“We will make it right, Roial,” Kiin said. “This plan is a good one—perhaps even better than Raoden’s.”
Roial smiled. “She would have made him a fine wife, Kiin.”
Kiin nodded. “Fine indeed—and an even better queen. Domi moves in ways that are sometimes strange to our mortal minds.”
“I’m not convinced it was Domi’s will that took him from us, Uncle,” Sarene said over her wine. “Have either of you ever wondered if, perhaps, someone might have been behind the prince’s death?”
“The answer to that question borders on treason, Sarene,” Kiin warned.
“Any more than the other things we have said tonight?”
“We were only accusing the king of greed, Sarene,” Roial said. “The murder of his own son is another matter entirely.”
“Think about it, though,” Sarene said, waving her hand in a wide gesture, and nearly spilling her wine. “The prince took a contrary stance on everything his father did—he ridiculed Iadon in court, he planned behind the king’s back, and he had the love of the people. Most importantly, everything he said about Iadon was true. Is that the kind of person a monarch can afford to have running free?”
“Yes, but his own son?” Roial said with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened,” Kiin said.
“True,” Roial said. “But, I don’t know if the prince was as much of a problem to Iadon as you assume. Raoden wasn’t so much rebellious as he was critical. He never said that Iadon shouldn’t be king, he simply claimed that Arelon’s government was in trouble—which it is.”
“Weren’t either of you even a little suspicious when you heard the prince was dead?” Sarene asked, contemplatively sipping her wine. “It came at such a convenient time. Iadon has the benefit of an alliance with Teod, but now he doesn’t have to worry about Raoden producing any heirs.”
Roial looked at Kiin, who shrugged. “I think we have to at least consider the possibility, Roial.”
Roial nodded regretfully. “So what do we do? Try and find proof that Iadon executed his son?”
“Knowledge will bring strength,” Sarene said simply.
“Agreed,” Kiin said. “You, however, are the only one of us with free access to the palace.”
“I’ll poke around and see what I can uncover.”
“Is it possible he isn’t dead?” Roial asked. “It would have been easy enough to find a look-alike for the casket—the coughing shivers is a very disfiguring disease.”
“It’s possible,” Sarene said doubtfully.
“But you don’t believe it.”
Sarene shook her head. “When a monarch decides to destroy a rival, he usually makes sure to do so in a permanent way. There are too many stories about lost heirs that reappear after twenty years in the wilderness to claim their rightful throne.”
“Still, perhaps Iadon isn’t as brutal as you assume,” Roial said. “He was a better man, once—never what I would call a good man, but not a bad one either. Just greedy. Something’s happened to him over the last few years, something that has … changed him. Still, I think there remains enough compassion in Iadon to keep him from murdering his own son.”
“All right,” Sarene said. “I’ll send Ashe to search through the royal dungeons. He’s so meticulous he’ll know the name of every rat in the place before he’s satisfied.”
“Your Seon?” Roial realized. “Where is he?”
“I sent him to Elantris.”
“Elantris?” Kiin asked.
“That Fjordell gyorn is interested in Elantris for some reason,” Sarene explained. “And I make it my business never to ignore what a gyorn finds interesting.”
“You seem to be rather preoccupied with a single priest, ’Ene,” Kiin said.
“Not a priest, Uncle,” Sarene corrected. “A full gyorn.”
“Still only one man. How much damage can he do?”
“Ask the Duladen Republic,” Sarene said. “I think this is the same gyorn who was involved in that disaster.”
“There’s no sure evidence that Fjorden was behind the collapse,” Roial noted.
“There is in Teod, but no one else would believe it. Just believe me when I tell you that this single gyorn could be more dangerous than Iadon.”
The comment struck a lull in the conversation. Time passed silently, the three nobles drinking their wine in thought until Lukel entered, having traveled to retrieve his mother and siblings. He nodded to Sarene and bowed to the duke before pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Look at you,” Lukel said to Sarene as he took a seat. “A confident member of the boys’ club.”
“Leader of it, more truthfully,” Roial noted.
“Your mother?” Kiin asked.
“Is on her way,” Lukel said. “They weren’t finished, and you know how Mother is. Everything must be done in its proper order; no rushing allowed.”
Kiin nodded, downing the last of his wine. “Then you and I should get to cleaning before she returns. We wouldn’t want her to see what a mess our collected noble friends have made of the dining room.”
Lukel sighed, giving Sarene a look that suggested he sometimes wished he lived in a traditional household—one with servants, or at least women, to do such things. Kiin was already moving, however, and his son had no choice but to follow.
“Interesting family,” Roial said, watching them go.
“Yes. A little odd even by Teoish standards.”
“Kiin had a long life on his own,” the duke observed. “It accustomed him to doing things by himself. He once hired a cook, I hear, but grew frustrated with the woman’s methods. I seem to recall that she quit before he had the heart to fire her—she claimed she couldn’t work in such a demanding environment.”
Sarene laughed. “That sounds appropriate.”
Roial smiled, but continued in a more serious tone. “Sarene, we are indeed fortunate. You might very well be our last chance for saving Arelon.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sarene said, flushing despite herself.
“This country will not last much longer. A few months, maybe, a half a year if we are lucky.”
Sarene’s brow furled. “But, I thought you wanted to wait. At least, that’s what you told the others.”
Roial made a dismissive gesture. “I’d convinced myself that little could be gained by their aid—Edan and Ahan are too contrary, and Shuden and Eondel are both too inexperienced. I wanted to mollify them while Kiin and I decided what to do. I fear our plans may have centered around more … dangerous methods.
“Now, however, there is another chance. If your plan works—though I’m still not convinced that it will—we might be able to forestall collapse for a little longer. I’m not sure; ten years of Iadon’s rule has built momentum. It will be difficult to change it in only a few months’ time.”
“I think
we can do it, Roial,” Sarene said.
“Just make sure you don’t get ahead of yourself, young lady,” Roial said, eyeing her. “Do not dash if you only have the strength to walk, and do not waste your time pushing on walls that will not give. More importantly, don’t shove where a pat would be sufficient. You backed me into a corner today. I’m still a prideful old man. If Shuden hadn’t saved me, I honestly can’t say if I would have been humble enough to acknowledge fault in front of all those men.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarene said, now blushing for another reason. There was something about this powerful, yet grandfatherly, old duke that made her suddenly desperate to have his respect.
“Just be careful,” Roial said. “If this gyorn is as dangerous as you claim, then there are some very powerful forces moving through Kae. Do not let Arelon get crushed between them.”
Sarene nodded, and the duke leaned back, pouring the last of the wine into his cup.
CHAPTER 12
Early in his career, Hrathen had found it difficult to accept other languages. Fjordell was Jaddeth’s own chosen tongue—it was holy, while other languages were profane. How, then, did one convert those who didn’t speak Fjordell? Did one speak to them in their own language, or did one force all true supplicants to study Fjordell first? It seemed foolish to require an entire nation to learn a new language before allowing them to hear of Jaddeth’s empire.
So, when forced to make the decision between profanity and infinite delay, Hrathen chose profanity. He had learned to speak Aonic and Duladen, and had even picked up a little Jindoeese. When he taught, he taught the people in their own tongue—though, admittedly, it still bothered him to do so. What if they never learned? What if his actions made people think that they didn’t need Fjordell, since they could learn of Jaddeth in their mother language?
These thoughts, and many like them, passed through Hrathen’s mind as he preached to the people of Kae. It wasn’t that he lacked focus or dedication; he had simply given the same speeches so many times that they had become rote. He spoke almost unconsciously, raising and lowering his voice to the rhythm of the sermon, performing the ancient art that was a hybrid offspring of prayer and theater.