Opjer smiled. He looked almost proud. “I can tell you Jarl Brum hopes to marry his daughter to Prince Rasmus.”

“Our intelligence suggests Rasmus might favor diplomacy over open war.”

“He might. But once he’s a member of Brum’s household, I would count on nothing. If Brum can’t control the prince, he’ll find a way to destroy him. There is a quality among Fjerdans … we call it gerkenig. The need for action. We leap in when we shouldn’t because we can’t help ourselves. If Brum sees an opportunity, he’ll take it. I’ve been guilty of it many times myself.”

“Recklessness.”

“Not exactly. It’s a need to seize the moment.”

“That sounds uncomfortably familiar.”

“I thought it might.”

In the distance, from the direction of the laboratories beneath the Gilded Bog, they heard a series of booms.

“Fireworks,” said Nikolai.

“Of course,” said Opjer, and Nikolai knew he didn’t believe a word of it. “I suppose this is where we say goodbye.”

“I’m not sure we’ve even properly said hello. I am…” Nikolai struggled to find a word for what he felt. Sorry to see this stranger go? Longing for a father he’d never had? Grateful that Opjer was willing to give up the life he knew for the sake of preserving Nikolai’s false bloodline?

The man Nikolai had believed to be his father for most of his life had been a source of embarrassment and shame. Nikolai had never understood him, never wanted to be like him. He’d read enough books and seen enough plays to understand what a father was meant to be—someone kind and steady who dispensed wisdom and taught you how to wield a sword and throw a punch. Actually, in most plays, the fathers got killed off and had to be avenged, but they certainly seemed wise and loving in the first act. Nikolai remembered what Zoya had said about her mother on the airship: Maybe I miss something I never had. Nikolai had never missed having a father because he’d never really had one. That was what he’d believed until this moment, standing at the gates, looking at Magnus Opjer.

“Here,” said Nikolai. “Your miniature.” He held out the portrait of his mother.

“Keep it. I don’t want to look backward. There’s too much regret there.” Opjer bowed. “Good luck, Your Highness.”