“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?”

  Taken aback, the announcer turned to the elderly monk—who shrugged and held out his hands—and then back to the green knight. “Speak on, Sir Bertilak,” he urged politely.

  “My good Sirs,” began the green knight. “A year and three fortnights past, Sir Malin basely and ignobly slew my brother-knight, Sir Gruen, without warrant or just cause. I am bound by honor to seek retribution against Sir Malin. I would do so fairly today, when he is neither wearied nor wounded. I would face him in trial by combat unto death. Therefore, I pray you, Sir Griffyngale, give me leave to fight in your stead. And, Sir Malin, pray accept my challenge.”

  Sir Blancheblade’s ruddy grin had blanched away during this speech. At the conclusion, he whirled wide-eyed toward Proto—who was speechless—then back toward the scene unfolding.

  “Hold now, Sir Bertilak, hold,” called the announcer, as the elderly monk leaned and murmured to him anxiously. “If you do this, what becomes of our tourney? What becomes of our bracket?”

  “Fair questions. My proposal is simple,” responded Sir Bertilak. “Should I prevail, Sir Griffyngale will advance, and I will fight again this round. Should I fall, Sir Malin will advance, and Sir Griffyngale will take my place against Sir Lackthew.”

  The announcer and elderly monk conferred quietly for a moment. “Your proposal is fair and we will allow it,” the announcer finally responded, “if your good fellow knights will consent. What say you, Sir Griffyngale?”

  Sir Griffyngale looked at Sir Malin—who stood about a half-foot taller than him, had arms like tree trunks, and was hefting his lance as lightly as a broomstick—then back at the announcer. “Much as I’ve yearned to face the dastardly Sir Malin, I cannot in good conscience prevent this duel of honor from proceeding,” he declared, not quite hiding his relief beneath exaggerated reluctance. “By all means, Sir Bertilak.”

  The announcer nodded. “And what say you, Sir Malin?”

  The black knight eyed the two knights and shrugged. “It matters naught to me. Does the reaper care which stalk falls first?”

  The black-garbed section of the stands howled with approval, as maidens scowled and spat. Sir Malin favored them with a slight bow.

  “So be it! Sir Malin and Sir Bertilak will joust,” affirmed the announcer. “Ready yourselves, my good knights.”

  As Sir Bertilak mounted his horse and prepared, Sir Blancheblade stared in silence, pale eyes wide. His hands were clenched at his sides. “I knew something would happen. I knew I should’ve done something sooner . . . ”

  The mists were back and rising toward waist level. Proto felt anxiety fluttering through his breast.

  As this had been unfolding, he’d tried to alter the course of events—first by having the announcer forbid this change in the bracket, and then by having Sir Griffyngale refuse to consent. But the dream had resisted him both times.

  It must be like Mayger had told him. When the dreamer “wills the dream in a different direction, it’s awfully hard to overpower that.” But why in the world was the dreamer resisting the happy ending Proto was trying to give him?

  He’d figure that out later. For now, he had to deal with this mist, which had swollen midway up his chest.

  “Worry not, worry not, Sir Blancheblade,” he coaxed his young protégé. “Ignore this spectacle. Ignore this grandstanding by Sir Bertilak. He’s just a nobody, foolishly seeking a name for himself. Sir Malin will prevail, and you will face him next round.” I’ll see to it.

  Sir Blancheblade nodded uncertainly. His gaze strayed from the two knights to that Rapunzel-haired woman in the stands—Lady Aureal, the maiden he loved, who’d pledged her hand to whoever bested Sir Malin.

  “Yes. You’re probably right,” the young knight finally replied to Proto. Then, barely audible: “My moment will come.” His knuckles were clenched white. But the mist had stopped rising.

  The two knights, black and green, rode into the lists and faced each other from opposite ends. Their silvery mail and lances glimmered. Wind billowed through their helmets’ plumes and their horses’ hair.

  “Blessings of Heaven be upon you, Sirs Bertilak and Malin,” called the announcer. “On the herald’s mark, sally forth.”

  A man with a horn stepped forward and cleared his throat at length. Lifting the horn to his lips, he gave a ringing peal.

  The knights spurred their horses and were off. Soon, they were galloping at full tilt. Their horses champed madly as they neared each other.

  Watching closely, Proto willed the proper outcome with all his might. He focused as intently as he’d ever focused. He visualized exactly how this should play out, how this would play out.

  And it did. The black knight’s lance crashed into the green knight’s helmed head and smote it clean off his shoulders.

  Proto blinked. Yikes. That had worked even better than he’d aimed for. He almost felt guilty—even knowing that this was just a dream within a dream.

  Lords and ladies in the stands were wincing and shaking their heads. Some maidens had flung hands over their mouths. Others hurled curses at the victor. “You scallywag! You rapscallion!”

  Meanwhile, the black-garbed section of the crowd was laughing uproariously and exchanging high-fives. Sir Malin rode about with his lance held high, pumping it up and down triumphantly.

  As for Sir Blancheblade, he stared with his lips hanging apart. His eyes fell to the decapitated body. It had fallen from its horse and lay slumped near the middle of the field.

  Proto slapped his back. “You see?” he told the young knight. “You’ll have your chance. You’ve earned it. You’ve played things exactly right.”

  “I . . . just hope I win.” Sir Blancheblade looked pallid.

  “Oh, don’t doubt that!” urged Sir Wyndsack. “Malin will be lucky if he fares better than that green knight.” He waved toward the head, which had rolled to a stop far from its body. “You’ll win.”

  Yes, I’ll see to it. Proto smiled upon that helmed head with grim satisfaction, pondering how best to make Sir Blancheblade triumph.

  He was so intent on this that he didn’t notice the audience’s sudden gasps and murmurs—not till the sound grew into full-fledged cries of horror. He looked up.

  Sir Bertilak’s headless body was rising to its feet.

  “What is this ghastliness?” the announcer was crying. “What foul sorcery is this?”

  Turning slowly toward its head, the green knight’s body shuffled toward it.

  Sir Malin had stopped parading about and had cocked his head at his adversary. He looked more bemused than fearful.

  “Heaven be with us!” entreated the announcer, as Sir Bertilak’s body reached and lifted its severed head.

  The green knight positioned the helmet beneath his left arm and lifted its beaver, baring the face beneath. Then, he drew and brandished his sword.

  “En garde,” called the head to the black knight.

  The announcer had fallen to his knees and clasped his hands together, facing Heaven and speaking an unheard prayer. The three monks were doing the same.

  The lords and ladies in the stands looked torn between running away, holding absolutely still, and watching intently.

  Proto looked at Sir Blancheblade.

  The young knight was shaking his head—not with shock and aghastment, like everyone else, but a sort of somber emptiness. His face was blank. His features sagged.

  He heard a chuckle behind him and looked back.

  There was Astrid, not even wearing her page boy outfit anymore. With her arms folded beneath her breasts in her grey cosmonaut getup, she laughed derisively. Tresses of silvery-blue hair blew wildly over her face.

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  Proto’s eyes widened. What are you doing? he mouthed anxiously, waving up and down at her outfit.

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re past the point of no return.” She pointed at the horizon, where grey mirk was rolling and burgeoning toward them—or, rather, toward the dreamer.

  Proto spun back to Sir Blancheblade. But he didn’t seem to have heard Astrid or noticed the impending darkness. Indeed, like everyone else, he was rapt with what was playing out in the field.

  Sir Malin had hopped off his horse and unsheathed his sword. He sauntered toward Sir Bertilak as though slaying swordsmen carrying their own heads were just another day’s work for him. For his part, the green knight also looked untroubled, to the extent Proto could see that severed head’s facial expression.

  The two knights faced each other from about ten yards apart. Each had his visor raised to bare his face.

  “I will not insult you by asking if you yield,” the green knight finally said—that is, his head spoke from beneath his arm.

  Sir Malin smirked. “Bold words. I’ll give you credit. A lesser man in your shoes might lose his head right now.”

  A few of the maidens ughed and rolled their eyes. The black-garbed section of the stands chortled and nodded approvingly at each other.

  “Well, let’s not draw this out then,” replied Sir Bertilak. He strode calmly toward his opponent.

  As the green knight approached, the black knight didn’t move at first. But when his foe came within reach, he suddenly let loose a heavy blow, sweeping his sword toward the green knight’s head-holding offarm—a cheap shot, perhaps, but a fast one.

  Sir Bertilak was swifter. His longsword flashed into a parry and, almost before the ping of steel on steel reached Proto, was riposting toward Sir Malin’s throat.

  The black knight stumbled backward and managed, barely, to evade the attack. He parried two more slashes as the green knight pressed his advantage, then dodged a third.

  Proto looked again at Sir Blancheblade. Like a tragic hero, he faced a grim scene that it was now too late for him to change, and he did nothing.

  It occurred to Proto that he still could try to change all this. But Astrid had told him this dream was “past the point of no return.” And something told him nothing good would come of doubting her further today.

  The two knights had traded blows for less than thirty seconds when the green knight’s sword slipped beneath Sir Malin’s parry and through the man’s neck.

  After balancing in place for a moment, his helmed head started rolling off his shoulders. But Sir Bertilak caught it by the plume in his sword hand and set it neatly beside the body, which now had slumped to the ground.

  Meanwhile, the black-clad lords and ladies were groaning and clutching their heads with both hands. The rest of the audience was simply dumbstruck.

  The dark mirk on the horizon was nigh upon them now, swirling tempestuous on all sides. But no one seemed to see it—not even Sir Blancheblade. Indeed, he seemed to be staring into a void.

  The dreamer’s shiny-armored image had grown blurry and ambiguous. He now looked vaguely like a slouching young man in a T-shirt.

  Sheathing his sword, Sir Bertilak strode up to the stands and bowed with a flourish. Then, “A favor from Milady Aureal?” he called.

  The Rapunzel-haired lady lifted her white lily, almost in slow-motion, and cast it toward the green knight.

  Strange shadows flashed everywhere as the stem and leaves and petals whirled through the air, like the world’s light were whirling with that flower and being blocked by it. Those shadows darkened Sir Blancheblade’s face, over and over again.

  And when the lily struck the green knight’s hand, mirk swallowed everything.

  Abruptly, Proto was hurtling through grey obscurity, where shining white dots swirled in parallax.

  Then, he was tripping forward and barely recovering his balance in a misty blue corridor of Somnus’ realm. He heaved in a breath, then let it out slowly.

  Ahead, he saw Astrid already striding away. Her grey form mingled with the far off fog.

  Proto wanted to call her and ask her to wait up. But he didn’t want to hear what her response would be.

  Instead, he just forced down his dizzy daze and jogged till he’d caught up. He followed for a while from a couple steps behind.

  “Your performance was pathetic,” she finally remarked without looking back. Her voice lacked any warmth. “He would’ve done better if you weren’t there. He had a chance of figuring this out for himself. You steered him away from that. He sensed, correctly, he was doing something wrong. You reassured him he’d be alright.”

  Proto didn’t doubt she was right. She almost always was.

  No, he was more focused on how much he’d come to like this place. For the first time, he realized he’d be sad when he left it, even if he was just awakening from a dream.

  “Look,” he sighed. “I get it. I’ll tell Somnus to either find me a new mentor or kick me out of here, okay?”

  She spun and fixed him with a violet stare. “That’s not—!” She sealed her lips and took a deep breath through her nose, letting her shoulders rise and fall. “You misunderstand me,” she finally said.

  “Well, what’s new?” grumbled Proto.

  She didn’t reply. She just stared a few seconds, then turned and resumed walking.

  But that glower on her face did fade first. A trace of something else now showed there. Pity? Remorse? Neither seemed quite right.

  They reached the lounge of Somnus’ Palace minutes later without any further words. That quickly changed when they walked in.

  “Ah!” boomed Somnus, extending his arms in welcome. “My favorite tracksuit-wearing trainee!”

  As usual, he was sitting at the bar with several glasses in front of him, most with only green or brown dregs inside. Lilac was standing nearby and polishing cups again. Clink.

  “How was today’s visit?” the Lord of Dreams went on. “I heard about your success in that rusty old city the other day. Some clever work by the both of you! How’d he do today?” he asked Astrid.

  “You should ask him,” she replied mildly.

  Somnus’ brow raised. “Then I suppose I shall. Proto?”

  It was so rare these days to hear his actual name, he almost flinched at the sound of it. Or maybe he was flinching at having to answer the question.

  Well, no point delaying the inevitable.

  “I failed,” responded Proto. “I tried to steer the dream in a good direction, and it seemed to be working. But the dreamer resisted it in the end. Very strongly.” He paused here and almost stopped, but felt compelled to say more.

  “I think he would’ve resisted what I was trying to do no matter what. Because I was wrong about how the dream should end. I came into the dream with some preconceptions about what this dreamer needed. And that’s because I made the mistake of not following some advice that Astrid gave me. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Hm.” Somnus regarded him at length with his chin in hand. “Yes, well, we all fall short sometimes. Even the Lord of Dreams! Why, just last year—”

  “He hasn’t told you the whole story,” interrupted Astrid.

  “Oh?” said the robed man.

  Proto wasn’t sure what criticism was coming, but he didn’t feel worried now. He just felt hollow. What would be, would be.

  “He asked me to tell him what I’d learnt about the dreamer in the Shadowcaster,” recounted Astrid. “I told him, against my better judgment. I knew it would prejudice his decision-making. I knew he was likely to fail as a result. But I thought it might be a useful lesson for him. And I suppose it might have been. But today’s outcome was at least as much my fault as his.”

  Proto stared at her in silence. Her violet gaze was wide but unswerving. Some stray locks of silvery-blue hung over her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her lips pressed tightly when she’d finished speaking.

  “Ah,” said Somnus. “Do you think you made the right choice, Astrid?”

  She looked at Proto, then at Somnus. “I don’t know yet.”

  “This might be for the best.” Somnus turned to look at that painting of the old man, his long hair shifting atop his robe. “Sometimes, small failures breed great success. We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  Astrid didn’t offer any answer, and he didn’t seem to expect one. Not right now, anyway.

  Instead, he turned to Proto, eyes gleaming with sudden zeal. “And what about you? What about your choice?”

  “I . . . ” Proto wasn’t quite sure what Somnus was talking about. He’d planned to say something about the dream they’d just visited. But he suddenly felt Somnus was asking a much larger question. And he felt utterly unprepared to answer it right now. “I guess I’ll need to think about it.”

  “Yes, that’s likely wise.” The Lord of Dreams smiled and cast a hand lightly. “But let’s not tarry on this. This was just a dream, after all! Dreams recur. Choose wrong, and you’ll have another chance to choose differently. To a point. You haven’t made any choices you can’t take back. Not yet.”

  Those last words echoed through Proto’s head. He found himself turning to look at Astrid.

  On noticing his gaze, she scowled slightly and gave him a look that said, Yes? She ran a hand through those stray tresses of silvery blue, brushing them off her face.

  After a moment, she turned away and blinked twice.

  “In any event!”—Somnus slapped the bar amiably—“I’m feeling thirsty.” He turned to Lilac, who was polishing her black mug with the white-lacquered crack. “Weren’t you just cleaning that one five minutes ago?”

  “Maybe.” The pale and black-eyed gaze she gave him was cool and straight. But her ears looked faintly pink. “I don’t suppose I was paying close attention.”

  “Ah.” He smiled cordially. “Well, there’s no such thing as too spic-and-span, is there?”

  “Was there a drink you wanted?” she asked flatly.

  The Lord of Dreams laughed. “Indeed! I’ll leave it to you. Pick something—Somnus-style.”

  She eyed him like he was the drunk uncle blathering inappropriate jokes in a room full of children. But she grabbed and poured an old armagnac, and he ahhed with approval.

  “So,” Proto said after a moment to Astrid, who still was standing nearby.

  His voice seemed to startle her out of a reverie. “Yes, anyway,” she said, fixing her already-fixed hair. “Be here bright and early. No more tardiness.”

  “Are you my fifth-grade teacher?” he asked lightly. “Miss Beatrice, is that you?”

  “No, I’m much older than she is,” replied Astrid calmly.

  “You’d never know it!” rejoined Proto. “Why, you’d fit in with those young damsels we saw earlier. Casting flowers at valiant knights! Swooning at their wounds!” He held a wrist to his forehead and made as though to faint.

  “If I ever do that,” she replied, “you have permission to slap me back to my senses.”

  “Likewise,” he declared.

  “ . . . what?” she said.

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  She gave him a violet stare, then slapped his cheek lightly. “That’s for doing the fainting thing just now.” She lifted her wrist demonstratively. “I slapped you back to your senses.”

  “Oh, that’s not fair!” he complained, rubbing his cheek.

  “Rules are rules!” she waved innocently. “Next time, it’s a punch in the face.”

  “What? Is it that serious an offense?” he asked.

  “You think that’s serious? Don’t become a three-time offender!” She held out one finger, then made as though to chop it off with her other hand.

  His eyebrows raised. She nodded earnestly.

  “Hm. I can’t help feeling this game is rigged against me!” lamented Proto.

  She giggled. “The best games seem that way at first.”

  “Is that so?” He eyed his violet-eyed mentor in her cosmonaut-chic outfit. One hand was resting on her waist as usual, but the upward curve of her lips and sparkle in her gaze were quite new.

  “I am the mentor, yes? But don’t take my word for it.” Her stare caught his and held it for a moment, as a sun’s gravity catches a shooting star.

  Then, she was turning and strolling toward the bar. “Come to think of it, I’m thirsty too. Lilac! Give me something Somnus-style.”

  Lilac sighed and turned to Somnus. “Look what you’ve started!” she accused, as he chuckled jovially and drank.

  Meanwhile, still standing in place, Proto felt a smile forming, as he mused on things faraway and right in front of him. “I won’t,” he murmured to Astrid’s back. “That, I won’t.”