text
stringlengths 1.73k
3.83k
|
|---|
billowed outward and continued all the way to the floor, hiding her feet. It was the kind of dress that made one feel regal. Even a princess needed reminders once in a while. “It isn't black, my lady.” Ashe pointed out. “This part is,” Sarene objected, pointing to the long cape at the back. The cape was actually part of the dress, woven into the neck and shoulders so carefully that it seemed to grow from the lace. “I don't think that the cape is enough to make it a widow's dress, my lady.” “It will have to do,” Sarene said, studying herself in t1he mirror. “If I wear one more of those dresses Eshen gave me, then you'll have to throw me into Elantris for going insane.” “Are you certain the front is . . . appropriate?” “What?” Sarene said. “It's rather low-cut, my lady,” “I've seen much worse, even here in Arelon.” “Yes, my lady, but those were all unmarried women.” Sarene smiled. Ashe was always so sensitive-especially in regards to her. “I have to at least wear it once-I've never had the chance. I got it in from Duladel the week before I left Teod.” “If you say so, my lady.” Ashe said, pulsing slightly. “Is there anything else you would like me to try and find out?” “Did you visit the dungeons?” “I did,” Ashe said. “I'm sorry, my lady-I found no secret alcoves hiding half-starved princes. If Iadon locked his son away, then he wasn't foolish enough to do it in his own palace.” “Well, it was worth a look.” Sarene said with a sigh. “I didn't think you would find anything-we should probably be searching for the assassin who wielded the knife instead.” “True,” Ashe said. “Perhaps you might try prompting the queen for information? If the prince really was killed by an intruder, she might know something.” “I've tried, but Eshen is ... well, it's not hard to get information out of her. Getting her to stay on topic, however ... Honestly, how a woman like that ended up married to Iadon is beyond me.” “I suspect, my lady,” Ashe said, “that the arrangement was more financial than it was social. Much of Iadon's original governmental funds came from Eshen's father.” “That makes sense,” Sarene said, smiling slightly and wondering what Iadon thought of the bargain now. He'd gotten his money, true, but he'd also ended up spending several decades listening to Eshen's prattle. Perhaps that was why he seemed so frustrated by women in general. “Regardless,” Sarene said. “I don't think the queen knows anything about Raoden-but I'll keep trying.” Ashe bobbed. “And, what shall I do?” Sarene paused. “Well, I've been thinking about Uncle Kiin lately. Father never mentions him anymore. I was wondering-do you know if Kiin was ever officially disinherited?” “I don't know, my lady.” Ashe said. “Dio might know: he works much more closely with your father.” “See if you can dig anything up-there might be some rumors here in Arelon about what happened. Kiin is, after all, one of
|
the most influential people in Kae.” “Yes, my lady. Anything else?” “Yes,” Sarene decided with a wrin1kle of her nose. “Find someone to take those black dresses away-I've decided I won't be needing them anymore.” “Of course, my lady,” Ashe said with a suffering tone. Sarene glanced out the carriage window as it approached Duke Telrii's mansion. Reports said that Telrii had been very free with ball invitations, and the number of carriages on the road this evening seemed to confirm the information. Torches lined the pathway, and the mansion grounds were brilliantly lit with a combination of lanterns, torches, and strange colorful flames. “The duke has spared no expense,” Shuden noted. “What are they, Lord Shuden?” Sarene asked, nodding toward one of the bright flames, which burned atop a tall metal pole. “Special rocks imported from the south.” “Rocks that burn? Like coal?” “They burn much more quickly than coal,” the young Jindoeese lord explained. “And they are extremely expensive. It must have cost Telrii a fortune to light this pathway.” Shuden frowned. “This seems extravagant, even for him.” “Lukel mentioned that the duke is somewhat wasteful,” Sarene said, remembering her conversation in Iadon's throne room. Shuden nodded. “But he's far more clever than most will credit. The duke is easy with his money, but there is usually a purpose behind his frivolity.” Sarene could see the young baron's mind working as the coach pulled to a stop, as if trying to discern the exact nature of the aforementioned “purpose.” The mansion itself was bursting with people. Women in bright dresses accompanied men in the straight-coated suits that were the current masculine fashion. The guests only slightly outnumbered the white-clothed servants who bustled through the crowd, carrying food and drink or changing lanterns. Shuden helped Sarene from the carriage, then led her into the main ballroom with a gait that was practiced at navigating crowds. “You have no idea how happy I am you offered to come with me.” Shuden confided as they entered the room. A large band played at one end of the hallway, and couples either spun through the center of the room in dance or stood around the wide periphery in conversation. The room was bright with colored lights, the rocks they had seen outside burning intensely from placements atop banisters or poles. There were even chains of tiny candles wrapped around several of the pillars-contraptions that probably had to be refilled every half hour. “Why is that, my lord?” Sarene asked, gazing at the colorful scene. Even living as a princess, she had never seen such beauty and opulence. Light, sound, and color mixed intoxicatingly. Shuden followed her gaze, not really hearing her question. “One would never know this country is dancing on the lip of destruction,” he muttered. The statement struck like a solemn death knell. There was a reason Sarene had never seen such lavishness-wondrous as it was, it was also incredibly wasteful. Her father was a prudent ruler; he would never allow such profligacy. “That is always how it is, though, isn't it?”
|
Shuden asked. “Those who can least afford extravagance seem to be the ones most determined to spend what they have left.” “You are a wise man, Lord Shuden.' Sarene said. “No, just a man who tries to see to the heart of things,” he said, leading her to a side gallery where they could find drinks. “What was that you were saying before?” “What?” Shuden asked. “Oh, I was explaining how you are going to save me quite a bit of distress this evening.” “Why is that?” she asked as he handed her a cup of wine. Shuden smiled slightly, taking a sip of his own drink. “There are some who, for one reason or another, consider me quite ... eligible. Many of them won't realize who you are, and will stay away, trying to judge their new competitor. I might actually have some time to enjoy myself tonight.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “Is it really that bad?” “I usually have to beat them away with a stick,” Shuden replied, holding out his arm to her. “One would almost think you never intended to marry, my lord.” Sarene said with a smile, accepting his proffered arm. Shuden laughed. “No, it is nothing like that, my lady. Let me assure you. I am quite interested in the concept-or, at least, the theory behind it. However, finding a woman in this court whose twittering foolishness doesn't cause my stomach to turn, that is another thing entirely. Come, if I am right, then we should be able to find a place much more interesting than the main ballroom.” Shuden led her through the masses of ballgoers. Despite his earlier comments, he was very eivil-even pleasant-to the women who appeared from the crowd to welcome him. Shuden knew every one by name-a feat of diplomacy, or good breeding, in itself. Sarene's respect for Shuden grew as she watched the reactions of those he met. No faces turned dark as he approached, and few gave him the haughty looks that were common in so-called genteel societies. Shuden was well liked, though he was far from the most lively of men. She sensed that his popularity came not from his ability to entertain, but from his refreshing honesty. When Shuden spoke, he was always polite and considerate, but completely frank. His exotic origin gave him the license to say things that others could not. Eventually they arrived at a small room at the top of a flight of stairs. “Here we are,” Shuden said with satisfaction, leading her through the doorway. Inside they found a smaller, but more skilled, band playing stringed instruments. The decorations in this room were more subdued, bu1t the servants were holding plates of food that seemed even more exotic than those down below. Sarene recognized many of the faces from court, including the one most important. “The king,” she said, noticing Iadon standing near the far corner. Eshen was at his side in a slim green dress. Shuden nodded. “Iadon wouldn't miss a party like this, even if it is being held by
|
Lord Telrii.” “They don't get along?” “They get along fine. They're just in the same business. Iadon runs a merchant fleet-his ships travel the sea of Fjorden, as do those of Telrii. That makes them rivals.” “I think it's odd that he's here either way,” Sarene said. “My father never goes to these kinds of things.” “That is because he has grown up. Lady Sarene. Iadon is still infatuated with his power, and takes every opportunity to enjoy it.” Shuden looked around with keen eyes. “Take this room, for example.” “This room?” Shuden nodded. “Whenever Iadon comes to a party, he chooses a room aside from the main one and lets the important people gravitate toward him. The nobles are used to it. The man throwing the ball usually hires a second band, and knows to start a second, more exclusive party apart from the main ball. Iadon has made it known that he doesn't want to associate with people who are too far beneath him-this gathering is only for dukes and well-placed counts.” “But you are a baron,” Sarene pointed out as the two of them drifted into the room. Shuden smiled, sipping his wine. “I am a special case. My family forced Iadon to give us our title, where most of the others gained their ranks through wealth and begging. I can take certain liberties that no other baron would assume, for Iadon and I both know I once got the better of him. I can usually only spend a short time here in the inner room-an hour at most. Otherwise I stretch the king's patience. Of course, that is all beside the point tonight.” “Why is that?” “Because I have you,” Shuden said. “Do not forget, Lady Sarene. You outrank everyone in this room except for the royal couple themselves.” Sarene nodded. While she was quite accustomed to the idea of being important-she was, after all, the daughter of a king-she wasn't used to the Arelish penchant for pulling rank. “Iadon's presence changes things,” she said quietly as the king noticed her. His eyes passed over her dress, obviously noting its less than black state, and his face grew dark. Maybe the dress wasn't such a good idea, Sarene admitted to herself. However, something else quickly drew her attention. “What is he doing here?” she whispered as she noticed a bright form standing like a red scar in the midst of the ballgoers. Shuden followed her eyes. “The gyorn? He's been coming to the court balls since the day he got here. He showed up at the first one1 without an invitation, and held himself with such an air of self-importance that no one has dared neglect inviting him since.” Hrathen spoke with a small group of men, his brilliant red breastplate and cape stark against the nobles' lighter colors. The gyorn stood at least a head taller than anyone in the room, and his shoulder plates extended a foot on either side. All in all, he was very hard to miss. Shuden smiled. “No matter what I think
|
of the man, I am impressed with his confidence. He simply walked into the king's private party that first night and began talking to one of the dukes-he barely even nodded to the king. Apparently, Hrathen considers the title of gyorn equal to anything in this room.” “Kings bow to gyorns in the East.” Sarene said. “They practically grovel when Wyrn visits.” “And it all came from one elderly Jindo,” Shuden noted, pausing to replace their cups with wine from a passing servant. It was a much better vintage. “It always interests me to see what you people have done with Keseg's teachings.” “ 'You people'?” Sarene asked. “I'm Korathi-don't lump me together with the gyorn.” Shuden held up a hand. “I apologize. I didn't mean to be offensive.” Sarene paused. Shuden spoke Aonic as a native and lived in Arelon, so she had assumed him to be Korathi. She had misjudged. Shuden was still Jindoeese-his family would have believed in Shu-Keseg, the parent religion of both Korath and Dereth. “But,” she said, thinking out loud, “Jindo is Derethi now.” Shuden's face darkened slightly, eyeing the gyorn. “I wonder what the great master thought when his two students, Korath and Dereth, left to preach to the lands northward. Keseg taught of unity. But what did he mean? Unity of mind, as my people assume? Unity of love, as your priests claim? Or is it the unity of obedience, as the Derethi believe? In the end, I am left to ponder how mankind managed to complicate such a simple concept.” He paused, then shook his head. “Anyway, yes, my lady, Jindo is Derethi now. My people allow Wyrn to assume that the Jindo have been converted because it is better than fighting. Many are now questioning that decision, however. The Arteths are growing increasingly demanding.” Sarene nodded. “I agree. Shu-Dereth must be stopped-it is a perversion of the truth.” Shuden paused. “I didn't say that, Lady Sarene. The soul of Shu-Keseg is acceptance. There is room for all teachings. The Derethi think they are doing what is right.” Shuden stopped, looking over at Hrathen, before continuing. “That one, however, is dangerous.” “Why him and not others?” “I visited one of Hrathen's sermons,” Shuden said. “He doesn't preach from his heart, Lady Sarene, he preaches from his mind. He looks for numbers in his conversions, paying no attention to the faith of his followers. This is dangerous.” Shuden scanned Hrathen's companions. “That one bothers me as well,” he said, pointing to a man whose hair was so blond it was almost white. “Who is he?” Sarene asked with interest. “Waren, first son of Baron Diolen,” Shuden said. “He shouldn't be here in this room, but he is apparently using his close association with the gyorn as an invitation. Waren used to be a notably pious Korathi, but he claims to have seen a vision of Jaddeth commanding that he convert to Shu-Dereth.” “The ladies were talking about this earlier,” Sarene said, eyeing Waren. “You don't believe him?” “I have always suspected Waren's religiousness to
|
be an exhibition. He is an opportunist, and his extreme piety gained him notoriety.” Sarene studied the white-haired man, worried. He was very young, but he carried himself as a man of accomplishment and control. His conversion was a dangerous sign. The more such people Hrathen gathered, the more difficult he would be to stop. “I shouldn't have waited so long,” she said. “For what?” “To come to these balls. Hrathen has a week's edge on me.” “You act as if it were a personal struggle between you two,” Shuden noted with a smile. Sarene didn't take the comment lightly. “A personal struggle with the fates of nations at stake.” “Shuden!” a voice said. “I see that you are lacking your customary circle of admirers.” “Good evening, Lord Roial,” Shuden said, bowing slightly as the old man approached. “Yes, thanks to my companionship. I have been able to avoid most of that tonight.” “Ah, the lovely Princess Sarene,” Roial said, kissing her hand. “Apparently, your penchant for black has waned.” “It was never that strong to begin with, my lord,” she said with a curtsy. “I can imagine,” Roial said with a smile. Then he turned back to Shuden. “I had hoped that you wouldn't realize your good fortune, Shuden. I might have stolen the princess and kept off a few of the leeches myself.” Sarene regarded the elderly man with surprise. Shuden chuckled. “Lord Roial is, perhaps, the only bachelor in Arelon whose affection is more sought-after than my own. Not that I am jealous. His Lordship diverts some of the attention from me.” “You?' Sarene asked, looking at the spindly old man. “Women want to marry you?” Then, remembering her manners, she added a belated “my lord,” blushing furiously at the impropriety of her words. Roial laughed. “Don't worry about offending me, young Sarene. No man my age is much to look at. My dear Eoldess has been dead for twenty years, and I have no son. My fortune has to pass to someone, and every unmarried girl in the realm realizes that fact. She would only have to indulge me for a few years, bury me, then find a lusty young lover to help spend my money.” “My lord is too cynical,” Shuden noted. “My lord is too realistic,” Roial said with a snort. “Though I'll admit, the idea of forcing one of those young puffs into my bed is tempting. I know they all think I'm too old to make them perform their duties as a wife, but they assume wrong. If I were going to let them steal my fortune, I'd at least make them work for it.” Shuden blushed at the comment, but Sarene only laughed. “I knew it. You really are nothing but a dirty old man.” “Self-professedly so,” Roial agreed with a smile. Then, looking over at Hrathen, he continued. “How's our overly armored friend doing?” “Bothering me by his mere noxious presence, my lord,” Sarene replied. “Watch him, Sarene,” Roial said. “I hear that our dear lord Telrii's sudden good fortune isn't a
|
matter of pure luck.” Shuden's eyes grew suspicious. “Duke Telrii has declared no allegiance to Derethi.” “Not openly, no,” Roial agreed. “But my sources say that there is something between those two. One thing is certain: There has rarely been a party like this in Kae, and the duke is throwing it for no obvious reason. One begins to wonder just what Telrii is advertising, and why he wants us to know how wealthy he is.” “An interesting thought, my lord,” Sarene said. “Sarene?” Eshen's voice called from the other side of the room. “Dear, would you come over here?” “Oh no,” Sarene said, looking over at the queen, who was waving her to approach. “What do you suppose this is about?” “I'm intrigued to find out.” Roial said with a sparkle in his eyes. Sarene acknowledged the queen's gesture, approaching the royal couple and curtsying politely. Shuden and Roial followed more discreetly, placing themselves within earshot. Eshen smiled as Sarene approached. “Dear, I was just explaining to my husband about the idea we came up with this morning. You know, the one about exercising?” Eshen nodded her head toward the king enthusiastically. “What is this nonsense, Sarene?” the king demanded. “Women playing with swords?” “His Majesty wouldn't want us to get fat, would he?” Sarene asked innocently. “No, of course not,” the king said. “But you could just eat less.” “But, I do so like to exercise, Your Majesty.” Iadon took a deep, suffering breath. 'But surely there is some other form of exercise you women could do?” Sarene blinked, trying to hint that she might be close to tears. “But, Your Majesty, I've done this ever since I was a child. Surely the king can have nothing against a foolish womanly pastime.” The king stoppe1d, eyeing her. She might have overdone it that last time. Sarene assumed her best look of hopeless idiocy and smiled. Finally, he just shook his head. “Bah, do whatever you want, woman. I don't want you spoiling my evening.” “The king is very wise,” Sarene said, curtsying and backing away. “I had forgotten about that,” Shuden whispered to her as she rejoined him. “The act must be quite the burden to maintain.” “It is useful sometimes,” Sarene said. They were about to withdraw when Sarene noticed a courier approaching the king. She placed her hand on Shuden's arm, indicating that she wanted to wait a moment where she could still hear Iadon. The messenger whispered something in Iadon's ear, and the king's eyes grew wide with frustration. “What!” The man moved to whisper again, and the king pushed him back. “Just say it, man. I can't stand all that whispering.” “It happened just this week, Your Majesty,” the man explained. Sarene edged closer. “How odd.” A slightly accented voice suddenly drifted in their direction. Hrathen stood a short distance away. He wasn't watching them, but somehow he was directing his voice at the king-as if he were intentionally allowing his words to be overheard. “I wouldn't have thought the king would discuss important matters where
|
the dull-minded can hear. Such people tend to be so confused by events that it is a disservice to allow them the opportunity.” Most of the people around her didn't even appear to have heard the gyorn's comment. The king, however, had. Iadon regarded Sarene for a moment, then grabbed his messenger by the arm and strode quickly from the room, leaving a startled Eshen behind. As Sarene watched the king leave, Hrathen's eyes caught her own, and he smiled slightly before turning back to his companions. “Can you believe that?” Sarene said, fuming. “He did that on purpose!” Shuden nodded. “Often, my lady, our deceptions turn on us.” “The gyorn is good,” Roial said. “It's always a masterful stroke when you can turn someone's guise to your advantage.” “I have often found that no matter what the circumstance, it is most useful to be oneself,” Shuden said. “The more faces we try to wear, the more confused they become.” Roial nodded slightly, smiling. “True. Boring, perhaps, but true.” Sarene was barely listening. She had assumed that she was the one doing the manipulating; she had never realized the disadvantage it gave her.”The facade is troubling,” she admitted. Then she sighed turning back to Shuden. “But I am stuck with it, at least with the king. Honestly though, I doubt he would have regarded me any other way, no matter how I acted.” “You're probably right,” Shuden said. “The king is rather shortsighted when it comes to women.” The king returned a few moments later, his face dark, his humor obviously ruined by whatever news he had received. The courier escaped with a look of relief, and as he left, Sarene caught sight of a new figure entering the room. Duke Telrii was customarily pompous in bright reds and golds, his fingers speckled with rings. Sarene watched him closely, but he didn't join-or even acknowledge-the gyorn Hrathen. In fact, he seemed to doggedly ignore the priest, instead making the proper hostly overtures, visiting with each group of guests in turn. “You're right, Lord Roial,” Sarene finally said. Roial looked up from his conversation with Shuden. “Hum?” “Duke Telrii,” Sarene said, nodding to the man. “There's something between him and the gyorn.” “Telrii is a troublesome one,” Roial said. “I've never quite been able to figure out his motivations. At times, it seems he wants nothing more than coin to pad his coffers. At others . . .” Roial trailed off as Telrii, as if noticing their study of him, turned toward Sarene's group. He smiled and drifted in their direction, Atara at his side. “Lord Roial,” he said with a smooth, almost uncaring, voice. “Welcome. And, Your Highness. I don't believe we've been properly introduced.” Roial did the honors. Sarene curtsied as Telrii sipped at his wine and exchanged pleasantries with Roial. There was a startling level of . . .nonchalanee about him. While few noblemen actually cared about the topics they discussed, most had the decency to at least sound interested. Telrii made no such concession. His tone was flippant, though
|
not quite to the level of being insulting, and his manner uninterested. Beyond the initial address, he completely ignored Sarene, obviously satisfied that she was of no discernible significance. Eventually, the duke sauntered away, and Sarene watched him go with annoyance. If there was one thing she loathed, it was being ignored. Finally, she sighed and turned to her companion. “All right, Lord Shuden, I want to mingle. Hrathen has a week's lead, but Domi be cursed if I'm going to let him stay ahead of me.” It was late. Shuden had wanted to leave hours ago, but Sarene had been determined to forge on, plowing through hundreds of people, making contacts like a madwoman. She made Shuden introduce her to everyone he knew, and the faces and names had quickly become a blur. However, repetition would bring familiarity. Eventually, she let Shuden bring her back to the palace, satisfied with the day's events. Shuden let her off and wearily bid her goodnight, claiming he was glad that Ahan was next in line to take her to a ball. “Your company was delightful,” he explained, “but I just can't keep up with you!” Sarene found it hard to keep up with herself sometimes. She practically stumbled her way into the palace, so drowsy with fatigue and wine that she could bar1ely keep her eyes open. Shouts echoed through the hallway. Sarene frowned, turning a corner to find the king's guard scrambling around, yelling at one another and generally making a rather large nuisance of themselves. “What is going on?” she asked, holding her head. “Someone broke into the palace tonight,” a guard explained. “Snuck right through the king's bedchambers.” “Is anyone hurt?” Sarene asked, suddenly coming alert. Iadon and Eshen had left the party hours before her and Shuden. “Thank Domi, no.” the guard said. Then, he turned to two soldiers. “Take the princess to her room and stand guard at the door,” he ordered. “Goodnight, Your Highness. Don't worry-they're gone now.” Sarene sighed, noting the yelling and bustle of the guards, their armor and weapons clanking as they periodically ran through the hallways. She doubted that she would be able to have a good night with so much ruckus, no matter how tired she was. CHAPTER 15 AT night, when all melted into a uniform blackness, Hrathen could almost see Elantris's grandeur. Silhouetted against the star-filled sky, the fallen buildings cast off their mantle of despair and became memories; memories of a city crafted with skill and care, a city where every stone was a piece of functional art; memories of towers that stretched to the sky-fingers tickling the stars-and of domes that spread like venerable hills. And it had all been an illusion. Beneath the greatness had been wreckage, a filthy sore now exposed. How easy it was to look past heresies gilded with gold. How simple it had been to assume that outward strength bespoke inward righteousness. “Dream on, Elantris.” Hrathen whispered, turning to stroll along the top of the great wall that enclosed the city. “Remember what you
|
used to be and try to hide your sins beneath the blanket of darkness. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and all will be revealed once again.” “My lord? Did you say something?' Hrathen turned. He had barely noticed the guard passing him on the wall, the man's heavy spear resting over his shoulder and his wan torch nearly dead. “No. I was only whispering to myself.” The guard nodded, continuing his rounds. They were growing accustomed to Hrathen, who had visited Elantris nearly every night this week, pacing its walls in thought. Though he had an additional purpose behind his visit this particular time, most nights he simply came to be alone and think. He wasn't sure what drew him to the city. Part of it was curiosity. He had never beheld Elantris in its power, and couldn't understand how anything-even a city so grand-had repeatedly withstood the might of Fjorden, first militarily, then theologically. He also felt a responsibility toward the people-or whatever they were-that lived in Elantris. He was using them, holding them up as an enemy to unite his followers. He felt guilty: the Elantrians he had seen were not devils, but wretches afflicted as if by a terr1ible disease. They deserved pity, not condemnation. Still, his devils they would become, for he knew that it was the easiest, and most harmless, way to unify Arelon. If he turned the people against their government, as he had done in Duladel, there would be death. This way would lead to bloodshed as well, but he hoped much less. Oh, what burdens we must accept in the service of Your empire, Lord Jaddeth, Hrathen thought to himself. It didn't matter that he had acted in the name of the Church, or that he had saved thousands upon thousands of souls. The destruction Hrathen had caused in Duladel ground against his soul like a millstone. People who had trusted him were dead, and an entire society had been cast into chaos. But, Jaddeth required sacrifices. What was one man's conscience when compared with the glory of His rule? What was a little guilt when a nation was now unified beneath Jaddeth's careful eye? Hrathen would ever bear the scars of what he had done, but it was better that one man suffer than an entire nation continue in heresy. Hrathen turned away from Elantris, looking instead toward the twinkling lights of Kae. Jaddeth had given him another opportunity. This time he would do things differently. There would be no dangerous revolution, no bloodbath caused by one class turning against another. Hrathen would apply pressure carefully until Iadon folded, and another, more agreeable man took his place. The nobility of Arelon would convert easily, then. The only ones who would truly suffer, the scapegoats in his strategy, were the Elantrians. It was a good plan. He was certain he could crush this Arelish monarchy without much effort it was already cracked and weak. The people of Arelon were so oppressed that he could institute a new government swiftly, before they even received word
|
of Iadon's fall. No revolution. Everything would be clean. Unless he made a mistake. He had visited the farms and cities around Kae; he knew that the people were stressed beyond their ability to bend. If he gave them too much of a chance, they would rise up and slaughter the entire noble class. The possibility made him nervous-mostly because he knew that if it happened, he would make use of it. The logical gyorn within him would ride the destruction as if it were a fine stallion, using it to make Derethi followers out of an entire nation. Hrathen sighed, turning and continuing his stroll. The wall walk here was kept clean by the guard, but if he strayed too far, he would reach a place covered with a dark, oily grime. He wasn't certain what had caused it, but it seemed to completely coat the wall, once one got away from the central gate area. Before he reached the grime, however, he spotted the group of men standing along the wall walk. They were dressed in cloaks, though the night wasn't cold enough to require it. Perhaps they thought the garments made them more nondescript. However, if that was the intention, then perhaps Duke Telrii should have chosen to wear something other than a rich lavender cloak set with silver embroidery. Hrathen shook his head at the materialism. The men we must work with to accomplish Jaddeth's goals. . . Duke Telrii did not lower his hood, nor did he bow properly, as Hrathen approached-though, of course. Hrathen hadn't really expected him to do either. The duke did, however, nod to his guards, who withdrew to allow them privacy. Hrathen strolled over to stand beside Duke Telrii, resting against the wall's parapet and staring out over the city of Kae. Lights twinkled; so many people in the city were rich that lamp oil and candles were plentiful. Hrathen had visited some large cities that grew as dark as Elantris when night fell. “Aren't you going to ask why I wanted to meet with you?' Telrii asked. “You're having second thoughts about our plan,” Hrathen said simply. Telrii paused, apparently surprised that Hrathen understood him so readily. “Yes, well. If you know that already, then perhaps you are having second thoughts as well.” “Not at all,” Hrathen said. “Your mannerism-the furtive way you wanted to meet-was what gave you away.” Telrii frowned. This was a man accustomed to being dominant in any conversation. Was that why he was wavering? Had Hrathen offended him? No, studying Telrii's eyes. Hrathen could tell that wasn't it. Telrii had been eager, at first, to enter into the bargain with Fjorden, and he had certainly seemed to enjoy throwing his party this evening. 'What had changed? I can't afford to let this opportunity pass, Hrathen thought. If only he had more time. Fewer than eighty days remained of his three-month deadline. If he had been given even a year, he could have worked with more delicacy and precision. Unfortunately, he had no such luxury, and a
|
blunt attack using Telrii was his best bet for a smooth change in leadership. “Why don't you tell me what is bothering you?” Hrathen said. “Yes, well,” Telrii said carefully. “I'm just not sure that I want to work with Fjorden.” Hrathen raised an eyebrow. “You didn't have that uncertainty before.” Telrii eyed Hrathen from beneath his hood. In the dark moonlight, it looked like his birthmark was simply a continuation of the shadows, and it gave his features an ominous cast-or, at least, it would have, had his extravagant costume not ruined the effect. Telrii simply frowned. “I heard some interesting things at the party tonight, Gyorn. Are you really the one who was assigned to Duladel before its collapse?” Ah, so that's it. Hrathen thought. “I was there.” “And now you're here,” Telrii said. “You wonder why a nobleman is made uncomfortable by that news? The entire Republican class-the rulers of Duladelwere slaughtered in that revolution! And my sources claim that you had a great deal to do with that.” Perhaps the man wasn't as foolish as Hrathen thought. Telrii's concern was a valid one; Hrathen would have to speak with delicacy. He nodded toward Telrii's guards, who stood a short distance down the wall walk. “Where did you get those soldiers, my lord?” Telrii paused. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Humor me,” Hrathen said. Telrii turned, glancing at the soldiers. “I recruited them away from the Elantris City Guard. I hired them to be my bodyguards.” Hrathen nodded. “And, how many such guards do you employ?” “Fifteen,” Telrii said. “How would you judge their skill?” Telrii shrugged. “Good enough, I suppose. I've never actually seen them fight.” “That's probably because they never have fought.” Hrathen said. “None of the soldiers here in Arelon have ever seen combat.” “What is your point, Gyorn?” Telrii asked testily. Hrathen turned, nodding toward the Elantris City Guard post, lit in the distance by torches at the base of the wall. “The Guard is what, five hundred strong? Perhaps seven hundred? If you include local policing forces and personal guards, such as your own, there are perhaps a thousand soldiers in the city of Kae. Added to Lord Eondel's legion, you still have well below fifteen hundred professional soldiers in the vicinity.” “And?” Telrii asked. Hrathen turned. “Do you really think that Wyrn needs a revolution to take control of Arelon?” “Wyrn doesn't have an army,” Telrii said. “Fjorden only has a basic defense force.” “I didn't speak of Fjorden,” Hrathen said. “I spoke of Wyrn, Regent of all Creation, leader of Shu-Dereth. Come now, Lord Telrii. Let us be frank. How many soldiers are there in Hrovell? In Jaador? In Svorden? In the other nations of the East? These are people who have sworn themselves Derethi. You don't think they would rise up at Wyrn's command?” Telrii paused. Hrathen nodded as he saw understanding growing in the duke's eyes. The man didn't understand the half of it. The truth was, Wyrn didn't even need an army of foreigners to conquer
|
Arelon. Few outside the high priesthood understood the second, more powerful force Wyrn had at his call: the monasteries. For centuries, the Derethi priesthood had been training its monks in war, assassination, and ... other arts. Arelon's defenses were so weak that a single monastery's personnel could probably conquer the country. Hrathen shivered at the thought of the ... monks trained inside of Dakhor Monastery gaining access to defenseless Arelon. He glanced down at his arm, the place where-beneath his plate armor-he bore the marks of his time there. These were not things that could be explained to Telrii, however. “My lord.” Hrathen said frankly. “I am here in Arelon because Wyrn wants to give the people a chance for peaceful conversion. If he wanted to crush the country, he could. Instead, he sent me. My only intention is to find a way to convert the people of Arelon.” Telrii nodded slowly. “The first step in converting this country.” Hrathen said, “is making certain that the gov1ernment is favorable to the Derethi cause. This would require a change in leadership-it would require putting a new king on the throne.” “I have your word, then?” Telrii said. “You will have the throne,” Hrathen said. Telrii nodded-this was obviously what he had been waiting for. Hrathen's promises before had been vague, but he could no longer afford to be uncommitted. His promises gave Telrii verbal proof that Hrathen was trying to undermine the throne-a calculated risk, but Hrathen was very good at such calculations. “There will be those who oppose you.” Telrii warned. “Such as?” “The woman, Sarene,” Telrii said. “Her supposed idiocy is an obvious act. My informants say that she's taken an unhealthy interest in your activities, and she was asking about you at my party this evening.” Telrii's astuteness surprised Hrathen. The man seemed so pretentious, so flagrant-yet there was obviously a measure of competence to him. That could be an advantage or a disadvantage. “Do not worry about the girl.” Hrathen said. “Just take the money we have provided and wait. Your opportunity will come soon. You heard of the news the king received tonight?” Telrii paused, then nodded. “Things are moving along as promised,” Hrathen said. “Now we just have to be patient.” “Very well,” Telrii said. He still had his reservations, but Hrathen's logic-mixed with the outright promise of the throne-had obviously been enough to sway him. The duke nodded with uncustomary respect to Hrathen. Then he waved to his guards, moving to walk away. “Duke Telrii,” Hrathen said, a thought occurring to him. Telrii paused, turning back. “Do your soldiers still have friends in the Elantris City Guard?” Hrathen asked. Telrii shrugged. “I assume so.” “Double your men's pay,” Hrathen said, too quietly for Telrii's bodyguards to hear. “Speak well of the Elantris City Guard to them, and give them time off to spend with their former comrades. It might be ... beneficial to your future to have it known amongst the Guard that you are a man who rewards those that give him allegiance.” “You'll provide
|
the funds to pay my men extra?” Telrii asked carefully. Hrathen rolled his eyes. “Very well.” Telrii nodded, then walked off to join his guards. Hrathen turned, leaning against the wall, looking back out over Kae. He would have to wait for a short period before returning to the steps and descending. Telrii was still worried about proclaiming Derethi allegiance, and hadn't wanted to be seen openly meeti1ng with Hrathen. The man was overly worried, but perhaps it was better for him to appear religiously conservative for the moment. It disturbed Hrathen that Telrii had mentioned Sarene. For some reason, the pert Teoish princess had decided to oppose Hrathen, though he had given her no overt reason to do so. It was ironic, in a way; she didn't know it, but Hrathen was her greatest ally, not her dire enemy. Her people would convert one way or another. Either they would respond to Hrathen's humane urgings, or they would be crushed by the Fjordell armies. Hrathen doubted he would ever he able to convince her of that truth. He saw the mistrust in her eyes-she would immediately assume that whatever he said was a lie. She loathed him with the irrational hatred of one who subconsciously knew that her own faith was inferior. Korathi teachings had withered in every major nation to the East, just as they would in Arelon and Teod. Shu-Korath was too weak: it lacked virility. Shu-Dereth was strong and powerful. Like two plants competing for the same ground, Shu-Dereth would strangle Shu-Korath. Hrathen shook his head, waited for a safe period of time, then finally turned to walk back along the wall toward the steps that ran down into Kae. As he arrived, he heard an echoing thump from below, and he paused in surprise. It sounded like the city gates had just been closed. “What was that?” Hrathen asked, approaching several guards who stood in a ring of glittering torchlight. The guards shrugged, though one pointed at two forms walking through the darkened courtyard below. “They must have caught someone trying to escape.” Hrathen wrinkled his brow. “Does that happen often?” The guard shook his head. “Most of them are too mindless to try escaping. Every once in a while, one tries to scurry away, but we always catch 'em.” “Thank you,” Hrathen said, leaving the guards behind as he began the long descent to the city below. At the foot of the stairs he found the main guardhouse. The captain was inside, his eyes drowsy as if he had just awakened. “Trouble, Captain?” Hrathen asked. The captain turned with surprise. “Oh, it's you, Gyorn. No, no trouble. Just one of my lieutenants doing something he shouldn't have.” “Letting some Elantrians back into the city?” Hrathen asked. The captain frowned, but nodded. Hrathen had met the man several times, and at each encounter he had fostered the captain's greed with a few coins. This man was nearly his. “Next time, Captain,” Hrathen said, reaching onto his belt and pulling out a pouch. “I can offer you a
|
different option.” The captain's eyes shone as Hrathen began to pull gold wyrnings-stamped with Wyrn Wulfden's head-out of the pouch. “I have been wanting to study one of these Elantrians up close, for theological reasons,” Hrathen explained, setting a pile of coins on the table. “I would be appreciative if the nex1t captured Elantrian found his way to my chapel before being thrown back into the city.” “That can probably be arranged, my lord,” the captain said, slipping the coins off the table with an eager hand. “No one would have to know about it, of course,” Hrathen said. “Of course, my lord.” CHAPTER 16 RAODEN had once tried to set Ien free. He had been a young boy then, simple of mind but pure of intention. He had been learning about slavery from one of his tutors, and had somehow gotten it into his mind that the Seons were being held against their will. He had gone to Ien tearfully that day, demanding that the Seon accept his freedom. “But I am free, young master,” Ien had replied to the crying boy. “No you're not” Raoden had argued. “You're a slave-you do whatever people tell you.” “I do it because I want to, Raoden.” “Why? Don't you want to be free?” “I want to serve, young master,” Ien explained, pulsing reassuringly. “My freedom is to be here, with you.” “I don't understand.” “You look at things as a human, young master,” Ien said with his wise, indulgent voice. “You see rank and distinction; you try to order the world so that everything has a place either above you or beneath you. To a Seon, there is no above or beneath, there are only those we love. And we serve those we love.” “But you don't even get paid!” had been Raoden's indignant response. “But I do, young master. My payment is that of a father's pride and a mother's love. My wages come from the satisfaction of seeing you grow.” It had been many years before Raoden understood those words, but they had always remained in his mind. As he had grown and learned, listening to countless Korathi sermons on the unifying power of love, Raoden had come to see Seons in a new way. Not as servants, or even as friends, but as something much more deep and more powerful. It was as if the Seons were an expression of Domi himself, reflections of God's love for his people. Through their service, they were much closer to heaven than their supposed masters could ever really understand. “You're finally free, my friend,” Raoden said with a wan smile as he watched Ien float and bob. He still hadn't been able to get even a flicker of recognition from the Seon, though Ien did seem to stay in Raoden's general vicinity. Whatever the Shaod had done to Ien, it had taken away more than just his voice. It had broken his mind. “I think I know what's wrong with him,” Raoden said to Galladon, who sat in the shade a short distance
|
away. They were on a rooftop a Few buildings down from the chapel, ejected from their habitual place of study by an apologetic Kahar. The old man had been cleaning furiously in the days 1since his arrival, and the time had finally come for the final polishing. Early in the morning he had contritely, but insistently, thrown them all out so he could finish. Galladon looked up from his book. “Who? The Seon?” Raoden nodded, lying on his stomach near the edge of what was once a garden wall, still watching Ien. “His Aon isn't complete.” “Ien.” Galladon said thoughtfully. “That's healing. Kolo?” “That's right. Except his Aon isn't complete anymore-there are tiny breaks in its lines, and patches of weakness in its color.” Galladon grunted, but didn't offer anything more; he wasn't as interested in Aons or Seons as Raoden was. Raoden watched Ien for a few more moments before turning back to his study of the AonDor book. He didn't get far, however, before Galladon brought up a topic of his own. “What do you miss most, sule?” the Dula asked contemplatively. “Miss most? About the outside?” “Kolo,” Galladon said. “What one thing would you bring here to Elantris if you could?” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “I'd have to think about it. What about you?” “My house,” Galladon said with a reminiscent tone. “I built it myself, sule. Felled every tree, worked every board, and pounded every nail. It was beautiful-no mansion or palace can compete with the work of one's own hands.” Raoden nodded, imagining the cabin in his mind. What had he owned that he missed the most strongly? He had been the son of a king, and had therefore had many possessions. The answer he came up with, however, surprised him. “Letters,” he said. “I'd bring a stack of letters.” “Letters, sule?” It obviously hadn't been the response he had been expecting. “From whom?” “A girl.” Galladon laughed. “A woman, sule? I never figured you for the romantic type.” “Just because I don't mope around dramatically like a character from one of your Duladen romances doesn't mean I don't think about such things.” Galladon held up his hands defensively. “Don't get DeluseDoo on me, sule. I'm just surprised. Who was this girl?” “I was going to marry her,” Raoden explained. “Must have been some woman.” “Must have been,” Raoden agreed. “I wish I could have met her.” “You never met her?” Raoden shook his head. “Hence the letters, my friend. She lived in Teod-she was the king's daughter, as a matter of fact. She started sending m1e letters about a year ago. She was a beautiful writer, her words were laced with such wit that couldn't help but respond. We continued to write for the better part of five months; then she proposed.” “She proposed to you?” Galladon asked. “Unabashedly,” Raoden said with a smile. “It was, of course, politically motivated. Sarene wanted a firm union between Teod and Arelon.” “And you accepted?” “It was a good opportunity,” Raoden explained. “Ever since the Reod. Teod has
|
kept its distance from Arelon. Besides, those letters were intoxicating. This last year has been ... difficult. My father seems determined to run Arelon to its ruin, and he is not a man who suffers dissent with patience. But, whenever it seemed that my burdens were too great, I would get a letter from Sarene. She had a Seon too, and after the engagement was formalized we began to speak regularly. She would call in the evenings, her voice drifting from Ien to captivate me. We left the link open for hours sometimes.” “What was that you said about not moping around like a character from a romance?” Galladon said with a smile. Raoden snorted, turning back to his book. “So, there you have it. If I could have anything, I'd want those letters. I was actually excited about the marriage, even if the union was just a reaction to the Derethi invasion of Duladel.” There was silence. “What was that you just said, Raoden?” Galladon finally asked in a quiet voice. “What? Oh, about the letters?” “No. About Duladel.” Raoden paused. Galladon had claimed to have entered Elantris a “few months” ago, but Dulas were known for understatement. The Duladen Republic had fallen just over six months previously.... “I assumed you knew,” Raoden said. “What, sule?” Galladon demanded. “Assumed I knew what?” “I'm sorry, Galladon.” Raoden said with compassion, turning around and sitting up. “The Duladen Republic collapsed.” “No,” Galladon breathed, his eyes wide. Raoden nodded. “There was a revolution, like the one in Arelon ten years ago, but even more violent. The republican class was completely destroyed, and a monarchy was instituted.” “Impossible.... The republic was strong-we all believed in it so much.” “Things change, my friend,” Raoden said, standing and walking over to place a hand on Galladon's shoulder. “Not the republic, sule,” Galladon said, his eyes unfocused. “We all got to choose who ruled, stile. Why rise up against that?” Raoden shook his head. “I don't know-not much infor1mation escaped. It was a chaotic time in Duladel, which is why the Fjordell priests were able to step in and seize power.” Galladon looked up. “That means Arelon is in trouble. We were always there to keep the Derethi away from your borders.” “I realize that.” “What happened to Jesker?” he asked. “My religion, what happened to it?” Raoden simply shook his head. “You have to know something!” “Shu-Dereth is the state religion in Duladel now.” Raoden said quietly. “I'm sorry.” Galladon's eyes fell. “It's gone then.” “There are still the Mysteries.” Raoden offered weakly. Galladon frowned, his eyes hard. “The Mysteries are not the same thing as Jesker, sule. They are a mockery of things sacred. A perversion. Only outsiders-those without any sort of true understanding of the Dor-practice the Mysteries.” Raoden left his hand on the grieving man's shoulder, unsure how to comfort him. “I thought you knew,” he said again, feeling helpless. Galladon simply groaned, staring absently with morose eyes. Raoden left Galladon on the rooftop: the large Dula wanted to be alone with his grief.
|
Unsure what else to do, Raoden returned to the chapel, distracted by his thoughts. He didn't remain distracted for long. “Kahar, it's beautiful!” Raoden exclaimed, looking around with wonder. The old man looked up from the corner he had been cleaning. There was a deep look of pride on his face. The chapel was empty of sludge; all that remained was clean, whitish gray marble. Sunlight flooded through the western windows, reflecting off the shiny floor and illuminating the entire ehapel with an almost divine brilliance. Shallow reliefs covered nearly every surface. Only half an inch deep, the detailed sculptures had been lost in the sludge. Raoden ran his fingers across one of the tiny masterpieces, the expressions on the people's faces so detailed as to be lifelike. “They're amazing,” he whispered. “I didn't even know they were there, my lord,” Kahar said, hobbling over to stand next to Raoden. “I didn't see them until I started cleaning, and then they were lost in the shadows until I finished the floor. The marble is so smooth it could be a mirror, and the windows are placed just right to catch the light.” “And the reliefs run all around the room?” “Yes, my lord. Actually, this isn't the only building that has them. You'll occasionally run across a wall or a piece of furniture with carvings on it. They were probably common in Elantris before the Reod.” Raoden nodded. “It was the city of the gods, Kahar.” The old man smiled. His hands were black with grime, and a half-dozen ragged cleaning cloths hung from his sash. But he was happy. “What next, my lord?” he asked eagerly. Raoden paused, thinking quickly. Kahar had attacked the chapel's grime with the same holy indignation a priest used to destroy sin. For the first time in months, perhaps years, Kahar had been needed. “Our people have started living in the nearby buildings, Kahar,” Raoden said. “What good will all your cleaning here do if they track slime in every time we meet?” Kahar nodded thoughtfully. “The cobblestones are a problem,” he mumbled. “This is a big project, my lord.” His eyes, however, were not daunted. “I know.” Raoden agreed. “But it is a desperate one. A people who live in filth will feel like filth-if we are ever going to rise above our opinions of ourselves, we are going to need to be clean. Can you do it?” “Yes, my lord.” “Good. I'll assign you some workers to speed the process.” Raoden's band had grown enormously over the last few days as the people of Elantris had heard of Karata's merger with him. Many of the random, ghostlike Elantrians who wandered the streets alone had begun to make their way to Raoden's band, seeking fellowship as a final, desperate attempt to avoid madness. Kahar turned to go, his wrinkled face turning around the chapel one last time, admiring it with satisfaction. “Kahar,” Raoden called. “Yes, my lord?” “Do you know what it is? The secret, I mean?” Kahar smiled. “I haven't been hungry in days,
|
my lord. It is the most amazing feeling in the world-I don't even notice the pain anymore.” Raoden nodded, and Kahar left. The man had come looking for a magical solution to his woes, but he had found an answer much more simple. Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn't need a potion or an Aon to save him-he just needed something to do. Raoden strolled through the glowing room, admiring the different sculptures. He paused, however, when he reached the end of a particular relief. The stone was blank for a short section, its white surface polished by Kahar's careful hand. It was so clean, in fact, that Raoden could see his reflection. He was stunned. The face that stared out of the marble was unknown to him. He had wondered why so few people recognized him; he had been prince of Arelon, his face known even in many of the outer plantations. He had assumed that the Elantrians simply didn't expect to find a prince in Elantris, so they didn't think to associate “Spirit” with Raoden. However, now that he saw the changes in his face, he realized that there was another reason people didn't recognize him. There were hints in his features,1 clues to what had been. The changes, however, were drastic. Only two weeks had passed, but his hair had already fallen out. He had the usual Elantris blotches on his skin, but even the parts that had been flesh-toned a few weeks ago had turned a flat gray. His skin was wrinkling slightly, especially around the lips, and his eyes were beginning to take on a sunken look. Once, before his own transformation, he had envisioned the Elantrians as living corpses, their flesh rotting and torn. That wasn't the case; Elantrians retained their flesh and most of their figure, though their skin wrinkled and darkened. They were more withering husks than they were decaying corpses. Yet, even though the transformation wasn't as drastic as he had once assumed, it was still a shock to see it in himself. “We are a sorry people, are we not?” Galladon asked from the doorway. Raoden looked up, smiling encouragingly. “Not as bad as we could be, my friend. I can get used to the changes.” Galladon grunted, stepping into the chapel. “Your cleaning man does good work, sule. This place looks almost free from the Reod.” “The most beautiful thing, my friend, is the way it freed its cleanser in the process.” Galladon nodded, joining Raoden beside the wall, looking out at the large crew of people who were clearing the chapel's garden area. “They've been coming in droves, haven't they, sule?” “They hear that we offer something more than life in an alley. We don't even have to wateh the gates anymore-Karata brings us everyone she can rescue.” “How do you intend to keep them all busy?” Galladon asked. “That garden is big, and it's nearly completely cleared.” “Elantris is a very large city, my friend. We'll find things to keep them occupied.” Galladon
|
watched the people work, his eyes unreadable. He appeared to have overcome his grief, for the moment. “Speaking of jobs.” Raoden began. 'I have something I need you to do.” “Something to keep my mind off the pain, sule?” “You could think that. However, this project is a little more important than cleaning sludge.” Raoden waved Galladon to follow as he walked to the back corner of the room and pried a loose stone from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a dozen small bags of corn. “As a farmer, how would you judge the grade of this seed?” Galladon picked up a kernel with interest, turning it over in his hand a few times, testing its color and its hardness. “Not bad,” he said. “Not the best I've seen, but not bad.” “The planting season is almost here, isn't it?” “Considering how warm it's been lately, I'd say that it's here already.” “Good,” Raoden said. 'This corn won't last long in this hole, and I don't trust leaving it out in the open.” Galladon shook his head. “It won't work, sule. Farming takes time befo1re it brings rewards-those people will pull up and ear the first little sprouts they see.” “I don't think so.” Raoden said, pushing a few kernels of corn around in his palm. “Their minds are changing, Galladon. They can see that they don't have to live as animals anymore.” “There isn't enough room for a decent crop,” Galladon argued. “It will be little more than a garden.” “There's enough space to plant this little amount. Next year we'll have more corn, and then we can worry about room. I hear the palace gardens were rather large-we could probably use those.” Galladon shook his head. “The problem in that statement, sule, is the part about 'next year.' There won't be a 'next year.' Kolo? People in Elantris don't last that long.” “Elantris will change,” Raoden said. “If not, then those who come here after us will plant the next season.” “I still doubt it will work.” “You'd doubt the sun's rising if you weren't proven wrong each day,” Raoden said with a smile. “Just give it a try.” “All right, sule,” Galladon said with a sigh. “I suppose your thirty days aren't up yet.” Raoden smiled, passing the corn to his friend and placing his hand on the Dula's shoulder. “Remember, the past need not become our future as well.” Galladon nodded, putting the corn back in its hiding place. “We won't need this for another few days-I'm going to have to figure out a way to plow that garden.” “Lord Spirit!” Saolin's voice called faintly from above, where he had constructed himself a makeshift watchtower. “Someone is coming.” Raoden stood, and Galladon hurriedly replaced the stone. A moment later one of Karata's men burst into the room. “My lord.” the man said, “Lady Karata begs your presence immediately!” “You are a fool, Dashe!” Karata snapped. Dashe-the extremely large, well-muscled man who was her second-incommand-simply continued to strap on his weapons. Raoden and Galladon stood confused
|
at the doorway to the palace. At least ten of the men in the entryway-a full two-thirds of Karata's followers-looked as if they were preparing for battle. “You can continue to dream with your new friend, Karata,” Dashe replied gruffly. “but I will wait no longer-especially not as long as that man threatens the children.” Raoden edged closer to the conversation, pausing beside a thin-limbed, anxious man named Horen. Horen was the type who avoided conflict, and Raoden guessed that he was neutral in this argument. “What's happening?” Raoden asked quietly. “One of Dashe's scouts overheard Aanden planning to attack our palace1 tonight,” Horen whispered, carefully watching his leaders argue. “Dashe has wanted to strike at Aanden for months now, and this is just the excuse he needed.” “You're leading these men into something far worse than death, Dashe,” Karata warned. “Aanden has more people than you do.” “He doesn't have weapons,” Dashe replied, sliding a rusted sword into its sheath with a click. “All that university held was books, and he already ate those.” “Think about what you are doing,” Karata said. Dashe turned, his boardlike face completely frank. “I have, Karata. Aanden is a madman: we cannot rest while he shares our border. If we strike unexpectedly, then we can stop him permanently. Only then will the children be safe.” With that, Dashe turned to his grim band of would-be soldiers and nodded. The group moved out the door with purposeful strides. Karata turned to Raoden, her face a mixture of frustration and pained betrayal. “This is worse than suicide, Spirit.” “I know,” Raoden said. “We're so few we can't afford to lose a single man-not even those who follow Aanden. We have to stop this.” “He's already gone.” Karata said, leaning back against the wall. “I know Dashe well. There's no stopping him now.” “I refuse to accept that, Karata.” “Sule, if you don't mind my asking, what in Doloken are you planning?” Raoden loped along beside Galladon and Karata, barely keeping up with the two. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I'm still working on that part.” “I figured as much,” Galladon muttered. “Karata,” Raoden asked, “what route will Dashe take?” “There's a building that runs up against the university.” she replied. “Its far wall collapsed a while ago, and some of the stones knocked a hole in the university wall it abuts. I'm sure Dashe will try to get in there-he assumes Aanden doesn't know about the breach.” “Take us there,” Raoden said. “But take a different route. I don't want to run into Dashe.” Karata nodded, leading them down a side street. The building she'd mentioned was a low, single-story structure. One of the walls had been built so close to the university that Raoden was at a loss to guess what the architect had been thinking. The building had not fared well over the years; although it still had its roof-which was sagging horribly-the entire structure seemed on the edge of collapse. They approached apprehensively, poking their heads through a doorway. The building was open
|
on the inside. They stood near the center of the rectangular structure, the collapsed wall a short distance to their left, another doorway a short distance to their right. Galladon cursed quietl1y. “I don't trust this.” “Neither do I.” Raoden said. “No, it's more than that. Look, sule.” Galladon pointed to the building's inner support beams. Looking closely, Raoden recognized the marks of fresh cuts in the already weakened wood. “This entire place is rigged to fall.” Raoden nodded. “It appears as if Aanden is better informed than Dashe assumed. Maybe Dashe will notice the danger and use a different entrance.” Karata shook her head immediately. “Dashe is a good man, but very single-minded. He'll march right through this building without bothering to look up.” Raoden cursed, kneeling beside the doorframe to think. He soon ran out of time, however, as he heard voices approaching. A moment later Dashe appeared in the doorway on the far side, to Raoden's right. Raoden-halfway between Dashe and the fallen wall-rook a deep breath and called out. “Dashe, stop! This is a trap-the building is rigged to collapse!” Dashe halted, half of his men already in the building. There was a cry of alarm from the university side of the room, and a group of men appeared behind the rubble. One, bearing Aanden's familiar mustached face, held a worn fire axe in his hands. Aanden jumped into the room with a cry of defiance, axe raised toward the support pillar. “Taan, stop!” Raoden yelled. Aanden stopped his axe in midswing, shocked at the sound of his real name. One half of his fake mustache drooped limply, threatening to fall off. “Don't try to reason with him!” Dashe warned, pulling his men from the room. “He's insane.” “No, I don't think he is,” Raoden said, studying Aanden's eyes. “This man is not insane-just confused.” Aanden blinked a few times, his hands growing tense on the axe handle. Raoden searched desperately for a solution, and his eyes fell on the remnants of a large stone table near the center of the room. Gritting his teeth and muttering a silent prayer to Domi. Raoden stood and walked into the building. Karata gasped behind him, and Galladon cursed. The roof moaned ominously. Raoden looked at Aanden, who stood with the axe prepared to swing. His eyes followed Raoden into the center of the room. “I'm right, am I not? You aren't mad. I heard you babbling insanely at your court, but anyone can babble. An insane man doesn't think to boil parchment for food, and a madman doesn't have the foresight to plan a trap.” “I am not Taan,” Aanden finally said. “I am Aanden, Baron of Elantris!” “If you wish,” Raoden said, taking the remnants of his sleeve and wiping it against the top of the fallen table. “Though I can't imagine why you would rather be Aanden than Taan. This is, after all, Elantris.” “I know that!” Aanden snapped. No matter what Raoden had said, this man wasn't completely stable. The axe could fall at any moment. “Do
|
you?” Raoden asked. “Do you really understand what it means to live in Elantris, the city of the gods?” He turned toward the table, still wiping, his back to Aanden. “Elantris, city of beauty, city of art . . . and city of sculpture.” He stepped back, revealing the now clean tabletop. It was covered with intricate carvings, just like the walls of the chapel. Aanden's eyes opened wide, the axe drooping in his hand. “This city is a stonecarver's dream, Taan,” Raoden said. “How many artists did you hear on the outside complain about the lost beauty of Elantris? These buildings are amazing monuments to the art of sculpture. I want to know who, when faced with such opportunity, would choose to be Aanden the baron instead of Taan the sculptor.” The axe clanged to the ground. Aanden's face was stunned. “Look at the wall next to you, Taan.” Raoden said quietly. The man turned, his fingers brushing against a relief hidden in slime. His sleeve came up, his arm quivering as he buffed away the slime. “Merciful Domi,” he whispered. “It's beautiful.” “Think of the opportunity, Taan,” Raoden said. “Only you, out of all the sculptors in the world, can see Elantris. Only you can experience its beauty and learn from its masters. You are the luckiest man in Opelon.” A trembling hand ripped the mustache away. “And I would have destroyed it,” he mumbled. “I would have knocked it down....” With that. Aanden bowed his head and collapsed in a crying heap. Raoden exhaled thankfully-then noticed that the danger wasn't over. Aanden's squad of men was armed with stones and steel rods. Dashe and his people entered the room again, convinced that it wasn't going to collapse on them any time soon. Raoden stood directly between the two groups. “Stop!” he commanded, raising an arm at each one. They halted, but warily. “What are you people doing?” Raoden demanded. “Hasn't Taan's realization taught you anything?” “Step aside, Spirit,” Dashe warned, hefting his sword. “I will not!” Raoden said. “I asked you a question-did you learn nothing from what just happened?” “We aren't sculptors,” Dashe said. “That doesn't matter,” Raoden replied. “Don't you understand the opportunity you have living in Elantris? We have a chance here that no one outside can ever achieve-we are free.” “Free?” scoffed someone from Aanden's group. “Yes, free.” Raoden said. “For eternity man has struggled just to fill his mouth. Food is life's one desperate pursuit, the first and the last thought of carnal minds. Before a person can dream, he must eat, and before he can love, h1e must fill his stomach. But we are different. At the price of a little hunger, we can be loosed from the bonds that have held every living thing since time began.” Weapons lowered slightly, though Raoden couldn't be certain if they were considering his words, or just confused by them. “Why fight?” Raoden asked. “Why worry about killing? Outside they fight for wealth-wealth that is ultimately used to buy food. They fight for land-land to raise
|
food. Eating is the source of all struggle. But, we have no needs. Our bodies are cold-we barely need clothing or shelter to warm us-and they continue on even when we don't eat. It's amazing!” The groups still eyed each other warily. Philosophic debate wasn't a match for the sight of their enemies. “Those weapons in your hands,” Raoden said. “Those belong to the outside world. They have no purpose in Elantris. Titles and class, those are ideas for another place. “Listen to me! There are so few of us that we can't afford to lose a single one of you. Is it really worth it? An eternity of pain in exchange for a few moments of released hatred?” Raoden's words echoed through the silent room. Finally, a voice broke the tension. “I will join you,” Taan said, rising to his feet. His voice wavered slightly, but his face was resolute. “I thought I had to be mad to live in Elantris, but madness was what kept me from seeing the beauty. Put down your weapons, men.” They balked at the order. “I said put them down.” Taan's voice grew firm, his short, large-bellied form suddenly commanding. “I still lead here.” “Baron Aanden ruled us,” one of the men said. “Aanden was a fool,” Taan said with a sigh, “and so was anyone who followed him. Listen to this man-there is more royalty in his argument than there ever was in my pretend court.” “Give up your anger,” Raoden pled. “And let me give you hope instead.” A clank sounded behind him-Dashe's sword falling to the stones. “I cannot kill today,” he decided, turning to leave. His men regarded Aanden's group for a moment, then joined their leader. The sword sat abandoned in the center of the room. Aanden-Taan-smiled at Raoden. “Whoever you are, thank you.” “Come with me, Taan.” Raoden said. “There is a building you should see.” CHAPTER 17 SARENE strode into the palace dance hall, a long black bag on her shoulder. There were several gasps from the women inside. “What?” she asked. “It's your clothing, dear,” Daora finally answered. “These women aren't accustomed to such things.” “It looks like men's clothing!” Seaden exclaimed, her double chin jiggling indignantly. Sarene looked down at her gray jumpsuit with surprise, then back at the collected women. “Well, you didn't really expect us to fight in dresses, did you?” However, after studying the women's faces, she realized that that was exactly what they had expected. “You have a long way to go here, Cousin,” Lukel warned quietly, entering behind her and taking a seat on the far side of the room. “Lukel?” Sarene asked. “What are you doing here?” “I fully expect this to be the most entertaining experience of the week,” he said, reclining in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in Wyrn's coffers.” “Me too.” Kaise's voice declared. The small girl pushed her way past Sarene and scuttled toward the chairs. Daorn, however, darted in from the side and
|
hopped into Kaise's chosen seat. Kaise stamped her foot with pique, then, realizing that every chair along the wall was exactly the same, chose another. “I'm sorry.” Lukel said with an embarrassed shrug. “I was stuck with them.” “Be nice to your siblings, dear,” Daora chided. “Yes, Mother,” Lukel responded immediately. Slightly put off by the sudden audience, Sarene turned to her prospective students. Every woman from the embroidery circle had come-even the stately Daora and the equally scatterbrained Queen Eshen. Sarene's clothing and actions might have mortified them, but their hunger for independence was greater than their indignation. Sarene allowed the bag to slide off her shoulder and into her hands. One side opened with some snaps, and she reached inside to whip out one of her practice swords. The long, thin blade made a slight metallic scrape as she pulled it free, and the collected women shied away. “This is a syre.” Sarene said, making a few slices in the air. “It's also called a kmeer or a jedaver, depending on which country you're in. The swords were first crafted in Jaador as light weapons for scouts, but they fell into disuse after only a few decades. Then, however, the swords were adopted by Jaadorian nobility, who favored them for their grace and delicacy. Duels are common in Jaador, and the quick, neat style of syre fencing requires a great deal of skill.” She punctuated her sentences with a few thrusts and swipes-mostly moves she would never use in a real fight, but ones that looked good nonetheless. The women were captivated. “The Dulas were the first ones to turn fencing into a sport, rather than a means of killing the man who had decided to woo the same woman as yourself,” Sarene continued. “They placed this little knob on the tip and dulled the blade's edge. The sport soon became quite popular amongst the republicans-Dula neutrality usually kept the country out of war, and so a form of fighting that didn't have martial applications appealed to them. Along with the dulled edge and tip, they added rules that forbid the striking of certain body pans. “Fencing skipped Arelon, where the Elantrians frowned upon anything resembling combat, but was very well received in Teod-with one notable change. It became a woman's sport. The Teoish men prefer more physical contests, such as jousting or broadsword fencing. For a woman, however, the syre is perfect. The light blade allows us to make full use of our dexterity and,” she added, eyeing Lukel with a smile, “allows us to capitalize on our superior intelligence.” With that, Sarene whipped out her second blade and tossed it to the young Torena, who stood at the front of the group. The reddish-gold-haired girl caught the sword with a confused look. “Defend yourself.” Sarene warned, raising her blade and falling into an attack stance. Torena brought up the syre clumsily, trying to imitate Sarene's posture. As soon as Sarene attacked. Torena abandoned the stance with a yelp of surprise, swinging her syre in wild two-handed sweeps. Sarene
|
easily batted the girl's sword away and placed a thrust directly between her breasts. “You're dead,” Sarene informed her. “Fencing does not depend on strength; it requires skill and precision. Only use one hand-you'll have better control and reach that way. Turn your body a little to the side. It allows for a greater lunging distance and makes you more difficult to hit.” As she spoke, Sarene brought out a bundle of thin sticks she'd had made earlier. They were, of course, poor substitutes for a real sword, but they would do until the armorer finished the practice syres. After each woman received a weapon. Sarene began to teach them how to lunge. It was difficult work-much more difficult than Sarene had expected. She considered herself a decent fencer, but it had never occurred to her that having knowledge was entirely different from explaining that knowledge to others. The women seemed to find ways to hold their weapons that Sarene would have thought physically impossible. They thrust wildly, were frightened of oncoming blades, and tripped over their dresses. Eventually Sarene left them to practice their thrusts-she wouldn't trust them to spar with one another until they had proper face masks and clothing-and seated herself beside Lukel with a sigh. “Exhausting work, Cousin?” he asked, obviously enjoying the sight of his mother trying to wield a sword in a dress. “You have no idea.” Sarene said, wiping her brow. “Are you sure you don't want to give it a try?” Lukel raised his hands. “I may be flamboyant at times, Cousin, but I'm not stupid. King Iadon would blacklist any man who took part in such a supposedly demeaning activity. Being on the king's bad side is fine if you happen to be Eondel, but I'm just a simple merchant. I can't afford royal displeasure.” “I'm sure,” Sarene said, watching the women trying to master their lunges. “I don't think I taught them very well.” “Better than I could have done.” Lukel said with a shrug. “I could have done better,” Kaise informed from her seat. The little girl was obviously growing bored with the repetitious fighting. “Oh really?” Lukel asked dryly. “Of course. She didn't teach them about riposting or Proper Form, and she didn't even bother with tournament rules.” Sarene raised an eyebrow. “You know about fencing?” “I read a book on it,” Kaise said airily. Then she reached over to slap away Daorn's hand, which was poking her with a stick he had taken from Sarene's pile. “The sad thing is she probably did,” Lukel said with a sigh. “Just so she could try and impress you.” “I think Kaise must be the most intelligent little girl I've ever met,” Sarene confessed. Lukel shrugged. “She's smart, but don't let her impress you too much-she's still only a child. She may comprehend like a woman, but she still reacts like a little girl.” “I still think she's astounding,” Sarene said, watching as the two children played. “Oh, she's that,” Lukel agreed. “It only takes Kaise a few hours to devour a
|
book, and her language-learning ability is unreal. I feel sorry for Daorn sometimes. He tries his best, but I think he just feels inadequate-Kaise can be domineering, if you haven't noticed. But, smart or not, they're still children, and they're still a pain to take care of.” Sarene watched the children playing. Kaise, having stolen the stick from her brother, was proceeding to chase him around the room, cutting and thrusting in parodies of the methods Sarene had taught. As Sarene watched, her eyes fell on the doorway. It was open, and two figures watched the women practice. The ladies fell still as Lords Eondel and Shuden, realizing they had been noticed, slipped into the room. The two men, though very different in age, were reportedly becoming good friends. Both were something of outsiders in Arelon-Shuden, a foreigner with dark skin, and Eondel, a former soldier whose very presence seemed to offend. If Eondel's presence was distasteful to the women, however, Shuden's more than made up for it. A serious wave of blushing ran through the fencers as they realized that the handsome Jindoeese lord had been watching them. Several of the younger girls clutched friends' arms for support, whispering excitedly. Shuden himself flushed at the attention. Eondel, however, ignored the women's reactions. He walked among the would-be fencers, his eyes contemplative. Finally, he picked up a spare length of wood, and stepped into a fencing posture and began a series of swipes and thrusts. After testing the weapon, he nodded to himself, set it aside, then moved toward one of the women. “Hold the wood like so,” he instructed, positioning her fingers. “You were gripping it so tightly you lost flexibility. Now, place your thumb along the top of the hilt to keep it pointed in the right direction, step back, and thrust.” The woman, Atara, complied-flustered that Eondel had dared touch her wrist. Her thrust, amazingly, was straight and well aimed-a fact that surprised no one more than Atara herself. Eondel moved through the group, carefully correcting posture, grip, and stance. He took each woman in turn, giving advice to their several individual problems. After just a few brief minutes of instruction, the women's attacks were more focused and accurate than Sarene would have thought possible. Eondel backed away from the women with a satisfied eye. “I hope you aren't offended by my intrusion, Your Highness.” “Not at all, my lord,” Sarene assured him-even though she did feel a stab of jealousy. She had to be woman enough to recognize superior skill when she saw it, she told herself. “You are obviously talented,” the older man said. “But you seem to have had little experience in training others.” Sarene nodded. Eondel was a military commander-he had probably spent decades instructing novices in the basics of fighting. “You know quite a bit about fencing, my lord.” “It interests me,” Eondel said, “and I have visited Duladel on numerous occasions. The Dulas refuse to recognize a man's fighting ability unless he can fence, no matter how many battles he has won.” Sarene
|
stood, reaching over and pulling out her practice syres. “Care to spar then, my lord?” she asked offhandedly, testing one of the blades in her hand. Eondel looked surprised. “I ... I have never sparred with a woman before, Your Highness. I don't think it would be proper.” “Nonsense.” she said, tossing him a sword. “Defend yourself.” Then, without giving him another chance to object, she attacked. Eondel stumbled at first, taken aback by her sudden offense. However, his warrior training soon took control, and he began to parry Sarene's attack, with amazing skill. From what he'd said, Sarene had assumed that his knowledge of fencing would be cursory. She was mistaken. Eondel threw himself into the bout with determination. His blade whipped through the air so quickly it was impossible to follow, and only years of training and drills told Sarene where to parry. The room rang with the sound of metal against metal, and the women paused to gawk as their two instructors moved across the floor, engaged in intense battle. Sarene wasn't used to sparring with someone as good as Eondel. Not only was he as tall as she was-negating any advantage she had in reach-he had the reflexes and training of a man who had spent his entire life fighting. The two of them pushed through the crowd, using women, chairs, and other random objects as foils for the other's attack. Their swords cracked and whipped, lunging out and then snapping back to block. Eondel was too good for her. She could hold him, but was so busy with defense that she had no time to attack. With sweat streaming down her face, Sarene became acutely aware that everyone in the room was watching her. At that moment, something changed in Eondel. His stance weakened slightly, and Sarene struck reflexively. Her round tipped blade slipped past his defenses came up 1against his neck. Eondel smiled slightly. “I have no choice but to yield, my lady,” Eondel said. Suddenly, Sarene felt very ashamed for putting Eondel in a situation where he had obviously let her win, lest he make her look bad in front of the others. Eondel bowed, and Sarene was left feeling silly. They walked back to the side of the room, accepting cups from Lukel, who complimented them on the performance. As Sarene drank, something struck her. She had been treating her time here in Arelon like a contest, as she did with most political endeavors-a complex, yet enjoyable, game. Arelon was different. Eondel had let her win because he wanted to protect her image. To him, it was no game. Arelon was his nation, his people, and he would make any sacrifice in order to protect them. This time is different, Sarene. If you fail you won't lose a trade contract or building rights. You'll lose lives. The lives of real people. The thought was sobering. Eondel regarded his cup, eyebrows raised skeptically. “It's only water?” he asked, turning to Sarene. “Water is good for you, my lord.” “I'm not so sure about that,” Eondel
|
said. “Where did you get it?” “I had it boiled and then poured between two buckets to restore its flavor,” Sarene said. “I wasn't going to have the women falling over each other in drunken stupors while they tried to practice.” “Arelish wine isn't that strong, Cousin,” Lukel pointed out. “It's strong enough.” Sarene replied. “Drink up, Lord Eondel. We wouldn't want you to get dehydrated.” Eondel complied, though he maintained his look of dissatisfaction. Sarene turned back toward her students, intending to order them to their practicing-however, their attention had been captured by something else. Lord Shuden stood near the back of the room. His eyes were closed as he moved slowly through a delicate set of motions. His taut muscles rippled as his hands spun in controlled loops, his body flowing in response. Even though his motions were slow and precise, there was sweat glistening on his skin. It was like a dance. Shuden rook long steps, legs rising high in the air, toes pointed, before placing them on the floor. His arms were always moving, his muscles stretched tightly, as if he were struggling against some unseen force. Slowly, Shuden accelerated. As if building in tension, Shuden swept faster and faster, his steps becoming leaps, his arms whipping. The women watched in silence, their eyes wide, more than one jaw gaping open. The only sounds came from the wind of Shuden's moves and the thumping of his feet. He stopped suddenly, landing in a final jump, feet pounding to the ground in unison, arms outspread, hands flat. He folded his arms inward like two heavy gates swinging shut. Then h1e bowed his head and exhaled deeply. Sarene let the moment hang before mumbling. “Merciful Domi. Now I'll never get them to focus.” Eondel chuckled quietly. “Shuden's an interesting lad. He complains repeatedly about the way women chase him, but he can't resist the urge to show off. Despite it all, he's still a man, and he's still rather young.” Sarene nodded as Shuden completed his ritual, then turned sheepishly as he realized how much attention he had drawn. He quickly wove his way through the women with downcast eyes, joining Sarene and Eondel. “That was ... unexpected.” Sarene said as Shuden accepted a cup of water from Lukel. “I apologize, Lady Sarene.” he replied between gulps. “Your sparring made me want to exercise. I thought everyone would be so busy practicing that they wouldn't notice me.” “Women always notice you, my friend.” Eondel said with a shake of his gray-streaked head. “Next time you complain about being mauled by adoring women. I'll point out this little fiasco.” Shuden bowed his head in acquiescence, blushing again. “What was that exercise?” Sarene asked curiously. “I've never seen anything like it.” “We call it ChayShan,” Shuden explained. “It's a kind of warm-up-a way to focus your mind and body when preparing for a battle.” “It's impressive,” Lukel said. “I'm just an amateur,” Shuden said with a modestly bowed head, lack speed and focus-there are men in Jindo who can move so quickly
|
you grow dizzy watching them.” “All right, ladies,” Sarene declared, turning to the women, most of whom were still staring at Shuden. “Thank Lord Shuden for his exhibition later. Right now, you have some lunges to practice-don't think I'm going to let you leave after just a few minutes of work!” There were several groans of complaint as Sarene took up her syre and began the practice session anew. “They' all be devilishly sore tomorrow,” Sarene said with a smile. “You say that with such passion, my lady, that one is inclined to think you're enjoying the prospect.” Ashe throbbed slightly as he spoke. “It will be good for them,” Sarene said. “Most of those women are so pampered that they've never felt anything more serious than the prick of a stitching needle.” “I'm sorry I missed the practice,” Ashe said. “I haven't watched a ChayShan in decades.” “You've seen one before?” “I've seen many things, my lady,” Ashe replied. “A Seon's life is very long.” Sarene nodded. They walked down a street in Kae, the enormous wall of Elantris looming in the background. Dozens of street vendors offere1d their wares eagerly as she passed, recognizing from her dress that she was a member of the court. Kae existed to support the Arelish nobility, and it catered to very pompous tastes. Gold-plated cups, exotic spices, and extravagant clothes all vied for her attention-though most of it just made her feel sick to her stomach. From what she understood, these merchants were the only real middle class left in Arelon. In Kae they competed for King Iadon's favor, and hopefully a title-usually at the expense of their competitors, a few peasants, and their dignity. Arelon was quickly becoming a nation of fervent, even terrified, commercialism. Success no longer brought just wealth, and failure no longer just poverty-income determined just how close one was to being sold into virtual slavery. Sarene waved off the merchants, though her efforts did little to discourage them. She was relieved to finally turn a corner and see the Korathi chapel. She resisted the urge to sprint the rest of the way, keeping her pace steady until she reached the doors to the broad building and slipped in. She dropped a few coins-nearly the last of the money she had brought with her from Teod-into the donations box, then went looking for the priest. The chapel felt comfortable to Sarene. Unlike Derethi chapels-which were austere and formal, hung with shields, spears, and the occasional tapestry-Korathi chapels were more relaxed. A few quilts hung on the walls-probably donations from elderly patrons-and flowers and plants sat lined up beneath them, their buds peeking out in the spring weather. The ceiling was low and unvaulted, but the windows were broad and wide enough to keep the building from feeling cramped. “Hello, child,” a voice said from the side of the room. Omin, the priest, was standing next to one of the far windows, looking out at the city. “Hello, Father Omin,” Sarene said with a curtsey. “Am I bothering you?” “Of course
|
not, child,” Omin said, waving her over. “Come, how have you been? I missed you at the sermon last night.” “I'm sorry, Father Omin,” Sarene said with a slight flush. “There was a ball I had to attend.” “Ah. Do not feel guilty, child. Socializing is not to be underestimated, especially when one is new in town.” Sarene smiled, walking between a set of pews to join the short priest next to the window. His small stature wasn't usually so noticeable; Omin had constructed a podium at the front of the chapel to fit his size, and while he gave sermons it was hard to distinguish his height. Standing next to the man, however, Sarene couldn't help feeling that she was towering over him. He was terribly short even for an Arelene, the top of his head barely reaching her chest. “You are troubled by something, child?” Omin asked. He was mostly bald, and wore a loose-fitting robe tied at the waist with a white sash. Other than his strikingly blue eyes, the only color on his body was a jade Korathi pendant at his neck, carved in the shape of Aon Omi. He was a good man-something Sarene couldn't say about everyone, even priests. There were several back in Teod who absolutely inf1uriated her. Omin, however, was thoughtful and fatherly-even if he did have an annoying habit of letting his thoughts drift. He sometimes got so distracted that minutes would pass without his realizing someone was waiting for him to speak. “I wasn't sure who else to ask, Father.” Sarene said. “I need to do a Widow's Trial, but no one will explain what it is.” “Ah,” Omin said with a nod of his shiny hairless head. “That would be confusing for a newcomer.” “Why won't anyone explain it to me?” “It is a semireligious ceremony left over from days when the Elantrians ruled,” Omin explained. “Anything involving the city is a taboo topic in Arelon, especially for the Faithful.” “Well, then how am I going to learn what is expected of me?” Sarene asked with exasperation. “Do not get frustrated, child,” Omin said soothingly. “It is taboo, but only by custom, not by doctrine. I don't think Domi would have any objection to my assuaging your curiosity.” “Thank you, Father,” Sarene said with a sigh of relief. “Since your husband died,” Omin explained, “you are expected to show your grief openly, otherwise the people won't think you loved him.” “But I didn't love him-not really. I didn't even know him.” “Nonetheless, it would he proper for you to do a Trial. The severity of a Widow's Trial is an expression of how important she thought her union, and how much she respected her husband. To go without one, even for an outsider, could be a bad sign.” “But wasn't it a pagan ritual?” “Not really,” Omin said with a shake of his head. “The Elantrians started it, but it had nothing to do with their religion. It was simply an act of kindness that developed into a benevolent and worthy
|
tradition.” Sarene raised her eyebrows. “Honestly, I am surprised to hear you speak that way about the Elantrians, Father.” Omin's eyes sparkled. “Just because the Derethi Arteths hated the Elantrians doesn't mean that Domi did, child. I do not believe they were gods, and many of them had inflated opinions of their own majesty, but I had a number of friends in their ranks. The Shaod took men both good and bad, selfish and selfless. Some of the most noble men I ever knew lived in that city-I was very sorry to see what happened to them.” Sarene paused. “Was it Domi, Father? Did he curse them as they say?” “Everything happens according to Domi's will, child,” Omin answered. “However, I do not think that 'curse' is the right word. At times, Domi sees fit to send disasters upon the world: other times he will give the most innocent of children a deadly disease. These are no more curses than what happened to Elantris-they are simply the workings of the world. All things must progress, and progression is not always a steady incline. Sometimes we must fall, sometimes we will rise-some must be hurt while others have fortune, for that is the o1nly way we can learn to rely on one another. As one is blessed, it is his privilege to help those whose lives are not as easy. Unity comes from strife, child.” Sarene paused. “So you don't think the Elantrians-what's left of them-are devils?” “Svrakiss, as the Fjordells call them?” Omin asked with amusement. “No, though I hear that is what this new gyorn teaches. I fear his pronouncements will only bring hatred.” Sarene tapped her cheek in thought. “That may be what he wants.” “What purpose could that accomplish?” “I don't know,” Sarene admitted. Omin shook his head again. “I cannot believe any follower of God, even a gyorn, would do such a thing.” He took on an abstracted look as he considered the prospect, a slight frown on his face. “Father?” Sarene asked. “Father?” At the second prod Omin shook his head, as if startled to realize she was still there. “I'm sorry, child. What were we discussing?” “You never finished telling me what a Widow's Trial was,” she reminded. Tangents were all too frequent when one was speaking with the diminutive priest. “Ah, yes. The Widow's Trial. Put simply, child, you are expected to do some favor for the country-the more you loved your husband, and the more lofty your station, the more extravagant your Trial is supposed to be. Most women give food or clothing to the peasantry. The more personal your involvement, the better the impression you give. The Trial is a method of service-a means of bringing humility to the exalted.” “But where will I get the money?” She hadn't decided just how to go about asking her new father for a stipend. “Money?” Omin asked with surprise. “Why, you're one of the richest people in Arelon. Didn't you know that?” “What?” “You inherited Prince Raoden's estate, child.” Omin explained. “He was a very
|
wealthy man-his father made sure of that. Under King Iadon's government, it would not be good for the crown prince to be any less rich than a duke. By the same token, it would be a source of extreme embarrassment to him if his daughter-in-law weren't fabulously wealthy. All you need to do is speak to the royal treasurer, and I'm certain he will take care of you.” “Thank you, Father,” Sarene said, giving the little man a fond hug. “I have work to do.” “Your visit was welcome, child,” Omin said, looking back at the city with contemplative eyes. “That is what I am here for.” However, she could tell that soon after making the comment, he had already forgotten her presence, traveling, once again, the long roads within his mind. Ashe waited for her outside, hovering beside the door with characteristic patience. “I don't see why you're so worried,” Sarene said to him. “Omin liked Elantris: he 1wouldn't have anything against your entering his chapel.” Ashe pulsed slightly. He hadn't entered a Korathi chapel since the day many years ago when Seinalan, the patriarch of Shu-Korath, had thrown him out of one. “It is all right, my lady.” Ashe said. “I have a feeling that no matter what the priests may say, both of us will be happier if we stay out of one another's sight.” “I disagree,” Sarene said, “but I don't want to argue it. Did you hear anything of our conversation?” “Seons have very good ears, my lady.” “You don't have ears at all,” she pointed out. “What did you think?” “It sounds like a good way for my lady to gain some notoriety in the city.” “My thought exactly.” “One other thing, my lady. You two spoke of the Derethi gyorn and Elantris. The other night, when I was inspecting the city, I noticed the Gyorn Hrathen walking the city wall of Elantris. I have gone back several nights now, and have found him there on a couple of occasions. He appears quite friendly with the captain of the Elantris City Guard.” “What is he trying to do with that city?” Sarene said, frustrated. “It baffles me as well, my lady.” Sarene frowned, trying to piece together what she knew of the gyorn's actions and Elantris. She could make no connections. However, as she thought, something else occurred to her. Perhaps she could solve one of her other problems and inconvenience the gyorn at the same time. “Maybe I don't need to know what he is doing to block him.” she said. “It would certainly help, my lady.” “I don't have that luxury. But, we do know this: If the gyorn wants the people to hate the Elantrians, then it is my job to see the opposite happen.” Ashe paused. “What are you planning, my lady?” “You'll see,” she said with a smile. “First, let's get back to my rooms. I've wanted to speak with Father for some time now.” “ 'Ene? I'm glad you called. I've been worried about you.” Eventeo's glowing head hovered before
|
her. “You could have sent for me at any time, Father,” Sarene said. “I didn't want to intrude, honey. I know how you value your independence.” “Independence is second to duty right now. Father,” Sarene said. “Nations are falling-we don't have time to worry about one another's feelings.” “I stand corrected,” her father said with a chuckle. “What is happening in Teod, Father?” “It isn't good,” Eventeo warned, his voice growing uncharacteristically somber. “These are dangerous times. I just had to put down another Jeskeri Mystery cult. They always seem to spring up when an eclipse is near.” Sarene shivered. The Mystery cultists were an odd bunch, one her father didn't like to deal with. There was reservation in his voice, however-something else was bothering him. “There's more, isn't there?” “I'm afraid there is, 'Ene,” her father admitted. “Something worse.” “What?” “You know Ashgress, the Fjordell ambassador?” “Yes,” Sarene said with a frown. “What has he done? Denounced you in public?” “No, something worse.” Her father's face looked troubled. “He left.” “Left? The country? After all the trouble Fjorden went through to get representatives back in?” “That's right. 'Ene,” Eventeo said. “He took his entire entourage, made a last speech on the docks, and left us behind. There was a disturbing air of finality about the event.” “This isn't good,” Sarene agreed. Fjorden had been dogmatic about keeping a presence in Teod. If Ashgress had left, he had gone in response to a personal command from Wyrn. It smelled of their having given up on Teod for good. “I'm scared, 'Ene.” The words chilled her like nothing else-her father was the strongest man she knew. “You shouldn't say things like that.” “Only to you, 'Ene.” Eventeo said. “I want you to understand how serious the situation is.” “I know, “ Sarene said. “I understand. There's a gyorn here in Kae.” Her father muttered a few curses she had never heard him speak before. “I think I can handle him, Father,” Sarene said quickly. “We're keeping our eyes on one another.” “Which one is it?” “His name is Hrathen.” Her father cursed again, this time even more vehemently. “Idos Domi, Sarene! Do you know who that is? Hrathen was the gyorn assigned to Duladen the six months before it collapsed.” “I guessed that was who he was.” “I want you out of there, Sarene,” Eventeo said. “That man is dangerous-do you know how many people died in the Duladen revolution? There were tens of thousands of casualties.” “I know, Father.” “I'm sending a ship for you-we'll make our stand back here, where no gyorn is welcome.” “I'm not leaving, Father,” Sarene said resolutely. “Sarene, be logical.” Eventeo's voice took on the quiet, prodding tone it did every time he wanted her to do something. He usually got his way; he was one of the few who knew how to sway her. “Everyone knows the Arelish government is a mess. If this gyorn toppled Duladen, then he'll have no trouble doing the same to Arelon. You can't hope to stop him when the entire
|
country is against you.” “I have to stay, Father, regardless of the situation.” “What loyalty do you owe them, Sarene?” Eventeo pled. “A husband you never knew? A people who are not your own?” “I am the daughter of their king.” “You are the daughter of a king here as well. What is the difference? Here the people know and respect you.” “They know me, Father, but respect...” Sarene sat back, beginning to feel sick. The old feelings were returning-the feelings that had made her willing to leave her homeland in the first place, abandoning all she knew in favor of a foreign land. “I don't understand, 'Ene.” Her father's voice was pained. Sarene sighed, closing her eyes. “Oh, Father, you could never see it. To you I was a delight-your beautiful, intelligent daughter. No one would dare tell you what they really thought of me.” “What are you talking about?” he demanded, now speaking with the voice of a king. “Father.' Sarene said, “I am twenty-five years old, and I am blunt, conniving, and ofttimes offensive. You must have noticed that no man ever sought my hand.” Her father didn't respond for a moment. “I thought about it.” he finally admitted. “I was the king's spinster daughter, a shrew no one wanted to touch,' Sarene said, trying-and failing-to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Men laughed at me behind my back. No one would dare approach me with romantic intentions, for it was well known that whoever did would be mocked by his peers.” “I just thought you were independent-that you didn't consider any of them worthy of your time.” Sarene laughed wryly. “You love me, Father-no parent wants to admit that his daughter is unattractive. The truth of the matter is, no man wants an intelligent wife.” “That isn't true.” her father objected immediately. “Your mother is brilliant.” “You are an exception, Father, which is why you can't see it. A strong woman is not an asset in this world-not even in Teod, which I always claim is so much more advanced than the continent. It really isn't all that different, Father. They say they give their women more freedom, but there's still the impression that the freedom was theirs to 'give' in the first place. “In Teod I'm an unmarried daughter. Here in Arelon, I am a widowed wife. That is an enormous distinetion. As much as I love Teod, I would have to live with the constant knowledge that no one wants me. Here, at least, I can try to convince myself that someone w1as willing to have me-even if it was for political reasons.” “We can find you someone else.” “I don't think so, Father,” Sarene said with a shake of her head, sitting back in her chair. “Now that Teorn has children, no husband of mine would end up on the throne-which is the only reason anyone in Teod would consider marrying me. No one under Derethi control will consider marriage with a Teo. That only leaves Arelon, where my betrothal contract forbids me from
|
marrying again. No, there is no one for me now, Father. The best I can do is make use of my situation here. At least I can command a measure of respect in Arelon without having to worry about how my actions will affect my future marriageability.” “I see,” her father said. She could hear the displeasure in his voice. “Father, do I need to remind you not to worry about me?” she asked. “We have much larger problems to deal with. “I can't help worrying about you, Leky Stick. You're my only daughter.” Sarene shook her head, determined to change the topic before she started crying. Suddenly very ashamed for destroying his idyllic vision of her. Sarene searched for anything she could say that would divert the conversation. “Uncle Kiin is here in Kae.” That did it. She heard an intake of breath from the other side of the Seon bond. “Do not mention his name to me, 'Ene.” “But-” “No.' Sarene sighed. “All right, then, tell me about Fjorden instead. What do you think Wyrn is planning?” “This time I really have no idea,” Eventeo said, allowing himself to be diverted. “It must be something massive. Borders are closing to Teoish merchants north and south, and our ambassadors are beginning to disappear. I am very close to calling them home.” “And your spies?” “Are vanishing almost as quickly,” her father said. “I haven't been able to get anyone into the Velding in over a month, and Domi only knows what Wyrn and the gyorns are scheming in there. Sending spies to Fjorden these days is almost the same as sending them to die.” “But you do it anyway,” Sarene said quietly, understanding the source of the pain in her father's voice. “I have to. What we find could end up saving thousands, though that doesn't make it any easier. I just wish I could get someone into Dakhor.” “The monastery?” “Yes.” Eventeo said. “We know what the other monasteries do-Rathbore trains assassins, Fjeldor spies, and most of the others simple warriors. Dakhor, however, worries me. I've heard some horrible stories about that monastery-and I can't fathom why anyone, even the Derethi, would do such things.” “Does it look like Fjorden's massing for war?” “I can't tell1-it doesn't appear so, but who knows. Wyrn could send a multi-nation army in our direction at almost a moment's notice. One small consolation is I don't think he knows we understand that fact. Unfortunately, the knowledge does put me in a difficult position.” “What do you mean?” Her father's voice was hesitant. “If Wyrn declares holy war on us, then it will mean the end of Teod. We can't stand against the united might of the Eastern countries. 'Ene. I will not sit back and watch my people be slaughtered.” “You would consider surrendering?” Sarene asked with outrage. “A king's duty is to protect his people. When faced with the choice of conversion or letting my people be destroyed. I think I would have to choose conversion.” “You would be as spineless as the
|
Jindoeese,” Sarene said. “The Jindoeese are a wise people, Sarene,” her father said, his voice growing firm. “They did what they needed to survive.” “But that would mean giving up!” “It would mean doing what we have to do,” her father said. “I won't do anything yet. As long as there are two nations left, we have hope. However, if Arelon falls, I will be forced to surrender. We cannot fight the entire world, 'Ene, no more than one grain of sand can fight an entire ocean.” “But .. .” Sarene's voice trailed off. She could see her father's predicament. Fighting Fjorden on the battlefield would be an exercise in complete futility. Convert or die-both options were sickening, but conversion was obviously the more logical choice. However, a quiet voice inside her argued that it was worth dying, if death would prove that truth was more powerful than physical strength. She had to make sure her father was never given that choice. If she could stop Hrathen, then she might be able to stop Wyrn. For a time, at least. “I'm definitely staying, Father,” she declared. “I know, 'Ene. It will be dangerous.” “I understand. However, if Arelon does fall, then I would probably rather be dead than watch what happens in Teod.” “Be careful, and keep an eye on that gyorn. Oh, by the way-if you find out why Wyrn is sinking Iadon's ships, tell me.” “What?” Sarene asked with shock. “You didn't know?” “Know what?” Sarene demanded. “King Iadon has lost nearly his entire merchant fleet. The official reports claim that the sinkings are the work of pirates, some remnant of Dreok Crushthroat's navy. However, my sources link the sinkings with Fjorden.” “So that's what it was!” Sarene said. “What?” “Four days ago I was at a party.” Sarene explained. “A servant delivered a message to the king, and whatever it was unsettled the king a great deal.”1p> “That would be about the right time frame.” her father said. “I found out two days ago myself.” “Why would Wyrn sink innocent merchant vessels?” Sarene wondered. “Unless… Idos Domi! If the king loses his income, then he would be in danger of losing his throne!” “Is all that nonsense about rank being tied to money true?” “Insanely true,” Sarene said. “Iadon takes away a family's title if they can't maintain their income. If he lost his own source of wealth, it would destroy the foundation of his rule. Hrathen could replace him with someone else-a man more willing w accept Shu-Dereth-without even bothering to start a revolution.” “It sounds feasible. Iadon asked for such a situation by concocting such an unstable basis for rule.” “It's probably Telrii,” Sarene said. “That's why he spent so much money on that ball-the duke wants to show that he is financially sound. I would be very surprised if there wasn't a mountain of Fjordell gold behind his expenditures.” “What are you going to do?” “Stop him,” Sarene said. “Even though it hurts. I really don't like Iadon, Father.” “Unfortunately, it looks like Hrathen has chosen
|
our allies for us.” Sarene nodded. “He has placed me with Elantris and Iadon-not a very enviable position.” “We all do the best with what Domi has given us.” “You sound like a priest.” “I have found reason to become very religious lately.” Sarene thought for a moment before replying, tapping her cheek as she considered his words. “A wise choice, Father. If Domi were ever going to help us, it would be now. The end of Teod means the end of Shu-Korath.” “For a time, perhaps,” her father said. “Truth can never be defeated, Sarene. Even if people do forget about it occasionally.” Sarene was in bed, the lights down. Ashe hovered on the far side of the room, his light dimmed so much that he was barely an outline of Aon Ashe against the wall. The conversation with her father had ended an hour ago, but its implications would likely plague her mind for months. She had never considered surrender an option, but now it looked almost inevitable. The prospect worried her. She knew that it was unlikely that Wyrn would let her father continue to rule, even if he did convert. She also knew that Eventeo would willingly give his life if it would spare his people. She also thought about her own life, and her mixed memories of Teod. The kingdom contained the things she loved most-her father, brother, and mother. The forests around the port city of Teoin, the capital, were another very fond memory. She remembered the way the snow settled on the landscape. One morning she had awoken to fin1d everything outside coated in a beautiful film of ice: the trees had looked like jewels sparkling in the winter daylight. Yet, Teod also reminded her of pain and loneliness. It represented her exclusion from society and her humiliation before men. She had established early in life that she had a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. Both things had set her apart from the other women-not that some of them weren't intelligent: they just had the wisdom to hide it until they were married. Not all men wanted a stupid wife-but there also weren't a lot of men who felt comfortable around a woman they assumed was their intellectual superior. By the time Sarene had realized what she was doing to herself, she had found that the few men who might have accepted her were already married. Desperate, she had ferreted out the masculine opinion of her in court, and had been mortified to learn just how much they mocked her. After that, it had only grown worse-and she had only grown older. In a land where nearly every woman was at least engaged by the age of eighteen, she was an old maid by twenty-five. A very tall, gangly, argumentative old maid. Her self-recrimination was interrupted by a noise. It didn't come from the hallway or window, however, but from inside her room. She sat up with a start, breath catching in her throat as she prepared to jump away. Only then did
|
she realize it wasn't actually coming from her room, but from the wall beside her room. She frowned in confusion. There weren't any rooms on the other side; she was at the very edge of the palace. She had a window looking out over the city. The noise was not repeated, and, determined to get some sleep despite her anxieties, Sarene told herself it had simply been the building settling. CHAPTER 18 DILAF walked in the door, looking a bit distracted. Then he saw the Elantrian sitting in the chair in front of Hrathen's desk. The shock nearly killed him. Hrathen smiled, watching as Dilaf's breath audibly caught in his throat, his eyes grew wide as shields, and his face turned a shade not unlike the color of Hrathen's armor. “Hruggath Jar!” Dilaf yelped in surprise, the Fjordell curse rising quickly to his lips. Hrathen raised his eyebrows at the expletive-not so much because it offended him, but because he was surprised that it should come so easily to Dilaf. The Arteth had submerged himself in Fjorden's culture deeply indeed. “Say hello to Diren, Arteth,” Hrathen said, gesturing to the black-and-grayfaced Elantrian. “And kindly refrain from using Lord Jaddeth's name as a curse. That is one Fjordell habit I would rather you hadn't assumed.” “An Elantrian!” “Yes,” Hrathen said. “Very good, Arteth. And no, you may not set fire to him.” Hrathen leaned back slightly in his seat, smiling as Dilaf glared at the Elantrian. Hrathen had summoned Dilaf to the room knowing full well the kind of reaction he would get, and he felt a little petty at the move. That, however, didn't stop him from enjoying the moment. Finally, Dilaf shot Hrathen a hateful look-though he quickly masked it with one of barely controlled submissiveness. “What is he doing here, my hroden?” “I thought it would be good to know the face of our enemy, Arteth,” Hrathen said, rising and walking over to the frightened Elantrian. The two priests were, of course, conversing in Fjordell. There was confusion in the Elantrian's eyes, along with a feral sort of fear. Hrathen squatted down beside the man, studying his demon. “Are they all bald, Dilaf?” he asked with interest. “Not at first.” the Arteth answered sullenly. “They usually have a full head when the Korathi dogs prepare them for the city. Their skin is paler as well.” Hrathen reached our, feeling the man's cheek. The skin was tough and leathery. The Elantrian watched him with frightened eyes. “These black spots-these are what distinguish an Elantrian?” “It is the first sign, my hroden,” Dilaf said, subdued. Either he was getting used to the Elantrian, or he had simply gotten over his initial burst of hatred and had moved on to a more patient, smoldering form of disgust. “It usually happens overnight. When the accursed one wakes up, he or she will have dark blotches all over their body. The rest of their skin turns grayish brown, like this one, over time.” “Like the skin of an embalmed corpse,” Hrathen noted. He had visited
|
the university in Svorden on occasion, and knew of the bodies they kept there for study. “Very similar,” Dilaf agreed quietly. “The skin isn't the only sign, my hroden. Their insides are rotten as well.” “How can you tell?” “Their hearts do not beat,” Dilaf said. “And their minds do not work. There are stories from the early days ten years ago, before they were all locked away in that city. Within a few months they turn comatose, barely able to move, except to bemoan their pain.” “Pain?” “The pain of their soul being burned by Lord Jaddeth's fire,” Dilaf explained. “It builds within them until it consumes their consciousness. It is their punishment.” Hrathen nodded, turning away from the Elantrian. “You shouldn't have touched him, my hroden,” Dilaf said. “I thought you said that Lord Jaddeth would protect his faithful,” Hrathen said. “What need have I to fear?” “You invited evil into the chapel, my hroden.” Hrathen snorted. “There is nothing sacred about this building, Dilaf, as you know. No holy ground can be dedicated in a country that hasn't allied itself with Shu-Dereth.” “Of course.” Dilaf said. His eyes were growing eager for some reason. The look in Dilaf 's eyes made Hrathen uncomfo1rtable. Perhaps it would be best to minimize the time the Arteth spent in the same room as the Elantrian. “I summoned you because I'm going to need you to make the preparations for the evening sermon,” Hrathen said. “I can't do them myself-I want to spend a bit of time interrogating this Elantrian.. “As you command, my hroden,” Dilaf said, still eyeing the Elantrian. “You are dismissed, Arteth,” Hrathen said firmly. Dilaf growled quietly, then scuttled from the room, off to do Hrathen's bidding. Hrathen turned back to the Elantrian. The creature didn't seem “mindless.” as Dilaf had put it. The Guard captain who'd brought the Elantrian had even mentioned the creature's name; that implied that it could speak. “Can you understand me, Elantrian?” Hrathen asked in Aonic. Diren paused, then nodded his head. “Interesting.” Hrathen said musingly. “What do you want with me?” the Elantrian asked. “Just to ask you some questions,” Hrathen said, stepping back to his desk and sitting down. He continued to study the creature with curiosity. Never in all of his varied travels had he seen a disease such as this. “Do you . . . have any food?” the Elantrian asked. There was a slight edge of wildness to his eyes as he mentioned the word “food.” “If you answer my questions, I promise to send you back to Elantris with a full basket of bread and cheese.” This got the creature's attention. He nodded vigorously. So hungry, Hrathen thought with curiosity. And, what was it that Dilaf said? No heartbeat? Perhaps the disease does something to the metabolism-makes the heart beat so quickly that it's hard to detect, increases the appetite somehow? “What were you before you were thrown into the city, Diren?” Hrathen asked. “A peasant, my lord. I worked the fields of Aor Plantation.” “And, how long
|
have you been an Elantrian?” “I was thrown in during the fall,” Diren said. “Seven months? Eight? I lose track. ...” So Dilaf 's other assertion, that Elantrians fell “comatose” within a few months, was incorrect. Hrathen sat thoughtfully, trying to decide what kind of information this creature might have that could be of use to him. “What is it like in Elantris?” Hrathen asked. “It's, terrible, my lord,” Diren said, looking down. “There's the gangs. If you go the wrong place, they'll chase you, or hurt you. No one tells the newcomers about things, so if you aren't careful, you'll walk into the market.... That's not good. And, there's a new gang now-so say a few of the Elantrians I know on the streets. A fourth gang, more powerful than the others.” Gangs. That implied a basic level of society, at least. Hrathen frowned to himself. If the gangs were as harsh as Diren implied, then perhaps he could use them as an example of Svrakiss for his followers. However, speaking with the complacent Diren, Hrathen was beginning to think that perhaps he should continue making his condemnations from a distance. If any percentage of the Elantrians were as harmless as this man, then the people of Kae would probably be disappointed in the Elantrians as “demons.” As the interrogation proceeded, Hrathen realized that Diren didn't know much more that was of use. The Elantrian couldn't explain what the Shaod was like-it had happened to him while he was sleeping. He claimed that he was “dead,” whatever that meant, and that his wounds no longer healed. He even showed Hrathen a cut in his skin. The wound wasn't bleeding, however, so Hrathen just suspected that the pieces of skin hadn't sealed properly as they healed. Diren knew nothing of the Elantrian “magic.” He claimed that he'd seen others doing magical drawings in the air, but Diren himself didn't know how to do likewise. He did know that he was hungry-very hungry. He reiterated this idea several times, as well as mentioning twice more that he was frightened of the gangs. Satisfied that he knew what he'd wanted to find out-that Elantris was a brutal place, but disappointingly human in its methods of brutality-Hrathen sent for the Guard captain who had brought Diren. The captain of the Elantris City Guard entered obsequiously. He wore thick gloves, and he prodded the Elantrian out of its chair with a long stick. The captain eagerly accepted a bag of coins from Hrathen, then nodded as Hrathen made him promise to purchase Diren a basket of food. As the captain forced his prisoner out of the room, Dilaf appeared at Hrathen's door. The Arteth watched his prey leave with a look of disappointment. “Everything ready?” Hrathen asked. “Yes, my hroden,” Dilaf said. “People are already beginning to arrive for the services.” “Good.” Hrathen said, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers thoughtfully. “Does something concern you, my hroden?” Hrathen shook his head. “I was just planning for the evening speech. I believe it is time
|
for us to move on to the next step in our plans.” “The next step, my hroden?” Hrathen nodded. “I think we have successfully established our stance against Elantris. The masses are always quick to find devils around them, as long as you give them proper motivation.” “Yes, my hroden.” “Do not forget, Arteth.” Hrathen said, “that there is a point to our hatred.” “It unifies our followers-it gives them a common enemy.” “Correct,” Hrathen said, resting his arms on his desk. “There is another purpose, however. One just as important. Now that we have given the people someone to hate, we need to create an association between Elantris and our rivals.” “Shu-Korath,” Dilaf said with a sinister smile. “Again correct. The Korathi priests are the ones who prepare new Elantrians-they are the motivation behind the mercy this country shows its fallen gods. If we imply that Korathi tolerance makes its priests sympathizers, the people's loathing of Elantris will shift to Shu-Korath instead. Their priests will be faced with two options: Either they accept our incrimination, or they side with us against Elantris. If they choose the former, then the people will turn against them. If they choose the latter, then it puts them under our theological control. After that, a few simple embarrassments will make them appear impotent and irrelevant.” “It is perfect.” Dilaf said. “But will it happen quickly enough? There is so little time.” Hrathen started, looking over at the still smiling Arteth. How had the man known about his deadline? He couldn't-he must be guessing. “It will work,” Hrathen said. “With their monarchy unstable and their religion wavering, the people will look for a new source of leadership. Shu-Dereth will be like a rock amidst shifting sands.” “A fine analogy, my hroden.” Hrathen could never tell if Dilaf mocked him with such statements or not. “I have a task for you. Arteth. I want you to make the connection in your sermon tonight-turn the people against Shu-Korath.” “Will my hroden not do it himself?” “I will speak second, and my speech will offer logic. You, however, are more passionate-and their disgust for Shu-Korath must first come from their hearts.” Dilaf nodded, bowing his head to show that he acceded to the command. Hrathen waved his hand, indicating the conversation was over, and the Arteth backed away, closing the door behind him. Dilaf spoke with characteristic zeal. He stood outside the chapel, on a podium Hrathen had commissioned once the crowds became too large to fit in the building. The warm spring nights were conducive to such meetings, and the half-light of sunset, combined with torches, gave the proper mixture of visibility and shadow. The people watched Dilaf with rapture, even though most of what he said was repetitious. Hrathen spent hours preparing his sermons, careful to combine both duplication for reinforcement and originality to provide excitement. Dilaf just spoke. It didn't matter if he spouted the same denunciations of Elantris and the same redundant praises to Jaddeth's empire; the people listened anyway. After a week of hearing the
|
Arteth speak, Hrathen had learned to ignore his own envy-to an extent, at least. He replaced it with pride. As he listened. Hrathen congratulated himself on the Arteth's effectiveness. Dilaf did as Hrathen had ordered, beginning with his normal ravings about Elantris, then moving boldly into a full accusation of Shu-Korath. The crowd moved with him, allowing their emotions to be redirected. It was as Hrathen had planned; there was no reason for him to be j1ealous of Dilaf. The man's rage was like a river Hrathen himself had diverted toward the crowd. Dilaf might have the raw talent, but Hrathen was the master behind it. He told himself that right up to the moment Dilaf surprised him. The sermon progressed well, Dilaf's fury investing the crowd with a loathing of everything Korathi. But then the tide shifted as Dilaf turned his attention back to Elantris. Hrathen thought nothing of it at first-Dilaf had an incorrigible tendency to wander during his sermons. “And now, behold!” Dilaf suddenly commanded. “Behold the Svrakiss! Look into its eyes, and find form for your hate! Feed the outrage of Jaddeth that burns within you all!” Hrathen felt himself grow cold. Dilaf gestured to the side of the stage, where a pair of torches suddenly burst into flame. Diren the Elantrian stood tied to a post, his head bowed. There were cuts on his face that had not been there before. “Behold the enemy!” Dilaf screamed. “Look, see! He does not bleed! No blood runs through his veins, and no heart beats in his chest. Did not the philosopher Grondkest say that you can judge the equality of all men by their common unity of blood? But what of one who has no blood? What shall we call him?” “Demon!” a member of the crowd yelled. “Devil!” “Svrakiss!” Dilaf screamed. The crowd raged, each member yelling his own accusations at the wretched target. The Elantrian himself screamed with wild, feral passion. Something had changed within this man. When Hrathen had spoken with him, the Elantrian's answers had been unenthusiastic, but lucid. Now there was nothing of sanity in his eyes-only pain. The sound of the creature's voice reached Hrathen even over the congregation's fury. “Destroy me!” the Elantrian pled. “End the pain! Destroy me!” The voice shocked Hrathen out of his stupor. He realized one thing immediately: that Dilaf couldn't be allowed to murder this Elantrian in public. Visions of Dilaf 's crowd becoming a mob flashed through Hrathen's mind, of them burning the Elantrian in a fit of collective passion. It would destroy everything: Iadon would never suffer something as violent as a public execution, even if the victim was an Elantrian. It smelled too much of chaos a decade old, chaos that had overthrown a government. Hrathen stood at the side of the podium dais, amid a group of priests. There was a pressing crowd bunched up against the front of the dais, and Dilaf stood in front of the podium itself, hands outstretched as he spoke. “They must be destroyed!” Dilaf screamed. “All of
|
them! Cleansed by holy fire!” Hrathen leaped up onto the dais. “And so they shall be!” he yelled, cutting the Arteth off. Dilaf paused only briefly. He turned to the side, nodding toward a lesser priest holding a lit torch. Dilaf probably assumed that there was nothing Hrathen could do to stop the execution-at least, nothing he could do that wouldn't undermine his own credibility with the crowd. Not thi1s time, Arteth, Hrathen thought. I won't let you do whatever you wish. He couldn't contradict Dilaf, not without making it seem like there was a division in the Derethi ranks. He could, however, twist what Dilaf had said. That particular vocal feat was one of Hrathen's specialties. “But, what good would that do?” Hrathen yelled, struggling to speak over the screaming crowd. They were surging forward in anticipation of the execution, calling out curses at the Elantrian. Hrathen gritted his teeth, pushing past Dilaf and grabbing the torch from the passing priest's hand. Hrathen heard Dilaf hissing in annoyance, but he ignored the Arteth. If he didn't gain control of the crowd, they would simply push forward and attack the Elantrian on their own. Hrathen held aloft the torch, thrusting it upward repeatedly, causing the crowd to yell with pleasure, building a kind of chanting rhythm. And in between pulses of rhythm, there was silence. “I ask you again, people!” Hrathen bellowed as the crowd fell silent, preparing for another yell. They paused. “What good would killing this creature do?” Hrathen asked. “It's a demon!” one of the men in the crowd yelled. “Yes!” Hrathen said. “But it is already tormented. Jaddeth himself gave this demon its curse. Listen to it pleading for death! Is that what we want to do? Give the creature what it wants?” Hrathen waited tensely. While some of the crowd's members screamed “Yes!” out of habit, others paused. Confusion showed, and a bit of the tension deflated. “The Svrakiss are our enemies,” Hrathen said, speaking with more control now, his voice firm rather than passionate. His words calmed the people further. “However, they are not ours to punish. That is Jaddeth's pleasure! We have another task. This creature, this demon, this is the thing that the Korathi priests would have you pity! You wonder why Arelon is poor compared to the nations of the East? It is because you suffer the Korathi foolishness. That is why you lack the riches and blessings found in nations like Jindo and Svorden. The Korathi are too lenient. It may not be our task to destroy these creatures, but neither is it our task to care for them! We certainly shouldn't pity them or suffer them to live in such a grand, rich city as Elantris.” Hrathen extinguished the torch, then waved for a priest to go and do the same for the lights illuminating the poor Elantrian. As those torches winked out, the Elantrian disappeared from view, and the crowd began to settle down. “Remember,” Hrathen said. “The Korathi are the ones who care for the Elantrians. Even now, they
|
still hedge when asked if the Elantrians are demons. The Korathi are afraid that the city will return to its glory, but we know better. We know that Jaddeth has pronounced His curse. There is no mercy for the damned! “Shu-Korath is the cause of your pains. It is the thing that supports and protects Elantris. You will never be rid of the Elantrian curse as lon1g as the Korathi priests hold sway in Arelon. So. I say to you, go! Tell your friends what you have learned, and urge them to shun Korathi heresies!” There was silence. Then people began to call out in agreement, their dissatisfaction successfully transferred. Hrathen watched them carefully as they yelled approval, then finally began to disperse. Their vengeful hatred had mostly dissipated. Hrathen sighed with relief-there would be no midnight attacks on Korathi priests or temples. Dilaf's speech had been too fleeting, too quick, to have done lasting damage. The disaster had been averted. Hrathen turned, eyeing Dilaf. The Arteth had left the stage after Hrathen had seized control, and now he stood watching his crowd disappear with petulant anger. He would turn them all into zealous replicas of himself Hrathen thought. Except, their passion would burn out quickly once the moment passed. They needed more. They needed knowledge, not just hysteria. “Arteth,” Hrathen said sternly, catching Dilaf's attention. “We need to speak.” The arreth contained a glare, then nodded. The Elantrian was still screaming for death. Hrathen turned to another pair of Arteths, waving toward the Elantrian. “Collect the creature and meet me in the gardens.” Hrathen turned to Dilaf, nodding curtly toward the gate at the back of the Derethi chapel. Dilaf did as ordered, moving toward the gardens. Hrathen followed him, on the way passing the confused Elantris City Guard captain. “My lord?” the man asked. “The young priest caught me before I got back to the city. He said you wanted the creature back. Did I do wrong?” “You are fine,” Hrathen said curtly. “Go back to your post; we'll deal with the Elantrian.” The Elantrian seemed to welcome the flames, despite the terrible pain they must have caused. Dilaf huddled to the side, watching eagerly, though it had been Hrathen's hand-not Dilaf's-that had dropped the torch onto the oil-soaked Elantrian. Hrathen watched the poor creature as it burned, its cries of pain finally silenced by the roaring fire. The creature's body seemed to burn easily-too easily-within the licking flames. Hrathen felt a stab of guilt for betraying Diren, though that emotion was foolish: the Elantrian might not have been a true devil, but he was certainly a creature that Jaddeth had cursed. Hrathen owed the Elantrian nothing. Still, he regretted having to burn the creature. Unfortunately, Dilaf's cuts had obviously maddened the Elantrian, and there was no sending him back to the city in his current state. The flames had been the only option. Hrathen watched the pitiful man's eyes until the flames consumed him completely. “And the burning fire of Jaddeth's displeasure shall cleanse them,” Dilaf whispered, quoting the
|
Do-Dereth. “Judgment belongs to Jaddeth alone, and it is executed by his only servant Wyrn,” Hrathen quoted, using a different pa1ssage from the same book. 'You should not have forced me to kill this creature.” “It was inevitable,” Dilaf said. “Eventually all things must bow before Jaddeth's will-and it is his will that all of Elantris burn. I was simply following fate.” “You nearly lost control of that crowd with your ravings, Arteth,” Hrathen snapped. “A riot must be very carefully planned and executed, otherwise it will just as likely turn against its creators as their enemies.” “I ... got carried away,” Dilaf said. “But, killing one Elantrian would not have made them riot.” “You don't know that. Besides, what of Iadon?” “How could he object?” Dilaf said. “It is his own order that escaping Elantrians can be burned. He would never take a stand in favor of Elantris.” “But he could rake a stand against us!” Hrathen said. “You were wrong to bring this creature to the meeting.” “The people deserved to see what they are to hate.” “The people are not ready for that yet,” Hrathen said harshly. “We want to keep their hatred formless. If they start to tear up the city, Iadon will put an end to our preaching. Dilaf's eyes narrowed. “You sound as if you are trying to avoid the inevitable, my hroden. You fostered this hatred-are you unwilling to accept responsibility for the deaths it will cause? Hate and loathing cannot remain 'formless' for long-they will find an outlet.” “But that outlet will come when I decide it,” Hrathen said coldly. “I am aware of my responsibility, Arteth, though I question your understanding of it. You just told me that killing this Elantrian was fated by Jaddeth-that you were simply following Jaddeth's fate by forcing my hand. Which is it to be? Would the deaths I cause in riot be my doing, or simply the will of God? How can you be an innocent servant while I must accept full accountability for this city's people?” Dilaf exhaled sharply. He knew, however, when he had been defeated. He bowed curtly, then turned and entered the chapel. Hrathen watched the arteth go, fuming quietly. Dilaf's action this night had been foolish and impulsive. Was he trying to undermine Hrathen's authority, or was he simply acting on his zealous passions? If it was the second, the near riot was Hrathen's own fault. He had, after all, been so proud of himself for using Dilaf as an effective tool. Hrathen shook his head, releasing a tense breath. He had defeated Dilaf this evening, but the tension was growing between them. They couldn't afford to get into visible arguments. Rumors of dissension in the Derethi ranks would erode their credibility. I will have to do something about the Arteth, Hrathen decided with resignation. Dilaf was becoming too much of a liability. His decision made, Hrathen turned to leave. As he did, however, his eyes fell again on the Elantrian's charred remains, and he shuddered despite himself. The man's willful acceptanc1e
|
of immolation brought memories to Hrathen's mind-memories he had long tried to banish. Images of pain, of sacrifice, and of death. Memories of Dakhor. He turned his back on the charred bones, walking toward the chapel. He still had one other task to complete this evening. The Seon floated free from its box, responding to Hrathen's command. Mentally, Hrathen chided himself-this was the second time in one week he had used the creature. Reliance on the Seon was something to be avoided. However. Hrathen could think of no other way to accomplish his goal. Dilaf was right: Time was very scarce. Fourteen days had already passed since his arrival in Arelon, and he had spent a week traveling before that. Only seventy days remained of his original allotment, and, despite the size of the night's congregation, Hrathen had converted only a tiny fraction of Arelon. Only one fact gave him hope: Arelon's nobility was concentrated in Kae. To be away from Iadon's court was political suicide; the king granted and took away titles willfully, and a high profile was necessary to assure a firm place in the aristocracy. Wyrn didn't care if Hrathen converted the masses or not; as long as the nobility bowed, the country was considered Derethi. So, Hrathen had a chance, but he still had much work to do. An important piece of it lay in the man Hrathen was about to call. His contact was not a gyorn, which made Hrathen's use of the Seon a little unorthodox. However, Wyrn had never directly commanded him not to call other people with his Seon, so Hrathen was able to rationalize the use. The Seon responded promptly, and soon Forton's large-eared, mouselike face appeared in its light. “Who is it?” he asked in the harsh Fjordell dialect spoken in the country of Hrovell. “It is I, Forton.” “My lord Hrathen?” Forton asked with surprise. “My lord, it has been a long time.” “I know, Forton. I trust you are well.” The man laughed happily, though the laugh quickly turned to a wheeze. Forton had a chronic cough-a condition caused, Hrathen was certain, by the various substances the man was fond of smoking. “Of course, my lord,” Forton said through his coughing. “When am I not well?” Forton was a man utterly contented with his life-a condition that was also caused by the various substances he was fond of smoking. “What can I do for you?” “I have need of one of your elixirs, Forton.” Hrathen said. “Of course, of course. What must it do?” Hrathen smiled. Forton was an unparalleled genius, which was why Hrathen suffered his eccentricities. The man not only kept a Seon, but was a devout follower of the Mysteries-a degenerate form of the Jesker religion common in rural areas. Though Hrovell was officially a Derethi nation, most of it was a primitive, sparsely populated countryside which was difficult to supervise. Many of the peasants attended their Derethi services with devotion, then took part in their midnight Mystery ceremonies with equal devotion. Forton himself was considered something
|
of a mystic in his town, though he always put on a show of Derethi orthodoxy when he spoke with Hrathen. Hrathen explained what he wanted, and Forton repeated it back. Though Forton was often drugged, he was very accomplished at the mixing of potions, poisons, and elixirs. Hrathen had met no man in Sycla who could match Forton's skill. One of the eccentric man's concoctions had restored Hrathen to health after he had been poisoned by a political enemy. The slow-acting substance was said to have no antidote. “This will be no problem, my lord,” Forton promised Hrathen in his thick dialect. Even after years of dealing with the Hroven, Hrathen had trouble understanding them. He was certain that most of them didn't even know there was a pure, correct form of their language back in Fjorden. “Good.” Hrathen said. “Yes, all I'll need to do is combine two formulas I already have,” Forton said. “How much do you want?” “At least two doses. I will pay you the standard price.” “My true payment is the knowledge I have served Lord Jaddeth,” the man said piously. Hrathen resisted the urge to laugh. He knew how much of a hold the Mysteries had on Hrovell's people. It was a distasteful form of worship, a syncretic combination of a dozen different faiths, with some aberrations-such as ritual sacrifice and fertility rites-added in to make it more alluring. Hrovell, however, was a task for another day. The people did what Wyrn commanded, and they were too politically insignificant to cause Fjorden distress. Of course, their souls were in serious danger: Jaddeth was not known for his leniency toward the ignorant. Another day, Hrathen told himself. Another day. “When will my lord be needing this potion?” the man asked. “That is the thing. Forton. I need it immediately.” “Where are you?” “In Arelon.” Hrathen said. “Ah, good,” Forton said. “My lord has finally decided to convert those heathens.” “Yes,” Hrathen said with a slight smile. “We Derethi have been patient with the Arelenes long enough.” “Well, Your Lordship couldn't have picked a place farther away,” Forton said. “Even if I finish the potion tonight and send it in the morning, it will take at least two weeks to arrive.” Hrathen chafed at the delay, but there was no other option. “Then do so, Forton. I will compensate you for working on such short notice, lord.” “A true follower of Jaddeth will do anything to bring about His Empire, my lord.” Well, at least he knows his De1rethi doctrine, Hrathen thought with a mental shrug. “Is there anything else, my lord?” Forton asked, coughing slightly. “No. Get to work, and send the potions as quickly as possible.” “Yes, my lord. I'll get started immediately. Feel free to pray to me any time you need to.” Hrathen frowned-he had forgotten about that little inaccuracy. Perhaps Forton's mastery of Derethi doctrine wasn't all that sound after all. Forton didn't know Hrathen had a Seon; he simply assumed that a gyorn could pray to Jaddeth and that God would
|
direct his words through the Seons. As if Lord Jaddeth were a member of the post. “Goodnight. Forton.” Hrathen said, keeping the displeasure from his voice. Forton was a drug addict, a heretic, and a hypocrite-but he was still an invaluable resource. Hrathen had long ago decided that if Jaddeth would suffer his gyorns to communicate using Seons, then He would certainly let Hrathen use men such as Forton. After all, Jaddeth had created all men-even the heretics. CHAPTER 19 THE city of Elantris glowed brilliantly. The very stones shone, as if each one held a fire within. The shattered domes had been restored, their smooth, egglike surfaces blossoming across the landscape. Thin spires stabbed the air like streaks of light. The wall was no longer a barrier, for its gates were left permanently open-it existed not to protect, but for cohesion. The wall was part of the city somehow, an essential element of the whole, without which Elantris would not be complete. And amid the beauty and the glory were the Elantrians. Their bodies seemed to shine with the same inner light as the city, their skin a luminous pale silver. Not metallic, just ... pure. Their hair was white, but not the worn-out dull gray or yellow of the aged. It was the blazing white of steel heated to an extreme temperature-a color free of impurities, a powerful, focused white. Their bearings were equally striking. The Elantrians moved through their city with an air of complete control. The men were handsome and tall-even the short ones-and the women were undeniably beautiful-even the homely ones. They were unhurried; they strolled rather than walked, and they were quick to greet those they met. There was a power in them, however. It radiated from their eyes and underlay their motions. It was easy to understand why these beings were worshipped as gods. Equally unmistakable were the Aons. The ancient glyphs covered the city: they were etched into walls, painted on doors, and written on signs. Most of them were inert-simple markings, rather than runes with an arcane purpose. Others, however, obviously held energy. Throughout the city stood large metal plates carved with Aon Tia, and occasionally an Elantrian would approach and place his or her hand in the center of the character. The Elantrian's body would flash, and then disappear in a circular burst of light, his body instantly transported to another section of the city. Amid the glory was a small family of Kae townspeople. Their clothing was rich and1 fine, their words were educated, but their skin did not glow. There were other regular people in the city-not as many as the Elantrians, but a fair number nonetheless. This comforted the boy, giving him a familiar reference. The father carried his young son tightly, looking around with distrust. Not everyone adored the Elantrians; some were suspicious. The boy's mother gripped her husband's arm with tense fingers. She had never been inside Elantris, though she had lived in Kae for over a decade. Unlike the boy's father, she was more nervous than
|
distrustful. She was worried about her son's wound, anxious as any mother whose child was near death. Suddenly, the boy felt the pain in his leg. It was blinding and intense, stemming from the festering wound and shattered bone in his thigh. He had fallen from someplace high, and his leg had snapped so soundly the shattered bone had torn through the skin to jut into the air. His father had hired the best surgeons and doctors, but they had been unable to stop the infection. The bone had been set as well as possible, considering that it had fractured in at least a dozen places. Even without the infection, the boy would walk with a limp the rest of his days. With the infection . , amputation seemed the only recourse. Secretly, the doctors feared it was too late for even that solution; the wound had occurred high on the leg, and the infection had probably spread to the torso. The father had demanded the truth. He knew his son was dying. And so he had come to Elantris, despite his lifelong distrust of its gods. They took the boy to a domed building. He nearly forgot his pain as the door opened on its own, sliding inward without a sound. His father stopped abruptly before the door, as if reconsidering his actions, but his mother tugged insistently on the man's arm. His father nodded, bowing his head and entering the building. Light shone from glowing Aons on the walls. A woman approached, her white hair long and full, her silvery face smiling encouragingly. She ignored his father's distrust, her eyes sympathetic as she took the boy from hesitant arms. She laid him carefully on a soft mat, then brought her hand into the air above him, her long, thin index finger pointing at nothing. The Elantrian moved her hand slowly, and the air began to glow. A trail of light followed her finger. It was like a rupture in the air, a line that radiated with deep intensity. It was as if a river of light were trying to force its way through the small crack. The boy could feel the power, he could sense it raging to be free, but only this little was allowed to escape. Even that little was so bright that he could barely see for the light. The woman traced carefully, completing Aon len-but it wasn't just Aon Ien, it was more complex. The core was the familiar Aon of healing, but there were dozens of lines and curves at the sides. The boy's brow wrinkled-he had been taught the Aons by his tutors, and it seemed odd that the woman should change this one so drastically. The beautiful Elantrian made one final mark at the side of her complex construction, and the Aon began to glow even more intensely. The boy felt a burning in his leg, then a burning up through his torso. He began to yell, but the light suddenly vanished. The boy opened his eyes with surprise; the afterimage of Aon
|
Ien still burned into his vision. He blinked, looking down. The wound was gone. Not even a scar remained. But he could still feel the pain. It burned him, cut him, caused his soul to tremble. It should have been gone, but it was not. “Rest now, little one,” the Elantrian said in a warm voice, pushing him back. His mother was weeping with joy, and even his father looked satisfied. The boy wanted to yell at them, to scream that something was wrong. His leg hadn't been healed. The pain still remained. No! Something is wrong! He tried to say, but he couldn't. He couldn't speak. … “NO!” Raoden yelled, sitting upright with a sudden motion. He blinked a few times, disoriented in the darkness. Finally, he took a few deep breaths, putting his hand to his head. The pain did remain; it was growing so strong that it even corrupted his dreams. He had dozens of tiny wounds and bruises now, even though he had been in Elantris for only three weeks. He could feel each one distinctly, and together they formed a unified frontal assault on sanity. Raoden groaned, leaning forward and grabbing his legs as he fought the pain. His body could no longer sweat, but he could feel it trembling. He clamped his teeth shut, gritting them against the surge of agony. Slowly, laboriously, he reasserted control. He rebuffed the pain, soothing his tortured body until, finally, he released his legs and stood. It was growing worse. He knew it shouldn't be so bad yet: he hadn't even been in Elantris for a month. He also knew that the pain was supposed to be steady, or so everyone said, but for him it seemed to come in waves. It was always there-always ready to pounce on him in a moment of weakness. Sighing, Raoden pushed open the door to his chambers. He still found it odd that Elantrians should sleep. Their hearts no longer beat, they no longer needed breath. Why did they need sleep? The others, however, could give him no answers. The only true experts had died ten years previously. So, Raoden slept, and with that sleep came dreams. He had been eight when he broke his leg. His father had been loath to bring him into the city; even before the Reod, Iadon had been suspicious of Elantris. Raoden's mother, dead some twelve years now, had insisted. The child Raoden hadn't understood how close he'd come to death. He had felt the pain, however, and the beautiful peace of its removal. He remembered the beauty of both the city and its occupants. Iadon had spoken harshly of Elantris as they left, and Raoden had contradicted the words with vehemence. It was the first time Raoden could remember taking a position against his father. After that, there had been many others. As Raoden entered the main chapel, Saolin left his attendant position beside Raoden's chamber, falling into place beside him. Over the last week, the soldier had gathered a group of willing men and formed
|
them into a squad of guards. “You know I am flattered by your attentiveness, Saolin,” Raoden said. “But is it really necessary?” “A lord requires an honor guard, Lord Spirit,” Saolin explained. “It wouldn't be proper for you to go about alone.” “I'm not a lord, Saolin.” Raoden said. “I'm just a leader-there is to be no nobility in Elantris.” “I understand, my lord.” Saolin said with a nod, obviously not seeing the paradox within his own words. “However, the city is still a dangerous place.” “As you wish, Saolin,” Raoden said. “How goes the planting?” “Galladon has finished his plowing,” Saolin said. “He has already organized the planting teams.” “I shouldn't have slept so long,” Raoden said, looking out the chapel window to notice how high the sun had risen. He left the building, Saolin close behind, and walked around a neat cobblestone path to the gardens. Kahar and his crew had cleaned off the stones, and then Dahad-one of Taan's followers-had used his skills with stoneworking to reset them. The planting was aIready well under way. Galladon oversaw the work with a careful eye, his gruff tongue quick to point out any errors. However, there was a peace about the Dula. Some men were farmers because they had no other choice, but Galladon seemed to find true enjoyment in the activity. Raoden remembered clearly that first day, when he had tempted Galladon with the bit of dried meat. His friend's pain had barely been under control back then-Raoden had been scared of the Dula several times during those first days. Now none of that remained. Raoden could see it in Galladon's eyes and in his bearing: He had found the “secret,” as Kahar had put it. Galladon was in control again. Now the only one Raoden had to fear was himself. His theories were working better than even he had expected-but only on everyone else. He had brought peace and purpose to the dozens who followed him, but he couldn't do the same for himself. The pain still burned him. It threatened him every morning when he awoke and stayed with him every moment he was conscious. He was more purposeful than any of the others, and was the most determined to see Elantris succeed. He filled his days, leaving no empty moments to contemplate his suffering. Nothing worked. The pain continued to build. “My lord, watch out!” Saolin yelled. Raoden jumped, turning as a growling, bare-chested Elantrian charged from a darkened hallway, running toward Raoden. Raoden barely had time to step backward as the wildman lifted a rusted iron bar and swung it directly at Raoden's face. Bare steel flashed out of nowhere, and Saolin's blade parried the blow. The bestial newcomer halted, reorienting himself to a new foe. He moved too slowly. Saolin's practiced hand delivered a thrust directly through the madman's abdomen. Then, knowing that such a blow wouldn't stop an Elantrian, Saolin swung a mighty backhand, separating the madman's head from his body. There was no blood. The corpse tumbled to the ground, and Saolin saluted
|
Raoden with his blade, shooting him a gap-toothed smile of reassurance. Then he spun around to face a group of wildmen charging down a nearby 1street toward them. Stunned, Raoden stumbled backward. “Saolin, no! There are too many of them!” Fortunately, Saolin's men had heard the commotion. Within seconds, there were five of them-Saolin, Dashe, and three other soldiers-standing against the attack. They fought in an efficient line, blocking their enemy's path to the rest of the gardens, working with the coordination of trained soldiers. Shaor's men were more numerous, but their rage was no match for martial efficiency. They attacked solitarily, and their fervor made them stupid. In moments the battle was over, the few remaining attackers dashing away in retreat. Saolin cleaned his blade efficiently, then turned with the others. They saluted Raoden in coordination. The entire battle had happened almost more quickly than Raoden could follow. “Good work,” he finally managed to say. A grunt came from his side, where Galladon knelt beside the decapitated body of the first attacker. “They must have heard we had corn in here.” the Dula mumbled. “Poor rulos.” Raoden nodded solemnly, regarding the fallen madmen. Four of them lay on the ground, clutching various wounds-all of which would have been fatal had they not been Elantrians. As it was, they could only moan in torment. Raoden felt a stab of familiarity. He knew what that pain felt like. “This cannot continue,” he said quietly. “I don't see how you can stop it, sule,” Galladon replied at his side. “These are Shaor's men; not even he has much control over them.” Raoden shook his head. “I will not save the people of Elantris and leave them to fight all the days of their lives. I will not build a society on death. Shaor's followers might have forgotten that they are men, but I have not.” Galladon frowned. “Karata and Aanden, they were possibilities-if distant ones. Shaor is another story, sule. There isn't a smear of humanity left in these men-you can't reason with them.” “Then I'll have to give them their reason back,” Raoden said. “And how, sule, do you intend to do that?” “I will find a way.” Raoden knelt by the fallen madman. A tickle in the back of his mind warned him that he recognized this man from recent experience. Raoden couldn't be certain, but he thought that the man had been one of Taan's followers, one of the men Raoden had confronted during Dashe's attempted raid. So, it's true, Raoden thought with a crimp in his stomach. Many of Taan's followers had come to join Raoden, but the larger part had not. It was whispered that many of these had found their way to the merchant sector of Elantris, joining with Shaor's wildmen. It wasn't all that unlikely, Raoden supposed-the men had been willing to follow the obviously unbalanced Aanden, after all. Shaor's band was only a short step away from that. “Lord Spirit?” Saolin asked hesitantly. “What should we do with them?” Raoden turned pitying eyes on the fallen.
|
“They are of no danger to us now, Saolin. Let's put them with the others.” Soon after his success with Aanden's gang, and the subsequent swell in his band's numbers, Raoden had done something he'd wanted to from the beginning. He started gathering the fallen of Elantris. He took them off the streets and out of the gutters, searched through buildings both destroyed and standing, trying to find every man, woman, and child in Elantris who had given in to their pain. The city was large, and Raoden's manpower was limited, but so far they had collected hundreds of people. He ordered them placed in the second building Kahar had cleaned, a large open structure he had originally intended to use as a meeting place. The Hoed would still suffer, but at least they could do it with a little decency. And they wouldn't have to do it alone. Raoden had asked the people in his band to visit the Hoed. There were usually a couple of Elantrians walking among them, talking soothingly and trying to make them as comfortable as possible considering the circumstances. It wasn't much-and no one could stomach much time among the Hoed-but Raoden had convinced himself that it helped. He followed his own counsel, visiting the Hall of the Fallen at least once a day, and it seemed to him that they were improving. The Hoed still groaned, mumbled, or stared blankly, but the more vocal ones seemed quieter. Where the Hall had once been a place of fearful screams and echoes, it was now a subdued realm of quiet mumblings and despair. Raoden moved among them gravely, helping carry one of the fallen wildmen. There were only four to deposit; he had ordered the fifth man, the one Saolin had beheaded, buried. As far as anyone could tell, an Elantrian died when he was completely beheaded-at least, their eyes didn't move, nor did their lips try to speak, if the head was completely separated from the body. As he walked through the Hoed, Raoden listened to their quiet murmurings. “Beautiful, once so very beautiful....” “Life, life, life, life, life. . .” “Oh Domi, where are you? When will it end? Oh Domi....” He usually had to block the words out after a time, lest they drive him insane-or worse, reawaken the pain within his own body, ten was there, floating around sightless heads and weaving between fallen bodies. The Seon spent a lot of time in the room. It was strangely fitting. They left the Hall a solemn group, quiet and content to keep to their own thoughts. Raoden only spoke when he noticed the tear in Saolin's robes. “You're wounded!” Raoden said with surprise. “It is nothing, my lord,” Saolin said indifferently. “That kind of modesty is fine on the outside, Saolin, but not here. You must accept my apology.” “My lord,” Saolin said seriously. “Being an Elantrian only makes me more proud to wear this wound. I received it protecting our people.” Raoden turned a tormented look back at the Hall. “It only brings
|
you one step closer ...” “No, my lord, I don't think it does. Those people gave in to their pain because they couldn't find purpose-their torture was meaningless, and when you can't find reason in life, you tend to give up on it. This wound will hurt, but each stab of pain will remind me that I earned it with honor. That is not such a bad thing. I think.” Raoden regarded the old soldier with a look of respect. On the outside he probably would have been close to retirement. In Elantris, with the Shaod as an equalizer, he looked about the same as anyone else. One couldn't tell age by looks, but perhaps one could tell it through wisdom. “You speak discerningly, my friend.” Raoden said. “I accept your sacrifice with humility.” The conversation was interrupted by the slap of feet against cobblestones. A moment later Karata dashed into view, her feet coated with fresh sludge from outside the chapel area. Kahar would be furious: she had forgotten to wipe down her feet, and now she was tracking slime over his clean cobblestones. Karata obviously didn't care about slime at the moment. She surveyed the group quickly, making sure no one was missing. “I heard Shaor attacked. Were there any casualties?” “Five. All on their side.” Raoden said. “I should have been here,” she said with a curse. During the last few days, the determined woman had been overseeing the relocation of her people to the chapel area: she agreed that a central, unified group would be more effective, and the chapel area was cleaner. Oddly enough, the idea of cleaning the palace had never occurred to her. To most Elantrians, the sludge was accepted as an irrevocable part of life. “You have important things to do,” Raoden said. “You couldn't have anticipated Shaor would attack.” Karata didn't like the answer, but she fell into line beside him without further complaint. “Look at him, sule,” Galladon said, smiling slightly beside him. “I would never have thought it possible.” Raoden looked up, following the Dula's gaze. Taan knelt beside the road, inspecting the carvings on a short wall with childlike wonder. The squat-bodied former baron had spent the entire week cataloguing each carving, sculpture, or relief in the chapel area. He had already discovered, in his words, “at least a dozen new techniques.” The changes in Taan were remarkable, as was his sudden lack of interest in leadership. Karata still maintained a measure of influence in the group, accepting Raoden as the ultimate voice but retaining most of her authority. Taan, however, didn't bother to give orders; he was too busy with his studies. His people-the ones who had decided to join with Raoden-didn't seem to mind. Taan now estimated that about thirty percent of his “court” had found its way to Raoden's ban1d, trickling in as small groups. Raoden hoped that most of the others had chosen solitude instead: he found the idea of seventy percent of Taan's large band joining with Shaor very disturbing. Raoden had all of Karata's
|
people, but her gang had always been the smallest-if most efficient-of the three. Shaor's had always been the largest: its members had just lacked the cohesion and the motivation to attack the other gangs. The occasional newcomers Shaor's men had been given had sated their bloodlust. No longer. Raoden would accept no quarter with the madmen, would not allow them to torment innocent newcomers. Karata and Saolin now retrieved everyone thrown into the city, bringing them safely to Raoden's band. So far, the reaction from Shaor's men had not been good-and Raoden feared that it would only grow worse. I'll have to do something about them, he thought. That, however, was a problem for another day. He had studies he needed to get to for the moment. Once they reached the chapel, Galladon went back to his planting, Saolin's men dispersed to their patrols, and Karata decided-despite her earlier protests-that she should return to the palace. Soon only Raoden and Saolin were left. After the battle and sleeping so late, over half the day's light had already been wasted, and Raoden attacked his studies with determination. While Galladon planted and Karata evacuated the palace, it was Raoden's self-appointed duty to decipher as much as he could about AonDor. He was becoming increasingly convinced that the ancient magic of the characters held the secret of Elantris's fall. He reached through one of the chapel windows and pulled out the thick AonDor tome sitting on a table inside. So far, it hadn't been as helpful as he had hoped. It was not an instruction manual, but a series of case studies explaining odd or interesting events surrounding AonDor. Unfortunately, it was extremely advanced. Most of the book gave examples of what wasn't supposed to happen, and so Raoden needed to use reverse reasoning to decipher the logic of AonDor. So far he had been able to determine very little. It was becoming obvious that the Aons were only starting points-the most basic figures one could draw to produce an effect. Just like the expanded healing Aon from his dream, advanced AonDor consisted of drawing a base Aon in the center, then proceeding to draw other figures-sometimes just dots and lines-around it. The dots and lines were stipulations, narrowing or broadening the power's focus. With careful drawing, for instance, a healer could specify which limb was to be healed, what exactly was to be done to it, and how an infection was to be cleansed. The more Raoden read, the less he was beginning to see Aons as mystical symbols. They seemed more like mathematical computations. While most any Elantrian could draw the Aons-all it required was a steady hand and a basic knowledge of how to write the characters-the masters of AonDor were the ones who could swiftly and accurately delineate dozens of smaller modifications around the central Aon. Unfortunately, the book assumed that its reader had a comprehensive knowledge of AonDor, and passed over most of the basic principles. The few illustrations included were so incredibly complex that Raoden usually couldn't even tell
|
which character was the base Aon without referring to the text. “If only he would explain what it means to 'channel the Dor'!” Raoden exclaimed, rereading a particularly annoying passage that kept using1 the phrase. “Dor, sule?” Galladon asked, turning away from his planting. “That sounds like a Duladen term.” Raoden sat upright. The character used in the book to represent “Dor” was an uncommon one-not really an Aon at all, but simply a phonetic representation. As if the word had been transliterated from a different language. “Galladon, you're right!” Raoden said. “It isn't Aonic at all.” “Of course not-it can't be an Aon, it only has one vowel in it.” “That's a simplistic way of putting it, my friend.” “But it's true. Kolo?” “Yes, I suppose it is,” Raoden said. “That doesn't matter right now-what matters is Dor. Do you know what it means?” “Well, if it's the same word, then it refers to something in Jesker.” “What do the Mysteries have to do with this?” Raoden asked suspiciously. “Doloken, sule!” Galladon swore. “I've told you, Jesker and the Mysteries are not the same thing! What Opelon calls the 'Jeskeri Mysteries' is no more related to Duladel's religion than it is to Shu-Keseg.” “Point taken.” Raoden said, raising his hands. “Now, tell me about Dor.” “It's hard to explain, sule,” Galladon said, leaning on a makeshift hoe he had crafted out of a pole and some rocks. “Dor is the unseen power-it is in everything, but cannot be touched. It affects nothing, yet it controls everything. Why do rivers flow?” “Because the water is pulled downwards, just like everything else. The ice melts in the mountains, and it has to have a place to go.” “Correct,” Galladon said. “Now, a different question. What makes the water want to flow?” “I wasn't aware that it needed to.” “It does, and the Dor is its motivation,” Galladon said. “Jesker teaches that only humans have the ability-or the curse-of being oblivious to the Dor. Did you know that if you take a bird away from its parents and raise it in your house, it will still learn to fly?” Raoden shrugged. “How did it learn, sule? Who taught it to fly?” “The Dor?” Raoden asked hesitantly. “That is correct.” Raoden smiled; the explanation sounded too religiously mysterious to be useful. But then he thought of his dream, his memories of what had happened so long ago. When the Elantrian healer had drawn her Aon, it appeared as if a tear were appearing in the air behind her finger. Raoden could still feel the chaotic power raging behind that tear, the massive force trying to press its way through the Aon to get at him. It sought to overwhelm him, to break him down until he became pa1rt of it. However, the healer's carefully constructed Aon had funneled the power into a usable form, and it had healed Raoden's leg instead of destroying him. That force, whatever it had been, was real. It was there behind the Aons he drew, weak though they were. “That
|
must be it.... Galladon, that's why we are still alive!” “What are you babbling about, sule?” Galladon said, looking up from his work with tolerance. “That is why we live on, even though our bodies don't work anymore!” Raoden said with excitement. “Don't you see? We don't eat, yet we get the energy to keep moving. There must be some link between Elantrians and the Dor-it feeds our bodies, providing the energy we need to survive.” “Then why doesn't it give us enough to keep our hearts moving and our skin from turning gray?” Galladon asked, unconvinced. “Because it's barely enough,” Raoden explained. “AonDor no longer works-the power that once fueled the city has been reduced to a bare trickle. The important thing is, it's not gone. We can still draw Aons, even if they are weak and don't do anything, and our minds continue to live, even if our bodies have given up. We just need to find a way to restore it to full power.” “Oh, is that all?” Galladon asked. “You mean we need to fix what is broken?” “I guess so,” Raoden said. “The important thing is realizing there's a link between ourselves and the Dor, Galladon. Not only that-but there must be some sort of link between this land and the Dor.” Galladon frowned. “Why do you say that?” “Because AonDor was developed in Arelon and nowhere else,” Raoden said. “The text says that the farther one traveled from Elantris, the weaker the AonDor powers became. Besides-only people from Arelon are taken by the Shaod. It can take Teoish people, but only if they're living in Arelon at the time. Oh, and it takes the occasional Dula as well.” “I hadn't noticed.” “There's some link between this land, the Arelish people, and the Dor, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I've never heard of a Fjordell getting taken by the Shaod, no matter how long he lives in Arelon. Dulas are a mixed people-half Jindo, half Aonic. Where was your farm in Duladen?” Galladon frowned. “In the north, sule.” “The part that borders Arelon.” Raoden said triumphantly. “It has something to do with the land, and with our Aonic bloodlines.” Galladon shrugged. “It sounds like it makes sense, sule, but I'm just a simple farmer-what know I of such things?” Raoden snorted, not bothering to respond to the comment. “But why? What's the connection? Maybe the Fjordell are right-maybe Arelon is cursed.” “Hypothesize away, stile,” Galladon said, turning back to his work. “don't see much empirical good to it, though.” “All right. Well, I'll stop theorizing as soon as1 you tell me where a simple farmer learned the word 'empirical.' “ Galladon didn't respond, but Raoden thought he could hear the Dula chuckling softly. CHAPTER 20 “LET me see if I understand you, Princess dear,” Ahan said, holding aloft a chubby finger. “You want us to help Iadon? How foolish I am-I thought we didn't like the fellow.” “We don't.” Sarene agreed. “Helping the king financially doesn't have anything to do with our personal feelings.” “I'm afraid I have to
|
agree with Ahan, Princess,” Roial said with outspread hands. “Why the sudden change? What good will it do to aid the king now?” Sarene gritted her teeth in annoyance. Then, however, she caught a twinkle in the elderly duke's eye. He knew. The duke reportedly had a spy network as extensive as most kings'-he had figured out what Hrathen was trying to do. He had asked the question not to provoke her, but to give her an opportunity to explain. Sarene exhaled slowly, grateful for the duke's tact. “Someone is sinking the king's ships.” Sarene said. “Common sense confirms what my father's spies say. Dreok Crushthroat's fleets couldn't be sinking the boats-most of Dreok's ships were destroyed fifteen years ago when he tried to take the throne of Teod, and any remnants have long since disappeared. Wyrn must be behind the sinkings.” “All right, we accept that much,” Ahan said. “Fjorden is also giving financial support to Duke Telrii.” Sarene continued. “You don't have any proof of that, Your Highness,” Eondel pointed out. “No, I don't,” Sarene admitted, pacing between the men's chairs, the ground soft with new spring grass. They had eventually decided to hold this meeting in the gardens of Kae's Korathi chapel, and so there was no table for her to circle. Sarene had managed to remain seated during the first parr of the meeting, but had eventually stood. She found it easier to address others when she was on her feet-something of a nervous habit, she realized, but she also knew that her height lent her an air of authority. “I do, however, have logical conjecture,” she said. Eondel would respond well to anything following the word 'logical.' “We all attended Telrii's party a week ago. He must have spent more on that ball than most men make in a year.” “Extravagance isn't always a sign of wealth.” Shuden pointed out. “I've seen men poor as a peasant put on dazzling shows to maintain an illusion of security in the face of collapse.” Shuden's words rang true-a man at their own meeting, Baron Edan, was doing just what Shuden described. Sarene frowned. “I've done some checking around-I had a lot of free time this last week, since none of you managed to get this meeting together, despite its urgency.” None of the noblemen would meet her eyes after that comment. She'd finally gotten them together. But, unfortunately, Kiin and Lukel hadn't been able to attend because of a prior engagement. “Anyway, rumors1 say that Telrii's accounts have swelled drastically during the last two weeks, and his shipments to Fjorden turn fantastic profits no matter what he chooses to send, whether it be fine spices or cow dung.” “The fact remains that the duke has not aligned himself with Shu-Dereth.” Eondel pointed out. “He still attends his Korathi meetings piously.” Sarene folded her arms, tapping her cheek in thought. “If Telrii openly aligned himself with Fjorden, his earnings would be suspicious. Hrathen is far too crafty to be so transparent. It would be much smarter for Fjorden to remain
|
separate from the duke, allowing Telrii to appear a pious conservative. Despite Hrathen's recent advances, it would be much easier for a traditional Korathi to usurp the throne than it would be for a Derethi.” “He'll take the throne, then make good on his pact with Wyrn.” Roial agreed. “Which is why we have to make sure Iadon starts earning money again very soon,” Sarene said. “The nation is running dry-it is very possible that Telrii will earn more in this next accounting period than Iadon, even including taxes. I doubt the king would abdicate. However, if Telrii were to stage a coup, the other nobles might go along with him.” “How do you like that, Edan?” Ahan asked, directing a hearty laugh at the anxious baron. “You might not be the only one who loses his title in a few months-old Iadon himself might join you.” “If you please, Count Ahan,” Sarene said. “It's our duty to make sure that doesn't happen.” “What do you want us to do?” Edan asked nervously. “Send gifts to the king? I don't have any money to spare.” “None of us do, Edan,” Ahan responded, hands resting on his ample belly. “If it were 'spare' it wouldn't be valuable now, would it?” “You know what he means, Ahan,” Roial chided. “And I doubt gifts are what the princess had in mind.” “Actually, I'm open for suggestions, gentlemen,” Sarene said, spreading out her hands. “I'm a politician, not a merchant. I'm a confessed amateur at making money.” “Gifts wouldn't work,” Shuden said, hands laced before his chin contemplatively. “The king is a proud man who has earned his fortune through sweat, work, and scheming. He would never take handouts, even to save his throne. Besides, merchants are notoriously suspicious of gifts.” “We could go to him with the truth,” Sarene suggested. “Maybe then he'd accept our help.” “He wouldn't believe us,” Roial said with a shake of his aged head. “The king is a very literal man, Sarene-even more so than our dear Lord Eondel. Generals have to think abstractly to outguess their opponents, but Iadon-I seriously doubt he's had an abstract thought in his life. The king accepts things as they appear to be, especially if they are the way he thinks they should be.” “Which is why Lady Sarene fooled His Majesty with her apparent la1ck of wits,” Shuden agreed. “He expected her to be foolish, and when she appeared to fit his expectations he dismissed her-even if her act was terribly overdone.” Sarene chose not to rebut that remark. “Pirates are something Iadon understands,” Roial said. “They make sense in the world of shipping-in a way, every merchant considers himself a pirate. However, governments are different. In the king's eyes, it wouldn't make sense for a kingdom to sink ships filled with valuable merchandise. The king would never attack merchants, no matter how tense the war. And as far as he knows, Arelon and Fjorden are good friends. He was the first one to let Derethi priests into Kae, and he has given
|
that gyorn Hrathen every liberty of a visiting nobleman. I seriously doubt we could convince him that Wyrn is trying to depose him.” “We could try framing Fjorden.” Eondel suggested. “Making it obvious that the sinkings are Wyrn's work.” “It would take too long, Eondel,” Ahan said, shaking his jowls. “Besides, Iadon doesn't have many ships left-I doubt he'll risk them in those same waters again.” Sarene nodded. “It would also be very difficult for us to establish a connection to Wyrn. He's probably using Svordish warships for the task-Fjorden itself doesn't have much of a navy.” “Was Dreok Crushthroat Svordish?” Eondel asked with a frown. “I heard he was Fjordell,” Ahan said. “No,” Roial said. “I think he was supposed to be Aonic, wasn't he?” “Anyway,” Sarene said impatiently, trying to keep the meeting on track as she paced across the loamy garden floor. “Lord Ahan said he wouldn't risk his ships in those waters again, but the king obviously has to keep them shipping somewhere.” Ahan nodded in agreement. “He can't afford to stop now-spring is one of the best buying seasons. People have been cooped up all winter with drab colors and drabber relatives. As soon as the snows melt, they're ready to splurge a little. This is the time when expensive colored silks go for a premium, and that is one of Iadon's best products. “These sinkings are a disaster. Not only did Iadon lose the ships themselves, he lost the profit he would have made off all those silks, not to mention the other cargo. Many merchants nearly bankrupt themselves this time of year by stockpiling goods that they know they can eventually sell.” “His Majesty got greedy,” Shuden said. “He bought more and more ships, and filled them with as much silk as he could afford.” “We're all greedy, Shuden,” Ahan said. “Don't forget, your family earned its fortune by organizing the spice route from Jindo. You didn't even ship anything-you just built the roads and charged the merchants to use them.” “Let me rephrase. Lord Ahan,” Shuden said. “The king let his greed make him foolish. Disasters are something every good merchant should plan for. Never ship what you can't afford to lose.” “Well put,” Ahan agreed. “Anyway.” Sarene said, “if the king only has a couple of ships left, then they have to deliver a solid profit.” “ 'Solid' isn't the right word, my dear,” Ahan said. “Try 'extraordinary.' It is going to take a miracle for Iadon to recoup from this little catastrophe-especially before Telrii humiliates him irreparably.” “What if he had an agreement with Teod?” Sarene asked. “An extremely lucrative contract for silks?” “Maybe,” Ahan said with a shrug. “It's clever.” “But impossible.” Duke Roial said. “Why?” Sarene demanded. “Teod can afford it.” “Because,” the duke explained, “Iadon would never accept such a contract. He's too experienced a merchant to make a deal that appears too fabulous to be realistic.” “Agreed,” Shuden said with a nod. “The king wouldn't be against making a horrible profit off of Teod, but only if he
|
thought he was cheating you.” The others nodded at Shuden's statement. Although the Jindoeese man was the youngest in the group, Shuden was quickly proving himself to be as shrewd as Roial-perhaps more so. Thar capability, mixed with his deserved reputation for honesty, earned him respect beyond his years. It was a powerful man indeed who could mix integrity with savvy. “We'll have to think on this some more,” Roial said. “But not too long. We must solve the problem by the accounting day, otherwise we'll be dealing with Telrii instead of Iadon. As bad as my old friend is, I know we'd have less luck with Telrii-especially if Fjorden is backing him.” “Is everyone doing as I asked with their planting?” Sarene asked as the nobles prepared to leave. “It wasn't easy,” Ahan admitted. “My overseers and minor nobles all objected to the idea.” “But you did it.” “I did,” Ahan said. “As did I,” Roial said. “I had no choice,” Edan muttered. Shuden and Eondel each gave her quiet nods. “We started planting last week,” Edan said. “How long before we see results?” “Hopefully within the next three months, for your sake, my lord” Sarene said. “That is usually long enough to get an estimate of how good a crop will do,” Shuden said. “I still don't see how it matters whether the people think they're free or not,” Ahan said. “The same seeds get planted, and so the same crop should come up.” “You'll be surprised, my lord,” Sarene promised. “May we go now?” Edan asked pointedly. He 1still chafed at the idea of Sarene running these meetings. “One more question, my lords. I've been considering my Widow's Trial, and would like to hear what you think.” The men began to shift uncomfortably at the statement, looking at each other uneasily. “Oh, come now,” Sarene said with a displeased frown, “you're grown men. Get over your childish fear of Elantris.” “It is a very delicate topic in Arelon, Sarene,” Shuden said. “Well, it appears that Hrathen isn't worried about that,” she said. “You all know what he's begun to do.” “He's drawing a parallel between Shu-Korath and Elantris.” Roial said with a nod. “He's trying to turn the people against the Korathi priests.” “And he's going to be successful if we don't stop him,” Sarene said, “which requires you all to get over your squeamishness and stop pretending that Elantris doesn't exist. The city is a major part of the gyorn's plans.” The men shot each other knowing looks in the dense Korathi garden. The men thought she paid undue attention to the gyorn they saw Iadon's government as a major problem, but religion didn't seem a tangible threat. They didn't understand that in Fjorden, at least, religion and war were almost the same thing. “You're just going to have to trust me, my lords,” Sarene said. “Hrathen's schemes are important. You said the king sees things concretely-well, this Hrathen is the opposite. He views everything by its potential, and his goal is to make Arelon another Fjordell protectorate.
|
If he is using Elantris against us, we must respond.” “Just have that short Korathi priest agree with him,” Ahan suggested. “Put them on the same side, then no one can use the city against anyone else.” “Omin won't do that, my lord,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “He bears the Elantrians no ill will, and he would never consent to labeling them devils.” “Couldn't he just . . .” Ahan said. “Merciful Domi. Ahan,” Roial said. “Don't you ever attend his sermons? The man would never do that.” “I go.” Ahan said indignantly. “I just thought he might be willing to serve his kingdom. We could compensate him.” “No, my lord,” Sarene said insistently. “Omin is a man of the Church-a good and sincere one, at that. To him, truth is not subject to debate-or sale. I'm afraid we have no choice. We have to side with Elantris.” Several faces, including Eondel and Edan's, blanched at that statement. “That might not be an easy proposition to carry out, Sarene.” Roial warned. “You may think us childish, but these four are among the most intelligent and open-minded men in Arelon. If you find them nervous about Elantris, then you will find the rest of Arelon more so.” “We have to change that s1entiment, my lord,” Sarene said. “And my Widow's Trial is our opportunity. I am going to take food to the Elantrians.” This time she succeeded in getting a reaction even from Shuden and Roial. “Did I hear your correctly, my dear?” Ahan asked with a shaky voice. “You're going to go into Elantris?” “Yes.” Sarene said. “I need something to drink,” Ahan decided, unstoppering his wine flask. “The king will never allow it,” Edan said. “He doesn't even let the Elantris City Guards go inside.” “He's right,” Shuden agreed. “You will never get through those gates, Your Highness.” “Let me deal with the king.” Sarene said. “Your subterfuge won't work this time, Sarene,” Roial warned. “No amount of stupidity will convince the king to let you into the city.” “I'll think of something,” Sarene said, trying to sound more certain than she was. “It's not your concern, my lord. I just want your word that you will help me.” “Help you?” Ahan asked hesitantly. “Help me distribute food in Elantris,” Sarene said. Ahan's eyes bugged out. “Help you?” he repeated. “In there?” “My goal is to demystify the city,” Sarene explained. “To do that, I'll need to convince the nobility to go inside and see for themselves that there's nothing horrifying about the Elantrians.” “I'm sorry to sound objectionable,” Eondel began. “But, Lady Sarene, what if there is? What if everything they say about Elantris is true?” Sarene paused. “I don't think they're dangerous, Lord Eondel. I've looked in on the city and its people. There is nothing frightening about Elantris-well, nothing besides the way its people are treated. I don't believe the tales about monsters or Elantrian cannibalism. I just see a collection of men and women who have been mistreated and misjudged.” Eondel didn't look
|
convinced, and neither did the others. “Look, I'll go in first and test it,” Sarene said. “I want you lords to join me after the first few days.” “Why us?” Edan said with a groan. “Because I need to start somewhere,” Sarene explained. “If you lords brave the city, then others will feel foolish if they object. Aristocrats have a group mentality; if I can build some momentum, then I can probably get most of them to come in with me at least once. Then they'll see that there is nothing horrible about Elantris-that its people are just poor wretches who want to eat. We can defeat Hrathen with simple truth. It is hard to demonize a man after you have seen tears in his eyes as he thanks you for feeding him.” “This is all pointless anyway,” Edan said, his hand twitching at the thought of entering Elantris. “The king will never let her in.” “And if he does?” Sarene asked quickly. “Then will you go. Edan?” The baron blinked in surprise, realizing he had been caught. She waited for him to respond, but he stubbornly refused to answer the question. “I will,” Shuden declared. Sarene smiled at the Jindo. This was the second time he had been the first to offer her support. “If Shuden's going to do it, then I doubt the rest of us will have the humility to say no,” Roial said. “Get your permission, Sarene, then we will discuss this further.” “Maybe I was a little too optimistic,” Sarene admitted, standing outside the doors to Iadon's study. A pair of guards stood a short distance away, watching her suspiciously. “Do you know what you are going to do, my lady?” Ashe asked. The Seon had spent the meeting floating just outside the chapel walls-well within his range of hearing-making certain that no one else was eavesdropping on their meeting. Sarene shook her head. She had displayed bravado when confronted by Ahan and the others, but now she realized how misplaced that sentiment had been. She had no idea how she was going to get Iadon to let her into Elantris-let alone get him to accept their help. “Did you speak with Father?” she asked. “I did, my lady.” Ashe replied. “He said he would give you whatever financial help you required.” “All right,” Sarene said. “Let's go.” She took a deep breath and strode toward the soldiers. “I would speak with my father,” she announced. The guards glanced at each other. “Um, we were told not to ...” “That doesn't apply to family, soldier,” Sarene said insistently. “If the queen came to speak with her husband would you turn her away?” The guards frowned in confusion; Eshen probably didn't come to visit. Sarene had noticed that the bubbly queen tended to keep her distance from Iadon. Even silly women resent being described that way to their faces. “Just open the door, soldier,” Sarene said. “If the king doesn't want to talk to me, he'll throw me out, and next time you will know not to let
|
me in.” The guards hesitated, and Sarene simply pushed her way between them and opened the door herself. The guards, obviously unused to dealing with forceful women-especially in the royal family-simply let her pass. Iadon looked up from his desk, a pair of spectacles she had never seen him wear before balanced on the end of his nose. He quickly pulled them off and stood, slamming his hands against the desktop in annoyance, disturbing several invoice stacks in the process. “You aren't content to annoy me in public, so you have to follow me to my study as well?” he demanded. “If I'd known what a foolish, spindly girl you were, I would never have signed that treaty. Be gone, woman, and leave me to work!” “I tell you what, Father,” Sarene said with frankness. “I'll pretend to be an intelligent human being capable of a semilucid conversation, and you pretend the same thing.” Iadon's eyes grew wide at the comment, and his face turned a bright red. “Rag Domi!” he swore, using a curse so vile Sarene had only heard it twice. “You tricked me, woman. I could have you beheaded for making me look the fool.” “Start decapitating your children, Father, and people will begin to ask questions.” She watched his reaction carefully, hoping to glean something about Raoden's disappearance, but she was disappointed. Iadon brushed off the comment with only passing attention. “I should ship you back to Eventeo right now,” he said. “Fine, I'd be happy to go,” she lied. “However, realize that if I go, you lose your trade treaty with Teod. That could be a problem, considering the luck you've had peddling your silks in Fjorden lately.” Iadon gritted his teeth at the comment. “Careful, my lady.” Ashe whispered. “Do not unsettle him too much. Men often place pride before reason.” Sarene nodded. “I can give you a way out, Father. I have come to offer you a deal.” “What reason do I have to accept any offers from you, woman?” he snapped. “You have been here nearly a month, and now I find that you have been deceiving me the whole time.” “You will trust me, Father, because you have lost seventy-five percent of your fleet to pirates. In a few short months you could lose your throne unless you listen to me.” Iadon betrayed surprise at her knowledge. “How do you know these things?” “Everyone knows, Father.” Sarene said lightly. “It's all over the court-they expect you to fall at the next taxing period.” “I knew it!” Iadon said, his eyes widening with rage. He began to sweat and curse at the courtiers, railing at their determination to see him off the throne. Sarene blinked in surprise. She had made the comment passingly to keep Iadon off balance, but hadn't expected such a strong reaction. He's paranoid she realized. Why hasn't anyone noticed this before? However, the speed with which Iadon recovered gave her a clue-he was paranoid, but he kept it well hidden. The way she was jerking his emotions must have weakened
|
his control. “You propose a deal?” the king demanded. “I do,” Sarene said. “Silk is going for a premium in Teod right now, Father. One could make quite a profit selling it to the king. And, considering certain familial relationships, you might be able to talk Eventeo into giving you sole mercantile rights in his country.” Iadon grew suspicious, his rage cooling as he sensed a bargain. However, the merchant in him immediately began to sniff for problems. Sarene gritted her teeth in frustration: It was as the others had told her. Iadon would never accept her offer: it st1ank too much of deceit. “An interesting proposal.” he admitted. “But I'm afraid that I-” “I would, of course, require something in return,” Sarene interrupted, thinking quickly. “Call it a fee for setting up the deal between Eventeo and yourself.” Iadon paused. “What kind of fee are we talking about?” he asked warily. An exchange was different from a gift-it could be weighed, measured, and, to an extent, trusted. “I want to go inside Elantris,” Sarene declared. “What?” “I have to perform a Widow's Trial” Sarene said. “So, I am going to bring food to the Elantrians.” “What possible motivation could you have for doing that, woman?” “Religious reasons, Father,” Sarene explained. “Shu-Korath teaches us to help those most lowly, and I challenge you to find anyone more lowly than the Elantrians.” “It's out of the question.” Iadon said. “Entry into Elantris is forbidden by law.” “A law you made, Father,” Sarene said pointedly. “And, therefore, you can make exceptions. Think carefully-your fortune, and your throne, could balance on your answer.” Iadon ground his teeth audibly as he considered the trade. “You want to enter Elantris with food? For how long?” “Until I am convinced my duty as Prince Raoden's wife has been fulfilled,” Sarene said. “You would go alone?” “I would take any who were willing to accompany me.” Iadon snorted. “You'll have trouble finding anyone to fill that requirement.” “My problem, not yours.” “First that Fjordell devil starts whipping my people into mobs, now you would do the same,” the king mumbled. “No, Father,” Sarene corrected. “I want quite the opposite-chaos would only benefit Wyrn. Believe as you wish, but it is my sole concern to see stability in Arelon.” Iadon continued to think for a moment. “No more than ten at a time, excluding guards,” he finally said. “I don't want mass pilgrimages going into Elantris. You will enter an hour before noon and you will be gone by an hour after noon. No exceptions.” “Done,” Sarene agreed. “You may use my Seon to call King Eventeo to work out the details of the deal.” “I must admit, my lady, that was rather clever.” Ashe bobbed along beside her in the hallway on the way to her room. Sarene had stayed as Iadon spoke with Eventeo, mediating as the two worked out the deal. Her father's voice had contained a hearty measure of “I hope you know what you're doing, 'E1ne” in it. Eventeo was a kind and good king,
|
but he was an absolutely horrible businessman; he kept a fleet of accountants to manage the royal finances. Once Iadon had sensed her father's inability, he struck with the enthusiasm of a raging predator, and only Sarene's presence had kept Iadon from leaking away Teod's entire tax revenue in a rampage of trading fervor. As it was, Iadon had managed to talk them into buying his silks for four times as much as they were worth. The king had been beaming so widely as Sarene left that he almost appeared to have forgiven her for her charade. “Clever?” Sarene asked innocently in response to Ashe's comment. “Me?” The Seon bobbed, chuckling softly. “Is there anyone you can't manipulate, my lady?” “Father,” Sarene said. “You know he gets the better of me three times out of five.” “He says the same thing about you, my lady.” Ashe noted. Sarene smiled, pushing open the door to her room to prepare for bed. “It really wasn't that clever, Ashe. We should have realized that our problems were really solutions to one another-one an offer with no catch, the other a request with no sweetener.” Ashe made noises of displeasure as he floated around the room, “tisking,” offended at its messy state. “What?” Sarene asked, unwrapping the black ribbon tied around her upper arm-the only remaining sign of her mourning. “The room has not been cleaned again, my lady,” Ashe explained. “Well, it's not like I left it that messy in the first place,” Sarene said with a huff. “No, Your Highness is a very tidy woman,” Ashe agreed. “However, the palace maids have been lax in their duties. A princess deserves proper esteem-if you allow them to neglect their work, it won't be long before they stop respecting you.” “I think you're reading too much into it, Ashe,” Sarene said with a shake of her head, pulling off her dress and preparing her nightgown. “I'm supposed to be the suspicious one, remember?” “This is a matter of servants, not lords, my lady,” Ashe said. “You are a brilliant woman and a fine politician, but you betray a common weakness of your class-you ignore the opinions of servants.” “Ashe!” Sarene objected. “I always treated my father's servants with respect and kindness.” “Perhaps I should rephrase, my lady,” Ashe said. “Yes, you lack unkind prejudices. However, you don't pay attention to what the servants think of you-not in the same way you are always aware of what the aristocracy thinks.” Sarene pulled her nightgown over her head, refusing to show even a hint of petulance. “I've always tried to be fair.” “Yes, my lady, but you are a child of nobility, raised to ignore those who work around you. I only suggest you remember that if the maids disrespect you, it could be as detrimental as if the lords did so.” “All right,” Sarene said with a sigh. “Point taken. Fetch Meala for me; I'll ask her if she knows what happened.” “Yes, my lady.” Ashe floated toward the window. However, before he left. Sarene made one
|
last comment. “Ashe?” she asked. “The people loved Raoden, didn't they?” “By all accounts, my lady. He was known for paying very personal heed to their opinions and needs.” “He was a better prince than I am a princess, wasn't he?” she asked, her voice falling. “I wouldn't say that, my lady,” Ashe said. “You are a very kindhearted woman, and you always treat your maids well. Do not compare yourself to Raoden-it is important to remember that you weren't preparing to run a country, and your popularity with the people wasn't an issue. Prince Raoden was the heir to the throne, and it was vital that he understand his subjects' feelings.” “They say he gave the people hope.” Sarene said musingly. “That the peasants endured Iadon's outrageous burdens because they knew Raoden would eventually take the throne. The country would have collapsed years ago if the prince hadn't gone amongst them, encouraging them and reviving their spirits.” “And now he's gone,” Ashe said quietly. “Yes, he's gone,” Sarene agreed, her voice detached. “We have to hurry. Ashe. I keep feeling that I'm not doing any good-that the country is heading for disaster no matter what I do. It's like I'm at the bottom of a hill watching an enormous boulder crash down toward me, and I'm throwing pebbles up to try and deflect it.” “Be strong, my lady,” Ashe said in his deep, stately voice. “Your God will not sit and watch as Arelon and Teod crumble beneath Wyrn's heel.” “I hope the prince is watching as well,” Sarene said. “Would he be proud of me, Ashe?” “Very proud my lady.” “I just want them to accept me,” she explained, realizing how silly she must sound. She had spent nearly three decades loving a country without ever feeling it loved her back. Teod had respected her, but she was tired of respect. She wanted something different from Arelon. “They will, Sarene,” Ashe promised. “Give them time. They will.” “Thank you Ashe.” Sarene said with a quiet sigh. “Thank you for enduring the lamentations of a silly girl.” “We can be strong in the face of kings and priests, my lady,” Ashe replied, “but to live is to have worries and uncertainties. Keep them inside, and they will destroy you for certain-leaving behind a person so callused that emotion can find no root in his heart.” With that the Seon passed out the window, in seareh of the maid Meala. By the time Meala arrived, Sarene had comp1osed herself. There had been no tears, just time spent in thought. Sometimes it was too much for her, and her insecurity simply had to boil out. Ashe and her father had always been there to support her during those times. “Oh dear,” Meala said, regarding the state of the room. She was thin and rather young-definitely not what Sarene expected when she had first moved into the palace. Meala more resembled one of her father's accountants than she did a head maid. “I'm sorry, my lady,” Meala apologized, offering Sarene a wan smile. “I
|
didn't even think of this. We lost another girl this afternoon, and it didn't occur to me that your room was on her list of duties.” “'Lost.' Meala?” Sarene asked with concern. “A runaway, my lady,” Meala explained. “They aren't supposed to leave-we're indentured like the rest of the peasants. For some reason we have trouble keeping maids in the palace, however. Domi knows why it is-no servant in the country is treated better than those here.” “How many have you lost?” Sarene asked with curiosity. “She was the fourth this year,” Meala said. “I'll send someone up immediately.” “No, don't bother tonight. Just make sure it doesn't happen again.” “Of course, my lady,” Meala said with a curtsy. “Thank you.” “There it is again!” Sarene said with excitement, jumping out of her bed. Ashe instantly burst back to full illumination, hovering uncertainly by the wall. “My lady?” “Quiet,” Sarene ordered, pressing her ear against the stone wall beneath her window, listening to the scraping sound. “What do you think?” “I am thinking that whatever my lady had for supper, it isn't agreeing with her,” Ashe informed curtly. “There was definitely a noise there.” Sarene said, ignoring the gibe. Though Ashe was always awake in the mornings when she got up, he didn't like being disturbed after he had fallen asleep. She reached over to her nightstand and picked up a scrap of parchment. On it she made a mark with a thin piece of charcoal, not wanting to bother with pen and ink. “Look,” she declared, holding up the paper for Ashe to see. “The sounds always come on the same days of the week: MaeDal and OpeDal.” Ashe floated over and looked at the paper, his glowing Aon the room's only illumination besides starlight. “You've heard it twice on MaeDal and twice on OpeDal, four times in total,” he said skeptically. “That is hardly grounds for a decision that they 'always come on the same days,' my lady.” “Oh, you think I'm hearing things anyway,” Sarene said, dropping the parchment back onto her table. “I thought Seons were supposed to have excellent auditory senses.” “Not when we're sleeping, my lady,” Ashe said, implying that that was exactly what he should have been doing at the moment. “There must be a passage here,” Sarene decided, ineffectually tapping the stone wall. “If you say so, my lady.” “I do,” she said, rising and studying her window. “Look how thick the stone is around this window, Ashe.” She leaned against the wall and stuck her arm out the window. The tips of her fingers could barely curl around the outside ledge. “Does the wall really need to be so wide?” “It offers much protection, my lady.” “It also offers room for a passage.” “A very thin one,” Ashe replied. “True,” Sarene mused, kneeling down to view the bottom edge of the window at eye level. “It slopes upwards. The passage was constructed to angle up, passing between the bottoms of the windows on this level and the first story.” “But the only thing
|
in that direction is ... “The king's rooms,” Sarene finished. “Where else would a passage lead?” “Are you suggesting that the king takes secret excursions twice a week in the middle of the night, my lady?” “At precisely eleven o'clock,” Sarene said, eyeing the large grandfather clock in the corner of her room. “It's always at the same time.” “What possible reason could he have for such a thing?” “I don't know.” Sarene said, tapping her cheek in contemplation. “Oh dear,” Ashe mumbled. “My lady is concocting something, isn't she?” “Always,” Sarene said sweetly, climbing back into bed. “Turn down your light-some of us want to get some sleep.” CHAPTER 21 HRATHEN sat down in his chair, wearing a red Derethi robe instead of his armor, as he often did when he was in his chambers. The knock that came at his door was expected. “Come in,” he said. Arteth Thered entered. A man of good Fjordell stock, Thered had a strong, tall frame, dark hair, and squareish features. He was still well muscled from his days training in the monastery. “Your Grace,” the man said, bowing and falling to his knees with a proper sign of respect. “Arteth,” Hrathen said, lacing his fingers in front of himself. “During my time here, I've been watching the local priests. I have been impressed with your service in Jaddeth's kingdom, and I have decided to offer you the position of head Arteth of this chapel.” Thered looked up with surprise. “Your Grace?” “I had thought that I would have to1 wait to appoint a new head Arteth until a new batch of priests arrived from Fjorden,” Hrathen said. “But, as I said, you have impressed me. I decided to offer you the position.” And of course, he added in his mind, I don't have time to wait. I need someone to administrate the chapel now so that I can focus on other tasks. “My lord ...” the Arteth said, obviously overwhelmed. “I cannot accept this position.” Hrathen froze. “What?”No Derethi priest would refuse a position of such power. “I'm sorry, my lord,” the man repeated, looking down. “What reason have you for this decision. Arteth?” Hrathen demanded. “I can give none, Your Grace. I just ... It just wouldn't be right for me to take the position. May I withdraw?” Hrathen waved his hand, disturbed. Ambition was such a cardinal Fjordell attribute: how had a man such as Thered lost his pride so quickly? Had Fjon really weakened the priests in Kae so soundly? Or ... was something else behind this man's refusal? A nagging voice inside of Hrathen whispered that the banished Fjon was not to blame. Dilaf-Dilaf had something to do with Thered's refusal. The thought was probably just paranoia, but it spurred Hrathen forward with his next item of business. Dilaf had to be dealt with: despite his stunt with the Elantrian, the Arteth was growing increasingly influential with the other priests. Hrathen reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a small envelope. He had made a mistake with Dilaf. While
|
it was possible to channel a zealot's ardor, Hrathen currently had neither the time nor the energy to do so. The future of an entire kingdom depended on Hrathen's ability to focus, and he hadn't realized how much attention Dilaf would require. It could not continue. Hrathen's world was one of control and predictability, his religion a logical exercise. Dilaf was like a boiling pot of water poured on Hrathen's ice. In the end, they would both just end up weakened and dissipated, like puffs of steam in the wind. And after they were gone, Arelon would die. Hrathen put on his armor and left his room, entering the chapel. Several supplicants knelt in prayerful silence, and priests moved about busily. The chapel's vaulted ceilings and spirited architecture was familiar-this was where he should be most comfortable. Too often, however, Hrathen found himself fleeing up to the walls of Elantris. Though he told himself that he simply went to the walls because their height gave him a vantage over Kae, he knew that there was another reason. He went, in part, because he knew that Elantris was a place that Dilaf would never voluntarily go. Dilaf's chamber was a small alcove much like the one Hrathen himself had occupied as an Arteth many years ago. Dilaf looked up from his desk as Hrathen pushed open the room's simple wooden door. “My hroden?” the Arteth said, standing with surprise. Hrathen rarely visited his chambers. “I have an important task for you, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “One I cannot trust to anyone else.” “Of course, my hroden,” Dilaf said submiss1ively, bowing his head. However, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, “I serve with devotion, knowing I am part of the chain linked to Lord Jaddeth himself.” “Yes,” Hrathen said dismissively. “Arteth, I need you to deliver a letter.” “A letter?” Dilaf looked up with confusion. “Yes,” Hrathen said flatly. “It is vital Wyrn know of our progress here. I have written him a report, but the matters discussed therein are very delicate. If it should be lost, irreparable damage could be done. I have chosen you, my odiv, to deliver it in person.” “That will take weeks, my hroden!” “I know. I will have to go without your service for a time, but I will be comforted by the knowledge that you are engaged in a vital mission.” Dilaf lowered his eyes, his hands falling to rest lightly on the top of his table. “I go as my hroden commands.” Hrathen paused, frowning slightly. It was impossible for Dilaf to escape; the hroden-odiv relationship was irrevocably binding. When one's master commanded, one obeyed. Even so, Hrathen had expected more from Dilaf. A ploy of some kind. An attempt to wiggle out of the assignment. Dilaf accepted the letter with apparent subservience. Maybe this was what he wanted all along, Hrathen realized. A way into Fjorden. His position as odiv to a gyorn would give him power and respect in the East. Perhaps Dilaf's only purpose in antagonizing Hrathen had been to get out of Arelon. Hrathen
|
turned and walked back out into the chapel's hollow sermon hall. The event had been even more painless than he had hoped. He held back a sigh of relief, stepping with a bit more confidence as he walked toward his chambers. A voice sounded from behind. Dilaf's voice. Speaking softly-yet with enough projection to be heard. “Send out messengers.” the Arteth ordered to one of the dorvens. “We leave for Fjorden in the morning.” Hrathen nearly kept walking. He almost didn't care what Dilaf was planning or what he did, as long as he left. However, Hrathen had spent too long in positions of leadership-too long as a political being-to let such a statement pass. Especially from Dilaf. Hrathen spun. “We? I ordered only you, Arteth.” “Yes, my lord,” Dilaf said. “However, surely you don't expect me to leave my odivs behind.” “Odivs?” Hrathen asked. As an official member of the Derethi priesthood, Dilaf was able to swear odivs just as Hrathen had, continuing the chain that linked all men to Jaddeth. Hrathen hadn't even considered, however, that the man might call odivs of his own. When had he found the time? “Who, Dilaf?” Hrathen asked sharply. “Whom did you make your odiv?” “Several people, my hroden,” Dilaf responded evasively. “Names, Arteth.” And he began to name them. Most priests called one or two odivs, several of the gyorns had as many as ten. Dila1f had over thirty. Hrathen grew increasingly stunned as he listened. Stunned, and angry. Somehow, Dilaf made odivs out of all Hrathen's most useful supporters-including Waren and many of the other aristocrats. Dilaf finished his list, turning traitorously humble eyes toward the floor. “An interesting list,” Hrathen said slowly. “And who do you intend to take with you, Arteth?” “Why, all of them, my lord,” Dilaf said innocently. “If this letter is as important as my lord implies, then I must give it proper protection.' Hrathen closed his eyes. If Dilaf took all of the people he had mentioned, then it would leave Hrathen stripped of supporters-assuming, that was, they would go. The calling of odiv was very demanding; most normal Derethi believers, even many priests, were sworn to the less restrictive position of krondet. A kronder listened to the counsel of his hroden, but was not morally bound to do what he was told. It was well within Dilaf's power to make his odivs accompany him to Fjorden. Hrathen could have no control over what the Arteth did with his sworn followers: it would be a grave breach of protocol to order Dilaf to leave them behind. However, if Dilaf did try to take them, it would undoubtedly be a disaster. These men were new to Shu-Dereth: they didn't know how much power they had given Dilaf. If the Arteth tried to drag them to Fjorden, it was unlikely they would follow. And if that happened. Hrathen would be forced to excommunicate every single one of them. Shu-Dereth would be ruined in Arelon. Dalaf continued his preparations as if he hadn't noticed Hrathen's internal battle. Not that
|
it was much of a conflict-Hrathen knew what he had to do. Dilaf was unstable. It was possible that he was bluffing, but equally likely that he would destroy Hrathen's efforts in spiteful retribution. Hrathen gritted his teeth until his jaw throbbed. Hrathen might have stopped Dilaf's attempt to burn the Elantrian, but the Arteth had obviously realized what Hrathen's next move would be. No, Dilaf didn't want to go to Fjorden. He might have been unstable, but he was also much better prepared than Hrathen had assumed. Hrathen ordered as Dilaf's messenger turned to leave. If that man left the chapel, all would be ruined. “Arteth. I have changed my mind.” “My hroden?” Dilaf asked, poking his head out of his chamber. “You will not go to Fjorden. Dilaf.” “But my lord ...” “No, I cannot do without you.” The lie made Hrathen's stomach clinch tightly. “Find someone else to deliver the message.” With that, Hrathen spun and stalked toward his chambers. “I am, as always, my hroden's humble servant,” Dilaf whispered, the room's acoustics carrying the words directly to Hrathen's ears. Hrathen fled again. He needed to think, to clear his mind. He had spent several hours stewing in his office, angry at both Dilaf and himself. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and so he absconded to the night streets of Kae. As usual, he directed his path toward Elantris's wall. He sought height, as if rising above the dwellings of man could give him a better perspective on life. “Spare some coins, sir?” pled a voice. Hrathen stopped in surprise; he had been so distracted that he hadn't noticed the rag-clothed beggar at his feet. The man was old and obviously had poor sight, for he was squinting up at Hrathen in the darkness. Hrathen frowned, realizing for the first time that he had never seen a beggar in Kae. A youth, dressed in clothing no better than that of the old man, hobbled around the corner. The boy froze, blanching pale white. “Not him, you old fool!” he hissed. Then, to Hrathen, he quickly said, “I'm sorry, my lord. My father loses his wits sometimes and thinks he is a beggar. Please forgive us.” He moved to grab the old man's arm. Hrathen held up his hand commandingly, and the youth stopped, growing another shade paler. Hrathen knelt down beside the elderly man, who was smiling with a half-senile daze. “Tell me, old man,” Hrathen asked, “why do I see so few beggars in the city?” “The king forbids begging in his city, good sir.” the man croaked. “It is a poor sign of prosperity to have us on his streets. If he finds us, he sends us back to the farms.” “You say too much,” the youth warned, his frightened face indicating that he was very close to abandoning the old man and bolting away. The elderly beggar wasn't finished. “Yes, good sir, we mustn't let him catch us. Hide outside the city, we do.” “Outside the city?” Hrathen pressed. “Kae isn't the only town
|
here, you know. There used to be four of them, all surrounding Elantris, but the others dried up. Not enough food for so many people in such a small area, they said. We hide in the ruins.” “Are there many of you?” Hrathen asked. “No, not many. Only those who've the nerve to run away from the farms.” The old man's eyes took on a dreamy look. “I wasn't always a beggar, good sir. Used to work in Elantris-I was a carpenter, one of the best. I didn't make a very good farmer, though. The king was wrong there, good sir-he sent me to the fields, but I was too old to work in them, so I ran away. Came here. The merchants in the town, they give us money sometimes. But we can only beg after night comes, and never from the high nobles. No, sir, they would tell the king.” The old man squinted up at Hrathen-as if realizing for the first time why the boy was so apprehensive. “You don't look much like a merchant, good sir.” he said hesitantly. “I'm not,” Hrathen responded, dropping a bag of coins in the man's hand. “That is for you.” Then he dropped a second bag beside the first. “That is for the others. Good night, old man.” “Thank you, good sir!”1 the man cried. “Thank Jaddeth,” Hrathen said. “Who is Jaddeth, good sir?” Hrathen bowed his head. “You'll know soon enough, old man. One way or another, you'll know.” The breeze was gusty and strong atop the wall of Elantris, and it whipped at Hrathen's cape with glee. It was a cool ocean wind, bearing the briny scent of saltwater and sea life. Hrathen stood between two burning torches, leaning against the low parapet and looking out over Kae. The city wasn't very large, not when compared with the sheer mass of Elantris, but it could have been far better fortified. He felt his old dissatisfaction returning. He hated being in a place that couldn't protect itself. Perhaps that was part of the stress he was feeling with this assignment. Lights sparked throughout Kae, most of them streetlamps, including a series that ran along the short wall that marked the formal border of the city. The wall ran in a perfect circle-so perfect, in fact, that Hrathen would have remarked upon it had he been in any other city. Here it was just another remnant of fallen Elantris's glory. Kae had spilled out beyond that inner wall, but the old border remained-a ring of flame running around the center of the city. “It was so much nicer, once,” a voice said behind him. Hrathen turned with surprise. He had heard the footsteps approaching, but he had simply assumed it was one of the guards making his rounds. Instead he found a short, bald Arelene in a simple gray robe. Omin, head of the Korathi religion in Kae. Omin approached the edge, pausing beside Hrathen and studying the city. “Of course, that was back then, when the Elantrians still ruled. The city's
|
fall was probably good for our souls. Still, I can't help recalling those days with awe. Do you realize that no one in all of Arelon went without food? The Elantrians could turn stone into corn and dirt into steak. Confronted by those memories, I am left wondering. Could devils do that much good in this world? Would they even want to?” Hrathen didn't respond. He simply stood, leaning with his arms crossed on top of the parapet, the wind churning his hair. Omin fell silent. “How did you find me?” Hrathen finally asked. “It is well known that you spend your nights up here,” the squat priest explained. He could barely rest his arms on the parapet. Hrathen considered Dilaf short, but this man made the Arteth look like a giant. “Your supporters say you come here and plan how to defeat the vile Elantrians,” Omin continued. “and your opponents say you come because you feel guilty for condemning a people who have already been cursed.” Hrathen turned, looking down into the little man's eyes. “And what do you say?” “I say nothing,” Omin said. “It doesn't matter to me why you climb these stairs. Hrathen. I do, however, wonder why you preach hatred of the Elantrians when you yourself simply pity them.” Hrathen didn't respond immediately, tapping his gauntleted finger against the stone par1apet with a repetitious click. “It's not so hard, once you accustom yourself to it,” he finally said. ''A man can force himself to hate if he wishes, especially if he convinces himself that it is for a higher good.” “The oppression of the few brings salvation to the many?” Omin asked, a slight smile on his face, as if he found the concept ridiculous. “You'd best not mock, Arelene,” Hrathen warned. “You have few options, and we both know the least painful one will require you to do as I do.” “To profess hatred where I have none? I will never do that, Hrathen.” “Then you will become irrelevant,” Hrathen said simply. “Is that the way it must be, then?” “Shu-Korath is docile and unassuming, priest.” Hrathen said. “Shu-Dereth is vibrant and dynamic. It will sweep you away like a roaring flood rushing through a stagnant pool.” Omin smiled again. “You act as if truth were something to be influenced by persistence, Hrathen.” “I'm not speaking of truth or falsehood; I am simply referring to physical inevitability. You cannot stand against Fjorden-and where Fjorden rules, ShuDereth teaches.” “One cannot separate truth from actions, Hrathen.” Omin said with a shake of his bald head. “Physically inevitable or not, truth stands above all things. It is independent of who has the best army, who can deliver the longest sermons, or even who has the most priests. It can be pushed down, but it will always surface. Truth is the one thing you can never intimidate.” “And if Shu-Dereth is the truth?” Hrathen demanded. “Then it will prevail,” Omin said. “But I didn't come to argue with you.” “Oh?” Hrathen said with raised eyebrows. “No.” Omin said. “I came
|
to ask you a question.” “Then ask, priest, and leave me to my thoughts.” “I want to know what happened,” Omin began speculatively. “What happened, Hrathen? What happened to your faith?” “My faith?” Hrathen asked with shock. “Yes,” Omin said, his words soft, almost meandering. “You must have believed at one point, otherwise you wouldn't have pursued the priesthood long enough to become a gyorn. You lost it somewhere, though. I have listened to your sermons. I hear logic and complete understanding-not to mention determination. I just don't hear any faith, and I wonder what happened to it.” Hrathen hissed inward slowly, drawing a deep breath between his teeth. “Go.” he finally ordered, not bothering to look down at the priest. Omin didn't answer, and Hrathen turned. The Arelish man was already gone, strolling down the wall with a casual step, as if he had forgotten Hrathen were there. Hrathen stood on the wall for a long time that night. CHAPTER 22 RAODEN inched forward, slowly peeking around the corner. He should have been sweating-in fact, he kept reaching up to wipe his brow, though the motion did nothing but spread black Elantris grime across his forehead. His knees trembled slightly as he huddled against the decaying wooden fence, anxiously searching the cross street for danger. “Sule, behind you!” Raoden turned with surprise at Galladon's warning, sliding on the slimy cobblestones and slipping to the ground. The fall saved him. As he grappled for purchase, Raoden felt something whoosh through the air above him. The leaping madman howled in frustration as he missed and smashed through the fence, rotten wood chips spraying through the air. Raoden stumbled to his feet. The madman moved far more quickly. Bald and nearly naked, the man howled as he ripped his way through the rest of the fence, growling and tearing at the wood like a mad hound. Galladon's board smacked the man directly in the face. Then, while the man was stunned, Galladon grabbed a cobblestone and smashed it against the side of the man's head. The madman collapsed and did not rise. Galladon straightened. “They're getting stronger somehow, sule,” he said, dropping his cobblestone. “They seem almost oblivious to pain. Kolo?” Raoden nodded, calming his nerves. “They haven't been able to capture a newcomer in weeks. They're getting desperate, falling more and more into their bestial state. I've heard of warriors who grow so enraged during combat that they ignore even mortal wounds.” Raoden paused as Galladon poked at the attacker's body with a stick to make sure he wasn't feigning quietly. “Maybe they've found the final secret to stopping the pain,” Raoden said quietly. “All they have to do is surrender their humanity,” Galladon said, shaking his head as they continued to sneak through what had been the Elantris market. They passed piles of rusted metal and crushed ceramics etched with Aons. Once these scraps had produced wondrous effects, their powerful magics demanding unparalleled prices. Now they were little more than obstacles for Raoden to avoid, lest they crunch noisily beneath his feet.
|
“We should have brought Saolin,” Galladon said quietly. Raoden shook his head. “Saolin is a wonderful soldier and a good man, but he's completely lacking in stealth. Even I can hear him approaching. Besides, he would have insisted on bringing a group of his guards. He refuses to believe I can protect myself.” Galladon glanced at the fallen madman, then back at Raoden with sardonic eyes. “'Whatever you say, sule.” Raoden smiled slightly. “All right,” he admitted, “he might have been useful. However, his men would have insisted on pamper1ing me. Honestly, I thought I'd left that sort of thing behind in my father's palace.” “Men protect things they find important.” Galladon said with a shrug. “If you object, you shouldn't have made yourself so irreplaceable. Kolo?” “Point taken,” Raoden said with a sigh. “Come on.” They fell quiet as they continued their infiltration. Galladon had protested for hours when Raoden had explained his plan to sneak in and confront Shaor. The Dula had called it foolhardy, pointless, dangerous, and just plain stupid. He hadn't, however, been willing to let Raoden go alone. Raoden knew the plan probably was foolhardy, pointless, and all the other things Galladon said. Shaor's men would rip them apart without a second thought-probably without even a first thought, considering their mental state. However, during the last week. Shaor's men had tried to capture the garden three more times. Saolin's guards were collecting more and more wounds while Shaor's men seemed to be getting even more feral and wild. Raoden shook his head. While his troop was growing, most of his followers were physically weak. Shaor's men, however, were frighteningly strong-and every one of them was a warrior. Their rage gave them strength, and Raoden's followers couldn't stand against them for much longer. Raoden had to find Shaor. If only he could speak with the man, he was sure they could find a compromise. It was said that Shaor himself never went on the raids. Everyone referred to the band as “Shaor's men,” but no one could ever remember seeing Shaor himself. It was entirely possible that he was just another maniac, indistinguishable from the rest. It was also possible that the man Shaor had joined the Hoed long ago, and the group continued without leadership. Still, something told him that Shaor was alive. Or, perhaps Raoden simply wanted to believe so. He needed an adversary he could face; the madmen were too scattered to be efficiently defeated, and they outnumbered Raoden's soldiers by a significant number. Unless Shaor existed, unless Shaor could be swayed, and unless Shaor could control his men, Raoden's band was in serious trouble. “We're close now,” Galladon whispered as they approached one final street. There was movement to one side, and they waited apprehensively until it appeared to have passed on. “The bank,” Galladon said, nodding to a large structure across the street. It was large and boxy, its walls dark beyond even what the slime normally produced. “The Elantrians maintained the place for the local merchants to keep their wealth. A bank
|
inside Elantris was seen as far more secure than one in Kae.” Raoden nodded. Some merchants, like his father, hadn't trusted the Elantrians. Their insistence on storing their fortunes outside of the city had eventually proven wise. “You think Shaor's in there?' he asked. Galladon shrugged. “If I were going to choose a base, this would be it. Large, defensible, imposing. Perfect for a warlord.” Raoden nodded. “Let's go, then.” The bank was definitely occupied. T1he slime around the front door was scuffed by the frequent passing of feet, and they could hear voices coming from the back of the structure. Galladon looked at Raoden inquiringly, and Raoden nodded. They went in. The inside was as drab as the outside-dull and stale, even for fallen Elantris. The vault door-a large circle etched with a thick Aon Edo-was open, and the voices came from inside. Raoden took a deep breath, ready to confront the last of the gang leaders. “Bring me food!” wailed a high-pitched voice. Raoden froze. He craned his neck to the side, peeking into the vault, then recoiled with surprise. At the back of the chamber, sitting on a pile of what appeared to be gold bars, was a young girl in a pristine, unsoiled pink dress. She had long Aonic blond hair, but her skin was black and gray like that of any other Elantrian. Eight men in ragged clothing knelt before her, their arms spread out in adoration. “Bring me food!” the girl repeated in a demanding voice. “Well, behead me and see me in Doloken,” Galladon swore behind him. “What is that?” “Shaor.” Raoden said with amazement. Then his eyes refocused, and he realized that the girl was staring at him. “Kill them!” Shaor screamed. “Idos Domi!” Raoden yelped, spinning around and dashing toward the door. “If you weren't dead already, sule, I'd kill you,” Galladon said. Raoden nodded, leaning tiredly against a wall. He was getting weaker. Galladon had warned him it would happen-an Elantrian's muscles atrophied the most near the end of his first month. Exercise couldn't stop it. Even though the mind still worked and the flesh did not decay, the body was convinced that it was dead. The old tricks worked the best-they had eventually lost Shaor's men by climbing up the side of a broken wall and hiding on a rooftop. The madmen might act like hounds, but they certainly hadn't acquired a dog's sense of smell. They had passed by Raoden and Galladon's hiding place a half-dozen times, and never thought to look up. The men were passionate, but they weren't very intelligent. “Shaor is a little girl,” Raoden said, still shocked. Galladon shrugged. “I don't understand either, stile.” “Oh, I understand it-I just can't believe it. Didn't you see them kneeling before her? That girl, Shaor, is their god-a living idol. 'They've regressed to a more primitive way of life, and have adopted a primitive religion as well.” “Be careful, sule,” Galladon warned, “many people called Jesker a 'primitive' religion.” “All right.” Raoden said, gesturing that they should begin moving
|
again. “Perhaps I should have said 'simplistic.' They found something extraordinary-a child with long golden hair-and decided that it should be worshipped. They placed it on an altar, and it makes demands of them. The girl wants food, s1o they get it for her. Then, ostensibly, she blesses them.” “What about that hair?” “It's a wig,” Raoden said. “I recognized her. She was the daughter of one of the most wealthy dukes in Arelon. She never grew hair, so her father had a wig made for her. I guess the priests didn't think to take it off before throwing her in here.” “When was she taken by the Shaod?” “Over two years ago,” Raoden said. “Her father, Duke Telrii, tried to keep the matter quiet. He always claimed she had died of dionia, but there were a lot of rumors. “Apparently all true.” “Apparently,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “I only met her a few times. I can't even recall her name-it was based on Aon Soi. Soine or something like that-I only remember that she was the most spoiled, insufferable child I'd ever met.” “Probably makes a perfect goddess then,” Galladon said with a sarcastic grimace. “Well, you were right about one thing,” Raoden said. “Speaking with Shaor isn't going to work. She was unreasonable on the outside: she's probably ten times worse now. All she knows is that she's very hungry, and those men bring her food.” “Good evening, my lord,” a sentry said as they rounded a corner and approached their section of Elantris-or New Elantris, as the people were starting to call it. The sentry, a stout younger man named Dion, stood up tall as Raoden approached, a makeshift spear held firmly at his side. “Captain Saolin was quite disturbed by your disappearance.” Raoden nodded. “I'll be sure to apologize, Dion.” Raoden and Galladon pulled off their shoes and placed them along the wall next to several other dirty pairs, then put on the clean ones they had left behind. Also present was a bucket of water, which they used to wash off as much of the slime as they could manage. Their clothing was still dirty, but there was nothing else they could do: cloth was rare, despite the numerous scavenging parties Raoden had organized. It was amazing how much they found. True, most of it was rusted or rotting, but Elantris was enormous. With a little organization-and some motivation-they had discovered a great number of useful items, from metal spearheads to furniture that could still hold weight. With Saolin's help, Raoden had sectioned off a marginally defensible section of town to be New Elantris. Only eleven streets led into the area, and there was even a small wall-the original purpose of which baffled them-running along about half of the perimeter. Raoden had placed sentries at the tip of every road to watch for approaching marauders. The system kept them from being overwhelmed. Fortunately, Shaor's men tended to attack in small bands. As long as Raoden's guards could get enough warning, they could gather
|
and defeat any one group. If Shaor ever organized a larger, multidirectional assault, however, the result would be disastrous. Raoden's band of women, children, and weakened men just couldn't stand against the feral1 creatures. Saolin had begun teaching simple combat techniques to those capable, but he could use only the safest and most elementary training methods, lest the combatants' sparring wounds prove more dangerous than Shaor's attacks. The people, however, never expected the fighting to go that far. Raoden heard what they said about him. They assumed that “Lord Spirit” would somehow find a way to bring Shaor to their side, just as he had with Aanden and Karata. Raoden began to feel sick as they walked toward the chapel, the mounting pains of his several dozen bruises and scrapes suddenly pressing against him with suffocating pressure. It was as if his body were encased in a blazing fire-his flesh, bones, and soul being consumed in the heat. “I've failed them,” he said quietly. Galladon shook his head. “We can't always get what we want on the first try. Kolo? You'll find a way-I would never have thought you'd get this far.” I was lucky. A lucky fool. Raoden thought as the pain pounded against him. “Sule?” Galladon asked, suddenly looking at Raoden with concern. “Are you all right?” Must be strong. They need me to be strong. With an inner groan of defiance, Raoden pushed through the haze of agony and managed a weak smile. “I'm fine.” “I've never seen you look like this, stile.” Raoden shook his head, leaning up against the stone wall of a nearby building, “I’ll be all right-I was just wondering what we're going to do about Shaor. We can't reason with her, and we can't defeat her men by force....” “You'll think of something.” Galladon said, his normal pessimism overridden by an obvious desire to encourage his friend. Or we'll all die, Raoden thought, hands growing tense as they gripped the stone corner of the wall. For good this time. With a sigh. Raoden pushed away from the wall, the stone crumbling beneath his fingers. He turned around and looked at the wall with surprise. Kahar had recently cleaned it, and its white marble glistened in the sun-except where Raoden's fingers had crushed it. “Stronger than you thought?” Galladon asked with a smirk. Raoden raised his eyebrows, brushing at the broken stone. It crumbled away. “This stone is as soft as pumice!” “Elantris,” Galladon said. “Things decay quickly here.” “Yes, but marble?” “Everything. People too.” Raoden smacked the broken spot of stone with another rock; small flecks and chips cascaded to the ground at the impact. “It's all connected somehow. Galladon, The Dor is linked to Elantris, just as it's linked to Arelon itself.” “But why would the Dor do this, stile?” Gallado1n asked with a shake of his head. “Why destroy the city?” “Maybe it's not the Dor,” Raoden said. “Maybe it's the sudden absence of the Dor. The magic-the Dor-was a part of this city. Every stone burned with its own light. When
|
that power was removed, the city was left hollow. Like the discarded shell of a small rivercrawler that has grown too big for its skin. The stones are empty.” “How can a stone be empty?” Galladon said skeptically. Raoden cracked off another piece of marble, crumbling it between his fingers. “Like this, my friend. The rock spent so long infused by the Dor that it was weakened irreparably by the Reod. This city really is a corpse-its spirit has fled.” The discussion was interrupted by the approach of an exhausted Mareshe. “My lord Spirit!” he said urgently as he approached. “What is it?” Raoden asked apprehensively. “Another attack?” Mareshe shook his head, confusion in his eyes. “No. Something different, my lord. We don't know what to make of it. We're being invaded.” “By whom?” Mareshe half smiled, then shrugged. “We think she's a princess.” Raoden crouched on the rooftop. Galladon at his side. The building had been transformed into an observation area to watch the gates for newcomers. From its vantage, he could get a very good look at what was happening in the courtyard. A crowd had gathered atop the Elantris city wall. The gate stood open. That fact was amazing enough: normally, after newcomers were cast in, the gate was immediately pulled shut, as if the guards were frightened to let it rest open for even a moment. However, in front of the open gate sat a sight even more dumbfounding. A large horse-drawn cart rested in the middle of the courtyard, a cluster of well-dressed men huddled at its side. Only one person looked unafraid of what she saw before her-a tall woman with long blond hair. She wore a smooth, full-bodied brown dress with a black scarf tied around her right arm, and she stood with her arm raised to one of the horses' necks, patting the nervous beast. Her sharp face held a set of capable eyes, and she studied the dirty, slime-splattered courtyard with a calculating expression. Raoden exhaled. “I only saw her through Seon.” he mumbled. “I didn't realize she was so beautiful.” “You recognize her, sule?” Galladon asked in surprise. “I think I'm married to her. That could only be Sarene, the daughter of King Eventeo of Teod.” “What is she doing here?” Galladon asked. More importantly.” Raoden said, “what is she doing here with a dozen of Arelon's most influential nobles? The older man near the back is Duke Roial-some say he's the second-most-powerful man in the kingdom.” Galladon nodded. “And I assume the young Jindo is Shuden1, the Baron of Kaa Plantation?” Raoden smiled. “I thought you were a simple farmer.” “Shuden's caravan route runs directly through the center of Duladel, sule. “There isn't a Dula alive who doesn't know his name.” “Ah,” Raoden said. “Counts Ahan and Eondel are there as well. What in Domi's name is that woman planning?” As if in response to Raoden's question, Princess Sarene finished her contemplation of Elantris. She turned and walked to the back of the cart, shooing away apprehensive nobles with an intolerant
|
hand. Then she reached up and whipped the cloth off the back of the cart, revealing its contents. The cart was piled with food. “Idos Domi!” Raoden cursed. “Galladon, we're in trouble.” Galladon regarded him with a frown. There was hunger in his eyes. “What in Doloken are you blabbering about, sule? That's food, and my intuition tells me she's going to give it to us. What could be wrong with that?” “She must be doing her Widow's Trial.” Raoden said. “Only a foreigner would think to come into Elantris.” “Sule,” Galladon said instantly, “tell me what you're thinking.” “The timing is wrong, Galladon,” Raoden explained. “Our people are just starting to get a sense of independence: they're beginning focus on the future and forget their pain. If someone hands them food now, they'll forget everything else. For a short time they'll be fed, but Widow's Trials only last a few weeks. After that, it will be back to the pain, the hunger, and the self-pity. My princess out there could destroy everything we've been working for.” “You're right,” Galladon realized. “I'd almost forgotten how hungry I was until I saw that food.” Raoden groaned. “What?” “What happens when Shaor hears about this? Her men will attack that cart like a pack of wolves. There's no telling what kind of damage it would do if one of them killed a count or a baron. My father only suffers Elantris because he doesn't have to think about it. If an Elantrian kills one of his nobles, however, he could very well decide to exterminate the lot of us.” People were appearing in the alleys around the courtyard. None appeared to be Shaor's men: they were the tired, wretched forms of those Elantrians who still lived on their own, wandering through the city like shades. More and more of them had been joining with Raoden-but now, with free food available, he would never get the rest of them. They would continue without thought or purpose, lost in their pain and damnation. “Oh, my lovely princess,” Raoden whispered. 'You probably mean well, but handing these people food is the worst thing you could do to them.” Mareshe waited at the bottom of the stairs. “Did you see her?” he asked anxiously. “We did.” Raoden said. “What does she want?” Before Raoden could reply, a firm, feminine voice called out of the courtyard. “I would speak with the tyrants of this city-the ones who call themselves Aanden, Karata, and Shaor. Present yourselves to me.” “What ... ?” Raoden asked with surprise. “Remarkably well informed, isn't she,” Mareshe noted. “A little outdated, though.” Galladon added. Raoden ground his teeth, thinking quickly. “Mareshe, send a runner for Karata. Tell her to meet us at the university.” “Yes, my lord,” the man said, waving over a messenger boy. “Oh,” Raoden said, “and have Saolin bring half of his soldiers and meet us there. He's going to need to keep an eye on Shaor's men.” “I could go fetch them myself, if my lord wishes,” offered Mareshe, ever watchful for
|
a chance to impress. “No.” Raoden said. “You have to practice being Aanden.” CHAPTER 23 EONDEL and Shuden both insisted on going with her. Eondel kept one hand on his sword-he usually wore the weapon no matter what Arelish propriety said about them-and he watched both their guide and their complement of Elantris City Guards with equal amounts of suspicion. For their parts, the guards did a fair job of looking nonchalant, as if coming into Elantris were an everyday occurrence. Sarene could sense their anxiety, however. Everyone had objected at first. It was unthinkable that she let herself be lured into the bowels of Elantris to meet with despots. Sarene, however, was determined to prove that the city was harmless. She couldn't very well balk at a short trip inside if she wanted to persuade the other nobles to enter the gates. “We're nearly there,” the guide said. He was a taller man, about the same height as Sarene in heels. The gray parts of his skin were a little lighter than those on the other Elantrians she had seen, though she didn't know if that meant he had been pale-skinned before, or if he had simply been in Elantris a shorter time than the rest. He had an oval face that might have been handsome before the Shaod destroyed it. He wasn't a servant; he walked with too proud a gait. Sarene guessed that even though he was acting as a simple messenger, he was one of the trusted minions of an Elantris gang leader. “What is your name?” she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. He belonged to one of three groups who, according to Ashe's sources, ruled the city like warlords and enslaved those who were newly cast inside. The man didn't respond immediately. “They call me Spirit,” he eventually said. A fitting name, Sarene thought, for thi1s man who is so much a ghost of what he once must have been. They approached a large building that the man, Spirit, informed her used to be Elantris's university. Sarene regarded the building with a critical eye. It was covered with the same odd, brownish green sludge that coated the rest of the city, and while the structure might have once been great, now it was just another ruin. Sarene hesitated as their guide walked into the building. In Sarene's estimation, the upper floor was seriously considering a collapse. She shot Eondel a look. The older man was apprehensive, rubbing his chin in thought. Then he shrugged, giving Sarene a nod. We've come this far . . . he seemed to be saying. So, trying not to think about the sagging ceiling, Sarene led her band of friends and soldiers into the structure. Fortunately, they didn't have to go far. A group of Elantrians stood near the back of the first room, their dark-skinned faces barely visible in the dim light. Two stood on what appeared to be the rubble of a fallen table, raising their heads a few feet above the others. “Aanden?” Sarene asked. “And Karata.”
|
replied the second form-apparently a woman, though her bald head and wrinkled face were virtually indistinguishable from those of a man. “What do you want of us?” “I was led to believe you two were enemies,” Sarene said suspiciously. “We recently realized the benefits of an alliance,” Aanden said. He was a short man with cautious eyes, his small face shriveled like that of a rodent. His pompous self-important attitude was about what Sarene had expected. “And the man known as Shaor?” Sarene asked. Karata smiled. “One of the aforementioned benefits.” “Dead?” Aanden nodded. “We rule Elantris now, Princess. What do you want?” Sarene didn't answer immediately. She had been planning to play the three different gang leaders against each other. She would have to present herself differently to a unified enemy. “I want to bribe you,” she said straightforwardly. The woman raised an eyebrow with interest, but the small man huffed. “What need have we of your bribes, woman?” Sarene had played this game far too often; Aanden used the uninterested front of a man unaccustomed to serious politics. She had met men like him dozens of times while serving in her father's diplomatic corps-and she was very tired of them. “Look.” Sarene said, “let's be frank-you're obviously not very good at this, and so extended negotiations would be a waste of time. I want to bring food to the people of Elantris, and you're going to resist me because you think it will weaken your hold on them. Right now you're probably trying to figure out how to eontrol who benefits from my offerings and who doesn't.” The man squirmed uncomfortably, and Sarene smiled. “That is why I am going to bribe you. Wh1at will it take for you to let the people come and get food freely?” Aanden balked, obviously uncertain how to proceed. The woman, however, spoke firmly. “You have a scribe to write down our demands?” “I do.” Sarene said, gesturing for Shuden to pull out his paper and charcoal-pen. The list was extensive-even larger than Sarene had expected-and it included many odd items. She had assumed they would request weapons, perhaps even gold. Karata's demands, however, began with cloth, moved through various grains, some worked-metal sheets, lengths of wood, straw, and ended with oil. The message was clear: Rule of Elantris depended not on force or wealth, but on controlling basic necessities. Sarene agreed to the demands curtly. If she had been dealing with Aanden only, she would have argued for less, but this Karata was a straightforward, unwavering woman-the type who didn't have much patience for haggling. “Is that everything?” Sarene asked as Shuden scribbled down the final request. “That will do for the first few days,” Karata said. Sarene narrowed her eyes. “Fine. But I have one rule you have to follow. You can't forbid anyone from coming to the courtyard. Rule as despots if you wish, but at least let the people suffer with full stomachs.” “You have my word.” Karata said. “I will keep no one back.” Sarene nodded, motioning that the
|
meeting was finished. Karata assigned a guide to lead them back to the gate-not Spirit, this time. He stayed behind, approaching the city's two tyrants as Sarene left the building. “Was that good enough, my lord?” Mareshe asked eagerly. “Mareshe, that was perfect,” Raoden replied, watching the retreating princess with satisfaction. Mareshe smiled modestly. “Well, my lord. I do my best. I haven't much experience with acting, but I do think I played a properly decisive and intimidating leader.” Raoden caught Karata's eye. The gruff woman was trying very hard not to laugh. The pompous artisan had been perfect-neither decisive or intimidating. People outside Elantris saw the city as a lawless realm lorded over by harsh, thieving despots. Together Mareshe and Karata had portrayed exactly what the princess and her companions had expected to see. “She suspected something, sule.” Galladon noted, walking out of the shadows at the side of the room. “Yes, but she doesn't know what,” Raoden said. “Let her suspect that 'Aanden' and Karata are playing tricks on her; it will do no harm.” Galladon shook his head slightly, his bald head shining in the dim light. “What's the point? Why not bring her to the chapel; let her see what we really are?” “I'd like to, Galladon,” Raoden said. “But we1 can't afford to let out our secret. The people of Arelon tolerate Elantris because the Elantrians are so pitiful. If they discover we're establishing a civilized society, their fears will surface. A mass of moaning wretches is one thing, a legion of unkillable monstrosities is another.” Karata nodded, saying nothing. Galladon, the eternal skeptic, simply shook his head-as if unsure what to think. “Well, she certainly is determined. Kolo?” he finally asked, referring to Sarene. “Determined indeed.” Raoden agreed. Then, with amusement, he continued. “And I don't think she likes me very much.” “She thinks you're the lackey of a tyrant,” Karata pointed out. “Is she supposed to like you?” “True,” Raoden said. “However, I think we should add a clause to our agreement that says I can attend all of her distributions. I want to keep an eye on our benevolent princess-she doesn't strike me as the type to do anything without several motives, and I wonder just what made her decide to do her Trial here in Elantris.” “That went well,” Eondel said, watching their guide disappear back into Elantris. “You got away easily,” Shuden agreed. “The things they demanded can be obtained without much expenditure.” Sarene nodded slightly, rubbing her fingers along the cart's wooden side. “I just hate to deal with people like that.” “Perhaps you judge them too harshly.” Shuden said. “They seemed less like tyrants and more like people trying to make the best of a very difficult life.” Sarene shook her head. “You should hear some of the stories Ashe told me, Shuden. The Guards say that when new Elantrians are thrown into the city, the gangs descend on them like sharks. What few resources enter this city go to the gang leaders, and they keep the rest of the
|
people in a state of near starvation.” Shuden raised an eyebrow, looking over at the Elantris City Guards, the source of Sarene's information. The group leaned lazily on their spears, watching with uninterested eyes as the noblemen began unloading the cart. “All right,” Sarene admitted, climbing into the cart and handing Shuden a box of vegetables. “Perhaps they aren't the most reliable source, but we have proof in front of us.” She swept her arm toward the emaciated forms that clustered in side streets. “Look at their hollow eyes and apprehensive steps. These are a people who live in fear, Shuden. I've seen it before in Fjorden, Hrovell, and a half-dozen other places. I know what an oppressed people looks like.” “True.” Shuden admitted, accepting the box from Sarene, “but the 'leaders' didn't look much better to me. Perhaps they aren't oppressive, just equally oppressed.” “Perhaps,” Sarene said. “My lady,” Eondel protested as Sarene lifted another box and handed it to Shuden, “I wish you would step back and let us move those. It just isn't proper.” “I'll be fine, Eondel,” Sarene said, handing him a box. “There's a reason 1I didn't bring any servants-I want us all to take part. That includes you, my lord,” Sarene added, nodding to Ahan, who had found a shaded spot near the gate to rest. Ahan sighed, rising and waddling out into the sunlight. The day had turned remarkably hot for one so early in the spring, and the sun was blazing overhead-though even its heat hadn't been able to dry out the omnipresent Elantris muck. “I hope you appreciate my sacrifice, Sarene,” the overweight Ahan exclaimed. “This slime is absolutely ruining my cloak.” “Serves you right.” Sarene said, handing the count a box of boiled potatoes. “I told you to wear something inexpensive.” “I don't have anything inexpensive my dear,” Ahan said, accepting the box with a sullen look. “You mean to tell me you actually paid money for that robe you wore to Neoden's wedding?' Roial asked, approaching with a laugh. “I wasn't even aware that shade of orange existed, Ahan.” The count scowled, lugging his box to the front of the cart. Sarene didn't hand Roial a box, nor did he move to receive one. It had been big news in the court a few days before when someone had noticed the duke walking with a limp. Rumors claimed he had fallen one morning while climbing out of bed. Roial's spry attitude sometimes made it difficult to remember that he was, in fact, a very old man. Sarene got into a rhythm, giving out boxes as hands appeared to take them-which is why she didn't notice at first that a new figure had joined the others. Nearing the final few boxes, she happened to look up at the man accepting the load. She nearly dropped the box in shock as she recognized his face. “You!” she said with amazement. The Elantrian known as Spirit smiled, taking the box out of her stunned fingers. “I was wondering how long it would take you
|
to realize I was here.” “How long . . .” “Oh, about ten minutes now,” he replied. “I arrived just after you began unloading.” Spirit took the box away, stacking it with the others. Sarene stood in muted stupefaction on the back of the eart-she must have mistaken his dark hands for Shuden's brown ones. A throat cleared in front of her, and Sarene realized with a start that Eondel was waiting for a box. She rushed to comply. Why is he here? she wondered as she dropped the box into Eondel's arms. He claims that his master ordered him to watch the distribution. Apparently, Aanden trusts you about as much as you trust him. Sarene delivered the last two boxes, then hopped down from the back of the cart. She hit the cobblestones at the wrong angle, however, and slipped in the muck. She tipped backward, waving her hands and yelping. Fortunately, a pair of hands caught h1er and pulled her upright. “Be careful,” Spirit warned. “Walking in Elantris takes a little getting used to.” Sarene pulled her arms out of his helpful grasp. “Thank you,” she muttered in a very unprincesslike voice. Spirit raised an eyebrow, then moved to stand next to the Arelish lords. Sarene sighed, rubbing her elbow where Spirit had caught her. Something about his touch seemed oddly tender. She shook her head to dispel such imaginings. More important things demanded her attention. The Elantrians were not approaching. There were more of them now, perhaps fifty, clustered hesitantly and birdlike in the shadows. Some were obviously children, but most were of the same indeterminable age; their wrinkled Elantrian skin made them all look as old as Roial. None approached the food. “Why aren't they coming?” Sarene asked with confusion. “They're scared,” Spirit said. “And disbelieving. '“All thiss much food must seem like an illusion-a devilish trick their minds have surely played on them hundreds of times.” He spoke softly, even compassionately. Hs words were not those of a despotic warlord. Spirit reached down and selected a turnip from one of the carts. He held it lightly, staring at it as if he himself were unsure of its reality. There was a ravenousness in his eyes-the hunger of a man who hadn't seen a good meal in weeks. With a start, Sarene realized that this man was as famished as the rest of them, despite his favored rank. And he had patiently helped unload dozens of boxes filled with food. Spirit finally lifted the turnip and took a bite. The vegetable crunched in his mouth, and Sarene could imagine how it must taste: raw and bitter. Yet, reflected in his eyes it seemed a feast. Spirit's acceptance of the food seemed to give approval to the others, for the mass of people surged forward. The Elantris City Guards finally perked up, and they quickly surrounded Sarene and the others, their long spears held out threateningly. “Leave a space, here before the boxes,” Sarene ordered. The Guards parted, allowing Elantrians to approach a few at a time. Sarene and
|
the lords stood behind the boxes, distributing food to the weary supplicants. Even Ahan stopped griping as he got into the work, doling out food in solemn silence. Sarene saw him give a bag to what must have been a little girl, though her head was bald and her lips creased with wrinkles. The girl smiled with an incongruous innocence, then scampered away. Ahan paused for a moment before continuing his labor. It's working, Sarene thought with relief. If she could touch Ahan, then she might be able to do the same for the rest of the court. As she worked, Sarene noticed the man Spirit standing near the back of the crowd. His hand was raised thoughtfully to his chin as he studied her. He seemed ... worried. But why? What had he to be worried about? It was then, staring into his eyes, that Sarene 1knew the truth. This was no lackey. He was the leader, and for some reason he felt he needed to hide that fact from her. So, Sarene did what she always did when she learned that someone was keeping things from her. She tried to find our what they were. “There's something about him, Ashe.” Sarene said, standing outside the palace and watching the empty food cart pull away. It was hard to believe that for all the afternoon's work, they had distributed only three meals. It would all be gone by noon tomorrow-if it wasn't gone already. “Who, my lady?” Ashe asked. He had watched the food distribution from the top of the wall, near where Iadon had been standing. He had wanted to accompany her, of course, but she had forbidden it. The Seon was her main source of information about Elantris and its leaders, and she didn't want to make an obvious connection between the two of them. “The guide,” Sarene explained as she turned and strolled through the broad tapestry-lined entryway of the king's palace. Iadon liked tapestries far too much for her taste. “The man called Spirit?” Sarene nodded. “He pretended to be following the others' orders, but he was no servant. Aanden kept shooting glances at him during our negotiations, as if looking for reassurance. Do you think perhaps we got the names of the leaders wrong?” “It's possible, my lady,” Ashe admitted. “However, the Elantrians I spoke with seemed very certain. Karata, Aanden, and Shaor were the names I heard at least a dozen times. No one mentioned a man named Spirit.” “Have you spoken with these people recently?” Sarene asked. “Actually, I have been focusing my efforts on the Guards.” Ashe said, bobbing to the side as a courier rushed past him. People had a tendency to ignore Seons with a level of indifference that would have been offensive to any human attendant. Ashe took it all without complaint, not even breaking his dialogue. “The Elantrians were hesitant to give anything more than names, my lady-the Guards, however, were very free with their opinions. They have little to do all day besides watch the city. I put
|
their observations together with the names I gathered, and produced what I told you.” Sarene paused for a moment, leaning against a marble pillar. “He's hiding something.” “Oh dear,” Ashe mumbled. “My lady, don't you think you might be overextending yourself? You've decided to confront the gyorn, liberate the court women from masculine oppression, save Arelon's economy, and feed Elantris. Perhaps you should just let this man's subterfuge go unexplored.” “You're right,” Sarene said, “I am too busy to deal with Spirit. That's why you are going to find out what he's up to.” Ashe sighed. “Go back to the city,” Sarene said. “You shouldn't have to go very far inside-a lot of Elantrians loiter near the gate. Ask them about Spirit and see if you can discover anything about the treaty between Karata and Aanden.” “Yes, my lady.” “I wonder if maybe we misjudged Elantris,” Sarene said. “I don't know, my lady,” Ashe said. “It is a very barbarous place. I witnessed several atrocious acts myself, and saw the aftermath of many others. Everyone in that city bears wounds of some sort-and from the sounds of their moans, I would guess that many of the injuries are severe. Fighting must be common.” Sarene nodded absently. However, she couldn't help thinking of Spirit, and how strikingly unbarbaric he had been. He'd put the lords at ease, conversing with them affably, as if he weren't damned and they the ones who had locked him away. She had found herself almost liking him by the end of the afternoon, though she worried that he was toying with her. So she had remained indifferent, even cold, toward Spirit-reminding herself that many a murderer and tyrant could appear very friendly if he wanted to. Her heart, however, told her that this man was genuine. He was hiding things, as all men did, but he honestly wanted to help Elantris. For some reason, he seemed particularly concerned with Sarene's opinion of him. And, walking out of the entryway toward her own rooms. Sarene had to try very hard before she convinced herself that she didn't care what he thought of her. CHAPTER 24 HRATHEN was hot within his bloodred armor, exposed as he was to the bright sunlight. He was consoled by how imposing he must look, standing atop the wall with his armor shining in the light. Of course, no one was looking at him-they were all watching the tall Teoish princess distribute her food. Her decision to enter Elantris had shocked the town, and the king's subsequent bestowal of permission had done so again. The walls of Elantris had filled early, nobles and merchants packing themselves along the open, wall-top walkway. They had come with faces like men watching a Svordish shark fight, leaning over the wall to get the best view of what many projected would be a thrilling disaster. It was commonly thought that the savages of Elantris would rip the princess apart within the first few minutes of her entrance, then proceed to devour her. Hrathen watched with resignation as Elantris's monsters
|
came placidly, refusing to ingest even a single guard-let alone the princess. His demons refused to perform, and he could see the disappointment in the crowd's faces. The princess's move had been masterful, castrating Hrathen's devils with a sweep of the brutal scythe known as truth. Now that Sarene's personal aristocrats had proven their courage by entering Elantris, pride would force the others to do so as well. Hatred of Elantris would evaporate, for people couldn't fear that which they pitied. As soon as it became obvious that no princesses would be devoured this day, the people lost interest, returning down the wall's long flight of steps in a steady, dissatisfied trickle. Hrathen joined them, climbing down the steps, then turning toward the center of Kae and the Derethi chapel. As he walked, however, a carriage pulled up alongside him. Hrathen recognized the Aon on its side: Aon Rii. The carriage pulled to a stop and the door opened. Hrathen paused for just a moment, then climbed in, seating himself opposite Duke Telrii. The duke was obviously not pleased. “I warned you about that woman. The people will never hate Elantris now-and, if they don't hate Elantris, they won't hate Shu-Korath either.” Hrathen waved his hand. “The girl's efforts are irrelevant.” “I don't see how that is the case.” “How long can she keep this up?” Hrathen asked. “A few weeks, a month at the most? Right now, her excursions are a novelty, but that will wear off soon. I doubt many of the nobility will be willing to accompany her in the future, even if she does try and keep these feedings going.” “The damage is done,” Telrii said insistently. “Hardly,” Hrathen said. “Lord Telrii, it has barely been a few weeks since I arrived in Arelon. Yes, the woman has dealt us a setback, but it will prove a minor inconvenience. You know, as I know, that the nobility are a fickle group. How long do you think it will rake for them to forget their visits into Elantris?” Telrii didn't look convinced. “Besides,” Hrathen said, trying another tactic, “my work with Elantris was only a small part of our plan. The instability of Iadon's throne-the embarrassment he will sustain at the next taxing period-is what we should be focusing on.” “The king recently found some new contracts in Teod,” Telrii said. “They won't be enough to recoup his losses,” Hrathen said dismissively. “His finances are crippled. The nobility will never stand for a king who insists that they maintain their level of wealth, but who doesn't apply the same standard to himself. “Soon, we can begin spreading rumors as to the king's reduced circumstances. “Most of the high-ranking nobility are merchants themselves-they have means of discovering how their competitors are doing. They'll find out just how much Iadon is hurting, and they'll begin to complain.” “Complaints won't put me on the throne,” Telrii said. “You'd be surprised,” Hrathen said. “Besides, at that same time we'll begin implying that if you were to take the throne, you would bring Arelon
|
a lucrative trade treaty with the East. I can provide you with the proper documents. There will be money enough for all-and that is something that Iadon hasn't been able to provide. Your people know that this country is on the verge of financial ruin. Fjorden can bring you out of it.” Telrii nodded slowly. Yes, Telrii, Hrathen thought with an inward sigh, that's something you can understand, isn't it? If we can't convert the nobility, we can always just buy them. The tactic wasn't as certain as Hrathen implied, but the explanation would do for Telrii while Hrathen devised other plans. Once it was known that the king was bankru1pt and Telrii was rich, certain other . . . pressures placed on the government would make for an easy-if abrupt-transfer in power. The princess had countered the wrong scheme. Iadon's throne would collapse even as she handed out food to the Elantrians, thinking herself clever for having foiled Hrathen's plot. “I warn you, Hrathen,” Telrii said suddenly. “do not assume me a Derethi pawn. I go along with your plans because you were able to produce the wealth that you promised me. I won't just sit back and be pushed in any direction you wish, however.” “I wouldn't dream of it, Your Lordship.” Hrathen said smoothly. Telrii nodded, calling for the coachman to stop. They weren't even halfway to the Derethi chapel. “My mansion is that direction,” Telrii said airily, pointing down a side street. “You can walk the rest of the way to your chapel.” Hrathen clenched his jaw. Someday this man would have to learn proper respect for Derethi officials. For now, however, Hrathen simply climbed out of the carriage. Considering the company, he preferred walking anyway. “I've never seen this kind of response in Arelon,” one priest noted. “Agreed,” said his companion. “I've been serving the empire in Kae for over a decade, and we've never had more than a few conversions a year.” Hrathen passed the priests as he entered the Derethi chapel. They were minor underpriests, of little concern to him; he noticed them only because of Dilaf. “It has been a long while,” Dilaf agreed. “Though I remember a time, just after the pirate Dreok Crushthroat assaulted Teod, when there was a wave of conversions in Arelon.” Hrathen frowned. Something about Dilaf's comment bothered him. He forced himself to continue walking, but he shot a glance back at the Arteth. Dreok Crushthroat had attacked Teod fifteen years before. It was possible that Dilaf would remember such a thing from his childhood, but how would he have known about Arelon conversion rates? The Arteth had to be older than Hrathen had assumed. Much older. Hrathen's eyes widened as he studied Dilaf's face in his mind. He had placed Dilaf as no older than twenty-five, but he could now detect hints of age in the Arteth's face. Only hints, however-he was probably one of those rare individuals who seemed many years younger than they really were. The “young” Arelish priest feigned lack of experience, but his planning
|
and scheming revealed an otherwise hidden degree of maturity. Dilaf was far more seasoned than he led people to assume. But, what did that mean? Hrathen shook his head, pushing the door open and walking into his rooms. Dilaf's power over the chapel was growing as Hrathen struggled to find an appropriate, and willing, new head Arteth. Three more men had refused the position. That was more than just suspicious-Hrathen was certain that Dilaf had something to do with the matter. He's older than you assumed, Hrathen thought. He's also had influence over Kae's priests for a very long time. Dilaf claimed that many of the original Derethi followers in Kae had originally come from his personal chapel in southern Arelon. How long had it been since he'd come to Kae? Fjon had been head Arteth when Dilaf arrived, but Fjon's leadership in the city had lasted a long time. Dilaf had probably been in the city for years. He had probably been associating with the other priests-learning to influence them, gaining authority over them-that entire time. And, given Dilaf's ardor for Shu-Dereth, he had undoubtedly chosen the most conservative and effective of Kae's Arteths to be his associates. And those were exactly the men Hrathen had let remain in the city when he'd first arrived. He'd sent away the less devoted men, and they would have been the ones that would have been insulted or disturbed by Dilaf's extreme ardor. Unwittingly, Hrathen had culled the chapel's numbers in Dilaf's favor. Hrathen sat down at his desk, this new revelation disturbing him. No wonder he was having trouble finding a new head Arteth. Those who remained knew Dilaf well: they were probably either afraid to take a position above him, or they had been bribed by him to step aside. He can't have that kind of influence over them all, Hrathen thought firmly. I'll just have to keep looking. Eventually, one of the priests will take the position. Still, he was worried about Dilaf's startling effectiveness. The Arteth held two firm grips over Hrathen. First, Dilaf still had power over many of Hrathen's strongest converts through his odiv oaths. Second, the arterh's unofficial leadership of the chapel was growing more and more secure. Without a head Arteth, and with Hrathen spending much of his time giving sermons or meeting with nobility, Dilaf had slowly been siphoning away power over the day-to-day workings of the Derethi church in Arelon. And, over it all, there was an even more disturbing problem-something Hrathen didn't want to confront, something even more disarming than Sarene's Trial or Dilaf's maneuverings. Hrathen could face external forces such as theirs, and he could be victorious. His internal wavering, however, was something entirely different. He reached into his desk, seeking out a small book. He remembered unpacking it into the drawer, as he had during countless other moves. He hadn't looked at it in years, but he had very few possessions, and so he had never found himself overburdened enough to discard the book.Eventually, he located it. He flipped through the
|
aging pages, selecting the one he was looking for. I have found purpose, the book read. Before, I lived, but I didn't know why. I have direction now. It gives glory to all that I do. I serve in Lord Jaddeth's empire, and my service is linked directly to Him. I am important. Priests in the Derethi faith were trained to record spiritual experiences, but Hrathen had never been diligent in this particular area. His personal record contained only a few entries-including this one, which he had written a few weeks after his decision to join the priesthood many years before. Just before he entered Dakhor monastery. What happened to your faith, Hrathen? Omin's questions plagued Hrathen's thoughts. He heard the Korathi priest whispering in his mind, demanding to know what had happened to Hrathen's beliefs, demanding to know the purpose behind his preaching. Had Hrathen become cynical, performing his duties simply because they were familiar? Had his preaching become a logical challenge and not a spiritual quest? He knew, in part, that it had. He enjoyed the planning, the confrontation, and the thinking it took to convert an entire nation of heretics. Even with Dilaf distracting him, Hrathen found the challenge of Arelon invigorating. But what of the boy Hrathen? What of the faith, the almost unthinking passion he had once felt? He could barely remember it. That part of his life had passed quickly, his faith transforming from a burning flame into a comfortable warmth. Why did Hrathen want to succeed in Arelon? Was it for the notoriety? The man who converted Arelon would be long remembered in the annals of the Derethi church. Was it a desire to be obedient? He did, after all, have a direct order from Wyrn. Was it because he seriously thought conversion would help the people? He had determined to succeed in Arelon without a slaughter such as he had instigated in Duladel. But, again, was it really because he wanted to save lives? Or was it because he knew that a smooth conquest was more difficult, and therefore more of a challenge? His heart was as unclear to him as a room filled with smoke. Dilaf was slowly seizing control. That in itself wasn't as frightening as Hrathen's own sense of foreboding. What if Dilaf was right to try and oust Hrathen? What if Arelon would be better off with Dilaf in control? Dilaf wouldn't have worried about the death caused by a bloody revolution; he would have known that the people would eventually be better off with Shu-Dereth, even if their initial conversion required a massacre. Dilaf had faith. Dilaf believed in what he was doing. What did Hrathen have? He wasn't certain anymore. CHAPTER 25 “I think, perhaps, that she needs this food as much as we do,” Raoden said, regarding the slight-framed Torena with a skeptical eye. Ahan's daughter had pulled her reddish gold hair up under a protective scarf, and she wore a simple blue dress-something she'd probably had to borrow from one of her maids, considering the average
|
Arelish noblewoman's extravagant wardrobe. “Be nice to her,” Sarene ordered, handing Raoden a box from the cart. “She's the only woman brave enough to come-though she only agreed because I had Shuden ask her. If you scare that girl away, none of the others will ever come.” “Yes, Your Highness,” Raoden said, bowing slightly. It seemed that a week's worth of distributing food together had softened her hatred of him somewhat, but she was still cold. She would respond to his comments, even converse with him, but she would not let herself be his friend. The week had been surrealy unnerving for Raoden. He'd spent his time in Elantris accustoming himself to the strange and the new. This week, however, he had been forced to reacquaint himself with the familiar. It was worse, in a way. He could accept Elantris as a source of pain. It was entirely different to see his friends the same way. Even now, Shuden stood next to the girl Torena, his hand on her elbow as he encouraged 1her to approach the line of food. Shuden had been one of Raoden's best friends; the solemn Jindo and he had spent hours at a time discussing their views on Arelon's civic problems. Now Shuden barely noticed him. It had been the same with Eondel, Kiin, Roial, and even Lukel. They had been companions to the handsome Prince Raoden, but never to the accursed creature known as Spirit. Yet, Raoden found it hard to be bitter. He couldn't blame them for not recognizing him; he barely recognized himself anymore, with his wrinkled skin and spindly body. Even his voice was different. In a way, his own subterfuge hurt even more than his friends' ignorance. He couldn't tell them who he was, for news of his survival could destroy Arelon. Raoden knew very well that his own popularity exceeded that of his father-there would be some who would follow him. Elantrian or not. Civil war would serve no one, and at the end of it, Raoden would probably find himself beheaded. No, he definitely had to remain hidden. Knowledge of his fate would only give his friends pain and confusion. However, concealing his identity required vigilance. His face and voice had changed, but his mannerisms had not. He made a point of staying away from anyone who had known him too well, trying to be cheerful and friendly, but not open. Which was one reason why he found himself gravitating toward Sarene. She hadn't known him before, and so he could discard his act around her. In a way, it was kind of a test. He was curious to see how they would have gotten along as husband and wife, without their separate political necessities getting in the way. His initial feelings seemed to have been correct. He liked her. Where the letters had hinted, Sarene fulfilled. She wasn't like the women he had grown accustomed to in the Arelish court. She was strong and determined. She didn't avert her eyes downward whenever a man addressed her, no matter how
|
noble his rank. She gave orders easily and naturally, and never feigned weakness in order to draw a man's attentiveness. Yet, the lords followed her. Eondel, Shuden, even Duke Roial-they deferred to her in judgment and responded to her commands as if she were king. There was never a look of bitterness in their eyes, either. She gave her orders courteously, and they responded naturally. Raoden could only smile in amazement. It had taken him years to earn these men's trust. Sarene had done it in a matter of weeks. She was impressive in every attribute-intelligent, beautiful, and strong. Now, if only he could convince her not to hate him. Raoden sighed and turned back to the work. Except for Shuden, all of the day's nobles were new to the process. Most were minor noblemen of little import, but there were a couple of important additions. Duke Telrii, for instance, stood to one side, watching the unloading process with lazy eyes. He didn't participate himself, but had brought a manservant to fill his place. Telrii obviously preferred to avoid any actual exertion. Raoden shook his head. He had never cared much for the duke. He had once approached the man, hoping that Telrii might be persuaded to join in Raoden's opposition to the king. Telrii had simply yawned and asked how much Raoden was willing to pay for his support, then had laughed as Raoden stalked away. Raoden had never been able to decide whether Telrii had asked the question out of actual greed, or if he had simply known how Raoden would react to the demand. Raoden turned to the other noblemen. As usual, the newcomers stood in a small, apprehensive cluster around the cart they had unloaded. Now it was Raoden's turn. He approached with a smile, introducing himself and shaking hands-mostly against the owners' wills. However, their tension began to wane after just a few minutes of mingling. They could see that there was at least one Elantrian who wasn't going to eat them, and none of the other food distributors had fallen to the Shaod, so they could dismiss their fears of infection. The clot of people relaxed, falling to Raoden's affable proddings. Acclimatizing the nobles was a task he had taken upon himself. It had been obvious on the second day that Sarene had nowhere near as much influence with most aristocrats as she did with Shuden and the others of Raoden's former circle. If Raoden hadn't stepped in, that second group would probably still be standing frozen around the cart. Sarene hadn't thanked him for his efforts, but she had nodded in slight appreciation. Afterward, it had been assumed that Raoden would help each new batch of nobles as he had that second one. It was odd to him, participating in the event that was singularly destroying everything he had worked to build in Elantris. However, beyond creating an enormous incident, there was little he could do to stop Sarene. In addition, Mareshe and Karata were receiving vital goods for their “cooperation.” Raoden would have to
|
do a great deal of rebuilding after Sarene's Trial finished, but the setbacks would be worth the effort. Assuming, of course, he survived long enough. The casual thought brought a sudden awareness of his pains. They were with him as always, burning his flesh and eating at his resolve. He no longer counted them, though each one had its own feeling-an unformed name, a sense of individual agony. As far as he could tell, his pain was accelerating much more quickly than anyone else's. A scrape on his arm felt like a gash running from shoulder to fingers, and his once-stubbed toe blazed with a fire that ran all the way to his knee. It was as if he had been in Elantris a year, and not a single lonely month. Or, maybe his pain wasn't stronger. Maybe he was just weaker than the others. Either way, he wouldn't be able to endure much longer. A day would soon come, in a month or maybe two, when he would not awaken from his pain, and they would have to lay him in the Hall of the Fallen. There, he could finally give full devotion to his jealous agony. He pushed such thoughts away, forcing himself to start handing out food. He tried to let the work distract him, and it helped a little. However, the pain still lurked within, like a beast hiding in the shadows, its red eyes watching with intense hunger. Each Elantrian received a small sack filled with a variety of ready-to-eat items. This day's portions were much like every other-though, surprisingly, Sarene had found some Jindoeese sourmelons. The fist-sized red fruits glistened in the crate beside Raoden, challenging the fact that they were supposed to be out of season. He dropped one fruit in every bag, followed by some steamed corn, various vegetables, and a small loaf of bread. The Elantrians accepted the offerings thankfully but greedily. Most of them scurried away from the cart as soon as they received their meal, off to eat it in solitude. They still couldn't believe that no one was going to take it away from them. As Raoden worked, a familiar face appeared before him. Galladon wore his Elantris rags, as well as a tattered cloak they had made from dirty Elantris scavangings. The Dula held out his sack, and Raoden carefully switched it for one filled with five times the regular allotment: it was so full it was hard to lift with one weakened Elantrian hand. Galladon received the sack with an extended arm, the side of his cloak obscuring it from casual eyes. Then he was gone, disappearing through the crowd. Saolin, Mareshe, and Karata would come as well, and each would receive a bag like Galladon's. They would store what items they could, then give the rest to the Hoed. Some of the fallen were able to recognize food, and Raoden hoped that regular eating would help restore their minds. So far, it wasn't working. The gate thumped as it shut, the sound reminding Raoden of his first
|
day in Elantris. His pain then had only been emotional, and comparatively weak at that. If he had truly understood what he was getting into, he probably would have curled up and joined the Hoed right then and there. He turned, putting his back to the gate. Mareshe and Galladon stood in the center of the courtyard, looking down at several boxes Sarene had left behind-fulfillment of Karata's most recent demands. “Please tell me you've figured out a way to transport those,” Raoden said, joining his friends. The last few times, they had ended up carrying the boxes back to New Elantris one at a time, their weakened Elantrian muscles straining at the effort. “Of course, I have.” Mareshe said with a sniff. “At least, it should work.” The small man retrieved a slim metal sheet from behind a pile of rubble. All four sides curved up slightly, and there were three ropes connected to the front. “A sled?” Galladon asked. “Coated with grease on the bottom,” Mareshe explained. “I couldn't find any wheels in Elantris that weren't rusted or rotted, but this should work-the slime on these streets will provide lubrication to keep it moving.” Galladon grunted, obviously biting off some sarcastic comment. No matter how poorly Mareshe's sled worked, it couldn't be any worse than walking back and forth between the gate and the chapel a dozen times. In fact, the sled functioned fairly well. Eventually, the grease rubbed away and the streets grew too narrow to avoid the patches of torn-up cobblestones-and, of course, dragging it along the slime-free streets of New Elantris was even more difficult. On the whole, however, even Galladon had to admit that the sled saved them quite a bit of time. “He finally did something useful,” the Dula grunted after they had pulled up in front of the chapel. Mareshe snorted indifferently, but Raoden could see the pleasure in his eyes. Galladon stubbornly refused to acknowledge the little man's ingenuity; the Dula complained that he didn't want to further inflate Mareshe's ego, something Raoden figured was just about impossible. “Let's see what the princess decided to send us this time,” Raoden said, prying open the first box. “Watch our for snakes,” Galladon warned. Raoden chuckled, dropping the lid to the cobblestones. The box contained several bales of cloth-all of which were a sickeningly bright orange. Galladon scowled. “Sule, that has to be the most vile color I have ever seen in my life.” “Agreed.” Raoden said with a smile. “You don't seem very disappointed.” “Oh, I'm thoroughly revolted,” Raoden said. “I just enjoy seeing the ways she finds to spite us.” Galladon grunted, moving to the second box as Raoden held up an edge of the cloth, studying it with a speculative eye. Galladon was right; it was a particularly garish color. The exchange of demands and goods between Sarene and the “gang leaders” had become something of a game: Mareshe and Karata spent hours deciding how to word their demands, but Sarene always seemed to find a way to turn the orders against
|
them. “Oh, you're going to love this,” Galladon said, peering into the second box with a shake of his head. “What?” “It's our steel,” the Dula explained. Last time they had asked for twenty sheets of steel, and Sarene had promptly delivered twenty plates of the metal pounded so thin they almost floated when dropped. This time they had asked for their steel by weight. Galladon reached into the box and pulled out a handful of nails. Bent nails. “There must be thousands of them in here.” Raoden laughed. “Well. I'm sure we can find something to do with them.” Fortunately, Eonic the blacksmith had been one of the few Elantrians to remain true to Raoden. Galladon dropped the nails back into their box with a skeptical shrug. The rest of the supplies weren't quite as bad. The food was stale, but Karata had stipulated that it had to be edible. The oil gave off a pungent smell when it was burned-Raoden had no idea where the princess had found that particular item-and the knives were sharp, but they had no handles. “At least she hasn't figured out why we demand wooden boxes.” Raoden said, inspecting the vessels themselves. The grain was good and strong. They would be able to pry the boxes apart and use the wood for a multitude of purposes. “I wouldn't be surprised if she left them unsanded just to give us splinters,” Galladon said, sorting through a pile of rope, looking for an end to begin unraveling the mess. “If that woman was your fate, stile, then your Domi blessed you by sending you to this place.” “She's not that bad,” Raoden said, standing as Mareshe began to catalogue the acquisitions. “I think it's odd, my lord,” Mareshe said. “Why is she going t1o such lengths to aggravate us? Isn't she afraid of spoiling our deal?” “I think she suspects how powerless we really are, Mareshe,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “She fulfills our demands because she doesn't want to back out of her promise, but she doesn't feel the need to keep us happy. She knows we can't stop the people from accepting her food.” Mareshe nodded, turning back to his list. “Come on, Galladon.” Raoden said, picking up the bags of food for the Hoed. “Let's find Karata.” New Elantris seemed hollow now. Once, right before Sarene's arrival, they had collected over a hundred people. Now barely twenty remained, not counting children and Hoed. Most of those who had stayed were newcomers to Elantris, people like Saolin and Mareshe that Raoden had “rescued.” They didn't know any other life beyond New Elantris, and were hesitant to leave it behind. The others-those who had wandered into New Elantris on their own-had felt only faintly loyalty to Raoden's cause. They had left as soon as Sarene offered them something “better”: most now lined the streets surrounding the gate, waiting for their next handout. “Sad. Kolo?” Galladon regarded the now clean, but empty, houses. “Yes.” Raoden said. “It had potential, if only for a week.”
|
“We'll get there again, sule.” Galladon said. “We worked so hard to help them become human again, and now they've abandoned what they learned. They wait with open mouths-I wonder if Sarene realizes that her three-meal bags usually last only a few minutes. The princess is trying to stop hunger, but the people devour her food so fast that they end up feeling sick for a few hours, then starve for the rest of the day. An Elantrian's body doesn't work the same way as a regular person's.” “You were the one who said it, sule,” Galladon said. “The hunger is psychological. Our bodies don't need food; the Dor sustains us.” Raoden nodded. “Well, at least it doesn't make them explode.” He had worried that eating too much would cause the Elantrians' stomachs to burst. Fortunately, once an Elantrian's belly was filled, the digestive system started to work. Like Elantrian muscles, it still responded to stimulus. They continued to walk, eventually passing Kollar scrubbing complacently at a wall with a brush they had gotten him in the last shipment. His face was peaceful and unperturbed; he hardly seemed to have noticed that his assistants had left. He did, however, look up at Raoden and Galladon with critical eyes. “Why hasn't my lord changed?” he asked pointedly. Raoden looked down at his Elantris rags. “I haven't had time yet, Kahar.” “After all the work Mistress Maare went to sew you a proper outfit, my lord?” Kahar asked critically. “All right,” Raoden said, smiling. “Have you seen Karata?” “She's in the Hall of the Fallen, my lord, with the Hoed.” Following the elderly cleaner's direction, Raoden and Galladon changed before continuing on to find Karata. Raoden was instantly glad that they had done so. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to put on fresh, clean clothing-cloth that didn't smell of muck and refuse, and that wasn't coated in a layer of brown slime. Of course, the colors left something to be desired-Sarene was rather clever with her selections. Raoden regarded himself in a small piece of polished steel. His shirt was yellow dyed with blue stripes, his trousers were bright red, and his vest a sickly green. Over all, he looked like some kind of confused tropical bird. His only consolation was that as silly he looked, Galladon was much worse. The large, dark-skinned Dula looked down at his pink and light green clothing with a resigned expression. “Don't look so sour, Galladon.” Raoden said with a laugh. “Aren't you Dulas supposed to be fond of garish clothing?” “That's the aristocracy-the citizens and republicans. I'm a farmer; pink isn't exactly what I consider a flattering color. Kolo?” Then he looked up at Raoden with narrow eyes. “If you make even one comment about my resembling a kathari fruit, I will take off this tunic and hang you with it.” Raoden chuckled. “Someday I'm going to find that scholar who told me all Dulas were even-tempered, then force him to spend a week locked in a room with you, my friend.” Galladon grunted,
|
declining to respond. “Come on,” Raoden said, leading the way out of the chapel's back room. They found Karata sitting outside of the Hall of the Fallen, a length of string and a needle held in her hand. Saolin sat in front of her, his sleeve pulled back, exposing a long, deep gash running along his entire arm. There was no flowing blood, but the flesh was dark and slick. Karata was efficiently sewing the gash back together. “Saolin!” Raoden exclaimed. “What happened?” The soldier looked down with embarrassment. He didn't seem pained, though the cut was so deep a normal man would have fainted long before from pain and blood loss. “I slipped, my lord, and one of them got to me.” Raoden regarded the wound with dissatisfaction. Saolin's soldiers had not thinned as badly as the rest of Elantris; they were a stern group, not so quick to abandon newfound responsibility. However, their numbers had never been that great, and they barely had enough men to watch the streets leading from Shaor's territory to the courtyard. Each day while the rest of Elantris glutted themselves on Sarene's offerings, Saolin and his men fought a bitter struggle to keep Shaor's beasts from overrunning the courtyard. Sometimes, howling could be heard in the distance. “I am sorry, Saolin,” Raoden said as Karata stitched. “No mind, my lord.” the soldier said bravely. However, this wound was different from previous ones.1 It was on his sword arm. “My lord . . .” he began, looking away from Raoden's eyes. “What is it?” “We lost another man today. We barely kept them back. Now, without me … well, we'll have a very difficult time of it, my lord. My lads are good fighters, and they are well equipped, but we won't be able to hold out for much longer.” Raoden nodded. “I'll think of something.” The man nodded hopefully, and Raoden, feeling guilty, spoke on. “Saolin, how did you get a cut like that? I've never seen Shaor's men wield anything other than sticks and rocks.” “They've changed, my lord,” Saolin said. “Some of them have swords now, and whenever one of my men falls they drag his weapons away from him.” Raoden raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?” “Yes, my lord, is that important?” “Very. It means that Shaor's men aren't quite as bestial as they would have us believe. There's room enough in their minds to adapt. Some of their wildness, at least, is an act.” “Doloken of an act,” Galladon said with a snort. “Well, perhaps not an act,” Raoden said. “They behave like they do because it's easier than dealing with the pain. However, if we can give them another option, they might take it.” “We could just let them though to the courtyard, my lord,” Saolin suggested hesitantly, grunting slightly as Karata finished her stitching. The woman was proficient; she had met her husband while serving as a nurse for a small mercenary group. “No,” Raoden said. “Even if they didn't kill some of the nobles, the Elantris City Guards
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.