“It will be destroyed,” Dilaf prophesied with angry eyes. “Jaddeth will not wait while our arteths preach His name against the unyielding walls of Teoish hearts.”
“Lord Jaddeth can only come when all men are united beneath Fjordell rule, Arteth,” Hrathen said, turning away from his contemplation of Elantris and moving to enter the chapel. “That includes the ones in Teod.”
Dilaf’s response was softly spoken, but every word sounded powerfully in Hrathen’s ears. “Perhaps,” the Arelish priest whispered. “But there is another way. Lord Jaddeth will rise when every living soul is united—the Teoish will be no obstacle if we destroy them. When the final Teo heaves his last sigh, when the Elantrians have been burned from the face of Sycla, then all men will follow Wyrn. Then Jaddeth will come.”
The words were disturbing. Hrathen had come to save Arelon, not to burn it. It might be necessary to undermine the monarchy, and perhaps he would have to spill some noble blood, but the end result would be the redemption of an entire nation. To Hrathen, uniting all mankind meant converting them to Derethi, not murdering those who didn’t believe.
Except, perhaps his way was wrong. Wyrn’s patience seemed only slightly greater than Dilaf’s—the three-month time limit proved that much. Suddenly Hrathen felt an extreme sense of urgency. Wyrn meant his words: Unless Hrathen converted Arelon, the country would be destroyed.
“Great Jaddeth Below …” Hrathen whispered, invoking his deity’s name—an action he reserved for only the most sacred of times. Right or wrong, he didn’t want the blood of an entire kingdom—even a heretical one—on his hands. He must succeed.
Fortunately, his loss to the Teoish girl hadn’t been as complete as she probably assumed. When Hrathen arrived at the meeting place—a large suite in one of Kae’s finest inns—many of the nobles he had invited were waiting for him. The speech on Elantris’s wall had been only one part of his plan to convert these men.
“Greetings, Lords,” Hrathen said with a nod of his head.
“Don’t pretend everything is fine between us, priest,” said Idan, one of the younger, more vocal nobles. “You promised your words would bring power. It appears powerful confusion was the only thing they produced.”
Hrathen waved his hand dismissively. “My speech baffled one simpleminded girl. It is said the fair princess has trouble remembering which is her right hand and which is her left. I wouldn’t have expected her to understand my speech—don’t tell me that you, Lord Idan, were similarly lost.”
Idan blushed. “Of course not, my lord. It’s just that … I failed to see how conversion could grant us power.”
“The power, my lord, comes in the perception of your enemy.” Hrathen strolled through the room, the ever-present Dilaf at his side, and chose a seat. Some gyorns preferred to use a standing posture as a form of intimidation, but Hrathen found it more useful to sit. More often than not, sitting made his listeners—especially those who were standing—uncomfortable. One appeared more in control when one could captivate an audience without towering over them.
Sure enough, Idan and the others soon found their seats as well. Hrathen rested his elbows on the armrests, then clasped his hands and regarded his audience in silence. His brow furled slightly as his eyes fell on one face near the back of the room. The man was older, perhaps in his late forties, and wore rich clothing. The most telling part of the man’s appearance was the large purplish birthmark on the left side of his neck and face.
Hrathen hadn’t invited Duke Telrii to the meeting. The duke was one of the most powerful men in Arelon, and Hrathen had kept his invitations to the younger nobles. He had assumed that he had little chance in convincing powerful men to follow him; young men impatient to move up the aristocratic ladder were usually easier to manipulate. Hrathen would have to speak carefully this night—a powerful alliance could be his reward.
“Well?” Idan finally asked, fidgeting beneath Hrathen’s stare. “Who are they then? Who do you perceive as our enemy?”
“The Elantrians,” Hrathen said simply. He could feel Dilaf tense by his side as he mentioned the word.
Idan’s discomfort left as he chuckled, shooting looks at several of his companions. “The Elantrians have been dead for a decade, Fjordell. They are hardly a threat.”
“No, my young lord,” Hrathen said. “They live on.”
“If you can call it that.”
“I don’t mean those pitiful mongrels inside the city,” Hrathen said. “I mean the Elantrians that live in the people’s minds. Tell me, Idan. Have you ever met a man who thought the Elantrians would return someday?”
Idan’s chuckles faded away as he considered the question.
“Iadon’s rule is far from absolute,” Hrathen said. “He is more of a regent than a king. The people don’t really expect him to be monarch for long—they’re waiting for their blessed Elantrians to return. Many call the Reod false, a kind of ‘test’ to see who will remain true to the old pagan religion. You have all heard how people speak of Elantris in whispers.”
Hrathen’s words held weight. He had been in Kae for only a few days, but he had listened and researched well during that time. He was exaggerating the opinion, but he knew it existed.
“Iadon doesn’t see the danger,” Hrathen continued softly. “He doesn’t see that his leadership is suffered, rather than accepted. As long as the people have a physical reminder of Elantris’s might, they will fear—and as long as they fear something more than they fear their king, none of you will have power. Your titles came from the king; your power is connected to him. If he is impotent, then you are as well.”
They were listening now. At the heart of every nobleman was an incurable insecurity. Hrathen hadn’t met an aristocrat yet who wasn’t at least in part convinced that the peasants laughed at him behind his back.
“Shu-Korath doesn’t recognize the danger,” Hrathen continued. “The Korathi do nothing to denounce the Elantrians, and therefore perpetuate the public’s hope. Irrational though it may be, the people want to believe Elantris will be restored. They imagine how grand it used to be, their memories enhanced by a decade of stories—it is human nature to believe that other places and other times are better than the here and now. If you ever want to hold true domination over Arelon, my dear noble friends, then you must abolish your people’s foolish hopes. You must find a way to free them from Elantris’s grip.”
Young Idan nodded enthusiastically. Hrathen pursed his lips with dissatisfaction: The boy noble had been too easily swayed. As was often the case, the most outspoken man was the least discerning. Ignoring Idan, Hrathen judged the expressions of the others. They were thoughtful, but not convinced. The more mature Telrii sat quietly at the back, rubbing the large ruby on one of his rings, watching Hrathen with a musing expression.
Their uncertainty was good. Men as fickle-minded as Idan were of no use to him; those so easily won would be lost just as quickly. “Tell me, men of Arelon,” Hrathen said, changing his argument subtly, “have you traveled the countries of the East?”
There were several nods. During the last few years, the East had seen a flood of visitors from Arelon touring through the old Fjordell Empire. Hrathen strongly suspected that the new aristocracy of Arelon, even more insecure than most nobles, felt a desire to prove its level of cultured refinement by associating with kingdoms such as Svorden, the cultural epicenter of the East.
“If you have visited the powerful countries of the East, my friends, then you know of the influence available to those who align themselves with the Derethi priesthood.” “Influence” was, perhaps, an understatement. No king ruled east of the Dathreki Mountains unless he professed allegiance to Shu-Dereth, and the most desirable and lucrative governmental positions always fell to those who were diligent in their worship of Jaddeth.
There was a promise implicit in Hrathen’s words and—no matter what else they might discuss this night, no matter what other arguments Hrathen put forth—this was what would win their suppor
t. It was no secret that Derethi priests took a keen interest in politics; and most people knew that gaining the endorsement of the church was usually enough to insure political victory. This was the promise the noblemen had come expecting to hear, and this was why the Teoish girl’s complaints hadn’t affected them. Theological disputes were far from these men’s minds; Shu-Dereth or Shu-Korath, it mattered little to them. All they needed was an assurance that a sudden outpouring of piety on their parts would in turn be rewarded with temporal blessings—very tangible and spendable ones.
“Enough wordplay, priest,” said Ramear, one of the younger nobles. He was a hawk-faced second son of an unimportant baron, a man with a sharp Aonic nose and a reputation for straightforwardness—a reputation he apparently deserved. “I want promises. Are you saying that if we convert to Derethi, you will grant us greater holdings?”
“Jaddeth rewards his followers,” Hrathen said noncommittally.
“And how will he reward us?” Ramear demanded. “Shu-Dereth holds no power in this kingdom, priest.”
“Lord Jaddeth holds power everywhere, friend,” Hrathen said. Then, to forestall further demands, he continued. “It is true that as of yet He has few followers in Arelon. The world, however, is dynamic, and few things can stand against Jaddeth’s empire. Remember Duladel, my friends. Arelon has remained untouched for so long because we haven’t bothered to spare the effort it would take to convert her.” A lie, but only a modest one. “The first problem is Elantris. Remove it from the people’s minds, and they will gravitate toward Shu-Dereth—Shu-Korath is too tranquil, too indolent. Jaddeth will grow in the people’s awareness, and as He does, they will look for role models within the ranks of the aristocracy—men who hold to the same ideals as themselves.”
“And then we will be rewarded?” Ramear asked pointedly.
“The people will never suffer rulers who don’t believe as they do. As recent history has shown, my friends, kings and monarchies are hardly eternal.”
Ramear sat back to contemplate the priest’s words. Hrathen had to be careful yet; it was quite possible that only a few of these men would end up supporting him, and he didn’t want to give the others evidence against him. Lenient as he may be with regards to religion, King Iadon wouldn’t suffer Hrathen’s preaching long if he found it treasonous.
Later, after Hrathen sensed firm conviction in his fledgling nobles, he would give them more concrete promises. And, no matter what his opponents might say, Hrathen’s promises were trustworthy: as little as he liked working with men whose allegiance could be bought, it was a firm tenet of Shu-Dereth that ambition should be rewarded. Besides, it was beneficial to have a reputation for honesty, if only so that one could lie at crucial moments.
“It will take time to unseat an entire religion and set up a new one in its place,” mused Waren, a thin man with a head of nearly white blond hair. Waren was known for his strict piety; Hrathen had been rather surprised when he accompanied his cousin Idan to the meeting. It appeared that Waren’s renowned faith was less a matter of religious fervor than it was one of political advantage. Winning him, and his reputation, would be a great help to Hrathen’s cause.
“You would be surprised, young Lord Waren,” Hrathen said. “Until very recently, Duladel was the seat of one of the world’s oldest religions. Now, as far as Fjordell recorders can tell, that religion has been completely wiped out—at least in its pure form.”
“Yes,” Waren said, “but the collapse of the Jesker religion and the Duladen Republic are events that had been building for years, perhaps even centuries.”
“But you cannot deny that when that change in power occurred, it came swiftly,” Hrathen said.
Waren paused. “True.”
“The fall of the Elantrians was likewise swift,” Hrathen said. “Change can come with blinding speed, Lord Waren—but those who are prepared can profit quite substantially from it. You say that the fall of Jesker was building for years … well, I suggest to you that the Korathi religion has been in decline for a similar amount of time. It used to hold much sway in the East. Now, its influence has been relegated to only Teod and Arelon.”
Waren paused thoughtfully. He appeared to be a man of intelligence and shrewdness, and seemed swayed by Hrathen’s logic. It was possible that Hrathen had misjudged the Arelish nobility. Most of them were as hopeless as their king, but a surprising number showed promise. Perhaps they realized just how precarious their positions were—their people starving, their aristocracy inexperienced, and the full attention of the Fjordell Empire turned upon them. When the storm hit, most of Arelon would be surprised like rodents stunned by a bright light. These few lords, however, might just be worth saving.
“My lords, I hope you will review my offers with more wisdom than your king,” Hrathen said. “These are difficult times, and those who don’t have the Church’s support will find life harsh in the coming months. Remember who and what I represent.”
“Remember Elantris,” a voice, Dilaf’s, hissed from beside Hrathen. “Do not forget the well of desecration that pollutes our land. They sleep, and they wait, clever as always. They wait to capture you—all of you—and drag you into their embrace. You must cleanse the world of them before they cleanse it of you.”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Finally—the arteth’s sudden exclamation having spoiled his rhythm—Hrathen leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers before him to show that the meeting was at an end. The nobles left, their troubled faces showing that they understood the difficult decision Hrathen had placed before them. Hrathen studied them, deciding which ones it would be safe to contact again. Idan was his, and with him would inevitably come several of his followers. Hrathen probably had Ramear as well, assuming he met privately with the man and offered him a solid promise of backing. There were a couple of others like Ramear, and then there was Waren, whose eyes were tinged with what looked like respect. Yes, he could do grand things with that one.
They were a politically weak, relatively unimportant lot, but they were a beginning. As Shu-Dereth gained followers, increasingly important nobles would throw their weight behind Hrathen. Then, when the country finally collapsed beneath the weight of political unrest, economic uncertainty, and martial threats, Hrathen would reward his followers with positions in the new government.
The key to reaching that success was still sitting at the back of the meeting, watching quietly. Duke Telrii’s air was stately, his face calm, but his reputation for extravagance spoke of great potential.
“My lord Telrii, a moment please,” Hrathen requested, rising. “I have a special proposal that might be of interest to you.”
CHAPTER 10
“Sule, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Galladon’s whisper was unenthusiastic as he crouched next to Raoden.
“Hush,” Raoden ordered, peeking around the corner toward the courtyard. The gangs had heard about Raoden’s recruitment of Mareshe, and were convinced that he intended to start his own rival gang. When Raoden and Galladon had arrived the day before to look for newcomers, they had found a group of Aanden’s men waiting for them. The reception hadn’t been pleasant. Fortunately, they had escaped without any broken bones or stubbed toes, but this time Raoden intended to be a little more subtle.
“What if they’re waiting for us again?” Galladon asked.
“They probably are,” Raoden said. “Which is why you should keep your voice down. Come on.”
Raoden slipped around the corner and into an alleyway. His toe pained him as he walked, as did his scraped hands and a bruise he had picked up on his arm. In addition, the hunger called to him, a phantom passion from within.
Galladon sighed. “I’m not so bored with death that I want to abandon it in favor of an existence of pure pain. Kolo?”
Raoden turned back with tolerant eyes. “Galladon, someday you’re going to get over this determined pessimism of yours, and all of Elantris will collapse from the shock.”
“Pessimism?
” Galladon demanded as Raoden crept down the alleyway. “Pessimism? Me? Dulas are the most lighthearted, easygoing people in Opelon! We look at each day with—Sule? Don’t you dare leave when I’m defending myself!”
Raoden ignored the large Dula. He also tried to ignore his pains, sharp though they were. His new leather shoes helped immensely; despite Galladon’s reservations, Mareshe had created a product to match his considerable ego. The shoes were sturdy, with a strong, protective sole, but the soft leather—from the covers of Galladon’s books—fit perfectly and didn’t rub.
Peeking carefully around the corner, Raoden studied the courtyard. Shaor’s men weren’t visible, but they were probably hiding nearby. Raoden perked up as he saw the city gate swinging open. The day had brought a new arrival. However, he was shocked when the Elantris City Guard pushed not one, but three separate white-clothed forms through the gate.
“Three?” Raoden said.
“The Shaod is unpredictable, sule,” Galladon said, creeping up behind him.
“This changes everything,” Raoden said with annoyance.
“Good. Let’s go—the others can have today’s offering. Kolo?”
“What? And miss such a grand opportunity? Galladon, I’m disappointed in you.”
The Dula grumbled something Raoden couldn’t catch, and Raoden reached back to clap the big man reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry—I have a plan.”
“Already?”
“We have to move quickly—any minute now one of those three is going to take a step, and then our opening will be gone.”
“Doloken,” Galladon muttered. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. You, however, are going to have a nice stroll out there in the courtyard.”
“What?” Galladon asked. “Sule, you’ve gone kayana again. If I go out there, the gangs are going to see me!”