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sound in the room save for the swish and shift of their slippers across the tiles, the grunts of their efforts, and the dry cracks when the wooden blades met.
    Aliver found himself backing, backing, barely able to slap away Hephron’s blows, needing space, and then space again. He expected to meet the wall of youths behind him, but they moved with him, the circle staying fixed around them. It even opened as the movement brought them to a pillar. He knocked the granite base of this with his foot. He half lowered his sword, for a moment thinking this was reason enough to pause. He glimpsed the possibility that they might halt this exercise, smile and joke about it, no damage done. But Hephron swung, his blade slicing below Aliver’s chin and striking the stone pillar.
    The prince stumbled backward. He caught himself with his free hand and pivoted on it. Upright again, he remembered the anger that had started all of this. Hephron, the arrogant fool! It seemed absurd that he would strike at him that way, as if he wished to shatter his windpipe. He caught sight of Melio, who at that moment stood on the far side of the ring, his face ridged with concern. That annoyed him also. He wanted no sympathy. He raised his sword above his head and yanked it down, wishing to pound Hephron beneath it. Even if the hit was blocked, he meant to press such weight behind it as to batter him down with fury alone.
    But Hephron seemed to know this was coming. He slid to the side of Aliver’s downstroke. He snapped his sword in a quick blow that bit the prince just at the edge of his shoulder, at the joint where the bones met. From this the boy twirled away, swung around in a complete circle, and caught Aliver—who had frozen in a twist of pain—at the midpoint of the other arm, with a force great enough that a real sword would have severed the arm cleanly. Aliver cried out, but Hephron was not done. He drew his sword back into his chest and lunged forward, pushing his weight before him and thrusting his arms so that the blunt wooden point of his sword hit Aliver’s chest at dead center. Already convulsed with two-armed pain, the force of this last strike rocked the prince back onto his heels and dropped him onto the mat.
    Hephron’s smile lifted every component feature of his face into use. His eyes overflowed with such smugness that a single person could barely contain it. “You are armless, sir. Not to mention dead. What a strange outcome. Who would have guessed it?”
    Moments later, Aliver surged out into air red faced and angry, more so at himself than at Hephron. How foolish of him! He had lowered himself by acknowledging Hephron’s taunts, in challenging him, by losing so completely and—almost worst of all—in showing all of them his frustration. Behind this he knew he had played a hand he had not needed to. All the mystery of his possible skill had vanished in a few strokes. He knew they were all surrounding Hephron even now, clapping him on the back, praising him, laughing at their dandy prince. How could he ever go back there again and dance through his choreographed motions while all the others watched him from the corners of their scornful eyes?
    Melio caught up with him as he pounded up a long staircase. “Aliver!” he called. “Wait for me.” Twice he touched the prince’s elbow, only to have his hand ripped away. At the top of the stairs Melio jumped in front of him, threw his arms around him, and dragged him to a halt. “Come on. You care too much about this. Don’t do it. Hephron’s nothing.”
    “He’s nothing?” Aliver asked. “Nothing? If he’s nothing, then what am I?”
    “The king’s son. Aliver, don’t walk away. And don’t pity yourself. Do you think that little fight matters? I will tell you something.” Melio drew back a little, but pressed the palms of his hands on the other’s shoulders, as if indicating that he was letting go but not yet doing so. “Okay, so the truth is you are no match for