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would slaughter them.” “Isn't that what we want, sule?” Galladon asked with an evil twinkle in his eyes. “Definitely not,” Raoden said. “I think Princess Sarene has a secondary purpose behind this Trial of hers. She brings different nobles with her every day, as if she wanted to acclimatize them to Elantris.” “What good would that do?” Karata asked, speaking for the first time as she put away her sewing utensils. “I don't know,” Raoden said. “But it is important to her. If Shaor's men attacked the nobility, it would destroy whatever the princess is trying to accomplish. I've tried to warn her that not all Elantrians are as docile as the ones she's seen, but I don't think she believes me. We'll just have to keep Shaor's men away until Sarene is done.” “Which will be?” Galladon asked. “Domi only knows,” Raoden replied with a shake of his head. 'She won't tell me-she gets suspicious every time I try to probe her for information.” “Well, sule,” Galladon said, regarding Saolin's wounded arm. “you'd better find a way to make her stop soon-either that, or prepare her to1 deal with several dozen ravenous maniacs. Kolo?” Raoden nodded. A dot in the center, a line running a few inches above it, and another line running along its right side-Aon Aon, the starting point of every other Aon. Raoden continued to draw, his fingers moving delicately and quickly, leaving luminescent trails behind them. He completed the box around the center dot, then drew two larger circles around it. Aon Tia, the symbol for travel. Raoden didn't stop here either. He drew two long lines extending from the corners of the box-a proscription that the Aon was to affect only him-then four smaller Aons down the side to delineate the exact distance it was to send him. A series of lines crossing the top instructed the Aon to wait to take effect until he tapped its center, indicating that he was ready. He made each line or dot precisely: length and size was very important to the calculations. It was still a relatively simple Aon, nothing like the incredibly complex healing Aons that the book described. Still, Raoden was proud of his increasing ability. It had taken him days to perfect the four-Aon series that instructed Tia to transport him precisely ten body lengths away. He watched the glowing pattern with a smile of satisfaction until it flashed and disappeared, completely ineffective. “You're getting better, stile,” Galladon said, leaning on the windowsill, peering into the chapel. Raoden shook his head. “I have a long way to go, Galladon.” The Dula shrugged. Galladon had stopped trying to convince Raoden that practicing AonDor was pointless. No matter what else happened, Raoden always spent a few hours each day drawing his Aons. It comforted him-he felt the pain less when he was drawing Aons, and he felt more at peace during those few short hours than he had in a long time. “How are the crops?” Raoden asked. Galladon turned around, looking back at the garden. The cornstalks
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were still short, barely more than sprouts. Raoden could see their stems beginning to wilt. The last week had seen the disappearance of most of Galladon's workers, and now only the Dula remained to labor on the diminutive farm. Every day he made several treks to the well to bring water to his plants, but he couldn't carry much, and the bucket Sarene had given them leaked. “They'll live,” Galladon said. “Remember to have Karata send for some fertilizer in the next order.” Raoden shook his head. “We can't do that, my friend. The king mustn't find out that we're raising our own food.” Galladon scowled. “Well, I suppose you could order some dung instead.” “Too obvious.” “Well, ask for some fish then,” he said. “Claim you've gotten a sudden craving for trike.” Raoden sighed, nodding. He should have thought a little more before he put the garden behind his own home: the scent of rotting fi1sh was not something he looked forward to. “You learned that Aon from the book?” Galladon asked, leaning through the window with a leisurely posture. “What was it supposed to do?” “Aon Tia?” Raoden asked. “It's a transportation Aon. Before the Reod, that Aon could move a person from Elantris to the other side of the world. The book mentions it because it was one of the most dangerous Aons.” “Dangerous?” “You have to be very precise about the distance it is to send you. If you tell it to transport you exactly ten feet, it will do so-no matter what happens to be ten feet away. You could easily materialize in the middle of a stone wall.” “You're learning much from the book, then?” Raoden shrugged. “Some things. Hints, mostly.” He flipped back in the book to a page he had marked. “Like this case. About ten years before the Reod, a man brought his wife to Elantris to receive treatment for her palsy. However, the Elantrian healer drew Aon Ien slightly wrong-and instead of just vanishing, the character flashed and bathed the poor woman in a reddish light. She was left with black splotches on her skin and limp hair that soon fell out. Sound familiar?” Galladon raised an eyebrow in interest. “She died a short time later,” Raoden said. “She threw herself off a building, screaming that the pain was too much.” Galladon frowned. “What did the healer do wrong?” “It wasn't an error so much as an omission,” Raoden said. “He left out one of the three basic lines. A foolish error, but it shouldn't have had such a drastic effect.” Raoden paused, studying the page thoughtfully. “It's almost like . . .” “Like what, sule?” “Well, the Aon wasn't completed, right?” “Kolo.” “So, maybe the healing began, but couldn't finish because its instructions weren't complete,” Raoden said. “What if the mistake still created a viable Aon, one that could access the Dor, but couldn't provide enough energy to finish what it started?” “What are you implying, sule?” Raoden's eyes opened wide. “That we aren't dead, my friend.” “No heartbeat. No breathing.
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No blood. I couldn't agree with you more.” “No, really,” Raoden said, growing excited. “Don't you see-our bodies are trapped in some kind of half transformation. The process began, but something blocked it-just like in that woman's healing. The Dor is still within us, waiting for the direction and the energy to finish what it started.” “I don't know that I follow you, sule.” Galladon said hesitantly. Raoden wasn't listening. “That's why our bodies never heal-it's like they're 1trapped in the same moment in time. Frozen, like a fish in a block of ice. The pain doesn't go away because our bodies think time isn't passing. They're stuck, waiting for the end of their transformation. Our hair falls away and nothing new grows to replace it. Our skin turns black in the spots where the Shaod began, then halted as it ran out of strength.” “It seems like a leap to me, sule,” Galladon said. “It is,” Raoden agreed. “But I'm sure it's true. Something is blocking the Dor-I can sense it through my Aons. The energy is trying to get through, but there's something in the way-as if the Aon patterns are mismatched.” Raoden looked up at his friend. “We're not dead, Galladon, and we're not damned. We're just unfinished.” “Great, sule.” Galladon said. “Now you just have to find out why.” Raoden nodded. They understood a little more, but the true mystery-the reason behind Elantris's fall-remained. “But,” the Dula continued, turning to tend to his plants again. “I'm glad the book was of help.” Raoden cocked his head to the side as Galladon walked away. “Wait a minute, Galladon.” The Dula turned with a quizzical look. “You don't really care about my studies, do you?” Raoden asked. “You just wanted to know if your book was useful.” “Why would I care about that?” Galladon scoffed. “I don't know,” Raoden said. “But you've always been so protective of your study. You haven't shown it to anyone, and you never even go there yourself. What is so sacred about that place and its books?” “Nothing.” the Dula said with a shrug. “I just don't want to see them ruined.” “How did you find that place anyway?” Raoden asked, walking over to the window and leaning against the sill. “You say you've only been in Elantris a few months, but you seem to know your way through every road and alley. You led me straight to Shaor's bank, and the market's not exactly the kind of place you'd have casually explored.” The Dula grew increasingly uncomfortable as Raoden spoke. Finally he muttered, “Can a man keep nothing to himself Raoden? Must you drag everything out of me?” Raoden leaned back, surprised by his friend's sudden intensity. “I'm sorry.” he stammered, realizing how accusatory his words had sounded. Galladon had given him nothing but support since his arrival. Embarrassed. Raoden turned to leave the Dula alone. “My father was an Elantrian.” Galladon said quietly. Raoden paused. To the side, he could see his friend. The large Dula had taken a seat on the freshly
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watered soil and was staring at a small cornstalk in front of him. “I lived with him until I was old enough to move away,” Galladon sai1d. “I always thought it was wrong for a Dula to live in Arelon, away from his people and his family. I guess that's why the Dor decided to give me the same curse. “They always said that Elantris was the most blessed of cities, but my father was never happy here. I guess even in paradise there are those who don't fit in. He became a scholar-the study I showed you was his. However, Duladel never left his mind-he studied farming and agriculture, though both were useless in Elantris. Why farm when you can turn garbage into food?” Galladon sighed, reaching out to pinch a piece of dirt between his fingers. He rubbed them together for a moment, letting the soil fall back to the ground. “He wished he had studied healing when he found my mother dying beside him in bed one morning. Some diseases strike so quickly even Elantris can't stop them. My father became the only depressed Elantrian I ever knew. That's when I finally understood that they weren't gods, for a god could never feel such agony. He couldn't return home-the Elantrians of old were as exiled as we are today, no matter how beautiful they might have been. People don't want to live with something so superior to themselves-they can't stand such a visible sign of their own inferiority. “He was happy when I returned to Duladen. He told me to be a farmer. I left him a poor, lonely god in a divine city, wishing for nothing so much as the freedom to be a simple man again. He died about a year after I left. Did you know that Elantrians could die of simple things, such as heart-death? They lived much longer than regular people, but they could still die. Especially if they wanted to. My father knew the signs of heart-death: he could have gone in to be healed, but he chose to stay in his study and disappear. Just like those Aons you spend so much time drawing.” “So you hate Elantris?” Raoden asked, slipping quietly through the open window to approach his friend. He sat as well, looking across the small plant at Galladon. “Hate?” Galladon asked. “No, I don't hate-that isn't the Dula way. Of course, growing up in Elantris with a bitter father made me a poor Dula. You've realized that-I can't take things as lightly as my people would. I see a taint on everything. Like the sludge of Elantris. My people avoided me because of my demeanor, and I was almost glad when the Shaod took me-I didn't fit Duladel, no matter how much I enjoyed my farming. I deserve this city, and it deserves me. Kolo?” Raoden wasn't certain how to respond. “I suppose an optimistic comment wouldn't do much good right now.” Galladon smiled slightly. “Definitely not-you optimists just can't understand that a depressed person doesn't want you to
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try and cheer them up. It makes us sick. “Then just let me say something true, my friend,” Raoden said. “I appreciate you. I don't know if you fit in here: I doubt any of us do. But I value your help. If New Elantris succeeds, then it will be because you were there to keep me from throwing myself off a building.” Galladon took a deep breath. His face was hardly joyful-yet, his gratitude was plain. He nodded slightly, then stood and offered Raoden a hand to help him up. Raoden tur1ned fitfully. He didn't have much of a bed, just a collection of blankets in the chapel's back room. However, discomfort wasn't what kept him up. There was another problem-a worry in the back of his mind. He was missing something important. He had been close to it earlier, and his subconscious harried him, demanding that he make the connection. But, what was it? What clue, barely registered, haunted him? After his discussion with Galladon, Raoden had returned to his Aon practice. Then he had gone for a short look around the city. All had been quiet-Shaor's men had stopped attacking New Elantris, instead focusing on the more promising potential presented by Sarene's visits. It had to be related to his discussions with Galladon, he decided. Something to do with the Aons, or perhaps Galladon's father. What would it have been like to be an Elantrian back then? Could a man really have been depressed within these amazing walls? Who, capable of marvelous wonders, would be willing to trade them for the simple life of a famer? It must have been beautiful back then, so beautiful. . . .”Merciful Dome Raoden yelled, snapping upright in his blankets. A few seconds later, Saolin and Mareshe-who made their beds in the main room of the chapel-burst through the door. Galladon and Karata weren't far behind. They found Raoden sitting in amazed stupefaction. “Sule?” Galladon asked carefully. Raoden stood and strode out of the room. A perplexed entourage followed. Raoden barely paused to light a lantern, and the pungent odor of Sarene's oil didn't even faze him. He marched into the night, heading straight for the Hall of the Fallen. The man was there, still mumbling to himself as many of the Hoed did even at night. He was small and wrinkled, his skin folded in so many places he appeared a thousand years old. His voice whispered a quiet mantra. “Beautiful,” he rasped. “Once so very beautiful. . . .” The hint hadn't come during his discussions with Galladon at all. It had come during his short visit delivering food to the Hoed. Raoden had heard the man's mumbling a dozen times, and never made the connection. Raoden placed a hand on each of the man's shoulders. “What was so beautiful?” “Beautiful . .” the man mumbled. “Old man,” Raoden pled. “If there is a soul left in that body of yours, even the slightest bit of rational thought, please tell me. What are you talking about?” “Once so very beautiful ..
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.” the man continued, his eyes staring into the air. Raoden raised a hand and began to draw in front of the man's face. He had barely completed Aon Rao before the man reached out, gasping as he put his hand through the center of the character. “We were so beautiful, once,” the man whispered. 'My hair so bright, my skin full of light. Aons fluttered from my fingers. They were so beautiful. ...” Raoden heard several muttered exclamations of surprise from behind. “You mean,” Karata asked, approaching, 'all this time . . . ?” “Ten years,” Raoden said, still supporting the old man's slight body. “This man was an Elantrian before the Reod.” “Impossible,” Mareshe said. “It's been too long.” “Where else would they go?” Raoden asked. “We know some of the Elantrians survived the fall of city and government. They were locked in Elantris. Some might have burned themselves, a few others might have escaped, but the rest would still be here. They would have become Hoed, losing their minds and their strength after a few years . . . forgotten in the streets.” “Ten years,” Galladon whispered. “Ten years of suffering.” Raoden looked the old man's eyes. They were lined with cracks and wrinkles, and seemed dazed, as if by some great blow. The secrets of AonDor hid somewhere in this man's mind. The man's grip on Raoden's arm tightened almost imperceptibly, his entire body quivering with effort. Three straining words hissed from his lips as his agony-laden eyes focused on Raoden's face. “Take. Me. Out.” “Where?” Raoden asked with confusion. “Out of the city?” “The. Lake.” “I don't know what you mean, old one,” Raoden whispered. The man's eyes moved slightly, looking at the door. “Karata, grab that light,” Raoden ordered, picking up the old man. “Galladon, come with us. Mareshe and Saolin, stay here. I don't want any of the others to wake up and find us all gone.” “But .. .” Saolin began, but his words fell off. He recognized a direct order. It was a bright night, moon hanging full in the sky, and the lantern almost wasn't necessary. Raoden carried the old Elantrian carefully. It was obvious that the man no longer had the strength to lift his arm and point, so Raoden had to pause at every intersection, searching the old man's eyes for some sign that they should turn. It was a slow process, and it was nearly morning before they arrived at a fallen building at the very edge of Elantris. The structure looked much like any other, though its roof was mostly intact. “Any idea what this was?” Raoden asked. Galladon thought for a moment, digging through his memory. “Actually, I think I do, sule. It was some sort of meetinghouse for the Elantrians. My father came here occasionally, though I was never allowed to accompany him.” Karata gave Galladon a startled look at the explanation, but she held her questions for another time. Raoden carried the old Elantrian into the hollow building. It was empty and nondescript. Raoden studied
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the man's face. He was looking at the floor. Galladon knelt and brushed aw1ay debris as he searched the floor. “There's an Aon here.” “Which one?” “Rao, I think.” Raoden furled his brow. The meaning of Aon Rao was simple: It meant “spirit” or “spiritual energy.” However, the AonDor book had mentioned it infrequently, and had never explained what magical effect the Aon was meant to produce. “Push on it,” Raoden suggested. “I'm trying, sule,” Galladon said with a grunt. “I don't think it's doing any-” The Dula cut off as the section of floor began to fall away. He yelped and scrambled back as the large stone block sank with a grinding noise. Karata cleared her throat, pointing at an Aon she had pushed on the wall. Aon Tae-the ancient symbol that meant “open.” “There are some steps here, sule.” Galladon said, sticking his head into the hole. He climbed down, and Karata followed with the lamp. After passing down the old Hoed, Raoden joined them. “Clever mechanism,” Galladon noted, studying the series of gears that had lowered the enormous stone block. “Mareshe would be going wild about now. Kolo?” “I'm more interested in these walls.” Raoden said, staring at the beautiful murals. The room was rectangular and squat, barely eight feet tall, but it was brilliantly decorated with painted walls and a double row of sculpted columns. “Hold the lantern up.” White-haired figures with silver skin coated the walls, their two-dimensional forms engaged in various activities. Some knelt before enormous Aons; others walked in rows, heads bowed. There was a sense of formality about the figures. “This place is holy,” Raoden said. “A shrine of some sort.” “Religion amongst the Elantrians?” Karata asked. “They must have had something.” Raoden said. “Perhaps they weren't as convinced of their own divinity as the rest of Arelon.” He shot an inquiring look at Galladon. “My father never spoke of religion.” the Dula said. “But his people kept many secrets, even from their families.” “Over there,” Karata said, pointing at the far end of the rectangular room, where the wall held only a single mural. It depicted a large mirrorlike blue oval. An Elantrian stood facing the oval, his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. He appeared to be flying toward the blue disk. The rest of the wall was black, though there was a large white sphere on the other side of the oval. “Lake.” The old Elantrian's voice was quiet but insistent. “It's painted sideways,” Karata realized. “See, he's falling into a lake.” Raoden nodded. The Elantrian in the picture wasn't flying, he was falling. The oval was the surface of a lake, lines on its sides depicting a shore. “It's like the water was considered a gate of some sort,” Galladon said, head cocked to the side. “And he wants us to throw him in.” Raoden realized. “Galladon, did you ever see an Elantrian funeral?” “Never,” the Dula said with a shake of his head. “Come on,” Raoden said, looking down at the old man's eyes. They pointed insistently at a
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side passage. Beyond the doorway was a room even more amazing than the first. Karata held up her lantern with a wavering hand. “Books,” Raoden whispered with excitement. Their light shone on rows and rows of bookshelves, extending into the darkness. The three wandered into the enormous room, feeling an incredible sense of age. Dust coated the shelves, and their footsteps left tracks. “Have you noticed something odd about this place, sule?” Galladon asked softly. “No slime,” Karata realized. “No slime,” Galladon agreed. “You're right,” Raoden said with amazement. He had grown so used to New Elantris's clean streets that he'd almost forgotten how much work it took to make them that way. “I haven't found a single place in this town that wasn't covered with that slime, sule,” Galladon said. “Even my father's study was coated with it before I cleaned it.” “There's something else,” Raoden said, looking back at the room's stone wall. “Look up there.” “A lantern,” Galladon said with surprise. “They line the walls.” “But why not use Aons?” the Dula asked. “They did everywhere else.” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “I wondered the same thing about the entrance. If they could make Aons that transported them instantly around the city, then they certainly could have made one that lowered a rock.” “You're right,” Galladon said. “AonDor must have been forbidden here for some reason,” Karata guessed as they reached the far side of the library. “No Aons, no slime. Coincidence:” Galladon asked. “Perhaps,” Raoden said, checking the old man's eyes. He pointed insistently at a small door in the wall. It was carved with a scene similar to the mural in the first room. Galladon pulled open the door, revealing a long, seemingly endless passage cut into the stone. “Where in Doloken does this lead?” “Out,” Raoden said. “The man asked us to take him out of Elantris.” Karata walked into the passage, running her fingers 1along its smoothly carved walls. Raoden and Galladon followed. The path quickly grew steep, and they were forced to take frequent breaks to rest their weak Elantrian bodies. They took turns carrying the old man as the slope turned to steps. It took over an hour to reach the path's end-a simple wooden door, uncarved and unadorned. Galladon pushed it open, and stepped out into the weak light of dawn. “We're on the mountain,” he exclaimed with surprise. Raoden stepped out beside his friend, walking onto a short platform cut into the mountainside. The slope beyond the platform was steep, but Raoden could make out the hints of switchbacks leading down. Abutting the slope was the city of Kae, and beyond that stood the enormous monolith that was Elantris. He had never really realized just how big Elantris was. It made Kae look like a village. Surrounding Elantris were the ghostly remains of the three other Outer Cities-towns that, like Kae, had once squatted in the shadow of the great city. All were now abandoned. Without Elantris's magics, there was no way for Arelon to support such a concentration of people.
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The cities' inhabitants had been forcibly removed, becoming Iadon's workmen and farmers. “Stile, I think our friend is getting impatient.” Raoden looked down at the Elantrian. The man's eyes twitched back and forth insistently, pointing at a wide path leading up from the platform. “More climbing,” Raoden said with a sigh. “Not much.” Karata said from the top of the path. “It ends just up here.” Raoden nodded and hiked the short distance, joining Karata on the ridge above the platform. “Lake,” the man whispered in exhausted satisfaction. Raoden frowned. The “lake” was barely ten feet deep-more like a pool. Its water was a crystalline blue, and Raoden could see no inlets or outlets. “What now?” Galladon asked. “We put him in,” Raoden guessed, kneeling to lower the Elantrian into the pool. The man floated for a moment in the deep sapphire water, then released a blissful sigh. The sound opened a longing within Raoden, an intense desire to be free of his pains both physical and mental. The old Elantrian's face seemed to smooth slightly, his eyes alive again. Those eyes held Raoden's for a moment, thanks shining therein. Then the man dissolved. “Doloken!” Galladon cursed as the old Elantrian melted away like sugar in a cup of adolis tea. In barely a second, the man was gone, no sign remaining of flesh, bone, or blood. “I'd be careful if I were you, my prince.” Karata suggested. Raoden looked down, realizing how close he was to the pool's edge. The pain screamed; his body shook, as if it knew how close it was to relief. All he had to do was fall. ... Raoden stood, stumbling slightly as he backed away from the beckoning pool. He wasn't ready. He wouldn't be ready until the pain ruled him-as long as he had will left, he would struggle. He pla1ced a hand on Galladon's shoulder. “When I am Hoed, bring me here. Don't make me live in pain.” “You're young to Elantris yet, sule.” Galladon said scoffingly. “You'll last for years.” The pain raged in Raoden, making his knees tremble. “Just promise, my friend. Swear to me you will bring me here.” “I swear, Raoden,” Galladon said solemnly, his eyes worried. Raoden nodded. “Come, we have a long trek back to the city.” CHAPTER 26 THE gate slammed shut as Sarene 's cart rolled back into Kae. “You're certain he's the one in charge?” she asked. Ashe bobbed slightly. “You were correct, my lady-my information about the gang leaders was outdated. They call this newcomer Lord Spirit. His rise was a recent event-most hadn't heard of him more than a month ago, though one man claims that Lord Spirit and Shaor are the same person. The reports agree that he defeated both Karata and Aanden. Apparently, the second confrontation involved an enormous battle of some sort.” “Then the people I'm meeting with are impostors,” Sarene said, tapping her cheek as she rode in the back of the cart. It was hardly fitting transportation for a princess, but none of the day's nobles had
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offered her a ride in their coaches. She had intended to ask Shuden, but he had disappeared-the young Torena had beat Sarene to him. “Apparently they are, my lady. Are you angered?” Ashe asked the question carefully. He had made it quite clear he still thought her preoccupation with Spirit was an unnecessary distraction. “No, not really. You have to expect a measure of subterfuge in any political engagement.” Or, so she said. Political necessity or not, she wanted Spirit to be honest with her. She was actually beginning to trust him, and that worried her. He chose to confide in her for some reason. Around the others he was bright and cheerful, but no man could be that one-sidedly optimistic. When he spoke only to Sarene, he was more honest. She could see pain in his eyes, unexplained sorrows and worries. This man, warlord or not, cared about Elantris. Like all Elantrians, he was more corpse than man: his skin wan and dry, his scalp and eyebrows completely hairless. Her revulsion was decreasing every day, however, as she grew accustomed to the city. She wasn't to the point where she could see beauty in the Elantrians, but at least she wasn't physically sickened by them any longer. Still, she forced herself to remain aloof from Spirit's overtures of friendship. She had spent too long in politics to let herself become emotionally open with an opponent. And he was definitely an opponent-no matter how affable. He played with her, presenting false gang leaders to distract, while he himself supervised her distributions. She couldn't even be certain that he was honoring their agreements. For all she knew, the only ones allowed to receive food were Spirit's followers. Perhaps he seemed so optimistic because she was inadvertently hel1ping him reign supreme over the city. The cart hit an especially large bump, and Sarene thumped against its wooden floor. A couple of empty boxes toppled off the pile, nearly falling on top of her. “Next time we see Shuden,” she mumbled sullenly, rubbing her posterior, “remind me to kick him.” “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said complacently. She didn't have to wait long. Unfortunately, she also didn't have a chance to do much kicking. She could probably have impaled Shuden if she had wished, but that wouldn't have made her very popular with the court women. This happened to be one of the days the women had chosen to practice their fencing, and Shuden attended the meeting, as usual-though he rarely participated. Thankfully, he also refrained from doing his ChayShan exercise. The women moped over him enough as it was. “They're actually improving,” Eondel said appreciatively, watching the women spar. Each had a steel practice sword, as well as a kind of uniform-a jumpsuit much like the one Sarene wore, but with a short ring of cloth hanging down from the waist, as if to imitate a skirt. The cloth loop was thin and useless, but it made the women comfortable, so Sarene didn't say anything-no matter how silly she thought it looked. “You sound surprised,
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Eondel,” Sarene said. “Were you that unimpressed with my ability to teach?” The stately warrior stiffened. “No, Your Highness, never-” “She's teasing you, my lord,” Lukel said, rapping Sarene on the head with a rolled-up piece of paper as he approached. “You shouldn't let her get away with things like that. It only encourages her.” “What's this?” Sarene said, snatching the paper from Lukel. “Our dear king's income figures,” Lukel explained as he removed a bright red sourmelon from his pocket and took a bite. He still hadn't revealed how he'd managed to get a shipment of the fruit an entire month before the season began, a fact that was making the rest of the mercantile community rabid with jealousy. Sarene looked over the figures. 'Is he going to make it?” “Barely.” Lukel said with a smile. “But his earnings in Teod, coupled with his tax income, should be respectable enough to keep him from embarrassment. Congratulations. Cousin, you've saved the monarchy.” Sarene rerolled the paper. “Well, that's one less thing we have to worry about.” “Two,” Lukel corrected, a bit of pink juice rolling down his cheek. “Our dear friend Edan has fled the country.” “What?” Sarene asked. “It's true, my lady,” Eondel said. “I heard the news just this morning. Baron Edan's lands border the Chasm down in southern Arelon, and recent rains caused some mudslides involving his 1fields. Edan decided to cut his losses, and was last seen heading for Duladel.” “Where he'll soon discover that the new monarchy is rather unimpressed with Arelish titles,” Lukel added. “I think Edan will make a nice farmer, don't you” “Wipe your mouth,” Sarene said with a reproving look. “It's not kind to make light of another's misfortune.” “Misfortune comes as Domi wills,” Lukel said. “You never liked Edan in the first place,” Sarene said. “He was spineless, arrogant, and would have betrayed us if he'd ever found the nerve. What wasn't there to like?” Lukel continued to munch on his fruit with a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, someone is certainly proud of himself this afternoon,” Sarene noted. “He is always like that after he makes a good business deal, Your Highness,” Eondel said. “He'll be insufferable for another week at least.” “Ah, just wait for the Arelene Market,” Lukel said. “I'll make a killing. Anyway, Iadon is busy looking for someone rich enough to buy Edan's barony, so you shouldn't have to worry about him bothering you for a little while.” “I wish I could say the same for you,” Sarene replied, turning her attention back to her still battling students. Eondel was right: They were improving. Even the older ones seemed to be bursting with energy. Sarene held up her hand, drawing their attention, and the sparring fell off. “You're doing very well,” Sarene said as the room fell silent. “I am impressed-some of you are already better than many of the women I knew back in Teod.” There was a general air of satisfaction about the women as they listened to Sarene's praise. “However, there is one thing that bothers
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me,” Sarene said, beginning to pace. “I thought you women intended to prove your strength, to show that you were good for more than making the occasional embroidered pillowcase. However, so far only one of you has truly shown me that she wants to change things in Arelon. Torena, tell them what you did today.” The thin girl yelped slightly as Sarene said her name, then looked sheepishly at her companions. “I went to Elantris with you?” “Indeed,” Sarene said. “I have invited each woman in this room several times, but only Torena has had the courage to accompany me into Elantris.” Sarene stopped her pacing to regard the uncomfortable women. None of them would look at her-not even Torena, who appeared to be feeling guilty by association. “Tomorrow I will go into Elantris again, and this time, no men will accompany me beyond the regular guards. If you really want to show this town that you are as strong as your husbands, you will accompany me.” Sarene stood in her place, looking over the women. Heads raised hesitantly, eyes focusing on her1. They would come. They were frightened near to death, but they would come. Sarene smiled. The smile, however, was only half genuine. Standing as she was, before them like a general before his troops, she realized something. It was happening again. It was just like Teod. She could see respect in their eyes; even the queen herself looked to Sarene for advice now. However, respect her as they did, they would never accept her. When Sarene entered a room, it fell silent; when she left, conversations began again. It was as if they thought her above their simple discussions. By serving as a model for what they wanted to become, Sarene had alienated herself from them. Sarene turned, leaving the women to their practicing. The men were the same. Shuden and Eondel respected her-even considered her a friend-but they would never think about her romantically. Despite his professed annoyance with courtly games of matrimony. Shuden was reacting favorably to Torena's advances-but he had never once looked at Sarene. Eondel was far older than she, but Sarene could sense his feelings toward her. Respect, admiration, and a willingness to serve. It was as if he didn't even realize she was a woman. Sarene knew that she was married now, and shouldn't be thinking about such things, but it was hard to regard herself as wedded. There had been no ceremony, and she had known no husband. She craved something-a sign that at least some of the men found her attractive, though she never would have responded to any such advances. The point was irrelevant; the men of Arelon feared her as much as they respected her. She had grown up without affection outside of her family, and it appeared she would continue that way. At least she had Kiin and his family. Still, if she had come to Arelon searching for acceptance, then she had failed. She would have to be content with respect. A deep, scratchy voice sounded behind
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her, and Sarene turned to find that Kiin had joined Lukel and Eondel. “Uncle?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” “I got home and found the house empty,” Kiin said. “There's only one person who would dare steal a man's entire family.” “She didn't steal us, Father,” Lukel joked. “We just heard that you were going to make Hraggish weed soup again.” Kiin regarded his jovial son for a moment, rubbing his chin where his beard once grew. “He got a good sale, then?” “A very lucrative one,” Eondel said. “Domi protect us,” Kiin grumbled, settling his stout body into a nearby chair. Sarene took a seat next to him. “You heard about the king's projected earnings, 'Ene?” Kiin asked. “Yes, Uncle.” Kiin nodded. “I never thought I'd see the day when I was encouraged by Iadon's success. Your plan to save him worked, and from what I hear. Eondel and the rest are expected to bring forth exemplary crops.” “Then why do you look so worried?” Sarene asked. “I'm getting old, 'Ene, and old men tend to worry. Most recently I've been concerned about your excursions into Elantris. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you in there.” “Not that he's going to forgive you anytime soon anyway,” Sarene said offhandedly. Kiin grunted. “That's the truth.” Then he stopped, turning suspicious eyes her direction. “What do you know of that?” “Nothing,” Sarene admitted. “But I'm hoping you will rectify my ignorance.” Kiin shook his head. “Some things are better left unrectified. Your father and I were both a whole lot more foolish when we were younger. Eventeo might be a great king, but he's a pathetic brother. Of course, I won't soon win any awards for my fraternal affection either.” “But what happened?” “We had a ... disagreement.” “What kind of disagreement?” Kiin laughed his bellowing, raspy laugh. “No, 'Ene. I'm not as easy to manipulate as your larks over there. You just keep on wondering about this one. And don't pout.” “I never pout.” Sarene said, fighting hard to keep her voice from sounding childish. When it became apparent that her uncle wasn't going to offer any more information, Sarene finally changed the subject. “Uncle Kiin, are there any secret passages in Iadon's palace?” “I'd be surprised as the Three Virgins if there aren't,” he replied. “Iadon is just about the most paranoid man I've ever known. He must have at least a dozen escape routes in that fortress he calls home.” Sarene resisted the urge to point out that Kiin's home was as much a fortress as the king's. As their conversation lulled, Kiin turned to ask Eondel about Lukel's deal. Eventually, Sarene stood and retrieved her syre, then walked out onto the practice floor. She fell into form and began moving through a solo pattern. Her blade whipped and snapped, the well-practiced motions now routine, and her mind soon began to wander. Was Ashe right? Was she allowing herself to become distracted by Elantris and its enigmatic ruler? She couldn't lose track of her
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greater tasks-Hrathen was planning something, and Telrii couldn't possibly be as indifferent as he made himself out to be. She had a lot of things she needed to watch, and she had enough experience with politics to realize how easy it was to overextend oneself. However, she was increasingly interested in Spirit. It was rare to find someone politically skilled enough to hold her attention, but in Arelon she had found two. In a way. Spirit was even more fascinating than the gyorn. While Hrathen and she were very frank about their enmity, Spirit somehow manipulated and foiled her while at the same time acting like an old friend. Most alarmingly, she almost didn't care. Instead of being outraged when she fille1d his demands with useless items, he had seemed impressed. He had even complimented her on her frugality, noting that the cloth she sent must have been bought at a discount, considering its color. In all things he remained friendly, indifferent to her sarcasm. And she felt herself responding. There, in the center of the cursed city, was finally a person who seemed willing to accept her. She wished she could laugh at his clever remarks, agree with his observations and share his concerns. The more confrontational she tried to be, the less threatened he was. He actually seemed to appreciate her defiance. “Sarene, dear?” Daora's quiet voice broke through her contemplations. Sarene made one final sweep of her sword, then stood up, dazed. Sweat streamed down her face, running along the inside of her collar. She hadn't realized how vigorous her training had become. She relaxed, resting the tip of her syre on the floor. Daora's hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her uniform was unstained by sweat. As usual, the woman did all things with grace-even exercise. “Do you want to talk about it, dear?” Daora asked with a coaxing tone. They stood to the side of room, the thumping of feet and slapping of blades masking the conversation from prying ears. “About what?” Sarene asked with confusion. “I've seen that look before, child,” Daora said comfortingly. “He's not for you. But, of course, you've realized that, haven't you?” Sarene paled. How could she know? Could the woman read thoughts? Then, however, Sarene followed her aunt's gaze. Daora was looking at Shuden and Torena, who were laughing together as the young girl showed Shuden a few basic thrusts. “I know it must be hard, Sarene,” Daora said, “being locked into a marriage with no chance for affection ... never knowing your husband, or feeling the comfort of his love. Perhaps in a few years, after your place here in Arelon is more secure, you could allow yourself a relationship that is ... covert. It is much too soon for that now, however.” Daora's eyes softened as she watched Shuden clumsily drop the sword. The normally reserved Jindo was laughing uncontrollably at his mistake. “Besides, child,” Daora continued, “this one is meant for another.” “You think ... ?” Sarene began. Daora placed a hand on Sarene's arm, squeezing
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it lightly and smiling. “I've seen the look in your eyes these last few days, and I've also seen the frustration. The two emotions go together more often than youthful hearts expect.” Sarene shook her head and laughed slightly. “I assure you, Aunt,” she said affectionately, yet firmly, “I have no interest in Lord Shuden.” “Of course, dear,” Daora said, patting her arm, then retreating. Sarene shook her head, walking over to get a drink. What were these “signs” Daora had claimed to see in her? The woman was usually so observant; what had made her misjudge so grievously in this instance? Sarene liked Shuden, of course, but not roma1ntically. He was too quiet and, like Eondel, a bit too rigid for her taste. Sarene was well aware that she would need a man who would know when to give her space, but who also wouldn't let her bend him in any way she chose. With a shrug, Sarene put Daora's misguided assumptions from her mind, then sat down to contemplate just how she was going to throw awry Spirit's latest, and most detailed, list of demands. CHAPTER 27 HRATHEN stared at the paper for a long, long period of time. It was an accounting of King Iadon's finances, as calculated by Derethi spies. Somehow, Iadon had recovered from his lost ships and cargo. Telrii would not be king. Hrathen sat at his desk, still in the armor he'd been wearing when he entered to find the note. The paper sat immobile in his stunned fingers. Perhaps if he hadn't been faced by other worries, the news wouldn't have shocked him so much-he had dealt with plenty of upset plans in his life. Beneath the paper, however, sat his list of local Arteths. He had offered every single one of them the position of head Arteth, and they had all refused. Only one man remained who could take the position. Iadon's recovery was only one more fallen brick in the collapsing wall of Hrathen's sense of control. Dilaf all but ruled in the chapel; he didn't even inform Hrathen of half the meetings and sermons he organized. There was a vengefulness to the way Dilaf was wresting control away from Hrathen. Perhaps the Arteth was still angered over the incident with the Elantrian prisoner, or perhaps Dilaf was just transferring his anger and frustration over Sarene's humanization of the Elantrians against Hrathen instead. Regardless, Dilaf was slowly seizing power. It was subtle, but it seemed inevitable. The crafty Arteth claimed that menial organizational items were “beneath the time of my lord hroden”-a claim that was, to an extent, well founded. Gyorns rarely had much to do with day-to-day chapel practices, and Hrathen couldn't do everything himself. Dilaf stepped in to fill the gaps. Even if Hrathen didn't break down and make the obvious move-appointing Dilaf head Arteththe eventual result would be the same. Hrathen was losing his grip on Arelon. Nobles went to Dilaf now instead of him, and while Derethi membership was still growing, it wasn't increasing quickly enough. Sarene had
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somehow foiled the plot to put Telrii on the throne-and after visiting the city, the people of Kae would no longer regard Elantrians as demons. Hrathen was setting a poor precedent for his activities in Arelon. On top of it all stood Hrathen's wavering faith. This was not the time to call his beliefs into question. Hrathen understood this. However, understanding-as opposed to feeling-was the root of his problem. Now that the seed of uncertainty had been given purchase in his heart, he couldn't easily uproot it. It was too much. Suddenly, it seemed as if his room were falling in on him. The walls and ceiling shrunk closer and closer, as if to crush him beneath their weight. Hrathen stumbled, trying to escape, and fell to the marble floor. Nothing worked, nothing could help him. He groaned, feeling the pain as his armor bit into his skin at1 odd angles. He rolled to his knees, and began to pray. As a priest of Shu-Dereth. Hrathen spent hours in prayer each week. However, those prayers were different-more a form of meditation than a communication, a means of organizing his thoughts. This time he begged. For the first time in years he found himself pleading for aid. Hrathen reached out to that God that he had served so long lie had almost forgotten Him. The God he had shuffled away in a flurry of logic and understanding, a God he had rendered impotent in his life, though he sought to further His influence. For once, Hrathen felt unfit to perform on his own. For once he admitted a need for help. He didn't know how long he knelt, praying fervently for aid, compassion, and mercy. Eventually, he was startled from his trancelike pleading by a knock at his door. “Come.” he said distractedly. “I apologize for disturbing my lord.” said a minor underpriest, cracking open the door. “But this just arrived for you.” The priest pushed a small crate into the room, then closed the door. Hrathen rose on unstable feet. It was dark outside, though he had begun his prayers before noon. Had he really spent that long in supplication? A lirtle dazed, Hrathen picked up the box and placed it on his desk, prying loose the lid with a dagger. Inside, packed with hay, was a rack containing four vials. My Lord Hrathen, the note read. Here is the poison you requested. All of the effects are exactly as you specified. The liquid must be ingested, and the victim won't display any symptoms until about eight hours afterwards. In all things, praise to Lord Jaddeth. Forton, apothecary and loyal subject of Wyrn. Hrathen picked up a vial, regarding its dark contents with wonder. He had almost forgotten his late-night call to Forton. He vaguely remembered assuming he would administer the poison to Dilaf. That plan wouldn't work anymore. He needed something more spectacular. Hrathen swished the poison around in its vial for a moment, then pulled off the stopper and drank it down in a single gulp. CHAPTER 28 The most
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difficult part was deciding where to begin reading. The bookshelves extended out of sight, their information stretching as if to eternity. Raoden was certain that the clues he needed were contained somewhere within the vast sea of pages, but finding them seemed a daunting task indeed. Karata was the one who made the discovery. She located a low bookshelf near the side of the room opposite the entrance. A set of about thirty volumes squatted on the shelf, waiting in their dust. They dictated a cataloguing system, with numbers relating to the various columns and rows of the library. From it, Raoden easily located the books on AonDor. He selected the lea1st complicated volume he could find, and set to work. Raoden restricted knowledge of the library to himself, Galladon, and Karata.Not only did he fear a repeat of Aanden's book boiling, but he sensed a sacredness to the structure. It was not a place to be invaded by visitors, misunderstanding fingers that would disorganize books and shatter the calm. They kept the pool a secret as well, giving Mareshe and Saolin a simplified explanation. Raoden's own longings warned him how dangerous the pool was. There was a part of him that wanted to seek out its deadly embrace, the refreshment of destruction. If the people knew that there was an easy, painless way to escape the suffering, many would take it without deliberation. The city would be depopulated in a matter of months. Letting them do so was an option, of course. What right had he to keep the others from their peace? Still, Raoden felt that it was too soon to give up on Elantris. In the weeks before Sarene began giving out food, he had seen that Elantris could forget its pains and its hungers. The Elantrians could move beyond their urges-there was an escape for them besides destruction. But not for him. The pain swelled with each passing day. It drew strength from the Dor, bringing him a little closer to submission with its every assault. Fortunately, he had the books to distract him. He studied them with hypnotic fascination, finally discovering the simple explanations he had sought for so long. He read how the complex Aon equations worked together. Drawing a line slightly longer in proportion to the rest of an Aon could have drastic effects. Two Aon equations could start the same, but-like two rocks rolled down a mountain on slightly different paths-they could end up doing completely different things. All by changing the length of a few lines. He began to grasp the theory of AonDor. The Dor was as Galladon had described it: a powerful reservoir just beyond the normal senses. Its only desire was to escape. The books explained that the Dor existed in a place that was full of pressure, and so the energy pushed its way through any viable exit, moving from an area of high concentration to one of low. However, because of the Dor's nature, it could enter the physical world only through gates of the proper size and
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shape. Elantrians could create rifts with their drawings, providing a means for the Dor to escape, and those drawings would determine what form the energy took when it appeared. However, if even one line was of the wrong proportion, the Dor would be unable to enter-like a square trying to force its way through a round hole. Some theorists described the process using unfamiliar words like “frequency” and “pulse length.” Raoden was only beginning to understand how much scientific genius was held in the library's musty pages. Still, for all of his studies, he was disappointingly unable to find out what had made AonDor stop working. He could only guess that the Dor had changed somehow. Perhaps now, instead of a square, the Dor was a triangle-and, no matter how many square-shaped Aons Raoden drew, the energy couldn't get through. What could have led to the Dor's sudden shift was beyond him. “How did that get in here?” Galladon asked, interrupting Raoden's thoughts. The Dula pointed toward the Seon Ien, who floated along the top of a bookshelf, h1is light casting shadows on the books. “I don't know.” Raoden said, watching ten loop a few times. “I have to admit, sule. Your Seon is creepy.” Raoden shrugged. “All of the mad Seons are that way.” “Yes, but the others generally stay away from people.” Galladon eyed Ten, shivering slightly. The Seon, as usual, didn't pay any apparent attention to Galladonthough Ien did seem to like staying near Raoden. “Well, anyway,” Galladon said, “Saolin's asking for you.” Raoden nodded, closing his book and rising from the small desk-one of many at the back of the library. He joined Galladon at the doorway. The Dula shot one last, uncomfortable look at Ien before closing the door, locking the Seon in darkness. “I don't know, Saolin,” Raoden said hesitantly. “My lord, we have little choice,” the soldier said. “My men have too many injuries. It would be pointless to stand against Shaor today-the wildmen would barely pause to laugh as they pushed us out of the way.” Raoden nodded with a sigh. The soldier was right: They couldn't keep holding Shaor's men away from Sarene. Though Saolin had grown quite proficient at fighting with his left hand, there just weren't enough warriors left to protect the courtyard. In addition, it seemed that Shaor's men were growing more and more dangerous in their ferocity. They could obviously sense that there was food in the courtyard, and the inability to reach it had driven them to an even deeper level of insanity. Raoden had tried leaving food out for them, but the distraction only worked for a short time. They stuffed their faces, then rushed on, even more furious than before. They were driven by a single-minded, obsessive goal: to reach the carts of food in the courtyard. If only we had more soldiers! Raoden thought with frustration. He'd lost many of his people to Sarene's handouts, while Shaor's numbers were apparently remaining strong. Raoden and Galladon had both offered to join Saolin's fighters, but the grizzled
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captain would hear nothing of it. “Leaders don't fight,” the broken-nosed man had said simply. “You're too valuable.” Raoden knew the man was right. Raoden and Galladon were not soldiers; they wouldn't do much besides disorder Saolin's carefully trained troops. They had few choices left, and it appeared Saolin's plan was the best of several bad options. “All right.” Raoden said. “Do it.” “Very good, my lord,” Saolin said with a slight bow. “I will begin the preparations-we only have a few minutes until the princess arrives.” Raoden dismissed Saolin with a nod. The soldier's plan was a desperate last-ditch attempt at a trap. Shaor's men tended to take that same path eaeh day before splitting up to try and work their way into the courtyard, and Saolin planned to ambush them as they approached. It was risky, but it was probably their only chance. The soldiers could not continue 1fighting as they were. “I suppose we should go, then.” Raoden said. Galladon nodded. As they turned to walk toward the courtyard, Raoden couldn't help feeling uncomfortable with the decision he'd made. If Saolin lost, then the wildmen would break through. If Saolin won, it would mean the death or incapacitation of dozens of Elantrians-men, on both sides, that Raoden should have been able to protect. Either way, I'm a failure, Raoden thought. Sarene could tell something was wrong, but she wasn't sure what it could be. Spirit was nervous, his friendly banter subdued. It wasn't her-it was something else. Perhaps some burden of leadership. She wanted to ask him what it was. She moved through the now familiar routine of food distribution, Spirit's worry making her nervous. Each time he approached to accept an item from the cart, she looked into his eyes and saw his tension. She couldn't force herself to ask about the problem. She had gone too long feigning coldness, too long rebuffing his attempts at friendship. Just as in Teod, she had locked herself into a role. And, just as before, she cursed herself, not quite knowing how to escape her self-imposed indifference. Fortunately, Spirit didn't share her same inhibitions. As the noblemen gathered to begin the handouts, Spirit pulled Sarene aside, walking just a short distance from the main group. She eyed him curiously. “What?” Spirit glanced back at the collection of noblemen, and even a few noblewomen, who were waiting for the Elantrians to approach and receive their food. Finally, he turned to Sarene. “Something might happen today,” he said. “What?” she asked, frowning. “Do you remember how I told you that not all Elantrians were as docile as the ones here?” “Yes,” Sarene said slowly. What's your trick, Spirit? What game are you Aging? He seemed so honest, so earnest. Yet, she couldn't help worrying that he was just toying with her. “Well,” Spirit said. “Just be ready. Keep your guards close.” Sarene frowned. She sensed a new emotion in his eyes-something she hadn't seen in him before. Guilt. As he turned back toward the food line, leaving his foreboding words ringing in her
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mind, a part of Sarene was suddenly grateful that she had remained aloof. He was hiding something from her-something big. Her political senses warned her to be wary. Whatever he had been expecting, however, it didn't come. By the time they had begun handing out food, Spirit had relaxed somewhat, speaking cheerfully. Sarene began to think that he had made a big show out of nothing. Then the yelling began. Raoden cursed, dropping his bag of fo1od as he heard the howl. It was close-far too close. A moment later he saw Saolin's beleaguered form appear at the mouth of an alley. The soldier was swinging his sword wildly at four separate opponents. One of the wildmen smashed a cudgel against Saolin's legs, and the soldier fell. Then Shaor's men were upon them. They spilled out of every alleyway-nearly two dozen howling madmen. The Elantris City Guards jumped up in surprise, startled from their leisurely idling near the gate, but they were too slow. Shaor's men leapt toward the group of aristocrats and Elantrians, their mouths open savagely. Then Eondel appeared. By some fortune of chance, he had chosen to accompany Sarene on the days trip and, as always, he had worn his sword-defying convention in favor of safety. In this instance, his caution was well placed. Shaor's men weren't expecting resistance, and they stumbled over themselves before the general's swinging blade. Despite his accumulating years, Eondel fought with spry dexterity, beheading two wildmen in one breath. Eondel's weapon, powered by healthy muscles, easily cut through the Elantrian flesh. His attack slowed the wildmen long enough for the Guards to join the battle, and they formed a line beside him. Finally realizing that they were in danger, the nobles began to scream. Fortunately, they were only a few steps away from the gate, and they easily fled the chaos. Soon only Raoden and Sarene remained, looking at each other through the battle. One of Shaor's followers fell at their feet, knocking over a carton of grain mush. The creature's belly was sliced waist to neck, and his arms flailed awkwardly, mixing the white mush paste with the slime of the cobblestones. His lips trembled as he stared upward. “Food. We only wanted a little food. Food . .” the madman said, beginning the mantra of a Hoed. Sarene looked down at the creature, then took a step back. When she looked back up at Raoden, her eyes shone with the icy rage of betrayal. “You held food back from them, didn't you?” she demanded. Raoden nodded slowly, making no excuse. “I did.” “You tyrant!” she hissed. “You heartless despot!” Raoden turned to look at Shaor's desperate men. In a way, she was right. “Yes, I am.” Sarene took another step backward. However, she stumbled against something. Raoden reached out to steady her, but then stopped as he realized what had tripped her. It was a sack of food, one of the overstuffed bags Raoden had prepared for the Hoed. Sarene looked down as well, realization dawning. “I almost started trusting you,” Sarene
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said bitterly. Then she was gone, dashing toward the gate as the soldiers fell back. Shaor's men did not follow, instead falling on the bounty that the nobles had abandoned. Raoden stepped back from the food. Shaor's men didn't even seem to notice him as they1 tore into the scattered supplies, stuffing their faces with dirty hands. Raoden watched them with tired eyes. It was over. The nobles would not enter Elantris again. At least none of them had been killed. Then he remembered Saolin. Raoden dashed across the courtyard to kneel beside his friend. The old soldier stared sightlessly into the sky, his head rocking back and forth as he mumbled, “Failed my lord. Failed my lord Spirit. Failed, failed, failed. . . “ Raoden moaned, bowing his head in despair. What have I done? he wondered, helplessly cradling the newly made Hoed. Raoden stayed there, lost in sorrow until long after Shaor's men had taken the last of the food and run off. Eventually, an incongruous sound brought him out of his grief. The gates of Elantris were opening again. CHAPTER 29 “MY lady, are you injured?” Ashe's deep voice was wrought with concern. Sarene tried to wipe her eyes, but the tears kept coming. “No,” she said through her quiet sobs. “I'm fine.” Obviously unconvinced, the Seon floated around her in a slow semicircle, searching for any outward signs of injury. Houses and shops passed quickly beyond the carriage window as the vehicle sped them back to the palace. Eondel, the carriage's owner, had stayed behind at the gate. “My lady,” Ashe said, his tone frank. “What is wrong?” “I was right, Ashe.” she said, trying to laugh at her stupidity through the tears. “I should be happy; I was right about him all along.” “Spirit?” Sarene nodded, then rested her head against the back of the seat, staring up at the carriage's ceiling. “He was withholding food from the people. You should have seen them. Ashe-their starvation had driven them mad. Spirit's warriors kept them away from the courtyard, but they must have finally gotten hungry enough to fight back. I can't imagine how they did it-they didn't have armor or swords, just their hunger. He didn't even try to deny it. He just stood there, watching his schemes fall apart, a stash of hoarded food at his feet.” Sarene raised her hands to her face, holding her head in frustration. “Why am I so stupid?” Ashe pulsed with concern. “I knew what he was doing. Why does it bother me to find out I was right?” Sarene took a deep breath, but it caught in her throat. Ashe had been right: She had allowed herself to get too caught up in Spirit and Elantris. She had become too emotionally involved to act on her suspicions. The result was a disaster. The nobility had responded to Elantrian pain and wretchedness. Long-held prejudices had weakened, the Korathi teachings of temperate understanding proving their influence. Now, however, the nobility would only remember that they had been attacked. Sarene could only
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thank Domi that none of them had been hurt. Sarene's thinking was interrupted by the sounds of armor clinking outside of her window. Recouping her composure the best she could, Sarene poked her head out the window to see what was causing the ruckus. A double line of men in chain and leather marched past her carriage, their livery black and red. It was Iadon's personal guard, and they were heading for Elantris. Sarene felt a chill as she watched the grim-faced warriors. “Idos Domi,” she whispered. There was hardness in these men's eyes-they were prepared to kill. To slaughter. At first, the coachman resisted Sarene's commands that he drive more quickly, but few men found it easy to resist a determined Teoish princess. They arrived at the palace shortly, and Sarene hopped from the carriage without waiting for the coachman to pull down the steps. Her reputation with the palace staff was growing, and most knew to get out of her way as she stalked through the hallways. The guards at Iadon's study were also growing used to her, and they simply sighed resignedly as they pushed open the doors for her. The king's face fell visibly as she entered. “Whatever it is, it will wait. We have a crisis-” Sarene slammed her open palms down on Iadon's desk, shaking the wood and knocking over the penstand. “What in the blessed name of Domi do you think you're doing?” Iadon reddened with frustrated anger, standing. “There has been an attack on members of my court! It is my duty to respond.” “Don't preach to me about duty, Iadon.” Sarene countered. “You've been looking for an excuse to destroy Elantris for ten years now-only the people's superstitions kept you back.” “Your point?” he asked coldly. “I am nor going to be the one who gives you that excuse!” she said. “Withdraw your men.” Iadon snorted. “You of all people should appreciate the quickness of my response, Princess. It was your honor that was slighted by that attack.” “I'm perfectly capable of protecting my own honor, Iadon. Those troops move in direct opposition to everything I've accomplished these last few weeks.” “It was a fool's project, anyway,” Iadon declared, dropping a collection of papers to the table. The top sheet ruffled from the motion, and Sarene could read its scribbled commands. The words “Elantris's” and “extermination” stood out, stark and foreboding. “Go back to your room, Sarene,” the king said. “This will all be over in a matter of hours.” For the first time Sarene realized how she must look, her face red and mussed from the tears, her simple monochrome dress stained with sweat and Elantris grime, and her disheveled hair pulled back into an unraveling braid. The moment of insecurity disappeared as she looked back at the king and saw the satisfaction in his eyes. He would massacre the entire group of starving, helpless people in Elantris. He would 1kill Spirit. All because of her. “You listen to me, Iadon,” Sarene said, her voice sharp and cold. She held the king's
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eyes, drawing upon her nearly six-foot height to tower over the shorter man. “You will withdraw your soldiers from Elantris. You wild leave those people alone. Otherwise, I will begin to tell people what I know about you.” Iadon snorted. “Defiance, Iadon?” she asked. “I think you'll feel differently when everyone knows the truth. You know they already think you a fool. They pretend to obey you, but you know-you know in that whispering part of your heart that they mock you with their obedience. You think they didn't hear about your lost ships? You think they weren't laughing to themselves at how their king would soon be as poor as a baron? Oh they knew. How will you face them, Iadon, when they learn how you really survived? When I show them how I rescued your income, how I gave you the contracts in Teod, how I saved your crown.” As she spoke, she punctuated each remark by stabbing her finger at his chest. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow as he began to crack beneath her unyielding gaze. “You are a fool, Iadon,” she hissed. “I know it, your nobles know it, and the world knows it. You have taken a great nation and squashed it in your greedy hands. You have enslaved the people and you have defiled Arelon's honor. And, despite it all, your country grows poorer. Even you, the king, are so destitute that only a gift from Teod lets you keep your crown.” Iadon shied away unnerved. The king seemed to shrink, his arrogant act withering before her anger. “How will it look, Iadon?” she whispered. “How will it feel to have the entire court know you are indebted to a woman? A foolish girl at that? You would be revealed. Everyone would know what you are. Nothing more than an insecure, trivial, incapable invalid.” Iadon plopped down into his seat. Sarene handed him a pen. “Repeal it,” she demanded. His fingers shook as he scribbled a countermand at the bottom of the page, then stamped it with his personal seal. Sarene snatched up the paper, then stalked from the room. “Ashe, stop those soldiers! Tell them new orders are coming.” “Yes, my lady,” the Seon replied, shooting down the corridor toward a window, moving more quickly than even a galloping horse. “You!” Sarene ordered, slapping the rolled-up sheet of paper against a guard's breastplate. “Take this to Elantris.” The man accepted the paper uncertainly. “Run!” Sarene ordered. He did. Sarene folded her arms, watching the man dash down the hallway. Then she turned to regard the second guard. He began to twitch nervously beneath her gaze. “Um, I'll m1ake sure he gets there,” the man stuttered, then took off behind his companion. Sarene stood for a moment, then turned back to the king's study, pulling the doors closed. She was left with the sight of Iadon, slumped in his chair, elbows on the desktop and head cradled in his hands. The king was sobbing quietly to himself. By the time Sarene reached Elantris, the
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new orders had long since arrived. Iadon's guard stood uncertainly before the gates. She told them to go home, but their captain refused, claiming that he had received orders not to attack, but he didn't have any orders to return. A short time later a courier arrived, delivering commands to do just that. The captain shot her an irritable look, then ordered his men back to the palace. Sarene stayed a little longer, making the strenuous climb to the top of the wall to gaze down at the courtyard. Her food cart stood abandoned in the center of the square, overturned with broken boxes running in a jagged line before it. There were bodies, too-fallen members of the attacking party, their corpses rotting in the muck. Sarene froze, her muscles stiffening. One of the corpses was still moving. She leaned over the stone railing, staring down at the fallen man. The distance was great, but she could still see the distinct lines of the man's legs-lying a dozen feet from his chest. Some powerful blow had separated him at the waist. There was no way he could have survived such a wound. Yet, insanely, his arms waved in the air with hopeless randomness. “Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered, her hand rising to her breast, her fingers seeking out her small Korathi pendant. She scanned the courtyard with disbelieving eyes. Some of the other bodies were moving as well, despite horrible wounds. They say that the Elantrians are dead, she realized. That they are the deceased whose minds refuse to rest. Her eyes open for the first time, Sarene realized how the Elantrians survived without food. They didn't need to eat. But, why then did they? Sarene shook her head, trying to clear her mind of both confusion and the struggling corpses below. As she did so, her eyes fell on another figure. It knelt in the shadow of Elantris's wall, its posture somehow bespeaking incredible sorrow. Sarene felt herself drawn along the walkway in the direction of the form, her hand dragging along the stone railing. She stopped when she stood above him. Somehow she knew the figure belonged to Spirit. He was clutching a body in his arms, rocking back and forth with his head bowed. The message was clear: Even a tyrant could love those who followed him. I saved you, Sarene thought. The king would have destroyed you, but I saved your life. It wasn't for you, Spirit. It was for all those poor people that you rule over. Spirit didn't notice her. She tried to remain angry at him. However, looking down and sensing his agony, she couldn't lie-even to herself. The day's events disturbed her for several reasons. She was angry at having her plans disrupted. She regretted that she would no longer be able to feed the struggling Elantrians. She was unhappy with the way the aristocracy would see Elantris. But she was also saddened that she would never be ab1le to see him again. Tyrant or not, he had seemed like a good man. Perhaps ...
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perhaps only a tyrant could lead in a place like Elantris. Perhaps he was the best that the people had. Regardless, she would probably never see him again. She would never again look into those eyes that, despite the emaciated form of his body, seemed so vibrant and alive. There was a complexity in them that she would never be able to unravel. It was over. She sought refuge in the only place in Kae she felt safe. Kiin let her in, then held her as she fell into his arms. It was a perfectly humiliating end to a very emotional day. However, the hug was worth it. She had decided as a child that her uncle was very good at hugging, his broad arms and enormous chest sufficient to envelope even a tall and gangly girl. Sarene finally released him, wiping her eyes, disappointed in herself for crying again. Kiin simply placed a large hand on her shoulder and led her into the dining room, where the rest of the family sat around the table, even Adien. Lukel had been talking animatedly, but he cut off as he saw Sarene. “Speak the name of the lion,” he said, quoting a Jindoeese proverb, “and he will come to feast.” Adien's haunted, slightly unfocused eyes found her face. “Six hundred and seventy-two steps from here to Elantris,” he whispered. There was silence for a moment. Then Kaise jumped up onto her chair. “Sarene! Did they really try and eat you?” “No, Kaise,” Sarene replied, finding a seat. “They just wanted some of our food.” “Kaise, leave your cousin alone,” Daora ordered firmly. “She has had a full day.” “And I missed it,” Kaise said sullenly, plopping down in her seat. Then she turned angry eyes on her brother. “Why did you have to get sick?” “It wasn't my fault,” Daorn protested, still a little wan. He didn't seem very disappointed to have missed the battle. “Hush, children,” Daora repeated. “It's all right,” Sarene said. “I can talk about it.” “Well, then,” Lukel said, “is it true?” “Yes,” Sarene said. “Some Elantrians attacked us, but no one got hurt-at least, not on our side.” “No,” Lukel said. “Not that-I meant about the king. Is it true that you yelled him into submission?” Sarene grew sick. “That got out?” Lukel laughed. “They say your voice carried all the way to the main hall. Iadon still hasn't left his study.” “I might have gotten a little carried away,” Sarene said. “You did the right thing, dear,” Daora assured her. “Iadon is fa1r too accustomed to having the court jump when he so much as sneezes. He probably didn't know what to do when someone actually stood up to him.” “It wasn't that hard,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “Beneath all the bluster he's very insecure.” “Most men are, dear,” Daora said. Lukel chuckled. “Cousin, what did we ever do without you? Life was so boring before you decided to sail over and mess it all up for us.” “I would rather it stayed
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a little less messed up,” Sarene mumbled. “Iadon isn't going to react too well when he recovers.” “If he gets out of line, you can always just yell at him again,” Lukel said. “No,” Kiin said, his gruff voice solemn. “She's right. Monarchs can't afford to be reprimanded in public. We might have a much harder time of things when this is all through.” “Either that or he'll just give up and abdicate in favor of Sarene,” Lukel said with a laugh. “Just as your father feared,” Ashe's deep voice noted as he floated in the window. “He always worried that Arelon wouldn't be able to deal with you, my lady.” Sarene smiled feebly. “Did they go back?” “They did,” the Seon said. She had sent him to follow Iadon's guards, in case they decided to ignore their orders. “The captain immediately went to see the king. He left when His Majesty refused to open his doors.” “It wouldn't do for a soldier to see his king bawling like a child,” Lukel noted. “Anyway,” the Seon continued, “I-” He was interrupted by an insistent knock at the door. Kiin disappeared, then returned with an eager Lord Shuden. “My lady,” he said bowing slightly to Sarene. Then he turned to Lukel. “I just heard some very interesting news.” “It's all true,” Lukel said. “We asked Sarene.” Shuden shook his head. “It isn't about that.” Sarene looked up with concern. “What else could possibly happen today?” Shuden's eyes twinkled. “You'll never guess who the Shaod took last night.” CHAPTER 30 HRATHEN didn't try to hide his transformation. He walked solemnly from his chambers, exposing his damnation to the entire chapel. Dilaf was in the middle of morning services. It was worth the loss of hair and skin color to see the short Arelish priest stumble backward in horrified shock. The Korathi priests came for Hrathen a short time later. They gave him a large, enveloping white robe to hide his disfiguration, then led him from the now empty chapel. Hrathen smiled to himself as he saw the confused Dilaf watching f1rom his alcove, his eyes openly hating Hrathen for the first time. The Korathi priests took him to their chapel, stripped him, and washed his now black-spotted body with water from the Aredel river. Then they wrapped him in a white robe constructed of thick, raglike strips of cloth. After washing and clothing him, the priests stepped back and allowed Omin to approach. The short, balding leader of Arelish Korathi blessed Hrathen quietly, tracing the symbol of Aon Omi on his chest. The Arelish man's eyes betrayed just a hint of satisfaction. After that, they led Hrathen through the city streets, chanting. However, at the city itself they found a large squadron of troops wearing Iadon's colors blocking their path. The soldiers stood with hands on weapons, speaking in hushed tones. Hrathen regarded them with surprise: he recognized men preparing for battle. Omin argued with the captain of the Elantris City Guard for a time while the other priests pulled Hrathen into a squat
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building beside the guardhouse-a holding place, carved with Aon Omi. Hrathen watched through the room's small window as two winded guards galloped up and presented Iadon's soldiers with a rolled-up sheet of paper. The captain read it, frowning, then turned to argue with the messenger. After this Omin returned, explaining that they would have to wait. And wait they did-the better part of two hours. Hrathen had heard that the priests would only throw people into Elantris during a certain time of day, but apparently it was a window of time, and not a specific moment. Eventually, the priests stuffed a small basket of food in Hrathen's arms, offered one final prayer to their pitiful god, and pushed him through the gates. He stood in the city, his head bald, his skin tainted with large black splotches. An Elantrian. The city was much the same at eye level as it had been from the wall-filthy, rotting, and unholy. It held nothing for him. He spun around, tossing aside the meager basket of food and dropping to his knees. “Oh, Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation,” he began, his voice loud and firm. “Hear now the petition of a servant in your empire. Lift this taint from my blood. Restore me to life. I implore you with all the power of my position as a holy gyorn.” There was no response. So, he repeated the prayer. Again, and again, and again.... CHAPTER 31 SAOLIN didn't open his eyes as he sank into the pool, but he did stop mumbling. He bobbed for a moment, then took a sharp breath, reaching his hands toward the heavens. After that, he melted into the blue liquid. Raoden watched the process solemnly. They had waited for three days, hoping against all that the grizzled soldier would regain his wits. He had not. They had brought him to the pool partially because his wound was so terrible, and partially because Raoden knew that he could never enter the Hall of the Fallen with Saolin inside. The mantra “I have failed my lord Spirit” would have been too much. “Come, stile,” Galladon said. “He's gone.” “Yes, he is.” Raoden said. And it's my fault. For once, the burdens and agonies of his body1 seemed insignificant compared with those of his soul. They returned to him. First as a trickle, then as a flood. It took days for them to realize, and believe, that Sarene wasn't going to return. No more handouts-no more eating, waiting, and eating again. Then they came back, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor, remembering that once-not so long ago-there had been purpose in their lives. Raoden turned them back to their old jobs-cleaning, fanning, and building. With proper tools and materials, the work became less an exercise in intentional time wasting and more a productive means of rebuilding New Elantris. Piecemeal roofs were replaced with more durable, functional creations. Additional seed corn provided a chance for a second planting, one much larger and ambitious than the first. The short wall around New Elantris was reinforced
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and expanded-though, for the moment, Shaor's men remained quiet. Raoden knew, however, that the food they had gathered from Sarene's cart wouldn't last long. The wildmen would return. The numbers that came to him after Sarene were much greater than those that had followed him before. Raoden was forced to acknowledge that despite the temporary setbacks they caused, Sarene's excursions into Elantris had ultimately been beneficial. She had proven to the people that no matter how much their hunger hurt, simply feeding their bellies wasn't enough. Joy was more than just an absence of discomfort. So, when they came back to him, they no longer worked for food. They worked because they feared what they would become if they did not. “He shouldn't be here, Galladon,” Raoden said as he studied the Fjordell priest from atop their garden-roof observation point. “You're certain that's the gyorn?” Galladon asked. “He says so in that prayer of his. Besides, he's definitely Fjordell. That frame of his is too large to be Aonic.” “Fjordells don't get taken by the Shaod,” Galladon said stubbornly. “Only people from Arelon, Teod, and occasionally Duladel.” “I know,” Raoden said, sitting back in frustration. “Perhaps it's just percentages. There aren't many Fjordells in Arelon-perhaps that's why they never get taken.” Galladon shook his head. “Then why don't Jindos ever get taken? There's plenty of them living along the spice route.” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “Listen to him pray, sule,” Galladon said scoffingly. “As if the rest of us hadn't tried that already.” “I wonder how long he'll wait.” “Three days already,” Galladon said. “Must be starting to get hungry. Kolo?” Raoden nodded. Even after three days of almost continual prayer, the gyorn's voice was firm. Everything else considered, Raoden had to respect the man's determination. “Well, when he finally realizes he's not getting anywhere, we'll invite him to join us,” Raoden said.1 “Trouble, sule,” Galladon warned. Raoden followed the Dula's gesture, picking out a few huddled shapes in the shadows to the gyorn's left. Raoden cursed, watching Shaor's men slink from the alleyway. Apparently, their food had run out even more quickly than Raoden had assumed. They had probably returned to the courtyard to look for scraps, but they found something much more promising: the still full basket of food at the gyorn's feet. “Come on.” Raoden urged, turning to climb down from the roof. There was a time when Shaor's men might have gone directly for the food. However, recent events had changed the wild men. They had begun wounding indiscriminately-as if they had realized that the fewer mouths opposed them, the more likely they were to get food. “Doloken burn me for helping a gyorn,” Galladon muttered, following. Unfortunately, he and Raoden moved too slowly. They were too late ... to save Shaor's men. Raoden rounded the side of the building as the first Wildman jumped at the gyorn's back. The Fjordell leapt to his feet, spinning with near-inhuman speed and catching Shaor's man by the head. There was a snap as the gyorn cracked his opponent's neck,
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then threw him against the wooden gate. The other two attacked in unison. One met with a powerful spinning kick that tossed him across the courtyard like a pile of rags. The other received three successive punches to the face, then a kick to the midsection. The madman's howl of rage cut off with a whine as the gyorn placed another kick at the side of the man's head. Raoden stumbled to a halt, mouth half open. Galladon snorted. “Should have realized. Derethi priests can take care of themselves. Kolo?” Raoden nodded slowly, watching the priest return smoothly to his knees and resume his prayers. Raoden had heard that all Derethi priests were trained in the infamous monasteries of Fjorden, where they were required to undergo vigorous physical training. However, he hadn't realized that a middle-aged gyorn would maintain his skills. The two wildmen who could still move crawled away, while the other one lay where the gyorn had tossed him, whimpering pitifully with his broken neck. “It's a waste,” Raoden whispered. “We could have used those men back in New Elantris.” “I don't see what we can do about it.” Galladon said with a shake of his head. Raoden stood, turning toward the market section of Elantris. “I do.” he said with determination. They penetrated Shaor's territory so quickly and directly that they got nearly to the bank before they were noticed. Raoden didn't respond when Shaor's men began to howl-he continued to walk, resolute, focused on his goal. Galladon, Karata, and Dashe-Karata's former second was one of the few experienced fighting men left in Raoden's camp-accompanied him. Each nervously carried a medium-sized sack in his arms. Shaor's men followed them, cutting off their escape. After the losses they had received over the last few weeks, there could onl1y be a couple of dozen men left in Shaor's band, but those few seemed to multiply and shift in the shadows. Galladon shot Raoden an apprehensive look. Raoden could tell what he was thinking. You'd better be sure as Doloken you know what you're doing, sule. . . Raoden set his jaw firmly. He had only a single hope-his belief in the rational nature of the human soul. Shaor was much the same as before. Though her men must have delivered some of their spoils to her, one would never have known it from her screaming. “Bring me food!” she wailed, her voice audible long before they entered the bank. “I want food!” Raoden led his small group into the bank. Shaor's remaining followers filed in behind, approaching slowly, waiting for their goddess's inevitable command to kill the intruders. Raoden moved first. He nodded to the others, and each dropped their sacks. Corn spilled across the uneven floor of the bank, mixing with the slime and falling into cracks and crevices. Howls sounded behind them, and Raoden waved his people to the side as Shaor's men descended upon the corn. “Kill them!” Shaor yelled belatedly, but her followers were too busy stuffing their mouths. Raoden and the others left as simply as
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they had come. The first one approached New Elantris barely a few hours later. Raoden stood beside the large fire they had kindled atop one of the taller buildings. The blaze required many of their precious wood scraps, and Galladon had been against it from the start. Raoden ignored the objections. Shaor's men needed to see the fire to make the connection-the leap that would bring them back to sensibility. The first wild man appeared out of the evening's darkness. He moved furtively, his stance nervous and bestial. He cradled a ripped sack, a couple of handfuls of grain clutched within. Raoden motioned for his warriors to move back. “What do you want?” he asked the madman. The man stared back dumbly. “I know you understand me,” Raoden said. “You can't have been in here long-six months at the most. That's not enough to forget language, even if you want to convince yourself that it is.” The man held up the sack, his hands glistening with slime. “What?” Raoden insisted. “Cook.” the man finally said. The grain they'd dropped had been seed corn, hardened over the winter to be planted in spring. Though they had most certainly tried, Shaor's men wouldn't have been able to chew or swallow it without great pain. And so, Raoden had hoped that somewhere in the back of their abandoned minds, these men would remember that they had once been human. Hoped that they would recall civilization, and the ability to cook. Hoped they would confront their humanity. “I won't cook your food for you.” Raoden said. “But I will let you do it yourself.” CHAPTER 32 “So, you've returned to wearing black, have you, my dear?” Duke Roial asked as he helped her into the carriage. Sarene looked down at her dress. It wasn't one that Eshen had sent her, but something she'd asked Shuden to bring up on one of his caravans through Duladel. Less full than most current trends in Arelish fashion, it hugged rightly to her form. The soft velvet was embroidered with tiny silver patterns, and rather than a cape it had a short mantle that covered her shoulders and upper arms. “It's actually blue, Your Grace,” she said. “I never wear black.” “Ah.” The older man was dressed in a white suit with a deep maroon undercoat. The outfit worked well with his carefully styled head of white hair. The coachman closed the door and climbed into his place. A short moment later they were on their way to the ball. Sarene stared out at the dark streets of Kae, her mood tolerant, but unhappy. She couldn't, of course, refuse to attend the ball-Roial had agreed to throw it at her suggestion. However, she had made those plans a week ago, before events in Elantris. The last three days had been devoted to reflection; she has spent them trying to work through her feelings and reorganize her plans. She didn't want to bother with a night of frivolities, even if there was a point behind it. “You look at ill-ease, Your
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Highness,” Roial said. “I haven't quite recovered from what happened the other day, Your Grace,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “The day was rather overwhelming,” he agreed. Then, leaning his head out the carriage's window, he checked the sky. “It is a beautiful night for our purposes.” Sarene nodded absently. It no longer mattered to her whether the eclipse would be visible or not. Ever since her tirade before Iadon, the entire court had begun to step lightly around her. Instead of growing angry as Kiin had predicted, Iadon simply avoided her. Whenever Sarene entered a room, heads turned away and eyes looked down. It was as if she were a monster-a vengeful Svrakiss sent to torment them. The servants were no better. Where they had once been subservient, now they all cringed. Her dinner had come late, and though the cook insisted it was because one of her serving women had suddenly run off, Sarene was certain it was simply because no one wanted to face the fearful princess's wrath. The entire situation was putting Sarene on edge. Why, in the blessed name of Domi, she wondered, does everyone in this country feel so threatened by an assertive woman? Of course, this time she had to admit that woman or not, what she had done to the king had been too forward. Sarene was just paying the price for her loss of temper. “All rig1ht, Sarene,” Roial declared. “That is enough.” Sarene started, Iooking up at the elderly duke's stern face. “Excuse me, Your Grace?” “I said it's enough. By all reports, you've spent the last three days moping in your room. I don't care how emotionally disturbing that attack in Elantris was, you need to get over it-and quickly. We're almost to my mansion.” “Excuse me?” she said again, taken aback. “Sarene,” Roial continued, his voice softening, “we didn't ask for your leadership. You wiggled your way in and seized control. Now that you've done so, you can't just leave us because of injured feelings. When you accept authority, you must be willing to take responsibility for it at all times-even when you don't particularly feel like it.” Suddenly abashed by the duke's wisdom, Sarene lowered her eyes in shame. “I'm sorry.” “Ah, Princess,” Roial said. “we've come to rely on you so much in these last few weeks. You crept into our hearts and did what no one else, even myself, could have done-you unified us. Shuden and Eondel all but worship you, Lukel and Kiin stand by your side like two unmoving stones, I can barely unravel your delicate schemes, and even Ahan describes you as the most delightful young woman he's ever met. Don't leave us now-we need you.” Flushing slightly, Sarene shook her head as the carriage pulled up Roial's drive. “But what is left, Your Grace? Through no cleverness of my own, the Derethi gyorn has been neutralized, and it appears that Iadon has been quelled. It seems to me that the time of danger has passed.” Roial raised a bushy white eyebrow.
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“Perhaps. But Iadon is more clever than we usually credit. The king has some overwhelming blind spots, but he was capable enough to seize control ten years ago, and he has kept the aristocracy at one an-other's throats all this time. And as for the gyorn .” Roial looked out the carriage window, toward a vehicle pulling up next to them. Inside was a short man dressed completely in red; Sarene recognized the young Aonic priest who had served as Hrathen's assistant. Roial frowned. “I think we may have traded Hrathen for a foe of equal dan-” “Him?” Sarene asked with surprise. She'd seen the young man with Hrathen, of course-even remarked on his apparent fervor. However, he could hardly be as dangerous as the calculating gyorn, could he? “I've been watching that one,” the duke said. “His name is Dilaf-he's Arelish, which means he was probably raised Korathi. I've noticed that those who turn away from a faith are often more hateful toward it than any outsider could be.” “You might be right, Your Grace,” Sarene admitted. “We'll have to change our plans. We can't deal with this one the same way we did Hrathen.” Roial smiled, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “That's the girl I remember. Come, it wouldn't do for me to be late to my own party.” Roial had decided to have the eclipse-observation party on the grounds behind his house1-an action necessitated by the relative modesty of his home. For the third-richest man in Arelon, the duke was remarkably frugal. “I've only been a duke for ten years, Sarene,” Roial had explained when she first visited his home. “but I've been a businessman all my life. You don't make money by being wasteful. The house suits me-I fear I'd get lost in anything larger.” The grounds surrounding the home, however, were extensive-a luxury Roial admitted was a bit extravagant. The duke was a lover of gardens, and he spent more time outside wandering his grounds than he did in his house. Fortunately, the weather had decided to comply with the duke's plans, providing a warm breeze from the south and a completely cloudless sky. Stars splattered the sky like specks of paint on a black canvas, and Sarene found her eyes tracing the constellations of the major Aons. Rao shone directly overhead, a large square with four circles at its sides and a dot in the center. Her own Aon, Ene, crouched barely visible on the horizon. The full moon rose ponderously toward its zenith. In just a few hours it would vanish completely-or, at least, that was what the astronomers claimed. “So,” Roial said, walking at her side, their arms linked, “are you going to tell me what this is all about?” “What what's all about?” “The ball,” Roial said. “You can't claim that you had me organize it on a whim. You were much too specific about the date and location. What are you planning?” Sarene smiled, rekindling the night's schemes. She had nearly forgotten about the party, but the more she considered it,
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the more excited she became. Before this night was over, she hoped to find the answer to a problem that had been bothering her almost since she'd arrived in Arelon. “Let's just say I wanted to view the eclipse with company.” she said with a sly smile. “Ah, Sarene, ever dramatic. You've missed your calling in life, my dear-you should have been an actress.” “As a matter of fact. I considered it once,” Sarene said reminiscently. “Of course, I was eleven years old at the time. A troop of players came through Teoin. After watching them, I informed my parents that I had decided not to grow up to be a princess, but an actress instead.” Roial laughed. “I would like to have seen old Eventeo's face when his prize daughter told him she wanted to become a traveling performer.” “You know my father?” “Really, Sarene,” Roial said with indignation, “I haven't been old and senile all my life. There was a time when I traveled, and every good merchant has a few contacts in Teod. I've had two audiences with your father, and both times he mocked my wardrobe.” Sarene chuckled. “He's merciless with visiting merchants.” Roial's grounds centered around a large courtyardlike patch of grass overlaid by a wooden dancing pavilion. Hedge-walled pathways led away from the pavilion, toward newly blooming flower beds, bridge-covered ponds, and sculpture disp1lays. Torches lined the pavilion, providing full illumination. These would, of course, be doused prior to the eclipse. However, if things went as Sarene planned, she wouldn't be there to see it. “The king!” Sarene exclaimed. “Is he here?” “Of course,” Roial said, pointing toward an enclosed sculpture garden to one side of the pavilion. Sarene could barely make out the form of Iadon inside, Eshen at his side. Sarene relaxed. Iadon was the whole point of the night's activities. Of course, the king's pride wouldn't let him miss a ball thrown by one of his dukes. If he had attended Telrii's party, he would certainly make it to Roial's. “What could the king have to do with little Sarene's schemes?” Roial mused to himself. “Maybe she sent someone to peruse his chambers while he's away. Her Seon, perhaps?” However, at that moment Ashe floated into view a short distance away. Sarene shot Roial a sly look. “All right, perhaps it wasn't the Seon,” Roial said. “That would be too obvious anyway.” “My lady,” Ashe said, bobbing in greeting as he approached. “What did you find out?” Sarene asked. “The cook did indeed lose a serving woman this afternoon, my lady. They claim she ran off to be with her brother, who was recently moved to one of the king's provincial mansions. The man, however, swears he hasn't seen anything of her.” Sarene frowned. Perhaps she had been too quick in judging the cook and her minions. “All right. Good work.” “What was that about?” Roial asked suspiciously. “Nothing,” Sarene said, this time completely honest. Roial, however, nodded knowingly. The problem with being clever, Sarene thought with a sigh, is that everyone assumes
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you're always planning something. “Ashe, I want you to keep an eye on the king,” Sarene said, aware of Roial's curious smile. “He'll probably spend most of his time in his exclusive portion of the party. If he decides to move, tell me immediately.” “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, hovering away to take an unobtrusive place next to one of the torches, where the flame's light masked his own. Roial nodded again. He was obviously having a delightful time trying to decipher Sarene's plans. “So, do you feel like joining the king's private gathering?” Sarene asked, trying to divert the duke's attention. Roial shook his head. “No. As much good as it would do me to watch Iadon squirm in your presence, I've never approved of the way he holds himself aloof. I'm the host, thanks to you, and a host should mingle. Besides, being around Iadon tonight will be intolerable-he's looking for someone to replace Baro1n Edan, and every minor noble at the party will make a play for the title.” “As you wish,” Sarene said, allowing Roial to lead her toward the open-walled pavilion where a group of musicians was playing and some couples were dancing, though most stood talking at the perimeter. Roial chuckled, and Sarene followed his gaze. Shuden and Torena spun near the center of the dance floor, completely captivated by one another. “What are you laughing about?” Sarene asked, watching the fire-haired girl and the young Jindo. “It is one of the great joys of my old age to see young men proven hypocrites.” Roial said with an evil smile. “After all those years swearing that he would never let himself be caught-after endless balls spent complaining when women fawned over him-his heart, and his mind, have turned to mush as surely as any other man's.” “You're a mean old man, Your Grace.” “And that is the way it should be.” Roial informed. “Mean young men are trivial, and kindly old men boring. Here, let me get us something to drink.” The duke wandered away, and Sarene was left watching the young couple dance. The look in Shuden's eyes was so sickeningly dreamy that she had to turn away. Perhaps Daora's words had been more accurate than Sarene had been willing to admit. Sarene was jealous, though not because she had assumed any romantic possibilities with Shuden. However, ever since her arrival in Arelon, Shuden had been one of her most fervent supporters. It was hard to watch him giving his attention to another woman, even for a completely different purpose. There was another reason as well-a deeper, more honest reason. She was jealous of that look in Shuden's eyes. She was envious of his opportunity to court, to fall in love, and to be swept up in the stupefying joy of romance. They were ideals Sarene had dreamed about since early adolescence. As she grew older. Sarene realized such things would never be hers. She had rebelled at first, cursing her offensive personality. She knew she intimidated the court's men, and so, for a short
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while, she had forced herself to adopt a more subservient, docile temperament. Her engagement, and near marriage, to a young count named Graeo had been the result. She still remembered the man-more a boy-with pity. Only Graeo had been willing to take a chance on the new, even-tempered Sarene-risking the mockery of his peers. The union had not been one of love, but she had liked Graeo despite his weak will. There had been a kind of childish hesitancy about him; an overdone compulsion to do what was right, to succeed in a world where most people understood things much better than he. In the end, she had broken off the engagement-not because she knew living with the dull-minded Graeo would have driven her mad, but because she had realized that she was being unfair. She had taken advantage of Graeo's simple ingenuousness, knowing full well he was getting himself into something far over his head. It was better he bear the scorn of being refused at the last moment than live the rest of his life with a woman who would stifle him. The decision had sealed her fate as an unmarried spinster. Rumors spread that she had led Graeo on simply to make a fool out of him, and the embarrassed young man had left the court, living the next three years holed up on his lands like a hermit. After that, no man had dared court the king's daughter. She'd fled Teod at that point, immersing herself in her father's diplomatic corps. She served as an envoy in all the major cities of Opelon, from Fjorden itself to the Svordish capital of Seraven. The prospect of going to Arelon had intrigued her, of course, but her father had remained adamant about his prohibition. He barely allowed spies into the country, let alone his only daughter. Still. Sarene thought with a sigh, she had made it eventually. It was worth it, she decided; her engagement to Raoden had been a good idea, no matter how horribly it had turned out. For a while, when they had been exchanging letters, she had allowed herself to hope again. The promise had eventually been crushed, but she still had the memory of that hope. It was more than she had ever expected to obtain. “You look as if your best friend just died,” Roial noted, returning to hand her a cup of blue Jaadorian wine. “No, just my husband,” Sarene said with a sigh. “Ah,” Roial said with an understanding nod. “Perhaps we should move somewhere else-a place where we won't have such a clear view of our young baron's rapture. “A wonderful suggestion, Your Grace,” Sarene said. They moved along the pavilion's outer border. Roial nodding to those who complimented him on the fine party. Sarene strolled along at the elderly man's side, growing increasingly confused at the dark looks she occasionally got from noblewomen they passed. It was a few minutes before she realized the reason behind the hostility; she had completely forgotten Roial's status as the most marriageable man in
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Arelon. Many of the women had come this night expecting the duke to be unaccompanied. They had probably planned long and hard on how to corner the old man, intent on currying his favor. Sarene had ruined any chance of that. Roial chuckled, studying her face. “You've figured it out then, haven't you?” “This is why you never throw parties, isn't it?” The duke nodded. “As difficult as it is to deal with them at another man's ball, it is nearly impossible to be a good host with those vixens nipping at my hide.” “Be careful, Your Grace,” Sarene said. “Shuden complained about exactly the same sort of thing the first time he took me to a ball, and look where he ended up.” “Shuden went about it the wrong way.” Roial said. “He just ran away-and everyone knows that no matter how hard you run, there's always going to be someone faster. I, on the other hand, don't run. I find far too much enjoyment in playing with their greedy little minds.” Sarene's chastising reply was cut off by the approach of a familiar couple. Lukel wore his customarily fashionable outfit, a blue, gold-embroidered vest and tan trouser1s, while Jalla, his dark-haired wife, was in a simple lavender dress-Jindoeese, by the look of its high-necked cut. “Now, there's a mismatched couple if I've ever seen one.” Lukel said with an open smile as he bowed to the duke. “What?” Roial asked. “A crusty old duke and his lovely young companion?” “I was referring more to the height difference, Your Grace,” Lukel said with a laugh. Roial glanced up with a raised eyebrow; Sarene stood a full head taller than him. “At my age, you take what you can get.” “I think that's true no matter what your age, Your Grace.” Lukel said, looking down at his pretty, black-eyed wife. “We just have to accept whatever the women decide to allot us, and count ourselves blessed for the offering.” Sarene felt sick-first Shuden, now Lukel. She was definitely not in the mood to deal with happy couples this night. Sensing her disposition, the duke bid Lukel farewell, pleading the need to check on the food in other parts of the garden. Lukel and Jalla turned back to their dancing as Roial led Sarene out of the lighted pavilion and back under the darkened sky and flickering torchlight. “You're going to need to get over that, Sarene,” the duke said. “You can't go running every time you meet someone with a stable relationship.” Sarene decided not to point out that young love was hardly stable. “I don't always get this way, Your Grace. I've just had a difficult week. Give me a few more days, and I'll be back to my regular, stone-hearted self.” Sensing her bitterness, Roial wisely decided not to respond to that particular remark. Instead, he glanced to the side, following the sound of a familiar voice's laughter. Duke Telrii had apparently decided not to join the king's private section of the party. Quite the opposite, in fact. He stood
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entertaining a large group of noblemen in a small hedged courtyard opposite the pavilion of Iadon's private gathering. It was almost as if he were starting his own exclusive subparty. “Not a good sign,” Roial said quietly, voicing Sarene's own thoughts. “Agreed.” Sarene said. She did a quick count of Telrii's fawners, trying to distinguish rank, then glanced back toward Iadon's section of the party. Their numbers were about equal, but Iadon seemed to command more important nobility-for the moment. “That's another unforeseen effect of your tirade before the king.” Roial said. “The more unstable Iadon becomes, the more tempting other options appear.” Sarene frowned as Telrii laughed again, his voice melodious and unconcerned. He did not at all sound like a man whose most important supporter-Gyorn Hrathen-had just fallen. “What is he planning?” Sarene wondered. “How could he take the throne now?” Roial just shook his head. After a moment more of contemplation, he looked up and addressed open 1air. “Yes?” Sarene turned as Ashe approached. Then, with astonishment, she realized it wasn't Ashe. It was a different Seon. “The gardeners report that one of your guests has fallen into the pond, my lord,” the Seon said, bobbing almost to the ground as he approached. His voice was crisp and unemotional. “Who?” Roial asked with a chuckle. “Lord Redeem, Your Grace,” the Seon explained. “It appears the wine proved too much for him.” Sarene squinted, searching deep into the ball of light and trying to make out the glowing Aon. She thought it was Opa. Roial sighed. “He probably scared the fish right out of the pond. Thank you, Opa. Make sure that Redeem is given some towels and a ride home, if he needs it. Next time maybe he won't mix ponds with alcohol.” The Seon bobbed formally once more, then floated away to do his master's bidding. “You never told me you had a Seon, my lord,” Sarene said. “Many of the nobles do, Princess,” Roial said, “but it is no longer fashionable to bring them along with us wherever we go. Seons are reminders of Elantris.” “So he just stays here at your house?” Roial nodded. “Opa oversees the gardeners of my estate. I think it fitting-after all, his name does mean 'flower.' Sarene tapped her cheek, wondering about the stern formality in Opa's voice. The Seons she knew back in Teod were much warmer with their masters, no matter what their personality. Perhaps it was because here, in the presumed land of their creation, Seons were now regarded with suspicion and dislike. “Come,” Roial said, taking her arm. “I was serious when I said I wanted to check on the serving tables.” Sarene allowed herself to be led away. “Roial, you old prune,” a blustery voice called out as they approached the serving tables, “I'm astounded. You actually know how to throw a party! I was afraid you'd try and cram us all into that box you call a house.” “Ahan,” Roial said, “I should have realized I would find you next to the food.” The large
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count was draped in a yellow robe and clutched a plateful of crackers and shellfish. His wife's plate, however, held only a few slices of fruit. During the weeks Seaden had been attending Sarene's fencing lessons she had lost considerable weight. “Of course-best part of a party!” the count said with a laugh. Then, nodding to Sarene, he continued, “Your Highness. I'd warn you not to let this old scoundrel corrupt you, but I'm just as worried about you doing the same to him.” “Me?” Sarene said with mock indignation. “What danger could I be?” Ahan snorted. “Ask the king.” he sai1d, shoving a wafer into his mouth. “Actually, you can ask me-just look what you're doing to my poor wife. She refuses to eat!” “I'm enjoying my fruit, Ahan,” Seaden said. “I think you should try some of it.” “Maybe I'll try a plate of it after I'm done here,” Ahan huffed. “You see what you're doing. Sarene? I would never have agreed to this 'fencing' thing if I had known how it would ruin my wife's figure.” “Ruin?” Sarene asked with surprise. “I'm from southern Arelon, Princess,” Ahan said, reaching for some more clams. “To us, round is beautiful. Not everyone wants their women to look like starving schoolboys.” Then, realizing that he might have said too much, Ahan paused. “No offense intended, of course.” Sarene frowned. Ahan really was a delightful man, but he often spoke-and acted-without thought. Unsure how to properly respond. Sarene hesitated. The wonderful Duke Roial came to her rescue. “Well, Ahan, we have to keep moving-I have a lot of guests to greet. Oh, by the way-you might want to tell your caravan to hurry.” Ahan looked up as Roial began to lead Sarene oft “Caravan?” he asked, suddenly very serious. “What caravan?” “Why, the one you have carrying sourmelons from Duladel to Svorden, of course,” the duke said offhandedly. “I sent a shipment of them myself a week ago. It should be arriving tomorrow morning. I'm afraid, my friend, that your caravan will arrive to a saturated market-not to mention the fact that your melons will be slightly overripe.” Ahan cursed, the plate going limp in his hand, shellfish tumbling unnoticed to the grass below. “How in the name of Domi did you manage that?” “Oh, didn't you know?” Roial asked. “I was half partner in young Lukel's venture. I got all the unripened fruits from his shipment last week-they should be ready by the time they hit Svorden.” Ahan shook his head, laughing in a low voice. “You got me again, Roial. But just you watch-one of these days I'm finally going to get the better of you, and you'll be so surprised that you won't be able to look at yourself for a week!” “I look forward to it,” Roial said as they left the serving tables behind. Sarene chuckled, the sound of Seaden scolding her husband rising behind. “You really are as good a businessman as they say, aren't you?” Roial spread his hands in humility. Then he said, “Yes. Every
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bit as good.” Sarene laughed. “However.” Roial continued, “that young cousin of yours puts me to shame. I have no idea how he kept that sourmelon shipment a secret-my Duladen agents are supposed to inform me of such things. I only got in on the deal because Lukel came to me for capital.” “Then it's a good thing he didn't go to Ahan instead.” “A good thing indeed,” Roial agreed. “I would never hear the end of it if he had. Ahan's been trying to best me for two decades now-one of these days he's going to realize I only act brilliant to keep him off-balance, and then life isn't going to be half as entertaining.” They continued to walk, speaking with guests and enjoying Roial's excellent gardens. The early-blooming flower beds were cleverly lit with torchlight, lanterns, and even candles. Most impressive were the crosswood trees, whose branches-leafed with pink and white blossoms-were lit from behind by lanterns running up the trunks. Sarene was enjoying herself so much that she almost lost track of time. Only Ashe's sudden appearance reminded her of the night's true purpose. “My lady!” Ashe exclaimed. “The king is leaving the party!” “Are you certain?” she asked, her attention snapping away from the crosswood flowers. “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said. “He left furtively, claiming he needed to use the privy, but he called his carriage instead.” “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Sarene curtly told Roial. “I must be going.” “Sarene?” Roial asked with surprise as Sarene walked back toward the house. Then, more urgently, he called again. “Sarene! You can't go.” “I apologize, Your Grace, but this is important!” He tried to follow her, but her legs were longer. In addition, the duke had a party to attend. He couldn't just disappear in the middle of it. Sarene rounded the side of Roial's house in time to see the king climbing into his carriage. She cursed-why hadn't she thought to arrange transportation of her own? She looked around frantically, searching for a vehicle to requisition. She picked a likely candidate as the king's carriage pulled away, hooves clopping against the cobblestones. “My lady!” Ashe warned. “The king is not in that carriage.” Sarene froze. “What?” “He slipped out the other side and disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the driveway. The carriage is a ruse.” Sarene didn't bother to question the Seon-his senses were much more acute than those of a human. “Let's go,” she said, heading in the proper direction. “I'm not dressed for sneaking: you'll have to keep watch on him and tell me where he goes.” “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, dimming his light to a nearly imperceptible level and flying after the king. Sarene followed at a slower pace. They continued in that manner, Ashe staying close to the king and Sarene following at a less conspicuous distance. They covered the ground surrounding Roial's mansion quickly, then moved into the city of Kae. Iadon moved strictly through alleys, and Sarene realized for the first time that she might be putting herself
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in danger. Women didn't travel alone after dark-even in1 Kae, which was one of the safest cities in Opelon. She considered turning baek a half-dozen times, once nearly dashing away in a panic as a drunk man moved in the darkness next to her. However, she kept going. She was only going to get one chance to find out what Iadon was up to, and her curiosity was stronger than her fear ... for the moment at least. Ashe, sensing the danger, advised that she let him follow the king alone, but she pressed on with determination. The Seon, accustomed to Sarene's ways, gave no further argument. He flitted back and forth between her and the king, doing his best to keep watch over Sarene while at the same time following Iadon. Eventually, the Seon slowed, returning to Sarene with an apprehensive bob. “He just entered the sewers, my lady.” “The sewers?” Sarene asked incredulously. “Yes, my lady. And he is not alone-he met two cloaked men just after he left the party, and was joined by a half-dozen more at the mouth of the sewers.” “And you didn't follow them in?” she asked with disappointment. “We'll never be able to tail them.” “That is unfortunate, my lady.” Sarene ground her teeth in frustration. “They'll leave tracks in the muck,” she decided, stalking forward. “You should be able to follow them.” Ashe hesitated. “'My lady, I must insist that you return to the duke's party.” “Not a chance, Ashe.” “I have the solemn duty of your protection, my lady,” Ashe said. “I can't allow you to go climbing through refuse in the middle of the night-I was wrong to let you go this far. It is my responsibility to stop this before it goes any further.” “And how will you do that?” Sarene asked impatiently. “I could call your father.” “Father lives in Teod, Ashe,” Sarene pointed out. “What is he going to do?” “I could go get Lord Eondel or one of the others.” “And leave me to get lost in the sewers on my own?” “You would never do something that foolish, my lady,” Ashe declared. Then he paused, hovering uncertainly in the air, his Aon so dim it was translucent. “All right,” he finally admitted. “You are indeed that foolish.” Sarene smiled. “Come on-the fresher those tracks are, the easier it will be for you to follow them.” The Seon sullenly led the way down the street, which soon ended in a dirty, fungus-lined arch. Sarene strode forward with determination, paying no heed to the damage the sludge would do to her dress. The moonlight lasted only as far as the first turnoff. Sarene stood for a moment in the suffocating, dank blackness, realizing that even she would never have been foolish e1nough to enter the directionless maze without guidance. Fortunately, her bluff had convinced Ashe-though she wasn't sure whether or not to be offended by the level of arrogant idiocy of which he thought her capable. Ashe increased his light slightly. The sewer was a hollow tube, a
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remnant of the days when Elantris's magic provided running water for every house in Kae. Now the sewers were used as a receptacle for trash and excrement. They were flushed out by a periodic diversion of the Aredel-something which obviously hadn't been done in a while, for the wet muck at the bottom of the corridor came up to her ankles. She didn't want to consider what that sludge must be composed of, but the pungent stink was an overpowering clue. All of the tunnels looked the same to Sarene. One thing reassured her: the Seon sense of direction. It was impossible to get lost when accompanied by Ashe. The creatures always knew where they were, and could point the exact direction to any place they had ever been. Ashe led the way, floating close to the muck's surface. “My lady, may I be allowed to know just how you knew the king would sneak away from Roial's party?” “Surely you can figure it out, Ashe,” she chided. “Let me assure you, my lady, I have tried.” “Well, what day of the week is it?” “MaeDal?” the Seon replied, leading her around a corner. “Right. And what happens every week on MaeDal?” Ashe didn't answer immediately. “Your father plays ShinDa with Lord Eoden?” he asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic frustration. The night's activities-especially her belligerence-were wearing away even Ashe's formidable patience. “No,” Sarene said. 'Every week on MaeDal at eleven o'clock I hear scrapings in the passage that runs through my wall-the one that leads to the king's rooms.” The Seon made a slight “ah” of understanding. “I heard noises in the passage some other nights as well,” Sarene explained. “But MaeDal was the only consistent day.” “So you had Roial throw a parry tonight, expecting that the king would keep to his schedule,” the Seon said. “Right,” Sarene said, trying not to slip in the muck. “And I had to make it a late party so that people would stay at least until midnight-the eclipse provided a convenient excuse. The king had to come to the party; his pride wouldn't let him stay away. However, his weekly appointment must be important, for he risked leaving early to attend it.” “My lady, I don't like this,” Ashe said. “What good could the king be doing in the sewers at midnight?” “That is exactly what I intend to find out,” Sarene said, brushing away a spiderweb. One thought drove her through muck a1nd darkness-a possibility she was barely willing to acknowledge. Perhaps Prince Raoden lived. Maybe Iadon hadn't confined him to the dungeons, but in the sewers. Sarene might not be a widow after all. A noise came from ahead. “Turn down your light, Ashe,” she said. “I think I hear voices.” He did so, becoming nearly invisible. There was an intersection just ahead, and torchlight flickered from the rightmost tunnel. Sarene approached the corner slowly, intending to peek around it. Unfortunately, she hadn't noticed that the floor declined slightly just before the intersection, and her feet slipped. She waved desperate arms,
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barely stabilizing herself as she slid a few feet down the incline and came to a halt at the bottom. The motion placed her directly in the middle of the intersection. Sarene looked up slowly. King Iadon stared back, looking as stunned as she felt. “Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered. The king stood facing her behind an altar, a red-streaked knife raised in his hand. He was completely naked except for the blood smearing his chest. The remains of an eviscerated young woman lay tied to the altar, her torso sliced open from neck to crotch. The knife dropped from Iadon's hand, hitting the muck below with a muffled plop. Only then did Sarene notice the dozen black-robed forms standing behind him, Duladen runes sewn into their clothing. Each one carried a long dagger. Several approached her with quick steps. Sarene wavered between her body's urge to retch and her mind's insistence that she scream. The scream came out on top. She stumbled backward, slipping and splashing down into the slime. The figures rushed for her, their cowled eyes intent. Sarene kicked and struggled in the slime, still screaming as she tried to regain her feet. She almost missed the sounds of footsteps from her right. Then Eondel was there. The aged general's sword flashed in the dim light, cleanly slicing off an arm that was reaching for Sarene's ankle. Other figures moved through the corridor as well, men in the livery of Eondel's legion. There was also a man in a red robe, Dilaf, the Derethi priest. He didn't join the fighting, but stood to the side with a fascinated look on his face. Dumbfounded, Sarene tried to stand again, but only ended up slipping in the sewage once more. A hand grabbed her arm, helping her up. Roial's wrinkled face smiled in relief as he pulled Sarene to her feet. “Maybe next time you'll tell me what you are planning, Princess.” he suggested. “You told him,” Sarene realized, shooting Ashe an accusatory look. “Of course I told him, my lady,” the Seon responded, pulsing slightly to punctuate the remark. She sat in Roial's study with Ashe and Lukel. Sarene wore a robe that the duke had borrowed from one of his maids. It was too short, of course, but it was better than a sewage-covered velvet dress. “When?” Sarene demanded, leaning back in Roial's deep plush couch and wrapping herself in a blanket. The duke had ordered a bath drawn for her, and her hair was still wet, chilled in the night air. “He called Opa as soon as you left my drive,” Roial explained, walking into the room, carrying three steaming cups. He handed one to her and another to Lukel before taking a seat. “That soon?” Sarene asked with surprise. “I knew you would never turn back, no matter what I said.” Ashe said. “You know me too well,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. It was Fjordell garha-which was good: she couldn't afford to fall asleep just yet, will admit to that failing without argument, my
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lady,” Ashe said. “Then why did you try and stop me before leading me into the sewer?” she asked, was stalling, my lady,” Ashe explained. “The duke insisted on coming himself, and his group moved slowly.” “I might be slow, but I was not going to miss whatever you had planned, Sarene,” Roial said. 'They say age brings wisdom, but it only gave me a torturous case of curiosity.” “Eondel's soldiers?” Sarene asked. “Were already at the party,” Lukel said. He had insisted on knowing what had happened as soon as he saw Sarene sneaking into Roial's house, covered in slime. “I saw some of them mingling with the guests.” “I invited Eondel's officers,” Roial explained. “Or, at least, the half-dozen of them that were in town.” “All right,” Sarene said. “So after I ran off, Ashe called your Seon and told you I was pursuing the king.” “ 'The foolish girl is going off to get herself killed' were his exact words, I believe,” Roial said with a chuckle. “Ashe!” “I apologize, my lady.” the Seon said, pulsing in embarrassment. “I was rather out of sorts.” “Anyway.” Sarene continued, “Ashe called Roial and he gathered Eondel and his men from the parry. You all followed me to the sewers, where you had your Seon guide you.” “Until Eondel heard you screaming,” Roial finished. “You are a very lucky lady to have that man's loyalty, Sarene.” “I know,” Sarene said. “That's the second time this week his sword has proved useful. Next time I see Iadon, remind me to kick him for convincing the nobility that military training is beneath them.” Roial chuckled. “You might have to stand in line to do that kicking, Princess. I doubt the city's priests-Derethi or Korathi-will let the king get away with taking part in the Jeskeri Mysteries.” “And sacrificing that poor woman,” Ashe said quietly. The tone of the conversation grew subdued as they remembered just what they were discussing. 1Sarene shuddered at the image of the blood-covered altar and its occupant. Ashe's right, she thought somberly. This is no time for joking. “That's what it was, then?” Lukel asked. Sarene nodded. “The Mysteries sometimes involve sacrifices. Iadon must have wanted something very badly.” “Our Derethi friend claimed to have some knowledge on the subject,” Roial said. “He seemed to think the king was petitioning the Jesker spirits to destroy someone for him.” “Me?” Sarene asked, growing cold despite her blanket. Roial nodded. “Arteth Dilaf said the instructions were written on the altar in that woman's blood.” Sarene shivered. “Well, at least now we know what happened to the maids and cooks who disappeared from the palace.” Roial nodded. “I'd guess he's been involved with the Mysteries for a long time-perhaps even since the Reod. He was obviously the leader of that particular band.” “The others?” Sarene asked. “Minor nobles,” Roial said. “Iadon wouldn't have invoIved anyone who could challenge him.” “Wait a moment.” Sarene said, her brows furled. “Where did that Derethi priest come from, anyway?” Roial looked down at his cup uncomfortably. “That's
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my fault. He saw me gathering Eondel's men-I was kind of in a hurry-and followed us. We didn't have time to deal with him.” Sarene sipped at her drink petulantly. The night's events definitely hadn't turned out as she had planned. Suddenly Ahan waddled through the door. “Rag Domi, Sarene!” he declared. “First you oppose the king, then you rescue him, and now you dethrone him. Would you please make up your mind?” Sarene pulled her knees up against her chest and dropped her head between them with a groan. “There's no chance of keeping it under cover, then?” “No,” Roial said. “The Derethi priest saw to that-he's already announced it to half of the city.” “Telrii will almost certainly seize power now,” Ahan said with a shake of his head. “Where is Eondel?” Sarene asked, her voice muffled by the blankets. “Locking the king in the jailhouse.” Ahan said. “And Shuden?” “Still seeing that the women got home safely, I assume.” Lukel said. “All right,” Sarene said, raising her head and brushing her hair out of her eyes. “We'll have to proceed without them. Gentlemen. I'm afraid I just destroyed our brief respite of peace. We have some heavy planning to do-and most of it is going to be in the way of damage control.” CHAPTER 33 SOMETHING changed. Hrathen blinked, washing away the last remnants of his waking dream. He wasn't sure how much time had passed-it was dark now, hauntingly black save for a few lonely torches burning high above on Elantris's wall. There wasn't even any moonlight. He fell into the stupor more and more often lately, his mind fuzzing as he knelt in the same penitent stance. Three days was a long time to spend in prayer. He was thirsty. Hungry as well. He had expected that: he had fasted before. However, this time seemed different. His hunger seemed more urgent, as if his body were trying to warn him of something. Elantris had much do with his discomfort, he knew. There was a desperation about the town, a sense of anxiety in every vile, cracking stone. Suddenly, light appeared in the sky. Hrathen looked up with awe, blinking tired eyes. The moon slowly appeared from darkness. First a scythe-shaped sliver, it grew even as Hrathen watched. He hadn't realized that there would be a lunar eclipse this night-he had stopped paying attention to such things since he left Duladel. That nation's now extinct pagan religion had ascribed special importance to the heaven's movements, and the Mysteries often practiced their rituals on such nights. Squatting in the courtyard of Elantris, Hrathen finally understood what had prodded the Jeskers to regard nature with religious wonder. There was something beautiful about the pale-faced goddess of the heavens, a mysticism to her eclipse. It was as if she really were disappearing for a time-traveling to another place, as opposed to just falling into the planet's shadow, as Svordish scientists now claimed. Hrathen could almost feel her magic. Almost. He could understand how, perhaps, a primitive culture could worship the moon-but
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he could not take part in that worship. Yet he wondered-was this the awe he should feel for his God? Was his own belief flawed because he did not regard Jaddeth with the same mixture of curious fear and wonder with which the people of Jesker had regarded the moon? He would never have such emotions: he was not capable of irrational veneration. He understood. Even if he envied men who could gush praises to a god without understanding his teachings, Hrathen eould not separate fact and religion. Jaddeth bestowed attributes on men as He saw fit, and Hrathen had been given a logical intellect. He would never be content with simpleminded devotion. It was not what Hrathen had been hoping for, but it was an answer, and he found comfort and strength within it. He was not a zealot: he would never be a man of extreme passion. In the end, he followed Derethi because it made sense. That would have to be enough. Hrathen licked his drying lips. He didn't know how long it would be until he left Elantris: his exile could last days yet. He hadn't wanted to show signs of physical dependence, but he knew that he would need some nourishment. Reaching over, he retrieved his sacrificial basket. Caked with slime, the offerings were growing stale and moldy. Hrathen ate them anyway, resolve breaking as he finally made the decision to eat. He devoured it all-flaccid vegetables, moldy bread, meat, even some of the corn, the hard grains softened slightly by their extended bath in Elantris slime. At the end he downed the entire flask of wine with one prolonged gulp. He tossed the basket aside. At least now he wouldn't have to worry about scavengers coming to steal his offerings, though he hadn't seen any more of them since the earlier attack. He was thankful to Jaddeth for the respite. He was becoming so weak and dehydrated that he might not have been able to fend off another assault. The moon was almost completely visible now. Hrathen stared up with renewed resolve. He might lack passion, but he had an ample serving of determination. Licking his now wetted lips. Hrathen restarted his prayer. He would continue as he always had, doing his best to serve in Lord Jaddeth's empire. There was nothing else God could expect of him. CHAPTER 34 RAODEN was wrong about Shaor's men. A few of them came to him that night to cook their food, the light of consciousness shining weakly in their eyes. The rest-the majority of Shaor's followers-did not. They came to him for another reason. He watched several of them pull a large stone block on one of Mareshe's sleds. Their minds were gone-their capacity for rational thought atrophied somehow by their extended submersion in bestial madness. While several had recovered-if only partially-the rest seemed beyond help. They never made the connection between fires and cooking; they had simply stood howling over the grain, outraged and confused by their inability to devour it. No, these men had not fallen
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into his trap. But, they had come anyway-for Raoden had dethroned their god. He had entered Shaor's territory and had escaped unscathed. He had power over food: he could make it inedible for one but succulent for another. His soldiers had repeatedly defeated Shaor's band. To their simple, degenerate minds there was only one thing to do when faced by a god more powerful than their own: convert. They came to him the morning after his attempt at restoring their intelligence. He had been walking the perimeter of New Elantris's short defensive wall, and seen them slinking down one of the citys main thoroughfares. He had raised the call, thinking they had finally decided to mount a coordinated attack. But Shaor's men had not come to fight. That had come to give him a gift: the head of their former god. Or, at least, her hair. The lead madman had tossed the golden wig at Raoden's feet, its follicles stained with dark, stagnant Elantrian blood. Despite searching, his people never found Shaor's body. Then, the fleece of their fallen goddess lying in the slime before them, the wildmen had bowed their faces to the ground in supplication. They now did exactly as Raoden said in all things. In turn, he had rewarded them with morsels of food, just as one would a favored pet. It disturbed him, using men like beasts. He made other efforts to restore their rational minds, but even after just two days he knew that it was a futile hope. These men had surrendered their intellect-and, regardless of whether psychology or the Dor was to blame, it would never return. They were remarkably well behaved-docile, even. The pain didn't seem to affect them, and they performed any duty, no matter how menial or laborious. If Raoden told them to push on a building until it fell over, he would return days later to find them still standing against the same wall, their palms pressed against the belligerent stone. Yet, despite their apparent obedience, Raoden didn't trust them. They had murdered Saolin; they had even killed their former master. They were calm only because their god currently demanded it. “Kayana,” Galladon declared, joining him. “There's nor much left, is there?” Karata agreed. The Kayana was Galladon's name for them. It meant the “Insane.” “Poor souls,” Raoden whispered. Galladon nodded. 'You sent for us, sule?” “Yes, I did. Come with me.” The increased manpower of the Kayana had given Mareshe and his workers the means to reconstruct some stone furniture, thereby conserving their already dwindling wood resources. Raoden's new table inside the chapel was the same one that he had used to make Taan remember his stonecarving days. A large crack-patched with mortar-ran down the middle, but other than that it was remarkably intact, the carvings worn but distinct. The table held several books. The recent restoration of New Elantris required Raoden's leadership, making it difficult for him to sneak away to the hidden library, so he had brought our several volumes. The people were accustomed to seeing him with
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books, and hadn't thought to question him-even though these tomes still had leather covers on them. He studied AonDor with increasing urgency. The pain had grown. Sometimes, it struck with such ferocity that Raoden collapsed, struggling against the agony. It was still manageable, if only barely, but it was growing worse. It had been a month and a half since he entered Elantris, and he doubted he would see another month come and go. “I don't see why you insist on sharing every AonDor detail with us, sule,” Galladon said, sighing as Raoden approached an open tome. “I barely understand half of what you tell us.” “Galladon, you must force yourself to remember these things,” Raoden said. “No matter what you claim, I know you have the intellect for it.” “Perhaps,” Galladon admitted, “but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. AonDor is your hobby, not mine.” “Listen, my friend,” Raoden said, “ I know AonDor holds the secret to our curse. In time, with study, we can find the clues we need. But,” he continued, holding up a finger, “if something should happen to me, then there has to be someone to continue my work.” Galladon snorted. “You're about as close to becoming a Hoed as I am to being a Fjordell.” I hide it well. “That doesn't matter.” Raoden said. “It is foolish not to have a backup. I'll write these things down, but I want you two to hear what I have to say.” Galladon sighed. “All right, sule, what have you discovered? Another modifier to increase the range of an Aon?” Raoden smiled. “No, this is far more interesting. I know why Elantris is covered with slime.” Karata and Galladon perked up. “Really?” Karata asked, looking down at the open book. “Does it explain that here?” “No, it's a combination of several things,” Raoden said. “The key element, however, is right here.” He pointed to an illustration. “Aon Ashe?” Galladon asked. “Correct.” Raoden said. “You know that Elantrian skin was so silvery that some people claimed it glowed.” “It did,” Galladon said. “Not brightly, but when my father walked into a dark room, you could see his outline.” “Well, the Dor was behind it,” Raoden explained. “Every Elantrian's body is connected constantly to the Dor. The same link existed between Elantris itself and the Dor, though the scholars don't know why. The Dor infused the entire city, making stone and wood shine as if some quiet flame were burning within.” “It must have been difficult to sleep,” Karata noted. “You could cover it up,” Raoden said. “But the effect of the lighted city was so spectacular that many Elantrians just accepted it as natural, learning to sleep even with the glow.” “Fascinating,” Galladon said indifferently. “So, what does this have to do with slime?” “There are fungi and molds that live on light. Galladon,” Raoden explained. “The Dor's illumination was different from regular light, however, and it attracted a different kind of fungus. Apparently, a thin translucent film grew on most things. The Elantrians didn't bother to clean it
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off-it was practically imperceptible, and it actually enhanced the radiance. The mold was tough, and it didn't make much mess. Until it died.” “The light faded.” Karata said. “And the fungi rotted,” Raoden said with a nod. “Since the mold once covered the entire city, now the slime does as well.” “So, what's the point?” Galladon asked with a yawn. “This is another string in the web.” Raoden explained, “another clue as to what happened when the Reod struck. We have to work backward, my friend. We are only now starting to learn symptoms of an event that happened ten years ago. Maybe after we understand everything the Reod did, we can begin to guess what might have caused it.” “The slime explanation makes sense, my prince,” Karata said. “I've always known that there was something unnatural about that grime. I've stood outside in the rain, watching waves of water pound against a stone wall without cleaning it a speck.” “The slime is oily.” Raoden said, “and repels water. Have you heard Kahar talk about how difficult it is to scrub away?” Karata nodded, leafing through the tome. “These books contain much information.” “They do,” Raoden said. “Though the scholars who wrote them could be frustratingly obscure. It takes a great deal of studying to find answers to specific questions.” “Such as?” Karata asked. Raoden frowned. “Well, for one thing, I haven't found a single book that mentions how to make Seons.” “None at all?” Karata asked with surprise. Raoden shook his head. “I always assumed that Seons were created by AonDor, but if so, the books don't explain how. A lot of them talk about the Passing of famous Seons from one person to another, but that's about it.” “Passing?” Karata asked with a frown. “Giving the Seon to another person,” Raoden said. “If you have one, you can give it to someone else-or you can tell it who it's supposed to go and serve if you should die.” “So, a regular person could have a Seon?” she asked. “I thought it was only noblemen.” Raoden shook his head. “It's all up to the previous owner.” “Though a nobleman's not likely to Pass his Seon to some random peasant,” Galladon said. “Seons, like wealth, tend to say in the family. Kolo?” Karata frowned. “So ... what happens if the owner dies, and hasn't told the Seon who to move on to?” Raoden paused, then shrugged, looking to Galladon. “Don't look at me, sule,” Galladon said. “I never had a Seon.” “I don't know,” Raoden admitted. “I guess it would just choose its next master on its own.” “And if it didn't want to?” Karata asked. “I don't think it would have a choice.” Raoden said. “There's ... something about Seons and their masters. They're bonded, somehow. Seons go mad when their masters are taken by the Shaod, for instance. I think they were created to serve-it's part of their magic.” Karata nodded. “My lord Spirit!” called an approaching voice. Raoden raised an eyebrow, closing the tome. “My lord,” Dashe said as
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he rushed through the door. The tall Elantrian looked more confused than worried. “What is it, Dashe?” Raoden asked. “It's the gyorn, my lord,” Dashe said with an excited look. “He's been healed.” CHAPTER 35 “A month and a half and you've already dethroned the king. Never let it be said that you don't work quickly, 'Ene.” Her father's words were jovial, though his glowing face betrayed concern. He knew, as she did, that chaos in the wake of an uprooted government could be dangerous for both peasant and noble. “Well, it isn't as if I intended it,” Sarene protested. “Merciful Domi, I tried to save the fool. He shouldn't have gotten mixed up in the Mysteries.” Her father chuckled. “I should never have sent you over there. You were bad enough when we let you visit our enemies.” “You didn't 'send' me here, Father,” Sarene said. “This was my idea.” “I'm glad to know that my opinion counts for so much in my daughter's eyes.” Eventeo said. Sarene felt herself soften. “I'm sorry, Father.” she said with a sigh. “I've been on edge ever since ... you don't know how horrible it was.” “Oh, I do-unfortunately. How in Domi's name could a monstrosity like the Mysteries come from a religion as innocent as Jesker?” “The same way Shu-Dereth and Shu-Korath could both come from the teachings of one little Jindoeese man,” Sarene replied with a shake of her head. Eventeo sighed. “So, Iadon is dead?” “You've heard?” Sarene asked with surprise. “I sent a few new spies into Arelon recently. 'Ene,” her father said. “I'm not going to leave my daughter alone in a country on the edge of destruction without at least keeping an eye on her.” “Who?” Sarene asked curiously. “You don't need to know.” her father said. “They must have a Seon,” Sarene mused. “Otherwise you wouldn't know about Iadon-he only hanged himself last night.” “I'm not going to tell you, 'Ene,” Eventeo said with an amused tone. “If you knew who it was, you would inevitably decide to appropriate him for your own purposes.” “Fine.” Sarene said. “But when this is all over, you'd better tell me who it was.” “You don't know him.” “Fine.” Sarene repeated, feigning indifference. Her father laughed. “So, tell me about Iadon. How in Domi's name did he get a rope?” “Lord Eondel must have arranged it,” Sarene guessed, resting her elbows on her des1k. “The count thinks like a warrior, and this was a very efficient solution. We don't have to force an abdication, and suicide restored some dignity to the monarchy.” “Bloodthirsty this afternoon, are we 'Ene?” Sarene shivered. “You didn't see it, Father. The king didn't just murder that girl, he . . . enjoyed doing it.” “Ah.” Eventeo said. “My sources say Duke Telrii will probably take the throne.” “Not if we can help it,” Sarene said. “Telrii is even worse than Iadon. Even if he weren't a Derethi sympathizer, he'd make a terrible king.” “ 'Ene, a civil war will help no one.” “It won't come to
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that, Father,” Sarene promised. “You don't understand how unmilitaristically minded these people are. They lived for centuries under Elantrian protection-they think the presence of a few overweight guards on the city wall is enough to dissuade invaders. Their only real troops belong to Lord Eondel's legion, which he's ordered to gather at Kae. We might just be able to get Roial crowned before anyone's the wiser.” “You've united behind him, then?” “He's the only one rich enough to challenge Telrii,” Sarene explained. “I didn't have enough time to stamp out Iadon's foolish monetary-title system. That is what the people are accustomed to, and so we're going to have to use it, for now.” A knock at the door was followed by a maid with a lunch tray. Sarene had returned to live in the palace after spending only one night in Roial's manor, despite her allies' concerns. The palace was a symbol, and she hoped it would lend her authority. The maid put the tray on the table and departed. “Was that lunch?” Her father seemed to have a sixth sense regarding food. “Yes,” Sarene said, cutting herself a piece of cornbread. “Is it good?” Sarene smiled. “You shouldn't ask, Father. You'll only upset yourself.” Eventeo sighed. “I know. Your mother has a new fascination-Hraggish weed soup. “Is it good?” Sarene asked. Her mother was the daughter of a Teoish diplomat, and had spent most of her growing years in Jindo. As a result, she had picked up some very odd dietary preferences-ones she forced upon the entire palace and its staff. “It's horrible.” “Pity,” Sarene said. “Now, where did I put that butter?” Her father groaned. “Father,” Sarene chided. “You know you need to lose weight.” While the king was nowhere as large-in either muscle or fat-as his brother Kiin, he was more portly than he was stocky. “I don't see why,” Eventeo said. “Did you know that in Duladel they consider fat people attractive? They don't care about Ji1ndoeese notions of health, and they're perfectly happy. Besides, where has it been proven that butter makes you fat?” “You now what the Jindos say, Father,” Sarene said. “If it burns, it isn't healthy.” Eventeo sighed. “I haven't had a cup of wine in ten years.” “I know, Father. I used to live with you, remember?” “Yes, but she didn't make you stay away from alcohol.” “I'm not overweight.” Sarene pointed out. “Alcohol burns.” “So does Hraggish weed soup,” Eventeo replied, his voice turning slightly impish. “At least, it does if you dry it out. I tried.” Sarene laughed. “I doubt Mother responded very well to that little experiment.” “She just gave me one of her looks-you know how she is.” “Yes,” Sarene said, recalling her mother's features. Sarene had spent far too much time on diplomatic missions in the last few years to suffer from homesickness now, but it would be nice to be back in Teod-especially considering the seemingly endless series of surprises and disasters that had filled the last few weeks. “Well, 'Ene. I have to go hold court,”
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her father finally said. “I'm glad you occasionally take the time to call your poor old father-especially to let him know when you've overthrown an entire nation. Oh, one more thing. As soon as we found out about Iadon's suicide, Seinalan commandeered one of my fastest ships and set sail for Arelon. He should be arriving within a few days.” “Seinalan?” Sarene asked with surprise. “What part does the patriarch have in all this?” “I don't know-he wouldn't tell me. But, I really have to go, 'Ene. I love you.” “I love you too. Father.” “I've never met the patriarch,” Roial confessed from his seat in Kiin's dining room. “Is he much like Father Omin?” “No,” Sarene said firmly. “Seinalan is a self-serving egotist with enough pride to make a Derethi gyorn look humble.” “Princess!” Eondel said with indignation. “You're talking about the father of our Church!” “That doesn't mean I have to like him,' Sarene said. Eondel's face whitened as he reached reflexively for the Aon Omi pendant around his neck. Sarene scowled. “You don't have to ward off evil, Eondel. I'm not going to reject Domi just because He put a fool in charge of His Church: fools need to have a chance to serve too.” Eondel's eyes turned down toward his hand: then he lowered it with an embarrassed look. Roial, however, was laughing quietly to himself. “What?” Sarene demanded. “It's just that I was considering something, Sarene,” the oId man said with a smile. “I don't think I've ever met anyone, male or female, that's quite as opinionated as you are.” “Then you've lived a sheltered life, my duke.” Sarene informed. “And where is Lukel, anyway?” Kiin's table wasn't as comfortable as Roial's study, but for some reason they all felt most at home in Kiln's dining room. While most people added personal touches to their study or reception room, Kiin's love was his food, and the dining room the place where he shared his talent. The room's decorations-mementos from Kiin's travels including everything from dried vegetables to a large, ornamental axe-were comfortingly familiar. There was never any discussion about it; they all just naturally came to this room when they met. They had to wait a few more moments before Lukel finally decided to return. Eventually, they heard the door open and close, then her cousin's amiable face popped in the door. Ahan and Kiin were with him. “Well?” Sarene asked. “Telrii definitely intends to take the throne,” Lukel said. “Not with my legion backing Roial, he won't.” Eondel said. “Unfortunately, my dear general,” Ahan said, settling his bulk into a chair, “your legion isn't here. You have barely a dozen men at your disposal.” “It's more than Telrii has,” Sarene pointed out. “Not anymore, it isn't,” Ahan said. “The Elantris City Guard left their posts to set up camp outside Telrii's mansion.” Eondel snorted. “The Guard is hardly more than a club for second sons who want to pretend they're important.” “True,” Ahan said. “But there are over six hundred people in that club. At fifty-to-one
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odds, even I would fight against your legion. I'm afraid the balance of power has shifted in Telrii's favor.” “This is bad,” Roial agreed. “Telrii's superior wealth was a great problem before, but now ...” “There's got to be a way,” Lukel said. “I don't see one,” Roial confessed. The men frowned, deep in thought. However, they had all been pondering this very problem for two days. Even if they'd had the military edge, the other aristocrats would be hesitant to support Roial, who was the less wealthy man. As Sarene studied each lord in turn, her eyes fell on Shuden. He seemed hesitant rather than worried. “What?” she asked quietly. “I think I may have a way,” he said tentatively. “Speak on, man,” Ahan said. “Sarene is still very wealthy,” Shuden explained. “Raoden left her at least five hundred thousand deos.” “We discussed this. 1Shuden,” Lukel said. “She has a lot of money, but still less than Roial.” “True,” Shuden agreed. “But together they would have far more than Telrii.” The room grew quiet. “Your marriage contract is technically void, my lady.” Ashe said from behind. “It dissolved as soon as Iadon killed himself, thereby removing his line from the throne. The moment someone else becomes king-be it Telrii or Roial-the treaty will end, and you will cease to be an Arelish princess.” Shuden nodded. “If you unify your fortune with that of Lord Roial, it would not only give you the money to stand against Telrii, it would also legitimize the duke's claim. Don't assume that lineage doesn't matter in Arelon. The nobles would much rather give their loyalty to one of Iadon's relatives.” Roial found her with eyes like those of a benevolent grandfather. “I must admit that young Shuden has a point. The marriage would be strictly political, Sarene.” Sarene took a breath. Things happened so quickly. I understand, my lord. We will do what must be done.” And so, for the second time in only two months, Sarene was engaged to be married. “That wasn't very romantic, I'm afraid,” Roial apologized. The meeting was over, and Roial had discreetly offered to escort Sarene back to the palace. The others, including Ashe, had realized that the two needed to talk alone. “It's all right, my lord,” Sarene said with a slight smile. “That is how political marriages are supposed to be-dry, contrived, but extremely useful.” “You're very pragmatic.” “I have to be, my lord.” Roial frowned. “Must we return to the 'my lords,' Sarene? I thought we were beyond that.” “I'm sorry, Roial,” Sarene said. “It's just hard to separate my personal self from my political self.” Roial nodded. “I meant what I said, Sarene. This will be strictly a union of convenience-do not fear yourself obligated in any other way.” Sarene rode quietly for a moment, listening to the horse's hooves clop in front of them. “There will need to be heirs.” Roial laughed quietly. “No, Sarene. Thank you, but no. Even if such were physically possible. I couldn't go through with it. I am an old
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man, and can't possibly survive more than a few years. This time, your wedding contract won't forbid you from remarrying after I die. When I'm gone, you can finally choose a man of your own preference-by then we will have replaced Iadon's silly system with something more stable, and your children with the third husband will inherit the throne.” Third husband. Roial spoke as if he were already dead, herself a widow twice over. “Well,” she said. “if things do happen as you suggest, then at least I wouldn't have trouble attracting a husband. The throne wou1ld be a tempting prize, even if I were attached to it.” Roial's face hardened. “This is something I've been meaning to discuss with you, Sarene.” “What?” “You're far too harsh on yourself. I've heard the way you speak-you assume that nobody wants you.” “They don't,” Sarene said flatly. “Trust me.” Roial shook his head. “You're an excellent judge of character. Sarene-except your own. Often, our own opinions of ourselves are the most unrealistic. You may see yourself as an old maid, child, but you are young, and you are beautiful. Just because you've had misfortune in your past doesn't mean you have to give up on your future.” He looked into her eyes. For all his mischievous shows, this was a man of sagely understanding. “You will find someone to love you, Sarene,” Roial promised. “You are a prize-a prize even greater than that throne you'll be attached to.” Sarene blushed, looking down. Still ... his words were encouraging. Perhaps she did have a hope. She would probably be in her mid-thirties, but she would have at least one more chance to find the right man. “Anyway,” Roial said. “Our wedding will have to come soon if we are going to beat Telrii.” “What do you suggest?” “The day of Iadon's funeral.” Roial said. “Technically, Iadon's reign doesn't end until his burial.” Four days. It would be a short engagement indeed. “I just worry at the necessity of putting you through all of this,” Roial said. “It can't be easy to consider marrying such a dusty old man.” Sarene laid her hand on that of the duke, smiling at the sweetness in his tone. -All things considered, my lord, I think I'm rather fortunate. There are very few men in this world I would actually consider it an honor to be forced to marry.” Roial smiled a wrinkly smile, his eyes twinkling. “It's a shame Ahan's already married, isn't it?” Sarene removed her hand and swatted him on the shoulder. “I've had enough emotional shocks for one week, Roial-I'll kindly thank you not to make me sick to my stomach as well.” The duke laughed at length. When his merriment died down, however, another sound replaced it-yelling. Sarene tensed, but the yells weren't ones of anger or pain. They seemed joyful and excited. Confused, she looked out the carriage window and saw a crowd of people surging through a cross street. “What in the name of Domi is that?” Roial asked. Their carriage drew closer,
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allowing Sarene to make out a tall form at the center of the crowd. Sarene grew numb. “But , but that's impossible!” “What?” Roial asked, squinting. “It's Hrathen,” Sarene said with wide eyes, “He's left Elantris!” Then she realized something else. The gyorn's face was unspotted. Flesh-colored. “Merciful Domi-he's been healed!” CHAPTER 36 WHEN dawn signaled the fifth day of Hrathen's exile, he knew that he had made a mistake. He would die in Elantris. Five days was too long to go without drink, and he knew there was no water to be had in the city of the damned. He didn't regret his actions-he had behaved in the most logical way. It had been desperate logic, but rational nonetheless. Had he continued in Kae, he would have grown more impotent with each turning day. No, it was much better to die of dehydration. He grew increasingly delirious as the fifth day passed. At times, he saw Dilaf laughing over him; at others the Teoish princess did the same. Once he even thought he saw Jaddeth himself, His face burning red with the heat of Godly disappointment as he looked down on Hrathen. The delusions soon changed, however. He no longer saw faces, no longer felt humiliated and scorned. In their place, he was confronted with something much more horrid. Memories of Dakhor. Once again, the dark, hollow cubicles of the monastery surrounded him. Screams echoed through the black stone hallways, cries of bestial agony mixing with solemn chanting. Chanting that had a strange power to it. The boy Hrathen knelt obediently, waiting, crouched in a cubical no larger than a closet, sweat streaming past terrified eyes, knowing that eventually they would come for him. Rathbore Monastery trained assassins, Fjeldor Monastery trained spies. Dakhor Monastery trained demons. His delirium broke sometime in the early afternoon, releasing him for a time-like a cat allowing its prey to run free one last time before striking a deadly blow. Hrathen roused his weakened body from the hard stones, his matted clothing sticking to the slimy surface. He didn't remember pulling into a fetal position. With a sigh. Hrathen rubbed a hand over his dirty, grime-stained scalp-a senseless but reflexive attempt to wipe away the dirt. His fingers scraped against something rough and gristly. Stubble. Hrathen sat upright, shock providing momentary strength. He reached with trembling fingers, searching out the small flask that had contained his sacrificial wine. He wiped the glass as best he could with a dirty sleeve, then peered at his spectral reflection. It was distorted and unclear, but it was enough. The spots were gone. His skin, though covered with dirt, was as fresh and unblemished as it had been five days before. Forton's potion had finally worn off. He had begun to think that it never would, that Forton had forgotten to make the effects temporary. It was amazing enough that the Hroven man could create a potion that made one's body mimic the afflictions of an Elantrian. But Hrathen had misjudged the apothecary: he had done as asked, even if
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the effects had lasted a bit longer than expected. Of course, if Hrathen didn't get h1imself out of Elantris quickly, he might still die. Hrathen stood, gathering his remaining strength and bolstering it with excited adrenaline. “Behold!” he screamed toward the guardhouse above. “Witness the power and glory of Lord Jaddeth! I have been healed!” There was no response. Perhaps it was too far for his voice to carry. Then, looking along the walls, he noticed something. There were no Guards. No patrols or watches marched their rounds, no telltale tips of spears marked their presence. They had been there the day before ... or, had it been the day before that? The last three days had become something of a blur in his mind-one extended set of prayers, hallucinations, and the occasional exhausted nap. Where had the guards gone? They considered it their solemn duty to watch Elantris, as if anything threatening could ever come from the rotting city. The Elantris City Guard performed a useless function, but that function gave them notoriety. The Guards would never give up their posts. Except they had. Hrathen began to scream again, feeling the strength leak from his body. If the Guard wasn't there to open the gates, then he was doomed. Irony tickled at his mind-the only Elantrian to ever be healed would die because of a collection of incompetent, negligent guards.The gate suddenly cracked open. Another hallucination? But then a head poked through the gap-the avaricious captain that Hrathen had been nurturing. “My lord ... ?” the guard asked hesitantly. Then, looking Hrathen up and down with wide eyes, he inhaled sharply. “Gracious Domi! It's true-you've been healed!” “Lord Jaddeth had heard my pleas, Captain,” Hrathen announced with what strength he could manage. “The taint of Elantris has been removed from my body.” The captain's head disappeared for a moment. Then, slowly, the gate opened all the way, revealing a group of wary guards. “Come, my lord.” Hrathen rose to his feet-he hadn't even noticed sinking to his knees-and walked on shaky legs to the gate. He turned, resting his hand on the wood-one side filthy and grime-stained, the other side bright and clean-and looked back at Elantris. A few huddled shapes watched him from the top of a building. “Enjoy your damnation, my friends.” Hrathen whispered, then motioned for the guards to shut the gate. “I really shouldn't be doing this, you know,” the captain said. “Once a man is thrown into Elantris.” “Jaddeth rewards those who obey Him, Captain,” Hrathen said. “Often at the hands of His servants.” The captain's eyes brightened, and Hrathen was suddenly very grateful he had begun bribing the man. “Where are the rest of your men, Captain?” “Protecting the new king.” the captain said proudly. “New king?” Hrathen asked. “You've missed a lot, my lord. Lord Telrii rules in Arelon now-or, at least, he will as soon as Iadon's funeral is over.” Weakened as he was, Hrathen could only stand in shock. Iadon dead? Telrii seizing control? How could five days bring about such drastic
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events? “Come,” Hrathen said firmly. “You can explain it to me on the way to the chapel.” The crowds gathered around him as he walked; the captain owned no carriage, and Hrathen didn't want to bother waiting for one. For the moment, the exhilaration of a plan fulfilled was enough to keep him moving. The crowds helped as well. As news spread, the people-servants, merchants, and nobles alikecame to stare at the recovered Elantrian. All parted before him, regarding him with looks that ranged from stunned to worshipful, some reaching out to touch his Elantrian robe in awe. The trip was crowded, but uneventful-except for one moment when he looked down a side street and recognized the Teoish princess's head poking out of a carriage window. In that moment, Hrathen felt a sense of fulfillment that rivaled the day he had become a full gyorn. His healing wasn't just unexpected, it was unfathomable. There was no way Sarene could have planned for it. For once, Hrathen had total and complete advantage. When he reached the chapel, Hrathen turned to the mass of people with raised hands. His clothing was still stained, but he held himself as if to make the grime a badge of pride. The dirt signaled his suffering, proving that he had traveled to the very pit of damnation and returned with his soul intact. “People of Arelon!” he yelled. “Know ye this day who is Master! Let your hearts and souls be guided by the religion which can offer evidence of divine support. Lord Jaddeth is the only God in Sycla. If you need proof of this, look at my hands that are clean from rot, my face that is pure and unblemished, and my scalp rough with stubble. Lord Jaddeth tested me, and as I relied on Him, He blessed me. I have been healed!” He lowered his hands and the crowd roared their approval. Many had probably doubted after Hrathen's apparent fall, but they would return with renewed dedication. The converts he made now would be stronger than any that had come before. Hrathen entered the chapel, and the people remained outside. Hrathen walked with increasing fatigue, the energy of the moment finally giving way to five days' worth of strain. He flopped to his knees before the altar, bowing his head in sincere prayer. It didn't bother him that the miracle was an effect of Forton's potion. Hrathen had found that most supposed miracles were either natural or the result of human intervention. Jaddeth was behind them, as He was behind all things, using natural phenomena to increase the faith of man. Hrathen raised praises to God for giving him the capacity to think of the plan, the means to execute it, and the climate to make it succeed. The captain's arrival had certainly been a result of divine will. That the man would leave Telrii's camp just when Hrathen needed him, and that he would hear Hrathen yelling through the thick wood, was simply too much to be a coincidence. Jaddeth might not have ‘cursed’
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Hrathen with the Shaod, but He had certainly been behind the plan's success. Drained, Hrathen finished his prayer and lurched to his feet. As he did so, he heard a chapel door open behind him. When he turned, Dilaf stood behind him. Hrathen si1ghed. This was a confrontation he had hoped to avoid until he'd had some rest. Dilaf, however, fell to his knees before Hrathen. “My hroden,” he whispered. Hrathen blinked in surprise. “Yes, Arteth?” “I doubted you, my hroden,” Dilaf confessed. “I thought Lord Jaddeth had cursed you for incompetence. Now I see that your faith is much stronger than I realized. I know why you were chosen to hold the position of gyorn.” “Your apology is accepted, Arteth, Hrathen said, trying to keep the fatigue from his voice. “All men question in times of trial-the days following my exile must have been difficult for you and the other priests.” “We should have had more faith.” “Learn from these events then, Arteth, and next time do not allow yourself to doubt. You may go.” Dilaf moved to leave. As the man rose, Hrathen studied his eyes. There was respect there, but not as much penitence as the Arteth was trying to show. He looked more confused than anything; he was amazed and unsettled, but he was not pleased. The battle was not over yet. Too tired to worry about Dilaf for the moment, Hrathen stumbled back to his quarters and pulled open the door. His possessions were piled in one corner of the room, as if waiting to be hauled away for disposal. Suddenly apprehensive, Hrathen rushed to the pile. He found the Seon trunk beneath a pile of clothing: its lock was broken. Hrathen opened the lid with anxious fingers and pulled out the steel box inside. The front of the box was covered with scrapes, scratches, and dents. Hurriedly, Hrathen opened the box. Several of the levers were bent, and the dial stuck, so he was extremely relieved when he heard the lock click open. He lifted the lid with anxious hands. The Seon floated inside, unperturbed. The three remaining vials of potion lay next to it: two had cracked, leaking their contents into the bottom of the box. “Did anyone open this box since I last spoke through you?” Hrathen asked. “No, my lord,” the Seon replied in her melancholy voice. “Good,” Hrathen said, snapping the lid closed. After that, he drank a careful amount of wine from a flask he got from the pile, then collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. It was dark when he awakened. His body was still tired, but he forced himself to rise. A vital piece of his plans could not wait. He summoned a particular priest, who arrived a short time later. The priest, Dothgen, was a tall man with a powerful Fjordell build and muscles that even managed to bulge through his red Derethi robes. “Yes, my lord?” Dothgen asked. “You were trained in Rathbore Monastery, were you not, Arteth?” Hrathen asked. “I was, my lord,” the man
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responded in a deep voice. “Good,” Hrathen said, holding up the last vial of potion. “I have need of your special skills.” “Who is it for, my lord?” t1he priest asked. Like every graduate of Rathbore, Dothgen was a trained assassin. He had received far more specialized training than Hrathen had at Ghajan Monastery, the place Hrathen had gone after Dakhor proved too much for him. Only a gyorn or a ragnat, however, could make use of Rathbore-trained priests without Wyrn's permission. Hrathen smiled. CHAPTER 37 It struck while Raoden was studying. He didn't hear himself gasp in agonized shock, nor did he feel himself tumble from his seat in a spastic seizure. All he felt was the pain-a sharp torment that dropped upon him suddenly and vengefully. It was like a million tiny insects, each one latching on to his body-inside and out-to eat him alive. Soon he felt as if he had no body-the pain was his body. It was the only sense, the only input, and his screams were the only product. Then he felt it. It stood like an enormous slick surface, without crack or pocket, at the back of his mind. It pressed demandingly, pounding the pain into every nerve in his body, like a workman driving a spike into the ground. It was vast. It made men, mountains, and worlds seem paltry. It was not evil, or even sentient. It didn't rage or churn. It was immobile, frozen by its own intense pressure. It wanted to move-to go anywhere, to find any release from the strain. But there was no outlet. Raoden's vision cleared slowly as the force retreated. He lay on the cold marble floor of the chapel, staring up at the bottom of his table. Two hazy faces hovered above him. “Stile?” an urgent voice asked, as if from far away. “Doloken! Raoden, can you hear me?” His view sharpened. Karata's usually stern features were concerned, while Galladon was livid. “I'm all right,” Raoden croaked, shamed. They would realize how weak he was, that he couldn't stand the pain of even a month long stay in Elantris. The two helped him sit. He remained on the floor for a moment before indicating that he wanted to move to the chair. His entire body was sore, as if he had tried to lift a dozen different weights at the same time. He groaned as he slid into the uncomfortable stone seat. “Sule, what happened?” Galladon asked, retreating hesitantly to his own chair. “It was the pain,” Raoden said, holding his head in his hands and resting his elbows on the table. “It was too much for me for a moment. I'm all right now; it retreated.” Galladon frowned. “What are you talking about, sule?” “The pain,” Raoden said with exasperation. “The pain of my cuts and bruises, the bane of life here in Elantris.” “Sule, the pain doesn't come in waves,” Galladon said. “It just remains the same.” “It comes in waves for me.” Raoden said tiredly. Galladon shook his head. “That can't be. Kolo?
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When you fall to the pain, you snap and your mind is gone. That's1 the way it always is. Besides, there's no way you could have accumulated enough cuts and bruises to go Hoed yet.” “You've said that before, Galladon, but this is how it works for me. It comes all of a sudden, as if trying to destroy me, then moves away. Maybe I'm just worse at dealing with it than everyone else.” “My prince,” Karata said hesitantly, “you were glowing.” Raoden looked up at her with shock. “What?” “It's true, sule,” Galladon said. “After you collapsed you began glowing. Like an Aon. Almost as if . . .” Raoden's mouth fell open slightly in amazement. “. . . as if the Dor were trying to come through me.” The force had been searching for an opening, a way out. It had tried to use him like an Aon. “Why me?” “Some people are closer to the Dor than others, sule.” Galladon said. “In Elantris, some people could create Aons much more powerful than others, and some seemed more , intimate with the power.” “Besides, my prince,” Karata said, “are you not the one who knows the Aons best? We see you practicing them every day.” Raoden nodded slowly, almost forgetting about his agony. “During the Reod, they say the most powerful Elantrians were the first to fall. They didn't fight when the mobs burned them.” “As if they were overwhelmed by something. Kolo?” Galladon asked. Sudden and ironic relief soothed Raoden's mind. As much as the pain hurt, his insecurity had worried him more. Still, he was not free. “The attacks are getting worse. If they continue, they will take me, eventually. If that happens . . .” Galladon nodded solemnly. “You will join the Hoed.” “The Dor will destroy me,” Raoden said, “ripping my soul apart in a futile attempt to break free. It isn't alive-it's just a force, and the fact that I am not a viable passage won't stop it from trying. When it does take me, remember your vow. Galladon and Karata nodded. They would take him to the pool in the mountains. Knowing they would take care of him if he did fall was enough to keep him going-and enough to make him wish, just a little, that the day of his failure was not far away. “That doesn't have to happen though, sule,” Galladon said. “I mean, that gyorn was healed. Maybe something's happening: maybe something has changed.” Raoden paused. “If he really was healed.” “What do you mean?” Karata asked. “There was a lot of fuss pulling him from the city,” Raoden said. “If I were Wyrn, I wouldn't want a Derethi Elantrian hanging around to bring shame on my religion. I'd send an envoy to pull him out, telling everyone he'd been healed, then hide him back in Fjordell.” “We never did get a good look at the man after he was 'healed,' Karata acknowledged. Galladon looked a little cres1tfallen at the line of conversation. He, like others in Elantris, had received
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a measure of hope from Hrathen's healing. Raoden hadn't said anything outright to discourage the people's optimism, but inside he was more reserved. Since the gyorn's departure, nobody else had been healed. It was a hopeful sign, but somehow Raoden doubted it would mean much of a change for the Elantrian people. They needed to work and improve their own lives, not wait for some external miracle. He turned back to his studies. CHAPTER 38 SARENE watched the gyorn with displeased eyes. Hrathen no longer gave his sermons at the Derethi chapel; there were too many people. Instead he organized meetings on the edge of the city, where he could stand on Kae's five-foot border wall, his followers sitting at his feet to listen. The gyorn preached with more vibrancy and enthusiasm than he had before. For now, he was a saint. He had suffered the Shaod, and had proven himself superior to its curse. He was, Sarene had to admit, an impressive opponent. Outfitted in his red armor, he stood like a bloodied metal statue above the crowd. “It must have been some kind of trick,” she noted. “Of course it was, Cousin,” Lukel said, standing beside her. “If we thought otherwise, we might as well join Shu-Dereth. Personally, I look horrible in red.” “Your face is too pink,” Sarene said offhandedly. “If it was a trick, Sarene,” Shuden said. “then I am at a loss to explain it.” The three of them stood at the periphery of the morning meeting. They had come to see for themselves the amazing numbers Hrathen's meetings drew, even on the very day of the king's funeral. “It could have been makeup,” Sarene said. “That survived the ritual washing?” Shuden said. “Maybe the priests were in on it,” Lukel said. “Have you ever tried to bribe a Korathi priest, Lukel?” Shuden asked pointedly. Lukel looked around uncomfortably. “I'd rather not answer that question, thank you.” “You sound almost as if you believe his miracle, Shuden,” Sarene said. “I do not discount it,” Shuden said. “Why wouldn't God bless one of his devout? Religious exclusivism is a Korathi and Derethi addition to Shu-Keseg.” Sarene sighed, nodding for her friends to follow as she pushed her way through the outlying crowds and walked toward their waiting carriage. Trick or not. Hrathen had an uncomfortably strong hold on the people. If he managed to place a sympathizer on the throne, it would all be over. Arelon would become a Dere1thi nation, and only Teod would remain-though probably not for long. Her companions were undoubtedly thinking along similar lines; both Lukel and Shuden's faces bore disturbed, contemplative looks. They entered the coach in silent thought, but finally Lukel turned to her, his hawkish features troubled. “What do you mean, my face is too pink?” he asked with a hurt tone. The ship's mast bore the royal crest of Teod-a gold Aon Teo on a blue background. Long and thin, there was no faster vessel on the water than a Teoish strightboat. Sarene felt it her duty to give the
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patriarch a better reception than she herself had received upon arriving at those same docks. She didn't like the man, but that was no excuse for incivility, and so she had brought Shuden, Lukel, Eondel, and several of the count's soldiers as an honor guard. The thin ship came into dock smoothly, sailors throwing out a gangplank as soon as the vessel was secured. A blue-robed form strode past the sailors and down the gangplank with a firm step. Over a dozen attendants and lesser priests followed; the patriarch liked to be well cared for. As Seinalan approached. Sarene masked her face with controlled courtesy. The patriarch was a tall man with delicate features. His golden hair was long, like that of a woman, and it blended with the enormous gold cape that fluttered behind him. The blue robe was embroidered with so much gold thread it was difficult at times to see the material underneath. He smiled with the benevolently tolerant face of one who wanted you to know he was patient with your inferiority. “Your Highness!” Seinalan said as he approached. “It has been too long since my old eyes beheld your sweet features.” Sarene did her best to smile, curtsying before the patriarch and his “old” eyes. Seinalan was no more than forty, though he tried to make himself seem more aged and wise than he really was. “Your Holiness,” she said. “All of Arelon is blessed by your presence.” He nodded, as if to say that he understood just how fortunate they all were. He turned toward Shuden and the others. “Who are your companions?” “My cousin Lukel and Baron Shuden and Count Eondel of Arelon, Your Holiness.” Each man bowed as she made the introductions. “Only barons and counts?” Seinalan asked with disappointment. “Duke Roial sends his greetings, Your Grace.” Sarene said. “He is busy preparing for King Iadon's burial.” “Ah,” Seinalan said, his luxurious hair-untouched by gray-waving in the sea wind. Sarene had wished many times to have locks half as fine as those of the patriarch. “I assume I am not too late to attend the funeral?” “No, Your Holiness,” Sarene said. “It will occur this afternoon.” “Good.” Seinalan said. 1“Come, you may show me to my lodgings now.” “That was . . . disappointing,” Lukel confessed as soon as they climbed back in their carriage. The patriarch had been given his own vehicle, courtesy of Roial, and the gift had cooled his dissatisfaction at the duke's absence. “He's not exactly what you expect, is he?” Sarene said. “That isn't what Lukel meant, Sarene,” Shuden said. Sarene glanced at Lukel. “What do you mean?” “I was just hoping for something more entertaining,” Lukel said, twin flops of hair bouncing against his cheeks as he shrugged. “He has been looking forward to this ever since he heard you describe the patriarch, Your Highness,” Eondel explained with a dissatisfied look. “He assumed you two would . . . argue more.” Sarene sighed, giving Lukel a withering look. “Just because I don't like the man doesn't mean I'm
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going to make a scene, Cousin. Remember, I was one of my father's chief diplomats.” Lukel nodded with resignation. “I will admit, Sarene.” Shuden said, “your analysis of the patriarch's personality seems accurate. I am left wondering how such a man could be chosen for such an important position.” “By mistake,” Sarene said curtly. “Seinalan gained the seat about fifteen years ago, when he was barely your age. It was just after Wulfden became Wyrn, and the leaders of Shu-Korath felt threatened by his vigor. For some reason, they got it into their minds that they needed to elect a patriarch who was just as young as Wulfden-if not younger. Seinalan was the result.” Shuden raised an eyebrow. “I agree completely,” Sarene said. “But, I have to give them a bit of credit. Wulfden is said to be one of the most handsome men to ever take the Fjordell throne, and the Korathi leaders wanted someone who would be equally impressive.” Lukel snorted. “Handsome and pretty are two completely different things, Cousin. Half the women who see that man will love him, the other half will just be jealous.” Throughout the conversation, Lord Eondel grew progressively more pale. Finally, he found voice for his indignation. “Remember, my lords and lady, this is Domi's holy chosen vessel.” “And he couldn't have picked a vessel more lovely,” Lukel quipped-earning him an elbow in the ribs from Sarene. “We will try to make our comments more respectful, Eondel,” she apologized. “The patriarch's looks are unimportant anyway-I'm more interested in why he came.” “Isn't a king's funeral enough of a reason?” Shuden asked. “Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced, as the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Korathi chapel. “Come on, let's see His Holiness settled as soon as possible-th1e funeral is in less than two hours, and after that it appears that I'm getting married.” With no obvious heir, and with Eshen completely unhinged by her husband's disgrace and subsequent death, Duke Roial took the burden of the funeral arrangements upon himself. “Pagan murderer or not, Iadon was once my friend,” the duke had explained. “He brought stability to this country in a time of need. For that much, he at least deserves a decent burial.” Omin had requested that they not use the Korathi chapel for the services, so Roial decided to use the king's throne room instead. The choice made Sarene a little uneomfortable-the throne room was the same place they would hold the wedding. However, Roial thought it symbolic that the same room would serve both the passing of the old king and the ascension of the new. The decorations were tasteful and subdued. Roial, characteristically frugal, had planned arrangements and colors that would work for both a funeral and a wedding. The room's pillars were wrapped with white ribbons, and there were various arrangements of flowers-mostly white roses or aberteens. Sarene entered the room, looking to the side with a smile. Near the front, next to one of the pillars, was the place where she had first set up her easel. It
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seemed like so long ago, though barely more than a month had passed. Forgotten with shame were the days when she had been considered an empty-headed girl-the nobility now regarded her with something akin to awe. Here was the woman who had manipulated the king, then made a fool of him, and finally toppled him from his throne. They would never love her as they had loved Raoden, but she would accept their admiration as an inferior substitute. To the side, Sarene saw Duke Telrii. The bald, overdressed man actually looked displeased, rather than simply uncaring. Roial had announced his wedding to Sarene only a few hours earlier, giving the pompous Telrii little time to consider a response. Sarene met Telrii's eyes, and sensed ... frustration in the man's bearing. She had expected something from him-some kind of attempt to block their marriage-but he had made no move. What held him back? Roial's arrival called the group to order, and the crowd fell silent. Roial walked to the front of the room, where the king's casket lay sealed, and began to speak. It was a short offering. Roial spoke of how Iadon had forged a country from the ashes of Elantris, and how he had given them all their titles. He warned them against making the same mistake as the king, counseling them not to forget Domi in their riches and comfort. He closed by advocating that they refrain from speaking ill of the deceased, remembering that Domi would see to Iadon's soul, and such was none of their concern. With that, he motioned for several of Eondel's solders to pick up the casket. However, another form stepped forward before they could go more than a few steps. “I have something to add.” Seinalan announced. Roial paused in surprise. Seinalan smiled, showing perfect teeth to the room. He had already changed clothing, and was wearing a robe similar to the first, except it had a wide golden band running up his back and down his chest instead of the embroidery. “Of course, Your Holiness,” Roial said. Sarene simply shook her head as Seinalan walked up to stand behind the casket. He regarded the crowd with a self-important smile, melodramatically whipping a scroll from the sleeve of his robe. “Ten years ago, just after his ascension, King Iadon came to me and made this statement,” Seinalan said. “You can see his seal at the bottom, as well as my own. He ordered that I present this to Arelon at his funeral, or fifteen years from the date of its creation, whichever arrived first.” Roial moved across the side of the room until he was standing next to Sarene and Shuden. His eyes showed curiosity, and concern. At the front of the room, Seinalan broke the seal on the scroll and unrolled it. “'My lords and ladies of Arelon,' “ Seinalan read, holding the paper before him as if it were a shining relic. “ 'Let the will of your first king, Iadon of Kae, be known. I swear solemnly before Domi, my ancestors,
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and whatever other gods may be watching that this proclamation is lawful. If it be that I am dead or for some other reason unable to continue as your king, then let it be understood that I made this decree of sound mind, and it is binding according to the laws of our nation. “'I order that all titles of noble rank are to be frozen as they stand, to be handed down from generation to generation, father to son, as is commonly done in other nations. Let wealth no longer be the measure of a man's nobility-those who have held to their rank this long have proven themselves worthy. The attached document is a codified list of inheritance laws patterned after those in Teod. Let this document become the law of our country.' ” Seinalan lowered the paper to a stunned room. There was no sound, except for a quiet exhale from beside Sarene. Finally, people began to speak in hushed, excited tones. “So that's what he was planning all along,” Roial said softly. “He knew how unstable his system was. He intended it that way. He let them go at each other's throats just to see who would be strong enough, or treacherous enough, to survive.” “A good plan, if an unconscionable one,” Shuden said. “Perhaps we underestimated Iadon's craftiness.” Seinalan still stood at the front of the room, eyeing the nobles with knowing looks. “Why him?” Shuden asked. “Because he's absolute,” Sarene said. “Not even Hrathen would dare question the word of the patriarch-not yet, at least. If Seinalan says that order was made ten years ago, then everyone in Arelon is bound to agree with him.” Shuden nodded. “Does this change our plans?” “Not at all,” Roial said, shooting a look toward Telrii, whose expression had turned even darker than before. “It strengthens our claim-my union with Iadon's house will be even more creditable.” “Telrii still bothers me,” Sarene said as the patriarch added a few platitudes about the wisdom of adopting the inheritance system. “His claim is definitely weakened by this-but wil1l he accept it?” “He'll have to,” Roial said with a smile. “None of the nobility would dare follow him now. Iadon's proclamation grants the thing they have all been wanting-stable titles. The nobility aren't going to risk crowning a man who has no valid blood claim to the throne. The legality of Iadon's declaration doesn't matter; everyone is going to act as if it were Church doctrine.” Eondel's soldiers were finally allowed to come forward and pick up the casket. Faced with no precedent regarding the proper burial of an Arelish king, Roial had turned to the culture most similar to his own: Teod. The Teos favored large ceremonies, often burying their greatest kings with an entire shipload of riches, if not the ship itself. While such was obviously unfit for Iadon, Roial had adapted other ideas. A Teoish funeral procession was a long, drawn-out exercise, often requiring the attendants to walk an hour or more to reach the prepared site. Roial had included this
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tradition, with a slight modification. A line of carriages waited outside the palace. To Sarene, using vehicles seemed disrespectful, but Shuden had made a good point. “Roial is planning to make a bid for the crown this very afternoon.” the Jindo had explained. “He can't afford to offend the plush lords and ladies of Arelon by requiring a forced march all the way out of the city.” Besides, Sarene had added to herself, why worry about disrespect? This is, after all only Iadon. With the carriages, it took only about fifteen minutes to reach the burial site. At first it looked like a large hole that had been excavated, but careful inspection would have shown it to be a natural depression in the earth that had been further deepened. Once again, Roial's frugality had been behind the choice. With little ceremony. Roial ordered the coffin lowered into the hole. A large group of workers began to build the mound over it. Sarene was surprised how many nobles stayed to watch. The weather had turned cold lately, bringing a chill wind from the mountains. A drizzle hung in the air, clouds obscuring the sun. She had expected most of the nobility to trickle away after the first few shovels of dirt were thrown.But they stayed, watching the work with silent eyes. Sarene, dressed for once in black, pulled her shawl close to ward off the cold. There was something in the eyes of those nobles. Iadon had been the first king of Arelon, his rule-short though it had been-the beginning of a tradition. People would recall Iadon's name for centuries, and children would be taught how he had risen to power in a land whose gods were dead. Was it any wonder he had turned to the Mysteries? With all he had seen-the glory of pre-Reod Elantris, then the death of an era thought eternal-was it any wonder he sought to control the chaos that seemed to reign in the land of the gods? Sarene though she understood Iadon a little bit better, standing in the chill dampness, watching the dirt slowly envelop his coffin. Only when the last shovel of dirt was thrown, the last part of the mound patted down, did the Arelish nobility finally turn to leave. Their going was a quiet procession, and Sarene barely noticed. She stood for a while longer, looking at the king's barrow in the rare afternoon fog. Iadon was gone; it was time for new leadership in Arelon. A hand fell lightly on her 1shoulder, and she turned to look into Roial's comforting eyes. “We should get ready, Sarene.” Sarene nodded and allowed herself to be led away. Sarene knelt before the altar in the familiar, low-ceilinged Korathi chapel. She was alone; it was customary for a bride to have one last private communion with Domi before taking her marriage vows. She was draped head to foot in white. She wore the dress that she had brought for her first wedding-a chaste, high-necked gown that her father had chosen. She wore white silken gloves
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that reached all the way to her shoulders, and her face was swathed in a thick veil-which, by tradition, wouldn't be lifted until she entered the hallway where her fiancé waited. She wasn't certain what to pray about. Sarene considered herself religious, though she was nowhere near as devout as Eondel. Still, her fight for Teod was really a fight for the Karachi religion. She believed in Domi and regarded Him with reverence. She was faithful to the tenets the priests taught her-even if she was, perhaps, a little too headstrong. Now it appeared that Domi had finally answered her prayers. He had delivered her a husband though he was not at all what she had expected. Perhaps, she thought to herself. I should have been a little more specific. There was no bitterness in the thought, however. She had known most of her life that she was meant for a marriage of policy, not of love. Roial really was one of the most decent men she had ever met-even if he was old enough to be her father, or even her grandfather. Still, she had heard of state marriages far more unbalanced; several Jindoeese kings were known to have taken brides as young as twelve years old. So, her prayer was one of thanks. She recognized a blessing when she saw one: With Roial as her husband, she would be queen of Arelon. And, if Domi did decide to take Roial from her in a few years, she knew the duke's promise was true. She would have another opportunity. Please, she added as a close to her simple prayer, just let us be happy. Her lady attendants waited outside, most of them daughters of nobility. Kaise was there, looking very solemn in her little white dress, as was Torena. They held Sarene's long, cloaklike train as she walked the short distance to her carriage, then again as she alighted and entered the palace. The throne-room doors were open, and Roial stood in a white suit near the front of the room. It was his intention to sit in the throne as soon as the ceremony was finished. If the duke did not make his claim in a forceful, unquestionable manner, then Telrii might still try to seize control. The diminutive Father Omin stood beside the throne, clutching the large tome of the Do-Korath. There was a dreamy look on his face; the little priest obviously enjoyed weddings. Seinalan stood beside him, petulant that Sarene hadn't asked him to officiate. She didn't really care. Living in Teod, she had always assumed that the patriarch would wed her. Now that she had an opportunity to use a priest she actually liked, she wasn't going to give in. She stepped into the room, and all eves turned toward her. There were as many people at the wedding as there had been at the funeral-if not more. Iadon's funeral had been an important political event, but Roi1al's marriage was even more vital. The nobility would see it as paramount that they begin Roial's reign with
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the proper level of sycophantic flattery. Even the gyorn Hrathen was there. It was odd, Sarene thought, that his face appeared so calm. Her wedding to Roial was going to be a major obstacle to his conversion plans. For the moment, however, Sarene put the Fjordell priest out of her mind. She had been waiting for this day for a long time, and even if it wasn't what she had once hoped for, she would make the best of it. It was finally happening. After all the waiting, after two near misses, she was actually going to get married. With that thought, both terrifying and vindicating, she raised her veil. The screaming started immediately. Confused, mortified, and shocked, Sarene reached to pull off her veil, thinking perhaps that there was something wrong with it. When it came off, her hair went with it. Sarene stared down at the long tresses with stupefaction. Her hands began to shake. She looked up. Roial was stunned, Seinalan outraged, and even Omin clutched his Korathi pendant with shock. Sarene turned frantically, her eyes finding one of the broad mirrors on either side of the throne room. The face that stared back was not her own. It was a repulsive thing covered with black spots, defects that stood out even more markedly against her white dress. Only a few fugitive strands of hair still clung to her diseased scalp. Inexplicable and mysterious, the Shaod had come upon her. CHAPTER 39 HRATHEN watched several Korathi priests lead the stunned princess from the quiet room. “Such are the judgments of Holy Jaddeth,” he announced. The duke, Roial, sat on the edge of the throne dais, head held between his hands. The young Jindo baron looked as if he wanted to follow the priests and demand Sarene's release, and the martial Count Eondel was weeping openly. Hrathen was surprised to realize that he took no joy from their sorrow. Princess Sarene's fall was necessary, but her friends were of no concern-or, at least, they shouldn't be. Why was he bothered that no one had shed tears at his own fall before the Shaod? Hrathen had begun to think that the poison would take effect too late, that the surprise marriage between Sarene and Roial would go forward unchallenged. Of course, Sarene's fall would probably have been just as disastrous after the marriage-unless Roial had intended to take the throne this very evening. It was an uncomfortable possibility. One, fortunately, Hrathen would never have the opportunity to see fulfilled. Roial wouldn't crown himself now. Not only did he lack the legal right, but his fortune was still less than chat of Telrii. Hrathen had checked the wedding contract-this time a death was not the same as a marriage. Hrathen pushed his way through the stunned crowd toward the exit. He had to work quickly: Sarene's potion would wear off in five days. Duke Telrii met Hrathen's eyes as he passed, nodding with a respectful smile. The man had received Hrathen's message, and had 1not acted against the wedding. Now his faith
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would be rewarded. The conquest of Arelon was almost complete. CHAPTER 40 “THERE should be a way to get up there,” Raoden said, shading his eyes as he looked at the Elantris city wall. During the last few hours the sun had emerged, burning away the morning mists. It hadn't, however, brought much warmth with it. Galladon frowned. “I don't see how, stile. Those walls are rather high.” “You forget, my friend,” Raoden said. “the walls weren't made to keep people in, or even really to keep enemies out. The old Elantrians built stairs and viewing platforms on the outside of the wall-there should be others in here.” Galladon grunted. Ever since the Guards had mysteriously disappeared from the walls, Raoden had wanted to find a way up. The walls belonged to Elantris, not the outside world. From them, perhaps they could find out what was happening in Kae. The Guard's inattentiveness bothered him. The disappearance was fortunate, in a way; it lessened the possibility that someone would notice New Elantris. However, Raoden could only think of a couple of reasons why the soldiers would leave their post on the walls, and the most likely one was also the most worrisome. Could the East finally have invaded? Raoden knew that an invasion was all too possible. Wyrn was too opportunistic to let a gem like post-Reod Arelon go unmolested forever. Fjorden would attack eventually. And, if Arelon fell before Wyrn's holy war, then Elantris would be destroyed. The Derethi priests would see to that. Raoden didn't voice his fears to the other Elantrians, but he did act on them. If he could place men on the walls, then he would have prior warning of an army's approach. Perhaps with advance notice, Raoden would have time to hide his people. One of the three empty, ruined towns outside of Elantris was probably their best hope. He would lead them there, if he had the chance. Assuming he was in any condition to help. The Dor had come against him twice in the last four days. Fortunately, while the pain was growing stronger, so was his resolve. Now, at least, he understood. “There,” Galladon said, pointing to an outcropping. Raoden nodded. There was a chance the stone column held a stairwell. “Let's go.” They were far from New Elantris, which was positioned in the center of the city to hide it from prying wall-top eyes. Here, in old Elantris, the slime still covered all. Raoden smiled: The dirt and grime was becoming repulsive to him again. For a while he had almost forgotten how disgusting it was. They didn't get very far. Soon after Galladon pointed out the stairwell, a messenger from New Elantris appeared from a side street behind them. The man approached on quick feet, waving toward Raoden. “My lord Spirit,” the man said. “Yes, Tenrao?” Raoden asked, turning. “A newcomer has been thrown into the city, my lord.” Raoden nodded. He preferred to greet each newcomer personally. “Shall we go?” he asked Galladon. “The walls will wait,” the Dula agreed. The
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newcomer turned out to be a she. The woman sat with her back to the gate, her knees pulled up against her chest, her head buried in her sacrificial robes. “She's a feisty one, my lord.” said Dashe, who had been serving as watcher when the newcomer arrived. “She screamed at the gate for a full ten minutes after they tossed her in. Then she threw her offering basket against the wall and sank down like she is now.” Raoden nodded. Most newcomers were too stunned to do much besides wander. This one had strength.Raoden gestured for the others to remain behind; he didn't want to make her nervous by bringing a crowd. He strolled forward until he was directly in front of her, then squatted down to regard her at eye level. “Hello, there,” he said affably. “I'm willing to guess you've had an awful day.” The woman looked up. When he saw her face, Raoden nearly lost his balance in surprise. Her skin was splotched and her hair was missing, but she had the same thin face and round, mischievous eyes. Princess Sarene. His wife. “You don't know the half of it, Spirit.” she said, a small, ironic smile coming to her lips. “I'll bet I understand more than you think I do,” Raoden said. “I'm here to make things a little less dreary.” “What?” Sarene asked, her voice suddenly turning bitter. “Are you going to steal the offering the priests gave me?” “Well, I will if you really want me to.” Raoden said. “Though I don't think we need it. Someone was kind enough to deliver us several large batches of food a few weeks back.” Sarene regarded him with hostile eyes. She hadn't forgotten his betrayal. “Come with me,” he urged, holding out his hand. “I don't trust you anymore, Spirit.” “Did you ever?” Sarene paused, then shook her head. “I wanted to, but I knew that I shouldn't.” “Then you never really gave me a chance, did you?” He stretched his hand out a little closer. “Come with me.” She regarded him for a moment, studying his eyes. Eventually she reached out her fine, thin-fingered hand and placed it in his own for the first time, allowing him to pull her to her feet. CHAPTER 41 THE sudden change was nothing less than stupefying. It was as if Sarene had stepped from darkness into sunlight, burst from brackish water in1to warm air. The dirt and grime of Elantris stopped in a crisp line, beyond which the cobblestones were pure and white. Anywhere else the street's simple cleanliness would have been noticeable, but not remarkable. Here, with the rot of Elantris behind her, it seemed as if Sarene had stumbled into Domi's Paradise. She stopped before the stone gate, staring at the city-within-a-city, her eyes wide and disbelieving. People talked and worked within, each bearing the cursed skin of an Elantrian, but each wearing a pleasant smile as well. None wore the rags she had assumed were the only available clothing in Elantris; their outfits were simple skirts
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or trousers and a shirt. The cloth was strikingly colorful. With amazement Sarene realized that these were the colors she had chosen. What she had seen as offensive, however, the people wore with joy-the bright yellows, greens, and reds highlighting their cheerfulness. These were not the people she had seen just a few weeks before, pathetic and begging for food. They looked as if they belonged to some pastoral village of lore-people who expressed a good-natured joviality Sarene had thought unrealistic in the real world. Yet, they lived in the one place everyone knew was even more horrible than the real world. “What ... ?” Spirit smiled broadly, still holding her hand as he pulled her through the gateway into the village. “Welcome to New Elantris, Sarene. Everything you assumed is no longer valid.” “I can see that.” A squat Elantrian woman approached, her dress a mixture of vibrant greens and yellows. She eyed Sarene critically. “I doubt we've got anything in her size, Lord Spirit.” Spirit laughed, taking in Sarene's height. “Do your best, Maare,” he said, walking toward a low-ceilinged building at the side of the gate. The door was open, and Sarene could see rows of clothing hanging on pegs inside. Embarrassed, she was suddenly aware of her own clothing. She had already stained the white garment with slime and muck. “Come, dearie,” Maare said, leading her to a second building. “Let's see what we can do.” The motherly woman eventually found a dress that fit Sarene reasonably well-or, at least, a blue skirt that showed her legs only up to midcalf, along with a bright red blouse. There were even undergarments, though they too were constructed of bright materials. Sarene didn't complain-anything was better than her filth-soiled robe. After pulling on the clothing, Sarene regarded herself in the room's full-length mirror. Half of her skin was still flesh-toned, but that only made the dark splotches more striking. She assumed that her flesh tones would dim with time, becoming gray like those of the other Elantrians. “Wait,” she asked hesitantly, “where did the mirror come from?” “It isn't a mirror, dearie,” Maare informed as she sifted through socks and shoes. “It's a flat piece of stone-part of a table, I think-with thin sheets of steel wrapped around it.” Looking clos1ely, Sarene could see the folds where sheets of steel overlapped one another. All things considered, it made a remarkable mirror. The stone must have been extremely smooth. “But where-” Sarene stopped. She knew exactly where they had gotten sheets of steel that thin. Sarene herself had sent them, again thinking to get the better of Spirit, who had demanded several sheets of metal as part of his bribe. Maare disappeared for a moment, then returned with socks and shoes for Sarene. Both were different colors from either her shirt or her skirt. “Here we are,” the woman said. “I had to go over and pilfer these from the men.” Sarene felt herself blush as she accepted the items. “Don't mind, dearie,” Maare said with a laugh. “It makes sense
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you'd have big feet-Domi knows you need more on the bottom to support all that height! Oh, and here's the last thing.” The woman held up a long scarflike piece of orange cloth. “For your head,” Maare said, pointing at the similar cloth wrapped around her own head. “It helps us forget about the hair.” Sarene nodded thankfully, accepting the scarf and tying it around her scalp. Spirit waited for her outside, wearing a pair of red trousers and a yellow shirt. He smiled as she approached. “I feel like an insane rainbow,” Sarene confessed, looking down at the menagerie of colors. Spirit laughed, holding out his hand and leading her deeper into the city. Unconsciously, she found herself judging his height. He's tall enough for me, she thought almost offhandedly, if only barely. Then, realizing what she was doing, she rolled her eyes. The entire world was toppling around her, and all she could do was size up the man walking next to her. “... get used to the idea that we all look like secabirds in the spring,” he was saying. “The colors don't bother you all that much once you wear them for a while. Actually, after the dull monotones of old Elantris, I find them quire refreshing.” As they walked. Spirit explained New Elantris to her. It wasn't very large, perhaps fifty buiIdings in all, but its compact nature made it feel more unified. Though there couldn't have been many people in the town-five or six hundred at most-there always seemed to be motion around her. Men worked on walls or roofs, women sewed or cleaned-even children ran in the streets. It had never occurred to her that the Shaod would take children as well as adults. Everyone greeted Spirit as he passed, calling out with welcoming smiles. There was true acceptance in their voices, displaying a level of loving respect Sarene had rarely seen given to a leader; even her father, who was generally well liked, had his dissenters. Of course, it was easier with such a small population, but she was still impressed. At one point they walked by a man of indecipherable age-it was hard to put years with faces in Elantris-sitting on a stone block. He was short with a large belly, and he didn't greet them. His inattention, however, was not a sign of incivility-he was just focused on the small object in his hand.1 Several children stood around the man, watching his bent-over work with eager eyes. As Sarene and Spirit passed, the man held the object out to one of the children; it was a beautifully carved stone horse. The girl clapped ecstatically, accepting the piece with exuberant fingers. The children ran off as the sculptor reached down to select another rock from the ground. He began to scrape at the stone with a short tool; as Sarene peered closely at his fingers, she realized what it was. “One of my nails!” she said. “He's using one of the bent nails I sent you.” “Hmm?” Spirit asked. “Oh, yes. I have
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to tell you, Sarene, we had quite a time figuring out what to do with that particular box. It would have taken far too much fuel to melt them all down, even assuming we had the tools for smelting. Those nails were one of your more clever adaptations.” Sarene flushed. These people were fighting to survive in a city deprived of resources, and she had been so petty as to send them bent nails. “I'm sorry. I was afraid you would make weapons out of the steel.” “You were right to be wary,” Spirit said. “I did, after all, betray you in the end.” “I'm sure you had a good reason,” she said quickly. “I did,” he said with a nod. “But that didn't matter much at the time, did it? You were right about me. I was-am-a tyrant. I kept food back from a part of the population, I broke our agreement, and I caused the deaths of some fine men.” Sarene shook her head, her voice growing firm. “You are not a tyrant. This community proves that-the people love you, and there cannot be tyranny where there is love.” He half smiled, his eyes unconvinced. Then, however, he regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Well, I suppose the time during your Trial wasn't a complete loss. I gained something very important during those weeks.” “The supplies?” Sarene asked. “That too.” Sarene paused, hoIding his eyes. Then she looked back at the sculptor. “Who is he?” “His name is Taan.” Spirit said. “Though you might know of him by the name Aanden.” “The gang leader?” Sarene asked with surprise. Spirit nodded. “Taan was one of the most accomplished sculptors in Arelon before the Shaod took him. After coming to Elantris, he lost track of himself for a while. He came around eventually.” They left the sculptor to his work, Spirit showing her through the last few sections of the city. They passed a large building that he referred to as “the Hall of the Fallen.” and the sorrow in his voice kept her from asking about it, though she did see several mindless Shaod Seons floating around above its roof. Sarene felt a sudden stab of grief. Ashe must be like that now, she thought, remembering the mad Seons she had occasionally seen floating around Elantris. Despite what she'd seen, s1he'd continued to hope through the night that Ashe would find her. The Korathi priests had locked her in some sort of holding cell to wait-apparently, new Elantrians were only thrown into the city once a day-and she'd stood by the window, wishing he would arrive. She'd waited in vain. With the confusion at the wedding, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen him. Not wanting to enter the chapel, he'd gone ahead to wait for her in the throne room. When she'd arrived, had she seen him floating inside the room? Had she heard his voice, calling out amid the other shocked members of the wedding party? Or, was she simply letting hope cloud her memories? Sarene shook
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her head, sighing as she let Spirit lead her away from the Hall of the Fallen. She kept looking over her shoulder, glancing upward, expecting Ashe to be there. He always had been before. At least he isn't dead, she thought, forcing aside her grief. He's probably in the city somewhere. I can find him . . . maybe help him, somehow. They continued to walk, and Sarene intentionally let herself be distracted by the scenery-she couldn't bear to think of Ashe anymore. Soon. Spirit led her past several open areas that-looking closely-Sarene realized must be fields. Tiny sprouts were appearing in careful rows piled in the dirt, and several men walked among them, searching for weeds. There was a distinct smell in the air. Sarene paused. “Fish?” “Fertilizer,” Spirit said with a chuckle. “That's one time we managed to get the better of you. We asked for trike knowing full well you would find the nearest barrel of rotten fish to include in the shipment.” “It seems like you got the better of me more times than not,” Sarene said, remembering with shame the time she had spent gloating over her sly interpretations of the demands. It seemed no matter how twisted her attempt, the New Elantrians had found uses for all of her useless gifts. “We don't have much choice, Princess. Everything from pre-Reod Elantris is rotten or befouled: even the stones are starting to crumble. No matter how defective you may have thought those supplies, they were still far more useful than anything left in the city.” “I was wrong,” Sarene said morosely. “Don't start that again,” Spirit said. “If you begin feeling sorry for yourself, I'll lock you in a room with Galladon for an hour so that you can learn what true pessimism is.” “Galladon?” “He was the large fellow you met briefly hack at the gates,” Spirit explained. “The Dula?” Sarene asked with surprise, recalling the large, broad-faced Elantrian with the thick Duladen accent. “That's him.” “A pessimistic Dula?” she repeated. “I've never heard of such a thing.” Spirit laughed again, leading her into a large, stately building. Sarene gasped in wonder at its beauty. It was lined with delicate, spiraled arches, and the floor was crafted of pale white marble. The wall reliefs were even more intricate than those on the Korathi temple in Teoras. “It's a chapel,” she said, running her fingers over the intricate marble patterns. “Yes, it is. How did you know that?” “These scenes are straight out of the Do-Korath,” she said, looking up with chiding eyes. “Someone didn't pay much attention in chapel school.” Spirit coughed to himself. “Well “Don't even try and convince me you didn't go,” Sarene said, turning back to the carvings. “You're obviously a nobleman. You would have gone to church to keep up appearances, even if you weren't devout.” “My lady is very astute. I am, of course, Domi's humble servant-but I'll admit that my mind sometimes wandered during the sermons.” “So, who were you?” Sarene asked conversationally, finally asking the question that had bothered
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her ever since she first met Spirit weeks before. He paused. “The second son of the Lord of Ien Plantation. A very minor holding in the south of Arelon.” It could be the truth. She hadn't bothered memorizing the names of minor lords; it had been difficult enough to keep track of the dukes, counts, and barons. It could also be a lie. Spirit appeared to be at least a passable statesman, and he would know how to tell a convincing falsehood. Whatever he was, he had certainly learned some excellent leadership skills-attributes she had found, for the most part, lacking in the Arelish aristocracy. “How long-” she began, turning away from the wall. Then she froze, her breath catching in her throat. Spirit was glowing. A spectral light grew from somewhere within; she could see the lines of his bones silhouetted before some awesome power that burned within his chest. His mouth opened in a voiceless scream; then he collapsed, quivering as the light flared. Sarene rushed to his side, then paused, unsure what to do. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed him, lifting his head up to keep the spasms from pounding it repeatedly against the cold marble floor. And she felt something. It brought bumps to her arms and sent a frigid shiver through her body. Something large, something impossibly immense, pressed against her. The air itself seemed to warp away from Spirit's body. She could no longer see his bones; there was too much light. It was as if he were dissolving into pure whiteness: she would have thought him gone if she hadn't felt his weight in her arms. His struggles jerked to a stop, and he fell limp. Then he screamed. A single note, cold and uniform, flew from his mouth in a defiant yell. The light vanished almost immediately, and Sarene was left with her heart pounding a rhythm in her breast, her arms bathed in anxious sweat, her breathing coming deeply and rapidly. Spirit's eyes fluttered open a few moments later. As comprehension slowly returned, he smiled wanly and rested his head back against her arm. “When I opened my eyes, I though that time I had died for certain.” “What happened?” she asked anxiously. “Should I go for help?” “No, this is becoming a common1 occurrence.” “Common?” Sarene asked slowly. “For . . . all of us?” Spirit laughed weakly. “No, just me. I'm the one the Dor is intent on destroying. “The Dor?” she asked. “What does Jesker have to do with this?” He smiled. “So, the fair princess is a religious scholar as well?” “The fair princess knows a lot of things,” Sarene said dismissively. “I want to know why a 'humble servant of Domi' thinks the Jesker overspirit is trying to destroy him.” Spirit moved to sit, and she helped. “It has to do with AonDor,” he explained with a tired voice. “AonDor? That's a heathen legend.” There wasn't much conviction to her words-not after what she had just seen. Spirit raised an eyebrow. “So, it's all right for us to
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be cursed with bodies that won't die, but it's not possible for our ancient magic to work? Didn't I see you with a Seon?” “That's different....” Sarene trailed off weakly, her mind turning back to Ashe. Spirit, however, immediately drew her attention again. He raised his hand and began drawing. Lines appeared in the air, following his finger's movement. Korathi teaching of the last ten years had done its best to downplay Elantris's magic, despite the Seons. Seons were familiar, almost like benevolent spirits sent by Domi for protection and comfort. Sarene had been taught, and had believed, that Elantris's magics had mostly been a sham. Now, however, she was faced with a possibility. Perhaps the stories were true. “Teach me,” she whispered. “I want to know.” CHAPTER 42 IT wasn't until later, after night had fallen, that Sarene finally allowed herself to cry. Spirit had spent the better part of the day explaining all he knew of AonDor. Apparently, he had done some extensive research on the subject. Sarene had listened with enjoyment, because of both the company and the distraction he provided. Before they had known it, dusk was falling outside the chapel windows, and Spirit had found her lodgings. Now she lay curled up, shivering in the cold. The room's two other women slept soundly, neither one bothering with a blanket despite the frigid air. The other Elantrians didn't seem to notice temperature variation as much as Sarene did. Spirit claimed that their bodies were in a kind of stasis, that they had stopped working as they waited for the Dor to finish transforming them. Still, it seemed unpleasantly cold to Sarene. The dismal atmosphere didn't do much for her mood. As she bunched up against the hard stone wall, she remembered the looks. Those awful looks. Most other Elantrians had been taken at night, and they would have been discovered quietly. Sarene, however, had been exhibited before the entire aristocracy. And at her own wedding, no less.1font> It was a mortifying embarrassment. Her only consolation was that she would probably never see any of them again. It was a small comfort, for by the same reasoning she would probably never see her father, mother, or brother again. Kiin and his family were lost to her. So, where homesickness had never hit her before, now it attacked with a lifetime's worth of repression. Coupled with it was the knowledge of her failure. Spirit had asked her for news from the outside, but the topic had proven too painful for her. She knew that Telrii was probably already king, and that meant Hrathen would easily convert the rest of Arelon. Her tears came silently. She cried for the wedding, for Arelon, for Ashe's madness, and for the shame dear Roial must have felt. Thoughts of her father were worst of all. The idea of never again feeling the love of his gentle banter-never again sensing his overwhelming, unconditional approval-brought to her heart an overpowering sense of dread. “My lady?” whispered a deep, hesitant voice. “Is that you?” Shocked, she looked
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up through her tears. Was she hearing things? She had to be. She couldn't have heard ... “Lady Sarene?” It was Ashe's voice. Then she saw him, hovering just inside the window, his Aon so dim it was nearly invisible. “Ashe?” she asked with hesitant wonder. “Oh, blessed Domi!” the Aon exclaimed, approaching quickly. “Ashe!” she said, wiping her eyes with a quivering hand, numbed by shock. “You never use the Lord's name!” “If He has brought me to you, then He has His first Seon convert,” Ashe said, pulsing excitedly. She could barely keep herself from reaching out and trying to hug the ball of light. “Ashe, you're talking! You shouldn't be able to speak, you should be . . .” “Mad,” Ashe said. “Yes, my lady, I know. Yet, I feel no differently from before. “A miracle.” Sarene said. “A wonder, if nothing else,” the Seon said. “Perhaps I should look into converting to Shu-Korath.” Sarene laughed. “Seinalan would never hear of it. Of course, his disapproval has never stopped us before, has it?” “Not once, my lady.” Sarene rested back against the wall, content to simply enjoy the familiarity of his voice. “You have no idea how relieved I am to find you, my lady. I have been searching for two days. I had begun to fear that something awful had happened to you.” “It did, Ashe,” Sarene said, though she smiled when she said the words. “I mean something more horrible, my lady,” the Seon said. “I have seen the kind of atrocit1ies this place can breed.” “It has changed, Ashe,” Sarene said. I don't quite understand how he did it, but Spirit brought order to Elantris.” “Whatever he did, if it kept you safe, I bless him for it.” Suddenly, something occurred to her. If Ashe lived ... Sarene had a link to the outside world. She wasn't completely separated from Kiin and the others. “Do you know how everyone is doing?” she asked. “No, my lady. After the wedding dismissed, I spent an hour demanding that the patriarch let you free. I don't think he was disappointed by your fall. After that, I realized that I had lost you. I went to Elantris's gates, but I was apparently too late to see you get thrown into the city. However, when I asked the guards where you had gone, they refused to tell me anything. They said it was taboo to speak of those who had become Elantrians, and when I told them that I was your Seon, they grew very uncomfortable and stopped speaking to me. I had to venture into the city without information, and I've been searching for you ever since.” Sarene smiled, picturing the solemn Seon-essentially, a pagan creation-arguing with the head of the Korathi religion. “You didn't arrive too late to see me get thrown into the city, Ashe. You arrived too early. Apparently, they only throw people in before a certain time of day, and the marriage happened quite late. I spent the night in the chapel, and they brought me
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to Elantris this afternoon.” “Ah,” the Seon said, bobbing with comprehension. “In the future you can probably find me here, in the clean section of the city.” “This is an interesting place,” Ashe said. “I had never been here before-it is well masked from the outside. Why is this area different from the others?” “You'll see,” she said. “Come back tomorrow.” “Come back, my lady?” Ashe asked indignantly. “I don't intend to leave you.” “Just briefly, my friend,” Sarene said. “I need news from Kae, and you need to let the others know I am all right.” “Yes, my lady.” Sarene paused for a moment. Spirit had gone through great efforts to make sure no one on the outside knew of New Elantris; she couldn't betray his secret so offhandedly, even if she did trust the people Ashe would tell. “Tell them you found me, but don't tell them any of what you see in here.” “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, his voice confused. “Just a moment, my lady. Your father wishes to speak with you.” The Seon began to pulse, then his light melted, dripping and reforming into Eventeo's large oval head. “ 'Ene?” Eventeo asked with frantic concern. “I'm here, Father.” “Oh, thank Domi!” he said. “Sarene, are you unharmed?”1font> “I'm fine, Father,” she assured him, strength returning. She suddenly knew that she could do anything and go anywhere as long as she had the promise of Eventeo's voice. “Curse that Seinalan! He didn't even try to let you free. If I weren't so devout, I'd behead him without a second thought.” “We must be fair, Father,” Sarene said. “If a peasant's daughter can be cast into Elantris, then a king's daughter shouldn't be exempt.” “If my reports are true, then no one should be thrown into that pit.” “It's not as bad as you think, Father,” Sarene said. “I can't explain, but things are more hopeful than anticipated.” “Hopeful or not, I'm getting you out of there.” “Father, no!” Sarene said. “If you bring soldiers to Arelon you'll not only leave Teod undefended, but you'll alienate our only ally!” “It won't be our ally for long, if my spy's predietions are accurate,” Eventeo said. “Duke Telrii is waiting a few days to consolidate power, but everyone knows he'll soon take the throne-and he is on very friendly terms with that Gyorn Hrathen. You tried, 'Ene, but Arelon is lost. I'm going to come get you-I won't really need all that many men-and then I'm going to fall back and prepare for an invasion. No matter how many men Wyrn raises, he'll never get them past our armada. Teod has the finest ships on the sea.” “Father, you might have given up on Arelon, but I can't.” “Sarene,” Eventeo said warningly, “do not start that again. You are no more Arelish than I-” “I mean it, Father,” Sarene said firmly. “I will not leave Arelon.” “Idos Domi, Sarene, this is lunacy! I am your father and your king. I am going to bring you back, whether you want to come
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or not.” Sarene calmed herself; force would never work with Eventeo. “Father,” she said, letting love and respect sound in her voice, “you taught me to be bold. You made me into something stronger than the ordinary. At times I cursed you, but mostly I blessed your encouragement. You gave me the liberty to become myself. Would you deny that now by taking away my right to choose?” Her father's white head hung silently in the dark room. “Your lessons won't be complete until you let go, Father,” Sarene said quietly. “If you truly believe the ideals that you gave me, then you will allow me to make this decision.” Finally he spoke. “You love them that much, 'Ene?” “They have become my people, Father.” “It has been less than two months.” “Love is independent of time, Father. I need to stay with Arelon. If it is to fall, I must fall with it-but I don't think it will. There has to be a way to stop Telrii.” “But you're trapped in that city, Sarene,” her father said. “What can you do from there?” “Ashe can act as messenger. I can no longer lead them, but I might be able to help. Even if I cannot, I still must stay.” “I see,” her father finally said, sighing deeply. “Your life is yours, Sarene. I have always believed that-even if I forget it once in a while.” “You love me, Father. We protect what we love.” “And I do,” Eventeo said. Never forget that, my daughter.” Sarene smiled. “I never have.” “Ashe,” Eventeo ordered, calling the Seon's consciousness into the conversation. “Yes, my king,” Ashe's voice said, its deep tone deferential and reverent. “You will watch and protect her. If she is injured, you will call me.” “As I ever have, and ever will, my king,” Ashe responded. “Sarene, I'm still going to set the armada in a defensive pattern. Let your friends know that any ship approaching Teoish waters will be sunk without question. The entire world has turned against us, and I cannot risk the safety of my people.” “I'll warn them, Father,” Sarene promised. “Goodnight then, 'Ene, and may Domi bless you.” Hrathen was back in control. Like a hero from the old Svordish epics, he had descended to the underworld-physically, mentally, and spiritually-and returned a stronger man. Dilaf's hold was broken. Only now could Hrathen see that the chains Dilaf had used to bind him had been forged from Hrathen's own envy and insecurity. He had felt threatened by Dilaf's passion, for he had felt his own faith inferior. Now, however, his resolve was firm-as it had been when he first arrived in Arelon. He would be the savior of this people. Dilaf backed down unhappily. The Arteth grudgingly promised to hold no meetings or sermons without Hrathen's overt permission. And, in exchange for being officially named head Arteth of the chapel, Dilaf also consented to relieve his numerous odivs from their vows, instead swearing them to the less binding position of krondet. The biggest change, however, wasn't in
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the Arteth's actions, but in Hrathen's confidence. As long as Hrathen knew that his faith was as strong as Dilaf's, then the Arteth would not be able to manipulate him. Dilaf would not, however, relent in his pursuit of Elantris's destruction. “They are unholy!” the Arteth insisted as they walked toward the chapel. This night's sermon had been extremely successful; Hrathen could now claim over three-fourths of the local Arelish nobility as Derethi members or sympathizers. Telrii would crown himself within the week, and as soon as his rule stabilized a bit, he would announce his conversion to Shu-Dereth. Arelon was Hrathen's, and he still had a month left before Wyrn's deadline. “The Elantrians have served their purpo1se, Arteth,” Hrathen explained to Dilaf as they walked. It was cold this night, though not cold enough for one's breath to mist. “Why do you forbid me to preach against them, my lord?” Dilaf's voice was bitter-now that Hrathen forbade him to speak about Elantris, the Arteth's speeches seemed almost emasculated. “Preaching against Elantris no longer has a point,” Hrathen said, matching Dilaf's anger with logic. “Do not forget that our hate had a purpose. Now that I have proven Jaddeth's supreme power over Elantris, we have effectively shown that our God is true, while Domi is false. The people understand that subconsciously.” “But the Elantrians are still unholy.” “They are vile, they are blasphemous, and they are definitely unholy. But right now they are also unimportant. We need to focus on the Derethi religion itself, showing the people how to link themselves to Jaddeth by swearing fealty to yourself or one of the other Arteths. They sense our power, and it is our duty to show them how to partake of it.” “And Elantris goes free?” Dilaf demanded. “No, most certainly not,” Hrathen said. “There will be time enough to deal with it after this nation-and its monarch-is firmly in Jaddeth's grasp.” Hrathen smiled to himself, turning away from the scowling Dilaf. It's over, he realized. I actually did it-I converted the people without a bloody revolution. He wasn't finished yet, however. Arelon was his, but one nation still remained. Hrathen had plans for Teod. CHAPTER 43 THE door had been barred shut from the inside, but the wooden portal was part of the original Elantris-subject to the same rot that infested the rest of the city. Galladon said the mess had fallen off its hinges practically at a touch. A dark stairwell lay hidden inside, ten years of dust coating its steps. Only a single set of footprints marked the powder-footprints that could have been made only by feet as large as Galladon's. “And it goes all the way to the top?” Raoden asked, stepping over the sodden wreck of a door. “Kolo.” Galladon said. “And it's encased in stone the entire way, with only an occasional slit for light. One wrong step will send you tumbling down a series of stone steps as long-and as painful-as one of my hama's stories.” Raoden nodded and began climbing, the Dula following behind. Before
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the Reod, the stair must have been lit by Elantrian magic-but now the darkness was broken only by occasional thin spears of light from the scattered slits. The stairs circled up against the outer wall of the structure, and the lower curves were dimly visible when one peered down the center. There had been a railing once, but it had long since decayed. They had w stop often to rest, their Elantrian bodies unable to bear the strain of vigorous exercise. Eventually, however, they reached the top. The wooden door here was newer; the Guard had probably replaced it after the original rotted away. There was no han1dle-it wasn't really a door, but a barricade. “This is as far as I got, sule,” Galladon said. “Climbed all the way to the top of the Doloken stairs, only to find out I needed an axe to go on.” “That's why we brought this,” Raoden said, pulling out the very axe Taan had almost used to topple a building down on Raoden. The two set to work, taking turns hacking at the wood. Even with the tool, cutting through the door was a difficult task. Raoden tired after just a few swings, and each one barely seemed to nick the wood. Eventually, however, they got one board loose and-spurred by the victory-they finally managed to break open a hole large enough to squeeze through. The view was worth the effort. Raoden had been atop the walls of Elantris dozens of times, but never had the sight of Kae looked so sweet. The city was quiet; it appeared as if his fears of invasion had been premature. Smiling. Raoden enjoyed the sense of accomplishment. He felt as if he had climbed a mountain, not a simple stairwell. The walls of Elantris were once again back in the hands of those who had created them. “We did it,” Raoden said, resting against the parapet. “Took us long enough.” Galladon noted, stepping up beside him. “Only a few hours,” Raoden said lightly, the agony of the work forgotten in the bliss of victory. “I didn't mean cutting through the door. I've been trying to get you to come up here for three days.” “I've been busy.” Galladon snorted, mumbling something under his breath, “What was that?” he said, “A two-headed Perrin would never leave its nest.” Raoden smiled; he knew the Jindoeese proverb. Ferrins were talkative birds, and could often be heard screaming at one another across the Jindoeese marshes. The saying was used in reference to a person who had found a new hobby. Or a new romance. “Oh, come now,” Raoden said, eyeing Galladon. “I'm not that bad.” “Stile, the only time in the last three days I've seen you two apart is when one of you had to go to the privy. She'd be here now if I hadn't snatched you when no one was looking.” “Well,” Raoden said defensively, “she is my wife.” “And do you ever intend to inform her of that fact?” “Maybe,” Raoden said lightly. “I wouldn't want her to
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feel any obligation.” “No, of course not.” “Galladon, my friend,” Raoden said, completely unruffled by the Dula's comments, “your people would be mortified to hear how unromantic you are.” Duladen was a notorious hotbed of melodramatic romances and forbidden love. Galladon snorted his response, showing what he thought of the average Dul1a's romantic inclinations. He turned, scanning the city of Kae. “So, sule, we're up here. What do we do now?” “I don't know,” Raoden confessed. “You're the one who forced me to come.” “Yes, but it was your idea to search for a stairwell in the first place.” Raoden nodded, remembering back to their short conversation three days ago. Has it really been that long? he wondered. He'd barely noticed. Perhaps he had been spending a little too much time with Sarene. However, he didn't feel a bit guilty. “There.” Galladon said, squinting and pointing at the city. “What?” Raoden said, following the Dula's gesture. “I see a flag,” Galladon said. “Our missing Guards.” Raoden could hardy pick out a hint of red in the distance-a banner. “Are you sure?” “Positive,” Galladon said. Raoden squinted, recognizing the building over which the banner flew “That's Duke Telrii's mansion. What could the Elantris City Guard possibly have to do with him?” “Perhaps he's under arrest.” Galladon said. “No,” Raoden said. “The Guard isn't a policing force.” “Why would they leave the walls, then?” Galladon asked. Raoden shook his head. “I'm not sure. Something, however, is very wrong.” Raoden and Galladon retreated back down the stairwell, deep in thought. There was one way to find out what was going on with the Guard. Sarene was the only Elantrian to be thrown into the city since the disappearance of the Guard. Only she could explain the current political climate of the city. Sarene, however, still resisted talking about the outside. Something about the last few days before her exile had been extremely painful. Sensing her hurt, Raoden had avoided prying; he didn't want to risk alienating her. The truth was, he really did enjoy his time with Sarene. Her wry wit made him smile, her intelligence intrigued him, and her personality encouraged him. After ten years of dealing with women whose only apparent thought was how good they looked in their dress-a state of forced obtuseness led by his own weak-willed stepmother-Raoden was ready for a woman who wouldn't cower at the first sign of conflict. A woman such as he remembered his mother being, before she died. However, that same unyielding personality was the very thing that had kept him from learning about the outside. No amount of subtle persuasion-or even direct manipulation-could pry a single unwilling fact out of Sarene's mouth. He couldn't afford to be delicate any longer, however. The Guard's strange actions were troubling-any shift in power could be extremely dangerous to Elantris. They reached the bottom of the stairwell and moved on toward the center of the city. The walk was a relatively long one, but it passed quickly as Raoden considered1 what they had seen. Despite the fall of
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Elantris. Arelon had spent the last ten years in relative peace-at least, on a national level. With an ally to the south, Teod's armada patrolling the northern ocean, and the mountains to their east, even a weakened Arelon had faced little external danger. Internally. Iadon had kept a strong grip on military might, encouraging the nobility toward political squabbling as opposed to militaristic posings. Raoden knew that peace couldn't last long, even if his father refused to see that fact. Raoden's decision to marry Sarene had been influenced greatly by the chance to me, enter a formal treaty with Teod-giving Arelon at least partial access to the Teoish armada. Arelenes weren't accustomed to battle: they had been bred for pacifism by centuries of Elantrian protection. The current Wyrn would have to be a fool not to strike soon. All he needed was an opening. Internal strife would provide chat opening. If the Guard had decided to betray the king, civil conflict would throw Arelon into chaos once again, and the Fjordells were infamous for capitalizing on such events. Raoden had to find out what was happening beyond those walls. Eventually, he and Galladon reached their destination. Not New Elantris, but the squat, unassuming building that was the passage to the holy place. Galladon hadn't said a word when he'd found out that Raoden had taken Sarene to the library: the Dula had actually looked as if he'd expected such a development. A few moments later, Raoden and Galladon strode into the underground library. Only a few of the wall lamps burned-an effort to save fuel-but Raoden could easily make out Sarene's form sitting in one of the cubicles at the back, leaned over a book just where he had left her. As they approached, her face became more distinct, and Raoden wasn't able to keep himself from remarking again at her beauty. The dark-splotched skin of an Elantrian was prosaic to him now: he didn't really notice it anymore. Actually, Sarene's body seemed to be adapting remarkably well to the Shaod. Further signs of degeneration were usually visible after just a few days-wrinkles and creases appearing in the skin, the body's remaining flesh color dulling to a pallid white. Sarene showed none of this-her skin was as smooth and vibrant as the day she had entered Elantris. She claimed that her injuries didn't continue hurting the way they should-though Raoden was certain that that was just because she had never lived outside of New Elantris. Many of the more recent newcomers never experienced the worst of Elantrian pain, the work and positive atmosphere keeping them from focusing on their injuries. The hunger hadn't come upon her either-but, again, she had the fortune of coming at a time when everyone had the opportunity to eat at least once a day. Their supplies wouldn't last more than a month, but there was no reason to stockpile. Starvation was not deadly to Elantrians, just uncomfortable. Most beautiful were her eyes-the way she studied everything with keen interest. Sarene didn't just look, she examined. When she
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spoke, there was thought behind her words. That intelligence was what Raoden found most attractive about his Teoish princess. She looked up as they approached, an excited smile on her face. “Spirit! You are never going to guess what I found.” “You're right,” Raoden confessed with a smile-unsure how to approach the topic of information about the outside. “Therefore, you might as well just tell me.” Sarene held up the book, showing him the spine, which read Seor's Encyclopedia of Political Myths. Though Raoden had shown Sarene the library in an effort to sate her interest in AonDor, she'd postponed that study as soon as she had realized that there was an entire shelf of books on political theory. Part of the reason for her shift in interest probably had to do with her annoyance at AonDor. She couldn't draw Aons in the air: she couldn't even get the lines to start appearing behind her fingers. Raoden had been perplexed at first, but Galladon had explained that such a thing wasn't uncommon. Even before the Reod, it had taken some Elantrians years to learn AonDor: if one began even the first line with an improper slant, nothing would appear. Raoden's own immediate success was nothing short of extraordinary. Sarene, however, didn't see it that way. She was the type who grew annoyed when it took her longer to learn than someone else. She claimed she was drawing the Aons perfectly-and, in truth, Raoden couldn't see any flaws in her form. The characters just refused to appear-and no amount of princessly indignation could convince them to behave. So Sarene had turned her interest to political works-though Raoden guessed she would have ended up there anyway. She was interested in AonDor, but she was fascinated by politics. Whenever Raoden came to the library to practice Aons or study. Sarene picked out a volume by some ancient historian or diplomatic genius and began to read in the corner. “. . . it's amazing. I have never read anything that so soundly debunks Fjorden's rhetoric and manipulation.” Raoden shook his head, realizing he had simply been staring at her, enjoying her features rather than paying attention to her words. She was saying something about the book-about how it exposed Fjordell political lies. “Every government lies occasionally, Sarene.” he said as she paused. “True.” she said, flipping through the book. “But not with such magnitude-for the last three hundred years, ever since Fjorden adopted the Derethi religion, the Wyrns have been blatantly altering their country's own histories and literature to make it seem as if the empire has always been a manifestation of divine purpose. Look at this.” She held up the book again, this time showing him a page of verse. “What is that?” “Wyrn the King-the entire three-thousand-line poem.” “I've read it,” Raoden said. Wyrn was said to be the oldest recorded piece of literature-older, even, than the Do-Kando, the holy book that Shu-Keseg, and eventually Shu-Dereth and Shu-Korath, had come from. “You may have read a version of Wyrn the King,” Sarene said, shaking
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her head. “But not this one. Modern versions of the poem make references to Jaddeth in an almost Derethi way. The version in this book shows that the priests rewrote the literature from the original to make it sound as if Wyrn were Derethi-even though he lived long before Shu-Dereth was founded. Back then Jaddeth-or, at least, the god of the same name that Shu-Dereth 1adopted-was a relatively unimportant god who cared for the rocks under the earth. “Now that Fjorden is religious, they can't have it sounding like their greatest historical king was a pagan, so the priests went through and rewrote all of the poems. I don't know where this man Seor got an original version of Wyrn, but if it got out, it would provide a major source of embarrassment to Fjorden.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. Raoden sighed, walking over and crouching down next to Sarene's desk, putting her face at eye level. Any other time, he would have liked nothing more than to sit and listen to her talk. Unfortunately, he had more pressing things on his mind. “All right,” she said, her eyes thinning as she put down the book. “What is it? Am I really that boring?” “Not at all,” Raoden said. “This is just the wrong time. You see ... Galladon and I just climbed to the top of the city wall.” Her face grew perplexed. “And?” “We found the Elantris City Guard surrounding Duke Telrii's mansion,” Raoden said. “We were kind of hoping you could tell us why. I know you're hesitant to talk about the outside, but I'm worried. I need to know what is happening.” Sarene sat with one arm leaning on the desktop, hand raised and tapping her cheek with her index finger as she often did when she was thinking. “All right,” she finally said with a sigh. “I guess I haven't been fair. I didn't want to concern you with outside events.” “Some of the other Elantrians may seem uninterested, Sarene,” Raoden said, “but that's just because they know we can't change what is going on in Kae. I'd prefer to know about things on the outside, however-even if you are a bit hesitant to talk about them.” Sarene nodded. “It's all right-I can talk about it now. I guess the important part began when I dethroned King Iadon-which, of course, is why he hanged himself.” Raoden sat down with a thump, his eyes wide. CHAPTER 44 EVEN as she spoke, Sarene worried about what Spirit had said. Without her, the others had no legitimate claim on the throne. Even Roial was stumped: they could only watch helplessly as Telrii solidified control over the nobility. She expected to receive news of Telrii's coronation by the end of the day. It took her a few moments to realize the look of stunned shock her comment had caused Spirit. He had fallen back into one of the room's chairs, his eyes wide. She chastened herself for lack of tact; this was, after all, Spirit's king she was talking about. So much
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had happened in court the last few weeks that she had grown desensitized. “I'm sorry,” Sarene said. “That was a little blunt, wasn't it?” “Iadon is dead?” Spirit asked in a quiet voice. Sarene nodded. “It turns out he was involved with the Jeskeri Mysteries. When that got out1, he hanged himself rather than face the shame.” She didn't expand on her role in the events: there was no need to complicate them further. “Jeskeri?” Spirit repeated, then his face turned dark and he gritted his teeth. “I always though of him as a fool, but ... How far did his ... involvement go?” “He was sacrificing his cooks and maids.” Sarene said, feeling sick. There was a reason she had avoided explaining these things. Spirit apparently noticed her pallor. “I'm sorry.” “It's all right,” Sarene said. However, she knew no matter what else happened, no matter where she went in her life, the shadowed vision of Iadon's sacrifice would always lurk in her mind. “Telrii is king then?” Spirit asked. “Soon.” Sarene said. “He might have been crowned already.” Spirit shook his head. “What about Duke Roial? He's both richer and more respected. He should have taken the throne.” “He's not richer anymore,” Sarene said. “Fjorden has supplemented Telrii's income. He's a Derethi sympathizer, which, I'm afraid, has increased his social standing.” Spirit's brow furled. “Being a Derethi sympathizer makes one popular? I've missed a lot, haven't I?” “How long have you been in here?” “A year,” Spirit answered offhandedly. That matched what some of the other New Elantrians had told her. No one knew for certain how long Spirit had been in the city, but they all guessed at least a year. He had seized control of the rival gangs in recent weeks, but that wasn't the sort of thing a person accomplished without a great deal of planning and work. “I guess that answers how Telrii got the Guard to back him,” Spirit mumbled. “They've always been far too eager to support whoever seemed most popular at the moment.” Sarene nodded. “They relocated to the duke's mansion shortly before I was thrown in here.” “All right,” Spirit said. “You're going to have to start at the beginning-I need as much information as you can give me.” She began with the fall of the Duladen Republic and Fjorden's increasing threat. She told him of her engagement to Prince Raoden, and of the Derethi incursions into Arelon. As she spoke, she realized that Spirit understood the political climate of Arelon more soundly than she would have thought possible. He quickly grasped the implications of Iadon's posthumous declaration. He knew a lot about Fjorden, though he didn't have a working knowledge of how dangerous its priests could be; he was more worried about Wyrn-controlled soldiers. Most impressive was his understanding of the various lords and nobles of Arelon. Sarene didn't need to explain their personalities and temperaments: Spirit already knew them. In fact, he seemed to understand them better than Sarene herself. When she questioned him on the matter, he simply explained
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that in Arelon it was vital to know of each noble with a rank of baron or higher. Many1 times a lesser nobleman's only means of advancement was to make deals and take contracts with the more powerful aristocrats, for they controlled the markets. Only one thing beyond the king's death shocked him. “You were going to marry Roial?” he asked incredulously. Sarene smiled. “I can't believe it either-the plan developed rather quickly.” “Roial?” Spirit asked again. “The old rascal! He must have thoroughly enjoyed suggesting that idea.” “I found the duke to be an unquestionable gentleman,” Sarene said. Spirit eyed her with a look that said “And I thought you were a better judge of character.” “Besides,” she continued, “he didn't suggest it, Shuden did.” “Shuden?” Spirit said. Then, after a moment's thought, he nodded. “Yes, that does sound like a connection he would make, though I can't see him even mentioning the word 'marriage.' The very concept of matrimony frightens him.” “Not anymore,” Sarene said. “He and Ahan's daughter are growing very close.” “Shuden and Torena?” Spirit asked, even more dumbfounded. Then, he regarded Sarene with narrowed eyes. “Wait a moment-how were you going to marry Roial? I thought you were already married.” “To a dead man,” Sarene huffed. “But your wedding contract said you could never marry again.” “How did you know that?” Sarene asked with narrowed eyes. “You explained it just a few minutes ago.” “I did not.” “Sure you did-didn't she, Galladon?” The large Dula, who was flipping through Sarene's political book, didn't even look up. “Don't look at me, sule. I'm not getting involved.” “Anyway,” Spirit said, turning away from his friend. “How is it that you were going to marry Roial?” “Why not?” Sarene asked. “I never knew this Raoden. Everyone says he was a fine prince, but what do I owe him? My contract with Arelon dissolved when Iadon died; the only reason I made the treaty in the first place was to provide a link between Arelon and my homeland. Why would I honor a contract with a dead man when I could form a more promising one with the future king of Arelon?” “So you only agreed to marry the prince for politics.” His tone sounded hurt for some reason, as if her relationship with the crown prince of Arelon reflected directly on its aristocracy. “Of course,” Sarene said. “I am a political creature, Spirit. I did what was best for Teod-and for the same reason I was going to marry Roial.” He nodded, st1ill looking a bit melancholy. “So, I was in the throne room, ready to marry the duke,” Sarene continued, ignoring Spirit's pique. What right did he have to question her motives? “And that was exactly when the Shaod took me.” “Right then?” Spirit asked. “It happened at your wedding?” Sarene nodded, suddenly feeling very insecure. It seemed that every time she was about to find acceptance, something disastrous alienated her once again. Galladon snorted. “Well, now we know why she didn't want to talk about it. Kolo?” Spirit's
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hand found her shoulder. “I'm sorry.” “It's over now,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “We need to worry about Telrii's coronation. With Fjorden supporting him . . .” “We can worry about Telrii, but I doubt there's anything we can do. If only there were a way to contact the outside!” Suddenly ashamed. Sarene's eyes darted up to where Ashe hid in the room's shadows, his Aon nearly invisible. “There might be a way.” she admitted. Spirit looked up as Sarene waved to Ashe. Ashe started to glow, the Aon's light expanding into a luminescent ball around him. As the Seon floated down to hover above her desk, Sarene shot Spirit an embarrassed look. “A Seon?” he said appreciatively. “You're not angry at me for hiding him?” Sarene asked. Spirit chuckled. “In all honesty, Sarene, I expected you to hold some things back from me. You seem like the type of person who needs secrets, if only for the sake of having them.” Sarene blushed slightly at the astute comment. “Ashe, go check with Kiin and the others. I want to know the moment Telrii declares himself king.” “Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, hovering away. Spirit fell silent. He hadn't commented on Ashe's inexplicable lack of Shaod madness-but, of course, Spirit couldn't know that Ashe had been Sarene's own Seon. They waited in silence, and Sarene didn't interrupt Spirit's thoughts. She had given him an overwhelming mass of information, and she could see his mind picking through it behind his eyes. He was hiding things from her as well. Not that she mistrusted him. Whatever his secrets were, he probably felt he had a good reason for keeping them. She had been involved with politics far too long to take the holding of secrets as a personal offense. That didn't, of course, mean she wasn't going to find out what she could. So far, Ashe hadn't been able to discover anything about a second son of Ten Plantation's ruler, but he was very restricted in his movements. She had allowed him to reveal himself only to Kiin and the others: she didn't know why he had survived where other Seons did not, but she didn't want to lose any potential edge his existence might give her. Apparently realizing they weren't going to go anywhere 1soon, the Dula Galladon shuffled over to one of the chairs and seated himself. Then he closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep. He might be unstereotypically pessimistic, but he was still a Dula. It was said that his people were so relaxed that they could fall asleep in any position at any time. Sarene eyed the large man. Galladon didn't seem to like her. But, then, he was so determinedly grouchy that she couldn't tell. He seemed a well of knowledge at times, but in other areas he was completely ignorant-and totally unconcerned by that fact. He seemed to take everything in stride, but he complained about it at the same time. By the time Ashe came back, Sarene had returned her attention
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to the book on political cover-ups. The Seon had to make a throat-clearing sound before she even realized he was there. Spirit looked up as well, though the Dula continued snoring until his friend elbowed him in the stomach. Then all three sets of eyes turned to Ashe. “Well?” Sarene asked. “It is done, my lady,” Ashe informed them. “Telrii is king.” CHAPTER 45 HRATHEN stood in the moonlight atop the Elantris City wall, curiously studying the hole. One of the stairwell barricades was broken and scarred, the boards pulled free. The hole was strikingly similar to one that might have been made by rodents-Elantrian rodents, seeking to escape from their nest. This was one of the sections of the wall kept clean by the Guard, and some slime tracks from the stairwell gave ample proof that those below had been up the wall several times. Hrathen strolled away from the stairwell. He was probably the only one who knew about the hole; Elantris was now watched by only two or three Guards, and they rarely-if ever-patrolled the wall walk. For now, he wouldn't tell the Guards about the hole. It didn't matter to him if the Elantrians snuck out of their city. They wouldn't be able to go anywhere; their appearance was too distinctive. Besides, he didn't want to bother the people with worries about Elantris; he wanted them to remain focused on their new king, and the allegiances he would soon declare. He walked, Elantris to his right. Kae to his left. A small concentration of lights shone in the evening's darkness-the royal palace, now Telrii's home. The Arelish nobility, eager to show devotion to their new king, were in near unanimous attendance at his coronation party-each man vying to prove his loyalty. The pompous former duke was obviously enjoying the attention. Hrathen continued to stroll in the calm night, feet clinking against the stones. Telrii's coronation had occurred with expected flair. The former duke, now king, was an easy man to understand, and men who could be understood could be manipulated. Let him enjoy his diversion for the moment. On the morrow, the time would come for payment of debts. Telrii would undoubtedly demand more money from Hrathen before he joined Shu-Dereth. Telrii would think himself clever, and would assume that the crown gave him even greater leverage with Fjorden. Hrathen, of course, would feign indignation at the cash demands, all the while unders1tanding what Telrii never could. Power was not in wealth, but in control-money was worthless before a man who refused to be bought. The king would never understand that the wyrnings he demanded wouldn't give him power, but would instead put him beneath the power of another. As he glutted himself on coins. Arelon would slip away from him. Hrathen shook his head, feeling mildly guilty. He used Telrii because the king made himself such a wonderful tool. However, there would be no conversion in Telrii's heart-no true acceptance of Jaddeth or His empire. Telrii's promises would be as empty as the power of his throne.
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And yet, Hrathen would use him. It was logical, and as Hrathen had come to understand, the strength of his faith was in its logic. Telrii might not believe, but his children-raised Derethi-would. One man's meaningless conversion would provide for the salvation of a kingdom. As he walked, Hrathen found his eyes consistently drawn toward the darkened streets of Elantris. He tried to focus his thoughts on Telrii and the impending conquest of Arelon, but another matter tickled at his mind. Grudgingly, Hrathen admitted to himself that he had wanted to walk the wall of Elantris this night for more than one reason. He was worried about the princess. The emotion bothered him, of course, but he didn't deny that he felt it. Sarene had been a wonderful opponent, and he knew how dangerous Elantris could be. He had realized this when he gave the poisoning order, determining the risk to be worth the gain. After waiting three days, however, his resolve was beginning to waver. He needed her to live for more reason than one. So, Hrathen watched the streets, foolishly hoping that he might see her below and console his conscience that she was unharmed. Of course, he hadn't seen anything of the sort: in fact, there didn't seem to be any Elantrians about this evening. Hrathen didn't know if they had just moved to other parts of the city, or if the place had grown so violent that they had destroyed themselves. For the princess's sake, he hoped the second was not true. “You are the gyorn, Hrathen.” a sudden voice said. Hrathen spun, eyes searching for the man who had approached him unseen and unheard. A Seon hovered behind him, glowing vibrantly in the darkness. Hrathen squinted, reading the Aon at its center. Dio. “I am he,” Hrathen said cautiously. “I come on behalf of my master, King Eventeo of Teod,” the Seon said with a melodious voice. “He wishes to speak with you.” Hrathen smiled. He had been wondering how long it would take Eventeo to contact him. “I am anxious to hear what His Majesty has to say.” The Seon pulsed as its light pulled inward, outlining the face of a man with an oval face and a full chin. “Your Majesty,” Hrathen said with a slight nod. “How may I serve you?” “No need for useless civility, Gyorn,” Eventeo said flatly. “You know what I want.” “Your daughter.” The king's head nodded. “I know that some1how you have power over this sickness. What would it take for you to heal Sarene?” “I have no power of myself,” Hrathen said humbly. “It was Lord Jaddeth who performed the healing.” The king paused. “Then, what would it take for your Jaddeth to heal my daughter?” “The Lord might be persuaded if you gave Him some form of encouragement,” Hrathen said. “The faithless receive no miracles. Your Majesty.” King Eventeo slowly bowed his head-he had obviously known what Hrathen would demand. He must love his daughter very much. “It will be as you say, priest,” Eventeo promised. “If
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my daughter returns safely from that city, I will convert to Shu-Dereth. I knew it was coming anyway.” Hrathen smiled broadly. “I will see if I can . . . encourage Lord Jaddeth to return the princess, Your Majesty.” Eventeo nodded. His face was that of a man defeated. The Seon ended the contact and floated away without a word. Hrathen smiled, the final piece of his plan falling into place. Evenreo had made a wise decision. This way, at least, he got to demand something in return for his conversion-even if it was something he would have received anyway. Hrathen looked down at Elantris, more anxious than ever that Sarene return to him unharmed. It was beginning to appear that within the next few months he would be able to hand Wyrn not one heathen nation, but two. CHAPTER 46 THERE had been times when Raoden had wished his father dead. Raoden had seen the people's suffering, and knew his father was to blame. Iadon had proven himself deceitful in his success and merciless in his determination to crush others. He had delighted in watching his nobles squabble while his kingdom collapsed. Arelon would be better off without King Iadon. Yet, when news of his father's demise actually came, Raoden found his emotions traitorously melancholy. His heart wanted to forget the Iadon of the last five years, instead remembering the Iadon of Raoden's childhood. His father had been the most successful merchant in all of Arelon-respected by his countrymen and loved by his son. He had seemed a man of honor and of strength. Part of Raoden would always be that child who saw his father as the greatest of heroes. Two things helped him forget the pain of loss-Sarene and the Aons. When he wasn't with one, he was with the other. New Elantris all but ran itself now; the people found their own projects to keep them busy, and there were rarely arguments that required his attention. So, he came to the library often, drawing Aons while Sarene studied. “There is surprisingly little information here about modern Fjorden,” Sarene said, poking through a tome so large she had nearly needed Raoden's help to carry it. “Maybe you just haven't found the right book yet,” Raoden said as he traced Aon Ehe. She sat at her customary desk, a pile of books next to her chair, and he stood with his back to the wall, practicing a new batch of Aon modifiers. “1Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced. “Everything in here seems to be about the Old Empire; only that book on historical reconstruction even mentions the Fjorden of the last hundred years. I assumed that the Elantrians would have studied other religions with care-if only to know what they were up against.” “As I understand it, the Elantrians didn't really mind competition,” Raoden said. As he spoke his finger slipped slightly, breaking its line. The Aon held for a moment in the air, then faded away, his mistake invalidating the entire construction. He sighed before continuing his explanation. “The Elantrians figured
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they were so obviously superior to anything else that they didn't need to worry about other religions. Most of them didn't even care if they were worshipped or not.” Sarene considered his comment, then looked back at her book, pushing aside the empty plate that had held this afternoon's rations. Raoden didn't tell her that he increased her portion of food-just as he did for every newcomer during their first week. He had learned from experience that gradual reductions in food intake helped a mind adjust to the hunger. He started his drawing again, and a few moments later the library door opened. “Is he still up there?” Raoden asked as Galladon entered. “Kolo,” the Dula replied. “Still screaming at his god.” “You mean 'praying.' - Galladon shrugged, wandering over to take a seat next to Sarene. “You'd think a god would be able to hear him no matter how softly he spoke.” Sarene looked up from her book. “Are you talking about the gyorn?” Raoden nodded. “He's been standing on the wall above the gate since early this morning. Apparently, he's been petitioning his god to heal us.” Sarene started. “Heal us?” “Something like that,” Raoden said. “We can't hear him very well.” “Healing Elantris? That's a switch.” Her eyes were suspicious. Raoden shrugged, continuing his drawing. Galladon selected a book on farming and began searching through it. Over the last few days he had been trying to devise a method of irrigation that would work under their particular circumstances. A few minutes later, when Raoden had nearly completed the Aon and its modifiers, he realized that Sarene had put down her book and was watching him with interested eyes. The scrutiny made him slip again, and the Aon faded away before he even realized what he had done. She was still regarding him as he raised his hand to begin Aon Ehe again. “What?” he finally asked. His fingers instinctively drew the first three strokes-the line across the top, line down the side, and dot in the middle that were the beginning of every Aon. “You've been drawing that same one for the last hour now,” she noted. “I want to get it right.” “But you have-at least a dozen times in a row.” Raoden shrugged. “It helps me think.” “About what?” she asked curiously, apparently bored of the Old Empire for the time being. “Lately, about AonDor itself. I understand most of the theory now, but I still don't seem any closer to discovering what has blocked the Dor. I feel that the Aons have changed, that the old patterns are slightly wrong, but I can't even begin to guess why that would be.” “Maybe something's wrong with the land,” Sarene said offhandedly, leaning back in her chair so the front two legs rose off the ground. “What do you mean?” “Well.” Sarene said speculatively, “you say that the Aons and the land are linked-though even I could have told you that.” “Oh?” Raoden asked, smiling as he drew. “Did your training as a princess include some secret lessons
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in Elantrian magic?” “No,” Sarene said with a dramatic toss of her head. “But it did include training in the Aons. To begin every Aon, you draw a picture of Arelon. I learned that as a little girl.” Raoden froze, his hand pausing in midline. “Say that again.” “Hum?” Sarene asked. “Oh, it's just a silly trick my teacher used to make me pay attention. See? Every Aon starts the same way-with a line at the top to represent the coast, a line down the side that looks like the Atad Mountains, and a dot in the middle to be Lake Alonoe.” Galladon stood, wandering over to look at Raoden's still glowing Aon. “She's right, stile. It does kind of look like Arelon. Didn't your books say anything about that?” “No,” Raoden said with amazement. “Well, they claimed there was a connection between the Aons and Arelon, but they never mentioned that the characters actually represented the land. Perhaps the concept was just too elementary.” Galladon picked up his book, folding something out of its back-a map of Arelon. “Keep drawing, sule. Otherwise that Aon's going to vanish away.” Raoden complied, forcing his finger back into motion. Galladon held up the map and Sarene moved to stand at the Dula's side. They looked through the thin paper at the glowing Aon. “Doloken!” Galladon swore. “Sule, the proportions are exactly the same. They even slant the same way.” Raoden finished the Aon with one last stroke. He joined the other two, regarding the map, then looked over at Sarene. “But, what's wrong, then? The mountains are still there, as is the coast, and the lake.” Sarene shrugged. “Don't look at me. You're the expert-I can't even get the first line right.” Raoden turned back to the Aon. A few seconds later it flashed briefly and disappeared, its potential blocked for some inexplicable reason. If Sarene's hypothesis was right, then the Aons were even more closely linked to Arelon than he had assumed. Whatever 1had stopped AonDor must have affected the land as well. He turned, intending to praise Sarene for the clue. However, his words choked in his mouth. Something was wrong. The dark splotches on the princess's skin were the wrong color: they were a mixture of blues and purple, like bruises. They seemed to fade before his eyes. “Merciful Domi!” he exclaimed. “Galladon, look at her!” The Dula turned with alarm, then his face changed from worried to awed. “What?” the princess demanded, shooting them nervous looks. “What did you do, sule?” Galladon asked. “Nothing!” Raoden insisted, looking at the place where his Aon had been. “Something else must be healing her.” Then he made the connection. Sarene had never been able to draw Aons. She had complained of being cold, and she still insisted that her wounds didn't hurt. Raoden reached out and felt Sarene's face. Her flesh was warm-too warm, even for a new Elantrian whose body hadn't completely cooled yet. He pushed the scarf off her head with trembling fingers, and felt the nearly invisible blond stubble on
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her scalp. “Idos Domi.” he whispered. Then he grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the library. “Spirit, I don't understand,” she protested as they entered the courtyard before Elantris's gate. “You were never an Elantrian, Sarene,” he said. “It was a trick-the same one that gyorn used to appear as if he were an Elantrian. Somehow Hrathen can make it seem that you've been taken by the Shaod when you haven't.” “But-” she objected. “Think, Sarene!” Raoden said, spinning her around to look him in the eyes. The gyorn preached on the wall above them, his loud voice garbled by the distance. “Your wedding to Roial would have put an opponent of Shu-Dereth on the throne. Hrathen had to stop that wedding-and he did it in the most embarrassing way he could contrive. You don't belong here.” He pulled on her arm again, attempting to lead her toward the gates. She resisted, pulling against him with equal strength. “I'm not going.” Raoden turned with surprise. “But you have to go-this is Elantris, Sarene. No one wants to be here.” “I don't care,” she insisted, voice defiantly firm. “I'm going to stay.” “Arelon needs you.” “Arelon will be better off without me. If I hadn't interfered, Iadon would still be alive, and Telrii wouldn't have the throne.” Raoden fell still. He wa1nted her to stay-he longed for her to stay. But he would do whatever it took to get her out of Elantris. The city was death. The gates were opening: the gyorn had recognized his prey. Sarene regarded Raoden with wide eyes, her hand reaching up toward him. The splotches had nearly completely vanished now. She was beautiful. âœou think we can afford to feed you, Princess?âRaoden said, forcing harshness into his voice. âœou assume we will waste food on a woman who is not one of us?â/font> âœhat won't work, Spirit,âSarene shot back. ✠can see the truth in your eyes.â/font> âœhen believe this truth,âRaoden said. âœven with severe rationing, New Elantris only has enough food for a few more weeks. We raise crops, but it will be months before we can harvest them. During that time we will starve. All of us-the men the women and the children. We will starve unless someone on the outside can get us more supplies.â/font> She hesitated, then she was in his arms, pulling close against his chest. âœurse you,âshe hissed. âœomi curse you.â/font> âœrelon does need you, Sarene,âhe whispered back. âœf what you say is right, and a Fjordell sympathizer is on the throne, there may not be much time left for Elantris. You know what the Derethi priests would do to us if they had their way. Things have gone very wrong in Arelon, Sarene, and you are the only one I trust to fix them.â/font> She looked into his eyes. ✠will return.â/font> Men in yellow and brown churned around them, pulling the two apart. They shoved Raoden aside, and he fell back against the slick cobblestones as the figures pulled Sarene away. Raoden was left lying on his back,
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feeling the slime squish beneath him, looking up at a man in bloodred armor. The gyorn stood quietly for a moment, then turned and followed Sarene out of the city. The gates slammed shut behind him. CHAPTER 47 THE gates slammed shut. This time they didn't lock Sarene in Elantris, but out of it. Emotions snapped at her soul like a pack of angry wolves, each one demanding her attention. Five days before, she had though her life ruined. She had wished, prayed, and begged for Domi to heal her. Now she found herself craving to return to her damnation, as long as Spirit was there. Domi, however, had made the decision for her. Spirit was right: She could no more live in Elantris than he could exist outside of the city. The worlds, and the demands of their flesh, were far too different. A hand fell on her shoulder. Shaking off her numbness, Sarene turned. There weren't many men she had to crane her neck to look up at. Hrathen. âœaddeth has preserved you, Princess,âhe said in a lightly accented voice. Sarene shook his arm away. ✠don't know how you did this, priest, but I know one thing with absolute certainty. I owe your god nothing.â/font> âœour father thinks differently, Princess.âHrathen said, his face hard. âœor a man whose religion claims to spread truth, priest, your lies are strikingly vulgar.â/font> Hrathen smiled thinly. âœies? Why don't you go and speak with him? In a way, it could be said that you gave us Teod. Convert the king, and often you convert the kingdom as well.â/font> âœmpossible!âSarene said, growing uncertain. Gyorns were usually far to wily to tell direct falsehoods. âœou fought with wisdom and cleverness, Princess,âHrathen said, taking a slow step forward and extending his gauntleted hand. âœut true wisdom knows when further fighting is pointless. I have Teod, and Arelon will soon be mine as well. Do not be like the stonelark, ever trying to dig a pit in the sand's wet beaches and ever having your work destroyed by the tide. Embrace Shu-Dereth, and let your efforts become more than vanity.â/font> ✠will die first!â/font> âœou already have,âthe gyorn pointed our. âœnd I brought you back.âHe took another step forward, and Sarene shied back, pulling her hands up against her chest. Steel whipped in the sunlight, and suddenly the point of Eondel's sword was at Hrathen's neck. Sarene felt herself enfolded in enormous, powerful arms, a scratchy voice crying out in joy beside her. âœlessed be Domi's name!âKiin praised, lifting her off the ground with his hug. âœlessed be Jaddeth's name.âHrathen said, sword tip still pressed against his flesh. âœomi left this one to rot.â/font> âœay no more, priest.âEondel said, angling his sword threateningly. Hrathen snorted. Then, moving more quickly than Sarene's eyes could track, the gyorn bent backward and pulled his head out of the sword's range. He kicked at the same time, smashing his foot into Eondel's hand and knocking the weapon free. Hrathen spun, crimson cape billowing, bloodred hand plucking the sword from the air.
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Steel reflected sunlight as Hrathen spun the weapon. He snapped its tip against the cobblestones, holding it as a king would his scepter. Then, he let it drop, the hilt falling back into Eondel's stunned hand. The priest stepped forward, passing the confused general. âœime moves like a mountain, Sarene,âHrathen whispered, so close that his breastplate nearly brushed against Kiin's protective arms. âœt comes so slowly that most don't even notice its passing. It will, however, crush those who don't move before it.âWith that he spun, his cape fluttering against both Eondel and Kiin as he marched away. Kiin watched Hrathen go, hatred in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Eondel. âœome, General. Let's take Sarene home to rest.â/font> âœhere is no time for rest, Uncle.âSarene said. ✠need you to gather our allies. We must meet as soon as possible.â/font> Kiin raised an eyebrow. âœhere will be time enough for that later. 'Ene. You're in no condition-” “I've had a fine vacation, Uncle,” she declared, “but there is work to be done. Perhaps when it is finished, I'll be able to escape back to Elantris. For now, we need to worry about stopping Telrii from giving our country to Wyrn. Send messengers to Roial and Ahan. I want to meet with them as soon as possible.” Her uncle's face looked utterly dumbfounded. “Well, she seems all right,” Eondel noted, smiling. The cooks in her father's household had learned one thing: When Sarene wanted to eat, she could eat. “You'd better move faster, Cousin,” Lukel said as she finished her fourth plate. “You looked like you almost had time to taste that one.” Sarene ignored him, motioning for Kiin to bring in the next delicacy. She had been told that if one starved oneself long enough, the stomach would shrink, thereby reducing the amount of food one could ear. The man who had invented that theory would have thrown up his hands in despair if he could have seen Sarene feasting. She sat at the table across from Lukel and Roial. The elderly duke had just arrived, and when he had seen Sarene, she thought for a moment he was going to collapse from the shock. Instead, he had breathed a prayer to Domi, seating himself speechlessly in the chair across from her. “I can honestly say that I have never seen a woman eat this much,” Duke Roial noted appreciatively. There was still a hint of disbelieving wonder in his eyes as he looked at her. “She's a Teoish giantess,” Lukel said. “I don't think it's fair to make comparisons between Sarene and regular women.” “If I weren't so busy eating, I'd respond to that,” Sarene said, waving her fork at them. She hadn't realized exactly how hungry she was until she'd entered Kiin's kitchen, where the lingering scents of past banquets hung in the air like a delectable fog. She was only now appreciating how useful it was to have a world-traveled chef as an uncle. Kiin entered with a pan of semi-boiling meat and vegetables in a red sauce.
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“It's Jindoeese RaiDomo Mai. The name means 'meat with fiery skin.' You're fortunate I had the proper ingredients, the Jindo RaiDel pepper had a poor crop last season, and . . .” He trailed off as Sarene began heaping meat onto her plate. “You don't care, do you?” he asked with a sigh. “I could have boiled it in dishwater, and it would be the same to you.” “I understand, Uncle.” Sarene said. “You suffer for your art.” Kiin sat down, looking at the empty dishes scattered across the table. “Well, you certainly inherited the family appetite.” “She's a big girl,” Lukel said. “It takes a lot of fuel to keep that body going.” Sarene shot him a look between bites. “Is she slowing down at all?” Kiin asked. “I'm running out of supplies.” “Actually,” Sarene said, “I think this should about do it. You don't understand what it was like in th1ere, gentlemen. I did actually enjoy myself, but there wasn't a lot of food to be had.” “I'm surprised there was any at all.” Lukel said. “Elantrians like to eat.” “But they don't actually need to,” Kiin said, “so they can afford to stockpile.” Sarene kept eating, not looking up at her uncle and cousin. Her mind, however, paused. How did they know so much about Elantrians? “Whatever the conditions, Princess.” Roial said, “we thank Domi for your safe return.” “It isn't as miraculous as it seems, Roial,” Sarene said. “Did anyone count how many days Hrathen was in Elantris?” “Four or five,” Lukel said after a moment's thought. “I'd be willing to bet it was five days-exactly the same amount of time it took me to get thrown in and then be 'healed.' “ Roial nodded. “The gyorn had something to do with this. Have you spoken with your father yet?” Sarene felt her stomach turn. “No. I'm ... going to do that soon.” There was a knock at the door, and a few moments later Eondel entered, Shuden in tow. The young undo had been out riding with Torena. As he entered, the baron's face broke into an uncharacteristically wide smile. “We should have known you'd be back, Sarene. If anyone could be sent to hell and return untouched, it would be you.” “Not exactly untouched,” Sarene said raising her hand to feel her bald scalp. “Did you find anything?” “Here, my lady,” Eondel said, holding out a short blond wig. “It was the best I could find-most of the others felt so thick I would have sworn they were made of horse hair.” Sarene looked over the wig with a critical eye-it would barely come down to her shoulders. But, it was better than baldness. In her estimation, her hair was the greatest loss incurred by her exile. It was going to take years to grow it to a decent length again. “Too bad no one gathered up my own hair.” she said, tucking the wig away until she could find time to put it on properly. “We didn't exactly anticipate your return, Cousin,” Lukel said, picking
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at the last few pieces of meat in the pan. “It was probably still attached to your veil when we burned it.” “Burned it?” “Arelish custom, 'Ene,” Kiin explained. “When someone is thrown into Elantris, we burn their possessions.” “Everything?” Sarene asked weakly. “I'm afraid so,” Kiin said with embarrassment. Sarene closed her eyes, exhaling. “Never mind,” she said, regarding them. “Where's Ahan?”1 “At Telrii's palace.” Roial said. Sarene frowned. “What's he doing there?” Kiin shrugged. “We figured we should send someone, at least, to make an overture to the new king. We're going to have to work with him, so we might as well see what kind of cooperation we can expect.” Sarene eyed her companions. Despite their obvious joy at seeing her, she sensed something in their expressions. Defeat. They had worked so hard to keep Telrii off the throne, and they had failed. Inside, Sarene barely acknowledged that she felt many of the same emotions. She felt sick. She couldn't decide what she wanted: everything was so confused. Fortunately, her sense of duty provided guidance. Spirit was correct: Arelon was in serious danger. She didn't want to even contemplate the things Hrathen had said about her father-she only knew that no matter what else happened, she had to protect Arelon. For Elantris's sake. “You speak as if there weren't anything we could do about Telrii's claim of the throne,” Sarene said to the quiet room. “What could we do?” Lukel said. “Telrii's been crowned, and the nobility supports him.” “So does Wyrn.” Sarene reminded. “Sending Ahan is a good idea, but I doubt you'll find any leniency in Telrii's reign-for us, or for the rest of Arelon. My lords, Raoden should have been king, and I am his wife. I feel responsible for his people. They suffered under Iadon. If Telrii turns this kingdom over to Wyrn, then Arelon will become nothing more than another Fjordell province.” “What are you implying, Sarene?” Shuden asked. “That we take action against Telrii-any action we can.” The table fell silent. Finally, Roial spoke. “This is different from what we were doing before, Sarene. We opposed Iadon, but we did not plan to remove him. If we take direct action against Telrii, then we will be traitors to the Crown.” “Traitors to the Crown, but not the people,” Sarene said. “In Teod, we respect the king because he protects us. It is a bargain-a formal agreement. Iadon did nothing to protect Arelon. He built no army to keep Fjorden away, he devised no legal system to insure that his subjects were treated fairly, and he did nothing to care for the spiritual welfare of his nation. My instincts warn me that Telrii will be even worse.” Roial sighed. “I don't know, Sarene. Iadon overthrew the Elantrians to seize his power, and now you suggest that we do the same thing. How much of this can a country stand before it breaks apart?” “How much of Hrathen's string pulling do you think it can stand?” Sarene asked pointedly. The gathered lords looked at each
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other. “Let us sleep on it, Sarene,” Shuden requested. “You speak of difficult matters-ones that should not be entered into without careful meditation.” “Agreed,” Sarene said. She was looking forward to the night's rest herself. For the first time in almost a week, she 1was going to actually be warm as she slept. The lords nodded, rising to go their separate ways. Roial hung back for a moment. “It looks as if there is no reason to continue our betrothal, is there, Sarene?” “I don't think so, my lord. If we take the throne now, it will be through force, not manipulation of politics.” The elderly man nodded wistfully. “Ah, it was far too good to be true anyway, my dear. Goodnight, then.” “Goodnight,” Sarene said, smiling fondly as the aged duke left. Three engagements and no weddings. She was amassing a poor track record indeed. With a sigh, she watched Roial close the door, then turned to Kiin, who was fastidiously clearing away the remains of her meal. “Uncle,” she said. “Telrii has moved into the palace and my things have been burned. I find myself suddenly without lodgings. Might I accept your offer of two months ago and move in here?” Kiin chuckled. “My wife will be seriously annoyed if you don't. 'Ene. She spent the last hour preparing a room for you.” Sarene sat on her new bed, wearing one of her aunt's nightgowns. Her legs were pulled tightly against her chest, and her bowed head was sorrowful. Ashe fuzzed for a moment, her father's face disappearing as the Seon returned to his normal shape. He was silent for a long moment before saying, “I am sorry, my lady.” Sarene nodded, her bald head rubbing against her knees. Hrathen had not been lying-he hadn't even been exaggerating. Her father had converted to Shu-Dereth. The ceremony hadn't been performed yet: there were no Derethi priests in Teod. However, it was apparent that as soon as Hrathen finished with Arelon, he intended to travel to her homeland and personally collect her father's formal oath. The oath would place Eventeo at the bottom of the Derethi hierarchy, forcing him to submit to the whims of even a simple priest. No amount of raving or explaining had changed her father's resolve. Eventeo was an honest man. He had sworn to Hrathen that if Sarene returned safely, he would convert. It didn't matter that the gyorn's trickery was behind both her curse and restoration; the king would honor his promise. Where Eventeo led, Teod would follow. It would take time, of course: the people of Teod were not sheep. However, as the Arteths Hooded her homeland, the people would give ear where they would have given only fists before-all beeause they knew that their king was Derethi. Teod had been changed forever. And he had done it for her. Of course, he claimed that he also knew it was best for the country. No matter how good Teod's navy was, sheer numbers insured that a determined Fjordell campaign would eventually punch through the armada.
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Eventeo claimed he would not fight a hopeless war. Yet, this was the same man who had instructed Sarene that principle was always worth fighting to protect. Eventeo had sworn that truth was immutable, and that no bartle-even a hopeless one-was in vain when defending what was right. But, apparently, his love was stronger than truth. She was flattered, but the emotion made her sick. Teod would fall because of her, becoming just another Fjordell state, its king little more than Wyrn's servant. Eventeo had implied that she should lead Arelon to do as he had done, though she could tell from his voice that he was proud when she refused. She would protect Arelon, and Elantris. She would struggle for the survival of her religion, because Arelon-poor sickly Arelon-was now Shu-Korath's final sanctuary. Where Arelon had once been a nation populated by gods, now it would serve as the final haven for Domi Himself. CHAPTER 48 HRATHEN sat in the palace waiting room with growing dissatisfaction. Around him, the signs of a changing government were already evident. It seemed remarkable that one man could own so many tapestries, rugs, and brocades. The palace sitting room was so draped with cloth plushness that Hrathen had been forced to shove a virtual mountain of pillows out of the way before finding a stone ledge upon which to sear himself. He sat near the stone hearth, jaw clenched as he regarded the assembled nobility. As could be expected, Telrii had quite suddenly become a very busy man. Every nobleman, landholder, and ambitious merchant in the city wanted to pay his “respects” to the new king. Dozens waited in the sitting room, many without firm appointments. They hid their impatience poorly, but not a one was brave enough to voice annoyance at the treatment. Their inconvenience was unimportant. The intolerable factor was Hrathen's inclusion in the group. The rabble of supposed nobility was a pandering, indolent lot. Hrathen, however, was backed by the power of Wyrn's kingdom and Jaddeth's empire-the very power that had given Telrii the wealth he needed to claim the throne. And yet Hrathen was forced to wait. It was maddening, it was discourteous, and it was unbelievable. Yet Hrathen had no choice but to endure it. Backed by Wyrn's power though he was, he had no troops, no might to force Telrii's hand. He could not denounce the man openly-despite his frustration, Hrathen's political instinct was too keen to let him do something like that. He had worked hard to get a potential sympathizer on the throne; only a fool would let his own pride ruin such an opportunity. Hrathen would wait, tolerating disrespect for a short time, to achieve the eventual prize. An attendant entered the room, draped in fine silks-the exaggerated livery of Telrii's personal heralds. The room's occupants perked up, several men standing and straightening their clothing. “Gyorn Hrathen,” the attendant announced. The noblemen wilted, and Hrathen stood and brushed past them with a dismissive step. It was about time. Telrii waited beyond. Hrathen paused just inside the
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door, regarding the chamber with displeasure. The room had once been Iadon's study, and at that time it had been marked by a businessman's efficiency. Everything had been well placed and orderly: the furniture had been comfortable without being lavish. Telrii had changed that. Attendants stood at the sides of the room, and beside them sat carts heaped with exotic foods, purchased from the merchants of the Arelene Market. Telrii reclined in a massive pile of cushions a1nd silks, a pleasant smile on his purple-birthmarked face. Rugs coated the floor, and tapestries overlapped one another on the walls. The men I am forced to work with . . . Hrathen thought with an inward sigh. Iadon, at least, had been businesslike. “Ah, Hrathen,” Telrii said with a smile. “Welcome.” “Your Majesty,” Hrathen said, masking his disgust. “I was hoping we could speak in private.” Telrii sighed. “Very well,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the attendants. They left, pulling the outer doors closed. “Now,” Telrii said, “why have you come? Are you interested in the tariffs on your merchants setting up for the Arelene Market?” Hrathen frowned. “I have more important matters to consider, Your Majesty. As do you. I have come to collect on the promises of our allegiance.” “Promises, Hrathen?” Telrii asked idly. “I made no promises.” And so the game began. “You are to join the Derethi religion.” Hrathen said. “That was the deal.” “I made no such deal, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You offered me funds: I accepted them. You have my gratitude for the support, as I said that you would.” “I will not squabble with you, merchant,” Hrathen said, wondering how much money Telrii would demand to “remember” their agreement. “I am no sycophant to be baited. If you do not do as Jaddeth expects, then I will find someone else. Do not forget what happened to your predecessor.” Telrii snorted. “Don't take credit for something you had no hand in, priest. Iadon's fall was, as I recall, caused by the Teoish princess. You were in Elantris at the time. Now, if Fjorden wishes a Derethi on the throne of Arelon, that can probably be arranged. There will be, however, a price.” Finally, Hrathen thought. He clenched his jaw, feigning anger, and waited a moment. Then he sighed. “Very well. How much-” “However,” Telrii interrupted, “it is not a price you can pay.” Hrathen froze. “Excuse me?” “Yes,” Telrii said. “My price must be paid by someone with a little more ... authority than yourself. You see, I've learned that Derethi priests cannot appoint men to their own position in the Church hierarchy.” Hrathen felt a chill grow within him as he connected the pieces of Telrii's statements. “You can't possibly be serious,” he whispered. “I know more than you assume, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You think me a fool, ignorant of the ways of the East? Kings bow to gyorns. What power will I hold if I let you make me into nothing more than a Derethi slave? No, that will not do for
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