Like most men, Anryn felt he would never live up to his father. King Anathas, the Lightning King, rose like a hero out of legend. He married a woman for love and led an army over a mountain by a hidden path to surprise the enemy. Prince Anryniel was a living contrast. He was never tall enough, smart enough, strong enough... something enough to be worthy of the Lightning King.
And here I am, surprised by an enemy... running away from a fight instead of toward, Anryn thought. What kind of king would he become, he wondered.
The quiet voice urging him on seemed to reply: Live long enough and you might find out.
Anryn thought he saw a light in the distance. The trees thinned and, sure enough, he spied a cluster of houses stacked onto the slope. They were old and abandoned—the rotted roofs jagged like a mouth full of broken teeth against the night sky. Higher up from the ring, one house glowed with firelight in the windows, and smoke curled from its chimney. He stumbled toward the house, his uneven pace quickening at the sight of safety.
Anryn didn’t hear the footsteps in the snow behind him until his hand hit the weathered fence. He turned and barely had time to think before the flash of steel came down. By some miracle, his sword met it before the blade could find its target.
Don’t think—react! Anryn slid into a sideways stance, narrowing his body so that his attacker would have a smaller target. His ankle protested when his knees flexed. Yet his numb feet seemed to recall some feeling as he shuffled them backward over the ground. His fencing masters always said the key to any fight was distance between himself and his attacker—be they witch, mage, or man.
Now he could see that it was a man—one of the sleigh drivers who had brought him to the witch burning. Other than this, Anryn knew nothing about the servant. Nor why he would want to kill the Lightning King’s only son. Charcoal-colored hair and beige skin flecked with sunspots. He wore the colors of the royal family of Ammar and bore a sword thicker and wider than the knife still buried in Anryn’s back.
“Who are you?” Anryn shouted. He tilted his wrist inward, angling the cutting edge of his blade toward the man’s face. “What do you want?”
In answer, the driver slashed at him. His teeth gnashed the air, lips peeled back in a wordless snarl.
Anryn met the slash with the flat of his blade. He followed up with a thrust over the top of the cross guard, aiming for the man’s face. A hard parry nearly knocked Anryn’s sword from his hand. He saved himself by using the force of the blow to rotate his sword out of the engagement.
His sword now below the man’s guard, Anryn thrust again. This time, his ankle gave out and the prince stumbled. In this frantic moment, the tip of his weapon met flesh—and the momentum of his slip drove it home.
“Little blue-blooded shit...!” the driver snarled. He grabbed for the blade that impaled him, not seeming to realize how deep it had gone into his gut.
Anryn wrenched back on his hilt, one-handed. Warm flecks of blood landed on his cheek. The wet coppery smell hit him, and Anryn fell to his knees, retching. The knife in his shoulder wrenched at him as he doubled over. Dark spots swam behind his eyes, and the roar of the wind howled in his ears again. The memory of the witch’s tornado swallowed him up in a swirl of black.
For an age, Anryn could not say whether he died there in the snow—or only fainted.
No, he thought, I’m not dead. Death could not be so warm and soft. It felt like being held by his mother, when Anryn was still very small. The gauzy warmth of her veil under Anryn’s fingertips.
“You are the Prince of Ammar. You have nothing to fear,” Queen Eva would say, stroking her son’s hair. “I’ve got my eyes on you.”
This time when Anryn came around he saw a tall, pale man leaning over him. Not a servant, but a peasant with brown hair and fine, dark eyes beneath heavy brows. Anryn frowned—the man stood far too close for a peasant to stand near a prince. He sat up and the man stepped back.
They were together inside a cottage with a low thatched roof and a stone chimney. A fire crackled in the little hearth, and wolf pelts covered the floor. The bed he sat on was piled high with wool blankets over a thick straw mattress. This must have been the cottage he’d seen from the road, Anryn thought.
The peasant went to a chair beside the fire and slumped down onto it. After a moment, he pointed. Anryn’s gaze followed to where the man’s long finger stretched, and he found a teapot beside a chipped stone cup. Shaking and faint, he reached for it. It felt warm cradled in his palms.
Anryn looked at the liquid inside and saw nothing amiss—a dark amber tea like any brewed from the dried black leaves sold in Ammar’s markets. He swallowed a hot mouthful, thirst overpowering caution. His tongue went numb in an instant and his eyes watered.
Whiskey, he thought, gagging. A peasant’s last resort—that’s what the Lightning King called it.
Then Anryn noticed his left hand, curled around the teacup. Where the skin had been black and red, he saw new pink flesh underneath the ragged edges of his burnt shirt. The fingers tingled as the whiskey crept into his blood. He rolled his shoulders and felt only the slightest twinge where the knife had been.
He glanced at the tall, pale peasant. The man stared right back without blinking. He looked not very much older than Anryn, but a strange heaviness clung to him. Something that should not have been, like a compass pointing east.
This man is a witch, he realized.
There was a saying among Ammar’s priests—If you find yourself on the same road twice, be sure to read the signs the second time. Until Dorland, Anryn had never before met a witch. The Lightning King’s witch laws kept them well away from the royal court, from churches, and from all the places the Prince of Ammar was expected to go. Now, in just one day, he’d met two witches—one whose life Anryn ended, and one who had apparently saved Anryn’s.
He glanced around the cottage again. A sigh of relief swept over his lips when he found his sword in its scabbard propped beside the bed. He set down the cup and snatched it up. Having it in his hands made Anryn remember himself—and the courtly manners to which he’d been raised.
He cleared his throat and spoke to the witch: “You’ll pardon me for staying the night. I swear as Prince of Ammar, I will repay you the favor.”
“Are you sure?” The witch spoke very slowly, as if he tested each word before it left his mouth.
“Of course,” Anryn replied.
“I mean—are you sure you are a ‘prince?’ ” the witch asked him. “You... look like a girl.”
The blunt comment shocked Anryn. He knew that he was small for his age—and try as he might, he hadn’t been able to grow a beard. But a girl? How dare he! What sort of girl wore a sword?
“I am Anryniel of Mahaut, Prince of Ammar, son of the Lightning King.” Anryn said, making his voice as sharp as he could. “Of course I am not a girl.”
The witch stood from his chair so fast he knocked it over. The shadows from the fireplace seemed to grow longer while the light in the hearth dimmed. The heaviness he’d felt before spread from the witch, and Anryn’s nose prickled as if it were about to bleed.
“Are you a mage?” the witch snarled.
This was more than an insult to Anryn. No one in Ammar would suffer themselves to be called a mage—one of the meddlesome fiends of Nynomath. Pride won out over fear. Anryn drew his sword and pointed it at the witch, the tip of it just an arm’s length from the man’s chest.