Author's note: Much of the information regarding situations, characters' responses, who knew what when, etc., is derived from Ms. Smith's postings at Athanarel or CastleTlanth. If you want to see where I'm getting the canonical basis for something, message me and I'll send you the excerpt.

Also, I forgot to post a disclaimer on the first chapter. Neither the characters, nor the world, nor the situations are mine, but rather Ms. Smith's.

The footsteps of the Renselaeus soldiers died away, and then Khesot was left watching the man in front of him, trying to glean information from his inscrutable expression.

He did not know where the four men he had come with were; somehow the soldiers who had captured them had known exactly who each was, and had separated him from the rest of the group. Khesot had more hope for their honorable treatment from this man and his people than he would have had they been captured by any other, but there was no denying they were in a bad situation: he'd made a mistake, and now he—and his four men, and every single Tlanthi on the ridge above—would pay the price. Had he allowed himself to feel guilt, it would have swamped him. But he knew he needed to be calm and emotionless now.

"Khesot of Tlanth," the young Marquis of Shevraeth said, and Khesot met the inscrutable gaze evenly.

There was no point in denying his own name. "Yes."

"My people found you inside the walls."

There was even less point in denying that. "Yes."

"What brings you to Vesingrui?"

Khesot stared back at the nobleman, not answering. He knew the Marquis would not resort to torture to get the information he wanted; knew that much from the war. He knew the other man knew he knew it, too. Therefore he would have to use other methods, and Khesot did not know what those might be.

The Marquis gestured to a side table. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

Khesot blinked. Apparently one of them was surprise; he ought to have expected that. "No, thank you."

The other man stood up, walked around the table, looked outside for a long moment. That particular window did not face the hills where the Countess and her people were hiding, and Khesot wondered what the Marquis was seeing. How much time remained before the Tlanthis attacked? Khesot knew there was not enough. He needed time to think, to make sense of conflicting information. Lady Meliara had told them of Shevraeth's dishonorable betrayal, yet he was treating Khesot with honor now, and had acted with integrity during the war. Whose side was the nobleman on?

"Count Branaric is not dead," the Marquis said, turning away from the window, and Khesot looked at him in surprise. "He took an arrow—as I'm sure you heard—but is recovering, and will live." When Khesot would have been startled into speaking, the Marquis held up a gloved hand. "You needn't decide whether you believe me just yet; permit me to share some of what I believe." He paused. "Lady Meliara escaped the ambush unharmed and returned to Erkan-Astiar, convinced I had betrayed her brother to his death. Knowing that Debegri was riding against Tlanth, she set out on a mission of vengeance, hoping to die fighting, and led her people here." He looked closely at Khesot. "Is this true?"

Khesot didn't say anything, and the silence stretched out. But this was not a defensive silence, as the earlier had been; it was contemplative. The Marquis, perhaps sensing his inner turmoil, waited quietly. Only after several minutes did he add, "Whatever you answer, you shall have safe passage back to Tlanth."

"Along with my men?"

"Yes."

Khesot nodded once, slowly. "If you did not arrange the ambush, who did?"

"Debegri," the Marquis said, with a slight movement that might have been a grimace of distaste. "I failed to consider the possibility that he would have spies watching for the Astiars' return until it was too late."

"And if I confirm your guesses, what will you do?" Khesot said slowly.

"Attempt to convince Lady Meliara of the truth."

Khesot nodded again and stared down at the ground. He had told Meliara that he was not certain there was not another explanation for the events; he had asked for the scouting party to find answers, and now he had them. If he could believe the Marquis.

As he thought furiously, three things were foremost in his mind: First, the Renselaeuses had helped the Countess escape from Athanarel, at great risk to themselves. Second, Khesot had always suspected that the Marquis had known where the bulk of there army had lain, during the war—and yet he had never attacked. And third… third was Khesot's gut instinct.

"Yes," he said finally, looking up. "Yes, she is here, and many of our people with her." He hesitated. "In the hills, waiting to attack at dawn."

"Thank you," the Marquis murmured, walked to the door, and spoke to someone outside for several minutes. But he did not leave, as Khesot expected, or summon soldiers to take Khesot elsewhere.

So the soldier asked, "And now?"

"Now," the Marquis said, "assuming the Countess's errand is indeed one of revenge—" he paused.

"Yes," Khesot confirmed, then felt compelled to add, "She wants to kill you personally."

The skin around the Marquis's eyes tightened briefly—very briefly, but enough for Khesot to call it a wince. "She will not believe anything I tell her."

"No." Then Khesot, suspecting what the Marquis was thinking, said, "The only proof she would accept would be the sight of her brother."

The nobleman shook his head. "He's in a woodcutter's cottage on the border of Tlanth."

"Then you will have to convince her to accompany you there," said Khesot, stating what they both already knew.

"I fear the only way to accomplish that is an unpleasant one, and it requires your aid," said the Marquis.

Khesot studied him carefully. "What is your plan?"

The other man hesitated. "To take her prisoner."

Khesot was startled, and alarmed, but listened carefully as the Marquis described his plan. When he had finished Khesot nodded once. He did not like the necessity, but knew Lady Meliara would not stake her own life against that of her people. "I will do it," he said.

"Thank you," the Marquis said again. "And I must ask your further cooperation on another matter."

"What is it?"

"That you keep silent about the role you played."

"You do not wish your true allegiance to be known," said Khesot.

"No," the Marquis agreed. "I must continue the masquerade a little longer."

Khesot hesitated. "I will do this as well," he said. "But the Tlanthi people will not be easily placated. Not believing the Count dead and his sister a prisoner."

"They will know the truth very shortly," replied the nobleman. "In the interim, perhaps the approaching threat of Debegri could be employed to keep them occupied?"

Khesot heard the third thing the Marquis was asking him to do: to keep the Tlanthi from attacking again and ready them for possible war. "Perhaps it could."

A discreet tap on the wooden door, which Khesot guessed was present to provide the commander of the fortress some measure of privacy. The Marquis moved towards the door. Khesot stopped him. "Wait." He hesitated again. "Is there no… message, nothing from Lord Branaric you could tell the Countess to convince her he is alive?"

The Marquis shook his head. "No." Khesot's surprise at the definite answer must have shown on his face, for the nobleman added, "Count Branaric believed his sister would remain in Tlanth to prepare for battle with Debegri rather than come after me. And had I such a message, she would not believe it."

"No," Khesot agreed, knowing he was right. Still, he wished there was a way to persuade Lady Meliara. He had seen her grief, and it was a burden no one should have to bear.

"We will ride quickly," the Marquis promised as if he could read Khesot's thoughts.

"We will wait for her return. For their return," Khesot added. The sky was beginning to brighten in early dawn, and he followed the Marquis out of the room to what awaited next.