“Thank you, Cedric,” Mouse said to the guardsman as he handed her down from her horse, a sense of relief sweeping over her the moment her feet landed on the grass of the bailey. She shook the dirt from her skirts. “I could kiss you if I thought no one were looking.”

  “Another time, then,” the guardsman smiled, taking the reins of her mount. He was a good sort, thought Mouse, and she was glad that he had been made head of the guard

  Mouse patted the mare on the neck. The Great Dread Leonor turned a wary eye to her but neither bared her teeth nor threw her head.

  “As for you,” Mouse said, producing a small green apple which she had stowed away in her pocket, “I’ll thank you to remember your manners from now on.”

  She held the apple out in her palm, which the mare gratefully gobbled up before blowing through her nose.

  It had been late morning when they had set out across the emerald fields of Pothes Mar. The sun had crept slowly westward across the sky, illuminating the soaring peaks of the Fjaelles and glittering upon the Yar as it spun its way north through the lush green landscape. But now the day had begun to grow thin, and Mouse found herself in anticipation of its end. Sore and exhausted as she was from the day’s exercise, she knew there was little that could not be remedied by a warm bath, a hot meal, and a nice, long sleep.

  The cast of the sun, as she stood in the bailey awaiting her lady and her guard, was turning a warm copper as it streaked in through the divide of the mountains, painting the walls of the castle a rich gold, and many of the men who had been at practice out on the fields were now riding in through the wall. Mouse watched them as they came in, one by one, bathed in the glow of the late-day sun. Their shining plate reflected the warm rays sent down from the heavens, and they looked almost as though they had been dipped in gold. It was a mesmerizing sight, thought Mouse, and one she could have gladly watched for a long while, were she not interrupted by someone calling her name.

  “Lady Maudeleine,” the voice called, and Mouse turned to see a man in plate who had just come down from a destrier smiling at her as he undid his bevor.

  “Sir Hugo,” Mouse said in surprise as she took in the man. The knight’s brown hair was unkempt from the removal of his helm and cap, clinging to his damp skin in some places and sticking out at odd angles in others, and a long pink scar extended downward beneath his left ear.

  Sir Hugo handed his helm to his squire and took a swallow from his skin before clapping the boy on the shoulder and turning to walk toward Mouse.

  Mouse could always tell an untested knight from one who had seen battle; it was in the way they treated their men. A knight who had never seen combat took for granted those who labored beneath him, but a man who had known the dangers of the battlefield understood just how much his life depended upon his gleve. Sir Hugo was one of those knights who had seen his share of battle, but even when he had been too young to fight, Mouse had known him to be a kind and decent man who always treated servants with the same degree of respect and dignity as he would a nobleman and nearly always called Mouse by her proper name. He had been in the Empress’s service as one of her guard, as evidenced by the gilded gadlings he wore on his gauntlets, but Mouse had not seen him since he had gone north to the Chatti lands and wondered what on earth he was doing at Pothes Mar.

  “You look well, sir,” said Mouse as the knight drew near. “Lord Ralist must be feeding you sufficiently.”

  Sir Hugo laughed.

  “That he is,” he replied, smiling down at Mouse through light brown eyes. “Are you quite well, My Lady?” he asked. “I have not seen you in some many months.”

  “Indeed,” said Mouse, “I believe it has been near on a year since we have last met.” Her eyes traveled over the knight’s face. He looked little changed since she had last seen him, though the soft boyishness of his face had become somewhat more rugged and his skin had grown a shade or two darker.

  “Pray, sir,” ventured Mouse, “why have you not come back to the capital?” She knew it might not be the most delicate question for her to ask, but she felt she would be remiss if she did not inquire into the knight’s seemingly unexplained absence. She liked Sir Hugo, and she should like to know why he had left.

  “I would,” Sir Hugo said, raising his eyebrows, “most gladly, if Her Majesty would have me.”

  Mouse shook her head. She did not understand what the man could mean.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said to the knight, “but I am not certain I take your meaning. If there is any doubt as to whether your post with Her Majesty’s guard awaits you, I can guarantee you that it most eagerly does.”

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  Sir Hugo looked at her, a small smile gracing his lips.

  “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I was given to the impression that my service to Her Majesty was no longer required. That is the only reason I have taken a posting here.”

  Mouse furrowed her brow.

  “Who could peddle such nonsense,” she murmured before allowing her expression to soften into a smile. “You know, if I bring you back to Kriftel myself, I’ll be hailed as a hero. What say you, sir?”

  “I must speak with my master, of course,” the knight said, “but otherwise, I am graciously at My Lady’s disposal.” He bowed.

  Happy news for me, thought Mouse. Now if fail in my task against Lord Ralist, at least I will not return an utter failure.

  Mouse had enjoyed speaking with Sir Hugo, however briefly, and he had given her much to think on, but she was now under the distinct impression that it was her who the rest were waiting on, and she did not wish to cause any further delay to their retirement.

  “I should tell you,” said Mouse before parting from the knight, “that I am not here as Maudeleine Toth, but rather as Idalia Aemilia Toth, so when you come looking for me, you had better ask for the latter.”

  “Ah!” said Sir Hugo, his face alighting at the realization. “I certainly will do. And you can expect my answer no later than Adalbert’s scythe.”

  Mouse looked at the knight inquiringly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mouse’s exhaustion had been replaced by a sudden feverish desire to run back to her rooms, tear open the letter which she stuffed inside of a book and buried at the bottom of a trunk, and study its contents, this time under the illumination of Sir Hugo’s revelation. Upon inquiry, he had explained to Mouse something she otherwise was not like to have to realized, no matter how long she labored to, namely that Adalbert’s scythe was a term used to refer to the moon as it formed a thin but distinguishable crescent in the night sky; it was a time, a day, rather. Mouse had never heard of such a thing, but as Sir Hugo told it, it was common usage in Pothes Mar and the surrounding areas, having originally derived from military application. And with “Yndis vale” undoubtedly a reference to a place, Mouse felt certain that she was close to forming a complete idea of what the letter meant to convey.

  However, she was given little occasion to dwell further on the matter, for before she had even reached her rooms, she was met by the same curly-headed page who had come to her earlier that day.

  “Your Majesty,” the boy bowed. “My master requests the favor of your company. That is, if it pleases Your Majesty.”

  Mouse raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Certainly you cannot mean now,” she said.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty,” the boy replied. “I was asked to carry word to you the moment you came in.”

  Mouse looked first to her guard for some sort of excuse that might be conjured and then down at her dirty gown. She smelled like she had slept in a stable and could not imagine she looked much more favorably.

  Nevertheless, if the General had relented in his attempts to evade her, it was not an opportunity she could allow herself to waste.

  “Very well,” she sighed at last. “I will come at once. But I must insist that I am at least given time to change my dress.” She gave the boy a wry smile. “That is, unless your master prefers the stench of horse to that of woman.”

  “As Your Majesty wishes,” the boy said, once again bowing, and as Mouse took leave to go into her rooms and dress, “I await Your Majesty’s convenience.”

  Mouse found herself vaguely disheartened that the General had chosen such an inopportune time to entertain an audience with her. She had been looking forward to soaking in a warm tub of herbs and washing away the offensive odor that clung to her hair and skin, to having a warm dinner brought to her bedside before falling asleep with the Empress’s letter in her hand in the hopes that it might conjure some revelatory dream.

  But alas, duty demanded that she see the man she had been sent to exercise her task upon.

  “Do not wait for me,” she said to the maids after they had helped her into a long linen tunic and thereafter a shorter one fashioned out of blue silk. “See that you eat something, and be certain that Lady Agatha does not go wandering about the place without a guard.”

  Lady Agatha had gone with Lady Signy when the party had separated, but Mouse was wary of the girl making herself known in Pothes Mar. She was far too young and beautiful to escape notice, and too foolish to be trusted to herself, and whether Lady Signy was more likely to curb or compound this effect, Mouse certainly could not say. Her only hope was that reasonable fear of the Empress’s wrath might protect her against doing anything truly unwise.

  When Mouse was satisfied with her preparations, or at least to the extent that she might be, pressed as she was to hasten to the General, she once again left her rooms and followed the page down the cavernous halls of the keep. She could not stop imagining the cold informality of her initial reception, the General’s exacting gaze and unimpressive demeanor. Could it be, she wondered, that he knew she was not in fact the Empress? Could he have known somehow from the very beginning that she was little more than some inconsequential child of court sent as a form of distraction?

  Mouse suddenly wished she could turn back, to run into her room, jump into bed, and pull the covers over her head until it was time to return to Kriftel. Though she had only just arrived at Pothes Mar, she already found that she was ready to leave.

  What had she been thinking to imagine that she could fool the General? What had the Empress been thinking? To appear in the window of a carriage was one thing, to smile out from the steps of a keep or exchange small words with some foreign dignitary who had likely never so much as seen a portrait of the Empress. But to conduct a private interview with a lord like Ralist whose ladywife was practically an intimate of the Empress—it was absurd.

  However, before she could devise a satisfactory means of escape, Mouse found herself outside the room to which she had been called. She wanted for something to do with her hands, for something to wet her throat, which had suddenly gone terribly dry. But just then, as she stood at the threshold, she found herself unexpectedly reminded of the words once spoken to her by someone she suddenly found herself missing quite dearly. “The jewel of Aros,” the Foilunder had said, “is forged with strength, and no man is her equal.”