Mouse had not been certain what to expect upon her arrival at Pothes Mar, but it was certainly not the reception she had expected. There was little heraldry and hardly any ceremony, and moreover, what had shocked Mouse most was that the Lord and Lady of the castle had not been present.

She had studied the portraits of Lord Ralist and his wife, Lady Margarethe at length prior to her visit so that there would not be any mistaking them among the other members of their household, and so it was with certainty that she could confirm, even before being told as much, that they were not in attendance to receive her.

Instead, she was greeted by a tall, handsomely dressed man with an angular face and dark blond hair. She did not recognize him as any familial connection of Lord Ralist and hoped that he would identify himself so that she would not be left floundering for his name.

“Have you any idea who that person is?” she had whispered to Bo, who stood at her shoulder as the man approached.

“I don’t know,” the guardsman had replied, “but he looks like a knight. Sir something-or-other, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Bo,” Mouse had sighed. “That’s very helpful.”

Mouse had brought with her a retinue of servants and men-at-arms, altogether forming a household of just over one hundred. Only Agatha had been of her choosing, a decision she hoped she would not come to regret, but she had been glad to find that Bo had volunteered himself.

Even if he had not yet proven himself particularly useful, he was one of the few people Mouse felt she could trust, despite the fact that he remained close to the Empress. It spoke well of him, Mouse thought, that his relationship with the sovereign, whatever it may be, did not seem to have any effect on his steadfast manner and amiable disposition. She only hoped that that would not change in time.

As the man now drew near enough to drop into a low bow before Mouse, she could see that Bo had been right. He bore a crest, and his tunic was a fine dark red trimmed in silver thread, betraying the wealth afforded by his status.

“Your Majesty,” the man said, “on behalf of the Lord and Lady of my house, along with the men and women of Pothes Mar, loyal subjects all, I bid you a most gracious welcome. We pledge to you our swords and service, vowing to defend the Empire against all those who might rise against her and promising to seek out every injustice that may threaten her peace.”

“May the Empire return to you in health and prosperity all that which you have in good faith sown,” Mouse replied to the man whose hair fell against the sides of his face.

“We remain feal to you, our Empress, in both thought and deed,” he said.

“Rise, sir, and receive the thanks of your sovereign,” Mouse said, extending her hand to touch the man gently on the shoulder.

It was strange, she thought, to have a man address his fealty to her, even if it was not really directed toward her. Now she was left with the unpleasant task of discovering the his name without giving herself away.

“My Lord and Lady are humbled to receive you, Your Majesty,” the man said, straightening himself to reveal a tall, dignified figure.

And yet they do not come themselves, Mouse thought to herself.

“Pray, where are Lord Ralist and Lady Margarethe?” she asked as the man began to lead her up the steps of the keep, her guard trailing behind her.

The man seemed to pause and consider how best to answer before making his reply.

“Lady Margarethe is in her rooms,” he said carefully. “She is in something of a delicate condition.”

It took Mouse a minute to gather his meaning.

“Oh!” she said. “Is it too soon to offer my congratulations?”

The knight allowed himself a measured smile.

“I should think not, Your Majesty,” he said, leading her over the threshold and into the hall of the castle.

Mouse looked up and marveled at the tall ceilings of the keep, the walls decorated with arms and lavish hangings.

“And what of the General,” she asked, craning her neck to admire the coats nearly too high for her to make out. “That is, what of Lord Ralist?” she corrected herself, turning her attention back to the knight.

The man shifted uneasily, betraying a certain reluctance to answer.

“I believe he is on the training fields, Your Majesty,” he said.

Mouse raised her eyebrows in surprise. She knew that she was not the Empress, but the General certainly had no reason to suspect she was not. And yet, he could not bother himself to come in from the fields to meet her.

It was impertinent at best, thought Mouse, and at worst, showed a concerning lack of respect for the crown.

“Very well,” she sighed. “Please take me to him, Sir—” She looked inquiringly at the red-clad knight.

“Conrad, Your Majesty,” he answered.

“Sir Conrad,” Mouse repeated with a smile.

The knight, for all his dignified appearance, now shifted uneasily.

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“Are you certain Your Majesty would not prefer to see your rooms, refresh yourself from your long travels?” he asked. “Lady Signy would be more than happy to show you around the castle.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Sir Conrad,” Mouse said, reminding herself to keep her chin lifted and her shoulders low, “but I have come a very long way, and I should like to see the man whose hospitality I am prevailing upon.”

She knew it was not the answer Sir Conrad had been hoping for, but she was not about to let the General shirk his duties because of what she now was beginning to suspect was a disinclination to meet her.

Mouse had studied not only the General and his ladywife’s portraits, but had learned everything she could about them, including their familial connections, their unsavory habits, and even their favorite desserts.

The man of the house, she knew, had a reputation for being arrogant, condescending, and judgmental, but as far as he was concerned, she was his sovereign, and there was no excuse to be made for his inattention.

“Besides,” Mouse said with a smile that she hoped might soften Sir Conrad, “I have been sitting a long time in one attitude and I find I should rather like some exercise.”

Sir Conrad tried his best to recover himself from what was clearly an unexpected request.

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” he said. “If that is what you wish.”

Mouse gave a nod of her head, satisfied that she was doing no less than what the Empress would in the same circumstance.

Sir Conrad led Mouse through the hall of the keep and around the northwest side of the castle before exiting out into the bailey. From there, they went through the wall, which led directly to the training grounds.

Mouse stepped carefully through the grass, praying she would not lose a slipper. The ground was no more than a bit damp, seemingly having been spared the worst of the rain, but the delicate, beaded shoes that Mouse wore were not meant to traverse anything more treacherous than thrushes.

She regretted now not going to her rooms to change, the sweat beginning to run down her neck from the effort of carrying her gown across the field, but at least she had brought Bo along, so that she had an arm to cling to when she needed one.

“Alright, Mouse?” he said with a lopsided grin as he watched her struggle wiggle her foot back into a shoe that had slipped off in a muddy pitch.

“I believe it is ‘Your Majesty,’” she said with a groan, grateful that if the guardsman was going to laugh at her, he at least had the good sense to wait until Sir Conrad was out of earshot before doing so. “And I’ll thank you not to mock me, sir, or I’ll be tempted to send you out in a pair of these horrid things yourself,” she said, reaching down to fix the shoe by hand.

However, as they continued across the fields, Mouse found herself becoming less regretful of her decision and indifferent even to the encumbrance of her attire. For it was not just military exercises that she found the men to be practicing, but hastiludes, all of which she had grown up watching and most of which she thoroughly enjoyed.

She followed at a leisurely pace in Sir Conrad’s wake, reminding herself that as Empress, she was well within her rights to stop as she pleased, and therefore did not hesitate to pause from time to time to watch, for instance, a few passes made at the quintain.

At last, they neared a small stream across which a bridge had been built. From a distance, Mouse could see that upon the bridge stood a lone knight clad in armor that shone brilliantly in the midday sun. In front of him, he held a two-handed sword.

“I believe General Ralist stands yonder,” said Sir Conrad, indicating the far side of the pitch, “with the venans.”

On the other side of the fenced area from where Mouse and her attending stood was a group of men clad in padded jerkins, readying themselves for combat. But Mouse’s attention was fixed on the knight.

It was a passage of arms, she observed with a smile, one of her favorite games and one which she was in no way prepared to sacrifice in pursuit of the General.

“Perhaps,” she said to Sir Conrad without looking away from the knight, “it would be better not to interrupt Lord Ralist until the contest is over.”

Sir Conrad bowed his assent to this and situated himself somewhere he might be out of Mouse’s view.

Mouse leaned forward against the fence, resting her arms across it in what she knew was not a very dignified stance as she watched the first challenger pick up his sword and begin to approach the bridge. She had lost sight of Bo but could only imagine that the guardsman must be at least as excited as she was to watch the ensuing contest.

The venan now looked back over his shoulder to the marshal, who released him with a “Lay on!”

The man rushed forward, raising his sword with a shout, but his blade was met by the knight’s, who parried the blow with seeming ease. The man swept the blade back around, with both hands firmly grasping the handle, and this time, when the knight caught the man’s blade with his own, he tilted it upward, throwing the man back with such force that he was quickly thrown off balance and stumbled to the ground, dropping his weapon in the process.

The next man, having had the advantage of studying the first, proceeded with cautiously. However, this proved to be folly, for the knight seized upon the man’s hesitation, smacking the man in the shoulder with the flat of his blade before circling his blade with his own and knocking it easily from his grasp before the man had hardly any idea of what was happening.

The third man kept his blade low, using short swipes to try and advance himself slightly, but did not realize the disadvantage he had put himself at until his first attempt to raise his sword above his shoulder was met with a forceful downward arc of the knight’s own blade.

Each advance made upon the knight was met similarly, and Mouse found that the longer she watched, the more entranced she became. The knight’s movements were not only efficient, bearing the mark of ceaseless practice, but fluid, elegant.

He looked, Mouse thought, exactly as a knight should, moved exactly as he ought. She could feel a flush begin to creep onto her neck as she watched in fixed fascination the knight who swept aside all who dared to step foot upon his bridge.

One man had come close to striking the tenan, lunging quickly forward and bringing his blade up, hoping to catch the knight under the arm. But before he could complete his attack, the knight threw his arm up, dodging the man’s blade, and in one seemingly fluid movement, brought his left foot forward and planted his right in the center of the man’s chest, kicking him backward.

However, after some time, it became clear that the knight was beginning to tire; rather than striking at his foes, he turned his blade back, using the short end as a shield against his enemies’ lashes and catching their blade in his hilt when he could, tearing it from their grasp.

Mouse wondered if a stop would not be called to the contest, but the knight continued, giving little even in his fatigue, until he had rid himself of some twenty odd foes who had collected in defeat upon the grass.

At last, the marshal announced that no challengers remained, and the knight was given leave to retire.

Mouse had been watching so intently that she did not hear Sir Conrad calling to her until he had done so several times.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, releasing her grip from the fence and turning to him with a smile, her heart beating with exhilaration inside of her chest.

But the smile soon faded from her lips as Sir Conrad stepped aside to reveal the stern-faced barrel-chested man Mouse recognized as once as the General.

“Lord Ralist,” she said, steeling herself to bear whatever blow to her ego the man might be prepared to deal.

The General looked at Mouse, apparently unimpressed by what he saw. He did not seem at all gratified by his sovereign’s presence upon his fields; in fact, if anything, he seemed almost offended by it.

“Your Majesty,” he said unbendingly, his eyes traveling over Mouse appraisingly. “Welcome to Pothes Mar.”