"You'll marry her."

"But such a tomboy! What man wants a wife who rides with the first hunters, draws a thirty-pound bow, and has even unsworded her father's fencing master? It's undignified." He drew breath. "Besides that, she's taller than I am."

"She is also," said the King in a voice that allowed no more dissent, "Princess of Orelewon, our closest neighbor and strongest potential enemy. It behooves us to maintain peace with Orelewon, my son, since the Sea and the Mountains keep us small. You are the Prince, the hope of the people of Tyka. You have responsibilities."

"Father--"

"Enough! Young people today! No sense of responsibility, no surety of duty.... Do you think I would have chosen to wed your sainted mother--may she rest in peace--when I was your age? No! But / had the sense to listen to heads wise in the ways of statesmanship. As you should." He picked a sheaf of papers up from his desk, waving his hand in dismissal. "Princess Gwendolyn and her Aunt Astra will arrive Friday. You will plight your troth at dinner that same evening, and the banns will be read in church on Sunday. The wedding will be three weeks hence. Good day, my son."

It was perhaps a minute before the Prince was able to unclamp his jaw and mutter, "Good day, my King." He all but ran from the room.

Blind to the servants, the Prince stormed down the hallways and up the wide stairway to his chambers. He opened the closet door with a hinge-wrenching jerk. His brocade jacket tore. He threw the jacket to one side, the rest of his costume flying in other directions. He pulled on hunting clothes, jammed a green peaked cap upon his head, and strode out, snatching bow and quiver from their places by the door.

As he moved through the castle hallways, mirrors gave back the reflection of a tall, fair young man, handsome face disfigured by anger, striding on long, well-shaped legs, bow slung carelessly across broad shoulders. Even in the many-times-mended clothing he wore, none could doubt that he was a Prince.