In the passages all around them, the sounds Dani had heard before were growing louder, drawing nearer. Scrabbling sounds, skittering sounds. Madlings, madlings behind the walls, coming for them. It didn’t matter. There had never been a way back, not after coming this far. There was only forward. The madling woman beckoned. Dani took a deep breath. Reaching behind him, he found the solid warmth of his uncle’s hand and clasped it hard.

Together, they entered the chamber.

MEARA WATCHED THE CHARRED FOLK enter.

What do you want?

Oh, she could have laughed, laughed and laughed, while the tears streamed down her face. Such a grimy little youth! What did she want? She wanted to raise an alarm, to summon the other madlings to hurry, hurry, take them now. She wanted to whisper in the Charred lad’s ear, tell him Darkhaven’s secrets.

He was gazing at her with wide, dark eyes; liquid-dark, desert eyes. They should have been filled with innocence, but they weren’t. There was too much sorrow, too much knowledge. If he had been a boy once, he was no longer.

The madlings could take them, take them both.

General Tanaros would be proud, so proud … but he had never trusted her, never seen her. She had offered herself to him; her heart, her body, the passion that was his Lordship’s Gift to Arahila’s Children. But Tanaros was a Man and a fool, wanting what he could never have. What would he do once the burst of pride faded? Turn away, forgetting Meara, longing after her.

The Lady Cerelinde’s kiss burned on her brow.

Please, she had said.

The other Charred One watched her warily, holding the lad’s hand. He looked as battered and exhausted as the lad. Clearly, they had been through much together. It was a pity. She did not want to betray them. She did not want to save them, either.

Give them what aid you may …

Not both of them, no. It was too much. Her head ached at the thought, splitting. She shook it hard and rose, approaching them. They stood fast, though the older tried to shield the younger. Meara ignored him, concentrating on the lad.

“You’re a mess, you know,” she said, trying on a tone of tenderness, a tone she might have used on a lover or a child, if things had been otherwise. Lifting a corner of her skirt, she scrubbed at the lad’s face. They were almost exactly the same height. He stood very still, his narrow chest rising and falling. Dropping her skirts, she touched the clay vial that hung about his throat. It was an unprepossessing thing, crudely made, tied with a greasy thong. “Is this what his Lordship desires?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I reckon it is.”

“Dani,” the other said warningly.