had lain dormant for years. Far to the west, he could just spot the Third Continent, the one people talked of in whispers, in awe of the things that lived there.
It was a dream, yet it was, he knew, a remarkably accurate view of the kingdom.
Now he wasn’t above the world. Now he was in a dark space, and there was something in there with him: a shape that filled that space, the scent of it musty, dry, and reptilian. A flicker of light glimmered off scales, and in the half-dark, he thought he could hear the rustle of movement, along with breathing like bellows. In his dream, Devin could feel his fear rising, his hand closing around the hilt of a sword reflexively, lifting a blade of blue-black metal.
Great golden eyes opened in the dark, and another flicker of light came. By it, he could see a great, dark-scaled body on a scale he had never seen before, wings curled and mouth wide open to reveal a light within. Devin had a moment to realize that it was a flicker of flame coming from the creature’s mouth, and then there was nothing but flame, surrounding him, filling the world…
The flames gave way, and now he was sitting in a room whose walls formed a circle, like it was at the top of a tower. The place was filled from floor to ceiling with oddments that must have been collected from a dozen times and places; silk screens covered the walls, while there were brass objects on shelves that Devin couldn’t begin to guess the purpose of.
There was a man there, sitting cross-legged in a rare patch of open space, in a chalk circle surrounded by candles. He was bald and serious looking, his eyes fixed on Devin. He wore rich robes embroidered with sigils, and jewelry that embodied mystical patterns.
“Do you know me?” Devin asked as he got closer.
A long silence followed, one so long that Devin began to wonder if he had even asked the question.
“The stars said that if I waited here, in dreams, you would come,” the voice finally said. “The one who is to be.”
Devin realized then who this man was.
“You’re Master Grey, the king’s sorcerer.”
He swallowed at the thought of it. They said that this man had the power to see things that no sane man would want to; that he’d told the king the moment of his first wife’s death and everyone had laughed until the fainting fit had struck her, cracking her head on the stone of one of the bridges. They said that he could look into a man’s soul and draw out all he saw there.
The one who is to be.
What could that mean?
“You are Master Grey.”
“And you are the boy born on the most impossible of days. I have looked and looked, and you should not exist. But you do.”
Devin’s heart raced at the thought that the king’s sorcerer knew who he was. Why would a man like this take an interest in him?
And he knew, at that moment, that this was more than just a dream.
This was a meeting.
“What do you want from me?” Devin asked.
“Want?” The question seemed almost to catch the sorcerer by surprise, if anything could. “I merely wanted to see you for myself. To see you on the day that your life will change forever.”
Devin burned with questions, but in that moment, Master Grey reached down for one of the candles around him, snuffing it with two long fingers while he murmured something on the edge of hearing.
Devin wanted to step forward, wanted to comprehend what was happening, but instead, he felt a force he couldn’t understand dragging him backwards, out of the tower, into the dark…
“Devin!” his mother called. “Wake up, or you’ll miss breakfast.”
Devin cursed as his eyes snapped open. Already, dawn light was coming in through the window of his family’s small home. It meant that if he didn’t hurry, he wouldn’t be able to get to the House of Weapons early enough, wouldn’t have time for anything except plunging straight into work.
He lay in bed, breathing hard, trying to shake off the heaviness, the realness, of the dreams.
But try as he did, he could not. It hung over him like a heavy cloak.
“DEVIN!”
Devin shook his head.
He jumped from bed and hurried to dress. His clothes were simple, plain things, patched in places. Some were hand-me-downs from his father, which didn’t fit well since, at sixteen, Devin was still more slender than him, no bigger than average for a boy his age, even if he was a little taller. He brushed dark hair out of his eyes with hands that had their share of the small burn marks and cuts that came from the House of Weapons, knowing that it would be worse when he was older. Old Gund could barely move some of his fingers, the effort of the work had taken so much from him.
Devin dressed and hurried to the kitchen of his family’s cottage home. He sat there, eating stew at the kitchen table with his mother and father. He mopped at it with a piece of hard bread, knowing that even though it was simple stuff, he would need it for the hard day of work to come in the House of Weapons. His mother was a small, birdlike woman, who looked so fragile next to him that it seemed as if she might break beneath the weight of the work she did every day, yet she never did.
His father was also shorter than him, but broad and muscled, and hard like teak. Each of his hands was like a hammer, and there were tattoos running along his forearms that hinted of other places, from the Southern Kingdom to the lands on the far side of the sea. There was even a small map there, showing both lands, but also the isle of Leveros and the continent of Sarras, so far across the sea.
“Why are you staring at my arms, boy?” his father asked, his voice rough. He wasn’t a man who had ever been good at showing affection. Even when Devin had gotten his position in the House, even when he’d shown himself able to make weapons as fine as the best masters, his father had done little more than nod.
Devin desperately wanted to tell him of his dream. But he knew better not to. His father would belittle him, launch into a jealous rage.
“Just a tattoo I haven’t seen,” Devin said. Ordinarily, his father wore longer sleeves, and Devin was rarely there long enough to look. “Why does this one have Sarras and Leveros on it? Did you go there when you were a—”
“That’s none of your business!” his father snapped, his anger curiously at odds with the simple question. He hurriedly pulled down his sleeves, tying the stays at the wrists so that Devin couldn’t see any more. “There are things you don’t ask about!”
“I’m sorry,” Devin said. There were days when Devin barely knew what to say to his father; days when he barely even felt like his son. “I should get to work.”
“So early? You’re going to practice the sword again, aren’t you?” his father demanded. “You’re still trying to be a knight.”
He seemed genuinely angry, and Devin couldn’t begin to work out why.
“Would that be such a terrible thing?” Devin asked tentatively.
“Know your place, boy,” his father spat. “You’re no knight. Just a commoner—like the rest of us.”
Devin
