Tanequil (22 page)

She had made herself sick, and although it made her weep inside to acknowledge it, she did not think she would ever be well again.

 
E
IGHTEEN
 

“Captain, he's calling for you.”

Pied Sanderling, Captain of the Elven Home Guard, looked up from the maps he had been studying since rising early that morning and stared at the tent flap wordlessly. He had been expecting it, but he had hoped that somehow it might be avoided. He couldn't understand how the King could be so mistaken about something so obvious. But the King saw things differently, and perhaps that was why he was King, although Pied was inclined to think that being King was mostly an accident of birth.

Not that he had any room to talk. He was the King's first cousin, and that had played a significant part in his ascension through the ranks of the Home Guard and eventual selection as Captain. There had been Sanderlings standing with the Elessedil Kings for as long as anyone could remember. A Sanderling had stood beside Wren Elessedil when she had fought at the Valley of Rhenn and driven the Federation and its allies back into the deep Southland more than 150 years ago.

“Pied, are you there?” Drumundoon pressed anxiously.

Sanderling could picture his aide's young, anxious face with its fringe of black beard, high forehead, swept-back hair, and deeply slanted Elven features. Drum was already anticipating the worst, imagining how it would be if it were left to him to face the King alone, unable to explain what had become of his trusted cousin. But that was Drumundoon, always seeing the goblet as being half empty, always missing the silver lining behind any dark cloud. If he wasn't so good at organizing and managing, wasn't so dependable, and wasn't so impossibly loyal . . .

But he was, of course.

“One minute,” he called to his aide, alleviating the other's fears.

He rose, stretched to relieve cramped muscles, and stared down at the maps one final time. The whole of the Prekkendorran lay revealed in cartographic rendering, the positions of each army, Free-born and Federation, painstakingly delineated. It had taken someone a long time to do this, he thought. But it was a onetime job, since neither army had moved more than a few feet in over two years.

Until now, perhaps.

He reached for his weapons and began buckling them on. A brace of long knives went about his waist, and a short sword was strapped over one shoulder. He picked up his longbow as well, an unusual weapon for a member of the Home Guard. Their primary duty was to defend the King, which more often than not entailed hand-to-hand combat. But Pied favored the longbow, a weapon both versatile and reliable. Like most members of the Elven army, he had done a tour of duty on the Prekkendorran, serving as an archer in the ranks for six months, then as the leader of a long-range scouting unit that spent the bulk of its time deep in enemy territory. Both assignments required extensive reliance on the longbow, and he had never felt comfortable without it since. It was his work on the Prekkendorran that had gotten him noticed and appointed to the Home Guard on his return. The longbow was his good-luck charm.

Besides, he was short and slight of build, and hand-to-hand combat with broadswords was never going to favor him. Skill and quickness were what he relied on, and the longbow was a weapon that utilized both.

He glanced around his quarters to see if anything else needed doing, decided it didn't, that he had stalled as long as he was able—though not nearly long enough to suit him—threw on his cloak, and went out through the tent flap.

Drumundoon came to attention, a habit he couldn't seem to break, even when only the two of them were present. Tall and lanky, he towered over the shorter Sanderling. “Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning, Drum.” Pied led the way as they moved down through the Elven camp toward the King's tent. He brushed back his mop of sandy hair and squinted up at the cloudless sky. “So he's made up his mind.” He shook his head. “I wish he'dwait.”

“You don't know what he's decided,” Drumundoon ventured hopefully. “He might have decided not to try it.”

“No.” Pied shook his head. “He had his mind made up last night when I left him, and he's not changed it. I know him. He goes with his first impression of a plan, and he liked this one right from the start. It doesn't matter what the risks are. It doesn't matter that the source is suspect. All that matters is that it's bold and it favors his nature. Like his father, all he lives for is to break the stalemate and drive the Federation down off the heights and south again. He's obsessed with it.” He shook his head again. “I can't reason with him.”

“You have to try.”

“Of course, I have to try. I am being summoned to try. He likes it when he can win these arguments. He forgets that he wins them solely because he is King. But that is the way things are, and I can't change them.”

They walked in silence, wending their way through the Home Guard units encamped about the King's pavilion tent, where brightly colored banners flew bravely in the midday breeze, marking the territories they had occupied for months or, in some cases, for years. Elven Hunters came and went with the beginnings and endings of their tours of duty, but the camps remained, like markers in a landscape that had been trampled and pummeled and fought over for so long that nothing recognizable was left. The desolation depressed Pied, the barren earth and broken rock, the colors all brown and gray. He missed the green of his Westland home. He missed the lushness of the trees, the cool breeze off the Rill Song, and the sound of birds singing. He wanted it all back again. Wanted it now. But he would have to wait. Even though he had been there almost two months, he knew it would be another two at least before the King lost interest and went home again.

Still, he knew the situation—had known it from the moment he had accepted his appointment. A Captain of the Home Guard was the King's right hand, and where the King went, he went, too. This King was not a stay-at-home King. This King was restless.

“You sent Acrolace and Parn to see what they could discover?” he asked finally.

Drumundoon nodded. “Last night. They haven't returned. Can you stall until they do?”

“Probably not.” He hunched his shoulders defensively. “I wish this wasn't being rushed so. I would feel better about things if a little more thought were being given to the probable consequences of guessing wrong. It bothers me that we are so eager to charge into things.”

“The King,” Drumundoon pointed out.

“The King, indeed. What sort of advice is he getting? If someone besides me would speak up, we might be able to bring him to his senses.”

“There is no one but you.” His aide smiled cheerfully. “His advisers, Ministers and otherwise, are all back in Arborlon, safely out of harm's way. You know that. They want no part of this foolishness. Half of them want no part of this war at all. This was always an Elessedil war more than it was an Elven war. First, it was the King's father, after his grandfather's death, and now it is the King. All of them have viewed it in the same way—a chance to expand Elven influence into other territories, to reassert Elven control over the rest of the Four Lands, to place the Elven people at the forefront of development and expansion.”

Pied Sanderling grunted. “We have Druids for that. Let them be the ones to spread their influence.”

“Cheek by jowl with the Federation. They have no time for the Free-born. Not since the disappearance of the Ard Rhys. Not that it would make any difference while Kellen Elessedil is King, in any case. He hates the Ard Rhys and her Druids. He blames them as his father blamed them for all the bad things that have happened to the Elves. There's no reasoning with him on the subject. He sees our future as leader of the Free-born, and that's the end of it.”

Pied glanced over at him. “You never cease to amaze me. Your political sense is as astute as . . .” He paused.

“As your own, Captain,” the other interjected quickly. “Don't pretend otherwise.”

Well, whatever political sense we possess, it isn't going to get us out of our current predicament,
Pied thought.
We could analyze the situation all we want and still be helpless to do anything about it.

Ahead, the King's tent rose above those of his retinue. Kellen Elessedil never traveled lightly, always with baggage consisting of a great deal more than the clothes he wore. On this occasion, he had brought his sons along as well, something Sanderling regarded as particularly dangerous. The King wanted them to learn early about the realities of his office—as he saw it. That meant coming to the Prekkendorran to witness firsthand what war with the Federation was like—if you could call this impossible stalemate a war. At fifteen and thirteen, they were old enough to understand, the King had insisted, in spite of his wife's and Pied's pleas to the contrary. That he hadn't insisted Arling and the little girls come as well was the only true surprise of the whole business.

Sometimes, in his darker moments, Pied thought that the Elves had the wrong Elessedil as King. One of the others might have done a better job—say, the King's younger sister, Khyber. Headstrong and independent, she was forever sneaking around behind the King's back to visit her exiled uncle, which was a constant source of trouble. But she was true to her beliefs, chief of which was that Ahren Elessedil was the best of the lot and should never have been blamed for any of what had happened after the
Jerle Shannara
had returned.

Kellen thought otherwise, of course, as had his father. There was no reasoning with either one. There was no forgiveness in their hearts for perceived treachery, however misconstrued the judgment rendered.

“What can I say to him, Drum?” he asked quietly, their destination right in front of them now.

Drumundoon shook his head helplessly. He had no answer to that question. Pied marshaled his courage and resolve for what lay ahead, saluted the Home Guard on duty at the tent entry, nodded for Drum to wait, and entered.

Kellen Elessedil looked up from his own set of maps as his Captain of the Home Guard appeared through the tent opening, his young face eager and intense. Pied knew that look. It meant the King had decided on something and was impatient to act on it. It didn't take much thinking to know what would happen next.

“Good, you're here.” The King's impatience was revealed in his tone of voice. “The reports from the scouts are all in. Guess what they tell me, cousin?”

“That you should attack.”

The King smiled. “The Rover mercenaries have all pulled out, the whole bunch of them. Boarded their airships and flown off. They're on their way home, back to the coast, off the Prekkendorran. We've confirmed it. This isn't a stunt. Either they've quit or they've been dismissed, but either way, they're gone. The best pilots, the best craft, the best of everything, gone. The Federation is on its own.”

Pied nodded. “Any idea as to why this happened? Have we heard of a rift between the Federation and the Rovers? Anything out of the ordinary, I mean. Now and then, some of them quit anyway. But not all of them at once. Why now?”

“You're suspicious?”

“Aren't you?”

The King laughed. “No, cousin. You're suspicious enough for both of us. You always have been. It's worrisome.”

Kellen Elessedil was not one to sit when he could move, rest when he could work. He was a big man, taller than Pied and broader through the shoulders. There was nothing soft about him, his muscular body hardened by hours of exercise and training, his devotion to physical perfection legendary. He was so different from his grandfather and father in this respect that it was hard to believe they had come out of the same family. When they were children playing together at Arborlon, Kellen had always been better at every sport, every game. The only way to beat him, Pied had discovered early on, was to out-think him.

Nothing had changed.

“Part of my role as your protector is to suspect everything and everyone of being something other than what appearances suggest. So, yes, I am suspicious of this Rover withdrawal. I am suspicious of the Federation leaving itself so obviously vulnerable, of inviting us into its lair like the spider does the fly.”

“They still have their armies, and their armies are formidable,” the King pointed out quickly. He pushed back his long dark hair and knotted his hands. “They may think these are enough to keep us at bay. They know we would never launch a frontal attack against their lines, because if we did, they would smash us to pieces.” He paused. “Which is why an aerial attack is so perfect. Look at the opportunity they've given us! Their fleet is big, but unwieldy. Their airship Captains are no match for ours. One quick strike and we can set fire to them all. Think of what that would mean!”

Pied shook his head. “I know what it would mean.”

“Complete and unchallenged superiority of the skies,” the King continued, so caught up in his vision that he was no longer even listening to his cousin. “Control of everything that flies. Once we have that, their ground forces no longer matter. We can ravage them at will, from too far up for them to do any real damage, from too far away for them to do anything but cover up. We can break them, Pied! I know we can!”

His face was flushed with excitement, his blue eyes bright and eager. Pied had seen him that way before. When they trained together with staffs and swords in hand-to-hand combat, it was the look he assumed when he believed he had gained the upper hand. What he had never learned was to distinguish the difference between when Pied really was in trouble and when he was only pretending at it in order to lure Kellen into making a mistake.

Nothing had changed about that, either.

Pied nodded agreeably, hiding his frustration. “You may be right. But just to be certain about all of this, I have sent two of my Home Guards into the Federation camp to see what they can learn. I would like to wait for their return before we act.”