when he had judged them ill prepared and poorly motivated. He had to hope that things had changed, that their defeat on the Prekkendorran, rather than disheartening them, had given them fresh courage.
But it was only in the heat of battle that he would discover which way the tide was running. By then, the die would be cast.
ben Dunsidan stalked the perimeter of the cordoned–off shipyard where Federation workers were crawling all over theDechtera in an effort to get her back in the skies. She had suffered damage to her steering mechanisms and several of her parse tubes, and he did not want to risk taking her up again until he was certain she was not in danger of going down behind Free–born lines, where his enemies could get their hands on his precious weapon. Nor did he want to risk the possibility of further damage if there was a way to protect against it. So he was impatiently biding his time while the airship engineers worked on repairs and improvements, all of them aware of what would happen if they failed in their efforts.
Sometimes he wished he were sufficiently skilled and knowledgeable to solve all of his problems himself, knowing that the job would get done quickly and efficiently. He hated relying on others, hated waiting to discover if they would succeed or fail, and hated the fact that members of the Coalition Council and the public alike would attribute their failures to him and their successes to anyone but.
Still, what was the point of being Prime Minister if you couldn't delegate and command the services of those you led?
He stopped his pacing and stared north. He could take considerable pleasure in what his leadership had accomplished so far. The trap he had set to snare the Elven warships had been more successful than even he had believed possible. In a single night, he had destroyed the bulk of the enemy fleet and killed the King and his sons in the process. The latter was an incredible stroke of good fortune, for it left the Elves not only without a fleet but without their titular leader and his chosen successors, as well. He couldn't imagine what had possessed Kellen Elessedil to do something so foolhardy, but he was grateful for the unexpected gift. Like his father before him, Kellen was given to rash acts. That his last had come when it could be capitalized on so completely was a sign to Sen Dunsidan that his fortunes were about to turn.
But not if he failed to finish the job. Not if he failed to destroy what remained of the Elven army so that he could surround and annihilate its allies. Not if he failed to get theDechtera back into the skies.
He caught sight of Etan Orek scurrying across the platform that housed the weapon he had invented, checking fittings and surfaces, making certain that everything was sound. He had brought the little engineer out to the battlefield with him when he flew theDechtera from the shipyards in Arishaig, deciding that he should be close by in case anything went wrong with the weapon once it was put into use.
A needless concern, as it turned out, but how was he to know? The prototype had performed as expected —better than expected, really, given the destruction it had wreaked on the Elves. It was the Dechtera that had fallen short of her goal. Still, a delay was not so costly at this point. The Federation army had penetrated the Free– born lines, taking command of the west plateau and sweeping all the way north into the hills in which the remnants of the Elven Hunters hid. The Free–born allies still held the east plateau, but they were surrounded on three sides. More to the point, they were confused and hesitant to counterattack. Having witnessed the destruction of the Elven fleet, they were terrified for the safety of their own. Aswell they should be, he thought. Because once theDechtera was airborne again, it would be a simple matter to burn the allied vessels to cinders while they sat on the ground and cut apart the Free–born defensive lines to allow the Federation army passage through.
He was impatient for that. He wanted it to be over and done with. He wanted his victory in hand.
Beware, Sen Dunsidan,he cautioned himself as the adrenaline sent a fresh surge of heady, euphoric anticipation rushing through him.Don't overstep. Don't overreact. Don't rush to your own doom.
He had been a politician too long to indulge in rash behavior. Mistakes of that sort were for less experienced men and women, for the likes of those whose life spans he had cut short on more occasions than he cared to remember. Being a survivor meant being wary of premature celebration and incautious optimism. Being a survivor meant never taking anything for granted, never accepting anything at face value.
«Are your thoughts deep ones, Prime Minister?»
He whirled at the sound of Iridia Eleri's voice, surprised to find her standing right next to him. It frightened him that she could get so close without him hearing her approach. It angered him that she had been doing so repeatedly since he had agreed to accept her offer to act as his private adviser, as if their arrangement invited such intrusion. Worst of all, it reminded him of the way the Use Witch used to materialize in his bedchamber, a memory he would just as soon forget.
«My thoughts are my own, Iridia,' he replied. «They are neither deep nor shallow, only practical. Have you something to offer, or are you just looking for new ways to stop my heart?»
If she was offended by his irritation, she kept it to herself. «I have something to offer, if you seek a way to end this war much more quickly than it will be ended otherwise.»
He stared at her, transfixed by more than the possibility her words suggested. She was so pale in the moonlight that she seemed almost transparent, the cast of her skin as white as death, the darkness of her eyes in such sharp contrast they seemed opaque. She was dressed in a black robe, her slender body completely shrouded and her head hooded. Her face, peering from the hood's shadows, and her hands, clutching loosely at the robe's edges, gave disconcerting evidence that he was in the presence of a ghost.
It was not the first time he had experienced that feeling. There had been a look to Iridia of late that was so chillingly otherworldly, he had trouble at times believing she wasn't something less than human.
He pursed his lips at her. «I will end it quickly enough on my own, once theDechtera is airborne again. My weapon will burn what remains of the Free–born fleet to cinders. I already hunt the remnants of the Elven army and will find them within the week, as well. Aren't you better off worrying about Shadea and her Druids than matters of war? Isn't that the task which you were assigned?»
It was a stinging rebuke, delivered as much out of distaste for her unwanted intervention as dismay over her lack of sophistication in battle tactics. But she seemed unmoved by his words, her expression empty of feeling.
«My task is to save you from yourself, Prime Minister. The Free–born have lost their ships on the Prekkendorran, but they can obtain others. Their army might be scattered and in momentary disarray, but it will regroup. You will not win this war through a single victory. You should know as much without my having to tell you.»
Her words were so dismissive that he flushed in spite of himself. She was talking to him as if he were a child.
«This war has lasted fifty years,' she continued, seemingly oblivious to his reaction. «It will not be ended on the Prekkendorran. It will not be won on any Southland battlefield. It will be won in the West–land. It will be won when you break the spirit of the Elves, because it is the Elves who are the backbone of the Free–born struggle. Break their spirit, and those who fight with them will be quick to seek peace.»
He frowned. «I would have thought that the loss of their fleet and their King had accomplished that.
Obviously, you don't agree. Have you something else in mind, a more persuasive way to bring them into line?»
«Much more persuasive.»
He felt his patience ebb as he waited in vain for her to continue. «Am I expected to guess at what it is, or will you save me the trouble and simply tell me?»
She looked away from him, out over the shipyard to where theDechtera sat dark and menacing in the moonlight, to where the shipyard workers continued to repair her. She was looking in that direction, but he had the feeling that she was looking at something else altogether, something hidden from him. He was struck again by the distant feel of her, the sense that she was not entirely where she appeared to be.
«You are not averse to killing, are you, Prime Minister?» she asked suddenly.
It was the way she asked the question that made him think she intended to trap him with his own words. He had developed a sixth sense about the use of such tactics over his years, and it had saved him from disaster more than once.
«Are you afraid to answer me?» she pressed.
«You know I am not afraid of killing.»
«I know you believe that the ends justify the means. I know you believe that accomplishing your goals entitles you to take whatever steps are required. I know that you are the architect of the deaths of your
