The men I am forced to work with … Hrathen thought with an inward sigh. Iadon, at least, had been businesslike.
“Ah, Hrathen,” Telrii said with a smile. “Welcome.”
“Your Majesty,” Hrathen said, masking his disgust. “I was hoping we could speak in private.”
Telrii sighed. “Very well,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the attendants. They left, pulling the outer doors closed.
“Now,” Telrii said, “why have you come? Are you interested in the tariffs on your merchants setting up for the Arelene Market?”
Hrathen frowned. “I have more important matters to consider, Your Majesty. As do you. I have come to collect on the promises of our allegiance.”
“Promises, Hrathen?” Telrii asked idly. “I made no promises.”
And so the game began. “You are to join the Derethi religion,” Hrathen said. “That was the deal.”
“I made no such deal, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You offered me funds; I accepted them. You have my gratitude for the support, as I said that you would.”
“I will not squabble with you, merchant,” Hrathen said, wondering how much money Telrii would demand to “remember” their agreement. “I am no sycophant to be baited. If you do not do as Jaddeth expects, then I will find someone else. Do not forget what happened to your predecessor.”
Telrii snorted. “Don’t take credit for something you had no hand in, priest. Iadon’s fall was, as I recall, caused by the Teoish princess. You were in Elantris at the time. Now, if Fjorden wishes a Derethi on the throne of Arelon, that can probably be arranged. There will be, however, a price.”
Finally, Hrathen thought. He clenched his jaw, feigning anger, and waited a moment. Then he sighed. “Very well. How much—”
“However,” Telrii interrupted, “it is not a price you can pay.”
Hrathen froze. “Excuse me?”
“Yes,” Telrii said. “My price must be paid by someone with a little more … authority than yourself. You see, I’ve learned that Derethi priests cannot appoint men to their own position in the Church hierarchy.”
Hrathen felt a chill grow within him as he connected the pieces of Telrii’s statements. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he whispered.
“I know more than you assume, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You think me a fool, ignorant of the ways of the East? Kings bow to gyorns. What power will I hold if I let you make me into nothing more than a Derethi slave? No, that will not do for 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. 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 his 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 thumb 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 said 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—like 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 it!”
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 up, 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 th
is 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 of 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?”