Elantris (23 page)

“Still, perhaps Iadon isn’t as brutal as you assume,” Roial said. “He was a better man, once—never what I would call a good man, but not a bad one either. Just greedy. Something’s happened to him over the last few years, something that has … changed him. Still, I think there remains enough compassion in Iadon to keep him from murdering his own son.”

“All right,” Sarene said. “I’ll send Ashe to search through the royal dungeons. He’s so meticulous he’ll know the name of every rat in the place before he’s satisfied.”

“Your Seon?” Roial realized. “Where is he?”

“I sent him to Elantris.”

“Elantris?” Kiin asked.

“That Fjordell gyorn is interested in Elantris for some reason,” Sarene explained. “And I make it my business never to ignore what a gyorn finds interesting.”

“You seem to be rather preoccupied with a single priest, ’Ene,” Kiin said.

“Not a priest, Uncle,” Sarene corrected. “A full gyorn.”

“Still only one man. How much damage can he do?”

“Ask the Duladen Republic,” Sarene said. “I think this is the same gyorn who was involved in that disaster.”

“There’s no sure evidence that Fjorden was behind the collapse,” Roial noted.

“There is in Teod, but no one else would believe it. Just believe me when I tell you that this single gyorn could be more dangerous than Iadon.”

The comment struck a lull in the conversation. Time passed silently, the three
nobles drinking their wine in thought until Lukel entered, having traveled to retrieve his mother and siblings. He nodded to Sarene and bowed to the duke before pouring himself a cup of wine.

“Look at you,” Lukel said to Sarene as he took a seat. “A confident member of the boys’ club.”

“Leader of it, more truthfully,” Roial noted.

“Your mother?” Kiin asked.

“Is on her way,” Lukel said. “They weren’t finished, and you know how Mother is. Everything must be done in its proper order; no rushing allowed.”

Kiin nodded, downing the last of his wine. “Then you and I should get to cleaning before she returns. We wouldn’t want her to see what a mess our collected noble friends have made of the dining room.”

Lukel sighed, giving Sarene a look that suggested he sometimes wished he lived in a traditional household—one with servants, or at least women, to do such things. Kiin was already moving, however, and his son had no choice but to follow.

“Interesting family,” Roial said, watching them go.

“Yes. A little odd even by Teoish standards.”

“Kiin had a long life on his own,” the duke observed. “It accustomed him to doing things by himself. He once hired a cook, I hear, but grew frustrated with the woman’s methods. I seem to recall that she quit before he had the heart to fire her—she claimed she couldn’t work in such a demanding environment.”

Sarene laughed. “That sounds appropriate.”

Roial smiled, but continued in a more serious tone. “Sarene, we are indeed fortunate. You might very well be our last chance for saving Arelon.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sarene said, flushing despite herself.

“This country will not last much longer. A few months, maybe, a half a year if we are lucky.”

Sarene’s brow furled. “But, I thought you wanted to wait. At least, that’s what you told the others.”

Roial made a dismissive gesture. “I’d convinced myself that little could be gained by their aid—Edan and Ahan are too contrary, and Shuden and Eondel are both too inexperienced. I wanted to mollify them while Kiin and I decided what to do. I fear our plans may have centered around more … dangerous methods.

“Now, however, there is another chance. If your plan works—though I’m still not convinced that it will—we might be able to forestall collapse for a little longer. I’m not sure; ten years of Iadon’s rule has built momentum. It will be difficult to change it in only a few months’ time.”

“I think we can do it, Roial,” Sarene said.

“Just make sure you don’t get ahead of yourself, young lady,” Roial said, eyeing her. “Do not dash if you only have the strength to walk, and do not waste your time pushing on walls that will not give. More importantly, don’t shove where a
pat would be sufficient. You backed me into a corner today. I’m still a prideful old man. If Shuden hadn’t saved me, I honestly can’t say if I would have been humble enough to acknowledge fault in front of all those men.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarene said, now blushing for another reason. There was something about this powerful, yet grandfatherly, old duke that made her suddenly desperate to have his respect.

“Just be careful,” Roial said. “If this gyorn is as dangerous as you claim, then there are some very powerful forces moving through Kae. Do not let Arelon get crushed between them.”

Sarene nodded, and the duke leaned back, pouring the last of the wine into his cup.

CHAPTER 12

Early in his career, Hrathen had found it difficult to accept other languages. Fjordell was Jaddeth’s own chosen tongue—it was holy, while other languages were profane. How, then, did one convert those who didn’t speak Fjordell? Did one speak to them in their own language, or did one force all true supplicants to study Fjordell first? It seemed foolish to require an entire nation to learn a new language before allowing them to hear of Jaddeth’s empire.

So, when forced to make the decision between profanity and infinite delay, Hrathen chose profanity. He had learned to speak Aonic and Duladen, and had even picked up a little Jindoeese. When he taught, he taught the people in their own tongue—though, admittedly, it still bothered him to do so. What if they never learned? What if his actions made people think that they didn’t need Fjordell, since they could learn of Jaddeth in their mother language?

These thoughts, and many like them, passed through Hrathen’s mind as he preached to the people of Kae. It wasn’t that he lacked focus or dedication; he had simply given the same speeches so many times that they had become rote. He spoke almost unconsciously, raising and lowering his voice to the rhythm of the sermon, performing the ancient art that was a hybrid offspring of prayer and theater.

When he urged, they responded with cheers. When he condemned, they looked at one another with shame. When he raised his voice, they focused their attention, and when he lowered it to a bare whisper, they were even more captivated. It was as if he controlled the ocean waves themselves, emotion surging through the crowd like froth-covered tides.

He finished with a stunning admonition to serve in Jaddeth’s kingdom, to swear themselves as odiv or krondet to one of the priests in Kae, thereby becoming part of the chain that linked them directly to Lord Jaddeth. The common people served the arteths and dorven, the arteths and dorven served the gradors, the gradors served the ragnats, the ragnats served the gyorns, the gyorns served Wyrn, and Wyrn served Jaddeth. Only the gragdets—leaders of the monasteries—weren’t directly in the line. It was a superbly organized system. Everyone knew whom he or she had to serve; most didn’t need to worry about the commands of Jaddeth, which were often above their understanding. All they had to do was follow their arteth, serve him as best they could, and Jaddeth would be pleased with them.

Hrathen stepped down from the podium, satisfied. He had only been preaching in Kae for a few days, but the chapel was already so packed that people had to line up at the back once the seats were full. Only a few of the newcomers were actually interested in converting; most came because Hrathen himself was a novelty. However, they would return. They could tell themselves that they were only curious—that their interest had nothing to do with religion—but they
would
return.

As Shu-Dereth grew more popular in Kae, the people at these first meetings would find themselves important by association. They would brag that they had discovered Shu-Dereth long before their neighbors, and as a consequence they would have to continue attending. Their pride, mixed with Hrathen’s powerful sermons, would override doubts, and soon they would find themselves swearing servitude to one of the arteths.

Hrathen would have to call a new head arteth soon. He’d put off the decision for a time, waiting to see how the priests remaining in the chapel dealt with their tasks. Time was growing slim, however, and soon the local membership would be too great for Hrathen to track and organize by himself, especially considering all of the planning and preaching he had to do.

The people at the back were beginning to file out of the chapel. However, a sudden sound stopped them. Hrathen looked up at the podium with surprise. The meeting was to have ended after his sermon, but someone thought differently. Dilaf had decided to speak.

The short Arelish man screamed his words with fiery energy. In barely a few seconds, the crowd grew hushed, most of the people sliding back into their seats. They had seen Dilaf following Hrathen, and most of them probably knew he was an arteth, but Dilaf had never addressed them before. Now, however, he made himself impossible to ignore.

He disobeyed all of the rules of public speaking. He didn’t vary the loudness of his voice, nor did he look members of the audience in the eyes. He didn’t maintain a stately, upright posture to appear in control; instead he hopped across the podium energetically, gesturing wildly. His face was covered with sweat; his eyes were wide and haunting.

And they listened.

They listened more acutely than they had to Hrathen. They followed Dilaf’s insane jumps with their eyes, transfixed by his every unorthodox motion. Dilaf’s speech had a single theme: hatred of Elantris. Hrathen could feel the audience’s zeal growing. Dilaf’s passion worked like a catalyst, like a mold that spread uncontrollably once it found a dank place to grow. Soon the entire audience shared in his loathing, and they screamed along with his denunciations.

Hrathen watched with concern and, admittedly, jealousy. Unlike Hrathen, Dilaf hadn’t been trained in the greatest schools of the East. However, the short priest had something Hrathen lacked. Passion.

Hrathen had always been a calculating man. He was organized, careful, and attentive to detail. Similar things in Shu-Dereth—its standardized, orderly method of governing along with its logical philosophy—were what had first attracted him to the priesthood. He had never doubted the church. Something so perfectly organized couldn’t help but be right.

Despite that loyalty, Hrathen had never felt what Dilaf now expressed. Hrathen had no hatreds so severe that he wept, no loves so profound that he would risk everything in their name. He had always believed that he was the perfect follower of Jaddeth; that his Lord needed levelheadedness more than He needed unbridled ardor. Now, however, he wondered.

Dilaf had more power over this audience than Hrathen ever had. Dilaf’s hatred of Elantris wasn’t logical—it was irrational and feral—but they didn’t care. Hrathen could spend years explaining to them the benefits of Shu-Dereth and never get the reaction they now expressed. Part of him scoffed, trying to convince himself that the power of Dilaf’s words wouldn’t last, that the passion of the moment would be lost in the mundanity of life—but another, more truthful part of him was simply envious. What was wrong with Hrathen that, in thirty years of serving Jaddeth’s kingdom, he had never once felt as Dilaf seemed to at every moment?

Eventually, the arteth fell silent. The room remained completely quiet for a long moment after Dilaf’s speech. Then they burst into discussion, excited, speaking as they began to trail from the chapel. Dilaf stumbled off the podium and collapsed onto one of the pews near the front of the room.

“That was well done,” a voice noted from beside Hrathen. Duke Telrii watched the sermons from a private booth at the side of the chapel. “Having the short man speak after yourself was a wonderful move, Hrathen. I was worried
when I saw people growing bored. The young priest refocused everyone’s attention.”

Hrathen hid his annoyance at Telrii’s use of his name rather than his title; there would be time to change such disrespect at a later date. He also restrained himself from making a comment about the audience’s supposed boredom during his sermon.

“Dilaf is a rare young man,” Hrathen said instead. “There are two sides to every argument, Lord Telrii: the logical and the passionate. We have to make our attack from both directions if we are to be victorious.”

Telrii nodded.

“So, my lord, have you considered my proposal?”

Telrii hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “It is tempting, Hrathen. Very tempting. I don’t think there is any man in Arelon who could refuse it, let alone myself.”

“Good. I will contact Fjorden. We should be able to begin within the week.”

Telrii nodded, the birthmark on his neck looking like a large bruise in the shadows. Then, gesturing to his numerous attendants, the duke made his way out the side door to the chapel, disappearing into the twilight. Hrathen watched the door shut, then walked over to Dilaf, who was still sprawled on the pew.

“That was unexpected, Arteth,” he said. “You should have spoken with me first.”

“It was not planned, my lord,” Dilaf explained. “I suddenly felt the need to speak. It was only done in your service, my hroden.”