Slow and deliberate, the madling held up one hand and licked her forefinger, then swiped it down the side of Dani’s face. He held himself still and rigid, staring at her. A layer of soot and river mud came away, revealing the nut-brown skin beneath it.

“If I were you,” the madling said almost kindly, “I would run.”

They took her advice, pelting down the hall. Behind them came the clamor of a laden tray falling, and the deep roar of Fjel pursuit.

MEARA WATCHED THE CHARRED FOLK run. The sight made her laugh as few things did in these dire times. Lord Ushahin Dreamspinner would be proud if he were here; even Tanaros himself would be proud. She took a moment to imagine it—his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes filled with fondness, a rare smile on his lips as he said, “Meara, today your deeds fill me with pride.”

Of course, the Fjel had to catch them first. The thought caused her laughter to falter and vanish, replaced by a frown. She shouldn’t have told them to run. She hadn’t thought they really would. The Mørkhar Fjel of the Havenguard were tireless, but not swift, not like the Gulnagel.

But then, if the Charred Folk hid, the madlings could find them. Meara brightened at the thought. There was nowhere in Darkhaven anyone could hide that the madlings could not find them. Her smile was quite restored by the time the Lady opened the door.

Suddenly, Meara did not feel proud anymore.

The Lady Cerelinde looked at the silver dishes, the remains of her meal spattered over the gleaming marble floor of the hall. “Meara, what has happened here?” she asked in her gentle voice.

“Danger, Lady.” She ducked her head and mumbled. “Strange Men. The Fjel will find them.”

“What Men?” The Lady’s voice rose when Meara remained silent. It was not harsh, no, it could never be harsh, but it held an edge as keen and bright as a sword. “Meara, what Men?”

“Charred Folk,” Meara whispered, lifting her head.

The Lady Cerelinde took a sharp breath, and something in her face changed. A connection was made, a piece of the puzzle falling into place at last. It was nothing Meara understood, and yet she bore witness to it. “The Unknown Desert!” The Lady’s slender fingers closed on Meara’s arm, unexpectedly strong. “Come inside.”

Meara followed, helpless and obedient. Behind closed doors, the Lady laid her hands on Meara’s shoulders. It was just as she had imagined, only it was wrong, all wrong. No General Tanaros, no warm glow of pride. Only the Lady Cerelinde, her face filled with bright urgency. The world seemed to tilt and sway as she spoke. “Tell me about these Men. Did they come bearing anything that you might have noted? Waterskins? Vessels?”

Meara gaped at her. “No, Lady! They were … Men, dirty Men!”