Seeing them. however, reminded her of the strange loss she still felt at having left Elantris behind. It wasn't just Spirit; Elantris was the one place where she could remember feeling unconditional acceptance. She had not been a princess, she had been something far better-a member of a community where every individual was vital. She had felt warmth from those motley-skinned Elantrians, a willingness to accept her into their lives and give her part of themselves.
There, in the center of the most cursed city in the world, Spirit had constructed a society that exemplified Korathi teachings. The church taught of the blessings of unity; it was ironic that the only people who practiced such ideals were those who had been damned.
Sarene shook her head, snapping her sword forward in a practice thrust, beginning her warm-ups. She had spent her adult life in an unending quest to find acceptance and love. When, at long last, she had finally found both, she had left them behind.
She wasn't sure how long she practiced-she fell into her forms easily once the warm-ups were finished. Her thoughts rotated around Elantris, Domi, her feelings, and the indecipherable ironies of life. She was sweating heavily by the time she realized the other women had stopped sparring.
Sarene looked up with surprise. Everyone was huddled at one side of the pavilion. chattering among themselves and looking at something Sarene couldn't see. Curious, she edged her way to the side until her superior height gave her a good look at the object of their attention. A man.
He was dressed in fine blue and green silks, a feathered hat on his head. He
had the creamy brown skin of a Duladen aristocrat-not as dark as Shuden's, but not as light as Sarene's. His features were round and happy, and he had a foppish, unconcerned air. Duladen indeed. The dark-skinned servant at his side was massive and bulky, like most Dulas of lower birth. She had never seen either man before.
"What is going on here?" Sarene demanded.
"His name is Kaloo. my lady." Ashe explained, floating over to her. "He arrived a few moments ago. Apparently, he's one of the few Duladen Republicans that escaped the massacre last year. He has been hiding in southern Arelon until just recently, when he heard that King Iadon was looking for a man to take Baron Edan's holdings."
Sarene frowned something about the man bothered her. The women suddenly burst into laughter at one of his comments, giggling as if the Dula were an old and favored member of the court. By the time the laughter died down, the Dula had noticed Sarene.
"Ah," Kaloo said, bowing ornately. "This must be the Princess Sarene. They say you are the most fair woman in all of Opelon."
"You should not believe all of the things that people say, my lord," Sarene replied slowly.
"No," he agreed, looking up into her eyes. "Only the ones that are true."
Despite herself, Sarene started to blush. She did not like men who could do that to her. "I'm afraid you have caught us off guard, my lord," Sarene said through narrowed eyes. "We have been exercising quite vigorously, and are in no position to receive you like proper ladies."
"I apologize for my abrupt arrival, Your Highness," Kaloo said. Despite the polite words, he appeared unconcerned that he had interrupted an obviously private gathering. "Upon arriving in this glorious city, I first paid my respects to the palace-but was told that I would have to wait for at least a week to see the king himself. I put my name on the lists, then had my coachman drive me around your lovely city. I had heard of the illustrious Duke Roial, and decided to pay him a visit. How surprised I was to find all these lovelies in his gardens!"
Sarene snorted, but her rebuttal was interrupted by the arrival of Duke Roial. Apparently, the old man had finally realized that his property had been invaded by a roving Dula. As the duke approached, Kaloo gave another one of his silly bows, sweeping his large, floppy hat out in front of him. Then he launched into praises of the duke, telling Roial how honored he was to meet such a venerable man.
"I don't like him," Sarene declared quietly to Ashe.
"Of course not, my lady," Ashe said. "You never have gotten along very well with Duladen aristocrats."
"It's more than that," Sarene insisted. "Something about him seems false. He doesn't have an accent."
"Most Republic citizens spoke Aonic quite fluently, especially if they lived near the border. I have met several Dulas in my time without hint of an accent."
Sarene just frowned. As she watched the man perform. she realized what it was. Kaloo was too stereotypical. He represented everything a Duladen aristocrat was said to be-foolishly haughty, overdressed and overmannered, and completely indifferent when it came to just about everything. This Kaloo was like a elichй that shouldn't exist, a living representation of the idealized Duladen noble.
Kaloo finished his introductions and moved on to a dramatic retelling of his arrival story. Roial took it all in with a smile; the duke had done lots of business with Dulas, and apparently knew that the best way to deal with them was to smile and nod occasionally.
One of the women handed Kaloo a cup. He smiled his thanks and downed the wine in a single gulp, never breaking his narrative as he immediately brought his hand back into the conversation. Dulas didn't just talk with their mouths, they used their entire bodies as part of the storytelling experience. Silks and feathers fluttered as Kaloo described his surprise at finding King Iadon dead and a new king on the throne.
"Perhaps my lord would care to join us," Sarene said. interrupting Kaloowhich was often the only way to enter a conversation with a Dula.
Kaloo blinked in surprise. "Join you?" he asked hesitantly, his flow of words stopping for a brief moment. Sarene could sense a break in character as he reoriented himself. She was becoming increasingly certain that this man was not who he claimed. Fortunately, her mind had just alighted on a method to test him.
"Of course, my lord," Sarene said. "Duladen citizens are said to be the finest fencers in all of the land-better, even, than Jaadorians. I am certain the ladies here would be much intrigued to see a true master at work."
"I am very thankful at the offer, Your Gracious Highness," Kaloo began. "but I am hardly dressed-"
"We wiIl make it a quick bout, my lord," Sarene said. picking up her bag and sliding out her two finest syres-the ones with sharpened points rather than simple balls. She whipped one through the air expertly as she smiled at the Dula.
"All right," the Dula said, tossing aside his hat. "Let us have a bout, then."
Sarene stopped, trying to judge whether he was bluffing. She hadn't intended to actually fight him; otherwise she wouldn't have chosen the dangerous blades. She considered for a moment, and then, with a casual shrug, tossed him one of the weapons. If he was bluffing, then she intended to call him in a very embarrassing-and potentially painful-way.
Kaloo pulled off his bright turquoise jacket, revealing the ruffled green shirt underneath; then, surprisingly, he fell into a fencing stance, his hand raised behind him, the tip of his syre raised offensively.
"All right," Sarene said, then attacked.
Kaloo jumped backward at the onslaught, twirling around the stunned Duke Roial as he parried Sarene's blows. There were several startled cries from the women as Sarene pushed through them, snapping her blade at the offending Dula. Soon she emerged into the sunlight, jumping off the wooden dais and landing barefoot in the soft grass.
As shocked as they were at the impropriety of the battle, the women made certain not to miss a single blow. Sarene could see them following as she and Kaloo moved out into the flat courtyard at the center of Roial's gardens.
The Dula was surprisingly good, but he was no master. He spent too much time parrying her attacks, obviously unable to do much but defend. If he truly was a member of the Duladen aristocracy, then he was one of their poorer fencers. Sarene had met a few citizens who were worse than she, but on average three out of four could defeat her.
Kaloo abandoned his air of apathy, concentrating solely on keeping Sarene's syre from slicing him apart. They moved all the way acro
ss the courtyard, Kaloo retreating a few steps with each new exchange. He seemed surprised when he stepped onto brick instead of grass, arriving at the fountain centerpiece of Roial's gardens.
Sarene advanced more vigorously as Kaloo stumbled up onto the brick deck. She forced him back until his thigh struck the edge of the fountain itself. There was nowhere else for him to go-or so she thought. She watched with surprise as the Dula leapt into the water. With a kick of his leg, he sent a splash in her direction, then leapt out of the fountain to her right.
Sarene's syre pierced the water as Kaloo passed through the air beside her. She felt the tip of her blade strike something soft. and the nobleman let out a quiet. almost unnoticeable, yelp of pain. Sarene spun, raising her blade to strike again, but Kaloo was on his knee, his syre stuck point-first into the soft earth. He held up a bright yellow flower to Sarene.
"Ah, my lady," he said in a dramatic voice. "You have found my secret-never have I been able to face a beautiful woman in combat. My heart melts, my knees shake. and my sword refuses to strike." He bowed his head, proffering the flower. The collected women behind him sighed dreamily.
Sarene lowered her sword uncertainly. Where had he gotten the flower? With a sigh, she accepted the gift. They both knew that his excuse was nothing more than a sneaky method of escaping embarrassment-but Sarene had to respect his cleverness. He had not only managed to avoid looking like a fool, but had impressed the women with his courtly sense of romance at the same time.
Sarene studied the man closely, searching for a wound. She'd been certain her blade had scratched him on the face as he jumped out of the fountain, but there was no sign of a hit. Uncertain, she looked down at the tip of her syre. There was no blood on it. She must have missed after all.
The women clapped at the show, and they began to urge the dandy back toward the pavilion. As he left, Kaloo looked back at her and smiled-not the silly, foppish smile he had used before, but a more knowing, sly smile. A smile she found strikingly familiar for some reason. He performed another one of his ridiculous bows, then allowed himself to be led away.
CHAPTER 51
The market's tents were a bright burst of color in the center of the city.
Hrathen walked among them, noting the unsold wares and empty streets
with dissatisfaction. Many of the merchants were from the East, and they had spent a great deal of money shipping their cargoes to Arelon for the spring market. If they failed to sell their goods, the losses would be a financial blow from which they might never recover.
Most of the merchants. displaying dark Fjordell colorings, bowed their heads respectfully at his passing. Hrathen had been away so long-first in Duladel, then in Arelon-that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be treated with proper deference. Even as they bowed their heads, Hrathen could see something in these merchants' eyes. An edginess. They had planned for this market for months, their wares and passage purchased long before King Iadon's death. Even with the upheaval, they had no choice but to try and sell what they could.
Hrathen's cloak billowed behind him as he toured the market, his armor clinking comfortably with each step. He displayed a confidence he didn't feel, trying to give the merchants some measure of security. Things were not well, not at all. His hurried call via Seon to Wyrn had come too late: Telrii's message had already arrived. Fortunately, Wyrn had displayed only slight anger at Telrii's presumptuousness.
Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never-of course-name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen's subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he'd tossed Hrathen out, the king still
resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.
The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelish nobility's confused state. Suddenly. they weren't certain if it were better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not-so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed. and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii's decision.
It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade. cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert.
Yet, despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelish nobility weren't really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough.
Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side. The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke: an incense merchant.
Hrathen frowned. He was certain he had seen the distinctive bloodred of a Derethi robe as someone ducked inside the tent. The arteths were supposed to be in solitary meditation at the moment, not idly shopping. Determined to discover which priest had disobeyed his command. Hrathen strode across the path and entered the tent.
It was dark inside, the thick canvas walls blocking out sunlight. A lantern burned at one side of the tent, but the large structure was so piled with boxes, barrels, and bins that Hrathen could see only shadows. He stood for a moment, eyes adjusting. There didn't seem to be anyone inside the tent, not even a merchant.
He stepped forward. moving through waves of scents both pungent and enticing. Sweetsands, soaps, and oils all perfumed the air, and the mixture of their many odors left the mind confused. Near the back of the tent, he found the solitary lantern sitting beside a box of ashes, the remnants of burned incense. Hrathen pulled off his gauntlet, then reached to rub the soft powder between his fingers.
"The ashes are like the wreckage of your power, are they not. Hrathen?" a voice asked.
Hrathen spun, startled by the sound. A shadowed figure stood in the tent behind him. a familiar form in Derethi robes.
"What are you doing here?" Hrathen asked, turning from Dilaf and brushing off his hand, then replacing his gauntlet.
Dilaf didn't respond. He stood in the darkness. his unseen face unnerving in its stare.
"Dilaf?" Hrathen repeated, turning. "I asked you a question."
"You have failed here. Hrathen," Dilaf whispered. "The fool Telrii is playing with you. You, a gyorn of Shu-Dereth. Men do not make demands of the Fjordell Empire, Hrathen. They should not."
Hrathen felt his face redden. "What know you of such things?" he snapped. "Leave me be. Arteth."
Dilaf didn't move. "You were close, I admit, but your foolishness cost you the victory."
"Bah!" Hrathen said, brushing past the small man in the darkness, walking toward the exit. "My battle is far from over-I still have time left."
"Do you?" Dilaf asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Hrathen saw Dilaf approach the ashes, running his fingers through them. "It has all slipped away, hasn't it. Hrathen? My victory is so sweet in the face of your failure."
Hrathen paused, then laughed, looking back at Dilaf. "Victory? What victory have you achieved? What.?"
Dilaf smiled. In the wan light of the lantern, his face pocketed with shadow. he smiled. The expression, filled with the passion, the ambition. and the zeal that Hrathen had noted on that first day so long ago, was so disturbing that Hrathen's question died on his lips. In the flickering light, the arteth seemed not a man at all, but a Svrakiss, sent to torment Hrathen.
Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen, throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light.
"Dilaf?" Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the arteth to hear. "What victory?"
CHAPTER 52
"Ow!" Raoden complained as Galladon stuck the needle into his cheek.
"Stop whining." the Dula ordered, pulling the thread tight.
"Karata's much better at this." Raoden said. He sat before a mirror in their rooms at Roial's mansion, his head cocked to the side, watching Galladon sew the sword wound.
"Well, wait until we get back to Elantris, then," the Dula said grumpily, punctuating the remark by sticking Raoden again.
"No," Raoden said with a sigh, "I've waited too long already-I can feel this one ripping a little bit each time I smile. Why couldn't she have hit me on the arm?"
"Because we're Elantrians, sule," Galladon explained. "If a bad thing can happen to us. it will. You're lucky to escape with only this. In fact, you're lucky you were even able to fight at all with that body of yours."
"It wasn't easy," Raoden said. keeping his head still as the Dula worked. "That's why I had to end it so quickIy."
"Well, you fight better than I expected."
"I had Eondel teach me," Raoden said. "Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father's laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing because he thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I'd end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces."
Galladon snorted in amusement as he stabbed Raoden again, and Raoden gritted his teeth against the pain. The doors were all bolted tightly and the drapes closed, for Raoden had needed to drop his illusionary mask to let Galladon sew. The duke had been kind enough to board them-Roial seemed to be the only one of Raoden's former friends who was intrigued, rather than annoyed, by his Kaloo personality.
"All right. sule," Galladon said. tugging the final stitch.
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