“Magicians. He has magicians. Old magic. Kept me from Mindcatting—kept Heralds from knowing Kris was dead; don’t know what else they can do. Just know they can block us. And Orthallen—kept him well informed.”

“Orthallen?” Selenay lost some of her anger; now she looked bewildered. “Orthallen—Lady help me, I still can’t believe it of him—Goddess—he was Kris’ uncle!”

“He was unpleased that you had sent the lad, Selenay,” Alberich reminded her. “I think that we know the reason, now. And his grief at hearing—that was unfeigned.”

“But over—perhaps a bit too soon,” the Queen replied, biting her lip. “Though he had never been one for making much of a show of feelings.”

“He killed your father,” Talia whispered, her eyes closed again, exhausted with the effort of speaking for so long. “During the battle—sent an assassin in the confusion.”

“He—” Selenay went white. “I never guessed—I trusted him!”

Silence then; the silence before the tempest.

“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?”