Mouse drew her elbow back, squeezing her shoulder blades together. The arrow sailed through the air, landing squarely in the straw but nowhere near the center. Up, not back, she reminded herself, the words echoing in her mind as if in Leifr’s own voice.

The morning sun had not yet climbed above the wall, and dew still clung to the grass where she stood while the grounds outside lay shrouded in a fog unusually thick for the season.

Mouse had once again risen early, but this time, it was not by choice; sleep, it seemed, had no wish to find her.

The air at Silver Lake was thick with tension. The Empress had taken more and more to locking herself in her rooms since, turning away all who sought her, only to then appear some time later in the great hall or out upon the bailey or even at the edge of the lake, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. But the fact was that the shadow of a dead man loomed over the entire village, and none were immune to its affliction.

Mouse could see nothing errant in the Empress’s behavior, for she understood her confliction to be the result of an ego that sought, above all else, to maintain its importance. To sit the throne, to hold any position of power, was to accept the inherent danger it placed upon one’s person; yet, to allow any fear that would naturally follow as a result of such knowledge was to admit one’s own humanity, to erase the line that separated monarch from man. It was almost as though, Mouse thought, it was the crown that wore the Empress, and not the other way around.

Mouse tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear before taking up another arrow. The bow she held now was not her own, but one that had been given her by Torben. His was a simpler design, one that could easily be used with either hand, while hers was less suited to being used the other way around, fixed, as it was, with a shelf.

In a way, Mouse found drawing with her left hand a good deal more natural, even if her musculature on that side had not been developed with an equal amount of practice. However, the movement itself still required tuning, and combined with an unfamiliar bow, she felt almost as if she was learning to shoot all over again. She lifted the bow, drawing the string taut, but at the last minute, she was caught off guard, and the arrow flew over her finger, wheeling pitifully through the air before landing in the grass.

The sound that had caught her attention was that of the Foilunders returning from their morning rounds, which she recognized by the gentle clinking of the bronze chain worn about the Dietric’s waist as he rode. Under the specter of the dead man, Sigurd had been quick to make his men useful—and wisely so, thought Mouse. For the Empress, she was certain, would have taken any attempt on his part to assuage her concerns or temper her suspicions as either an admission of guilt or a sign of disregard, and her mistrust, once dealt, was unlikely to be rescinded.

Ulrich, to his credit, had continued his investigation, seeing that every man, woman, and child was duly questioned. The prisoner, inquiry had confirmed, had been in residence at Silver Lake for many years, and though not officially a member of the guard, had been known to assist as necessity might demand. His primary occupation had been as a saddler, though his workshop had seen little use these days, the castle being seldom occupied and the Knights of Toth no longer riding through with any kind of regularity. But there were still some who might come to him for repairs if they did not wish to travel all the way to Nidda.

Jens had been the man’s name. He had never been known to carry out any violent act or speak against the crown, and was estimated on the whole to be an honest and hardworking, if unremarkable, sort of person. He seemed, by all accounts, no more or less than the man who had been brought before them begging earnestly for his life, a man who had made the foolish mistake of thinking it his duty to frighten off a flock of strange men riding upon the castle.

“Either a saddler with perfect aim,” the Empress had mused, her eyes dark and hard, “or an assassin with less than perfect aim. Now, which seems the more likely?” It was a question no one could answer, one no one dared answer, and one that continued to banish sleep from Mouse’s bed each night.

Torben had become a rock to her in the tumult of her swirling thoughts and emotions, and though she dared not mention to him the conversation she had overheard between the Dietric and the Empress that first night at Silver Lake, when it came to all other matters, she found in him a ready confidant.

The Foilunder neither sought to diminish her fears nor to exacerbate them, but instead listened to her patiently until she had somehow or other talked herself into reason, and when this failed, would distract her mind by regaling her with stories of Foilund, describing to her the intricacies of its history, its culture, and its people.

This was how Mouse had come to learn that in Foilund, there were no Lords and Ladies, as there were in Aros, and in fact the Dietric’s own men bore no titles. Though their nation was one of great wealth and their people learned, arrogance was something that was not tolerated. Those who served the Dietric were identified only by a chain made to fit the individual, each link having been earned one by one, which was worn about the head. These had been removed, stowed safely away, when the Foilunders had traveled south, but Torben was more than happy to show his own to Mouse, placing it gently upon her head. It was a warm shade of gold that spoke to its purity, and some of the links had been bent into the shape of half-moons. It was the same shape, Torben explained, that was painted on the door of his home, a large stone house that stood near Kingfishers’ Bridge on the far side of the Manau.

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But the chain was too heavy for Mouse’s head, and when she placed it instead upon the Foilunder’s head, the sight of him so adorned nearly took her breath away. The warmth of gold seemed to glow against his skin, and together with the gold in his ears, it cast a brilliant contrast to the dazzling blue of his eyes. She looked upon him, his pale hair twisted back away from his face and his eyes gleaming like pools of quartz, and could not help but think him handsomer than any lord or knight or king she had ever seen.

She waited eagerly now upon the grass of the bailey to see if the man himself might appear, taking up another arrow and drawing, as if by doing so she might somehow conjure him. No sooner had she loosed than she heard his familiar voice ring out, bringing a smile at once to her lips.

“The jewel of Aros shines so brightly that even the sun blushes to rise in her presence,” he said, bringing his mount around the low partition that stood between them.

“Do not distract me, sir,” Mouse protested as she took up another arrow, “or you will certainly cause my aim to falter.” In truth, she did not mind the Foilunder’s disraction, but she need not admit as much aloud.

“I will hold my tongue for now then,” he replied, loosening his reins enough so that his flaxen mount might help herself to the lush grass of the bailey, “but be warned that I will praise you doubly once you have allowed me to speak again.”

Mouse nocked the arrow into place, drew a deep breath, and raised the bow. She let her breath settle in her chest, patiently fixing her aim, before releasing the string from between he fingers. The arrow still did not find the center of the target, but it struck closer than all the ones before. Mouse turned now with some small degree to satisfaction to face the Foilunder.

“Speak, if you will, sir,” she said. But to this, the Foilunder shook his head.

“You have forced me into silence too long,” he replied. “And now instead of speaking your praise, I must sing it,” he said. Mouse braced herself for what might follow. “The jewel of Aros,” he sang, “looses her arrows upon the straw hearts of men.” Mouse began to laugh as he sang. “And all who come near her are certain to fear her, for they’ll never see such beauty again.”

“A fine bard you make,” Mouse said, applauding him before reaching again for the quiver. “Now away with you, or I shall never improve myself.”

“Ah, but how does one improve upon perfection?”

Mouse shook her head.

“Banish the sweet words from your mouth, sir,” she said, resting the arrow lightly against the bow, “lest your teeth rot clean from your head.”

“As you command,” the Foilunder said with a laugh, gathering up his reins and turning his mount back the way he had come, “jewel of Aros, lady of the left hand.” Mouse rolled her eyes. “Rider of noble Passavant,” the northerner continued as he began to ride away, “huntress of men’s hearts.”

“Be gone, Torben of Foilund!” Mouse cried, waving him away as she unsuccessfully tried to keep a smile from her lips.

“Plume of the south,” the Foilunder’s voice carried across the bailey slowly growing fainter, “bane of boiled potatoes…”

Mouse looked after the Foilunder, rubbing a thumb absently against the bow in her hand. She had no wish to be partial to the Foilunder. It would cause her nothing but pain, she knew, for it would only be a matter a time before they each be forced to go their separate ways, Mouse back to Kriftel and Torben back to the far north. But struggle as she might to remain indifferent to him, it was a battle she felt certain she would lose.

That night, Mouse dreamed that she was in Foilund. She was standing on Kingishers’ Bridge, watching the powerful blue water of the Manau flow beneath her. She would not have known that it was Foilund, for she had never seen the place before, but she recognized it because at far end of the bridge stood a great stone house with a half-moon painted on the door. It was Torben’s house, she knew, for it was just the way he had described it to her.

She continued to watch the water flowing beneath her before looking up at the house on the other end. There was smoke rising from the chimney; someone must be home. Part of her wanted to cross the bridge, to walk up to the house and push open the door, to see who was inside. But another part of her was afraid, though why, she could not say.

She could hear someone singing, their voice traveling out of the house to where she stood upon the bridge. Was it Torben? she wondered. But the sound of the river beneath her was so loud that the voice was difficult to distinguish. She found herself being drawn to the sound of the song, her curiosity getting the better of her fear, and slowly, she began to walk across the bridge.

But before she could reach the house, an arrow suddenly flew past her head, and she turned to see the dead man standing in the middle of the bridge, aiming his bow at her.

“Please, do not hurt me!” she cried, her heart seized with terror. “I’m only a mouse!” for she realized now that she was.

“Are you?” the man said, his eyes cold and mocking. Mouse reached for her tail to show the man, to prove to him that she was nothing more than a tiny harmless creature who sought only to scurry across the bridge, but she could not seem to find it.

“Just as I thought,” the man sneered at her. And with that, he loosed his arrow, sending it straight between her eyes.