Domi, however, had made the decision for her. Spirit was right: She could no more live in Elantris than he could exist outside of the city. The worlds, and the demands of their flesh, were far too different.
A hand fell on her shoulder. Shaking off her numbness, Sarene turned. There weren’t many men she had to crane her neck to look up at. Hrathen.
“Jaddeth has preserved you, Princess,” he said in a lightly accented voice.
Sarene shook his arm away. “I don’t know how you did this, priest, but I know one thing with absolute certainty. I owe your god nothing.”
“Your father thinks differently, Princess,” Hrathen said, his face hard.
“For a man whose religion claims to spread truth, priest, your lies are strikingly vulgar.”
Hrathen smiled thinly. “Lies? Why don’t you go and speak with him? In a way, it could be said that you gave us Teod. Convert the king, and often you convert the kingdom as well.”
“Impossible!” Sarene said, growing uncertain. Gyorns were usually far to wily to tell direct falsehoods.
“You fought with wisdom and cleverness, Princess,” Hrathen said, taking a slow step forward and extending his gauntleted hand. “But true wisdom knows when further fighting is pointless. I have Teod, and Arelon will soon be mine as well. Do not be like the stonelark, ever trying to dig a pit in the sand’s wet beaches and ever having your work destroyed by the tide. Embrace Shu-Dereth, and let your efforts become more than vanity.”
“I will die first!”
“You already have,” the gyorn pointed out. “And I brought you back.” He took another step forward, and Sarene shied back, pulling her hands up against her chest.
Steel whipped in the sunlight, and suddenly the point of Eondel’s sword was at Hrathen’s neck. Sarene felt herself enfolded in enormous, powerful arms, a scratchy voice crying out in joy beside her.
“Blessed be Domi’s name!” Kiin praised, lifting her off the ground with his hug.
“Blessed be Jaddeth’s name,” Hrathen said, sword tip still pressed against his flesh. “Domi left this one to rot.”
“Say no more, priest,” Eondel said, angling his sword threateningly.
Hrathen snorted. Then, moving more quickly than Sarene’s eyes could track, the gyorn bent backward and pulled his head out of the sword’s range. He kicked at the same time, smashing his foot into Eondel’s hand and knocking the weapon free.
Hrathen spun, crimson cape billowing, bloodred hand plucking the sword from the air. Steel reflected sunlight as Hrathen spun the weapon. He snapped its tip against the cobblestones, holding it as a king would his scepter. Then, he let it drop, the hilt falling back into Eondel’s stunned hand. The priest stepped forward, passing the confused general.
“Time moves like a mountain, Sarene,” Hrathen whispered, so close that his breastplate nearly brushed against Kiin’s protective arms. “It comes so slowly that most don’t even notice its passing. It will, however, crush those who don’t move before it.”
With that he spun, his cape fluttering against both Eondel and Kiin as he marched away.
Kiin watched Hrathen go, hatred in his eyes. Finally, he turned to Eondel. “Come, General. Let’s take Sarene home to rest.”
“There is no time for rest, Uncle,” Sarene said. “I need you to gather our allies. We must meet as soon as possible.”
Kiin raised an eyebrow. “There will be time enough for that later, ’Ene. You’re in no condition—”
“I’ve had a fine vacation, Uncle,” she declared, “but there is work to be done. Perhaps when it is finished, I’ll be able to escape back to Elantris. For now, we need to worry about stopping Telrii from giving our country to Wyrn. Send messengers to Roial and Ahan. I want to meet with them as soon as possible.”
Her uncle’s face looked utterly dumbfounded.
“Well, she seems all right,” Eondel noted, smiling.
_______
The cooks in her father’s household had learned one thing: When Sarene wanted to eat, she could eat.
“You’d better move faster, Cousin,” Lukel said as she finished her fourth plate. “You looked like you almost had time to taste that one.”
Sarene ignored him, motioning for Kiin to bring in the next delicacy. She had been told that if one starved oneself long enough, the stomach would shrink, thereby reducing the amount of food one could eat. The man who had invented that theory would have thrown up his hands in despair if he could have seen Sarene feasting.
She sat at the table across from Lukel and Roial. The elderly duke had just arrived, and when he had seen Sarene, she thought for a moment he was going to collapse from the shock. Instead, he had breathed a prayer to Domi, seating himself speechlessly in the chair across from her.
“I can honestly say that I have never seen a woman eat this much,” Duke Roial noted appreciatively. There was still a hint of disbelieving wonder in his eyes as he looked at her.
“She’s a Teoish giantess,” Lukel said. “I don’t think it’s fair to make comparisons between Sarene and regular women.”
“If I weren’t so busy eating, I’d respond to that,” Sarene said, waving her fork at them. She hadn’t realized exactly how hungry she was until she’d entered Kiin’s kitchen, where the lingering scents of past banquets hung in the air like a delectable fog. She was only now appreciating how useful it was to have a world-traveled chef as an uncle.
Kiin entered with a pan of semi-boiling meat and vegetables in a red sauce. “It’s Jindoeese RaiDomo Mai. The name means ‘meat with fiery skin.’ You’re fortunate I had the proper ingredients, the Jindo RaiDel pepper had a poor crop last season, and …” He trailed off as Sarene began heaping meat onto her plate. “You don’t care, do you?” he asked with a sigh. “I could have boiled it in dishwater, and it would be the same to you.”
“I understand, Uncle,” Sarene said. “You suffer for your art.”
Kiin sat down, looking at the empty dishes scattered across the table. “Well, you certainly inherited the family appetite.”
“She’s a big girl,” Lukel said. “It takes a lot of fuel to keep that body going.”
Sarene shot him a look between bites.
“Is she slowing down at all?” Kiin asked. “I’m running out of supplies.”
“Actually,” Sarene said, “I think this should about do it. You don’t understand what it was like in there, gentlemen. I did actually enjoy myself, but there wasn’t a lot of food to be had.”
“I’m surprised there was any at all,” Lukel said. “Elantrians like to eat.”
“But they don’t actually need to,” Kiin said, “so they can afford to stockpile.”
Sarene kept eating, not looking up at her uncle and cousin. Her mind, however, paused. How did they know so much about Elantrians?
“Whatever the conditions, Princess,” Roial said, “we thank Domi for your safe return.”
“It isn’t as miraculous as it seems, Roial,” Sarene said. “Did anyone count how many days Hrathen was in Elantris?”
“Four or five,” Lukel said after a moment’s thought.
“I’d be willing to bet it was five days—exactly the same amount of time it took me to get thrown in and then be ‘healed.’”
Roial nodded. “The gyorn had something to do with this. Have you spoken with your father yet?”
Sarene felt her stomach turn. “No. I’m … going to do that soon.”
There was a knock at the door, and a few moments later Eondel entered, Shuden in tow. The young Jindo had been out riding with Torena.
As he entered, the baron’s face broke into an uncharacteristically wide smile. “We should have known you’d be back, Sarene. If anyone could be sent to hell and return untouched, it would be you.”
“Not exactly untouched,” Sarene said raising her hand to feel her bald scalp. “Did you find anything?”
“Here, my lady,” Eondel said, holding out a short blond wig. “It was the best I could find—most of the others f
elt so thick I would have sworn they were made of horse hair.”
Sarene looked over the wig with a critical eye—it would barely come down to her shoulders. But, it was better than baldness. In her estimation, her hair was the greatest loss incurred by her exile. It was going to take years to grow it to a decent length again.
“Too bad no one gathered up my own hair,” she said, tucking the wig away until she could find time to put it on properly.
“We didn’t exactly anticipate your return, Cousin,” Lukel said, picking at the last few pieces of meat in the pan. “It was probably still attached to your veil when we burned it.”
“Burned it?”
“Arelish custom, ’Ene,” Kiin explained. “When someone is thrown into Elantris, we burn their possessions.”
“Everything?” Sarene asked weakly.
“I’m afraid so,” Kiin said with embarrassment.
Sarene closed her eyes, exhaling. “Never mind,” she said, regarding them. “Where’s Ahan?”
“At Telrii’s palace,” Roial said.
Sarene frowned. “What’s he doing there?”
Kiin shrugged. “We figured we should send someone, at least, to make an overture to the new king. We’re going to have to work with him, so we might as well see what kind of cooperation we can expect.”
Sarene eyed her companions. Despite their obvious joy at seeing her, she sensed something in their expressions. Defeat. They had worked so hard to keep Telrii off the throne, and they had failed. Inside, Sarene barely acknowledged that she felt many of the same emotions. She felt sick. She couldn’t decide what she wanted; everything was so confused. Fortunately, her sense of duty provided guidance. Spirit was correct: Arelon was in serious danger. She didn’t want to even contemplate the things Hrathen had said about her father—she only knew that no matter what else happened, she had to protect Arelon. For Elantris’s sake.
“You speak as if there weren’t anything we could do about Telrii’s claim of the throne,” Sarene said to the quiet room.
“What could we do?” Lukel said. “Telrii’s been crowned, and the nobility supports him.”
“So does Wyrn,” Sarene reminded. “Sending Ahan is a good idea, but I doubt you’ll find any leniency in Telrii’s reign—for us, or for the rest of Arelon. My lords, Raoden should have been king, and I am his wife. I feel responsible for his people. They suffered under Iadon. If Telrii turns this kingdom over to Wyrn, then Arelon will become nothing more than another Fjordell province.”
“What are you implying, Sarene?” Shuden asked.
“That we take action against Telrii—any action we can.”
The table fell silent. Finally, Roial spoke. “This is different from what we were doing before, Sarene. We opposed Iadon, but we did not plan to remove him. If we take direct action against Telrii, then we will be traitors to the Crown.”
“Traitors to the Crown, but not the people,” Sarene said. “In Teod, we respect the king because he protects us. It is a bargain—a formal agreement. Iadon did nothing to protect Arelon. He built no army to keep Fjorden away, he devised no legal system to insure that his subjects were treated fairly, and he did nothing to care for the spiritual welfare of his nation. My instincts warn me that Telrii will be even worse.”
Roial sighed. “I don’t know, Sarene. Iadon overthrew the Elantrians to seize his power, and now you suggest that we do the same thing. How much of this can a country stand before it breaks apart?”
“How much of Hrathen’s string pulling do you think it can stand?” Sarene asked pointedly.
The gathered lords looked at each other. “Let us sleep on it, Sarene,” Shuden requested. “You speak of difficult matters—ones that should not be entered into without careful meditation.”
“Agreed,” Sarene said. She was looking forward to the night’s rest herself. For the first time in almost a week, she was going to actually be warm as she slept.
The lords nodded, rising to go their separate ways. Roial hung back for a moment. “It looks as if there is no reason to continue our betrothal, is there, Sarene?”
“I don’t think so, my lord. If we take the throne now, it will be through force, not manipulation of politics.”
The elderly man nodded wistfully. “Ah, it was far too good to be true anyway, my dear. Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight,” Sarene said, smiling fondly as the aged duke left. Three engagements and no weddings. She was amassing a poor track record indeed. With a sigh, she watched Roial close the door, then turned to Kiin, who was fastidiously clearing away the remains of her meal.
“Uncle,” she said. “Telrii has moved into the palace and my things have been burned. I find myself suddenly without lodgings. Might I accept your offer of two months ago and move in here?”
Kiin chuckled. “My wife will be seriously annoyed if you don’t, ’Ene. She spent the last hour preparing a room for you.”
Sarene sat on her new bed, wearing one of her aunt’s nightgowns. Her legs were pulled tightly against her chest, and her bowed head was sorrowful.
Ashe fuzzed for a moment, her father’s face disappearing as the Seon returned to his normal shape. He was silent for a long moment before saying, “I am sorry, my lady.”
Sarene nodded, her bald head rubbing against her knees. Hrathen had not been lying—he hadn’t even been exaggerating. Her father had converted to Shu-Dereth.
The ceremony hadn’t been performed yet; there were no Derethi priests in Teod. However, it was apparent that as soon as Hrathen finished with Arelon, he intended to travel to her homeland and personally collect her father’s formal oath. The oath would place Eventeo at the bottom of the Derethi hierarchy, forcing him to submit to the whims of even a simple priest.
No amount of raving or explaining had changed her father’s resolve. Eventeo was an honest man. He had sworn to Hrathen that if Sarene returned safely, he would convert. It didn’t matter that the gyorn’s trickery was behind both her curse and restoration; the king would honor his promise.
Where Eventeo led, Teod would follow. It would take time, of course; the people of Teod were not sheep. However, as the arteths flooded her homeland, the people would give ear where they would have given only fists before—all because they knew that their king was Derethi. Teod had been changed forever.
And he had done it for her. Of course, he claimed that he also knew it was best for the country. No matter how good Teod’s navy was, sheer numbers insured that a determined Fjordell campaign would eventually punch through the armada. Eventeo claimed he would not fight a hopeless war.
Yet, this was the same man who had instructed Sarene that principle was always worth fighting to protect. Eventeo had sworn that truth was immutable, and that no battle—even a hopeless one—was in vain when defending what was right. But, apparently, his love was stronger than truth. She was flattered, but the emotion made her sick. Teod would fall because of her, becoming just another Fjordell state, its king little more than Wyrn’s servant.
Eventeo had implied that she should lead Arelon to do as he had done, though she could tell from his voice that he was proud when she refused. She would protect Arelon, and Elantris. She would struggle for the survival of her religion, because Arelon—poor sickly Arelon—was now Shu-Korath’s final sanctuary. Where Arelon had once been a nation populated by gods, now it would serve as the final haven for Domi Himself.
CHAPTER 48
Hrathen sat in the palace waiting room with growing dissatisfaction. Around him, the signs of a changing government were already evident. It seemed remarkable that one man could own so many tapestries, rugs, and brocades. The palace sitting room was so draped with cloth plushness that Hrathen had been forced to shove a virtual mountain of pillows out of the way before finding a stone ledge upon which to seat himself.
He sat near the stone hearth, jaw clenched as he regarded the assembled nobility. As could be expected, Telrii had quite suddenly become a very busy man. Every nobleman, landholder, and ambitiou
s merchant in the city wanted to pay his “respects” to the new king. Dozens waited in the sitting room, many without firm appointments. They hid their impatience poorly, but not a one was brave enough to voice annoyance at the treatment.
Their inconvenience was unimportant. The intolerable factor was Hrathen’s inclusion in the group. The rabble of supposed nobility was a pandering, indolent lot. Hrathen, however, was backed by the power of Wyrn’s kingdom and Jaddeth’s empire—the very power that had given Telrii the wealth he needed to claim the throne.
And yet Hrathen was forced to wait. It was maddening, it was discourteous, and it was unbelievable. Yet Hrathen had no choice but to endure it. Backed by Wyrn’s power though he was, he had no troops, no might to force Telrii’s hand. He could not denounce the man openly—despite his frustration, Hrathen’s political instinct was too keen to let him do something like that. He had worked hard to get a potential sympathizer on the throne; only a fool would let his own pride ruin such an opportunity. Hrathen would wait, tolerating disrespect for a short time, to achieve the eventual prize.
An attendant entered the room, draped in fine silks—the exaggerated livery of Telrii’s personal heralds. The room’s occupants perked up, several men standing and straightening their clothing.
“Gyorn Hrathen,” the attendant announced.
The noblemen wilted, and Hrathen stood and brushed past them with a dismissive step. It was about time.
Telrii waited beyond. Hrathen paused just inside the door, regarding the chamber with displeasure. The room had once been Iadon’s study, and at that time it had been marked by a businessman’s efficiency. Everything had been well placed and orderly; the furniture had been comfortable without being lavish.
Telrii had changed that. Attendants stood at the sides of the room, and beside them sat carts heaped with exotic foods, purchased from the merchants of the Arelene Market. Telrii reclined in a massive pile of cushions and silks, a pleasant smile on his purple-birthmarked face. Rugs coated the floor, and tapestries overlapped one another on the walls.