When he urged, they responded with cheers. When he condemned, they looked at one another with shame. When he raised his voice, they focused their attention, and when he lowered it to a bare whisper, they were even more captivated. It was as if he controlled the ocean waves themselves, emotion surging through the crowd like froth-covered tides.
He finished with a stunning admonition to serve in Jaddeth’s kingdom, to swear themselves as odiv or krondet to one of the priests in Kae, thereby becoming part of the chain that linked them directly to Lord Jaddeth. The common people served the arteths and dorven, the arteths and dorven served the gradors, the gradors served the ragnats, the ragnats served the gyorns, the gyorns served Wyrn, and Wyrn served Jaddeth. Only the gragdets—leaders of the monasteries—weren’t directly in the line. It was a superbly organized system. Everyone knew whom he or she had to serve; most didn’t need to worry about the commands of Jaddeth, which were often above their understanding. All they had to do was follow their arteth, serve him as best they could, and Jaddeth would be pleased with them.
Hrathen stepped down from the podium, satisfied. He had only been preaching in Kae for a few days, but the chapel was already so packed that people had to line up at the back once the seats were full. Only a few of the newcomers were actually interested in converting; most came because Hrathen himself was a novelty. However, they would return. They could tell themselves that they were only curious—that their interest had nothing to do with religion—but they would return.
As Shu-Dereth grew more popular in Kae, the people at these first meetings would find themselves important by association. They would brag that they had discovered Shu-Dereth long before their neighbors, and as a consequence they would have to continue attending. Their pride, mixed with Hrathen’s powerful sermons, would override doubts, and soon they would find themselves swearing servitude to one of the arteths.
Hrathen would have to call a new head arteth soon. He’d put off the decision for a time, waiting to see how the priests remaining in the chapel dealt with their tasks. Time was growing slim, however, and soon the local membership would be too great for Hrathen to track and organize by himself, especially considering all of the planning and preaching he had to do.
The people at the back were beginning to file out of the chapel. However, a sudden sound stopped them. Hrathen looked up at the podium with surprise. The meeting was to have ended after his sermon, but someone thought differently. Dilaf had decided to speak.
The short Arelish man screamed his words with fiery energy. In barely a few seconds, the crowd grew hushed, most of the people sliding back into their seats. They had seen Dilaf following Hrathen, and most of them probably knew he was an arteth, but Dilaf had never addressed them before. Now, however, he made himself impossible to ignore.
He disobeyed all of the rules of public speaking. He didn’t vary the loudness of his voice, nor did he look members of the audience in the eyes. He didn’t maintain a stately, upright posture to appear in control; instead he hopped across the podium energetically, gesturing wildly. His face was covered with sweat; his eyes were wide and haunting.
And they listened.
They listened more acutely than they had to Hrathen. They followed Dilaf’s insane jumps with their eyes, transfixed by his every unorthodox motion. Dilaf’s speech had a single theme: hatred of Elantris. Hrathen could feel the audience’s zeal growing. Dilaf’s passion worked like a catalyst, like a mold that spread uncontrollably once it found a dank place to grow. Soon the entire audience shared in his loathing, and they screamed along with his denunciations.
Hrathen watched with concern and, admittedly, jealousy. Unlike Hrathen, Dilaf hadn’t been trained in the greatest schools of the East. However, the short priest had something Hrathen lacked. Passion.
Hrathen had always been a calculating man. He was organized, careful, and attentive to detail. Similar things in Shu-Dereth—its standardized, orderly method of governing along with its logical philosophy—were what had first attracted him to the priesthood. He had never doubted the church. Something so perfectly organized couldn’t help but be right.
Despite that loyalty, Hrathen had never felt what Dilaf now expressed. Hrathen had no hatreds so severe that he wept, no loves so profound that he would risk everything in their name. He had always believed that he was the perfect follower of Jaddeth; that his Lord needed levelheadedness more than He needed unbridled ardor. Now, however, he wondered.
Dilaf had more power over this audience than Hrathen ever had. Dilaf’s hatred of Elantris wasn’t logical—it was irrational and feral—but they didn’t care. Hrathen could spend years explaining to them the benefits of Shu-Dereth and never get the reaction they now expressed. Part of him scoffed, trying to convince himself that the power of Dilaf’s words wouldn’t last, that the passion of the moment would be lost in the mundanity of life—but another, more truthful part of him was simply envious. What was wrong with Hrathen that, in thirty years of serving Jaddeth’s kingdom, he had never once felt as Dilaf seemed to at every moment?
Eventually, the arteth fell silent. The room remained completely quiet for a long moment after Dilaf’s speech. Then they burst into discussion, excited, speaking as they began to trail from the chapel. Dilaf stumbled off the podium and collapsed onto one of the pews near the front of the room.
“That was well done,” a voice noted from beside Hrathen. Duke Telrii watched the sermons from a private booth at the side of the chapel. “Having the short man speak after yourself was a wonderful move, Hrathen. I was worried when I saw people growing bored. The young priest refocused everyone’s attention.”
Hrathen hid his annoyance at Telrii’s use of his name rather than his title; there would be time to change such disrespect at a later date. He also restrained himself from making a comment about the audience’s supposed boredom during his sermon.
“Dilaf is a rare young man,” Hrathen said instead. “There are two sides to every argument, Lord Telrii: the logical and the passionate. We have to make our attack from both directions if we are to be victorious.”
Telrii nodded.
“So, my lord, have you considered my proposal?”
Telrii hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “It is tempting, Hrathen. Very tempting. I don’t think there is any man in Arelon who could refuse it, let alone myself.”
“Good. I will contact Fjorden. We should be able to begin within the week.”
Telrii nodded, the birthmark on his neck looking like a large bruise in the shadows. Then, gesturing to his numerous attendants, the duke made his way out the side door to the chapel, disappearing into the twilight. Hrathen watched the door shut, then walked over to Dilaf, who was still sprawled on the pew.
“That was unexpected, Arteth,” he said. “You should have spoken with me first.”
“It was not planned, my lord,” Dilaf explained. “I suddenly felt the need to speak. It was only done in your service, my hroden.”
“Of course,” Hrathen said, dissatisfied. Telrii was right: Dilaf’s addition had been valuable. As much as Hrathen wanted to reproach the arteth, he could not. He would be negligent in his service to Wyrn if he didn’t use every tool at his command to convert the people of Arelon, and Dilaf had proven himself a very useful tool. Hrathen would need the arteth to speak at later meetings. Once again, Dilaf had left him without many choices.
“Well, it is done,” Hrathen said with calculated dismissiveness. “And they appear to have liked it. Perhaps I will have you speak again sometime. However, you must remember your place, Arteth. You are my odiv; you do not act unless I specifically tell you. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, my lord Hrathen.”
Hrathen quietly shut the door to his personal chambers. Dilaf was not there; Hrathen would never let him see what was about to take place. In this Hrathen could still feel superior to the young Arelish priest. Dilaf would never rise to the highest ranks of the priesthood, for he could never do what Hrathen was
about to do—something known only to the gyorns and Wyrn.
Hrathen sat in his chair quietly, preparing himself. Only after a half hour of meditation did he feel controlled enough to act. Taking a measured breath, Hrathen rose from his seat and moved to the large trunk in the corner of his room. It was topped with a stack of folded tapestries, carefully draped to obscure. Hrathen moved the tapestries reverently, then reached beneath his shirt to pull forth the gold chain that encircled his neck. At the end of the chain was a small key. With this he opened the trunk, revealing the contents—a small metal box.
The box was about the size of four stacked books, and its weight rested heavily in Hrathen’s hands as he lifted it from the trunk. Its sides had been constructed of the best steel, and on its front was a small dial and several delicate levers. The mechanism had been designed by Svorden’s finest locksmiths. Only Hrathen and Wyrn knew the proper method of turning and twisting that would open the box.
Hrathen spun the dial and turned the levers in a pattern he had memorized soon after being appointed to the position of gyorn. The combination had never been written down. It would be a source of extreme embarrassment to Shu-Dereth if anyone outside the inner priesthood discovered what was inside this box.
The lock clicked, and Hrathen pulled the top open with a firm hand. A small glowing ball sat patiently inside.
“You need me, my lord?” the Seon asked in a soft, feminine voice.
“Be quiet!” Hrathen ordered. “You know you are not to speak.”
The ball of light bobbed submissively. It had been months since Hrathen had last opened the box, but the Seon showed no signs of rebelliousness. The creatures—or whatever they were—seemed to be unfailingly obedient.
The Seons had been Hrathen’s greatest shock upon his appointment to the rank of gyorn. Not that he had been surprised to find that the creatures were real—though many in the East dismissed Seons as Aonic myths, Hrathen had, by that time, been taught that there were … things in the world that were not understood by normal people. The memories of his early years in Dakhor still caused him to shiver in fear.
No, Hrathen’s surprise had come in discovering that Wyrn would consent to using heathen magics to further Jaddeth’s empire. Wyrn himself had explained the necessity of using Seons, but it had taken years for Hrathen to accept the idea. In the end, logic had swayed him. Just as it was sometimes necessary to speak in heathen languages to preach Jaddeth’s empire, there were instances where the enemy’s arts proved valuable.
Of course, only those with the most self-control and holiness could use the Seons without being tainted. Gyorns used them to contact Wyrn when in a far country, and they did so infrequently. Instantaneous communication across such distances was a resource worth the price.
“Get me Wyrn,” Hrathen ordered. The Seon complied, hovering up a bit, questing with its abilities to seek out Wyrn’s own hidden Seon—one attended at all times by a mute servant, whose only sacred duty was to watch over the creature.
Hrathen eyed the Seon as he waited. The Seon hovered patiently. It always appeared obedient; indeed, the other gyorns didn’t even seem to question the loyalty of the creatures. They claimed it was part of the Seons’ magic to be faithful to their masters, even if those masters detested them.
Hrathen wasn’t quite as certain. Seons could contact others of their kind, and they apparently didn’t need half as much sleep as men. What did the Seons do, while their masters slept? What secrets did they discuss? At one point, most of the nobility in Duladel, Arelon, Teod, and even Jindo had kept Seons. During those days, how many state secrets had been witnessed, and perhaps gossiped about, by the unobtrusive floating balls?
He shook his head. It was a good thing those days were past. Out of favor because of their association with fallen Elantris, prevented from any further reproduction by the loss of Elantrian magics, the Seons were growing more and more rare. Once Fjorden conquered the West, Hrathen doubted one would ever see Seons floating around freely again.
His Seon began to drip like water, and then it formed into Wyrn’s proud face. Noble, squareish features regarded Hrathen.
“I am here, my son.” Wyrn’s voice floated through the Seon.
“O great lord and master, Jaddeth’s anointed, and emperor in the light of His favor,” Hrathen said, bowing his head.
“Speak on, my odiv.”
“I have a proposal involving one of the lords of Arelon, great one….”
CHAPTER 13
“This is it!” Raoden exclaimed. “Galladon, get over here!”
The large Dula set down his own book with raised eyebrows, then stood with his characteristic relaxed style and wandered over to Raoden. “What have you found, sule?”
Raoden pointed to the coverless book in front of him. He sat in the former Korathi church that had become their center of operations. Galladon, still determined to keep his small book-filled study a secret, had insisted that they lug the necessary volumes up to the chapel rather than let anyone else into his sanctuary.
“Sule, I can’t read that,” Galladon protested, looking down at the book. “It’s written completely in Aons.”
“That’s what made me suspicious,” Raoden said.
“Can you read it?” Galladon asked.
“No,” Raoden said with a smile. “But I do have this.” He reached down and pulled out a similar coverless volume, its cover pages stained with Elantris grime. “A dictionary of the Aons.”
Galladon studied the first book with a critical eye. “Sule, I don’t even recognize a tenth of the Aons on this page. Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take you to translate it?”
Raoden shrugged. “It’s better than searching for clues in those other books. Galladon, if I have to read one more word about the landscape of Fjorden, I am going to be sick.”
Galladon grunted his agreement. Whoever had owned the books before the Reod must have been a geography scholar, for at least half of the volumes dealt with the topic.
“You’re sure this is the one we want?” Galladon asked.
“I’ve had a little training in reading pure Aon texts, my friend,” Raoden said, pointing at an Aon on a page near the beginning of the book. “This says AonDor.”
Galladon nodded. “All right, sule. I don’t envy you the task, however. Life would be much simpler if it hadn’t taken your people so long to invent an alphabet. Kolo?”
“The Aons were an alphabet,” Raoden said. “Just an incredibly complex one. This won’t take as long as you think—my schooling should start to come back to me after a little while.”
“Sule, sometimes you’re so optimistic it’s sickening. I suppose then we should cart these other books back to where we got them?” There was a measure of anxiety in Galladon’s voice. The books were precious to him; it had taken Raoden a good hour of arguing to convince the Dula to let him take off their covers, and he could see how much it bothered the larger man to have the books exposed to the slime and dirt of Elantris.
“That should be all right,” Raoden said. None of the other books were about AonDor, and while some of them were journals or other records that could hold clues, Raoden suspected that none of them would be as useful as the one in front of him. Assuming he could translate it successfully.
Galladon nodded and began gathering up the books; then he looked upward apprehensively as he heard a scraping sound from the roof. Galladon was convinced that sooner or later the entire assemblage would collapse and, inevitably, fall on his shiny dark head.
“Don’t worry so much, Galladon,” Raoden said. “Maare and Riil know what they’re doing.”
Galladon frowned. “No they don’t, sule. I seem to recall that neither of them had any idea what to do before you pressed them into it.”
“I meant that they’re competent.” Raoden looked up with satisfaction. Six days of working had completed a large portion of the roof. Mareshe had devised a claylike combination of wood scraps, soil, and the ever-prevalent Elantris s
ludge. This mixture, when added to the fallen support beams and some less-rotted sections of cloth, had provided materials to make a ceiling that was, if not superior, at least adequate.
Raoden smiled. The pain and hunger were always there, but things were going so well that he could almost forget the pain of his half-dozen bumps and cuts. Through the window to his right he could see the newest member of his band, Loren. The man worked in the large area beside the church that had probably once been a garden. According to Raoden’s orders, and equipped with a newly fashioned pair of leather gloves, Loren moved rocks and cleared away refuse, revealing the soft dirt underneath.
“What good is that going to do?” Galladon asked, following Raoden’s gaze out the window.
“You’ll see,” Raoden said with a secretive smile.
Galladon huffed as he picked up an armload of books and left the chapel. The Dula had been right about one thing: They could not count on new Elantrians being thrown into the city as fast as Raoden had first anticipated. Before Loren’s arrival the day before, five solid days had passed without even a quiver from the city gates. Raoden had been very fortunate to find Mareshe and the others in such a short period of time.
“Lord Spirit?” a hesitant voice asked.
Raoden looked up at the chapel’s doorway to find an unfamiliar man waiting to be acknowledged. He was thin, with a stooped-over form and an air of practiced subservience. Raoden couldn’t tell his age for certain; the Shaod tended to make everyone look much older than they really were. However, he had the feeling that this man’s age was no illusion. If his head had held any hair, then it would have been white, and his skin had been long wrinkled before the Shaod took him.
“Yes?” Raoden asked with interest. “What can I do for you?”
“My lord …” the man began.
“Go on,” Raoden prodded.
“Well, Your Lordship, I’ve just heard some things, and I was wondering if I could join with you.”
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