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He granted me the title of arteth and allowed me to continue teaching.” Hrathen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarding the Arelish priest. “You know what Arteth Fjon did was wrong.” “Yes, my lord. An arteth cannot appoint another to his own position. When I speak to the people, I never refer to myself as a priest of Derethi, only a teacher.” A very good teacher, Dilaf's tone implied. “What did you think of Arteth Fjon?” Hrathen asked. “He was an undisciplined fool, my lord. His laxness kept Jaddeth's kingdom from growing in Arelon, and has made a mockery of our religion.” Hrathen smiled—Dilaf, though not of the chosen race, was obviously a man who understood the doctrine and culture of his religion. However, his ardor could be dangerous. The wild intensity in Dilaf's eyes was barely under control—either he would have to be watched very closely, or he would have to be disposed of. “It appears that Arteth Fjon did one thing right, even if he didn't have the proper authority,” Hrathen said. Dilaf's eyes burned even more brightly at the declaration. “I make you a full arteth, Dilaf.” Dilaf bowed touching his head to the ground. His mannerisms were perfectly Fjordell, and Hrathen had never heard a foreigner speak the Holy Tongue so well. This man could prove useful indeed—after all, one common complaint against Shu-Dereth was that it favored the Fjordell. An Arelish priest could help prove that all were welcome within Jaddeth's Empire—even if the Fjordell were the most welcome. Hrathen congratulated himself on creating such a useful tool, completely satisfied until the moment Dilaf looked up from his bow. The passion was still there in Fjon's eyes—but there was something else as well. Ambition. Hrathen frowned slightly, wondering whether or not he had just been manipulated. There was only one thing to do. “Arteth, are you sworn as any man's odiv?” Surprise. Dilaf's eyes opened wide as he stared up at Hrathen, uncertainty flashing therein. “No, my lord.” “Good. Then I will make you mine.” “My lord . . . I am, of course, your humble servant.” “You will be more than that, Arteth,” Hrathen said, “if you would be my odiv, I your hroden. You will be mine, heart and soul. If you follow Jaddeth, you follow him through me. If you serve Wyrn, you do it under me. Whatever you think, act, or say will be by my direction. Am I understood?” Fire burned in Dilaf's eyes. “Yes,” he hissed. The man's fervor wouldn't let him reject such an offer. Though his lowly rank of arteth would remain unchanged, being odiv to a gyorn would enormously increase Dilaf's power and respectability. He would be Hrathen's slave, if that slavery would carry him higher. It was a very Fjordell thing to do—ambition was the one emotion Jaddeth would accept as readily as devotion. “Good,” Hrathen said. “Then your first order is to follow the priest Fjon. He should be getting on the ship to Fjordell right at this moment—I want you to make sure he does so.
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If Fjon gets off for any reason, kill him.” “Yes, my gyorn.” Dilaf rushed from the room. He finally had an outlet for his enthusiasm—all Hrathen had to do no1w was keep that enthusiasm focused in the right direction. Hrathen stood for a moment after the Arelish man had gone, then shook his head and turned back to his desk. The scroll still lay where it had fallen from Fjon's unworthy fingers; Hrathen picked it up with a smile, his touch reverent. He was not a man who delighted in possessions—Hrathen set his sights on much grander accomplishments than the simple accumulation of useless baubles. However, occasionally an object came along that was so unique, Hrathen reveled in simply knowing it belonged to him. One did not own such a thing for its usefulness, or for its ability to impress others, but because it was a privilege to possess. The scroll was such an object. It had been scribed in front of Hrathen by Wyrn's own hand. It was revelation directly from Jaddeth; scripture intended for only one man. Few people ever got to meet Jaddeth's anointed, and even amongst the gyorns, private audiences were rare. To receive orders directly from Wyrn's hand . . . such was the most exquisite of experiences. Hrathen ran his eyes over the sacred words again, even though he had long since memorized their every detail. Behold the words of Jaddeth, through His servant Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Emperor and King. High Priest and Son, your request has been granted. Go to the heathen peoples of the west and declare to them my final warning, for while my Empire is eternal, my patience will soon end. Not much longer will I slumber within a tomb of rock. The Day of Empire is at hand, and my glory will soon shine forth, a second sun blazing forth from Fjorden. The pagan nations of Arelon and Teod have been blackened scars upon my land for long enough. Three hundred years have my priests served amongst those tainted by Elantris, and few have harkened to their call. Know this, High Priest, my faithful warriors are prepared and they wait only the word of my Wyrn. You have three months to prophesy to the people of Arelon. At the end of that time, the holy soldiers of Fjorden will descend on the nation like hunting predators, rending and tearing the unworthy life from those who heed not my words. Only three months will pass before the destruction of all who oppose my Empire. The time for my ascension nears, my son. Be stalwart, and be diligent. Words of Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation, through his servant Wyrn Wulfden the fourth, Emperor of Fjordell, Prophet of Shu-Dereth, Ruler of Jaddeth's Holy Kingdom, and Regent of all Creation. The time had finally come. Only two nations resisted. Fjorden had regained its former glory, glory lost hundreds of years ago when the First Empire collapsed. Once again, Arelon and Teod were the only two kingdoms who resisted Fjordell rule. This time, with the
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might of Jaddeth's holy calling behind it, Fjorden would prevail. Then, with all mankind united under Wyrn's rule, Jaddeth could rise from his throne beneath the earth and reign in glorious majesty. And Hrathen would be the one responsible for it. The conversion of Arelon and Teod was his urgent duty. He had three months to change the religious temperament of an entire culture; it was a monumental task, but it was vital that he succeed. If he did not, Fjorden's armies would destroy every living being in Arelon, and Teod would soon follow—the two nations, though separ1ated by water, were the same in race, religion, and obstinance. The people might not yet know it, but Hrathen was the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation. They had resisted Jaddeth and his people in arrogant defiance for far too long—Hrathen was their last chance. Someday they would call him their savior. CHAPTER 4 THE woman screamed until she grew too tired, calling for help, for mercy, for Domi. She clawed at the broad gate, her fingernails leaving marks in the film of slime. Eventually, she slumped to the ground in a quiet heap, shaking from occasional sobs. Seeing her agony reminded Raoden of his own pain-the sharp twinge of his toe, the loss of his life outside. “They won't wait much longer,” Galladon whispered, his hand firmly on Raoden's arm, holding the prince back. The woman finally stumbled to her feet, looking dazed, as if she had forgotten where she was. She took a single, uncertain step to her left, her palm resting on the wall, as if it were a comfort-a connection to the outside world, rather than the barrier separating her from it. “It's done,” Galladon said. “Just like that?” Raoden asked. Galladon nodded. “She picked well-or, as well as one could. Watch.” Shadows stirred in an alleyway directly across the courtyard: Raoden and Galladon watched from inside a ramshackle stone building, one of many that lined Elantris's entry courtyard. The shadows resolved into a group of men, and they approached the woman with determined, controlled steps, surrounding her. One reached out and took her basket of offerings. The woman didn't have the strength left to resist; she simply collapsed again. Raoden felt Galladon's fingers dig into his shoulder as he involuntarily pulled forward, wanting to dash out to confront the thieves. “Not a good idea. Kolo?” Galladon whispered. “Save your courage for yourself. “If stubbing your toe nearly knocked you out, think how it would feel to have one of those cudgels cracking across your brave little head.” Raoden nodded, relaxing. The woman had been robbed, but it didn't look like she was in further danger. It hurt, however, to watch her. She wasn't a young maiden; she bore the stout figure of a woman accustomed to childbirth and the running of a household. A mother, not a damsel. The strong lines of the woman's face bespoke hard-won wisdom and courage, and somehow that made watching her more difficult. If such a woman could be defeated by Elantris,
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what hope was there for Raoden? “I told you she chose well,” Galladon continued. “She might be a few pounds of food lighter, but she doesn't have any wounds. Now, if she had turned right-like you did, sule-she would have been at the dubious mercy of Shaor's men. If she had gone forward, then Aanden would have had the right to her offerings. The left turn is definitely best-Karata's men take your food, but they rarely hurt you. Better to be hungry than spend the next few years with a broken arm.” “Next few years?” Raoden asked, turning away from the courtyard to regard his tall, dark-skinned companion. “I thought you said our wounds would last us an eternity.” “We only assume they will, sule. Show me an Elantrian who has managed to keep his wits until eternity ends, and maybe he'll be able to prove the theory.” “How long do people usually last in here?” “A year, maybe two,” Galladon said. “What?” “Thought we were immortal, did you? Just because we don't age, we'll last forever?” “I don't know.” Raoden said. “I though you said we couldn't die.” “We can't,” Galladon said. “But the cuts, the bruises, the stubbed toes, they pile up. One can only take so much.” “They kill themselves?” Raoden asked quietly. “That's not an option. No, most of them lie around mumbling or screaming. Poor rulos.” “How long have you been here, then?” “A few months.” The realization was another shock to pile on the already teetering stack. Raoden had assumed that Galladon had been an Elantrian for at least a few years. The Dula spoke of life in Elantris as if it had been his home for decades, and he was impressively adept at navigating the enormous city. Raoden looked back at the courtyard, but the woman had already gone. She could have been a maid in his father's palace, a wealthy merchant's lady, or a simple housewife. The Shaod respected no classes; it took from all equally. She was gone now, having entered the gaping pit that was Elantris. He should have been able to help her. “All that for a single loaf of bread and a few flaccid vegetables.” Raoden muttered. “It may not seem like much now, but just wait a few days. The only food that enters this place comes clutched in the arms of its new arrivals. You wait, sule. You will feel the desire as well. It takes a strong man to resist when the hunger calls.” “You do it,” Raoden said. “Not very well-and I've only been here a few months. There's no telling what the hunger will drive me to do a year from now.” Raoden snorted. “Just wait until my thirty days are done before you become a primordial beast, if you please. I'd hate to feel that I hadn't got my beef's worth out of you.” Galladon paused for a moment, then laughed. “Does nothing frighten you, sule?” “Actually, pretty much everything here does-I'm just good at ignoring the fact that I'm terrified. If I ever
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realize how scared I am, you'll probably find me trying 1to hide under those cobblestones over there. Now, tell me more about these gangs.” Galladon shrugged, walking away from the broken door and pulling a chair away from the wall. He turned a critical eye on its legs, then carefully settled down. He moved just quickly enough to stand again as the legs cracked. He tossed the chair away with disgust, and settled on the floor. “There are three sections of Elantris, sule, and three gangs. The market section is ruled by Shaor; you met a few members of his court yesterday, though they were too busy licking the slime off your offerings to introduce themselves. In the palace section you'll find Karata-she's the one who so very politely relieved that woman of her food today. Last is Aanden. He spends most of his time in the university section.” “A learned man?” “No, an opportunist. He was the first one who realized that many of the library's older texts were written on vellum. Yesterday's classics have become tomorrow's lunch. Kolo?” “Idos Domi!” Raoden swore. “That's atrocious! The old scrolls of Elantris are supposed to hold countless original works. They're priceless!” Galladon turned him a suffering eye. “Sule, do I need to repeat my speech about hunger? What good is literature when your stomach hurts so much your eyes water?” “That's a terrible argument. Two-century-old lambskin scrolls can't possibly taste very good.” Galladon shrugged. “Better than slime. Anyway, Aanden supposedly ran out of scrolls a few months back. They tried boiling books, but that didn't work very well.” “I'm surprised they haven't tried boiling one another.” “Oh, it's been tried,” Galladon said. “Fortunately, something happens to us during the Shaod-apparently the flesh of a dead man doesn't taste too good. Kolo? In fact, it's so violently bitter that no one can keep it down.” “It's nice to see that cannibalism has been so logically ruled out as an option,” Raoden said dryly. “I told you, sule. The hunger makes men do strange things.” “And that makes it all right?” Wisely, Galladon didn't answer. Raoden continued. “You talk about hunger and pain as if they are forces which can't be resisted. Anything is acceptable, as long as the hunger made you do it-remove our comforts, and we become animals.” Galladon shook his head. “I'm sorry, sule, but that's just the way things work.” “It doesn't have to be.” Ten years wasn't long enough. Even in Arelon's thick humidity, it should have taken longer for the city to deteriorate so much. Elantris looked as if it had been abandoned for centuries. Its wood was decaying, its plaster and bricks were disintegrating-even stone buildings were beginning to crumble. And coating everything was the omnipresent film of br1own sludge. Raoden was finally getting used to walking on the slippery, uneven cobblestones. He tried to keep himself clean of the slime, but the task proved impossible. Every wall he brushed and every ledge he grasped left its mark on him. The two men walked slowly down a broad
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street; the thoroughfare was far larger than any of its kind back in Kae. Elantris had been built on a massive scale, and while the size had seemed daunting from without, Raoden was only now beginning to grasp just how enormous the city was. He and Galladon had been walking for hours, and Galladon said they were still a moderate distance from their destination. The two did not rush, however. That was one of the first things Galladon had taught: In Elantris, one took one's time. Everything the Dula did was performed with an air of utter precision, his movements relaxed and careful. The slightest scratch, no matter how negligible, added to an Elantrian's pain. The more careful one was, the longer one would stay sane. So, Raoden followed, trying to mimic Galladon's attentive gait. Every time Raoden began to feel that the caution was excessive, all he had to do was look at one of the numerous forms that lay huddled in gutters and on street corners, and his determination would return. The Hoed. Galladon called them: those Elantrians who had succumbed to the pain. Their minds lost, their lives were filled with continual, unrelenting torture. They rarely moved, though some had enough feral instinct to remain crouched in the shadows. Most of them were quiet, though few were completely silent. As he passed, Raoden could hear their mumbles, sobs, and whines. Most seemed to be repeating words and phrases to themselves, a mantra to accompany their suffering. “Domi, Domi, Domi . .” “So beautiful, once so very beautiful .. . “Stop, stop, stop. Make it stop. . .” Raoden forced himself to close his ears to the words. His chest was beginning to constrict, as if he were suffering with the poor, faceless wretches. If he paid too much attention, he would go mad long before the pain took him. However, if he let his mind wander, it invariably turned to his outside life. Would his friends continue their clandestine meetings? Would Kiin and Roial be able to hold the group together? And what of his best friend, Lukel? Raoden had barely gotten to know Lukel's new wife; now he would never get to see their first child. Even worse were the thoughts of his own marriage. He had never met the woman he was to have married, though he had spoken to her via Seon on many occasions. Was she really as witty and interesting as she had seemed? He would never know. Iadon had probably covered up Raoden's transformation, pretending that his son was dead. Sarene would never come to Arelon now: once she heard the news, she would stay in Teod and seek another husband. If only I had been able to meet her, if just once. But, such thoughts were useless. He was an Elantrian now. Instead, he focused on the city it1self. It was difficult to believe that Elantris had once been the most beautiful city in Opelon, probably in the world. The slime was what he saw-the rot and the erosion. However, beneath the
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filth were the remnants of Elantris's former greatness. A spire, the remains of a delicately carved wall relief, grand chapels and vast mansions, pillars and arches. Ten years ago this city had shone with its own mystical brightness, a city of pure white and gold. No one knew what had caused the Reod. There were those who theorized-most of them Derethi priests-that the fall of Elantris had been caused by God. The pre-Reod Elantrians had lived as gods, allowing other religions in Arelon, but suffering them the same way a master lets his dog lick fallen food off the floor. The beauty of Elantris, the powers its inhabitants wielded, had kept the general population from converting to Shu-Keseg. Why seek an unseen deity when you had gods living before you? It had come with a tempest-that much even Raoden remembered. The earth itself had shattered, an enormous chasm appearing in the south, all of Arelon quaking. With the destruction, Elantris had lost its glory. The Elantrians had changed from brilliant white-haired beings to creatures with splotchy skin and bald scalps-like sufferers of some horrible disease in the advanced stages of decay. Elantris had stopped glowing, instead growing dark. And it had happened only ten years ago. Ten years was not enough. Stone should not crumble after just a decade of neglect. The filth should not have piled up so quickly-not with so few inhabitants, most of whom were incapacitated. It was as if Elantris were intent on dying, a city committing suicide. “The market section of Elantris,” Galladon said. “This place used to be one of the most magnificent marketplaces in the world-merchants came from across Opelon to sell their exotic goods to the Elantrians. A man could also come here to buy the more luxurious Elantrian magics. They didn't give everything away for free. Kolo?” They stood atop a flat-roofed building; apparently, some Elantrians had preferred flat roofs as opposed to peaks or domes, for the flat sections allowed for rooftop gardens. Before them lay a section of city that looked pretty much the same as the rest of Elantris-dark and falling apart. Raoden could imagine that its streets had once been decorated with the colorful canvas awnings of street vendors, but the only remains of such was the occasional filth-covered rag. “Can we get any closer?” Raoden asked, leaning over the ledge to look down on the market section. “You can if you want, stile,” Galladon said speculatively. “But I'm staying here. Shaor's men are fond of chasing people; it's probably one of the few pleasures they have left.” “Tell me about Shaor himself, then.” Galladon shrugged. “In a place like this, many look for leaders-someone to ward off a bit of the chaos. Like any society, those who are strongest often end up in command. Shaor is one who finds pleasure in controlling others, and for some reason the most wild and morally corrupt Elantrians find their way to him.” “And he gets to take the offerings of one-third of the newcomers?” Raoden asked. “Well, Shaor himself rarely bothers
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with such things-but yes, his followers get first call on one-third of the offerings.”1font> “Why the compromise?” Raoden asked. “If Shaor's men are as uncontrollable you imply, then what convinced them to hold to such an arbitrary agreement?” “The other gangs are just as big as Shaor's, sule,” Galladon explained. “On the outside, people tend to be convinced of their own immortality. We are more realistic. One rarely wins a battle without at least a few wounds, and here even a couple of slight cuts can be more devastating, and more agonizing, than a swift decapitation. Shaor's men are wild, but they are not complete idiots. They won't fight unless they have incredible odds or a promising reward. You think it was your physique that kept that man from attacking you yesterday?” “I wasn't sure,” Raoden admitted. “Even the slightest hint that you might fight back is enough to scare these men off, stile,” Galladon said. “The pleasure of torturing you just isn't worth the gamble that you might get in a lucky blow.” Raoden shivered at the thought. “Show me where the other gangs live.” The university and the palace bordered one another. According to Galladon, Karata and Aanden had a very uneasy truce, and guards were usually posted on both sides to keep watch. Once again, Raoden's companion led him to a flat-roofed building, an untrustworthy set of stairs leading to the top. However, after climbing the stairs-and nearly falling when one of the steps cracked beneath him-Raoden had to admit that the view was worth the effort. Elantris's palace was large enough to be magnificent despite the inevitable decay. Five domes topped five wings, each with a majestic spire. Only one of the spires-the one in the middle-was still intact, but it rose high into the air, by far the tallest structure Raoden had ever seen. “That's said to be the exact center of Elantris,” Galladon said, nodding to the spire. “Once you could climb the steps winding around it and look out over the entire city. Nowadays. I wouldn't trust it. Kolo?” The university was large, but less magnificent. It consisted of five or six long, fat buildings and a lot of open space-ground that had probably once held grass or gardens, both things that would have been eaten to their roots long ago by Elantris's starving inhabitants. “Karata is both the harshest and most lenient of the gang leaders.” Galladon said, gazing down on the university. There was something odd in his eyes, as if he were seeing things Raoden couldn't. His description continued in its characteristic rambling tone, as if his mouth wasn't aware that his mind was focused elsewhere. “She doesn't often let new members into her gang, and she is extremely territorial. Shaor's men might chase you for a while if you wander onto his turf, but only if they feel like it. Karata suffers no intruders. However, if you leave Karata alone, she leaves you alone, and she rarely harms newcomers when she takes their food. You saw her earlier today-she always takes
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the food personally. Maybe she doesn't trust her underlings enough to handle it.” “Perhaps.” Raoden said. “What else do you know about her?” “Not much-leaders of violent thieving gangs don't tend to be the type to spend their afternoons chatting.” “Now who's taking things lightly?” Raoden said with a smile. “You're a bad influence, sule. Dead people aren't supposed to be cheerful. Anyway, the only thing I can tell you about Karata is that she doesn't like being in Elantris very much.” Raoden frowned. “Who does?” “We all hate it, sule, but few of us have the courage to try and escape. Karata has been caught in Kae three times now-always in the vicinity of the king's palace. One more time and the priests will have her burned.” “What does she want at the palace?” “She hasn't been kind enough to explain it to me,” Galladon replied. “Most people think she intends to assassinate King Iadon.” “The king?” Raoden said. “What would that accomplish?” “Revenge, discord, bloodlust. All very good reasons when you're already damned. Kolo?” Raoden frowned. Perhaps living with his father-who was absolutely paranoid about the prospect of getting killed by an assassin-had desensitized him, but murdering the king just didn't seem like a likely goal to him. “What about the other gang leader?” “Aanden?” Galladon asked, looking back over the city. “He claims he was some kind of noble before he was thrown in here-a baron, I think. He's tried to establish himself as monarch of Elantris, and he is incredibly annoyed that Karata has control of the palace. He holds court, claims he will feed those who join him-though all they've gotten so far are a few boiled books-and makes plans for attacking Kae.” “What?” Raoden asked with surprise. “Attacking?” “He isn't serious,” Galladon said. “But he is good at propaganda. He claims to have a plan to free Elantris, and it's gained him a large following. However, he's also brutal. Karata only harms people who try to sneak into the palace-Aanden is notorious for dispensing judgments at a whim. Personally, Sule, I don't think he's completely sane.” Raoden frowned. If this Aanden really had been a baron, then Raoden would have known him. However, he didn't recognize the name. Either Aanden had lied about his background, or he had chosen a new name after entering Elantris. Raoden studied the area in between the university and the palace. A certain object had caught his attention. Something so mundane he wouldn't have given it a second look, had it not been the first of its kind he had seen in all of Elantris. “Is that a well?” he asked uncertainly. Galladon nodded. “The only one in the city.” “How is that possible?” “Indoor plumbing, sule, courtesy of Aondor magic. Wells weren't necessary.” “Then why build that one?” “I think it was used in religious ceremonies. Several Elantrian worship services required water that had been freshly gathered from a moving river.” “Then the Aredel river does run under the city,” Raoden said. “Of course. Where else would it go. Kolo?”
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Raoden narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, but he didn't volunteer any information. As he stood, watching the city, he noticed a small ball of light floating through one of the streets below. The Seon meandered with an aimless air, occasionally floating in circles. It was far too distant for him to make out the Aon at its center. Galladon noticed Raoden's scrutiny. “A Seon,” the Dula noted. “Not uncommon in the city.” “It's true, then?” Raoden asked. Galladon nodded. “When a Seon's master gets taken by the Shaod, the Seon itself is driven mad. There's a number of them floating through the city. They don't talk, they just hover about, mindless.” Raoden glanced away. Since being thrown into Elantris, he'd avoided thinking about his own Seon. Ien. Raoden had heard what happened to Seons when their masters became Elantrians. Galladon glanced up at the sky. “It will rain soon.” Raoden raised an eyebrow at the cloudless sky. “If you say so.” “Trust me. We should get inside, unless you want to spend the next few days in damp clothing. Fires are hard to make in Elantris, the wood is all too wet or too rotten to burn.” “Where should we go?” Galladon shrugged. “Pick a house, sule. Chances are it won't be inhabited.” They had spent the previous night sleeping in an abandoned house-but now, something occurred to Raoden. “Where do you live, Galladon?” “Duladel,” Galladon immediately answered. “I mean nowadays.” Galladon thought for a moment, eyeing Raoden uncertainly. Then, with a shrug, he waved Raoden to follow him down the unstable stairs. “Come.” “Books!” Raoden said with excitement. “Should never have brought you here,” Galladon muttered. “Now I'll never get rid of you.” Galladon had led Raoden into what had seemed to be a deserted wine cellar, but had turned out to be something quite different indeed. The air was drier here-even though it was below ground-and much cooler as well. As if to revoke his earlier cautions about fire, Galladon had pulled a lantern from a hidden alcove and lit it with a bit of flint and steel. What the light had revealed was surprising indeed. It looked like a learned man's study. There were Aons-the mystical ancient characters behind the Aonic language-painted all over the walls, and there were several shelves of books. “How did you ever find this place?” Raoden asked eagerly. “I stumbled upon it.” Galladon said with a shrug. “All these books,” Raoden said, picking one up off its shelf. It was a bit moldy, but still legible. “Maybe these could teach us the secret behind the Aons, Galladon! Did you ever think of that?” “The Aons?” “The magic of Elantris,” Raoden said. “They say that before the Reod, Elantrians could create powerful magics just by drawing Aons.” “Oh, you mean like this?” the large dark-skinned man asked, raising his hand. He traced a symbol in the air, Aon Deo, and his finger left a glowing white line behind it. Raoden's eyes opened wide, and the book dropped from his stunned fingers. The Aons. Historically, only the
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Elantrians had been able to call upon the power locked within them. That power was supposed to be gone: it was said to have failed when Elantris fell. Galladon smiled at him through the glowing symbol that hovered in the air between them. CHAPTER 5 “MERCIFUL Domi,” Sarene asked with surprise, “where did he come from?” The gyorn strode into the king's throne room with the arrogance characteristic of his kind. He wore the shining bloodred armor of a Derethi high priest, an extravagant crimson cloak billowing out behind him, though he bore no weapon. It was a costume meant to impress-and, despite what Sarene thought of the gyorns themselves, she had to admit that their clothing was effective. Of course, it was mostly for show: even in Fjorden's martial society, few people could walk as easily as this gyorn while wearing full plate armor. The metal was probably so thin and light that it would be useless in battle. The gyorn marched past her without a seeond glance, his eyes focused directly on the king. He was young for a gyorn, probably in his forties, and his short, well-styled black hair had only a trace of gray in it. “You knew there was a Derethi presence in Elantris, my lady,” Ashe said, floating beside her as usual, one of only two Seons in the room. “Why should you be surprised to see a Fjordell priest?” “That is a full gyorn, Ashe. There are only twenty of them in the entire Fjordell Empire. There may be some Derethi believers in Kae, but not enough to warrant a visit from a high priest. Gyorns are extremely miserly with their time.” Sarene watched the Fjordell man stride through the room, cutting through groups of people like a bird tearing through a cloud of gnats. “Come on,” she whispered to Ashe, making her way through the peripheral crowd toward the front of the 1room. She didn't want to miss what the gyorn said. She needn't have worried. When the man spoke, his firm voice boomed through the throne room. “King Iadon.” he said, with only the slightest nod of his head in place of a bow. “I, Gyorn Hrathen, bring you a message from Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. He thinks that it is time our two nations shared more than a common border.” He spoke with the thick, melodic accent of a native Fjordell. Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowl. “What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden.” “His Holiness fears for the souls of your people, Your Majesty,” Hrathen said. “Well, then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon.” “The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push-a sign, if you will. Wyrn thinks it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth.” This time Iadon didn't even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. “I already believe in Shu-Korath, priest. We serve the same God.” “Derethi is the only true form of Shu-Keseg,”
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Hrathen said darkly. Iadon waved a dismissive hand. “I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn't believe-there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion.” “You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually,” the gyorn warned. “Honestly, priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats hold no weight-Fjorden hasn't held any real influence for two centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you used to be?” Hrathen's eyes grew dangerous. “Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before.” “Really?” Iadon asked. “Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago.” Hrathen paused for a moment: then he repeated his introductory nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Sarene's prayers were not answered, however-he didn't step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to shoot one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze however, found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a slight hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blond Teoish hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations. King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers. “He doesn't see,” Sarene whispered. “He doesn't understand.” “Understand what, my lady?” Ashe asked. “How dangerous that gyorn is.” “His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn't see things the same way you do.” “Even so,” Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. “King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said-at least about Fjorden-was completely true. The Wyrns are more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire's power.” “It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch,” Ashe said. “King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden's army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were.” Sarene tapped her cheek for a moment in thought. “Well. Ashe, at least now you don't have to worry about my causing too much unrest amongst Kae's nobility.” “I seriously doubt that, my lady. How else would you spend your time?” “Oh, Ashe,” she said sweetly. “Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a full gyorn?” Then, more seriously, she continued. “Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn't watch that man-and it doesn't seem like he will-then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?” “You may be overreacting, my lady,” Ashe said with a pulse. The words were familiar-it seemed that Ashe often felt a need to say them to her. Sarene shook her
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head. “Not this time. Today was a test, Ashe. Now Hrathen will feel justified in taking action against the king-he has convinced himself that Arelon is indeed ruled by a blasphemer. He'll try to find a way to overthrow Iadon's throne, and Arelon's government will collapse for the second time in ten years. This time it won't be the merchant class that fills the void of leadership-it will be the Derethi priesthood.” “So you are going to help Iadon?” Ashe said with an amused tone. “He is my sovereign king.” “Despite your opinion that he is insufferable?” “Anything is better than Fjordell rule. Besides, maybe I was wrong about Iadon.” Things hadn't gone too poorly between the two of them since that first embarrassing meeting. Iadon had practically ignored her at Raoden's funeral, which had suited Sarene just fine; she'd been too busy watching for discrepancies in the ceremony. Unfortunately, the event had occurred with a disappointing level of orthodoxy, and no predominant noblemen had given themselves away by failing to show up or by looking too guilty during the proceedings. “Yes . . .” she said. “Perhaps Iadon and I can get along by just ignoring each other.” “What in the name of Burning Domi are you doing back in my court, girl!” the king swore from behind her. Sarene raised her eyes to the sky in a look of resignation, and Ashe pulsed a quiet laugh as she turned to face King Iadon. “What?” she asked, trying her best to sound innocent. “You!” Iadon barked, pointing at her. He was understandably in a bad mood-of course, from what she heard, Iadon was rarely in a good mood. “Don't you understand that women aren't to come to my court unless they're invited?” Sarene blinked her eyes in confusion. “No one told me that, Your Majesty.” she said, intentionally trying to sound as if she didn't have a wit in her head. Iadon grumbled something about foolish women, shaking his head at her obvious lack of intelligence. “I just wanted to see the paintings,” Sarene said, putting a quaver in her voice, as if she were on the brink of crying. Iadon held his hand palm-forward in the air to forestall any more of her drivel, turning back to his ledgers. Sarene barely kept herself from smiling as she wiped her eyes and pretended to study the painting behind her. “That was unexpected,” Ashe said quietly. “I'll deal with Iadon later,” Sarene mumbled. “I have someone more important to worry about now.” “I just never thought I'd see the day when you, of all women, gave into the feminine stereotype-even if it was just an act.” “What?” Sarene asked, fluttering her eyes. “Me, act?” Ashe snorted. “You, know, I've never been able to figure out how you Seons manage sounds like that.” Sarene said. “You don't have noses-how can you snort?” “Years of practice, my lady,” Ashe replied. “Am I truly going to have to suffer your whimpering every time you speak with the king?” Sarene shrugged. “He expects women to be
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foolish, so I'll be foolish. It's much easier to manipulate people when they assume you can't gather enough wits to remember your own name.” “Ene?” a sudden voice bellowed. “Is that you?” The deep, scratchy voice was oddly familiar. It was as if the speaker had a sore throat, though she had never heard someone with a sore throat yell so loudly. Sarene turned hesitantly. An enormous man-taller, broader, pudgier, and more muscled than seemed possible-shoved his way through the crowd in her direction. He was dressed in a broad blue silken doublet-she shuddered to think of how many worms had toiled to make it-and wore the ruffle-cuffed trousers of an Arelish courtier. “It is you!” the man exclaimed. “We thought you weren't coming for another week!” “Ashe,” Sarene mumbled, “who is this lunatic and what does he want with me?” “He looks familiar, my lady. I'm sorry, my memory isn't what it used to be.” “Ha!” the enormous man said, scooping her up into a bear hug. It was an odd feeling-her bottom half squished into his oversized gut while her face was crus1hed by his hard, well-muscled chest. She resisted the urge to whimper, waiting and hoping the man would drop her before she passed out. Ashe would probably go for help if her face started to change colors. Fortunately, the man let go long before she asphyxiated, instead holding her by her shoulders at arms length. “You've changed. When I last saw you, you were only knee high.” Then he looked over her tall figure. “Well ... I doubt you were ever knee high, but you were certainly no taller than a waist. Your mother always said you'd be a lanky one!” Sarene shook her head. The voice was slightly familiar, but she couldn't place his features. She usually had such a good memory for faces. . .. Unless. ... “Hunkey Kay?” she asked hesitantly. “Gracious Domi! What happened to your beard?” “Arelish nobles don't wear beards, little one. I haven't had one in years.” It was him. The voice was different, the beardless face unfamiliar, but the eyes were the same. She remembered looking up at those wide brown eyes, always full of laughter. “Hunkey Kay,” she mumbled distractedly. “Where's my present?” Her uncle Kiin laughed, his odd scratchy voice making it sound more like a wheeze than a chortle. Those had always been the first words out of her mouth when he came to visit: her uncle brought the most exotic of gifts, delights chat were extravagant enough to be unique even to the daughter of a king. “I'm afraid I forgot the present this time, little one.” Sarene blushed. However, before she could squeak out an apology. Hunkey Kay wrapped a large arm around her shoulder and began towing her out of the throne room. “Come, you have to meet my wife.” “Wife?”Sarene asked with a shocked voice. It had been over a decade since she had seen Kiin, but she remembered one fact quite clearly. Her uncle had been a sworn bachelor and a confirmed
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rascal. “Hunkey Kay is married?” “You aren't the only one who has grown over the last ten years,” Kiin rasped. “Oh, and as cute as it is to hear you call me Hunkey Kay,' you'll probably want to call me Uncle Kiin now.” Sarene blushed again. 'Hunkey Kay had been the creation of a child unable to pronounce her uncle's name. “So, how's your father doing?” the large man asked. “Acting properly regal. I assume.” “He's doing fine, Uncle,” she replied. “Though I'm sure he would be surprised to find you living in the court of Arelon. “He knows.” “No, he thinks you left on one of your voyages and settled on one of the far islands.” “Sarene, if you're as quick-witted a woman as you were a girl, then you should have learned by now to separate the truth from the stories.” The statement 1came like a bucketful of icy water. She vaguely remembered watching her uncle's ship sail away one day and asking her father when Hunkey Kay was going to return. Eventeo's face had been morose when he replied that this time Hunkey Kay would be taking a long, long voyage. “But why?” she asked. “All this time you were living just a few days' trip from home, and you never came to visit?” “Stories for another day, little one,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Right now, you need to meet the monster of a woman who finally managed to capture your uncle.” Kiin's wife was hardly a monster. In fact, she was one of the most beautiful mature women Sarene had ever seen. Daora had a strong face with sharp, statuesque features and a well-styled head of auburn hair. She was not what Sarene would ever have placed with her uncle-of course, her most recent memories of Kiin were over a decade old. Kiin's large, castle-like mansion was not a surprise. She remembered that her uncle had been a merchant of some sort, and her memories were highlighted by expensive gifts and Kiin's exotic clothing. He had not only been the younger son of a king, but he had also been an extremely successful businessman. Something he still was, appartently. He'd been out of the city on business until that morning, which was why she hadn't seen him at the funeral. The greatest shock was the children. Despite the fact that Sarene knew he was married, she just couldn't reconcile her recollections of the unruly Hunkey Kay with the concept of fatherhood. Her preconceptions were neatly shattered the moment Kiin and Daora opened the door to the mansion's dining hall. “Father's home!” called the voice of a young girl. “Yes, Father's home,” Kiin said with a suffering voice. “And no, I didn't bring you anything. I've only been gone a few minutes.” “I don't care what you did or didn't bring me. I just want to eat.” The speaker, a young girl about ten years old, had a very serious, adult-sounding voice. She wore a pink dress tied with white ribbon, and had a bob
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of stark blond hair on her head. “When do you not want to eat, Kaise?” a little boy, who looked almost identical to the girl, asked with a sour look. “Children, don't squabble,” Daora said firmly. “We have a guest.” “Sarene,” Kiin declared, “meet your cousins, Kaise and Daorn. The two biggest headaches in your poor uncle's life.” “Now, Father, you know you would have gone mad from boredom long ago without them,” a man said from the far doorway. The newcomer was of average Arelish height, which meant he was an inch or two shorter than Sarene, with a lean build and a strikingly handsome, hawkish face. His hair had been parted down the center and flopped down on either side of his face. A woman with black hair stood at his side, her lips slightly pursed as she studied Sarene. The man bowed slightly to Sarene. “Your Highness.” he said with only a hint of a smile on his lips. “My son Lukel,” Kiin explained. “Your son?” Sarene asked with surprise. Young children she could accept, but Lukel was a few years older than she was. That meant ... “No,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Lukel is from Daora's previous marriage.” “Not that that makes me any less his son,” Lukel said with a broad smile. “You can't escape responsibility for me that easily.” “Domi himself wouldn't dare take responsibility for you,” Kiin said. “Anyway, that's Jalla next to him.” “Your daughter?” Sarene asked as Jalla curtsied. “Daughter-in-law,” the dark-haired woman explained, her speech thick with an accent. “You're Fjordell?” Sarene asked. The hair had been a clue, but the name and accent were giveaways. “Svordish,” Jalla corrected-not that it was much different. The small kingdom of Svorden was all but a Fjordell province. “Jalla and I studied together at the Svordish university,” Lukel explained. “We were married last month.” “Congratulations.” Sarene said. “It's nice to know I'm not the only newlywed in the room.” Sarene meant the comment lightly, but was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She felt Kiin's large hand grip her shoulder. “I'm sorry, 'Ene,” he said softly. “I wasn't going to bring it up, but ... You deserved better than this: you were always such a happy child.” “No loss to me,” Sarene said with an indifference she didn't feel. “It isn't like I knew him, Uncle.” “Even still,” Daora said. “it must have been a shock.” “You could say that,” Sarene agreed. “If it helps,” Kiin said, “Prince Raoden was a good man. One of the best I have ever known. If you knew a little more about Arelish politics, then you would understand that I don't use those words lightly when referring to a member of Iadon's court.” Sarene nodded slightly. Part of her was happy to hear she hadn't misjudged Raoden by his letters: the other half thought it would have been easier to continue thinking that he was like his father. “Enough talk about dead princes!” a small but insistent voice decided from the table.
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“If we don't eat soon, Father will have to stop complaining about me because I'll be dead.” “Yes, Kiin,” Daora agreed, “you should probably go to the kitchen and make sure your feast isn't burning.” Kiin snorted. “I have each dish cooking on a precise schedule. It would be impossible for one to . . .” The large man trailed off, sniffing the air. Then he swore and barreled out of the room. “Uncle Kiin is cooking dinner?” Sarene asked with amazement. “Your uncle is one of the best chefs in this town, dear,” Daora said. “Uncle Kiin?” Sarene repeated. “Cook?” Daora nodded, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Kiin has traveled more places in this world than anyone in Arelon, and he brought back recipes from each one. I believe tonight he's fixing something he learned in Jindo.” “Does this mean we're going to eat?” Kaise asked pointedly. “I hate Jindoeese food,” Daorn complained, his voice almost indistinguishable from that of his sister. “It's too spicy.” “You don't like anything unless it has a handful of sugar mixed in,” Lukel teased, mussing his half brother's hair. “Daorn, go run and get Adien.” “Another one?” Sarene asked. Daora nodded. “The last. Lukel's full brother.” “He's probably sleeping,” Kaise said. “Adien's always sleeping. I think it's because his mind is only half awake.” “Kaise, little girls who say such things about their brothers often end up in bed without supper.” Daora informed. “Daorn, get moving.” “You don't look like a princess,” Kaise said. The girl sat primly on her chair beside Sarene. The dining room had a homey, studylike feel, filled with dark wood paneling and relics from Kiin's traveling days. “What do you mean?” Sarene asked, trying to figure out how to use the odd Jindoeese dining utensils. There were two of them, one with a sharp pointed end and the other with a flat shoveled end. Everyone else was eating with them as if it were second nature, and Sarene was determined not to say anything. She would figure them out on her own or she wouldn't get much to eat. The latter was looking much more likely. “Well, for one thing you're way too tall,” Kaise said. “Kaise.” her mother warned in a threatening tone. “Well it's true. All of the books say princesses are petite. I'm not exactly sure what petite means, but I don't think she's it.” “I'm Teoish,” Sarene said, successfully spearing something that looked like a marinated piece of shrimp. “We're all this tall.” “Father's Teoish too, Kaise,” Daorn said. “And you know how tall he is.” “But father's fat,” Kaise pointed out. “Why aren't you fat too, Sarene?” Kiin, who had just appeared out of the kitchen doors, absently rapped his daughter on the head with the bottom of a serving tray as he passed. “Just as I thought,” he mumbled, listening to the ringing sound crea1ted by the metal pan. “your head is completely hollow. I guess that explains a lot.” Kaise rubbed her head petulantly before turning back to her meal, muttering,
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“I still think princesses should be smaller. Besides, princesses are supposed to have good table manners; cousin Sarene's dropped about half of her meal on the floor. Who ever heard of a princess that didn't know how to use MaiPon sticks?” Sarene blushed, looking down at the foreign utensils. “Don't listen to her, 'Ene,” Kiin laughed, setting another suceulent-smelling dish on the table. “This is Jindoeese food-it's made with so much grease that if half of it doesn't end up on the floor, then something's wrong. You'll get the hang of those sticks eventually.” “You can use a spoon, if you want,” Daorn said helpfully. “Adien always does.” Sarene's eyes were immediately drawn to the fourth child. Adien was a thin-faced boy in his late teens. He had a pale white complexion and a strange, discomforting cast to his face. He are awkwardly, his motions stiff and uncontrolled. As he ate, he mumbled to himself-repeating numbers, as far as Sarene could tell. Sarene had met people like him before, children whose minds weren't completely whole. “Father, the meal is delicious,” Lukel said, drawing the attention away from his brother. “I don't believe you've ever fixed this shrimp dish before.” “It's called HaiKo.” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “I learned it off a traveling merchant while you were studying in Svorden last year.” “Sixteen million four hundred thousand seven hundred and seventy-two,” Adien mumbled. “That's how many steps it is to Svorden.” Sarene paused slightly at Adien's addition, but the rest of the family paid him no heed, so she did likewise. “It truly is wonderful, Uncle,” Sarene said. “I would never have figured you for a chef.” “I've always enjoyed it,” Kiin explained, sitting down in his chair. “I would have fixed you some things back when I visited Teod, but your mother's head cook had this inane idea that royalty didn't belong in the kitchen. I tried to explain to her that, in a way, I partially owned the kitchens, but she still would never let me set foot inside to prepare a meal.” “Well, she did us all a disservice,” Sarene said. “You don't do all of the cooking, do you?” Kiin shook his head. “Fortunately, no. Daora is quite the cook herself.” Sarene blinked in surprise. “You mean you don't have a cook to fix your meals for you?” Kiin and Daora shook their heads in unison. “Father is our cook,” Kaise said. “No servers or butlers either?” Sarene asked. She had assumed the lack of servants was due to an odd desire on Kiin's part to keep this particular meal personal. “None at all,” Kiin said. “But why?” Kiin looked at his wife, then back at Sarene. “Sarene, do you know what happened here ten years ago?” “The Reod?” Sarene asked. “The Punishment?” “Yes, but do you know what that means?” Sarene thought for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “The end of the Elantrians.” Kiin nodded. “You probably never met an Elantrian-you were still young when the Reod hit. It is hard to explain how much this
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country changed when the disaster struck. Elantris used to be the most beautiful city in the worId-trust me, I've been everywhere else. It was a monument of glowing stone and lustrous metal, and its inhabitants looked like they were chiseled from the same materials. Then, they fell.” “Yes, I've studied this before,” Sarene said with a nod. “Their skin turned dark with black spots, and their hair began to fall from their skulls...” “You can say that with the knowledge of books,” Kiin said, “but you weren't here when it happened. You can't know the horror that comes from seeing gods turn wretched and foul. Their fall destroyed the Arelish government, throwing the country into total chaos.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “It was the servants who started the revolution, Sarene. The very day their masters fell, the servants turned on them. Some-mostly the country's current nobility-say it was because the lower class in Elantris was treated too well, that their pampered natures inspired them to cast down their former rulers at the first sign of weakness. I think it was simply fear-ignorant fear that the Elantrians had a vile disease, mixed with the terror that comes from seeing someone you had worshipped stricken down before you. “Either way, the servants are the ones who did the most damage. First in small groups, then in an incredibly destructive riot, killing any Elantrian they could find. The most powerful Elantrians went first, but the killings spread to the weaker ones as well. “It didn't stop with the Elantrians either-the people attacked families, friends, and even those who had been appointed to positions by the Elantrians. Daora and I watched it all, horrified and thankful that there were no Elantrians in the family. Because of that night, we haven't ever been able to convince ourselves to hire servants.” “Not that we really need them,” Daora said. “You'd be surprised at how much you can get done on your own.” “Especially when you have a couple of children to do the dirty jobs,” Kiin said with a sly smile. “Is that all we're good for, Father?” Lukel said with a laugh. “Scrubbing floors?” “It's the only reason I've ever found for having kids,” Kiin said. “Your mother and I only had Daorn because we decided we needed another couple of hands to wash chamber pots.” “Father, please,” Kaise said. “I'm trying to eat.” “Merciful Domi help the man who interrupts Kaise's supper,” Lukel said with a chuckle. “Princess Kaise,” the little girl corrected. “Oh, so my little girl's a princess now?” Kiin asked with amusement. “If Sarene can be one, then so can I. After all, you're her uncle, and that should make you a prince. Right, Father?” “Technically yes.” Kiin said. “Though I don't think I officially have a title anymore.” “They probably kicked you out because you spoke of chamber pots during supper,” Kaise said. “Princes can't do that sort of thing, you know. It's horrible table manners.” “Of course,” Kiin said with a fond smile. “I wonder why I never
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realized that before.” “So,” Kaise continued. “If you are a prince, then your daughter is a princess.” “I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Kaise,” Lukel said. “Father's not king, so his kids would be barons or counts, not princes.” “Is that true?” Kaise asked with a disappointed tone. “I'm afraid so,” Kiin said. “However, trust me. Anyone who claims you're not a princess, Kaise, hasn't ever listened to you complain at bedtime.” The little girl thought for a moment and, apparently unsure how to take the comment, simply turned back to her dinner. Sarene wasn't paying much attention: her mind had frozen at the part where her uncle had said “I don't think I officially have a title anymore.” It smelled of politics. Sarene thought she knew every important event that had happened in Teod's court during the last fifty years, and she knew nothing of Kiin being officially stripped of his title. Before she could ponder any more on the incongruity, Ashe floated in through a window. In the excitement of the dinner. Sarene had almost forgotten that she'd sent him to follow the Gyorn Hrathen. The ball of light stopped hesitantly in the air near the window. “My lady, am I interrupting?” “No, Ashe, come in and meet my family.” “You have a Seon!” Daorn exclaimed with amazement. For once his sister seemed too stunned to speak. “This is Ashe,” Sarene explained. “He's been serving my house for over two centuries, and he's the wisest Seon I've ever known.” “My lady, you exaggerate,” Ashe said modestly, yet at the same time she noticed he was glowing a bit brighter. Seon . . .” Kaise said with quiet wonder, her dinner forgotten. “They've always been rare.” Kiin said, 'now more than ever.” “Where did you get him?” Kaise asked. “From my mother.” Sarene said. “She passed Ashe to me when I was born.” The Passing of a Seon-it was one of the finest gifts a person could receive. Someday, Sarene would have to pass Ashe, se1lecting a new ward for him to watch over and care for. She had planned it to be one of her children, or perhaps grandchildren. The possibility of either ever existing, however, was looking increasingly unlikely. “A Seon.” Kaise said with wonder. She turned to Sarene, eyes alight with excitement. “Can I play with him after supper?” “Play with me?” Ashe asked uncertainly. “Can I please, Cousin Sarene?” Kaise begged. “I don't know,” Sarene said with a smile. “I seem to recall a few comments about my height.” The little girl's look of disappointed chagrin was a source of great amusement to all. It was at that moment, among their laughter, that Sarene began to feel her tension ease for the first time since leaving her homeland a week before. CHAPTER 6 “THERE is no hope for the king, I'm afraid.” Hrathen folded his arms across his breastplate thoughtfully as he looked back at the throne room. “Your Grace?” Dilaf asked. “King Iadon,” Hrathen explained. “I had hoped to save him-though I never really expected
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the nobility to follow me without a fight. They're too entrenched in their ways. Perhaps if we had gotten to them right after the Reod. Of course, we weren't sure that whatever disease had taken the Elantrians wouldn't affect us as well.” “Jaddeth struck down the Elantrians,” Dilaf said fervently. “Yes,” Hrathen said, nor bothering to look down at the shorter man. “But oft-times Jaddeth uses natural processes to bring about His will. A plague will kill Fjordell as well as Arelene.” “Jaddeth would protect his chosen.” “Of course,” Hrathen said distractedly, shooting one more dissatisfied glance down the hallway toward the throne room. He had made the offer out of duty, knowing that the easiest way to save Arelon would be to convert its ruler, but he hadn't expected Iadon to respond favorably. If only the king knew how much suffering he could forestall with a simple profession of faith. It was too late now; Iadon had formally rejected Jaddeth. He would have to become an example. However, Hrathen would have to be careful. Memories of the Duladen revolution were still stark in Hrathen's mind-the death, blood, and chaos. Such a cataclysm had to be avoided. Hrathen was a stern man, and a determined one, but he was no lover of carnage. Of course, with only three months' time, he might not have a choice. If he was going to succeed, he might have to incite a revolt. More death and more chaos-horrible things to throw upon a nation that had still hadn't recovered from its last violent revolution. However, Jaddeth's empire would not sit still and wait because a few ignorant nobles refused to accept the truth. “I suppose I expected too much of them,” Hrathen mumbled. “They are, after all, only Arelenes.” Dilaf made no response to the comment. “I noticed someone odd in the throne room, Arteth,” Hrathen said as they turned and walked out of the palace, passing both sculpture and servant without so mueh as a glance. “Perhaps you can help me identify her. She was Aonic, but she was taller than most Arelenes, and her hair was much lighter than the average Arelish brown. She looked out of place.” “What was she wearing, Your Holiness?” Dilaf asked. “Black. All black with a yellow sash.” “The new princess, Your Grace,” Dilaf hissed, his voice suddenly hateful. “New princess?” “She arrived yesterday, the same as yourself. She was to be married to Iadon's son Raoden.” Hrathen nodded. He hadn't attended the prince's funeral, but he had heard of the event. He hadn't known, however, of the impending marriage. The betrothal must have occurred recently. “She's still here,” he asked. “even though the prince died?” Dilaf nodded. “Unfortunately for her, the royal engagement contract made her his wife the moment he died.” “Ah,” Hrathen said. “Where is she from?” “Teod, Your Grace.” Dilaf said. Hrathen nodded, understanding the hatred in Dilaf 's voice. Arelon, despite the blasphemous city of Elantris, at least showed some possibility for redemption. Teod, however, was the homeland of Shu-Korath-a degenerate sect of Shu-Keseg,
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the parent religion of Shu-Dereth. The day Teod fell beneath Fjorden's glory would be a joyous day indeed. “A Teoish princess could be a problem,” Hrathen mused. “Nothing can hinder Jaddeth's empire.” “If nothing could hinder it, Arteth, then it would already encompass the entire planet. Jaddeth takes pleasure in allowing His servants to serve Him, and grants us glory in bending the foolish before our will. And of all the fools in the world. Teoish fools are the most dangerous.” “How could one woman be a danger to you, Your Holiness?” “Well, for one thing, her marriage means that Teod and Arelon have a formal blood bond. If we aren't careful, we'll have to fight them both at once. A man is more likely to think himself a hero when he has an ally to support him.” “I understand, Your Grace.” Hrathen nodded, sweeping out into the sunlight. “Pay attention, Arteth, and I will teach you a very important lesson-one that few people know, and even fewer can properly use.” “What lesson is that?” Dilaf asked, following close behind. Hrathen smiled slightly. “I will show you the way to destroy a nation-the means by which the man of Jaddeth can topple kingdoms and1 seize control of the people's souls” “I am eager to learn, Your Grace.” “Good,” Hrathen said, looking across Kae at the enormous wall of Elantris. It rose above the city like a mountain. “Take me up there. I wish to view the fallen lords of Arelon.” When Hrathen had first arrived at the Outer City of Kae, he had noted how indefensible it was. Now, standing atop the wall of Elantris, Hrathen could see that he had actually underestimated how pathetic Kae's fortifications were. Beautiful, terraced steps ran up the outside of Elantris's wall, providing outside access to the top. They were firm, stone constructions; it would be impossible to destroy them in an emergency. If Kae's inhabitants retreated into Elantris, they would be trapped, not protected. There were no archers. The Elantris City Guard members carried large, unwieldy spears that looked like they were far too heavy to be thrown. They held themselves with a proud air, wearing unarmored yellow-and-brown uniforms, and they obviously considered themselves far above the regular city militia. From what Hrathen had heard, however, the Guard wasn't even really necessary to keep the Elantrians in. The creatures rarely tried to escape, and the city wall was far too large for the Guard to patrol extensively. The force was more of a public-relations operation than a true military; the people of Kae felt much more comfortable living beside Elantris when they knew a troop of soldiers watched the city. However, Hrathen suspected that in a war, the Guard members would be hard-pressed to defend themselves, let alone protect Kae's population. Arelon was a ripe jewel waiting to be pillaged. Hrathen had heard of the days of chaos directly following Elantris's fall, and of the incalculable treasures that had been plundered from the magnificent city. Those valuables were now concentrated in Kae, where the new
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nobility lived practically unguarded. He had also heard that, despite the thievery, a large percentage of Elantris's wealth-pieces of art too large to move easily, or smaller items that hadn't been plundered before Iadon began enforcing the city's isolation-remained locked within Elantris's forbidden walls. Only superstition and inaccessibility kept Elantris and Kae from being raped by invaders. The smaller thieving bands were still too frightened of Elantris's reputation. The larger bands were either under Fjordell control-and therefore wouldn't attack unless instructed to do so-or had been bribed to stay away by Kae's nobles. Both situations were extremely temporary in nature. And that was the basic reason Hrathen felt justified in taking extreme action to bring Arelon under Fjorden control-and protection. The nation was an egg balanced on the peak of a mountain, just waiting for the first breeze to plunge it to the hard ground below. If Fjorden didn't conquer Arelon soon, then the kingdom would certainly collapse beneath the weight of a dozen different problems. Beyond inept leadership, Arelon suffered from an overtaxed working class, religious uncertainty, and dwindling resources. All of these factors competed to deliver the final blow. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of harsh breathing behind him. Dilaf stood on the other side of the wall walk, looking our over Elantris. His eyes were wide, like those of a man who had been punched in the stomach, and his teeth were clenched. Hrathen half expected him to s1tart frothing at the mouth. “I hate them,” Dilaf whispered in a harsh, almost unintelligible voice. Hrathen 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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,
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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 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
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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 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?
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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 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,
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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 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
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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. “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
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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 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
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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 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.
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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 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
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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 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
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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.” “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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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.
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“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 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
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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, 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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,
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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,” 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
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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.” “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
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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 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
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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 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
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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,” 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
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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, 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,
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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, 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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,
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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. 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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.
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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, 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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,
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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. 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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?” “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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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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 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
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