Elantris (61 page)

“Who?” Sarene asked curiously.

“You don’t need to know,” her father said.

“They must have a Seon,” Sarene mused. “Otherwise you wouldn’t know about Iadon—he only hanged himself last night.”

“I’m not going to tell you, ’Ene,” Eventeo said with an amused tone. “If you knew who it was, you would inevitably decide to appropriate him for your own purposes.”

“Fine,” Sarene said. “But when this is all over, you’d better tell me who it was.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Fine,” Sarene repeated, feigning indifference.

Her father laughed. “So, tell me about Iadon. How in Domi’s name did he get a rope?”

“Lord Eondel must have arranged it,” Sarene guessed, resting her elbows on her desk. “The count thinks like a warrior, and this was a very efficient solution. We don’t have to force an abdication, and suicide restored some dignity to the monarchy.”

“Bloodthirsty this afternoon, are we ’Ene?”

Sarene shivered. “You didn’t see it, Father. The king didn’t just murder that girl, he … enjoyed doing it.”

“Ah,” Eventeo said. “My sources say Duke Telrii will probably take the throne.”

“Not if we can help it,” Sarene said. “Telrii is even worse than Iadon. Even if he weren’t a Derethi sympathizer, he’d make a terrible king.”

“’Ene, a civil war will help no one.”

“It won’t come to that, Father,” Sarene promised. “You don’t understand how unmilitaristically minded these people are. They lived for centuries under Elantrian protection—they think the presence of a few overweight guards on the city wall is enough to dissuade invaders. Their only real troops belong to Lord Eondel’s legion, which he’s ordered to gather at Kae. We might just be able to get Roial crowned before anyone’s the wiser.”

“You’ve united behind him, then?”

“He’s the only one rich enough to challenge Telrii,” Sarene explained. “I didn’t have enough time to stamp out Iadon’s foolish monetary-title system. That is what the people are accustomed to, and so we’re going to have to use it, for now.”

A knock at the door was followed by a maid with a lunch tray. Sarene had returned to live in the palace after spending only one night in Roial’s manor, despite her allies’ concerns. The palace was a symbol, and she hoped it would lend her authority. The maid put the tray on the table and departed.

“Was that lunch?” Her father seemed to have a sixth sense regarding food.

“Yes,” Sarene said, cutting herself a piece of cornbread.

“Is it good?”

Sarene smiled. “You shouldn’t ask, Father. You’ll only upset yourself.”

Eventeo sighed. “I know. Your mother has a new fascination—Hraggish weed soup.”

“Is it good?” Sarene asked. Her mother was the daughter of a Teoish diplomat, and had spent most of her growing years in Jindo. As a result, she had picked up some very odd dietary preferences—ones she forced upon the entire palace and its staff.

“It’s horrible.”

“Pity,” Sarene said. “Now, where did I put that butter?”

Her father groaned.

“Father,” Sarene chided. “You know you need to lose weight.” While the king was nowhere as large—in either muscle or fat—as his brother Kiin, he was more portly than he was stocky.

“I don’t see why,” Eventeo said. “Did you know that in Duladel they consider fat people attractive? They don’t care about Jindoeese notions of health, and they’re perfectly happy. Besides, where has it been proven that butter makes you fat?”

“You now what the Jindos say, Father,” Sarene said. “If it burns, it isn’t healthy.”

Eventeo sighed. “I haven’t had a cup of wine in ten years.”

“I know, Father. I used to live with you, remember?”

“Yes, but she didn’t make you stay away from alcohol.”

“I’m not overweight,” Sarene pointed out. “Alcohol burns.”

“So does Hraggish weed soup,” Eventeo replied, his voice turning slightly impish. “At least, it does if you dry it out. I tried.”

Sarene laughed. “I doubt Mother responded very well to that little experiment.”

“She just gave me one of her looks—you know how she is.”

“Yes,” Sarene said, recalling her mother’s features. Sarene had spent far too much time on diplomatic missions in the last few years to suffer from homesickness now, but it would be nice to be back in Teod—especially considering the seemingly endless series of surprises and disasters that had filled the last few weeks.

“Well, ’Ene, I have to go hold court,” her father finally said. “I’m glad you occasionally take the time to call your poor old father—especially to let him know when you’ve overthrown an entire nation. Oh, one more thing. As soon as we found out about Iadon’s suicide, Seinalan commandeered one of my fastest ships and set sail for Arelon. He should be arriving within a few days.”

“Seinalan?” Sarene asked with surprise. “What part does the patriarch have in all this?”

“I don’t know—he wouldn’t tell me. But, I really have to go, ’Ene. I love you.”

“I love you too, Father.”

“I’ve never met the patriarch,” Roial confessed from his seat in Kiin’s dining room. “Is he much like Father Omin?”

“No,” Sarene said firmly. “Seinalan is a self-serving egotist with enough pride to make a Derethi gyorn look humble.”

“Princess!” Eondel said with indignation. “You’re talking about the father of our Church!”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like him,” Sarene said.

Eondel’s face whitened as he reached reflexively for the Aon Omi pendant around his neck.

Sarene scowled. “You don’t have to ward off evil, Eondel. I’m not going to reject Domi just because He put a fool in charge of His Church; fools need to have a chance to serve too.”

Eondel’s eyes turned down toward his hand; then he lowered it with an embarrassed look. Roial, however, was laughing quietly to himself.

“What?” Sarene demanded.

“It’s just that I was considering something, Sarene,” the old man said with a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone, male or female, that’s quite as opinionated as you are.”

“Then you’ve lived a sheltered life, my duke,” Sarene informed. “And where is Lukel, anyway?”

Kiin’s table wasn’t as comfortable as Roial’s study, but for some reason they all felt most at home in Kiin’s dining room. While most people added personal touches to their study or reception room, Kiin’s love was his food, and the dining room the place where he shared his talent. The room’s decorations—mementos from Kiin’s travels including everything from dried vegetables to a large, ornamental axe—were comfortingly familiar. There was never any discussion about it; they all just naturally came to this room when they met.

They had to wait a few more moments before Lukel finally decided to return. Eventually, they heard the door open and close, then her cousin’s amiable face popped in the door. Ahan and Kiin were with him.

“Well?” Sarene asked.

“Telrii definitely intends to take the throne,” Lukel said.

“Not with my legion backing Roial, he won’t,” Eondel said.

“Unfortunately, my dear general,” Ahan said, settling his bulk into a chair, “your legion isn’t here. You have barely a dozen men at your disposal.”

“It’s more than Telrii has,” Sarene pointed out.

“Not anymore, it isn’t,” Ahan said. “The Elantris City Guard left their posts to set up camp outside Telrii’s mansion.”

Eondel snorted. “The Guard is hardly more than a club for second sons who want to pretend they’re important.”

“True,” Ahan said. “But there
are
over six hundred people in that club. At fifty-to-one odds, even
I
would fight against your legion. I’m afraid the balance of power has shifted in Telrii’s favor.”

“This is bad,” Roial agreed. “Telrii’s superior wealth was a great problem before, but now …”

“There’s got to be a way,” Lukel said.

“I don’t see one,” Roial confessed.

The men frowned, deep in thought. However, they had all been pondering this very problem for two days. Even if they’d had the military edge, the other aristocrats would be hesitant to support Roial, who was the less wealthy man.

As Sarene studied each lord in turn, her eyes fell on Shuden. He seemed hesitant rather than worried.

“What?” she asked quietly.

“I think I may have a way,” he said tentatively.

“Speak on, man,” Ahan said.

“Well, Sarene is still very wealthy,” Shuden explained. “Raoden left her at least five hundred thousand deos.”

“We discussed this, Shuden,” Lukel said. “She has a lot of money, but still less than Roial.”

“True,” Shuden agreed. “But
together
they would have far more than Telrii.”

The room grew quiet.

“Your marriage contract
is
technically void, my lady,” Ashe said from behind. “It dissolved as soon as Iadon killed himself, thereby removing his line from the throne. The moment someone else becomes king—be it Telrii or Roial—the treaty will end, and you will cease to be an Arelish princess.”

Shuden nodded. “If you unify your fortune with that of Lord Roial, it would not only give you the money to stand against Telrii, it would also legitimize the duke’s claim. Don’t assume that lineage doesn’t matter in Arelon. The nobles would much rather give their loyalty to one of Iadon’s relatives.”

Roial found her with eyes like those of a benevolent grandfather. “I must admit that young Shuden has a point. The marriage would be strictly political, Sarene.”

Sarene took a breath. Things happened so quickly. “I understand, my lord. We will do what must be done.”

And so, for the second time in only two months, Sarene was engaged to be married.

“That wasn’t very romantic, I’m afraid,” Roial apologized. The meeting was over, and Roial had discreetly offered to escort Sarene back to the palace. The others, including Ashe, had realized that the two needed to talk alone.

“It’s all right, my lord,” Sarene said with a slight smile. “That is how political marriages are supposed to be—dry, contrived, but extremely useful.”

“You’re very pragmatic.”

“I have to be, my lord.”

Roial frowned. “Must we return to the ‘my lords,’ Sarene? I thought we were beyond that.”

“I’m sorry, Roial,” Sarene said. “It’s just hard to separate my personal self from my political self.”

Roial nodded. “I meant what I said, Sarene. This will be strictly a union of convenience—do not fear yourself obligated in any other way.”

Sarene rode quietly for a moment, listening to the horse’s hooves clop in front of them. “There will need to be heirs.”

Roial laughed quietly. “No, Sarene. Thank you, but no. Even if such were physically possible, I couldn’t go through with it. I am an old man, and can’t possibly survive more than a few years. This time, your wedding contract won’t forbid you from remarrying after I die. When I’m gone, you can finally choose a man of your own preference—by then we will have replaced Iadon’s silly system with something more stable, and your children with the third husband will inherit the throne.”

Third husband. Roial spoke as if he were already dead, herself a widow twice over. “Well,” she said, “if things
do
happen as you suggest, then at least I wouldn’t have trouble attracting a husband. The throne would be a tempting prize, even if I were attached to it.”

Roial’s face hardened. “This is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Sarene.”

“What?”

“You’re far too harsh on yourself. I’ve heard the way you speak—you assume that nobody wants you.”

“They don’t,” Sarene said flatly. “Trust me.”

Roial shook his head. “You’re an excellent judge of character, Sarene—except your own. Often, our own opinions of ourselves are the most unrealistic. You may see yourself as an old maid, child, but you
are
young, and you
are
beautiful. Just because you’ve had misfortune in your past doesn’t mean you have to give up on your future.”

He looked into her eyes. For all his mischievous shows, this was a man of sagely understanding. “You
will
find someone to love you, Sarene,” Roial promised. “You are a prize—a prize even greater than that throne you’ll be attached to.”

Sarene blushed, looking down. Still … his words were encouraging. Perhaps she did have a hope. She would probably be in her mid-thirties, but she would have at least one more chance to find the right man.

“Anyway,” Roial said. “Our wedding will have to come soon if we are going to beat Telrii.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The day of Iadon’s funeral,” Roial said. “Technically, Iadon’s reign doesn’t end until his burial.”

Four days. It would be a short engagement indeed.

“I just worry at the necessity of putting you through all of this,” Roial said. “It can’t be easy to consider marrying such a dusty old man.”

Sarene laid her hand on that of the duke, smiling at the sweetness in his tone. “All things considered, my lord, I think I’m rather fortunate. There are very few men in this world I would actually consider it an honor to be forced to marry.”

Roial smiled a wrinkly smile, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a shame Ahan’s already married, isn’t it?”

Sarene removed her hand and swatted him on the shoulder. “I’ve had enough emotional shocks for one week, Roial—I’ll kindly thank you not to make me sick to my stomach as well.”

The duke laughed at length. When his merriment died down, however, another sound replaced it—yelling. Sarene tensed, but the yells weren’t ones of anger or pain. They seemed joyful and excited. Confused, she looked out the carriage window and saw a crowd of people surging through a cross street.

“What in the name of Domi is that?” Roial asked.

Their carriage drew closer, allowing Sarene to make out a tall form at the center of the crowd.

Sarene grew numb. “But … but that’s impossible!”

“What?” Roial asked, squinting.

“It’s Hrathen,” Sarene said with wide eyes, “He’s left Elantris!” Then she realized something else. The gyorn’s face was unspotted. Flesh-colored.

“Merciful Domi—he’s been healed!”

CHAPTER 36