“Is it good, my lord?” Her blue-grey eyes gazed up at him. There was a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. They would have been innocent, those eyes, save for a reflection of gold coin held cunning in their depths. The youngest daughter of a Staccian lordling, she knew where her family’s margin of profit lay. “Your supper will arrive anon.”

“Aye,” he said gently, thinking of the Lady Cerelinde’s blush, of her terrible beauty, and the scent of vulnus-blossom. Some things were better measured in coin. “’Tis good, sweetling.”

A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his supper. Vorax inhaled deeply as the dishes were uncovered and the savory aroma of food filled his quarters. His Staccian handmaids helped him to the table, filled to groaning with his repast. They brought the wine-pitcher, placing his goblet in easy reach. Eyeing the repast, he selected a bowl of consommé and raised it to his lips with both hands.

It would take a mountain of food to ease the memory of his misstep in the Chamber, of Lord Satoris’ anger, of the silence out of Staccia, of the madlings’ gathering, of the Lady of the Ellylon’s presence among them, and above all, of that gaping chasm in the secret heart of Darkhaven.

Drinking deep from the bowl, Vorax began.

“GO, LADY, GO!”MEARA ACTUALLY shoved her from behind, then snatched her hands back as if the touch burned. Caught unawares, Cerelinde stumbled over the threshold of the hidden door, pushing the heavy tapestry aside to enter her quarters.

It was blessedly quiet within.

She sat on the edge of her bed, willing her heartbeat to slow, remembering candlelight reflecting from the edge of Vorax’s sword and meditating upon the nearness of death. This must be, she thought, the way warriors felt in the aftermath of battle; a strange mix of latent terror and exhilaration. Meara paced the boundaries of the room, peering anxiously into every corner. Where she trod upon the soft carpets, the scent of bruised heart-grass followed in a ghostly reminder of the Ellylon weavers who had woven them long ago.

“It is safe,” she pronounced at length. “No one is here.”

“That is well.” Her calm restored, Cerelinde inclined her head. “Forgive me, Meara. Perhaps the venture was illadvised. I would not wish any of you to be placed in danger.”

The madling shot her a glance. “He’s right, you know. Lord Vorax is. You should leave the Lord General alone. There’s nothing but death in it, death and blood and more madness. You should leave us alone. Why don’t you? Why did he have to bring you here?”

“Meara.” She spread her hands, helpless. “To that, I cannot speak. You know I am a hostage here. It is a small gift, a small kindness. You asked me to share it. Since it is all I have to offer, I did.”