Story notes:Apologies for the long wait, everyone! I hope this chapter makes up for it. AU-s are hard, especially when you've still got it set in their world, argh. Thank you for the follows, and to Tigre Blanca, Guest, erskine exposed, Paradoxically, Jean Calaelen, and Vickie for your awesome reviews. Hope you like the next chapter!

Chapter 3

"Shall we agree," Russav wondered, "That last night was a spectacular failure?"

Morning light streamed in through the generous window planes, stinging his sunken eyes. He hadn't planned on drinking much, but after The Slap Heard Round the World, a glass or six of strong liquor sounded like just the thing.

Vidanric stood by one of the windows, peering out into the Renselaeus' private gardens. "It is a set back," he admitted.

"A set back?" Russav snorted. "Danric, she slapped you. In front of everyone in court who matters! Have you opened any of the missives? I haven't gotten this much outpouring of support since Tamara slipped a pricklypine in my saddle ten years ago."

Vidanric turned around, and Russav was once again struck by the tiredness in his eyes. "Life, have you even slept?" he added.

Vidanric gestured at the writing desk, towards the tall stack of letters declaring their indignation upon the ill-bred countess and sworn allegiance to the wronged marquis. "At least there is this: thanks to Meliara's, ah, exuberance, I have some insight into how the others perceive the Tlanth situation. Really, things could have been worse."

He said it all in a light tone, but Russav caught the ripple of distress beneath still waters.

The duke shook his head. "The only way it could have been worse is if she'd leapt on your back and ridden you straight to Galdran, then skewered him with your own sword!" He raised his finger as if in valiant charge, then sent it sailing towards his own chest.

Despite his tension, Vidanric smiled and spread his hands in Observation Without Restraint. The exaggerated flick of the wrist indicated irony. "I'm trying to piece together what might have incentivized Meliara to attack me. We anticipated tension, perhaps even a refusal to acknowledge me, but not…that. How did she seem before my arrival?"

"She seemed…" Russav's head throbbed with the effort of remembering. "Well. It was rather like conversing with a figurine. She was uncomfortable, but I could tell she was trying to fight it off. At one point she might have smiled - or it was a trick of the light. Had you arrived earlier," Russav added acidly, "You would have been able to tell."

Shevraeth dutifully tilted his head in Rue.

"Anyway, I doubt she heard a word I said, and I said everything. I joked. I flattered. I flipped myself inside out to get her to crack a smile. I spoke enough for the both of us!" Russav blew out a breath and grimaced. "I can't remember the last time I babbled so."

Vidanric smiled wryly. "Has our countess finally tangled the tongue of Remalna's finest courtier?"

"I thought it would be fun, playing the dashing nobleman who takes the hapless outsider under his wing," Russav admitted. "But in truth…she made me incredibly nervous. The way she looked at me - well, whenever she could muster the courage. I felt as though she could burn right through the facade of my act."

"A dangerous attribution," Vidanric murmured.

He knew exactly what Russav described, for he'd felt it in their own gaze, their first in five years. It would take more than a stolen glance to undo his years of training, but he'd not soon forget the strong wave of unease while looking into her eyes. A revulsion towards deception he'd long tamed, now brimming scarily close to the surface. As though he were somehow impure - as though he felt compelled to lay the truth at her feet.

Until, of course, the far more corporeal sensation of her palm crashing into his face absolved him of the feeling fairly quickly.

But there was still no discernible connection between Russav's account and Meliara's reaction…

Vidanric pressed his palms to his temples, a futile attempt to chase away his burgeoning headache. "Russav, think. Did you perhaps suggest that I would be earlier than I was, giving her a reason to anger?"

Russav clasped his chest in mock affront. "Why mention your name when I wanted all her attention on me?"

Vidanric knew he shouldn't have gotten caught up on that blasted letter to his father. "Did you bring up any controversial topics?" His eyes widened. "Did you mention Galdran?"

"Your insinuations of my intelligence are grounds for a duel," Russav declared loftily, imitating the worst of Vidanric's court looks. "And if Geral's two left feet weren't currently trampling my brain I would issue a challenge. Believe me, I was a perfect gentleman to Meliara. I introduced her to our friends. Geral is smitten; I'd watch him if I were you. My eyebrows martyred themselves as Tamara flamed up to the tips of her hair. We took a turn on the floor. I asked about her rooms, some polite nothing, and then—"

He broke off, face turning white.

Vidanric raised an eyebrow.

Savona groaned, head flopping to the ground with a hard thud.

Oh dear, Vidanric thought.

"She said she wished her brother were here. I said—oh, Danric, don't kill me—I agreed immediately, as we needed more people for duels."

A long silence ensued.

"And then just as that happened, you arrived, and—well, we moved on to—"

"Clothes," Vidanric finished. "Immediately after you regretted that her crippled brother could not engage in mock combat with the very people she believes tried to kill him, I came in crying about velvet."

"Something like that," Russav acknowledged with a wince.

"I went on for ages."

Another long silence.

"Permit me to wonder if, perchance, you were obstructed in some way in telling me—"

"Indeed I was! By your inadequate footwear," Russav shot back irritably, before Vidanric could finish that drawling rebuke.

Vidanric let out a frustrated sigh. He closed his eyes and bit back the petty retort waiting on his lips. Some people never learned the difference between justified anger and misplaced rage, and lashed out at those not deserving. He had observed how such characteristics in people expedited their downfall (if it could happen sooner with Galdran, he wouldn't complain!). Russav and himself were not above a heated argument or two, but this would not be the cause for one.

When he opened his eyes he was calm. "Never mind! Let us not dwell, for had I not been so delayed the timing might have been more fortuitous." He smiled at Savona with the most reassurance he could muster. "We will fix this together."

But poor Russav's cheer had been thoroughly expended, leaving a moroseness compounded by his hangover. "Except instead of a court indifferent to her plight, we have one that welcomes a public outlet for its bitterness. She'll be flogged by manners so vicious she'll beg to be strapped to the post instead."

His cousin shuddered involuntarily, his mind flung back to his worst memory of the Academy. When he had witnessed a good man nearly die from fifty lashes - a punishment everyone knew was meant for someone else.

"I'd forgotten your experiences," Russav said, chagrined. "Is this the second worst thing I've said in recent memory? Or has it surpassed the former? Ought I surrender my right to speak?"

"Is this an invitation to tally your misadventures in speech?" Vidanric said, forcing another smile. Anything to bury those memories once more.

"It's an invitation to shut me up!" Russav said, throwing his arms out. "Pray, my lord, do not strike from me the title of Lord Suave, Duke of Debonair. Otherwise that dolt Deric will be the leader of court and you will suffer infinitely more under his influence. However, if you must slay me as recompense, I beg leave to change into something more…functional. This ermine collar may belong to a traitor, but is much too nice to be stained by a traitor's blood. I will bequeath it to you in my will."

"I've long thought your true calling is with the playhouses of Sartor," Vidanric sighed.

From his position on the floor, Russav attempted to grovel his way towards Vidanric's boot. He gave up with an exhausted groan and instead flung an arm in the air. "It's all my fault. I will do whatever it takes to restore my honor unto you, and Lady Meliara's honor unto…er, the entire world."

"We are well beyond restoration. Permit me to suggest, ah, 'exaltation' instead."

"You ask for the impossible. Meliara is prickly. Court is prickly. And Tamara! She's a downright bushel of steel-tipped thorns. I'll be diving headfirst into all this prickliness, and then when Galdran comes back I'll be pricked all around!" Russav grimaced. "Now that's the worst thing I've ever said."

Vidanric sobered at Galdran's name, but endeavored to worry about Galdran once he bothered to come back.

Focus only on what you can control, his father always advised. Everything else will fall into place.

"Surely that is all a mere bump in the greater scheme of things for Athanarel's lead fashion maker?" he asked, voice layered in the incredulous tone of one on the verge of a great disappointment.

"I'd need a playwright's miracle to straighten out this coil," Russav moaned, but the glint in his eyes indicated to Vidanric that he'd accepted the challenge (and the flattery). "You are lucky my imagination surpasses even my perfectly toned physique.

"However," he added, as Vidanric signaled Becoming Modesty as sarcastically as possible, "The show cannot go on if our star refuses to perform."

The marquis bowed. "I'll see what I can do."

"I still can't believe she slapped you."

"I almost can."

"Though you did surpass your record for noxiousness last night."

"Steady, cousin."

"In any case, you shouldn't find it difficult to get her on your side," Russav said casually. "If that's what you're worrying so much about."

Vidanric raised an eyebrow in a way that proved Russav's observation. "Worrying?"

Russav gestured. "You've been fiddling with that all morning."

They both glanced down at Vidanric's hand, where a single, slightly rumpled sprig of asterliss lay absently wrapped around his fingers.

"Ah," Vidanric said.

"I wasn't sure there was still hope for you, to be fair," Russav admitted. "Until she walloped you in the face."

He bit back a smile as puzzlement flashed through Vidanric's features. Oh, the things his otherwise clever cousin so willfully refused to understand!

"She made it quite clear that she hates me more than ever," the marquis ventured carefully.

"Sure, if you want to be boring about it," Russav said. "But if you ask the only person in this room who doesn't have the emotional range of a turtle, he would insist that she still cares. A lot more than she realizes."

Vidanric was going to regret asking — he knew Russav had set him up to arouse his curiosity to wave in his face at inopportune times, but he just couldn't help it: "How do you know?"

"You think I don't recognize the signs of a lover scorned?" Russav yawned. "How many of those whacks do you think I get in a year?"

Well, there was only one good response to that. Without another look at Savona, Vidanric crossed the room, jammed his riding hat on his head, and slipped past the tapestry, leaving the duke's victorious - albeit slightly wheezing - gasps of laughter behind.

Meliara debated throwing a sleeping gown in her knapsack, which was already filled to the brim. It was an unnecessary weight to an escape already fraught with risk, but she actually liked the ones she'd received from her secret benefactor. She didn't have any sleeping gowns at home — prior to her Court-ready gifts, she hadn't even had more than a change of clothing.

With some regret she tossed it aside. Just another Court frivolity! And one she was ready to leave behind with the rest of its disgusting inhabitants and ways.

The response to her social disgrace had been as swift as the slap that caused it. Notes that had been sent late at night inviting her to parties and gatherings (once people had seen her on Savona' arm and raced to be the first to extend a hand of friendship to the countess) were followed mere hours later with amendments expressing their regrets, in curt script, that the countess's attendance could no longer be counted upon.

Her only regret, in turn, was that she had not hit him harder.

Meliara had considered taking a walk around the gardens, to show the Court that she was unafraid, but Mora (whom Meliara had begun to suspect knew a lot more than she let on) tactfully suggested that she use this time to settle into her rooms. Which meant that whatever awaited her beyond her door would hurt more than a cold shoulder.

So she sequestered herself away. And plotted her escape.

"If Galdran wants me he's going to have to come after me himself!" she huffed. With the king still away, she would still have a few weeks to assemble Tlanth's guard, and be prepared to defend - and fight for - their lives should the war hit their doorstep. She might end up splattered under Galdran's boot, but she would have stood up to a tyrant and done what was right. More than what these court sots would ever do.

The bells rang for third blue: by this time, people would still be at the various balls and parties from which she had been so quickly excluded. The coming and going of carriages and riders would be expected. If she rode hard, she could be out of the city and at one of the crossroad inns before dawn.

Meliara lugged the trunk out of her bedroom and into the receiving room - and gasped to find a shadowy figure already standing there.

She tapped the glow globe near the bookshelf, and it filled the room with soft light, illuminating the Marquis of Shevareth's face.

"A late sojourn, Countess?" he asked.

A knife slid free of its wrist sheath; Meliara pulled the rest of it free from her sleeve and cocked her wrist warningly. "One step closer, and you'll get it," she hissed.

The Marquis' expression remained unchanged. "It desolates me that we must leap so quickly to violence in our encounters," he murmured. "I fear that reason is futile at this point. So, let me just say that I would regret the inevitable outcome, should you attempt to follow through with that threat."

A more insecure villain would have underscored his warning with a flash of steel, or brandished his own weapon openly to intimidate her. But even though the Marquis remained utterly still, his hands at his sides, Meliara knew that his own knife would be in her heart sooner than she could even place her aim.

"How did you get in here?" she snapped instead.

The corners of Shevraeth's mouth deepened. "As anyone would. You could ask your servants, but they would require further details in order to investigate the lapse in security."

Meliara scowled. As if she would tell anyone that Shevraeth had snuck into her rooms after hours.

"Fine, so you can leave the same way you came in. Now." She gestured towards the door.

The Court mask vanished. Shevraeth's gaze turned thoughtful, and for an instant Meliara was transported back to a moment in time when she had stood in front of Vidanric Renselaeus, on a sleepless and starless night, just like this.

Except instead of a knife in her hand, she'd held a book.

He could have dismissed her then. But he hadn't.

"Sometimes I wonder," Shevraeth said softly, "If it was a grave error on my part to overlook the importance of diplomacy in our lessons. Military command was all I knew when we met, and so that is what I shared with you. I know better now."

"Like what ribbons go with emerald or how to bed and leave a lady the same night?" Meliara said cuttingly. "If your idea of diplomacy means acquiescing to a bad king, then I'm glad you left that rot out!"

The mask slipped back into place. "Did you think to succeed in deposing Galdran with an army of village folk?" he asked.

She opened her mouth to retort, then froze. To say yes or no would reveal the extent of her involvement in Tlanth's rebellion. For all Galdran knew, the threat was over. No one knew except her father and brother and the villagers, and she was determined to keep it that way until the right time. The right time being when she could do a jig over Galdran's grave.

Then again, if anyone could figure out her secret, it would be the man who trained her in the first place.

But that man was long gone. He had chosen to chase a life of decadence in Colend. Once he'd dulled his sword and fattened up his soul on all the pleasures that cruel and wasteful court could throw his way, he had returned to Athanarel and promptly pledged his loyalty to Galdran. A servant of the crown, and a traitor to the people.

For all she knew, he was Galdran's closest confidante, and his most dangerous one. He could exploit their past against her to deadly means. The sooner Meliara forgot about the old Vidanric, the better.

She shakily expelled the breath she'd drawn to fuel her indignant response. "I'm afraid we have little to say to each other, my lord," she said, in as courtly a manner as she could muster. Maybe she could kill him with politeness, if not through other means. "I thank you for your visit. Now I must be on my way."

He exhaled sharply. "Oh, Meliara. Even at your most ignorant, you wouldn't be so foolish as to try to escape."

"You pompous dolt!" she screamed. So much for politeness. "Why are you even here? My rooms are far enough from yours to warrant more than your stuffed up taunting. Are you here to kill me? Threaten my brother through me? Share some fireside stories of how you all laugh at my expense?"

She gave him what she hoped was a gruesome sneer. "Whatever it is, be quick. Or do you need my help getting the job done?" Her blade worked free of its sheath, glinting like a jewel in the dark.

Shevraeth circled her warily. "We are not enemies, Meliara."

Mel's arm slashed downwards; Shevraeth swiftly grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the wall. She shouted as her back hit the stone, more in surprise than pain. Her knife clattered to the ground.

She lifted his chin — blast, had he grown even taller?— and forced herself to look him dead in the eye.

"Do it," she challenged.

Shevraeth's features were set like the coldest marble. His fingers still gripped her arms tightly, so tight that her own fingers were starting to tingle. He was entirely unreadable in a way she had never seen him before.

"We are not enemies," he repeated, each word ringing like a summons to her soul. "You would know if we were. In the eyes of the court, to whom you have regrettably made yourself unwelcome, I can be a valuable ally."

If Meliara hadn't been so bound up in her own turmoil, so adamant to stand her ground, she would have noticed a nervous, highly uncharacteristic gulp from the Marquis.

"I can protect you, Mel. I ask only for your cooperation."

Meliara swallowed to fight the tightness spreading through her throat. She thought of her father, freshly buried beside her mother's more weathered grave, and Oria leading Bran through his excruciating daily walks.

"Cooperation in what?"

Shevraeth paused. "Our current situation does not appear to favor such liberties in transparency."

"Neither does it favor the truth," she said, mocking his tone. She pulled away from Shevraeth. "In Remalna, protection's just another way for a tyrant to flex his power. It's a twisted, sullied, meaningless thing."

"I implore you to look beyond—"

"I've seen enough. Or have your parties blinded you to the slaughters beyond these walls?"

"Mel!" Shevraeth said, and this time he almost sounded like the Vidanric of old. "You don't know what you're up against. Being shunned by court may seem like the worst thing now, but when Galdran returns…You must be aware of how Galdran perceives you. The smallest sign from you that you refuse to abide by his rules, and he won't need an excuse to make his message clear."

"Never call me Mel again," she said coldly. "And his message has been clear since he came into power. Perhaps he's overdue for a reply."

She dipped into a sarcastic curtsy. "Your concern is touching, my lord Marquis, but ultimately misguided. If I had my fan I'd twirl it in all sorts of nonsense ways to tell you what I truly mean, but plain discourse will have to do. I don't care a whit what this court thinks about me. I don't need your protection or assistance. And I desire to encounter you and Savona as little as possible during this stay. Now, don't you have some party to attend?"

Though a tiny part of her wanted to linger, to catch the reaction on Shevraeth's impassible face, to hear him defend himself so she could say all the things she truly wanted to say, she knew a part of victory meant knowing when to retreat. (Now, who had taught her that?) So she turned her back, and left him in the dark.

Late at night, when even the most enthusiastic lovers had fallen asleep, Vidanric lay awake. His mind was trapped five years in the past. The sensation of holding Meliara tight had flung it there — though, back then, the circumstances had been much more favorable.

But it was the scent of her hair that kept him locked in the memory. Her hair smelled just as it had all those years before. A sharp, clean scent, like cool wildflowers in the dew, that was so unlike the heavy rose and gardenia favored by the girls at court.

He could remember exactly how, in that hot summer night, it had been damp with the sweat that beaded her brow. How it had brushed across his arms as he tightened his grip around a swaying Mel, her eyes still dazed from her rapid spinning, the remnants of wild laughter still illuminating her face to shine brighter than moonlight.

He remembered how her hair felt sliding through his fingers as he brushed it away from her flushed face and freed the tangles from her neck. How it shimmered when Mel peered up at him in alarm, her body recognizing the signs of what was to come before her mind could even start. Before he closed his eyes, he saw on her face the ghost of a new and cautious smile.

As the instigator, he had stolen those first few seconds. The rest, she'd yielded.