So it is true, she thought. The people did love him.
The soldiers made way for her, and she approached the casket. It was carved with Aons—most of them symbols of hope and peace—after the Korathi way. The entire wooden casket was surrounded by a ring of lavish foods—an offering made on behalf of the deceased.
“Can I see him?” she asked, turning toward one of the Korathi priests—a small, kindly-looking man.
“I’m sorry, child,” the priest said. “But the prince’s disease was unpleasantly disfiguring. The king has asked that the prince be allowed dignity in death.”
Sarene nodded, turning back to the casket. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to feel, standing before the dead man she would have married. She was oddly … angry.
She pushed that emotion away for the moment, instead turning to look around the tent. It almost seemed too formal. Though the visiting people were obviously grieved, the tent, the offerings, and the decorations seemed sterile.
A man of Raoden’s age and supposed vigor, she thought. Dead of the coughing shivers. It could happen—but it certainly doesn’t seem likely.
“My … lady?” Ashe said quietly. “Is something wrong?”
Sarene waved to the Seon and walked back toward their carriage. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Something just doesn’t feel right here, Ashe.”
“You have a suspicious nature, my lady,” Ashe pointed out.
“Why isn’t Iadon having a vigil for his son? Ketol said he was holding court, as if his own son’s death didn’t even bother him.” Sarene shook her head. “I spoke with Raoden just before I left Teod, and he seemed fine. Something is wrong, Ashe, and I want to know what it is.”
“Oh, dear …” Ashe said. “You know, my lady, your father did ask me to try and keep you out of trouble.”
Sarene smiled. “Now, there’s an impossible task. Come on, we need to go meet my new father.”
Sarene leaned against the carriage window, watching the city pass as she rode toward the palace. She sat in silence for the moment, a single thought crowding everything else out of her mind.
What am I doing here?
Her words to Ashe had been confident, but she had always been good at hiding her worries. True, she was curious about the prince’s death, but Sarene knew herself very well. A large part of that curiosity was an attempt to take her mind off of her feelings of inferiority and awkwardness—anything to keep from acknowledging what she was: a lanky, brusque woman who was almost past her prime. She was twenty-five years old; she should have been married years ago. Raoden had been her last chance.
How dare you die on me, prince of Arelon! Sarene thought indignantly. Yet, the irony did not escape her. It was fitting that this man, one she had thought she might actually grow to like, would die before she even got to meet him. Now she was alone in an unfamiliar country, politically bound to a king she did not trust. It was a daunting, lonely feeling.
You’ve been lonely before, Sarene, she reminded herself. You’ll get through it. Just find something to occupy your mind. You have an entire new court to explore. Enjoy it.
With a sigh, Sarene turned her attention back to the city. Despite considerable experience serving in her father’s diplomatic corps, she had never visited Arelon. Ever since the fall of Elantris, Arelon had been unofficially quarantined by most other kingdoms. No one knew why the mystical city had been cursed, and everyone worried that the Elantrian disease might spread.
Sarene was surprised, however, by the lushness she saw in Kae. The city thoroughfares were wide and well maintained. The people on the street were well dressed, and she didn’t see a single beggar. To one side, a group of blue-robed Korathi priests walked quietly through the crowd, leading an odd, white-robed person. She watched the procession, wondering what it could be, until the group disappeared around a corner.
From her vantage, Kae reflected none of the economic hardship Arelon was supposed to be suffering. The carriage passed dozens of fenced-in mansions, each one built in a different style of architecture. Some were expansive, with large wings and pointed roofs, following Duladen construction. Others were more like castles, their stone walls looking as if they had been directly transported from the militaristic countryside of Fjorden. The mansions all shared one thing, however: wealth. The people of this country might be starving, but Kae—seat of Arelon’s aristocracy—didn’t appear to have noticed.
Of course, one disturbing shadow still hung over the city. The enormous wall of Elantris rose in the distance, and Sarene shivered as she glanced at its stark, imposing stones. She had heard stories about Elantris for most of her adult life, tales of the magics it had once produced and the monstrosities that now inhabited its dark streets. No matter how gaudy the houses, no matter how wealthy the streets, this one monument stood as a testament that all was not well in Arelon.
“Why do they even live here, I wonder?” Sarene asked.
“My lady?” Ashe asked.
“Why did King Iadon build his palace in Kae? Why choose a city that is so close to Elantris?”
“I suspect the reasons are primarily economic, my lady,” Ashe said. “There are only a couple of viable ports on the northern Arelish coast, and this is the finest.”
Sarene nodded. The bay formed by the merging of the Aredel River with the ocean made for an enviable harbor. But even still …
“Perhaps the reasons are political,” Sarene mused. “Iadon took power during turbulent times—maybe he thinks that remaining close to the old capital will lend him authority.”
“Perhaps, my lady,” Ashe said.
It’s not like it really matters that much, she thought. Apparently, proximity to Elantris—or Elantrians—didn’t actually increase one’s chances of being taken by the Shaod.
She turned away from the window, looking over at Ashe, who hovered above the seat beside her. She had yet to see a Seon in the streets of Kae, though the creatures—said to be the ancient creations of Elantris magic—were supposed to be even more common in Arelon than in her homeland. If she squinted, she could barely make out the glowing Aon at the center of Ashe’s light.
“At least the treaty is safe,” Sarene finally said.
“Assuming you remain in Arelon, my lady,” Ashe said in his deep voice. “At least, that is what the wedding contract says. As long as you stay here, and ‘remain faithful to your husband,’ King Iadon must honor his alliance with Teod.”
“Remain faithful to a dead man,” Sarene mumbled with a sigh. “Well, that means I have to stay, husband or no husband.”
“If you say so, my lady.”
“We need this treaty, Ashe,” Sarene said. “Fjorden is expanding its influence at an incredible rate. Five years ago I would have said we didn’t need to worry, that Fjorden’s priests would never be a power in Arelon. But now …” Sarene shook her head. The collapse of the Duladen Republic had changed so much.
“We shouldn’t have kept ourselves so removed from Arelon these last ten years, Ashe,” she said. “I probably wouldn’t be in this predicament if we had forged strong ties with the new Arelish government ten years ago.”
“Your father was afraid their political turmoil would infect Teod,” Ashe said. “Not to mention the Reod—no one was certain that whatever struck the Elantrians wouldn’t affect normal people as well.”
The carriage slowed, and Sarene sighed, letting the topic drop. Her father knew that Fjorden was a danger, and he understood that old allegiances needed to be reforged; that was why she was in Arelon. Ahead of them, the palace gates swung open. Friendless or not, she had arrived, and Teod was depending on her. She had to prepare Arelon for the war that was coming—a war that had become inevitable the moment Elantris fell.
Sarene’s new father, King Iadon of Arelon, was a thin man with a shrewd face. He was conferring with several of his administrators when Sarene entered the throne room, and she stood unnoticed for nearly fifteen minutes before he even nodded to her. Personally, she didn�
��t mind the wait—it gave her a chance to observe the man she was now sworn to obey—but her dignity couldn’t help being a little offended by the treatment. Her station as a princess of Teod alone should have earned her a reception that was, if not grand, at least punctual.
As she waited, one thing struck her immediately. Iadon did not look like a man mourning the passing of his son and heir. There was no sign of grief in his eyes, none of the haggard fatigue that generally accompanied the passing of a loved one. In fact, the air of the court itself seemed remarkably free of mourning signs.
Is Iadon a heartless man, then? Sarene wondered curiously. Or is he simply one who knows how to control his emotions?
Years spent in her father’s court had taught Sarene to be a connoisseur of noble character. Though she couldn’t hear what Iadon was saying—she had been told to stay near the back of the room and wait for permission to approach—the king’s actions and mannerisms gave her an idea of his character. Iadon spoke firmly, giving direct instruction, occasionally pausing to stab his table map with a thin finger. He was a man with a strong personality, she decided—one with a definite idea of how he wanted things done. It wasn’t a bad sign. Tentatively, Sarene decided that this was a man with whom she might be able to work.
She was to revise that opinion shortly.
King Iadon waved her over. She carefully hid her annoyance at the wait, and approached him with the proper air of noble submission. He interrupted her halfway through her curtsy.
“No one told me you would be so tall,” he declared.
“My lord?” she said, looking up.
“Well, I guess the only one who would have cared about that isn’t around to see it. Eshen!” he snapped, causing an almost unseen woman near the far side of the room to jump in compliance.
“Take this one to her rooms and see that she has plenty of things to keep her occupied. Embroidery or whatever else it is that entertains you women.” With that, the king turned to his next appointment—a group of merchants.
Sarene stood in midcurtsy, stunned at Iadon’s complete lack of courtesy. Only years of courtly training kept her jaw from dropping. Quick but unassertive, the woman Iadon had ordered—Queen Eshen, the king’s wife—scuttled over and took Sarene’s arm. Eshen was short and slight of frame, her brownish blond Aonic hair only beginning to streak with gray.
“Come, child,” Eshen said in a high-pitched voice. “We mustn’t waste the king’s time.”
Sarene allowed herself to be pulled through one of the room’s side doors. “Merciful Domi,” she muttered to herself. “What have I gotten myself into?”
“… And you’ll love it when the roses come in. I have the gardeners plant them so you can smell them without even leaning out the window. I wish they weren’t so big, though.”
Sarene frowned in confusion. “The roses?”
“No, dear,” the queen continued, barely pausing, “the windows. You can’t believe how bright the sun is when it shines through them in the morning. I asked them—the gardeners, that is—to find me some orange ones, because I so adore orange, but so far all they found were some ghastly yellow ones. ‘If I wanted yellow,’ I said to them, ‘I would have had you plant aberteens.’ You should have seen them apologize—I’m sure we’ll have some orange ones by the end of next year. Don’t you think that would be lovely, dear? Of course, the windows will still be too big. Maybe I can have a couple of them bricked off.”
Sarene nodded, fascinated—not by the conversation, but by the queen. Sarene had assumed that the lecturers at her father’s academy had been skilled at saying nothing with lots of words, but Eshen put them all to shame. The queen flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly looking for a place to land, but never finding one suitable enough for an extended stay. Any one of the topics would have been potential fuel for an interesting conversation, but the queen never let Sarene grab hold of one long enough to do it justice.
Sarene took a calming breath, telling herself to be patient. She couldn’t blame the queen for being the way she was; Domi taught that all people’s personalities were gifts to be enjoyed. The queen was charming, in her own meandering way. Unfortunately, after meeting both king and queen, Sarene was beginning to suspect that she would have trouble finding political allies in Arelon.
Something else bothered Sarene—something odd about the way Eshen acted. No one could possibly talk as much as the queen did; she never let a silent moment pass. It was almost like the woman was uncomfortable around Sarene. Then, in a moment of realization, Sarene understood what it was. Eshen spoke on every imaginable topic except for the one most important: the departed prince. Sarene narrowed her eyes with suspicion. She couldn’t be certain—Eshen was, after all, a very flighty person—but it seemed that the queen was acting far too cheerful for a woman who had just lost her son.
“Here is your room, dear. We unpacked your things, and added some as well. You have clothing in every color, even yellow, though I can’t imagine why you would want to wear it. Horrid color. Not that your hair is horrid, of course. Blond isn’t the same as yellow, no. No more than a horse is a vegetable. We don’t have a horse for you yet, but you are welcome to use any in the king’s stables. We have lots of fine animals, you see, Duladel is beautiful this time of year.”
“Of course,” Sarene said, looking over the room. It was small, but suited her tastes. Too much space could be as daunting as too little could be cramped.
“Now, you’ll be needing these, dear,” Eshen said, pointing a small hand at a pile of clothing that wasn’t hanging like the rest—as if it had been delivered more recently. All of the dresses in the pile shared a single attribute.
“Black?” Sarene asked.
“Of course. You’re … you’re in …” Eshen fumbled with the words.
“I’m in mourning,” Sarene realized. She tapped her foot with dissatisfaction—black was not one of her favorite colors.
Eshen nodded. “You can wear one of those to the funeral this evening. It should be a nice service—I did the arrangements.” She began talking about her favorite flowers again, and the monologue soon degenerated into a discourse on how much she hated Fjordell cooking. Gently but firmly, Sarene led the woman to the door, nodding pleasantly. As soon as they reached the hallway, Sarene pled fatigue from her travels, and plugged the queen’s verbal torrent by closing the door.
“That’s going to get old very quickly,” Sarene said to herself.
“The queen does have a robust gift for conversation, my lady,” a deep voice agreed.
“What did you find out?” Sarene asked, walking over to pick through the pile of dark clothing as Ashe floated in through the open window.
“I didn’t find as many Seons as I had expected. I seem to recall that this city was once overflowing with us.”
“I noticed that too,” Sarene said, holding up a dress in front of the mirror, then discarding it with a shake of her head. “I guess things are different now.”
“They are indeed. As per your instructions, I asked the other Seons what they knew of the prince’s untimely death. Unfortunately, my lady, they were hesitant to discuss the event—they consider it extremely ill omened for the prince to die so soon before he was to be married.”
“Especially for him,” Sarene mumbled, pulling off her clothing to try on the dress. “Ashe, something strange is going on. I think maybe someone killed the prince.”
“Killed, my lady?” Ashe’s deep voice was disapproving, and he pulsed slightly at the comment. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, but … something feels odd. This doesn’t seem like a court that is in mourning. Take the queen, for instance. She didn’t appear distraught when she spoke to me—you’d think she would be at least a little bothered by the fact that her son died yesterday.”
“There is a simple explanation for that, my lady. Queen Eshen is not Prince Raoden’s mother. Raoden was born of Iadon’s first wife, who died over twelve years ago.”
“Right after the Reod,” Ashe said. “Just a few months after he took the throne.”
Sarene frowned. “I’m still suspicious,” she decided, reaching around awkwardly to button the back of her dress. Then she regarded herself in the mirror, looking at the dress critically. “Well, at least it fits—even if it does make me look pale. I was half afraid it would cut off at my knees. These Arelish women are all so unnaturally short.”
“If you say so, my lady,” Ashe replied. He knew as well as she did that Arelish women weren’t that short; even in Teod, Sarene had been a head taller than most of the other women. Her father had called her Leky Stick as a child—borrowing the name of the tall thin post that marked the goal line in his favorite sport. Even after filling out during adolescence, Sarene was still undeniably lanky.
“My lady,” Ashe said, interrupting her contemplations.
“Yes, Ashe?”
“Your father is desperate to talk to you. I think you have some news he deserves to hear.”
Sarene nodded, holding in a sigh, and Ashe began to pulse brightly. A moment later the ball of light that formed his essence melted into a bustlike glowing head. King Eventeo of Teod.
“’Ene?” her father asked, the glowing head’s lips moving. He was a robust man, with a large oval face and a thick chin.
“Yes, Father. I’m here.” Her father would be standing beside a similar Seon—probably Dio—who would have changed to resemble a glowing approximation of Sarene’s head.
“Are you nervous for the wedding?” Eventeo asked anxiously.
“Well, about that wedding …” she said slowly. “You’ll probably want to cancel your plans to come next week. There won’t be much for you to see.”
“What?”
Ashe had been right—her father didn’t laugh when he heard that Raoden was dead. Instead, his voice turned to one of sharp concern, the glowing face worried. His worry increased when Sarene explained how the death was as binding as an actual wedding.
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