Elantris (72 page)

And he had done it for her. Of course, he claimed that he also knew it was best for the country. No matter how good Teod’s navy was, sheer numbers insured that a determined Fjordell campaign would eventually punch through the armada. Eventeo claimed he would not fight a hopeless war.

Yet, this was the same man who had instructed Sarene that principle was
always worth fighting to protect. Eventeo had sworn that truth was immutable, and that no battle—even a hopeless one—was in vain when defending what was right. But, apparently, his love was stronger than truth. She was flattered, but the emotion made her sick. Teod would fall because of her, becoming just another Fjordell state, its king little more than Wyrn’s servant.

Eventeo had implied that she should lead Arelon to do as he had done, though she could tell from his voice that he was proud when she refused. She would protect Arelon, and Elantris. She would struggle for the survival of her religion, because Arelon—poor sickly Arelon—was now Shu-Korath’s final sanctuary. Where Arelon had once been a nation populated by gods, now it would serve as the final haven for Domi Himself.

CHAPTER 48

Hrathen sat in the palace waiting room with growing dissatisfaction. Around him, the signs of a changing government were already evident. It seemed remarkable that one man could own so many tapestries, rugs, and brocades. The palace sitting room was so draped with cloth plushness that Hrathen had been forced to shove a virtual mountain of pillows out of the way before finding a stone ledge upon which to seat himself.

He sat near the stone hearth, jaw clenched as he regarded the assembled nobility. As could be expected, Telrii had quite suddenly become a very busy man. Every nobleman, landholder, and ambitious merchant in the city wanted to pay his “respects” to the new king. Dozens waited in the sitting room, many without firm appointments. They hid their impatience poorly, but not a one was brave enough to voice annoyance at the treatment.

Their inconvenience was unimportant. The intolerable factor was Hrathen’s inclusion in the group. The rabble of supposed nobility was a pandering, indolent lot. Hrathen, however, was backed by the power of Wyrn’s kingdom and Jaddeth’s empire—the very power that had given Telrii the wealth he needed to claim the throne.

And yet Hrathen was forced to wait. It was maddening, it was discourteous, and it was unbelievable. Yet Hrathen had no choice but to endure it. Backed by Wyrn’s power though he was, he had no troops, no might to force Telrii’s hand. He could not denounce the man openly—despite his frustration, Hrathen’s political instinct was too keen to let him do something like that. He had worked hard to get a potential sympathizer on the throne; only a fool would let his own pride ruin such an opportunity. Hrathen would wait, tolerating disrespect for a short time, to achieve the eventual prize.

An attendant entered the room, draped in fine silks—the exaggerated livery of Telrii’s personal heralds. The room’s occupants perked up, several men standing and straightening their clothing.

“Gyorn Hrathen,” the attendant announced.

The noblemen wilted, and Hrathen stood and brushed past them with a dismissive step. It was about time.

Telrii waited beyond. Hrathen paused just inside the door, regarding the chamber with displeasure. The room had once been Iadon’s study, and at that time it had been marked by a businessman’s efficiency. Everything had been well placed and orderly; the furniture had been comfortable without being lavish.

Telrii had changed that. Attendants stood at the sides of the room, and beside them sat carts heaped with exotic foods, purchased from the merchants of the Arelene Market. Telrii reclined in a massive pile of cushions and silks, a pleasant smile on his purple-birthmarked face. Rugs coated the floor, and tapestries overlapped one another on the walls.

The men I am forced to work with …
Hrathen thought with an inward sigh. Iadon, at least, had been businesslike.

“Ah, Hrathen,” Telrii said with a smile. “Welcome.”

“Your Majesty,” Hrathen said, masking his disgust. “I was hoping we could speak in private.”

Telrii sighed. “Very well,” he said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the attendants. They left, pulling the outer doors closed.

“Now,” Telrii said, “why have you come? Are you interested in the tariffs on your merchants setting up for the Arelene Market?”

Hrathen frowned. “I have more important matters to consider, Your Majesty. As do you. I have come to collect on the promises of our allegiance.”

“Promises, Hrathen?” Telrii asked idly. “I made no promises.”

And so the game began. “You are to join the Derethi religion,” Hrathen said. “That was the deal.”

“I made no such deal, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You offered me funds; I accepted them. You have my gratitude for the support, as I said that you would.”

“I will not squabble with you, merchant,” Hrathen said, wondering how much money Telrii would demand to “remember” their agreement. “I am no sycophant
to be baited. If you do not do as Jaddeth expects, then I will find someone else. Do not forget what happened to your predecessor.”

Telrii snorted. “Don’t take credit for something you had no hand in, priest. Iadon’s fall was, as I recall, caused by the Teoish princess. You were in Elantris at the time. Now, if Fjorden wishes a Derethi on the throne of Arelon, that can probably be arranged. There will be, however, a price.”

Finally
, Hrathen thought. He clenched his jaw, feigning anger, and waited a moment. Then he sighed. “Very well. How much—”

“However,” Telrii interrupted, “it is not a price you can pay.”

Hrathen froze. “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Telrii said. “My price must be paid by someone with a little more … authority than yourself. You see, I’ve learned that Derethi priests cannot appoint men to their own position in the Church hierarchy.”

Hrathen felt a chill grow within him as he connected the pieces of Telrii’s statements. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he whispered.

“I know more than you assume, Hrathen,” Telrii said. “You think me a fool, ignorant of the ways of the East? Kings bow to gyorns. What power will I hold if I let you make me into nothing more than a Derethi slave? No, that will not do for me. I don’t plan to bow anytime one of your priests comes to visit. I will convert to your religion, but I will do so only with the promise of an ecclesiastic rank to match my civil one. Not just King Telrii, but
Gyorn
Telrii.”

Hrathen shook his head in wonder. How easily this man claimed that he was not “ignorant” of the ways of the East, yet even Fjordell children knew enough doctrine to laugh at such a ridiculous suggestion. “My lord Telrii,” he said with amusement. “You have no idea—”

“I said, Hrathen,” Telrii interrupted, “that there is nothing you can do for me. I have sought to deal with a higher power.”

Hrathen’s apprehension returned. “What are you saying?”

“Wyrn,” Telrii said with a wide smile. “I sent him a messenger several days ago, informing him of my demand. You are no longer necessary, Hrathen. You may withdraw.”

Hrathen stood, stunned. The man had sent a letter to Wyrn himself … Telrii had made
demands
of the Regent of All Creation? “You are a foolish, foolish man,” Hrathen whispered, finally realizing the severity of his problems. When Wyrn received that message …

“Go!” Telrii repeated pointing toward the door.

Slightly dazed, Hrathen did as commanded.

CHAPTER 49

At first Raoden stayed away from the library, because it reminded him of her. Then, he found himself drawn back to it—because it reminded him of her.

Instead of thinking about his loss, Raoden focused on the connection Sarene had made. He studied Aon after Aon, noticing other features of the landscape in their forms. Aon Eno, the character for water, included a wiggling line that matched the meanderings of the Aredel River. The character for wood—Aon Dii—included several circles that represented the southern forests.

The Aons were maps of the land, each one a slightly different rendering of the same general picture. Each one had the three basic lines—the coast line, the mountain line, and the dot for Lake Alonoe. Many often had a line at the bottom to represent the Kalomo River, which separated Arelon from Duladel.

Some of the features completely baffled him, however. Why did Aon Mea, the character for thoughtfulness have an
X
that crossed somewhere in the middle of the Eon County? Why was Aon Rii specked with two dozen seemingly random dots? The answers might have been held in one of the library’s tomes, but so far he had found nothing in the way of explanation.

The Dor attacked him at least twice a day now. Each battle seemed like it would be his last, and each time he seemed a little weaker when the fight was through—as if his energy were a finite well, dribbling a little lower with each confrontation. The question was not whether he would fall or not, but whether he would find the secret before he did.

Raoden pounded the map with frustration. Five days had passed since Sarene’s departure, and he still couldn’t find the answer. He was beginning to feel that he would continue for eternity, agonizingly close to the secret of AonDor yet forever unable to find it.

The large map, now hung from the wall near his desk, fluttered as he pushed it flat, studying its lines. Its edges were worn with age, and the ink was beginning to fade. The map had lived through Elantris’s glory and collapse; how he wished it could speak, whisper to him the mysteries it knew.

He shook his head, sitting down in Sarene’s chair, his foot knocking over one of her book stacks. With a sigh, he leaned back in the chair and began to draw—seeking solace in the Aons.

He had recently moved on to a new, more advanced AonDor technique. The texts explained that Aons were more powerful when drawn with attention not only to line length and slant, but line width as well. While they would still work if the lines were all the same width, variance in the proper locations added extra control and strength.

So, Raoden practiced as they instructed, using his fifthfinger to draw small lines and his thumb to construct larger ones. He could also use tools—such as a stick or a quill—to draw the lines. Fingers were the convention, but form mattered far more than the utensils used. After all, the Elantrians had used AonDor to carve permanent symbols into rock and stone—and had even constructed them from wire, pieces of wood, and a host of other materials. Apparently, it was difficult to create AonDor characters from physical materials, but the Aons still had their same effect, regardless of whether they were drawn in the air or smelted from steel.

His practice was futile. It didn’t matter how efficient his Aons were; none of them worked. He used his fingernails to draw some lines so delicate that they were nearly invisible; he drew others with three fingers side by side—exactly as instructed in his texts. And it was pointless. All his memorization, all of his work. Why had he even bothered?

Feet snapped in the hallway. Mareshe’s newest technological advance was shoes with thick leather soles, studded with nails. Raoden watched through his translucent Aon as the door opened and Galladon entered.

“Her Seon just stopped by again, sule,” the Dula said.

“Is he still here?”

Galladon shook his head. “He left almost immediately—he wanted me to tell you that she’s finally convinced the lords to rebel against King Telrii.”

Sarene had been sending her Seon to give them daily reports of her activities—a service that was a mixed blessing. Raoden knew he should listen to what was happening on the outside, but he longed for the stress-free relative ignorance of before. Then, he had only needed to worry about Elantris; now he had to fret over the entire kingdom—a fact he had to stomach along with the painful knowledge that there was nothing he could do to help.

“Did Ashe say when the next supply dump would come?”

“Tonight.”

“Good,” Raoden said. “Did he say if she would come herself?”

“Same stipulations as before, sule,” Galladon said with a shake of his head.