Mouse paced about her chambers, her hands clasped behind her back to keep from wringing them nervously.

The surgeon had pronounced that poor Bo’s collarbone, though not shattered, had likely suffered a fracture, and while he prescribed nothing more than pomace wine for the pain, advised that the guardsman should not lift anything heavier than a feather for a duration of at least the next several weeks. Though she had been assured by Bo himself more than once that she could not hold herself responsible for the actions of two grown men, she could not help but feel guilty for the part she had played in the incident.

The Foilunder who dealt the injurious blow had been mercifully brief in his description of what had happened, but Mouse knew that sooner or later, word would come up from the village, and what rumor did not adulterate, it was certain to exaggerate. It would be better, she told herself, if the Empress heard the truth of the matter from her own lips, even if she did dread telling it.

Petricru lay sleeping at the foot of the bed, and Mouse crossed to him, hoping to seek some comfort. “Let us pray your master is in a forgiving mood,” she said, kneeling to stroke his slender blue neck. The lanky hound stretched out his legs and rolled onto his back. Though he was the Empress’s dog, he was equally fond of Mouse, and she always found that being in his presence somehow lightened a heavy air.

Just then, there came a knock at the door, and Mouse reluctantly rose, answering it to a stout little kitchen maid with dirty blonde hair.

“You are wanted in the Empress’s cupboard,” the girl said. Mouse looked at her curiously for a moment, unsure of how to interpret her words.

“Oh!” she cried, at the sudden realization. “You mean her cabinet.” The girl nodded.

“Very well,” Mouse sighed, casting a forlorn glance over her shoulder at Peticru, who lay on his back at the foot of the bed without a care in the world, before following the maid out of the room and down the hall.

Mouse had not known what to expect when she entered the Empress’s cabinet, but it was certainly not what transpired.

“Good, you are here,” the Empress said brusquely the moment Mouse stepped foot into the room. “There is ink on the desk.”

Mouse stood in a momentary state of confusion before being urged by an impatient look from the Empress to the polished oak desk that stood against the wall. The room was dim, though the sun was yet high, for the tasseled cerulean curtains had been drawn shut, the corner of one caught clumsily on the edge of the desk. A candle had been lit, Mouse saw, and the scent of beeswax hung heavily in the air.

“To Puente Qalina,” the Empress said, without waiting for her stationery to be ready. Mouse hurriedly slid open the drawers of the desk one by one until at last, one yielded a sheet of parchment, and drawing her chair to the desk, readied her pen.

“Dearest Uncle,” the Empress dictated as she stepped slowly from one side of the small room to the other. “You are wanted in my court at your earliest convenience, preferably before Sensommer.” Mouse blotted her pen, waiting patiently for the Empress to continue. There was a long silence.

“All my love,” the Empress said, “Ida.”

Mouse lifted her hand hesitantly from the paper, turning to look at the Empress, who now stood staring at a landscape of Silver Lake that hung in a gilded frame on the wall. It was a massive composition that covered nearly the entire wall and had been a gift from the village to their monarch. Mouse knew because she remembered the very day it was hung.

“Does Your Majesty wish to include anything else?” she prompted delicately. “Perhaps an inquiry into Lady Maria’s health or an advisement as to how many carriages Lord Marius should bring?”

“I have said everything I wish to,” the Empress replied without turning her attention from the painting. “But you are certainly welcome to include those embellishments which you find necessary.”

Mouse returned her pen to the parchment, conjuring up some pleasantries that might make the paltry correspondence a bit less awkward and a bit more inviting.

“Leave it when you’ve done,” the Empress said. “I shall see to the rest.”

Mouse wrote slowly and carefully, waiting for the ink of each line to dry before beginning the next.

It was curious that the Empress should wish to write to her uncle at such a time, thought Mouse. Sensommer marked the beginning of the Feast of the Fourteen, an Arosian holiday that celebrated the Toth line, a family that Lord Marius had no connection to outside of his sister’s marriage. Lord Marius was brother to the late Elke of Ahnderland and had been in line to rule the kingdom of Ahnderland. However, his sister, Elke’s marriage to Emperor Lothar had joined the kingdom to the Empire of Aros, reducing his former title of crown prince to a mere lordship.

Though he had never displayed any outward animosity to his Arosian kin, Mouse could not help but wonder if he did not bear some kind of grudge, especially toward the young Empress, whose birth robbed him of both a beloved sister and his own succession to the crown. To deliberately invite him to a place where he would be surrounded by a sea of Toths reveling in their own glory for a fortnight while he himself was reminded of all that he had lost seemed insensitive at best and inciting at worst.

Yet, Mouse reminded herself as she put the final touches on the correspondence, she could not presume to understand the sentiments with which the letter might be received any more than she could presume to understand the intent with which it had been composed.

She watched the last line of ink dry in the candlelight, wondering how Lord Marius might react to reading it and hoping that her own additions would soften the blow of its contents, when suddenly, the Empress spoke.

“Two men our northern friends have now cost me,” she said, crossing to the window and lifting the curtain with a finger to peer out of it. “Let us see if they are worth all the trouble they cause.”

If Mouse found the letter strange, this was truly bizarre. She looked up at the Empress with something of concern, wondering if she dared inquire into her meaning. But before she could open her lips, she was dismissed, and finding her curiosity to be outweighed by a sudden urgency to leave, she departed out of the room and down the hall.

Mouse walked down the stairs, finding it difficult to shake the thought of Puente Qalina from her mind and wishing that there was someone at Silver Lake with whom she might discuss such matters.

Somewhat unexpectedly, she found herself thinking of Ludger. She thought of their frequent conferences, of the way he would stare at her through cold grey eyes, his hands folded over the bulge of his stomach, as he prodded her with questions and cogitations. He, she was certain, would have something to say on the matter.

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As she walked past the great hall and on toward the courtyard, her mind continued to drift. She thought of the rows and row of tomes on Ludger’s bookshelf from which she would recite, each one known intimately to her. She thought of the royal portraits that hung on his wall, one of Emperor Lothar and one of Elke of Ahnderland but none of Empress Idalia. She thought of the small wooden box with a brass latch and ivy on the lid that the old man had given to her mere days before they had set out for Silver Lake.

She realized now just how much she had not thought of, how much she had forgotten, how much she had been ready to leave behind. Even the dead man from the tower and the arrows he had sent toward her and the specter that seemed to hang over all of Silver Lake had not crossed her mind in many days.

She stopped now at the edge of the courtyard and looked out. There, on a stone bench beneath a Persian silk tree sat Torben. His golden hair shone in the sun, the light dancing across his face as a plume of pink drifted down from the tree and landed gently upon his knee. He sat with a carving knife in hand, his attention fixed wholly upon his work. He was so beautiful, thought Mouse as she watched him from a distance, like a scene from a fairytale. Here was where all her thoughts had been.

She stood quietly watching the Foilunder for a few moments, enjoying not just the way he looked, but the way she felt when she looked at him, when he stopped and lifted an arm to wipe his brow, suddenly catching notice of her. His eyes at once brightened and he called out to her.

“Jewel of Aros,” he said. “Will you not come and warm my bench?” Mouse let a smile spread over her lips as she walked out into the courtyard.

“That depends,” she said as she crossed to where the Foilunder sat. “Will you show me what you are working so diligently upon?” Torben held up the small piece of wood.

“It is the last piece for your tafl board,” he answered proudly, palming the thing before Mouse could get close enough to make it out. “But you cannot see it until it is finished.”

Mouse sat down on the bench next to him, glad to find that it was not so cold as she had feared. The Foilunder leaned an arm on the back of the bench and took her in for a moment, his blue eyes traveling across her face.

“Tell me what is on your mind,” he said, a slight furrow creasing his brow.

Mouse swallowed a sigh. There were many things on her mind, most of which she was not at liberty to discuss with the Foilunder. She looked out across the courtyard, at the Persian silks and lindens that shaded the walkways, at the little black birds that hopped about through tufts of chamomile and rows of mallows.

“Have you ever heard the story of the cherith bird?” she asked, turning back to the Foilunder.

“What is a cherith bird?” he asked. Mouse laughed.

“I shall assume, then, that you have not,” she said with a smile.

“You assume correctly,” the Foilunder answered, his warm eyes inviting her to continue as he returned to his work.

“The story goes back to when Aros was a small kingdom,” Mouse began, “no bigger than the Chatti lands. It encompassed only the area between Poth and Pothes Mar, and it was ruled over by King Wazo. Wazo the Wise he was called.”

“Wazo the Wise?” The Foilunder lifted an eyebrow in amusement, but Mouse continued.

“Wazo had one daughter, Princess Cherith. Cherith, young, lovely, and full of spirit as she was, had fallen in love with a handsome young knight called Sir Roderick.”

“A handsome knight, you say?” Torben interjected. “He did not happen to hail from Foilund, did he?”

“Perhaps,” smiled Mouse. “But where he hailed from is beside the point. Now, to secure a peace with the neighboring kingdom of Caldiff, Princess Cherith was bound by duty to marry Prince Georund. However, Wazo, wise as he was, feared that Cherith’s love for the knight Roderick, if allowed to continue, would interfere with the marriage arrangement between Cherith and Georund, thus causing the alliance between the two kingdoms to fall on tenuous ground. So, in order to separate the two young lovers and ensure that the marriage would proceed as planned, Wazo had Sir Roderick sent to the southern fronts.”

“Wise but cold-hearted, this Wazo,” the Foilunder remarked.

“Indeed,” Mouse said. “Now, Princess Cherith, heartbroken to find that her knight had been sent away and fearing for his life and wellbeing, decided to sneak away from the palace and go to the Zauberwald to seek out Old Holle, a heks who was rumored to live in the darkest, most hidden corner of the forest.”

Mouse watched the Foilunder rubbed the shaving from the wooden piece as he listened.

“Once Cherith had found Old Holle,” Mouse continued, “she began to plead with her. ‘Please,’ she said to the crook-nosed heks, ‘you must help me. My knight has been sent to battle. Is there not some charm you might cast to protect him?’

‘I cannot protect your knight any more than the moon can protect the earth from the sun,’ Old Holle replied.

‘Then turn me into a bird,’ begged Cherith. ‘That way I can fly south and protect Sir Roderick myself, following wherever he goes so that no harm may come to him.’

‘Very well,’ replied Old Holle, ‘but know that once you have been turned into a bird, there will be no turning you back. Beaked and feathered will you remain all the rest of your days.’

Cherith knew that this meant that she would never again hold her gallant Sir Roderick in her arms, but she agreed nonetheless, and the old heks at once granted her wish, turning the beautiful young princess into a small black bird with a red-tipped beak.”

“Ah, a cherith birth,” said the Foilunder, looking up and pointing with his knife to one of the small black birds flittering about the courtyard. Mouse smiled and nodded.

“No sooner had she been transformed than Cherith flew to the south to seek out her knight. After a week of flying without rest, she finally found him on the field, every bit as handsome as the day he had left the palace. But she was joy at finding him was soon replaced by dread, for she realized that he was in battle, a man from the opposing army charging at him with a sword.

Cherith flew toward the assailer, flapping her wings and pecking at his eyes, until she drove him off the field and into a ditch. She had saved her Sir Roderick from what otherwise was like to be certain death.”

“Brave and noble Cherith,” remarked the Foilunder, blowing dust from the small wooden figure.

“Brave and noble Cherith,” Mouse echoed. “The next day, she followed Roderick once again onto the field. This time, she saw a man riding at him with a spear in his hand. Cherith flew toward the assailer, landing on the spear and pulling it with all her might, pecking at the man’s fingers to loosen his grip until at last, she wrested the spear from him. She had saved Sir Roderick yet again.”

Torben raised an impressed eyebrow and nodded in approval as Mouse went on.

“Each day proceeded much as the one before: Sir Roderick would ride into battle, and Cherith would be there, flapping her little black wings ferociously and doing whatever a creature of her size could to protect her beloved Roderick.

One day, as Sir Roderick rode into battle, Cherith noticed an archer upon a hill who had fixed her noble knight in his sights. As he loosed his arrow, Cherith flew to meet it, hoping to catch the shaft in her small black talons. But try as she might, she was not quick enough, and instead of catching the arrow in her talons, she caught in her wing.”

“No!” cried Torben in protestation.

“Yes!” answered Mouse. “She fell at once from the sky to the earth below, crying out in pain as she landed upon the field. Sir Roderick, recognizing the bird as the one who had been following him, leapt from his horse, gently scooping up the injured creature and holding it in his palms.

As he looked down at the little black bird who lay dying in his hands, he felt a sudden twinge within his heart. It was his Cherith, there was no denying it. If it was not enough that she had risked her own life for him, he could tell by the way his heart wrenched in pain at the sight of her suffering.”

Torben stopped and looked up at Mouse expectantly.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Well,” said Mouse, “there are two ways the story ends. Some say that the poor bird perished of her wounds, whereupon Sir Roderick died of a broken heart. Others say that the knight rode with the bird tucked gently to his side all the way to the Zauberwald where Old Holle mended Cherith’s wounds and turned Roderick himself into a bird so that the two might live happily together all the rest of their days.”

“I prefer the second,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling softly in the late afternoon sun as he handed Mouse the small wooden piece he had been carving. Mouse looked down at it, studying the details etched into the tiny figure. While most tafl pieces were simple with little more than a face, if anything, carved into the surface, the one the Foilunder presented her with was elaborately designed, bearing a remarkable amount of detail, especially considering its size. Mouse studied it in admiration, rubbing her fingers across the surface to feel the lines delicately carved into it, a smile blooming on her lips.

Instead of a man with a shield, as some of the others had been, this one was a woman holding a bow.

Mouse looked up at the Foilunder, her heart swelling with warmth as she looked into those brilliant eyes that shone back at her, those eyes that somehow saw so much of her that she could not see herself. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but when she opened her lips, she found that her voice came out as little more than a whisper.

“As do I,” was all she could say.