Elantris (55 page)

“It was a fool’s project, anyway,” Iadon declared, dropping a collection of papers to the table. The top sheet ruffled from the motion, and Sarene could read its scribbled commands. The words “Elantris’s” and “extermination” stood out, stark and foreboding.

“Go back to your room, Sarene,” the king said. “This will all be over in a matter of hours.”

For the first time Sarene realized how she must look, her face red and mussed from the tears, her simple monochrome dress stained with sweat and Elantris grime, and her disheveled hair pulled back into an unraveling braid.

The moment of insecurity disappeared as she looked back at the king and saw the satisfaction in his eyes. He would massacre the entire group of starving, helpless people in Elantris. He would kill Spirit. All because of her.

“You listen to me, Iadon,” Sarene said, her voice sharp and cold. She held the king’s eyes, drawing upon her nearly six-foot height to tower over the shorter man. “You
will
withdraw your soldiers from Elantris. You
will
leave those people alone. Otherwise, I will begin to tell people what I know about you.”

Iadon snorted.

“Defiance, Iadon?” she asked. “I think you’ll feel differently when everyone knows the truth. You know they already think you a fool. They pretend to obey you, but you know—you know in that whispering part of your heart that they mock you with their obedience. You think they didn’t hear about your lost ships? You think they weren’t laughing to themselves at how their king would soon be as poor as a baron? Oh they knew. How will you face them, Iadon, when they learn how you
really
survived? When I show them how I rescued your income, how I gave you the contracts in Teod, how I saved your crown.”

As she spoke, she punctuated each remark by stabbing her finger at his chest. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow as he began to crack beneath her unyielding gaze.

“You are a fool, Iadon,” she hissed. “I know it, your nobles know it, and the world knows it. You have taken a great nation and squashed it in your greedy hands. You have enslaved the people and you have defiled Arelon’s honor. And, despite it all, your country grows poorer. Even you, the king, are so destitute that only a gift from Teod lets you keep your crown.”

Iadon shied away unnerved. The king seemed to shrink, his arrogant act withering before her anger.

“How will it look, Iadon?” she whispered. “How will it feel to have the entire court know you are indebted to a woman? A foolish girl at that? You would be
revealed. Everyone would know what you are. Nothing more than an insecure, trivial, incapable invalid.”

Iadon plopped down into his seat. Sarene handed him a pen.

“Repeal it,” she demanded.

His fingers shook as he scribbled a countermand at the bottom of the page, then stamped it with his personal seal.

Sarene snatched up the paper, then stalked from the room. “Ashe, stop those soldiers! Tell them new orders are coming.”

“Yes, my lady,” the Seon replied, shooting down the corridor toward a window, moving more quickly than even a galloping horse.

“You!” Sarene ordered, slapping the rolled-up sheet of paper against a guard’s breastplate. “Take this to Elantris.”

The man accepted the paper uncertainly.

“Run!” Sarene ordered.

He did.

Sarene folded her arms, watching the man dash down the hallway. Then she turned to regard the second guard. He began to twitch nervously beneath her gaze.

“Um, I’ll make sure he gets there,” the man stuttered, then took off behind his companion.

Sarene stood for a moment, then turned back to the king’s study, pulling the doors closed. She was left with the sight of Iadon, slumped in his chair, elbows on the desktop and head cradled in his hands. The king was sobbing quietly to himself.

By the time Sarene reached Elantris, the new orders had long since arrived. Iadon’s guard stood uncertainly before the gates. She told them to go home, but their captain refused, claiming that he had received orders not to attack, but he didn’t have any orders to return. A short time later a courier arrived, delivering commands to do just that. The captain shot her an irritable look, then ordered his men back to the palace.

Sarene stayed a little longer, making the strenuous climb to the top of the wall to gaze down at the courtyard. Her food cart stood abandoned in the center of the square, overturned with broken boxes running in a jagged line before it. There were bodies, too—fallen members of the attacking party, their corpses rotting in the muck.

Sarene froze, her muscles stiffening. One of the corpses was still moving. She leaned over the stone railing, staring down at the fallen man. The distance was great, but she could still see the distinct lines of the man’s legs—lying a dozen feet from his chest. Some powerful blow had separated him at the waist. There was no way he could have survived such a wound. Yet, insanely, his arms waved in the air with hopeless randomness.

“Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered, her hand rising to her breast, her fingers seeking out her small Korathi pendant. She scanned the courtyard with disbelieving eyes. Some of the other bodies were moving as well, despite horrible wounds.

They say that the Elantrians are dead, she realized. That they are the deceased whose minds refuse to rest. Her eyes open for the first time, Sarene realized how the Elantrians survived without food. They didn’t need to eat
.

But, why then did they?

Sarene shook her head, trying to clear her mind of both confusion and the struggling corpses below. As she did so, her eyes fell on another figure. It knelt in the shadow of Elantris’s wall, its posture somehow bespeaking incredible sorrow. Sarene felt herself drawn along the walkway in the direction of the form, her hand dragging along the stone railing. She stopped when she stood above him.

Somehow she knew the figure belonged to Spirit. He was clutching a body in his arms, rocking back and forth with his head bowed. The message was clear: Even a tyrant could love those who followed him.

I saved you, Sarene thought. The king would have destroyed you, but I saved your life. It wasn’t for you, Spirit. It was for all those poor people that you rule over
.

Spirit didn’t notice her.

She tried to remain angry at him. However, looking down and sensing his agony, she couldn’t lie—even to herself. The day’s events disturbed her for several reasons. She was angry at having her plans disrupted. She regretted that she would no longer be able to feed the struggling Elantrians. She was unhappy with the way the aristocracy would see Elantris.

But she was also saddened that she would never be able to see him again. Tyrant or not, he had seemed like a good man. Perhaps … perhaps only a tyrant could lead in a place like Elantris. Perhaps he was the best that the people had.

Regardless, she would probably never see him again. She would never again look into those eyes that, despite the emaciated form of his body, seemed so vibrant and alive. There was a complexity in them that she would never be able to unravel.

It was over.

She sought refuge in the only place in Kae she felt safe. Kiin let her in, then held her as she fell into his arms. It was a perfectly humiliating end to a very emotional day. However, the hug was worth it. She had decided as a child that her uncle was very good at hugging, his broad arms and enormous chest sufficient to envelope even a tall and gangly girl.

Sarene finally released him, wiping her eyes, disappointed in herself for crying again. Kiin simply placed a large hand on her shoulder and led her into the dining room, where the rest of the family sat around the table, even Adien.

Lukel had been talking animatedly, but he cut off as he saw Sarene. “Speak the name of the lion,” he said, quoting a Jindoeese proverb, “and he will come to feast.”

Adien’s haunted, slightly unfocused eyes found her face. “Six hundred and seventy-two steps from here to Elantris,” he whispered.

There was silence for a moment. Then Kaise jumped up onto her chair. “Sarene! Did they really try and eat you?”

“No, Kaise,” Sarene replied, finding a seat. “They just wanted some of our food.”

“Kaise, leave your cousin alone,” Daora ordered firmly. “She has had a full day.”

“And I missed it,” Kaise said sullenly, plopping down in her seat. Then she turned angry eyes on her brother. “Why did
you
have to get sick?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Daorn protested, still a little wan. He didn’t seem very disappointed to have missed the battle.

“Hush, children,” Daora repeated.

“It’s all right,” Sarene said. “I can talk about it.”

“Well, then,” Lukel said, “is it true?”

“Yes,” Sarene said. “Some Elantrians attacked us, but no one got hurt—at least, not on our side.”

“No,” Lukel said. “Not that—I meant about the king. Is it true that you yelled him into submission?”

Sarene grew sick. “That got out?”

Lukel laughed. “They say your voice carried all the way to the main hall. Iadon still hasn’t left his study.”

“I might have gotten a little carried away,” Sarene said.

“You did the right thing, dear,” Daora assured her. “Iadon is far too accustomed to having the court jump when he so much as sneezes. He probably didn’t know what to do when someone actually stood up to him.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “Beneath all the bluster he’s very insecure.”

“Most men are, dear,” Daora said.

Lukel chuckled. “Cousin, what did we ever do without you? Life was so boring before you decided to sail over and mess it all up for us.”

“I would rather it stayed a little less messed up,” Sarene mumbled. “Iadon isn’t going to react too well when he recovers.”

“If he gets out of line, you can always just yell at him again,” Lukel said.

“No,” Kiin said, his gruff voice solemn. “She’s right. Monarchs can’t afford to be reprimanded in public. We might have a much harder time of things when this is all through.”

“Either that or he’ll just give up and abdicate in favor of Sarene,” Lukel said with a laugh.

“Just as your father feared,” Ashe’s deep voice noted as he floated in the window. “He always worried that Arelon wouldn’t be able to deal with you, my lady.”

Sarene smiled feebly. “Did they go back?”

“They did,” the Seon said. She had sent him to follow Iadon’s guards, in case they decided to ignore their orders. “The captain immediately went to see the king. He left when His Majesty refused to open his doors.”

“It wouldn’t do for a soldier to see his king bawling like a child,” Lukel noted.

“Anyway,” the Seon continued, “I—”

He was interrupted by an insistent knock at the door. Kiin disappeared, then returned with an eager Lord Shuden.

“My lady,” he said bowing slightly to Sarene. Then he turned to Lukel. “I just heard some very interesting news.”

“It’s all true,” Lukel said. “We asked Sarene.”

Shuden shook his head. “It isn’t about that.”

Sarene looked up with concern. “What
else
could possibly happen today?”

Shuden’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll never guess who the Shaod took last night.”

CHAPTER 30

Hrathen didn’t try to hide his transformation. He walked solemnly from his chambers, exposing his damnation to the entire chapel. Dilaf was in the middle of morning services. It was worth the loss of hair and skin color to see the short Arelish priest stumble backward in horrified shock.

The Korathi priests came for Hrathen a short time later. They gave him a large, enveloping white robe to hide his disfiguration, then led him from the now empty chapel. Hrathen smiled to himself as he saw the confused Dilaf watching from his alcove, his eyes openly hating Hrathen for the first time.

The Korathi priests took him to their chapel, stripped him, and washed his now black-spotted body with water from the Aredel river. Then they wrapped him in a white robe constructed of thick, raglike strips of cloth. After washing and clothing him, the priests stepped back and allowed Omin to approach. The short,
balding leader of Arelish Korathi blessed Hrathen quietly, tracing the symbol of Aon Omi on his chest. The Arelish man’s eyes betrayed just a hint of satisfaction.

After that, they led Hrathen through the city streets, chanting. However, at the city itself they found a large squadron of troops wearing Iadon’s colors blocking their path. The soldiers stood with hands on weapons, speaking in hushed tones. Hrathen regarded them with surprise; he recognized men preparing for battle. Omin argued with the captain of the Elantris City Guard for a time while the other priests pulled Hrathen into a squat building beside the guardhouse—a holding place, carved with Aon Omi.

Hrathen watched through the room’s small window as two winded guards galloped up and presented Iadon’s soldiers with a rolled-up sheet of paper. The captain read it, frowning, then turned to argue with the messenger. After this Omin returned, explaining that they would have to wait.

And wait they did—the better part of two hours.

Hrathen had heard that the priests would only throw people into Elantris during a certain time of day, but apparently it was a window of time, and not a specific moment. Eventually, the priests stuffed a small basket of food in Hrathen’s arms, offered one final prayer to their pitiful god, and pushed him through the gates.