2. DEVIN, YEAR 492

Devin rattled his manacles against the post, wishing he had his tools. The manacles were connected by a long chain running loose through a staple at the top of a tall marble column, which held his arms over his head. The damn column felt like an icicle pressed against his spine. Maybe if he seesawed his arms, he could abrade the staple with the friction of the passing chain links? He had thought of trying that earlier and glibly passing it off as an exercise, but something in the magistrate's face stilled his tongue and his arms. Every time the man had glanced at Devin, he looked almost . . . haunted.

The youth did not yell, scream, or rant. What was the point? Words would not break those chains. He tugged his aching, sweaty wrists, trying to grease through the restraints. He closed his eyes and attempted to muster the erratic, new powers that had landed him in this mess, but the sorcery was gone. His last hope of salvation lay in pleading with the five gods. Devin sighed as the fervent prayer died on his lips. He could not ask the gods to save him.

Stop struggling and start thinking. What's a pair of old shackles against the might of my mettle? The condemned grinned. I could create a better set of restraints with my eyes closed. His wrists burned when blood mixed with the sweat and he grunted as he strained. Thank the five gods my mind is still unchained.

Devin focused on the manacles. He prided himself in having an artificer's mind: steady as a turning cog, stubborn as a rusty bolt, and twisted as a coiled spring. Devin's long apprenticeship had taught him to solve problems by the grace of his gods given talents, not by magic trickery or divine intervention. You were an artificer from the cradle to the cogs until your mind blunted and your body rusted and through it all, the guild ruled your life. Devin had devoted years to the dream of becoming a master artificer before rivals, jealous of his gods given mechanical talents, conspired to banish him from the guild.

On the eve of his journeyman’s exam, what should have been his crowning triumph, the bastards finally succeeded. With the guild’s shops closed to him and his machines in ruins, what recourse did he have but magic? What was Master Huron's old quote about swatting flies with sledgehammers? His magic had no finesse, which had resulted in . . . several . . . regrettably enthusiastic . . . well the five gods would damn him if he called them accidents. He strode into the hall the day after his banishment with one fateful purpose: destruction. Had they not destroyed his future? And who hasn't fantasized about bringing down a building with their mind? Only, now he could. Devin shied away from the memory. It seemed that wild, erratic violence was the mage's curse.

Then the artificers had intervened with this show trial to try and save his life as though he had not just reduced half the hall to rubble and proceeded to kick him out of the country as well as the guild. Devin felt a swell of pride for his ex masters in spite of himself. They had bent the rigid, iron laws of the empire across their knees. Since when did mages get trials? He twisted in his manacles, slicing his arms to try and see the artificers sitting behind him at the front of the gallery from the corner of his eye. The youth wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or glare at them. Devin felt a sharp pang in his gut at the sight of a familiar black blob of an apprentice cap now lost to him sitting behind a blurry white master's cap, which he would never hope to attain again. The pain hit again. Devin glanced down. No existential regrets, just a knotted belt loop digging into his stomach. He wiggled his hips.

Not that he wasn't grateful for their help, by the five gods, but he would certainly never have asked for it. He swallowed another prayer. Stubbornness gave Devin's piety a hardened edge, which he would not blunt with useless acts.

Well, the five gods aren't coming to rescue me, even if I did ask and Mom always said I was the stubborn child. No tools. No magic. No gods. No problem. Devin cursed and strained harder.

One of the guards abandoned his statuesque pose, sheathed his sword, and marched to the traitor's post. The elegant greaves rang on the flagstones. Devin stared as the knight clanged towards him with black armor and a red, glowing visor. One of the guard's gauntlets shattered the heavy, iron manacles while the other cinched around the youth's wrists like a vise. Devin struggled, and the muted whirring escalated as the gauntlet clamped harder.

Agony splintered Devin's thoughts. He found refuge in the artificer reciting calculations in a smooth, fatherly baritone. What is the compound gear ratio in these metal fingers to produce such pressure?

A different, frenzied voice screeched from the depths of the youth's mind. Release me! They want pressure? I'll flatten the empire. Devin suppressed the voice of the mage inside his head.

So magic is responsible for your wild behaviors, now? the artificer's voice growled, elbowing the mage aside. How convenient. A dream come true for young men everywhere. You don't really believe that, do you?

The onset of sorcery had left . . . voices in its wake. Not the persistent, little voices that tell you it was all right to skip one of Master Huron's lectures or that nobody would notice if you used spit instead of polish to clean the brass, but true, fractious personalities. Were they already a part of him buried deep within, which the magic had brought forth and given voice, or spirits drawn to his powers who were merely hitching a ride in his mind?

Who knows? Devin thought. It's not like I've met any other mages I could ask even if it wasn't the most embarrassing question ever; they . . . we don't exactly march through the streets waving signs. I'm a mage who can't control his magic and by the way, I hear these little voices in my head. Surely, someone knew how to quell the voices or could at least teach him proper magic. The youth clenched his fists and willed the flames to appear between his fingers. Sometimes, something happened. Sometimes, not. Magic was a discipline that made a person question their own minds, and a greasy, unfamiliar feeling of self doubt had settled like shards of scrap metal in Devin's guts, threatening to shred him from the inside.

“Quit squirming, kid. You'll only make it worse.” Smoke emanated from the guard's visor and his coarse breathing echoed in the chamber of his helmet. The red glow vanished as he turned his head. The man did not look so much like a heroic knight from the fairy tales as an eerie, hulking giant wrapped in black armor. But oh, what glorious armor. Delight mellowed Devin's fear. The sights and sounds hidden beneath every gap and crease in the plate mail hinted at mechanical wonders stuffed inside. The gears spun and whirred while the pistons growled and punched, turning the guard's bulky steel limbs into instruments of fluid grace while steam hissed from his joints. A faint whistling prodded the back of Devin's mind, but that one quiet noise was swallowed by the cacophony, and he ignored it. The man lifted his unburdened gauntlet and the internal machinery whined as he flexed his fingers. “These babies can crush granite, but the controls are so damn finicky. Don't want to turn those little wrists into jelly, eh?”

Devin quit squirming. Such raw, mechanized power demanded respect and awe. The youth acquiesced to the suit more than the man wearing it. The guard kept a firm grip on Devin's wrists and led the youth into the basement. The long, wide corridor had a polished, sterile quality. The cold, white marble fornices of the vault stretched across the roof like the welcoming arms of a skeleton in a crypt. The tiniest of noises: a shallow breath, a dragging foot, all echoed alongside the knight's quiet, whirring footfalls.

The odd, two note whistle coming from the knight's black, metal elbow joint was also amplified in the narrow corridor, triggering a memory old Master Huron, white cap askew, standing over a suit of mechanical armor with its steel guts spilled across the floor. The man cradled a set of metal veins like a child's tin whistle and blew a two note trill through the valves. “Another broken actuator,” the ancient artificer had murmured before turning and noticing Devin. “Out! Out! Back to your own diversions, m'lad.” The old man smiled to soften the rebuke as he shooed the apprentice away. “Such intricate devices are not for apprentice eyes to see nor fumbling fingers touch . . . even you. Especially you. Some of the journeymen have been complaining again.”

“Ha! They wouldn't know an actuator from an arc tangent,” Devin scoffed, trying to peer over the master's shoulder.

The old man sighed. “You would do well to cultivate an aura of humility and abase yourself before the more prickly journeymen. A genius apprentice is still an apprentice.”

I thought the coot was just seeking to placate some obtuse journeymen, but he was offering his most thickheaded apprentice wise advice. Well, I can follow it, now, although it's too late to tell the master he was right. The old man never came to my trial. Am I happy or sad that about that? All Devin's feelings regarding the guild were in a state of roiling flux. He focused on the suit to clear his head and calm his clenching gut.

Those old Mark 2 suits, Devin thought, watching the knight bend his elbow and squeak again. The loose actuator valves. “Excuse me, sir.” The youth jangled his chains to get the guard's attention, trying to inject a helpful, wheedling tone into his pleas. The sound of all that verbal bowing and scraping grated on his nerves; he must have gotten the voice right. “Is your suit the Mark 2 Drake Mechanical Armor, sir? You've um . . . got a loose valve in your elbow.” Devin bit his lip and pointed as he raised the manacles. “If you could free my hands? Maybe give me some tools? I'd be more than happy to fix it for you.”

“I bet you would. Nice try, kid.” The black knight chuckled and the hollow sound resounded in his helmet. He raised his visor and grinned down at Devin. The youth startled. The evil red glow and mysterious smoke merely came from a cigar the man gripped between his teeth. “I've heard it all: hexes, threats, bribes. One man offered to buy me a new horse if I would just loosen his manacles and look the other way.” The knight pulled the chain taunt and blew a fresh puff of smoke. “You're the first one who offered to fix a squeaky suit of armor. Let's move past all that, eh? I have my duty and you have an appointment. Now will you walk on your own two feet and face what comes or must I haul you there like a sack of potatoes?”

“I'll walk,” Devin grumbled, squaring his shoulders.

The guard brought Devin to a bright room at the end of the hall even more antiseptic than the others. Everything looked so primitive. A white-washed table made from wood instead of welded metal with sturdy leather ties dominated the center of the room in lieu of chains. A cheerful fire crackled in the corner instead of a steam engine. Two large simple tools relaxed under the mantle, glowed bright yellow with hints of russet orange at the tips, soaking up warmth from split logs. The fire didn't even use coal!

As they walked towards the table, the sound of grating gears echoed through the confines of the small room. The mechanized knight did not belong here, Devin realized. They had stepped back into the past where civilization was a dream and machines did not exist. The room was too plain, too barbarous.

Then the barbarian spoke, and Devin turned to see a man bent over a small tray fondling a set of tiny, simple tools. Like the rest of the room, they were clean and sharp and glistened in the firelight. He reached toward Devin's face. “I can't wait to flay that soft, delicate skin. But I can't decide which of my favorite toys to use first. Won't you help me, boy?” He held up two of the gruesome implements for the youth to inspect. “Tell me, would you prefer a serrated edge or a nice, sharp blade?”

The youth screamed and twisted in his captor's grasp. His arms burned as the iron scraped against the raw cuts and bruises. The guard sighed and turned alongside Devin, matching his movements. “Be still and face what comes, lad.”

Devin turned away, removing the instruments of torture from his sight, and nodded. He had but to remember he was an artificer, one of the metal artisan mechanics who kept the greasy, steel wheels–the foundation of the empire–turning, and a bit of that steel slipped back into his spine.

But you're not a metal pounder anymore, the mage whispered, and facing that loss of identity scraped Devin's soul deeper than mere shackles could ever reach. He turned inwards, begging a comforting word from the artificer, but the voice was silent and brooding. Hot tears started etching the dirt on the youth's cheeks.

The leering man in the corner wore a fresh pressed white apron, a jaunty white cap, and an easy smile with sparkling, white teeth. He doesn't look like a barbarian. He looks like a butcher. And I'm . . . I'm the . . . His thoughts scurried into darkness.

Jemmy coughed and shook his head. “You won't be needing those, sir,” he said curtly, nodding towards the tray.

“Oh?” the Butcher asked, rolling a little spiked wheel across the tray with terse, little pings. “The boy is a convicted mage is he not? A traitor? I may have missed the final verdict prepping for his nullification procedure, but his guilt was much in evidence and undeniable after the first day.”

“And yet, the trial continued,” Jemmy said softly.

“Damn all artificers and their meddlesome ways.”

“I believe the old man would agree with you, sir.”

“And yet . . .” the Butcher sighed, placing his spiked wheel down among the others. “There's something more. Something insidious. I can see it in your gleeful, little eyes and I think I know what.” He gripped the tray with quivering, white knuckles and the little tools rattled.

Jemmy nudged his prisoner forward. Devin stared at the floor, hardly listening. “This mage is to be treated differently. Amputation of one leg only.”

Devin flinched and looked up as the tools leaped off the tray and scattered across the floor.

“That's absurd,” the Butcher said, scowling as he gestured towards the ceiling and the distant courtroom. “Does that man have any idea the damage he has wrought this day? The trial was bad enough, but to show leniency towards mages? Insanity!”

“He gave his judgment from the bench, sir. He has spoken with the emperor's voice.” Jemmy shrugged. “Who are we to question his decision? What do a pair of grunts compare to the Magistrate of the Western Province?”

“You forget yourself, Sergeant,” the Butcher growled, but his face relaxed as though biding his anger for a more worthy target.

“Forgive me, Captain.” Jemmy bowed as he flicked his cigar into the fireplace. “I did not mean to imply . . . ”

The Butcher ignored the cigar and dismissed the apology with a brusque wave. Then he focused on Devin. “Forgive me. I have been rude. I am Captain Armand Delacourt Vice. I will be taking care of you today along with Jemmy here. Let's skip to the sword and the saw in the fire over there, shall we? Hot metal cauterizes as it cuts. No muss, no fuss. I prefer the blade, myself. Nice quick, precise cuts. What's your pleasure, lad? Jemmy,” the man turned to the guard. “Prepare the rawhide, won't you?”

“What's my pleasure?” Devin asked, swallowing his gorge as the man in white strapped him to the table. The youth squeezed his eyes shut as the last strap constricted his chest. His breaths became short and shallow.

Jemmy squeezed the youth's shoulder. “Deep breaths. Take big gulps, lad. Through the mouth. Out the nose.”

“Open your eyes, boy. I want you to see this.” Vice slapped Devin lightly across the cheek until two tear-stained eyes blinked at him. He rolled up the youth's trouser, resting the heel of his palm above one slender ankle, mid calf. “Saw?” the Butcher asked, pulling his hand slowly back and forth, “or sword?” He tenderly chopped the leg. “You seem confused. Let's table that decision, shall we? Here, start with something simpler. What would you like to eat?”

“For my last meal?” Devin's voice quavered.

“No, stupid child, for your rawhide.” Vice waved a piece of leathery, twisted animal skin under the youth's nose. “This keeps you from biting your tongue. I've been experimenting with a variety of flavors. It's a little hobby of mine. Some of them are quite tasty. Would you like peppermint or lemon or licorice? It won't even cost you an arm and a leg. Just this.” The man patted his prisoner's foot.

“Peppermint,” Devin whispered. My last meal is peppermint.

“What?” the man in white asked the guard. “What did he say?”

“He wants the peppermint, sir,” Jemmy said.

“Excellent choice,” the Butcher cried, slapping Devin's calf. “Oh my, your flesh bruises so easily. Shall I remove that blemish for you? No, no, I've burdened you with too many choices already.”

“Bite down hard as you like,” Jemmy whispered, sliding a sweet, leathery stick between the youth's teeth.

Devin drowned in peppermint. The guard's voice hushed as they drifted apart on green candy waves. Devin opened his mouth to welcome the waves and let the frothy tides carry him away.

“Pick the sword, kid,” Jemmy whispered. “Vice lied. The bastard loves that bone saw. Took forever lingering over the last guy who didn't choose. Wretch swallowed his tongue just to end it. You still got a tongue. I can see it. Damn it, why won't you just pick the sword?”

The peppermint chew lost its flavor. The sweet sea drained, replaced by black, sour bile. Devin whimpered.

Jemmy fumbled strapping a belt around the youth's leg. “He wants the sword, sir.”

“Does he?” The Butcher tested the blade's edge on the belt, singeing the leather. “Peppermint and the sword. Auspicious choices all around. Stop whimpering, boy. The court was merciful. Hail the Empire!” As Jemmy turned away, Vice leaned down and nibbled Devin's ear. “Don't think you've escaped,” he hissed. “No matter where you run, little mage, we shall hunt you down and mete the final punishment you deserve. Justice will not be denied her tasty, little prize. Do enjoy the mint.”

Devin gagged on the spent rawhide. His pride shattered. May the five gods have mercy upon me. The Butcher raised his glowing sword. Metal hissed as sweat dripped off the man's brow. May the five gods have mercy upon me. The man brought his arm down. Pain bloomed from the youth's leg, but terror had already branded his mind. May the five gods . . .