Elantris (24 page)

“Of course,” Hrathen said, dissatisfied. Telrii was right: Dilaf’s addition had been valuable. As much as Hrathen wanted to reproach the arteth, he could not. He would be negligent in his service to Wyrn if he didn’t use every tool at his command to convert the people of Arelon, and Dilaf had proven himself a very useful tool. Hrathen would need the arteth to speak at later meetings. Once again, Dilaf had left him without many choices.

“Well, it is done,” Hrathen said with calculated dismissiveness. “And they appear to have liked it. Perhaps I will have you speak again sometime. However, you must remember your place, Arteth. You are my odiv; you do not act unless I specifically tell you. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, my lord Hrathen.”

Hrathen quietly shut the door to his personal chambers. Dilaf was not there; Hrathen would never let him see what was about to take place. In this Hrathen could still feel superior to the young Arelish priest. Dilaf would never rise to the highest ranks of the priesthood, for he could never do what Hrathen was about to do—something known only to the gyorns and Wyrn.

Hrathen sat in his chair quietly, preparing himself. Only after a half hour of meditation did he feel controlled enough to act. Taking a measured breath, Hrathen rose from his seat and moved to the large trunk in the corner of his room. It was topped with a stack of folded tapestries, carefully draped to obscure. Hrathen moved the tapestries reverently, then reached beneath his shirt to pull forth the gold chain that encircled his neck. At the end of the chain was a small key. With this he opened the trunk, revealing the contents—a small metal box.

The box was about the size of four stacked books, and its weight rested heavily in Hrathen’s hands as he lifted it from the trunk. Its sides had been constructed of the best steel, and on its front was a small dial and several delicate levers. The mechanism had been designed by Svorden’s finest locksmiths. Only Hrathen and Wyrn knew the proper method of turning and twisting that would open the box.

Hrathen spun the dial and turned the levers in a pattern he had memorized soon after being appointed to the position of gyorn. The combination had never been written down. It would be a source of extreme embarrassment to Shu-Dereth if anyone outside the inner priesthood discovered what was inside this box.

The lock clicked, and Hrathen pulled the top open with a firm hand. A small glowing ball sat patiently inside.

“You need me, my lord?” the Seon asked in a soft, feminine voice.

“Be quiet!” Hrathen ordered. “You know you are not to speak.”

The ball of light bobbed submissively. It had been months since Hrathen had last opened the box, but the Seon showed no signs of rebelliousness. The creatures—or whatever they were—seemed to be unfailingly obedient.

The Seons had been Hrathen’s greatest shock upon his appointment to the rank of gyorn. Not that he had been surprised to find that the creatures were real—though many in the East dismissed Seons as Aonic myths, Hrathen had, by that time, been taught that there were … things in the world that were not understood by normal people. The memories of his early years in Dakhor still caused him to shiver in fear.

No, Hrathen’s surprise had come in discovering that Wyrn would consent to using heathen magics to further Jaddeth’s empire. Wyrn himself had explained the necessity of using Seons, but it had taken years for Hrathen to accept the idea. In the end, logic had swayed him. Just as it was sometimes necessary to speak in heathen languages to preach Jaddeth’s empire, there were instances where the enemy’s arts proved valuable.

Of course, only those with the most self-control and holiness could use the Seons without being tainted. Gyorns used them to contact Wyrn when in a far country, and they did so infrequently. Instantaneous communication across such distances was a resource worth the price.

“Get me Wyrn,” Hrathen ordered. The Seon complied, hovering up a bit, questing with its abilities to seek out Wyrn’s own hidden Seon—one attended
at all times by a mute servant, whose only sacred duty was to watch over the creature.

Hrathen eyed the Seon as he waited. The Seon hovered patiently. It always
appeared
obedient; indeed, the other gyorns didn’t even seem to question the loyalty of the creatures. They claimed it was part of the Seons’ magic to be faithful to their masters, even if those masters detested them.

Hrathen wasn’t quite as certain. Seons could contact others of their kind, and they apparently didn’t need half as much sleep as men. What did the Seons do, while their masters slept? What secrets did they discuss? At one point, most of the nobility in Duladel, Arelon, Teod, and even Jindo had kept Seons. During those days, how many state secrets had been witnessed, and perhaps gossiped about, by the unobtrusive floating balls?

He shook his head. It was a good thing those days were past. Out of favor because of their association with fallen Elantris, prevented from any further reproduction by the loss of Elantrian magics, the Seons were growing more and more rare. Once Fjorden conquered the West, Hrathen doubted one would ever see Seons floating around freely again.

His Seon began to drip like water, and then it formed into Wyrn’s proud face. Noble, squareish features regarded Hrathen.

“I am here, my son.” Wyrn’s voice floated through the Seon.

“O great lord and master, Jaddeth’s anointed, and emperor in the light of His favor,” Hrathen said, bowing his head.

“Speak on, my odiv.”

“I have a proposal involving one of the lords of Arelon, great one….”

CHAPTER 13

“This is it!” Raoden exclaimed. “Galladon, get over here!”

The large Dula set down his own book with raised eyebrows, then stood with his characteristic relaxed style and wandered over to Raoden. “What have you found, sule?”

Raoden pointed to the coverless book in front of him. He sat in the former Korathi church that had become their center of operations. Galladon, still determined to keep his small book-filled study a secret, had insisted that they lug the necessary volumes up to the chapel rather than let anyone else into his sanctuary.

“Sule, I can’t read that,” Galladon protested, looking down at the book. “It’s written completely in Aons.”

“That’s what made me suspicious,” Raoden said.

“Can
you
read it?” Galladon asked.

“No,” Raoden said with a smile. “But I do have this.” He reached down and pulled out a similar coverless volume, its cover pages stained with Elantris grime. “A dictionary of the Aons.”

Galladon studied the first book with a critical eye. “Sule, I don’t even recognize a tenth of the Aons on this page. Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take you to translate it?”

Raoden shrugged. “It’s better than searching for clues in those other books. Galladon, if I have to read one more word about the landscape of Fjorden, I am going to be sick.”

Galladon grunted his agreement. Whoever had owned the books before the Reod must have been a geography scholar, for at least half of the volumes dealt with the topic.

“You’re sure this is the one we want?” Galladon asked.

“I’ve had a little training in reading pure Aon texts, my friend,” Raoden said, pointing at an Aon on a page near the beginning of the book. “This says AonDor.”

Galladon nodded. “All right, sule. I don’t envy you the task, however. Life would be much simpler if it hadn’t taken your people so long to invent an alphabet. Kolo?”

“The Aons were an alphabet,” Raoden said. “Just an incredibly complex one. This won’t take as long as you think—my schooling should start to come back to me after a little while.”

“Sule, sometimes you’re so optimistic it’s sickening. I suppose then we should cart these other books back to where we got them?” There was a measure of anxiety in Galladon’s voice. The books were precious to him; it had taken Raoden a good hour of arguing to convince the Dula to let him take off their covers, and he could see how much it bothered the larger man to have the books exposed to the slime and dirt of Elantris.

“That should be all right,” Raoden said. None of the other books were about AonDor, and while some of them were journals or other records that could hold clues, Raoden suspected that none of them would be as useful as the one in front of him. Assuming he could translate it successfully.

Galladon nodded and began gathering up the books; then he looked upward apprehensively as he heard a scraping sound from the roof. Galladon was convinced
that sooner or later the entire assemblage would collapse and, inevitably, fall on his shiny dark head.

“Don’t worry so much, Galladon,” Raoden said. “Maare and Riil know what they’re doing.”

Galladon frowned. “No they don’t, sule. I seem to recall that neither of them had any idea what to do before you pressed them into it.”

“I meant that they’re competent.” Raoden looked up with satisfaction. Six days of working had completed a large portion of the roof. Mareshe had devised a claylike combination of wood scraps, soil, and the ever-prevalent Elantris sludge. This mixture, when added to the fallen support beams and some less-rotted sections of cloth, had provided materials to make a ceiling that was, if not superior, at least adequate.

Raoden smiled. The pain and hunger were always there, but things were going so well that he could almost forget the pain of his half-dozen bumps and cuts. Through the window to his right he could see the newest member of his band, Loren. The man worked in the large area beside the church that had probably once been a garden. According to Raoden’s orders, and equipped with a newly fashioned pair of leather gloves, Loren moved rocks and cleared away refuse, revealing the soft dirt underneath.

“What good is that going to do?” Galladon asked, following Raoden’s gaze out the window.

“You’ll see,” Raoden said with a secretive smile.

Galladon huffed as he picked up an armload of books and left the chapel. The Dula had been right about one thing: They could not count on new Elantrians being thrown into the city as fast as Raoden had first anticipated. Before Loren’s arrival the day before, five solid days had passed without even a quiver from the city gates. Raoden had been very fortunate to find Mareshe and the others in such a short period of time.

“Lord Spirit?” a hesitant voice asked.

Raoden looked up at the chapel’s doorway to find an unfamiliar man waiting to be acknowledged. He was thin, with a stooped-over form and an air of practiced subservience. Raoden couldn’t tell his age for certain; the Shaod tended to make everyone look much older than they really were. However, he had the feeling that this man’s age was no illusion. If his head had held any hair, then it would have been white, and his skin had been long wrinkled before the Shaod took him.

“Yes?” Raoden asked with interest. “What can I do for you?”

“My lord …” the man began.

“Go on,” Raoden prodded.

“Well, Your Lordship, I’ve just heard some things, and I was wondering if I could join with you.”

Raoden smiled, rising and walking over to the man. “Certainly, you may join us. What have you heard?”

“Well …” The aged Elantrian fidgeted nervously. “Some people on the streets say that those who follow you aren’t as hungry. They say you have a secret that makes the pain go away. I’ve been in Elantris for nearly a year now, my lord, and my injuries are almost too much. I figured I could either give you a chance, or go find myself a gutter and join the Hoed.”

Raoden nodded, clasping the man on the shoulder. He could still feel his toe burning—he was growing used to the pain, but it was still there. It was accompanied by a gnawing from his stomach. “I’m glad you came. What is your name?”

“Kahar, my lord.”

“All right then, Kahar, what did you do before the Shaod took you?”

Kahar’s eyes grew unfocused, as if his mind were traveling back to a time long ago. “I was a cleaner of some sort, my lord. I think I washed streets.”

“Perfect! I’ve been waiting for one of your particular skill. Mareshe, are you back there?”

“Yes, my lord,” the spindly artisan called from one of the rooms in the back. His head poked out a moment later.

“By chance, did those traps you set up catch any of last night’s rainfall?”

“Of course, my lord,” Mareshe said indignantly.

“Good. Show Kahar here where the water is.”

“Certainly.” Mareshe motioned for Kahar to follow.

“What am I to do with water, my lord?” Kahar asked.

“It is time that we stopped living in filth, Kahar,” Raoden said. “This slime that covers Elantris can be cleaned off; I’ve seen a place where it was done. Take your time and don’t strain yourself, but clean this building inside and out. Scrape away every bit of slime and wash off every hint of dirt.”

“Then you will show me the secret?” Kahar asked hopefully.

“Trust me.”

Kahar nodded, following Mareshe from the room. Raoden’s smile faded as the man left. He was finding that the most difficult part of leadership here in Elantris was maintaining the attitude of optimism that Galladon teased him about. These people, even the newcomers, were dangerously close to losing hope. They thought that they were damned, and assumed that nothing could save their souls from rotting away like Elantris itself. Raoden had to overcome years of conditioning teamed with the ever-present forces of pain and hunger.