Even the waters of Java could not cure Prince Anryn`s dreams of his wedding. He spent three fitfull days at the spa. Soaked in the pools, dined with the governor and Gruffydd, drank a cup or two of spirits with Maertyn and Professor Lawson. Every night, Anryn dreamt of the bedding ceremony.

　　In these dreams, Anryn stood trembling beside a bed. Knowing that at any moment, he would have to undress. Sometimes in the dream, it was his father yelling at him to hurry up. Sometimes it was Griff, smirking at him from some unseen corner of the room, the top of his shirt undone.

　　Once, it was Maertyn, undressing him, pulling a veil up over Anryn`s head. Black hair spilled down over his chest. It shone in candlelight and smelled like gardenias. Maertyn`s hand moved over the waves of it, sliding beneath the silky locks to cup a curve hidden there.

　　Anryn snapped awake, drenched in sweat. His fingers tingled, his ears rang, the blood surging in chest. The prince flung off the blanket and sat up. When he looked down at himself, he saw nothing different, though his body felt all alive with the memory of the dream. Anryn pressed a hand to his manhood and squeezed. Nothing stirred there. Nothing tingled.

　　Maertyn`s right—something is wrong with me, Anryn thought. He felt the telltale warmth trickling from his nose. The prince hurried out of bed to keep his blood from staining the sheets. He rifled through his half-packed trunk for a handkerchief.

　　Griff banged on the door. Here in Java, where the two of them were only the Counts Falkenstein and Mercy, there were no attendants to hover outside. It reminded Anyn of when he and Griff had been boys living at the palace in Mahaut. Ensconced in the nursery, free to come and go between rooms. Their closeness was a luxury for children.

　　"Come," Anryn called. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding.

　　"Again?" Griff asked, seeing Anryn`s nosebleed. "Come, let`s get you downstairs and into the baths."

　　Griff handed Anryn a long linen robe knitted in a waffle pattern. Anryn hesitated, but couldn`t think of a way to tell his childhood friend to look away while he changed. The prince thought of what Maertyn said—he only wants to embarrass you—and felt his anger rise as Griff stood and watched Anryn pull off his nightshirt.

　　If he smirks at me, I will stab him, Anryn thought.

　　Griff did not smirk at Anryn`s hairless chest or narrow shoulders, but Anryn nursed his jealousy anyway. While they walked out to the pools, he fed it dark thoughts so that it would grow and grow. Prince Anryn spent weeks on the run, sleeping on dirt floors, and fighting off brigands. Why should the son of Gruffydd get to throw money around and have his problems melt away? Let Griff have his coin shoved back at him—let Griff have to tear buttons off of one of his shirts, Anryn seethed.

　　The pools were as hot as Anryn`s temper. The governor`s house had private access to twelve cascading pools in the town, with a deck built out over the shallowest. Even this small one felt like a hot cup of coffee against the prince`s skin. Wincing, Griff and Anryn stepped into the water and made their way toward the edge of it, where a path lined with bricks and wooden handrails led down to the lower, hotter pools.

　　Anryn looked away as Griff`s robe soaked through. He started an argument before his jealousy burned him up. Anryn treated it like a fencing match, trying to lull Griff in a false sense of security. The prince began with a compliment.

　　"It was good of you to pay off the governor," Anryn said. "Did the protestors get their water?"

　　"They did," Griff said. They stopped at the middle-most pool where a stone ledge allowed them to sit with the water up to their chests. "Though I suspect some of them came back last night while we were sleeping to dump flower petals into the water."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author`s consent. Report any sightings.

　　Anryn sighed. "That sounds like witchcraft."

　　"It`s harmless. No blood, no shrieking. None of that Nynomathian blasphemy," Griff said. He lifted a hand out of the water and spun his index finger at Anryn. "Go on, go on& Say what you really mean to say. It must be something important, or you wouldn`t be staring at me like that."

　　Anryn looked away, embarrassed. He`d been watching Griff`s robe drifting below the surface of the water, comparing.

　　The prince changed the subject: "Have you ever& seen a woman naked?"

　　"Here I thought you were worried about witchcraft! I`m glad you`re finally thinking seriously about the wedding," Giff laughed. "Well& do you remember when we peeked at my stepmother changing by the beach? It was not the first time I had done it. It was only the first time I got caught."

　　Anryn remembered. Anathas had both of them whipped for it. Now, Griff`s words landed on the prince like blows. Anryn thought that Griff was noble, honorable. Yet he talked about that incident as if all men stole glances at naked women. Was Anryn simply naive, not to know? Was he somehow less of a man than Griff?

　　"Ryn, snap out of this mood. Your pet peasant is a bad influence," Griff said. He played the perfect friend, now, softening his voice as if they were children whispering in the dark after bedtime. "This is no way to go to your wedding! What kind of husband will you be if you`re always prickly and sulking?"

　　"What kind of husband?" Anryn echoed. "I`m going to be a king, Griff. What better husband could I be to Beatrice of Sanchia?"

　　Griff dodged Anryn`s attack, and launched his own: "You could be your own man, for one. I know that something terrible happened in Dorland. I am sorry for it. But even if it was a witch`s spell, you`re a prince. You should have done something about it."

　　Anryn felt the hot water rise to his head in a haze of steam that stung his eyes. He squeezed them shut and hoped that the tears that came would look like drops of sweat.

　　"What would you have me do?" Anryn asked. "I couldn`t spare the witch! My father is not like your father. I don`t dare go against him."

　　Griff flung both his hands above his head, scattering droplets of hot water over the surface of the pool. "What kind of king will you be? If I was your chief advisor, your greatest lord, and I told you that I wouldn`t put a witch to the stake, what would you say to me? Would you put me to death? You`d never. You`re too& too&"

　　Beneath the water, Anryn bunched his fists. He wished for Griff to say a word—any word—that described the Prince of Ammar as somehow less. It would be all the excuse Anryn needed to hit him, and Griff would never hit him back. Anryn was, after all, the Prince of Ammar.

　　"Too wise," Griff continued, narrowly avoiding the trap. "You`re too wise to put good men to death when we could merely be sending them away to Nynomath—as our grandfathers did."

　　"That`s your alternative? Send the witches of Ammar to Nynomath? As slaves?" Anryn asked. "Think about what that does to a person. Being sold like that. No wonder my father wanted to end the extraditions; too many witches came back to the border as berserkers, fighting for our enemy."

　　He thought of Maertyn then. For the first time, Anryn believed that the man had been telling the truth about being forced into Nynomath, to endure some terrible trauma that still lingered in an unnaturally long life.

　　Griff stared at Anryn and launched his own attack: "Do you want to go to war, Ryn? With Nynomath?"

　　Anryn hesitated. The truth was, no one had ever asked him. The Lightning King told his son where to go and what to do. Go to University, to the altar, to war. It was all the same to Anryn, the pathetic prince who wanted nothing more than to satisfy his father, that king of legend.

　　Now Griff launched a followup attack, cunning and brutal. He glanced downward, below Anryn`s face, down into the water. He looked at the prince`s body, and pursed his lips.

　　"Well. I suppose that might make you a king," Griff said. "But it won`t make you a man."

　　The blow landed lower than Griff could have even imagined. Anryn sank back onto the stone ledge in the burning water, shaking with a rage he could not put into words.

　　Griff knew him well enough to know he`d won the argument. The son of Ammar`s greatest lord pulled himself up out of the pool and left the son of the king there, without waiting to be dismissed.