Hrathen marched away from the ship, his presence causing quite a stir among the people. Workers halted their labors as he passed. staring at him with impressed amazement. Conversations died when eyes Fell upon him. Hrathen didn't slow for anyone, but that didn't matter, for people moved quickly from his path. It could have been his eyes, but more likely it was his armor. Bloodred and glittering in the sunlight, the plate armor of a Derethi imperial high priest was an imposing sight even when one was accustomed to it.
He was beginning to think he would have to find his own way to the city's Derethi chapel when he made out a spot of red weaving its way through the crowd. The speck soon resolved into a stumpy. balding figure clad in red Derethi robes. "My lord Hrathen!" the man called.
Hrathen stopped. allowing Fjon-Kae's Derethi head arteth-to approach. Fjon puffed and wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace. The register had you scheduled to come in on a different ship. I didn't find out you weren't on board until they were halfway done unloading. I'm afraid I had to leave the carriage behind; I couldn't get it through the crowd."
Hrathen narrowed his eyes with displeasure, but he said nothing. Fjon continued to blather for a moment before finally deciding to lead Hrathen to the Derethi chapel, apologizing again for the lack of transportation. Hrathen followed his pudgy guide with a measured stride, dissatisfied. Fjon trotted along with a smile on his lips, occasionally waving to passers on the streets, shouting pleasantries. The people responded in kind-at least, until they saw Hrathen, his blood cloak billowing behind him and his exaggerated armor cut with sharp angles and harsh lines. Then they fell silent, greetings withering, their eyes following Hrathen until he passed. Such was as it should be.
The chapel was a tall stone structure. complete with bright red tapestries and towering spires. Here, at least, Hrathen found some of the majesty he was accustomed to. Within, however, he was confronted by a disturbing sight-a crowd of people involved in some kind of social activity. People milled around, ignoring the holy structure in which they stood. laughing and joking. It was too much. Hrathen had heard. and believed, the reports. Now he had confirmation.
"Arteth Fjon, assemble your priests." Hrathen said-the first words he had spoken since his arrival on Arelish soil.
The arteth jumped, as if surprised to finally hear sounds coming from his distinguished guest. "Yes, my lord." he said, motioning for the gathering to end.
It took a frustratingly long time, but Hrathen endured the process with a flat expression. When the people had left, he approached the priests, his armored feet clicking against the chapel's stone floor. When he finally spoke, his words were directed at Fjon.
"Arteth." he said, using the man's Derethi title, "the ship that brought me here will leave for Fjorden in one hour. You are to be on board."
Fjon's jaw dropped in alarm. "Wha-"
"Speak Fjordell. man!" Hrathen snapped. "Surely ten years amongst the Arelish heathens hasn't corrupted you to the point that you have forgotten your native tongue?"
"No, no, Your Grace," Fjon replied, switching from Aonic to Fjordell. "But I-"
"Enough," Hrathen interrupted again. "I have orders from Wyrn himself. You have spent far too long in the Arelish culture-you have forgotten your holy calling. and are unable to see to the progress of Jaddeth's empire. These people don't need a friend: they need a priest. A Derethi priest. One would think you were Korathi, watching you fraternize. We're not here to love the people: we are here to help them. You will go."
Fjon slumped back against one of the room's pillars, his eyes widening and his limbs losing their strength. "But who will be head arteth of the chapel in my absence, my lord? The other arteths are so inexperienced."
"These are pivotal times, Arteth," Hrathen said. "I'll be remaining in Arelon to personally direct the work here. May Jaddeth grant me success."
He had hoped for an office with a better view, but the chapel. majestic as it was, held no second floor. Fortunately, the grounds were well kept. and his office-Fjon's old room-overlooked nicely trimmed hedges and carefully arranged flower beds.
Now that he had cleared the walls of paintings-agrarian nature scenes, for the most part-and thrown out Fjon's numerous personal effects, the chamber was approaching a level of dignified orderliness appropriate for a Derethi gyorn. All it needed was a few tapestries and maybe a shield or two.
Nodding to himself, Hrathen turned his attention back to the scroll on his desk. His orders. He barely dared hold them in his profane hands. He read the words over and over again in his mind. imprinting both their physical form and their theological meaning on his soul.
"My lord… Your Grace?" a quiet voice asked in Fjordell.
Hrathen looked up. Fjon entered the room, then crouched in a subservient huddle on the floor, his forehead rubbing the ground. Hrathen allowed himself to smile, knowing that the penitent arteth couldn't see his face. Perhaps there was hope for Fjon yet.
"Speak." Hrathen said.
"I have done wrong, my lord. I have acted contrary to the plans of our lord Jaddeth."
"Your sin was complacency, Arteth. Contentment has destroyed more nations than any army, and it has claimed the souls of more men than even Elantris's heresies."
"Yes. my lord."
"You still must leave, Arteth," Hrathen said.
The man's shoulders slumped slightly. "Is there no hope for me then. my lord?"
"That is Arelish foolishness speaking, Arteth, not Fjordell pride." Hrathen reached down, grasping the man's shoulder. "Rise, my brother!" he commanded. Fjon looked up, hope returning to his eyes.
"Your mind may have become tainted with Arelish thoughts. but your soul is still Fjordell. You are of Jaddeth's chosen people-all of the Fjordell have a place of service in His empire. Return to our homeland, join a monastery to reacquaint yourself with those things you have forgotten, and you will be given another way to serve the empire."
"Yes, my lord."
Hrathen's grip grew hard. "Understand this before you leave, Arteth. My arrival is more of a blessing than you can possibly understand. All of Jaddeth's workings are not open to you; do not think to second-guess our God." He paused. debating his next move. After a moment he decided: This man still had worth. Hrathen had a unique chance to reverse much of Arelon's perversion of Fjon's soul in a single stroke. "Look there on the table, Arteth. Read that scroll."
Fjon looked toward the desk, eyes finding the scroll resting thereon. Hrathen released the man's shoulder, allowing him to walk around the desk and read.
"This is the official seal of Wyrn himself!" Fjon said. picking up the scroll.
"Not just the seal, Arteth." Hrathen said. "That is his signature as well. The document you hold was penned by His Holiness himself. That isn't just a letter-it is scripture."
Fjon's eyes opened wide. and his fingers began to quiver. "Wyrn himself?" Then, realizing in full what he was holding in his unworthy hand, he dropped the parchment to the desk with a quiet yelp. His eyes didn't turn away from the letter, however. They were transfixed-reading the words as voraciously as a starving man devoured a joint of beef. Few people actually had an opportunity to read words written by the hand of Jaddeth's prophet and Holy Emperor.
Hrathen gave the priest time to read the scroll, then reread it. and then read it again. When Fjon finally looked up, there was understanding-and gratitude-in his face. The man was intelligent enough. He knew what the orders would have required of him, had he remained in charge of Kae.
"Thank you," Fjon mumbled.
Hrathen nodded graciously. "Could you have done it? Could you have followed Wyrn's commands?"
Fjon shook his head, eyes darting back to the parchment. "No, Your Grace. I could not have. I couldn't have functioned-couldn't have even thought-with that on my conscience. I do not envy your place, my lord. Not anymore."
"Return to Fjorden with my blessing, brother," Hrathen said, taking a small envelope from a bag on the table. 'Give this to the pri
ests there. It is a letter from me telling them you accepted your reassignment with the grace befitting a servant of Jaddeth. They will see that you are assigned to a monastery. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to Iead a chapeI again-one well within Fjorden's borders."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
Fjon withdrew, closing the door behind him. Hrathen walked to his desk and slid another envelope-identical to the one he had given Fjon-from his letter bag. He held it for a few moments, then turned it to one of the desk's candles. The words it held-condemning Arteth Fjon as a traitor and an apostate-would never be read, and the poor, pleasant arteth would never know just how much danger he had been in.
"With your leave, my lord gyorn," said the bowing priest. a minor dorven who had served under Fjon for over a decade. Hrathen waved his hand. bidding the man to leave. The door shut silently as the priest backed from the room.
Fjon had done some serious damage to his underlings. Even a small weakness would build enormous flaws over two decades' time. and Fjon's problems were anything but small. The man had been lenient to the point of flagrancy. He had run a chapel without order. bowing before Arelish culture rather than bringing the people strength and discipline. Half of the priests serving in Kae were hopelessly corrupted-including men as new to the city as six months. Within the next few weeks, Hrathen would be sending a veritable fleet of priests back to Fjorden. He'd have to pick a new head arteth from those who remained, few though they would be.
A knock came at the door. "Come,' Hrathen said. He had been seeing the priests one at a time, feeling our the extent of their contamination. So far. he had not often been impressed.
"Arteth Dilaf," the priest said, introducing himself as he entered.
Hrathen looked up. The name and words were Fjordell. but the accent was slightly off. It sounded almost… "You're Arelish?" Hrathen said with surprise.
The priest bowed with the proper amount of subservience; his eyes, however, were defiant.
"How did you become a priest of Derethi?" Hrathen asked.
"I wanted to serve the empire, — the man replied, his voice quietly intense. "Jaddeth provided a way."
No, Hrathen realized. It isn't defiance in this man's eyes-it's religious fervor. One did not often find zealots in the Derethi religion: such people were more often drawn to the frenzied lawlessness of the Jeskeri Mysteries than to the militaristic organization of Shu-Dereth. This man's face, however, burned with fanatical
Empire is eternal, my patience will soon end. Not much longer will I slumber within a tomb of rock. The Day of Empire is at hand, and my glory will soon shine forth, a second sun blazing forth from Fjorden.
The pagan nations of Arelon and Teod have been blackened scars upon my land for long enough. Three hundred years have my priests served amongst those tainted by Elantris, and few have harkened to their call. Know this, High Priest: My faithful warriors are prepared and they wait only the word of my Wyrn. You have three months to prophesy to the people of Arelon. At the end of that time, the holy soldiers of Fjorden will descend on the nation like hunting predators, rending and tearing the unworthy life from those who heed not my words. Only three months will pass before the destruction of all who oppose my Empire.
The time for my ascension nears, my son. Be stalwart, and be diligent.
Words of Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation, through his servant Wyrn Wulf-den the Fourth, Emperor of Fjorden, Prophet of Shu-Dereth, Ruler of Jaddeth's Holy Kingdom, and Regent of all Creation.
The time had finally come. Only two nations resisted. Fjorden had regained its former glory, glory lost hundreds of years ago when the First Empire collapsed. Once again, Arelon and Teod were the only two kingdoms who resisted Fjordell rule. This time. with the might of Jaddeth's holy calling behind it. Fjorden would prevail. Then, with all mankind united under Wyrn's rule, Jaddeth could rise from His throne beneath the earth and reign in glorious majesty.
And Hrarhen would be the one responsible for it. The conversion of Arelon and Teod was his urgent duty. He had three months to change the religious temperament of an entire culture: it was a monumental task, but it was viral that he succeed. If he did not, Fjorden's armies would destroy every living being in Arelon, and Teod would soon follow; the two nations, though separated by water, were the same in race, religion, and obstinance.
The people might not yet know it, but Hrathen was the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation. They had resisted Jaddeth and His people in arrogant defiance for far too long. Hrathen was their last chance.
Someday they would call him their savior.
CHAPTER 4
The woman screamed until she grew too tired. calling for help, for mercy. for Domi. She clawed at the broad gate, her fingernails leaving marks in the film of slime. Eventually, she slumped to the ground in a quiet heap, shaking from occasional sobs. Seeing her agony reminded Raoden of his own pain-the sharp twinge of his toe. the loss of his life outside.
"They won't wait much longer," Galladon whispered, his hand firmly on Rao-den's arm, holding the prince back.
The woman finally stumbled to her feet, looking dazed, as if she had forgotten where she was. She took a single, uncertain step to her left, her palm resting on the wall. as if it were a comfort-a connection to the outside world, rather than the barrier separating her from it.
"It's done," Galladon said.
"Just like that?" Raoden asked.
Galladon nodded. "She picked well-or, as well as one could. Watch."
Shadows stirred in an alleyway directly across the courtyard: Raoden and Galladon watched from inside a ramshackle stone building, one of many that lined Elantris's entry courtyard. The shadows resolved into a group of men, and they approached the woman with determined, controlled steps, surrounding her. One reached out and took her basket of offerings. The woman didn't have the strength left to resist; she simply collapsed again. Raoden felt Galladon's fingers dig into his shoulder as he involuntarily pulled forward, wanting to dash our to confront the thieves.
"Not a good idea. Kolo?" Galladon whispered. "Save your courage for yourself. If stubbing your toe nearly knocked you out. think how it would feel to have one of those cudgels cracking across your brave little head."
Raoden nodded, relaxing. The woman had been robbed, but it didn't look like she was in further danger. It hurt, however, to watch her. She wasn't a young maiden; she bore the stout figure of a woman accustomed to childbirth and the running of a household. A mother, not a damsel. The strong lines of the woman's face bespoke hard-won wisdom and courage, and somehow that made watching her more difficult. If such a woman could be defeated by Elantris, what hope was there for Raoden?
"I told you she chose well," Galladon continued. "She might be a few pounds of food lighter, but she doesn't have any wounds. Now, if she had turned right-like you did. sule-she would have been at the dubious mercy of Shaor's men. If she had gone forward. then Aanden would have had the right to her offerings. The left turn is definitely best-Karata's men take your food, but they rarely hurt you. Better to be hungry than spend the next few years with a broken arm."
"Next few years?" Raoden asked, turning away from the courtyard to regard his tall. dark-skinned companion. "I thought you said our wounds would last us an eternity."
"We only assume they will, sule. Show me an Elantrian who has managed to keep his wits until eternity ends, and maybe he'll be able to prove the theory." "How long do people usually last in here?"
"A year, maybe two," Galladon said.
"What?"
"Thought we were immortal, did you? Just because we don't age, we'll last forever?"
"I don't know." Raoden said. "I though you said we couldn't die."
"We can't," Galladon said. "But the cuts. the bruises. the stubbed toes… they pile up. One can only take so much."
"They kill themselves?" Raoden asked quietly.
"That's not an option. No, most of them lie around mumbling or screaming. Poor rulos."
> "How long have you been here, then?"
"A few months."
The realization was another shock to pile on the already teetering stack. Rao-den had assumed that Galladon had been an Elantrian for at least a few years. The Dula spoke of life in Elantris as if it had been his home for decades, and he was impressively adept at navigating the enormous city.
Raoden looked back at the courtyard, but the woman had already gone. She could have been a maid in his father's palace, a wealthy merchant's lady, or a simple housewife. The Shaod respected no classes; it took from all equally. She was gone now, having entered the gaping pit that was Elantris. He should have been able to help her.
"All that for a single loaf of bread and a few flaccid vegetables." Raoden muttered.
"It may not seem like much now, but just wait a few days. The only food that enters this place comes clutched in the arms of its new arrivals. You wait, sule. You will feel the desire as well. It takes a strong man to resist when the hunger calls."
"You do it," Raoden said.
"Not very well-and I've only been here a few months. There's no telling what the hunger will drive me to do a year from now."
Raoden snorted. "Just wait until my thirty days are done before you become a primordial beast, if you please. I'd hate to feel that I hadn't got my beef's worth
out of you."
Galladon paused for a moment, then laughed. "Does nothing frighten you, sule?"
"Actually, pretty much everything here does-I'm just good at ignoring the fact that I'm terrified. If I ever realize how scared I am, you'll probably find me trying to hide under those cobblestones over there. Now, tell me more about these gangs."
Galladon shrugged, walking away from the broken door and pulling a chair away from the wall. He turned a critical eye on its legs, then carefully settled down. He moved just quickly enough to stand again as the legs cracked. He tossed the chair away with disgust, and settled on the floor.
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