Elantris (Elantris 1)

Sarene thought for a moment before replying, tapping her cheek as she considered his words. “A wise choice, Father. If Domi were ever going to help us, it would be now. The end of Teod means the end of Shu-Korath.”

“For a time, perhaps,” her father said. “Truth can never be defeated, Sarene. Even if people do forget about it occasionally.”

Sarene was in bed, the lights down. Ashe hovered on the far side of the room, his light dimmed so much that he was barely an outline of Aon Ashe against the wall.

The conversation with her father had ended an hour ago, but its implications would likely plague her mind for months. She had never considered surrender an option, but now it looked almost inevitable. The prospect worried her. She knew that it was unlikely that Wyrn would let her father continue to rule, even if he did convert. She also knew that Eventeo would willingly give his life if it would spare his people.

She also thought about her own life, and her mixed memories of Teod. The kingdom contained the things she loved most—her father, brother, and mother. The forests around the port city of Teoin, the capital, were another very fond memory. She remembered the way the snow settled on the landscape. One morning she had awoken to find everything outside coated in a beautiful film of ice; the trees had looked like jewels sparkling in the winter daylight.

Yet, Teod also reminded her of pain and loneliness. It represented her exclusion from society and her humiliation before men. She had established early in life that she had a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. Both things had set her apart from the other women—not that some of them weren’t intelligent; they just had the wisdom to hide it until they were married.

Not all men wanted a stupid wife—but there also weren’t a lot of men who felt comfortable around a woman they assumed was their intellectual superior. By the time Sarene had realized what she was doing to herself, she had found that the few men who might have accepted her were already married. Desperate, she had ferreted out the masculine opinion of her in court, and had been mortified to learn just how much they mocked her. After that, it had only grown worse—and she had only grown older. In a land where nearly every woman was at least engaged by the age of eighteen, she was an old maid by twenty-five. A very tall, gangly, argumentative old maid.

Her self-recrimination was interrupted by a noise. It didn’t come from the hallway or window, however, but from inside her room. She sat up with a start, breath catching in her throat as she prepared to jump away. Only then did she realize it wasn’t actually coming from her room, but from the wall beside her room. She frowned in confusion. There weren’t any rooms on the other side; she was at the very edge of the palace. She had a window looking out over the city.

The noise was not repeated, and, determined to get some sleep despite her anxieties, Sarene told herself it had simply been the building settling.

CHAPTER 18

Dilaf walked in the door, looking a bit distracted. Then he saw the Elantrian sitting in the chair in front of Hrathen’s desk.

The shock nearly killed him.

Hrathen smiled, watching as Dilaf’s breath audibly caught in his throat, his eyes grew wide as shields, and his face turned a shade not unlike the color of Hrathen’s armor. “Hruggath Ja!” Dilaf yelped in surprise, the Fjordell curse rising quickly to his lips.

Hrathen raised his eyebrows at the expletive—not so much because it offended him, but because he was surprised that it should come so easily to Dilaf. The arteth had submerged himself in Fjorden’s culture deeply indeed.

“Say hello to Diren, Arteth,” Hrathen said, gesturing to the black-and-gray-faced Elantrian. “And kindly refrain from using Lord Jaddeth’s name as a curse. That is one Fjordell habit I would rather you hadn’t assumed.”

“An Elantrian!”

“Yes,” Hrathen said. “Very good, Arteth. And no, you may not set fire to him.”

Hrathen leaned back slightly in his seat, smiling as Dilaf glared at the Elantrian. Hrathen had summoned Dilaf to the room knowing full well the kind of reaction he would get, and he felt a little petty at the move. That, however, didn’t stop him from enjoying the moment.

Finally, Dilaf shot Hrathen a hateful look—though he quickly masked it with one of barely controlled submissiveness. “What is he doing here, my hroden?”

“I thought it would be good to know the face of our enemy, Arteth,” Hrathen said, rising and walking over to the frightened Elantrian. The two priests were, of course, conversing in Fjordell. There was confusion in the Elantrian’s eyes, along with a feral sort of fear.

Hrathen squatted down beside the man, studying his demon. “Are they all bald, Dilaf?” he asked with interest.

“Not at first,” the arteth answered sullenly. “They usually have a full head when the Korathi dogs prepare them for the city. Their skin is paler as well.”

Hrathen reached out, feeling the man’s cheek. The skin was tough and leathery. The Elantrian watched him with frightened eyes. “These black spots—these are what distinguish an Elantrian?”

“It is the first sign, my hroden,” Dilaf said, subdued. Either he was getting used to the Elantrian, or he had simply gotten over his initial burst of hatred and had moved on to a more patient, smoldering form of disgust. “It usually happens overnight. When the accursed one wakes up, he or she will have dark blotches all over their body. The rest of their skin turns grayish brown, like this one, over time.”

“Like the skin of an embalmed corpse,” Hrathen noted. He had visited the university in Svorden on occasion, and knew of the bodies they kept there for study.

“Very similar,” Dilaf agreed quietly. “The skin isn’t the only sign, my hroden. Their insides are rotten as well.”

“How can you tell?”

“Their hearts do not beat,” Dilaf said. “And their minds do not work. There are stories from the early days ten years ago, before they were all locked away in that city. Within a few months they turn comatose, barely able to move, except to bemoan their pain.”

“Pain?”

“The pain of their soul being burned by Lord Jaddeth’s fire,” Dilaf explained. “It builds within them until it consumes their consciousness. It is their punishment.”

Hrathen nodded, turning away from the Elantrian.

“You shouldn’t have touched him, my hroden,” Dilaf said.

“I thought you said that Lord Jaddeth would protect his faithful,” Hrathen said. “What need have I to fear?”

“You invited evil into the chapel, my hroden.”

Hrathen snorted. “There is nothing sacred about this building, Dilaf, as you know. No holy ground can be dedicated in a country that hasn’t allied itself with Shu-Dereth.”

“Of course,” Dilaf said. His eyes were growing eager for some reason.

The look in Dilaf’s eyes made Hrathen uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be best to minimize the time the arteth spent in the same room as the Elantrian.

“I summoned you because I’m going to need you to make the preparations for the evening sermon,” Hrathen said. “I can’t do them myself—I want to spend a bit of time interrogating this Elantrian.”

“As you command, my hroden,” Dilaf said, still eyeing the Elantrian.

“You are dismissed, Arteth,” Hrathen said firmly.

Dilaf growled quietly, then scuttled from the room, off to do Hrathen’s bidding.

Hrathen turned back to the Elantrian. The creature didn’t seem “mindless,” as Dilaf had put it. The Guard captain who’d brought the Elantrian had even mentioned the creature’s name; that implied that it could speak.

“Can you understand me, Elantrian?” Hrathen asked in Aonic.

Diren paused, then nodded his head.

“Interesting,” Hrathen said musingly.

“What do you want with me?” the Elantrian asked.

“Just to ask you some questions,” Hrathen said, stepping back to his desk and sitting down. He continued to study the creature with curiosity. Never in all of his

varied travels had he seen a disease such as this.

“Do you … have any food?” the Elantrian asked. There was a slight edge of wildness to his eyes as he mentioned the word “food.”

“If you answer my questions, I promise to send you back to Elantris with a full basket of bread and cheese.”

This got the creature’s attention. He nodded vigorously.

So hungry, Hrathen thought with curiosity. And, what was it that Dilaf said? No heartbeat? Perhaps the disease does something to the metabolism—makes the heart beat so quickly that it’s hard to detect, increases the appetite somehow?

“What were you before you were thrown into the city, Diren?” Hrathen asked.