On the day of his actual wedding, Anryn didn`t dream of it at all. In this dream, he was the other Anryn with the black hair. She stood on top of a hill, surrounded by her army. A battlefield stretched before her, the pale gray ground awaiting the moment when Anryn would call for the charge. In the distance, she saw the Great Dome of Nynomath glittering in the night sky. Maertyn was somewhere inside of it.

　　 Someone was shaking her, urging her to call off the charge.

　　"Your Highness, I`m sorry—it is time to wake up."

　　Anryn returned to himself, struggling into awareness of his body, like trying to pull on a boot that didn`t fit. His head ached and his stomach was sour. A foul stench stabbed his nose and he pressed his face into the soft silk under his face to hide from it. He made a groan of protest.

　　"Your Highness," someone shook him. "Your Highness, it`s time to wake up. It`s your wedding day. Come on, now&"

　　Anryn inhaled the silk and caught the sweet scent of lavender. He blinked and some of the previous night returned to him. He sat up, clutching Beatrice`s veil to his chest, reeling at the strangeness of the encounter. Beatrice—his wife. She had been in the room. Maertyn was so drunk, he hadn`t even noticed. Anryn wouldn`t have believed it himself if he hadn`t been clutching her veil.

　　"I`m so sorry, Your Highness," said a valet, a nervous looking man Anryn recognized from before his time at Amwarren. "We`ve had to draw the bath in the next room. I`m afraid we`ll need a bit more time to prepare in here&"

　　Anryn looked down over the side of the bed and saw a wet cloth laid over the floor, covering whatever stain was the source of the stench. By now, he was familiar with the smell of Maertyn`s vomit. He`d missed the basin Anryn had set down for him by a good six inches.

　　Peasant, Anryn thought.

　　The prince let himself be led from his bedroom to an antechamber where a tub waited. To Anryn`s dismay, the room was full of people. Professor Lawson was there as well as all the sons of the great lords. Jacob, son of Tommasi; Idris and Jareth, sons of Teqwyn; and Llyr ap Eyiffoen. They jostled their sword belts, poked each other`s collars. For them, it was a festival.

　　Griff was there, too, dressed in his matching white and silver wedding suit. Anryn`s old jealousy almost overcame him with the habit of a lifetime. Then Griff caught Anryn`s eye, and the smile hardened just a little into something more serious. He bowed to the Prince of Ammar, and the other sons followed his lead.

　　He is your ally, the other Anryn whispered. A prince needs allies. Don`t pick a fight, don`t pick a fight&

　　The Prince of Ammar made himself smile through the hangover, and greet the sons of his father`s peers. "Good morning, friends. Come to make sure it`s the real prince at the altar today?"

　　They all laughed, and shouted. It grated on Anryn`s ears.

　　"Whose veil is that?" Griff asked him. "I thought we were done with the disguises."

　　"I almost died when I saw you coming up the steps yesterday. I thought you left Anryn dead in a ditch somewhere and the King was just going to promote you to his official son," Jacob said.

　　This was too much for Anryn. He glared at Jacob and the laughter died. His father`s words from the day before hung over him. A king must not appear weak. Anryn climbed into the bath and tried to think of what to say to reclaim the room.

　　He thought of what Maertyn would say, and blurted out, "I need a drink."

　　Llyr snorted. "It`s nine-thirty, for God`s sake."

　　"He`s that nervous," Idris said.

　　Professor Lawson was the only one who made himself useful. He brought Anryn a cup of hot, black coffee and a piece of dry toast.

　　"Put it under your tongue, it will help," the professor said. He looked almost as hungover as Anryn felt.

　　"Where`s Maertyn?" Anryn asked, keeping his voice low.

　　"I haven`t seen him, Your Highness," Professor Lawson said.

　　Anryn fretted over the lines in the professor`s face. They seemed ever so much deeper after the brush with the mages. Maertyn`s magic had healed the burns, but they could not cover up the memories.

　　"Find him for me. Please," Anryn asked.

　　Professor Lawson bowed and went out of the room. The prince sipped his coffee and tried to tick off in his head the things that were expected of him on his wedding day. They`d rehearsed it at Amwarren earlier in the year. There were diagrams, pages of protocol pinned up in the prince`s room that Anryn had spent months memorizing.

　　The Prince of Ammar would go on foot to the church and stop to greet the lords on the steps, then go to wait at the altar. Beatrice would arrive after. The ceremony would last an hour from start to finish, though Anryn thought that it would be longer with Beatrice`s limp. Luckily for the bride, they would ride back to the palace in a landau, waiving the crowds.

　　None of this had been rehearsed with the knowledge that an assassin hunted the Prince of Ammar. Anryn belted his sword under his white velvet jacket and waved away the servant who tried to hand him the cloak that went over the whole outfit. He would not wear anything that day that would make it hard to draw.

　　Dressed, and fortified with coffee and toast, Anryn followed Griff and the other sons of Ammar`s royalty out of the palace. Professor Lawson had not returned. Neither he, nor Maertyn were among the dozen clergymen escorting the prince`s party along the road to the church.

　　Anryn squinted in the morning sunlight glaring down at him from the sky. The Sight cut through the painful white haze. Golden lines shimmered over thousands of moving faces and hands when the palace gates were pulled open.

　　The prince shielded his brow with his hand. He blinked the Sight away, relieved to see the path between him and the church lined with his father`s guards, dressed in the red and gold of Ammar. His groomsmen arrayed themselves in two lines ahead of him and began the mile walk down the cleared road. They walked with their chests puffed out, hands on their glittering court swords. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

　　Anryn walked a little behind. He tried to remember to slow his pace and forced himself to smile. He remembered his father`s words about appearances and did his best to make a show of confidence and strength, though he felt neither. Instead, Anryn felt profoundly hungover. He thought he could smell himself, through the velvet. Sour, like Maertyn`s favorite whiskeys.

　　 Where is he? Anryn looked out at the crowd. Maertyn had all but promised to walk him down the aisle. Now he wasn`t there, and it was too late.

　　They were in sight of the church. The King of Ammar waited on the steps with Queen Eva. Prince Anryn tried to imagine what his father would say if he tried to delay the start of the wedding to wait for Maertyn. The thought made Anryn`s stomach turn.

　　 Three hundred more steps, Anryn told himself. That would carry him up the stairs to his mother and father. He mounted the steps and turned, once, to look out at the crowd again with the Sight. He strained at the edges of what he barely understood, praying that God would work through the Sight to show him where in the crowd an assassin might be waiting. The glittering lines were bright and vibrant, all pointing to Anryn. Would any one of them go dark, as when the witch of Java lied to him?

　　 Anryn let go of the Sight and went into the church. He couldn`t bring himself to use witchcraft in God`s house.

　　Hundreds of people were inside, all standing on risers erected just for the ceremony so that they would have a view of the prince and his bride at the altar. Plush red velvet lined the route from the door to the dais where pillows were put down for Anryn and Beatrice to kneel for the blessings. A glittering chalice chased with gold and silver, all flecked with gemstones, waited in front of five priests who would lead them through the ceremony.

　　 The prince took his place at the altar. Anryn tilted the hilt of his sword down when he knelt and kept a hand on the hilt. The touch of it steadied him.

　　I don`t need Maertyn, Anryn told himself. I have my father here, and half the kingdom. I am armed—everyone around me is armed. I don`t need witchcraft to keep myself safe in God`s own house&

　　Even so, the prince struggled with his feelings. Maertyn had said that he would be there, hadn`t he? How dare the peasant defy his future king! Anryn thought Maertyn was probably off getting drunk somewhere. Or submerging himself in a fountain.

　　Behind him, there was a thunder of feet on the risers when the crowd stood for the bride. Trumpets sounded at her arrival. Anryn stayed where he was, knowing he would be waiting a little longer than usual for Beatrice to make her way down the aisle with her foot.

　　After what felt like an eternity, she shuffled up beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Anryn saw the blur of white. Little clouds of silk and satin billowing as she moved to kneel at his side. Anryn breathed in the scent of her. Fresh, clean lavender. It did nothing to help his nausea, but the bit of bread Professor Lawson had given him held fast in his stomach.

　　The priests stepped forward to begin the ceremony. Anryn bowed his head over his clasped hands to receive the first of the blessings. The prince tried to let go of the Sight. He did not want to blaspheme, not on his wedding day. He closed his eyes to try to blot it out. Opened them again when he felt the floor sliding out from under his knees in the darkness. Anryn squeezed his hands together to steady himself.

　　"Are you hungover?" Beatrice whispered to him.

　　"Yes," Anryn admitted. "God help me."

　　The priest overheard, glanced down at Anryn, and frowned. It was the part in the ceremony when they were supposed to repeat after the priest in asking God`s blessing.

　　Anryn cleared his throat and said, louder, "God guide me& to be a good husband. Lord of my house and hearth. To keep faith and speak only truth to thee, my wife and lady&"

　　Beatrice repeated the words, replacing Anryn`s phrases with those accorded to wives.

　　They were pouring wine into the jeweled chalice. The smell of it nearly made Anryn heave. He turned his head to get away from the scent.

　　The Sight flickered across the prince`s eyes, just for a moment. The lines angled toward Anryn from every direction. Woven among them was another line, thin and red. Anryn forgot about God and blasphemy. He lifted his head, and followed the Sight of the red line. It led across the floor to the side of the church where the great lords stood.

　　There, right beside his son, stood Gruffydd the Elder.

　　Sweat prickled all along Anryn`s spine. His hand almost went to his sword, but he remembered that he was in a church. The priest had said something. Repeated himself, impatient. Anryn forced himself to let go of the Sight.

　　The priest gestured for Beatrice and Anryn to hold the wedding chalice together. In this part of the ritual, he was to lift the cup to her lips beneath the veil that she could drink. Then the cup would pass to Anryn. He had to drain it dry, in as many sips as it took, to complete the ritual. Anryn was told it was bad luck for the marriage if the husband could not finish off the cup in fewer than three swallows.

　　What if the wine is poisoned? Anryn wondered as he put his hands on the cup.

　　He almost reached for the Sight again, but stopped himself. He wouldn`t know what to See for in the cup itself. The lines connected people. Somehow, with innate knowledge, Anryn understood that he couldn`t connect a line between something a person had not touched. That use of the Sight was beyond the Prince of Ammar`s reach.

　　Beatrice lifted the hem of her veil. It was split so that she could maneuver the cup between layers. She fumbled at the folds, trying to get them out of the way.

　　Anryn glanced at his family. His father stood a dozen paces behind him. The King of Ammar had his hands clasped in front of his hips. He tapped the fingers of one hand on the back of the other. Beside him, the Queen of Ammar stood stock still, her face behind the veil completely still.

　　Resentment bubbled in the prince, watching his parents. They had married for love. All the stories said so. Neither had ever even thought that Anryn might want to do the same. Go to school, go to the altar, go to war&

　　On impulse, Anryn shifted the wedding chalice to one hand. With the other, he seized the folds of Beatrice`s veil. Beatrice`s eyes went wide and her lips parted in surprise. The prince flung the veil off his bride`s face.

　　Anryn thought that she was even more beautiful on her wedding day than she had been the night before. A string of tiny seed pearls braided into her hair framed her face, and her lips were stained with something dark and red that set off the warmth in her dusky skin.

　　The crowd saw her beauty, too. An appreciative murmur went up from the risers as the veil slipped off the back of her head, down around her shoulders.

　　There, thought Anryn. Let me have my own legend. My father married a common woman—I married a beauty.

　　The prince lifted the cup and Beatrice put her hands around it. She hesitated, looking into Anryn`s face. Then she pulled the brim to her lips. Anryn watched the muscles in her throat move—once, twice, three times. Then she lowered the chalice.

　　Anryn looked into the bowl and saw that she had hardly left him any to sip. When he started to take the cup from her, she held onto it a little tighter, resisting. Then Anryn understood: She was testing the wine for poison.

　　From that moment, Anryn loved her. All the vows he`d said aloud in the church only moments before became a real promise to God. Beatrice of Sanchia would be the woman Anryn would trust before anyone else.

　　Seconds passed. The King grunted. Anryn watched Beatrice`s face. When no ill effect seized her, no foaming mouth or racking spams, the prince took the cup and drained the last sip.

　　The priest intoned: "In the name of God, and his consort, Nature. In the eyes of their children now gathered here. I join you in holy matrimony."

　　Anryn stood and helped Beatrice up along with him. All around them in the risers, men and women surged to their feet, stamping and clapping in vigorous rhythm. Their voices rang out as they sang the blessing prayer. The Queen`s ladies marched forward toward Beatrice, to gather the train of her long white veil.

　　Anryn saw Beatrice`s face tighten with pain. The prince waved the Queen`s ladies away, and reached both arms under Beatrice, lifting her. She unpinned the heavy white veil from her shoulders, and let it fall to the ground for the Queen`s ladies to collect.

　　"Do not drop me," she hissed in his ear.