“Dirk?” Talia opened her eyes very briefly, only to close them quickly, as if she found her vision wavering when she did so.

He needed no other clue than the dazed way she looked at him; he touched her cheek gently and went looking for Devan himself.

When he came back, he brought with him not only Devan but three other Healers as well. By then the little room was rather crowded; Kyril was back, and Elspeth with him. The Seneschal had returned and had brought the Lord Marshal. Candles had been brought, lighted and stuck on every available surface; the room was bright and a little warm and stuffy.

“I hate to ask this of you and of her, Devan,” Selenay said, looking guilty, “But we haven’t got the choice. Can you Healers hold her together long enough for her to tell us what we need to know?”

Dirk wanted to protest—then his rebellion subsided. He knew what he’d be doing in Talia’s place; using his last breath to gasp out every bit of information he could. Why should she be any different?

“Majesty,” Devan bowed his head in resignation. “I will say that I do not approve, and we will not let her kill herself with exhaustion.”

“But you’ll do it?”

“Like Talia, we have no choice.” The Healers surrounded her, touched her lightly, and went into their Healing trances. She sighed; her pain-twisted expression eased and she opened her eyes, which were alert and clear again.

“Ask—quickly.”

“Ancar—what can we expect from him?” the Lord Marshal spoke first. “How large is this private army? What kind of men does he have in it?”

“Prison scum; about three thousand. No mercenaries I heard of. But they’re trained, well trained.”

“What about the standing army? Will he use them?”

“I don’t think yet. He murdered Alessandar; don’t think he controls officers in the regular army yet. Have to put down rebels in the corps before he can use them. Needs to replace all officers with his own puppets.”

“Do you think—can we expect defections?”

“I think so. Whole Border Guard may come over when they learn what happened. Welcome them, but Truth Spell them.”

“Where was his own army last?”

“Just outside the capital.”

“Does he know you know about his three thousand?”

“No.” Her eyes were almost unnaturally bright. “He didn’t ask any questions of me, ever.”

“The more fool, he. A bit overconfident, wouldn’t you say, Alberich? So,” the Lord Marshal mused, stroking his beard, his black brows knitted in thought. “Twelve to fourteen days of forced marching would get them here. Much cavalry?”

“I don’t think so; these were prison scum before he recruited them. But they’re trained to work together, been training for at least three years. He also has magicians. Old magic, real magic, like in tales. If he thinks he’ll come up against Heralds, he’ll use them.”

“How good are they?” asked Kyril.