Mouse stood by the campfire, close enough for the heat of the flames to send rivulets of sweat down the backs of her legs. She watched as the men rifled through her belongings, emptying the cantle from her horse and the makeshift linen sack into which she had bundled her belongings. They’d already taken her sword and gone through her pockets, seizing her dagger, so that all she was left with now were the clothes upon her back. The men talked in low voices to their commander, who stood staring into the fire.

  Darlen Mathis looked in no way dissimilar to his portrait. In fact, it was one of the better likenesses that Mouse had seen. The painter had taken few liberties with Mathis’ appearance, save, perhaps, making him appear a bit taller than he was in reality, and seeing him now in person for the first time, Mouse could understand why he had the reputation that he did. He was every bit as handsome as his father, Persephus had been in his younger years, but with a somewhat warmer complexion and a more inviting gaze. But then again, perhaps it was only a trick of the firelight.

  Mouse made as close a study of the man as she dared. He wore a confident and commanding presence, drawing every eye toward himself, despite the fact that he was not much taller than Mouse herself, but there was something contradictory in his personage, something that made him seem as though he was at once both older and younger than Mouse would have expected him to look.

  Deep-set lines etched their way into his face, but his eyes retained a bright and boyish curiosity, and from time to time, the warm light of the fire would catch the red sheen of his hair or the glint of a gold tooth as he opened his mouth to speak.

  After watching him a time, Mouse felt her fear slowly begin to lessen. Darlen Mathis was a noble and a strategist. He would not harm her, nor would he allow any harm to come to her so long as she was in his charge. Such were the laws of chivalry, and any noble, even a bastard of Persephus would be expected to abide by them. She found herself suddenly grateful that it had been Mathis’ men who had captured her and not some brigands lurking in the woods.

  After a time, Mathis sent most of the men away, one to tie up the horse, another to carry Mouse’s things to his tent, and the rest to make watch for the remainder of the night.

  “I don’t suppose you’re ready to tell me who you are,” he said, looking at Mouse as he twirled her dagger between his fingers. But Mouse, who had resolved herself to silence, only pressed her lips together all the tighter. She would not allow him to know anything of her person until she had had a chance to better make out his.

  “Very well,” said Mathis. “See that she’s given a tent and whatever privacy she requires.” Before he left, he handed the dagger to one of the guards, nodding at Mouse. “Let her keep it,” he said. “She has a right to protect herself.”

  Mouse followed the guard to a tent on the other side of the camp where she was given leave to make privy while its usual inhabitants were turned out. When she entered through the flap, she found a space wide enough to sleep three but scarcely tall enough to stand up in without having to hunch over or have the sprig of juniper dangling from the peak hit one in one’s face.

  It came with a blanket and a single tallow candle, which stood, lit, on an overturned crate.

  Mouse did not bother with undressing; she lay down fully clothed, boots still on her feet, and pulled the blanket up over her. It smelled like smoke and spruce, as though it had been hung on a tree branch to dry.

  Mouse shivered, despite being warm. She was well and truly alone now. Everything and everyone that she had ever known lay now behind her, in a place to which she did not know if she could ever return. She thought of Bo’s steady grey eyes as he sent her away. How would he find her now? She thought of Pritha and Jasper and her other friends in the kitchens. She thought of Agatha and Katla, Daria and Mathilde. She thought of the Empress and Johannes, and of Ludger and Leopold and Conrad.

  There was a coldness inside of her, a hollow sort of ache.

  “You are the jewel of Aros,” she whispered to herself in the dark. “Flayer of fear, sovereign of solitude.”

  And after a time, the coldness and hollowness began to soften, such that her eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion and the distorted shadows of men passing by outside her tent began to look less like specters and more like the ripples on the surface of a pond. And sooner or later she began to drift until she found herself in a deep slumber.

  She dreamed that night as she had before that she was a little mouse scurrying up the stalk of a mallow. She looked around her at the field and up into the sky and saw darkness all around her. She began to run, fearful of the coming storm, but when she got to Kingfishers’ Bridge and looked behind her, she found that she had not been chased by a single man with an ugly smile but an entire army.

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  Mouse woke to the sounds of the camp coming alive. Axes cracked against wood as men called out to one another, laughing and talking in strange accents. It took some time for her to remember where she was. She lay there with the blankets still pulled up to her chin, staring at the sprig of juniper that hung from the ceiling of the tent. She was in a Vejlish camp, somewhere north of Aethelsbrook.

  She rose and stuck her head out of the tent, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and grease. She looked around at the men who were busy splitting wood and feeding fires, stirring cauldrons and greasing leathers. She stepped outside on onto the damp earth. It must have rained the night before, but she had slept so soundly that she not heard it pattering against the canvas of her tent.

  “Do you want to wash, or are you hungry?”

  Mouse looked at the guard. He was different from the one the night before, younger.

  “I would like to wash,” she said, though her stomach was already beginning to growl at the smell of the porridge the men were cooking over the fires.

  When she had done, the guard led her through the camp. Mouse looked about the men, wondering what they were doing here. They were too many to be without some purpose but too few to pose a threat.

  They stopped outside the only tent that could be considered a pavilion, though even that was generous, where Darlen Mathis sat eating with a few of his men around a low, rough-hewn table.

  He rose when he saw Mouse approaching, wiping his hands on his trousers, and gestured for her to sit across from him, in the only empty chair. The chairs were more stumps than anything, but Mouse, growing hungrier by the moment, willingly obliged.

  She was brought a bowl of porridge, a hunk of bread, and a mug of ale, all of which she gratefully accepted.

  “You slept well?” Mathis asked, glancing across at her.

  “Yes,” Mouse said. “I—” She suddenly remembered her vow of silence. “I thank you.” It seemed rude not to finish the thought. She returned her attention to her porridge, but not before glimpsing the smile that had turned up the corner of Mathis’ mouth.

  She sat there quietly for the remainder of the meal, listening to the men speak in their thick Vejlish accents, trilling their R’s for emphasis on some words and dropping them entirely on others, and allowed herself to savor the warm, hearty frumenty. But after a time, it grew quiet, and Mouse looked up from her bowl to realize that she and Mathis were alone.

  He reached for the flagon of ale, refilling both their mugs. She had allowed her mind to drift too far, Mouse realized, wondering what Bo would say if he found out she had lost both her horse and her sword.

  Mathis studied her as he replaced the jug.

  “I have something for you,” he said. He rose without explanation and disappeared inside his tent, reappearing with Mouse’s linen sack, which he set down on the table in front of her.

  Mouse looked up at him and down at the sack, pulling it toward her and rifling through its contents. She took out the letter and tafl piece from the Foilunder as soon as she saw them, quickly pocketing both, before continuing to look through the rest.

  “There was a parchment here,” she said, looking up at Mathis, “a scroll.”

  “Mmm, I still have it.” He leaned down and picked up a twig from the ground, brushing the dirt from it.

  “Can I have it back?” Mouse asked.

  “No,” Mathis said, snapping the twig and picking up his knife, beginning to carve at one end of it. “I need it to write a proper.”

  “But it’s not mine,” Mouse said quickly. “It’s my lady’s. I’m a maid.”

  A smile tugged at Mathis’ lips as he finished sharpening the twig and stuck it into his teeth.

  ”All the same.”

  Mouse chewed her lip.

  “May I ask you something?” she ventured.

  “You may ask,” Mathis said around the twig in his mouth, “but I may choose not to answer.”

  “How long are you planning to stay here?”

  Mathis shrugged, prodding at his teeth with the twig.

  “As long as necessary.”

  Mouse opened her lips, but before she could ask her next question, Mathis spoke again.

  “You know, you’re very lucky you left Kriftel when you did. The whole castle came under siege yesterday, not an hour or two before dusk.”

  Mouse averted her gaze, looking anywhere but at Mathis.

  “Oh?” she said, feigning ignorance and remembering too late that she had not told anyone she had come from Kriftel. “Do you know who it was?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Mathis said. “It was Ralist. We watched him from here.” He drew a path with his twig. “He came all the way from Pothes Mar out past Silkeborg, all the while staying in the trees and never once setting foot on open road. In fact, he went so far as to set up an encampment along the river, something about a blockade, to distract from his true purpose. Clever man.”

  Mouse gaped at the man across the table who threw away his twig and took a drink of ale.

  “Do you know why?” she asked.

  “Well, to reclaim his sons, presumably,” said Mathis. “Or at least that’s the pretext. But I did hear a certain rumor that there was someone else he might have been looking for.”

  Mouse’s eyes followed Mathis’ movements as he drained his mug.

  “Who?”

  Mathis smiled, but he did not answer. He rose from his chair and stopped, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at Mouse.

  “You know, you look like someone," he said, curiosity taking hold of his expression. "But I can’t for the life of me decide who.”