“The sewers?” Sarene asked incredulously.
“Yes, my lady. And he is not alone—he met two cloaked men just after he left the party, and was joined by a half-dozen more at the mouth of the sewers.”
“And you didn’t follow them in?” she asked with disappointment. “We’ll never be able to tail them.”
“That is unfortunate, my lady.”
Sarene ground her teeth in frustration. “They’ll leave tracks in the muck,” she decided, stalking forward. “You should be able to follow them.”
Ashe hesitated. “My lady, I must insist that you return to the duke’s party.”
“Not a chance, Ashe.”
“I have the solemn duty of your protection, my lady,” Ashe said. “I can’t allow you to go climbing through refuse in the middle of the night—I was wrong to let you go this far. It is my responsibility to stop this before it goes any further.”
“And how will you do that?” Sarene asked impatiently.
“I could call your father.”
“Father lives in Teod, Ashe,” Sarene pointed out. “What is he going to do?”
“I could go get Lord Eondel or one of the others.”
“And leave me to get lost in the sewers on my own?”
“You would never do something that foolish, my lady,” Ashe declared. Then he paused, hovering uncertainly in the air, his Aon so dim it was translucent. “All right,” he finally admitted. “You are indeed that foolish.”
Sarene smiled. “Come on—the fresher those tracks are, the easier it will be for you to follow them.”
The Seon sullenly led the way down the street, which soon ended in a dirty, fungus-lined arch. Sarene strode forward with determination, paying no heed to the damage the sludge would do to her dress.
The moonlight lasted only as far as the first turnoff. Sarene stood for a moment in the suffocating, dank blackness, realizing that even she would never have been foolish enough to enter the directionless maze without guidance. Fortunately, her bluff had convinced Ashe—though she wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the level of arrogant idiocy of which he thought her capable.
Ashe increased his light slightly. The sewer was a hollow tube, a remnant of the days when Elantris’s magic provided running water for every house in Kae. Now the sewers were used as a receptacle for trash and excrement. They were flushed out by a periodic diversion of the Aredel—something which obviously hadn’t been done in a while, for the wet muck at the bottom of the corridor came up to her ankles. She didn’t want to consider what that sludge must be composed of, but the pungent stink was an overpowering clue.
All of the tunnels looked the same to Sarene. One thing reassured her: the Seon sense of direction. It was impossible to get lost when accompanied by Ashe. The creatures always knew where they were, and could point the exact direction to any place they had ever been.
Ashe led the way, floating close to the muck’s surface. “My lady, may I be allowed to know just how you knew the king would sneak away from Roial’s party?”
“Surely you can figure it out, Ashe,” she chided.
“Let me assure you, my lady, I have tried.”
“Well, what day of the week is it?”
“MaeDal?” the Seon replied, leading her around a corner.
“Right. And what happens every week on MaeDal?”
Ashe didn’t answer immediately. “Your father plays ShinDa with Lord Eoden?” he asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic frustration. The night’s activities—especially her belligerence—were wearing away even Ashe’s formidable patience.
“No,” Sarene said. “Every week on MaeDal at eleven o’clock I hear scrapings in the passage that runs through my wall—the one that leads to the king’s rooms.”
The Seon made a slight “ah” of understanding.
“I heard noises in the passage some other nights as well,” Sarene explained. “But MaeDal was the only consistent day.”
“So you had Roial throw a party tonight, expecting that the king would keep to his schedule,” the Seon said.
“Right,” Sarene said, trying not to slip in the muck. “And I had to make it a late party so that people would stay at least until midnight—the eclipse provided a convenient excuse. The king had to come to the party; his pride wouldn’t let him stay away. However, his weekly appointment must be important, for he risked leaving early to attend it.”
“My lady, I don’t like this,” Ashe said. “What good could the king be doing in the sewers at midnight?”
“That is exactly what I intend to find out,” Sarene said, brushing away a spiderweb. One thought drove her through muck and darkness—a possibility she was barely willing to acknowledge. Perhaps Prince Raoden lived. Maybe Iadon hadn’t confined him to the dungeons, but in the sewers. Sarene might not be a widow after all.
A noise came from ahead. “Turn down your light, Ashe,” she said. “I think I hear voices.”
He did so, becoming nearly invisible. There was an intersection just ahead, and torchlight flickered from the rightmost tunnel. Sarene approached the corner slowly, intending to peek around it. Unfortunately, she hadn’t noticed that the floor declined slightly just before the intersection, and her feet slipped. She waved desperate arms, barely stabilizing herself as she slid a few feet down the incline and came to a halt at the bottom.
The motion placed her directly in the middle of the intersection. Sarene looked up slowly.
King Iadon stared back, looking as stunned as she felt.
“Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered. The king stood facing her behind an altar, a red-streaked knife raised in his hand. He was completely naked except for the blood smearing his chest. The remains of an eviscerated young woman lay tied to the altar, her torso sliced open from neck to crotch.
The knife dropped from Iadon’s hand, hitting the muck below with a muffled plop. Only then did Sarene notice the dozen black-robed forms standing behind him, Duladen runes sewn into their clothing. Each one carried a long dagger. Several approached her with quick steps.
Sarene wavered between her body’s urge to retch and her mind’s insistence that she scream.
The scream came out on top.
She stumbled backward, slipping and splashing down into the slime. The figures rushed for her, their cowled eyes intent. Sarene kicked and struggled in the slime, still screaming as she tried to regain her feet. She almost missed the sounds of footsteps from her right.
Then Eondel was there.
The aged general’s sword flashed in the dim light, cleanly slicing off an arm that was reaching for Sarene’s ankle. Other figures moved through the corridor as well, men in the livery of Eondel’s legion. There was also a man in a red robe—Dilaf, the Derethi priest. He didn’t join the fighting, but stood to the side with a fascinated look on his face.
Dumbfounded, Sarene tried to stand again, but only ended up slipping in the sewage once more. A hand grabbed her arm, helping her up. Roial’s wrinkled face smiled in relief as he pulled Sarene to her feet.
“Maybe next time you’ll tell me what you are planning, Princess,” he suggested.
“You told him,” Sarene realized, shooting Ashe an accusatory look.
“Of course I told him, my lady,” the Seon responded, pulsing slightly to punctuate the remark. She sat in Roial’s study with Ashe and Lukel. Sarene wore a robe that the duke had borrowed from one of his maids. It was too short, of course, but it was better than a sewage-covered velvet dress.
“When?” Sarene demanded, leaning back in Roial’s deep plush couch and wrapping herself in a blanket. The duke had ordered a bath drawn for her, and her hair was still wet, chilled in the night air.
“He called Opa as soon as you left my drive,” Roial explained, walking into the room, carrying three steaming cups. He handed one to her and another to Lukel before taking a seat.
“That soon?” Sarene asked with surprise.
“I knew you would never turn back, no matter what I said,
” Ashe said.
“You know me too well,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. It was Fjordell garha—which was good; she couldn’t afford to fall asleep just yet.
“I will admit to that failing without argument, my lady,” Ashe said.
“Then why did you try and stop me before leading me into the sewer?” she asked.
“I was stalling, my lady,” Ashe explained. “The duke insisted on coming himself, and his group moved slowly.”
“I might be slow, but I was not going to miss whatever you had planned, Sarene,” Roial said. “They say age brings wisdom, but it only gave me a torturous case of curiosity.”
“Eondel’s soldiers?” Sarene asked.
“Were already at the party,” Lukel said. He had insisted on knowing what had happened as soon as he saw Sarene sneaking into Roial’s house, covered in slime. “I saw some of them mingling with the guests.”
“I invited Eondel’s officers,” Roial explained. “Or, at least, the half-dozen of them that were in town.”
“All right,” Sarene said. “So after I ran off, Ashe called your Seon and told you I was pursuing the king.”
“‘The foolish girl is going off to get herself killed’ were his exact words, I believe,” Roial said with a chuckle.
“Ashe!”
“I apologize, my lady,” the Seon said, pulsing in embarrassment. “I was rather out of sorts.”
“Anyway,” Sarene continued, “Ashe called Roial and he gathered Eondel and his men from the party. You all followed me to the sewers, where you had your Seon guide you.”
“Until Eondel heard you screaming,” Roial finished. “You are a very lucky lady to have that man’s loyalty, Sarene.”
“I know,” Sarene said. “That’s the second time this week his sword has proved useful. Next time I see Iadon, remind me to kick him for convincing the nobility that military training is beneath them.”
Roial chuckled. “You might have to stand in line to do that kicking, Princess. I doubt the city’s priests—Derethi or Korathi—will let the king get away with taking part in the Jeskeri Mysteries.”
“And sacrificing that poor woman,” Ashe said quietly.
The tone of the conversation grew subdued as they remembered just what they were discussing. Sarene shuddered at the image of the blood-covered altar and its occupant. Ashe’s right, she thought somberly. This is no time for joking.
“That’s what it was, then?” Lukel asked.
Sarene nodded. “The Mysteries sometimes involve sacrifices. Iadon must have wanted something very badly.”
“Our Derethi friend claimed to have some knowledge on the subject,” Roial said. “He seemed to think the king was petitioning the Jesker spirits to destroy someone for him.”
“Me?” Sarene asked, growing cold despite her blanket.
Roial nodded. “Arteth Dilaf said the instructions were written on the altar in that woman’s blood.”
Sarene shivered. “Well, at least now we know what happened to the maids and cooks who disappeared from the palace.”
Roial nodded. “I’d guess he’s been involved with the Mysteries for a long time—perhaps even since the Reod. He was obviously the leader of that particular band.”
“The others?” Sarene asked.
“Minor nobles,” Roial said. “Iadon wouldn’t have involved anyone who could challenge him.”
“Wait a moment,” Sarene said, her brows furled. “Where did that Derethi priest come from, anyway?”
Roial looked down at his cup uncomfortably. “That’s my fault. He saw me gathering Eondel’s men—I was kind of in a hurry—and followed us. We didn’t have time to deal with him.”
Sarene sipped at her drink petulantly. The night’s events definitely hadn’t turned out as she had planned.
Suddenly Ahan waddled through the door. “Rag Domi, Sarene!” he declared. “First you oppose the king, then you rescue him, and now you dethrone him. Would you please make up your mind?”
Sarene pulled her knees up against her chest and dropped her head between them with a groan. “There’s no chance of keeping it under cover, then?”
“No,” Roial said. “The Derethi priest saw to that—he’s already announced it to half of the city.”
“Telrii will almost certainly seize power now,” Ahan said with a shake of his head.
“Where is Eondel?” Sarene asked, her voice muffled by the blankets.
“Locking the king in the jailhouse,” Ahan said.
“And Shuden?”
“Still seeing that the women got home safely, I assume,” Lukel said.
“All right,” Sarene said, raising her head and brushing her hair out of her eyes. “We’ll have to proceed without them. Gentlemen, I’m afraid I just destroyed our brief respite of peace. We have some heavy planning to do—and most of it is going to be in the way of damage control.”
CHAPTER 33
Something changed. Hrathen blinked, washing away the last remnants of his waking dream. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed—it was dark now, hauntingly black save for a few lonely torches burning high above on Elantris’s wall. There wasn’t even any moonlight.
He fell into the stupor more and more often lately, his mind fuzzing as he knelt in the same penitent stance. Three days was a long time to spend in prayer.
He was thirsty. Hungry as well. He had expected that; he had fasted before. However, this time seemed different. His hunger seemed more urgent, as if his body were trying to warn him of something. Elantris had much do with his discomfort, he knew. There was a desperation about the town, a sense of anxiety in every vile, cracking stone.
Suddenly, light appeared in the sky. Hrathen looked up with awe, blinking tired eyes. The moon slowly appeared from darkness. First a scythe-shaped sliver, it grew even as Hrathen watched. He hadn’t realized that there would be a lunar eclipse this night—he had stopped paying attention to such things since he left Duladel. That nation’s now extinct pagan religion had ascribed special importance to the heaven’s movements, and the Mysteries often practiced their rituals on such nights.
Squatting in the courtyard of Elantris, Hrathen finally understood what had prodded the Jeskers to regard nature with religious wonder. There was something beautiful about the pale-faced goddess of the heavens, a mysticism to her eclipse. It was as if she really were disappearing for a time—traveling to another place, as opposed to just falling into the planet’s shadow, as Svordish scientists now claimed. Hrathen could almost feel her magic.
Almost. He could understand how, perhaps, a primitive culture could worship the moon—but he could not take part in that worship. Yet he wondered—was this the awe he should feel for his God? Was his own belief flawed because he did not regard Jaddeth with the same mixture of curious fear and wonder with which the people of Jesker had regarded the moon?
He would never have such emotions; he was not capable of irrational veneration. He understood. Even if he envied men who could gush praises to a god without understanding his teachings, Hrathen could not separate fact and religion. Jaddeth bestowed attributes on men as He saw fit, and Hrathen had been given a logical intellect. He would never be content with simpleminded devotion.
It was not what Hrathen had been hoping for, but it was an answer, and he found comfort and strength within it. He was not a zealot; he would never be a man of extreme passion. In the end, he followed Derethi because it made sense. That would have to be enough.
Hrathen licked his drying lips. He didn’t know how long it would be until he left Elantris; his exile could last days yet. He hadn’t wanted to show signs of physical dependence, but he knew that he would need some nourishment. Reaching over, he retrieved his sacrificial basket. Caked with slime, the offerings were growing stale and moldy. Hrathen ate them anyway, resolve breaking as he finally made the decision to eat. He devoured it all—flaccid vegetables, moldy bread, meat, even some of the corn, the hard grains softened slightly by their extended bath in Elantris slime. A
t the end he downed the entire flask of wine with one prolonged gulp.
He tossed the basket aside. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about scavengers coming to steal his offerings, though he hadn’t seen any more of them since the earlier attack. He was thankful to Jaddeth for the respite. He was becoming so weak and dehydrated that he might not have been able to fend off another assault.
The moon was almost completely visible now. Hrathen stared up with renewed resolve. He might lack passion, but he had an ample serving of determination. Licking his now wetted lips, Hrathen restarted his prayer. He would continue as he always had, doing his best to serve in Lord Jaddeth’s empire.
There was nothing else God could expect of him.
CHAPTER 34
Raoden was wrong about Shaor’s men. A few of them came to him that night to cook their food, the light of consciousness shining weakly in their eyes. The rest—the majority of Shaor’s followers—did not.
They came to him for another reason.
He watched several of them pull a large stone block on one of Mareshe’s sleds. Their minds were gone—their capacity for rational thought atrophied somehow by their extended submersion in bestial madness. While several had recovered—if only partially—the rest seemed beyond help. They never made the connection between fires and cooking; they had simply stood howling over the grain, outraged and confused by their inability to devour it.
No, these men had not fallen into his trap. But, they had come anyway—for Raoden had dethroned their god.
He had entered Shaor’s territory and had escaped unscathed. He had power over food; he could make it inedible for one but succulent for another. His soldiers had repeatedly defeated Shaor’s band. To their simple, degenerate minds there was only one thing to do when faced by a god more powerful than their own: convert.
They came to him the morning after his attempt at restoring their intelligence. He had been walking the perimeter of New Elantris’s short defensive wall, and seen them slinking down one of the city’s main thoroughfares. He had raised the call, thinking they had finally decided to mount a coordinated attack.