“They told me that you might as well keep these, Mags. They’re never going to wear them again, and any youngling in their families that gets Chosen will have his own sets of Grays made to fit him. Or maybe I should say, ‘made to fit him exactly.’ The highborn never seem to run out of money for new clothing.” He shook his head. “Well, everyone I went to said the same thing—they’re never going to wear these, obviously, there is no point in them going to waste, so I should take them. Which is not a bad thing at all, since now I’ll have some fine uniforms on hand the next time one of you Trainees needs such a thing, and with as much as I had to pick from, I was able to get you more than one change of clothing. There’s a couple sets of boots there, too,” the Herald added. “Yours are beginning to look a bit grim.”

Well, that was true. They’d never actually matched his Grays, since they were the ones he’d gotten from the Guards, and were really “civilian” boots that had been outgrown and returned to their storerooms. And they had only fit with three pairs of stockings. Not that he was complaining. Not when, for the first time in his life, he had warm feet in the winter. Feet like his could take anything a badly fitting pair of boots could deliver, and not even feel it.

At Caelen’s urging, he picked up the whole pile and carried it off to his room, not forgetting his lunch, of course. And at Dallen’s insistence, once he was done eating, he put on one of the outfits. Instead of canvas tunic and trews, and heavy wool shirt, he found himself in elegant doeskin tunic and trews, and a shirt of lambswool so fine and soft it felt as if it would float. There were hose that matched the shirt, and the deer-hide boots that matched the tunic fit his feet as if they had been made for him. But they hadn’t; there were subtle signs of wear on all of these things that made it clear they were second-hand. Not that he cared about a little wear. The outfit, except for the boots, was a little big, but that was easily fixed with the matching belt. When he was clothed, he turned this way and that, trying to see himself.

:Come out, and I will show you a trick.: Dallen sounded uncommonly merry, and Mags obliged, stepping back out into the stable and facing his Companion, who was hanging his head over the top of his stall.

:Now look—do this with your mind, and this, and . . . there you are. Now you can look at yourself through my eyes.: