Eondel snorted. “The Guard is hardly more than a club for second sons who want to pretend they’re important.”
“True,” Ahan said. “But there are over six hundred people in that club. At fifty-to-one odds, even I would fight against your legion. I’m afraid the balance of power has shifted in Telrii’s favor.”
“This is bad,” Roial agreed. “Telrii’s superior wealth was a great problem before, but now …”
“There’s got to be a way,” Lukel said.
“I don’t see one,” Roial confessed.
The men frowned, deep in thought. However, they had all been pondering this very problem for two days. Even if they’d had the military edge, the other aristocrats would be hesitant to support Roial, who was the less wealthy man.
As Sarene studied each lord in turn, her eyes fell on Shuden. He seemed hesitant rather than worried.
“What?” she asked quietly.
“I think I may have a way,” he said tentatively.
“Speak on, man,” Ahan said.
“Well, Sarene is still very wealthy,” Shuden explained. “Raoden left her at least five hundred thousand deos.”
“We discussed this, Shuden,” Lukel said. “She has a lot of money, but still less than Roial.”
“True,” Shuden agreed. “But together they would have far more than Telrii.”
The room grew quiet.
“Your marriage contract is technically void, my lady,” Ashe said from behind. “It dissolved as soon as Iadon killed himself, thereby removing his line from the throne. The moment someone else becomes king—be it Telrii or Roial—the treaty will end, and you will cease to be an Arelish princess.”
Shuden nodded. “If you unify your fortune with that of Lord Roial, it would not only give you the money to stand against Telrii, it would also legitimize the duke’s claim. Don’t assume that lineage doesn’t matter in Arelon. The nobles would much rather give their loyalty to one of Iadon’s relatives.”
Roial found her with eyes like those of a benevolent grandfather. “I must admit that young Shuden has a point. The marriage would be strictly political, Sarene.”
Sarene took a breath. Things happened so quickly. “I understand, my lord. We will do what must be done.”
And so, for the second time in only two months, Sarene was engaged to be married.
“That wasn’t very romantic, I’m afraid,” Roial apologized. The meeting was over, and Roial had discreetly offered to escort Sarene back to the palace. The others, including Ashe, had realized that the two needed to talk alone.
“It’s all right, my lord,” Sarene said with a slight smile. “That is how political marriages are supposed to be—dry, contrived, but extremely useful.”
“You’re very pragmatic.”
“I have to be, my lord.”
Roial frowned. “Must we return to the ‘my lords,’ Sarene? I thought we were beyond that.”
“I’m sorry, Roial,” Sarene said. “It’s just hard to separate my personal self from my political self.”
Roial nodded. “I meant what I said, Sarene. This will be strictly a union of convenience—do not fear yourself obligated in any other way.”
Sarene rode quietly for a moment, listening to the horse’s hooves clop in front of them. “There will need to be heirs.”
Roial laughed quietly. “No, Sarene. Thank you, but no. Even if such were physically possible, I couldn’t go through with it. I am an old man, and can’t possibly survive more than a few years. This time, your wedding contract won’t forbid you from remarrying after I die. When I’m gone, you can finally choose a man of your own preference—by then we will have replaced Iadon’s silly system with something more stable, and your children with the third husband will inherit the throne.”
Third husband. Roial spoke as if he were already dead, herself a widow twice over. “Well,” she said, “if things do happen as you suggest, then at least I wouldn’t have trouble attracting a husband. The throne would be a tempting prize, even if I were attached to it.”
Roial’s face hardened. “This is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Sarene.”
“What?”
“You’re far too harsh on yourself. I’ve heard the way you speak—you assume that nobody wants you.”
“They don’t,” Sarene said flatly. “Trust me.”
Roial shook his head. “You’re an excellent judge of character, Sarene—except your own. Often, our own opinions of ourselves are the most unrealistic. You may see yourself as an old maid, child, but you are young, and you are beautiful. Just because you’ve had misfortune in your past doesn’t mean you have to give up on your future.”
He looked into her eyes. For all his mischievous shows, this was a man of sagely understanding. “You will find someone to love you, Sarene,” Roial promised. “You are a prize—a prize even greater than that throne you’ll be attached to.”
Sarene blushed, looking down. Still … his words were encouraging. Perhaps she did have a hope. She would probably be in her mid-thirties, but she would have at least one more chance to find the right man.
“Anyway,” Roial said. “Our wedding will have to come soon if we are going to beat Telrii.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The day of Iadon’s funeral,” Roial said. “Technically, Iadon’s reign doesn’t end until his burial.”
Four days. It would be a short engagement indeed.
“I just worry at the necessity of putting you through all of this,” Roial said. “It can’t be easy to consider marrying such a dusty old man.”
Sarene laid her hand on that of the duke, smiling at the sweetness in his tone. “All things considered, my lord, I think I’m rather fortunate. There are very few men in this world I would actually consider it an honor to be forced to marry.”
Roial smiled a wrinkly smile, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a shame Ahan’s already married, isn’t it?”
Sarene removed her hand and swatted him on the shoulder. “I’ve had enough emotional shocks for one week, Roial—I’ll kindly thank you not to make me sick to my stomach as well.”
The duke laughed at length. When his merriment died down, however, another sound replaced it—yelling. Sarene tensed, but the yells weren’t ones of anger or pain. They seemed joyful and excited. Confused, she looked out the carriage window and saw a crowd of people surging through a cross street.
“What in the name of Domi is that?” Roial asked.
Their carriage drew closer, allowing Sarene to make out a tall form at the center of the crowd.
Sarene grew numb. “But … but that’s impossible!”
“What?” Roial asked, squinting.
“It’s Hrathen,” Sarene said with wide eyes, “He’s left Elantris!” Then she realized something else. The gyorn’s face was unspotted. Flesh-colored.
“Merciful Domi—he’s been healed!”
CHAPTER 36
When dawn signaled the fifth day of Hrathen’s exile, he knew that he had made a mistake. He would die in Elantris. Five days was too long to go without drink, and he knew there was no water to be had in the city of the damned.
He didn’t regret his actions—he had behaved in the most logical way. It had been desperate logic, but rational nonetheless. Had he continued in Kae, he would have grown more impotent with each turning day. No, it was much better to die of dehydration.
He grew increasingly delirious as the fifth day passed. At times, he saw Dilaf laughing over him; at others the Teoish princess did the same. Once he even thought he saw Jaddeth himself, His face burning red with the heat of Godly disappointment as he looked down on Hrathen. The delusions soon changed, however. He no longer saw faces, no longer felt humiliated and scorned. In their place, he was confronted with something much more horrid.
Memories of Dakhor.
Once again, the dark, hollow cubicles of the monastery surrounded him. Screams echoed through the black stone hallways, cries of bestial agony mixing with s
olemn chanting. Chanting that had a strange power to it. The boy Hrathen knelt obediently, waiting, crouched in a cubical no larger than a closet, sweat streaming past terrified eyes, knowing that eventually they would come for him.
Rathbore Monastery trained assassins, Fjeldor Monastery trained spies. Dakhor … Dakhor Monastery trained demons.
His delirium broke sometime in the early afternoon, releasing him for a time—like a cat allowing its prey to run free one last time before striking a deadly blow. Hrathen roused his weakened body from the hard stones, his matted clothing sticking to the slimy surface. He didn’t remember pulling into a fetal position. With a sigh, Hrathen rubbed a hand over his dirty, grime-stained scalp—a senseless but reflexive attempt to wipe away the dirt. His fingers scraped against something rough and gristly. Stubble.
Hrathen sat upright, shock providing momentary strength. He reached with trembling fingers, searching out the small flask that had contained his sacrificial wine. He wiped the glass as best he could with a dirty sleeve, then peered at his spectral reflection. It was distorted and unclear, but it was enough. The spots were gone. His skin, though covered with dirt, was as fresh and unblemished as it had been five days before.
Forton’s potion had finally worn off.
He had begun to think that it never would, that Forton had forgotten to make the effects temporary. It was amazing enough that the Hroven man could create a potion that made one’s body mimic the afflictions of an Elantrian. But Hrathen had misjudged the apothecary: he had done as asked, even if the effects had lasted a bit longer than expected.
Of course, if Hrathen didn’t get himself out of Elantris quickly, he might still die. Hrathen stood, gathering his remaining strength and bolstering it with excited adrenaline. “Behold!” he screamed toward the guardhouse above. “Witness the power and glory of Lord Jaddeth! I have been healed!”
There was no response. Perhaps it was too far for his voice to carry. Then, looking along the walls, he noticed something. There were no Guards. No patrols or watches marched their rounds, no telltale tips of spears marked their presence. They had been there the day before … or, had it been the day before that? The last three days had become something of a blur in his mind—one extended set of prayers, hallucinations, and the occasional exhausted nap.
Where had the guards gone? They considered it their solemn duty to watch Elantris, as if anything threatening could ever come from the rotting city. The Elantris City Guard performed a useless function, but that function gave them notoriety. The Guards would never give up their posts.
Except they had. Hrathen began to scream again, feeling the strength leak from his body. If the Guard wasn’t there to open the gates, then he was doomed. Irony tickled at his mind—the only Elantrian to ever be healed would die because of a collection of incompetent, negligent guards.
The gate suddenly cracked open. Another hallucination? But then a head poked through the gap—the avaricious captain that Hrathen had been nurturing.
“My lord …?” the guard asked hesitantly. Then, looking Hrathen up and down with wide eyes, he inhaled sharply. “Gracious Domi! It’s true—you’ve been healed!”
“Lord Jaddeth had heard my pleas, Captain,” Hrathen announced with what strength he could manage. “The taint of Elantris has been removed from my body.”
The captain’s head disappeared for a moment. Then, slowly, the gate opened all the way, revealing a group of wary guards.
“Come, my lord.”
Hrathen rose to his feet—he hadn’t even noticed sinking to his knees—and walked on shaky legs to the gate. He turned, resting his hand on the wood—one side filthy and grime-stained, the other side bright and clean—and looked back at Elantris. A few huddled shapes watched him from the top of a building.
“Enjoy your damnation, my friends,” Hrathen whispered, then motioned for the guards to shut the gate.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this, you know,” the captain said. “Once a man is thrown into Elantris …”
“Jaddeth rewards those who obey Him, Captain,” Hrathen said. “Often at the hands of His servants.”
The captain’s eyes brightened, and Hrathen was suddenly very grateful he had begun bribing the man. “Where are the rest of your men, Captain?”
“Protecting the new king,” the captain said proudly.
“New king?” Hrathen asked.
“You’ve missed a lot, my lord. Lord Telrii rules in Arelon now—or, at least, he will as soon as Iadon’s funeral is over.”
Weakened as he was, Hrathen could only stand in shock. Iadon dead? Telrii seizing control? How could five days bring about such drastic events?
“Come,” Hrathen said firmly. “You can explain it to me on the way to the chapel.”
The crowds gathered around him as he walked; the captain owned no carriage, and Hrathen didn’t want to bother waiting for one. For the moment, the exhilaration of a plan fulfilled was enough to keep him moving.
The crowds helped as well. As news spread, the people—servants, merchants, and nobles alike—came to stare at the recovered Elantrian. All parted before him, regarding him with looks that ranged from stunned to worshipful, some reaching out to touch his Elantrian robe in awe.
The trip was crowded, but uneventful—except for one moment when he looked down a side street and recognized the Teoish princess’s head poking out of a carriage window. In that moment, Hrathen felt a sense of fulfillment that rivaled the day he had become a full gyorn. His healing wasn’t just unexpected, it was unfathomable. There was no way Sarene could have planned for it. For once, Hrathen had total and complete advantage.
When he reached the chapel, Hrathen turned to the mass of people with raised hands. His clothing was still stained, but he held himself as if to make the grime a badge of pride. The dirt signaled his suffering, proving that he had traveled to the very pit of damnation and returned with his soul intact.
“People of Arelon!” he yelled. “Know ye this day who is Master! Let your hearts and souls be guided by the religion which can offer evidence of divine support. Lord Jaddeth is the only God in Sycla. If you need proof of this, look at my hands that are clean from rot, my face that is pure and unblemished, and my scalp rough with stubble. Lord Jaddeth tested me, and as I relied on Him, He blessed me. I have been healed!”
He lowered his hands and the crowd roared their approval. Many had probably doubted after Hrathen’s apparent fall, but they would return with renewed dedication. The converts he made now would be stronger than any that had come before.
Hrathen entered the chapel, and the people remained outside. Hrathen walked with increasing fatigue, the energy of the moment finally giving way to five days’ worth of strain. He flopped to his knees before the altar, bowing his head in sincere prayer.
It didn’t bother him that the miracle was an effect of Forton’s potion—Hrathen had found that most supposed miracles were either natural or the result of human intervention. Jaddeth was behind them, as He was behind all things, using natural phenomena to increase the faith of man.
Hrathen raised praises to God for giving him the capacity to think of the plan, the means to execute it, and the climate to make it succeed. The captain’s arrival had certainly been a result of divine will. That the man would leave Telrii’s camp just when Hrathen needed him, and that he would hear Hrathen yelling through the thick wood, was simply too much to be a coincidence. Jaddeth might not have “cursed” Hrathen with the Shaod, but He had certainly been behind the plan’s success.
Drained, Hrathen finished his prayer and lurched to his feet. As he did so, he heard a chapel door open behind him. When he turned, Dilaf stood behind him. Hrathen sighed. This was a confrontation he had hoped to avoid until he’d had some rest.
Dilaf, however, fell to his knees before Hrathen. “My hroden,” he whispered.
Hrathen blinked in surprise. “Yes, Arteth?”
“I doubted you, my hroden,” Dilaf confessed. “I thought Lord Jaddeth had
cursed you for incompetence. Now I see that your faith is much stronger than I realized. I know why you were chosen to hold the position of gyorn.”
“Your apology is accepted, Arteth,” Hrathen said, trying to keep the fatigue from his voice. “All men question in times of trial—the days following my exile must have been difficult for you and the other priests.”
“We should have had more faith.”
“Learn from these events then, Arteth, and next time do not allow yourself to doubt. You may go.”
Dilaf moved to leave. As the man rose, Hrathen studied his eyes. There was respect there, but not as much penitence as the arteth was trying to show. He looked more confused than anything; he was amazed and unsettled, but he was not pleased. The battle was not over yet.
Too tired to worry about Dilaf for the moment, Hrathen stumbled back to his quarters and pulled open the door. His possessions were piled in one corner of the room, as if waiting to be hauled away for disposal. Suddenly apprehensive, Hrathen rushed to the pile. He found the Seon trunk beneath a pile of clothing; its lock was broken. Hrathen opened the lid with anxious fingers and pulled out the steel box inside. The front of the box was covered with scrapes, scratches, and dents.
Hurriedly, Hrathen opened the box. Several of the levers were bent, and the dial stuck, so he was extremely relieved when he heard the lock click open. He lifted the lid with anxious hands. The Seon floated inside, unperturbed. The three remaining vials of potion lay next to it; two had cracked, leaking their contents into the bottom of the box.
“Did anyone open this box since I last spoke through you?” Hrathen asked.
“No, my lord,” the Seon replied in her melancholy voice.
“Good,” Hrathen said, snapping the lid closed. After that, he drank a careful amount of wine from a flask he got from the pile, then collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.
_______
It was dark when he awakened. His body was still tired, but he forced himself to rise. A vital piece of his plans could not wait. He summoned a particular priest, who arrived a short time later. The priest, Dothgen, was a tall man with a powerful Fjordell build and muscles that even managed to bulge through his red Derethi robes.