching the raw red lines on her chest. Finally, Beatrice took one of her knives and cut a deep V into a cotton shirt. She used hairpins to keep the edges tucked under an embroidered red velvet jacket, left unbuttoned to the waist.

　　"You`re so pale," Beatrice worried. She dug into a pouch at her belt and took out what looked like a small dip pen. The top of it came off and Beatrice unscrewed a tiny brush from inside. "Lean down and lookup."

　　The bristles tickled Anryn`s lashes. She blinked, feeling a heavy weight against her eyelids. When she tried to see the dark black smudges on her lids, she found that the Sight snuck into her vision. "What is it?"

　　"Eyeliner," Beatrice answered. She tapped the brush once on either side of Anryn`s face and used her fingers to shape the smudges. "It`s not quite your color—but it will keep everyone looking at your face, not your chest."

　　A magic trick, Anryn thought. She blinked, letting the powder settle. Like when she wore the veil as a disguise, a new world of possibility opened before her.

　　She pulled her belt over the ensemble, adjusting the sheath for her new height. The weight of it pulled on her differently—and Anryn knew she would need to practice long hours to recapture her skill with a sword.

　　"You look perfect," said Beatrice. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, her smile behind them widening. Then she tucked her veil back down around her face and gave Anryn her arm.

　　Together, they made their way down to the throne room. All around them, signs of the desperate struggle were splashed over the walls. More broken windows, torn tapestries. In dozens of places, red-brown splotches where bloodstains had been scrubbed at. As they passed, people bowed. Lower and longer than they had when Anryn`s father was alive. Their eyes moved over Anryn`s lengthened arms and legs, her painted face.

　　For once, Anryn did not want to hide. She stared right back, not caring whether they saw a man or a woman. All that mattered was that they saw a king.

　　Outside the throne room, Beatrice paused. Anryn wanted to draw her along, but for a moment, she was a boy in her father`s house again. Not daring to break the unspoken rules. Anryn turned to Beatrice and clung to her wife`s hand.

　　"Will you be watching? From behind the door?" Anryn whispered.

　　Beatrice nodded. Her hand went to the daggers on her belt. "Your Queen has your back, my King. I`ll guard it well."

　　Anryn kissed her again through the film of her veil and went inside. In the throne room, the lords were already gathered. Eyiffoen, Tommasi, Kenon, Teqwyn& and Lord Gruffydd.

　　Anryn was drawn to him. Relieved and anxious to see that his son was not with him.

　　"Lord Gruffydd," Anryn said to her would-be murderer. "Your son is well, I trust?"

　　"He recovers," Gruffydd said. If he was upset at all that King Anathas—his lifelong friend and cousin—had died, it didn`t show. "You seem to have& grown."

　　Anryn knew from the way that the old man looked at her that she would always be a boy in Lord Gruffydd`s eyes. He`d never known Anryn in any context other than as a rival to his own son. The mutable letter on Anryn`s chest could not change anything in a vacuum. It needed context.

　　"You said I fell short of the mark of manhood," Anryn said. She pulled the pinned edges of the shirt away from the word tattooed on her chest. "Well, here`s your mark. Did you not wish this on me?"

　　She did not yell, but her voice carried easily among the lords in the room. Anryn held Gruffydd`s gaze and watched as the red flesh crept up his neck. It was the perfect challenge—tying him to the mages. Not as good as charging him with treason outright, but just enough to keep the richest man in her kingdom on his toes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Eyiffoen shift to square his shoulders toward Gruffydd.

　　To drive home the point, she echoed the words he`d said to her in his study: "Well, I suppose that I should thank you for that."

　　The old man lowered his eyes. Anryn continued on toward the dais.

　　They came to the throne itself, and Anryn drew up short. A dark red stain spread over the Blood Throne. For a moment, she saw it like some omen from the first Blood King, an illusion. Then Anryn screwed up her eyes and Saw that the blood soaked deep into the wood was Maertyn`s.

　　Professor Lawson`s words echoed in Anryn`s ears. "Maertyn Blackfire& slew the King."

　　How? Anryn wondered. How could Maertyn have managed it after losing that much blood? The why of it was obvious: self-defense. The Lightning King would have thrown his throne away rather than suffer a witch to stand in his presence.

　　Now Maertyn is back in Nynomath. Anryn shook with fury, imagining what the mages would do to him.

　　Lord Eyiffoen laid a velvet cloak over the Blood Throne. It hid the bloodstain. "We`ll have it cleaned, Your Majesty. Please, do sit."

　　The priests were there. The ceremony was all arranged and rehearsed for days while the prince recovered. It should have been at the church where Anryn and Beatrice were married, but Anryn would learn that it had been smashed flat by the tornado. She should have had a confessor to hear her sins before she sat—but they would explain to her later that because last rites were pronounced for her three times while she slept, this was enough in the Church`s eyes to absolve her.

　　Anryn sat there and watched them go through the motions. She looked around the lords gathered in the room. The lesser, and greater. The clergy. Professor Lawson pressed back against the far wall, gazing both at and through her. Beatrice had not been allowed into the room to be crowned Queen alongside her King. Anryn`s mother wasn`t there to see it.

　　They crown me today, but this is not my kingdom yet. It is still my father`s, she thought. I will change it. I`ll make it mine.

　　They anointed the prince with oils, handed her the holy relics of the Blood Kings—the cup, the scepter, the crown& Lord Gruffydd himself placed it on Anryn`s head. Then they sang, together, an old and ancient song. Not heard in Ammar for nearly a hundred years. A prayer for God to lead his children out of the water, out of darkness.

　　To Anryniel, God had always meant Anathas. The weight of the crown was her father`s disappointment pressing down on her. Without her father alive to hold her down, what was God to the King of Ammar, now? What part of the divine could she be to her people? To the witches in their silver cages& To the traitor beside her throne, eyeing her as a wolf does a sheep&

　　What would she be to Maertyn Blackfire?

　　Anryn sat on the Blood Throne, stained red with the blood of a witch, and straightened her back. She drew a shuddering breath. Like that first agonizing gasp emerging from the water in Java, eyes all aglow with the Sight.

　　"I will be King, here," Anryn said. Her voice rang out across the room, confident and strong. "Ammar has no other King but me. Everything that I say, I must mean. Every word, my oath. All my promises, to my wife, to my subjects& to my enemies. I will keep them. All of them."

　　The King hoped that wherever he was, Maertyn Blackfire could hear the words spoken there that day. The first oath sworn aloud by Anryniel, the Witch King of Ammar.

　　Just after them, she uttered her first command: "Nynomath will pay."