Elantris (80 page)

“Behold, your king!” she exclaimed.

Some of the people actually started cheering.

One man was not cheering, but hissing. Dilaf looked as if he wanted to claw his way through the crowd and rip Raoden apart with his bare hands. The people, whose cheers increased from a few scattered yells to a general exclamation of approval, kept him back. The priest looked around him with loathing, then forced his way through the crowd and escaped through the doors, out into a darkening city.

Sarene ignored the priest, instead looking over at Raoden. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” she said, kissing him lightly.

“I can’t believe they accepted me,” Raoden said with wonder.

“Ten years ago they rejected the Elantrians,” Sarene said, “and found that a man could be a monster no matter what he looked like. They’re finally ready to accept a ruler not because he’s a god or because he has money, but because they know he will lead them well.”

Raoden smiled. “Of course, it helps when that ruler has a wife who can deliver a moving speech at precisely the right moment.”

“True.”

Raoden turned, looking out over the crowd toward the fleeing Dilaf. “Who was that?”

“Just one of Hrathen’s priests,” Sarene said dismissively. “I imagine he isn’t having a very good day—Dilaf is known for his hatred of Elantrians.”

Raoden didn’t seem to think her dismissal was justified. “Something’s wrong, Sarene. Why did my illusion drop?”

“You didn’t do that?”

Raoden shook his head. “I … I think that priest did it.”

“What?”

“I sensed the Dor the moment before my Aon fell, and it was coming from that priest.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Can I borrow Ashe?”

“Of course,” Sarene said, waving the Seon closer.

“Ashe, would you deliver a message for me?” Raoden asked.

“Of course, my lord,” the Seon said with a bob.

“Find Galladon in New Elantris and tell him what just happened,” Raoden said. “Then warn him to be ready for something.”

“For what, my lord?”

“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “Just tell him to be prepared—and tell him that I’m worried.”

CHAPTER 57

Hrathen watched as “Raoden” strode into the throne room. No one challenged the impostor’s claim—this man, Raoden or not, would soon be king. Sarene’s move was a brilliant stroke. Telrii assassinated, a pretender on the throne … Hrathen’s plans were in serious danger.

Hrathen eyed this pretender, feeling an odd surge of hatred as he saw the way that Sarene looked at the man. Hrathen could see the love in her eyes. Could that foolish adoration really be serious? Where had this man come from so suddenly? And how had he managed to capture Sarene, who was normally so discerning?

Regardless, she had apparently given her heart to him. Logically, Hrathen knew his jealousy was foolish. Hrathen’s own relationship with the girl had been one of antagonism, not of affection. Why should he be jealous of another man? No, Hrathen needed to be levelheaded. Only one month remained until the armies of united Derethi would wash over Arelon, slaughtering the people—Sarene included. Hrathen had to work quickly if he was going to find a way to convert the kingdom with so little time remaining.

Hrathen pulled back as Raoden began the coronation. Many a king ordered his enemies’ incarceration as a first royal decree, and Hrathen didn’t want his presence to give the impostor a reminder.

He was, however, close enough to the front to witness the transformation. Hrathen was confused by the sight; the Shaod was supposed to come suddenly, but not
that
suddenly. The oddity forced him to reconsider his assumptions. What if Raoden hadn’t died? What if he had been hiding in Elantris all along? Hrathen had found a way to feign being an Elantrian. What if this man had done the same?

Hrathen was shocked by the transformation, but he was even more shocked when the people of Arelon did nothing about it. Sarene gave her speech, and people just stood dully. They did not stop her from crowning the Elantrian king.

Hrathen felt sick. He turned, and by happenstance he saw Dilaf slipping away from the crowd. Hrathen trailed behind—for once, he shared Dilaf’s disgust. He was amazed that the people of Arelon could act so illogically.

At that moment, Hrathen realized his mistake. Dilaf had been right: If Hrathen had focused more on Elantris, the people would have been too disgusted to
grant Raoden kingship. Hrathen had neglected to instill in his followers a true sense of Jaddeth’s holy will. He had used popularity to convert, rather than doctrine. The result was a fickle congregation, capable of returning to their old ways as quickly as they had left.

It is this cursed deadline!
Hrathen thought to himself as he strode down Kae’s quickly darkening evening streets. Three months was not enough time to build a stable following.

Ahead of him, Dilaf turned down a side street. Hrathen paused. That wasn’t the way to the chapel—it was the way to the center of the city. Curiosity overcoming brooding, Hrathen turned to follow the arteth, staying far enough behind to diffuse the clicking of his armored feet on the cobblestones. He needn’t have worried; the arteth strode through the blackening night with single-minded purpose, not bothering to look back.

Dusk had almost passed, and darkness cloaked the market square. Hrathen lost track of Dilaf in the waning light and stopped, looking around at the quiet tents.

Suddenly, lights appeared around him.

A hundred torches winked into existence from within dozens of different tents. Hrathen frowned, and then his eyes opened wide as men began to pour from the tents, torchlight glistening off bare backs.

Hrathen stumbled back in horror. He knew those twisted figures. Arms like knotted tree branches. Skin pulled tight over strange ridges and unspoken symbols.

Though the night was quiet, memories howled in Hrathen’s ears. The tents and merchants had been a ruse. That was why so many Fjordells had come to the Arelene Market despite the political chaos, and that was why they had stayed when others left. They weren’t merchants at all, but warriors. The invasion of Arelon was to begin a month early.

Wyrn had sent the monks of Dakhor.

CHAPTER 58

Raoden awoke to strange sounds. He lay disoriented for a moment in Roial’s mansion. The wedding wasn’t slated to happen until the following afternoon, and so Raoden had chosen to sleep in Kaloo’s rooms back in Roial’s mansion instead of staying at Kiin’s house, where Sarene had already taken the guest bedroom.

The sounds came again—sounds of fighting.

Raoden leaped from his bed and threw open the balcony doors, staring out over the gardens and into Kae. Smoke billowed in the night sky, fires blazing throughout the city. Screams were audible, rising from the darkness like the cries of the damned, and metal clanged against metal from someplace nearby.

Hurriedly throwing on a jacket, Raoden rushed through the mansion. Turning a corner, he stumbled across a squad of Guardsmen battling for their lives against a group of … demons.

They were bare-chested, and their eyes seemed to burn. They looked like men, but their flesh was ridged and disfigured, as if a carved piece of metal had somehow been inserted beneath the skin. One of Raoden’s soldiers scored a hit, but the weapon left barely a mark—scratching where it should have sliced. A dozen soldiers lay dying on the floor, but the five demons looked unharmed. The remaining soldiers fought with terror, their weapons ineffective, their members dying one by one.

Raoden stumbled backward in horror. The lead demon jumped at a soldier, dodging the man’s thrust with inhuman speed, then impaling him on a wicked-looking sword.

Raoden froze. He recognized this demon. Though its body was twisted like the rest, its face was familiar. It was Dilaf, the Fjordell priest.

Dilaf smiled, eyeing Raoden. Raoden scrambled for one of the fallen soldiers’ weapons, but he was too slow. Dilaf darted across the room, moving like the wind, and brought his fist up into Raoden’s stomach. Raoden gasped in pain and dropped to the floor.

“Bring him,” the creature ordered.

_______

“Make certain you deliver these tonight,” Sarene said, pulling the lid closed on the final box of supplies.

The beggar nodded, casting an apprehensive glance toward the wall of Elantris, which stood only a few feet away.

“You needn’t be so afraid, Hoid,” Sarene said. “You have a new king now. Things are going to change in Arelon.”

Hoid shrugged. Despite Telrii’s death, the beggar refused to meet with Sarene during the day. Hoid’s people had spent ten years fearing Iadon and his farms; they weren’t used to acting without the enveloping presence of night, no matter how legal their intentions. Sarene would have used someone else to make the delivery, but Hoid and his men already knew how and where to deposit the boxes. Besides, she would rather the populace of Arelon not discover what was in this particular shipment.

“These boxes are more heavy than the ones before, my lady,” Hoid noted astutely. There was a reason he had managed to survive a decade on the streets of Kae without being caught.

“What the boxes contain is none of your business,” Sarene replied, handing him a pouch of coins.

Hoid nodded, his face hidden in the darkness of his hood. Sarene had never seen his face, but she assumed from his voice that he was an older man.

She shivered in the night, eager to get back to Kiin’s house. The wedding was set for the next day, and Sarene had a hard time containing her excitement. Despite all the trials, difficulties, and setbacks, there was finally an honorable king on the throne of Arelon. And, after years of waiting, Sarene had finally found someone her heart was as willing to marry as her mind.

“Goodnight then, my lady,” Hoid said, following the train of beggars who slowly climbed the stairs of Elantris’s wall.

Sarene nodded to Ashe. “Go tell them that a shipment is coming, Ashe.”

“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said with a bob, and hovered away to follow Hoid’s beggars.

Pulling her shawl close, Sarene climbed into her carriage and ordered the coachman home. Hopefully, Galladon and Karata would understand why she had sent crates full of swords and bows. Raoden’s apprehensive warning earlier in the day had disturbed Sarene immensely. She kept worrying about New Elantris and its bright, accepting people, and so she had finally decided to do something.

Sarene sighed as the carriage rolled down the quiet street. The weapons probably wouldn’t help much; the people of New Elantris were not soldiers. But it had been something she could do.

The carriage pulled to a sudden stop. Sarene frowned, opening her mouth to call out a question to the coachman. Then she paused. Now that the rumbling of the coach had ceased, she could hear something. Something that sounded faintly
like … screams. She smelled the smoke a second later. Sarene pulled back the carriage curtain, poking her head out the window. She found a scene as if from hell itself.

The carriage stood at an intersection. Three streets were calm, but the one directly before her blazed red. Fires billowed from homes, and corpses slumped on the cobblestones. Men and women ran screaming through the streets; others simply stood in dazed shock. Among them stalked shirtless warriors, their skin glistening with sweat in the firelight.

It was a slaughter. The strange warriors killed with dispassion, cutting down man, woman, and child alike with casual swipes of their swords. Sarene watched for a stunned moment before screaming at the coachman to turn them around. The man shook himself from his stupor, whipping at the horses to turn.

Sarene’s yell died in her throat as one of the shirtless warriors noticed the carriage. The soldier dashed toward them as the carriage began to turn. Sarene yelled a warning to the coachman too late. The strange warrior leapt, sailing an incredible distance to land on the carriage horse’s back. The soldier crouched lithely upon the beast’s flesh, and for the first time Sarene could see the inhuman twisting of his body, the chilling fire in his eyes.

Another short hop took the soldier to the top of the carriage. The vehicle rocked slightly, and the coachman screamed.