Elantris (Elantris 1)

Ahan yelled, eyes widening in his fat face. “No! You said prison!” He rushed past Telrii, blubbering as he knelt beside Roial.

“Did I?” Telrii asked. Then he pointed at two of his soldiers. “You two, gather some men and find those assassins, then …” He tapped his thin thoughtfully. “… throw them off the walls of Elantris.”

The two men saluted, then marched from the room.

“The rest of you,” Telrii said, “kill these traitors. Start with the dear princess. Let it be known that this is the punishment for all those who try to usurp the throne.”

“No!” Shuden and Eondel yelled in unison.

The soldiers started to move, and Sarene found herself behind a protective wall formed by Shuden, Eondel, and Lukel. Only Eondel was armed, however, and they were faced by ten men.

“Interesting you should mention usurpers, Duke Telrii,” a voice said from across the table. “I was under the impression that the throne belonged to Iadon’s family.”

Sarene followed the sound. Her eyes found Spirit—or, at least, someone wearing Spirit’s clothing. He had pale Aonic skin, sandy brown hair, and keen blue eyes. Spirit’s eyes. But his face didn’t show any signs of Elantris’s taint. He tossed a rag on the table, and she could see the brown stains on one side—as if he wanted them to believe he had simply wiped away his makeup to reveal a completely different face underneath.

Telrii gasped, stumbling back against the wall. “Prince Raoden!” he choked. “No! You died. They told me you were dead!”

Raoden. Sarene felt numb. She stared at the man Spirit, wondering who he was, and if she had ever really known him.

Spirit looked at the soldiers. “Would you dare slay the true king of Arelon?” he demanded.

The Guard members stepped back, faces confused and frightened.

“Men, protect me!” Telrii yelped, turning and scrambling from the room. The soldiers watched their leader flee, then unceremoniously joined him, leaving the conspirators alone.

Spirit—Raoden—hopped over the table, brushing past Lukel. He shoved the still blubbering Ahan out of his way and knelt next to Kiin—the only one who had thought to try treating Roial’s wound. Sarene watched dumbly from behind, her senses paralyzed. It was obvious that Kiin’s care would be nowhere near enough to save the duke. The sword had passed completely through the man’s body, delivering a painful wound that was certainly mortal.

“Raoden!” Duke Roial gasped. “You have returned to us!”

“Be still, Roial,” Raoden said, stabbing the air with his finger. Light burst from its tip as he began to draw.

“I should have known it was you,” the duke rambled. “All of that silly talk about trusting the people. Can you believe I actually started to agree with you? I should have sent those assassins to do their work the moment they arrived.”

“You are too good a man for that, Roial,” Spirit said, his voice taut with emotion.

Roial’s eyes focused, perceiving for the first time the Aon that Spirit was drawing above him. He breathed out in awe. “Have you returned the beautiful city as well?”

Spirit didn’t respond, instead concentrating on his Aon. He drew differently from the way he had before, his fingers moving more dexterously and quickly. He finished the Aon with a small line near the bottom. It began to glow warmly, bathing Roial in its light. As Sarene watched, the edges of Roial’s wound seemed to pull together slightly. A scratch on Roial’s face disappeared, and several of the liver spots on his scalp faded.

Then the light fell away, the wound still belching blood with each futile pump of the duke’s dying heart.

Spirit cursed. “It’s too weak,” he said, desperately beginning another Aon. “And I haven’t studied the healing modifiers! I don’t know how to target just one part of the body.”

Roial reached up with a quivering arm and grabbed Spirit’s hand. The partially completed Aon faded away as the duke’s movement caused Spirit to make a mistake. Spirit did not start again, bowing his head as if weeping.

“Do not cry, my boy,” Roial said. “Your return is blessed. You cannot save this tired old body, but you can save the kingdom. I will die in peace, knowing you are here to protect it.”

Spirit cupped the old man’s face in his hands. “You did a wonderful job with me, Roial,” he whispered, and Sarene felt intensely that she was intruding. “Without you to watch over me, I would have turned out like my father.”

“No, boy,” Roial said. “You were more like your mother from the start. Domi bless you.”

Sarene turned away then as the duke’s death turned gruesome, his body spasming and blood coming to his lips. When she turned back, blinking the tears from her eyes, Raoden was still kneeling over the old man’s corpse. Finally he took a deep breath and stood, turning to regard the rest of them with sad—but firm—eyes. Beside her, Sarene felt Shuden, Eondel, and Lukel fall to their knees, bowing their heads reverently.

“My king,” Eondel said, speaking for all of them.

“My … husband,” Sarene realized with shock.

CHAPTER 54

“He did what?” Hrathen asked with amazement.

The priest, startled by Hrathen’s sudden reaction, stuttered as he repeated the message. Hrathen cut the man off halfway through.

The Duke of Ial Plantation, dead? By Telrii’s command? What kind of random move was this? Hrathen could tell from the messenger’s face that there was more, so he motioned for the man to continue. Soon Hrathen realized that the execution hadn’t been random at all—that in fact it had been completely logical. Hrathen couldn’t believe Telrii’s fortune. Roial was said to be a crafty man; catching the duke in the act of treason had been amazingly propitious.

What the messenger related next, however, was even more shocking. The rumors said that Prince Raoden had returned from the grave.

Hrathen sat, dumbfounded, behind his desk. A tapestry fluttered on the wall as the messenger closed the door on his way out.

Control, he thought. You can deal with this. The rumor of Raoden’s return was false, of course, but Hrathen had to admit that it was a masterful stroke. He knew of the prince’s saintly reputation; the people regarded Raoden with a level of idolizing adoration that was given only to dead men. If Sarene had somehow found a look-alike, she could call him husband and continue her bid for the throne even now that Roial was dead.

She certainly works quickly, Hrathen thought with a respectful smile.

Telrii’s slaughter of Roial still bothered Hrathen. Murdering the duke without trial or incarceration would make the other nobles even more apprehensive. Hrathen rose. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to convince Telrii to at least draft a warrant of execution. It would ease the aristocratic minds if they were able to read such a document.

Telrii refused to see him. Hrathen stood in the waiting room again, staring down two of Telrii’s guards, arms folded in front of him. The two men watched at the ground sheepishly. Apparently, something had unsettled Telrii so much that he wasn’t taking any visitors at all.

Hrathen didn’t intend to let himself be ignored. Though he could not force his way into the room, he could make himself such a nuisance that Telrii eventually agreed to meet with him. So he had spent the last hour demanding a meeting every five minutes.

In fact, the time was approaching for another request. “Soldier,” he commanded. “Ask the king if he will see me.”

The soldier sighed—just as he had the last half-dozen times Hrathen had made the demand. However, the soldier opened the door and obeyed, going in to search out his commander. A few moments later, the man returned.

Hrathen’s query froze in his throat. It wasn’t the same man.

The “guard” whipped out his sword and attacked the second guard. Sounds of metal against metal exploded from the king’s audience chamber, and men began to scream—some in rage, others in agony.

Hrathen cursed—a battle on the one night he had left his armor behind. Gritting his teeth, he spun

past the fighting guards and entered the room.

The tapestries were in flames, and men struggled desperately in the close confines. Several guards lay dead at the far doorway. Some wore the brown and yellow of the Elantris Guard. The others were in silver and blue—the colors of Count Eondel’s legion.

Hrathen dodged a few attacks, ducking blades or smashing them out of men’s hands. He had to find the king. Telrii was too important to—

Time froze as Hrathen saw the king through the melee, burning strips of cloth dripping from the brocades above. Telrii’s eyes were wild with fear as he dashed toward the open door at the back of the room. Eondel’s sword found Telrii’s neck before the king had taken more than a few steps.

Telrii’s headless corpse fell at Count Eondel’s feet. The count regarded it with grim eyes, then collapsed himself, holding a wound in his side.

Hrathen stood quietly in the melee, chaos forgotten for the moment, regarding the two corpses. So much for avoiding a bloody change in power, he thought with resignation.

CHAPTER 55

It seemed unnatural to look at Elantris from the outside. Raoden belonged in the city. It was as if he stood outside of his own body, looking at it from another person’s perspective. He should no more be separated from Elantris than his spirit should be separated from his body.

He stood with Sarene atop Kiin’s fortresslike house in the noonday sun. The merchant, showing both foresight and healthy paranoia following the massacre ten years before, had built his mansion more like a castle than a house. It was a compact square, with straight stone walls and narrow windows, and it even stood atop a hill. The roof had a pattern of stones running along its lip, much like the battlements atop a city wall. It was against one such stone that Raoden leaned now, Sarene pressed close to his side, her arms around his waist as they regarded the city.

Soon after Roial’s death the night before, Kiin had barred his doors and informed them that he had enough supplies stockpiled to last years. Though Raoden doubted the doors would survive long against a determined attack, he welcomed the feelings of safety Kiin inspired. There was no telling how Telrii would react to Raoden’s appearance. Chances were, however, that he would give up all pretense and seek Fjordell aid. The Elantris Guard might have been hesitant to attack Raoden, but Fjordell troops would have no such inhibitions.

“I should have figured it out,” Sarene mumbled at Raoden’s side.

“Hum?” Raoden asked, raising his eyebrows. She was wearing one of Daora’s dresses—which was, of course, too short for her, though Raoden rather liked the amount of leg it showed. She wore her short blond wig, which was cut in a style that made her look younger than she was, a schoolgirl instead of a mature woman. Well, Raoden revised, a six-foot-tall schoolgirl.

Sarene raised her head, looking into his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t put it together. I was even suspicious about your—meaning Raoden’s—disappearance. I assumed the king had killed you off, or at least exiled you.”

“He certainly would have liked to,” Raoden said. “He tried to send me away on numerous occasions, but I usually wiggled out of it somehow.”

“It was so obvious!” Sarene said, resting her head on his shoulder with a petulant thud. “The cover-up, the embarrassment … it makes perfect sense.”

“It’s easy to see the answers once the puzzle is solved, Sarene,” Raoden said. “I’m not surprised that no one connected my disappearance with Elantris—that isn’t the sort of thing an Arelene would assume. People don’t talk about Elantris, and they certainly don’t want to associate it with those they love. They would prefer to believe that I’d died than know that I’d been taken by the Shaod.”

“But I’m not an Arelene,” Sarene said. “I don’t have the same biases.”

“You lived with them,” Raoden said. “You couldn’t help being affected by their disposition. Besides, you haven’t lived around Elantris—you didn’t know how the Shaod worked.”

Sarene huffed to herself. “And you let me go along in ignorance. My own husband.”

“I gave you a clue,” he protested.

“Yes, about five minutes before you revealed yourself.”

Raoden chuckled, pulling her close. No matter what else happened, he was glad he had made the decision to leave Elantris. This short time with Sarene was worth it.

After a few moments, he realized something. “I’m not, you know.”

“Not what?”

“Your husband. At least, the relationship is disputable. The betrothal contract said our marriage would be binding if either of us died before the wedding. I didn’t die—I went to Elantris. Though they’re essentially the same thing, the contract’s words were very specific.”

Sarene looked up with concern.

He laughed quietly. “I’m not trying to get out of it, Sarene,” he said. “I’m just saying we should make it formal, just so everyone’s mind is put at ease.”

Sarene thought for a moment, then she nodded sharply. “Definitely. I’ve been engaged twice during the last two months, and I never got a wedding. A girl deserves a good wedding.”

“A queen’s wedding,” Raoden agreed.

Sarene sighed as she looked back at Kae. The city seemed cold and lifeless, almost unpopulated. The political uncertainty was destroying the economy of Arelon as surely as Iadon’s rule had destroyed its spirit. Where there should have been busy commerce, only a few hearty pedestrians slipped furtively through the streets. The only exception was the great city square, which held the tents of the Arelene Market. While some of the merchants had decided to cut their losses—moving on to Teod to sell what they could—a surprising number had stayed. What could have persuaded so many to remain to try and push wares upon a people that just weren’t buying?

The only other place that showed any sign of activity was the palace. Elantris City Guard members had been poring over the area like worried insects all morning. Sarene had sent her Seon to investigate, but he had yet to return.

“He was such a good man,” Sarene said softly.

“Roial?” Raoden asked. “Yes, he was. The duke was the role model I needed when my father proved unworthy.”

Sarene chuckled softly. “When Kiin first introduced Roial to me, he said he wasn’t sure if the duke helped us because he loved Arelon, or because he was just bored.”

“Many people took Roial’s craftiness as a sign of deceitfulness,” Raoden said. “They were wrong; Roial was clever, and he enjoyed intrigue, but he was a patriot. He taught me to believe in Arelon, even after its many stumbles.”

“He was like a wily old grandfather,” Sarene said. “And he almost became my husband.”

“I still can’t believe that,” Raoden said. “I loved Roial … but to imagine him married? To you?”

Sarene laughed. “I don’t think we believed it either. Of course, that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

Raoden sighed, rubbing her shoulder. “If only I had known what capable hands I was leaving Arelon in. It would have saved me a great deal of worry.”

“And New Elantris?” Sarene asked. “Is Karata watching it?”

“New Elantris watches itself without much trouble,” Raoden said. “But, I did send Galladon back this morning with instructions to begin teaching the people AonDor. If we fail here, I don’t want to leave Elantris unable to protect itself.”

“There probably isn’t much time left.”

“Time enough to make sure they learn an Aon or two,” Raoden said. “They deserve to know the secret to their power.”

Sarene smiled. “I always knew you would find the answer. Domi doesn’t let your kind of dedication go wasted.”

Raoden smiled. The night before, she had made him draw several dozen Aons to prove that they actually worked. Of course, they hadn’t been enough to save Roial.

A rock of guilt burned in Raoden’s chest. If he had known the proper modifiers, he might have been able to save Roial. A gut wound took a

long time to kill a man; Raoden could have healed each organ separately, then sealed the skin. Instead, he had been able only to draw a general Aon that affected Roial’s entire body. The Aon’s power, already weak, had been diluted so much by the broad target that it did no good.

Raoden had stayed up late memorizing modifiers. AonDor healing was a complex, difficult art, but he was determined to make certain no one else died because of his inability. It would take months of memorizing, but he would learn the modifier for every organ, muscle, and bone.

Sarene turned back to her contemplation of the city. She retained a strong grip on Raoden’s waist—Sarene did not like heights, especially if she didn’t have something to hold on to. Looking over at the top of her head, Raoden suddenly remembered something from the night’s studies.

Reaching out, he pulled off her wig. It resisted as the glue held, then fell away, revealing the stubble underneath. Sarene turned with questioning, annoyed eyes, but Raoden was already drawing.

It wasn’t a complex Aon; it required him only to stipulate a target, how the target was to be affected, and a length of time. When he finished, her hair began to grow. It went lethargically, sliding out of her head like a breath slowly exhaled. In a few minutes, however, it was finished—her long golden hair once again reaching to the middle of her back.

Sarene ran disbelieving fingers through the hair. Then she looked up at Raoden with teary eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him close. “You have no idea what that means.”

After a moment, she pulled back, staring at him with intent, silvery gray eyes. “Show yourself to me.”

“My face?” Raoden asked.

Sarene nodded.

“You’ve seen it before,” he said hesitantly.

“I know, but I’m getting too used to this one. I want to see the real you.”

The determination in her eyes stopped him from arguing further. With a sigh, he reached up, tapping the collar of his undershirt with his index finger. To him, nothing changed, but he could feel Sarene stiffen as the illusion fell away. He felt suddenly ashamed, and hurriedly began to draw the Aon again, but she stopped him.