The gate slammed shut as Sarene’s cart rolled back into Kae. “You’re certain he’s the one in charge?” she asked.
Ashe bobbed slightly. “You were correct, my lady—my information about the gang leaders was outdated. They call this newcomer Lord Spirit. His rise was a recent event—most hadn’t heard of him more than a month ago, though one man claims that Lord Spirit and Shaor are the same person. The reports agree that he defeated both Karata and Aanden. Apparently, the second confrontation involved an enormous battle of some sort.”
“Then the people I’m meeting with are impostors,” Sarene said, tapping her cheek as she rode in the back of the cart. It was hardly fitting transportation for a princess, but none of the day’s nobles had offered her a ride in their coaches. She had intended to ask Shuden, but he had disappeared—the young Torena had beat Sarene to him.
“Apparently they are, my lady. Are you angered?” Ashe asked the question carefully. He had made it quite clear he still thought her preoccupation with Spirit was an unnecessary distraction.
“No, not really. You have to expect a measure of subterfuge in any political engagement.” Or, so she said. Political necessity or not, she wanted Spirit to be honest with her. She was actually beginning to trust him, and that worried her.
He chose to confide in her for some reason. Around the others he was bright and cheerful, but no man could be that one-sidedly optimistic. When he spoke
only to Sarene, he was more honest. She could see pain in his eyes, unexplained sorrows and worries. This man, warlord or not, cared about Elantris.
Like all Elantrians, he was more corpse than man: his skin wan and dry, his scalp and eyebrows completely hairless. Her revulsion was decreasing every day, however, as she grew accustomed to the city. She wasn’t to the point where she could see beauty in the Elantrians, but at least she wasn’t physically sickened by them any longer.
Still, she forced herself to remain aloof from Spirit’s overtures of friendship. She had spent too long in politics to let herself become emotionally open with an opponent. And he was definitely an opponent—no matter how affable. He played with her, presenting false gang leaders to distract, while he himself supervised her distributions. She couldn’t even be certain that he was honoring their agreements. For all she knew, the only ones allowed to receive food were Spirit’s followers. Perhaps he seemed so optimistic because she was inadvertently helping him reign supreme over the city.
The cart hit an especially large bump, and Sarene thumped against its wooden floor. A couple of empty boxes toppled off the pile, nearly falling on top of her.
“Next time we see Shuden,” she mumbled sullenly, rubbing her posterior, “remind me to kick him.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said complacently.
She didn’t have to wait long. Unfortunately, she also didn’t have a chance to do much kicking. She could probably have impaled Shuden if she had wished, but that wouldn’t have made her very popular with the court women. This happened to be one of the days the women had chosen to practice their fencing, and Shuden attended the meeting, as usual—though he rarely participated. Thankfully, he also refrained from doing his ChayShan exercise. The women moped over him enough as it was.
“They’re actually improving,” Eondel said appreciatively, watching the women spar. Each had a steel practice sword, as well as a kind of uniform—a jumpsuit much like the one Sarene wore, but with a short ring of cloth hanging down from the waist, as if to imitate a skirt. The cloth loop was thin and useless, but it made the women comfortable, so Sarene didn’t say anything—no matter how silly she thought it looked.
“You sound surprised, Eondel,” Sarene said. “Were you that unimpressed with my ability to teach?”
The stately warrior stiffened. “No, Your Highness, never—”
“She’s teasing you, my lord,” Lukel said, rapping Sarene on the head with a
rolled-up piece of paper as he approached. “You shouldn’t let her get away with things like that. It only encourages her.”
“What’s this?” Sarene said, snatching the paper from Lukel.
“Our dear king’s income figures,” Lukel explained as he removed a bright red sourmelon from his pocket and took a bite. He still hadn’t revealed how he’d managed to get a shipment of the fruit an entire month before the season began, a fact that was making the rest of the mercantile community rabid with jealousy.
Sarene looked over the figures. “Is he going to make it?”
“Barely,” Lukel said with a smile. “But his earnings in Teod, coupled with his tax income, should be respectable enough to keep him from embarrassment. Congratulations, Cousin, you’ve saved the monarchy.”
Sarene rerolled the paper. “Well, that’s one less thing we have to worry about.”
“Two,” Lukel corrected, a bit of pink juice rolling down his cheek. “Our dear friend Edan has fled the country.”
“What?” Sarene asked.
“It’s true, my lady,” Eondel said. “I heard the news just this morning. Baron Edan’s lands border the Chasm down in southern Arelon, and recent rains caused some mudslides involving his fields. Edan decided to cut his losses, and was last seen heading for Duladel.”
“Where he’ll soon discover that the new monarchy is rather unimpressed with Arelish titles,” Lukel added. “I think Edan will make a nice farmer, don’t you?”
“Wipe your mouth,” Sarene said with a reproving look. “It’s not kind to make light of another’s misfortune.”
“Misfortune comes as Domi wills,” Lukel said.
“You never liked Edan in the first place,” Sarene said.
“He was spineless, arrogant, and would have betrayed us if he’d ever found the nerve. What wasn’t there to like?” Lukel continued to munch on his fruit with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Well, someone is certainly proud of himself this afternoon,” Sarene noted.
“He is always like that after he makes a good business deal, Your Highness,” Eondel said. “He’ll be insufferable for another week at least.”
“Ah, just wait for the Arelene Market,” Lukel said. “I’ll make a killing. Anyway, Iadon is busy looking for someone rich enough to buy Edan’s barony, so you shouldn’t have to worry about him bothering you for a little while.”
“I wish I could say the same for you,” Sarene replied, turning her attention back to her still battling students. Eondel was right: They were improving. Even the older ones seemed to be bursting with energy. Sarene held up her hand, drawing their attention, and the sparring fell off.
“You’re doing very well,” Sarene said as the room fell silent. “I am impressed—some of you are already better than many of the women I knew back in Teod.”
There was a general air of satisfaction about the women as they listened to Sarene’s praise.
“However, there is one thing that bothers me,” Sarene said, beginning to pace. “I thought you women intended to prove your strength, to show that you were good for more than making the occasional embroidered pillowcase. However, so far only one of you has truly shown me that she wants to change things in Arelon. Torena, tell them what you did today.”
The thin girl yelped slightly as Sarene said her name, then looked sheepishly at her companions. “I went to Elantris with you?”
“Indeed,” Sarene said. “I have invited each woman in this room several times, but only Torena has had the courage to accompany me into Elantris.”
Sarene stopped her pacing to regard the uncomfortable women. None of them would look at her—not even Torena, who appeared to be feeling guilty by association.
“Tomorrow I will go into Elantris again, and this time, no men will accompany me beyond the regular guards. If you really want to show this town that you are as strong as your husbands, you will accompany me.”
Sarene stood in her place, looking over the women. Heads raised hesitantly, eyes focusing on her. They would come. They were frightened near to death, but they would come. Sarene smiled.
The smile, however, was only half genuine. Standing as she was, before them like a general before his troops, she realized something. It was happening again.
It was just like Teod. She could see respect in their eyes; even the queen herself looked to Sarene for advice now. However, respect her as they did, they would never accept her. When Sarene entered a room, it fell silent; when she left, conversations began again. It was as if they thought her above their simple discussions. By serving as a model for what they wanted to become, Sarene had alienated herself from them.
Sarene turned, leaving the women to their practicing. The men were the same. Shuden and Eondel respected her—even considered her a friend—but they would never think about her romantically. Despite his professed annoyance with courtly games of matrimony, Shuden was reacting favorably to Torena’s advances—but he had never once looked at Sarene. Eondel was far older than she, but Sarene could sense his feelings toward her. Respect, admiration, and a willingness to serve. It was as if he didn’t even realize she was a woman.
Sarene knew that she was married now, and shouldn’t be thinking about such things, but it was hard to regard herself as wedded. There had been no ceremony, and she had known no husband. She craved something—a sign that at least some of the men found her attractive, though she never would have responded to any such advances. The point was irrelevant; the men of Arelon feared her as much as they respected her.
She had grown up without affection outside of her family, and it appeared she would continue that way. At least she had Kiin and his family. Still, if she had come to Arelon searching for acceptance, then she had failed. She would have to be content with respect.
A deep, scratchy voice sounded behind her, and Sarene turned to find that Kiin had joined Lukel and Eondel.
“Uncle?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I got home and found the house empty,” Kiin said. “There’s only one person who would dare steal a man’s entire family.”
“She didn’t steal us, Father,” Lukel joked. “We just heard that you were going to make Hraggish weed soup again.”
Kiin regarded his jovial son for a moment, rubbing his chin where his beard once grew. “He got a good sale, then?”
“A very lucrative one,” Eondel said.
“Domi protect us,” Kiin grumbled, settling his stout body into a nearby chair. Sarene took a seat next to him.
“You heard about the king’s projected earnings, ’Ene?” Kiin asked.
“Yes, Uncle.”
Kiin nodded. “I never thought I’d see the day when I was encouraged by Iadon’s success. Your plan to save him worked, and from what I hear, Eondel and the rest are expected to bring forth exemplary crops.”
“Then why do you look so worried?” Sarene asked.
“I’m getting old, ’Ene, and old men tend to worry. Most recently I’ve been concerned about your excursions into Elantris. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you in there.”
“Not that he’s going to forgive you anytime soon anyway,” Sarene said offhandedly.
Kiin grunted. “That’s the truth.” Then he stopped, turning suspicious eyes her direction. “What do you know of that?”
“Nothing,” Sarene admitted. “But I’m hoping you will rectify my ignorance.”
Kiin shook his head. “Some things are better left unrectified. Your father and I were both a whole lot more foolish when we were younger. Eventeo might be a great king, but he’s a pathetic brother. Of course, I won’t soon win any awards for my fraternal affection either.”
“But what happened?”
“We had a … disagreement.”
“What kind of disagreement?”
Kiin laughed his bellowing, raspy laugh. “No, ’Ene, I’m not as easy to manipulate as your larks over there. You just keep on wondering about this one. And don’t pout.”
“I never pout,” Sarene said, fighting hard to keep her voice from sounding
childish. When it became apparent that her uncle wasn’t going to offer any more information, Sarene finally changed the subject. “Uncle Kiin, are there any secret passages in Iadon’s palace?”
“I’d be surprised as the Three Virgins if there aren’t,” he replied. “Iadon is just about the most paranoid man I’ve ever known. He must have at least a dozen escape routes in that fortress he calls home.”
Sarene resisted the urge to point out that Kiin’s home was as much a fortress as the king’s. As their conversation lulled, Kiin turned to ask Eondel about Lukel’s sourmelon deal. Eventually, Sarene stood and retrieved her syre, then walked out onto the practice floor. She fell into form and began moving through a solo pattern.
Her blade whipped and snapped, the well-practiced motions now routine, and her mind soon began to wander. Was Ashe right? Was she allowing herself to become distracted by Elantris and its enigmatic ruler? She couldn’t lose track of her greater tasks—Hrathen was planning something, and Telrii couldn’t possibly be as indifferent as he made himself out to be. She had a lot of things she needed to watch, and she had enough experience with politics to realize how easy it was to overextend oneself.
However, she was increasingly interested in Spirit. It was rare to find someone politically skilled enough to hold her attention, but in Arelon she had found two. In a way, Spirit was even more fascinating than the gyorn. While Hrathen and she were very frank about their enmity, Spirit somehow manipulated and foiled her while at the same time acting like an old friend. Most alarmingly, she almost didn’t care.
Instead of being outraged when she filled his demands with useless items, he had seemed impressed. He had even complimented her on her frugality, noting that the cloth she sent must have been bought at a discount, considering its color. In all things he remained friendly, indifferent to her sarcasm.
And she felt herself responding. There, in the center of the cursed city, was finally a person who seemed willing to accept her. She wished she could laugh at his clever remarks, agree with his observations, and share his concerns. The more confrontational she tried to be, the less threatened he was. He actually seemed to appreciate her defiance.
“Sarene, dear?” Daora’s quiet voice broke through her contemplations. Sarene made one final sweep of her sword, then stood up, dazed. Sweat streamed down her face, running along the inside of her collar. She hadn’t realized how vigorous her training had become.