The banquet that night began as a sober affair, with the injured guardsman adding to the growing list of aggravations that marked their journey; however, it did not remain as such, for though the Empress had been in something of a foul temper up until that point, Mouse marked a kind of levity in her disposition, as though she had just made some great jest and was waiting for everyone else to catch on.

She had consented, much to the chamberlain’s gratification, to at last allow that a nice fattened swine be butchered and laid upon the table for all to enjoy, but the greatest surprise to them all was when a bard strolled into the hall with a lute in hand, who turned out to be the very same bard of bawdy songs with whom they had crossed paths on their way to Silver Lake.

To add to the jollity of such an evening, the Foilunders had produced several flasks of some clear pungent stuff, a spirit of their homeland that smelled strongly of pears but, Mouse wrinkled her nose, tasted of peels and caraway. Food and drink all was heartily partaken of, the effect of which was much merriment, laughter, and camaraderie.

It was when the bard was singing “The Last Rose of Versanth,” and got to the line about the woman who kissed fewer men on her wedding night than she did on an ordinary Sunday that the Foilunder, who was sat as usual next to Mouse, turned to her in confusion.

“It is an Arosian wedding custom,” explained Mouse, “that when the groom makes himself scarce, all the men in the place run up quick as they can to kiss the bride, and the same thing happens the other way around.” The Foilunder looked stunned to hear this revelation, almost as though he did not believe Mouse.

“You need not look so shocked,” she said with a laugh, noting the concern he wore on his face. “It is all in good fun.” The Foilunder poured himself a drink.

“Such a thing would never happen in Foilund,” he said in a somewhat serious tone.

“No?” smiled Mouse, holding out her own cup for him to fill. He bent his head and obliged her.

“You see,” he began, pouring carefully into her cup, “we Foilunders only kiss the one to whom we make our vows—” He replaced the jug upon the table. “—and often not until those vows have been made.”

Now it was Mouse’s turn to look surprised.

“You mean to say that you do not kiss until you wed?” she asked in astonishment, withdrawing her cup from her lips.

“Why should we?” the Foilunder replied.

Mouse looked about disbelievingly at the tall gainly men littered about the hall. Even she knew too much of the world to believe that they could all be chaste. The Foilunder laughed.

“I see what you are thinking,” he said, no doubt marking the look of incredulity and shock Mouse wore. “But do not misunderstand me,” he said, raising a hand. “We have other ways of expressing our affection to one another.”

Mouse felt her cheeks grow pink as she tried not to imagine what he might mean by this. The Foilunder brought his arm to the back of Mouse’s chair and let it rest there, drawing a finger lightly through the ends of her hair.

“But to kiss someone,” he said, letting his eyes travel slowly from her hair to her face, moving his hand through her hair until his thumb brushed gently against her neck, “that is a promise.” He shook his head. “And it is not one we take lightly.”

Mouse felt a kind of shiver run through her. She had wondered if the Foilunder would kiss her. She had wished for it, even. But she supposed it was just as well, for he had already cast some spell over her, and had this been sealed with a kiss, she may have never been able to recover her heart.

Mouse found it difficult to sleep that night, as much from the excitement of merry making as anything. But eventually, she drifted off in the early hours of the morning, only to wake not long after.

It was with a start that she rose from her bed to the sound of riders in the bailey, and she felt her heart leap into her throat, for it was only at that moment that she realized what a fool she had been.

She had assumed that last night’s banquet had been a gesture of friendship on behalf of the Empress, an apology, of sorts, for her taciturn behavior toward them in the wake of Bo’s accident and a revival of good will. But she had been mistaken; it was not a reconciliation, it was a farewell.

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Mouse hastened herself to dress, her heart seized with a sudden fear that she might miss the Foilunders before they departed. She hurried down the stairs as quickly as she could, nearly tripping down them in the process, and ran out of the castle, down the steps, and straight into the arms of Torben. Though his horse had been saddled, it was not yet laden, and it was with a great exhalation of joy and relief that he received Mouse into his embrace.

Even before either could speak, Mouse could already feel the hot tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. She did not want him to go. There was still so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to ask, and so much she wanted to tell.

She had always understood that the northerners had not come to stay, that these sweet summer days spent in Torben’s company could not last forever. She knew that the time would come when they two would be forced to separate, but still, she had not expected it to come quite so soon.

The Foilunder held her tightly, his cheek pressed against the crown of her head, and took up her hand, pressing it firmly to his heart. How was it possible, Mouse wondered, as she buried her face into his shoulder, that a world bright and beautiful enough to bring her such a man could just as easily tear him away?

“Jewel of Aros,” the Foilunder said without releasing her, “huntress of my own heart, you cannot know the pain I feel at this moment.” But she could. She could, and she did. Mouse let her tears soak the Foilunder’s doublet, her body shaking gently with sobs, and it was only once she had begun to regain herself and slackened her own grip on the man that he loosened his hold of her. He ran a hand through the dark hair that fell about her shoulders, the pain in his face telling the truth of his words.

“One day,” he said, looking down at Mouse, who found it difficult to meet his eye, “when you tire of the warm southern weather, you will come for me.” His voice was low and even, but full of feeling. “North you will ride on the back of noble Passavant,” he said, “to still the ache within my heart.” His warm hand wrapped tightly around Mouse’s own, his blue eyes soft and searching as he waited for her to meet his gaze.

“You know where to find me?” he asked her. Mouse nodded, her lip quivering as she spoke. “The stone house by Kingfishers’ Bridge,” she said, unable to keep her voice from trembling as she spoke. “The one with the half-moon painted on the door.”

“That is where I will be,” Torben said, drawing his thumb gently across the back of her hand in a tender caress. “And that is where I shall wait for you.”

Mouse tried to steady her breath as she helped the Foilunder strap the remainder of his load to his flaxen mount, her hands shaking terribly all the while.

Once the Dietric and the other Foilunders rode out, having bid their farewells to the Empress, her men, and all the rest at Silver Lake, she walked alongside Torben, who, having begged a few moments to himself and his lady, led his horse by the reins out of the bailey.

Just as they went through the wall, Mouse suddenly stopped. She had no favor to give the Foilunder, no remembrance to carry with him. He had given her his bow and sixteen pieces for her tafl board besides, and it was only now that she realized, in dismay, that she had given him nothing.

The Foilunder looked at her questioningly.

“I have nothing to give you,” she said sorrowfully, her countenance falling in shame. But Torben shook his head.

“I have already the lines of your face and the lilt of your voice,” he said, his blue eyes dancing in the sunlight as they so often did. “What more could I ask for?”

Mouse tried to smile, to let the Foilunder’s generosity cheer her, but the lump in her throat would not allow it.

The Foilunder studied her for another moment before reaching out a hand and gently tucking a finger beneath her chin, lifting it until her eyes met his. He stared at her in silence, his eyes traveling across her face, as if committing it to memory, and Mouse did the same.

He was not just handsome, she thought to herself as she looked at the crease of his eyes, the curve of his nose, the whisps of hair that fell loose around his face, he was beautiful. And more than that, he was warm and kind and open, and he saw parts of Mouse that she didn’t know were even there. He had given her so much to cherish, so much to believe in.

Her eyes once again began to burn and her heart wrenched with aching, but she did not want to look away from him.

It was in that very moment, when she did not think she could her legs could hold the weight of her grief any longer, when she felt the pain of their parting begin to grow so unbearable that she thought she might burst, that the Foilunder leaned down and, pulling Mouse’s face gently toward his own, pressed his lips against hers.

It was a promise, Mouse thought, a single tear rolling down her cheek as all the warmth of the morning sun seemed to pour into her at once. And even if she did not feel worthy of it, she was glad to accept.

The broad-shouldered Foilunder stepped away from her, at last mounting his steed. The rest of his party already had already vanished into the fog that spread out from the lake, and it was with one last look of longing in Mouse’s direction that he began to ride away.

Mouse stood in the damp grass and watched him go.

“The jewel of Aros,” he began to sing as he rode slowly across the field, disappearing into the fog, “looses her arrows upon the straw hearts of men…”

Mouse waited, listening to the sound of his voice as it slowly faded until all that was left of him was a lingering sadness and the feeling of his lips upon hers.

That night was not the first that Mouse had cried herself to sleep, and she knew it would not be the last. But it was the first time that her heart had been well and truly broken. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, the little tafl piece carved into the shape of an archer squeezed tightly in her palm. And as she drifted between sleep and wake, tears soaking her pillow and staining her face, she promised herself that she would never love anyone else again.