Her hair was long and black, and though Krailash was no judge of human beauty, he’d heard it said Alaia was attractive, in a severe and aloof way. Certainly her blue eyes seemed to hold humor and strength in careful balance: she was seldom angry, never acted in haste, and nothing could sway her from her course once she’d chosen it.

Those were exceptionally good character traits for a merchant princess of the Serrat family. Krailash had never thought of his employer as motherly, but she held the child as comfortably as if it were her own. “Come in,” she said, standing aside, and Krailash entered her home.

The interior might have been a room from a lavish country estate, but if one looked closely, one could see the small efficiencies and precautions: tables that folded up into the wall to stay out of the way, furniture fixed in place on the floor, shelves and cupboards that could be secured to prevent the contents spilling on bumpy roads, magical lights instead of candles-because magical lights couldn’t fall over and catch the carriage on fire. A few of the lady’s small carved totems stood on shelves, looking merely decorative to the untrained eye, but allowing Alaia easier access to her vast shamanic powers if the caravan were ever directly threatened.

Alaia shut the door behind them and sat in her customary armchair, gesturing for Krailash to sit on the ironwood bench-the one utilitarian piece of furniture in the place, simple and strong, kept just for him.

“Tell me about this,” she said, looking down at the infant.

So Krailash told her: the child’s cry, the sounds of violence, the ruined temple, the opening to the Underdark, the disappearance of Rainer. She took it all in silently, then said, “Do you think we’re in danger?”

Krailash nodded. “Of course I do. Thinking we’re in danger is my job.