Author's note: This isn't the one I mentioned in the Illyk and Mora story, obviously. That one is about Russav and Danric. But, like the other one, this kind if happened. I have more ideas than I know what to do with at the moment, so who knows when the other one will be finished.

The sound of a drawling voice woke Bran, and he stood, wincing as the motion tugged at his still-sore shoulder, and opened the door. "Danric," he greeted the Marquis jovially. "Got everything all settled?"

"For the moment," was the cool reply. "Much of it can only be handled from Athanarel."

"Then I guess we'd best be on our way," said the Count, falling into step beside Vidanric and walking with him to the small room at the end of the hallway.

"Indeed," Vidanric said, and to a passing equerry, "Please ask Lady Meliara to join us."

Bran seated himself on a low mat. He looked up in time to see Vidanric's expression change as he looked at his papers; just then the equerry returned. "She's not in her rooms, milord. We're looking in the grounds and stables."

The Marquis shook his head. "No. She's gone."

The equerry bowed and departed. "What'd'you mean, she's gone?"

Vidanric handed him two pieces of paper. "These were on my maps."

One was the incriminatory letter from Debegri; on the other, in large, childish handwriting that he recognized as Mel's, was written You'll probably need this to convince Galdran's old allies.

Bran handed them back. "Burn it!" he said. "I just talked to her not a time-change ago. She didn't say anything then."

"She wouldn't have," the Marquis murmured.

Bran blinked. "I suppose not." Then he sighed. "Burn it. I wish she'd at least waited so we could've sent someone with her."

"Given her last experience with an escort," Shevraeth said wryly, "I doubt she would have agreed."

"Probably not," Bran admitted. He scratched his chin. "I honestly thought she was going to stay. I knew she didn't want to go to Athanarel—said she'd be useless. But I didn't think she'd go haring off like this."

"Meliara thought she'd be useless in Athanarel?"

Bran nodded. "To tell the truth, I had much the same feeling. But I know there has to be something I can do, even if it's file papers and such." He watched the Marquis. "I take it you had something in mind for her to do there?"

Shevraeth nodded. "Indeed. But it's of no consequence. I would rather have her willingly in Tlanth than against her will in Athanarel."

Bran looked at him sharply, then scowled again. "I'll never understand her."

"Your own range of experiences during the war was more, shall we say, limited than hers," the Marquis reminded him. "Which may explain her recent actions."

"You mean that because the war was worse on her than on me, it makes sense for her to want to go home?"

"Perhaps."

Bran hesitated. "How bad was it, really?" he asked. "She told me some of it, but—well, obviously she's good at hiding things from me."

Shevraeth was silent for a moment. "Many a lesser person would have given up," he said at last. "It was not a pleasant experience for her. But I do not think she has taken any lasting hurt from it."

"She said you saved her life in the Chovilun dungeon?"

The Marquis hesitated. "Yes."

Bran frowned. "What was she doing there?"

"Debegri took her there."

"He was going to kill her?" Bran's eyes flashed.

Shevraeth hesitated again, then said, "He was going to torture her."

Bran's reaction was sudden and violent. He slammed his hand down on the floor and swore fluently. When he finally stopped, his mouth was a thin line, and the Marquis reflected that it was just as well Nenthar Debegri was already dead.

"Sorry," Bran said, glancing up. "Well, no I'm not, really." He scowled. "I'm never there for her when she's in trouble!"

"Perfectly understandable," Shevreth murmured, remembering the thoughts that had been going through his own mind as he and his equerries galloped headlong for Chovilun, not knowing if they would be in time or not—and the second of gut-wrenching horror at finding Meliara in the dungeon, cornered by a brute of a man about to hold red-hot iron to her. "But allow me to point out that your sister has a remarkable felicity for getting out of dangerous situations on her own."

"Not that one," said Bran.

"No," the Marquis agreed. "If it helps, she felt much the same way when you were ambushed by Debegri's men."

Bran winced. "I know. She went after your blood."

Shevraeth shrugged, a motion that looked odd on him. "A natural reaction," he said, hiding a wry smile.

Bran sighed. "Well, she's gone and that's that. I'll write to Khesot, make sure she gets home safely." He looked up at the Marquis. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," was the answer. "It's a two-day ride. We should arrive near sundown three days from now."

Bran nodded. "I remember the place." Suddenly he laughed.

Shevraeth looked up in polite inquiry.

"It's just that mother used to talk about sending us to Court when we were older," he explained. "Not for long—she changed her mind, when Mel was about five. Hated Athanarel. But she thought we should go, to learn what was going on." He shook his head. "And now we've both been, but, well, I don't think that was quite what Mother had in mind." His face grew sober. "Definitely not for Mel, at least."

"No," the Marquis murmured in agreement.

Bran looked at him. "She told me what happened. I can't really blame her for not wanting to go back."

"No," Shevraeth agreed again. "Nor can I."

Bran stood and stretched. "I suppose there's not much to talk about, seeing as Mel's gone. I'll see you in the morning, then." He flicked a quick, casual salute, then left.

Shevraeth dealt with the remaining papers on his makeshift desk, then extinguished the candle and stretched out on the low cot. But sleep did not come immediately, held at bay by thoughts of a red-haired Countess. He knew precisely why she had left.

Bran returned to his room, where he found a meal waiting for him. He ate it absent-mindedly, thinking of his sister, and half-wondering if he oughtn't ride after her. But there was work to do in Athanarel.

He did not sleep immediately, either. He thought of Mel—and of the flickers of emotion, nearly imperceptible, that had flashed across Shevraeth's face at certain points in the conversation. Bran laughed, rolled over, drifted off to sleep.