Split (1)

train · 9.05k rows

text stringlengths 1.73k 3.83k
me. I don't plan to bow anytime one of your priests comes to visit. I will convert to your religion, but I will do so only with the promise of an ecclesiastic rank to match my civil one.1 Not just King Telrii, but Gyorn Telrii.” Hrathen shook his head in wonder. How easily this man claimed that he was not “ignorant” of the ways of the East, yet even Fjordell children knew enough doctrine to laugh at such a ridiculous suggestion. “My lord Telrii,” he said with amusement. 'You have no idea-” “I said, Hrathen,” Telrii interrupted, “that there is nothing you can do for me. I have sought to deal with a higher power.” Hrathen's apprehension returned. “What are you saying?” “Wyrn,” Telrii said with a wide smile. “I sent him a messenger several days ago, informing him of my demand. You are no longer necessary, Hrathen. You may withdraw.” Hrathen stood, stunned. The man had sent a letter to Wyrn himself ... Telrii had made demands of the Regent of All Creation? “You are a foolish, foolish man,” Hrathen whispered, finally realizing the severity of his problems. When Wyrn received that message ... “Go!” Telrii repeated pointing toward the door. Slightly dazed, Hrathen did as commanded. CHAPTER 49 AT first Raoden stayed away from the library, because it reminded him of her. Then, he found himself drawn back to it-because it reminded him of her. Instead of thinking about his loss, Raoden focused on the connection Sarene had made. He studied Aon after Aon, noticing other features of the landscape in their forms. Aon Eno, the character for water, included a wiggling line that matched the meanderings of the Aredel River. The character for wood-Aon Dii-included several circles that represented the southern forests. The Aons were maps of the land, each one a slightly different rendering of the same general picture. Each one had the three basic lines-the coast line, the mountain line, and the dot for Lake Alonoe. Many often had a line at the bottom to represent the Kalomo River, which separated Arelon from Duladel. Some of the features completely baffled him, however. Why did Aon Mea, the character for thoughtfulness have an X that crossed somewhere in the middle of the Eon County? Why was Aon Rii specked with two dozen seemingly random dots? The answers might have been held in one of the library's tomes, but so far he had found nothing in the way of explanation. The Dor attacked him at least twice a day now. Each battle seemed like it would be his last, and each time he seemed a little weaker when the fight was through-as if his energy were a finite well, dribbling a little lower with each confrontation. The question was not whether he would fall or not, but whether he would find the secret before he did. Raoden pounded the map with frustration. Five days had passed since Sarene's departure, and he still couldn't find the answer. He was beginning to feel that he would continue for eternity, agonizingly close
to the secret of AonDor yet forever unable to find it. The large map, now hung from the wall near his1 desk, fluttered as he pushed it flat, studying its lines. Its edges were worn with age, and the ink was beginning to fade. The map had lived through Elantris's glory and collapse: how he wished it could speak, whisper to him the mysteries it knew. He shook his head, sitting down in Sarene's chair, his foot knocking over one of her book stacks. With a sigh, he leaned back in the chair and began to draw-seeking solace in the Aons. He had recently moved on to a new, more advanced AonDor technique. The texts explained that Aons were more powerful when drawn with attention not only to line length and slant, but line width as well. While they would still work if the lines were all the same width, variance in the proper locations added extra control and strength. So, Raoden practiced as they instructed, using his fifthfinger to draw small lines and his rhumb to construct larger ones. He could also use tools-such as a stick or a quill-to draw the lines. Fingers were the convention, but form mattered far more than the utensils used. After all, the Elantrians had used AonDor to carve permanent symbols into rock and stone-and had even constructed them from wire, pieces of wood, and a host of other materials. Apparently, it was difficult to create AonDor characters from physical materials, but the Aons still had their same effect, regardless of whether they were drawn in the air or smelted from steel. His practice was futile. It didn't matter how efficient his Aons were; none of them worked. He used his fingernails to draw some lines so delicate that they were nearly invisible; he drew others with three fingers side by side-exactly as instructed in his texts. And it was pointless. All his memorization, all of his work. Why had he even bothered? Feet snapped in the hallway. Mareshe's newest technological advance was shoes with thick leather soles, studded with nails. Raoden watched through his translucent Aon as the door opened and Galladon entered. “Her Seon just stopped by again, sule.” the Dula said. “Is he still here?” Galladon shook his head. “He left almost immediately-he wanted me to tell you that she's finally convinced the lords to rebel against King Telrii.” Sarene had been sending her Seon to give them daily reports of her activities-a service that was a mixed blessing. Raoden knew he should listen to what was happening on the outside, but he longed for the stress-free relative ignorance of before. Then, he had only needed to worry about Elantris; now he had to fret over the entire kingdom-a fact he had to stomach along with the painful knowledge that there was nothing he could do to help. “Did Ashe say when the next supply dump would come?” “Tonight.” “Good,” Raoden said. “Did he say if she would come herself?” “Same stipulations as before, sule,” Galladon said with a shake of his
head. Raoden nodded, keeping the melancholy out of his face. He didn't know what means Sarene was using to deliver the supplies, but for some reason Raoden and the others weren't allowed to retrieve the boxes until after their deliverers had gone. “Stop moping, sule,” Galladon s1aid with a grunt. “It doesn't suit you-it takes a fine sense of pessimism to brood with any sort of respectability.” Raoden couldn't help smiling. “I'm sorry. It just seems that no matter how hard I push against our problems, they just push back equally.” “Still no progress with AonDor?” “No,” Raoden said. “I checked older maps with new ones, looking for changes in the coast or the mountain range, but nothing seems to have changed. I've tried drawing the basic lines with slightly different slants, but that's fruitless. The lines won't appear unless I put them at exactly the right slant-the same slant as always. Even the lake is in the same place, unchanged. I can't see what is different.” “Maybe none of the basic lines have changed, sule,” Galladon said. “Perhaps something needs to be added.” “I considered that-but what? I know of no new rivers or lakes, and there certainly aren't any new mountains in Arelon.” Raoden finished his Aon-Aon Ehe-with a dissatisfied stroke of his thumb. He looked at the Aon's center, the core that represented Arelon and its features. Nothing had changed. Except. When the Reod occurred the land cracked. “The Chasm!” Raoden exclaimed. “The Chasm?” Galladon said skeptically. “That was caused by the Reod, Sule, not the other way around.” “But what if it wasn't?” Raoden said with excitement. 'What if the earthquake came just before the Reod? It caused the crack to the south, and suddenly all of the Aons were invalid-they all needed an extra line to function. All of AonDor, and therefore Elantris, would have fallen immediately.” Raoden focused on the Aon hanging just before him. With a hesitant hand, he swiped his finger across the glowing character in an approximation of where the Chasm stood. Nothing happened-no line appeared. The Aon flashed and disappeared. “I guess that is that, sule,” Galladon said. “No,” Raoden said, starting the Aon again. His fingers whipped and spun. He moved with a speed even he hadn't realized he'd achieved, re-creating the Aon in a matter of seconds. He paused at the end, hand hovering at the bottom, below the three basic lines. He could almost feel ... He stabbed the Aon and slashed his finger through the air. And a small line streaked across the Aon behind it. Then it hit him. The Dor attacked with a roaring surge of power, and this time it hit no wall. It exploded through Raoden like a river. He gasped, basking in its power for just a moment. It burst free like a beast that had been kept trapped in a small space for far too long. It almost seemed ... joyful. Then it was gone, and he stumbled, dropping to his knees. “Sule?” Galladon asked with concern. Raoden shook his head, unable
to explain. His toe still burned, he was still an Elantrian, but the Dor had been freed. He had ... fixed something. The Dor would come against him no more. Then he heard a sound-lik1e that of a burning fire. His Aon, the one he had drawn before him, was glowing brightly. Raoden yelped, gesturing for Galladon to duck as the Aon bent around itself, its lines distorting and twirling in the air until they formed a disk. A thin prick of red light appeared in the disk's center, then expanded, the burning sounds rising to a clamor. The Aon became a twisting vortex of fire; Raoden could feel the heat as he stumbled back. It burst, spitting out a horizontal column of flame through the air just above Galladon's head. The column crashed into a bookshelf immolating the structure in a massive explosion. Books and flaming pages were tossed into the air, slamming into walls and other bookcases. The column of fire disappeared, the heat suddenly gone, and Raoden's skin felt clammy in contrast. A few burning scraps of paper fluttered to the ground. All that was left of the bookcase was a smoldering pile of charcoal. “What was that?” Galladon demanded. “I think I just destroyed the biology section.” Raoden replied with wonder. “Next time, sule, I recommend that you not test your theories with Aon Ehe. Kolo?” Galladon set down a pile of mostly burned books. They had spent the last hour cleaning up the library, making certain they doused any smoldering flame. “Agreed.” Raoden said, too happy to be defensive. “That just happened to be the one I was practicing-it wouldn't have been so dramatic if I hadn't put so many modifiers on it.” Galladon looked back over the library. A dark scar still marked the place of the incinerated bookcase, and several piles of half-charred tomes lay scattered around the room. “Shall we try another?” Raoden asked. Galladon snorted. “As long as no fire is involved.” Raoden nodded, raising his hand to begin Aon Ashe. He finished the character's double box shape and added the Chasm line. He stepped back, waiting anxiously. The Aon began to glow. The light started at the tip of the coast line, then burned through the entire Aon like flames sweeping across a pool of oil. The lines turned red at first, then, like metal in a forge, turned a bright white. The color stabilized, bathing the area in soft luminescence. “It works, sule,” Galladon whispered. “By Doloken-you actually did id” Raoden nodded with excitement. He approached the Aon hesitantly, putting his hand up against it. There was no heat-just as the books had explained. One thing was wrong, however. “It's not as bright as it should be,” he said. “How can you be sure? Galladon asked. “This is the first one you've seen work.” Raoden shook his head. “I've read enough to know. An Aon Ashe this big should be powerful enough to light the entire library-it's barely as bright as a lantern.” He reached up1, tapping the Aon in the
center. The glow faded immediately, the Aon's lines vanishing one at a time, as if some invisible finger were undrawing them. Then he drew another Aon Ashe, this time including all the power-increasing modifiers he knew. When this Aon finally stabilized, it appeared slightly brighter than the first one, but nowhere near as powerful as it should have been. “Something is still wrong,” Raoden said. “That Aon should be too bright for us to look at.” “You think the Chasm line is wrong?” Galladon asked. “No, it was obviously a large part of the problem. AonDor works now, but it's handicapped in power. There must be something else-another line, perhaps, that we need to add.” Galladon glanced down at his arms. Even against the dark-brown Dula skin, it was easy to make out his sickly Elantrian splotches. “Try a healing Aon, sule.” Raoden nodded, tracing Aon Ien in the air. He added a modification stipulating Galladon's body as the target, as well as all three power-increasing marks. He finished with the small Chasm line. The Aon flashed briefly then disappeared. “Do you feel anything?” Raoden asked. The Dula shook his head. Then, raising his arm, he inspected the cut on his elbow-an injury caused just the other day when he slipped in one of the fields. It was unchanged. “The pain is still there, sule,” Galladon said with disappointment. “And my heart does not beat.” “That Aon didn't behave properly.” Raoden said. “It disappeared like before, when we didn't know about the Chasm line. The Dor couldn't find a target for its power.” “Then what good is it, sule?” Galladon's voice was bitter with frustration. “We'll still rot in this city.” Raoden laid a comforting hand on the Dula's shoulder. “It isn't useless, Galladon. We have the power of the Elantrians-some of it might not work, but that might just be because we haven't experimented enough. Think about it! This is the power that gave Elantris its beauty, the power that fed all of Arelon. Don't give up hope when we're so close.” Galladon looked at him, then smiled ruefully. “No one can give up when you're around, sule. You utterly refuse to let a man despair.” As they tried more Aons, it became more apparent that something was still blocking the Dor. They made a stack of papers float, but not an entire book. They turned one of the walls blue, then changed it back, and Raoden managed to convert a smile pile of charcoal into a few grains of corn. The results were encouraging, but many Aons failed completely. Any Aon, for instance, that targeted either of them flashed away ineffectually. Their clothing was a valid target, but their flesh was not: Raoden broke off the tip of his thumbnail and tried to make that float, and was completely unsuccessful. The only theory Raoden could offer was the one he had expressed earlier. “Our bodies are frozen in the middle 1of being changed, Galladon,” he explained, watching a sheet of paper hover in front of him, then burst into flames.
Linked Aons appeared to work. “The Shaod hasn't finished with us-whatever's keeping the Aons from reaching their full potential is also stopping us from becoming true Elantrians. Until our transformation is finished, it appears that no Aons can affect us.” “I still don't understand that first explosion, sule,” Galladon said, practicing Aon Ashe in front of himself. The Dula knew only a few Aons, and his thick-fingered hands had trouble drawing them precisely. Even as he spoke, he made a slight error, and the character faded away. He frowned, then continued his question. “It seemed so powerful. Why hasn't anything else worked that well?” “I'm not sure.” Raoden said. A few moments earlier he had hesitantly redrawn Aon Ehe with the same modifications, creating the complex rune that was supposed to form another column of flame. Instead, the Aon had barely sputtered out enough fire to warm a cup of tea. He suspected that the first explosion had something do with the Does surge through him ... an expression of its long-awaited freedom. “Perhaps there was some sort of buildup in the Dor,” Raoden said. “Like a pocket of gas trapped in the top of a cave. The first Aon I drew drained that reserve.” Galladon shrugged. There was just so much they didn't understand. Raoden sat for a moment, eyes falling on one of his tomes, a thought occurring. He rushed over to his stack of AonDor books, selecting a large volume that contained nothing but page after page of Aon diagrams. Galladon, whom he had left behind midsentence, followed with a grumpy expression, peeking over Raoden's shoulder at the page Raoden chose. The Aon was extensive and complex. Raoden had to take several steps to the side as he drew it, the modifications and stipulations going far beyond the central Aon. His arm ached by the time he had finished, and the construction hung in the air like a wall of glowing lines. Then, it began to gleam, and the sheet of inscripdons twisted, turning and wrapping around Raoden. Galladon yelped in surprise at the suddenly bright light. In a few seconds, the light vanished. Raoden could tell from the startled look on Galladon's face that he had been successful. “Sule .. , you've done it! You've healed yourself!” “I'm afraid not,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “It's only an illusion. Look.” He held up his hands, which were still gray and spotted with black. His face, however, was different. He walked over, regarding his reflection in a polished plaque on the end of a bookshelf. The garbled image showed an unfamiliar face-it was free from spots, true, but it didn't look anything like his real face had before the Shaod had taken him. “An illusion?” Galladon asked. Raoden nodded. “It's based on Aon Shao, but there are so many things mixed in that the base Aon is almost irrelevant.” “But it shouldn't work on you.” Galladon said. “I thought we decided the Aons couldn't target Elantrians.” “It doesn't,” Raoden said, turning. “It target1s my shirt. The
illusion is like an article of clothing-it only covers up my skin; it doesn't change anything.” “Then what good is it?” Raoden smiled. “It is going to get us out of Elantris, my friend.” CHAPTER 50 “WHAT took you so long?” “I couldn't find Spirit, my lady.” Ashe explained, floating into her carriage window. “So I had to deliver the message to Master Galladon. After that, I went to check on King Telrii.” Sarene tapped her cheek with annoyance. “How is he doing, then?” “Galladon or the king, my lady?” “The king.” “His Majesty is quite busy lounging in his palace while half of Arelon's nobility waits outside,” the Seon said with a disapproving tone. “I believe his largest current complaint is that there aren't enough young women left on the palace staff.” “We've exchanged one idiot for another,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “How did that man ever acquire enough wealth to become a duke?” “He didn't, my lady,” Ashe explained. “His brother did most of the work. Telrii inherited upon the man's death.” Sarene sighed, leaning back as the carriage hit a bump. “Is Hrathen there?” “Often, my lady.” Ashe said. “Apparently, he visits the king on a daily basis.” “What are they waiting for?” Sarene asked with frustration. “Why doesn't Telrii just convert?” “No one is certain, my lady.” Sarene frowned. The continued game left her baffled. It was well known that Telrii had attended Derethi meetings, and there was no reason for him to maintain an illusion of Korathi conservatism. “No new news on that proclamation the gyorn has supposedly drafted?” she asked with trepidation. “No, my lady,” came the blessed reply. Rumors claimed that Hrathen had drawn up a bill that would force all of Arelon to convert to Shu-Dereth or face incarceration. Though the merchants put on a face of normalcy, holding the spring Arelene Market, the entire city was on edge with a sense of tense anxiety. Sarene could easily imagine the future. Soon Wyrn would send a fleet of priests into Arelon, followed closely by his warrior monks. Telrii, at first a sympathizer, then a convert, would eventually become less than a pawn. In just a few years Arelon wouldn't be just a country of Derethi believers, but a virtual extension of Fjorden itself. Once Hrathen's bill passed, the priest would waste no time in arresting Sarene and the others. They would be locked away or, more likely, executed. After that, there would be no one to o1ppose Fjorden. The entire civilized world would belong to Wyrn, a final fulfillment of the Old Empire's dream. And yet, despite all of this, her allies debated and talked. None of them believed that Telrii would actually sign a document forcing conversion: such atrocities didn't happen in their world. Arelon was a peaceful kingdom: even the so-called riots of a decade past hadn't been that destructive-unless one was an Elantrian. Her friends wanted to move carefully. Their caution was understandable, laudable even, but their timing was terrible. It was a good thing she had
an opportunity to practice fencing this day. She needed to release a little aggression. As if in response to her thoughts, the carriage pulled to a halt in front of Roial's manor. In the wake of Telrii's move into the palace, the women had relocated their fencing practice to the old duke's gardens. The weather of late had been warm and breezy, as if spring had decided to stay this time, and Duke Roial had welcomed them. Sarene had been surprised when the women insisted that they continue the fencing practice. However, the ladies had shown strength in their resolve. This one meeting would continue, every second day, as it had for over a month now. Apparently, Sarene wasn't the only one who needed an opportunity to work out her frustration with a sword. She climbed out of the carriage, dressed in her usual white jumpsuit and wearing her new wig. As she rounded the building, she could make out the sounds of lyres clashing in the background. With shade and a wooden floor, Roial's garden pavilion was a perfect place for practice. Most of the women had already arrived, and they greeted Sarene with smiles and curtsies. None of them had quite gotten over her sudden return from Elantris: now they regarded her with even more respect, and fear, than they had before. Sarene nodded back with polite affection. She liked these women, even if she could never be one of them. Seeing them, however, reminded her of the strange loss she still felt at having left Elantris behind. It wasn't just Spirit; Elantris was the one place where she could remember feeling unconditional acceptance. She had not been a princess, she had been something far better-a member of a community where every individual was vital. She had felt warmth from those motley-skinned Elantrians, a willingness to accept her into their lives and give her part of themselves. There, in the center of the most cursed city in the world, Spirit had constructed a society that exemplified Korathi teachings. The church taught of the blessings of unity; it was ironic that the only people who practiced such ideals were those who had been damned. Sarene shook her head, snapping her sword forward in a practice thrust, beginning her warm-ups. She had spent her adult life in an unending quest to find acceptance and love. When, at long last, she had finally found both, she had left them behind. She wasn't sure how long she practiced-she fell into her forms easily once the warm-ups were finished. Her thoughts rotated around Elantris, Domi, her feelings, and the indecipherable ironies of life. She was sweating heavily by the time she realized the other women had stopped sparring. Sarene looked up with surprise. Everyone was huddled at one side of the pavilion, chattering among themselves and looking at something Sarene couldn't see. Curious, she edged her way to the side until her superior height gave her a good look at the object of their attention. A man. He was dressed in fine blue and green
silks, a feathered hat on his head. He had the creamy brown skin of a Duladen aristocrat-not as dark as Shuden's, but not as light as Sarene's. His features were round and happy, and he had a foppish, unconcerned air. Duladen indeed. The dark-skinned servant at his side was massive and bulky, like most Dulas of lower birth. She had never seen either man before. “What is going on here?” Sarene demanded. “His name is Kaloo, my lady.” Ashe explained, floating over to her. “He arrived a few moments ago. Apparently, he's one of the few Duladen Republicans that escaped the massacre last year. He has been hiding in southern Arelon until just recently, when he heard that King Iadon was looking for a man to take Baron Edan's holdings.” Sarene frowned something about the man bothered her. The women suddenly burst into laughter at one of his comments, giggling as if the Dula were an old and favored member of the court. By the time the laughter died down, the Dula had noticed Sarene. “Ah,” Kaloo said, bowing ornately. “This must be the Princess Sarene. They say you are the most fair woman in all of Opelon.” “You should not believe all of the things that people say, my lord,” Sarene replied slowly. “No,” he agreed, looking up into her eyes. “Only the ones that are true.” Despite herself, Sarene started to blush. She did not like men who could do that to her. “I'm afraid you have caught us off guard, my lord,” Sarene said through narrowed eyes. “We have been exercising quite vigorously, and are in no position to receive you like proper ladies.” “I apologize for my abrupt arrival, Your Highness,” Kaloo said. Despite the polite words, he appeared unconcerned that he had interrupted an obviously private gathering. “Upon arriving in this glorious city, I first paid my respects to the palace-but was told that I would have to wait for at least a week to see the king himself. I put my name on the lists, then had my coachman drive me around your lovely city. I had heard of the illustrious Duke Roial, and decided to pay him a visit. How surprised I was to find all these lovelies in his gardens!” Sarene snorted, but her rebuttal was interrupted by the arrival of Duke Roial. Apparently, the old man had finally realized that his property had been invaded by a roving Dula. As the duke approached, Kaloo gave another one of his silly bows, sweeping his large, floppy hat out in front of him. Then he launched into praises of the duke, telling Roial how honored he was to meet such a venerable man. “I don't like him,” Sarene declared quietly to Ashe. “Of course not, my lady,” Ashe said. “You never have gotten along very well with Duladen aristocrats.” “It's more than that,” Sarene insisted. “Something about him seems false. He doesn't have an accent.” “Most Republic citizens spoke Aonic quite fluently, especially if they lived near the border. I have met several Dulas in
my time without hint of an accent.” Sarene just frowned. As she watched the man perform, she realized what it was. Kaloo was too stereotypical. He represented everything a Duladen aristocrat was said to be-foolishly haughty, overdressed and overmannered, and completely indifferent when it came to just about everything. This Kaloo was like a cliché that shouldn't exist, a living representation of the idealized Duladen noble. Kaloo finished his introductions and moved on to a dramatic retelling of his arrival story. Roial took it all in with a smile; the duke had done lots of business with Dulas, and apparently knew that the best way to deal with them was to smile and nod occasionally. One of the women handed Kaloo a cup. He smiled his thanks and downed the wine in a single gulp, never breaking his narrative as he immediately brought his hand back into the conversation. Dulas didn't just talk with their mouths, they used their entire bodies as part of the storytelling experience. Silks and feathers fluttered as Kaloo described his surprise at finding King Iadon dead and a new king on the throne. “Perhaps my lord would care to join us,” Sarene said, interrupting Kaloo which was often the only way to enter a conversation with a Dula. Kaloo blinked in surprise. “Join you?” he asked hesitantly, his flow of words stopping for a brief moment. Sarene could sense a break in character as he reoriented himself. She was becoming increasingly certain that this man was not who he claimed. Fortunately, her mind had just alighted on a method to test him. “Of course, my lord,” Sarene said. “Duladen citizens are said to be the finest fencers in all of the land-better, even, than Jaadorians. I am certain the ladies here would be much intrigued to see a true master at work.” “I am very thankful at the offer, Your Gracious Highness,” Kaloo began. “but I am hardly dressed-” “We will make it a quick bout, my lord,” Sarene said, picking up her bag and sliding out her two finest syres-the ones with sharpened points rather than simple balls. She whipped one through the air expertly as she smiled at the Dula. “All right,” the Dula said, tossing aside his hat. “Let us have a bout, then.” Sarene stopped, trying to judge whether he was bluffing. She hadn't intended to actually fight him; otherwise she wouldn't have chosen the dangerous blades. She considered for a moment, and then, with a casual shrug, tossed him one of the weapons. If he was bluffing, then she intended to call him in a very embarrassing-and potentially painful-way. Kaloo pulled off his bright turquoise jacket, revealing the ruffled green shirt underneath; then, surprisingly, he fell into a fencing stance, his hand raised behind him, the tip of his syre raised offensively. “All right,” Sarene said, then attacked. Kaloo jumped backward at the onslaught, twirling around the stunned Duke Roial as he parried Sarene's blows. There were several startled cries from the women as Sarene pushed through them, snapping her blade at
the offending Dula. Soon she emerged into the sunlight, jumping off the wooden dais and landing barefoot in the soft grass. As shocked as they were at the impropriety of the battle, the women made certain not to miss a single blow. Sarene could see them following as she and Kaloo moved out into the flat courtyard at the center of Roial's gardens. The Dula was surprisingly good, but he was no master. He spent too much time parrying her attacks, obviously unable to do much but defend. If he truly was a member of the Duladen aristocracy, then he was one of their poorer fencers. Sarene had met a few citizens who were worse than she, but on average three out of four could defeat her. Kaloo abandoned his air of apathy, concentrating solely on keeping Sarene's syre from slicing him apart. They moved all the way across the courtyard, Kaloo retreating a few steps with each new exchange. He seemed surprised when he stepped onto brick instead of grass, arriving at the fountain centerpiece of Roial's gardens. Sarene advanced more vigorously as Kaloo stumbled up onto the brick deck. She forced him back until his thigh struck the edge of the fountain itself. There was nowhere else for him to go-or so she thought. She watched with surprise as the Dula leapt into the water. With a kick of his leg, he sent a splash in her direction, then leapt out of the fountain to her right. Sarene's syre pierced the water as Kaloo passed through the air beside her. She felt the tip of her blade strike something soft, and the nobleman let out a quiet, almost unnoticeable, yelp of pain. Sarene spun, raising her blade to strike again, but Kaloo was on his knee, his syre stuck point-first into the soft earth. He held up a bright yellow flower to Sarene. “Ah, my lady,” he said in a dramatic voice. “You have found my secret-never have I been able to face a beautiful woman in combat. My heart melts, my knees shake, and my sword refuses to strike.” He bowed his head, proffering the flower. The collected women behind him sighed dreamily. Sarene lowered her sword uncertainly. Where had he gotten the flower? With a sigh, she accepted the gift. They both knew that his excuse was nothing more than a sneaky method of escaping embarrassment-but Sarene had to respect his cleverness. He had not only managed to avoid looking like a fool, but had impressed the women with his courtly sense of romance at the same time. Sarene studied the man closely, searching for a wound. She'd been certain her blade had scratched him on the face as he jumped out of the fountain, but there was no sign of a hit. Uncertain, she looked down at the tip of her syre. There was no blood on it. She must have missed after all. The women clapped at the show, and they began to urge the dandy back toward the pavilion. As he left, Kaloo looked back
at her and smiled-not the silly, foppish smile he had used before, but a more knowing, sly smile. A smile she found strikingly familiar for some reason. He performed another one of his ridiculous bows, then allowed himself to be led away. CHAPTER 51 THE market's tents were a bright burst of color in the ce1nter of the city. Hrathen walked among them, noting the unsold wares and empty streets with dissatisfaction. Many of the merchants were from the East, and they had spent a great deal of money shipping their cargoes to Arelon for the spring market. If they failed to sell their goods, the losses would be a financial blow from which they might never recover. Most of the merchants, displaying dark Fjordell colorings, bowed their heads respectfully at his passing. Hrathen had been away so long-first in Duladel, then in Arelon-that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be treated with proper deference. Even as they bowed their heads, Hrathen could see something in these merchants' eyes. An edginess. They had planned for this market for months, their wares and passage purchased long before King Iadon's death. Even with the upheaval, they had no choice but to try and sell what they could. Hrathen's cloak billowed behind him as he toured the market, his armor clinking comfortably with each step. He displayed a confidence he didn't feel, trying to give the merchants some measure of security. Things were not well, not at all. His hurried call via Seon to Wyrn had come too late: Telrii's message had already arrived. Fortunately, Wyrn had displayed only slight anger at Telrii's presumptuousness. Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never-of course-name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen's subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he'd tossed Hrathen out, the king still resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelish nobility's confused state.Suddenly, they weren't certain if it were better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not-so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed, and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii's decision. It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade, cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert. Yet, despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelish nobility weren't really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough. Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side.
The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke: an incense merchant. Hrathen frowned. He was certain he had seen the distinctive bloodred of a Derethi robe as someone ducked inside the tent. The Arteths were supposed to be in solitary meditation at the moment, not idly shopping. Determined to discover which priest had disobeyed his command. Hrathen strode across the path and entered the tent. It was dark inside, the thick canvas walls blocking out sunlight. A lantern burned at one side of the tent, but the large structure was so piled with boxes, barrels, and bins that Hrathen could see only shadows. He stood for a moment, eyes adjusting. There didn't seem to be anyone inside the tent, not even a merchant. He stepped forward, moving through waves of scents both pungent and enticing. Sweetsands, soaps, and oils all perfumed the air, and the mixture of their many odors left the mind confused. Near the back of the tent, he found the solitary lantern sitting beside a box of ashes, the remnants of burned incense. Hrathen pulled off his gauntlet, then reached to rub the soft powder between his fingers. “The ashes are like the wreckage of your power, are they not, Hrathen?” a voice asked. Hrathen spun, startled by the sound. A shadowed figure stood in the tent behind him, a familiar form in Derethi robes. “What are you doing here?” Hrathen asked, turning from Dilaf and brushing off his hand, then replacing his gauntlet. Dilaf didn't respond. He stood in the darkness, his unseen face unnerving in its stare. “Dilaf?” Hrathen repeated, turning. “I asked you a question.” “You have failed here, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “The fool Telrii is playing with you. You, a gyorn of Shu-Dereth. Men do not make demands of the Fjordell Empire, Hrathen. They should not.” Hrathen felt his face redden. “What know you of such things?” he snapped. “Leave me be, Arteth.” Dilaf didn't move. “You were close, I admit, but your foolishness cost you the victory.” “Bah!” Hrathen said, brushing past the small man in the darkness, walking toward the exit. “My battle is far from over-I still have time left.” “Do you?” Dilaf asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Hrathen saw Dilaf approach the ashes, running his fingers through them. “It has all slipped away, hasn't it. Hrathen? My victory is so sweet in the face of your failure.” Hrathen paused, then laughed, looking back at Dilaf. “Victory? What victory have you achieved? What . ?” Dilaf smiled. In the wan light of the lantern, his face pocketed with shadow, he smiled. The expression, filled with the passion, the ambition, and the zeal that Hrathen had noted on that first day so long ago, was so disturbing that Hrathen's question died on his lips. In the flickering light, the Arteth seemed not a man at all, but a Svrakiss, sent to torment Hrathen. Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen,
throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light. “Dilaf?” Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the Arteth to hear. “What victory?” CHAPTER 52 “OW!” Raoden complained as Galladon stuck the needle into his cheek. “Stop whining.” the Dula ordered, pulling the thread tight. “Karata's much better at this.” Raoden said. He sat before a mirror in1 their rooms at Roial's mansion, his head cocked to the side, watching Galladon sew the sword wound. “Well, wait until we get back to Elantris, then,” the Dula said grumpily, punctuating the remark by sticking Raoden again. “No,” Raoden said with a sigh, “I've waited too long already-I can feel this one ripping a little bit each time I smile. Why couldn't she have hit me on the arm?” “Because we're Elantrians, sule,” Galladon explained. “If a bad thing can happen to us, it will. You're lucky to escape with only this. In fact, you're lucky you were even able to fight at all with that body of yours.” “It wasn't easy,” Raoden said, keeping his head still as the Dula worked. “That's why I had to end it so quickly.” “Well, you fight better than I expected.” “I had Eondel teach me,” Raoden said. “Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father's laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing because he thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I'd end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces.” Galladon snorted in amusement as he stabbed Raoden again, and Raoden gritted his teeth against the pain. The doors were all bolted tightly and the drapes closed, for Raoden had needed to drop his illusionary mask to let Galladon sew. The duke had been kind enough to board them-Roial seemed to be the only one of Raoden's former friends who was intrigued, rather than annoyed, by his Kaloo personality. “All right, sule,” Galladon said, tugging the final stitch. Raoden nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He had almost begun to think that the handsome Duladen face belonged to him. That was dangerous. He had to remember that he was still an Elantrian, with all the weaknesses and pains of his kind, despite the unconcerned personality he had adopted. Galladon still wore his mask. The Aon illusions were good as long as Raoden left them alone. Whether they were drawn in air or in mud, Aons could be destroyed only by another Elantrian. The books claimed that an Aon inscribed in dust would continue to function even if the pattern was scuffed or erased. The illusions were attached to their underclothes, allowing them to change outfits each day without needing to redraw the Aon. Galladon's illusion was that of a nondescript, broad-faced Dula, an image Raoden had found at the back of his book. Raoden's face had been much harder to choose. “How's my personality?” Raoden asked, pulling out the AonDor book to begin re-creating his illusion. “Am I convincing?” Galladon shrugged, taking a seat on
Raoden's bed. “I wouldn't have believed you were a Dula, but they seem to. I don't think you could have made a better choice, anyway. Kolo?” Raoden nodded as he drew. The Arelish nobility were too well known, and Sarene would have immediately seen through any attempt at pretending to be from Teod. Assuming he wanted to speak Aonic, that left only Duladen. It had been obvious from his failed attempts to imitate Galladon's accent that he could never make a 1convincing member of the Duladen underclass; even his pronunciation of a simple word such as “kolo” had sent Galladon into gales of laughter. Fortunately, there were a good number of lesser-known Duladen citizens-men who had been mayors of small towns or members of unimportant councils-who spoke flawless Aonic. Raoden had met many such individuals, and mimicking their personality required only a sense of flamboyance and a nonchalant attitude. Getting the clothing had been a little difficult-requiring Raoden, in another illusion, to go purchase it from the Arelene Market. Since his official arrival, however, he'd been able to get some better-tailored outfits. He thought he played a fairly good Dula, though not everyone was convinced. “I think Sarene's suspicious,” Raoden said, finishing the Aon and watching it spin around him and mold to his face. “She's a bit more skeptical than most.” “True,” Raoden said. He intended to tell her who he was as soon as possible, but she had resisted any attempts by “Kaloo” to get her alone: she'd even refused the letter he'd sent, returning it unopened. Fortunately, things were going better with the rest of the nobility. Since Raoden had left Elantris two days before, entrusting New Elantris to Karata's care, he had managed to wiggle his way into Arelish high society with an ease that surprised even him. The nobles were too busy worrying about Telrii's rule to question Kaloo's background. In fact, they had latched on to him with startling vigor. Apparently, the sense of free-willed silliness he brought to gatherings gave the nobles a chance to laugh and forget the chaos of the last few weeks. So he soon became a necessary guest at any function. Of course, the true test was going to be getting himself into Roial and Sarene's secret meetings. If he was ever going to do any good for Arelon, he needed to be admitted into that special group. They were the ones who were working to determine the fate of the country. Galladon was skeptical about Raoden's chances-of course, Galladon was skeptical about everything. Raoden smiled to himself: he was the one who had actually started the meetings. It seemed ironic that he should now be forced to work to regain admittance. Kaloo's face once again masking his own, Raoden pulled on his green gloves-articles that held the illusion that made his arms seem non-Elantrian- then spun and twirled for Galladon. “And the magnificent Kaloo returns.” “Please, sule, not in private. I come close enough to strangling you in public.” Raoden chuckled. “All, what a life. Loved by all women, envied
by every man.” Galladon snorted, loved by all of the women but one, you mean.” “Well, she did invite me to spar with her any time I wanted.” Raoden said, smiling as he walked over to pull open the drapes. “Even if it was just to get another chance to impale you.” Galladon said. “You should be glad she hit you on the face, where the illusion covered the wound. If she'd stabbed through your clothing, it would have been very difficult to explain why your cut didn't bleed. Kolo?” Raoden slid open the balcony door, walking out to look over Roial's gardens. He sighed as Galladon joined him. “Tell me this. Why is it that every time I meet her, Sarene is determined to hate me?” “Must be love,” Galladon said. Raoden laughed wryly. “Well, at least this time it's Kaloo she hates, rather than the real me. I suppose I can forgive her for that-I've almost gotten to the point where I hate him too.” A knock came at the door, drawing their attention. Galladon looked at him and he nodded. Their costumes and faces were complete. Galladon, playing the part of a servant, walked over and unlocked the door. Roial stood outside. “My lord,” Raoden said, approaching with outreached arms and a broad smile. “I trust your day has been as fine as my own!” “It has, Citizen Kaloo,” Roial said. “May I come in?” “Certainly, certainly,” Raoden said. “It is, after all, your house. We are so unspeakably indebted to your kindness that I know I shall never manage to repay you.” “Nonsense, citizen,” Roial said. “Though, speaking of payments, you will be pleased to know that I made a good trade on those lamp mounts you gave me. I deposited your credit in an account at my bank-it should be enough to see that you live comfortably for several years at least.” “Excellent!” Raoden proclaimed. “We shall immediately seek another place to reside. “No, no.” the old duke said, holding up his hands. “Stay here as long as you wish. I get so few visitors in my old age that even this small house often seems too large.” “Then we shall stay as long as you suffer us!” Raoden declared with characteristically Duladen lack of decorum. It was said that the moment you invited a Dula to stay, you would never get rid of him-or his family. “Tell me, citizen,” Roial said, strolling to the balcony. “Where did you find a dozen lamp mounts made of solid gold?” “Family heirlooms,” Raoden said. “I pried them off our mansion walls even as the people burned it down.” “It must have been horrible,” Roial said, leaning against the balcony rail. “Worse than horrible,” Raoden said with somberness. Then he smiled. “But those times are over now, my lord. I have a new country and new friends! You shall become my family now.” Roial nodded absently, then shot wary eyes back at Galladon. “I see something occupies your mind, Lord Roial,” Raoden said. “Fear not to speak it-good Dendo has
been with me since I was born; he is worthy of any man's trust.” Roial nodded, turning back to look out over his estate. “I do not mention the harsh times in your homeland indiscriminately, citizen. You said they are over now, but I fear for us the terror is just1 beginning.” “Ah, you speak of the problems with the throne,” Raoden said with a click of his tongue. “Yes, citizen,” Roial said. “Telrii is not a strong leader. I fear Arelon will soon fall to Duladel's fate. We have Fjordell wolves nipping at us, smelling blood, but our nobility pretends to see nothing more than favored hounds.” “Oh troubled times,” Raoden said, “Where can I go to find simple peace?” “Sometimes we must make our own peace, citizen.” “What do you mean?” Raoden asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Citizen, I hope I do not injure you when I point out that the others see you as rather frivolous.” Raoden laughed. “I hope they see me that way, my lord. I should hate to think I've been playing the fool for nothing.” Roial smiled. “I sense a wit in you that is not completely masked by your foppishness, citizen. Tell me, how did you manage to escape from Duladen?” “I am afraid that is one secret which must remain untold, my lord,” Raoden said. “There are those who would suffer dearly if their part in my escape became known.” Roial nodded. “I understand. The important part is that you survived when your countrymen did not. Do you know how many refugees came up through the border when the Republic fell?” “I am afraid not, my lord,” Raoden replied. “I was a little busy at the time.” “None,” Roial said. “Not a single one that I know of-yourself excluded. I hear that the republicans were too shocked to even think of escaping.” “My people are slow to act, my lord,” Raoden said with upraised hands. “In this case, our lax manner proved our downfall. The revolution rolled over us while we were still discussing what to have for dinner.” “But you escaped.” “I escaped,” Raoden agreed. “You have already been through what we might have to suffer, and that makes your advice valuable-no matter what the others may think.” “There is a way to escape Duladel's fate, my lord,” Raoden said cautiously. “Though it could be dangerous. It would involve a ... change in leadership.” Roial's eyes narrowed knowingly, and he nodded. Something passed between them-an understanding of the duke's offer and Raoden's willingness. “You speak of dangerous things,” Roial warned. “I have been though a lot, my lord. I would not be averse to a little more danger if it provided me a means of living the rest of my life in peace.” “I cannot guarantee that will happen,” Roial said. “And I cannot guarantee that this balcony won1't suddenly collapse, sending us to our doom. All we can do is count on luck, and our wits, to protect us.” Roial nodded. “You know the house of
the merchant Kiin?” “Yes.” “Meet me there tonight at sunset.” Raoden nodded, and the duke excused himself. As the door shut, Raoden winked at Galladon. “And you thought I couldn't do it.” “I'll never doubt you again,” Galladon said dryly. “The secret was Roial, my friend,” Raoden said, pulling the balcony door shut as he walked back into the room. “He sees through most façades-but, unlike Sarene, his primary question is not 'Why is this man trying to fool me?' but 'How can I make use of what I know?' I gave him hints, and he responded.” Galladon nodded. “Well, you're in. Now what will you do?” “Find a way to put Roial on the throne instead of Telrii,” Raoden said, picking up a cloth and a jar of brown makeup. He smeared some of the makeup on the cloth, then tucked the cloth in his pocket. Galladon raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?” he asked, nodding to the cloth. “Something I hope I won't have to use.” CHAPTER 53 “WHAT is he doing here?” Sarene demanded, standing at the doorway to Kiin's kitchen. The idiot Kaloo sat inside, dressed in a montage of garish reds and oranges. He spoke animatedly with Kiin and Roial, and apparently hadn't noticed her arrival. Lukel closed the door behind her, then glanced toward the Dula with apparem distaste. Her cousin was known as one of the wittiest, most colorful men in Kae. Kaloo's reputation, however, had quickly eclipsed even Lukel's, leaving the young merchant a bitter second. “Roial invited him for some reason,” Lukel muttered. “Has Roial gone mad?” Sarene asked, perhaps more loudly than she should have. “What if that cursed Dula is a spy?” “A spy for whom?” Kaloo asked merrily. “I don't think your pompous king has the political acumen to hire spies-and let me assure you, no matter how much I exasperate you, Princess, I bother Fjordells even more. That gyorn would rather stab himself in the chest than pay me for information.” Sarene flushed with embarrassment, an action that only sent Kaloo into another peal of laughter. “I think, Sarene, you will find Citizen Kaloo's opinions helpful,” Roial said. “This man sees things differently from Arelenes, and he also has a fresh opinion of events in Kae. I seem to remember that you yourself used a similar argument when you first joined us. Do not diseount Kaloo's value because he happens1 to be a little more eccentric than you find comfortable.” Sarene frowned, but allowed herself to be rebuked. The duke's observations held weight; it would be helpful to have a new perspective. For some reason Roial seemed to trust Kaloo. She could sense a mutual respect between them. Grudgingly, she admitted that perhaps the duke had seen something in Kaloo that she hadn't. The Dula had, after all, been staying with Roial for several days. Ahan was late, as usual. Shuden and Eondel spoke quietly at one end of the table, their subdued conversation a stark contrast to Kaloo's vibrant narrative. Kiin had provided appetizers-crackers with some sort
of creamy white glaze atop them. Despite her insistences that he not prepare dinner, Kiin had obviously been unable to let this many people congregate without giving them something to eat. Sarene smiled: she doubted that other treasonous conspiracies enjoyed gourmet snacks. A few moments later, Ahan waddled in, nor bothering to knock. He plopped himself down in his customary seat and proceeded to attack the crackers. “We're all here, then,” Sarene said, speaking sharply to interrupt Kaloo. All heads turned toward her as she stood. “I trust you all have given our predicament much thought. Does anyone want to start?” “I will,” Ahan said. “Maybe Telrii can be persuaded nor to convert to ShuDereth.” Sarene sighed. “I thought we discussed this, Ahan. Telrii isn't debating whether or not to convert; he's waiting to see how much money he can get out of Wyrn.” “If only we had more troops,” Roial said with a shake of his head. “With a proper army, we eould intimidate Telrii. Sarene, what chance is there of getting aid from Teod?” “Not much.” Sarene said, sitting. “Remember, my father swore himself to Shu-Dereth. Besides, Teod has a wonderful navy, but few ground troops. Our country has a small population-we survive by sinking our enemies before they land.” “I hear there are resistance fighters in Duladel,” Shuden suggested. “They harass caravans occasionally.” All eyes turned toward Kaloo, who raised his hands palms forward. “Trust me, my friends, you do not want their help. The men of which you speak are mostly former republicans, like myself. They can duel one another with fine proficiency, but a syre isn't much good against a trained solider, especially if he has five friends beside him. The resistance only survives because the Fjordells are too lazy to chase it out of the swamps.” Shuden frowned. “I thought they were hiding in the caves of the Duladen Steppes.” “There are several pockets of them,” Kaloo said smoothly, though Sarene detected a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Who are you? she thought as the conversation moved forward. “I think we should bring the people into it,” Lukel said. “Telrii has indicated that he intends to maintain the plantation system. If we encourage the common people to our cause, they should be willing to rise against him.” “It could work,” Eondel said. “Lady Sarene's plan to sharecrop my peasants has given them a taste of freedom, and they've grown far1 more self-confident over the last few months. But, it would take a great deal of time-you don't train men to fight overnight.” “Agreed,” Roial said. “Telrii will be Derethi long before we finish, and Hrathen's proclamation will be law.” “I could pretend to be Derethi for a while,” Lukel said. “If only while I'm planning the king's demise.” Sarene shook her head. “If we give Shu-Dereth that kind of foothold in Arelon, we'll never be free of it.” “It's only a religion. Sarene,” Allan said. “I think we should focus on real problems.” “You don't think Shu-Dereth is a 'real problem' Ahan?” Sarene asked. “Why
don't you try and explain that to Jindo and Duladel?” “She's right,” Roial said. “Fjorden embraced Shu-Dereth as a vehicle for domination. If those priests convert Arelon, then Wyrn will rule here no matter who we put on the throne.” “Then raising an army of peasants is out?” Shuden asked, bringing the conversation back on topic. “Too time-consuming,” Roial said. “Besides.” Kaloo noted, “I don't think you want to throw this country into war. I've seen what a bloody revolution can do to a nation-it breaks the people's spirit to fight one another. The men in the Elantris City Guard might be fools, but they are still your countrymen. Their blood would be on your hands.” Sarene looked up at the comment, made without a hint of Kaloo's normal flamboyance. Something about him made her increasingly suspicious. “Then what?” Lukel said with exasperation. “We can't fight Telrii and we can't wait for him to convert. What do we do?” “We could kill him,” Eondel said quietly. “Well?” Sarene asked. She hadn't expected that suggestion to come out quite so early in the meeting. “It has merits,” Kiin agreed, showing a cold dispassion that Sarene had never seen in him before. “Assassinating Telrii would solve a lot of problems.” The room fell quiet. Sarene felt a bitter taste in her mouth as she studied the men. They knew what she knew. She had determined long before the meeting began that this was the only way. “All, one man's death to save a nation,” Kaloo whispered. “It seems the only alternative,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Perhaps,” the Dula said. “Though I wonder if we aren't underestimating the people of Arelon.” “We already discussed this.” Lukel said. “We don't have enough time to rally the peasants.” “Not just the peasants, young Lukel,” Kaloo said, “but the nobility. Have you not sensed their hesitance to back Telrii? Have you not seen the discomfort in their eyes? A king wi1th no support is no king at all.” “And the Guard?” Kiin asked pointedly. “I wonder if we couldn't turn them,” Kaloo said. “Certainly they could be persuaded to see that what they have done is not right.” “You” had become “we.” Sarene's brow furled; she almost had it. There was something familiar about his words.... “It's an interesting suggestion,” Roial said. “The Guard and the nobility support Telrii because they don't see another alternative,” Kaloo explained. “Lord Roial was shamed by the failed wedding, and Lady Sarene was thrown into Elantris. Now, however, the embarrassment has been removed. Perhaps if we can show the Guard the ultimate result of their decision-occupation by Fjorden and a virtual enslavement of our people-they will realize that they supported the wrong man. Give men an honest choice, and I believe they will choose wisely.” That was it. Sarene knew that faith somewhere-that pure belief in the basic goodness of all men. And, when she suddenly realized where she had seen it before, she couldn't stop herself from jumping up and yelping in surprise. Raoden cringed, immediately recognizing
his mistake. He had let go of Kaloo too quickly, allowing too much of his true self to show. The others hadn't noticed the change, but Sarene-dear suspicious Sarene-hadn't been so lax. He looked into her shocked, wide eyes, and knew that she knew. Somehow, despite their short time together, she had recognized him when his best friends could not. Uh-oh, he thought to himself. “Sarene?” Roial asked. “Princess, are you all right?” Sarene looked around sheepishly, standing in front of her chair. She quickly forgot her embarrassment, however, as her eyes fell on the furtive Kaloo. “No, my lord, I don't think so,” she said. “I think we need a break.” “We haven't really been going that long ...” Lukel said. Sarene silenced him with a look, and no one else braved her wrath. “A break it is,” Roial said slowly. “Good,” Kiin said, rising from his seat. “I have some Hraggish mearwraps cooling out back. I'll go get them.” Sarene was so flustered that she barely even considered chastising her uncle for preparing a meal when she had expressly told him not to. She shot Kaloo a telling look, then stalked away from the table, apparently on her way to the privy. She waited in Kiin's study for a moment before the hapless impostor finally strolled around the corner. Sarene grabbed his shirt and all but threw him against the wall as she pressed her face up against his. “Spirit?” she demanded. “What in the name of Gracious Domi are you doing here?” Spirit looked to the side apprehensively. “Not so loudly, Sarene! How do you think those men would react if they discovered they'd been sitting with an Elantrian?” “But ... how?” she asked, her anger turning to excitement as she realized it really was him. She reached up to wiggle his nose, which was far too long to be his real one. She was surprised when her fingers passed through the tip as if it weren't there. “You were right about the Aons, Sarene,” Spirit said quickly. “They're maps of Arelon-all I had to do was add one line, and the entire system started working again.” “One line?” “The Chasm,” Spirit explained. “It caused the Reod. It was enough of a change in the landscape that its presence needs to be reflected in the Aons.” “It works!” Sarene said. Then she released his shirt and gave him a bitter punch to the side. “You've been lying to me!” “Ow!” Spirit complained. “Please, no punching-my body doesn't heal, remember?” Sarene gasped. “That didn't ... ?'. “Change when we fixed AonDor?” Spirit asked. “No, I'm still an Elantrian under this illusion. There's something else wrong with AonDor.” Sarene resisted the urge to punch him again. “Why did you lie to me?” Spirit smiled. “Oh, and you're going to try and tell me it wasn't more fun this way?” “Well . . .” He laughed. “Only you would consider that a valid excuse, my princess. Actually, I never got the chance to tell you. Every time I tried to approach you
these last few days, you ducked away-and you ignored the letter I sent you. I couldn't just jump in front of you and drop my illusion. I actually came to Kiin's last night in the hopes I would see you in the window.” “You did?” Sarene asked with a smile. “Ask Galladon,” Raoden said. “He's back at Roial's right now eating all of the duke's Jaadorian candy. Did you know he had a weakness for sweets?” “The duke or Galladon?” “Both. Look, they're going to wonder what's taking us so long.” “Let them.” Sarene said. “All the other women have been mooning over Kaloo so much, it's about time I fell into line.” Spirit began to chuckle, then he caught the dangerous look in her eyes and let it taper off. “It really was the only way, Sarene. I didn't have much choice-I had to act the part.” “I think you acted it a little too well,” she said. Then she smiled, unable to remain angry. He obviously caught the softening in her eyes, for he untensed. “You have to admit, it was fun at times. I had no idea you were that good of a fencer.” Sarene smiled slyly. “My talents are plentiful, Spirit. And apparently so are yours-I had no idea you were that good of an actor. I hated you!” “It's nice to feel appreciated,” Spirit said, letting his arms wrap around her. Suddenly she was aware of his close proximity. His body was room temperature, and the unnatural coolness was unnerving. However, rather than pulling away, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “So, why did you come? You should be back in New Elantris, preparing your people. Why risk coming out into Kae?” “To find you,” he said. She smiled. That was the right answer. “And,” he continued, “to keep you all from slaughtering each other. This country certainly is a mess, isn't it?” Sarene sighed. “And it's partially my fault.” Spirit reached up to put his hands on her neck, rotating her head so she could see into his eyes. His face was different, but those eyes were the same. Deep and blue. How had she ever mistaken him for anyone else? “You are not allowed to berate yourself, Sarene,” he said. “I get enough of that from Galladon. You've done a wonderful job here-better than I could have even imagined. I assumed that these men would stop meeting after I left.” Sarene paused, shaking herself from the trance of being lost in those eyes. “What was that you just said? After you left ... ?” Voices called from the other room, and Spirit winked at her, his eyes twinkling. “We need to go back in. “But, let's just say I have something else I need to tell you, once the meeting is through and we can speak more privately.” She nodded in a half daze. Spirit was in Kae, and AonDor worked. She walked back into the dining room and sat down at the table, and Spirit entered the room a few moments later.
One chair was still empty, however. “Where's Ahan?” Sarene asked. Kiin frowned. “He left,” he declared in a bitter tone. Lukel laughed, shooting Sarene a smile. “The count claims that something he ate didn't agree with him. He ... stepped out.” “It's impossible,” Kiin grumbled. “There was nothing in those crackers that could have upset his stomach.” “I'm sure it wasn't the crackers, Uncle.” Sarene said with a smile. “It must be something he ate before he came.” Lukel laughed in agreement. “Domi knows, that man eats so much it's a wonder he doesn't end up sick every night by pure laws of probability.” “Well, we should continue without him.” Roial said. “There's no telling how long he will be indisposed.” Agreed,” Sarene said, preparing to begin again. Roial, however, beat her to it. He stood slowly, his old body looking surprisingly weak. The duke sighed, shaking his head. “If you will all forgive me, I have something to say?' The nobles nodded, sensing the duke's solemnity. “I will not lie to you; I never once debated whether or not action should be taken against Telrii. He and I have spent the last ten years as mercantile enemies. He is a flagrant, wasteful man-he will make a worse king, even, than Iadon. His willingness to even consider Hrathen's silly proclamation was the final proof I needed. No, my reason for demanding more time before we met was not to wonder if we should depose Telrii. The reason I asked for more time was to wait for some. . . associates of mine to arrive.” “Associates?” Sarene said. “Assassins,” Roial said. “Men I have hired out of Fjorden. Not all the people of that country are perfectly loyal to their god-some are sworn to gold instead.” “Where are they?” Sarene asked. “Staying in an inn not far away,” Roial said. “But,” Sarene said with confusion, “just last week you warned us against letting bloodshed advance our revolt.” Roial bowed his head. “The guilt was speaking, dear Sarene, for I had already sent for these men. However, I have changed my mind. This young man from Dula-” Roial was interrupted by the sound of feet clomping in the entry hallway: Ahan had returned. Odd, Sarene thought to herself as she turned, I didn't hear the front door close. When she turned, it was not Ahan she found standing in the doorway. Instead, she was confronted by a group of armed soldiers with a well-dressed man at their front. King Telrii. Sarene jumped up, but her yell of surprise was lost among other similar exclamations. Telrii stepped to the side, allowing a dozen men in Elantris City Guard uniforms to fill the room. They were followed by the portly Count Ahan. “Ahan!” Roial said. “What have you done?” “I finally got you, old man,” the count said gleefully, his jowls shaking. “I told you I would. Joke about how my caravans to Svorden are doing now, you cursed old idiot. We'll see how yours do while you spend the next few years in prison.” Roial
shook a mournful, white-haired head. “You fool. Didn't you realize when this stopped being a game? We aren't playing with fruits and silks anymore.” “Protest if you will,” Ahan said with a triumphant shake of his finger. “But you have to admit, I got you! I've been waiting to do this for months-I could never get Iadon to believe me. Can you believe that he actually thought you incapable of betraying him? He claimed your old friendship went too deep.” Roial sighed, regarding Telrii, who was smiling broadly, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Oh, Ahan.” Roial said. “You have always been so fond of acting without thought.” Sarene was stunned. She couldn't move, or even speak. Traitors were supposed to be men with dark eyes and sour dispositions. She couldn't connect that image with Ahan. He was arrogant and impetuous, but she liked him. How could someone she liked do something so horrible? Telrii snapped his fingers, and a soldier stepped forward and rammed his sword directly into Duke Roial's belly. Roial gasped, then crumpled with a moan. “Thus are the judgments of your king,” Telrii said. Ahan yelled, eyes widening in his fat face. “No! You said prison!” He rushed past Telrii, blubbering as he knelt beside Roial. “Did I?” Telrii asked. Then he pointed at two of his soldiers. “You two, gather some men and find those assassins, then .. .” He tapped his thin thoughtfully. .. throw them off the walls of Elantris.” The two men saluted, then marched from the room. “The rest of you,” Telrii said. “kill these traitors. Start with the dear princess. Let it be known that this is the punishment for all those who try to usurp the throne.” “No!” Shuden and Eondel yelled in unison. The soldiers started to move, and Sarene found herself behind a protective wall formed by Shuden, Eondel, and Lukel. Only Eondel was armed, however, and they were faced by ten men. “Interesting you should mention usurpers, Duke Telrii,” a voice said from across the table. “I was under the impression that the throne belonged to Iadon's family.” Sarene followed the sound. Her eyes found Spirit-or, at least, someone wearing Spirit's clothing. He had pale Aonic skin, sandy brown hair, and keen blue eyes. Spirit's eyes. But his face didn't show any signs of Elantris's taint. He tossed a rag on the table, and she could see the brown stains on one side-as if he wanted them to believe he had simply wiped away his makeup to reveal a completely different face underneath. Telrii gasped, stumbling back against the wall. “Prince Raoden!” he choked. “No! You died. They told me you were dead!” Raoden. Sarene felt numb. She stared at the man Spirit, wondering who he was, and if she had ever really known him. Spirit looked at the soldiers. “Would you dare slay the true king of Arelon?” he demanded. The Guard members stepped back, faces confused and frightened. “Men, protect me!” Telrii yelped, turning and scrambling from the room. The soldiers watched their leader flee, then unceremoniously joined
him, leaving the conspirators alone. Spirit-Raoden-hopped over the table, brushing past Lukel. He shoved the still blubbering Ahan out of his way and knelt next to Kiin-the only one who had thought to try treating Roial's wound. Sarene watched dumbly from behind, her senses paralyzed. It was obvious that Kiin's care would be nowhere near enough to save the duke. The sword had passed completely through the man's body, delivering a painful wound that was eertainly mortal. “Raoden!” Duke Roial gasped. “You have returned to us!” “Be still, Roial,” Raoden said, stabbing the air with his finger. Light burst from its tip as he began to draw. “I should have kno1wn it was you,” the duke rambled. “All of that silly talk about trusting the people. Can you believe I actually started to agree with you? I should have sent those assassins to do their work the moment they arrived.” “You are too good a man for that, Roial.” Spirit said, his voice taut with emotion. Roial's eyes focused, perceiving for the first time the Aon that Spirit was drawing above him. He breathed out in awe. “Have you returned the beautiful city as wel I?” Spirit didn't respond, instead concentrating on his Aon. He drew differently from the way he had before, his fingers moving more dexterously and quickly. He finished the Aon with a small line near the bottom. It began to glow warmly, bathing Roial in its light. As Sarene watched, the edges of Roial's wound seemed to pull together slightly. A scratch on Roial's face disappeared, and several of the liver spots on his scalp faded. Then the light fell away, the wound still belching blood with each futile pump of the duke's dying heart. Spirit cursed. “It's too weak.” he said, desperately beginning another Aon. “And I haven't studied the healing modifiers! I don't know how to target just one part of the body.” Roial reached up with a quivering arm and grabbed Spirit's hand. The partially completed Aon faded away as the duke's movement caused Spirit to make a mistake. Spirit did not start again, bowing his head as if weeping. “Do not cry, my boy,” Roial said. “Your return is blessed. You cannot save this tired old body, but you can save the kingdom. I will die in peace, knowing you are here to protect it.” Spirit cupped the old man's face in his hands. “You did a wonderful job with me, Roial,” he whispered, and Sarene felt intensely that she was intruding. “Without you to watch over me, I would have turned out like my father.” “No, boy.” Roial said. “You were more like your mother from the start. Domi bless you.” Sarene turned away then as the duke's death turned gruesome, his body spasming and blood coming to his lips. When she turned back, blinking the tears from her eyes, Raoden was still kneeling over the old man's corpse. Finally he took a deep breath and stood, turning to regard the rest of them with sad-but firm-eyes. Beside her, Sarene felt Shuden. Eondel,
and Lukel fall to their knees, bowing their heads reverently. “My king,” Eondel said, speaking for all of them. “My. . . husband,” Sarene realized with shock. CHAPTER 54 “HE did what?” Hrathen asked with amazement. The priest, startled by Hrathen's sudden reaction, stuttered as he repeated the message. Hrathen cut the man off halfway through. The Duke of Ial Pl1antation, dead? By Telrii's command? What kind of random move was this? Hrathen could tell from the messenger's face that there was more, so he motioned for the man to continue. Soon Hrathen realized that the execution hadn't been random at all-that in fact it had been completely logical. Hrathen couldn't believe Telrii's fortune. Roial was said to be a crafty man; catching the duke in the act of treason had been amazingly propitious. What the messenger related next, however, was even more shocking. The rumors said that Prince Raoden had returned from the grave. Hrathen sat, dumbfounded, behind his desk. A tapestry fluttered on the wall as the messenger closed the door on his way out. Control, he thought. You can deal with this. The rumor of Raoden's return was false, of course, but Hrathen had to admit that it was a masterful stroke. He knew of the prince's saintly reputation; the people regarded Raoden with a level of idolizing adoration that was given only to dead men. If Sarene had somehow found a look-alike, she could call him husband and continue her bid for the throne even now that Roial was dead. She certainly works quickly, Hrathen thought with a respectful smile. Telrii's slaughter of Roial still bothered Hrathen. Murdering the duke without trial or incarceration would make the other nobles even more apprehensive.Hrathen rose. Perhaps it wasn't too late to convince Telrii to at least draft a warrant of execution. It would ease the aristocratic minds if they were able to read such a document. Telrii refused to see him. Hrathen stood in the waiting room again, staring down two of Telrii's guards, arms folded in front of him. The two men watched at the ground sheepishly. Apparently, something had unsettled Telrii so much that he wasn't taking any visitors at all. Hrathen didn't intend to let himself be ignored. Though he could not force his way into the room, he could make himself such a nuisance that Telrii eventually agreed to meet with him. So he had spent the last hour demanding a meeting every five minutes. In fact, the time was approaching for another request. “Soldier,” he commanded. “Ask the king if he will see me.” The soldier sighed-just as he had the last half-dozen times Hrathen had made the demand. However, the soldier opened the door and obeyed, going in to search out his commander. A few moments later, the man returned. Hrathen's query froze in his throat. It wasn't the same man. The “guard” whipped out his sword and attacked the second guard. Sounds of metal against metal exploded from the king's audience chamber, and men began to scream-some in rage, others in agony. Hrathen
cursed-a battle on the one night he had left his armor behind. Gritting his teeth, he spun past the fighting guards and entered the room. The tapestries were in flames, and men struggled desperately in the close confines. Several guards lay dead at the far doorway. Some wore the brown and yellow of the Elantris Guard. The others were in silver and blue-the colors of Count Eondel's legion. Hrathen dodged a few attacks, ducking blades or smashing them out of men's hands. He had to find the king. Telrii was too important to lose. Time froze as Hrathen saw the king through the melee, burning strips of cloth dripping from the brocad1es above. Telrii's eyes were wild with fear as he dashed toward the open door at the back of the room. Eondel's sword found Telrii's neck before the king had taken more than a few steps. Telrii's headless corpse fell at Count Eondel's feet. The count regarded it with grim eyes, then collapsed himself, holding a wound in his side. Hrathen stood quietly in the melee, chaos forgotten for the moment, regarding the two corpses. So much for avoiding a bloody change in power, he thought with resignation. CHAPTER 55 IT seemed unnatural to look at Elantris from the outside. Raoden belonged in the city. It was as if he stood outside of his own body, looking at it from another person's perspective. He should no more be separated from Elantris than his spirit should be separated from his body. He stood with Sarene atop Kiin's fortresslike house in the noonday sun. The merchant, showing both foresight and healthy paranoia following the massacre ten years before, had built his mansion more like a castle than a house. It was a compact square, with straight stone walls and narrow windows, and it even stood atop a hill. The roof had a pattern of stones running along its lip, much like the battlements atop a city wall. It was against one such stone that Raoden leaned now, Sarene pressed close to his side, her arms around his waist as they regarded the city. Soon after Roial's death the night before, Kiln had barred his doors and informed them that he had enough supplies stockpiled to last years. Though Raoden doubted the doors would survive long against a determined attack, he welcomed the feelings of safety Kiin inspired. There was no telling how Telrii would react to Raoden's appearance. Chances were, however, that he would give up all pretense and seek Fjordell aid. The Elantris Guard might have been hesitant to attack Raoden, but Fjordell troops would have no such inhibitions. “I should have figured it out,” Sarene mumbled at Raoden's side. “Hum?” Raoden asked, raising his eyebrows. She was wearing one of Daora's dresses-which was, of course, too short for her, though Raoden rather liked the amount of leg it showed. She wore her short blond wig, which was cut in a style that made her look younger than she was, a schoolgirl instead of a mature woman. Well, Raoden revised, a six-foot-tall
schoolgirl. Sarene raised her head, looking into his eyes. “I can't believe I didn't put it together. I was even suspicious about your-meaning Raoden's-disappearance. I assumed the king had killed you off, or at least exiled you.” “He certainly would have liked to,” Raoden said. “He tried to send me away on numerous occasions, but I usually wiggled out of it somehow.” “It was so obvious!” Sarene said, resting her head on his shoulder with a petulant thud. “The cover-up, the embarrassment ... it makes perfect sense.” “It's easy to see the answers once the puzzle is solved, Sarene,” Raoden said. “I'm not surprised that no one connected my disappearance with Elantris-that isn't the sort of thing an Arelene would assume. People don't talk about Elantris, and they1 certainly don't want to associate it with those they love. They would prefer to believe that I'd died than know that I'd been taken by the Shaod.” “But I'm not an Arelene,” Sarene said. “I don't have the same biases.” “You lived with them,” Raoden said. “You couldn't help being affected by their disposition. Besides, you haven't lived around Elantris-you didn't know how the Shaod worked.” Sarene huffed to herself. “And you let me go along in ignorance. My own husband.” “I gave you a clue,” he protested. “Yes, about five minutes before you revealed yourself.” Raoden chuckled, pulling her close. No matter what else happened, he was glad he had made the decision to leave Elantris. This short time with Sarene was worth it. After a few moments, he realized something. “I'm not, you know.” “Not what?” “Your husband. At least, the relationship is disputable. The betrothal contract said our marriage would be binding if either of us died before the wedding. I didn't die-I went to Elantris. Though they're essentially the same thing, the contract's words were very specific.” Sarene looked up with concern. He laughed quietly. “I'm not trying to get out of it, Sarene.” he said. “I'm just saying we should make it formal, just so everyone's mind is put at ease.” Sarene thought for a moment, then she nodded sharply. 'Definitely. I've been engaged twice during the last two months, and I never got a wedding. A girl deserves a good wedding.” “A queen's wedding,” Raoden agreed. Sarene sighed as she looked back at Kae. The city seemed cold and lifeless, almost unpopulated. The political uncertainty was destroying the economy of Arelon as surely as Iadon's rule had destroyed its spirit. Where there should have been busy commerce, only a few hearty pedestrians slipped furtively through the streets. The only exception was the great city square, which held the tents of the Arelene Market. While some of the merchants had decided to cut their losses-moving on to Teod to sell what they could-a surprising number had stayed. What could have persuaded so many to remain to try and push wares upon a people that just weren't buying? The only other place that showed any sign of activity was the palace. Elantris City Guard members had been poring over the
area like worried insects all morning. Sarene had sent her Seon to investigate, but he had vet to return. “He was such a good man,” Sarene said softly. “Roial?” Raoden asked. “Yes, he was. The duke was the role model I needed when my father proved unworthy.” Sarene chuckled softly. “When Kiin first introduced Roial to me, he said he wasn't sure if the duke helped us because he loved Arelon, or because he was just bored.” “Many people took Roial1's craftiness as a sign of deceitfulness,” Raoden said. They were wrong; Roial was clever, and he enjoyed intrigue, but he was a patriot. He taught me to believe in Arelon, even after its many stumbles.” “He was like a wily old grandfather,” Sarene said. “And he almost became my husband.” “I still can't believe that.” Raoden said. “I loved Roial, but to imagine him married? To you?” Sarene laughed. “I don't think we believed it either. Of course, that doesn't mean we wouldn't have gone through with it.” Raoden sighed, rubbing her shoulder. “If only I had known what capable hands I was leaving Arelon in. It would have saved me a great deal of worry.” “And New Elantris?” Sarene asked. “Is Karata watching it?” “New Elantris watches itself without much trouble,” Raoden said. “But, I did send Galladon back this morning with instructions to begin teaching the people AonDor. If we fail here, I don't want to leave Elantris unable to protect itself.” “There probably isn't much time left.” “Time enough to make sure they learn an Aon or two,” Raoden said. “They deserve to know the secret to their power.” Sarene smiled. “I always knew you would find the answer. Domi doesn't let your kind of dedication go wasted.” Raoden smiled. The night before, she had made him draw several dozen Aons to prove that they actually worked. Of course, they hadn't been enough to save Roial. A rock of guilt burned in Raoden's chest. If he had known the proper modifiers, he might have been able to save Roial. A gut wound took a long time to kill a man; Raoden could have healed each organ separately, then sealed the skin. Instead, he had been able only to draw a general Aon that affected Roial's entire body. The Aon's power, already weak, had been diluted so much by the broad target that it did no good. Raoden had stayed up late memorizing modifiers. AonDor healing was a complex, difficult art, but he was determined to make certain no one else died because of his inability. It would take months of memorizing, but he would learn the modifier for every organ, muscle, and bone. Sarene turned back to her contemplation of the city. She retained a strong grip on Raoden's waist-Sarene did not like heights, especially if she didn't have something to hold on to. Looking over at the top of her head, Raoden suddenly remembered something from the night's studies. Reaching our, he pulled off her wig. It resisted as the glue held, then fell away, revealing the
stubble underneath. Sarene turned with questioning, annoyed eyes, but Raoden was already drawing. It wasn't a complex Aon: it required him only to stipulate a target, how the target was to be affected, and a length of time. When he finished, her hair began to grow. It went lethargically, sliding out of her head like a breath slowly exhaled. In a few minutes, however, it was finished-her long golden hair once again reaching to the middle of her back. Sarene ran disbelieving fingers 1through the hair. Then she looked up at Raoden with teary eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him close. “You have no idea what that means.” After a moment, she pulled hack, staring at him with intent, silvery gray eyes. 'Show yourself to me.” “My face?” Raoden asked. Sarene nodded. “You've seen it before,” he said hesitantly. “I know, but I'm getting too used to this one. I want to see the real you.” The determination in her eyes stopped him from arguing further. With a sigh, he reached up, tapping the collar of his undershirt with his index finger. To him, nothing changed, but he could feel Sarene stiffen as the illusion fell away. He felt suddenly ashamed, and hurriedly began to draw the Aon again, but she stopped him. “It isn't as horrid as you think, Raoden,” she said, running her fingers across his face. “They say your bodies are like corpses, but that isn't true. Your skin may be diseolored and a little wrinkled, but there is still flesh underneath.” Her finger found the cut on his cheek, and she gasped slightly. “I did this, didn't I?” Raoden nodded. “As I said-I had no idea how good of a fencer you are.” Sarene ran her finger down the wound. “It confused me terribly when I couldn't find the wound. Why does the illusion show your expressions, but nor a cut?” “It's complicated,” Raoden said. “You have to link each muscle in the face with its companion in the illusion. I could never have figured it out myself-the equations are all in one of my books.” “But you altered the illusion so quickly last night, changing from Kaloo to Raoden.” He smiled. “That's because I had two illusions on, one connected to my undershirt and the other to my coat. As soon as I dissolved the one on the top, the one underneath showed. I'm just glad it looks enough like me that the others recognized it. There weren't, of course, any equations describing how to create my own face-I had to figure that out on my own.” “You did a good job.” “I extrapolated from my Elantrian face, telling the illusion to use it as a base.” He smiled. “You're a lucky woman, having a man who can change faces at any time. You'll never get bored.” Sarene snorted. “I like this one just fine. This is the face that loved me when it thought I was an Elantrian, all rank and title abandoned.” “You think you can get used to this?” Raoden asked. “Raoden, I
was going to marry Roial last week. He was a dear old man, but he was so incredibly homely that rocks looked handsome when he stood next to them.” Raoden laughed. Despite everything-Telrii. Hrathen, and p1oor Roial's demise-his heart was jubilant. “What are they doing?” Sarene said, looking back at the palace. Raoden turned to follow her view-an action that bumped Sarene forward slightly. She reacted by locking a deathlike grip on Raoden's shoulder, her fingers biting into his flesh. “Don't do that!” “Oops,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I forgot about your fear of heights.” “I am not afraid of heights.” Sarene said, still holding on to his arm. “I just get dizzy.” “Of course,” Raoden said, squinting at the palace. He could barely make out a group of soldiers doing something in the grounds before the building. They were laying out blankets or sheets of some sort. “It's too far,” Sarene said. “Where is Ashe?” Raoden reached up and sketched Aon Nae-a large circular character-in the air before them. When he was finished, the air inside Aon Nae's circle rippled like water, then cleared to show a magnified view of the city. Placing his palm in the center of the circle. Raoden maneuvered the Aon until it was pointing at the palace. The view unblurred itself, and they were able to see the soldiers with such detail that they could read their rank insignias. “That's useful,” Sarene noted as Raoden raised the Aon slightly. The soldiers were indeed laying out sheets-sheets with what appeared to be bodies on them. Raoden grew cold as he moved the disk along the line of corpses. The last two corpses in the row were familiar. Sarene gasped in horror as Eondel's and Telrii's dead faces came into focus. CHAPTER 56 “HE attacked late last night, my lady,” Ashe explained. The remaining members of their group-Kiin, Lukel, and Shuden were gathered atop the house, watching as Raoden focused his Aon spyglass on the funeral pyres being built in the palace courtyard. Baron Shuden sat morosely on the stone roof, shaking his head in disbelief. Sarene held the young Jindo's hand in an attempt to provide comfort, painfully aware of how difficult the last few days must have been for him. His future father-in-law had turned out to be a traitor, Torena had reportedly disappeared, and now his best friend was dead. “He was a brave man.” Kiin said, standing beside Raoden. “That was never in question,” Raoden said. “His actions were foolish nonetheless.” “He did it for honor, Raoden,” Sarene said, looking up from the despondent Shuden. “Telrii murdered a great man last night-Eondel acted to avenge the duke.” Raoden shook his head. “Revenge is always a foolish motivation, Sarene. Now we have lost not only Roial, but Eondel as well. The people are left with their second dead king in the space of a few weeks.” Sarene let the matter drop. Raoden spoke as a ruler, not as a friend. He couldn't afford to give Eondel leeway, even in death, because
of the situation the count had created. The soldiers did not wait on ceremony to immolate the fallen men. They simply lit the pyre, then saluted en masse as the bodies burned away. Whatever else could be said about the Guard, they performed this one duty with solemnity and honor. “There,” Raoden said, pointing his Aon at a detachment of about fifty soldiers who left the pyre and galloped toward Kiin's house. All wore the brown capes that marked them as officers in the Elantris City Guard. “This could be bad,” Kiin said. “Or it could be good,” Raoden said. Kiin shook his head. “We should collapse the entryway. Let them try to break down my door with a ton of stone behind it.” “No,” Raoden said. “Trapping us inside won't do any good. I want to meet with them.” “There are other ways out of the building.” Kiin said. “Still, wait for my command to collapse your entryway, Kiin,” Raoden said. “That is an order.” Kiin ground his teeth for a moment, then nodded. “All right, Raoden, but not because you order it-but because I trust you. My son may call you king, but I accept the rule of no man.” Sarene regarded her uncle with a look of shocked surprise. She had never seen him speak in such a manner he was usually so jovial, like a happy circus bear. Now his face was flat and grim, covered with whiskers he had allowed to start growing the moment Iadon was found dead. Gone was the brusque but compliant chef, and in his place was a man who seemed more like a grizzled admiral from her father's navy. “Thank you, Kiin,” Raoden said. Her uncle nodded. The horsemen approached quickly, fanning out to surround Kiin's hilltop fortress. Noticing Raoden on the roof, one of the soldiers urged his horse a few steps closer. “We have heard rumors that Lord Raoden, crown prince of Arelon, still lives,” the man announced. “If there is truth to this, let him come forward. Our country has need of a king.” Kiin untensed visibly, and Raoden let out a quiet sigh. The Guard officers stood in a row, still mounted, and even from the short distance, Raoden could see their faces. They were harried, confused, yet hopeful. “We have to move quickly, before that gyorn can respond,” Raoden said to his friends. “Send messengers to the nobility-I plan to hold my coronation within the hour.” Raoden strode into the palace throne room. Beside the throne dais stood Sarene and the young-looking patriarch of the Korathi religion. Raoden had only just met the man, but Sarene's description of him had been accurate. Long golden hair, a smile that claimed to know things it didn't, and a self-important air were his most striking features. However, Raoden needed him. The statement made by choosing the patriarch of Shu-Korath to crown him was an important precedent. Sarene smiled encouragingly as Raoden approached. It amazed him how much she had to give, considering what she had been through recently. He joined
her on the dais, then turned to regard the nobility of Arelon. He recognized most of the faces. Many of them had supported him before his exile. Now most were simply confused. His appearance had been sudden, as had Telrii's death. Rumors were widespread that Raoden had been behind the assassination, but most of the people didn't seem to care. Their eyes were dull from the shock, and they were beginning to show the wearied signs of extended stress. It will change now. Raoden promised them silently. No more questioning. No more uncertainly. We will put forth a united front, with Teod and face Fjorden. “My lords and ladies,” Raoden said. “People of Arelon. Our poor kingdom has suffered too much over the last ten years. Let us set it at right once again. With this crown, I promise-” He froze. He felt ... a power. At first, he thought the Dor was attacking. However, he realized this was something else-something he had never experienced before. Something external. Someone else was manipulating the Dor. He searched through the crowd, masking his surprise. His eyes fell on a small red-robed form almost invisible among the noblemen. The power was coming from him. A Derethi priest? Raoden thought incredulously. The man was smiling, and his hair was blond beneath his hood. What? The mood of the congregation changed. Several people fainted immediately, but most simply stared. Dumbfounded. Shocked. Yet somehow unsurprised. They had been beaten down so much, they had expected something horrible to happen. Without checking. Raoden knew that his illusion had fallen. The patriarch gasped, dropping the crown as he stumbled away. Raoden looked back to the crowd, his stomach sick. He had been so close.... A voice came at his side. “Look at him, nobles of Arelon!” Sarene declared. “Look at the man who would have been your king. Look at his dark skin and his Elantrian face! Then, tell me. Does it really matter?” The crowd was quiet. “Ten years you were ruled by a tyrant because you rejected Elantris,” Sarene said. “You were the privileged, the wealthy, but in a way you were the most oppressed, for you could never be secure. Were your titles worth your freedom? “This is the man who loved you when all others sought to steal your pride. I ask you this: Can being an Elantrian make him any worse a king than Iadon or Telrii?' She knelt before him. “I, for one, accept his rule.” Raoden watched the crowd tensely. Then, one at a time, they began to kneel. It began with Shuden and Lukel, who stood near the front of the crowd, but it soon spread to the others. Like a wave, the forms knelt-some in a stupor, others with resignation. Some, however, dared to be happy. Sarene reached down and snatched up the fallen crown. It was a simple thing-no more than a hastily constructed gold band-but it represented so mueh. With Seinalan stunned,1 the princess of Teod took his duty upon herself and, reaching up, placed the crown on Raoden's
head. “Behold, your king!” she exclaimed. Some of the people actually started cheering. One man was not cheering, but hissing. Dilaf looked as if he wanted to claw his way through the crowd and rip Raoden apart with his bare hands. The people, whose cheers increased from a few scattered yells to a general exclamation of approval, kept him back. The priest looked around him with loathing, then forced his way through the crowd and escaped through the doors, out into a darkening city. Sarene ignored the priest, instead looking over at Raoden. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” she said, kissing him lightly. “I can't believe they accepted me,” Raoden said with wonder. “Ten years ago they rejected the Elantrians,” Sarene said, “and found that a man could be a monster no matter what he looked like. They're finally ready to accept a ruler not because he's a god or because he has money, but because they know he will lead them well.” Raoden smiled. “Of course, it helps when that ruler has a wife who can deliver a moving speech at precisely the right moment.” “True.” Raoden turned, looking out over the crowd toward the fleeing Dilaf. “Who was that?” “Just one of Hrathen's priests.” Sarene said dismissively. “I imagine he isn't having a very good day-Dilaf is known for his hatred of Elantrians.” Raoden didn't seem to think her dismissal was justified. “Something's wrong, Sarene. Why did my illusion drop?” “You didn't do that?” Raoden shook his head. “I. . . I think that priest did it.” “What?” “I sensed the Dor the moment before my Aon fell, and it was coming from that priest.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Can I borrow Ashe?” “Of course,” Sarene said, waving the Seon closer. “Ashe, would you deliver a message for me?” Raoden asked. “Of course, my lord,” the Seon said with a bob. “Find Galladon in New Elantris and tell him what just happened,” Raoden said. “Then warn him to be ready for something.” “For what, my lord?” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “Just tell him to be prepared-and tell him that I'm worried.” CHAPTER 57 HRATHEN watched as “Raoden” strode into the throne room. No one challenged the impostor's claim-this man, Raoden or not, would soon be king. Sarene's move was a brilliant stroke. Telrii assassinated, a pretender on the throne ... Hrathen's plans were in serious danger. Hrathen eyed this pretender, feeling an odd surge of hatred as he saw the way that Sarene looked at the man. Hrathen could see the love in her eyes. Could that foolish adoration really be serious? Where had this man come from so suddenly? And how had he managed to capture Sarene, who was normally so discerning? Regardless, she had apparently given her heart to him. Logically, Hrathen knew his jealousy was foolish. Hrathen's own relationship with the girl had been one of antagonism, not of affection. Why should he be jealous of another man? No, Hrathen needed to be levelheaded. Only one month remained until the armies of united Derethi
would wash over Arelon, slaughtering the peopleSarene included. Hrathen had to work quickly if he was going to find a way to convert the kingdom with so little time remaining. Hrathen pulled back as Raoden began the coronation. Many a king ordered his enemies' incarceration as a first royal decree, and Hrathen didn't want his presence to give the impostor a reminder. He was, however, close enough to the front to witness the transformation. Hrathen was confused by the sight: the Shaod was supposed to come suddenly, but not that suddenly. The oddity forced him to reconsider his assumptions. What if Raoden hadn't died? What if he had been hiding in Elantris all along? Hrathen had found a way to feign being an Elantrian. What if this man had done the same? Hrathen was shocked by the transformation, but he was even more shocked when the people of Arelon did nothing about it. Sarene gave her speech, and people just stood dully. They did not stop her from crowning the Elantrian king. Hrathen felt sick. He turned, and by happenstance he saw Dilaf slipping away from the crowd. Hrathen trailed behind-for once, he shared Dilaf's disgust. He was amazed that the people of Arelon could act so illogically. At that moment, Hrathen realized his mistake. Dilaf had been right: If Hrathen had focused more on Elantris, the people would have been too disgusted to grant Raoden kingship. Hrathen had neglected to instill in his followers a true sense of Jaddeth's holy will. He had used popularity to convert, rather than doctrine. The result was a fickle congregation, capable of returning to their old ways as quickly as they had left. It is this cursed deadline! Hrathen thought to himself as he strode down Kae's quickly darkening evening streets. Three months was not enough time to build a stable following. Ahead of him, Dilaf turned down a side street. Hrathen paused. That wasn't the way to the chapel-it was the way to the center of the city. Curiosity overcoming brooding, Hrathen turned to follow the Arteth, staying far enough behind to diffuse the clicking of his armored feet on the cobblestones. He needn't have worried: the Arteth strode through the blackening night with single-minded purpose, not bothering to look back. Dusk had almost passed, and darkness cloaked the market square. Hrathen lost track of Dilaf in the waning light and stopped, looking around at the quiet tents. Suddenly, lights appeared around him. A hundred torches winked into existence from within dozens of different tents. Hrathen frowned, and then his eyes opened wide as men began to pour fro1m the tents, torchlight glistening off bare backs. Hrathen stumbled back in horror. He knew those twisted figures. Arms like knotted tree branches. Skin pulled tight over strange ridges and unspoken symbols. Though the night was quiet, memories howled in Hrathen's ears. The tents and merchants had been a ruse. That was why so many Fjordells had come to the Arelene Market despite the political chaos, and that was why they had stayed when others left.
They weren't merchants at all, but warriors. The invasion of Arelon was to begin a month early. Wyrn had sent the monks of Dakhor. CHAPTER 58 RAODEN awoke to strange sounds. He lay disoriented for a moment in Roial's mansion. The wedding wasn't slated to happen until the following afternoon, and so Raoden had chosen to sleep in Kaloo's rooms back in Roial's mansion instead of staying at Kiin's house, where Sarene had already taken the guest bedroom. The sounds came again-sounds of fighting. Raoden leaped from his bed and threw open the balcony doors, staring out over the gardens and into Kae. Smoke billowed in the night sky, fires blazing throughout the city. Screams were audible, rising from the darkness like the cries of the damned, and metal clanged against metal from someplace nearby. Hurriedly throwing on a jacket. Raoden rushed through the mansion. Turning a corner, he stumbled across a squad of Guardsmen battling for their lives against a group of ... demons. They were bare-chested, and their eyes seemed to burn. They looked like men, but their flesh was ridged and disfigured, as if a carved piece of metal had somehow been inserted beneath the skin. One of Raoden's soldiers scored a hit, but the weapon left barely a mark-scratching where it should have sliced. A dozen soldiers lay dying on the floor, but the five demons looked unharmed. The remaining soldiers fought with terror, their weapons ineffective, their members dying one by one. Raoden stumbled backward in horror. The lead demon jumped at a soldier, dodging the man's thrust with inhuman speed, then impaling him on a wicked-looking sword. Raoden froze. He recognized this demon. Though its body was twisted like the rest, its face was familiar. It was Dilaf, the Fjordell priest. Dilaf smiled, eyeing Raoden. Raoden scrambled for one of the fallen soldiers' weapons, but he was too slow. Dilaf darted across the room, moving like the wind, and brought his fist up into Raoden's stomach. Raoden gasped in pain and dropped to the floor. “Bring him,” the creature ordered. “Make certain you deliver these tonight.” Sarene said, pulling the lid closed on the final box of supplies. The beggar nodded, casting an apprehensive glance toward the wall of Elantris, which stood only a few feet away. “You needn't be so afraid, Hoid.” Sarene said. “You have a new king now. Things are going to change in Arelon.” Hoid shrugged. Despite Telrii's death, the beggar refused to meet with Sarene during the day. Hoid'1s people had spent ten years fearing Iadon and his farms; they weren't used to acting without the enveloping presence of night, no matter how legal their intentions. Sarene would have used someone else to make the delivery, but Hoid and his men already knew how and where to deposit the boxes. Besides, she would rather the populace of Arelon not discover what was in this particular shipment. “These boxes are more heavy than the ones before, my lady,” Hoid noted astutely. There was a reason he had managed to survive a decade
on the streets of Kae without being caught. “What the boxes contain is none of your business,” Sarene replied, handing him a pouch of coins. Hoid nodded, his face hidden in the darkness of his hood. Sarene had never seen his face, but she assumed from his voice that he was an older man. She shivered in the night, eager to get back to Kiin's house. The wedding was set for the next day, and Sarene had a hard time containing her excitement. Despite all the trials, difficulties, and setbacks, there was finally an honorable king on the throne of Arelon. And, after years of waiting, Sarene had finally found someone her heart was as willing to marry as her mind. “Goodnight then, my lady,” Hoid said, following the train of beggars who slowly climbed the stairs of Elantris's wall. Sarene nodded to Ashe. “Go tell them that a shipment is coming, Ashe.” “Yes, my lady.” Ashe said with a bob, and hovered away to follow Hoid's beggars. Pulling her shawl close, Sarene climbed into her carriage and ordered the coachman home. Hopefully, Galladon and Karata would understand why she had sent crates full of swords and bows. Raoden's apprehensive warning earlier in the day had disturbed Sarene immensely. She kept worrying about New Elantris and its bright, accepting people, and so she had finally decided to do something. Sarene sighed as the carriage rolled down the quiet street. The weapons probably wouldn't help much; the people of New Elantris were not soldiers. But it had been something she could do. The carriage pulled to a sudden stop. Sarene frowned, opening her mouth to call out a question to the coachman. Then she paused. Now that the rumbling of the coach had ceased, she could hear something. Something that sounded faintly like ... screams. She smelled the smoke a second later. Sarene pulled back the carriage curtain, poking her head out the window. She found a scene as if from hell itself. The carriage stood at an intersection. Three streets were calm, but the one directly before her blazed red. Fires billowed from homes, and corpses slumped on the cobblestones. Men and women ran screaming through the streets: others simply stood in dazed shock. Among them stalked shirtless warriors, their skin glistening with sweat in the firelight. It was a slaughter. The strange warriors killed with dispassion, cutting down man, woman, and child alike with casual swipes of their swords. Sarene watched for a stunned moment before screaming at the coachman to turn them around. The man shook himself from his stupor, whipping at the horses to turn. Sarene's yell died in her throat as one of the shirtless warriors noticed the carriage. The soldier dashed toward them as the carriage began to turn. Sarene yelled a warning to the coachman too late. The strange warrior leapt, sailing an incredible di1stance to land on the carriage horse's back. The soldier crouched lithely upon the beast's flesh, and for the first time Sarene could see the inhuman twisting of his body, the chilling
fire in his eyes. Another short hop took the soldier to the top of the carriage. The vehicle rocked slightly, and the coachman screamed. Sarene threw open her door and stumbled out. She scrambled across the cobblestones, shoes thrown from her feet in haste. Just up the street, away from the fires, lay Kiin's house. If she could only make it there. The coachman's body slammed into a building beside her, then slumped to the ground. Sarene screamed, lurching back, nearly tripping. To the side, the demonic creature was a dark silhouette in the firelight as he dropped from the carriage top, prowling slowly along the street toward her. Though his motions seemed casual, he moved with a lithe alertness. Sarene could see the unnatural shadows and pockets beneath his skin, as if his skeleton had been twisted and carved. Pushing down another scream, Sarene scrambled away, running up the hill toward her uncle's house. Not fast enough. Catching her would barely be a game for this monster she could hear his footsteps behind. Approaching. Faster and faster. She could see the lights up ahead, but Something grabbed her ankle. Sarene jerked as the creature yanked with incredible strength, twisting her leg and spinning her so she smashed to the ground on her side. Sarene rolled onto her back, gasping at the pain. The twisted figure loomed above her. She could hear it whispering in a foreign tongue. Fjordell. Something dark and massive slammed into the monster, throwing it backward. Two figures struggled in the darkness. The creature howled, but the newcomer bellowed louder. Dazed, Sarene pushed herself up, watching the shadowed forms. An approaching light soon unmasked them. The shirtless warrior was expected. The other was not. “Kiin?”Sarene asked. Her uncle held an enormous axe, large as a man's chest. He smashed it into the creature's back as it wiggled across the stones, reaching for its sword. The creature cursed in pain, though the axe didn't penetrate far. Kiin wrenched the weapon free, then raised it in a mighty swing and brought it down directly into the demon's face. The creature grunted, but did not stop moving. Neither did Kiin. He swung again and again, hacking at the monster's head with repeated swings, howling Teoish battle cries in his scratchy voice. Bones crunched, and finally the creature stopped moving. Something touched her arm, and Sarene yelped. Lukel, kneeling beside her, raised his lantern. “Come on!” he urged, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. They dashed the short distance to Kiin's mansion, her uncle lumbering behind. They pushed through the doors, then stumbled into the kitchen, where a frightened group waited for their return. Daora rushed to her husband as Lukel slammed the door. “Lukel, collapse the entryway,” Kiin ordered. Lukel complied, throwing the lever Sarene had always mistaken for a torch-holder. A second later there was a mighty crash from the entryway, and dust poured through the kitchen door. Sarene plopped into a chair, staring at the quiet room. Shuden was there, and he had managed to find
Torena, who 1sniffled quietly in his arms. Daorn, Kaise, and Adien huddled in a corner with Lukel's wife. Raoden was not there. “What ... what are those things?” Sarene asked, looking up at Lukel. Her cousin shook his head. “I don't know. The attack started just a short time ago, and we were worried that something had happened to you. We were outside waiting-it's a good thing Father spotted your coach down at the bottom of the hill.” Sarene nodded, still a bit numb. Kiin stood with his wife in one arm, looking down at the bloodied axe in his other hand. “I swore I would never take up this cursed weapon again,” he whispered. Daora patted her husband's shoulder. Despite her shock, Sarene realized that she recognized the axe. It used to hang on the kitchen wall, with other mementoes of Kiin's travels. Yet he had held the weapon with obvious skill. The axe wasn't a simple ornament as she had assumed. Looking closely, she could see nicks and scratches on its blade. Etched into the steel was a heraldic Aon-Aon Reo. The character meant “punishment.” “Why would a merchant need to know how to use one of those?” Sarene asked, almost to herself. Kiin shook his head. “A merchant wouldn't.” Sarene knew of only one person who had used Aon Reo, though he was more a myth than a man. “They called him Dreok.” she whispered. “The pirate Crushthroat.” “That was always a mistake,” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “The true name was Dreok Crushedthroat.” “He tried to steal the throne of Teod from my father,” Sarene said, looking up into Kiin's eyes. “No,” Kiin said, turning away. “Dreok wanted what belonged to him. He tried to take back the throne that his younger brother, Eventeo, stole-stole right from under Dreok's nose while he foolishly wasted his life on pleasure trips.” Dialf strode into the chapel, his face bright with satisfaction. One of his monks dropped an unconscious Raoden next to the far wall. “This, my dear Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “is how you deal with heretics.” Appalled, Hrathen turned away from the window. “You are massacring the entire town, Dilaf! What is the point? Where is the glory for Jaddeth in this?” “Do not question me!” Dilaf screamed, his eyes blazing. His raging zeal had finally been released. Hrathen turned away. Of all the titles in the hierarchy of the Derethi Church, only two outranked gyorn: Wyrn, and gragdet-leader of a monastery. The gragdets were usually discounted, for they generally had little to do with the world outside their monasteries. Apparently that had changed. Hrathen ran his eyes over Dilaf 's bare chest, seeing the twisted patterns that had always been hiding beneath the Arteth's robes. Hrathen's stomach turned at the lines and curves that ran like varicose veins beneath the man's skin. It was bone, Hrathen knew-hard1, unyielding bone. Dilaf wasn't just a monk, and he wasn't just a gragdet; he was monk and gragdet of the most infamous monastery in Fjorden. Dakhor. The Order of Bone. The
prayers and incantations used to create Dakhor monks were secret; even the gyorns didn't know them. A few months after a boy was initiated into the Dakhor order, his bones started to grow and twist, adopting strange patterns like those visible beneath Dilaf 's skin. Somehow, each of those patterns gave its bearer abilities, such as heightened speed and strength. Horrible images washed through Hrathen's mind. Images of priests chanting over him: memories of an awesome pain rising within, the pain of his bones reshaping. It had been too much-the darkness, the screams, the torment. Hrathen had left after just a few months to join a different monastery. He had not left behind the nightmares or memories, however. One did not easily forget Dakhor. “So you were a Fjordell all this time?” Hrathen whispered. “You never suspected, did you?” Dilaf asked with a smile. “You should have realized. It is far easier to imitate an Arelene speaking Fjordell than it is for an actual man of Arelon to learn the Holy Language so perfectly.” Hrathen bowed his head. His duty was clear, Dilaf was his superior. He didn't know how long Dilaf had been in Arelon-the Dakhor lived unusually long lives-but it was obvious that Dilaf had been planning Kae's destruction for a very long time. “Oh, Hrathen,” Dilaf said with a laugh. “You never did understand your place, did you? Wyrn didn't send you to convert Arelon.” Hrathen looked up with surprise. He had a letter from Wyrn that said otherwise. “Yes, I know of your orders, Gyorn,” Dilaf said. “Reread that letter sometime. Wyrn didn't send you to Arelon to convert, he sent you to inform the people of their impending destruction. You were a distraction, something for people like Eventeo to focus their attention on while I prepared for the city's invasion. You did your job perfectly.” “Distraction . . . ?” Hrathen asked. “But the people . ..” “Were never to be saved, Hrathen.” Dilaf said. “Wyrn always intended to destroy Arelon. He needs such a victory to insure his grip on the other countries-despite your efforts, our control of Duladel is tenuous. The world needs to know what happens to those who blaspheme against Jaddeth.” “These people don't blaspheme.” Hrathen said, feeling his anger rise. “They don't even know Jaddeth! How can we expect them to be righteous if we don't give them a chance to convert!” Dilaf's hand shot out, slapping Hrathen across the face. Hrathen stumbled back, cheek flaring with pain from the blow-delivered by an unnaturally strong hand, hardened by extra bones. “You forget to whom you speak, Gyorn,” Dilaf snapped. “This people is unholy. Only Arelenes and Teos can become Elantrians. If we destroy them, then we end the heresy of Elantris forever!” Hrathen ignored his throbbing cheek. With growing numbness, he finally realized how deeply Di!af's hatred w1ent. “You will slaughter them all? You would murder an entire nation of people?” “It is the only way to be certain,” Dilaf said, smiling. CHAPTER 59 RAODEN awoke to new pains. The sharpest was
at the back of his head, but there were others-scratches, bruises, and cuts across his entire body. For a moment it was almost too much. Each wound stung sharply, never deadening, never weakening. Fortunately, he had spent weeks dealing with the Dot's all-powerful attacks. Compared to those crushing monuments of agony, the regular pains of his body-no matter how severe-seemed weaker. Ironically, the very force that had nearly destroyed him now allowed him to keep insanity at bay. Though dazed, he could feel himself being picked up and thrown onto something hard-a saddle. He lost track of time as the horse cantered, and he was forced to struggle against the darkness of insensibility. There were voices around him, but they spoke in Fjordell, which he didn't understand. The horse stopped. Raoden opened his eyes with a groan as hands pulled him off the beast and set him on the ground. “Wake up, Elantrian,” said a voice speaking Aonic. Raoden raised his head, blinking confused eyes. It was still night, and he could smell the thick scent of smoke. They were at the base of a hill-Kiin's hill. The blockish house stood only a few yards away, but he could barely make it out. His vision swam, everything blurry. Merciful Domi, he thought, let Sarene be safe. “I know you can hear me, Princess,” Dilaf yelled. “Look who I have here. Let us make a deal.” “No!” Raoden tried to say, but it came out as a croak. The blow to his head had done something to his brain. He could barely keep himself upright, let alone speak. The worst part was, he knew it would never improve. He could not heal-now that the dizziness had come upon him, it would never leave. “You realize that there is no dealing with him,” Kiin said quietly. They watched Dilaf and the staggering Raoden through one of Kiin's slitlike windows. Sarene nodded quietly, feeling chill. Raoden wasn't doing well; he wobbled as he stood, looking disoriented in the firelight. “Merciful Domi. What have they done to him?” “Don't look. 'Ene,” Kiin said, turning away from the window. His enormous axe-the axe of Dreok the Pirate-stood ready in the corner. “I can't look away,” Sarene whispered. “I have to at least speak to him-to say goodbye.” Kiin sighed, then nodded. “All right. Let's go to the roof. At the first sign of bows, however, we're locking ourselves back in.” Sarene nodded solemnly, and the two climbed the steps up onto the roof. She approached the roof's ledge, looking down at Dilaf and Raoden. If she could convince the priest to take her in exchange for Raoden, she would do it. However, she suspected that Dilaf would demand the entire household, and Sarene could never agree to such a thing. Daora and the children huddled in the basement 1under Lukel's care. Sarene would not betray them, no matter whom Dilaf held hostage. She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that her words would probably be the last Raoden ever heard. “Go!” Dilaf ordered. Hrathen stood by, a
dismayed observer, as Sarene fell into Dilaf 's trap. The Dakhor monks sprang forward, jumping from hiding places along the base of the building. They leaped to the walls, their feet seeming to stick as they found tiny footholds between bricks and arrow slits. Several monks, already in place hanging from the back of the rooftop, swung up and cut off Sarene's escape. Hrathen could hear startled yells as Sarene and her companion realized their predicament. It was too late. A few moments later, a Dakhor jumped down from the rooftop, a struggling princess in his arms. “Hrathen, get me your Seon,” Dilaf ordered. Hrathen complied, opening the metal box and letting the ball of light float free. Hrathen hadn't bothered asking how the monk knew about the Seon. The Dakhor were Wyrn's favored warriors: their leader would be privy to many of his secrets. “Seon, I wish to speak with King Eventeo,” Dilaf said. The Seon complied. Soon its light molded into the head of an overweight man with a proud face. “I do not know you,” Eventeo said. “Who calls for me in the middle of the night?” “I am the man who has your daughter, King,” Dilaf said, prodding Sarene in the side. The princess yelped despite herself. Eventeo's head turned, as if searching out the source of the sound, though he would only be able to see Dilaf 's face. “Who are you?” “I am Dilaf. Gragdet of the Dakhor Monastery.” “Merciful Domi . . .” Eventeo whispered. Dilaf's eyes thinned, and he smiled evilly. “I thought you had converted, Eventeo. No matter. Wake your soldiers and gather them on their ships. I will arrive in Teod one hour from now, and if they are not ready to present a formal surrender, I will kill the girl.” “Father no!” Sarene yelled. “He can't be trusted!” “Sarene?” Eventeo asked anxiously. “One hour, Eventeo,” Dilaf said. Then he swiped his hand in the air dismissively. The king's confused face melted back into the smooth spherical shape of a Seon. “You will kill the Teos as well,” Hrathen said in Fjordell. “No,” Dilaf said. “Others will perform those executions. I will just kill their king, then burn Teod's ships with the sailors still on them. Once the armada is gone, Wyrn can land his armies on Teod's shore and use the country as a battleground to prove his might.” “It is unnecessary you know,” Hrathen said, feeling sick. “I had him-Eventeo was mine.” “He might have converted, Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “but you are simpleminded if you think he would have allowed our troops to land on his soil.” “You are a monster,” Hrathen whispered. “You will slaughter two kingdoms to feed your paranoia. What happened to make you hate Elantris so much?” “Enough!” Dilaf shouted. “Do not think I won't hesitate to kill you, Gyorn. The Dakhor are outside the law!” The monk stared at Hrathen with menacing eyes, then slowly calmed, breathing deeply as he noticed his captives again. The still disoriented Raoden was stumbling toward his wife, who was
being held by a quiet Dakhor. The prince reached out to her, his arm wavering. “Oh,” Dilaf said, unsheathing his sword. “I forgot about you.” He smiled wickedly as he rammed the blade through Raoden's stomach. The pain washed over Raoden like a sudden wave of light. He hadn't even seen the thrust coming. He felt it, however. Groaning, he stumbled to his knees. The agony was unimaginable, even for one whose pain had been building steadily for two months. He held his stomach with trembling hands. He could feel the Dor. It felt . . . close. It was too much. The woman he loved was in danger, and he could do nothing. The pain, the Dor, his failure ... The soul that was Raoden crumpled beneath their combined weight, giving a final sigh of resignation. After that there was no longer pain, for there was no Ionger self. There was nothing. Sarene screamed as Raoden fell to the ground. She could see the suffering in his face, and she felt the sword as if it had been run through her own stomach. She shuddered, weeping as Raoden struggled for a moment, his legs working. Then he just ... stopped. “Failed . .” Raoden whispered, his lips forming a Hoed mantra. “Failed my love. Failed....” “Bring her,” Dilaf said. The words, spoken in Fjordell, barely registered in Sarene's mind. “And the others?” a monk asked. “Gather them with the rest of the people in this accused town and take them into Elantris,” Dilaf said. “You will find the Elantrians near the center of the city, in a place that seems more cleanly.” “We found them, my gragdet.” the monk said. “Our men have already attacked.” “Ah, good,” Dilaf said with a hiss of pleasure. “Make certain you gather their bodies-Elantrians do not die as easily as normal men, and we do not want to let any of them escape.” “Yes, my gragdet.” “When you have them all in one place, bodies, Elantrians, and future Elantrians, say the purification rites. Then burn them all.” “Yes, my gragdet.” the warrior said, bowing his head. “Come, Hrathen.” Dilaf said. “You will accompany me to Teod.” Sarene fell into a disbelieving stupor as they pulled her away, watching Raoden until his slumped form was no1 longer visible in the night. CHAPTER 60 GALLADON hid in the shadows, careful not to move until the gyorn and his strange, bare-chested companions were gone. Then, motioning to Karata, he crept up to Raoden's body. “Sule?” Raoden did not move. “Doloken, Sule!” Galladon said, choked with emotion. “Don't do this to me!” A noise came from Raoden's mouth, and Galladon leaned in eagerly, listening. “Failed . . .” Raoden whispered. “Failed my love . . .” The mantra of the fallen: Raoden had joined the Hoed. Galladon sank down on the hard cobblestones, his body shaking as he wept tearlessly. The last hour had been a horror. Galladon and Karata had been at the library, planning how to lead the people away from Elantris. They had heard the screams
even at that distance, but by the time they had arrived at New Elantris, no one but Hoed remained. As far as he knew, he and Karata were the last two conscious Elantrians. Karata placed a hand on his shoulder. “Galladon, we should go. This place is not safe.” “No,” Galladon said, climbing to his feet. “I have a promise to keep.” He looked up at the mountain slope just outside of Kae, a slope that held a special pool of water. Then, reaching down, he tied his jacket around Raoden to cover the wound, and hefted his friend up onto his shoulder. “Raoden made me vow to give him peace,” Galladon said. “After I see to him, intend to do the same for myself. We are the last, Karata: there is no more room for us in this world.” The woman nodded, moving to take part of Raoden's burden on herself. Together, the two of them began the hike that would end in oblivion. Lukel didn't struggle: there was little use in it. His father, however, was a different story. It took three Fjordells to bind Kiin and throw him on a horse-and even then, the large man managed to get off the odd kick at a passing head. Eventually, one of the soldiers thought to smash him on the back of the skull with a rock, and Kiin fell still. Lukel held his mother and wife close as the warriors herded them toward Elantris. There was a long line of people-nobles gathered from the eorners of Kae, their clothing and faces ragged. Soldiers kept a watchful eye on the captives-as if any of them had the courage or will left to try escaping. Most of the people didn't even look up as they were pushed through the streets. Kaise and Daorn clung to Lukel, wide-eyed and frightened. Lukel pitied them the most, for their youth. Adien walked along behind him, apparently unconcerned. He slowly counted the steps as he moved. “Three hundred fifty-seven, three hundred fifty-eight, three hundred fifty-nine . . .” Lukel knew that they were marching to their own execution. He saw the bodies that lined the streets, and he understood that these men were not intent on domination. They were here to commit a massacre, and no massacre would be complete with victims left alive. He considered fighting back, grabbing a sword in some hopeless feat of heroism. But in the end, he simpl1y plodded along with the others. He knew that he was going to die, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was no warrior. The best he could hope for was a quick end. Hrathen stood next to Dilaf, remaining perfectly still as instructed. They stood in a circle-fifty Dakhor, Sarene, and Hrathen, with one solitary monk in the center. The Dakhor raised their hands, and the men on either side of Hrathen placed a hand on his shoulder. His heart began to pound as the monks began to glow, the bone inscriptions beneath their skin shining. There
was a jarring sensation, and Kae vanished around them. They reappeared in an unfamiliar city. The houses lining the nearby street were tall and connected, rather than separated and squat like those of Kae. They had arrived in Teod. The group still stood in a circle, but Hrathen did not fail to notice that the man in the center was now missing. Hrathen shuddered, images from his youth returning. The monk in the center had been fuel, his flesh and soul burned away-a sacrifice in return for the instantaneous transportation to Teod. Dilaf stepped forward, leading his men up the street. As far as Hrathen could tell, Dilaf had brought the bulk of his monks with him, leaving Arelon in the care of regular Fjordell soldiers and a few Dakhor overseers. Arelon and Elantris had been defeated: the next battle was Teod. Hrathen could tell from Dilaf's eyes that the monk would not be satisfied until every person of Aonic descent was dead. Dilaf chose a building with a flat roof and motioned for his men to climb. It was easy for them, their enhanced strength and agility helping them leap and scramble up surfaces no normal man could possibly scale. Hrathen felt himself lifted and thrown over a monk's shoulder, and the ground fell away as he was carted up the side of the wall-carried without difficulty despite his plate armor. The Dakhor were unnatural monstrosities, but one couldn't help being awed at their power. The monk dropped Hrathen unceremoniously on the roof, his armor clanking against the stone. As Hrathen pulled himself to his feet, his eyes found those of the princess. Sarene's face was a tempest of hatred. She blamed him, of course. She didn't realize that, in a way, Hrathen was as much a prisoner as she. Dilaf stood at the edge of the roof, scanning the city. A fleet of ships was pulling into Teod's enormous bay. “We are early.” Dilaf said, squatting down. “We will wait.” Galladon could almost imagine that the city was peaceful. He stood on a mountainside boulder, watching the morning's light creep across Kae-as if an invisible hand were pulling back a dark shade. He could almost convince himself that the rising smoke was coming from chimneys, not the ashen wrecks of buildings. He could nearly believe that the specks lining the streets were not bodies, but bushes or boxes, the crimson blood on the streets a trick of the early sunlight. Galladon turned away from the city. Kae might he peaceful, but it was the peace of death, not of serenity. Dreaming otherwise did little good. Perhaps if he had been less inclined to delusion, he wouldn't have let Raoden pull him out of Elantris's gutters. He wouldn't have allowed one man's simplistic optimism to cloud his mind: he wouldn't have begun to believe that life in Elantris could be anything but1 pain. He wouldn't have dared to hope. Unfortunately, he had listened. Like a rulo, he had allowed himself to give in to Raoden's dreams. Once, he'd thought that he
could no longer feel hope; he'd chased it far away, wary of its fickle tricks. He should have left it there. Without hope, he wouldn't have to worry about disappointment. “Doloken, sule,” Galladon mumbled, looking down at the mindless Raoden, “you certainly made a mess of me.” The worst of it was, he still hoped. The light that Raoden had kindled still flickered inside Galladon's chest, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it out. The images of New Elantris's destruction were still crisp in his memory. Mareshe, an enormous, ragged hole torn in his chest. The quiet craftsman Taan, his face crushed beneath a large stone, but his fingers still twitching. The old Kahar-who had cleaned all of New Elantris practically by himself-missing an arm and both legs. Galladon had stood amid the carnage, screaming at Raoden for abandoning them, for leaving them behind. Their prince had betrayed them for Sarene. And still, he hoped. It was like a small rodent, cowering in the corner of his soul, frightened by the anger, the rage, and the despair. Yet every time he tried to grab hold of it, the hope slipped to another part of his heart. It was what had spurred him to leave the dead behind, to crawl from Elantris in search of Raoden, believing for some irrational reason that the prince could still fix everything. You are the fog Galladon. Not Raoden, Galladon told himself bitterly. He couldn't help being what he was. You, however, know better. Yet, he hoped. A part of Galladon still believed that Raoden would somehow make things better. This was the curse his friend had set upon him, the wicked seed of optimism that refused to be uprooted. Galladon still had hope, and he probably would until the moment he gave himself up to the pool. Silently, Galladon nodded to Karata, and they picked Raoden up, ready to trek the last short distance to the pond. In few minutes he would be rid of both hope and despair. Elantris was dark, even though dawn was breaking. The tall walls made a shadow, keeping the sunlight out, expanding the night for a few moments. It was here, at one side of the broad entry plaza, that the soldiers deposited Lukel and the other nobles. Another group of Fjordells was building an enormous pile of wood, hauling scraps of buildings and furniture into the city. Surprisingly, there were very few of the strange demon warriors: only three directed the work. The rest of the men were regular soldiers, their armor covered with red surcoats marking them as Derethi monks. The worked quickly, keeping their eyes off of their prisoners, apparently trying not to think too hard about what the wood would be used for. Lukel tried not to think about that either. Jalla pulled close to him, her body trembling with fright. Lukel had tried to convince her to plead for freedom because of her Svordish blood, but she would not go. She was so quiet and unassertive that some mistook her for weak, but
if they could have seen her as she was, voluntarily staying with her husband though it meant eertain death, they would have realized their mistake. Of all the deals, trades, and recognitions Lukel had won, the prize of Jalla's heart was by far the most valuable. His family pulled close to him, Daora and the children having no place to turn now that Kiin was unconscious. Only Adien stood apart, staring at the pile of lumber. He kept mumbling some number to himself. Lukel searched through the crowd of nobles, trying to smile and give encouragement, though he himself felt little confidence. Elantris would be their grave. As he looked. Lukel noticed a figure standing near the back of the group, hidden by bodies. He was moving slowly, his hands waving in front of himself. Shuden? Lukel thought. The Jindo's eyes were closed, his hands moving fluidly in some sort of pattern. Lukel watched his friend with confusion, wondering if the Jindo's mind had snapped: then he remembered the strange dance that Shuden had done that first day in Sarenens fencing class. ChayShan. Shuden moved his hands slowly, giving only a bare hint of the fury that was to come. Lukel watched with growing determination, somehow understanding. Shuden was no warrior. He practiced his dance for exercise, not for combat. However, he was not going to let the ones he loved be murdered without some sort of fight. He would rather die struggling than sit and wait, hoping that fate would send them a miracle. Lukel took a breath, feeling ashamed. He searched around him, his eyes finding a table leg that one of the soldiers had dropped nearby. When the time came, Shuden would not fight alone. Raoden floated, senseless and unaware. Time meant nothing to him-he was time. It was his essence. Occasionally he would bob toward the surface of what he had once called consciousness, but as he approached he would feel pain, and back away. The agony was like a lake's surface: if he broke through it, the pain would return and envelop him. Those times he got close to the surface of pain, however, he thought he saw images. Visions chat might have been real, but were probably just reflections of his memory. He saw Galladon's face, concerned and angry at the same time. He saw Karata, her eyes heavy with despair. He saw a mountain landscape, covered with scrub and rocks. It was all immaterial to him. “I often wish that they'd just let her die.” Hrathen looked up. Dilaf's voice was introspective, as if he were talking to himself. However, the priest's eyes were focused on Hrathen. “What?” Hrathen asked hesitantly. “If only they had let her die ...” Dilaf trailed off. He sat at the edge of the rooftop, watching the ships gather below, his face reminiscent. His emotions had always been unstable. No man could keep Dilaf's level of ardor burning for long without doing emotional damage to his mind. A few more years, and Dilaf would probably be completely insane. “I was
already fifty years old back then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Did you know that? I have lived nearly seventy years, though my body doesn't look older than twenty. She thought I was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, even though my body had been twisted and destroyed to fit the mold of an Arelene.” Hrathen remained quiet. He had heard of such things, that the incantations of Dakhor could actually change the way a person looked. The process had undoubtedly been very painful. “When she fell sick, I took her to Elantris.” Dilaf mumbled, his legs pulled tightly against his chest. “I knew it was pagan, I knew it was blasphemous, but even forty years as a Dakhor wasn't enough to keep me away. . . not when I thought Elantris could save her. Elantris can heal, they said, while Dakhor cannot. And I took her.” The monk was no longer looking at Hrathen. His eyes were unfocused. “They changed her,” he whispered. “They said the spell went wrong, but I know the truth. They knew me, and they hated me. Why, then, did they have to put their curse on Seala? Her skin turned black, her hair fell out, and she began to die. She screamed at night, yelling that the pain was eating her from the inside. Eventually she threw herself off the city wall.” Dilaf's voice turned reverently mournful. “I found her at the bottom, still alive. Still alive, despite the fall. And I burned her. She never stopped screaming. She screams still. I can hear her. She will scream until Elantris is gone.” They reached the ledge, behind which lay the pool, and Galladon laid Raoden down. The prince slumped idly against the stone, his head hanging slightly over the side of the cliff, his unfocused eyes staring out over the city of Kae. Galladon leaned back against the rock face, next to the door of the tunnel that led down to Elantris. Karata slumped next to him in exhaustion. They would wait a brief moment, then find oblivion. Once the wood was gathered, the soldiers began a new pile-this one of bodies. The soldiers went searching through the city, seeking the corpses of Elantrians who had been slain. Lukel realized something as he watched the pile grow. They weren't all dead. In fact, most of them weren't. Most of them had wounds so grievous that it sickened Lukel to look at them, yet their arms and legs twitched, their lips moving. Elantrians, Lukel thought with amazement, the dead whose minds continue to live. The pile of bodies grew higher. There were hundreds of them, all of the Elantrians that had been collecting in the city for ten years. None of them resisted; they simply allowed themselves to be heaped, their eyes uncaring, until the pile of bodies was larger than the pile of wood. “Twenty-seven steps to the bodies.” Adien whispered suddenly, walking away from the crowd of nobles. Lukel reached for his brother, but it was too late. A soldier yelled for Adien to get back
with the others. Adien didn't respond. Angry, the soldier slashed at Adien with a sword, leaving a large gash in his chest. Adien stumbled, but kept walking. No blood came from the wound. The soldier's eyes opened wide, and he jumped back, making a ward against evil. Adien approached the pile of Elantrians and joined its ranks, flopping down among them and then lying still. Adien's secret of five years had finally been revealed. He had joined his people. “I remember you, Hrathen.” Dilaf was smiling now, his grin wicked and demonic. “I remember you as a boy, when you came to us. It was just before I left for Arelon. You were frightened then, as you are frightened now. You ran from us, and I watched you 1go with satisfaction. You were never meant to be Dakhor-you are far too weak.” Hrathen felt chilled. “You were there?” “I was gragdet by then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Do you remember me?” Then, looking into the man's eyes, Hrathen had a flash of remembrance. He remembered evil eyes in the body of a tall, unmerciful man. He remembered chants. He remembered fires. He remembered screams-his screams-and a face hanging above him. They were the same eyes. “You!” Hrathen said with a gasp. “You remember.” “I remember,” Hrathen said with a dull chill. “You were the one that convinced me to leave. In my third month, you demanded that one of your monks use his magic and send you to Wyrn's palace. The monk complied, giving up his life to transport you a distance that you could have walked in fifteen minutes.” “Absolute obedience is required, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “Occasional tests and examples bring loyalty from the rest.” Then, pausing, he looked out over the bay. The armada was docked, waiting as per Dilaf's order. Hrathen scanned the horizon, and he could see several dark specks-the tips of masts. Wyrn's army was coming. “Come,” Dilaf ordered, rising to his feet. “We have been successful; the Teoish armada has docked. They will not be able to stop our fleet from landing. I have only one duty remaining-the death of King Eventeo.” A vision sprung into Raoden's impassive mind. He tried to ignore it. Yet, for some reason, it refused to leave. He saw it through the shimmering surface of his pain-a simple picture. It was Aon Rao. A large square with four circles around it, lines connecting them to the center. It was a widely used Aon-especially among the Korathi-for its meaning. Spirit. Soul. Floating in the white eternity, Raoden's mind tried to discard the image of Aon Rao. It was something from a previous existence, unimportant and forgotten. He didn't need it any longer. Yet, even as he strove to remove the image, another sprung up in its place. Elantris. Four walls forming a square. The four outer cities surrounding it, their borders circles. A straight road leading from each city to Elantris. “Merciful Domi!” The soldiers opened several barrels of oil, and Lukel watched with revulsion as they began pouring them over the heap
of bodies. Three shirtless warriors stood at the side, singing some sort of chant in a foreign language that sounded too harsh and unfamiliar to be Fjordell. We will be next, Lukel realized. “Don't look.” Lukel ordered his family, turning away as the soldiers prepared Elantris for immolation. King Eventeo stood in the distance, a small honor guard surrounding him. He bowed his head as Dilaf approached. The monk smiled, preparing his knife. Eventeo thought he was presenting his country for surrender-he didn't realize that he was offering it up for a sacrifice. Hrathen walked beside Dilaf, thinking about necessity and duty. Men would die, true, but their lo1ss would not be meaningless. The entire Fjordell Empire would grow stronger for the victory over Teod. The hearts of men would increase in faith. It was the same thing Hrathen himself had done in Arelon. He had tried to convert the people for political reasons, using politics and popularity. He had bribed Telrii to convert, giving no heed to saving the man's soul. It was the same thing. What was a nation of unbelievers when compared with all of Shu-Dereth? Yet, even as he rationalized, his stomach grew sick. I was sent to save these people, not to slaughter them! Dilaf held Princess Sarene by the neck, her mouth gagged. Eventeo looked up and smiled reassuringly as they approached. He could not see the knife in Dilaf's hand. “I have waited for this,” Dilaf whispered softly. At first, Hrathen thought the priest referred to the destruction of Teod. But Dilaf wasn't looking at the king. He was looking at Sarene, the blade of his knife pressed into her back. “You, Princess, are a disease,” Dilaf whispered in Sarene's ear, his voice barely audible to Hrathen. “Before you came to Kae, even the Arelenes hated Elantris. You are the reason they forgot that loathing. You associated with the unholy ones, and you even descended to their level. You are worse than they are-you are one who is not cursed, but seeks to be cursed. I considered killing your father first and making you watch, but now I realize it will be much worse the other way around. Think of old Eventeo watching you die, Princess. Ponder that image as I send you to Jaddeth's eternal pits of torment.” She was crying, the tears staining her gag. Raoden struggled toward consciousness. The pain hit him like an enormous block of stone, halting his progress, his mind recoiling in agony. He threw himself against it, and the torment washed over him. He slowly forced his way through the resistant surface, coming to a laborious awareness of the world outside himself. He wanted to scream, to scream over and over again. The pain was incredible. However, with the pain, he felt something else. His body. He was moving, being dragged along the ground. Images washed into his mind as sight returned. He was being pulled toward something round and blue. The pool. NO! He thought desperately. Not yet! I know the answer! Raoden screamed suddenly, twitching. Galladon
was so surprised that he dropped the body. Raoden stumbled forward, trying to get his footing, and fell directly into the pool. CHAPTER 61 DILAF reached around the princess to press his dagger against her neck. Eventeo's eyes opened wide with horror. Hrathen watched the dagger begin to slice Sarene's skin. He thought of Fjorden. He thought of the work he had done, the people he had saved. He thought of a young boy, eager to prove his faith by entering the priesthood. Unity. “No!” Spinning, Hrathen drove his fist into Dilaf's face. Dilaf stumbled for a moment, lowering his weapon in surprise. Then the monk looked up with rage and plunged the dagger at Hrathen's breast. The knife slid off Hrathen's armor, scraping ineffectually along the painted steel. Dilaf regarded the breastplate with stunned eyes. “But, that armor is just for show....” “You should know by now, Dilaf,” Hrathen said, bringing his armored forearm up and smashing it into the monk's face. Though the unnatural bone had resisted Hrathen's fist, it crunched with a satisfying sound beneath steel. “Nothing I do is just for show.” Dilaf fell, and Hrathen pulled the monk's sword free from its scabbard. “Launch your ships, Eventeo!” he yelled. “Fjorden's armies come not to dominate, but to massacre. Move now if you want to save your people!” “Rag Domi!” Eventeo cursed, yelling for his generals. Then he paused. “My daughter “I will help the girl!” Hrathen snapped. “Save your kingdom, you fool!” Though Dakhor bodies were unnaturally quick, their minds recovered from shock no more quickly than those of regular men. Their surprise bought Hrathen a few vital seconds. He brought his sword up, shoving Sarene toward an alleyway and backing up to block the entrance. The water held Raoden in a cool embrace. It was a thing alive: he could hear it calling in his mind. Come, it said, I give you release. It was a comforting parent. It wanted to take away his pain and sorrows, just as his mother had once done. Come, it pled. You can finally give up. No. Raoden thought. Not yet. The Fjordells finished dousing the Elantrians with oil, then prepared their torches. During the entire process, Shuden moved his arms in restrained circular patterns, not inereasing their speed as he had the time at the fencing class. Lukel began to wonder if Shuden wasn't planning an assault at all, but simply preparing himself for the inevitable. Then Shuden burst into motion. The young baron snapped forward, spinning like a dancer as he brought his fist around, driving it into the chest of a chanting warrior monk. There was an audible crack, and Shuden spun again, slapping the monk across the face. The demon's head spun completely around, his eyes bulging as his reinforced neck snapped. And Shuden did it all with his eyes closed. Lukel couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw something else-a slight glow following Shuden's movements in the dawn shadows. Yelling a battle cry-more to motivate himself than frighten his foes-Lukel grabbed the table leg
and swung it at a soldier. The wood bounced off the man's helmet, but the blow was powerful enough to daze him, so Lukel followed it with a solid blow to the face. The soldier dropped and Lukel grabbed his weapon. Now he had a sword. He only wished he knew how to use it. The Dakhor were faster, stronger, and tou1gher, but Hrathen was more determined. For the first time in years, his heart and his mind agreed. He felt power-the same strength he had felt that first day when he had arrived in Arelon, confident in his ability to save its people. He held them off, though just barely. Hrathen might not have been a Dakhor monk, but he was a master swordsman. What he lacked in comparative strength and speed he could compensate for in skill. He swung, thrusting his sword at a Dakhor chest, slamming it directly in between two bone ridges. The blade slid past enlarged ribs, piercing the heart. The Dakhor gasped, dropping as Hrathen whipped his sword free. The monk's companions, however, forced Hrathen to retreat defensively into the alleyway. He felt Sarene stumbling behind him, pulling off her gag. “There are coo many!” she said. “You can't fight them all.” She was right. Fortunately, a wave moved through the crowd of warriors, and Hrathen heard the sounds of battle coming from the other side. Eventeo's honor guard had joined the affray. “Come on,” Sarene said, tugging his shoulder. Hrathen risked a glance behind him. The princess was pointing at a slightly ajar door in the building next to them. Hrathen nodded, battering away another attack, then turned to run. Raoden burst from the water, gasping reflexively for breath. Galladon and Karata jumped back in surprise. Raoden felt the cool blue liquid streaming from his face. It wasn't water, but something else. Something thicker. He paid it little heed as he crawled from the pool. “Sule!” Galladon whispered in surprise. Raoden shook his head, unable to respond. They had expected him to dissolve-they didn't understand that the pool couldn't take him unless he wanted it to. “Come.” he finally rasped, stumbling to his feet. Despite Lukel's energetic assault and Shuden's powerful attack, the other townspeople simply stood and watched in dumb stupefaction. Lukel found himself desperately fighting three soldiers; the only reason he stayed alive was because he did more dodging and running than actual attacking. When aid finally did come, it was given by an odd source: the women. Several of Sarene's fencers snatched up pieces of wood or fallen swords and fell in behind Lukel, thrusting with more control and ability than he could even feign to know. The brunt of their onslaught was pushed forward by surprise, and for a moment Lukel thought they might actually break free. Then Shuden fell, crying out as a sword bit into his arm. As soon as the Jindo's concentration broke, so did his war dance, and a simple club to the head knocked him from the battle. The old queen, Eshen, fell next, a sword
rammed through her chest. Her horrible scream, and the sight of the blood streaming down her dress, unnerved the other women. They broke, dropping their weapons. Lukel took a long gash on the thigh as one of his foes realized he had no clue how to use his weapon. Lukel yelled in pain and fell to the cobblestones, holding his leg. The soldier didn't even bother to finish him off. Raoden dashed down the side of the mountain at a horrifying p1ace. The prince leapt and scrambled, as if he hadn't been practically comatose just a few minutes earlier. One slip at this pace, one wrong step, and he wouldn't stop rolling until he hit the foot of the mountain. “Doloken!” Galladon said, trying his best to keep up. At this rate they would reach Kae in a matter of minutes. Sarene hid beside her unlikely rescuer, holding perfectly still in the darkness. Hrathen looked up through the floorboards. He had been the one to spot the cellar door, pulling it open and shoving her though. Underneath they had found a terrified family huddled in the blackness. They had all waited quietly, tense, as the Dakhor moved through the house then left out the front door. Eventually, Hrathen nodded. “Let's go,' he said, reaching over to lift the trapdoor. “Stay down here,” Sarene told the family. “Don't come up until you absolutely have to.” The gyorn's armor clinked as he climbed the steps, then peeked cautiously into the room. He motioned for Sarene to follow, then moved into the small kitchen at the back of the house. He began pulling off his armor, dropping its pieces to the floor. Though he gave no explanation. Sarene understood the action. The bloodred gyorn's armor was far too distinctive to be worth its protective value. As he worked, Sarene was surprised at the apparent weight of the metal. “You've been walking around all these months in real armor? Wasn't that difficult?” “The burden of my calling,” Hrathen said, pulling off his final greave. Its bloodred paint was now scratched and dented. “A calling I no longer deserve.” He dropped it with a clank. He looked at the greave, then shook his head, pulling off his bulky cotton underclothing, meant to cushion the armor. He stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of thin, knee-length trousers and a long, sleevelike band of cloth around his right arm. Why the covered arm? Sarene wondered. Some piece of Derethi priest's garb? Other questions were more pressing, however. “Why did you do it, Hrathen?” she asked. “Why turn against your people?” Hrathen paused. Then he looked away. “Dilaf 's actions are evil.” “But your faith . . “My faith is in Jaddeth, a God who wants the devotion of men. A massacre does not serve Him.” “Wyrn seems to think differently.” Hrathen did not respond, instead selecting a cloak from a nearby chest. He handed it to her, then took another for himself. “Let us go.” Raoden's feet were so covered with bumps, lacerations, and scrapes that he no longer
related to them as pieces of flesh. They were simply lumps of pain burning at the end of his legs. But still he ran on. He knew that if he stoppe1d, the pain would claim him once again. He wasn't truly free-his mind was on loan, returned from the void to perform a single task. When he was finished, the white nothingness would suck him down into its oblivion again. He stumbled toward the city of Kae, feeling as much as seeing his way. Lukel lay dazed as Jalla pulled him back toward the mass of terrified townspeople. His leg throbbed, and he could feel his body weakening as blood spilled from the long gash. His wife bound it as best she could, but Lukel knew that the action was pointless. Even if she did manage to stop the bleeding, the soldiers were only going to kill them in a few moments anyway. He watched in despair as one of the bare-chested warriors tossed a torch onto the pile of Elantrians. The oil-soaked bodies burst into flames. The demon-man nodded to several soldiers, who pulled out their weapons and grimly advanced on the huddled townspeople. “What is he doing?” Karata demanded as they reached the bottom of the slope. Raoden was still ahead of them, running in an unsteady gait toward Kae's short border wall. “I don't know,” Galladon said. Ahead, Raoden grabbed a long stick from the ground, then he started to run, dragging the length of wood behind him. What are you up to, sule? Galladon wondered. Yet he could feel stubborn hope rising again. “Whatever it is, Karata, it is important. We must see that he finishes.” He ran after Raoden, following the prince along his path. After a few minutes, Karata pointed ahead of them. “There!” A squad of six Fjordell guards, probably searching the city for stragglers, walked along the inside of Kae's border wall. The lead soldier noticed Raoden and raised a hand. “Come on,” Galladon said, dashing after Raoden with sudden strength. “No matter what else happens, Karata, don't let them stop him!” Raoden barely heard the men approaching, and he only briefly recognized Galladon and Karata running up behind him, desperately throwing themselves at the soldiers. His friends were unarmed; a voice in the back of his head warned that they would not be able to win him much time. Raoden continued to run, the stick held in rigid fingers. He wasn't sure how he knew he was in the right place, but he did. He felt it. Only a little farther. Only a little farther. A hand grabbed him; a voice yelled at him in Fjordell. Raoden tripped, falling to the ground-but he kept the stick steady, not letting it slip even an inch. A moment later there was a grunt, and the hand released him. Only a little farther! Men battled around him, Galladon and Karata keeping the soldiers' attention. Raoden let out a primal sob of frustration, crawling like a child as he dug his line in the ground. Boots slammed
into the earth next to Raoden's hand, coming within inches of crushing his fingers. Still he kept moving. He looked up as he neared the end. A soldier finished the swing that1 separated Karata's beleaguered head from her body. Galladon fell with a pair of swords in his stomach. A soldier pointed at Raoden. Raoden gritted his teeth, and finished his line in the dirt. Galladon's large bulk crashed to the ground. Karata's head knocked against the short stone wall. The soldier took a step. Light exploded from the ground. It burst from the dirt like a silver river, spraying into the air along the line Raoden had drawn. The light enveloped him-but it was more than just light. It was essential purity. Power refined. The Dor. It washed over him, covering him like a warm liquid. And for the first time in two months, the pain went away. The light continued along Raoden's line, which connected to Kae's short border wall. It followed the wall, spurting from the ground, continuing in a circle until it completely surrounded Kae. It didn't stop. The power shot up the short road between Kae and Elantris, spreading to coat the great city's wall as well. From Elantris it moved to the other three outer cities, their rubble all but forgotten in the ten years since the Reod. Soon all five cities were outlined with light-five resplendent pillars of energy. The city complex was an enormous Aon-a focus for Elantrian power. All it had needed was the Chasm line to make it begin working again. One square, four circles. Aon Rao. The Spirit of Elantris. Raoden stood in the torrent of light, his clothing fluttering in its unique power. He felt his strength return, his pains evaporate like unimportant memories, and his wounds heal. He didn't need to look to know that soft white hair had grown from his scalp, that his skin had discarded its sickly taint in favor of a delicate silver sheen. Then he experienced the most joyful event of all. Like a thundering drum, his heart began to beat in his chest. The Shaod, the Transformation, had finally completed its work. With a sigh of regret, Raoden stepped from the light, emerging into the world as a metamorphosed creature. Galladon, stunned, rose from the ground a few feet away, his skin a dark metallic silver. The terrified soldiers stumbled away. Several made wards against evil, calling upon their god. “You have one hour,” Raoden said, raising a gIowing finger toward the docks. “Go.” Lukel clutched his wife, watching the fire consume its living fuel. He whispered his love to her as the soldiers advanced to do their grisly work. Father Omin whispered behind Lukel, offering a quiet prayer to Domi for their souls, and for those of their executioners. Then, like a lantern suddenly set aflame, Elantris erupted with light. The entire city shook, its walls seeming to stretch, distorted by some awesome power. The people inside were trapped in a vortex of energy, sudden winds ripping through the town. All fell
still. They stood as if at the eye of an enor1mous white storm, power raging in a wall of luster that surrounded the city. Townspeople cried out in fear, and soldiers cursed, looking up at the shining walls with confusion. Lukel wasn't watching the walls. His mouth opened slightly in amazement as he stared at the pyre of corpses-and the shadows moving within it. Slowly, their bodies glistening with a light both more luminous and more powerful than the flames around them, the Elantrians began to step from the blaze, unharmed by its heat. The townspeople sat stunned. Only the two demon priests seemed capable of motion. One of them screamed in denial, dashing at the emerging Elantrians with his sword upraised. A flash of power shot across the courtyard and struck the monk in the chest, immolating the creature in a puff of energy. The sword dropped to the cobblestones with a clang, followed by a scattering of smoking bones and burnt flesh. Lukel turned bewildered eyes toward the source of the attack. Raoden stood in the still open gate of Elantris, his hand upraised. The king glowed like a specter returned from the grave, his skin silver, his hair a brilliant white, his face effulgent with triumph. The remaining demon priest screamed at Raoden in Fjorden, cursing him as a Svrakiss. Raoden raised a hand, quietly sketching in the air, his fingers leaving gleaming white trails-trails that shone with the same raging power that surrounded Elantris's wall. Raoden stopped, his hand poised next to the gleaming character-Aon Daa, the Aon for power. The king looked through the glowing symbol, his eyes raised in a challenge to the lone Derethi warrior. The monk cursed again, then slowly lowered his weapon. “Take your men, monk,” Raoden said. “Board those ships and go. Anything Derethi, man or vessel, that remains in my country after the next hour's chime will suffer the force of my rage. I dare you to leave me with a suitable target.” The soldiers were already running, dashing past Raoden into the city. Their leader slunk behind them. Before Raoden's glory, the monk's horrible body seemed more pitiful than it did terrifying. Raoden watched them go, then he turned toward Lukel and the others. “People of Arelon. Elantris is restored!” Lukel blinked dizzily. Briefly, he wondered if the entire experience had been a vision concocted by his overtaxed mind. When the shouts of joy began to ring in his ears, however, he knew that it was all real. They had been saved. “How totally unexpected,” he declared, then proceeded to faint from blood loss. Dilaf tenderly prodded at his shattered nose, resisting the urge to bellow in pain. His men, the Dakhor, waited beside him. They had easily slain the king's guards, but in the combat they had somehow lost not only Eventeo and the princess, but the traitor Hrathen as well. “Find them!” Dilaf demanded, rising to his feet. Passion. Anger. The voice of his dead wife called in his ears, begging for revenge. She would have it. Eventeo
would never launch his ships in time. Besides, fifty Dakhor already roamed his capital. Th1e monks themselves were like an army, each one as powerful as a hundred normal men. They would take Teod yet. CHAPTER 62 SARENE and Hrathen shambled down the city street, their nondescript cloaks pulled close. Hrathen kept his hood up to hide his dark hair. The people of Teod had gathered in the streets, wondering why their king had brought the armada into the bay. Many wandered in the direction of the docks, and with these Sarene and Hrathen mingled, stooped and subservient, trying their best to look commonplace. “When we arrive, we will seek passage on one of the merchant ships.” Hrathen said quietly. “They will bolt from Teod as soon as the armada launches. There are several places in Hrovell that don't see a Derethi priest for months at a time. We can hide there.” “You talk as if Teod will fall,” Sarene whispered back. “You may go, priest, but I will not leave my homeland.” “If you value its safety, you will,” Hrathen snapped. “I know Dilaf-he is a man obsessed. If you stay in Teod, so will he. If you leave, perhaps he will follow.” Sarene ground her teeth. The gyorn's words had apparent sense in them, but it was possible he was concocting things to get her to accompany him. Of course, there was no reason for him to do such a thing. What cared he for Sarene? She had been his fervent enemy. They moved slowly, unwilling to set themselves apart from the crowd by increasing their speed. “You didn't really answer my question before, priest.” Sarene whispered. “You have turned against your religion. Why?” Hrathen walked in silence for a moment. “I ... I don't know, woman. I have followed Shu-Dereth since I was a child-the structure and formality of it have always called to me. I joined the priesthood. I ... thought I had faith. It turned out, however, that the thing I grew to believe was not Shu-Dereth after all. I don't know what it is.” “Shu-Korath?” Hrathen shook his head. “That is too simple. Belief is not simply Korathi or Derethi, one or the other. I still believe Dereth's teachings. My problem is with Wyrn, not God.” Horrified at his show of weakness before the girl, Hrathen quickly steeled his heart against further questions. Yes, he had betrayed Shu-Dereth. Yes, he was a traitor. But, for some reason, he felt calm now that he had made the decision. He had caused blood and death in Duladel. He would not let that happen again. He had convinced himself that the Republic's fall was a necessary tragedy. Now he had dispelled that illusion. His work in Duladel had been no more ethical than what Dilaf had attempted here in Teod. Ironically, by opening himself to truth. Hrathen had also exposed himself to the guilt of his past atrocities. One thing, however, kept him from despair-the knowledge that whatever else happened to him, no matter what he had done, he
could say that he now followed the truth in his heart. He could die and face Jaddeth with courage and pride. The though1t crossed his mind right before he felt the stab of pain in his chest. He reached over in surprise, grunting as he brought his hand up. His fingers were stained with blood. He felt his feet weaken, and he slumped against a building, ignoring Sarene's startled cry. Confused, he looked out into the crowd, and his eyes fell on the face of his murderer. He knew the man. His name was Fjon-the priest Hrathen had sent home from Kae the very day he had arrived. That had been two months ago. How had Fjon found him? How. . . It was impossible. Fjon smiled, then disappeared into the throng of people. As the darkness closed in. Hrathen discarded all questions. Instead his view and consciousness was filled with Sarene's worried face. The woman who had destroyed him. Because of her, he had finally rejected the lies he had believed all of his life. She would never know that he had come to love her. Goodbye, my princess, he thought. Jaddeth, be merciful to my soul. I only did the best I could. Sarene watched the light fading from Hrathen's eyes. “No!” she cried, pressing her hand against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. “Hrathen, don't you dare leave me alone here!” He didn't respond. She had fought with him over the fate of two countries, but had never really known who he was. She never would. A startled scream shocked Sarene back into the tangible world. People gathered around her, upset by the sight of a dying man in the street. Stunned, Sarene realized she had become the center of attention. She lifted her hand, pulled away as if to hide, but it was too late. Several bare-chested forms appeared from an alley to investigate the disturbance. One of them had blood on his face, the sign of a broken nose. Fjon slipped away from the crowd, exulting at the ease of his first kill. They had told him that it would be simple: He needed only to knife a single man, and then he would be admitted into the monastery of Rathbore, where he would be trained as an assassin. You were right, Hrathen, he thought. They did give me a new way to serve Jaddeth's empire-an important one. How ironic that the man he had been ordered to kill had turned out to be Hrathen himself. How had Wyrn known that Fjon would find Hrathen here, on the streets of Teod of all places? Fjon would probably never know; Lord Jaddeth moved in ways beyond the understanding of men. But Fjon had performed his duty. His period of penance was over. With a merry step, Fjon went back to his inn and ordered breakfast. “Leave me,” Lukel said with a pained tone. “I'm nearly dead-see to the oth-” “Stop whining.” Raoden said, drawing Aon Ten in the air above the wounded Lukel. He
crossed it with the Chasm line, and the wound in the merchant's leg resealed instantly. Not only did Raoden know the proper modifiers this time, but his Aons had the power of Elantris behind them. With the resurrection of the city, AonDor had regained its legendary strength. Lukel looked down, experimentally bending his leg and feeling where the cut had been. Then he frowned. “You know, you could have left a scar. I had to go through an awful lot to get that wound-you should have seen how courageous I was. My grandchildren are going to be disappointed that I don't have any scars to show 1them.” “They'll live,” Raoden said, rising and walking away. “What's wrong with you?” Lukel said from behind. “I thought we won.” We won, Raoden thought, but I failed. They had searched the city-there was no sign of Sarene, Dilaf, or Hrathen. Raoden had captured a straggling Derethi soldier and demanded to know where they were, but the man had pled ignorance, and Raoden had released him with disgust. He brooded, watching the people celebrate. Despite the deaths, despite the near-complete destruction of Kae, they were happy. Fjorden had been cast out and Elantris had returned. The days of the gods had come again. Unfortunately, Raoden couldn't enjoy the sweetness of his victory. Not without Sarene. Galladon approached slowly, ambling away from the group of Elantrians. The mass of sliver-skinned people were, for the most part, disoriented. Many of them had been Hoed for years, and knew nothing of current events. “They're going to be-” the Dula began. “My lord Raoden!” a voice suddenly interrupted-a voice Raoden recognized. “Ashe?” he asked anxiously, seeking out the Seon. “Your Majesty!” Ashe said, zipping across the courtyard. “A Seon just spoke with me. The princess! She is in Teod, my lord. My kingdom is under attack as well!” “Teod?” Raoden asked, dumbfounded. “How in Domi's name did she get there?” Sarene backed away, wishing desperately for a weapon. The townspeople noticed Dilaf and his warriors and, seeing the Fjordells' odd twisted bodies and malevolent eyes, scattered in fright. Sarene's reflexes urged her to join them, but such a move would only put her directly in Dilaf's hands. The small monk's warriors quickly fanned out to cut off Sarene's escape. Dilaf approached-his face stained with drying blood, his bare torso sweating in Teod's cold air, the intricate patterns beneath the skin on his arms and chest bulging, his lips curved in a wicked smile. At that moment, Sarene knew that this man was the most horrifying thing she would ever see. Raoden climbed to the top of Elantris's wall, taking the steps two at a time, his restored Elantrian muscles moving more quickly and tirelessly than even those of his pre-Shaod self. “Sule!” Galladon called with concern, rushing up behind him. Raoden didn't respond. He topped the wall, pushing his way through the crowds of people who stood looking over the remains of Kae. They parted as they realized who he was, some kneeling and mumbling “Your Majesty.” Their voices were
awed. In him they saw a return to their former lives. Hopeful, luxurious lives filled with ample food and time. Lives nearly forgotten over a decade of tyranny. Raoden gave them no heed, continuing until he stood on the northern wall, which overlooked the broad blue Sea of Fjorden. On the other side of those waters lay Teod. And Sarene. “Seon,” Raoden ordered, “show me the exact direction Teod's capital is from this point.” Ashe hovered for a moment, then moved to a spot in front of Raoden, marking a point on the horizon. “If you wanted to sail to Teod, my lord, you would go in this direction.” Raoden nodded, trusting the Seon's innate sense of direction. He began to draw. He constructed Aon Tia with frantic hands, his fingers tracing patterns he had learned by rote, never thinking they would do any good. Now, with Elantris somehow feeding the Aons' strength, lines no longer simply appeared in the air when he drew-they exploded. Light streamed from the Aon, as if his fingers were ripping tiny holes through a mighty dam, allowing only some of the water to squirt through. “Stile!” Galladon said, finally catching up to him. “Sule, what is going on?” Then, apparently recognizing the Aon, he cursed. “Doloken, Raoden, you don't know what you're doing!” “I am going to Teod,” Raoden said, continuing to draw. “But sule,” Galladon protested. “You yourself told me how dangerous Aon Tia can be. What was it you said? If you don't know the exact distance you need to travel, you could be killed. You can't go into this blind. Kolo?” “It's the only way, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I have to at least try.” Galladon shook his head, laying a hand on Raoden's shoulder. “Sule, a meaningless attempt won't prove anything but your stupidity. Do you even know how far it is to Teod?” Raoden's hand fell slowly to his side. He was no geographer; he knew Teod was about four days' sail, but he had no practical knowledge of how many miles or feet that was. He had to work a frame of reference into Aon Tia, give it some sort of measurement, so that it knew how far to send him. Galladon nodded, clapping Raoden on the shoulder. “Prepare a ship!” the Dula ordered to a group of soldiers-the last remnants of the Elantris City Guard. It will be too late! Raoden thought with sorrow. What good is power, what good is Elantris, if I can't use it to protect the one I love? “One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” said a voice from behind Raoden. Raoden turned with surprise. Adien stood a short distance away, his skin shining with a silvery Elantrian glow. His eyes betrayed none of the mental retardation that had eursed him since birth: instead they stared lucidly ahead. “Adien,” Raoden said with surprise. “You're ...” The young man, looking strikingly like Lukel now that he was healed, stepped forward. “I ... I feel like my entire life has been a dream, Raoden. I remember everything
that happened. But, I couldn't interact-I couldn't say anything. That's changed now, but one thing remains the same. My mind ... I've always been able to figure numbers....” “Footsteps.” Raoden whispered. “One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” Ad1ien repeated. “That is how many steps it is to Teod. Measure my stride, and use that as your unit.” “Hurry, my lord!” Ashe exclaimed with fear. “She's in danger. Mai-he's watching the princess now. He says she's surrounded. Oh, Domi! Hurry!” “Where, Seon!” Raoden snapped, kneeling down and measuring Adien's stride with a strip of cloth. “Near the docks, my lord,” Ashe said. “She's standing on the main road leading to the docks!” “Adien!” Raoden said, drawing a line in his Aon that duplicated the length of the boy's stride. “One million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five.” Adien said. “That will take you to the docks.” He looked up, frowning. “I . . . I'm not sure how I know that. I went there as a child once, but .. .” It'll have to be enough, Raoden thought. He reached up and wrote a modifier beside his Aon, telling it to transport him one million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five lengths of the line. “Sule, this is insane!” Galladon said. Raoden looked at his friend, nodded in agreement, then with a broad stroke drew the Chasm line across his Aon. “You are in charge of Arelon until I return, my friend,” Raoden said as Aon Tia began to shake, spewing light before him. He reached up and grabbed the center of the trembling Aon, and his fingers latched on to it, as if it were solid. “Dos Domi, he prayed, if you have ever heard my prayers before, direct my path NOW. Then, hoping Ashe had the angle correct, he felt the Aon's power rush through and envelop his body. A moment later the world disappeared. Sarene pressed her back against the hard brick wall. Dilaf approached with gleeful eyes. He crept forward, his line of monks closing on Sarene. It was over. There was nowhere for her to run. Suddenly, a spray of light crashed into one of the monks, throwing the creature into the air. Stupefied, Sarene watched the monk's body as it arced before her, then fell to the ground with a thud. The other monks paused, stunned. A figure dashed between the surprised line of monks, scrambling toward Sarene. His skin was silvery, his hair a blazing white, his face .. . “Raoden?” she asked with shock. Dilaf growled, and Sarene yelped as the priest dove at Raoden, moving supernaturally quickly. Yet somehow Raoden reacted just as quickly, spinning and backing away before Dilaf's attack. The king's hand whipped out, scrawling a quick Aon in the air. A burst of light shot from the Aon, the air warping and twisting around it. The bolt took Dilaf in the chest and exploded, throwing the monk backward. Dilaf 1crashed into the side of a building and collapsed to the ground. Then, however, the priest groaned,
stumbling back to his feet. Raoden cursed. He dashed the short distance and grabbed Sarene. “Hold on.” he ordered, his free hand tracing another Aon. The designs Raoden crafted around Aon Tia were complex, but his hand moved dexterously. He finished it just as Dilaf's men reached them. Sarene's body lurched, much as it had when Dilaf had brought them to Teod. Light surrounded her, shaking and pulsing. A brief second later the world returned. Sarene stumbled in confusion, falling against the familiar Teoish cobblestones. She looked up with surprise. About fifty feet down the street she could see the bare chests of Dilaf's monks standing in a confused circle. One of them raised a hand, pointing at Raoden and Sarene. “Idos Domi!” Raoden cursed. “I forgot what the books said! The Aons grow weaker the farther one goes from Elantris.” “You can't get us home?” Sarene asked, climbing to her feet. “Not by Aon, I can't,” Raoden said. Then, taking her hand, he started running. Her mind was so full of questions the entire world seemed a confused jumble. What had happened to Raoden? How had he recovered from the wound Dilaf gave him? She choked the questions back. It was enough that he had come. Frantic, Raoden searched for a means of escape. Perhaps alone he could have outrun Dilaf's men, but never with Sarene in tow. Their street emptied onto the docks, where Teod's large warships were ponderously moving from the bay to engage a fleet bearing Fjorden's flag. A man in royal green robes stood at the far side of the docks, conversing with a couple of adjuncts. King Eventeo-Sarene's father. The king didn't see them, instead turning to walk in a rushed step down a side alley. “Father!” Sarene yelled out, but the distance was too far. Raoden could hear footsteps approaching. He spun, thrusting Sarene behind him, and raised his arms to begin an Aon Daa with each hand. The Aons were weaker in Teod, but they weren't ineffectual. Dilaf held up a hand, slowing his men. Raoden froze, unwilling to commit himself to a final battle unless he had to. What was Dilaf waiting for? Bare-chested monks poured from alleys and streets. Dilaf smiled, waiting as his warriors gathered. Within a few minutes his group had grown from twelve to fifty, and Raoden's odds had plummeted from bad to hopeless. “Not much of a rescue.” Sarene muttered, stepping forward to stand next to Raoden, staring down the group of monstrosities with a contemptuous air. Her defiant irony brought a smile to Raoden's lips. “Next time, I'll remember to bring an army with me.” Dilaf’s monks charged. Raoden completed his duplicate Aons-sending out a pair of powerful energy blasts-then quickly began drawing again. Yet, holding to his waist with tense hands, Sarene could see that Raoden wouldn't finish before the supernaturally quick warriors arrived. The docks shook with a powerful f1orce. Wood cracked and stone shattered, and an explosion of wind blasted across her. She had to cling to Raoden's somehow more stable body to keep
from being thrown to the ground. When she finally dared open her eyes, they were surrounded by hundreds of silver-skinned forms. “Aon Daa!” Galladon ordered with a booming voice. Two hundred hands raised in the air, scribbling Aons. About half of them made mistakes, their Aons evaporating. Enough finished, however, to send a wave of destruction toward Dilaf's men that was so powerful it tore completely through the first few monks. Bodies collapsed and others were thrown backward. The remaining monks paused in shock, staring at the Elantrians. Then the Dakhor scattered in an offensive charge, turning from Raoden and Sarene to attack this new foe. Dilaf was the only one of his men who thought to duck. The rest, confidently arrogant in their strength, simply allowed the powerful blasts to hit them. Fools! Dilaf thought as he rolled away. Every Dakhor was blessed with special skills and powers. They all had increased strength and nearly indestructible bones, but only Dilaf bore the power that made him resistant to attacks by the Dor-a power that had required the deaths of fifty men to create. He felt, rather than saw, as his men were torn apart by the Elantrians' attack. The remaining monks were horribly outnumbered. They attacked bravely, trying to kill as many of the vile Elantrians as they could. They had been trained well. They would die fighting. Dilaf yearned to join them. But he did not. Some thought him mad, but he was not a fool. The screams in his head demanded revenge, and there was still a way left. One way to get vengeance on the Teoish princess and her Elantrians. One way to fulfill Wyrn's commands. One way to turn the tide of this battle. Dilaf scrambled away, stumbling slightly as a bolt of energy sprayed against his back. His bone wardings held, and he was left unharmed by the attack. When he had entered the docks a few moments before, he had seen King Eventeo disappear down a side alley. He now dashed toward that same alley. His prey would follow. “Raoden!” Sarene said, pointing at the fleeing Dilaf. “Let him go,” Raoden said. “He can do no more damage.” “But that's the way my father went!” Sarene said, tugging him toward the alley. She's right, Raoden thought with a curse. He took off behind Dilaf. Sarene waved him on, and he left her behind, letting his newly reconditioned Elantrian legs carry him to the alleyway at an extraordinary speed. The other Elantrians didn't see him go, but continued to fight the monks. Raoden entered the alleyway, barely puffing. Dilaf tackled him a second later. The monk's powerful body appeared out of a shadowed corner, slamming Raoden into the alley wall. Raoden cried out, feeling his ribs crack. Dilaf backed away, unsheathing his sword with a smile. The priest lunged forward, and Raoden barely rolled away in time to avoid being impaled. As it was, Dilaf's attack sliced through the flesh of Raoden's left forearm, spilling silvery-white Elantrian blood. Raoden gasped as pain washed1 through his arm.
This pain, however, was weak and dull compared to his former agonies. He forgot it quickly, rolling again as Dilaf 's blade sought his heart. If his heart stopped again. Raoden would die. Elantrians were strong and quick-healing, but they were not immortal. As he dodged. Raoden searched through his memory of Aons. Thinking quickly, he rolled to his feet, rapidly scribbling Aon Edo before him. It was a simple character, requiring only six strokes, and he finished it before Dilaf could make a third attack. The Aon flashed briefly, and then a thin wall of light appeared between himself and Dilaf. Dilaf tested the wall hesitantly with the tip of his sword, and the wall resisted. The more one pressed against it, the more it drew from the Dor, pressing back with equal strength. Dilaf could not reach him. Casually, Dilaf reached up and tapped the wall with his bare hand. His palm flashed briefly, and the wall shattered, shards of light scattering through the air. Raoden cursed his stupidity-this was the man who had destroyed his illusionary face just a day before. Somehow, Dilaf had the power to negate Aons. Raoden jumped back, but the sword snapped forward more quickly. The tip did not strike Raoden's chest, but struck his hand instead. Raoden cried out as the sword pierced his right palm. He brought his other hand up to cup it around the injured one, but the wound on his forearm blazed with renewed vigor. Both hands were incapacitated: he could no longer draw Aons. Dilaf's next attack was a casual kick, and Raoden's already wounded ribs cracked further. He cried out and dropped to his knees. Dilaf laughed, tapping Raoden on the side of the face with the tip of his sword. “The Skaze are right, then. Elantrians are not indestructible.” Raoden didn't answer. “I will still win, Elantrian.” Dilaf said, his voice passionate and frenzied. “After Wyrn's fleets defeat the Teoish armada. I will gather my troops and march on Elantris.” “No one defeats the Teoish armada, priest.” a feminine voice interjected, a blade flashing out to strike at Dilaf's head. The priest yelped, barely bringing his own sword up in time to block Sarene's attack. She had found a sword somewhere, and she whipped it in a pattern that moved too quickly for Raoden to track. He smiled at Dilaf's surprise, remembering how easily the princess had defeated his own skills. Her weapon was thicker than a syre, but she still handled it with remarkable proficiency. Dilaf however, was no ordinary man. The bone patterns beneath his skin started glowing as he blocked Sarene's attack, and his body began to move even more quickly. Soon Sarene stopped advancing, and almost immediately she was forced to begin retreating. The battle ended as Dilaf 's sword pierced her shoulder. Sarene's weapon clanged to the cobblestones, and she stumbled, slumping down next to Raoden. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. Raoden shook his head. No one could be expected to win a sword fight against one such as Dilaf. “And my revenge
begins.” Dilaf whispered reverently, bringing up his sword. “You may stop yelling, my love.” Raoden grabbed Sarene protectively with a bleeding hand. Then he paused. There was something moving behind Dilaf-a form in the shadows of the alleyway. Frowning, Dilaf turned to follow Raoden's gaze. A figure stumbled from the darkness, holding his side in pain. The figure was a tall, broad-chested man with dark hair and determined eyes. Though the man no longer wore his armor, Raoden recognized him. The gyorn, Hrathen. Strangely, Dilaf didn't seem happy to see his companion. The Dakhor monk spun, raising his sword, eyes flashing with anger. He leapt, screaming something in Fjordell, and swung his sword at the obviously weakened gyorn. Hrathen stopped, then whipped his arm our from beneath his cloak. Dilaf's sword hit the flesh of Hrathen's forearm. And stopped. Sarene gasped beside Raoden. “He's one of them!” she whispered. It was true. Dilaf's weapon scraped along Hrathen's arm, pushing back the sleeve there and revealing the skin beneath. The arm was not that of a normal man: it showed twisting patterns beneath the skin, the outcroppings of bone that were the sign of a Dakhor monk. Dilaf, obviously, was surprised by the revelation as well. The monk stood stunned as Hrathen's hand whipped out and grabbed Dilaf by the neck. Dilaf began to curse, squirming in Hrathen's grasp. The gyorn, however, began to stand up straighter, his grip tightening. Beneath his cloak. Hrathen was bare-chested, and Raoden could see that his skin there bore no Dakhor markings, though it was wet with blood from a wound at his side. Only the bones in his arm had the strange twisted patterns. Why the partial transformation? Hrathen stood tall, ignoring Dilaf, though the monk began to swing at Hrathen's enhanced arm with his short sword. The blows bounced off, so Dilaf swung at Hrathen's side instead. The sword bit deeply into Hrathen's flesh, but the gyorn didn't even grunt. Instead, he tightened his grip on Dilaf's neck, and the little monk gasped, dropping his sword in pain. Hrathen's arm began to glow. The strange, twisting lines beneath Hrathen's skin took on an eerie radiance as the gyorn lifted Dilaf off the ground. Dilaf squirmed and twisted, his breath coming in gasps. He struggled to escape, prying at Hradien's fingers, but the gyorn's grip was firm. Hrathen held Dilaf aloft, as if toward the heavens. He stared upward, toward the sky, eyes strangely unfocused, Dilaf proffered like some sort of holy offering. The gyorn stood there for a long moment, immobile, arm glowing, Dilaf becoming more and more frantic. There was a snap. Dilaf stopped struggling. Hrathen lowered the body with a slow motion, then tossed it aside, the glow in his arm fading. He looked toward Raoden and Sarene, stood quietly for a moment, then toppled forward lifelessly. When Galladon arrived a few moments later, Raoden was trying unsuccessfully to heal Sarene's shoulder with his wounded hands. The large Dula took in the scene, then nodded for a couple of Elantrians to check on
Dilaf and Hrathen's corpses. Then Galladon settled down, letting Raoden tell him how 1to draw Aon Ien. A few moments later, Raoden's hands and ribs had been restored, and he moved to help Sarene. She sat quietly. Despite her wound, she had already checked on Hrathen. He was dead. In fact, either one of the wounds in his sides should have killed him long before he managed to break Dilaf 's neck. Something about his Dakhor markings had kept him alive. Raoden shook his head, drawing a healing Aon for Sarene's shoulder. He still didn't have an explanation as to why the gyorn had saved them, but he quietly blessed the man's intervention. “The armada?” Sarene asked anxiously as Raoden drew. “Looks to me like it's doing fine,” Galladon said with a shrug. “Your father is searching for you-he came to the docks soon after we arrived.” Raoden drew the Chasm line, and the wound in Sarene's arm disappeared. “I have to admit, sule, you are lucky as Doloken,” Galladon said. “Jumping here blind was just about the most idiotic thing I've ever seen a man do.” Raoden shrugged, pulling Sarene tight. “It was worth it. Besides, you followed, didn't you?” Galladon snorted. “We had Ashe call ahead to make sure you arrived safely. We're not kayana, unlike our king.” “All right,” Sarene declared firmly. “Somebody is going to start explaining things to me right now.” CHAPTER 63 SARENE straightened Raoden's jacket, then stood back, tapping her cheek as she studied him. She would have preferred a white suit rather than a gold one, but for some reason white seemed pale and lifeless when placed next to his silvery skin. “Well?” Raoden asked, holding his arms out to the sides. “You'll have to do,” she decided airily. He laughed, approaching and kissing her with a smile. “Shouldn't you be alone in the chapel, praying and preparing? What ever happened to tradition?” “I tried that once already,” Sarene said, turning to make sure he hadn't mussed up her makeup. “This time I intend to keep a close eye on you. For some reason, my potential husbands have a way of disappearing.” “That might say something about you, Leky Stick.' Raoden teased. He had laughed long when her father explained the nickname to him, and since then he had been careful to use it at every possible occasion. She swatted at him absently, straightening her veil. “My lord, my lady,” said a stoic voice. Raoden's Seon, Ien, floated in through the doorway. “It is time.” Sarene grabbed Raoden's arm in a firm grip. “Walk.” she ordered, nodding toward the doorway. This time, she wasn't letting go until someone married them. Raoden tried to pay attentio1n to the ceremony, but Korathi wedding services were lengthy and often dry. Father Omin, well aware of the precedent set by an Elantrian asking a Korathi priest to officiate at his wedding, had prepared an extensive speech for the occasion. As usual, the short man's eyes wok on a semiglazed look as he rambled, as if he had forgotten
that there was anyone else present. So Raoden let his mind wander too. He couldn't stop thinking of a conversation he had held with Galladon earlier in the day, a conversation initiated because of a piece of bone. The bone, retrieved from the body of a dead Fjordell monk, was deformed and twisted-yet it was more beautiful than disgusting. It was like a carved piece of ivory, or a bundle of engraved wooden rods all twisted together. Most disturbingly, Raoden swore he could make out slightly familiar symbols in the carving. Symbols he recognized from his schooling-ancient Fjordell characters. The Derethi monks had devised their own version of AonDor. The worry pressed on his mind with such vigor that it drew his attention even in the middle of his own wedding. Over the centuries, only one thing had kept Fjorden from conquering the West: Elantris. If Wyrn had learned to access the Dor ... Raoden kept remembering Dilaf and his strange ability to resist, and even destroy, Aons. If a few more of the monks had possessed that power, then the battle could easily have gone another way. Ien's familiar bubble-like ball of light floated approvingly at Raoden's side. The Seon's restoration almost made up for the dear friends Raoden had lost during the final battle to restore Elantris. Karata and the others would be missed. Ien claimed to remember nothing of his time of madness, but something seemed a little ... different about the Seon. He was more quiet than normal, even more thoughtful. As soon as he had some free time, Raoden planned to interrogate the other Elantrians in the hopes of discovering more about the Seons. It disturbed him that throughout his studies, readings, and learning, he had never discovered exactly how Seons were created-if, indeed, they were even creations of AonDor. That wasn't the only thing that bothered him, however. There was also the question of Shuden's strange ChayShan dance. Onlookers, including Lukel, claimed that the Jindo had managed to defeat one of Dilaf's monks alone-with his eyes closed. Some even said they had seen the young baron glowing as he fought. Raoden was beginning to suspect there was more than one way to access the Dor-far more. And one of those methods was in the hands of the most brutal, domineering tyrant in Opelon: Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. Regent of All Creation. Apparently, Sarene noticed Raoden's inattention, for she elbowed him in the side when Omin's speech began to wind down. Ever the stateswoman, she was poised, in control, and alert. Not to mention beautiful. They performed the ceremony, exchanging Korathi pendants that bore Aon Omi and pledging their lives and deaths to one another. The pendant he gave to Sarene had been delicately carved from pure jade by Taan himself, then overlaid with bands of gold to match her hair. Sarene's own gift was less extravagant, but equally fitting. Somewhere she had found a heavy black stone that polished up as if it were metal, and its reflective darkness complimented Raoden's silvery skin. With that, Omin
proclaimed to all of Arelon that its king was married. The cheering began, and Sarene leaned over to kiss him. “Was it everything you hoped for?” Raoden asked. “You said you have been anticipating this moment for your entire life.” “It was wonderful,” Sarene replied. “However, there is one thing I have looked forward to even more than my wedding.” Raoden raised an eyebrow. She smiled mischievously. “The wedding night.” Raoden laughed his reply, wondering what he had gotten himself, and Arelon, into by bringing Sarene to Arelon. EPILOGUE THE day was warm and bright, a complete contrast to the day of Iadon's burial. Sarene stood outside Kae, regarding the former king's barrow. Everything Iadon had fought for had been overturned; Elantris had been revitalized and serfdom proclaimed illegal. Of course, his son did sit on the throne of Arelon, even if that throne was inside of Elantris now. Only a week had passed since the wedding, but so much had happened. Raoden had ended up allowing the nobility to keep their titles, though he had first tried to abolish the entire system. The people wouldn't have it. It seemed unnatural for there not to be counts, barons, or other lords. So, Raoden had instead twisted the system to his own ends. He made each lord a servant of Elantris, charging them with the responsibility of caring for the people in remote parts of the country. The nobility became less aristocrats and more food distributors-which, in a way, was what they should have been in the first place. Sarene watched him now, speaking with Shuden and Lukel, his skin glowing even in the sunlight. The priests who said the fall of Elantris had revealed its occupants' true selves had not known Raoden. This was the true him, the glowing beacon, the powerful source of pride and hope. No matter how metallically bright his skin became, it could never match the radiance of his soul. Beside Raoden stood the quiet Galladon, his skin glowing as well, though in a different way. It was darker, like polished iron, a remnant of his Duladen heritage. The large man's head was still bald. Sarene had been surprised at that fact, for all the other Elantrians had grown heads of white hair. When asked about the oddity, Galladon had simply shrugged in his characteristic manner, mumbling. “Seems right to me. I've been bald since I hit my third decade. Kolo?” Just behind Raoden and Lukel, she could make out the silver-skinned form of Adien, Daora's second son. According to Lukel, the Shaod had taken Adien five years before, but the family had determined to cover up his transformation with makeup rather than throw him into Elantris. Adien's true nature was no more baffling than that of his father. Kiin hadn't been willing to explain much, but Sarene saw the confirmation in her uncle's eyes. Just over ten years ago, he had led his fleets against Sarene's father in an attempt to steal the throne-a throne that Sarene was beginning to believe might legally have belonged to Kiin.
If it was true that Kiin was the older brother, then he should have inherited, not Eventeo.1 Her father still wouldn't speak on the subject, but she intended to get her answers eventually. As she pondered, she noticed a carriage pulling up to the grave site. The door opened and Torena climbed out, leading her overweight father, Count Ahan. Ahan hadn't been the same since Roial's death: he spoke in a dazed, sickly voice, and he had lost an alarming amount of weight. The others hadn't forgiven him for his part in the duke's execution, but their scorn could never match the self-loathing he must feel. Raoden caught her eye, nodding slightly. It was time. Sarene strode past Iadon's grave and four just like it-the resting places of Roial, Eondel, Karata, and a man named Saolin. This last barrow held no body, but Raoden had insisted that it be raised with the others. This area was to become a memorial, a way of remembering those who had fought for Arelon-as well as the man who had tried to crush it. Every lesson had two sides. It was as important for them to remember Iadon's sickening greed as it was to remember Roial's sacrifice. She slowly approached one final grave. The earth was raised high like the others, forming a barrow that would someday be covered with grass and foliage. For now, however, it was barren, the freshly piled earth still soft. Sarene hadn't needed to lobby hard for its creation. They all now knew the debt they owed to the man buried within. Hrathen of Fjorden, high priest and holy gyorn of Shu-Dereth. They had left his funeral until the last. Sarene turned to address the crowd, Raoden at their front. “I will not speak long,” she said, “for though I had more contact with the man Hrathen than most of you, I did not know him. I always assumed that I could come to understand a man through being his enemy, and I thought that I understood Hrathen-his sense of duty, his powerful will, and his determination to save us from ourselves. “I did not see his internal conflict. I could not know the man whose heart drove him, eventually, to reject all that he had once believed in the name of what he knew was right. I never knew the Hrathen who placed the lives of others ahead of his own ambition. These things were hidden, but in the end they are what proved most important to him. “When you remember this man, think not of an enemy. Think of a man who longed to protect Arelon and its people. Think of the man he became, the hero who saved your king. My husband and I would have been killed by the monster of Dakhor, had Hrathen not arrived to protect us. “Most important, remember Hrathen as the one who gave that vital warning that saved Teod's fleets. If the armada had fallen, then be assured that Teod wouldn't have been the only country to suffer. Wyrn's armies would have
fallen on Arelon, Elantris or no Elantris, and you all would be fighting for survival at this moment-if, that is, you were even still alive.” Sarene paused, letting her eyes linger on the grave. At its head stood a carefully arranged stack of bloodred armor. Hrathen's cloak hung on the end of a sword, its point driven into the soft earth. The crimson cape flapped in the wind. “No.” Sarene said. “When you speak of this man, let it be known that he died in our defense. Let it be said that after all else, Hrathen, gyorn of Shu-Dereth, was not o1ur enemy. He was our savior.” Elantris Glossary The following is a list of places, people, concepts, or other unfamiliar words used in ELANTRIS. I have made every effort to be exhaustive. However, this list was mostly complied during an earlier revision of ELANTRIS, and some things have changed since then. I caught some of these (Galladon's name change) but I think I might have missed others (some of the Aon definitions.) If you find an error—or if you find a topic or word that I have missed—feel free to email me. In the definitions, I have used (A) to indicate a word of Aonic descent, (F) for one of Fjordell descent, (D) for Duladel words, (J) for Jindoeese words, and (S) for Svordish words. For easy navigation please click on one of the letters below to automatically jump to that section. Aanden: (A) An Elantrian. One of the three gang leaders. He has control over the university section of the city, and claims to have been a earl on the outside. He is rumored to be slightly insane. Aberteen: (F) A type of flower favored in Fjordell and northern Arelon. Ahan: (A) A Earl of Arelon. He is overweight, jovial, and prone to argument with Duke Roial. Alonoe: (A) A lake in the very center of Arelon. One of the largest lakes on the continent. Aon: (A) Name for an ancient Aonic rune. The Aons formed a logographic alphabet used in Arelon and Teod until the development of a phonetic alphabet. AonDor: (A) Ancient form of magic practiced by the Elantrians. It Aonic: (A) 1) A language spoken in Arelon and Teod. It was originally based on the Aons. 2) A racial group that originated in Teod. People of Aonic descent are characterized by blonde hair and tall frames. Most people in Teod are pure Aonic, while those in Arelon have intermixed more with the eastern nations. Aredel: (A) A river that runs from Lake Alonoe, beneath Elantris, through the city of Kae, and finally to the ocean. Arelene: (A) A person from Arelon. Arelish: (A) An adjective to describe an Arelene. Arteth: (F) A full Derethi priest. The lowest rank of priest in the Derethi priesthood that can lead a chapel on his own. Ashe: (A) 1) The Aon for 'light.' 2) Sarene's Seon. Ashgress: (F) The Fjordell ambassador to Teod. Atad: (A) The Aonic word for the mountains separating Arelon and Fjordell. (See also Dathreki) Atara: (A) Duke
Telrii's wife. Chay: (J) A piece in the game of ShinDa. An ambiguous piece, the Chay piece moves differently depending on what other piece is closest to it. ChayShan: (J) An ancient Jindoeese martial art based on slow movements that build in speed. Rumored to have mystical applications. Many Jindoeese people who are not warriors practice ChayShan as a means of focusing the mind and toning the body. Crushthroat, Dreok: (A) A pirate who pillaged the Sea of Fjorden. About fifteen years before he tried to capture the throne of Teod for himself, but was defeated. Daa: (A) The Aon for 'power.' Dahad: (A) An Elantrian. Dakhor: (F) The most mysterious of Fjorden's monasteries. The specialized monasteries each train their monks in one expertise or another, but no spies have been able to determine what sort of training Dakhor imparts. Many enter as initiates, and most are never seen again. Daora: (A) Kiin's wife. Has the Arelish title of Kimess. Daorn: (A) Kiin and Daora's son. Dashe: (A) An Elantrian. Karata's second in command, a good warrior who is known to be hot-headed. Dathreki: (F) Fjordell name for the mountains separating Arelon and Fjorden. (See also Atad.) DeHwo: (J) The original Jindoeese name for the man named Dereth in Fjordell. He was a student of Keseg, and originally founded the Derethi religion. DeluseDoo: (D) A word that loosely translates as 'angered for being insulted.' Dendo: (D) A common name for a Duladen commoner. Deo: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Gold.' 2) A plantation in northwestern Arelon. 3) The basic coin in Arelon. Dereth: (F) The founder of Shu-Dereth. He believed that all mankind must someday be united under the leadership of one nation. (See also DeHwo.) Derethi: (F) The Adjective for Shu-Dereth. Usually refers to the Derethi religion. Dieren: An Elantrian. Dii: (A) The Aon for 'Wood.' Dilaf: (F) A young Derethi priest serving in Kae. He has a Fjordell name, but is of Aonic descent. He is short, passionate, and hates Elantris violently. Dio: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Cold.' 2) King Eventeo's Seon. Diolen: (A) An baron in Arelon. Dion: (A) A young Elantrian Dionia: (A) Influenza. Do: (J) Book. Do-Kando: (J) The holy book of Shu-Keseg. It was from this book that Dereth and Korath developed their separate beliefs. DoMin: (J) The Jindoeese word for Domi, or god. Doloken: (D) Hell Domi: (A) The God of the Korathi religion. The religion claims that he is a loving parent of humankind. Dor: (D) Loosely translated as 'overspirit,' the Dor is a mystical force the Jesker religion controls the world. It is a force, not a being, but is what guides nature—and those who understand it—toward harmony. The term has also been adopted by the Jeskeri Mysteries, who treat it more like fate. The Mysteries teach that the Dor can be influenced to bring fortune or folly upon certain individuals, but only through the performance of proper rituals. Dorven: (F) The lowest level of Derethi priest. Dothgen: (A) A Derethi priest serving in Kae. He was trained at Rathbore monastery. Dreok:
(A) See Crushthroat, Draok. Dula: (D) A word for those who are from Duladel. Duladel: (D) A country to the southeast of Arelon. Duladel is racially mixed, its people having heritage from all across the continent. Up until recent times, Duladel was ruled over by a republic, and all men were free. Duladen citizens tended to be of Aonic decent, while commoners tended to have the dark skin of Jindos. The division was not perfect, however. Dulas are known for their carefree lifestyle and their flamboyant dress. The country itself consists of steppes and highlands—it provides the only safe passes through the Atad/Dathreki mountains. Duladen: (D) An adverb to describe people or things from Duladel. Edan: (A) The baron of Tii plantation. A man known for his wastefulness, Edan has recently run into financial problems. Edo: (A) The Aon for 'Protection.' Ehe: (A) The Aon for 'Fire.' Elantrian: (A) The name for one who has been taken by the Shaod. One who lives in Elantris. Elantris: (A) Historical city of mystery and capital of Arelon. Up until ten years ago, Elantris was a place of power and magic. Its occupants, the Elantrians, were magical beings who healed quickly, had silvery shinning skin, and could use the magic of AonDor. Ten years ago, Elantris fell for some unknown reason. It's people lost their ability to perform magic, and instead of being silver-skinned gold-like beings, they became sickly-looking wretches. Modern Elantrians need not eat or breath—though they may do either if they wish. Any wound they incur will continue to hurt them until, eventually, their collected pains drives them insane. Elao: (A) A maid in King Iadon's palace. Ene: (A) Aon for 'Wit.' Eno: (A) The Aon for 'Water.' Eoden: (A) A duke in Teod. Eoldess: (A) Duke Roial's deceased wife. Eondel: (A) A earl in Arelon. Eondel was a soldier before the Reod, and runs the most elite personal fighting force in Arelon. Eonic: (A) An1 Elantrian. He was a blacksmith before the Shaod took him. Eostek: (A) Sixth month of the Aonic year. Eshen: (A) King Iadon's second wife. Queen of Arelon. Eto: (A) The Aon for 'Physical.' Has reference to the earth and ground. Eventeo: (A) King of Teod; Sarene's father. Ferrin: (J) A bird common to the Jindoeese marshes. Fjeldor: (F) A Derethi monastery that trains spies. Fjon: (F) Head Arteth in Kae's Derethi monastery. Fjordell: (F) A word for a person from Fjorden. Also the adverb to describe such. Fjordell's tend to have dark black hair and are very wide of build. Many rival even Teos when it comes to height. Fjorden: (F) Strict and militaristic, Fjorden is the dominant country of the continent. Over three hundred years ago, Fjorden nearly conquered all of Sycla/Opelon—only Arelon, with the help of Elantrian magic, stood against it. The Old Empire, or First Empire, fell because of administrative problems—it conquered more than it could hold. Just after its fall, Wyrn Wulfden the First converted to the Derethi religion, and within a generation all of Fjorden had done likewise. Now, instead of sending
troops across the continent, Fjorden sends priests. It is said that the conversions obtained—or forced—by these priests have granted Fjorden more power than even the First Empire once held. Forton: (F) An alchemist in Hrovell. Galladon: (D) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was from Duladel. Garha: (F) A caffeine rich drink from Fjorden. Gatrii: (A) An Arelene. Gorndel: (S) A common tuber grown throughout Sycla/Opelon. Graeo: (A) A Teois nobleman. Once betrothed to Sarene. Gradors: (F) The rank in the Derethi priesthood directly above Arteth. Generally, they lead chapels in large cities. Gragdet: (F) A special rank in the Derethi priesthood. The title is given to those who lead monasteries in Fjorden. Their rank in relation to the rest of the priesthood depends on the importance of their monastery. The three most important Gragdets—the ones who lead Rathbore, Dakhor, and Fjeldor monasteries—out-rank even Gyorns. Gretgor: (F) Mythical sword of Wyrn, founder of Fjorden. Grondkest: (F) A famous Derethi philosopher. Gyorn: (F) The highest sequential rank in the Derethi priesthood. Gyorns are only subject to the will of Wyrn and, occasionally, Gragdets. The Gyorns are amongst the most powerful people on the content—in Derethi nations, Kings are required to bow before them. Gyorns often serve to oversee the Derethi faithful in an entire nation, though they are also given special political duties, such as serving as Wyrn's personal emissary. Their blood-red ceremonial arm1or gives them an imposing aura, an aura enhanced by their reputation. It is said that Gyorns are the most politically savvy, and the most heartless, people under Wyrn's control. Political unrest often follows in their wake, and where they are displeased Kings are often found assassinated. HaiKo: (J) A Jindoeese shrimp dish. Often cooked with crayfish from the Jindo marshes instead. Hama: (D) Grandmother Haona: (A) An Elantrian woman. Hoid: (A) A beggar in Kae Horen: (A) A nervous Elantrian man. Hraggen: (F) A small country to the southeast of Fjorden. It has long been under Fjorden's control, and is known for its fine cuisine. Hraggish: (F) An adjective to describe something or someone from Hraggen. Hrathen: (F) One of the most infamous Derethi Gyorns. Forty-two years old, Hrathen has been serving the Derethi church in one capacity or another since his childhood. In recent times, it is rumored that he was behind the collapse of the Duladen republic. Hroden: (F) 'Master' or 'Lord.' It is half of the two-part Derethi oath bond. (See also Odiv.) Hrovell: (F) A backwater country to the far southeast. Its people speak Fjordell with a harsh accent, and they have little knowledge of what is happening in the rest of the world. Hrovell claims Derethi as its state religion, but most people practice a jumbled combination of the Jeskeri Mysteries, Derethi, and shamanism. Hroven: (F) A word to describe someone or something from Hrovell. Hruggath: (F) An obscene oath in Fjordell; often used with 'Ja,' the shortened, vulgar word for Jaddeth. Iadon: (A) King of Arelon. Before the Reod, he was a well-respected merchant known for his straight-forwardness. He has a
strong temper, and a slight paranoia of assassins. Ial: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Fertile.' 2) A large plantation in northern Arelon, currently held by Duke Roial. Iald: (A) A port city in Ial plantation. Iam: (A) The Aon for 'Age.' Idan: (A) A minor nobleman in Arelon. Ido: (A) The Aon for 'Mercy.' Idos: (A) Merciful. Often used when calling on Domi's name. Iir: (A) The Aon for 'Strength.' Ja: (F) The Vulgar version of 'Jaddeth,' God of the Derethi religion. Jaador: (F) A nation to the east. Its people are racially Jindo, but religiously Derethi. They are fond of dueling. Jaadorian: (F) A word to describe someone or something from Jaador. Jaddeth: (F) The historical Fjordell god of the underworld. Upon Wulfden's adoption of Shu-Dereth as the official state religion, Jaddeth was adapted to become the official god of the religion. Hold-overs from the ancient pantheistic Jaddeth still exist, however, such as the tradition that Jaddeth's Kingdom lies beneath the earth, not in the heavens. Jalla: (S) Lukel's Svordish wife. Jedaver: (F) The Jaadorian word for a fencing sword. Jesker: (D) The Duladen religion. It is the oldest theological system still practiced in the modern world. Historically, Jesker is a peaceful religion suited to the Duladen light-hearted lifestyle. It teaches that all men must bring themselves in harmony with the 'Dor,' thereby living in harmony with nature. The Jeskeri Mysteries have taken many precepts from Jesker and, according to strict Jesker believers, vulgarized them into a horrid approximation of the religion's true teachings. (See also 'Dor,' 'Jeskeri Mysteries.' Jeskeri Mysteries: (D) A descendant of the original Jesker religion, the Mysteries combine traditional Jesker beliefs with new tenants. While Jesker teaches one to bring oneself in harmony with the Dor, the Mysteries teach that the better way is to try and influence the Dor—or fate—in one's favor. Through secret rites focusing on the creation and destruction of life, Jeskeri followers believe they can bring good fortune to themselves or downfall to their enemies. Because many of these rites involve fertility rites, sexual practices, and live sacrifices, most people fear or hate Jeskeri. The religion is most hated by the country where it found birth—Duladen. Despite its unpopular practices, the Mysteries continue to be a force in most nations. Many monarchs have tried, unsuccessfully, to stamp the religion out. Popular times for Jeskeri rites are during times of celestial import—such as the full moon or eclipses. Some Jeskeri sects are known to practice human sacrifice, but these are quickly stamped out when monarchs learn of them. Jindo: (J) A country directly east of Duladel. Jindo is the birthplace of both Shu-Dereth and Shu-Korath. An unassuming people with dark brown skin and fine features, the Jindoeese are soft-spoken and uncombative. About a century ago, Jindo finally submitted to allow Derethi priests past its borders. Not long after, the country officially converted—its people believe that to submit is better than to waste energy resisting. Jindoeese: (J) A word describing a person or thing from Jindo. Kaa: (A) 1) The Aon for 'plants.' 2) A
plantation in southern Arelon, currently held by baron Shuden. Kae: (A) The current capital of Arelon. Before the Reod, Kae was one of the four smaller cities that surrounded Elantris. It was populated by wealthy merchants and craftsmen who pandered to the Elantrians. After the Reod, Kae became King Iadon's seat of power. The other three cities were quickly depopulated—not only did Iadon need people to man the plantations, without Elantris's magic, the country was not able to provide food for so many people living in one place. Kahar: (A) An elderly Elantrian man. Kaise: (A) Kiin and Daora's daughter. Kalomo River, the: (D) The river that marks the border between Arelon and Duladel. Kaloo: (D) A common Duladen name. Karata: (A) An Elantrian woman. One of the three gang leaders in Elantris, Karata holds the palace section of the city. Kathari: (F) A large pink fruit grown in Hraggen. Kayana: (D) Insane. KeHwo: (J) The honorific name given to Keshu to signify his status as a great teacher. Keseg: (F) The Fjordell name for Keshu. Keshu: (J) Keshu was an elderly Jindo philosopher who ended up spawning two of the most powerful religions in the world. Keshu was a revolutionary thinker who combined traditional Jindoeese ideas—such as the power of unity—with such concepts as a single, omnipotent god and an organized ministry. Keseg didn't see himself as a revolutionary; his teachings were meant to clarify what the Jindoeese already believed. His two disciples, however, collected his teachings in the Do-Keseg, then carried them through the world. Ketathum: (F) A Hraggish pork dish. Kie: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Circle.' 2) A plantation in the middle of Arelon. Kike: (S) A common fish found in the Sea of Fjorden. Kiin: King Eventeo of Teod's brother. Estranged from his brother for some unknown reason, Kiin now lives in Arelon with his wife Daora, his two children, Daorn and Kaise, and his adopted children Maiben and Lukel. Kiin is tall, like many Teos, and has a sizable girth. His voice is scratchy, though it is uncertain if the state was caused by aging or some sort of disease. Kimeon: (A) A lowly Arelis noble title. Kimess: (A) The feminine version of Kimeon. Kmeer: (D) The Duladen name for a fencing sword. KoHwo: (J) The Jindoeese name of Korath. One of Keseg's two disciples, Korath carried his teachings to Teod. Kolo: (D) A tag question commonly used in Duladen, especially amongst the commoners. It means 'Isn't that right?' or 'Don't you think?' Korath: (F) One of Keseg's two disciples. Korath believed that all men would be unified by love. His teachings found root in Teod, which is where his religion originated. The name they use for him, ironically, is his Fjordell one. Korathi: (F) An adjective used for Shu-Korath. Usually refers to the Korathi religion. Krondet: (F) Half of the Derethi oath-bond. Krondet is similar to Odiv, but far less binding. (See Odiv.) Leky-stick: (S) A Svordish game popular in many nations. Loren: (A) An Elantrian man. Lukel: (A) A merchant, oldest son of Daora,
and adopted son of Kiin. Lukel just finished studies in the Svordish university, where he married a Fjordell named Jalla. He was Raoden's 1best friend when the two of them were growing up. Maare: (A) An Elantrian woman. MaeDal: (A) Second day of the week according to the Aonic calendar. Maiben: Second son of Daora and adopted son of Kiin. Maiben is autistic, and spends most of his time at home mumbling numbers. His favorite thing to do is count how many steps it would take to travel from one place to another. Maipon sticks: (J) Eating utensils used in Jindo. Mareshe: (A) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was a jeweler. Meala: (A) Head maid in Iadon's castle. Nae: (A) The Aon for 'Sight.' Neoden: (A) The aging wife of an Arelis earl. Odiv: (F) Half of the Derethi oath-bond. Derethi society is stratified in a way that each person is linked back to Jaddeth. Common people swear an oath bond to their priests, who in turn swear an oath bond to the priest higher than them, who swear to those higher than them. Eventually, it all ends with Wyrn. There are two types of oaths: Odiv-Hroden and Krondet-Hroden. In both cases, the Hroden is the lord and the other is the servant. Odiv—the oath usually sworn by priests—is far more binding than Krondet. If one swears to be another's Odiv, then their spiritual salvation depends on how well they serve their Hroden. They are required to do whatever their Hroden commands, even if it is against their own conscience or will. Omi: (A) The Aon for 'Love.' Omin: (A) Head priest of Shu-Korath in Arelon. Opa: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Flower.' 2) Duke Roial's Seon. Opais: (A) Young daughter of a guard in Iadon's palace. Ope: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Nation.' OpeDal: (A) Sixth day of the week according to the Aonic calendar. Opelon: (A) The Aonic word for the continent containing Arelon, Fjorden, Jindo, and all of the other nations except Teod. (See also Sycla.) Overspirit: (D) Another word for the Dor. Ragnat: (F) Rank in the Derethi priesthood directly below Gyorn. They usually oversee a region of Derethi worshipers. RaiDel: (J) A spicy peeper favored in Jindo RaiDomo Mai: (J) 'Meat with a fiery skin.' A Jindo delicacy. Ramear: (A) A young Arelis noble of lesser rank. Rao: (A) The Aon for 'Spirit' or 'Essence.' Raoden: (A) Crown Prince of Arelon Rathbore: (F) One of th1e most influential Fjordell monasteries. It trains assassins. Reo: (A) The Aon for 'Punishment' or 'Retribution.' Reod: (A) The name given to the fall of Elantris. No one knows what caused the Reod. It happened instantaneously; before it, the Elantrians were god-like individuals with incredible power. After the Reod, they were pathetic creatures barely alive. The Reod's effect was felt throughout Arelon; it caused riots in Kae and the surrounding cities, it caused the collapse of the Arelene religion. It was even said to have caused physical cataclysms in the land itself, instigating a massive earthquake that opened an
enormous crack in the ground just south of lake Alonoe. Revertiss: (F) A famous food dish. Rii: (A) The Aon for wealth. Riil: (A) An Elantrian man. Before the Shaod took him, he was a bricklayer. Rivercrawler: (J) A type of Jindoeese crawfish. Roial: (A) An elderly Arelis Duke. Roial is one of the richest, and most influential, men in Arelon. His wealth is only matched by Duke Telrii. Roial is known for his fondness of political games—which he wins more often than not. Ruda: (D) Feminine of Rulo. Rulo: (D) A word that loosely translates as 'unfortunate one.' Saolin: (A) An Elantrian man. Before the Shaod took him, he was a warrior in Eondel's legion. Sarane: (A) Only daughter of King Eventeo of Teod. Sarene is twenty-five years old and unmarried. She is fond of politics, and has served for the last five years in her fathers diplomatic corps. Recently, she entered into a political betrothal with Prince Raoden of Arelon. Savery: (S) A precious rock. Green in color, it can only be found in caverns far beneath the earth. Seaden: (A) Earl Ahan's portly wife. Seala: (A) A young Arelene girl who died nearly twenty years ago. Secabird: (D) A brightly-colored bird native to the Duladen lowlands. Seinalan: (A) Patriarch of the Korathi Religion. He lives in Teod and is said to be a fashionable dresser. Seon: (A) Mystical sentient floating balls of light connected to Elantris. Each Seon bears an Aon at its center, which glows and causes the Seon's light. Seons are autonomous, intelligent beings who have given themselves to the service of mankind. It is assumed that they were somehow constructed by the Elantrians, but no one knows how. There are only two ways a Seon can die. The first is if its master gets taken by the Shaod. It is unknown why this kills Seons—it did not kill them before the Reod. The other way a Seon can die is if it releases its Aon. If it does so, the Aon will let loose its power, as if it were drawn by AonDor. However, the Seon will cease to exist. Seor: (A) An ancient Elantrian scholar. Seraven: (S) The capital of Svorden.1p> Shao: (A) The Aon for 'Transform' Shaod: (A) 'The transformation.' This is the name for the mystical event that changes a regular person into an Elantrian. The Shaod takes only minutes, and it is irreversible. It chooses people with apparent randomness, though it does follow a couple of rules. It only takes people who live in Arelon or northwestern Duladel, and it only takes people of Aonic blood—meaning either Teos, Arelenes, or Dulas. Before the Reod, the Shaod transformed a person into a glowing, quick-healing being with god-like powers. After the Reod, the Shaod instead began to change people into corpse-like creatures with blotchy skin. Shaor: (A) An Elantrian. One of the three gang leaders of Elantris, Shaor controls the market section of the city. Sheo: (A) The Aon for 'Death.' ShinDa: (J) A popular board-game that originated in Jindo. Shu: (J) 'Path of.'
Shu-Dereth: (J/F) The name given to the religion founded by Dereth. Shu-Dereth interpreted Keseg's teachings to mean that all men must be united beneath the rule of one nation. Dereth taught that once all men bow before a single monarch, proving their unified nature, God would come to live amongst them. Though Dereth's ideas were originally rejected in his native Jindo, they were embraced by the Fjordell. Wyrn Wulfden the First converted, and so, therefore, did most of his people. Since that time, Shu-Dereth has been the official religion of Fjorden, and has spread to all of the eastern nations. Fjorden's militaristic society stratified and organized Dereth's teachings into an almost martial level. Shuden: (J) A young baron in Arelon. Though Shuden is racially Jindo, he is nationally Arelene, where he holds lands and a title. Both were given to his father by King Iadon in exchange for opening a caravan route from Jindo to Kae. Sorii: (A) Youngest daughter of Duke Telrii. She died when she was very young, though it is rumored she was actually taken by the Shaod. Sourmelon: A delicious fruit that will only grow in the Duladen highlands. Sule: (D) Friend. Svorden: (S) Easternmost nation in Sycla. Svorden is a political alley of Fjorden. However, unlike most nations to the east, Svorden has been able to maintain a strong national identity, despite Derethi encroachment. It is the only eastern nation besides Jindo that has maintained its own language, and it is the second most politically important eastern nation. It is known for its university, its culture, and its naval prowess. Svordish: (S) A word for someone, or something, from Svorden. Svrakiss: (S) A Svordish concept integrated into the Derethi Religion. The Svrakiss are beings forbidden entrance to heaven. They are forced to wander the world, preying on the living. They are half-ghost, half-demon, in the Derethi religion, and are often used to represent all that is evil. Sycla: (F) The Fjordell word for the continent which includes every nation but Teod. (See also Op1elon.) Syclan: (F) Of or relating to the continent of Sycla. Syre: (F) The Fjordell word for a fencing sword. Taan: (A) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was a stonecarver. Telrii: (A) An Arelis Duke. Along with Roial and Iadon, he is one of the richest and most powerful men in Arelon. Tenrao: (A) An Elantrian man. Teo: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Learning.' 2) A person from Teod. Teod: (A) Nation that comprises the northern peninsula, the only part of the northern continent that is habitable. It is a relatively cold land, but not insufferably so. Teoin: (A) Capital of Teod. Teois: (A) An adjective referring to Teod. Teoras: (A) A city just east of Teoin. It houses the Largest Korathi temple in Teod. Teorn: (A) Son of King Eventeo of Teod. Crown prince and brother of Sarene. Tia: (A) The Aon for 'Travel.' Tii: (A) 1) The Aon for 'green.' 2) A plantation in the middle of Arelon. Tooledoo: (D) A card game that originated in Duladel. Torena: (A)
Daughter of Earl Ahan. She is slight of frame and somewhat quiet. Tore: (A) A very minor noble title in Arelon. Waren: (A) A young noble in Arelon, known for his white hair and piety. Widor: (F) The capital of Fjorden. Wulfden: (F) A common name for Fjordell Wyrns. Wulfden the First was the one who instigated Derethi as the state religion of Fjorden. Wyrn: (F) Title of the Fjordell emperor. It is also a religious title, indicating the highest priest in the Derethi religion. His official title is 'Regent of all Creation,' referring to his state of rulership until Jaddeth rises to build his Empire. Wyrnigs: (F) The Fjordell gold coin. Zigareth: (F) Name for the Fjordell palace in Widor, where Wyrn lives. Table of Contents PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 CHAPTER 48 CHAPTER 49 CHAPTER 50 CHAPTER 51 CHAPTER 52 CHAPTER 53 CHAPTER 54 CHAPTER 55 CHAPTER 56 CHAPTER 57 CHAPTER 58 CHAPTER 59 CHAPTER 60 CHAPTER 61 CHAPTER 62 CHAPTER 63 EPILOGUE Elantris Glossary Table of Contents PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 CHAPTER 48 CHAPTER 49 CHAPTER 50 CHAPTER 51 CHAPTER 52 CHAPTER 53 CHAPTER 54 CHAPTER 55 CHAPTER 56 CHAPTER 57 CHAPTER 58 CHAPTER 59 CHAPTER 60 CHAPTER 61 CHAPTER 62 CHAPTER 63 EPILOGUE Elantris Glossary Acknowledgements Annotations Working on Warbreaker was an unusual process in some ways; you can read more about it on my website. Suffice it to say that I had a more varied pool of alpha readers than normally, many of whom I know primarily through their handles on my forums. I’ve tried to get everyone’s names in here, but I’m sure I’m going to miss some. If you are one of those individuals, feel free to email me, and we’ll try to get you in future printings. The first acknowledgment goes to my lovely wife, Emily Sanderson, whom I married while writing this book. This is the first novel of mine that she had a large hand in by giving me feedback and
suggestions, and her help is greatly appreciated. Also, as always, my agent, Joshua Bilmes, and my editor, Moshe Feder, did an extremely large amount of work on this manuscript, taking it from the Second or Third Heightening to at least the Eighth. At Tor, several people have gone well beyond their call of duty. The first is Dot Lin, my publicist, who has been particularly awesome to work with. Thanks, Dot! And, as always, the tireless efforts of Larry Yoder deserve a note, as well as the excellent work of Tor’s art director genius, Irene Gallo. Dan Dos Santos did the cover art of this book, and I strongly suggest you check out his website and his other work, because I think he’s one of the best in the business right now. Also, Paul Stevens deserves a word of thanks for being the in-house liaison for my books. In the special thanks department, we have Joevans3, and Dreamking47, Louise Simard, Jeff Creer, Megan Kauffman, thelsdj, Megan Hutchins, Izzy Whiting, Janci Olds, Drew Olds, Karla Bennion, Eric James Stone, Dan Wells, Isaac Stewart, Ben Olsen, Greyhound, Demented Yam, D.Demille, Loryn, Kuntry Bumpken, Vadia, U-boat, Tjaeden, Dragon Fly, pterath, BarbaraJ, Shir Hasirim, Digitalbias, Spink Longfellow, amyface, Richard “Captain Goradel” Gordon, Swiggly, Dawn Cawley, Drerio, David B, Mi’chelle Trammel, Matthew R Carlin, Ollie Tabooger, John Palmer, Henrik Nyh, and the insoluble Peter Ahlstrom. Ars Arcanum TABLE OF THE HEIGHTENINGS Heightening Number Approximate Breaths Needed to Reach This Heightening Effectsof theHeightening First 50 Aura Recognition Second 200 Perfect Pitch Third 600 Perfect Color Recognition Fourth 1,000 Perfect Life Recognition Fifth 2,000 Agelessness Sixth 3,500 Instinctive Awakening Seventh 5,000 Invested Breath Recognition Eighth 10,000 Command Breaking Ninth 20,000 Greater Awakening, Audible Command Tenth 50,000 Color Distortion, Perfect Invocation, ???? Note One: Reaching above the Sixth Heightening is incredibly rare, and so few people understand the powers of the Seventh Heightening and above. Very little research has been done. The only known people ever to reach the Eighth Heightening and above are the Hallandren God Kings. Note Two: Returned appear to achieve the fifth Heightening by virtue of their Breath. It is theorized that they do not actually receive two thousand Breaths when they Return, but instead receive a single, powerful Breath, which brings with it the powers of the first five Heightenings. Note Three: The numbers given in the table above are only estimates, as very little is known about the upper Heightenings. Indeed, even for the lower levels, fewer or more Breaths may be required to achieve a given Heightening, depending on circumstances and the strength of the Breath. Note Four: Each additional Breath grants some things, no matter which Heightening an Awakener has achieved. The more breath one has, the more resistant to disease and aging a person is, the easier it is for them to distinguish colors, the more naturally they can learn to Awaken, and the stronger their life sense. HEIGHTENING POWERS Aura Recognition: The first Heightening grants a person the ability to see the Breath auras of others instinctively. This allows them
to judge roughly how many Breaths the person contains and the general health of that Breath. Persons without this Heightening have a much more difficult time judging auras directly, and must rely instead on how deeply the colors around a person change when they enter the aura. Without at least the first Heightening, it is impossible for the naked eye to notice an Awakener who has fewer than about thirty Breaths. Perfect Pitch: The Second Heightening grants perfect pitch to those who achieve it. Perfect Color Recognition: While each gained Breath leads a person to greater appreciation of colors, it isn’t until one reaches the Third Heightening that one can instantly and instinctively determine exact shades of colors and their hue harmonics. Perfect Life Sense: At the Fourth Heightening, an Awakener’s life sense achieves its maximum strength. Agelessness: At the fifth Heightening, an Awakener’s resistance to aging and disease reaches its maximum strength. These persons are immune to most toxins, including the effects of alcohol, and most physical ailments. (Such as headaches, diseases, and organ failure.) The person no longer ages, and becomes functionally immortal. Instinctive Awakening: All persons of the Sixth Heightening and above immediately understand and can use basic Awakening Commands without training or practice. More difficult Commands are easier for them to master and to discover. Breath Recognition: Those few persons who have reached the Seventh Heightening gain the ability to recognize the auras of objects, and can tell when something has been Invested with Breath via Awakening. Command Breaking: Any persons of the Eighth Heightening or more gain the ability to override Commands in other Invested objects, including Lifeless. This requires concentration and leaves the Awakener exhausted. Greater Awakening: Persons of the Ninth Heightening are reportedly able to Awaken stone and steel, though doing so requires large Investitures of Breath and specialized Commands. This ability has not been studied or confirmed. Audible Command: Persons of the Ninth Heightening also gain the ability to Awaken objects that they are not physically touching, but that are within the sound of their voice. Color Distortion: At the Tenth Heightening, an Awakener gains the natural and intrinsic ability to bend light around white objects, creating colors from them as if from a prism. Perfect Invocation: Awakeners of the Tenth Heightening can draw more color from the objects they use to fuel their art. This leaves objects drained to white, rather than grey. Other: There are rumors of other powers granted by the Tenth Heightening which are not understood or have not been made known by those who have achieved it. BOOKS BY BRANDON SANDERSON Warbreaker The Mistborn TrilogyMistbornThe Well of AscensionThe Hero of Ages Elantris Alcatraz Versus the Evil LibrariansAlcatraz Versus the Scrivener’s Bones One Annotations to Chapter One There were great advantages to being unimportant. True, by many people’s standards, Siri wasn’t “unimportant.” She was, after all, the daughter of a king. Fortunately, her father had four living children, and Siri—at seventeen years of age—was the youngest. Fafen, the daughter just older than Siri, had done the family duty and become
a monk. Above Fafen was Ridger, the eldest son. He would inherit the throne. And then there was Vivenna. Siri sighed as she walked down the path back to the city. Vivenna, the firstborn, was...well...Vivenna. Beautiful, poised, perfect in most every way. It was a good thing, too, considering the fact that she was betrothed to a god. Either way, Siri—as fourth child—was redundant. Vivenna and Ridger had to focus on their studies; Fafen had to do her work in the pastures and homes. Siri, however, could get away with being unimportant. That meant she could disappear into the wilderness for hours at a time. People would notice, of course, and she would get into trouble. Yet even her father would have to admit that her disappearance hadn’t caused much inconvenience. The city got along just fine without Siri—in fact, it tended to do a little better when she wasn’t around. Unimportance. To another, it might have been offensive. To Siri it was a blessing. She smiled, walking into the city proper. She drew the inevitable stares. While Bevalis was technically the capital of Idris, it wasn’t that big, and everyone knew her by sight. Judging by the stories Siri had heard from passing ramblemen, her home was hardly even a village compared with the massive metropolises in other nations. She liked it the way it was, even with the muddy streets, the thatched cottages, and the boring—yet sturdy—stone walls. Women chasing runaway geese, men pulling donkeys laden with spring seed, and children leading sheep on their way to pasture. A grand city in Xaka, Hudres, or even terrible Hallandren might have exotic sights, but it would be crowded with faceless, shouting, jostling crowds, and haughty noblemen. Not Siri’s preference; she generally found even Bevalis to be a bit busy for her. Still, she thought, looking down at her utilitarian grey dress, I’ll bet those cities have more colors. That’s something I might like to see. Her hair wouldn’t stand out so much there. As usual, the long locks had gone blond with joy while she’d been out in the fields. She concentrated, trying to rein them in, but she was only able to bring the color to a dull brown. As soon as she stopped focusing, her hair just went back to the way it had been. She’d never been very good at controlling it. Not like Vivenna. As she continued through the town, a group of small figures began trailing her. She smiled, pretending to ignore the children until one of them was brave enough to run forward and tug on her dress. Then she turned, smiling. They regarded her with solemn faces. Idris children were trained even at this age to avoid shameful outbursts of emotion. Austrin teachings said there was nothing wrong with feelings, but drawing attention to yourself with them was wrong. Siri had never been very devout. It wasn’t her fault, she reasoned, if Austre had made her with a distinct inability to obey. The children waited patiently until Siri reached into her apron and pulled
out a couple of brightly colored ﬂowers. The children’s eyes opened wide, gazing at the vibrant colors. Three of the ﬂowers were blue, one yellow. The ﬂowers stood out starkly against the town’s determined drabness. Other than what one could find in the skin and eyes of the people, there wasn’t a drop of color in sight. Stones had been whitewashed, clothing bleached grey or tan. All to keep the color away. For without color, there could be no Awakeners. The girl who had tugged Siri’s skirt finally took the ﬂowers in one hand and dashed away with them, the other children following behind. Siri caught a look of disproval in the eyes of several passing villagers. None of them confronted her, though. Being a princess—even an unimportant one—did have its perks. She continued on toward the palace. It was a low, single-story building with a large, packed-earth courtyard. Siri avoided the crowds of haggling people at the front, rounding to the back and going in the kitchen entrance. Mab, the kitchen mistress, stopped singing as the door opened, then eyed Siri. “Your father’s been looking for you, child,” Mab said, turning away and humming as she attacked a pile of onions. “I suspect that he has.” Siri walked over and sniffed at a pot, which bore the calm scent of boiling potatoes. “Went to the hills again, didn’t you? Skipped your tutorial sessions, I’ll bet.” Siri smiled, then pulled out another of the bright yellow ﬂowers, spinning it between two fingers. Mab rolled her eyes. “And been corrupting the city youth again, I suspect. Honestly, girl, you should be beyond these things at your age. Your father will have words with you about shirking your responsibilities.” “I like words,” Siri said. “And I always learn a few new ones when Father gets angry. I shouldn’t neglect my education, now should I?” Mab snorted, dicing some pickled cucumbers into the onions. “Honestly, Mab,” Siri said, twirling the ﬂower, feeling her hair shade a little bit red. “I don’t see what the problem is. Austre made the ﬂowers, right? He put the colors on them, so they can’t be evil. I mean, we call him God of Colors, for heaven’s sake.” “Flowers ain’t evil,” Mab said, adding something that looked like grass to her concoction, “assuming they’re left where Austre put them. We shouldn’t use Austre’s beauty to make ourselves more important.” “A ﬂower doesn’t make me look more important.” “Oh?” Mab asked, adding the grass, cucumber, and onions to one of her boiling pots. She banged the side of the pot with the ﬂat of her knife, listening, then nodded to herself and began fishing under the counter for more vegetables. “You tell me,” she continued, voice mufﬂed. “You really think walking through the city with a ﬂower like that didn’t draw attention to yourself?” “That’s only because the city is so drab. If there were a bit of color around, nobody would notice a ﬂower.” Mab reappeared, hefting a box filled with various tubers. “You’d have us decorate the place like
Hallandren? Maybe we should start inviting Awakeners into the city? How’d you like that? Some devil sucking the souls out of children, strangling people with their own clothing? Bringing men back from the grave, then using their dead bodies for cheap labor? Sacrificing women on their unholy altars?” Siri felt her hair whiten slightly with anxiety. Stop that! she thought. The hair seemed to have a mind of its own, responding to gut feelings. “That sacrificing-maidens part is only a story,” Siri said. “They don’t really do that.” “Stories come from somewhere.” “Yes, they come from old women sitting by the hearth in the winter. I don’t think we need to be so frightened. The Hallandren will do what they want, which is fine by me, as long as they leave us alone.” Mab chopped tubers, not looking up. “We’ve got the treaty, Mab,” Siri said. “Father and Vivenna will make sure we’re safe, and that will make the Hallandren leave us alone.” “And if they don’t?” “They will. You don’t need to worry.” “They have better armies,” Mab said, chopping, not looking up, “better steel, more food, and those...those things. It makes people worry. Maybe not you, but sensible folk.” The cook’s words were hard to dismiss out of hand. Mab had a sense, a wisdom beyond her instinct for spices and broths. However, she also tended to fret. “You’re worrying about nothing, Mab. You’ll see.” “I’m just saying that this is a bad time for a royal princess to be running around with ﬂowers, standin’ out and inviting Austre’s dislike.” Siri sighed. “fine, then,” she said, tossing her last ﬂower into the stew-pot. “Now we can all stand out together.” Mab froze, then rolled her eyes, chopping a root. “I assume that was a vanavel ﬂower?” “Of course,” Siri said, sniffing at the steaming pot. “I know better than to ruin a good stew. And I still say you’re overreacting.” Mab sniffed. “Here,” she said, pulling out another knife. “Make yourself useful. There’s roots that need choppin’.” “Shouldn’t I report to my father?” Siri said, grabbing a gnarled vanavel root and beginning to chop. “He’ll just send you back here and make you work in the kitchens as a punishment,” Mab said, banging the pot with her knife again. She firmly believed that she could judge when a dish was done by the way the pot rang. “Austre help me if Father ever discovers I like it down here.” “You just like being close to the food,” Mab said, fishing Siri’s ﬂower out of the stew then tossing it aside. “Either way, you can’t report to him. He’s in conference with Yarda.” Siri gave no reaction—she simply continued to chop. Her hair, however, grew blond with excitement. Father’s conferences with Yarda usually last hours, she thought. Not much point in simply sitting around, waiting for him to get done... Mab turned to get something off the table, and by the time she looked back, Siri had bolted out the door and was on her way toward the royal stables. Bare
minutes later, she galloped away from the palace, wearing her favorite brown cloak, feeling an exhilarated thrill that sent her hair into a deep blond. A nice quick ride would be a good way to round out the day. After all, her punishment was likely to be the same either way. ~ Dedelin, king of Idris, set the letter down on his desk. He had stared at it long enough. It was time to decide whether or not to send his eldest daughter to her death. Despite the advent of spring, his chamber was cold. Warmth was a rare thing in the Idris highlands; it was coveted and enjoyed, for it lingered only brieﬂy each summer. The chambers were also stark. There was a beauty in simplicity. Even a king had no right to display arrogance by ostentation. Dedelin stood up, looking out his window and into the courtyard. The palace was small by the world’s standards—only a single story high, with a peaked wooden roof and squat stone walls. But it was large by Idris standards, and it bordered on ﬂamboyant. This could be forgiven, for the palace was also a meeting hall and center of operations for his entire kingdom. The king could see General Yarda out of the corner of his eye. The burly man stood waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his thick beard tied in three places. He was the only other person in the room. Dedelin glanced back at the letter. The paper was a bright pink, and the garish color stood out on his desk like a drop of blood in the snow. Pink was a color one would never see in Idris. In Hallandren, however—center of the world’s dye industry—such tasteless hues were commonplace. “Well, old friend?” Dedelin asked. “Do you have any advice for me?” General Yarda shook his head. “War is coming, Your Majesty. I feel it in the winds and read it in the reports of our spies. Hallandren still considers us rebels, and our passes to the north are too tempting. They will attack.” “Then I shouldn’t send her,” Dedelin said, looking back out his window. The courtyard bustled with people in furs and cloaks coming to market. “We can’t stop the war, Your Majesty,” Yarda said. “But...we can slow it.” Dedelin turned back. Yarda stepped forward, speaking softly. “This is not a good time. Our troops still haven’t recovered from those Vendis raids last fall, and with the fires in the granary this winter...” Yarda shook his head. “We cannot afford to get into a defensive war in the summer. Our best ally against the Hallandren are the snows. We can’t let this conﬂict occur on their terms. If we do, we are dead.” The words all made sense. “Your Majesty,” Yarda said, “they are waiting for us to break the treaty as an excuse to attack. If we move first, they will strike.” “If we keep the treaty, they will still strike,” Dedelin said. “But later. Perhaps months later. You know how slow Hallandren politics are. If
we keep the treaty, there will be debates and arguments. If those last until the snows, then we will have gained the time we need so badly.” It all made sense. Brutal, honest sense. All these years, Dedelin had stalled and watched as the Hallandren court grew more and more aggressive, more and more agitated. Every year, voices called for an assault on the “rebel Idrians” living up in the highlands. Every year, those voices grew louder and more plentiful. Every year, Dedelin’s placating and politics kept the armies away. He had hoped, perhaps, that the rebel leader Vahr and his Pahn Kahl dissidents would draw attention away from Idris, but Vahr had been captured, his so-called army dispersed. His actions had only served to make Hallandren more focused on its enemies. The peace would not last. Not with Idris ripe, not with the trade routes worth so much. Not with the current crop of Hallandren gods, who seemed so much more erratic than their predecessors. He knew all of that. But he also knew that breaking the treaty would be foolish. When you were cast into the den of a beast, you did not provoke it to anger. Yarda joined him beside the window, looking out, leaning one elbow against the side of the frame. He was a harsh man born of harsh winters. But he was also as good a man as Dedelin had ever known—a part of the king longed to marry Vivenna to the general’s own son. That was foolishness. Dedelin had always known this day would come. He’d crafted the treaty himself, and it demanded he send his daughter to marry the God King. The Hallandren needed a daughter of the royal blood to reintroduce the traditional bloodline into their monarchy. It was something the depraved and vainglorious people of the lowlands had long coveted, and only that specific clause in the treaty had saved Idris these twenty years. That treaty had been the first official act of Dedelin’s reign, negotiated furiously following his father’s assassination. Dedelin gritted his teeth. How quickly he’d bowed before the whims of his enemies. Yet he would do it again; an Idris monarch would do anything for his people. That was one big difference between Idris and Hallandren. “If we send her, Yarda,” Dedelin said, “we send her to her death.” “Maybe they won’t harm her,” Yarda finally said. “You know better than that. The first thing they’ll do when war comes is use her against me. This is Hallandren. They invite Awakeners into their palaces, for Austre’s sake!” Yarda fell silent. finally, he shook his head. “Latest reports say their army has grown to include some forty thousand Lifeless.” Lord God of Colors, Dedelin thought, glancing at the letter again. Its language was simple. Vivenna’s twenty-second birthday had come, and the terms of the treaty stipulated that Dedelin could wait no longer. “Sending Vivenna is a poor plan, but it’s our only plan,” Yarda said. “With more time, I know I can bring the Tedradel to our cause—they’ve hated Hallandren
since the Manywar. And perhaps I can find a way to rile Vahr’s broken rebel faction in Hallandren itself. At the very least, we can build, gather supplies, live another year.” Yarda turned to him. “If we don’t send the Hallandren their princess, the war will be seen as our fault. Who will support us? They will demand to know why we refused to follow the treaty our own king wrote!” “And if we do send them Vivenna, it will introduce the royal blood into their monarchy, and that will have an even more legitimate claim on the highlands!” “Perhaps,” Yarda said. “But if we both know they’re going to attack anyway, then what do we care about their claim? At least this way, perhaps they will wait until an heir is born before the assault comes.” More time. The general always asked for more time. But what about when that time came at the cost of Dedelin’s own child? Yarda wouldn’t hesitate to send one soldier to die if it would mean time enough to get the rest of his troops into better position to attack, Dedelin thought. We are Idris. How can I ask anything less of my daughter than I’d demand of one of my troops? It was just that thinking of Vivenna in the God King’s arms, being forced to bear that creature’s child...it nearly made his hair bleach with concern. That child would become a stillborn monster who would become the next Returned god of the Hallandren. There is another way, a part of his mind whispered. You don’t have to send Vivenna... A knock came at his door. Both he and Yarda turned, and Dedelin called for the visitor to enter. He should have been able to guess whom it would be. Vivenna stood in a quiet grey dress, looking so young to him still. Yet she was the perfect image of an Idris woman—hair kept in a modest knot, no makeup to draw attention to the face. She was not timid or soft, like some noblewomen from the northern kingdoms. She was just composed. Composed, simple, hard, and capable. Idrian. “You have been in here for several hours, Father,” Vivenna said, bowing her head respectfully to Yarda. “The servants speak of a colorful envelope carried by the general when he entered. I believe I know what it contained.” Dedelin met her eyes, then waved for her to seat herself. She softly closed the door, then took one of the wooden chairs from the side of the room. Yarda remained standing, after the masculine fashion. Vivenna eyed the letter sitting on the desk. She was calm, her hair controlled and kept a respectful black. She was twice as devout as Dedelin, and—unlike her youngest sister—she never drew attention to herself with fits of emotion. “I assume that I should prepare myself for departure, then,” Vivenna said, hands in her lap. Dedelin opened his mouth, but could find no objection. He glanced at Yarda, who just shook his head, resigned. “I have prepared my entire life for
this, Father,” Vivenna said. “I am ready. Siri, however, will not take this well. She left on a ride an hour ago. I should depart the city before she gets back. That will avoid any potential scene she might make.” “Too late,” Yarda said, grimacing and nodding toward the window. Just outside, people scattered in the courtyard as a figure galloped through the gates. She wore a deep brown cloak that bordered on being too colorful, and—of course—she had her hair down. The hair was yellow. Dedelin felt his rage and frustration growing. Only Siri could make him lose control, and—as if in ironic counterpoint to the source of his anger—he felt his hair change. To those watching, a few locks of hair on his head would have bled from black to red. It was the identifying mark of the royal family, who had ﬂed to the Idris highlands at the climax of the Manywar. Others could hide their emotions. The royals, however, manifested what they felt in the very hair on their heads. Vivenna watched him, pristine as always, and her poise gave him strength as he forced his hair to turn black again. It took more willpower than any common man could understand to control the treasonous Royal Locks. Dedelin wasn’t sure how Vivenna managed it so well. Poor girl never even had a childhood, he thought. From birth, Vivenna’s life had been pointed toward this single event. His firstborn child, the girl who had always seemed like a part of himself. The girl who had always made him proud; the woman who had already earned the love and respect of her people. In his mind’s eye he saw the queen she could become, stronger even than he. Someone who could guide them through the dark days ahead. But only if she survived that long. “I will prepare myself for the trip,” Vivenna said, rising. “No,” Dedelin said. Yarda and Vivenna both turned. “Father,” Vivenna said. “If we break this treaty, it will mean war. I am prepared to sacrifice for our people. You taught me that.” “You will not go,” Dedelin said firmly, turning back toward the window. Outside, Siri was laughing with one of the stablemen. Dedelin could hear her outburst even from a distance; her hair had turned a ﬂame-colored red. Lord God of Colors, forgive me, he thought. What a terrible choice for a father to make. The treaty is specific: I must send the Hallandren my daughter when Vivenna reaches her twenty-second birthday. But it doesn’t actually say which daughter I am required to send. If he didn’t send Hallandren one of his daughters, they would attack immediately. If he sent the wrong one, they might be angered, but he knew they wouldn’t attack. They would wait until they had an heir. That would gain Idris at least nine months. And...he thought, if they were to try to use Vivenna against me, I know that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from giving in. It was shameful to admit that fact, but in the
end, it was what made the decision for him. Dedelin turned back toward the room. “Vivenna, you will not go to wed the tyrant god of our enemies. I’m sending Siri in your place.” Annotations to Chapter One Two Annotations for Chapter 2 Siri sat, stunned, in a rattling carriage, her homeland growing more and more distant with each bump and shake. Two days had passed, and she still didn’t understand. This was supposed to be Vivenna’s task. Everybody understood that. Idris had thrown a celebration on the day of Vivenna’s birth. The king had started her classes from the day she could walk, training her in the ways of court life and politics. Fafen, the second daughter, had also taken the lessons in case Vivenna died before the day of the wedding. But not Siri. She’d been redundant. Unimportant. No more. She glanced out the window. Her father had sent the kingdom’s nicest carriage—along with an honor guard of twenty soldiers—to bear her southward. That, combined with a steward and several serving boys, made for a procession as grand as Siri had ever seen. It bordered on ostentation, which might have thrilled her, had it not been bearing her away from Idris. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, she thought. This isn’t the way any of it is supposed to happen! And yet it had. Nothing made sense. The carriage bumped, but she just sat, numb. At the very least, she thought, they could have let me ride horseback, rather than forcing me to sit in this carriage. But that, unfortunately, wouldn’t have been an appropriate way to enter Hallandren. Hallandren. She felt her hair bleach white with fear. She was being sent to Hallandren, a kingdom her people cursed with every second breath. She wouldn’t see her father again for a long while, if ever. She wouldn’t speak with Vivenna, or listen to the tutors, or be chided by Mab, or ride the royal horses, or go looking for ﬂowers in the wilderness, or work in the kitchens. She’d... Marry the God King. The terror of Hallandren, the monster that had never drawn a living breath. In Hallandren, his power was absolute. He could order an execution on a whim. I’ll be safe, though, won’t I? she thought. I’ll be his wife. Wife. I’m getting married. Oh Austre, God of Colors...she thought, feeling sick. She curled up with her legs against her chest—her hair growing so white that it seemed to shine—and lay down on the seat of the carriage, not sure if the shaking she felt was her own trembling or the carriage continuing its inexorable path southward. ~ “I think that you should reconsider your decision, Father,” Vivenna said calmly, sitting decorously—as she’d been trained—with hands in her lap. “I’ve considered and reconsidered, Vivenna,” King Dedelin said, waving his hand. “My mind is made up.” “Siri is not suited to this task.” “She’ll do fine,” her father said, looking through some papers on his desk. “All she really needs to do is have a baby. I’m
certain she’s ‘suited’ to that task.” What then of my training? Vivenna thought. Twenty-two years of preparation? What was that, if the only point in being sent was to provide a convenient womb? She kept her hair black, her voice solemn, her face calm. “Siri must be distraught,” she said. “I don’t think she’s emotionally capable of dealing with this.” Her father looked up, his hair fading a bit red—the black bleeding away like paint running off a canvas. It showed his annoyance. He’s more upset by her departure than he’s willing to admit. “This is for the best for our people, Vivenna,” he said, working—with obvious effort—to turn his hair black again. “If war comes, Idris will need you here.” “If war comes, what of Siri?” Her father fell silent. “Perhaps it won’t come,” he finally said. Austre...Vivenna thought with shock. He doesn’t believe that. He thinks he’s sent her to her death. “I know what you are thinking,” her father said, drawing her attention back to his eyes. So solemn. “How could I choose one over the other? How could I send Siri to die and leave you here to live? I didn’t do it based on personal preference, no matter what people may think. I did what will be best for Idris when this war comes.” When this war comes. Vivenna looked up, meeting his eyes. “I was going to stop the war, Father. I was to be the God King’s bride! I was going to speak with him, persuade him. I’ve been trained with the political knowledge, the understanding of customs, the—” “Stop the war?” her father asked, cutting in. Only then did Vivenna realize how brash she must have sounded. She looked away. “Vivenna, child,” her father said. “There is no stopping this war. Only the promise of a daughter of the royal line kept them away this long, and sending Siri may buy us time. And...perhaps I’ve sent her to safety, even when war ﬂares. Perhaps they will value her bloodline to the point that they leave her alive—a backup should the heir she bears pass away.” He grew distant. “Yes,” he continued, “perhaps it is not Siri we should be fearing for, but...” But ourselves, Vivenna finished in her mind. She was not privy to all of her father’s war planning, but she knew enough. War would not favor Idris. In a conﬂict with Hallandren, there was little chance they would win. It would be devastating for their people and their way of life. “Father, I—” “Please, Vivenna,” he said quietly. “I cannot speak of this further. Go now. We will converse later.” Later. After Siri had traveled even farther away, after it would be much more difficult to bring her back. Yet Vivenna rose. She was obedient; it was the way she had been trained. That was one of the things that had always separated her from her sister. She left her father’s study, closing the door behind her, then walked through the wooden palace hallways, pretending that she didn’t see the stares or
hear the whispers. She made her way to her room—which was small and unadorned—and sat down on her bed, hands in her lap. She didn’t agree at all with her father’s assessment. She could have done something. She was to have been the God King’s bride. That would have given her inﬂuence in the court. Everyone knew that the God King himself was distant when it came to the politics of his nation, but surely his wife could have played a role in defending the interests of her people. And her father had thrown that away? He really must believe that there is nothing that can be done to stop the invasion. That turned sending Siri into simply another political maneuver to buy time. Just as Idris had been doing for decades. Either way, if the sacrifice of a royal daughter to the Hallandren was that important, then it still should have been Vivenna’s place to go. It had always been her duty to prepare for marriage to the God King. Not Siri’s, not Fafen’s. Vivenna’s. In being saved, she didn’t feel grateful. Nor did she feel that she would better serve Idris by staying in Bevalis. If her father died, Yarda would be far better suited to rule during war time than Vivenna. Besides, Ridger— Vivenna’s younger brother—had been groomed as heir for years. She had been preserved for no reason. It seemed a punishment, in some ways. She’d listened, prepared, learned, and practiced. Everyone said that she was perfect. Why, then, wasn’t she good enough to serve as intended? She had no good answer for herself. She could only sit and fret, hands in her lap, and face the awful truth. Her purpose in life had been stolen and given to another. She was redundant now. Useless. Unimportant. ~ “What was he thinking!” Siri snapped, hanging half out the window of her carriage as it bounced along the earthen road. A young soldier marched beside the vehicle, looking uncomfortable in the afternoon light. “I mean really,” Siri said. “Sending me to marry the Hallandren king. That’s silly, isn’t it? Surely you’ve heard about the kinds of things I do. Wandering off when nobody’s looking. Ignoring my lessons. I throw angry fits, for Color’s sake!” The guard glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise gave no reaction. Siri didn’t really care. She wasn’t yelling at him so much as just yelling. She hung precariously from the window, feeling the wind play with her hair—long, red, straight—and stoking her anger. Fury kept her from weeping. The green spring hills of the Idris Highlands had slowly faded away as the days had passed. In fact, they were probably in Hallandren already—the border between the two kingdoms was vague, which wasn’t surprising, considering that they’d been one nation up until the Manywar. She eyed the poor guard—whose only way of dealing with a raving princess was ignoring her. Then she finally slumped back into the carriage. She shouldn’t have treated him so, but, well, she’d just been sold off
like some hunk of mutton—doomed by a document that had been written years before she’d even been born. If anyone had a right to a tantrum, it was Siri. Maybe that’s the reason for all of this, she thought, crossing her arms on the windowsill. Maybe Father was tired of my tantrums, and just wanted to get rid of me. That seemed a little far-fetched. There were easier ways to deal with Siri—ways that didn’t include sending her to represent Idris in a foreign court. Why, then? Did he really think she’d do a good job? That gave her pause. Then she considered how ridiculous it was. Her father wouldn’t have assumed that she’d do a better job than Vivenna. Nobody did anything better than Vivenna. Siri sighed, feeling her hair turn a pensive brown. At least the landscape was interesting, and in order to keep herself from feeling any more frustrated, she let it distract her for the moment. Hallandren was in the lowlands, a place of tropical forests and strange, colorful animals. Siri had heard the descriptions from ramblemen, and even confirmed their accounts in the occasional book she’d been forced to read. She’d thought she knew what to expect. Yet as the hills gave way to deep grasslands and then the trees finally began to crowd the road, Siri began to realize that there was something no tome or tale could adequately describe. Colors. In the highlands, ﬂower patches were rare and unconnected, as if they understood how poorly they fit with Idris philosophy. Here, they appeared to be everywhere. Tiny ﬂowers grew in great blanketing swaths on the ground. Large, drooping pink blossoms hung from trees, like bundles of grapes, ﬂowers growing practically on top of one another in a large cluster. Even the weeds had ﬂowers. Siri would have picked some of them, if not for the way that the soldiers regarded them with hostility. If I feel this anxious, she realized, those guards must feel more so. She wasn’t the only one who had been sent away from family and friends. When would these men be allowed to return? Suddenly, she felt even more guilty for subjecting the young soldier to her outburst. I’ll send them back when I arrive, she thought. Then she immediately felt her hair grow white. Sending the men back would leave her alone in a city filled with Lifeless, Awakeners, and pagans. Yet what good would twenty soldiers do her? Better that someone, at least, be allowed to return home. ~ “One would think that you would be happy,” Fafen said. “After all, you no longer have to marry a tyrant.” Vivenna plopped a bruise-colored berry into her basket, then moved on to a different bush. Fafen worked on one nearby. She wore the white robes of a monk, her hair completely shorn. Fafen was the middle sister in almost every way—midway between Siri and Vivenna in height, less proper than Vivenna, yet hardly as careless as Siri. Fafen was a bit curvier than either of them, which had caught the
eyes of several young men in the village. However, the fact that they would have to become monks themselves if they wanted to marry her kept them in check. If Fafen noticed how popular she was, she’d never shown it. She’d made the decision to become a monk before her tenth birthday, and her father had wholeheartedly approved. Every noble or rich family was traditionally obligated to provide one person to the monasteries. It was against the five Visions to be selfish, even with one’s own blood. The two sisters gathered berries that Fafen would later distribute to those in need. The monk’s fingers were dyed slightly purple by the work. Vivenna wore gloves. That much color on her hands would be unseemly. “Yes,” Fafen said, “I do think you’re taking this all wrong. Why, you act as if you want to go down and be married to that Lifeless monster.” “He’s not Lifeless,” Vivenna said. “Susebron is Returned, and there is a large difference.” “Yes, but he’s a false god. Besides, everyone knows what a terrible creature he is.” “But it was my place to go and marry him. That is who I am, Fafen. Without it, I am nothing.” “Nonsense,” Fafen said. “You’ll inherit now, instead of Ridger.” Thereby unsettling the order of things even further, Vivenna thought. What right do I have to take his place from him? She allowed this aspect of the conversation to lapse, however. She’d been arguing the point for several minutes now, and it wouldn’t be proper to continue. Proper. Rarely before had Vivenna felt so frustrated at having to be proper. Her emotions were growing rather...inconvenient. “What of Siri?” she found herself saying. “You’re happy that this happened to her?” Fafen looked up, then frowned a little to herself. She had a tendency to avoid thinking things through unless she was confronted with them directly. Vivenna felt a little ashamed for making such a blunt comment, but with Fafen, there often wasn’t any other way. “You do have a point,” Fafen said. “I don’t see why anyone had to be sent.” “The treaty,” Vivenna said. “It protects our people.” “Austre protects our people,” Fafen said, moving on to another bush. Will he protect Siri? Vivenna thought. Poor, innocent, capricious Siri. She’d never learned to control herself; she’d be eaten alive in the Hallandren Court of Gods. Siri wouldn’t understand the politics, the backstabbing, the false faces and lies. She would also be forced to bear the next God King of Hallandren. Performing that duty was not something Vivenna had looked forward to. It would have been a sacrifice, yet it would have been her sacrifice, given willingly for the safety of her people. Such thoughts continued to pester Vivenna as she and Fafen finished with the berry picking, then moved down the hillside back toward the village. Fafen, like all monks, dedicated all of her work to the good of the people. She watched ﬂocks, harvested food, and cleaned houses for those who could not do it themselves. Without a duty of her
own, Vivenna had little purpose. And yet, as she considered it, there was someone who still needed her. Someone who had left a week before, teary-eyed and frightened, looking to her big sister with desperation. Vivenna wasn’t needed in Idris, whatever her father said. She was useless here. But she did know the people, cultures, and society of Hallandren. And—as she followed Fafen onto the village road—an idea began to form in Vivenna’s head. One that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, proper. Annotations for Chapter 2 Three Annotations for Chapter 3 Lightsong didn’t remember dying. His priests, however, assured him that his death had been extremely inspiring. Noble. Grand. Heroic. One did not Return unless one died in a way that exemplified the great virtues of human existence. That was why the Iridescent Tones sent the Returned back; they acted as examples, and gods, to the people who still lived. Each god represented something. An ideal related to the heroic way in which they had died. Lightsong himself had died displaying extreme bravery. Or, at least, that was what his priests told him. Lightsong couldn’t remember the event, just as he couldn’t remember anything of his life before he became a god. He groaned softly, unable to sleep any longer. He rolled over, feeling weak as he sat up in his majestic bed. Visions and memories pestered his mind, and he shook his head, trying to clear away the fog of sleep. Servants entered, responding wordlessly to their god’s needs. He was one of the younger divinities, for he’d Returned only five years before. There were some two dozen deities in the Court of Gods, and many were far more important—and far more politically savvy—than Lightsong. And above them all reigned Susebron, the God King of Hallandren. Young though he was, he merited an enormous palace. He slept in a room draped with silks, dyed with bright reds and yellows. His palace held dozens of different chambers, all decorated and furnished according to his whims. Hundreds of servants and priests saw to his needs—whether he wanted them seen to or not. All of this, he thought as he stood, because I couldn’t figure out how to die. Standing made him just a bit dizzy. It was his feast day. He would lack strength until he ate. Servants approached carrying brilliant red and gold robes. As they entered his aura, each servant—skin, hair, clothing, and garments—burst with exaggerated color. The saturated hues were far more resplendent than any dye or paint could produce. That was an effect of Lightsong’s innate BioChroma: he had enough Breath to fill thousands of people. He saw little value in it. He couldn’t use it to animate objects or corpses; he was a god, not an Awakener. He couldn’t give—or even loan—his deific Breath away. Well, except once. That would, however, kill him. The servants continued their ministrations, draping him with gorgeous cloth. Lightsong was a good head and a half taller than anyone else in the room. He was also broad of shoulders, with
a muscular physique that he didn’t deserve, considering the amount of time he spent idle. “Did you sleep well, Your Grace?” a voice asked. Lightsong turned. Llarimar, his high priest, was a tall, portly man with spectacles and a calm demeanor. His hands were nearly hidden by the deep sleeves of his gold and red robe, and he carried a thick tome. Both robes and tome burst with color as they entered Lightsong’s aura. “I slept fantastically, Scoot,” Lightsong said, yawning. “A night full of nightmares and obscure dreams, as always. Terribly restful.” The priest raised an eyebrow. “Scoot?” “Yes,” Lightsong said. “I’ve decided to give you a new nickname. Scoot. Seems to fit you, the way you’re always scooting around, poking into things.” “I am honored, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, seating himself on a chair. Colors, Lightsong thought. Doesn’t he ever get annoyed? Llarimar opened his tome. “Shall we begin?” “If we must,” Lightsong said. The servants finished tying ribbons, doing up clasps, and draping silks. Each bowed and retreated to a side of the room. Llarimar picked up his quill. “What, then, do you remember of your dreams?” “Oh, you know.” Lightsong ﬂopped back onto one of his couches, lounging. “Nothing really important.” Llarimar pursed his lips in displeasure. Other servants began to file in, bearing various dishes of food. Mundane, human food. As a Returned, Lightsong didn’t really need to eat such things—they would not give him strength or banish his fatigue. They were just an indulgence. In a short time, he would dine on something far more...divine. It would give him strength enough to live for another week. “Please try to remember the dreams, Your Grace,” Llarimar said in his polite, yet firm, way. “No matter how unremarkable they may seem.” Lightsong sighed, looking up at the ceiling. It was painted with a mural, of course. This one depicted three fields enclosed by stone walls. It was a vision one of his predecessors had seen. Lightsong closed his eyes, trying to focus. “I...was walking along a beach,” he said. “And a ship was leaving without me. I don’t know where it was going.” Llarimar’s pen began to scratch quickly. He was probably finding all kinds of symbolism in the memory. “Were there any colors?” the priest asked. “The ship had a red sail,” Lightsong said. “The sand was brown, of course, and the trees green. For some reason, I think the ocean water was red, like the ship.” Llarimar scribbled furiously—he always got excited when Lightsong remembered colors. Lightsong opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling and its brightly colored fields. He reached over idly, plucking some cherries off a servant’s plate. Why should he begrudge the people his dreams? Even if he found divination foolish, he had no right to complain. He was remarkably fortunate. He had a deific BioChromatic aura, a physique that any man would envy, and enough luxury for ten kings. Of all the people in the world, he had the least right to be difficult. It was just that...well, he was
probably the world’s only god who didn’t believe in his own religion. “Was there anything else to the dream, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, looking up from his book. “You were there, Scoot.” Llarimar paused, paling just slightly. “I...was?” Lightsong nodded. “You apologized for bothering me all the time and keeping me from my debauchery. Then you brought me a big bottle of wine and did a dance. It was really quite remarkable.” Llarimar regarded him with a ﬂat stare. Lightsong sighed. “No, there was nothing else. Just the boat. Even that is fading.” Llarimar nodded, rising and shooing back the servants—though, of course, they remained in the room, hovering with their plates of nuts, wine, and fruit, should any of it be wanted. “Shall we get on with it then, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. Lightsong sighed, then rose, exhausted. A servant scuttled forward to redo one of the clasps on his robe, which had come undone as he sat. Lightsong fell into step beside Llarimar, towering at least a foot over the priest. The furniture and doorways, however, were built to fit Lightsong’s increased size, so it was the servants and priests who seemed out of place. They passed from room to room, using no hallways. Hallways were for servants, and they ran in a square around the outside of the building. Lightsong walked on plush rugs from the northern nations, passing the finest pottery from across the Inner Sea. Each room was hung with paintings and gracefully calligraphed poems, created by Hallandren’s finest artists. At the center of the palace was a small, square room that deviated from the standard reds and golds of Lightsong’s motif. This one was bright with ribbons of darker colors—deep blues, greens, and blood reds. Each was a true color, directly on hue, as only a person who had attained the Third Heightening could distinguish. As Lightsong stepped into the room, the colors blazed to life. They became brighter, more intense, yet somehow remained dark. The maroon became a more true maroon, the navy a more powerful navy. Dark yet bright, a contrast only Breath could inspire. In the center of the room was a child. Why does it always have to be a child? Lightsong thought. Llarimar and the servants waited. Lightsong stepped forward, and the little girl glanced to the side, where a couple of priests stood in red and gold robes. They nodded encouragingly. The girl looked back toward Lightsong, obviously nervous. “Here now,” Lightsong said, trying to sound encouraging. “There’s nothing to fear.” And yet, the girl trembled. Lecture after lecture—delivered by Llarimar, who had claimed that they were not lectures, for one did not lecture gods—drifted through Lightsong’s head. There was nothing to fear from the Returned gods of the Hallandren. The gods were a blessing. They provided visions of the future, as well as leadership and wisdom. All they needed to subsist was one thing. Breath. Lightsong hesitated, but his weakness was coming to a head. He felt dizzy. Cursing himself quietly, he knelt down on one knee, taking the
girl’s face in his oversized hands. She began to cry, but she said the words, clear and distinct as she had been taught. “My life to yours. My Breath become yours.” Her Breath ﬂowed out, puffing in the air. It traveled along Lightsong’s arm—the touch was necessary—and he drew it in. His weakness vanished, the dizziness evaporated. Both were replaced with crisp clarity. He felt invigorated, revitalized, alive. The girl grew dull. The color of her lips and eyes faded slightly. Her brown hair lost some of its luster; her cheeks became more bland. It’s nothing, he thought. Most people say they can’t even tell that their Breath is gone. She’ll live a full life. Happy. Her family will be well paid for her sacrifice. And Lightsong would live for another week. His aura didn’t grow stronger from Breath upon which he fed; that was another difference between a Returned and an Awakener. The latter were sometimes regarded as inferior, man–made approximations of the Returned. Without a new Breath each week, Lightsong would die. Many Returned outside of Hallandren lived only eight days. Yet with a donated Breath a week, a Returned could continue to live, never aging, seeing visions at night which would supposedly provide divinations of the future. Hence the Court of the Gods, filled with its palaces, where gods could be nurtured, protected, and— most importantly—fed. Priests hustled forward to lead the girl out of the room. It is nothing to her, Lightsong told himself again. Nothing at all... Her eyes met his as she left, and he could see that the twinkle was gone from them. She had become a Drab. A Dull, or a Faded One. A person without Breath. It would never grow back. The priests took her away. Lightsong turned to Llarimar, feeling guilty at his sudden energy. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see the Offerings.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow over his bespectacled eyes. “You’re accommodating all of a sudden.” I need to give something back, Lightsong thought. Even if it’s something useless. They passed through several more rooms of red and gold, most of which were perfectly square with doors on all four sides. Near the eastern side of the palace, they entered a long, thin room. It was completely white, something very unusual in Hallandren. The walls were lined with paintings and poems. The servants stayed outside; only Llarimar joined Lightsong as he stepped up to the first painting. “Well?” Llarimar asked. It was a pastoral painting of the jungle, with drooping palms and colorful ﬂowers. There were some of these plants in the gardens around the Court of Gods, which was why Lightsong recognized them. He’d never actually been to the jungle—at least, not during this incarnation of his life. “The painting is all right,” Lightsong said. “Not my favorite. Makes me think of the outside. I wish I could visit.” Llarimar looked at him quizzically. “What?” Lightsong said. “The court gets old sometimes.” “There isn’t much wine in the forest, Your Grace.” “I could make some. Ferment...something.” “I’m sure,” Llarimar said,
nodding to one of his aides outside the room. The lesser priest scribbled down what Lightsong had said about the painting. Somewhere, there was a city patron who sought a blessing from Lightsong. It probably had to do with bravery—perhaps the patron was planning to propose marriage, or maybe he was a merchant about to sign a risky business deal. The priests would interpret Lightsong’s opinion of the painting, then give the person an augury—either for good or for ill—along with the exact words Lightsong had said. Either way, the act of sending a painting to the god would gain the patron some measure of good fortune. Supposedly. Lightsong moved away from the painting. A lesser priest rushed forward, removing it. Most likely, the patron hadn’t painted it himself, but had instead commissioned it. The better a painting was, the better a reaction it tended to get from the gods. One’s future, it seemed, could be inﬂuenced by how much one could pay one’s artist. I shouldn’t be so cynical, Lightsong thought. Without this system, I’d have died five years ago. Five years ago he had died, even if he still didn’t know what had killed him. Had it really been a heroic death? Perhaps nobody was allowed to talk about his former life because they didn’t want anyone to know that Lightsong the Bold had actually died from a stomach cramp. To the side, the lesser priest disappeared with the jungle painting. It would be burned. Such offerings were made specifically for the intended god, and only he—besides a few of his priests—was allowed to see them. Lightsong moved along to the next work of art on the wall. It was actually a poem, written in the artisan’s script. The dots of color brightened as Lightsong approached. The Hallandren artisan’s script was a specialized system of writing that wasn’t based on form, but on color. Each colored dot represented a different sound in Hallandren’s language. Combined with some double dots—one of each color—it created an alphabet that was a nightmare for the colorblind. Few people in Hallandren would admit to having that particular ailment. At least, that was what Lightsong had heard. He wondered if the priests knew just how much their gods gossiped about the outside world. The poem wasn’t a very good one, obviously composed by a peasant who had then paid someone else to translate it to the artisan’s script. The simple dots were a sign of this. True poets used more elaborate symbols, continuous lines that changed color or colorful glyphs that formed pictures. A lot could be done with symbols that could change shape without losing their meaning. Getting the colors right was a delicate art, one that required the Third Heightening or better to perfect. That was the level of Breath at which a person gained the ability to sense perfect hues of color, just as the Second Heightening gave someone perfect pitch. Returned were of the fifth Heightening. Lightsong didn’t know what it was like to live without the ability to instantly recognize exact
shades of color and sound. He could tell an ideal red from one that had been mixed with even one drop of white paint. He gave the peasant’s poem as good a review as he could, though he generally felt an impulse to be honest when he looked at Offerings. It seemed his duty, and for some reason it was one of the few things he took seriously. They continued down the line, Lightsong giving reviews of the various paintings and poems. The wall was remarkably full this day. Was there a feast or celebration he hadn’t heard about? By the time they neared the end of the line, Lightsong was tired of looking at art, though his body—fueled by the child’s Breath—continued to feel strong and exhilarated. He stopped before the final painting. It was an abstract work, a style that was growing more and more popular lately—particularly in paintings sent to him, since he’d given favorable reviews to others in the past. He almost gave this one a poor grade simply because of that. It was good to keep the priests guessing at what would please him, or so some of the gods said. Lightsong sensed that many of them were far more calculating in the way that they gave their reviews, intentionally adding cryptic meanings. Lightsong didn’t have the patience for such tricks, especially since all anyone ever really seemed to want from him was honesty. He gave this last painting the time it deserved. The canvas was thick with paint, every inch colored with large, fat strokes of the brush. The predominant hue was a deep red, almost a crimson, that Lightsong immediately knew was a red–blue mixture with a hint of black in it. The lines of color overlapped, one atop another, almost in a progression. Kind of like...waves. Lightsong frowned. If he looked at it right, it looked like a sea. And could that be a ship in the center? Vague impressions from his dream returned to him. A red sea. The ship, leaving. I’m imagining things, he told himself. “Good color,” he said. “Nice patterns. It puts me at peace, yet has a tension to it as well. I approve.” Llarimar seemed to like this response. He nodded as the lesser priest—who stood a distance away—recorded Lightsong’s words. “So,” Lightsong said. “That’s it, I assume?” “Yes, Your Grace.” One duty left, he thought. Now that Offerings were done, it would be time to move on to the final—and least appealing—of his daily tasks. Petitions. He had to get through them before he could get to more important activities, like taking a nap. Llarimar didn’t lead the way toward the petition hall, however. He simply waved a lesser priest over, then began to ﬂip through some pages on a clipboard. “Well?” Lightsong asked. “Well what, Your Grace?” “Petitions.” Llarimar shook his head. “You aren’t hearing petitions today, Your Grace. Remember?” “No. I have you to remember things like that for me.” “Well, then,” Llarimar said, ﬂipping a page over, “consider it officially remembered that you have
no petitions today. Your priests will be otherwise employed.” “They will?” Lightsong demanded. “Doing what?” “Kneeling reverently in the courtyard, Your Grace. Our new queen arrives today.” Lightsong froze. I really need to pay more attention to politics. “Today?” “Indeed, Your Grace. Our lord the God King will be married.” “So soon?” “As soon as she arrives, Your Grace.” Interesting, Lightsong thought. Susebron getting a wife. The God King was the only one of the Returned who could marry. Returned couldn’t produce children—save, of course, for the king, who had never drawn a breath as a living man. Lightsong had always found the distinction odd. “Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “We will need a Lifeless Command in order to arrange our troops on the field outside the city to welcome the queen.” Lightsong raised an eyebrow. “We plan to attack her?” Llarimar gave him a stern look. Lightsong chuckled. “Fledgling fruit,” he said, giving up one of the Command phrases that would let others control the city’s Lifeless. It wasn’t the core Command, of course. The phrase he’d given to Llarimar would allow a person to control the Lifeless only in noncombat situations, and it would expire one day after its first use. Lightsong often thought that the convoluted system of Commands used to control the Lifeless was needlessly complex. However, being one of the four gods to hold Lifeless Commands did make him rather important at times. The priests began to chat quietly about preparations. Lightsong waited, still thinking about Susebron and the impending wedding. He folded his arms and rested against the side of the doorway. “Scoot?” he asked. “Yes, Your Grace?” “Did I have a wife? Before I died, I mean.” Llarimar hesitated. “You know I cannot speak of your life before your Return, Lightsong. Knowledge of your past won’t do anyone any good.” Lightsong leaned his head back, resting it against the wall, looking up at the white ceiling. “I...remember a face, sometimes,” he said softly. “A beautiful, youthful face. I think it might have been her.” The priests hushed. “Inviting brown hair,” Lightsong said. “Red lips, three shades shy of the seventh harmonic, with a deep beauty. Dark tan skin.” A priest scuttled forward with the red tome, and Llarimar started writing furiously. He didn’t prompt Lightsong for more information, but simply took down the god’s words as they came. Lightsong fell silent, turning away from the men and their scribbling pens. What does it matter? he thought. That life is gone. Instead, I get to be a god. Regardless of my belief in the religion itself, the perks are nice. He walked away, trailed by a retinue of servants and lesser priests who would see to his needs. Offerings done, dreams recorded, and petitions canceled, Lightsong was free to pursue his own activities. He didn’t return to his main chambers. Instead, he made his way out onto his patio deck and waved for a pavilion to be set up for him. If a new queen was going to arrive today, he wanted to get a good look

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.