Later, he stared at himself in the mirror. Kieri’s court clothes fit near enough, he thought, though the royal tailor was busy with pins and needles, picking out a seam here and resewing it there. Dorrin had told him of her own reaction to seeing herself in ducal finery in a palace mirror. Now he saw himself transformed from the sunburnt mercenary captain fresh from the South into a … the word “fop” rose to mind, and he pushed it down. A court gentleman. The short bloused pants, the stockings, the ribbons and buckled shoes with their ornaments.

“You’ll need a new plume, m’lord,” the tailor said through the pins held in his teeth. “That one’s beyond repair.” He spat the pins into his hand at last. “Now let’s see how that robe drapes.”

The robe—not Kieri’s robe now but his—lay on his shoulders as if made for them. In that dimension, he and Kieri had always been alike. The deep burgundy, Kieri’s—his—arms in silver on the back, the fur edging to neck and sleeves. Deep inside, a moment of recognition followed by laughter. As a boy, he had looked in the mirrors at Horngard more than once, imagining himself in the formal robes of nobles—though there it would have been a surcoat over long trousers tucked into tall shiny boots, not this. But here he was, where he had once longed to be—and then given up any such notion. Change. Transformation, as Dragon would have said.

“It will do well enough,” the tailor said. “To remove the fur at the bottom and raise the hem a finger might be wise, but not necessary. It will be ready, m’lord, on the day.”

At the ceremony itself, when he knelt to pledge a duke’s fealty to his king, the last remnant of desire for Horngard vanished. He had no regrets for having given Dragon the ring he’d held secret all these years. Fox Company, the North Marches, the gnome tribe that now looked to him … that was enough for any man.

The dukes settled themselves in one corner of the reception: Mahieran, Marrakai, Serrostin, Verrakai, and now himself, Arcolin. “A full hand of us once more,” Mahieran said, clapping Arcolin on the shoulder. “And I hope, Jandelir, you’re soon to wed and provide yourself an heir. Unless you have one hid somewhere.”

“Alas, no,” Arcolin said. “But I take your point.”

“Duke Verrakai’s got a Marrakai squire—” Mahieran began, but Marrakai put up his hand.

“You do not want that one,” he said. “And it’s not because I mislike your character, Jandelir.” He turned to Dorrin. “From what you’ve said this visit, she’s bound for the Bells or Gird’s Hall in Fin Panir; isn’t that right?”