“Yes, my lord?” Dothgen asked.
“You were trained in Rathbore Monastery, were you not, Arteth?” Hrathen asked.
“I was, my lord,” the man responded in a deep voice.
“Good,” Hrathen said, holding up the last vial of potion. “I have need of your special skills.”
“Who is it for, my lord?” the priest asked. Like every graduate of Rathbore, Dothgen was a trained assassin. He had received far more specialized training than Hrathen had at Ghajan Monastery, the place Hrathen had gone after Dakhor proved too much for him. Only a gyorn or a ragnat, however, could make use of Rathbore-trained priests without Wyrn’s permission.
Hrathen smiled.
CHAPTER 37
It struck while Raoden was studying. He didn’t hear himself gasp in agonized shock, nor did he feel himself tumble from his seat in a spastic seizure. All he felt was the pain—a sharp torment that dropped upon him suddenly and vengefully. It was like a million tiny insects, each one latching on to his body—inside and out—to eat him alive. Soon he felt as if he had no body—the pain was his body. It was the only sense, the only input, and his screams were the only product.
Then he felt it. It stood like an enormous slick surface, without crack or pocket, at the back of his mind. It pressed demandingly, pounding the pain into every nerve in his body, like a workman driving a spike into the ground. It was vast. It made men, mountains, and worlds seem paltry. It was not evil, or even sentient. It didn’t rage or churn. It was immobile, frozen by its own intense pressure. It wanted to move—to go anywhere, to find any release from the strain. But there was no outlet.
Raoden’s vision cleared slowly as the force retreated. He lay on the cold marble floor of the chapel, staring up at the bottom of his table. Two hazy faces hovered above him.
“Sule?” an urgent voice asked, as if from far away. “Doloken! Raoden, can you hear me?”
His view sharpened. Karata’s usually stern features were concerned, while Galladon was livid.
“I’m all right,” Raoden croaked, shamed. They would realize how weak he was, that he couldn’t stand the pain of even a monthlong stay in Elantris.
The two helped him sit. He remained on the floor for a moment before indicating that he wanted to move to the chair. His entire body was sore, as if he had tried to lift a dozen different weights at the same time. He groaned as he slid into the uncomfortable stone seat.
“Sule, what happened?” Galladon asked, retreating hesitantly to his own chair.
“It was the pain,” Raoden said, holding his head in his hands and resting his elbows on the table. “It was too much for me for a moment. I’m all right now; it retreated.”
Galladon frowned. “What are you talking about, sule?”
“The pain,” Raoden said with exasperation. “The pain of my cuts and bruises, the bane of life here in Elantris.”
“Sule, the pain doesn’t come in waves,” Galladon said. “It just remains the same.”
“It comes in waves for me,” Raoden said tiredly.
Galladon shook his head. “That can’t be. Kolo? When you fall to the pain, you snap and your mind is gone. That’s the way it always is. Besides, there’s no way you could have accumulated enough cuts and bruises to go Hoed yet.”
“You’ve said that before, Galladon, but this is how it works for me. It comes all of a sudden, as if trying to destroy me, then moves away. Maybe I’m just worse at dealing with it than everyone else.”
“My prince,” Karata said hesitantly, “you were glowing.”
Raoden looked up at her with shock. “What?”
“It’s true, sule,” Galladon said. “After you collapsed you began glowing. Like an Aon. Almost as if …”
Raoden’s mouth fell open slightly in amazement. “… as if the Dor were trying to come through me.” The force had been searching for an opening, a way out. It had tried to use him like an Aon. “Why me?”
“Some people are closer to the Dor than others, sule,” Galladon said. “In Elantris, some people could create Aons much more powerful than others, and some seemed more … intimate with the power.”
“Besides, my prince,” Karata said, “are you not the one who knows the Aons best? We see you practicing them every day.”
Raoden nodded slowly, almost forgetting about his agony. “During the Reod, they say the most powerful Elantrians were the first to fall. They didn’t fight when the mobs burned them.”
“As if they were overwhelmed by something. Kolo?” Galladon asked.
Sudden and ironic relief soothed Raoden’s mind. As much as the pain hurt, his insecurity had worried him more. Still, he was not free. “The attacks are getting worse. If they continue, they will take me, eventually. If that happens …”
Galladon nodded solemnly. “You will join the Hoed.”
“The Dor will destroy me,” Raoden said, “ripping my soul apart in a futile attempt to break free. It isn’t alive—it’s just a force, and the fact that I am not a viable passage won’t stop it from trying. When it does take me, remember your vow.”
Galladon and Karata nodded. They would take him to the pool in the mountains. Knowing they would take care of him if he did fall was enough to keep him going—and enough to make him wish, just a little, that the day of his failure was not far away.
“That doesn’t have to happen though, sule,” Galladon said. “I mean, that gyorn was healed. Maybe something’s happening; maybe something has changed.”
Raoden paused. “If he really was healed.”
“What do you mean?” Karata asked.
“There was a lot of fuss pulling him from the city,” Raoden said. “If I were Wyrn, I wouldn’t want a Derethi Elantrian hanging around to bring shame on my religion. I’d send an envoy to pull him out, telling everyone he’d been healed, then hide him back in Fjordell.”
“We never did get a good look at the man after he was ‘healed,’” Karata acknowledged.
Galladon looked a little crestfallen at the line of conversation. He, like others in Elantris, had received a measure of hope from Hrathen’s healing. Raoden hadn’t said anything outright to discourage the people’s optimism, but inside he was more reserved. Since the gyorn’s departure, nobody else had been healed.
It was a hopeful sign, but somehow Raoden doubted it would mean much of a change for the Elantrian people. They needed to work and improve their own lives, not wait for some external miracle.
He turned back to his studies.
CHAPTER 38
Sarene watched the gyorn with displeased eyes. Hrathen no longer gave his sermons at the Derethi chapel; there were too many people. Instead he organized meetings on the edge of the city, where he could stand on Kae’s five-foot border wall, his followers sitting at his feet to listen. The gyorn preached with more vibrancy and enthusiasm than he had before. For now, he was a saint. He had suffered the Shaod, and had proven himself superior to its curse.
He was, Sarene had to admit, an impressive opponent. Outfitted in his red armor, he stood like a bloodied metal statue above the crowd.
“It must have been some kind of trick,” she noted.
“Of course it was, Cousin,” Lukel said, standing beside her. “If we thought otherwise, we might as well join Shu-Dereth. Personally, I look horrible in red.”
“Your face is too pink,” Sarene said offhandedly.
“If it was a trick, Sarene,” Shuden said, “then I am at a loss to explain it.” The three of them stood at the periphery of the morning meeting. They had come to see for themselves the amazing numbers Hrathen’s meetings drew, even on the very day of the king’s funeral.
“It could have been makeup,” Sarene said.
“That survived the ritual washing?” Shuden said.
“Maybe the priests were in on it,” Lukel said.
“Have you ever tried to bribe a Korathi priest, Lukel?” Shuden asked pointedly.
Lukel looked around uncomfortably. “I’d rather not answer that questi
on, thank you.”
“You sound almost as if you believe his miracle, Shuden,” Sarene said.
“I do not discount it,” Shuden said. “Why wouldn’t God bless one of his devout? Religious exclusivism is a Korathi and Derethi addition to Shu-Keseg.”
Sarene sighed, nodding for her friends to follow as she pushed her way through the outlying crowds and walked toward their waiting carriage. Trick or not, Hrathen had an uncomfortably strong hold on the people. If he managed to place a sympathizer on the throne, it would all be over. Arelon would become a Derethi nation, and only Teod would remain—though probably not for long.
Her companions were undoubtedly thinking along similar lines; both Lukel and Shuden’s faces bore disturbed, contemplative looks. They entered the coach in silent thought, but finally Lukel turned to her, his hawkish features troubled.
“What do you mean, my face is too pink?” he asked with a hurt tone.
The ship’s mast bore the royal crest of Teod—a gold Aon Teo on a blue background. Long and thin, there was no faster vessel on the water than a Teoish strightboat.
Sarene felt it her duty to give the patriarch a better reception than she herself had received upon arriving at those same docks. She didn’t like the man, but that was no excuse for incivility, and so she had brought Shuden, Lukel, Eondel, and several of the count’s soldiers as an honor guard.
The thin ship came into dock smoothly, sailors throwing out a gangplank as soon as the vessel was secured. A blue-robed form strode past the sailors and down the gangplank with a firm step. Over a dozen attendants and lesser priests followed; the patriarch liked to be well cared for. As Seinalan approached, Sarene masked her face with controlled courtesy.
The patriarch was a tall man with delicate features. His golden hair was long, like that of a woman, and it blended with the enormous gold cape that fluttered behind him. The blue robe was embroidered with so much gold thread it was difficult at times to see the material underneath. He smiled with the benevolently tolerant face of one who wanted you to know he was patient with your inferiority.
“Your Highness!” Seinalan said as he approached. “It has been too long since my old eyes beheld your sweet features.”
Sarene did her best to smile, curtsying before the patriarch and his “old” eyes. Seinalan was no more than forty, though he tried to make himself seem more aged and wise than he really was.
“Your Holiness,” she said. “All of Arelon is blessed by your presence.”
He nodded, as if to say that he understood just how fortunate they all were. He turned toward Shuden and the others. “Who are your companions?”
“My cousin Lukel and Baron Shuden and Count Eondel of Arelon, Your Holiness.” Each man bowed as she made the introductions.
“Only barons and counts?” Seinalan asked with disappointment.
“Duke Roial sends his greetings, Your Grace,” Sarene said. “He is busy preparing for King Iadon’s burial.”
“Ah,” Seinalan said, his luxurious hair—untouched by gray—waving in the sea wind. Sarene had wished many times to have locks half as fine as those of the patriarch. “I assume I am not too late to attend the funeral?”
“No, Your Holiness,” Sarene said. “It will occur this afternoon.”
“Good,” Seinalan said. “Come, you may show me to my lodgings now.”
“That was … disappointing,” Lukel confessed as soon as they climbed back in their carriage. The patriarch had been given his own vehicle, courtesy of Roial, and the gift had cooled his dissatisfaction at the duke’s absence.
“He’s not exactly what you expect, is he?” Sarene said.
“That isn’t what Lukel meant, Sarene,” Shuden said.
Sarene glanced at Lukel. “What do you mean?”
“I was just hoping for something more entertaining,” Lukel said, twin flops of hair bouncing against his cheeks as he shrugged.
“He has been looking forward to this ever since he heard you describe the patriarch, Your Highness,” Eondel explained with a dissatisfied look. “He assumed you two would … argue more.”
Sarene sighed, giving Lukel a withering look. “Just because I don’t like the man doesn’t mean I’m going to make a scene, Cousin. Remember, I was one of my father’s chief diplomats.”
Lukel nodded with resignation.
“I will admit, Sarene,” Shuden said, “your analysis of the patriarch’s personality seems accurate. I am left wondering how such a man could be chosen for such an important position.”
“By mistake,” Sarene said curtly. “Seinalan gained the seat about fifteen years ago, when he was barely your age. It was just after Wulfden became Wyrn, and the leaders of Shu-Korath felt threatened by his vigor. For some reason, they got it into their minds that they needed to elect a patriarch who was just as young as Wulfden—if not younger. Seinalan was the result.”
Shuden raised an eyebrow.
“I agree completely,” Sarene said. “But, I have to give them a bit of credit. Wulfden is said to be one of the most handsome men to ever take the Fjordell throne, and the Korathi leaders wanted someone who would be equally impressive.”
Lukel snorted. “Handsome and pretty are two completely different things, Cousin. Half the women who see that man will love him, the other half will just be jealous.”
Throughout the conversation, Lord Eondel grew progressively more pale. Finally, he found voice for his indignation. “Remember, my lords and lady, this is Domi’s holy chosen vessel.”
“And he couldn’t have picked a vessel more lovely,” Lukel quipped—earning him an elbow in the ribs from Sarene.
“We will try to make our comments more respectful, Eondel,” she apologized. “The patriarch’s looks are unimportant anyway—I’m more interested in why he came.”
“Isn’t a king’s funeral enough of a reason?” Shuden asked.
“Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced, as the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Korathi chapel. “Come on, let’s see His Holiness settled as soon as possible—the funeral is in less than two hours, and after that it appears that I’m getting married.”
With no obvious heir, and with Eshen completely unhinged by her husband’s disgrace and subsequent death, Duke Roial took the burden of the funeral arrangements upon himself.
“Pagan murderer or not, Iadon was once my friend,” the duke had explained. “He brought stability to this country in a time of need. For that much, he at least deserves a decent burial.”
Omin had requested that they not use the Korathi chapel for the services, so Roial decided to use the king’s throne room instead. The choice made Sarene a little uncomfortable—the throne room was the same place they would hold the wedding. However, Roial thought it symbolic that the same room would serve both the passing of the old king and the ascension of the new.
The decorations were tasteful and subdued. Roial, characteristically frugal, had planned arrangements and colors that would work for both a funeral and a wedding. The room’s pillars were wrapped with white ribbons, and there were various arrangements of flowers—mostly white roses or aberteens.
Sarene entered the room, looking to the side with a smile. Near the front, next to one of the pillars, was the place where she had first set up her easel. It seemed like so long ago, though barely more than a month had passed. Forgotten with shame were the days when she had been considered an empty-headed girl—the nobility now regarded her with something akin to awe. Here was the woman who had manipulated the king, then made a fool of him, and finally toppled him from his throne. They would never love her as they had loved Raoden, but she would accept their admiration as an inferior substitute.
To the side, Sarene saw Duke Telrii. The bald, overdressed man actually looked displeased, rather than simply uncaring. Roial had announced his wedding to Sarene only a few hours earlier, giving the pompous Telrii little time to consider a response. Sarene met Telrii’s eyes, and sensed … frustration in the man’s bearing. She had expected somet
hing from him—some kind of attempt to block their marriage—but he had made no move. What held him back?
Roial’s arrival called the group to order, and the crowd fell silent. Roial walked to the front of the room, where the king’s casket lay sealed, and began to speak.
It was a short offering. Roial spoke of how Iadon had forged a country from the ashes of Elantris, and how he had given them all their titles. He warned them against making the same mistake as the king, counseling them not to forget Domi in their riches and comfort. He closed by advocating that they refrain from speaking ill of the deceased, remembering that Domi would see to Iadon’s soul, and such was none of their concern.
With that, he motioned for several of Eondel’s solders to pick up the casket. However, another form stepped forward before they could go more than a few steps.
“I have something to add,” Seinalan announced.
Roial paused in surprise. Seinalan smiled, showing perfect teeth to the room. He had already changed clothing, and was wearing a robe similar to the first, except it had a wide golden band running up his back and down his chest instead of the embroidery.
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Roial said.
“What is this about?” Shuden whispered.
Sarene simply shook her head as Seinalan walked up to stand behind the casket. He regarded the crowd with a self-important smile, melodramatically whipping a scroll from the sleeve of his robe.
“Ten years ago, just after his ascension, King Iadon came to me and made this statement,” Seinalan said. “You can see his seal at the bottom, as well as my own. He ordered that I present this to Arelon at his funeral, or fifteen years from the date of its creation, whichever arrived first.”
Roial moved across the side of the room until he was standing next to Sarene and Shuden. His eyes showed curiosity, and concern. At the front of the room, Seinalan broke the seal on the scroll and unrolled it.