“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.