“He was a better prince than I am a princess, wasn’t he?” she asked, her voice falling.
“I wouldn’t say that, my lady,” Ashe said. “You are a very kindhearted woman, and you always treat your maids well. Do not compare yourself to Raoden—it is important to remember that you weren’t preparing to run a country, and your popularity with the people wasn’t an issue. Prince Raoden was the heir to the throne, and it was vital that he understand his subjects’ feelings.”
“They say he gave the people hope,” Sarene said musingly. “That the peasants endured Iadon’s outrageous burdens because they knew Raoden would eventually take the throne. The country would have collapsed years ago if the prince hadn’t gone amongst them, encouraging them and reviving their spirits.”
“And now he’s gone,” Ashe said quietly.
“Yes, he’s gone,” Sarene agreed, her voice detached. “We have to hurry, Ashe. I keep feeling that I’m not doing any good—that the country is heading for disaster no matter what I do. It’s like I’m at the bottom of a hill watching an enormous boulder crash down toward me, and I’m throwing pebbles up to try and deflect it.”
“Be strong, my lady,” Ashe said in his deep, stately voice. “Your God will not sit and watch as Arelon and Teod crumble beneath Wyrn’s heel.”
“I hope the prince is watching as well,” Sarene said. “Would he be proud of me, Ashe?”
“Very proud my lady.”
“I just want them to accept me,” she explained, realizing how silly she must sound. She had spent nearly three decades loving a country without ever feeling it loved her back. Teod had respected her, but she was tired of respect. She wanted something different from Arelon.
“They will, Sarene,” Ashe promised. “Give them time. They will.”
“Thank you Ashe,” Sarene said with a quiet sigh. “Thank you for enduring the lamentations of a silly girl.”
“We can be strong in the face of kings and priests, my lady,” Ashe replied, “but to live is to have worries and uncertainties. Keep them inside, and they will destroy you for certain—leaving behind a person so callused that emotion can find no root in his heart.”
With that the Seon passed out the window, in search of the maid Meala.
_______
By the time Meala arrived, Sarene had composed herself. There had been no tears, just time spent in thought. Sometimes it was too much for her, and her insecurity simply had to boil out. Ashe and her father had always been there to support her during those times.
“Oh dear,” Meala said, regarding the state of the room. She was thin and rather young—definitely not what Sarene expected when she had first moved into the palace. Meala more resembled one of her father’s accountants than she did a head maid.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Meala apologized, offering Sarene a wan smile. “I didn’t even think of this. We lost another girl this afternoon, and it didn’t occur to me that your room was on her list of duties.”
“‘Lost,’ Meala?” Sarene asked with concern.
“A runaway, my lady,” Meala explained. “They aren’t supposed to leave—we’re indentured like the rest of the peasants. For some reason we have trouble keeping maids in the palace, however. Domi knows why it is—no servant in the country is treated better than those here.”
“How many have you lost?” Sarene asked with curiosity.
“She was the fourth this year,” Meala said. “I’ll send someone up immediately.”
“No, don’t bother tonight. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Of course, my lady,” Meala said with a curtsy.
“Thank you.”
“There it is again!” Sarene said with excitement, jumping out of her bed.
Ashe instantly burst back to full illumination, hovering uncertainly by the wall. “My lady?”
“Quiet,” Sarene ordered, pressing her ear against the stone wall beneath her window, listening to the scraping sound. “What do you think?”
“I am thinking that whatever my lady had for supper, it isn’t agreeing with her,” Ashe informed curtly.
“There was definitely a noise there,” Sarene said, ignoring the gibe. Though Ashe was always awake in the mornings when she got up, he didn’t like being disturbed after he had fallen asleep.
She reached over to her nightstand and picked up a scrap of parchment. On it she made a mark with a thin piece of charcoal, not wanting to bother with pen and ink.
“Look,” she declared, holding up the paper for Ashe to see. “The sounds always come on the same days of the week: MaeDal and OpeDal.”
Ashe floated over and looked at the paper, his glowing Aon the room’s only illumination besides starlight. “You’ve heard it twice on MaeDal and twice on OpeDal, four times in total,” he said skeptically. “That is hardly grounds for a decision that they ‘always come on the same days,’ my lady.”
“Oh, you think I’m hearing things anyway,” Sarene said, dropping the parchment back onto her table. “I thought Seons were supposed to have excellent auditory senses.”
“Not when we’re sleeping, my lady,” Ashe said, implying that that was exactly what he should have been doing at the moment.
“There must be a passage here,” Sarene decided, ineffectually tapping the stone wall.
“If you say so, my lady.”
“I do,” she said, rising and studying her window. “Look how thick the stone is around this window, Ashe.” She leaned against the wall and stuck her arm out the window. The tips of her fingers could barely curl around the outside ledge. “Does the wall really need to be so wide?”
“It offers much protection, my lady.”
“It also offers room for a passage.”
“A very thin one,” Ashe replied.
“True,” Sarene mused, kneeling down to view the bottom edge of the window at eye level. “It slopes upwards. The passage was constructed to angle up, passing between the bottoms of the windows on this level and the first story.”
“But the only thing in that direction is …”
“The king’s rooms,” Sarene finished. “Where else would a passage lead?”
“Are you suggesting that the king takes secret excursions twice a week in the middle of the night, my lady?”
“At precisely eleven o’clock,” Sarene said, eyeing the large grandfather clock in the corner of her room. “It’s always at the same time.”
“What possible reason could he have for such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Sarene said, tapping her cheek in contemplation.
“Oh dear,” Ashe mumbled. “My lady is concocting something, isn’t she?”
“Always,” Sarene said sweetly, climbing back into bed. “Turn down your light—some of us want to get some sleep.”
CHAPTER 21
Hrathen sat down in his chair, wearing a red Derethi robe instead of his armor, as he often did when he was in his chambers.
The knock that came at his door was expected. “Come in,” he said.
Arteth Thered entered. A man of good Fjordell stock, Thered had a strong, tall frame, dark hair, and squareish features. He was still well muscled from his days training in the monastery.
“Your Grace,” the man said, bowing and falling to his knees with a proper sign of respect.
“Arteth,” Hrathen said, lacing his fingers in front of himself. “During my time here, I’ve been watching the local priests. I have been impressed with your service in Jaddeth’s kingdom, and I have decided to offer you the position of head arteth of this chapel.”
Thered looked up with surprise. “Your Grace?”
“I had thought that I would have to wait to appoint a new head arteth until a new batch of priests arrived from Fjorden,” Hrathen said. “But, as I said, you have impressed me. I decided to offer you the position.”
And, of course, he added in his mind, I don’t have time to wait. I need someone to administrate the chapel now so that I can focus on other tasks.
> “My lord …” the arteth said, obviously overwhelmed. “I cannot accept this position.”
Hrathen froze. “What?” No Derethi priest would refuse a position of such power.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the man repeated, looking down.
“What reason have you for this decision, Arteth?” Hrathen demanded.
“I can give none, Your Grace. I just … It just wouldn’t be right for me to take the position. May I withdraw?”
Hrathen waved his hand, disturbed. Ambition was such a cardinal Fjordell attribute; how had a man such as Thered lost his pride so quickly? Had Fjon really weakened the priests in Kae so soundly?
Or … was something else behind this man’s refusal? A nagging voice inside of Hrathen whispered that the banished Fjon was not to blame. Dilaf—Dilaf had something to do with Thered’s refusal.
The thought was probably just paranoia, but it spurred Hrathen forward with his next item of business. Dilaf had to be dealt with; despite his stunt with the Elantrian, the arteth was growing increasingly influential with the other priests. Hrathen reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a small envelope. He had made a mistake with Dilaf. While it was possible to channel a zealot’s ardor, Hrathen currently had neither the time nor the energy to do so. The future of an entire kingdom depended on Hrathen’s ability to focus, and he hadn’t realized how much attention Dilaf would require.
It could not continue. Hrathen’s world was one of control and predictability, his religion a logical exercise. Dilaf was like a boiling pot of water poured on Hrathen’s ice. In the end, they would both just end up weakened and dissipated, like puffs of steam in the wind. And after they were gone, Arelon would die.
Hrathen put on his armor and left his room, entering the chapel. Several supplicants knelt in prayerful silence, and priests moved about busily. The chapel’s vaulted ceilings and spirited architecture was familiar—this was where he should be most comfortable. Too often, however, Hrathen found himself fleeing up to the walls of Elantris. Though he told himself that he simply went to the walls because their height gave him a vantage over Kae, he knew that there was another reason. He went, in part, because he knew that Elantris was a place that Dilaf would never voluntarily go.
Dilaf’s chamber was a small alcove much like the one Hrathen himself had occupied as an arteth many years ago. Dilaf looked up from his desk as Hrathen pushed open the room’s simple wooden door.
“My hroden?” the arteth said, standing with surprise. Hrathen rarely visited his chambers.
“I have an important task for you, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “One I cannot trust to anyone else.”
“Of course, my hroden,” Dilaf said submissively, bowing his head. However, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I serve with devotion, knowing I am part of the chain linked to Lord Jaddeth himself.”
“Yes,” Hrathen said dismissively. “Arteth, I need you to deliver a letter.”
“A letter?” Dilaf looked up with confusion.
“Yes,” Hrathen said flatly. “It is vital Wyrn know of our progress here. I have written him a report, but the matters discussed therein are very delicate. If it should be lost, irreparable damage could be done. I have chosen you, my odiv, to deliver it in person.”
“That will take weeks, my hroden!”
“I know. I will have to go without your service for a time, but I will be comforted by the knowledge that you are engaged in a vital mission.”
Dilaf lowered his eyes, his hands falling to rest lightly on the top of his table. “I go as my hroden commands.”
Hrathen paused, frowning slightly. It was impossible for Dilaf to escape; the hroden-odiv relationship was irrevocably binding. When one’s master commanded, one obeyed. Even so, Hrathen had expected more from Dilaf. A ploy of some kind. An attempt to wiggle out of the assignment.
Dilaf accepted the letter with apparent subservience. Maybe this was what he wanted all along, Hrathen realized. A way into Fjorden. His position as odiv to a gyorn would give him power and respect in the East. Perhaps Dilaf’s only purpose in antagonizing Hrathen had been to get out of Arelon.
Hrathen turned and walked back out into the chapel’s hollow sermon hall. The event had been even more painless than he had hoped. He held back a sigh of relief, stepping with a bit more confidence as he walked toward his chambers.
A voice sounded from behind. Dilaf’s voice. Speaking softly—yet with enough projection to be heard. “Send out messengers,” the arteth ordered to one of the dorvens. “We leave for Fjorden in the morning.”
Hrathen nearly kept walking. He almost didn’t care what Dilaf was planning or what he did, as long as he left. However, Hrathen had spent too long in positions of leadership—too long as a political being—to let such a statement pass. Especially from Dilaf.
Hrathen spun. “We? I ordered only you, Arteth.”
“Yes, my lord,” Dilaf said. “However, surely you don’t expect me to leave my odivs behind.”
“Odivs?” Hrathen asked. As an official member of the Derethi priesthood, Dilaf was able to swear odivs just as Hrathen had, continuing the chain that linked all men to Jaddeth. Hrathen hadn’t even considered, however, that the man might call odivs of his own. When had he found the time?
“Who, Dilaf?” Hrathen asked sharply. “Whom did you make your odiv?”
“Several people, my hroden,” Dilaf responded evasively.
“Names, Arteth.”
And he began to name them. Most priests called one or two odivs, several of the gyorns had as many as ten. Dilaf had over thirty. Hrathen grew increasingly stunned as he listened. Stunned, and angry. Somehow, Dilaf made odivs out of all Hrathen’s most useful supporters—including Waren and many of the other aristocrats.
Dilaf finished his list, turning traitorously humble eyes toward the floor.
“An interesting list,” Hrathen said slowly. “And who do you intend to take with you, Arteth?”
“Why, all of them, my lord,” Dilaf said innocently. “If this letter is as important as my lord implies, then I must give it proper protection.”
Hrathen closed his eyes. If Dilaf took all of the people he had mentioned, then it would leave Hrathen stripped of supporters—assuming, that was, they would go. The calling of odiv was very demanding; most normal Derethi believers, even many priests, were sworn to the less restrictive position of krondet. A krondet listened to the counsel of his hroden, but was not morally bound to do what he was told.
It was well within Dilaf’s power to make his odivs accompany him to Fjorden. Hrathen could have no control over what the arteth did with his sworn followers; it would be a grave breach of protocol to order Dilaf to leave them behind. However, if Dilaf did try to take them, it would undoubtedly be a disaster. These men were new to Shu-Dereth; they didn’t know how much power they had given Dilaf. If the arteth tried to drag them to Fjorden, it was unlikely they would follow.
And if that happened, Hrathen would be forced to excommunicate every single one of them. Shu-Dereth would be ruined in Arelon.
Dilaf continued his preparations as if he hadn’t noticed Hrathen’s internal battle. Not that it was much of a conflict—Hrathen knew what he had to do. Dilaf was unstable. It was possible that he was bluffing, but equally likely that he would destroy Hrathen’s efforts in spiteful retribution.
Hrathen gritted his teeth until his jaw throbbed. Hrathen might have stopped Dilaf’s attempt to burn the Elantrian, but the arteth had obviously realized what Hrathen’s next move would be. No, Dilaf didn’t want to go to Fjorden. He might have been unstable, but he was also much better prepared than Hrathen had assumed.
“Wait,” Hrathen ordered as Dilaf’s messenger turned to leave. If that man left the chapel, all would be ruined. “Arteth, I have changed my mind.”
“My hroden?” Dilaf asked, poking his head out of his chamber.
“You will not go to Fjorden, Dilaf.”
“But my lord …”
“No, I cannot do without you.”
The lie made Hrathen’s stomach clinch tightly. “Find someone else to deliver the message.”
With that, Hrathen spun and stalked toward his chambers.
“I am, as always, my hroden’s humble servant,” Dilaf whispered, the room’s acoustics carrying the words directly to Hrathen’s ears.
Hrathen fled again.
He needed to think, to clear his mind. He had spent several hours stewing in his office, angry at both Dilaf and himself. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and so he absconded to the night streets of Kae.
As usual, he directed his path toward Elantris’s wall. He sought height, as if rising above the dwellings of man could give him a better perspective on life.
“Spare some coins, sir?” pled a voice.
Hrathen stopped in surprise; he had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the rag-clothed beggar at his feet. The man was old and obviously had poor sight, for he was squinting up at Hrathen in the darkness. Hrathen frowned, realizing for the first time that he had never seen a beggar in Kae.
A youth, dressed in clothing no better than that of the old man, hobbled around the corner. The boy froze, blanching pale white. “Not him, you old fool!” he hissed. Then, to Hrathen, he quickly said, “I’m sorry, my lord. My father loses his wits sometimes and thinks he is a beggar. Please forgive us.” He moved to grab the old man’s arm.
Hrathen held up his hand commandingly, and the youth stopped, growing another shade paler. Hrathen knelt down beside the elderly man, who was smiling with a half-senile daze. “Tell me, old man,” Hrathen asked, “why do I see so few beggars in the city?”
“The king forbids begging in his city, good sir,” the man croaked. “It is a poor sign of prosperity to have us on his streets. If he finds us, he sends us back to the farms.”
“You say too much,” the youth warned, his frightened face indicating that he was very close to abandoning the old man and bolting away.
The elderly beggar wasn’t finished. “Yes, good sir, we mustn’t let him catch us. Hide outside the city, we do.”
“Outside the city?” Hrathen pressed.
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