“We need to stay at this end, we dukes,” he said. “You’ve met everyone, I believe.” By “everyone” he meant the other dukes, Dorrin understood. Behind them, clusters of counts, and beyond that, barons. The dukes were easily the most resplendent.

And the hottest. Barons, Dorrin had noticed, had sleeveless court gowns, showing the puffs of their shirts, and only a narrow edging of fur at the neck. Even counts had less fur than the dukes, who were all, by now, fanning themselves. She had not brought a fan. Duke Marrakai offered his, but she shook her head, and in a moment a palace servant came up and handed her one.

The Master of Ceremonies reappeared, having gathered up some laggard barons, and chivvied them all into the right order. Dorrin was appalled to find herself at the head of the line, beside Duke Mahieran and behind the Lord Herald with his beribboned staff. “Don’t worry,” Mahieran said. “Just do what I do, only on the other side of the hall and right after.”

Then the Bells of Vérella rang out, chime after chime, followed by the blare of trumpets; servants pulled back the doors, and they went in. At the far end of the Hall, the crown prince, all in white, stood below the throne between—Dorrin blinked, not having expected this—the Marshal-General of Gird and the new Marshal-Judicar. Dorrin led her file of nobles to the right, around the roped-off area in the middle of the hall; when Duke Mahieran stopped, she turned to face him.

She had not imagined that a trial of arms would be part of the coronation ceremony, but the prince and Marshal-General exchanged blows that could be heard clearly throughout the Hall. The Marshal-General stepped back and saluted. “He is sound of body and skilled in arms,” she said loudly. “The Company of Gird accepts his sword.”

“Accepted,” the nobles said.

Then the lowest-ranking baron spoke up. “Is he without blemish, as a king must be?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said.

Servants stepped into the central area, folding the prince’s clothes as he took them off. He stood before them, bare as at birth, and turned. Dorrin could not take her eyes off that fair young body.

“He is without blemish,” the baron said. “The company of barons accepts him.”

The prince had dressed again. The lowest-ranking count spoke up. “Does he know the rule of law, or the rule of passion?”

“Let it be shown,” Duke Mahieran said again.

The Marshal-Judicar came forward. He asked questions, so many that Dorrin lost count.

“He is a man of law,” the count said finally. “The company of counts accepts him.”

Duke Mahieran turned to the dukes beside him, and then across from him. “What say you, Dukes of the realm: Do you accept this man, Mikeli Vostan Keriel, as your king?”

“We accept him!” they said, Dorrin as loud as the rest.

The prince walked back to the throne and turned; servants lifted the robe, deep red embroidered in silver, and he put his arms into it. Then he sat.