“Ah! What a fine morning,” Proto declared.

  Astrid made no response. She was striding briskly several paces ahead of him.

  “Look at those mists shining in the east!” he admired. “And in the west, north and south. Exactly how they’ll be shining this afternoon, evening and night.”

  No luck. If anything, Astrid’s pace increased. He nearly had to jog now.

  “Look at that blue horizon!” he went on. “Like the sea and the sky, rolled into one misty—”

  “Please stop,” interrupted Astrid.

  “Grump, grump, grump,” he lamented. “Do you need a coffee?”

  “What I need is to finish this exercise in futility as soon as possible,” she replied.

  “Well then, tell me about this dreamer! Maybe it’ll speed things up. Give me some insights.”

  “You know I think you’re better off without advance knowledge. Usually,” she responded. “It prejudices your decision-making. It makes you think you know more than you do.”

  “Okay. But you have to admit, knowing her bio was helpful last time,” he said. “In that dystopian city.”

  “Right, what do I know?” Astrid turned and glowered at him. “I’ve only been doing this since you were just a gleam in your distant ancestors’ eyes. You’ll probably take my place soon, given how much you know—”

  “Call me Know Bro,” Proto broke in, double-gunning her.

  A laugh slipped out, and then she looked furious with herself. She stomped along in silence for a while.

  “Soo . . . that bio?” he pressed.

  “What, Dahlia didn’t show you everything in the Shadowcaster?” she shot back. “I don’t see why you need a secondhand, second-best version from me. You can get all you need straight from her mouth. Or what have you.”

  “ . . . wait, what?” asked Proto.

  Astrid flushed. “From her mouth, the Shadowcaster, whatever,” she mumbled. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean! You know everything else, right?”

  He pondered, watching her stiff strides and searching for a response. But it turned out he didn’t need one.

  She sighed and rubbed her temples. “So, the dreamer. He’s twenty-two years old. A recent college grad. He did fine there—fine, but not great—just like he did in high school. That’s how he was in sports too. And that’s how his career search is going. A couple job offers, paying enough to get by, but not much more. Same with his love life. He meets someone, goes on a few decent dates, things peter out, and they move on.”

  “There’s nothing terribly wrong with him. But also nothing terribly right. He’s an Everyman, but also a Nobody for that reason. And he hates it,” she explained.

  “As he sees it, everyone else has strengths and weaknesses. They play to their strengths. And they win at life that way. At least, they win at some things,” she said. “But he doesn’t have that option, because he’s middle-of-the-road at everything. So he wins at nothing. He’s convinced he’ll lead a profoundly insignificant life. And he’s wondering what the point is.”

  “Hm,” mused Proto. “This sounds like a ‘keep working hard and things will work out’ sort of situation. Like Tom Brady. He was second-string for years, not very athletic, and then his first college pass was intercepted. He kept working hard. And look what came of that! ‘If at first you don’t succeed,’ and all that.”

  “Great. I’m glad you know exactly what to do.” Astrid tapped a white door. It slid open. “I’ll be watching from afar if you need me. But I’m sure you won’t, Know Bro.”

  He tapped his temple knowingly, and she just shook her head.

  They walked across the threshold into a mirky tunnel. Sunlight glared from its far end. It clarified to motley colors as he neared and his eyes adjusted.

  Squinting, he emerged, just as a far off man was shouting some announcement. A peal of trumpets ensued.

  Proto was facing a medieval arena, with lords and ladies seated in the stands beside an open field, the sort where jousts were held—the “lists,” he remembered those fields being called.

  The onlookers were cheering uproariously as an armored man sauntered from nearby into the center of the field. The apparent knight waved to them in lordly fashion. Maidens leaned from the stands as though to reach him from afar. They called indiscernibly toward him.

  Then, he dramatically drew his sword and held it high, so it threw off a host of glimmers. And the applause and cries redoubled.

  As the noise eventually died down, the man he’d heard a moment ago made his next announcement: “From the Fief of Greymere, wearing the azure and or, Sir Griffyngale!”

  The crowd erupted in a cheer, as trumpets played a fanfaronade. But no one walked onto the field.

  Proto looked down. At his waist was a scabbarded sword. He was wearing chainmail with a tabard overtop. A coat of arms covered its front, with something birdlike to its side and glaring menacingly.

  He smiled.

  Stepping forth, he raised a palm and started waving.

  “What are you doing?” hissed a voice next to him, as a hand roughly seized his shoulder and yanked him backward. He stumbled and almost fell, but a strong hand held him up.

  Turning, he saw a knight in a mostly white tabard was grasping his shoulder. He had hair down to his shoulders and looked to be in his early twenties. His eyes were scrunched up with both annoyance and concern. “Blood in Heaven! I know you forget your age and forget where you are. But now you forget you’re not Sir Griffyngale?”

  Proto abruptly noticed that mists had swirled up to about waist level and were rising quickly. And now—glancing back at the field—he saw a knight in blue and gold striding forth and waving. A griffin adorned his coat of arms.

  “Uh, pardon. I forget myself,” Proto replied, rubbing his temple and looking down.

  The knight’s visible irritation melted to sympathy. “Look, I’m going to need you today, Sir Wyndsack.”

  Proto glanced over his shoulder. A tall page with long silvery-blue hair, face half covered by a droopy medieval cap, was wearing grey livery. The page’s frame was disconcertingly curvy.

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  Wyndsack? he mouthed, arching an eyebrow.

  “Sir Wyndsack,” Page Astrid hailed him with a bow, in the not-quite-changed voice of an early teenage boy.

  Proto nodded grimly—prompting a half-suppressed smile from the page—and turned back to the knight. “Yes. Yes, I’m feeling better now. Just lost my bearings for a moment.”

  “Very good. I consider myself blessed to have the hero of Luourcourt as my guide today. Even if he is older than the whole field put together!” The knight grinned at him warmly.

  Proto looked down at his hands. He saw now that they were wrinkled and spotted. Wonderful.

  “Yes, well, what I’ve lost in strength, I’ve gained in wisdom,” Proto managed. “And don’t you forget it!” Even his voice sounded old and raspy now.

  “Ah, there’s the Wyndsack I know.” The knight slapped him on the back—gently, as though he might break. The mists had dwindled to their ankles now.

  “That’s Sir Wyndsack to you!” Proto wagged a finger.

  The younger man nodded amiably and started to banter back. But the announcer broke in first. “From the Fief of Terneplain, wearing the argent and ermine, Sir Blancheblade!”

  The knight took a deep breath and nodded at Proto.

  Then, he turned and strode out toward the lists, waving and beaming toward the assembled lords and ladies. They clapped and cheered, and maidens reached and cried out vainly. He drew his longsword with a flourish and held it high for a moment. Several young ladies threw flowers and threw their hands to their breasts sighingly.

  Proto leaned toward Astrid. “Of all the days for me to be an old man!” he grumbled quietly.

  “Stay on track, Wyndsack,” she replied. “This dream’s not as easy as the last one.”

  “How would you know that?” he retorted lightly. “I think you’re just making it up. Psyching me out!”

  “You know best, Know Bro.” Her face was calm and straight.

  By the end of their visit to that decaying city, he’d felt that, against all odds, he’d managed to break through Astrid’s shell and reach the person beneath. Today, though, he couldn’t help but feel the shell had been repaired and hardened.

  Many more knights were announced and marched onto the field, one colored tabard and trumpet peal after another. In the stands, groups of onlookers wore colors matching different knights. When the knight of the same hue walked out, they cheered especially vigorously.

  The one exception was the knight in green—“Sir Bertilak,” wearing “the vert on vert,” as the announcer put it. No one in the stands was wearing green, and his applause was rather mild.

  The crowd went loudest when a knight tabarded in black, Sir Malin, strolled onto the field. But they mostly were booing and jeering. Some young maidens were even spitting. He basked in their derision, holding up both arms and beaming at them. A few raucous cheers came from one wing of the stands, where lords and ladies in black were waving pennants bearing his coat of arms.

  “Lords and ladies, vassals and knights,” hailed the announcer. “Behold, our kingdom’s finest! Our boldest and brightest! Those whose might and main have lifted them from high to highest! Here is the lifeblood from which our future will be born. Heaven grant that we not spill too much of it today—but, perhaps, not too little either!”

  The crowd laughed and cheered wildly. Pudgy old lords with horns of ale in hand slapped each other’s backs and shouted “hear hear.” Some maidens flung their hands to their mouths and looked about worriedly. Others chortled with the fat old lords.

  “Let the lots proceed!” concluded the announcer.

  Three brown-robed monks processed onto the lists and approached the sixteen knights standing in a row. Two of the monks were young and hefting a large urn, one at each handle. The third was elderly and held a slate and chalk. One by one, each of the knights said a brief prayer and drew a slip of paper from the urn. Each showed it to the old monk, who wrote something on the slate.

  Once the knights had finished drawing lots, the monk presented the slate to the announcer. He proceeded to describe the tournament’s structure—a two-sided bracket with eight knights on each side, single-elimination. The fourth round would be the championship. The crowd looked bored, like they already knew all this. But they perked up when he started listing who was facing whom.

  Most excited of all was Sir Blancheblade. At one point, he thrust his hand up in a triumphant fist—not when his own name or his opponent’s name was stated, but when Sir Malin’s name was announced immediately thereafter.

  Proto knew enough about brackets to conclude that Sir Blancheblade must be eager to face Sir Malin. The fact that he was this dream’s “black knight,” literally, made this all the clearer. What was unclear was why.

  Sir Blancheblade confirmed his suspicions a moment later. “I face Sir Malin in the second round! Could it be more perfect?” he cried. “I’ll be warmed up but not too tired or, Heaven willing, too wounded. And Malin will make it, no doubt. Zounds, if Sir Griffyngale emerges without broken bones, he’ll be blessed! The second round.” He marveled at his luck. “Win twice, and I’ll win everything that matters!”

  Proto had no idea why the young knight was so excited to face Sir Malin. But he felt he must say something, even if he didn’t know why Sir Blancheblade bore this apparent animus toward the black knight.

  He decided to play it safe and keep it vague. “Ah, the fires of youth. I suppose if that old squabble must come to a head, now’s as good a time as any.”

  “‘Old squabble’? What are you on about? I’ve never met the man.” Sir Blancheblade stared at him, as mists whirled upward wildly. “I never even knew Baron Quagmarsh had a son. Not till he slew Lady Aureal’s brother last feast day.”

  Repressing a wince, Proto—that is, old Sir Wyndsack—held up a palm and shook his head. “Yes, yes, that’s the squabble I meant. By Heaven, boy, I swear, I need to watch my words with you!” He nervously eyed the mist rising toward his chin. The way he said Lady Aureal . . . He decided to take a risk. “But it’s forgivable, I suppose. At my age, I know well there’s no one testier than a man in love.”

  Sir Blancheblade’s face went pink. “Yes, well,” he mumbled, as the mists fell precipitously. “Still sharp as ever, when you want to be.”

  “Not sharp, just stating the obvious,” wheezed Proto in an old man’s voice. He felt he was on a roll now. “You’ll win your bout and have Lady Aureal, if you listen to even half of what I tell you to do!”

  “That’s why you’re here, Old Man.” Sir Blancheblade slapped him gently on the back again.

  “That’s Sir Old Man, to you!” admonished Proto.

  Sir Blancheblade chuckled. A moment passed in silence. “Yes, I’d waited so many years for the right day to seek Aureal’s hand,” he spoke softly, staring toward the stands. “And when she pledged her hand to the man who bested Malin here . . . well, could the Fates have spoken more clearly? This is my moment. This is what I’ve waited for. This is why I’ve waited.”

  “And why you’ve worked so hard,” affirmed Proto, prompting a firm nod from the young knight. He felt he’d steered things on their proper course. The mists had sunk nearly out of sight. Sir Blancheblade’s gaze gleamed with readiness and zeal.

  It showed when he fought his first bout soon afterward. He faced Sir Suethart, garbed in purpure and tenné. Sir Blancheblade sallied forth on horseback with cavalier verve, his lance extending far and low, and blasted the opposing knight off his horse so forcefully he left an imprint as he skidded in the dirt. He did not rise.

  Proto’s lips curved up. He might’ve given that lance a little extra oomph. But just a little.

  The victor tore off his helm and waved a fist triumphantly. The lords and ladies reciprocated with wild applause. So did many a maiden—including, in particular, one white-clad lady with Rapunzel-like hair. Her beaming was so bright and wide it could be seen even here, on the other side of the field.

  When Sir Blancheblade rode round the lists in a victory lap shortly thereafter, she pointed a white lily toward him, then kissed it. He responded with a deep bow. She looked ready to swoon with happiness as he rode off.

  Yes, this is all coming along nicely, mused Proto. Hard work pays off and all that! He would make sure of it.

  The young knight dismounted and made his way back to Proto—that is, Sir Wyndsack.

  Proto adopted a look of pride and wistful admiration. “My boy, I could hardly have done it better myself,” he wheezed, patting the lad’s back with his wrinkled hand. “He’ll be feeling that the next few weeks!”

  Sir Blancheblade beamed. “Just like you said. ‘Hold firm. Aim just a little lower than seems right. And you’ll strike true.’”

  “That’s my boy,” praised Sir Wyndsack. “Your future’s waiting right in front of you!”

  He heard the sound of spitting to his rear. Glancing, he saw Page Astrid smirking beneath her droopy cap.

  Whatever. Let her grouse. In the end, it’s just jealousy.

  Proto already had planned out the rest of the dream. The black knight would win his first match easily. In round two, when he and Sir Blancheblade were jousting, both would be knocked off their horses. There’d be a hard-fought sword duel. Sir Malin would attempt some treachery—feigning injury, he would throw a handful of blinding dust at his foe—but Sir Blancheblade would fight through it and prevail.

  The moral of the story couldn’t be more classic: The good guy wins if he works hard.

  And Proto would make sure of that.

  “Next!” called the announcer. “Sir Griffyngale, wearing the azure and or, will tilt against Sir Malin, clad in sable!”

  The audience broke into a mix of cheers for the knight in blue and gold and jeers for the knight in black. But they soon started pointing and shushing each other, as the green knight stepped forth and raised a palm.

  “Excuse me, my good Sir!” called Sir Bertilak toward the announcer. Sunlight glimmered on his armor’s green accents. “Might I make a proposal to my fellow knights here?”