Elantris (Elantris 1)

“Well?” Sarene asked.

“It is done, my lady,” Ashe informed them. “Telrii is king.”

CHAPTER 45

Hrathen stood in the moonlight atop the Elantris City wall, curiously studying the hole. One of the stairwell barricades was broken and scarred, the boards pulled free. The hole was strikingly similar to one that might have been made by rodents—Elantrian rodents, seeking to escape from their nest. This was one of the sections of the wall kept clean by the Guard, and some slime tracks from the stairwell gave ample proof that those below had been up the wall several times.

Hrathen strolled away from the stairwell. He was probably the only one who knew about the hole; Elantris was now watched by only two or three Guards, and they rarely—if ever—patrolled the wall walk. For now, he wouldn’t tell the Guards about the hole. It didn’t matter to him if the Elantrians snuck out of their city. They wouldn’t be able to go anywhere; their appearance was too distinctive. Besides, he didn’t want to bother the people with worries about Elantris; he wanted them to remain focused on their new king, and the allegiances he would soon declare.

He walked, Elantris to his right, Kae to his left. A small concentration of lights shone in the evening’s darkness—the royal palace, now Telrii’s home. The Arelish nobility, eager to show devotion to their new king, were in near unanimous attendance at his coronation party—each man vying to prove his loyalty. The pompous former duke was obviously enjoying the attention.

Hrathen continued to stroll in the calm night, feet clinking against the stones. Telrii’s coronation had occurred with expected flair. The former duke, now king, was an easy man to understand, and men who could be understood could be manipulated. Let him enjoy his diversion for the moment. On the morrow, the time would come for payment of debts.

Telrii would undoubtedly demand more money from Hrathen before he joined Shu-Dereth. Telrii would think himself clever, and would assume that the crown gave him even greater leverage with Fjorden. Hrathen, of course, would feign indignation at the cash demands, all the while understanding what Telrii never could. Power was not in wealth, but in control—money was worthless before a man who refused to be bought. The king would never understand that the wyrnings he demanded wouldn’t give him power, but would instead put him beneath the power of another. As he glutted himself on coins, Arelon would slip away from him.

Hrathen shook his head, feeling mildly guilty. He used Telrii because the king made himself such a wonderful tool. However, there would be no conversion in Telrii’s heart—no true acceptance of Jaddeth or His empire. Telrii’s promises would be as empty as the power of his throne. And yet, Hrathen would use him. It was logical, and as Hrathen had come to understand, the strength of his faith was in its logic. Telrii might not believe, but his children—raised Derethi—would. One man’s meaningless conversion would provide for the salvation of a kingdom.

As he walked, Hrathen found his eyes consistently drawn toward the darkened streets of Elantris. He tried to focus his thoughts on Telrii and the impending conquest of Arelon, but another matter tickled at his mind.

Grudgingly, Hrathen admitted to himself that he had wanted to walk the wall of Elantris this night for more than one reason. He was worried about the princess. The emotion bothered him, of course, but he didn’t deny that he felt it. Sarene had been a wonderful opponent, and he knew how dangerous Elantris could be. He had realized this when he gave the poisoning order, determining the risk to be worth the gain. After waiting three days, however, his resolve was beginning to waver. He needed her to live for more reason than one.

So, Hrathen watched the streets, foolishly hoping that he might see her below and console his conscience that she was unharmed. Of course, he hadn’t seen anything of the sort; in fact, there didn’t seem to be any Elantrians about this evening. Hrathen didn’t know if they had just moved to other parts of the city, or if the place had grown so violent that they had destroyed themselves. For the princess’s sake, he hoped the second was not true.

“You are the gyorn, Hrathen,” a sudden voice said.

Hrathen spun, eyes searching for the man who had approached him unseen and unheard. A Seon hovered behind him, glowing vibrantly in the darkness. Hrathen squinted, reading the Aon at its center. Dio.

“I am he,” Hrathen said cautiously.

“I come on behalf of my master, King Eventeo of Teod,” the Seon said with a melodious voice. “He wishes to speak with you.”

Hrathen smiled. He had been wondering how long it would take Eventeo to contact him. “I am anxious to hear what His Majesty has to say.”

The Seon pulsed as its light pulled inward, outlining the face of a man with an oval face and a full chin.

“Your Majesty,” Hrathen said with a slight nod. “How may I serve you?”

“No need for useless civility, Gyorn,” Eventeo said flatly. “You know what I want.”

“Your daughter.”

The king’s head nodded. “I know that somehow you have power over this sickness. What would it take for you to heal Sarene?”

“I have no power of myself,” Hrathen said humbly. “It was Lord Jaddeth who performed the healing.”

The king paused. “Then, what would it take for your Jaddeth to heal my daughter?”

“The Lord might be persuaded if you gave Him some form of encouragement,” Hrathen said. “The faithless receive no miracles, Your Majesty.”

King Eventeo slowly bowed his head—he had obviously known what Hrathen would demand. He must love his daughter very much.

“It will be as you say, priest,” Eventeo promised. “If my daughter returns safely from that city, I will convert to Shu-Dereth. I knew it was coming anyway.”

Hrathen smiled broadly. “I will see if I can … encourage Lord Jaddeth to return the princess, Your Majesty.”

Eventeo nodded. His face was that of a man defeated. The Seon ended the contact and floated away without a word.

Hrathen smiled, the final piece of his plan falling into place. Eventeo had made a wise decision. This way, at least, he got to demand something in return for his conversion—even if it was something he would have received anyway.

Hrathen looked down at Elantris, more anxious than ever that Sarene return to him unharmed. It was beginning to appear that within the next few months he would be able to hand Wyrn not one heathen nation, but two.

CHAPTER 46

There had been times when Raoden had wished his father dead. Raoden had seen the people’s suffering, and knew his father was to blame. Iadon had proven himself deceitful in his success and merciless in his determination to crush others. He had delighted in watching his nobles squabble while his kingdom collapsed. Arelon would be better off without King Iadon.

Yet, when news of his father’s demise actually came, Raoden found his emotions traitorously melancholy. His heart wanted to forget the Iadon of the last five years, instead remembering the Iadon of Raoden’s childhood. His father had been the most successful merchant in all of Arelon—respected by his countrymen and loved by his son. He had seemed a man of honor and of strength. Part of Raoden would always be that child who saw his father as the greatest of heroes.

Two things helped him forget the pain of loss—Sarene and the Aons. When he wasn’t with one, he was with the other. New Elantris all but ran itself now; the people found their own projects to keep them busy, and there were rarely arguments that required his attention. So, he came to the library often, drawing Aons while Sarene studied.

“There is surprisingly little information here about modern Fjorden,” Sarene said, poking through a tome so large she had nearly needed Raoden’s help to carry it.

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right book yet,” Raoden said as he traced Aon Ehe. She sat at her customary desk, a pile of books next to her chair, and he stood with his back to the wall, practicing a new batch of Aon modifiers.

“Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced. “Everything in here seems to be about the Old

Empire; only that book on historical reconstruction even mentions the Fjorden of the last hundred years. I assumed that the Elantrians would have studied other religions with care—if only to know what they were up against.”

“As I understand it, the Elantrians didn’t really mind competition,” Raoden said. As he spoke his finger slipped slightly, breaking its line. The Aon held for a moment in the air, then faded away, his mistake invalidating the entire construction. He sighed before continuing his explanation. “The Elantrians figured they were so obviously superior to anything else that they didn’t need to worry about other religions. Most of them didn’t even care if they were worshipped or not.”

Sarene considered his comment, then looked back at her book, pushing aside the empty plate that had held this afternoon’s rations. Raoden didn’t tell her that he increased her portion of food—just as he did for every newcomer during their first week. He had learned from experience that gradual reductions in food intake helped a mind adjust to the hunger.

He started his drawing again, and a few moments later the library door opened. “Is he still up there?” Raoden asked as Galladon entered.

“Kolo,” the Dula replied. “Still screaming at his god.”

“You mean ‘praying.’”

Galladon shrugged, wandering over to take a seat next to Sarene. “You’d think a god would be able to hear him no matter how softly he spoke.”

Sarene looked up from her book. “Are you talking about the gyorn?”

Raoden nodded. “He’s been standing on the wall above the gate since early this morning. Apparently, he’s been petitioning his god to heal us.”

Sarene started. “Heal us?”

“Something like that,” Raoden said. “We can’t hear him very well.”

“Healing Elantris? That’s a switch.” Her eyes were suspicious.

Raoden shrugged, continuing his drawing. Galladon selected a book on farming and began searching through it. Over the last few days he had been trying to devise a method of irrigation that would work under their particular circumstances.

A few minutes later, when Raoden had nearly completed the Aon and its modifiers, he realized that Sarene had put down her book and was watching him with interested eyes. The scrutiny made him slip again, and the Aon faded away before he even realized what he had done. She was still regarding him as he raised his hand to begin Aon Ehe again.

“What?” he finally asked. His fingers instinctively drew the first three strokes—the line across the top, line down the side, and dot in the middle that were the beginning of every Aon.

“You’ve been drawing that same one for the last hour now,” she noted.

“I want to get it right.”

“But you have—at least a dozen times in a row.”

Raoden shrugged. “It helps me think.”

“About what?” she asked curiously, apparently bored of the Old Empire for the time being.

“Lately, about AonDor itself. I understand most of the theory now, but I still don’t seem any closer to discovering what has blocked the Dor. I feel that the Aons have changed, that the old patterns are slightly wrong, but I can’t even begin to guess why that would be.”

“Maybe something’s wrong with the land,” Sarene said offhandedly, leaning back in her chair so the front two legs rose off the ground.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Sarene said speculatively, “you say that the Aons and the land are linked—though even I could have told you that.”

“Oh?” Raoden asked, smiling as he drew. “Did your training as a princess include some secret lessons in Elantrian magic?”

“No,” Sarene said with a dramatic toss of her head. “But it did include training in the Aons. To begin every Aon, you draw a picture of Arelon. I learned that as a little girl.”

Raoden froze, his hand pausing in midline. “Say that again.”

“Hum?” Sarene asked. “Oh, it’s just a silly trick my teacher used to make me pay attention. See? Every Aon starts the same way—with a line at the top to represent the coast, a line down the side that looks like the Atad Mountains, and a dot in the middle to be Lake Alonoe.”

Galladon stood, wandering over to look at Raoden’s still glowing Aon. “She’s right, sule. It does kind of look like Arelon. Didn’t your books say anything about that?”

“No,” Raoden said with amazement. “Well, they claimed there was a connection between the Aons and Arelon, but they never mentioned that the characters actually represented the land. Perhaps the concept was just too elementary.”

Galladon picked up his book, folding something out of its back—a map of Arelon. “Keep drawing, sule. Otherwise that Aon’s going to vanish away.”

Raoden complied, forcing his finger back into motion. Galladon held up the map and Sarene moved to stand at the Dula’s side. They looked through the thin paper at the glowing Aon.

“Doloken!” Galladon swore. “Sule, the proportions are exactly the same. They even slant the same way.”

Raoden finished the Aon with one last stroke. He joined the other two, regarding the map, then looked over at Sarene. “But, what’s wrong, then? The mountains are still there, as is the coast, and the lake.”

Sarene shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You’re the expert—I can’t even get the first line right.”

Raoden turned back to the Aon. A few seconds later it flashed briefly and disappeared, its potential blocked for some inexplicable reason. If Sarene’s hypothesis was right, then the Aons were even more closely linked to Arelon than he had assumed. Whatever had stopped AonDor must have affected the land as well.

He turned, intending to praise Sarene for the clue. However, his words choked in his mouth. Something was wrong. The dark splotches on the princess’s skin were the wrong color: they were a mixture of blues and purple, like bruises. They seemed to fade before his eyes.

“Merciful Domi!” he exclaimed. “Galladon, look at her!”

The Dula turned with alarm, then his face changed from worried to awed.

“What?” the princess demanded, shooting them nervous looks.

“What did you do, sule?” Galladon asked.

“Nothing!” Raoden insisted, looking at the place where his Aon had been. “Something else must be healing her.”

Then he made the connection. Sarene had never been able to draw Aons. She had complained of being cold, and she still insisted that her wounds didn’t hurt. Raoden reached out and felt Sarene’s face. Her flesh was warm—too warm, even for a new Elantrian whose body hadn’t completely cooled yet. He pushed the scarf off her head with trembling fingers, and felt the nearly invisible blond stubble on her scalp.

“Idos Domi,” he whispered. Then he grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the library.

“Spirit, I don’t understand,” she protested as they entered the courtyard before Elantris’s gate.

“You were never an Elantrian, Sarene,” he said. “It was a trick—the same one that gyorn used to appear as if he were an Elantrian. Somehow Hrathen can make it seem that you’ve been taken by the Shaod when you haven’t.”

“But—” she objected.

“Think, Sarene!” Raoden said, spinning her around to look him in the eyes. The gyorn preached on the wall above them, his loud voice garbled by the distance. “Your wedding to Roial would have put an opponent of Shu-Dereth on the throne. Hrathen had to stop that wedding—and he did it in the most embarrassing way he could contrive. You don’t belong here.”

He pulled on her arm again, attempting to lead her toward the gates. She resisted, pulling against him with equal strength. “I’m not going.”

Raoden turned with surprise. “But you have to go—this is Elantris, Sarene. No one wants to be here.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted, voice defiantly firm. “I’m going to stay.”

“Arelon needs you.”

“Arelon will be better off without me. If I hadn’t interfered, Iadon would still be alive, an

d Telrii wouldn’t have the throne.”

Raoden fell still. He wanted her to stay—he longed for her to stay. But he would do whatever it took to get her out of Elantris. The city was death.

The gates were opening; the gyorn had recognized his prey.

Sarene regarded Raoden with wide eyes, her hand reaching up toward him. The splotches had nearly completely vanished now. She was beautiful.

“You think we can afford to feed you, Princess?” Raoden said, forcing harshness into his voice. “You assume we will waste food on a woman who is not one of us?

“That won’t work, Spirit,” Sarene shot back. “I can see the truth in your eyes.”

“Then believe this truth,” Raoden said. “Even with severe rationing, New Elantris only has enough food for a few more weeks. We raise crops, but it will be months before we can harvest them. During that time we will starve. All of us—the men the women and the children. We will starve unless someone on the outside can get us more supplies.”

She hesitated, then she was in his arms, pulling close against his chest. “Curse you,” she hissed. “Domi curse you.”

“Arelon does need you, Sarene,” he whispered back. “If what you say is right, and a Fjordell sympathizer is on the throne, there may not be much time left for Elantris. You know what the Derethi priests would do to us if they had their way. Things have gone very wrong in Arelon, Sarene, and you are the only one I trust to fix them.”

She looked into his eyes. “I will return.”

Men in yellow and brown churned around them, pulling the two apart. They shoved Raoden aside, and he fell back against the slick cobblestones as the figures pulled Sarene away. Raoden was left lying on his back, feeling the slime squish beneath him, looking up at a man in bloodred armor. The gyorn stood quietly for a moment, then turned and followed Sarene out of the city. The gates slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER 47

The gates slammed shut. This time they didn’t lock Sarene in Elantris, but out of it. Emotions snapped at her soul like a pack of angry wolves, each one demanding her attention. Five days before, she had though her life ruined. She had wished, prayed, and begged for Domi to heal her. Now she found herself craving to return to her damnation, as long as Spirit was there.