Zia is alone in the wagon, sitting on the edge of the shelf bed, head bowed. Unsteady, somehow. The curtains have been drawn tight, shutters latched, door closed so that only the faintest traces of silver-red moonlight seep in around the edges, but there is a lantern--yes, there, sitting on that fold-down table and casting oily, yellowish light across the place. And there's the dully-glowing red of embers on the floor. Paper that has been set afire. Taran ducks, first, looking around...and down. "You called," he says quietly. "I've come."