Later that same evening, Prince Anryn went back to the pools alone. Just as Griff suggested, he planned to clear his conscience before his marriage. To atone for his sins, whatever and however many they were.

　　For centuries, people used the pools at Java to purify themselves before weddings, after childbirth, or whenever their souls felt the weakest. Java commercialized the practice, printing pamphlets at all of the hotels with instructions on which pools to visit for which type of purification, which prayers to say, and how much of the water to drink with each of them.

　　In preparation for his wedding, Anryn memorized a set of blessings and invocations designed to prepare him to bind his soul to another person. Some of these he planned to use at Java to rinse his soul clean. It would have been better to have a priest, or Professor Lawson there to hear his prayers, but Anryn couldn`t bear the thought of another pair of eyes on him.

　　Clad in a fresh linen robe, Anryn went to the first pool and began the prayers alone: "God gives us the land and the sky, the earth and the sea, the light and the dark. From the Blood of His angels, we are made whole."

　　Anryn cupped his hand to lift some of the warm, foul-smelling water to his mouth, and sipped. The sour, metallic taste scraped over his tongue. He didn`t feel any different. The prince crept down the steppes, feeling the water gently lift his body. The heat built in his blood. Sweat ran down Anryn`s face and stung his eyes.

　　"The Blood of the angels redeems us and protects us. When we taste it, we know ourselves whole."

　　Anryn drank a little more of the water. He thought of the assassins again and tried to tell himself that he felt remorse at their death. He didn`t, not at all. Instead, Anryn felt it for the witch of Dorland. If only the prince had been more of something, that lonely man would still be alive. The tornado would not have come down.

　　The prince came to the lowest, hottest pool surrounded by thick evergreen shrubs that grew in Java year-round. The green cloak of the trees spread around him, hiding him like a veil between himself and the world. Here, the water was up to Anryn`s chin, and he gave in to the urge to shrug off the robe.

　　"Let the body, the mind, the spirit, and the Self feel the touch of God through His consort, Nature. Surround us with Thy holy briar. Draw us beneath the veil of our mother, Nature."

　　Anryn shut his eyes and plunged beneath the burning water.

　　This was a test of fortitude: some rituals called for him to stay under for a full minute, and others only asked that a penitent dunk themselves three times. The idea was to recreate the fable of God pushing his sons back into Nature, where He`d created them from. Only the worthiest of His angels would rise up again to join their holy Father on earth. The unworthy stayed beneath to return to their mother`s womb.

　　Java`s bathing rituals were, Anryn thought, not all that different from witchcraft. They both started in the same place, but witches went down a path that worshiped the land that God gave to man instead of worshiping God himself. Taken too far down the path, it became a diversion from Nature, something selfish and forceful.

　　That terrible power was the thing that Nynomath cultivated in mages. Those who could not or would not be trained in the ways of bending Nature to subvert the will of God were sent into battle as human shields. To erupt with terrible magic when a death blow from their fellow countrymen landed. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　The Lightning King saved Ammar when he cut Nynomath off from the witches. Nynomath`s advantage on the battlefield ebbed, without Ammar`s witches to pad out their ranks. Their king saved his witches from enslavement. He saved their families from the pain of slaying their kin on a battlefield. As cruel as it was to burn witches of Ammar at the stake, at the very least, they died in their homeland.

　　But was that really better? Anryn wondered. Maybe Griff was right to challenge the witch laws. Anryn had never had the nerve to ask his father why some other judgment couldn`t be passed.

　　He remembered with sharp, vivid detail how the witch of Dorland had looked at Anryn when the executioner put the torch to the logs at his feet. He wasn`t menacing, or mean-looking. Nothing like a brigand. The witch wept at the stake while he burned. He only screamed his spell the moment the assassin stabbed Anryn in the back.

　　He didn`t deserve to die, Anryn thought.

　　Guilt weighed the prince down. Anryn stayed under the water. Stubbornly waiting to see what would happen if he tempted God and Nature. He would stay there, he decided, until he ran out of air. And if he met the witch in Hell, he would apologize.

　　The thought of dying just then appealed to Anryn. It would deprive his assassins the satisfaction of killing him. Let God and Nature be the ones to kill the Prince of Ammar. Hadn`t they been the ones to betray him with a body that was not what it should have been? That was somehow less than?

　　His head throbbed and his lungs ached. Still he stayed under, feeling the pressure build in his chest, his throat. Soon, he would open his mouth out of reflex, spasming as his body betrayed him yet again. If he swallowed water instead of air when that happened, he would die.

　　The roar of his blood filled Anryn`s ears. It reminded him of the tornado. Now Anryn felt real regret for his sins. He was sorry that he hadn`t refused to pronounce the sentence. He hadn`t been brave enough to spare the witch. Wasn`t brave enough to risk his father`s disappointment.

　　 Yes—let the assassin come to Java, Anryn thought. Let him find my broken body floating here where God left all His disappointing children.

　　Lifting his head, preparing for the spasm, Anryn opened his eyes under the water. The flat underside of the water formed a mirror.

　　The prince saw her in it.

　　It was the body she would have had if God and Nature hadn`t thwarted each other. Lithe instead of gawky, with high, round breasts. Wide in the shoulders and narrow at the hips. She had so much hair. Between her legs, under her arms, and streaming from her head. Black and shining.

　　It was the only time Prince Anryn had ever looked at himself, and thought that he was beautiful. Everything in her body fit together, each line and curve in its exact place—never too short, too long, too something. Anryn was starved for this feeling of contentment. He hadn`t known until then just how badly.

　　Oh, she`s about to die, Anryn thought. Still under the water, drowning, he realized almost too late that killing himself would kill her. Panic gripped him—it was too late, too late to kick off from the bottom and come up for air. Grief, white hot like the cramp that seized his lungs, choked him. Hot water swept down Anryn`s throat.

　　Then, Maertyn was there. He jumped into the water. As if in slow motion, the ripples slowly dissolved the Anryn in the reflection. Maertyn`s arms looked aged and wrinkled to Anryn`s eyes, but they were strong and solid as he wrapped them around Anryn and lifted the prince from the water.

　　Lying on the grassy bank of the sheltered spring, Anryn sucked down air in shallow, ragged gasps. When he shut his eyes, he still Saw the afterimage of herself behind his eyelids.

　　"You see?" Maertyn said, standing over him. "I told you that I could See someone trying to kill you—if they were in the room with you."