“. . . just like with a Farspeaker.” Ylsa’s words were clear in her memory. “They almost always begin by hearing first, not speaking. You’re feeling right now—but I suspect that one day you’ll learn how to project your own feelings in such a way that others can read them, can share them. That could be a very useful trick-especially if you ever need to convince someone of your sincerity!”

Yes, she’d done that without really thinking about it already. There was the forced rapport, and the kind of rapport she’d shared with Kris and Rolan. And the simpler tasks of projecting confidence, reassurance—this was just one step farther along—

She reached for the strength and the will to show him, only to discover that she was too drained, too exhausted. There was nothing left.

She nearly sobbed with vexation. Then Rolan made his presence felt, filling her with his love—and more—

Rolan—his strength was there, as always, and offered to her with open-hearted generosity.

And she had the knowledge of what to do and how to do it.

“Wait!” she coughed, and as Dirk half-turned, she projected everything she felt into his open mind and heart. All her love, her need for him—forcing him to see the truth that words alone would never make him believe.

Devan heard a strange, strangled cry that sounded as if it were something torn from a masculine throat. He whirled and started for Talia’s room, fearing the worst.

He paused for a moment at the door, steeled himself against what he was likely to see, and opened it slowly, words of comfort on his tongue.

To his total amazement, not only was Talia still living-but she was actually clear-eyed and smiling, and trembling on the knife-edge between laughter and tears. And Dirk was sitting on the side of her bed, trying his best to find some way of holding her without hurting her, covering every uninjured inch of her that he could reach with kisses and tears.

Half stunned, Devan slipped out before either of them noticed him, and signaled a page passing in the hall. He absently noted that it was one whose face he had seen often in this corridor, though he couldn’t imagine why the child should have spent so much time here. When the boy saw who it was that had summoned him and what door he had come out of, he paled.

Incredible, Devan thought wryly. Is there anyone who isn’t worried to death about her?

“I need a messenger sent to the Queen, preferably a Herald-courier, since a Herald is the only one likely to be able to find her without looking for hours, and this is fairly urgent,” he said.

The page’s mouth trembled. “The Lady-Herald, sir,” he said in an unsteady treble. “ls she—dead?”