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winter sun coming up over a stark horizon. It filled Sigismund’s dream, banishing the darkness and the whispering voices, and he had to fling up an arm against its brilliance. There was someone at the heart of the light, he thought, squinting against the dazzle—a man on a horse pacing toward him out of the ball of fire. The horse was red, and light rippled like water on the rider’s mail shirt and gleamed on his metal coif as he leaned forward, gazing down at Sigismund. A corona flared and flickered around the spiked helm, and just like the woman with the silver voice, Sigismund could not make out any details of the rider’s face.
    “So,” the horseman said. His voice was light and pleasant; it reminded Sigismund of bees humming on a summer day. “It is good that we meet, but dreams like this can be dangerous. We will have no more of them for now.”
    He straightened and made a brief, imperative gesture with one gauntleted hand. The light followed the movement, spiraling around horse and rider like a comet and pulling Sigismund forward, into its burning heart. He wanted to cry out as the woods spun away from him, to ask who the horseman was, but as is the way with dreams, no words came.
    “Soon,” promised the summer voice, amused, and the comet swept between them. The next thing Sigismund knew, he was waking up in his own bed, with the castle bell ringing out a new day and Annie twitching his bed curtains aside, her face bright with excitement.
    “Time to get up, slug a bed!” she cried, then dodged his well-aimed cushion, giggling. “No, truly—Sir Andreas says to come downstairs at once, because our new master-at-arms is here. He just rode in with the dawn.”

Balisan
    T here was a red horse standing in the courtyard. Sigismund could see it from his window as he dressed, and he peered out at it again from the landing above the main hall. The red mare looked taller, seen close up, with a flowing mane and tail, and was more finely built than the destriers ridden by Sir Andreas. There were golden tassels on her bridle, and the leather on her saddle was embossed in scarlet and gold. Sigismund stared, for usually only warhorses were given such lavish harness. The mare lifted her head as if sensing his gaze and stamped one foot against the cobbles, a small, emphatic sound.
    The hall was dark, despite a few shafts of sunlight that turned the dragon banner of Sigismund’s family to fire. The banner hung down from the ceiling, and Sigismund could see the remains of breakfast set out on the long table beneath it. Sir Andreas was standing on one side of the wide stone fireplace, facing a slightly built man of middle height who had his back to Sigismund; Master Griff sat at the table, his expression thoughtful. Sigismund hesitated in the doorway, trying to gauge the mood of the room and to take in as much detail as possible before the newcomer became aware of his presence.
    Sir Andreas, Sigismund thought, seemed uncertain. He was frowning down at a paper in his hand, and he had run a hand through his dark, gray-flecked hair so that it stood on end. “It’s unusual,” the steward said, “for the King not to have sent word ahead to tell us you were coming.”
    The newcomer was wearing a long, mail shirt that caught the scanty light as he shrugged, gleaming red one way and gold another, the metal scales rippling like a serpent’s skin. “He said the matter was urgent,” the man replied, “and he knew I would travel faster than any courier.”
    “Urgent,” Sir Andreas began, looking up from the paper, then he saw Sigismund. “Ah, Sigismund,” he said. “This is Balisan, whom your father has sent to be master-at-arms here—both for you and for the castle garrison.”
    Sigismund advanced into the room as the newcomer turned and bowed, pressing both hands together before his heart in a gesture that Sigismund had never seen before. His eyes widened as he saw a round helmet, with a mail coif and spiked crown,