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crossed the wall walk to stand beside Dilaf. Since the wall had not been constructed for military purposes, there were no battlements, but both sides had raised parapets for safety. Hrathen rested against one of these, looking out to study Elantris. There wasn't much to see; he'd been in slums more promising than Elantris. The buildings were so decayed that it was a miracle any of them still had roofs, and the stench was revolting. At first he doubted anything could possibly be alive inside the city, but then he saw some forms running furtively along the side of a building. They were crouched with their hands outstretched, as if prepared to fall on all fours. One paused, looking up, and Hrathen saw his first Elantrian. It was bald, and at first Hrathen thought its skin was dark, like that of a member of the Jindo noble caste. However, he could see splotches of light gray on the creature's skin as well-great uneven pale masses, like lichen on a stone. He squinted, leaning forward against the parapet. He couldn't make out the Elantrian's eyes, but somehow Hrathen knew they would be wild and feral, darting around like those of an anxious animal. The creature took off with its companions-its pack. So this is what the Reod did, Hrathen mused to himself. It made beasts out of gods. Jaddeth had simply taken what was in their hearts and showed it for the world to see. According to Derethi philosophy, the only thing that separated men from the animals was religion. Men could serve Jaddeth's empire: beasts could serve only their lusts. The Elantrians represented the ultimate flaw of human arrogance: they had set themselves up as gods. Their hubris had earned their fate. In another situation, Hrathen would have been content in leaving them to their punishment. However, he happened to need them. Hrathen turned to Dilaf. “The first step in taking control of a nation, Arteth, is the simplest. You find someone to hate. “Tell me of them, Arteth,” Hrathen requested, entering his room inside the chapel. “I want to know everything you know.” “They are foul, loathsome creatures,” Dilaf hissed, entering behind Hrathen. “Thinking of them makes my heart grow sick and my mind feel tainted. I pray every day for their destruction.” Hrathen closed the door to his chambers, dissatisfied. It was possible for a man to be too passionate. “Arteth, I understand you have strong feelings,” Hrathen said sternly, “but if you are to be my odiv you will need to see through your prejudices. Jaddeth has placed these Elantrians before us with a purpose in mind, and I cannot discover that purpose if you refuse to tell me anything useful.” Dilaf blinked, taken aback. Then, for the first time since their visit to Elantris, a level of sanity returned to his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace.” Hrathen nodded. “Did you see Elantris before its fall?” “Yes.” “Was it as beautiful as people say?” Dilaf nodded sullenly. “Pristine, kept white by the hands of slaves.” “Slaves?” “All of Arelon's people
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were slaves to the Elantrians, Your Grace. They were false gods, giving promises of salvation in exchange for sweat and labor.” “And their legendary powers?” “Lies, like their supposed divinity. A carefully crafted hoax to earn them respect and fear.” “Following the Reod, there was chaos, correct?” “Chaos, killing, riots, and panic, Your Grace. Then the merchants seized power.” “And the Elantrians?” Hrathen asked, walking over to take a seat at his desk. “There were few left,” Dilaf said. “Most had been killed in the riots. Those remaining were confined to Elantris, as were all men that the Shaod took from that day forward. They looked much as you just saw them, wretched and subhuman. Their skin was patched with black scars, like someone had pulled away the flesh and revealed the darkness underneath.” “And the transformations? Did they abate at all after the Reod?” Hrathen asked. “They continue, Your Grace. They happen all across Arelon.” “Why do you hate them so, Arteth?” The question came suddenly, and Dilaf paused. “Because they are unholy.” “And?” “They lied to us, Your Grace. They made promises of eternity, but they couldn't even maintain their own divinity. We listened to them for centuries, and were rewarded with a group of impotent, vile cripples.” “You hate them because they disappointed you,” Hrathen said. “Not me, my people. I was a follower of Derethi years before the Reod.” Hrathen frowned. “Then you are convinced that there is nothing supernatural about the Elantrians other than the fact that Jaddeth has cursed them?” “Yes, Your Grace. As I said, the Elantrians created many falsehoods to rein- force their divinity.” Hrathen shook his head, then stood and began to remove his armor. Dilaf moved to help, but Hrathen waved the Arteth away. “How, then, do you explain the sudden transformation of ordinary people into Elantrians, Arteth?” Dilaf didn't have a response. “Hate has weakened your ability to see, Arteth,” Hrathen said, hanging his breastplate on the wall beside his desk and smiling. He had just experienced a flash of brilliance: a portion of his plan suddenly fit into place. “You assume because Jaddeth did not give them powers, they did not have any.” Dilaf's face grew pale. “What you s1ay is-” “Not blasphemy, Arteth. Doctrine. There is another supernatural force besides our God.” “The Svrakiss,” Dilaf said quietly. “Yes.” Svrakiss. The souls of the dead men who hated Jaddeth, the opponents to all that was holy. According to Shu-Dereth, there was nothing more bitter than a soul who had had its chance and thrown it away. “You think the Elantrians are Svrakiss?” Dilaf asked. “It is accepted doctrine that the Svrakiss can control the bodies of the evil,” Hrathen said, unbuckling his greaves. “Is it so hard to believe that all this time they have been controlling bodies of the Elantrians, making them appear as gods to fool the simpleminded and unspiritual? There was a light in Dilaf's eyes: the concept was not new to the Arteth. Hrathen realized. Suddenly his flash of inspiration didn't seem quite so brilliant. Dilaf
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regarded Hrathen for a moment, then spoke. “You don't really believe it, do you?” he asked, his voice uncomfortably accusatory for one speaking to his hroden. Hrathen was careful not to let discomfort show. “It doesn't matter, Arteth. The connection is logical; people will follow it. Right now all they see are the abject remnants of what were once aristocrats-men do not loathe such, they pity them. Demons, however, are something everyone can hate. If we denounce the Elantrians as devils, then we will have success. You already hate the Elantrians: that is fine. To make others join you, however, you'll have to give them more of a reason than 'they disappointed us.'“ “Yes, Your Grace.” “We are religious men, Arteth, and we must have religious enemies. The Elantrians are our Svrakiss, no matter if they possess the souls of evil men long dead or evil men now living.” “Of course, Your Holiness. We will destroy them then?” There was eagerness in Dilaf's face. “Eventually. Right now, we will use them. You will find that hate can unify people more quickly and more fervently than devotion ever could.” CHAPTER 7 RAODEN stabbed the air with his finger. The air bled light. His fingertip left a glowing white trail behind it as he moved his arm, as if he were writing with paint on a wall-except without the paint, and without the wall. He moved cautiously, careful not to let his finger waver. He drew a line about a handspan long from left to right, then pulled his finger down at a slight slant, drawing a curved line downward at the corner. Next he lifted his finger from the unseen canvas and replaced it to draw a dot in the center. Those three marks-two lines and a dot-were the starting point of every Aon. He continued, drawing the same three-line pattern at different angles, then added several diagonal lines. The finished drawing looked something like an hourglass, or perhaps two boxes placed on top of each other, pulling in just slightly near the middles. This was Aon Ashe, the ancient s1ymbol for light. The character brightened momentarily, seeming to pulse with life; then it flashed weakly like a man heaving his last breath. The Aon disappeared, its light fading from brightness, to dimness, to nothing. “You're much better at that than I am, sule,” Galladon said. “I usually make one line a little too big, or slant it a bit too much, and the whole thing fades away before I'm done.” “It's not supposed to be like this,” Raoden complained. It had been a day since Galladon had shown him how to draw Aons, and he had spent nearly every moment since then practicing. Every Aon he had finished properly had acted the same way, disappearing without producing any visible effect. His first acquaintance with the legendary magic of the Elantrians had been decidedly anticlimactic. The most surprising thing was how easy it was. In ignorance he had assumed that AonDor, the magic of the Aons, would require some sort of incantation or
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ritual. A decade without AonDor had spawned hordes of rumors; some people, mostly Derethi priests, claimed the magic had been a hoax, while others, also mostly Derethi priests, had denounced the art as blasphemous rites involving the power of evil. The truth was that no one, not even the Derethi priests, knew just what AonDor had been. Every one of its practitioners had fallen to the Reod. Yet Galladon claimed AonDor required nothing more than a steady hand and an intimate knowledge of the Aons. Since only Elantrians could draw the characters in light, only they could practice AonDor, and no one outside Elantris had been allowed to know just how simple it was. No incantations, no sacrifices, no special potions or ingredients; anyone who was taken by the Shaod could perform AonDor, assuming, of course, they knew the characters. Except, it didn't work. The Aons were supposed to do something-at least, something more than flash weakly and disappear. Raoden could remember images of Elantris as a chiId-visions of men flying through the air, incredible feats of power, and merciful healings. He had broken his leg once, and although his father had objected, his mother had taken him to Elantris for healing. A bright-haired figure had reknit Raoden's bones with barely a wave of her hand. She had drawn an Aon, just as he was doing, but the rune had released a powerful burst of arcane magic. “They're supposed to do something,” Raoden said again, this time out loud. “They did once, sule, but not since the Reod. Whatever took the life from Elantris also stole AonDor's power. Now all we can do is paint pretty characters in the air.” Raoden nodded, drawing his own Aon, Aon Rao. Four circles with one large square in the center, all five connected by lines. The Aon reacted as all of the others had, building as if for some release of power, then dying with a whimper. “Disappointing. Kolo?” “Very,” Raoden admitted, pulling over a chair and sitting down. They were still in Galladon's small underground study. “I'll be honest with you, Galladon. When I saw that first Aon hovering in the air in front of you, I forgot about everything-the filth, the depression, even my toe.” 1Galladon smiled. “If AonDor worked, the Elantrians would still rule in Arelon-Reod or no Reod.” “I know. I just wonder what happened. What changed?” “The world wonders with you, sule,” Galladon said with a shrug. “They must be related,” Raoden mused. “The change in Elantris, the way the Shaod started making people demons rather than gods, the ineffectiveness of AonDor. . ..” “You aren't the first person to notice that. Not by far. However, no one is likely to find the answer-the powerful in Arelon are much too comfortable with Elantris the way it is.” “Trust me, I know,” Raoden said. “If the secret is to be found, it will have to come from us.” Raoden looked over the small laboratory. Remarkably clean and free from the grime that coated the rest of Elantris, the room had an
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almost homey feeling-like the den or study in a large mansion. “Maybe the answer is in here, Galladon,” Raoden said. “In those books, somewhere.” “Perhaps,” Galladon said noncommittally. “Why were you so reluctant to bring me here?” “Because it's special, sule-surely you can see that? Let the secret out, and I won't be able to leave for fear it will be pillaged while I am gone.” Raoden stood, nodding as he walked around the room. “Then why bring me?” Galladon shrugged, as if not completely sure himself. Eventually he answered. “You aren't the first to think the answer might be in those books. Two men can read more quickly than one.” “Twice as quickly, I'd guess.” Raoden agreed with a smile. “Why do you keep it so dark in here?” “We are in Elantris, sule. We can't just go to the lamplighter's store every time we run out of oil.” “I know, but surely there's enough. Elantris must have had stores of oil before the Reod.” “Ah, sule,” Galladon said with a shake of his head. “You still don't understand, do you? This is Elantris, city of the gods. What need have gods of such mundane things as lamps and oil? Look at the wall beside you.” Raoden turned. There was a metal plate hanging on the wall beside him. Though it was tarnished with time, Raoden could still make out the shape etched into its surface-Aon Ashe, the character he had drawn just a few moments ago. “Those plates used to glow more brightly and steadily than any lamp, sule,” Galladon explained. “The Elantrians could shut them off with a bare brush of their fingers. Elantris didn't need oil-it had a far more reliable source of light. For the same reason, you won't find coal-or even furnaces-in Elantris, nor are there many wells, for water flowed from pipes like rivers trapped within the walls. Without AonDor, this city is barely fit to be inhabited.” Raoden rubbed his finger against the plate, feeling 1the lines of Aon Ashe. Something catastrophic must have happened-an event lost in just ten brief years time. Something so terrible it caused the land to shatter and gods to stumble. However, without an understanding of how AonDor had worked, he couldn't even begin to imagine what had caused it to fail. He turned from the plate and considered the two squat bookcases. It was unlikely that any of the books contained direct explanations of AonDor. However, if they had been written by Elantrians, then maybe they would have references to the magic. References that could lead the careful reader to an understanding of how AonDor worked. Maybe. His thoughts were interrupted by a pain from his stomach. It wasn't like hunger he had experienced on the outside. His stomach didn't rumble. Yet, the pain was there-somehow even more demanding. He had gone three days now without food, and the hunger was beginning to grow insistent. He was only just beginning to see why it, and the other pains, were enough to reduce men to the beasts that had
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attacked him on his first day. “Come.” he said to Galladon. “There is something we need to do.” The square was much as it had been the day before: grime, moaning unfortunates, tall unforgiving gates. The sun was almost three-quarters finished with its trek through the sky. It was time for new inductees to be cast into Elantris. Raoden studied the square, watching from atop a building beside Galladon. As he looked, he realized that something was different. There was a small crowd gathered on top of the wall. “Who's that?” Raoden asked with interest, pointing to a tall figure standing high on the wall above Elantris's gates. The man's arms were outstretched, and his bloodred cloak was flapping in the wind. His words were hardly audible from such a distance, but it was obvious that he was yelling. Galladon grunted in surprise. “A Derethi gyorn. I didn't know there was one here in Arelon.” “A gyorn? As in high priest?” Raoden squinted, trying to make out the details of the figure far above them. “I'm surprised one would come this far east,” Galladon said. “They hated Arelon even before the Reod.” “Because of the Elantrians?” Galladon nodded. “Though not so much because of Elantrian worship, no matter what they claim. The Derethi have a particular loathing for your country because their armies never figured a way to get through those mountains to attack you.” “What do you suppose he's doing up there?” Raoden asked. “Preaching. What else would a priest do? He's probably decided to denounce Elantris as some sort of judgment from his god. I'm surprised it took them so long.” “People have been whispering it for years,” Raoden said. “but no one had the courage to actually teach such things. They're secretly afraid that the Elantrians are just testing them-that they will return to their former glory someday and punish all the unbelievers.” “Still?” Galladon asked. “I would have thought such beliefs would be gone after ten years.” Raoden shook his head. “Even yet there are many who pray for, or fear, the Elantrians' return. The city was strong, Galladon. You can't know how beautiful it once was.” “I know, stile,” Galladon said. “I didn't spend all of my life in Duladel.” The priest's voice rose to a crescendo, and he delivered one final wave of screams before spinning around and disappearing from view. Even from a distance, Raoden could hear the hate and anger in the gyorn's voice. Galladon was right: This man's words had been no blessing. Raoden shook his head, looking from the wall to the gates. “Galladon,” he asked, “what are the chances of someone being thrown in here today?” Galladon shrugged. “Hard to say, sule. Sometimes weeks go without a new Elantrian, but I have seen as many as five cast in at once. You came two days ago, that woman yesterday-who knows, maybe Elantris will have new flesh for the third day in a row. Kolo?” Raoden nodded, watching the gate expectantly. “Sule, what do you intend to do?” Galladon asked uncomfortably. “I
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intend to wait.” The newcomer was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, with a gaunt face and nervous eyes. As the gate slammed shut, Raoden climbed down from the rooftop, pausing just inside the courtyard. Galladon followed, a worried look on his face. He obviously thought Raoden might do something foolish. He was right. The unfortunate newcomer just stared morosely at the gate. Raoden waited for him to take a step, to make the unwitting decision that would determine who got the privilege of robbing him. The man stood where he was, watching the courtyard with nervous eyes, his thin frame pulled up inside his robes like he was trying to hide within them. After a few minutes of waiting, he finally took his first hesitant step-to the right, the same way Raoden had chosen. “Come on,” Raoden declared, striding out of the alleyway. Galladon groaned, mumbling something in Duladen. “Teoren?” Raoden called, choosing a common Aonic name. The spindly newcomer looked up with surprise, then glanced over his shoulder with confusion. “Teoren, it is you!” Raoden said, wrapping his hand around the man's shoulder. Then, in a lower voice, he continued. “Right now you have two choices, friend. Either you do what I tell you, or you let those men in the shadows over there chase you down and beat you senseless.” The man turned around to search the shadows with apprehensive eyes. Fortunately, at that moment, Shaor's men decided to move, their shadowed forms emerging into the light, their carnal eyes staring at the new man with hunger. It was all the encouragement the newcomer needed. “What do I do?” the man asked with a quavering voice. “Run!” Raoden ordered, then took off toward one of the alleys at a dash. The man didn't need to be told twice: he bolted so quickly that Raoden was afraid he would go careering down a side alley and get lost. There was a muffled yell of surprise from behind as Galladon realized what Raoden was doing. The large Duladen man obviously wouldn't have any problems keeping up; even considering his time in Elantris, Galladon was in much better shape than Raoden. “What in the name of Doloken do you think you are doing, you idiot?” Galladon swore. “I'll tell you in a moment,” Raoden said, conserving strength as he ran. Again, he noticed that he didn't get out of breath, though his body did begin to grow tired. A dull feeling of fatigue began to grow within him, and of the three of them. Raoden was soon proven the slowest runner. However, he was the only one who knew where they were going. “Right!” he yelled to Galladon and the new man, then took off down a side alley. The two men followed, as did the group of thugs, who were gaining quickly. Fortunately, Raoden's destination wasn't far away. “Rulo.” Galladon cursed, realizing where they were going. It was one of the houses he had shown Raoden the day before, the one with the unstable staircase. Raoden sprinted through the
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door and up the stairs, nearly falling twice as steps gave out beneath him. Once on the roof, he used the last of his strength to push over a stack of bricks-the remnants of what had once been a planter-toppling the entire pile of crumbling clay into the stairwell just as Galladon and the newcomer reached the top. The weakened steps didn't even begin to hold the weight, collapsing to the ground with a furious crash. Galladon walked over and looked through the hole with a critical eye. Shaor's men gathered around the fallen steps below, their feral intensity dulled a bit by realization. Galladon raised an eyebrow. “Now what, genius?” Raoden walked over to the newcomer, who had collapsed after stumbling up the stairs. Raoden carefully removed each of the man's food offerings and, after tucking a certain one into his belt, he dumped the rest to the houndlike men waiting below. The sounds of battle came from below as they fought over the food. Raoden stepped back from the hole. “Let's just hope they realize that they're not going to get anything more out of us, and decide to leave.” “And if they don't?” Galladon asked pointedly. Raoden shrugged. “We can live forever without food or water, right?” “Yes, but I'd rather not spend the rest of eternity on the top of this building.” Then, shooting a look at the new man, Galladon pulled Raoden to the side and demanded in a low voice, “Sule, what was the point of that? You could have just thrown them the food back in the courtyard. In fact, why 'save' him? For all w1e know, Shaor's men might not have even hurt him.” “We don't know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life.” Galladon snorted. “So now you have another follower-at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris's criminal element.” “And this is only the beginning,” Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn't quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans. I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don't let the pain take control. “I'm a jeweler,” the man explained. “Mareshe is my name.” “A jeweler.” Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. “That won't be of much use. What else can you do?” Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had, just a few moments ago, been cowering in fear. “Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir.” “Not in Elantris,” Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn't, for he gave Raoden a withering look. Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. “What else can you do?” “Anything.” “That's quite broad, friend,” Raoden said.
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“Could you be a bit more specific?” Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. “I, am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything, for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist.” Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell. “How about shoes?” Raoden asked. “Shoes?” Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone. “Yes, shoes.” “I suppose I could,” Mareshe said, “though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan.” “And a full id-” Galladon began before Raoden hushed him. “Artisan Mareshe,” Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. “Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed.” “What kind of shoes?” Mareshe asked. “Leather ones,' Raoden said. “It won't be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don't have the luxury of trial and error-if the first pair of shoes do not fit, then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave.” “What do you mean, never leave?” Mareshe asked uncomfortably. “We are Elantrians now, Mareshe,” Raoden explained. “Our wounds no longer heal.” “No longer heal ... ?” “Would you care for an example, artisan?” Galladon asked helpfully. “I can arrange one quite easily. Kolo?” Mareshe's face turned pale, and he looked back at Raoden. “He doesn't seem to like me very much,” he said quietly. “Nonsense.” Raoden said, putting his arm around Mareshe's shoulder and turning him away from Galladon's grinning face. “That's how he shows affection.” “If you say so, Master .. .” Raoden paused. “Just call me Spirit,” he decided, using the translation of Aon Rao. “Master Spirit.” Then Mareshe's eyes narrowed. “You look familiar for some reason.” “You've never seen me before in your life. Now, about those shoes ...” “They have to fit perfectly, without a bit of scraping or rubbing?” Mareshe asked. “I know it sounds difficult. If it's beyond your ability . .” “Nothing is beyond my ability,” Mareshe said. “I'll do it, Master Spirit.” “Excellent.” “They're not leaving,” Galladon said from behind them. Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. “What does it matter? It's not like we have anything pressing to do. It's actually quite pleasant up here-you should just sit back and enjoy it.” An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head. “Fantastic,” Galladon grumbled. “I'm enjoying myself already.” CHAPTER 8 SARENE decided not to accept her uncle's offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information, and the Arelish nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date. So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon's throne room. “What in
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the name of Domi are you doing, girl!” the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side. Sarene looked up from her canvas with imitation surprise. “I'm painting, Father,” she said, help1fully holding up her brush-an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of defense's face. Iadon sighed. “I can see that you're painting. I meant why are you doing it here?” “Oh.” Sarene said innocently. “I'm painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so.” “You're painting my . . . ?” Iadon asked with a dumbfounded expression. “But . . .” Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers. “Oh for Domi's sake!” Iadon bellowed. “Paint if you must, girl. Just don't do it in the middle of my throne room!” Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint. Iadon groaned. “I meant ... Bah, Domi curse it! You're not worth the effort.” With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of' business-a squabble between two minor nobles over some possessions. Ashe hovered down next to Sarene's canvas, speaking to her softly. “I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady.” Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. “Iadon has a quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he's going to give me. He knows I'll just misunderstand him, and he'll just end up aggravated.” “I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place,” Ashe noted. “A good point,” Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. “Though, perhaps we aren't giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him, I'm an expended resource-he has his treaty. I'm just of no further concern.” “I'm not convinced, my lady,” Ashe noted. “He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long.” “Which is why he's probably going to lose his throne,” Sarene said. “I suspect that is why the gyorn is here.” “A good point, my lady.” Ashe noted in his deep voice. He floated in front of her painting for a moment, studying its irregular blotches and semistraight lines. “You're getting better, my lady.” “Don't patronize me.” “No, really, Your Highness. When you started painting five years ago, I could never tell what it was you were trying to depict.” “And this is a painting of . .” Ashe paused. “A bowl of fruit?” he asked hopefully. Sarene sighed in frustration. She was usually good at everything she tried, bu1t the secrets of painting completely eluded her. At first, she had been astounded at her lack of talent, and she had
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pressed on with a determination to prove herself. Artistic technique, however, had totally refused to bow beneath her royal will. She was a master of politics, an unquestionable leader, and could grasp even Jindoeese mathematics with ease. She was also a horrible painter. Not that she let it stop her-she was also undeniably stubborn. “One of these days, Ashe, something will click, and I'll figure out how to make the images in my head appear on canvas.” “Of course, my lady.” Sarene smiled. “Until then, let's just pretend I was trained by someone from some Svordish school of extreme abstractionism.” “Ah yes. The school of creative misdirection. Very good, my lady.” Two men entered the throne room to present their case to the king. There was little to distinguish them: both wore fashionable vests over colorful filled shirts and loose, wide-cuffed trousers. Much more interesting to Sarene was a third man, one who was brought into the room by a palace guard. He was a nondescript, light-haired man of Aonic blood dressed in a simple brown smock. It was obvious that he was horribly underfed, and there was a look of despairing hopelessness in his eyes that Sarene found haunting. The dispute regarded the peasant. Apparently, he had escaped from one of the noblemen about three years ago, but had been captured by the second. Instead of returning the man, the second noble had kept him and put him to work. The argument wasn't over the peasant himself, however, but his children. He had married about two years ago, and had fathered two children during his stay with the second noble. Both nobles claimed ownership of the babies. “I thought slavery was illegal in Arelon,” Sarene said quietly. “It is, my lady,” Ashe said with a confused voice. “I don't understand.” “They speak of figurative ownership, Cousin,” a voice said from in front of her. Sarene peeked around the side of her canvas with surprise. Lukel, Kiin's oldest son, stood smiling beside her easel. “Lukel! What are you doing here?” “I'm one of the most successful merchants in the city, Cousin,” he explained, walking around the canvas to regard the painting with a raised eyebrow. “I have an open invitation to the court. I'm surprised you didn't see me when you came in.” “You were there?” Lukel nodded. “I was near the back, reacquainting myself with some old contacts. I've been out of town for some time.” “Why didn't you say anything?” “I was too interested in what you were doing,” he said with a smile. “I don't think anyone has ever decided to requisition the middle of Iadon's throne room to use as an art studio.” Sarene felt herself blushing. “It worked, didn't it?” “Beautifully-which is more than I can say for the painting.” He paused for a moment. “It's a horse, right?” Sarene scowled. “A house?” he asked. “It is not a bowl of fruit either, my lord,” Ashe said. “I already tried that.” “Well, she said it was one of the paintings in this room,” Lukel said. “All we
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have to do is keep guessing until we find the right one.” “Brilliant deduction, Master Lukel,” Ashe said. “That's enough, you two,” Sarene growled. “It's the one across from us. The one I was facing while I painted.” “That one?” Lukel asked. “But that's a picture of flowers.” “And?” “What's that dark spot in the middle of your painting?” “Flowers.” Sarene said defensively. “Oh.” Lukel looked once more at Sarene's painting, then looked up at her model again. “Whatever you say, Cousin.” “Maybe you could explain Iadon's legal case before I turn violent, Cousin,” Sarene said with threatening sweetness. “Right. What do you want to know?” “Our studies tell us slavery is illegal in Arelon, but those men keep referring to the peasant as their possession.” Lukel frowned, turning eyes on the two contesting nobles. “Slavery is illegal, but it probably won't be for long. Ten years ago there weren't any nobles or peasants in Arelon-just Elantrians and everyone else. Over the past decade, commoners have changed from families that owned their own land, to peasants beneath feudal lords, to indentured servants, to something more resembling ancient FjordelI serfs. It won't be much longer before they're nothing more than property.” Sarene frowned. The mere fact that the king would hear a case such as this-that he would even consider taking a man's children away from him to save some nobleman's honor-was atrocious. Society was supposed to have progressed beyond that point. The peasant watched the proceedings with dull eyes, eyes that had systematically and deliberately had the light beaten out of them. “This is worse than I had feared.” Sarene said. Lukel nodded at her side. “The first thing Iadon did when he took the throne was eliminate individual landholding rights. Arelon had no army to speak of, but Iadon could afford to hire mercenaries, forcing the people into compliance. He declared that all land belonged to the Crown, and then he rewarded those merchants who had supported his ascension with titles and holdings. Only a few men, such as my father, had enough land and money that Iadon didn't dare try to take their property.” Sarene felt her disgust for her n1ew father rise. Once Arelon had boasted the happiest, most advanced society in the world. Iadon had crushed that society, transforming it into a system not even Fjordell used anymore. Sarene glanced at Iadon, then turned to Lukel. “Come,” she said, pulling her cousin to the side of the room, where they could speak a little more openly. They were close enough to keep an eye on Iadon, but far enough away from other groups of people that a quiet conversation wouldn't be overheard. “Ashe and I were discussing this earlier,” she said. “How did that man ever manage to get the throne?” Lukel shrugged. “Iadon is ... a complex man, Cousin. He's remarkably shortsighted in some areas, but he can be extremely crafty when dealing with people-that's part of what makes him a good merchant. He was head of the local merchants' guild before the Reod-which probably made him
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the most powerful man in the area who wasn't directly connected to the Elantrians. “The merchants' guild was an autonomous organization-and many of its members didn't get along too well with the Elantrians. You see, Elantris provided free food for everyone in the area, something that made for a happy populace, but was terrible for the merchants.” “Why didn't they just import other things?” Sarene asked. “Something besides food?” “The Elantrians could make almost anything, Cousin,” Lukel said. “And while they didn't give it all away for free, they could provide many materials at far cheaper prices than the merchants could-especially if you consider shipping costs. Eventually, the merchants' guild struck a deal with Elantris, getting the Elantrians to promise that they would only provide 'basic' items to the populace for free. That left the merchants' guild to import the more expensive luxury items, catering to the more wealthy crowd in the area-which, ironically, tended to be other members of the merchants' guild.” “And then the Reod struck,” Sarene said, beginning to understand. Lukel nodded. “Elantris fell, and the merchants' guild-of which Iadon was chairman-was the largest, most powerful organization in the four Outer Cities. Its members were wealthy, and they were intimately familiar with the other wealthy people in the area. The fact that the guild had a history of disagreement with Elantris only strengthened its reputation in the eyes of the people. Iadon was a natural fit for king. That doesn't mean that he's a particularly good monarch, though.” Sarene nodded. Sitting on his throne. Iadon finally made his decision regarding the case. He declared with a loud voice that the runaway peasant did indeed belong to the first noble, but his children would remain with the second. “For,” Iadon pointed out, “the children have been fed all this time by their current master.” The peasant didn't cry out at the decision, he simply looked down at his feet, and Sarene felt a stab of sorrow. When the man looked up, however, there was something in his eyes-something beneath the enforced subservience. Hate. There was still enough spirit left in him for that ever-powerful emotion. “This won't go on much longer,” she said quietly. “The people won't stand for it.” “The working class lived for centuries under the Fjordell feudal system,” Lukel pointed out. “And they were treated worse than farm animals.” “Yes, but they were raised to it,” Sarene said. “People in ancient Fjorden didn't know better-to them, the feudal system was the only system. These people are different. Ten years really isn't all that long-the Arelish peasantry can remember a time when the men they now call masters were simple shopkeepers and tradesmen. They know that there is a better life. More importantly, they know a government can collapse, making those who were once servants into masters. Iadon has put too much on them too quickly.” Lukel smiled. “You sound like Prince Raoden.” Sarene paused. “Did you know him well?” “He was my best friend.” Lukel said with a sorrowful nod. “The greatest man I have ever known.”
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“Tell me about him, Lukel,” she requested, her voice soft. Lukel thought for a moment, then spoke with a reminiscent voice. “Raoden made people happy. Your day could have been as sour as winter, and the prince and his optimism would arrive, and with a few gentle words he would make you realize just how silly you were being. He was brilliant as well; he knew every Aon, and could draw them with perfection, and he was always coming up with some weird new philosophy that no one but Father could understand. Even with my training at the university in Svorden, I still couldn't follow half of his theories.” “He sounds like he was flawless.” Lukel smiled. “In everything but cards. He always lost when we played tooledoo, even if he did talk me into paying for dinner afterward. He would have made a horrible merchant-he didn't really care about money. He would lose a game of tooledoo just because he knew I got a thrill from the victory. I never saw him sad, or angry-except when he was at one of the outer plantations, visiting the people. He did that often; then he would come back to the court and speak his thoughts on the matter quite directly.” “I'll bet the king didn't think much of that,” Sarene said with a slight smile. “He hated it,” Lukel said. “Iadon tried everything short of banishing Raoden to keep him quiet, but nothing worked. The prince would find a way to work his opinion into any and every royal ruling. He was the crown prince, and so court laws-written by Iadon himself-gave Raoden a chance to speak his mind in every matter brought before the king. And let me tell you, Princess, you don't know what a scolding is until you've had one from Raoden. The man could be so stern at times that even the stone walls would shrivel beneath his tongue.” Sarene sat back, enjoying the image of Iadon being denounced by his own son before the entire court. “I miss him,” Lukel said quietly. “This country needed Raoden. He was beginning to make some real differences; he had gathered quite a following amongst the nobles. Now the group is fragmenting without his leadership. Father and I are trying to hold them together, but I've been gone so long that I'm out of touch. And, of course, few of them trust Father.” “What? Why not?” “He has something of a reputation for being a scoundrel. Besides, he doesn't have a title. He's refused every one the king tried to give him.” Sarene's brow furled. “Wait a moment-I thought Uncle Kiin opposed the king. Why would Iadon try to give him a title?” Lukel smiled. “Iadon can't help it. The king's entire government is built on the idea that monetary success is justification for rule. Father is extremely successful, and the law says that money equals nobility. You see, the king was foolish enough to think that everyone rich would think the same way he does, and so he wouldn't have any
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opposition as long as he gave titles to everyone affluent. Father's refusal to accept a title is really a way of undermining Iadon's sovereignty, and the king knows it. As long as there's even one rich man who isn't technically a nobleman, the Arelish aristocratic system is flawed. Old Iadon nearly has a fit every time Father appears in court.” “He should come by more often then.” Sarene said wickedly. “Father finds plenty of opportunities to show his face. He and Raoden met nearly every afternoon here in the court to play a game of ShinDa. It was an unending source of discomfort to Iadon that they chose to do this in his own throne room, but again, his own laws proclaimed that the court was open to everyone his son invited, so he couldn't throw them out.” “It sounds like the prince had a talent for using the king's own laws against him.” “It was one of his more endearing traits,” Lukel said with a smile. “Somehow Raoden would twist every one of Iadon's new decrees until they turned around and slapped the king in the face. Iadon spent nearly every moment of the last five years trying to find a way to disinherit Raoden. It turns out Domi solved that problem for him in the end.” Either Domi, Sarene thought with growing suspicion, or one of Iadon's own assassins. . . . “Who inherits now?” she asked. “That's not exactly certain,” Lukel said. “Iadon probably plans to have another son-Eshen is young enough. One of the more powerful dukes would probably be next in line. Lord Telrii or Lord Roial.” “Are they here?” Sarene asked, scanning the crowd. “Roial isn't,” Lukel said, “but that's Duke Telrii over there.” Lukel nodded toward a pompous-looking man standing near the far wall. Lean and strong-postured, he might have been handsome had he not displayed signs of gross indulgence. His clothing sparkled with sewn-in gemstones, and his fingers glittered gold and silver. As he turned, Sarene could see that the left side of his face was marred by a massive, purplish birthmark. “Let us hope the throne never falls to him,” Lukel said. “Iadon is disagreeable, but at least he's fiscally responsible. Iadon is a miser. Telrii, however, is a spender. He likes money, and he likes those who give it to him. He'd probably be the richest man in Arelon if he weren't so lavish-as it is, he's a poor third, behind the king and Duke Roial.” Sarene frowned. “The king would have disinherited 1Raoden, leaving the country with no visible heir? Doesn't he know anything about succession wars?” Lukel shrugged. “Apparently, he'd rather have no heir than risk leaving Raoden in charge.” “He couldn't have things like freedom and compassion ruining his perfect little monarchy,” Sarene said. “Exactly.” “These nobles who followed Raoden. Do they ever meet?” “No,” Lukel said with a frown. “They're too afraid to continue without the prince's protection. We've convinced a few of the more dedicated ones to gather one last time tomorrow, but I doubt anything will
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come of it.” “I want to be there,” Sarene said. “These men don't like newcomers. Cousin,” Lukel warned. “They've grown very jumpy-they know their meetings could be considered treasonous.” “It's the last time they plan to meet anyway. What are they going to do if I show up? Refuse to come anymore?” Lukel paused, then smiled. “All right, I'll tell Father, and he'll find a way to get you in.” “We can both tell him over lunch,” Sarene said, taking one last dissatisfied look at her canvas, then walking over to pack up her paints. “So you're coming to lunch after all?” “Well, Uncle Kiin did promise he'd fix Fjordell revertiss. Besides, after what I've learned today. I don't think I can sit here and listen to Iadon's judgments much longer. I'm liable to start throwing paints if he makes me much more angry.” Lukel laughed. “That probably wouldn't be a good idea, princess or not. Come on, Kaise is going to be ecstatic that you're coming. Father always fixes better food when we have company.” Lukel was right. “She's here!” Kaise declared with an enthusiastic squeal as she saw Sarene walk in. “Father, you have to fix lunch!” Jalla appeared from a nearby doorway to meet her husband with a hug and a brief kiss. The Svordish woman whispered something to Lukel in Fjordell, and he smiled, rubbing her shoulder affectionately. Sarene watched with envy, then steeled herself with gritted teeth. She was a royal Teoish princess: it wasn't her place to complain about the necessities of state marriages. If Domi had taken her husband before she even met him, then He obviously wanted to leave her mind clear for other concerns. Uncle Kiln emerged from the kitchen, stuffed a book in his apron, then gave Sarene one of his crushing hugs. “So you couldn't stay away after all. The lure of Kiin's magical kitchen was too much for you, eh?” “No, Papa, she's just hungry,” Kaise announced. “Oh, is that all. Well, sit down, Sarene. I'll have lunch out in a few moments.” The meal proceeded in 1much the same way as dinner had the night before, Kaise complaining about the slowness, Daorn trying to act more mature than his sister, and Lukel teasing them both mercilessly-as was the solemn duty of any elder brother. Adien made his appearance late, looking distracted as he mumbled some numbers softly to himself. Kiin brought out several steaming platters of food, apologizing for his wife's absence because of a prior engagement. The meal was delightful-the food good, the conversation enjoyable. Until, that was, Lukel took it upon himself to inform the family of Sarene's painting talents. “She was engaged in some sort of new-abstractionism.” her cousin proclaimed with a completely serious voice. “Is that so?” Kiin asked. “Yes,” Lukel said. “Though I can't quite say what kind of statement she was trying to make by representing a flower patch with a brown smudge that only vaguely resembles a horse.” Sarene blushed as the table laughed. However, it wasn't over-Ashe chose that moment to
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betray her as well. “She calls it the school of creative misdirection.” the Seon explained solemnly in his deep, stately voice. “I believe the princess feels empowered by crafting art that completely baffles one's ability to distinguish what the subject could be.” This was too much for Kiin, who nearly collapsed from laughter. Sarene's torment was soon over, however, as the topic of conversation met with a slight change-the source of which was of some interest to the princess. “There's no such thing as a school of creative misdirection,” Kaise informed them. “There isn't?” her father asked. “No. There's the impressionist school, the neorepresentational school, the abstract derivational school, and the revivationist school. That's it.” “Oh, is that so?” Lukel asked with amusement. “Yes.” Kaise pronounced. “There was the realist movement, but that's the same as the neorepresentational school. They just changed names to sound more important.” “Stop trying to show off for the princess.” Daorn mumbled. “I'm not showing off,” Kaise huffed. “I'm being educated.” “You are too showing off,” Daorn said. “Besides, the realist school is not the same as the neorepresentational school.” “Daorn, stop grumbling at your sister.” Kiin ordered. “Kaise, stop showing off.” Kaise scowled, then sat back with a sullen look on her face and began mumbling incoherently. “What's she doing?” Sarene asked with confusion. “Oh, she's cursing at us in Jindoeese,” Daorn said offhandedly. “She always does that when she loses an argument,” “She thinks she1 can save face by speaking in other languages,” Lukel said. “As if that proves that she's actually more intelligent than the rest of the world.” With that, the torrent of words from the small blond girl's mouth changed directions. With a start, Sarene realized Kaise was now muttering in Fjordell. Kaise wasn't done, however: she topped of the tirade with a brief, but biting, accusation in what sounded like Duladen. “How many languages does she speak?” Sarene asked in amazement. “Oh, four or five, unless she's learned a new one while I wasn't looking,” Lukel said. “Though she's going to have to stop soon. Svordish scientists claim that the human mind can only maintain six languages before it starts to jumble them.” “It's one of little Kaise's life quests to prove them wrong,” Kiin explained in his deep, scratchy voice. “That, and to eat every morsel of food to be found in all of Arelon.” Kaise stuck out her chin at her father with a dismissive sniff, then turned back to her meal. “They're both so . . . well informed,” Sarene said with surprise. “Don't be too impressed,” Lukel said. “Their tutors have been covering art history lately, and the two of them have been working hard to prove they can outdo one another.” “Even so.” Sarene said. Kaise, still displeased at her loss, mumbled something over her meal. “What was that?” Kiin asked with a firm tone. “I said, 'If the prince were here, he would have listened to me.' He always took my side.” “He just sounded like he was agreeing with you,” Daorn said. “That is
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called sarcasm, Kaise.” Kaise stuck out her tongue at her brother. “He thought I was beautiful, and he loved me. He was waiting for me to grow up so he could marry me. Then I would be queen, and I'd throw you all in the dungeon until you admitted that I was right.” “He wouldn't have married you, stupid,” Daorn said with a scowl. “He married Sarene.” Kiin must have noticed the way Sarene's face fell when the prince's name came up, for he quickly hushed the two children with hard looks. However, the damage had been done. The more she learned of him, the more Sarene remembered the prince's soft, encouraging voice traveling hundreds of miles through the Seon to speak with her. She thought of the rambling way his letters told her of life in Arelon, explaining how he was preparing a place for her. She had been so excited to meet him that she had decided to leave Teod a week early. Not early enough, apparently. Perhaps she should have listened to her father. He had been hesitant to agree to the marriage, even though he knew Teod needed a solid alliance with the new Arelish government. Though the two countries were descendants of the same racial and cultural heritage, there had been little contact between Teod and Arelon during the last deca1de. The uprisings after the Reod threatened anyone associated with the Elantrians-and that certainly included the Teoish royalty. But with Fjorden pushing the boundaries of its influence again-this time instigating the collapse of the Duladen Republic-it became obvious that Teod needed to either reacquaint itself with its ancient ally, or face Wyrn's hordes alone. And so Sarene had suggested the marriage. Her father had objected at first, but then had bowed beneath its utter practicality. There was no stronger bond than that of blood, especially when the marriage involved a crown prince. Never mind that a royal marriage contract forbade Sarene to ever marry again: Raoden was young and strong. They all assumed he would live for decades. Kiin was talking to her. “What was that, Uncle?” she asked. “I just wanted to know if there was anything you wanted to see in Kae. You've been here a couple of days; it's probably time someone gave you a tour. I'm sure Lukel would be happy to show you the sights.” The thin man raised his hands. “Sorry, Father. I'd love to show our beautiful cousin around the town, but Jalla and I have to go discuss the purchase of some silk for shipment to Teod.” “Both of you?” Sarene asked with surprise. “Of course,” Lukel said, dropping his napkin to the table and rising. “Jalla's a fierce bargainer.” “That be the only reason he married me,” the Svorden woman confessed with her thick accent and a slight smile. “Lukel is a merchant. Profit in everything, even marriage.” “That's right,” Lukel said with a laugh, taking his wife's hand as she rose. “The fact that she's brilliant and beautiful didn't even enter into it. Thanks for the meal,
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Father. It was delicious. Good day, all.” With that the couple left, staring into each other's eyes as they walked. Their exit was followed by a series of gagging sounds from Daorn. “Ugh, Father, you should speak to them. They're so dopey-eyed they make it hard to eat.” “Our dear brother's mind has turned to mush,” Kaise agreed. “Be patient, children,” Kiin said. “Lukel has only been married for a month now. Give him a while longer, and he'll turn back to normal.” “I hope so,” Kaise said. “He's making me sick.” Of course, she didn't look very sick to Sarene; she was still packing down the food with a vengeance. Beside Sarene, Adien continued to mumble in his way. He didn't seem to say much, except to quote numbers-that, and the occasional word that sounded a lot like “Elantris.” “I would like to see the town, Uncle,” Sarene said, the boy's comments reminding her of something. “Especially Elantris-I want to know what all of the furor is about.” Kiin rubbed his chin. “Well,” he said, “I suppose the twins can show you. They know how to get to Elantris, and it will keep them out 1of my hair for a little while.” “Twins?” Kiin smiled. “It's Lukel's nickname for them.” “One we hate,” Daorn said. “We aren't twins-we don't even look alike.” Sarene studied the two children, with their similar bobs of blond hair and their identical determined expressions, and smiled. “Not at all,” she agreed. The wall of Elantris stood over Kae like a disapproving sentry. Walking at its base, Sarene finally realized how truly formidable it was. She had once visited Fjordell, and had been impressed by many of that nation's fortified cities-but even they couldn't compete with Elantris. The wall was so high, its sides so smooth, that it obviously hadn't been crafted by normal human hands. There were enormous, intricate Aons carved into its sides-many of which Sarene didn't recognize, and she liked to consider herself well educated. The children led her to a massive set of stone stairs that ran up the side of the outer wall. Magnificently carved, with archways and frequent viewing platforms, the stairs themselves were sculpted with a certain regality. There was also a sense of ... arrogance about the tiered stairway. It was obviously part of the original Elantris city design, and proved that the massive walls had been constructed not as a means of defense, but as a means of separation. Only people supremely confident in themselves would craft such an amazing fortification, then place a wide set of stairs on the outside, leading up to the top. That confidence had been proven unjustified, for Elantris had fallen. Yet, Sarene reminded herself, it hadn't been invaders who had claimed the city, but something else. Something not yet understood. The Reod. Sarene paused along a stone railing about halfway up to the top of the wall, looking out over the city of Kae. The smaller city stood like a little brother to the grand Elantris-it tried so hard to prove its
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significance, but next to the massive city it couldn't help but seem inferior. Its buildings might have been impressive somewhere else, but they seemed tiny-petty, even when compared with the majesty of Elantris. Petty or not, Sarene told herself, Kae will have to be my focus. Elantris 's day has passed. Several little bubbles of light floated along the outside of the wall-some of the first Seons Sarene had seen in the area. She was excited at first, but then remembered the stories. Once, Seons had been unaffected by the Shoad-but that had changed with the fall of Elantris. When a person was taken by the Shaod now, their Seon-if they had one-gained a kind of madness. The Seons by the wall floated aimlessly, like lost children. She knew without asking that the city was where such maddened Seons gathered, once their masters had fallen. She looked away from the Seons, nodded to the children, and continued her trek up the enormous set of stairs. Kae would be her focus, true, but she still wanted to see Elantris. There was something about it-its size, its Aons, its reputation-that she had to experience for herself. As she walked, she was able to reach out and rub her hand across the groove of a carved Aon sculpted into t1he side of the city wall. The line was as wide as her hand. There were no gaps where stone met stone. It was as she had read: the entire wall was one seamless piece of rock. Except, it was no longer flawless. Pieces of the enormous monolith were crumbling and cracking, especially near the top. As they neared the end of their climb there were places where great chunks of the wall had torn away, leaving jagged wounds in the stone reminiscent of bite marks. Still, the wall was impressive, especially when one was standing on top of it, looking down at the ground below. “Oh my,” Sarene said, feeling herself grow dizzy. Daorn pulled against the back of her dress urgently. “Don't get too close, Sarene.” “I'm all right,” she said with a dazed voice. She did, however, let him pull her hack. Ashe hovered next to her, glowing with concern. “Perhaps this wasn't a good idea, my lady. You know how you are with heights.” “Nonsense,” Sarene said, recovering. Then she noticed for the first time the large gathering on the wall's top a short distance away. There was a piercing voice rising over the group-one she couldn't quite make out. “What's that?” The twins exchanged mutual shrugs of confusion. “I don't know,” Daorn said. “This place is usually empty, except for the guards.” Kaise added. “Let's have a look,” Sarene said. She wasn't sure, but she thought she recognized the voice's accent. As they approached the back of the crowd, Sarene confirmed her suspicion. “It's the gyorn!” Kaise said excitedly. “I wanted to see him.” And she was gone, shooting in to the crowd. Sarene could hear muffled cries of surprise and annoyance as the little girl pushed her way to the
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front of the group. Daorn shot his sister a longing look and took a step forward, but then looked back at Sarene and instead decided to remain beside her like a dutiful guide. Daorn needn't have worried about seeing the gyorn, however. Sarene was a bit more reserved than her young cousin, but she was just as determined to get close enough to hear Hrathen. So, her small guard at her side, Sarene politely-but resolutely-made her way through the crowd until she was standing at the front. Hrathen stood on a small overlook built into the Elantris wall. His back was to the crowd, but he was angled in such a way as to let his words reach them. His speech was obviously intended for their ears, and not those down below. Sarene spared barely a glance for Elantris itself-she would study it later. “Look at them!” Hrathen commanded, gesturing toward Elantris. “They have lost their right to be men. They are animals, having no will or desire to serve Lord Jaddeth. They know no God, and can follow only after their lusts.” Sarene frowned. Shu-Dereth taught that the only difference between men and animals was mankind's ability 1to worship God, or “Jaddeth” in Fjordell. The doctrine was not new to Sarene; her father had made sure to include an extensive knowledge of Shu-Dereth in her education. What she couldn't figure out was why a full gyorn would waste his time with the Elantrians. What could he possibly gain from denouncing a group that had already been beaten down so soundly? One thing was clear, however. If the gyorn saw reason to preach against Elantris, then it was her duty to defend it. It was possible to block her enemy's schemes before she fully understood them. “. . . as all know, animals are far beneath men in the eyes of Lord Jaddeth.” Hrathen was saying, his speech rising toward its conclusion. Sarene saw her chance and took it. She opened her eyes wide, assumed a dull look of confusion, and-with her most high-pitched innocent voice-asked a single word. “Why?” Hrathen stopped. She had timed the question so it fell directly in the awkward space between two of his sentences. The gyorn stumbled at the piercing inquiry, obviously trying to regain his momentum. However, Sarene's placement had been too skillful, and the moment was gone. He turned around with harsh eyes to search out the one who had so foolishly interrupted him. All he found was a demure, perplexed Sarene. “Why what?” Hrathen demanded. “Why are animals beneath humans in Mr. Jaddeth's eyes?” she asked. The gyorn gritted his teeth at her use of the term “Mr. Jaddeth.” “Because, unlike men, they can do nothing but follow their own lusts.” The standard follow-up question to such a statement would have been “But men follow their lusts as well,” which would have given Hrathen an opportunity to explain the difference between a man of God and a carnal, sinful man. Sarene didn't oblige. “But I heard that Mr. Jaddeth rewarded arrogance.” Sarene said
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with confusion. The gyorn's eyes grew suspicious. The question was just a bit too well placed to have come from one as simple as Sarene was pretending to be. He knew, or at least suspected, that she was toying with him. However, he still had to answer the question-if not for her, then for the rest of the crowd. “Lord Jaddeth rewards ambition, not arrogance,” he said carefully. “I don't understand,” Sarene said. “Isn't ambition serving our own lusts? Why does Mr. Jaddeth reward that?” Hrathen was losing his audience, and he knew it. Sarene's question was a century-old theological argument against Shu-Dereth, but the crowd knew nothing of ancient disputes or scholarly refutations. All they knew was that someone was asking questions Hrathen couldn't answer quickly enough, or interestingly enough, to hold their attention. “Arrogance is different from carnality,” Hrathen declared in a snappish voice, making use of his commanding position to take control of the conversation. People's service in Jaddeth's empire is quickly rewarded both here and in the afterlife.” It was a masterful attempt: he managed not only to switch the topic, but to draw the crowd's attention to another idea. Everyone found rewards fascinating. Unfortunately for him, Sarene wasn't done yet. “So if we serve Jaddeth, our lusts are fulfilled?” “No one serves Jaddeth but Wyrn,” Hrathen said offhandedly as he considered how to best answer her objections. Sarene smiled; she had been hoping he would make that mistake. It was a basic tenet of Shu-Dereth that only one man could serve Jaddeth directly; the religion was very regimented, and its structure was reminiscent of the feudal government that had once ruled in Fjorden. One served those above him, who served those above him, and so on until it reached Wyrn, who served Jaddeth directly. Everyone served Jaddeth's empire, but only one man was holy enough to serve God directly. There was much confusion about the distinction, and it was common for the Derethi priesthood to correct it as Hrathen just had. Unfortunately, he had also just given Sarene another opportunity. “No one can serve Jaddeth?” she asked with confusion. “Not even you?” It was a silly argument-a misinterpretation of Hrathen's point, not a true attack on Shu-Dereth. In a debate of pure religious merit, Sarene would never have been able to stand against a fully-trained gyorn. However, Sarene wasn't looking to disprove Hrathen's teachings, just ruin his speech. Hrathen looked up at her comment, immediately realizing his mistake. All of his former thinking and planning was now useless-and the crowd was wondering at this new question. Nobly, the gyorn tried to cover for his mistake, attempting to bring the conversation back to more familiar grounds, but Sarene had the crowd now, and she held on to them with the viselike grip only a woman on the verge of hysterics could manage. “What will we do?” she asked with a shake of her head. “I fear these things of priests are beyond common people such as myself.” And it was over. The people began talking among themselves and
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wandering away. Most of them were laughing at the eccentricities of priests, and the abstruseness of theological reasonings. Sarene noticed that most of them were nobles; it must have taken a great deal of effort for the gyorn to lead them all up to Elantris's wall. She found herself smiling wickedly at all of his wasted planning and coaxing. Hrathen watched his carefully arranged gathering dribble away. He didn't try speaking again; he probably knew that if he yelled or fumed, he would only do more damage than good. Surprisingly, the gyorn turned away from the scattering people and nodded appreciatively at Sarene. It wasn't a bow, but it was the most respectful gesture she had ever received from a Derethi priest. It was an acknowledgment of a battle well won, a concession given to a worthy opponent. “You play a dangerous game, Princess,” he said softly in his slightly accented voice. “You'll find I am very good at games, Gyorn,” she replied. “Until the next round, then,” he said, waving for a shorter, light-haired priest to follow him as he climbed down from the wall. In this other man's eyes there was no hint of respect or even tolerance. They burned with hatred, and Sarene shivered as he focused them on her. The man's teeth were clenched tightly, and Sarene got the feeling that there wasn't much holding the man back from grabbing her by the neck and hurling her off the side of the wall. She grew dizzy just thinking about it. “That one worries me,” Ashe observed by her side. “I have seen such men before, and my experience has not been favorable. A dam so poorly constructed must eventually collapse.” Sarene nodded. “He was Aonic-not a Fjordell. He looks like a page or attendant of Hrathen's.” “Well, let us hope that the gyorn can keep his pet under control, my lady.” She nodded, but her response was cut off by a sudden peal of laughter from beside her. She looked down to find Kaise rolling on the ground with mirth; apparently, she had managed to hold her outburst until the gyorn was out of sight. “Sarene,” she said between gasps of breath. “that was wonderful! You were so stupid! And his face ... he got even redder than Papa after he finds out I've eaten all of his sweets. His face almost matched his armor!” “I didn't like him at all,” Daorn said solemnly from beside Sarene. He stood near an open part of the parapet, looking down toward Hrathen as the man descended the enormous flight of stairs to the city. “He was too ... hard. “Didn't he know you were only acting stupid?” “Probably,” Sarene said, motioning for Kaise to stand up and then brushing off the girl's pink dress. “But there was no way for him to prove it, so he had to pretend that I was serious.” “Father says the gyorn is here to convert us all to Shu-Dereth,” Daorn said. “Does he now?” Sarene asked. Daorn nodded. “He also says he's afraid Hrathen
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will be successful. He says the crops didn't do well last year, and a lot of the people are without food. If the planting this month doesn't go well, next winter will be even harder, and hard times make people willing to accept a man who preaehes change.” “Your father is a wise man, Daorn,” Sarene said. Her confrontation with Hrathen had been little more than sport; people's minds were fickle, and they would quickly forget this day's debate. Whatever Hrathen had been doing was only part of something much larger-something to do with Elantris-and Sarene needed to discover what his intentions were. Finally remembering her original reason for visiting the wall, Sarene took her first good look at the city below. It had once been beautiful. The feel of the city, how the buildings worked together, the way the roads crossed-the entire mass was ... intentional. Art on a grand scale. Most of the arches had collapsed, many of the domed roofs had fallen, and even some of the walls looked as if they had little time left. Still, she could tell one thing. Elantris had been beautiful, once. “They're so sad,” Kaise said next to her, on her tiptoes so she could see over the side of the stone safety wall. “Who?” “Them,” Kaise said, pointing to the streets below. There were people down there-huddled forms that barely moved. They were camouflaged against the dark streets. Sarene couldn't hear their groans, but she could feel them. “No one takes care of them.” Kaise said. “How do they eat?” Sarene asked. “Someone must feed them.” She couldn't make out many details about the people below-only that they were human. Or, at least, they had the forms of humans; she had read many confusing things about the Elantrians. “No one,” Daorn said from her other side. “No one feeds them. They should all be dead-there's nothing for them to eat.” “They must get it somewhere,” Sarene argued. Kaise shook her head. “They're dead, Sarene. They don't need to eat.” “They may not move much,” Sarene said dismissively, “but they obviously aren't dead. Look, those ones over there are standing.” “No, Sarene. They're dead too. They don't need to eat, they don't need to sleep, and they don't age. They're all dead.” Kaise's voice was uncharacteristically solemn. “How do you know so much about it?” Sarene said, trying to dismiss the words as productions of a child's imagination. Unfortunately, these children had proven themselves remarkably well informed. “I just do,” Kaise said. “Trust me, they're dead.” Sarene felt the hair on her arms rising, and she sternly told herself not to give in to the mysticism. The Elantrians were odd, true, but they were not dead. There had to be another explanation. She scanned the city once more, trying to put Kaise's disturbing comments out of her mind. As she did, her eyes fell on a particular pair of figures-ones who didn't appear to be as pitiful as the rest. She squinted at the figures. They were Elantrian, but one seemed to have
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darker skin than the other. They crouched on the top of a buiIding, and they looked mobile, unlike most of the other Elantrians she had seen. There was something ... different about these two. “My lady?” Ashe's concerned voice sounded in her ear, and she realized that she had begun to lean out over the stone parapet. With a start, she looked down, realizing just how high up they were. Her eyes unfocused, and she began to lose her balance, transfixed by the undulating ground below.... “My lady!” Ashe's voice came again, shocking her out of her stupor. Sarene stumbled back from the wall, squatting dow1n and wrapping her arms around her knees. She breathed deeply for a moment. “I'll be all right, Ashe.” “We're leaving this place as soon as you regain your balance,” the Seon ordered, his voice firm. Sarene nodded distractedly. Kaise snorted. “You know, considering how tall she is, you'd think she'd get used to heights.” CHAPTER 9 IF Dilaf had been a dog, he would have been growling. Probably frothing at the mouth as well, Hrathen decided. The Arteth was even worse than he usually was after visiting Elantris's wall. Hrathen turned to look back at the city. They had nearly reached their chapel, but the enormous wall surrounding Elantris was still visible behind them. Atop it somewhere was the infuriating young woman who had somehow gotten the best of him this day. “She was magnificent,” Hrathen said in spite of himself. Like any of his kind, he had an unquestioned prejudice when it came to the Teoish people. Teod had banished Derethi ministers from the country fifty years ago following a small misunderstanding, and had never consented to let them back in. The Teoish king had come quite near to banishing the Fjordell ambassadors as well. There wasn't a single known Teoish member of Shu-Dereth, and the Teoish royal house was infamous for its biting denunciations of all things Derethi. Still, it was invigorating to meet a person who could so easily foil one of his sermons. Hrathen had preached Shu-Dereth so long, had made such an art of manipulating the public mind, that he hardly found challenge in it any longer. His success in Duladel a half year ago had proven that one could even cause nations to crumble, if one were capable enough. Unfortunately, in Duladel there had been little opposition. The Dulas themselves were too open, too accepting, to present a true challenge. In the end, with the shambles of a government dead at his feet, Hrathen had found himself disappointed. It had been almost too easy. “Yes, she is impressive,” he said. “She is accursed above all others,” Dilaf hissed. “A member of the only race hated by Lord Jaddeth.” So that was what was bothering him. Many Fjordells assumed that there was no hope for the Teos. It was foolishness, of course-a simple justification that infused Fjorden's historical enemies with theological hatred. Still, many people believed it-and apparently Dilaf was among them. “Jaddeth hates no one but those who harm Him,”
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Hrathen said. “They do hate Him.” “Most of them have never even heard His name preached, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “Their king, yes; he is most likely cursed for his injunction against Derethi priests. However, the people haven't even been given a chance. Once Arelon falls to Lord Jaddeth, then we can worry about penetrating Teod. The country won't last long with the rest of the civil1ized world pitted against it.” “It will be destroyed,” Dilaf prophesied with angry eyes. “Jaddeth will not wait while our Arteths preach His name against the unyielding walls of Teoish hearts.” “Lord Jaddeth can only come when all men are united beneath Fjordell rule, Arteth,” Hrathen said, turning away from his contemplation of Elantris and moving to enter the chapel. “That includes the ones in Teod.” Dilaf's response was softly spoken, but every word sounded powerfully in Hrathen's ears. “Perhaps,” the Arelish priest whispered, “But there is another way. Lord Jaddeth will rise when every living soul is united-the Teoish will be no obstacle if we destroy them. When the final Teo heaves his last sigh, when the Elan-trims have been burned from the face of Sycla, then all men will follow Wyrn. Then Jaddeth will come.” The words were disturbing. Hrathen had come to save Arelon, not to burn it. It might be necessary to undermine the monarchy, and perhaps he would have to spill some noble blood, but the end result would be the redemption of an entire nation. To Hrathen, uniting all mankind meant converting them to Derethi, not murdering those who didn't believe. Except, perhaps his way was wrong. Wyrn's patience seemed only slightly greater than Dilaf's-the three-month time limit proved that much. Suddenly Hrathen felt an extreme sense of urgency. Wyrn meant his words: Unless Hrathen converted Arelon, the country would be destroyed. “Great Jaddeth Below ...” Hrathen whispered, invoking his deity's name-an action he reserved for only the most sacred of times. Right or wrong, he didn't want the blood of an entire kingdom-even a heretical one-on his hands. He must succeed. Fortunately, his loss to the Teoish girl hadn't been as complete as she probably assumed. When Hrathen arrived at the meeting place-a large suite in one of Kae's finest inns-many of the nobles he had invited were waiting for him. The speech on Elantris's wall had been only one part of his plan to convert these men. “Greetings, Lords,” Hrathen said with a nod of his head. “Don't pretend everything is fine between us, priest,” said Idan, one of the younger, more vocal nobles. “You promised your words would bring power. It appears powerful confusion was the only thing they produced.” Hrathen waved his hand dismissively. “My speech baffled one simpleminded girl. It is said the fair princess has trouble remembering which is her right hand and which is her left. I wouldn't have expected her to understand my speech-don't tell me that you, Lord Idan, were similarly lost.” Idan blushed. “Of course not, my lord. It's just that I failed to see how conversion could grant us power.”
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“The power, my lord, comes in the perception of your enemy.” Hrathen strolled through the room, the ever-present Dilaf at his side, and chose a seat. Some gyorns preferred to use a standing posture as a form of intimidation, but Hrathen found it more useful to sit. More often than not, sitting made his listeners-especially those who were standing-uncomfortable. One appeared more in control when one could captiv1ate an audience without towering over them. Sure enough, Idan and the others soon found their seats as well. Hrathen rested his elbows on the armrests, then clasped his hands and regarded his audience in silence. His brow furled slightly as his eyes fell on one face near the back of the room. The man was older, perhaps in his late forties, and wore rich clothing. The most telling part of the man's appearance was the large purplish birthmark on the left side of his neck and face. Hrathen hadn't invited Duke Telrii to the meeting. The duke was one of the most powerful men in Arelon, and Hrathen had kept his invitations to the younger nobles. He had assumed that he had little chance in convincing powerful men to follow him; young men impatient to move up the aristocratic ladder were usually easier to manipulate. Hrathen would have to speak carefully this night-a powerful alliance could be his reward. “Well?” Idan finally asked, fidgeting beneath Hrathen's stare. “Who are they then? Who do you perceive as our enemy?” “The Elantrians,” Hrathen said simply. He could feel Dilaf tense by his side as he mentioned the word. Idan's discomfort left as he chuckled, shooting looks at several of his companions. “The Elantrians have been dead for a decade, Fjordell. They are hardly a threat.” “No, my young lord,” Hrathen said. “They live on.” “If you can call it that.” “I don't mean those pitiful mongrels inside the city,” Hrathen said. “I mean the Elantrians that live in the people's minds. Tell me, Idan. Have you ever met a man who thought the Elantrians would return someday?” Idan's chuckles faded away as he considered the question. “Iadon's rule is far from absolute,” Hrathen said. “He is more of a regent than a king. The people don't really expect him to be monarch for long-they're waiting for their blessed Elantrians to return. Many call the Reod false, a kind of 'test' to see who will remain true to the old pagan religion. You have all heard how people speak of Elantris in whispers.” Hrathen's words held weight. He had been in Kae for only a few days, but he had listened and researched well during that time. He was exaggerating the opinion, but he knew it existed. “Iadon doesn't see the danger,” Hrathen continued softly. “He doesn't see that his leadership is suffered, rather than accepted. As long as the people have a physical reminder of Elantris's might, they will fear-and as long as they fear something more than they fear their king, none of you will have power. Your titles came from the king; your power
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is connected to him. If he is impotent, then you are as well.” They were listening now. At the heart of every nobleman was an incurable insecurity. Hrathen hadn't met an aristocrat yet who wasn't at least in part convinced that the peasants laughed at him behind his back. “Shu-Korath doesn't recognize the danger,” Hrathen continued. “The Korathi do nothing to denounce the Elantrians, and therefore perpetuate the public's hope. Irrational though it may be, the people 1want to believe Elantris will be restored. They imagine how grand it used to be, their memories enhanced by a decade of stories-it is human nature to believe that other places and ocher times are better than the here and now. If you ever want to hold true domination over Arelon, my dear noble friends, then you must abolish your people's foolish hopes. You must find a way to free them from Elantris's grip.” Young Idan nodded enthusiastically. Hrathen pursed his lips with dissatisfaction: The boy noble had been too easily swayed. As was often the case, the most outspoken man was the least discerning. Ignoring Idan, Hrathen judged the expressions of the others. They were thoughtful, but not convinced. The more mature Telrii sat quietly at the back, rubbing the large ruby on one of his rings, watching Hrathen with a musing expression. Their uncertainty was good. Men as fickle-minded as Idan were of no use to him; those so easily won would be lost just as quickly. “Tell me, men of Arelon,” Hrathen said, changing his argument subtly, “have you traveled the countries of the East?” There were several nods. During the last few years, the East had seen a flood of visitors from Arelon touring through the old Fjordell Empire. Hrathen strongly suspected that the new aristocracy of Arelon, even more insecure than most nobles, felt a desire to prove its level of cultured refinement by associating with kingdoms such as Svorden, the cultural epicenter of the East. “If you have visited the powerful countries of the East, my friends, then you know of the influence available to those who align themselves with the Derethi priesthood.” “Influence” was, perhaps, an understatement. No king ruled east of the Dathreki Mountains unless he professed allegiance to Shu-Dereth, and the most desirable and lucrative governmental positions always fell to those who were diligent in their worship of Jaddeth. There was a promise implicit in Hrathen's words and-no matter what else they might discuss this night, no matter what other arguments Hrathen put forth-this was what would win their support. It was no secret that Derethi priests took a keen interest in politics; and most people knew that gaining the endorsement of the church was usually enough to insure political victory. This was the promise the noblemen had come expecting to hear, and this was why the Teoish girl's complaints hadn't affected them. Theological disputes were far from these men's minds: Shu-Dereth or Shu-Korath, it mattered little to them. All they needed was an assurance that a sudden outpouring of piety on their parts would in
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turn be rewarded with temporal blessings-very tangible and spendable ones. “Enough wordplay, priest,” said Ramear, one of the younger nobles. He was a hawk-faced second son of an unimportant baron, a man with a sharp Aonic nose and a reputation for straightforwardness-a reputation he apparently deserved. “I want promises. Are you saying that if we convert to Derethi, you will grant us greater holdings?” “Jaddeth rewards his followers,” Hrathen said noncommittally. “And how will he reward us?” Ramear demanded. “Shu-Dereth holds no power in this kingdom, priest.” “L1ord Jaddeth holds power everywhere, friend,” Hrathen said. Then, to forestall further demands, he continued. “It is true that as of yet He has few followers in Arelon. The world, however, is dynamic, and few things can stand against Jaddeth's empire. Remember Duladel, my friends. Arelon has remained untouched for so long because we haven't bothered to spare the effort it would take to convert her.” A lie, but only a modest one. “The first problem is Elantris. Remove it from the people's minds, and they will gravitate toward Shu-Dereth-Shu-Korath is too tranquil, too indolent. Jaddeth will grow in the people's awareness, and as He does, they will look for role models within the ranks of the aristocracy-men who hold to the same ideals as themselves.” “And then we will be rewarded?” Ramear asked pointedly. “The people will never suffer rulers who don't believe as they do. As recent history has shown, my friends, kings and monarchies are hardly eternal.” Ramear sat back to contemplate the priest's words. Hrathen had to be careful yet; it was quite possible that only a few of these men would end up supporting him, and he didn't want to give the others evidence against him. Lenient as he may be with regards to religion, King Iadon wouldn't suffer Hrathen's preaching long if he found it treasonous. Later, after Hrathen sensed firm conviction in his fledgling nobles, he would give them more concrete promises. And, no matter what his opponents might say, Hrathen's promises were trustworthy: as little as he liked working with men whose allegiance could be bought, it was a firm tenet of Shu-Dereth that ambition should be rewarded. Besides, it was beneficial to have a reputation for honesty, if only so that one could lie at crucial moments. “It will take time to unseat an entire religion and set up a new one in its place,” mused Waren, a thin man with a head of nearly white blond hair. Waren was known for his strict piety; Hrathen had been rather surprised when he accompanied his cousin Idan to the meeting. It appeared that Waren's renowned faith was less a matter of religious fervor than it was one of political advantage. Winning him, and his reputation, would be a great help to Hrathen's cause. “You would be surprised, young Lord Waren,” Hrathen said. “Until very recently, Duladel was the seat of one of the world's oldest religions. Now, as far as Fjordell recorders can tell, that religion has been completely wiped out-at least in its pure form.” “Yes,”
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Waren said, “but the collapse of the Jesker religion and the Duladen Republic are events that had been building for years, perhaps even centuries.” “But you cannot deny that when that change in power occurred, it came swiftly,” Hrathen said. Waren paused. “True.” “The fall of the Elantrians was likewise swift,” Hrathen said. “Change can come with blinding speed, Lord Waren-but those who are prepared can profit quite substantially from it. You say that the fall of Jesker was building for years ... well, I suggest to you that the Korathi religion has been in decline for a similar amount of time. It used to hold much sway in the East. Now, its influence has been relegated to only Teod and Arelon.” Waren paused thoughtfully. He appeared to be a man of intelligence and shrewdness, and seemed swayed by Hrathen's logic. It was possible that Hrathen had misjudged the Arelish nobility. Most of them were as hopeless as their king, but a surprising number showed promise. Perhaps they realized just how precarious their positions were-their people starving, their aristocracy inexperienced, and the full attention of the Fjordell Empire turned upon them. When the storm hit, most of Arelon would be surprised like rodents stunned by a bright light. These few lords, however, might just be worth saving. “My lords. I hope you will review my offers with more wisdom than your king,” Hrathen said. “These are difficult times, and those who don't have the Church's support will find life harsh in the coming months. Remember who and what I represent.” “Remember Elantris,” a voice, Dilaf's, hissed from beside Hrathen. “Do not forget the well of desecration that pollutes our land. They sleep, and they wait, clever as always. They wait to capture you-all of you-and drag you into their embrace. You must cleanse the world of them before they cleanse it of you.” There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Finally-the Arteth's sudden exclamation having spoiled his rhythm-Hrathen leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers before him to show that the meeting was at an end. The nobles left, their troubled faces showing that they understood the difficult decision Hrathen had placed before them. Hrathen studied them, deciding which ones it would be safe to contact again. Idan was his, and with him would inevitably come several of his followers. Hrathen probably had Ramear as well, assuming he met privately with the man and offered him a solid promise of backing. There were a couple of others like Ramear, and then there was Waren, whose eyes were tinged with what looked like respect. Yes, he could do grand things with that one. They were a politically weak, relatively unimportant lot, but they were a beginning. As Shu-Dereth gained followers, increasingly important nobles would throw their weight behind Hrathen. Then, when the country finally collapsed beneath the weight of political unrest, economic uncertainty, and martial threats, Hrathen would reward his followers with positions in the new government. The key to reaching that success was still sitting at the back of the meeting,
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watching quietly. Duke Telrii's air was stately, his face calm, but his reputation for extravagance spoke of great potential. “My lord Telrii, a moment please,” Hrathen requested, rising. “I have a special proposal that might be of interest to you.” CHAPTER 10 “SULE, I don't think this is a good idea.” Galladon's whisper was unenthusiastic as he crouched next to Raoden. “Hush,” Raoden ordered, peeking around the corner toward the courtyard. The gangs had heard about Raoden's recruitment of Mareshe, and were convinced that he intended to start his own rival gang. When Raoden and Galladon had arrived the day before to look for newcomers, they had found a group of Aanden's men waiting for them. The reception hadn't been pleasant. Fortunately, they had escaped without any broken bones or stubbed toes, but this time Raoden intended to be a little more subtle. “What if they're waiting for us again?” Galladon asked. “They probably are,” Raoden said. “Which is why you should keep your voice down. Come on.” Raoden slipped around the corner and into an alleyway. His toe pained him as he walked, as did his scraped hands and a bruise he had picked up on his arm. In addition, the hunger called to him, a phantom passion from within. Galladon sighed. “I'm not so bored with death that I want to abandon it in favor of an existence of pure pain. Kolo?” Raoden turned back with tolerant eyes. “Galladon, someday you're going to get over this determined pessimism of yours, and all of Elantris will collapse from the shock.” “Pessimism?” Galladon demanded as Raoden crept down the alleyway. “Pessimism? Me? Dulas are the most lighthearted, easygoing people in Opelon! We look at each day with- Sule? Don't you dare leave when I'm defending myself!” Raoden ignored the large Dula. He also tried to ignore his pains, sharp though they were. His new leather shoes helped immensely: despite Galladon's reservations, Mareshe had created a product to match his considerable ego. The shoes were sturdy, with a strong, protective sole, but the soft leather-from the covers of Galladon's books-fit perfectly and didn't rub. Peeking carefully around the corner, Raoden studied the courtyard. Shaor's men weren't visible, but they were probably hiding nearby. Raoden perked up as he saw the city gate swinging open. The day had brought a new arrival. However, he was shocked when the Elantris City Guard pushed not one, but three separate white-clothed forms through the gate. “Three?”Raoden said. “The Shaod is unpredictable, sule,” Galladon said, creeping up behind him. “This changes everything,” Raoden said with annoyance. “Good. Let's go-the others can have today's offering. Kolo?” “What? And miss such a grand opportunity? Galladon, I'm disappointed in you.” The Dula grumbled something Raoden couldn't catch, and Raoden reached back to clap the big man reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don't worry-I have a plan.” “Already?” “We have to move quickly-any minute now one of those three is going to take a step, and then our opening will be gone.” “Doloken,” Galladon muttered. “What are you going to do?” “Nothing. You,
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however, are going to have a nice stroll out there in the courtyard.” What?” Galladon asked. “Sule, you've gone kayana again. If I go out there, the gangs are going to see me!” “Exactly.” Raoden said with a smile. “Just make sure you run ve1ry quickly, my friend. We wouldn't want them to catch you.” “You're serious,” Galladon said with growing apprehension. “Unfortunately. Now get moving-lead them off to the left, and I'll do the rest. We'll meet back where we left Mareshe.” Galladon huffed something about “not being worth all the dried meat in the world.” but he let Raoden push him into the courtyard. A moment later a series of startled growls came from the building where Shaor's men usually hid. The feral men burst out, forgetting the three newcomers in their hatred of the man who had wronged them just a few days earlier. Galladon shot one final withering look in Raoden's direction, then took off at a dash, choosing a street at random and leading Shaor's men away. Raoden gave him a moment, then ran out into the middle of the courtyard, making a great show of breathing deeply, as if from exhaustion. “Which way did he go?” he demanded sharply of the three confused newcomers. “Who?” one of them finally ventured. “The large Dula! Quickly, man, which way did he go? He has the cure!” “The cure?” the man asked with surprise. “Of course. It's very rare, but there should be enough for all of us, if you tell me which way he went. Don't you want to get out of here?” The newcomer raised a wavering hand and pointed at the path Galladon had taken. “Come on!” Raoden urged. “Unless we move quickly we'll lose him forever!” With that, he started running. The three newcomers stood for a moment: then, Raoden's sense of urgency too much for them, they followed. All three of their first steps, therefore, were to the north-the direction that would have made them the property of Shaor's men. The other two gangs could only watch with frustration as all three dashed away. “What can you do?” Raoden asked. The woman shrugged. “Maare is my name, my lord. I was a simple housewife. I have no special skills to speak of.” Raoden snorted. “If you're like any other housewife, then you're probably more skilled than anyone here. Can you weave?” “Of course, my lord.” Raoden nodded thoughtfully. “And you?” he asked of the next man. “Riil, a workman, my lord. I spent most of my time building on my master's plantation.” “Hauling bricks?” “At first, my lord,” the man said. He had the wide hands and ingenuous face of a worker, but his eyes were keen and intelligent. “I spent years learning with the journeymen. I hoped that my master would send me to apprentice.” “You're very old to be an apprentice,” Raode1n noted. “I know, my lord, but it was a hope. Not many of the peasantry have room for hopes anymore, even ones so simple.” Raoden nodded again. The man didn't
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speak like a peasant, but few people in Arelon did. Ten years ago, Arelon had been a land of opportunity, and most of its people had been at least slightly educated. Many of the men in his father's court complained that learning had ruined the peasantry for good work, selectively forgetting that they themselves had been members of the same “peasantry” a decade earlier. “All right, how about you?” Raoden asked the next man. The third newcomer, a well-muscled man with a nose that appeared to have been broken at least a dozen times, regarded Raoden with hesitant eyes. “Before I answer, I want to know just why I should listen to you.” “Because I just saved your life.” Raoden said. “I don't understand. What happened to that other man?” “He should show up in a few minutes.” “But-” “We weren't really chasing him,” Raoden said. “We were getting you three out of danger. Mareshe, please explain.” The artisan jumped at the chance. With wild gestures he explained his narrow escape two days earlier, making it appear that he had been on the verge of death before Raoden appeared and helped him to safety. Raoden smiled; Mareshe had a melodramatic soul. The artist's voice rose and fell like a well-written symphony. Listening to the man's narrative, even Raoden nearly believed he had done something incredibly noble. Mareshe finished with a proclamation that Raoden was trustworthy, and encouraged them all to listen to him. At the end, even the burly, hook-nosed man was attentive. “My name is Saolin, Lord Spirit,” the man said, “and I was a soldier in Count Eondel's personal legion.” “I know Eondel,” Raoden said with a nod. “He's a good man-a soldier himself before he was granted a title. You were probably trained well.” “We are the best soldiers in the country, sir,” Saolin said proudly. Raoden smiled. “It isn't hard to best most of the soldiers in our poor country, Saolin. However, I'd match Eondel's legion against soldiers from any nation-I always found them to be men of honor, discipline, and skill. Much like their leader. Giving Eondel a title is one of the few intelligent things Iadon has done recently.” “As I understand it, my lord, the king didn't have much choice,” Saolin said with a smile, showing a mouth that was missing a couple of teeth. “Eondel has amassed quite a large fortune by hiring out his personal forces to the Crown.” “That's the truth,” Raoden said with a laugh. “Well, Saolin, I am glad to have you. A professional soldier of your skill will certainly make us all feel a lot safer around here.” “Whatever Your Lordship needs,” Saolin said, his face growing serious. “I pledge you my sword. I know little about religion besides saying my prayers, and I don't really understand what's going on here, but a man who speaks well of Lord Eondel is a good man in my estimation.” Raoden clasped Saolin on the shoulder, ignoring the fact that the grizzled soldier didn't have a sword to pledge anymore. “I appreciate
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and accept your protection, friend. But I warn you, this is no easy burden you take upon yourself. I'm quickly amassing enemies in here, and it is going to require a great deal of vigilance to make sure we aren't surprised by an attack.” “I understand, my lord.” Saolin said fervently. “But, by Domi. I won't let you down!” “And what of us, my lord?” asked Riil the builder. “I have a grand project in store for you two as well,” Raoden said. “Look up and tell me what you see.” Riil raised his eyes to the sky, his eyes confused. “I see nothing, my lord. Should I?” Raoden laughed. “Not a thing, Riil. That's the problem-the roof to this building must have fallen in years ago. Despite that, it's one of the largest and least-degenerate buildings I've found. I don't suppose your training included some experience in roof building?” Riil smiled. “It certainly did, my lord. You have materials?” “That's going to be the tricky part, Riil. All of the wood in Elantris is either broken or rotted.” “That is a problem,” Riil acknowledged. “Perhaps if we dried out the wood, then mixed it with clay. . . “ “It isn't an easy task, Riil. Maare,” Raoden said. “We'll give it our best try, my lord,” Maare assured him. “Good,” Raoden said with an approving nod. His bearing, coupled with their insecurity, made them quick to listen. It wasn't loyalty, not yet. Hopefully, time would gain him their trust as well as their words. “Now. Mareshe,” Raoden continued, “please explain to our new friends about what it means to be an Elantrian. I don't want Riil falling off the top of a building before he realizes breaking his neck won't necessarily mean an end to the pain.” “Yes, my lord,” Mareshe said, eyeing the newcomers' food, which was sitting on a relatively clean section of the floor. The hunger was affecting him already. Raoden carefully chose a few items from offerings, then nodded to the rest. “Divide this up amongst yourselves and eat it. Saving it won't do any good-the hunger is going to start immediately, and you might as well get this down before it has time to make you greedy.” The four nodded, and Mareshe began to explain the limitations of life in Elantris as he divided the food. Raoden watched for a moment, then turned away to think. “Sule, my hama would love you. She always complained that I don't get enough exercise.” Raoden looked up as Galladon strode into the room. “Welcome back, my friend,” Raoden said with a smile. “I was beginning to worry. Galladon snorted. “I didn't see you worrying when you shoved me out into that courtyard. Seen worms on hooks treated more kindly. Kolo?” “Ah, but you made such fantastic bait,” Raoden said. “Besides, it worked. We got the newcomers, and you appear remarkably bruise-free.” “A state of being that is most likely a source of grand displeasure to Shaor's dogs.” “How did you escape them?” Raoden asked, handing Galladon the loaf of
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bread he had grabbed for the Dula. Galladon regarded it, then ripped it in half and offered one part to Raoden, who held up his hand forestallingly. Galladon shrugged an 'okay, starve if it suits you” shrug, and began to gnaw on the loaf. “Ran into a building with a collapsed set of stairs, then went out the back door,” he explained between mouthfuls. “I threw some rocks up onto the roof when Shaor's men entered. After what you did to them the other day, they just assumed I was up there. They're probably still sitting there waiting for me.” “Smooth,” Raoden said. “Somebody didn't leave me much choice.” Galladon continued to eat in quiet, listening to the newcomers discuss their various “important duties.” “You going to tell all of them that?” he asked in a quiet voice. “What's that?” “The newcomers, sule. You made them all think they are of vital importance, just like Mareshe. Shoes are nice, but not a matter of life and death.” Raoden shrugged. “People do a better job when they assume they're important.” Galladon was quiet for another short moment before speaking again. “They're right.” “Who?” “The other gangs. You are starting your own gang.” Raoden shook his head. “Galladon, that is just a tiny part of it. No one accomplishes anything in Elantris-they're all either too busy squabbling over food or contemplating their misery. The city needs a sense of purpose.” “We're dead, sule,” Galladon said. “What purpose can we have besides suffering?” “That's exactly the problem. Everyone's convinced that their lives are over just because their hearts stopped beating.” “That's usually a pretty good indication, sule.” Galladon said dryly. “Not in our case, my friend. We need to convince ourselves that we can go on. The Shaod isn't causing all the pain here-I've seen people on the outside lose hope too, and their souls end up just as emaciated as those poor wretches in the square. If we can restore even a tiny bit of hope to these people, then their lives will improve drastically.” He emphasized the word “lives.” looking Galladon right in the eyes. “The other gangs aren't just going to sit around and watch you steal all their offerings, sule,” Galladon said. “They're going to get tired of you very quickly.” “Then I'll just have to be ready for them.” Raoden nodded toward the large building around them. “This will make a rather good base of operations, wouldn't you say? It has this open room in the middle, with all of those smaller ones at the back.” Galladon squinted upward. “You could have picked a building with a roof.” “Yes, I know,” Raoden replied. “But this one suits my purpose. I wonder what it used to be.” “A church,” Galladon said. “Korathi.” “How do you know?” Raoden asked with surprise. “Has the feel, sule.” “Why would there be a Korathi church in Elantris?” Raoden argued. “The Elantrians were their own gods.” “But they were very lenient gods. There was supposed to be a grand Korathi chapel here in Elantris, the most
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beautiful of its kind. It was built as an offering of friendship to the people of Teod.” “That seems so odd,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “Gods of one religion building a monument to Domi.” “Like I said. The Elantrians were very lax gods. They didn't really care if the people worshipped them-they were secure in their divinity. Until the Reod came along. Kolo?” “You seem to know quite a bit, Galladon,” Raoden noted. “And since when has that been a sin?” Galladon said with a huff. “You've lived in Kae all your life, sule. Maybe instead of asking why I know these things, you should wonder why you don't.” “Point taken,” Raoden said, glancing to the side. Mareshe was still deeply involved in his explanation of an Elantrian's danger-fraught life. “He's not going to be done anytime soon. Come on, there's something I want to do.” “Does it involve running?” Galladon asked in a pained voice. “Only if they spot us.” Raoden recognized Aanden. It was difficult to see-the Shaod brought profound changes-but Raoden had a knack for faces. The so-called Baron of Elantris was a short man with a sizable paunch and a long drooping mustache that was obviously fake. Aanden did not look noble-of course, few noblemen Raoden knew looked very aristocratic. Regardless, Aanden was no baron. The man before Raoden, seated on a throne of gold and presiding over a court of sickly-looking Elantrians, had b1een called Taan. He had been one of Kae's finest sculptors before the Shaod took him, but he had not been of noble blood. Of course, Raoden's own father had been nothing more than a simple trader until chance had made him king. In Elantris, Taan had apparently taken advantage of a similar opportunity. The years in Elantris had not been kind to Taan. The man was blubbering incoherently to his court of rejects. “He's mad?” Raoden asked, crouched outside the window they were using to spy on Aanden's court. “We each have our own way of dealing with death, sule,” Galladon whispered. “The rumors say Aanden's insanity was a conscious decision. They say that after being thrown into Elantris he looked around and said, 'There's no way I can face this sane.' After that, he declared himself Baron Aanden of Elantris and began giving orders.” “And people follow him?” “Some do,” Galladon whispered with a shrug. “He may be mad, but so is the rest of the world-at least, to the eyes of one who's been thrown in here. Kolo? Aanden is a source of authority. Besides, maybe he was a baron on the outside.” “He wasn't. He was a sculptor.” “You knew him?” “I met him once,” Raoden said with a nod. Then he looked back at Galladon with inquisitive eyes. “Where did you hear the rumors about him?” “Can we move back first, sule?” Galladon requested. “I'd rather not end up a participant in one of Aanden's mock trials and executions.” “Mock?” “Everything's mock but the axe.” “Ah. Good idea-I've seen all I needed to.” The two
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men moved back, and as soon as they were a few streets away from the university, Galladon answered Raoden's question. “I talk to people, sule; that's where I get my information. Granted, the great majority of the city's people are Hoed, but there're enough conscious ones around to talk with. Of course, my mouth is what got me in trouble with you. Maybe if I'd kept it shut I'd still be sitting on those steps enjoying myself, rather than spying on one of the most dangerous men in the city.” “Perhaps,” Raoden said. “But you wouldn't be having half as much fun. You'd be chained to your boredom.” “I'm so glad you liberated me, sule.” “Anytime.” Raoden thought as they walked, crying to decide on a plan of action should Aanden ever come looking for him. It hadn't taken Raoden long to adjust to walking on Elantris's uneven, slime-covered streets; his still painful toe was a wonderful motivator. He was actually beginning to regard the dun-colored walls and grime as normal, which bothered him much more than the city's dirtiness ever had. “Sule,” Galladon eventually asked. “Why did you want to see Aa1nden? You couldn't have known you'd recognize him.” Raoden shook his head. “If Aanden had been a baron from the outside, I would have known him almost immediately.” “You're certain?” Raoden nodded absently. Galladon was silent for a few more streets, then spoke with sudden understanding. “Now, sule, I'm not very good with these Aons you Arelenes hold in such esteem, but unless I'm completely wrong, the Aon for 'spirit' is Rao.” “Yes,” Raoden said hesitantly. “And doesn't the king of Arelon have a son named Raoden?” “He did.” “And here you are, sule, claiming to know all the barons in Arelon. You're obviously a man with a good education, and you give commands easily.” “You could say that.” Raoden said. “Then, to top it all off, you call yourself 'Spirit.' Pretty suspicious. Kolo?” Raoden sighed. “I should have picked a different name, eh?” “By Doloken, boy! You're telling me you're the crown prince of Arelon?” “I was the crown prince of Arelon, Galladon,” Raoden corrected. “I lost the title when I died.” “No wonder you're so frustrating. I've spent my entire life trying to avoid royalty, and here I end up with you. Burning Doloken!” “Oh quiet down.” Raoden said. “It's not like I'm really royalty-it's been in the family for less than a generation.” “That's long enough,” Galladon said sullenly. “If it helps, my father didn't think I was fit to rule. He tried everything to keep me from the throne.” Galladon snorted. “I'd be scared to see the man Iadon found fit to rule. Your father's an idiot-no offense intended.” “None taken,” Raoden replied. “And I trust you'll keep my identity secret.” Galladon sighed. “If you wish.” “I do. If I'm going to do any good in Elantris, I need to win followers because they like what I'm doing, not because they feel a patriotic obligation.” Galladon nodded. “You could have at least told me, sule.” “You
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said we shouldn't talk about our pasts.” “True.” Raoden paused. “Of course, you know what this means.” Galladon eyed him suspiciously. “What?” “Now 1that you know who I was, you have to tell me who you were. It's only fair.” Galladon's response was long in coming. They had almost arrived at the church before he spoke. Raoden slowed his walk, not wanting to break off his friend's narration by arriving at their destination. He needn't have worried-Galladon's declaration was brief and pointed. “I was a farmer,” he said curtly. “A farmer?” Raoden had been expecting something more. “And an orchard-keeper. I sold my fields and bought an apple farm because I figured it would be easier-you don't have to replant trees every year.” “Was it?” Raoden asked. “Easier, I mean?” Galladon shrugged. “I thought it was, though I know a couple of wheat farmers that would argue with me until the sun set. Kolo?” The larger man looked at Raoden with an insightful eye. “You don't think I'm telling the truth about my past, do you?” Raoden smiled, spreading his hands before him. “I'm sorry, Galladon, but you just don't seem like a farmer to me. You have the build for it, but you seem too .. .” “Intelligent?” Galladon asked. “Stile, I've seen some farmers with minds so sharp you could have used their heads to scythe grain.” “I don't doubt that you have,” Raoden said. “But, intelligent or not, those types still tend to be uneducated. You are a learned man, Galladon.” “Books, stile, are a wonderful thing. A wise farmer has time to study, assuming he lives in a country such as Duladen, where men are free.” Raoden raised an eyebrow. “So, you're going to hold to this farmer story?” “It's the truth, stile,” Galladon said. “Before I became an Elantrian, I was a farmer.” Raoden shrugged. Perhaps. Galladon had been able to predict the rain, as well as do a number of other eminently practical things. Still, it seemed like there was something more, something he wasn't ready to share yet. “All right.” Raoden said appreciatively. “I believe you.” Galladon nodded curtly, his expression saying he was very glad the matter was settled. Whatever he was hiding, it wouldn't come out this day. So, instead, Raoden took the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since the first day he came into Elantris. “Galladon,” he asked, “where are the children?” “Children, sule?” “Yes, if the Shaod strikes randomly, then it should strike children as well as adults.” Galladon nodded. “It does. I've seen babes barely old enough to walk get thrown in those gates.” “Then where are they? I only see adults.” “Elan1tris is a harsh place, sule,” Galladon said quietly as they strode through the doors to Raoden's broken-down church. “Children don't last very long here.” “Yes, but...” Raoden cut himself off as he saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned with surprise. “A Seon,” Galladon said, noticing the glowing ball. “Yes,” Raoden said, watching the Seon float slowly through
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the open ceiling and spin in a lazy circle around the two men. “It's so sad how they just drift around the city like this. I ...” he trailed off, squinting slightly, trying to make out which Aon glowed at the center of the strange, silent Seon. “Stile?” Galladon asked. “Idos Domi,” Raoden whispered. “It's Ien.” “The Seon? You recognize it?” Raoden nodded, holding out his hand with the palm up. The Seon floated over and alighted on his proffered palm for a moment; then it began to float away, flitting around the room like a careless butterfly. “Ien was my Seon.” Raoden said. “Before I was thrown in here.” He could see the Aon at Ien's center now. The character looked . . . weak, somehow. It glowed unevenly, sections of the character very dim, like .. . Like the blotches on an Elantrianc skin, Raoden realized, watching Ien float away. The Seon headed for the wall of the church, continuing on until he bounced against it. The small ball of light hovered for a moment, contemplating the wall, then spun away to float in a different direction. There was an awkwardness to the Seon's motion-as if Ien could barely keep himself upright in the air. He jerked occasionally, and constantly moved in slow, dizzy loops. Raoden's stomach turned as he regarded what was left of his friend. He'd avoided thinking about Ien too much during his days in Elantris; he knew what happened to Seons when their masters were taken by the Shaod. He'd assumed-perhaps hoped-that Ien had been destroyed by the Shaod, as sometimes happened. Raoden shook his head. “Ien used to be so wise. I never knew a creature, Seon or man, more thoughtful than he…” “I'm sorry, stile,” Galladon said solemnly. Raoden held out his hand again, and the Seon approached dutifully, as it had once done for the young boy Raoden-a boy who hadn't yet learned that Seons were more valuable as friends than as servants. Does he recognize me? Raoden wondered, watching the Seon lurch slightly in the air before him. Or is it just the familiar gesture that he recognizes? Raoden would probably never know. After hovering above the palm for a second, the Seon lost interest and floated away again. “Oh, my dear friend.” Raoden whispered. “And I thought the Shaod had been harsh to me.” CHAPTER 11 ONLY five men responded to Kiin's request. Lukel sc1owled at the meager turnout. “Raoden had as many as thirty men at his meetings before he died,” the handsome merchant explained. “I didn't expect them all to come running, but five? That's barely even worth our time.” “It's enough, son,” Kiin said thoughtfully, peeking through the kitchen door. “They may be few in number, but we got the best of the lot. Those are five of the most powerful men in the nation, not to mention five of the most intelligent. Raoden had a way of attracting clever men to his side.” “Kiin, you old bear,” one of the men called from the dining room. He
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was a stately man with graying lines of silver hair who wore a sharp martial uniform. “Are you going to feed us or not? Domi knows I only came because I heard you were going to fix some of your roast ketathum.” “The pig is turning as we speak, Eondel.” Kiin called back. “And I made sure to prepare a double portion for you. Keep your stomach in check for a little while longer.” The man laughed heartily, patting his belly-which, as far as Sarene could tell, was as flat and hard as that of a man many years younger. “Who is he?” she asked. “The Count of Eon Plantation,” Kiin said. “Lukel, go check on the pork while your cousin and I gossip about our guests.” “Yes, Father,” Lukel said, accepting the poker and moving to the firepit room at the back of the kitchen. “Eondel is the only man besides Raoden that I've ever seen openly oppose the king and get away with it.” Kiin explained. “He's a military genius, and owns a small personal army. There are only a couple hundred men in it, but they're extremely well trained.” Next Kiin pointed through the slightly open door toward a man with dark brown skin and delicate features. “That man beside Eondel is Baron Shuden.” “Jindoeese?” Sarene asked. Her uncle nodded. “His family took up residence in Arelon about a century ago, and they've amassed a fortune directing the Jindoeese trade routes through the country. When Iadon came to power, he offered them a barony to keep their caravans running. Shuden's father passed away about five years ago, and the son is much more traditional than the father ever was. He thinks Iadon's method of rule contradicts the heart of Shu-Keseg, which is why he's willing to meet with us.” Sarene tapped her cheek in thought, studying Shuden. 'If his heart is as Jindoeese as his skin, Uncle, then he could be a powerful ally indeed.” “That's what your husband thought,” Kiin said. Sarene pursed her lips. “Why do you keep referring to Raoden as 'your husband'? I know I'm married. No need to keep pointing it out.” “You know it,” Kiin said in his deep-throated rasp, “but you don't believe it yet.” Either Kiin didn't see the question in her face, or he simply ignored it, for he continued with his explanations as if he hadn't just made an infuriatingly unfair judgment. “Beside Shuden is the Duke Roial of Ial Plantation,” Kiin said, nodding to the oldest man in the room. 'His holdings include the port of Iald-a city that is second only to Kae in wealth. He's the most powerful man in the room, and probably the wisest as well. He's been loath to take action against the king, however. Roial and Iadon have been friends since before the Reod.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “Why does he come, then?” “Roial is a good man,” Kiin explained. “Friendship or not, he knows that Iadon's rule has been horrible for this nation. That, and I suspect he also comes because
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of boredom.” “He engages in traitorous conferences simply because he's bored?” Sarene asked incredulously. Her uncle shrugged. “When you've been around as long as Roial, you have trouble finding things to keep you interested. Politics is so ingrained in the duke that he probably can't sleep at night unless he's involved in at least five different wild schemes-he was governor of Iaid before the Reod, and was the only Elantris-appointed official to remain in power after the uprising. He's fabulously wealthy-the only way Iadon keeps ahead is by including national tax revenues in his own earnings.” Sarene studied the duke as the group of men laughed at one of Roial's comments. He seemed different from other elderly statesmen she had met: Roial was boisterous instead of reserved, almost more mischievous than distinguished. Despite the duke's diminutive frame, he dominated the conversation, his thin locks of powder-white hair bouncing as he laughed. One man, however, didn't seem captivated by the duke's company. “Who is that sitting next to Duke Roial?” “The portly man?” “Portly?” Sarene said with a raised eyebrow. The man was so overweight his stomach bulged over the sides of his chair. “That's how we fat men describe one another,” Kiin said with a smile. “But Uncle,” Sarene said with a sweet grin. “You're not fat. You're . . . robust.” Kiin laughed a scratchy-throated chuckle. “All right, then. The 'robust' gentleman next to Roial is Count Ahan. You wouldn't know it by watching them, but he and the duke are very good friends. Either that or they're very old enemies. I can never remember which it is.” “There's a bit of a distinction there, Uncle,” Sarene pointed out. “Not really. The two of them have been squabbling and sparring for so long that neither one would know what to do without the other. You should have seen their faces when they realized they were both on the same side of this particular argument-Raoden laughed for days after that first meeting. Apparently, he'd gone to them each separately and gained their support, and they both came to that first meeting with the belief they were outdoing the other.” “So why do they keep coming?” “Well, they both seem to agree with our point of view-not to mention the fact that they really do enjoy one another's company. That or they just want to keep an eye on each other.” Kiin shrugged. “Either way they help us, so we don't complain.” “And the last man?” Sarene asked, studying the table's final occupant. He was lean, with a balding head and a pair of very fidgety eyes. The others didn't let nervousness show; they laughed and spoke together as if they were meeting to discuss bird-watching rather than treason. This last man, however, wiggled in his seat uncomfortably, his eyes in constant motion-as if he were trying to determine the easiest way to escape. “Edan,” Kiin said, his lips turning downward. “Baron of Tii Plantation to the south. I've never liked him, but he's probably one of our strongest supporters.” “Why is he
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so nervous?” “Iadon's system of government lends itself well to greed-the better a noble does financially, the more likely he is to be granted a better title. So, the minor nobles squabble like children, each one trying to find new ways to milk their subjects and increase their holdings. “The system also encourages financial gambling. Edan's fortune was never very impressive-his holdings border the Chasm, and the lands nearby just aren't very fertile. In an attempt to gain a bit more status. Edan made some risky investments-but lost them. Now he doesn't have the wealth to back his nobility.” “He might lose his title?” “Not 'might'-he's going to lose it as soon as the next tax period comes around and Iadon realizes just how poor the baron's become. Edan has about three months to either discover a gold mine in his backyard or overthrow Iadon's system of allocating noble titles.” Kiin scratched his face, as if looking for whiskers to pulI in thought. Sarene smiled-ten years might have passed since the burly man's face had held a beard, but old habits were more diffieult to shave away. “Edan is desperate,” Kiin continued, “and desperate people do things completely out of character. I don't trust him, but of all the men in that room, he's probably the most anxious for us to succeed.” “Which would mean?” Sarene asked. “What exactly do these men expect to accomplish?” Kiin shrugged. “They'll do about anything to get rid of this silly system that requires them to prove their wealth. Noblemen will be nobleman, 'Ene-they're worried about maintaining their place in society.” Further discussion was halted as a voice called from the dining room. “Kiin,” Duke Roial noted pointedly. “we could have raised our own hogs and had them slaughtered in the time this is taking you.” “Good meals take time, Roial,” Kiin huffed, sticking his head out the kitchen door. “If you think you can do better, you're welcome to come cook your own.” The duke assured him that wouldn't be necessary. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait much longer. Kiin soon proclaimed the pig cooked to perfection, and ordered Lukel to begin cutting it. The rest of the meal quickly followed-a feast 1so large it would even have satisfied Kaise, if her father hadn't ordered her and the other children to visit their aunt's house for the evening. “You're still determined to join us?” Kiin asked Sarene as he reentered the kitchen to grab the final dish. “Yes.” Sarene said firmly. “This isn't Teod, Sarene.” Kiin said. “The men here are a lot more ... traditional. They don't feel it's proper for a woman to be involved in politics.” “This from a man who's doing the evening's cooking?” Sarene asked. Kiin smiled. “Good point.” he noted in his scratchy voice. Someday, she would have to find out what had happened to his throat. “I can handle myself, Uncle,” Sarene said. “Roial isn't the only one who likes a good challenge.” “All right, then,” Kiin said, picking up a large steaming bean dish. “Let's go.” Kiin
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led the way through the kitchen doors and then, after setting down the plate, gestured to Sarene. “Everyone. I'm sure you've all met my niece, Sarene, princess of our realm.” Sarene curtsied to Duke Roial, then nodded to the others, before taking her seat. “I was wondering who that extra seat was for,” mumbled the aged Roial. “Niece, Kiin? You have connections to the Teoish throne?” “Oh come now!” The overweight Ahan laughed merrily. “Don't tell me you don't know Kiin is old Eventeo's brother? My spies told me that years ago.” “I was being polite, Ahan,” Roial said. “It's bad form to spoil a man's surprise just because your spies are efficient.” “Well, it's also bad form to bring an outsider to a meeting of this nature,” Ahan pointed out. His voice was still happy, but his eyes were quite serious. All faces turned toward Kiin, but it was Sarene who answered. “One would think that after such a drastic reduction in your numbers, my lord, you would appreciate additional support-no matter how unfamiliar, or how feminine, it may be.” The table went silent at her words, ten eyes studying her through the steam rising from Kiin's several masterpieces. Sarene felt herself grow tense beneath their unaccepting gaze. These men knew just how quickly a single error could bring destruction upon their houses. One did nor dabble lightly with treason in a country where civil upheaval was a fresh memory. Finally, Duke Roial laughed, the chuckle echoing lightly from his slight frame. “I knew it!” he proclaimed. “My dear, no person could possibly be as stupid as you made yourself out to be-not even the queen herself is that empty-headed.” Sarene pasted a smile over her nervousness. “I believe you're wrong about Queen Eshen, Your Grace. She's simply ... energetic.” Ahan snorted. “If that's what you want to call it.” Then, as it appeared no one else was going to begin, he shrugged and began helping himself to the food. Roial, however, did 1not follow his rival's lead; mirth had not erased his concerns. He folded his hands in front of himself and regarded Sarene with a very practiced gaze. “You may be a fine actress, my dear,” the duke said as Ahan reached in front of him to grab a basket of rolls, “but I see no reason why you should attend this dinner. Through no fault of your own, you are young and inexperienced. The things we say tonight will be very dangerous to hear and even more dangerous to remember. An unnecessary set of ears-no matter how pretty the head to which they are attached-will not help.” Sarene narrowed her eyes, trying to decide whether the duke was attempting to provoke her or not. Roial was as hard a man to read as any she had ever met. “You'll find that I am hardly inexperienced, my lord. In Teod we don't shelter our women behind a curtain of weaving and embroidering. I have spent years serving as a diplomat.” “True.” Roial said, “but you are hardly familiar with
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the delicate political situations here in Arelon.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “I have often found, my lord, that a fresh, unbiased opinion is an invaluable tool in any discussion.” “Don't be silly, girl,” spat the still nervous Edan as he filled his plate. “I'm not going to risk my safety simply because you want to assert your liberated nature.” A dozen snide retorts snapped to Sarene's lips. However, even as she was deciding which was the most witty, a new voice entered the debate. “I beseech you, my lords,” said the young Jindo, Shuden. His words were very soft, but still distinct. “Answer me a question. Is ‘girl' the proper title for one who, had things turned out a bit differently, might have been our queen?” Forks stopped on the way to mouths, and once again Sarene found herself the focus of the room's attention. This time, however, the looks were slightly more appreciative. Kiin nodded, and Lukel shot her an encouraging smile. “I warn you, my lords,” Shuden continued, “forbid her or accept her as you will, but do not treat her with disrespect. Her Arelish title is no stronger and no more flimsy than our own. Where we ignore one, we must ignore all others.” Sarene blushed furiously on the inside, chastising herself. She had overlooked her most valuable asset-her marriage to Raoden. She had been a Teoish princess all her life: the position formed the cornerstone of who she was. Unfortunately, that self-concept was outdated. She was no longer just Sarene, daughter of Teod: she was also Sarene, wife to the crown prince of Arelon. “I applaud your caution, my lords,” she said. “You have good reason to be careful-you have lost your patron, the only man who could have given you a measure of protection. Remember, however, that I am his wife. I am no substitute for the prince, but I am still a connection to the throne. Not just this throne, but others as well.” “That's well and good, Sarene,” Roial said, “but 'connections' and promises will do us little good in the face of the king's wrath.” “Little good is not the same as no good, my lord,” Sarene replied. Then, in a softer, less argumentative tone, she continued. “My lord duke. I will never know the man that I now call my husband. You all respected and, if I am to believe my uncle, loved Raoden-but I, who should have come to love him best, can never even meet him. This work in which you are involved was his passion. I want to be a part of it. If I cannot know Raoden, at least let me share his dreams.” Roial watched her for a second, and she knew that he was measuring her sincerity. The duke was not a man to be fooled by mock sentimentality. Eventually, he nodded and began cutting himself a piece of pork. “I have no problem with her staying.” “Neither do I,” Shuden said. Sarene looked at the others. Lukel was smiling openly at her speech, and the stately
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mercenary Lord Eondel was nearly in tears. “I give my assent to the lady.” “Well, if Roial wants her here, then I have to object out of principle,” Ahan said with a laugh. “But, happily, it looks as if I'm outvoted.” He winked at her with a broad smile. “I get tired of looking at the same crusty old faces anyway.” “Then she stays?” Edan asked with surprise. “She stays,” Kiin said. Her uncle still hadn't touched his meal. He wasn't the only one-neither Shuden nor Eondel had begun to eat either. As soon as the debate ended, Shuden bowed his head in a short prayer, then turned to eating. Eondel, however, waited until Kiin had taken his first bite-a fact Sarene noticed with interest. Despite Roial's higher rank, the meeting was at Kiin's home. According to the older traditions, it should have been his privilege to eat first. Only Eondel, however, had waited. The others were probably so accustomed to being the most important person at their respective tables that they gave no thought to when they should eat. After the intensity of the debate surrounding Sarene's place, or lack thereof, the lords were quick to turn their minds to a topic less controversial. “Kiin,” Roial declared, “this is by far the best meal I have eaten in decades.” “You humble me, Roial,” Kiin said. He apparently avoided calling the others by their titles-but, oddly, none of them seemed to mind. “I agree with Lord Roial, Kiin,” Eondel said. “No chef in this country can outdo you.” “Arelon is a large place, Eondel,” Kiin said. “Be careful not to encourage me too much, lest you find someone better and disappoint me.” “Nonsense,” Eondel said. “I can't believe that you make all of it by yourself,” Ahan said with a shake of his large round head. “I'm absolutely certain that you have a fleet of Jaadorian chefs hiding underneath one of those counters back there.” Roial snorted. “Just because it keeps an army of men to keep you fed, Ahan, doesn't mean that a single cook isn't satisfactory for the rest of us.” Then, to Kiin, he continued. “Stil1l, Kiin, it is very odd of you to insist on doing this all yourself. Couldn't you at least hire an assistant?” “I enjoy it, Roial. Why would I let someone else steal my pleasure?” “Besides, my lord,” Lukel added. “it gives the king chest pains every time he hears that a man as wealthy as my father does something as mundane as cook.” “Quite clever,” Ahan agreed. “Dissidence through subservience.” Kiin held up his hands innocently. “All I know, my lords, is that a man can take care of himself and his family quite easily without any assistance, no matter how wealthy he supposedly is.” “Supposedly, my friend?” Eondel laughed. “The little bit you let us see is enough to earn you a barony at least. Who knows, maybe if you told everyone how much you're really worth we wouldn't have to worry about Iadon-you'd be king.” “Your assumptions are a bit inflated.
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Eondel,” Kiin said. 'I'm just a simple man who likes to cook.” Roial smiled. “A simple man who likes to cook-and whose brother is king of Teod, whose niece is now the daughter of two kings, and whose wife is a ranked noblewoman in our own court.” “I can't help that I'm related to important people,” Kiin said. “Merciful Domi gives us each different trials.” “Speaking of trials,” Eondel said, turning eyes on Sarene. “Has Your Ladyship decided what to do for her Trial yet?” Sarene furled her brow in confusion. “Trial, my lord?” “Yes, uh, your .. .” The dignified man looked to the side, a bit embarrassed. “He's talking about your Widow's Trial,” Roial explained. Kiin shook his head. “Don't tell me you expect her to perform one of those, Roial? She never even met Raoden-it's preposterous to expect her to go through mourning, let alone a Trial.” Sarene felt herself grow annoyed. No matter how much she claimed she enjoyed surprises, she didn't like the way this conversation was going. “Would one of you please explain exactly what this Trial is?” she requested in a firm voice. “When an Arelish noblewoman is widowed, my lady.” Shuden explained, “she is expected to perform a Trial.” “So what am I supposed to do?” Sarene asked, frowning. She did not like unfulfilled duties hanging over her. “Oh, hand out some food or blankets to the poor,” Ahan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No one expects you to take any real interest in the process, it's just one of the traditions that Iadon decided to hold over from the old days-the Elantrians used to do something similar whenever one of their kind died. I never liked the custom myself. It seems to me we shouldn't encourage the people to look forward to our deaths: it doesn't bode well for an aristocrat's popularity to be at its greatest just after he dies.” “I think it's a fine tradition, Lord Ahan,” Eondel said. Ahan chuckled. “You would, Eondel. You're so conservative that even your socks are more traditional than the rest of us.” “I can't believe no one's told me about it,” Sarene said, still annoyed. “Well,” Ahan said, “perhaps somebody would have mentioned it to you if you didn't spend all of your time holed up in the palace or in Kiin's house.” “What else am I supposed to do?” “Arelon has a fine court, Princess,” Eondel said. “I believe there have been two balls since you arrived, and there is another happening as we speak.” “Well, why didn't anyone invite me?” she asked. “Because you're in mourning,” Roial explained. “Besides, the invitations only go out to men, who in turn bring their sisters and wives.” Sarene frowned. “You people are so backward.” “Not backward, Your Highness.” Ahan said. “Just traditional. If you like, we could arrange to have some men invite you.” “Wouldn't that look bad?” Sarene asked. “Me, nor even a week widowed, accompanying some young bachelor to a party?” “She has a point,' Kiin noted. “Why don't you
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all take me?” Sarene asked. “Us?” Roial asked. “Yes, you,” Sarene said. “Your Lordships are old enough that people won't talk too much-you'll just be introducing a young friend to the joys of court life.” “Many of these men are married. Your Highness,” Shuden said. Sarene smiled. “What a coincidence. So am I.” “Don't worry about our honor, Shuden,” Roial said. “I'll make the princess's intentions known, and as long as she doesn't go with any one of us too often, no one will infer much from it.” “Then it's settled.” Sarene decided with a smile. “I'll be expecting to hear from each of you, my lords. It's essential that I get to these parties-if I am ever going to fit into Arelon, then I'll need to get to know the aristocracy.” There was general agreement, and the conversation turned to other topics, such as the upcoming lunar eclipse. As they spoke, Sarene realized that her question about the mysterious “Trial” hadn't yielded much information. She would have to corner Kiin later. Only one man wasn't enjoying the conversation or, apparently, the meal. Lord Edan had filled his plate, but had barely taken a few bites. Instead, he poked at his food with dissatisfaction, mixing the different dishes into an adulterated mush only vaguely resembling the delicacies Kiin had prepared. “I thought we had decided not to meet anymore.” Eda1n finally blurted out, the comment forcing its way into the conversation like an elk wandering into the middle of a pack of wolves. The others paused, turning toward Edan. “We had decided not to meet for a while, Lord Edan.” Eondel said. “We never intended to stop meeting completely.” “You should be happy, Edan,' Ahan said, waving a fork topped with a chunk of pork. “You, of all people, should be eager to keep these meetings going. How long is it before the next taxing period arrives?” “I believe it is on the first day of Eostek, Lord Ahan,' Eondel said helpfully. “Which would put it just under three months away.” Ahan smiled. “Thank you, Eondel-you're such a useful man to have around. Always knowing things that are proper and such. Anyway ... three months. Edan. How are the coffers doing? You know how picky the king's auditors are....” Edan squirmed even more beneath the count's brutal mockery. It appeared that he was quite aware of his time constraints-yet, at the same time, he seemed to be trying to forget his troubles in the hope that they would disappear. The conflict was visible in his face, and Ahan seemed to take great pleasure in watching. “Gentlemen,” Kiin said, “we are not here to squabble. Remember that we all have much to gain from reform-including stability for our country and freedom for our people.” “The good baron does bring up a valid concern, however,” Duke Roial said, sitting back in his chair. “Despite this young lady's promise of aid, we are completely exposed without Raoden. The people loved the prince-even if Iadon had discovered our meetings, he could never have taken action against
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Raoden.” Ahan nodded. “We don't have the power to oppose the king anymore. We were gaining strength before-it probably wouldn't have been long before we had enough of the nobility to go public. Now, however, we have nothing.” “You still have a dream, my lord,” Sarene said quietly. “That is hardly nothing.” “A dream?” Ahan said with a laugh. “The dream was Raoden's, my lady. We were just along to see where he took us.” “I can't believe that, Lord Ahan,” Sarene said with a frown. “Perhaps Her Highness would tell us what that dream is?” Shuden requested, his voice inquisitive but not argumentative. “You are intelligent men, dear lords,” Sarene replied. “You have the brains and the experience to know that a country cannot withstand the stress that Iadon is placing on it. Arelon is not a business to be run with a grip of steel-it is much more than its production minus its costs. The dream, my lords, is an Arelon whose people work with her king, instead of against him.” “A fine observation, Princess,” Roial said. His tone, however, was dismissive. He turned to the others, and they continued talking-every one of them politely ignoring Sarene. They had allowed her into the meeting, but they obviously didn't intend to let her join the discussion. She sat back with annoyance.1 “... having a goal is not the same thing as having the means to accomplish it.” Roial was saying. “I believe that we should wait-to let my old friend run himself into a corner before we move in to help.” “But Iadon will destroy Arelon in the process, Your Grace,” Lukel objected. “The more time we give him, the harder it will be to recover.” “I do not see another option.” Roial said with raised hands. “We cannot continue to move against the king in the way we were.” Edan jumped slightly at the proclamation, sweat forming on his brow. He was finally beginning to realize that, dangerous or not, continuing to meet was a much better choice than waiting for Iadon to strip him of rank. “You have a point, Roial.” Ahan grudgingly admitted. “The prince's original plan will never work now. We won't be able to pressure the king unless we have at least half of the nobility-and their fortunes-on our side.” “There is another way, my lords,” Eondel said with a hesitant voice. “What is that, Eondel?” the duke asked. “It would take me less than two weeks to gather the legion from their watch points along the nation's highways. Monetary might isn't the only kind of power.” “Your mercenaries could never stand against Arelon's armies,” Ahan scoffed. “Iadon's military might be small compared to those of some kingdoms, but it's far larger than your few hundred men-especially if the king calls in the Elantris City Guard.” “Yes, Lord Ahan, you are correct,” Eondel agreed. “However, if we strike quickly-while Iadon is still ignorant of our intentions-we could get my legion into the palace and take the king hostage.” “Your men would have to fight their way
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into the king's quarters,” Shuden said. “Your new government would be born out of the blood of the old, as Iadon's rule was birthed from the death of Elantris. You would set the cycle again for another fall, Lord Eondel. As soon as one revolution achieves its goal, another will begin to scheme. Blood, death, and coups will only lead to further chaos. There must be a way to persuade Iadon without resorting to anarchy.” “There is.” Sarene said. Annoyed eyes turned her direction. They still assumed she was simply there to listen. They should have known better. “I agree.” Roial said, turning away from Sarene, “and that way is to wait.” “No, my lord.” Sarene countered. “I am sorry, but that is not the answer. I have seen the people of Arelon, and while there is still hope in their eyes, it is growing weak. Give Iadon time, and he will create the despondent peasants he desires.” Roial's mouth turned downward. He had probably intended to be in control, now that Raoden was gone. Sarene hid her smile of satisfaction: Roial had been the first to allow her in, and therefore he would have to let her spe1ak. Refusing to listen now would show that he had been wrong to grant her his support. “Speak, Princess.” the old man said with reservation. “My lords,” Sarene said in a frank voice, “you have been trying to find a way to overthrow Iadon's system of rule, a system that equates wealth with ability to lead. You claim it is unwieldy and unfair-that its foolishness is a torture to the Arelish people.” “Yes.” Roial said curtly. “And?” “Well, if Iadon's system is so bad, why worry about overthrowing it? Why not let the system overthrow itself?” “What do you mean, Lady Sarene?” Eondel asked with interest. “Turn Iadon's own creation against him, and force him to acknowledge its faults. Then, hopefully, you can work out one that is more stable and satisfactory.” “Interesting, but impossible.” Ahan said with a shake of his many-jowled face. “Perhaps Raoden could have done it, but we are too few.” “No, you're perfect,” Sarene said, rising from her chair and strolling around the table. “What we want to do, my lords, is make the other aristocrats jealous. That won't work if we have too many on our side.” “Speak on,” Eondel said. “What is the biggest problem with Iadon's system?” Sarene asked. “It encourages the lords to treat their people brutally,” Eondel said. “King Iadon threatens the noblemen, taking away the titles of those who do not produce. So, in turn, the lords grow desperate, and they beat extra effort out of their people.” “It is an unconscionable arrangement,” Shuden agreed. “one based on greed and fear rather than loyalty.” Sarene continued to stroll around the table. “Have any of you looked at Arelon's production charts over the last ten years?” “Is there such a thing?” Ahan asked. Sarene nodded. “We keep them in Teod. Would you be surprised to find, my lords, that Arelon's level of production has
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plummeted since Iadon took control?” “Not at all.” Ahan said. “We've had quite the decade of misfortune.” “Kings make their own misfortune, Lord Ahan,” Sarene said with a cutting motion of her hand. “The saddest thing about Iadon's system is not what it does to the people, nor is it the fact that it destroys the morality of the country. No, most pitiful is the fact that it does both of these things without making the noblemen any richer. We have no slaves in Teod, my lords, and we get along just fine. In fact, not even Fjorden uses a serf-based system anymore. They found something better-they discovered that a man will work much more productively when he works for himself.” Sarene let the words hang in the air for a moment. The lords sat thoughtfully. “Continue,” Roial finally said. “The planting season is upon us, my lords,” Sarene sad. “I want you to divide your land amongst your peasants. Give them each a section of field, and tell them they can keep ten percent of whatever that land produces. Tell them that you will even let them buy their homes and the land they occupy.” “That would be a very difficult thing to do, young princess.” Roial said. “I'm not done yet,” Sarene said. “I want you to feed your people well, my lords. Give them clothing and supplies.” “We are not beasts, Sarene.” Ahan warned. “Some lords treat their peasants poorly, but we would never accept such into our fellowship. The people on our lands have food to eat and clothing to keep them warm.” “That may be true, my lord,” Sarene continued, “but the people must feel that you love them. Do not trade them to other nobles or squabble over them. Let the peasants know that you care, and they will give you their hearts and their sweat. Prosperity need not be limited to a small percentage of the population.” Sarene reached her seat and stood behind it. The lords were thinking-that was good-but they were scared as well. “It will be risky.” Shuden ventured. “As risky as attacking Iadon with Lord Eondel's army?” Sarene asked. “If this doesn't work, you lose a bit of money and some pride. If the honorable general's plan doesn't work, you lose your heads.” “She has a point,” Ahan agreed. “A good one,” Eondel said. There was relief in his eyes: soldier or not, he didn't want to attack his countrymen. “I will do it.” “That's easy for you to say, Eondel.” Edan said, wiggling in his seat. “You can always just order your legion to work on the farms when the peasants turn lazy.” “My men are policing our country's highways, Lord Edan.” Eondel huffed. “Their service there is invaluable.” “And you are handsomely rewarded for it,” Edan sparred. “I have no income but that of my farms-and while my lands look big, I've got that blasted crack running right through the center of them. I don't have any room for laziness. If my potatoes don't get planted, weeded, and harvested,
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then I will lose my title.” “You'll probably lose it anyway,” Ahan said with a helpful smile. “Enough, Ahan,” Roial ordered. “Edan has a point. How can we be certain the peasants will produce more if we give them so much liberty?” Edan nodded. “I have found the Arelish peasantry to be a lazy, unproductive lot. The only way I can get enough work out of them is by force.” “They aren't lazy, my lord,” Sarene said. “They are angry. Ten years is not so long a time, and these people can remember what it is to be their own masters. Give them the promise of autonomy, and they w1ill work hard to achieve it. You will be surprised how much more profitable an independent man is than a slave who thinks of nothing more than his next meal. After all, which situation would make you more likely to be productive?” The nobles mused over her words. “Much of what you say makes sense,” Shuden noted. “But, Lady Sarene's evidence is vague,” Roial said. “Times were different before the Reod. The Elantrians provided food, and the land could survive without a peasant class. We no longer have that luxury.” “Then help me find evidence, my lord,” Sarene said. “Give me a few months and we will create our own proof.” “We will ... consider your words.” Roial said. “No, Lord Roial, you will make a decision,” Sarene said. “Beneath everything else, I believe that you are a patriot. You know what is right, and this is it. Don't tell me you've never felt any guilt for what you have done to this country.” Sarene regarded Roial anxiously. The elderly duke had impressed her, but there was no way for her to be sure he felt ashamed for Arelon. She had to depend on her impression that his heart was good, and that in his long life he had seen and understood how far his country had fallen. The collapse of Elantris had been a catalyst, but the greed of the nobility had been the true destroyer of this once grand nation. “We have all been blinded at one time or another by Iadon's promises of weaIth,” Shuden said with his soft, wise voice. “I will do as Her Highness asks.” Then the brown-skinned man turned his eyes on Roial and nodded. His acceptance had given the duke an opportunity to agree without losing too much face. “All right,” the elderly duke said with a sigh. “You are a wise man, Lord Shuden. If you find merit in this plan, then I will follow it as well.” “I suppose we have no choice,” Edan said. “It's better than waiting, Lord Edan.” Eondel noted. “True. I agree as well.” “That leaves me,” Ahan said with a sudden realization. “Oh, my. What shall I do?” “Lord Roial agreed only grudgingly, my lord,” Sarene said. “Don't tell me you are going to do the same?” Ahan bellowed a laugh, his entire frame shaking. “What a delightful girl you are! Well, then, I guess I have to
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accept wholeheartedly, with the admonition chat I knew she was right all along. Now, Kiin, please tell me you haven't forgotten dessert. I've heard such lovely things about your confections.” “Forget dessert?” her uncle rasped. “Ahan, you wound me.” He smiled as he rose from his chair and moved toward the kitchen. “She is good at this, Kiin-perhaps better than I am.” It was Duke Roial's voice. Sarene froze: she had gone looking for the washroom after bidding everyone farewell, and had expected them to be gone by now. “She is a very special young woman,” Kiin agreed. Their voices were coming from the kitchen. Silently, Sarene slipped forward and listened outside the door. “She neatly slipped control away from me, and I still don't know where I went wrong. You should have warned me.” “And let you escape, Roial?” Kiin said with a laugh. “It's been a long time since anyone, including Ahan, got the better of you. It does a man good to realize he can still be taken by surprise once in a while.” “She nearly lost it near the end there, though,” Roial said. “I don't like being backed into corners, Kiin.” “It was a calculated risk, my lord,” Sarene said, pushing open the door and strolling in. Her appearance didn't give the duke even a moment's pause. “You all but threatened me, Sarene. That is no way to make an ally-especially of a crotchety old man such as myself.” The duke and Kiin were sharing a bottle of Fjordell wine at the kitchen table, and their manner was even more relaxed than the dinner had been. “A few days wouldn't have hurt our position, and I certainly would have given you my support. I've found that thoughtful, well-considered commitment is much more productive than spurious professions.” Sarene nodded, slipping a glass from one of Kiin's shelves and pouring herself some wine before sitting. “I understand. Roial.” If he could drop formalities, then so could she. “But the others look to you. They trust your judgment. I needed more than your support-which, by the way, I know you would have given-I needed your open support. The others had to see you accept the plan before they would agree. It wouldn't have had the same impact a few days later.” “Perhaps,” Roial said. “One thing is certain. Sarene-you give us hope again. Raoden was our unity before: now you will take his place. Kiin or I couldn't do it. Kiin has refused nobility for too long-no matter what they say, the people still want a leader with a title. And me ... they all know that I helped Iadon start this monstrosity that has slowly killed our country.” “That was long ago, Roial,” Kiin said clasping the elderly duke on the shoulder. “No,” Roial said with a shake of his head. “As the fair princess said, ten years isn't long in the life span of nations. I am guilty of a grave mistake.” “We will make it right, Roial,” Kiin said. “This plan is a good one-perhaps even better
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than Raoden's.” Roial smiled. “She would have made him a fine wife, Kiin.” Kiin nodded. “Fine indeed-and an even better queen. Domi moves in ways that are sometimes strange to our mortal minds.” “I'm not convinced it was Domi's will that took him from us, Uncle,” Sarene said over her wine. “Have either of you ever wondered if, perhaps, someone might have been behind the prince's death?” “The answer to that question borders on treason, Sarene,” Kiin warned. “Any more than the other things we have s1aid tonight?” “We were only accusing the king of greed, Sarene,” Roial said. “The murder of his own son is another matter entirely.” “Think about it, though,” Sarene said, waving her hand in a wide gesture, and nearly spilling her wine. “The prince took a contrary stance on everything his father did-he ridiculed Iadon in court, he planned behind the king's back, and he had the love of the people. Most importantly, everything he said about Iadon was true. Is that the kind of person a monarch can afford to have running free?” “Yes, but his own son?” Roial said with a disbelieving shake of his head. “It wouldn't be the first time such a thing has happened,” Kiin said. “True,” Roial said. “But, I don't know if the prince was as much of a problem to Iadon as you assume. Raoden wasn't so much rebellious as he was critical. He never said that Iadon shouldn't be king, he simply claimed that Arelon's government was in trouble-which it is.” “Weren't either of you even a little suspicious when you heard the prince was dead?” Sarene asked, contemplatively sipping her wine. “It came at such a convenient time. Iadon has the benefit of an alliance with Teod, but now he doesn't have to worry about Raoden producing any heirs.” Roial looked at Kiin, who shrugged. “I think we have to at least consider the possibility, Roial.” Roial nodded regretfully. “So what do we do? Try and find proof that Iadon executed his son?” “Knowledge will bring strength.” Sarene said simply. “Agreed,” Kiin said. “You, however, are the only one of us with free access to the palace.” “I'll poke around and see what I can uncover.” “Is it possible he isn't dead?” Roial asked. 'It would have been easy enough to find a look-alike for the casket-the coughing shivers is a very disfiguring disease.” “It's possible,” Sarene said doubtfully. “But you don't believe it.” Sarene shook her head. “When a monarch decides to destroy a rival, he usually makes sure to do so in a permanent way. There are too many stories about lost heirs that reappear after twenty years in the wilderness to claim their rightful throne.” “Still, perhaps Iadon isn't as brutal as you assume,” Roial said. “He was a better man, once-never what I would call a good man, but not a bad one either. Just greedy. Something's happened to him over the last few years, something that has ... changed him. Still, I think there remains enough compassion in Iadon to keep him
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from murdering his own son.” “All right,” Sarene said. “I'll send Ashe to search through the royal dungeons. He's so meticulous he'll know the name of every rat in the place before he's satisfied.” “Your Seon?” Roial realized. “Where is he?” “I sent him to Elantris.” “Elantris?” Kiin asked. “That Fjordell gyorn is interested in Elantris for some reason.” Sarene explained. “And I make it my business never to ignore what a gyorn finds interesting.” “You seem to be rather preoccupied with a single priest, 'Ene,” Kiin said. “Not a priest, Uncle.” Sarene corrected. “A full gyorn.” “Still only one man. How much damage can he do?” “Ask the Duladen Republic,” Sarene said. “I think this is the same gyorn who was involved in that disaster.” “There's no sure evidence that Fjorden was behind the collapse,” Roial noted. “There is in Teod, but no one else would believe it. Just believe me when I tell you that this single gyorn could be more dangerous than Iadon.” The comment struck a lull in the conversation. Time passed silently, the three nobles drinking their wine in thought until Lukel entered, having traveled to retrieve his mother and siblings. He nodded to Sarene and bowed to the duke before pouring himself a cup of wine. “Look at you,” Lukel said to Sarene as he took a seat. “A confident member of the boys' club.” “Leader of it, more truthfully.” Roial noted. “Your mother?” Kiin asked. “Is on her way,” Lukel said. “They weren't finished, and you know how Mother is. Everything must be done in its proper order no rushing allowed.” Kiin nodded, downing the last of his wine. “Then you and I should get to cleaning before she returns. We wouldn't want her to see what a mess our collected noble friends have made of the dining room.” Lukel sighed, giving Sarene a look that suggested he sometimes wished he lived in a traditional household-one with servants, or at least women, to do such things. Kiin was already moving, however, and his son had no choice but to follow. “Interesting family,” Roial said, watching them go. “Yes. A little odd even by Teoish standards.” “Kiin had a long life on his own.” the duke observed. “It accustomed him to doing things by himself. He once hired a cook, I hear, but grew frustrated with the woman's methods. I seem to recall that she quit before he had the heart to fire her-she claimed she couldn't work in such a demanding environment.” Sarene laughed. “That sounds appropriate.” Roial smiled, but continued in a more serious tone. “Sarene, we are indeed fortunate. You might very well be our last chance for saving Arelon.” “Thank you, Your Grace,” Sarene said, flushing despite herself. “This country will not last much longer. A few months, maybe, a half a year if we are lucky.” Sarene's brow furled. “But, I thought you wanted to wait. At least, that's what you told the others.” Roial made a dismissive gesture. “I'd convinced myself that little could be gained by their aid-Edan and
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Ahan are too contrary, and Shuden and Eondel are both too inexperienced. I wanted to mollify them while Kiin and I decided what to do. I fear our plans may have centered around more ... dangerous methods. Now, however, there is another chance. If your plan works-though I'm still not convinced that it will-we might be able to forestall collapse for a little longer. I'm not sure: ten years of Iadon's rule has built momentum. It will be difficult to change it in only a few months' time.” “I think we can do it, Roial,” Sarene said. “Just make sure you don't get ahead of yourself, young lady.” Roial said, eyeing her. “Do not dash if you only have the strength to walk, and do not waste your time pushing on walls that will not give. More importantly, don't shove where a pat would be sufficient. You backed me into a corner today. I'm still a prideful old man. If Shuden hadn't saved me, I honestly can't say if I would have been humble enough to acknowledge fault in front of all those men.” “I'm sorry,” Sarene said, now blushing for another reason. There was something about this powerful, yet grandfatherly, old duke that made her suddenly desperate to have his respect. “Just be careful,” Roial said. “If this gyorn is as dangerous as you claim, then there are some very powerful forces moving through Kae. Do not let Arelon get crushed between them.” Sarene nodded, and the duke leaned back, pouring the last of the wine into his cup. CHAPTER 12 EARLY in his career, Hrathen had found it difficult to accept other languages. Fjordell was Jaddeth's own chosen tongue-it was holy, while other languages were profane. How, then, did one convert those who didn't speak Fjordell? Did one speak to them in their own Ianguage, or did one force all true supplicants to study Fjordell first? It seemed foolish to require an entire nation to learn a new language before allowing them to hear of Jaddeth's empire. So, when forced to make the decision between profanity and infinite delay, Hrathen chose profanity. He had learned to speak Aonic and Duladen, and had even picked up a little Jindoeese. When he taught, he taught the people in their own tongue-though, admittedly, it still bothered him to do so. What if they never learned? What if his actions made people think that they didn't need Fjordell, since they could learn of Jaddeth in their mother language? These thoughts, and many like them, passed through Hrathen's mind as he preached to the people of Kae. It wasn't that he lacked focus or dedication; he had simply given the same speeches so many times that they had become rote. He spoke almost unconsciously, raising and lowering his voice to the rhythm of the sermon, performing the an1cient art that was a hybrid offspring of prayer and theater. When he urged, they responded with cheers. When he condemned, they looked at one another with shame. When he raised his voice, they focused their attendon, and
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when he lowered it to a bare whisper, they were even more captivated. It was as if he controlled the ocean waves themselves, emotion surging through the crowd like froth-covered tides. He finished with a stunning admonition to serve in Jaddeth's kingdom, to swear themselves as odiv or krondet to one of the priests in Kae, thereby becoming part of the chain that linked them directly to Lord Jaddeth. The common people served the Arteths and Dorven, the Arteths and Dorven served the Gradors, the Gradors served the Ragnats, the Ragnats served the Gyorns, the Gyorns served Wyrn, and Wyrn served Jaddeth. Only the Gragdets-leaders of the monasteries-weren't directly in the line. It was a superbly organized system. Everyone knew whom he or she had to serve: most didn't need to worry about the commands of Jaddeth, which were often above their understanding. All they had to do was follow their Arteth, serve him as best they could, and Jaddeth would be pleased with them. Hrathen stepped down from the podium, satisfied. He had only been preaching in Kae for a few days, but the chapel was already so packed that people had to line up at the back once the seats were full. Only a few of the newcomers were actually interested in converting; most came because Hrathen himself was a novelty. However, they would return. They could tell themselves that they were only curious-that their interest had nothing to do with religion-but they would return. As Shu-Dereth grew more popular in Kae, the people at these first meetings would find themselves important by association. They would brag that they had discovered Shu-Dereth long before their neighbors, and as a consequence they would have to continue attending. Their pride, mixed with Hrathen's powerful sermons, would override doubts, and soon they would find themselves swearing servitude to one of the Arteths. Hrathen would have to call a new head Arteth soon. He'd put off the decision for a time, waiting to see how the priests remaining in the chapel dealt with their tasks. Time was growing slim, however, and soon the local membership would be too great for Hrathen to track and organize by himself, especially considering all of the planning and preaching he had to do. The people at the back were beginning to file out of the chapel. However, a sudden sound stopped them. Hrathen looked up at the podium with surprise. The meeting was to have ended after his sermon, but someone thought differently. Dilaf had decided to speak. The short Arelish man screamed his words with fiery energy. In barely a few seconds, the crowd grew hushed, most of the people sliding back into their seats. They had seen Dilaf following Hrathen, and most of them probably knew he was an Arteth, but Dilaf had never addressed them before. Now, however, he made himself impossible to ignore. He disobeyed all of the rules of public speaking. He didn't vary the loudness of his voice, nor did he look members of the audience in the eyes. He didn't maintain
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a stately, upright posture to appear in control: instead he hopped across the podium energetically, gesturing wildly. His face was covered with sweat: his eyes were wide and haunting. And they listened. They listened more acutely than they had to Hrathen. They followed Dilaf's insane jumps with their eyes, transfixed by his every unorthodox motion. Dilaf's speech had a single theme: hatred of Elantris. Hrathen could feel the audience's zeal growing. Dilaf's passion worked like a catalyst, like a mold that spread uncontrollably once it found a dank place to grow. Soon the entire audience shared in his loathing, and they screamed along with his denunciations. Hrathen watched with concern and, admittedly, jealousy. Unlike Hrathen, Dilaf hadn't been trained in the greatest schools of the East. However, the short priest had something Hrathen lacked. Passion. Hrathen had always been a calculating man. He was organized, careful, and attentive to detail. Similar things in Shu-Dereth-its standardized, orderly method of governing along with its logical philosophy-were what had first attracted him to the priesthood. He had never doubted the church. Something so perfectly organized couldn't help but be right. Despite that loyalty, Hrathen had never felt what Dilaf now expressed. Hrathen had no hatreds so severe that he wept, no loves so profound that he would risk everything in their name. He had always believed that he was the perfect follower of Jaddeth; that his Lord needed levelheadedness more than He needed unbridled ardor. Now, however, he wondered. Dilaf had more power over this audience than Hrathen ever had. Dilaf's hatred of Elantris wasn't logical-it was irrational and feral-but they didn't care. Hrathen could spend years explaining to them the benefits of Shu-Dereth and never get the reaction they now expressed. Part of him scoffed, trying to convinee himself that the power of Dilaf's words wouldn't last, that the passion of the moment would be lost in the mundanity of life-but another, more truthful part of him was simply envious. What was wrong with Hrathen that, in thirty years of serving Jaddeth's kingdom, he had never once felt as Dilaf seemed to at every moment? Eventually, the Arteth fell silent. The room remained completely quiet for a long moment after Dilaf's speech. Then they burst into discussion, excited, speaking as they began to trail from the chapel. Dilaf stumbled off the podium and collapsed onto one of the pews near the front of the room. “That was well done,” a voice noted from beside Hrathen. Duke Telrii watched the sermons from a private booth at the side of the chapel. “Having the short man speak after yourself was a wonderful move, Hrathen. I was worried when I saw people growing bored. The young priest refocused everyone's attention.” Hrathen hid his annoyance at Telrii's use of his name rather than his title; there would be time to change such disrespect at a later date. He also restrained himself from making a comment about the audience's supposed boredom during his sermon. “Dilaf is a rare young man.” Hrathen said instead. “There are two sides to every
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argument, Lord Telrii: the logical and the passionate. We have to make our attack from both directions if we are to be victorious.” Telrii nodded. “So, my lord, have you considered my proposal?” Telrii hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “It is tempting, Hrathen. Very tempting. I don't think there is any man in Arelon who could refuse it, let alone myself.” “Good. I will contact Fjorden. We should be able to begin within the week.” Telrii nodded, the birthmark on his neck looking like a large bruise in the shadows. Then, gesturing to his numerous attendants, the duke made his way out the side door to the chapel, disappearing into the twilight. Hrathen watched the door shut, then walked over to Dilaf, who was still sprawled on the pew. “That was unexpected, Arteth,” he said. “You should have spoken with me first.” “It was not planned, my lord, Dilaf explained. “I suddenly felt the need to speak. It was only done in your service, my hroden.” “Of course,” Hrathen said, dissatisfied. Telrii was right: Dilaf's addition had been valuable. As much as Hrathen wanted to reproach the Arteth, he could not. He would be negligent in his service to Wyrn if he didn't use every tool at his command to convert the people of Arelon, and Dilaf had proven himself a very useful tool. Hrathen would need the Arteth to speak at later meetings. Once again, Dilaf had left him without many choices. “Well, it is done,” Hrathen said with calculated dismissiveness. “And they appear to have liked it. Perhaps I will have you speak again sometime. However, you must remember your place, Arteth. You are my odiv; you do not act unless I specifically tell you. Is that understood?” “Perfectly, my lord Hrathen.” Hrathen quietly shut the door to his personal chambers. Dilaf was not there; Hrathen would never let him see what was about to take place. In this Hrathen could still feel superior to the young Arelish priest. Dilaf would never rise to the highest ranks of the priesthood, for he could never do what Hrathen was about to do-something known only to the gyorns and Wyrn. Hrathen sat in his chair quietly, preparing himself. Only after a half hour of meditation did he feel controlled enough to act. Taking a measured breath, Hrathen rose from his seat and moved to the large trunk in the corner of his room. It was topped with a stack of folded tapestries, carefully draped to obscure. Hrathen moved the tapestries reverently, then reached beneath his shirt to pull forth the gold chain that encircled his neck. At the end of the chain was a small key. With this he opened the trunk, revealing the contents-a small metal box. The box was about the size of four stacked books, and its weight rested heavily in Hrathen's hands as he lifted it from the trunk. Its sides had been constructed of the best steel, and on its front was a small dial and several delicate levers. The mechanism had been designed by
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Svorden's finest locksmiths. Only Hrathen and Wyrn knew the proper method of turning and twisting that would open the box. Hrathen spun the dial and turned the levers in a pattern he had memorized soon after being appointed to the position of gyorn. The combination had never been written down. It would be a source of extreme1 embarrassment to Shu-Dereth if anyone outside the inner priesthood discovered what was inside this box. The lock clicked, and Hrathen pulled the top open with a firm hand. A small glowing ball sat patiently inside. “You need me, my lord?” the Seon asked in a soft, feminine voice. “Be quiet!” Hrathen ordered. “You know you are not to speak.” The ball of light bobbed submissively. It had been months since Hrathen had last opened the box, but the Seon showed no signs of rebelliousness. The creatures-or whatever they were-seemed to be unfailingly obedient. The Seons had been Hrathen's greatest shock upon his appointment to the rank of gyorn. Not that he had been surprised to find that the creatures were real-though many in the East dismissed Seons as Aonic myths, Hrathen had, by that time, been taught that there were ... things in the world that were not understood by normal people. The memories of his early years in Dakhor still caused him to shiver in fear. No. Hrathen's surprise had come in discovering that Wyrn would consent to using heathen magics to further Jaddeth's empire. Wyrn himself had explained the necessity of using Seons, but it had taken years for Hrathen to accept the idea. In the end, logic had swayed him. Just as it was sometimes necessary to speak in heathen languages to preach Jaddeth's empire, there were instances where the enemy's arts proved valuable. Of course, only those with the most self-control and holiness could use the Seons without being tainted. Gyorns used them to contact Wyrn when in a far country, and they did so infrequently. Instantaneous communication across such distances was a resource worth the price. “Get me Wyrn,” Hrathen ordered. The Seon complied, hovering up a bit, questing with its abilities to seek out Wyrn's own hidden Seon-one attended at all times by a mute servant, whose only sacred duty was to watch over the creature. Hrathen eyed the Seon as he waited. The Seon hovered patiently. It always appeared obedient; indeed, the other gyorns didn't even seem to question the loyalty of the creatures. They claimed it was part of the Seons' magic to be faithful to their masters, even if those masters detested them. Hrathen wasn't quite as certain. Seons could contact others of their kind, and they apparently didn't need half as much sleep as men. What did the Seons do, while their masters slept? What secrets did they discuss? At one point, most of the nobility in Duladel, Arelon, Teod, and even Jindo had kept Seons. During those days, how many state secrets had been witnessed, and perhaps gossiped about, by the unobtrusive floating balls? He shook his head. It was a good thing those
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days were past. Out of favor because of their association with fallen Elantris, prevented from any further reproduction by the loss of Elantrian magics, the Seons were growing more and more rare. Once Fjorden conquered the West, Hrathen doubted one would ever see Seons floating around freely again. His Seon began to drip like water, and then it formed into Wyrn's proud face. Noble, squ1areish features regarded Hrathen. “I am here, my son.” Wyrn's voice floated through the Seon. “O great lord and master, Jaddeth's anointed, and emperor in the light of His favor.” Hrathen said, bowing his head. “Speak on, my odiv.” “I have a proposal involving one of the lords of Arelon, great one....” CHAPTER 13 “THIS is it” Raoden exclaimed. “Galladon, get over here!” The large Dula set down his own book with raised eyebrows, then stood with his characteristic relaxed style and wandered over to Raoden. “What have you found, rule?” Raoden pointed to the coverless book in front of him. He sat in the former Korathi church that had become their center of operations. Galladon, still determined to keep his small book-filled study a secret, had insisted that they lug the necessary volumes up to the chapel rather than let anyone else into his sanctuary. “Sule, I can't read that,” Galladon protested, looking down at the book. “It's written completely in Aons.” “That's what made me suspicious,” Raoden said. “Can you read it?” Galladon asked. “No,” Raoden said with a smile. “But I do have this.” He reached down and pulled out a similar coverless volume, its cover pages stained with Elantris grime. “A dictionary of the Aons.” Galladon studied the first book with a critical eye. “Stile, I don't even recognize a tenth of the Aons on this page. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take you to translate it?” Raoden shrugged. “It's better than searching for clues in those other books. Galladon, if I have to read one more word about the landscape of Fjorden, I am going to be sick.” Galladon grunted his agreement. Whoever had owned the books before the Reod must have been a geography scholar, for at least half of the volumes dealt with the topic. “You're sure this is the one we want?” Galladon asked. “I've had a little training in reading pure Aon texts, my friend,” Raoden said, pointing at an Aon on a page near the beginning of the book. “This says AonDor.” Galladon nodded. “All right, rule. I don't envy you the task, however. Life would be much simpler if it hadn't taken your people so long to invent an alphabet. Kolo?” “The Aons were an alphabet,” Raoden said. “Just an incredibly complex one. This won't take as long as you think-my schooling should start to come back to me after a little while.” “Sule, sometimes you're so optimistic it's sickening. I suppose then we should cart these other books back to wher1e we got them?” There was a measure of anxiety in Galladon's voice. The books were precious to him; it had
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taken Raoden a good hour of arguing to convince the Dula to let him take off their covers, and he could see how much it bothered the larger man to have the books exposed to the slime and dirt of Elantris. “That should be all right,” Raoden said. None of the other books were about AonDor, and while some of them were journals or other records that could hold clues, Raoden suspected that none of them would be as useful as the one in front of him. Assuming he could translate it successfully. Galladon nodded and began gathering up the books; then he looked upward apprehensively as he heard a scraping sound from the roof. Galladon was convinced that sooner or later the entire assemblage would collapse and, inevitably, fall on his shiny dark head. “Don't worry so much, Galladon,” Raoden said. “Maare and Riil know what they're doing.” Galladon frowned. “No they don't, sule. I seem to recall that neither of them had any idea what to do before you pressed them into it.” “I meant that they're competent.” Raoden looked up with satisfaction. Six days of working had completed a large portion of the roof. Mareshe had devised a claylike combination of wood scraps, soil, and the ever-prevalent Elantris sludge. This mixture, when added to the fallen support beams and some less-rotted sections of cloth, had provided materials to make a ceiling that was, if not superior, at least adequate. Raoden smiled. The pain and hunger were always there, but things were going so well that he could almost forget the pain of his half-dozen bumps and cuts. Through the window to his right he could see the newest member of his band, Loren. The man worked in the large area beside the church that had probably once been a garden. According to Raoden's orders, and equipped with a newly fashioned pair of leather gloves, Loren moved rocks and cleared away refuse, revealing the soft dirt underneath. “What good is that going to do?” Galladon asked, following Raoden's gaze out the window. “You'll see,” Raoden said with a secretive smile. Galladon huffed as he picked up an armload of books and left the chapel. The Dula had been right about one thing: They could not count on new Elantrians being thrown into the city as fast as Raoden had first anticipated. Before Loren's arrival the day before, five solid days had passed without even a quiver from the city gates. Raoden had been very fortunate to find Mareshe and the others in such a short period of time. “Lord Spirit?” a hesitant voice asked. Raoden looked up at the chapel's doorway to find an unfamiliar man waiting to be acknowledged. He was thin, with a stooped-over form and an air of practiced subservience. Raoden couldn't tell his age for certain: the Shaod tended to make everyone look much older than they really were. However, he had the feeling that this man's age was no illusion. If his head had held any hair, then it would have been white, and his
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skin had been long wrinkled before the Shaod took him. “Yes?” Raoden asked with interest. 1“What can I do for you?” “My lord ...” the man began. “Go on,” Raoden prodded. “Well, Your Lordship, I've just heard some things, and I was wondering if I could join with you.” Raoden smiled, rising and walking over to the man. “Certainly, you may join us. What have you heard?” “Well . . .” The aged Elantrian fidgeted nervously. “Some people on the streets say that those who follow you aren't as hungry. They say you have a secret that makes the pain go away. I've been in Elantris for nearly a year now, my lord, and my injuries are almost too much. I figured I could either give you a chance, or go find myself a gutter and join the Hoed.” Raoden nodded, clasping the man on the shoulder. He could still feel his toe burning-he was growing used to the pain, but it was still there. It was accompanied by a gnawing from his stomach. “I'm glad you came. What is your name?” “Kahar, my lord.” “All right then, Kahar, what did you do before the Shaod took you?” Kahar's eyes grew unfocused, as if his mind were traveling back to a time long ago. “I was a cleaner of some sort, my lord. I think I washed streets.” “Perfect! I've been waiting for one of your particular skill. Mareshe, are you back there?” “Yes, my lord.” the spindly artisan called from one of the rooms in the back. His head poked out a moment later. “By chance, did those traps you set up catch any of last night's rainfall?” “Of course, my lord,” Mareshe said indignantly. “Good. Show Kahar here where the water is.” “Certainly.” Mareshe motioned for Kahar to follow. “What am I to do with water, my lord?” Kahar asked. “It is time that we stopped living in filth, Kahar,” Raoden said. “This slime that covers Elantris can be cleaned off: I've seen a place where it was done. Take your time and don't strain yourself, but clean this building inside and out. Scrape away every bit of slime and wash off every hint of dirt.” “Then you will show me the secret?” Kahar asked hopefully. “Trust me.” Kahar nodded, following Mareshe from the room. Raoden's smile faded as the man left. He was finding that the most difficult part of leadership here in Elantris was maintaining the attitude of optimism that Galladon teased him about. These people, even the newcomers, were dangerously close to losing hope. They thought that they were damned, and assumed that nothing could save their souls from rotting away like Elantris itself. Raoden h1ad to overcome years of conditioning teamed with the ever-present forces of pain and hunger. He had never considered himself an overly cheerful person. Here in Elantris, however, Raoden found himself reacting to the air of despair with defiant optimism. The worse things got, the more determined he was to take it on without complaint. But the forced cheerfulness took its toll.
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He could feel the others, even Galladon, relying on him. Of all the people in Elantris, only Raoden couldn't let his pain show. The hunger gnawed at his chest like a horde of insects trying to escape from within, and the pain of several injuries beat at his resolve with merciless determination. He wasn't sure how long he would last. After barely a week and a half in Elantris, he was already in so much pain it was sometimes difficult to focus. How long would it be before he couldn't function at all? Or, how long before he was reduced to the subhuman level of Shaor's men? One question was more frightening than them all. When he fell, how many people would fall with him? And yet, he had to bear the weight. If he didn't accept the responsibility, no one else would-and these people would become slaves either to their own agony or to the bullies on the streets. Elantris needed him. If it used him up, then so be it. “Lord Spirit!” called a frantic voice. Raoden looked as a worried Saolin rushed into the room. The hook-nosed mercenary had fashioned a spear from a piece of only half-rotten wood and a sharp stone, and had taken to patrolling the area around the chapel. The man's scarred Elantrian face was wrinkled with concern. “What is it, Saolin?” Raoden asked, alarmed. The man was an experienced warrior, and was not easily unsettled. “A group of armed men coming this way, my lord. I counted twelve of them, and they are carrying steel weapons.” “Steel?” Raoden said. “In Elantris? I wasn't aware that there was any to be found.” “They're coming quickly, my lord.” Saolin said. “What do we do-they're almost here.” “They are here,” Raoden said as a group of men forced their way through the chapel's open doorway. Saolin was right several carried steel weapons, though the blades were chipped and rusted. The group was a dark-eyed, unpleasant lot, and at their lead was a familiar figure-or, at least, familiar from a distance. “Karata,” Raoden said. Loren should have been hers the other day, but Raoden had stolen him. Apparently, she had come to make a complaint. It had only been a matter of time. Raoden glanced toward Saolin, who was inching forward as if anxious to try his makeshift spear. “Stand your ground, Saolin,” Raoden commanded. Karata was completely bald, a gift from the Shaod, and she had been in the city long enough that her skin was beginning to wrinkle. However, she held herself with a proud face and determined eyes-the eyes of a person who hadn't given in to the pain, and who wasn't going to do so any time soon. She wore a dark outfit composed of torn leather-for Elantris, it was well made. Karata turned her he1ad around the chapel, studying the new ceiling, then the members of Raoden's band, who had gathered outside the window to watch with apprehension. Mareshe and Kahar stood immobile at the back of the room. Finally, Karata turned her
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gaze on Raoden. There was a tense pause. Eventually. Karata turned to one of her men. “Destroy the building, chase them out, and break some bones.” She turned to leave. “I can get you into Iadon's palace.” Raoden said quietly. Karata froze. “That is what you want, isn't it?” Raoden asked. “The Elantris City Guards caught you in Kae. They won't suffer you forever-they burn Elantrians who escape too often. If you really want to get into the palace, I can take you there.” “We'll never get out of the city,” Karata said, turning skeptical eyes back on him. “They've doubled the guard recently; something to do with looking good for a royal wedding. I haven't even been able to get out in a month.” “I can get you out of the city too,” Raoden promised. Karara's eyes narrowed with suspicion. There was no talk of price. They both knew that Raoden could demand only one thing: to be left alone. “You're desperate.” she finally concluded. “True. But I'm also an opportunist.” Karata nodded slowly. “I will return at nightfall. You will deliver as promised, or my men will break the limbs of every person here and leave them to rot in their agony.” “Understood.” “Sule, I-” “Don't think this is a good idea,” Raoden finished with a slight smile. “Yes, Galladon, I know.” “Elantris is a big city,” Galladon said. “There are plenty of places to hide that not even Karata could find us. She can't spread herself too thin, otherwise Shaor and Aanden will attack her. Kolo?” “Yes, but what then?” Raoden asked, trying the strength of a rope Mareshe had fashioned from some rags. It seemed like it would hold his weight. “Karata wouldn't be able to find us, but neither would anyone else. People are finally beginning to realize we're here. If we move now, we'll never grow.” Galladon looked pained. “Sule, do we have to grow? Do you have to start another gang? Aren't three warlords enough?” Raoden stopped, looking up at the large Dula with concern. “Galladon, is that really what you think I am doing?” “I don't know, sule.” “I have no wish for power Galladon,” Raoden said flatly. “I am worried about life. Not just survival, Galladon, life. These people are dead because they have given up, not because their hearts no longer beat. I am going to change that.” “Sule, it's impossible.” “So is getting Karata into Iadon's palace,” Raoden said, pulling the rope into a coil around his arm. “I'll see you when I get back.” “What is this?” Karata asked suspiciously. “It's the city well,” Raoden explained, peering over the side of the stone lip. The well went deep, but he could hear water moving in the darkness below. “You expect us to swim out?” “No,” Raoden said, tying Mareshe's rope to a rusted iron rod jutting from the well's side. “We'll just let the current take us along. More like floating than swimming.” “That's insane-that river runs underground. We'll drown.” “We can't drown,” Raoden said. “As my friend Galladon is
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fond of saying, 'Already dead. Kolo?' “ Karata didn't look convinced. “The Aredel River runs directly underneath Elantris, then continues on to Kae,” Raoden explained. “It runs around the city and past the palace. All we have to do is let it drag us. I've already tried holding my breath; I went an entire half hour, and my lungs didn't even burn. Our blood doesn't flow anymore, so the only reason we need air is to talk.” “This could destroy us both,” Karata warned. Raoden shrugged. “The hunger would just take us in a few months anyway.” Karata smiled slightly. “All right, Spirit. You go first.” “Gladly,” Raoden said, not feeling glad about that particular fact at all. Still, it was his idea. With a rueful shake of his head. Raoden swung over the side of the lip and began to lower himself. The rope ran out before he touched water and so, taking a deep but ineffectual breath, he let go. He splashed into a shockingly cold river. The current threatened to pull him away, but he quickly grabbed hold of a rock and held himself steady, waiting for Karata. Her voice soon sounded in the darkness above. “Spirit?” “I'm here. You're about ten feet above the river-you'll have to drop the rest of the way.” “And then?” “Then the river continues underground-I can feel it sucking me down right now. We'll just have to hope it's wide enough the entire distance, otherwise we'll end up as eternal subterranean plugs.” “You could have mentioned that before I got down here,” Karata said nervously. However, a splash soon sounded, followed by a quiet groan that ended in a gurgle as something large was sucked past Raoden in the current. Muttering a prayer to Merciful Domi, Raoden released the rock and let the river drag him beneath its unseen surface. Raoden did indeed have to swim. The trick was to keep himself in the middle of the river, lest he be 1slammed against the rock tunnel's walls. He did his best as he moved in the blackness, using outspread arms to position himself. Fortunately, time had smoothed the rocks to the point that they bruised rather than sliced. An eternity passed in that silent underworld. It was as if he floated through darkness itself, unable to speak, completely alone. Perhaps this was what death would bring, his soul set adrift in an endless, lightless void. The current changed, pulling him upward. He moved his arms to brace himself against the stone roof, but they met no resistance. A short moment later his head broke into open air, his wet face cold in the passing wind. He blinked uncertainly as the world focused, starlight and the occasional street lantern granting only dim illumination. It was enough to restore his orientation-and, perhaps, his sanity. He floated lethargically: the river grew wide after rising to the surface, and the current slowed considerably. He felt a form approach in the water, and he tried to speak, but his lungs were full. He only succeeded in vocalizing a
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loud, uncontrollable fit of coughing. A hand clamped around his mouth, cutting off his cough with a gurgle. “Quiet, fool!” Karata hissed. Raoden nodded, struggling to control his fit. Perhaps he should have concentrated less on the theological metaphors of the trip, and more on keeping his mouth closed. Karata released his mouth, but continued to hold on to his shoulder, keeping them together as they drifted past the city of Kae. Its shops were closed for the night, but an occasional guard patrolled the streets. The two continued to float in silence until they reached the northern edge of the city, where Iadon's castle-like palace rose in the night. Then, still not speaking, they swam to the shore beside the palace. The palace was a dark, sullen edifice-a manifestation of Iadon's one insecurity. Raoden's father was not often afraid; in fact, he was often belligerent when he should have been intelligently apprehensive. The trait had earned him wealth as a businessman trading with the Fjordell, but it had brought him failure as a king. In one thing only was Iadon paranoid: sleeping. The king was terrified that assassins would somehow sneak in and murder him as he slumbered. Raoden remembered well his father's irrational muttering on the subject each night before retiring. The worries of kingship had only made Iadon worse, causing him to outfit his already fortresslike house with a battalion of guards. The soldiers lived near Iadon's own quarters to facilitate quick response. “All right,” Karata whispered, watching uncertainly as guards crossed on the battlements, “you got us out. Now get us in.” Raoden nodded, trying to drain his sodden lungs as silently as possible-an act not accomplished without a fair bit of muffled retching. “Try not to cough so much,” Karata advised. “You'll irritate your throat and make your chest sore, and then you'll spend eternity feeling like you have a cold.” Raoden groaned, pushing himself to his feet. “We need to get to the west side,” he said, his voice a croak. Karata nodded. She walked silently and quickly-much more so than Raoden could manage-like a person well acquainted with danger. Several times she put back her hand in warning, halting their progress just before a squad of guards appeared out of the darkness. Her aptitude gained them the western side of Iadon's palace without mishap, despite Raoden's lack of skill. “Now what?” she asked quietly. Raoden paused. A question now confronted him. Why did Karata want access to the palace? From what Raoden had heard of her, she didn't seem like the type to exact revenge. She was brutal, but not vindictive. But, what if he were wrong? What if she did want Iadon's blood? “Well?” Karata asked. I won't let her kill my father, he decided. No matter how poor a king he is, I won't let her do that. “You have to answer something for me first.” “Now?” she asked with annoyance. Raoden nodded. “I need to know why you want into the palace.” She frowned in the darkness. “You aren't in any position
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to make demands.” “Nor are you in any position to refuse them,” Raoden said. “All I have to do is raise an alarm, and we'll both be taken by the guards.” Karata waited quietly in the darkness, obviously debating whether or not he would do it. “Look,” Raoden said. “Just tell me one thing. Do you intend to harm the king?” Karata met his eyes, then shook her head. “My quibble is not with him.” Do I believe her, or not? Raoden thought. Do I have a choice? He reached over, pulling back a patch of bushes that abutted the wall: then he threw his weight against one of the stones. The stone sank into the wall with a quiet grinding noise, and a section of ground fell away before them. Karata raised her eyebrows. “A secret passage? How quaint.” “Iadon is a paranoid sleeper,” Raoden explained, crawling through the small space between ground and wall. “He had this passage installed to give him one last means of escape should someone attack his palace.” Karata snorted as she followed him through the hole. “I thought things like this only existed in children's tales.” “Iadon likes those tales quite a bit,” Raoden said. The passage widened after a dozen feet, and Raoden felt along the wall until he found a lantern, complete with flint and steel. He kept the shield mostly closed, releasing only a sliver of light, but it was enough to reveal the narrow, dust-filled passage. “You seem to have quite an extensive knowledge of the palace,” Karata observed. Raoden didn't answer, unable to think of a response that wasn't too revealing. His father had shown the passage to Raoden when he had b1arely been into his teenage years, and Raoden and his friends had found it an instant and irresistible attraction. Ignoring cautions that the passage was only for emergencies, Raoden and Lukel had spent hours playing inside of it. The passage seemed smaller now, of course. There was barely enough room for Raoden and Karata to maneuver. “Come,” he said, holding the lantern aloft and inching sideways through the passageway. The trip to Iadon's rooms took less time than he remembered; it really wasn't much of a passage, despite what his imagination had claimed. It slanted upward to the second floor at a steep angle, heading straight to Iadon's room. “This is it.” Raoden said as they reached the end. “Iadon should be in bed by now, and-despite his paranoia-he is a deep sleeper. Perhaps the one causes the other.” He slid open the door, which was hidden behind a tapestry in the royal sleeping chamber. Iadon's massive bed was dark and quiet, though the open window provided enough starlight to see that the king was, in fact, present. Raoden grew tense, eyeing Karata. The woman, however, held to her word: she barely gave the slumbering king a passing glance as she moved through the room and into the outer hallway. Raoden sighed in quiet relief, following her with a less practiced gait of stealth. The darkened outer hallway
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connected Iadon's rooms with those of his guards. The right path led toward the guard barracks; the left led to a guard post, then the rest of the palace. Karata turned away from this option, continuing down the right hallway to the barrack annex, her bare feet making no sound on the stone floor. Raoden followed her into the barracks, his nervousness returning. She had decided not to kill his father, but now she was sneaking into the most dangerous part of the palace. A single misplaced sound would wake dozens of soldiers. Fortunately, sneaking down a stone hallway didn't require much skill. Karata quietly opened any doors in their path, leaving them open enough that Raoden didn't even have to move them to slip through. The dark hallway joined with another, this one lined with doors-the quarters of the lesser officers, as well as those guards allowed room to raise a family. Karata picked a door. Inside was the single room allotted to a married guard's family; starlight illuminated a bed by one wall and a dresser beside the other. Raoden fidgeted anxiously, wondering if all this had been so Karata could procure herself a sleeping guard's weapons. If so, she was insane. Of course, sneaking into a paranoid king's palace wasn't exactly a sign of mental stability. As Karata moved into the room, Raoden realized that she couldn't have come to steal the guard's accouterments-he wasn't there. The bed was empty, its sheets wrinkled with a slept-in look. Karata stooped beside something that Raoden hadn't noticed at first: a mattress on the floor, occupied by a small lump that could only have been a sleeping child, its features and sex lost to Raoden in the darkness. Karata knelt beside the child for a quiet moment. Then she was done, motioning Raoden out of the room and closing the door behind her. Raoden raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Karata nodded. They were ready to go. The escape was accomplished in the reverse order of the incursion. Raoden went first, sliding through the still open doors, and Karata followed, pulling them closed behind her. In all, Raoden was relieved at how easily the night was going-or, at least, he was relieved right up to the moment when he slipped through the door to that final hallway outside Iadon's chamber. A man stood on the other side of the door, his hand frozen in the act of reaching for the doorknob. He regarded them with a startled expression. Karata pushed past Raoden. She wrapped her arm around the man's neck, clamping his mouth closed in a smooth motion, then grabbed his wrist as he reached for the sword at his side. The man, however, was larger and stronger than Karata's weakened Elantrian form, and he broke her grip, blocking her leg with his own as she tried to trip him. “Stop!” Raoden snapped quietly, his hand held before him menacingly. Both of their eyes flickered at him in annoyance, but then they stopped struggling as they saw what he was doing. Raoden's finger
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moved through the air, an illuminated line appearing behind it. Raoden continued to write, curving and tracing until he had finished a single character. Aon Sheo, the symbol for death. “If you move,” Raoden said quietly, “you will die.” The guard's eyes widened in horror. The Aon sat glowing above his chest, casting harsh light on the otherwise caliginous room, throwing shadows across the walls. The character flashed as they always did, then disappeared. However, the light had been enough to illuminate Raoden's black-spotted Elantrian face. “You know what we are.” “Merciful Domi .” the man whispered. “That Aon will remain for the next hour,” Raoden lied. “It will hang where I drew it, unseen, waiting for you to so much as quiver. If you do, it will destroy you. Do you understand?” The man didn't move, sweat beading on his terrified face. Raoden reached down and undid the man's sword belt, then tied the weapon around his own waist. “Come,” Raoden said to Karata. The woman still squatted next to the wall where the guard had pushed her, regarding Raoden with an indecipherable look. “Come,” Raoden repeated, a bit more urgently. Karata nodded, regaining her composure. She pulled open the king's door, and the two of them vanished the way they had come. “He didn't recognize me,” Karata said to herself, her voice amused yet sorrowful. “Who?” Raoden asked. The two of them squatted in the doorway of a shop near the middle of Kae, resting for a moment before continuing their trek back to Elantris. “That guard. He was my husband, during another life.” “Your husband?” Karata nodded. “We lived together for twelve years, and now he's forgotten me.'' Raoden did some quick connecting of events. “Thar means the room we entered...” “That was my daughter.” Karata said. “I doubt anyone ever told her what happened to me. I just ... wanted her to know.” “You left her a note?” “A note and a keepsake,” Karata explained with a sad voice, though no tears could fall from her Elantrian eyes. “My necklace. I managed to sneak it past the priests a year ago. I wanted her to have it-I always intended to give it to her. They took me so quickly.... I never said goodbye.” “I know,” Raoden said putting his arm around the woman comfortingly. “I know.” “It takes them all from us. It takes everything, and leaves us with nothing.” Her voice was laced with vehemence. “As Domi wills.” “How can you say that?” she demanded harshly. “How can you invoke His name after all that He has done to us?” “I don't know,” Raoden confessed, feeling inadequate. “I just know we need to keep going, as everyone does. At least you got to see her again.” “Yes,” Karata said. “Thank you. You have done me a great service this night, my prince.” Raoden froze. “Yes, I know you. I lived in the palace for years, with my husband, protecting your father and your family. I watched you from your childhood, Prince Raoden.” “You knew all this time?”
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“Not the entire time,” Karata said. “But for enough of it. Once I figured it out, I couldn't decide whether to hate you for being related to Iadon, or to be satisfied that justice took you as well.” “And your decision?” “Doesn't matter,” Karata said, wiping her dry eyes by reflex. “You fulfilled your bargain admirably. My people will leave you alone.” “That's not enough, Karata,” Raoden said, standing up. “You would demand more beyond our bargain?” “I demand nothing, Karata,” Raoden said, offering his hand to help her to her feet. “But you know who I am, and you can guess what I am trying to do.” “You're like Aanden,” Karata said. “You think to lord over Elantris as your father rules the rest of this cursed land.” “People certainly are quick to judge me today,” Raoden said with a wry smile. “No, Karata. I don't want to 'lord over' Elantris. But I do w1ant to help it. I see a city full of people feeling sorry for themselves, a people resigned to seeing themselves as the rest of the world sees them. Elantris doesn't have to be the pit that it is.” “How can you change that?” Karata demanded. “As long as food is scarce, the people will fight and destroy to sate their hunger.” “Then we'll just have to fill them.” Raoden said. Karata snorted. Raoden reached inside a pocket he had formed in his ragged clothing. “Do you recognize this, Karata?” he asked, showing her a small cloth pouch. It was empty, but he kept it as a reminder of his purpose. Karata's eyes blazed with desire. “It held food.” “What kind?” “It's one of the pouches of corn that is part of the sacrifice that comes with a new Elantrian,” Karata said. “Not just corn. Karata,” Raoden said holding up a finger. “Seed corn. Part of the ceremony requires that a grain offering be plantable.” “Seed corn?” Karata whispered. “I've been collecting it from the newcomers,” Raoden explained. “The rest of the offerings don't interest me-only the corn. We can plant it, Karata. There aren't that many people in Elantris: it wouldn't be hard to feed them all. Goodness knows we have enough free time to work a garden or two.” Karata's eyes were wide with shock. “No one's ever tried that before,” she said, dumbfounded. “I figured as much. It requires foresight, and the people of Elantris are too focused on their immediate hunger to worry about tomorrow. I intend to change that.” Karata looked up from the small pouch to Raoden's face. “Amazing.” she mumbled. “Come on,” Raoden said, tucking the pouch away, then beneath his rags. “We're almost to the gate.” “How do you intend to get us back in?” “Just watch.” As they walked, Karata paused beside a dark home. “What?” Raoden asked. Karata pointed. On the window, inside the glass, was a loaf of bread. He couldn't blame her, Raoden felt his own hunger stab sharply at his insides. He sat suddenly-even in the palace, he'd been watching for hiding the stolen
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sword, something to swipe. “We can't take that chance. Karata.” Raoden said. Karata sighed. “I know. It's just that ... we're so close.” “All the shops are closed, all the houses locked,” Raoden said. “We'll never find any.” Karata nodded, lethargically moving again. They turned a corner and appro1ached the broad gate to Elantris. A squat building sat beside it, light pouring from the windows. Several guards lounged inside, their brown-and-yellow Elantris City Guard uniforms bright in the lamplight. Raoden approached the building and tapped on a window with the back of his fist. “Excuse me,” he said politely, “but would you mind opening the gates please?” The guards, who had been playing a game of cards, threw back their chairs in alarm, shouting and cursing as they recognized his Elantrian features. “Be quick about it,” Raoden said airily. “I'm getting tired.” “What are you doing out?” one of the guards-an officer by appearances-demanded as his men piled out of the building. Several of them pointed their wicked spears at Raoden's chest. “Trying to get back in,” Raoden said impatiently. One of the guards raised his spear. “I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” Raoden said. “Not unless you want to explain how you managed to kill an Elantrian outside of the gates. You are supposed to keep us in-it would be quite an embarrassment if the people found out that we were escaping beneath your noses.” “How did you escape?” the officer asked. “I'll tell you later,” Raoden said. “Right now, you should probably put us back in the city before we wake the entire neighborhood and start a panic. Oh, and I wouldn't get too close to me. The Shaod is, after all, highly contagious.” The guards backed away at his words. Watching Elantris was one thing: being confronted by a talking corpse was another. The officer, uncertain what else to do, ordered the gates opened. “Thank you, my good man,” Raoden said with a smile. “You're doing a wonderful job. We'll have to see if we can get you a raise.” With that, Raoden held out side, his arm to Karata and strolled through the gates to Elantris as if the soldiers were his personal butlers, rather than prison guards. Karata couldn't help snickering as the gate closed behind them. “You made it sound as if we wanted to be in here. Like it was a privilege.” “And that is exactly the way we should feel. After all, if we're going to be confined to Elantris, we might as well act as if it were the grandest place in the entire world.” Karata smiled. “You have a measure of defiance in you, my prince. I like that.” “Nobility is in one's bearing as much as it is in one's breeding. If we act like living here is a blessing, then maybe we'll start to forget how pathetic we think we are. Now, Karata, I want you to do some things for me.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don't tell anyone who I am. I want loyalty in Elantris based
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on respect, not based on my title.” “All right.” “Second, don't tell anyone about the passage into town through the river.” “1Why not?” “It's too dangerous.” Raoden said. “I know my father. If the guards start finding too many Elantrians in the city, he'll come and destroy us. The only way Elantris is going to progress is if it becomes self-sufficient. We can't risk sneaking into the city to support ourselves.” Karata listened, then nodded in the affirmative. “All right.” Then she paused in thought for a moment. “Prince Raoden, there's something I want to show you.” The children were happy. Though most slept, a few were awake, and they giggled and played with one another. They were all bald, of course, and they bore the marks of the Shaod. They didn't seem to mind. “So this is where they all go.” Raoden said with interest. Karata led him farther into the room, which was buried deep within the palace of Elantris. Once, this building had housed the leaders elected by the Elantrian elders. Now it hid a playroom for babes. Several men stood watchful guard over the children, eyeing Raoden with suspicion. Karata turned toward him. “When I first came to Elantris, I saw the children huddled in the shadows, frightened of everything that passed, and I thought of my own little Opais. Something within my heart healed when I began to help them-I gathered them, showed them a little bit of love, and they clung to me. Every one of the men and women you see here left a little child back on the out-” Karata paused, affectionately rubbing a small Elantrian child on the head. “The children unite us, keep us from giving in to the pain. The food we gather is for them. Somehow, we can endure the hunger a little better if we know it has come, in part, because we gave what we had to the children.” “I wouldn't have thought. . .” Raoden began quietly, watching a pair of young girls playing a clapping game together. “That they would be happy?” Karata finished. She motioned for Raoden to follow her and they moved back, out of the children's hearing range. “We don't understand it either, my prince. They seem better at dealing with the hunger than the rest of us.” “A child's mind is a surprisingly resilient thing,” Raoden said. “They seem to be able to endure a certain amount of pain as well,” Karata continued, “bumps and bruises and the like. However, they eventually snap, just like everyone else. One moment a child is happy and playful. Then he falls down or cuts himself one to many times, and his mind gives up. I have another room, kept far away from these little ones, filled with dozens of children who do nothing but whimper all day.” Raoden nodded. Then, after a moment, he asked. “Why are you showing me this?” Karata paused. 'Because I want to join with you. I once served your father, despite what I thought of him. Now I will serve
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his son because of what I think of him. Will you accept my loyalty?” “With honor, Karata.” She nodded, turning back to the children with a sigh. “I don't have much left in me, Lord Raoden,” she whispered. “I've worried what would happen to my children when I am lo1st. This dream you have, this crazy idea of an Elantris where we grow food and we ignore our pain . I want to see you try to create it. I don't think you can, but I think you will make something better of us in the process.” “Thank you,” Raoden said, realizing that he had just accepted a monumental responsibility. Karata had lived for over a year under the burden he was just beginning to feel. She was tired; he could see it in her eyes. Now, if the time came, she could rest. She had passed her weight on to him. “Thank you,” Karata said, looking at the children. “Tell me, Karata,” Raoden said after a moment of thought. “Would you really have broken my people's limbs?” Karata didn't respond at first. “You tell me, my prince. What would you have done if I'd tried to kill your father tonight?” “Questions both better left unanswered.” Karata nodded, her tired eyes bearing a calm wisdom. Raoden smiled as he recognized the large figure standing outside of the chapel, waiting for him to return. Galladon's concerned face was illuminated by the tiny flame of his lantern. “A light to guide me home, my friend?” Raoden asked from the darkness as he approached. “Sule!” Galladon cried. “By Doloken, you're not dead?” “Of course I am,” Raoden said with a laugh, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “We all are-at least, that's what you seem to be fond of telling me.” Galladon grinned. “Where's the woman?” “I walked her home, as any gentleman would,” Raoden said, entering the chapel. Inside, Mareshe and the others were rousing. “Lord Spirit has returned!” Saolin said with enthusiasm. “Here, Saolin, a gift.” Raoden said, pulling the sword out from under his rags and tossing it to the soldier. “What is this, my lord?” Saolin asked. “That spear is amazing considering what you had to work with.” Raoden said, “but I think you ought to have something a little more sturdy if you intend to do any real fighting.” Saolin pulled the blade free of its scabbard. The sword, nothing special on the outside, was a wondrous work of beauty within the confines of Elantris. “Not a spot of rust on her,” Saolin said with amazement. “And it is engraved with the symbol of Iadon's own personal guard!” “Then the king is dead?” Mareshe asked eagerly. “Nothing of the sort,” Raoden said dismissively. “Our mission was of a personal nature, Mareshe, and it did not involve killing-though the guard who owned that sword is probably fairly angry.” “I'll bet,” Galladon said wi1th a snort. “Then we don't have to worry about Karata anymore?” “No.” Raoden said with a smile. “As a matter of fact, her gang will be joining with
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us.” There were a few mutters of surprise at the announcement, and Raoden paused before continuing. “Tomorrow we're going to visit the palace sector. Karata has something there I want you all to see-something everyone in Elantris should see.” “What is that, sule?” Galladon asked. “Proof that the hunger can be defeated.” CHAPTER 14 SARENE had about as much talent for needlepoint as she did for painting. Not that she let it stop her from trying-no matter how much she worked to become a part of what were traditionally considered masculine activities, Sarene felt an intense need to prove that she could be as feminine and ladylike as anyone else. It wasn't her fault that she just wasn't any good at it. She held up her embroidering hoop. It was supposed to depict a crimson sisterling sitting on a branch, its beak open in song. Unfortunately, she had drawn the pattern herself-which meant it hadn't been all that good in the first place. That, coupled with her startling inability to follow the lines, had produced something that resembled a squashed tomato more than it did a bird. “Very nice, dear,” Eshen said. Only the incurably bubbly queen could deliver such a compliment without sarcasm. Sarene sighed, dropping her hoop to her lap and grabbing some brown thread for the branch. “Don't worry, Sarene,” Daora said. “Domi gives everyone different levels of talent, but he always rewards diligence. Continue to practice and you will improve.” You say that with such ease, Sarene thought with a mental scowl. Daora's own hoop was filled with a detailed masterpiece of embroidered perfection. She had entire flocks of birds, each one tiny yet intricate, hovering and spinning through the branches of a statuesque oak. Kiin's wife was the embodiment of aristocratic virtue. Daora didn't walk, she glided, and her every action was smooth and graceful. Her makeup was striking-her lips bright red and her eyes mysterious-but it had been applied with masterful subtlety. She was old enough to be stately, yet young enough to be known for her remarkable beauty. In short, she was the type of woman Sarene would normally hate-if she weren't also the kindest, most intelligent woman in the court. After a few moments of quiet, Eshen began to talk, as usual. The queen seemed frightened of silence, and was constantly speaking or prompting others to do so. The other women in the group were content to let her lead-not that anyone would have wanted to try wrestling control of a conversation from Eshen. The queen's embroidery group consisted of about ten women. At first, Sarene had avoided their meetings, instead focusing her attention on the political court. However, she had soon realized that the women were as1 important as any civil matter; gossip and idle chatting spread news that couldn't be discussed in a formal setting. Sarene couldn't afford to be out of the chain, she just wished she didn't have to reveal her ineptitude to take part. “I heard that Lord Waren, son of the Baron of Kie Plantation, has had quite
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the religious experience,” Eshen said. “I knew his mother-she was a very decent woman. Quite proficient at knitting. Next year, when sweaters come back in, I'm going to force Iadon to wear one-it isn't seemly for a king to appear unconscious of fashion. His hair is quite too long.” Daora pulled a stitch tight. “I have heard the rumors about young Waren. It seems odd to me that now, after years of being a devout Korathi, he would suddenly convert to Shu-Dereth.” “They're all but the same religion anyway.” Atara said offhandedly. Duke Telrii's wife was a small woman-even for an Arelene-with shoulder-length auburn curls. Her clothing and jewelry was by far the richest in the room, a compliment to her husband's extravagance, and her stitching patterns were always conservative and unimaginative. “Don't say such things around the priests,” warned Seaden, Count Ahan's wife. The largest woman in the room, her girth nearly matched that of her husband. “They act as if your soul depends on whether you call God Domi or Jaddeth.” “The two do have some very striking differences,” Sarene said, trying to shield her mangled embroidering from the eyes of her companions. “Maybe if you're a priest,” Atara said with a quiet twitter of a laugh. “But those things hardly make any difference to us.” “Of course,” Sarene said. “We are, after all, only women.” She looked up from her needlepoint discreetly, smiling at the reaction her statement sparked. Perhaps the women of Arelon weren't quiet as subservient as their men assumed. The quiet continued for only a few moments before Eshen spoke again. “Sarene, what do women do in Teod to pass the time?” Sarene raised an eyebrow in surprise: she had never heard the queen ask such a straightforward question. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?” “What do they do?” Eshen repeated. “I've heard things, you understand-as I have about Fjorden, where they say it gets so cold in the winter that trees sometimes freeze and explode. An easy way to make wood chips, I suppose. I wonder if they can make it happen on command.” Sarene smiled. “We find things to do, Your Majesty. Some women like to embroider, though others of us find different pursuits.” “Like what?” asked Torena, the unmarried daughter of Lord Ahan-though Sarene still found it hard to believe that a person so slight of frame could have come from a pair as bulbous as Ahan and Seaden. Torena was normally quiet during these gatherings, her wide brown eyes watching the proceedings with a spark that hinted at a buried intelligence. “Well, the king's courts are open to all, for one thing,” Sarene said nonchalantly. Her heart sang, however: this was the kind of opportunity she had been anticipating with excitement. “You would go listen to the cases?” Torena asked, her quiet, high-pitched voice growing increasingly interested. “Often,” Sarene said. “Then I would talk about them with my friends.” “Did you fight one another with swords?” asked the overweight Seaden, her face eager. Sarene paused, a little taken aback. She looked up
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to find nearly every head in the room staring at her. “What makes you ask that?” “That's what they say about women from Teod, dear,” Daora said calmly, the only woman who was still working on her needlepoint. “Yes,” Seaden said. “We've always heard it-they say that women in Teod kill one another for the sport of the men.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “We call it fencing, Lady Seaden. We do it for our own amusement, not that of our men-and we definitely do not kill one another. We use swords, but the tips have little knobs on them, and we wear thick clothing. I've never heard of anyone suffering an injury greater than a twisted ankle.” “Then it's true?” little Torena breathed with amazement. “You do use swords.” “Some of us.” Sarene said. “I rather enjoyed it, actually. Fencing was my favorite sport.” The women's eyes shone with an appalling level of bloodlust-like the eyes of hounds that had been locked in a very small room for far too long. Sarene had hoped to instill a measure of political interest in these women, to encourage them to take an active role in the management of the country, but apparently that was too subtle an approach. They needed something more direct. “I could teach you, if you wanted,” Sarene offered. “To fight?” Atara asked, astounded. “Of course,” Sarene said. “It's not that difficult. And please, Lady Atara, we call it fencing. Even the most understanding of men gets a bit uncomfortable when he thinks of women 'fighting.' “ “We couldn't . . .” Eshen began. “Why not?” Sarene asked. “Swordplay is frowned upon by the king, dear,” Daora explained. “You've probably noticed that none of the noblemen here carry swords.” Sarene frowned. “I was going to ask about that.” “Iadon considers it too commonplace,” Eshen said. “He calls fighting peasant's work. He's studied them rather a lot-he's a fine leader, you know, and a fine leader has to know a lot about a lot of things. Why, he can tell you what the weather is like in Svorden at any time of the year. His ships are the most sturdy, and fastest in the business.” “So none of the men can fight?” Sarene asked with amazement. “None except for Lord Eondel and perhaps Lord Shuden.” Torena said, her face taking on a dreamy look as she mentioned Shuden's name. The young, dark-skinned nobleman was a favorite among the women of court, 1his delicate features and impeccable manners capturing even the most steady of hearts. “Don't forget Prince Raoden,” Atara added. “I think he had Eondel teach him to fight just to spite his father. He was always doing things like that.” “Well, all the better,” Sarene said. “If none of the men fight, then King Iadon can't very well object to our learning.” “What do you mean?” Torena asked. “Well, he says it's beneath him,” Sarene explained. “If that's true, then it should be perfect for us. After all, we are only women.” Sarene smiled mischievously, an expression that spread across most
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of the faces in the room. “Ashe, where did I put my sword?” Sarene said, on her knees beside her bed, fumbling around beneath it. “Your sword, my lady?” Ashe asked. “Never mind, I'll find it later. What did you discover?” Ashe pulsed quietly, as if wondering just what sort of trouble she was getting into, before speaking. “I'm afraid I don't have much to report, my lady. Elantris is a very delicate subject, and I have been able to learn very little.” “Anything will help,” Sarene said, turning to her wardrobe. She had a ball to attend this night. “Well, my lady, most of the people in Kae don't want to speak of the city. Kae's Seons didn't know very much, and the mad Seons inside of Elantris seem incapable of enough thought to respond to my questions. I even tried approaching the Elantrians themselves, but many appeared scared of me, and the others only begged me for food-as if I could carry it to them. Eventually, I found the best source of information to be the soldiers that guard the city walls.” “I've heard of them,” Sarene said, looking over her clothing. “They're supposed to be the most elite fighting group in Arelon.” “And they are very quick to tell you so, my lady.” Ashe said. “I doubt many of them would know what to do in a battle, though they seem quite proficient at cards and drinking. They tend to keep their uniforms well pressed, however.” “Typical of a ceremonial guard.” Sarene said, picking through the row of black garments, her skin quivering at the thought of donning yet another flat, colorless monstrosity of a dress. As much as she respected the memory of Raoden, she couldn't possibly wear black again. Ashe bobbed in the air at her comment. “I am afraid, my lady, that Arelon's most 'elite' military group hardly does the country any credit. Yet, they are the city's most informed experts regarding Elantris.” “And what did they have to say?” Ashe drifted over to the closet, watching as she rifled through her choices. “Not much. People in Arelon don't talk to Seons as quickly as they once did. There was a time, I barely recall, when the population loved us. Now they are ... reserved, almost frightened.” “They associate you with Elantris,” Sarene said, glancing longingly toward the dresses she had brought with her from Teod. “I know, my lady,” Ashe said. “But we had nothing to do with the fall of the city. There is nothing to fear from a Seon. I wish ... But, well, that is irrelevant. Despite their reticence, I did get some information. It appears that Elantrians lose more than their human appearance when the Shaod takes them. The guards seem to think that the individual completely forgets who he or she used to be, becoming something more like an animal than a human. This certainly seems the case for the Elantrian Seons I spoke to.” Sarene shivered. “But, Elantrians can talk-some asked you for food.” “They did,” Ashe said. “The
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poor souls hardly even seemed animal: most of them were crying or mumbling in some way. I'm inclined to think they had lost their minds.” “So the Shaod is mental as well as physical,” Sarene said speculatively. “Apparently, my lady. The guards also spoke of several despotic lords that rule the city. Food is so valuable that the Elantrians vigorously attack anyone bearing it. Sarene frowned. “How are the Elantrians fed?” “They aren't, as far as I can tell.” “Then how do they live?” Sarene asked. “I do not know, my lady. It is possible that the city exists in a feral state, with the mighty living upon the weak.” “No society could survive like that.” “I don't believe they have a society, my lady,” Ashe said. “They are a group of miserable, cursed individuals that your God appears to have forgotten-and the rest of the country is trying very hard to follow His example.” Sarene nodded thoughtfully. Then, determined, she pulled off her black dress and rifled through the clothing at the back of her closet. She presented herself for Ashe's appraisal a few minutes later. “What do you think?” she asked, twirling. The dress was crafted of a thick, golden material that was almost metallic in its shine. It was overlaid with black lace, and had a high, open collar, like a man's. The collar was constructed from a stiff material, which was matched in the cuffs. The sleeves were very wide, as was the body of the dress, which billowed outward and continued all the way to the floor, hiding her feet. It was the kind of dress that made one feel regal. Even a princess needed reminders once in a while. “It isn't black, my lady.” Ashe pointed out. “This part is,” Sarene objected, pointing to the long cape at the back. The cape was actually part of the dress, woven into the neck and shoulders so carefully that it seemed to grow from the lace. “I don't think that the cape is enough to make it a widow's dress, my lady.” “It will have to do,” Sarene said, studying herself in t1he mirror. “If I wear one more of those dresses Eshen gave me, then you'll have to throw me into Elantris for going insane.” “Are you certain the front is . . . appropriate?” “What?” Sarene said. “It's rather low-cut, my lady,” “I've seen much worse, even here in Arelon.” “Yes, my lady, but those were all unmarried women.” Sarene smiled. Ashe was always so sensitive-especially in regards to her. “I have to at least wear it once-I've never had the chance. I got it in from Duladel the week before I left Teod.” “If you say so, my lady.” Ashe said, pulsing slightly. “Is there anything else you would like me to try and find out?” “Did you visit the dungeons?” “I did,” Ashe said. “I'm sorry, my lady-I found no secret alcoves hiding half-starved princes. If Iadon locked his son away, then he wasn't foolish enough to do it in his own palace.” “Well,
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it was worth a look.” Sarene said with a sigh. “I didn't think you would find anything-we should probably be searching for the assassin who wielded the knife instead.” “True,” Ashe said. “Perhaps you might try prompting the queen for information? If the prince really was killed by an intruder, she might know something.” “I've tried, but Eshen is ... well, it's not hard to get information out of her. Getting her to stay on topic, however ... Honestly, how a woman like that ended up married to Iadon is beyond me.” “I suspect, my lady,” Ashe said, “that the arrangement was more financial than it was social. Much of Iadon's original governmental funds came from Eshen's father.” “That makes sense,” Sarene said, smiling slightly and wondering what Iadon thought of the bargain now. He'd gotten his money, true, but he'd also ended up spending several decades listening to Eshen's prattle. Perhaps that was why he seemed so frustrated by women in general. “Regardless,” Sarene said. “I don't think the queen knows anything about Raoden-but I'll keep trying.” Ashe bobbed. “And, what shall I do?” Sarene paused. “Well, I've been thinking about Uncle Kiin lately. Father never mentions him anymore. I was wondering-do you know if Kiin was ever officially disinherited?” “I don't know, my lady.” Ashe said. “Dio might know: he works much more closely with your father.” “See if you can dig anything up-there might be some rumors here in Arelon about what happened. Kiin is, after all, one of the most influential people in Kae.” “Yes, my lady. Anything else?” “Yes,” Sarene decided with a wrin1kle of her nose. “Find someone to take those black dresses away-I've decided I won't be needing them anymore.” “Of course, my lady,” Ashe said with a suffering tone. Sarene glanced out the carriage window as it approached Duke Telrii's mansion. Reports said that Telrii had been very free with ball invitations, and the number of carriages on the road this evening seemed to confirm the information. Torches lined the pathway, and the mansion grounds were brilliantly lit with a combination of lanterns, torches, and strange colorful flames. “The duke has spared no expense,” Shuden noted. “What are they, Lord Shuden?” Sarene asked, nodding toward one of the bright flames, which burned atop a tall metal pole. “Special rocks imported from the south.” “Rocks that burn? Like coal?” “They burn much more quickly than coal,” the young Jindoeese lord explained. “And they are extremely expensive. It must have cost Telrii a fortune to light this pathway.” Shuden frowned. “This seems extravagant, even for him.” “Lukel mentioned that the duke is somewhat wasteful,” Sarene said, remembering her conversation in Iadon's throne room. Shuden nodded. “But he's far more clever than most will credit. The duke is easy with his money, but there is usually a purpose behind his frivolity.” Sarene could see the young baron's mind working as the coach pulled to a stop, as if trying to discern the exact nature of the aforementioned “purpose.” The mansion itself was bursting with people. Women in
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bright dresses accompanied men in the straight-coated suits that were the current masculine fashion. The guests only slightly outnumbered the white-clothed servants who bustled through the crowd, carrying food and drink or changing lanterns. Shuden helped Sarene from the carriage, then led her into the main ballroom with a gait that was practiced at navigating crowds. “You have no idea how happy I am you offered to come with me.” Shuden confided as they entered the room. A large band played at one end of the hallway, and couples either spun through the center of the room in dance or stood around the wide periphery in conversation. The room was bright with colored lights, the rocks they had seen outside burning intensely from placements atop banisters or poles. There were even chains of tiny candles wrapped around several of the pillars-contraptions that probably had to be refilled every half hour. “Why is that, my lord?” Sarene asked, gazing at the colorful scene. Even living as a princess, she had never seen such beauty and opulence. Light, sound, and color mixed intoxicatingly. Shuden followed her gaze, not really hearing her question. “One would never know this country is dancing on the lip of destruction,” he muttered. The statement struck like a solemn death knell. There was a reason Sarene had never seen such lavishness-wondrous as it was, it was also incredibly wasteful. Her father was a prudent ruler; he would never allow such profligacy. “That is always how it is, though, isn't it?” Shuden asked. “Those who can least afford extravagance seem to be the ones most determined to spend what they have left.” “You are a wise man, Lord Shuden.' Sarene said. “No, just a man who tries to see to the heart of things,” he said, leading her to a side gallery where they could find drinks. “What was that you were saying before?” “What?” Shuden asked. “Oh, I was explaining how you are going to save me quite a bit of distress this evening.” “Why is that?” she asked as he handed her a cup of wine. Shuden smiled slightly, taking a sip of his own drink. “There are some who, for one reason or another, consider me quite ... eligible. Many of them won't realize who you are, and will stay away, trying to judge their new competitor. I might actually have some time to enjoy myself tonight.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “Is it really that bad?” “I usually have to beat them away with a stick,” Shuden replied, holding out his arm to her. “One would almost think you never intended to marry, my lord.” Sarene said with a smile, accepting his proffered arm. Shuden laughed. “No, it is nothing like that, my lady. Let me assure you. I am quite interested in the concept-or, at least, the theory behind it. However, finding a woman in this court whose twittering foolishness doesn't cause my stomach to turn, that is another thing entirely. Come, if I am right, then we should be able to find a place much more
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interesting than the main ballroom.” Shuden led her through the masses of ballgoers. Despite his earlier comments, he was very eivil-even pleasant-to the women who appeared from the crowd to welcome him. Shuden knew every one by name-a feat of diplomacy, or good breeding, in itself. Sarene's respect for Shuden grew as she watched the reactions of those he met. No faces turned dark as he approached, and few gave him the haughty looks that were common in so-called genteel societies. Shuden was well liked, though he was far from the most lively of men. She sensed that his popularity came not from his ability to entertain, but from his refreshing honesty. When Shuden spoke, he was always polite and considerate, but completely frank. His exotic origin gave him the license to say things that others could not. Eventually they arrived at a small room at the top of a flight of stairs. “Here we are,” Shuden said with satisfaction, leading her through the doorway. Inside they found a smaller, but more skilled, band playing stringed instruments. The decorations in this room were more subdued, bu1t the servants were holding plates of food that seemed even more exotic than those down below. Sarene recognized many of the faces from court, including the one most important. “The king,” she said, noticing Iadon standing near the far corner. Eshen was at his side in a slim green dress. Shuden nodded. “Iadon wouldn't miss a party like this, even if it is being held by Lord Telrii.” “They don't get along?” “They get along fine. They're just in the same business. Iadon runs a merchant fleet-his ships travel the sea of Fjorden, as do those of Telrii. That makes them rivals.” “I think it's odd that he's here either way,” Sarene said. “My father never goes to these kinds of things.” “That is because he has grown up. Lady Sarene. Iadon is still infatuated with his power, and takes every opportunity to enjoy it.” Shuden looked around with keen eyes. “Take this room, for example.” “This room?” Shuden nodded. “Whenever Iadon comes to a party, he chooses a room aside from the main one and lets the important people gravitate toward him. The nobles are used to it. The man throwing the ball usually hires a second band, and knows to start a second, more exclusive party apart from the main ball. Iadon has made it known that he doesn't want to associate with people who are too far beneath him-this gathering is only for dukes and well-placed counts.” “But you are a baron,” Sarene pointed out as the two of them drifted into the room. Shuden smiled, sipping his wine. “I am a special case. My family forced Iadon to give us our title, where most of the others gained their ranks through wealth and begging. I can take certain liberties that no other baron would assume, for Iadon and I both know I once got the better of him. I can usually only spend a short time here in the inner room-an hour
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at most. Otherwise I stretch the king's patience. Of course, that is all beside the point tonight.” “Why is that?” “Because I have you,” Shuden said. “Do not forget, Lady Sarene. You outrank everyone in this room except for the royal couple themselves.” Sarene nodded. While she was quite accustomed to the idea of being important-she was, after all, the daughter of a king-she wasn't used to the Arelish penchant for pulling rank. “Iadon's presence changes things,” she said quietly as the king noticed her. His eyes passed over her dress, obviously noting its less than black state, and his face grew dark. Maybe the dress wasn't such a good idea, Sarene admitted to herself. However, something else quickly drew her attention. “What is he doing here?” she whispered as she noticed a bright form standing like a red scar in the midst of the ballgoers. Shuden followed her eyes. “The gyorn? He's been coming to the court balls since the day he got here. He showed up at the first one1 without an invitation, and held himself with such an air of self-importance that no one has dared neglect inviting him since.” Hrathen spoke with a small group of men, his brilliant red breastplate and cape stark against the nobles' lighter colors. The gyorn stood at least a head taller than anyone in the room, and his shoulder plates extended a foot on either side. All in all, he was very hard to miss. Shuden smiled. “No matter what I think of the man, I am impressed with his confidence. He simply walked into the king's private party that first night and began talking to one of the dukes-he barely even nodded to the king. Apparently, Hrathen considers the title of gyorn equal to anything in this room.” “Kings bow to gyorns in the East.” Sarene said. “They practically grovel when Wyrn visits.” “And it all came from one elderly Jindo,” Shuden noted, pausing to replace their cups with wine from a passing servant. It was a much better vintage. “It always interests me to see what you people have done with Keseg's teachings.” “ 'You people'?” Sarene asked. “I'm Korathi-don't lump me together with the gyorn.” Shuden held up a hand. “I apologize. I didn't mean to be offensive.” Sarene paused. Shuden spoke Aonic as a native and lived in Arelon, so she had assumed him to be Korathi. She had misjudged. Shuden was still Jindoeese-his family would have believed in Shu-Keseg, the parent religion of both Korath and Dereth. “But,” she said, thinking out loud, “Jindo is Derethi now.” Shuden's face darkened slightly, eyeing the gyorn. “I wonder what the great master thought when his two students, Korath and Dereth, left to preach to the lands northward. Keseg taught of unity. But what did he mean? Unity of mind, as my people assume? Unity of love, as your priests claim? Or is it the unity of obedience, as the Derethi believe? In the end, I am left to ponder how mankind managed to complicate such a simple concept.” He
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paused, then shook his head. “Anyway, yes, my lady, Jindo is Derethi now. My people allow Wyrn to assume that the Jindo have been converted because it is better than fighting. Many are now questioning that decision, however. The Arteths are growing increasingly demanding.” Sarene nodded. “I agree. Shu-Dereth must be stopped-it is a perversion of the truth.” Shuden paused. “I didn't say that, Lady Sarene. The soul of Shu-Keseg is acceptance. There is room for all teachings. The Derethi think they are doing what is right.” Shuden stopped, looking over at Hrathen, before continuing. “That one, however, is dangerous.” “Why him and not others?” “I visited one of Hrathen's sermons,” Shuden said. “He doesn't preach from his heart, Lady Sarene, he preaches from his mind. He looks for numbers in his conversions, paying no attention to the faith of his followers. This is dangerous.” Shuden scanned Hrathen's companions. “That one bothers me as well,” he said, pointing to a man whose hair was so blond it was almost white. “Who is he?” Sarene asked with interest. “Waren, first son of Baron Diolen,” Shuden said. “He shouldn't be here in this room, but he is apparently using his close association with the gyorn as an invitation. Waren used to be a notably pious Korathi, but he claims to have seen a vision of Jaddeth commanding that he convert to Shu-Dereth.” “The ladies were talking about this earlier,” Sarene said, eyeing Waren. “You don't believe him?” “I have always suspected Waren's religiousness to be an exhibition. He is an opportunist, and his extreme piety gained him notoriety.” Sarene studied the white-haired man, worried. He was very young, but he carried himself as a man of accomplishment and control. His conversion was a dangerous sign. The more such people Hrathen gathered, the more difficult he would be to stop. “I shouldn't have waited so long,” she said. “For what?” “To come to these balls. Hrathen has a week's edge on me.” “You act as if it were a personal struggle between you two,” Shuden noted with a smile. Sarene didn't take the comment lightly. “A personal struggle with the fates of nations at stake.” “Shuden!” a voice said. “I see that you are lacking your customary circle of admirers.” “Good evening, Lord Roial,” Shuden said, bowing slightly as the old man approached. “Yes, thanks to my companionship. I have been able to avoid most of that tonight.” “Ah, the lovely Princess Sarene,” Roial said, kissing her hand. “Apparently, your penchant for black has waned.” “It was never that strong to begin with, my lord,” she said with a curtsy. “I can imagine,” Roial said with a smile. Then he turned back to Shuden. “I had hoped that you wouldn't realize your good fortune, Shuden. I might have stolen the princess and kept off a few of the leeches myself.” Sarene regarded the elderly man with surprise. Shuden chuckled. “Lord Roial is, perhaps, the only bachelor in Arelon whose affection is more sought-after than my own. Not that I am jealous. His Lordship diverts some
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of the attention from me.” “You?' Sarene asked, looking at the spindly old man. “Women want to marry you?” Then, remembering her manners, she added a belated “my lord,” blushing furiously at the impropriety of her words. Roial laughed. “Don't worry about offending me, young Sarene. No man my age is much to look at. My dear Eoldess has been dead for twenty years, and I have no son. My fortune has to pass to someone, and every unmarried girl in the realm realizes that fact. She would only have to indulge me for a few years, bury me, then find a lusty young lover to help spend my money.” “My lord is too cynical,” Shuden noted. “My lord is too realistic,” Roial said with a snort. “Though I'll admit, the idea of forcing one of those young puffs into my bed is tempting. I know they all think I'm too old to make them perform their duties as a wife, but they assume wrong. If I were going to let them steal my fortune, I'd at least make them work for it.” Shuden blushed at the comment, but Sarene only laughed. “I knew it. You really are nothing but a dirty old man.” “Self-professedly so,” Roial agreed with a smile. Then, looking over at Hrathen, he continued. “How's our overly armored friend doing?” “Bothering me by his mere noxious presence, my lord,” Sarene replied. “Watch him, Sarene,” Roial said. “I hear that our dear lord Telrii's sudden good fortune isn't a matter of pure luck.” Shuden's eyes grew suspicious. “Duke Telrii has declared no allegiance to Derethi.” “Not openly, no,” Roial agreed. “But my sources say that there is something between those two. One thing is certain: There has rarely been a party like this in Kae, and the duke is throwing it for no obvious reason. One begins to wonder just what Telrii is advertising, and why he wants us to know how wealthy he is.” “An interesting thought, my lord,” Sarene said. “Sarene?” Eshen's voice called from the other side of the room. “Dear, would you come over here?” “Oh no,” Sarene said, looking over at the queen, who was waving her to approach. “What do you suppose this is about?” “I'm intrigued to find out.” Roial said with a sparkle in his eyes. Sarene acknowledged the queen's gesture, approaching the royal couple and curtsying politely. Shuden and Roial followed more discreetly, placing themselves within earshot. Eshen smiled as Sarene approached. “Dear, I was just explaining to my husband about the idea we came up with this morning. You know, the one about exercising?” Eshen nodded her head toward the king enthusiastically. “What is this nonsense, Sarene?” the king demanded. “Women playing with swords?” “His Majesty wouldn't want us to get fat, would he?” Sarene asked innocently. “No, of course not,” the king said. “But you could just eat less.” “But, I do so like to exercise, Your Majesty.” Iadon took a deep, suffering breath. 'But surely there is some other form of exercise you women could do?” Sarene
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blinked, trying to hint that she might be close to tears. “But, Your Majesty, I've done this ever since I was a child. Surely the king can have nothing against a foolish womanly pastime.” The king stoppe1d, eyeing her. She might have overdone it that last time. Sarene assumed her best look of hopeless idiocy and smiled. Finally, he just shook his head. “Bah, do whatever you want, woman. I don't want you spoiling my evening.” “The king is very wise,” Sarene said, curtsying and backing away. “I had forgotten about that,” Shuden whispered to her as she rejoined him. “The act must be quite the burden to maintain.” “It is useful sometimes,” Sarene said. They were about to withdraw when Sarene noticed a courier approaching the king. She placed her hand on Shuden's arm, indicating that she wanted to wait a moment where she could still hear Iadon. The messenger whispered something in Iadon's ear, and the king's eyes grew wide with frustration. “What!” The man moved to whisper again, and the king pushed him back. “Just say it, man. I can't stand all that whispering.” “It happened just this week, Your Majesty,” the man explained. Sarene edged closer. “How odd.” A slightly accented voice suddenly drifted in their direction. Hrathen stood a short distance away. He wasn't watching them, but somehow he was directing his voice at the king-as if he were intentionally allowing his words to be overheard. “I wouldn't have thought the king would discuss important matters where the dull-minded can hear. Such people tend to be so confused by events that it is a disservice to allow them the opportunity.” Most of the people around her didn't even appear to have heard the gyorn's comment. The king, however, had. Iadon regarded Sarene for a moment, then grabbed his messenger by the arm and strode quickly from the room, leaving a startled Eshen behind. As Sarene watched the king leave, Hrathen's eyes caught her own, and he smiled slightly before turning back to his companions. “Can you believe that?” Sarene said, fuming. “He did that on purpose!” Shuden nodded. “Often, my lady, our deceptions turn on us.” “The gyorn is good,” Roial said. “It's always a masterful stroke when you can turn someone's guise to your advantage.” “I have often found that no matter what the circumstance, it is most useful to be oneself,” Shuden said. “The more faces we try to wear, the more confused they become.” Roial nodded slightly, smiling. “True. Boring, perhaps, but true.” Sarene was barely listening. She had assumed that she was the one doing the manipulating; she had never realized the disadvantage it gave her.”The facade is troubling,” she admitted. Then she sighed turning back to Shuden. “But I am stuck with it, at least with the king. Honestly though, I doubt he would have regarded me any other way, no matter how I acted.” “You're probably right,” Shuden said. “The king is rather shortsighted when it comes to women.” The king returned a few moments later, his face dark, his humor
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obviously ruined by whatever news he had received. The courier escaped with a look of relief, and as he left, Sarene caught sight of a new figure entering the room. Duke Telrii was customarily pompous in bright reds and golds, his fingers speckled with rings. Sarene watched him closely, but he didn't join-or even acknowledge-the gyorn Hrathen. In fact, he seemed to doggedly ignore the priest, instead making the proper hostly overtures, visiting with each group of guests in turn. “You're right, Lord Roial,” Sarene finally said. Roial looked up from his conversation with Shuden. “Hum?” “Duke Telrii,” Sarene said, nodding to the man. “There's something between him and the gyorn.” “Telrii is a troublesome one,” Roial said. “I've never quite been able to figure out his motivations. At times, it seems he wants nothing more than coin to pad his coffers. At others . . .” Roial trailed off as Telrii, as if noticing their study of him, turned toward Sarene's group. He smiled and drifted in their direction, Atara at his side. “Lord Roial,” he said with a smooth, almost uncaring, voice. “Welcome. And, Your Highness. I don't believe we've been properly introduced.” Roial did the honors. Sarene curtsied as Telrii sipped at his wine and exchanged pleasantries with Roial. There was a startling level of . . .nonchalanee about him. While few noblemen actually cared about the topics they discussed, most had the decency to at least sound interested. Telrii made no such concession. His tone was flippant, though not quite to the level of being insulting, and his manner uninterested. Beyond the initial address, he completely ignored Sarene, obviously satisfied that she was of no discernible significance. Eventually, the duke sauntered away, and Sarene watched him go with annoyance. If there was one thing she loathed, it was being ignored. Finally, she sighed and turned to her companion. “All right, Lord Shuden, I want to mingle. Hrathen has a week's lead, but Domi be cursed if I'm going to let him stay ahead of me.” It was late. Shuden had wanted to leave hours ago, but Sarene had been determined to forge on, plowing through hundreds of people, making contacts like a madwoman. She made Shuden introduce her to everyone he knew, and the faces and names had quickly become a blur. However, repetition would bring familiarity. Eventually, she let Shuden bring her back to the palace, satisfied with the day's events. Shuden let her off and wearily bid her goodnight, claiming he was glad that Ahan was next in line to take her to a ball. “Your company was delightful,” he explained, “but I just can't keep up with you!” Sarene found it hard to keep up with herself sometimes. She practically stumbled her way into the palace, so drowsy with fatigue and wine that she could bar1ely keep her eyes open. Shouts echoed through the hallway. Sarene frowned, turning a corner to find the king's guard scrambling around, yelling at one another and generally making a rather large nuisance of themselves. “What is going on?” she
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asked, holding her head. “Someone broke into the palace tonight,” a guard explained. “Snuck right through the king's bedchambers.” “Is anyone hurt?” Sarene asked, suddenly coming alert. Iadon and Eshen had left the party hours before her and Shuden. “Thank Domi, no.” the guard said. Then, he turned to two soldiers. “Take the princess to her room and stand guard at the door,” he ordered. “Goodnight, Your Highness. Don't worry-they're gone now.” Sarene sighed, noting the yelling and bustle of the guards, their armor and weapons clanking as they periodically ran through the hallways. She doubted that she would be able to have a good night with so much ruckus, no matter how tired she was. CHAPTER 15 AT night, when all melted into a uniform blackness, Hrathen could almost see Elantris's grandeur. Silhouetted against the star-filled sky, the fallen buildings cast off their mantle of despair and became memories; memories of a city crafted with skill and care, a city where every stone was a piece of functional art; memories of towers that stretched to the sky-fingers tickling the stars-and of domes that spread like venerable hills. And it had all been an illusion. Beneath the greatness had been wreckage, a filthy sore now exposed. How easy it was to look past heresies gilded with gold. How simple it had been to assume that outward strength bespoke inward righteousness. “Dream on, Elantris.” Hrathen whispered, turning to stroll along the top of the great wall that enclosed the city. “Remember what you used to be and try to hide your sins beneath the blanket of darkness. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and all will be revealed once again.” “My lord? Did you say something?' Hrathen turned. He had barely noticed the guard passing him on the wall, the man's heavy spear resting over his shoulder and his wan torch nearly dead. “No. I was only whispering to myself.” The guard nodded, continuing his rounds. They were growing accustomed to Hrathen, who had visited Elantris nearly every night this week, pacing its walls in thought. Though he had an additional purpose behind his visit this particular time, most nights he simply came to be alone and think. He wasn't sure what drew him to the city. Part of it was curiosity. He had never beheld Elantris in its power, and couldn't understand how anything-even a city so grand-had repeatedly withstood the might of Fjorden, first militarily, then theologically. He also felt a responsibility toward the people-or whatever they were-that lived in Elantris. He was using them, holding them up as an enemy to unite his followers. He felt guilty: the Elantrians he had seen were not devils, but wretches afflicted as if by a terr1ible disease. They deserved pity, not condemnation. Still, his devils they would become, for he knew that it was the easiest, and most harmless, way to unify Arelon. If he turned the people against their government, as he had done in Duladel, there would be death. This way would lead to bloodshed as well, but he hoped much less.
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Oh, what burdens we must accept in the service of Your empire, Lord Jaddeth, Hrathen thought to himself. It didn't matter that he had acted in the name of the Church, or that he had saved thousands upon thousands of souls. The destruction Hrathen had caused in Duladel ground against his soul like a millstone. People who had trusted him were dead, and an entire society had been cast into chaos. But, Jaddeth required sacrifices. What was one man's conscience when compared with the glory of His rule? What was a little guilt when a nation was now unified beneath Jaddeth's careful eye? Hrathen would ever bear the scars of what he had done, but it was better that one man suffer than an entire nation continue in heresy. Hrathen turned away from Elantris, looking instead toward the twinkling lights of Kae. Jaddeth had given him another opportunity. This time he would do things differently. There would be no dangerous revolution, no bloodbath caused by one class turning against another. Hrathen would apply pressure carefully until Iadon folded, and another, more agreeable man took his place. The nobility of Arelon would convert easily, then. The only ones who would truly suffer, the scapegoats in his strategy, were the Elantrians. It was a good plan. He was certain he could crush this Arelish monarchy without much effort it was already cracked and weak. The people of Arelon were so oppressed that he could institute a new government swiftly, before they even received word of Iadon's fall. No revolution. Everything would be clean. Unless he made a mistake. He had visited the farms and cities around Kae; he knew that the people were stressed beyond their ability to bend. If he gave them too much of a chance, they would rise up and slaughter the entire noble class. The possibility made him nervous-mostly because he knew that if it happened, he would make use of it. The logical gyorn within him would ride the destruction as if it were a fine stallion, using it to make Derethi followers out of an entire nation. Hrathen sighed, turning and continuing his stroll. The wall walk here was kept clean by the guard, but if he strayed too far, he would reach a place covered with a dark, oily grime. He wasn't certain what had caused it, but it seemed to completely coat the wall, once one got away from the central gate area. Before he reached the grime, however, he spotted the group of men standing along the wall walk. They were dressed in cloaks, though the night wasn't cold enough to require it. Perhaps they thought the garments made them more nondescript. However, if that was the intention, then perhaps Duke Telrii should have chosen to wear something other than a rich lavender cloak set with silver embroidery. Hrathen shook his head at the materialism. The men we must work with to accomplish Jaddeth's goals. . . Duke Telrii did not lower his hood, nor did he bow properly, as Hrathen approached-though, of course. Hrathen
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hadn't really expected him to do either. The duke did, however, nod to his guards, who withdrew to allow them privacy. Hrathen strolled over to stand beside Duke Telrii, resting against the wall's parapet and staring out over the city of Kae. Lights twinkled; so many people in the city were rich that lamp oil and candles were plentiful. Hrathen had visited some large cities that grew as dark as Elantris when night fell. “Aren't you going to ask why I wanted to meet with you?' Telrii asked. “You're having second thoughts about our plan,” Hrathen said simply. Telrii paused, apparently surprised that Hrathen understood him so readily. “Yes, well. If you know that already, then perhaps you are having second thoughts as well.” “Not at all,” Hrathen said. “Your mannerism-the furtive way you wanted to meet-was what gave you away.” Telrii frowned. This was a man accustomed to being dominant in any conversation. Was that why he was wavering? Had Hrathen offended him? No, studying Telrii's eyes. Hrathen could tell that wasn't it. Telrii had been eager, at first, to enter into the bargain with Fjorden, and he had certainly seemed to enjoy throwing his party this evening. 'What had changed? I can't afford to let this opportunity pass, Hrathen thought. If only he had more time. Fewer than eighty days remained of his three-month deadline. If he had been given even a year, he could have worked with more delicacy and precision. Unfortunately, he had no such luxury, and a blunt attack using Telrii was his best bet for a smooth change in leadership. “Why don't you tell me what is bothering you?” Hrathen said. “Yes, well,” Telrii said carefully. “I'm just not sure that I want to work with Fjorden.” Hrathen raised an eyebrow. “You didn't have that uncertainty before.” Telrii eyed Hrathen from beneath his hood. In the dark moonlight, it looked like his birthmark was simply a continuation of the shadows, and it gave his features an ominous cast-or, at least, it would have, had his extravagant costume not ruined the effect. Telrii simply frowned. “I heard some interesting things at the party tonight, Gyorn. Are you really the one who was assigned to Duladel before its collapse?” Ah, so that's it. Hrathen thought. “I was there.” “And now you're here,” Telrii said. “You wonder why a nobleman is made uncomfortable by that news? The entire Republican class-the rulers of Duladelwere slaughtered in that revolution! And my sources claim that you had a great deal to do with that.” Perhaps the man wasn't as foolish as Hrathen thought. Telrii's concern was a valid one; Hrathen would have to speak with delicacy. He nodded toward Telrii's guards, who stood a short distance down the wall walk. “Where did you get those soldiers, my lord?” Telrii paused. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Humor me,” Hrathen said. Telrii turned, glancing at the soldiers. “I recruited them away from the Elantris City Guard. I hired them to be my bodyguards.” Hrathen nodded. “And, how many such guards do
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you employ?” “Fifteen,” Telrii said. “How would you judge their skill?” Telrii shrugged. “Good enough, I suppose. I've never actually seen them fight.” “That's probably because they never have fought.” Hrathen said. “None of the soldiers here in Arelon have ever seen combat.” “What is your point, Gyorn?” Telrii asked testily. Hrathen turned, nodding toward the Elantris City Guard post, lit in the distance by torches at the base of the wall. “The Guard is what, five hundred strong? Perhaps seven hundred? If you include local policing forces and personal guards, such as your own, there are perhaps a thousand soldiers in the city of Kae. Added to Lord Eondel's legion, you still have well below fifteen hundred professional soldiers in the vicinity.” “And?” Telrii asked. Hrathen turned. “Do you really think that Wyrn needs a revolution to take control of Arelon?” “Wyrn doesn't have an army,” Telrii said. “Fjorden only has a basic defense force.” “I didn't speak of Fjorden,” Hrathen said. “I spoke of Wyrn, Regent of all Creation, leader of Shu-Dereth. Come now, Lord Telrii. Let us be frank. How many soldiers are there in Hrovell? In Jaador? In Svorden? In the other nations of the East? These are people who have sworn themselves Derethi. You don't think they would rise up at Wyrn's command?” Telrii paused. Hrathen nodded as he saw understanding growing in the duke's eyes. The man didn't understand the half of it. The truth was, Wyrn didn't even need an army of foreigners to conquer Arelon. Few outside the high priesthood understood the second, more powerful force Wyrn had at his call: the monasteries. For centuries, the Derethi priesthood had been training its monks in war, assassination, and ... other arts. Arelon's defenses were so weak that a single monastery's personnel could probably conquer the country. Hrathen shivered at the thought of the ... monks trained inside of Dakhor Monastery gaining access to defenseless Arelon. He glanced down at his arm, the place where-beneath his plate armor-he bore the marks of his time there. These were not things that could be explained to Telrii, however. “My lord.” Hrathen said frankly. “I am here in Arelon because Wyrn wants to give the people a chance for peaceful conversion. If he wanted to crush the country, he could. Instead, he sent me. My only intention is to find a way to convert the people of Arelon.” Telrii nodded slowly. “The first step in converting this country.” Hrathen said, “is making certain that the gov1ernment is favorable to the Derethi cause. This would require a change in leadership-it would require putting a new king on the throne.” “I have your word, then?” Telrii said. “You will have the throne,” Hrathen said. Telrii nodded-this was obviously what he had been waiting for. Hrathen's promises before had been vague, but he could no longer afford to be uncommitted. His promises gave Telrii verbal proof that Hrathen was trying to undermine the throne-a calculated risk, but Hrathen was very good at such calculations. “There will be those who oppose you.” Telrii
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warned. “Such as?” “The woman, Sarene,” Telrii said. “Her supposed idiocy is an obvious act. My informants say that she's taken an unhealthy interest in your activities, and she was asking about you at my party this evening.” Telrii's astuteness surprised Hrathen. The man seemed so pretentious, so flagrant-yet there was obviously a measure of competence to him. That could be an advantage or a disadvantage. “Do not worry about the girl.” Hrathen said. “Just take the money we have provided and wait. Your opportunity will come soon. You heard of the news the king received tonight?” Telrii paused, then nodded. “Things are moving along as promised,” Hrathen said. “Now we just have to be patient.” “Very well,” Telrii said. He still had his reservations, but Hrathen's logic-mixed with the outright promise of the throne-had obviously been enough to sway him. The duke nodded with uncustomary respect to Hrathen. Then he waved to his guards, moving to walk away. “Duke Telrii,” Hrathen said, a thought occurring to him. Telrii paused, turning back. “Do your soldiers still have friends in the Elantris City Guard?” Hrathen asked. Telrii shrugged. “I assume so.” “Double your men's pay,” Hrathen said, too quietly for Telrii's bodyguards to hear. “Speak well of the Elantris City Guard to them, and give them time off to spend with their former comrades. It might be ... beneficial to your future to have it known amongst the Guard that you are a man who rewards those that give him allegiance.” “You'll provide the funds to pay my men extra?” Telrii asked carefully. Hrathen rolled his eyes. “Very well.” Telrii nodded, then walked off to join his guards. Hrathen turned, leaning against the wall, looking back out over Kae. He would have to wait for a short period before returning to the steps and descending. Telrii was still worried about proclaiming Derethi allegiance, and hadn't wanted to be seen openly meeti1ng with Hrathen. The man was overly worried, but perhaps it was better for him to appear religiously conservative for the moment. It disturbed Hrathen that Telrii had mentioned Sarene. For some reason, the pert Teoish princess had decided to oppose Hrathen, though he had given her no overt reason to do so. It was ironic, in a way; she didn't know it, but Hrathen was her greatest ally, not her dire enemy. Her people would convert one way or another. Either they would respond to Hrathen's humane urgings, or they would be crushed by the Fjordell armies. Hrathen doubted he would ever he able to convince her of that truth. He saw the mistrust in her eyes-she would immediately assume that whatever he said was a lie. She loathed him with the irrational hatred of one who subconsciously knew that her own faith was inferior. Korathi teachings had withered in every major nation to the East, just as they would in Arelon and Teod. Shu-Korath was too weak: it lacked virility. Shu-Dereth was strong and powerful. Like two plants competing for the same ground, Shu-Dereth would strangle Shu-Korath. Hrathen shook his head,
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waited for a safe period of time, then finally turned to walk back along the wall toward the steps that ran down into Kae. As he arrived, he heard an echoing thump from below, and he paused in surprise. It sounded like the city gates had just been closed. “What was that?” Hrathen asked, approaching several guards who stood in a ring of glittering torchlight. The guards shrugged, though one pointed at two forms walking through the darkened courtyard below. “They must have caught someone trying to escape.” Hrathen wrinkled his brow. “Does that happen often?” The guard shook his head. “Most of them are too mindless to try escaping. Every once in a while, one tries to scurry away, but we always catch 'em.” “Thank you,” Hrathen said, leaving the guards behind as he began the long descent to the city below. At the foot of the stairs he found the main guardhouse. The captain was inside, his eyes drowsy as if he had just awakened. “Trouble, Captain?” Hrathen asked. The captain turned with surprise. “Oh, it's you, Gyorn. No, no trouble. Just one of my lieutenants doing something he shouldn't have.” “Letting some Elantrians back into the city?” Hrathen asked. The captain frowned, but nodded. Hrathen had met the man several times, and at each encounter he had fostered the captain's greed with a few coins. This man was nearly his. “Next time, Captain,” Hrathen said, reaching onto his belt and pulling out a pouch. “I can offer you a different option.” The captain's eyes shone as Hrathen began to pull gold wyrnings-stamped with Wyrn Wulfden's head-out of the pouch. “I have been wanting to study one of these Elantrians up close, for theological reasons,” Hrathen explained, setting a pile of coins on the table. “I would be appreciative if the nex1t captured Elantrian found his way to my chapel before being thrown back into the city.” “That can probably be arranged, my lord,” the captain said, slipping the coins off the table with an eager hand. “No one would have to know about it, of course,” Hrathen said. “Of course, my lord.” CHAPTER 16 RAODEN had once tried to set Ien free. He had been a young boy then, simple of mind but pure of intention. He had been learning about slavery from one of his tutors, and had somehow gotten it into his mind that the Seons were being held against their will. He had gone to Ien tearfully that day, demanding that the Seon accept his freedom. “But I am free, young master,” Ien had replied to the crying boy. “No you're not” Raoden had argued. “You're a slave-you do whatever people tell you.” “I do it because I want to, Raoden.” “Why? Don't you want to be free?” “I want to serve, young master,” Ien explained, pulsing reassuringly. “My freedom is to be here, with you.” “I don't understand.” “You look at things as a human, young master,” Ien said with his wise, indulgent voice. “You see rank and distinction; you try to order the world
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so that everything has a place either above you or beneath you. To a Seon, there is no above or beneath, there are only those we love. And we serve those we love.” “But you don't even get paid!” had been Raoden's indignant response. “But I do, young master. My payment is that of a father's pride and a mother's love. My wages come from the satisfaction of seeing you grow.” It had been many years before Raoden understood those words, but they had always remained in his mind. As he had grown and learned, listening to countless Korathi sermons on the unifying power of love, Raoden had come to see Seons in a new way. Not as servants, or even as friends, but as something much more deep and more powerful. It was as if the Seons were an expression of Domi himself, reflections of God's love for his people. Through their service, they were much closer to heaven than their supposed masters could ever really understand. “You're finally free, my friend,” Raoden said with a wan smile as he watched Ien float and bob. He still hadn't been able to get even a flicker of recognition from the Seon, though Ien did seem to stay in Raoden's general vicinity. Whatever the Shaod had done to Ien, it had taken away more than just his voice. It had broken his mind. “I think I know what's wrong with him,” Raoden said to Galladon, who sat in the shade a short distance away. They were on a rooftop a Few buildings down from the chapel, ejected from their habitual place of study by an apologetic Kahar. The old man had been cleaning furiously in the days 1since his arrival, and the time had finally come for the final polishing. Early in the morning he had contritely, but insistently, thrown them all out so he could finish. Galladon looked up from his book. “Who? The Seon?” Raoden nodded, lying on his stomach near the edge of what was once a garden wall, still watching Ien. “His Aon isn't complete.” “Ien.” Galladon said thoughtfully. “That's healing. Kolo?” “That's right. Except his Aon isn't complete anymore-there are tiny breaks in its lines, and patches of weakness in its color.” Galladon grunted, but didn't offer anything more; he wasn't as interested in Aons or Seons as Raoden was. Raoden watched Ien for a few more moments before turning back to his study of the AonDor book. He didn't get far, however, before Galladon brought up a topic of his own. “What do you miss most, sule?” the Dula asked contemplatively. “Miss most? About the outside?” “Kolo,” Galladon said. “What one thing would you bring here to Elantris if you could?” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “I'd have to think about it. What about you?” “My house,” Galladon said with a reminiscent tone. “I built it myself, sule. Felled every tree, worked every board, and pounded every nail. It was beautiful-no mansion or palace can compete with the work of one's own hands.” Raoden nodded, imagining the
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cabin in his mind. What had he owned that he missed the most strongly? He had been the son of a king, and had therefore had many possessions. The answer he came up with, however, surprised him. “Letters,” he said. “I'd bring a stack of letters.” “Letters, sule?” It obviously hadn't been the response he had been expecting. “From whom?” “A girl.” Galladon laughed. “A woman, sule? I never figured you for the romantic type.” “Just because I don't mope around dramatically like a character from one of your Duladen romances doesn't mean I don't think about such things.” Galladon held up his hands defensively. “Don't get DeluseDoo on me, sule. I'm just surprised. Who was this girl?” “I was going to marry her,” Raoden explained. “Must have been some woman.” “Must have been,” Raoden agreed. “I wish I could have met her.” “You never met her?” Raoden shook his head. “Hence the letters, my friend. She lived in Teod-she was the king's daughter, as a matter of fact. She started sending m1e letters about a year ago. She was a beautiful writer, her words were laced with such wit that couldn't help but respond. We continued to write for the better part of five months; then she proposed.” “She proposed to you?” Galladon asked. “Unabashedly,” Raoden said with a smile. “It was, of course, politically motivated. Sarene wanted a firm union between Teod and Arelon.” “And you accepted?” “It was a good opportunity,” Raoden explained. “Ever since the Reod. Teod has kept its distance from Arelon. Besides, those letters were intoxicating. This last year has been ... difficult. My father seems determined to run Arelon to its ruin, and he is not a man who suffers dissent with patience. But, whenever it seemed that my burdens were too great, I would get a letter from Sarene. She had a Seon too, and after the engagement was formalized we began to speak regularly. She would call in the evenings, her voice drifting from Ien to captivate me. We left the link open for hours sometimes.” “What was that you said about not moping around like a character from a romance?” Galladon said with a smile. Raoden snorted, turning back to his book. “So, there you have it. If I could have anything, I'd want those letters. I was actually excited about the marriage, even if the union was just a reaction to the Derethi invasion of Duladel.” There was silence. “What was that you just said, Raoden?” Galladon finally asked in a quiet voice. “What? Oh, about the letters?” “No. About Duladel.” Raoden paused. Galladon had claimed to have entered Elantris a “few months” ago, but Dulas were known for understatement. The Duladen Republic had fallen just over six months previously.... “I assumed you knew,” Raoden said. “What, sule?” Galladon demanded. “Assumed I knew what?” “I'm sorry, Galladon.” Raoden said with compassion, turning around and sitting up. “The Duladen Republic collapsed.” “No,” Galladon breathed, his eyes wide. Raoden nodded. “There was a revolution, like the one in Arelon ten years ago, but
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even more violent. The republican class was completely destroyed, and a monarchy was instituted.” “Impossible.... The republic was strong-we all believed in it so much.” “Things change, my friend,” Raoden said, standing and walking over to place a hand on Galladon's shoulder. “Not the republic, sule,” Galladon said, his eyes unfocused. “We all got to choose who ruled, stile. Why rise up against that?” Raoden shook his head. “I don't know-not much infor1mation escaped. It was a chaotic time in Duladel, which is why the Fjordell priests were able to step in and seize power.” Galladon looked up. “That means Arelon is in trouble. We were always there to keep the Derethi away from your borders.” “I realize that.” “What happened to Jesker?” he asked. “My religion, what happened to it?” Raoden simply shook his head. “You have to know something!” “Shu-Dereth is the state religion in Duladel now.” Raoden said quietly. “I'm sorry.” Galladon's eyes fell. “It's gone then.” “There are still the Mysteries.” Raoden offered weakly. Galladon frowned, his eyes hard. “The Mysteries are not the same thing as Jesker, sule. They are a mockery of things sacred. A perversion. Only outsiders-those without any sort of true understanding of the Dor-practice the Mysteries.” Raoden left his hand on the grieving man's shoulder, unsure how to comfort him. “I thought you knew,” he said again, feeling helpless. Galladon simply groaned, staring absently with morose eyes. Raoden left Galladon on the rooftop: the large Dula wanted to be alone with his grief. Unsure what else to do, Raoden returned to the chapel, distracted by his thoughts. He didn't remain distracted for long. “Kahar, it's beautiful!” Raoden exclaimed, looking around with wonder. The old man looked up from the corner he had been cleaning. There was a deep look of pride on his face. The chapel was empty of sludge; all that remained was clean, whitish gray marble. Sunlight flooded through the western windows, reflecting off the shiny floor and illuminating the entire ehapel with an almost divine brilliance. Shallow reliefs covered nearly every surface. Only half an inch deep, the detailed sculptures had been lost in the sludge. Raoden ran his fingers across one of the tiny masterpieces, the expressions on the people's faces so detailed as to be lifelike. “They're amazing,” he whispered. “I didn't even know they were there, my lord,” Kahar said, hobbling over to stand next to Raoden. “I didn't see them until I started cleaning, and then they were lost in the shadows until I finished the floor. The marble is so smooth it could be a mirror, and the windows are placed just right to catch the light.” “And the reliefs run all around the room?” “Yes, my lord. Actually, this isn't the only building that has them. You'll occasionally run across a wall or a piece of furniture with carvings on it. They were probably common in Elantris before the Reod.” Raoden nodded. “It was the city of the gods, Kahar.” The old man smiled. His hands were black with grime, and a half-dozen ragged
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cleaning cloths hung from his sash. But he was happy. “What next, my lord?” he asked eagerly. Raoden paused, thinking quickly. Kahar had attacked the chapel's grime with the same holy indignation a priest used to destroy sin. For the first time in months, perhaps years, Kahar had been needed. “Our people have started living in the nearby buildings, Kahar,” Raoden said. “What good will all your cleaning here do if they track slime in every time we meet?” Kahar nodded thoughtfully. “The cobblestones are a problem,” he mumbled. “This is a big project, my lord.” His eyes, however, were not daunted. “I know.” Raoden agreed. “But it is a desperate one. A people who live in filth will feel like filth-if we are ever going to rise above our opinions of ourselves, we are going to need to be clean. Can you do it?” “Yes, my lord.” “Good. I'll assign you some workers to speed the process.” Raoden's band had grown enormously over the last few days as the people of Elantris had heard of Karata's merger with him. Many of the random, ghostlike Elantrians who wandered the streets alone had begun to make their way to Raoden's band, seeking fellowship as a final, desperate attempt to avoid madness. Kahar turned to go, his wrinkled face turning around the chapel one last time, admiring it with satisfaction. “Kahar,” Raoden called. “Yes, my lord?” “Do you know what it is? The secret, I mean?” Kahar smiled. “I haven't been hungry in days, my lord. It is the most amazing feeling in the world-I don't even notice the pain anymore.” Raoden nodded, and Kahar left. The man had come looking for a magical solution to his woes, but he had found an answer much more simple. Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn't need a potion or an Aon to save him-he just needed something to do. Raoden strolled through the glowing room, admiring the different sculptures. He paused, however, when he reached the end of a particular relief. The stone was blank for a short section, its white surface polished by Kahar's careful hand. It was so clean, in fact, that Raoden could see his reflection. He was stunned. The face that stared out of the marble was unknown to him. He had wondered why so few people recognized him; he had been prince of Arelon, his face known even in many of the outer plantations. He had assumed that the Elantrians simply didn't expect to find a prince in Elantris, so they didn't think to associate “Spirit” with Raoden. However, now that he saw the changes in his face, he realized that there was another reason people didn't recognize him. There were hints in his features,1 clues to what had been. The changes, however, were drastic. Only two weeks had passed, but his hair had already fallen out. He had the usual Elantris blotches on his skin, but even the parts that had been flesh-toned a few weeks ago had turned a flat gray. His skin
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was wrinkling slightly, especially around the lips, and his eyes were beginning to take on a sunken look. Once, before his own transformation, he had envisioned the Elantrians as living corpses, their flesh rotting and torn. That wasn't the case; Elantrians retained their flesh and most of their figure, though their skin wrinkled and darkened. They were more withering husks than they were decaying corpses. Yet, even though the transformation wasn't as drastic as he had once assumed, it was still a shock to see it in himself. “We are a sorry people, are we not?” Galladon asked from the doorway. Raoden looked up, smiling encouragingly. “Not as bad as we could be, my friend. I can get used to the changes.” Galladon grunted, stepping into the chapel. “Your cleaning man does good work, sule. This place looks almost free from the Reod.” “The most beautiful thing, my friend, is the way it freed its cleanser in the process.” Galladon nodded, joining Raoden beside the wall, looking out at the large crew of people who were clearing the chapel's garden area. “They've been coming in droves, haven't they, sule?” “They hear that we offer something more than life in an alley. We don't even have to wateh the gates anymore-Karata brings us everyone she can rescue.” “How do you intend to keep them all busy?” Galladon asked. “That garden is big, and it's nearly completely cleared.” “Elantris is a very large city, my friend. We'll find things to keep them occupied.” Galladon watched the people work, his eyes unreadable. He appeared to have overcome his grief, for the moment. “Speaking of jobs.” Raoden began. 'I have something I need you to do.” “Something to keep my mind off the pain, sule?” “You could think that. However, this project is a little more important than cleaning sludge.” Raoden waved Galladon to follow as he walked to the back corner of the room and pried a loose stone from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a dozen small bags of corn. “As a farmer, how would you judge the grade of this seed?” Galladon picked up a kernel with interest, turning it over in his hand a few times, testing its color and its hardness. “Not bad,” he said. “Not the best I've seen, but not bad.” “The planting season is almost here, isn't it?” “Considering how warm it's been lately, I'd say that it's here already.” “Good,” Raoden said. 'This corn won't last long in this hole, and I don't trust leaving it out in the open.” Galladon shook his head. “It won't work, sule. Farming takes time befo1re it brings rewards-those people will pull up and ear the first little sprouts they see.” “I don't think so.” Raoden said, pushing a few kernels of corn around in his palm. “Their minds are changing, Galladon. They can see that they don't have to live as animals anymore.” “There isn't enough room for a decent crop,” Galladon argued. “It will be little more than a garden.” “There's enough space to plant this
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little amount. Next year we'll have more corn, and then we can worry about room. I hear the palace gardens were rather large-we could probably use those.” Galladon shook his head. “The problem in that statement, sule, is the part about 'next year.' There won't be a 'next year.' Kolo? People in Elantris don't last that long.” “Elantris will change,” Raoden said. “If not, then those who come here after us will plant the next season.” “I still doubt it will work.” “You'd doubt the sun's rising if you weren't proven wrong each day,” Raoden said with a smile. “Just give it a try.” “All right, sule,” Galladon said with a sigh. “I suppose your thirty days aren't up yet.” Raoden smiled, passing the corn to his friend and placing his hand on the Dula's shoulder. “Remember, the past need not become our future as well.” Galladon nodded, putting the corn back in its hiding place. “We won't need this for another few days-I'm going to have to figure out a way to plow that garden.” “Lord Spirit!” Saolin's voice called faintly from above, where he had constructed himself a makeshift watchtower. “Someone is coming.” Raoden stood, and Galladon hurriedly replaced the stone. A moment later one of Karata's men burst into the room. “My lord.” the man said, “Lady Karata begs your presence immediately!” “You are a fool, Dashe!” Karata snapped. Dashe-the extremely large, well-muscled man who was her second-incommand-simply continued to strap on his weapons. Raoden and Galladon stood confused at the doorway to the palace. At least ten of the men in the entryway-a full two-thirds of Karata's followers-looked as if they were preparing for battle. “You can continue to dream with your new friend, Karata,” Dashe replied gruffly. “but I will wait no longer-especially not as long as that man threatens the children.” Raoden edged closer to the conversation, pausing beside a thin-limbed, anxious man named Horen. Horen was the type who avoided conflict, and Raoden guessed that he was neutral in this argument. “What's happening?” Raoden asked quietly. “One of Dashe's scouts overheard Aanden planning to attack our palace1 tonight,” Horen whispered, carefully watching his leaders argue. “Dashe has wanted to strike at Aanden for months now, and this is just the excuse he needed.” “You're leading these men into something far worse than death, Dashe,” Karata warned. “Aanden has more people than you do.” “He doesn't have weapons,” Dashe replied, sliding a rusted sword into its sheath with a click. “All that university held was books, and he already ate those.” “Think about what you are doing,” Karata said. Dashe turned, his boardlike face completely frank. “I have, Karata. Aanden is a madman: we cannot rest while he shares our border. If we strike unexpectedly, then we can stop him permanently. Only then will the children be safe.” With that, Dashe turned to his grim band of would-be soldiers and nodded. The group moved out the door with purposeful strides. Karata turned to Raoden, her face a mixture of frustration and pained betrayal. “This is worse
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than suicide, Spirit.” “I know,” Raoden said. “We're so few we can't afford to lose a single man-not even those who follow Aanden. We have to stop this.” “He's already gone.” Karata said, leaning back against the wall. “I know Dashe well. There's no stopping him now.” “I refuse to accept that, Karata.” “Sule, if you don't mind my asking, what in Doloken are you planning?” Raoden loped along beside Galladon and Karata, barely keeping up with the two. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I'm still working on that part.” “I figured as much,” Galladon muttered. “Karata,” Raoden asked, “what route will Dashe take?” “There's a building that runs up against the university.” she replied. “Its far wall collapsed a while ago, and some of the stones knocked a hole in the university wall it abuts. I'm sure Dashe will try to get in there-he assumes Aanden doesn't know about the breach.” “Take us there,” Raoden said. “But take a different route. I don't want to run into Dashe.” Karata nodded, leading them down a side street. The building she'd mentioned was a low, single-story structure. One of the walls had been built so close to the university that Raoden was at a loss to guess what the architect had been thinking. The building had not fared well over the years; although it still had its roof-which was sagging horribly-the entire structure seemed on the edge of collapse. They approached apprehensively, poking their heads through a doorway. The building was open on the inside. They stood near the center of the rectangular structure, the collapsed wall a short distance to their left, another doorway a short distance to their right. Galladon cursed quietl1y. “I don't trust this.” “Neither do I.” Raoden said. “No, it's more than that. Look, sule.” Galladon pointed to the building's inner support beams. Looking closely, Raoden recognized the marks of fresh cuts in the already weakened wood. “This entire place is rigged to fall.” Raoden nodded. “It appears as if Aanden is better informed than Dashe assumed. Maybe Dashe will notice the danger and use a different entrance.” Karata shook her head immediately. “Dashe is a good man, but very single-minded. He'll march right through this building without bothering to look up.” Raoden cursed, kneeling beside the doorframe to think. He soon ran out of time, however, as he heard voices approaching. A moment later Dashe appeared in the doorway on the far side, to Raoden's right. Raoden-halfway between Dashe and the fallen wall-rook a deep breath and called out. “Dashe, stop! This is a trap-the building is rigged to collapse!” Dashe halted, half of his men already in the building. There was a cry of alarm from the university side of the room, and a group of men appeared behind the rubble. One, bearing Aanden's familiar mustached face, held a worn fire axe in his hands. Aanden jumped into the room with a cry of defiance, axe raised toward the support pillar. “Taan, stop!” Raoden yelled. Aanden stopped his axe in midswing, shocked at the sound
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of his real name. One half of his fake mustache drooped limply, threatening to fall off. “Don't try to reason with him!” Dashe warned, pulling his men from the room. “He's insane.” “No, I don't think he is,” Raoden said, studying Aanden's eyes. “This man is not insane-just confused.” Aanden blinked a few times, his hands growing tense on the axe handle. Raoden searched desperately for a solution, and his eyes fell on the remnants of a large stone table near the center of the room. Gritting his teeth and muttering a silent prayer to Domi. Raoden stood and walked into the building. Karata gasped behind him, and Galladon cursed. The roof moaned ominously. Raoden looked at Aanden, who stood with the axe prepared to swing. His eyes followed Raoden into the center of the room. “I'm right, am I not? You aren't mad. I heard you babbling insanely at your court, but anyone can babble. An insane man doesn't think to boil parchment for food, and a madman doesn't have the foresight to plan a trap.” “I am not Taan,” Aanden finally said. “I am Aanden, Baron of Elantris!” “If you wish,” Raoden said, taking the remnants of his sleeve and wiping it against the top of the fallen table. “Though I can't imagine why you would rather be Aanden than Taan. This is, after all, Elantris.” “I know that!” Aanden snapped. No matter what Raoden had said, this man wasn't completely stable. The axe could fall at any moment. “Do you?” Raoden asked. “Do you really understand what it means to live in Elantris, the city of the gods?” He turned toward the table, still wiping, his back to Aanden. “Elantris, city of beauty, city of art . . . and city of sculpture.” He stepped back, revealing the now clean tabletop. It was covered with intricate carvings, just like the walls of the chapel. Aanden's eyes opened wide, the axe drooping in his hand. “This city is a stonecarver's dream, Taan,” Raoden said. “How many artists did you hear on the outside complain about the lost beauty of Elantris? These buildings are amazing monuments to the art of sculpture. I want to know who, when faced with such opportunity, would choose to be Aanden the baron instead of Taan the sculptor.” The axe clanged to the ground. Aanden's face was stunned. “Look at the wall next to you, Taan.” Raoden said quietly. The man turned, his fingers brushing against a relief hidden in slime. His sleeve came up, his arm quivering as he buffed away the slime. “Merciful Domi,” he whispered. “It's beautiful.” “Think of the opportunity, Taan,” Raoden said. “Only you, out of all the sculptors in the world, can see Elantris. Only you can experience its beauty and learn from its masters. You are the luckiest man in Opelon.” A trembling hand ripped the mustache away. “And I would have destroyed it,” he mumbled. “I would have knocked it down....” With that. Aanden bowed his head and collapsed in a crying heap. Raoden exhaled thankfully-then noticed that
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