reason you knocked over half the armor in here. That would be the drink.”
“Take your hand off me, I said,” the prince repeated, and his other hand strayed toward the eating knife at his belt.
Devin pushed him backward as gently as he could manage. A part of him still hoped this could be peaceful, even as he knew exactly what was going to happen next.
“You don’t want to do that, your highness.”
Vars glared at him, breathing hard, with a look of pure hatred.
“I’m not the one who’s made the mistake here, traitor,” Prince Vars growled, death in his voice.
Vars set down his hammer and picked up an arming sword from one of the benches, although it was obvious to Devin that he was no expert with it.
“That’s right—you’re a traitor. Attacking a royal person is treason, and traitors die for it.”
He swung the sword at Devin, and instinctively, Devin grabbed for whatever he could find. It turned out to be a forge hammer of his own, and he brought it up to block the blow, hearing the ring of iron on iron as he stopped the sword from connecting with his head. The impact jarred at his hands, and there was no time to think now. Catching the blade against the hammer’s head, he wrenched it from the prince’s grip with all his strength, sending it clattering across the floor to join the pile of discarded armor.
He made himself stop then. He was angry that the prince could come in and strike at him like that, but Devin was all patience. Metal required it. A man who was impatient at the forge was a man who got hurt.
“You see?” Prince Vars called out, pointing a finger that was trembling in either anger or fear. “He strikes at me! Seize him. I want him dragged to the deepest cell the castle possesses, and his head on a pike by morning.”
The young men around him looked reluctant to react, but it was just as obvious that they weren’t going to stand by while someone as low-born as Devin fought with a prince. Most were still holding swords or spears that they’d been trying out inexpertly, and now Devin found himself in the middle of a ring of such weapons, all pointed straight at his heart.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Devin said, not knowing what else to do. He let the hammer thud to the floor, because it was useless to him there. What could he do, try to fight his way out against so many? Even though he suspected he was better with a blade than the men there, there were too many to even try it, and if he did, what then? Where would he be able to run, and what would it mean for his family if he did?
“Maybe there’s no need for a cell,” Prince Vars said. “Maybe I’ll take his head off here, where people can see. Put him on his knees. On his knees, I said!” he repeated when the others didn’t do it quickly enough.
Four of them came forward and pushed Devin down, while the others kept their weapons trained on him. Prince Vars, meanwhile, had picked up the sword again. He lifted it, obviously testing the weight, and in that moment Devin knew that he was going to die. Fear filled him, because he couldn’t see a way out. No matter how much he thought, no matter how strong he was, it wouldn’t change things. The others there might not agree with what the prince was about to do, but they would stand by anyway. They would stand there and watch while the prince swung that sword and…
…and the world seemed to stretch out in that moment, one heartbeat fading into the next. In that instant, it was as if he could see every muscle in the prince’s frame, see the sparks of thought that powered it. It was easy in that moment to reach out, and to change just one of them.
“Ow! My arm!” Prince Vars yelled, his sword clattering to the ground.
Devin stared back, stunned. He tried to make some sense of what he’d just done.
And he was terrified by himself.
The prince stood there, clutching at his arm and trying to rub some feeling back into the fingers.
Devin could only stare at him. Had he really done that somehow? How? How could anyone make someone’s arm cramp just by thinking about it?
He thought back to the dream once more…
“That’s enough,” a voice called out, interrupting. “Let him go.”
Prince Rodry stepped into the circle of weapons, and the young men there lowered them in response to his presence, almost breathing a sigh of relief that he was there.
Devin definitely did, yet he kept his eyes on Prince Vars, and the weapon he now held in his off hand.
“That’s enough, Vars,” Rodry said. He stepped between Devin and the prince, and Prince Vars hesitated for a moment. Devin thought he might even swing the sword anyway, regardless of his brother’s presence.
Then he threw the blade aside.
“I didn’t want to come here anyway,” he said, and stalked out.
Prince Rodry turned to Devin, and it didn’t even take another word for him to be released by the men who held him.
“You were brave to stand up for the boy,” he said. He lifted the spear he held. “And you do good work. I’m told this is one of yours.”
“Yes, your highness,” Devin said. He didn’t know what to think. In a matter of seconds, he’d gone from being sure he would die to being released, from being thought a traitor to being complimented on his work. It made no sense, but then, why should things have to make sense in a world where he’d somehow just done… magic?
Prince Rodry nodded and then turned to leave. “Be more careful in the future. I might not be here to save you next time.”
It took several more seconds before Devin could bring himself to stand, breaths coming in short bursts. He looked over to Nem, who was trying to hold the wound on his arm closed. He looked scared and shaken by what had happened.
Old Gund was there then, taking Nem’s arm and wrapping a strip of cloth around it. He looked over to Devin.
“You had to interfere?” he asked.
“I couldn’t let him hurt Nem,” Devin said. That was one thing he would do again, a hundred times if he had to.
“The worst he’d have gotten was a beating,” Gund said. “We’ve all had worse. Now… you need to go.”
“Go?” Devin said. “For today?”
“For today, and all the days that follow, you fool,” Gund said. “Do you think we can let a man who fights a prince stay in the House of Weapons?”
Devin felt the breath leave his chest. Leave the House of Weapons? The only real home he’d ever known?
“But I didn’t—” Devin began, and stopped himself.
He wasn’t Nem, to believe that the world would turn out the way he wanted just because it was the right thing. Of course Gund would want him gone; Devin had known before he interfered what this might cost him.
Devin stared back and nodded, all he could do in response. He turned and began to walk.
“Wait,” Nem called out. He ran to his workbench and then ran back with something wrapped in cloth. “I… I don’t have much
