Upstairs, in Gruffydd`s sun-filled library, Anryn finally called on the Sight to guide him. Before, in the church, he didn`t think that it would work on objects. He didn`t believe that he could see poison in wine. Now, though, when Anryn knew—knew with utter conviction the person, the manner, and the method of the attempt against him—the red line appeared again.

　　He followed it across the library. To the desk, where Beatrice had suggested Anryn should look for the cipher. It wasn`t even hidden. A small wooden cylinder sat right on top of the desk, like a decorative object used to hold down stacks of paper.

　　Anryn picked it up and examined it with his own eyes. It was covered with writing. Ammars`s flowing left-to-right script, Bocce`s block letters, Sanchia`s slanted right-to-left characters. Down one side were Nynomath`s crisp lines, like the ones carved into Maertyn`s back.

　　The door to the library opened. Gruffydd stepped into the room. He wore his nightclothes with a heavy robe pulled over them against the chilly morning. His face, usually so warm and fatherly, folded into hard cold angles when he saw Anryn standing at his desk.

　　For a moment, Anryn didn`t know what to say to him. Then she spoke for both of them, berating the man: "I cannot understand you. Why would you let him duel me? You knew damn well God wasn`t on his side. You shouldn`t have let him fight!"

　　Gruffydd drew back at the venom in her voice. Color came back into his cheeks, dark red beneath his white, scraggly whiskers. For a moment, Anryn could see the shadow of the man he had been when he was young and fought at the King`s side. Fierce and dangerous.

　　"He`s a grown man," Gruffydd said. "Perhaps you cannot understand this, having fallen short of the mark yourself. But there comes a time when a father must allow his son to make his own choices."

　　"Like you chose Dorland for him? You oversaw the preparations, the arrangements, the staff& Griff is incapable of organizing anything himself. It was all you," Anryn said.

　　Anryn waited to see what a so-called grown man would do when confronted with the truth of his actions. Gruffydd disappointed. He made no move at all. Said nothing at all. When the silence stretched into minutes, Anryn brandished the cipher at him. Gruffydd`s shoulders tensed at the sight of it.

　　"You know what this is. You know that I know what it is, because I am holding it. If I bring this to the King and demand to see the letters you attribute to Riccardo of Sanchia, it will match perfectly," Anryn said. "If you wanted me dead& why not all those times I stayed at your house when I was a child? Why not now?"

　　"Always so dramatic. Like your father," Gruffydd sighed. "When you were a child, there was no Golden Fleet. Now that you`re married, there will be one, but& My son cannot sail with it. I suppose that I should thank you for that. Anathas can continue his witch hunt until the ends of the earth—and my boy will be spared. While you, dutiful son, Prince of Ammar& go off to Nynomath to die with your father."

　　Go to school, go to the altar, go to war& Anryn`s body ached all over. The wounds Griff had dealt him were starting to make themselves felt. He had won the duel, but Anryn hadn`t won anything else. The words Griff had thrown at him in Java came back to haunt him. That might make you a king, but it won`t make you a man.

　　The prince waited for his other self to save him. For her pretty words to come pouring out, to put Gruffydd in his place. Say something! Anryn begged. But they were done talking.

　　Beatrice pushed open the door to the library. She hesitated, then bobbed to Gruffydd three times as a servant might—but far too low, and her legs too far apart, as if she still wore a gown instead of men`s clothes. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

　　"M`lord," Beatrice said. She even tried to disguise her voice! She pitched it lower and said, "Your son lives. He needs you."

　　Gruffydd stood there a moment longer. Anryn realized that he was waiting for leave to go. It was his own house and his own library, but still the great lord waited for the Prince of Ammar to dismiss him.

　　"My lord Gruffydd may leave," Anryn said. Then, finally, she found her voice: "Now. Tonight. Take your things, take your son, and get out of Mahaut."

　　"And the witches?" Gruffydd asked. "Shall I take them, too? They go for forty thousand a head in Nynomath, Your Highness. With all the ones who came to the wedding, that`s enough to buy three Golden Fleets. More money than your father squeezed out of the church in sixty years."

　　"Get the Hell out," Anryn screamed, the echo of the sound ringing in her ears.

　　Bleeding and heartsick, Anryn left Gruffydd`s house and went with Beatrice back to the palace. They huddled beneath cloaks, pushing their way through the crowded streets with their heads down. The prince still clutched the cipher. Beatrice insisted that this was all that was needed to force the King of Ammar to release Riccardo of Sanchia.

　　Anryn knew his father better. The King`s moods were all that governed justice in Ammar. If the King said it was proof, it would be proof. If he did not&

　　 Anryn glanced at Beatrice, as she pulled him along. The prince already let her down once. Beatrice would never be a mother, in all likelihood, because of Anryn`s curse. If he could not save her brother, she would never be able to look at him again.

　　 Anryn sent Beatrice back to his room and steeled himself for the confrontation. He hoped that today would be like it had when he stabbed his tutor. That his father would be forced to listen to him. He kept his clothes stained with the blood of the duel on and waited to be announced to the King of Ammar.

　　 "You`re filthy," the King said. He sat on the Blood Throne and looked at Anryn. "So&? Is my godson dead?"

　　 "No," Anryn said. He held up the cipher. "And I have proof of the plot. This was found at Gruffydd the Elder`s house. Whatever evidence he produces against my brother-in-law, whatever coded letters he claims that he found, this cuts right through it."

　　 The Lightning King did not seem impressed. Anryn worried that he would sneer at the thing. Argue that it wasn`t enough to prove Gruffydd`s guilt and Riccardo`s innocence.

　　His father did worse. He ignored it completely.

　　"Go and get changed," King Anathas commanded. "I`ll have a robe sent for you. We`ve a hundred cases to hear before nightfall, and another hundred to get through tomorrow."

　　 "Cases?" Anryn asked. All at once, he remembered the pyre in the garden. Anryn flung the cipher to the ground. "The witches? That`s what you`re concerned with, now? What about me, Father? What about justice for me?"

　　 "You took that into your own hands. Now you live with the consequences," the King said. "You live in my land. Under my law. No man may accuse another without proof. No man will have his lands taken, his head cut off, or his body burned—without a trial, and a lord to read his sentence."

　　 "I will not do it. I will not burn another witch for you." Anryn felt a warm, wet drop of blood snake over his lip. He didn`t bother to wipe it. "The witches of Ammar were guests at my wedding. God will punish me if they are burned."

　　 The Lightning King`s scowl deepened. "Worry more about what I will do to you if they are not. Go and get changed. I will not tell you again."

　　 "No," the woman in Anryn said. The prince let her eyes cross, not caring if the King recognized it for witchcraft. The Sight poured out of her mouth, the words glowing as brightly as the lines: "The witches of Ammar will not burn tonight. Your enemy is already here, inside your house. You`ll find out you`re no more divine than the dead wood under your ass. And when you get to Hell later today, look for me. I`ll be waiting."

　　 Prince Anryn left the King without waiting to be dismissed.