Elantris (38 page)

The arteth contained a glare, then nodded. The Elantrian was still screaming for death. Hrathen turned to another pair of arteths, waving toward the Elantrian. “Collect the creature and meet me in the gardens.”

Hrathen turned to Dilaf, nodding curtly toward the gate at the back of the Derethi chapel. Dilaf did as ordered, moving toward the gardens. Hrathen followed him, on the way passing the confused Elantris City Guard captain.

“My lord?” the man asked. “The young priest caught me before I got back to the city. He said you wanted the creature back. Did I do wrong?”

“You are fine,” Hrathen said curtly. “Go back to your post; we’ll deal with the Elantrian.”

The Elantrian seemed to welcome the flames, despite the terrible pain they must have caused.

Dilaf huddled to the side, watching eagerly, though it had been Hrathen’s hand—not Dilaf’s—that had dropped the torch onto the oil-soaked Elantrian. Hrathen watched the poor creature as it burned, its cries of pain finally silenced by the roaring fire. The creature’s body seemed to burn easily—too easily—within the licking flames.

Hrathen felt a stab of guilt for betraying Diren, though that emotion was foolish; the Elantrian might not have been a true devil, but he was certainly a creature that Jaddeth had cursed. Hrathen owed the Elantrian nothing.

Still, he regretted having to burn the creature. Unfortunately, Dilaf’s cuts had obviously maddened the Elantrian, and there was no sending him back to the city in his current state. The flames had been the only option.

Hrathen watched the pitiful man’s eyes until the flames consumed him completely.

“And the burning fire of Jaddeth’s displeasure shall cleanse them,” Dilaf whispered, quoting the
Do-Dereth
.

“Judgment belongs to Jaddeth alone, and it is executed by his only servant Wyrn,” Hrathen quoted, using a different passage from the same book. “You should not have forced me to kill this creature.”

“It was inevitable,” Dilaf said. “Eventually all things must bow before Jaddeth’s will—and it is his will that all of Elantris burn. I was simply following fate.”

“You nearly lost control of that crowd with your ravings, Arteth,” Hrathen snapped. “A riot must be very carefully planned and executed, otherwise it will just as likely turn against its creators as their enemies.”

“I … got carried away,” Dilaf said. “But, killing one Elantrian would not have made them riot.”

“You don’t know that. Besides, what of Iadon?”

“How could he object?” Dilaf said. “It is his own order that escaping Elantrians can be burned. He would never take a stand in favor of Elantris.”

“But he could take a stand against us!” Hrathen said. “You were wrong to bring this creature to the meeting.”

“The people deserved to see what they are to hate.”

“The people are not ready for that yet,” Hrathen said harshly. “We want to keep their hatred formless. If they start to tear up the city, Iadon will put an end to our preaching.”

Dilaf’s eyes narrowed. “You sound as if you are trying to avoid the inevitable, my hroden. You fostered this hatred—are you unwilling to accept responsibility for the deaths it will cause? Hate and loathing cannot remain ‘formless’ for long—they will find an outlet.”

“But that outlet will come when
I
decide it,” Hrathen said coldly. “I am aware of my responsibility, Arteth, though I question your understanding of it. You just told me that killing this Elantrian was fated by Jaddeth—that you were simply following Jaddeth’s fate by forcing my hand. Which is it to be? Would the deaths I cause in riot be my doing, or simply the will of God? How can you be an innocent servant while I must accept full accountability for this city’s people?”

Dilaf exhaled sharply. He knew, however, when he had been defeated. He bowed curtly, then turned and entered the chapel.

Hrathen watched the arteth go, fuming quietly. Dilaf’s action this night had been foolish and impulsive. Was he trying to undermine Hrathen’s authority, or was he simply acting on his zealous passions? If it was the second, the near riot was Hrathen’s own fault. He had, after all, been so proud of himself for using Dilaf as an effective tool.

Hrathen shook his head, releasing a tense breath. He had defeated Dilaf this evening, but the tension was growing between them. They couldn’t afford to get into visible arguments. Rumors of dissension in the Derethi ranks would erode their credibility.

I will have to do something about the arteth
, Hrathen decided with resignation. Dilaf was becoming too much of a liability.

His decision made, Hrathen turned to leave. As he did, however, his eyes fell again on the Elantrian’s charred remains, and he shuddered despite himself. The man’s willful acceptance of immolation brought memories to Hrathen’s mind—memories he had long tried to banish. Images of pain, of sacrifice, and of death.

Memories of Dakhor.

He turned his back on the charred bones, walking toward the chapel. He still had one other task to complete this evening.

_______

The Seon floated free from its box, responding to Hrathen’s command. Mentally, Hrathen chided himself—this was the second time in one week he had used the creature. Reliance on the Seon was something to be avoided. However, Hrathen could think of no other way to accomplish his goal. Dilaf was right: Time was very scarce. Fourteen days had already passed since his arrival in Arelon, and he had spent a week traveling before that. Only seventy days remained of his original allotment, and, despite the size of the night’s congregation, Hrathen had converted only a tiny fraction of Arelon.

Only one fact gave him hope: Arelon’s nobility was concentrated in Kae. To be away from Iadon’s court was political suicide; the king granted and took away titles willfully, and a high profile was necessary to assure a firm place in the aristocracy. Wyrn didn’t care if Hrathen converted the masses or not; as long as the nobility bowed, the country was considered Derethi.

So, Hrathen had a chance, but he still had much work to do. An important piece of it lay in the man Hrathen was about to call. His contact was not a gyorn, which made Hrathen’s use of the Seon a little unorthodox. However, Wyrn had never directly commanded him
not
to call other people with his Seon, so Hrathen was able to rationalize the use.

The Seon responded promptly, and soon Forton’s large-eared, mouselike face appeared in its light.

“Who is it?” he asked in the harsh Fjordell dialect spoken in the country of Hrovell.

“It is I, Forton.”

“My lord Hrathen?” Forton asked with surprise. “My lord, it has been a long time.”

“I know, Forton. I trust you are well.”

The man laughed happily, though the laugh quickly turned to a wheeze. Forton had a chronic cough—a condition caused, Hrathen was certain, by the various substances the man was fond of smoking.

“Of course, my lord,” Forton said through his coughing. “When am I not well?” Forton was a man utterly contented with his life—a condition that was also caused by the various substances he was fond of smoking. “What can I do for you?”

“I have need of one of your elixirs, Forton,” Hrathen said.

“Of course, of course. What must it do?”

Hrathen smiled. Forton was an unparalleled genius, which was why Hrathen suffered his eccentricities. The man not only kept a Seon, but was a devout follower of the Mysteries—a degenerate form of the Jesker religion common in rural areas. Though Hrovell was officially a Derethi nation, most of it was a primitive, sparsely populated countryside which was difficult to supervise. Many of the
peasants attended their Derethi services with devotion, then took part in their midnight Mystery ceremonies with equal devotion. Forton himself was considered something of a mystic in his town, though he always put on a show of Derethi orthodoxy when he spoke with Hrathen.

Hrathen explained what he wanted, and Forton repeated it back. Though Forton was often drugged, he was very accomplished at the mixing of potions, poisons, and elixirs. Hrathen had met no man in Sycla who could match Forton’s skill. One of the eccentric man’s concoctions had restored Hrathen to health after he had been poisoned by a political enemy. The slow-acting substance was said to have no antidote.

“This will be no problem, my lord,” Forton promised Hrathen in his thick dialect. Even after years of dealing with the Hroven, Hrathen had trouble understanding them. He was certain that most of them didn’t even know there was a pure, correct form of their language back in Fjorden.

“Good,” Hrathen said.

“Yes, all I’ll need to do is combine two formulas I already have,” Forton said. “How much do you want?”

“At least two doses. I will pay you the standard price.”

“My true payment is the knowledge I have served Lord Jaddeth,” the man said piously.

Hrathen resisted the urge to laugh. He knew how much of a hold the Mysteries had on Hrovell’s people. It was a distasteful form of worship, a syncretic combination of a dozen different faiths, with some aberrations—such as ritual sacrifice and fertility rites—added in to make it more alluring. Hrovell, however, was a task for another day. The people did what Wyrn commanded, and they were too politically insignificant to cause Fjorden distress. Of course, their souls were in serious danger; Jaddeth was not known for his leniency toward the ignorant.

Another day, Hrathen told himself. Another day
.

“When will my lord be needing this potion?” the man asked.

“That is the thing, Forton. I need it immediately.”

“Where are you?”

“In Arelon,” Hrathen said.

“Ah, good,” Forton said. “My lord has finally decided to convert those heathens.”

“Yes,” Hrathen said with a slight smile. “We Derethi have been patient with the Arelenes long enough.”

“Well, Your Lordship couldn’t have picked a place farther away,” Forton said. “Even if I finish the potion tonight and send it in the morning, it will take at least two weeks to arrive.”

Hrathen chafed at the delay, but there was no other option. “Then do so, Forton. I will compensate you for working on such short notice.”

“A true follower of Jaddeth will do anything to bring about His Empire, my lord.”

Well, at least he knows his Derethi doctrine, Hrathen thought with a mental shrug
.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” Forton asked, coughing slightly.

“No. Get to work, and send the potions as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll get started immediately. Feel free to pray to me any time you need to.”

Hrathen frowned—he had forgotten about that little inaccuracy. Perhaps Forton’s mastery of Derethi doctrine wasn’t all that sound after all. Forton didn’t know Hrathen had a Seon; he simply assumed that a gyorn could pray to Jaddeth and that God would direct his words through the Seons. As if Lord Jaddeth were a member of the post.

“Goodnight, Forton,” Hrathen said, keeping the displeasure from his voice. Forton was a drug addict, a heretic, and a hypocrite—but he was still an invaluable resource. Hrathen had long ago decided that if Jaddeth would suffer his gyorns to communicate using Seons, then He would certainly let Hrathen use men such as Forton.

After all, Jaddeth had created all men—even the heretics.

CHAPTER 19

The city of Elantris glowed brilliantly. The very stones shone, as if each one held a fire within. The shattered domes had been restored, their smooth, egglike surfaces blossoming across the landscape. Thin spires stabbed the air like streaks of light. The wall was no longer a barrier, for its gates were left permanently open—it existed not to protect, but for cohesion. The wall was part of the city somehow, an essential element of the whole, without which Elantris would not be complete.

And amid the beauty and the glory were the Elantrians. Their bodies seemed to shine with the same inner light as the city, their skin a luminous pale silver. Not
metallic, just … pure. Their hair was white, but not the worn-out dull gray or yellow of the aged. It was the blazing white of steel heated to an extreme temperature—a color free of impurities, a powerful, focused white.

Their bearings were equally striking. The Elantrians moved through their city with an air of complete control. The men were handsome and tall—even the short ones—and the women were undeniably beautiful—even the homely ones. They were unhurried; they strolled rather than walked, and they were quick to greet those they met. There was a power in them, however. It radiated from their eyes and underlay their motions. It was easy to understand why these beings were worshipped as gods.

Equally unmistakable were the Aons. The ancient glyphs covered the city; they were etched into walls, painted on doors, and written on signs. Most of them were inert—simple markings, rather than runes with an arcane purpose. Others, however, obviously held energy. Throughout the city stood large metal plates carved with Aon Tia, and occasionally an Elantrian would approach and place his or her hand in the center of the character. The Elantrian’s body would flash, and then disappear in a circular burst of light, his body instantly transported to another section of the city.