But, what did that mean? Hrathen shook his head, pushing the door open and walking into his rooms. Dilaf’s power over the chapel was growing as Hrathen struggled to find an appropriate, and willing, new head arteth. Three more men had refused the position. That was more than just suspicious—Hrathen was certain that Dilaf had something to do with the matter.
He’s older than you assumed, Hrathen thought. He’s also had influence over Kae’s priests for a very long time.
Dilaf claimed that many of the original Derethi followers in Kae had originally come from his personal chapel in southern Arelon. How long had it been since he’d come to Kae? Fjon had been head arteth when Dilaf arrived, but Fjon’s leadership in the city had lasted a long time.
Dilaf had probably been in the city for years. He had probably been associating with the other priests—learning to influence them, gaining authority over them—that entire time. And, given Dilaf’s ardor for Shu-Dereth, he had undoubtedly chosen the most conservative and effective of Kae’s arteths to be his associates.
And those were exactly the men Hrathen had let remain in the city when he’d first arrived. He’d sent away the less devoted men, and they would have been the ones that would have been insulted or disturbed by Dilaf’s extreme ardor. Unwittingly, Hrathen had culled the chapel’s numbers in Dilaf’s favor.
Hrathen sat down at his desk, this new revelation disturbing him. No wonder he was having trouble finding a new head arteth. Those who remained knew Dilaf well; they were probably either afraid to take a position above him, or they had been bribed by him to step aside.
He can’t have that kind of influence over them all, Hrathen thought firmly. I’ll just have to keep looking. Eventually, one of the priests will take the position.
Still, he was worried about Dilaf’s startling effectiveness. The arteth held two firm grips over Hrathen. First, Dilaf still had power over many of Hrathen’s strongest converts through his odiv oaths. Second, the arteth’s unofficial leadership of the chapel was growing more and more secure. Without a head arteth, and with Hrathen spending much of his time giving sermons or meeting with nobility, Dilaf had slowly been siphoning away power over the day-to-day workings of the Derethi church in Arelon.
And, over it all, there was an even more disturbing problem—something Hrathen didn’t want to confront, something even more disarming than Sarene’s Trial or Dilaf’s maneuverings. Hrathen could face external forces such as theirs, and he could be victorious.
His internal wavering, however, was something entirely different.
He reached into his desk, seeking out a small book. He remembered unpacking it into the drawer, as he had during countless other moves. He hadn’t looked at it in years, but he had very few possessions, and so he had never found himself overburdened enough to discard the book.
Eventually, he located it. He flipped through the aging pages, selecting the one he was looking for.
I have found purpose, the book read. Before, I lived, but I didn’t know why. I have direction now. It gives glory to all that I do. I serve in Lord Jaddeth’s empire, and my service is linked directly to Him. I am important.
Priests in the Derethi faith were trained to record spiritual experiences, but Hrathen had never been diligent in this particular area. His personal record contained only a few entries—including this one, which he had written a few weeks after his decision to join the priesthood many years before. Just before he entered Dakhor monastery.
What happened to your faith, Hrathen?
Omin’s questions plagued Hrathen’s thoughts. He heard the Korathi priest whispering in his mind, demanding to know what had happened to Hrathen’s beliefs, demanding to know the purpose behind his preaching. Had Hrathen become cynical, performing his duties simply because they were familiar? Had his preaching become a logical challenge and not a spiritual quest?
He knew, in part, that it had. He enjoyed the planning, the confrontation, and the thinking it took to convert an entire nation of heretics. Even with Dilaf distracting him, Hrathen found the challenge of Arelon invigorating.
But what of the boy Hrathen? What of the faith, the almost unthinking passion he had once felt? He could barely remember it. That part of his life had passed quickly, his faith transforming from a burning flame into a comfortable warmth.
Why did Hrathen want to succeed in Arelon? Was it for the notoriety? The man who converted Arelon would be long remembered in the annals of the Derethi church. Was it a desire to be obedient? He did, after all, have a direct order from Wyrn. Was it because he seriously thought conversion would help the people? He had determined to succeed in Arelon without a slaughter such as he had instigated in Duladel. But, again, was it really because he wanted to save lives? Or was it because he knew that a smooth conquest was more difficult, and therefore more of a challenge?
His heart was as unclear to him as a room filled with smoke.
Dilaf was slowly seizing control. That in itself wasn’t as frightening as Hrathen’s own sense of foreboding. What if Dilaf was right to try and oust Hrathen? What if Arelon would be better off with Dilaf in control? Dilaf wouldn’t have worried about the death caused by a bloody revolution; he would have known that the people would eventually be better off with Shu-Dereth, even if their initial conversion required a massacre.
Dilaf had faith. Dilaf believed in what he was doing. What did Hrathen have?
He wasn’t certain anymore.
CHAPTER 25
“I think, perhaps, that she needs this food as much as we do,” Raoden said, regarding the slight-framed Torena with a skeptical eye. Ahan’s daughter had pulled her reddish gold hair up under a protective scarf, and she wore a simple blue dress—something she’d probably had to borrow from one of her maids, considering the average Arelish noblewoman’s extravagant wardrobe.
“Be nice to her,” Sarene ordered, handing Raoden a box from the cart. “She’s the only woman brave enough to come—though she only agreed because I had Shuden ask her. If you scare that girl away, none of the others will ever come.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Raoden said, bowing slightly. It seemed that a week’s worth of distributing food together had softened her hatred of him somewhat, but she was still cold. She would respond to his comments, even converse with him, but she would not let herself be his friend.
The week had been surrealy unnerving for Raoden. He’d spent his time in Elantris accustoming himself to the strange and the new. This week, however, he had been forced to reacquaint himself with the familiar. It was worse, in a way. He could accept Elantris as a source of pain. It was entirely different to see his friends the same way.
Even now, Shuden stood next to the girl Torena, his hand on her elbow as he encouraged her to approach the line of food. Shuden had been one of Raoden’s best friends; the solemn Jindo and he had spent hours at a time discussing their views on Arelon’s civic problems. Now Shuden barely noticed him. It had been the same with Eondel, Kiin, Roial, and even Lukel. They had been companions to the handsome Prince Raoden, but never to the accursed creature known as Spirit.
Yet, Raoden found it hard to be bitter. He couldn’t blame them for not recognizing him; he barely recognized himself anymore, with his wrinkled skin and spindly body. Even his voice was different. In a way, his own subterfuge hurt even more than his friends’ ignorance. He couldn’t tell them who he was, for news of his survival could destroy Arelon. Raoden knew very well that his own popularity exceeded that of his father—there would be some who would follow him, Elantrian or not. Civil war would serve no one, and at the end of it, Raoden would probably find himself beheaded.
No, he definitely had to remain hidden. Knowledge of his fate would only give his friends pain and confusion. However, concealing his identity required vigilance. His face and voice had changed, but his mannerisms had not. He made a point of staying away from anyone who had known him too well, trying to be cheerful and friendly, but not open.
Which was one reason why he found himse
lf gravitating toward Sarene. She hadn’t known him before, and so he could discard his act around her. In a way, it was kind of a test. He was curious to see how they would have gotten along as husband and wife, without their separate political necessities getting in the way.
His initial feelings seemed to have been correct. He liked her. Where the letters had hinted, Sarene fulfilled. She wasn’t like the women he had grown accustomed to in the Arelish court. She was strong and determined. She didn’t avert her eyes downward whenever a man addressed her, no matter how noble his rank. She gave orders easily and naturally, and never feigned weakness in order to draw a man’s attentiveness.
Yet, the lords followed her. Eondel, Shuden, even Duke Roial—they deferred to her in judgment and responded to her commands as if she were king. There was never a look of bitterness in their eyes, either. She gave her orders courteously, and they responded naturally. Raoden could only smile in amazement. It had taken him years to earn these men’s trust. Sarene had done it in a matter of weeks.
She was impressive in every attribute—intelligent, beautiful, and strong. Now, if only he could convince her not to hate him.
Raoden sighed and turned back to the work. Except for Shuden, all of the day’s nobles were new to the process. Most were minor noblemen of little import, but there were a couple of important additions. Duke Telrii, for instance, stood to one side, watching the unloading process with lazy eyes. He didn’t participate himself, but had brought a manservant to fill his place. Telrii obviously preferred to avoid any actual exertion.
Raoden shook his head. He had never cared much for the duke. He had once approached the man, hoping that Telrii might be persuaded to join in Raoden’s opposition to the king. Telrii had simply yawned and asked how much Raoden was willing to pay for his support, then had laughed as Raoden stalked away. Raoden had never been able to decide whether Telrii had asked the question out of actual greed, or if he had simply known how Raoden would react to the demand.
Raoden turned to the other noblemen. As usual, the newcomers stood in a small, apprehensive cluster around the cart they had unloaded. Now it was Raoden’s turn. He approached with a smile, introducing himself and shaking hands—mostly against the owners’ wills. However, their tension began to wane after just a few minutes of mingling. They could see that there was at least one Elantrian who wasn’t going to eat them, and none of the other food distributors had fallen to the Shaod, so they could dismiss their fears of infection.
The clot of people relaxed, falling to Raoden’s affable proddings. Acclimatizing the nobles was a task he had taken upon himself. It had been obvious on the second day that Sarene had nowhere near as much influence with most aristocrats as she did with Shuden and the others of Raoden’s former circle. If Raoden hadn’t stepped in, that second group would probably still be standing frozen around the cart. Sarene hadn’t thanked him for his efforts, but she had nodded in slight appreciation. Afterward, it had been assumed that Raoden would help each new batch of nobles as he had that second one.
It was odd to him, participating in the event that was singularly destroying everything he had worked to build in Elantris. However, beyond creating an enormous incident, there was little he could do to stop Sarene. In addition, Mareshe and Karata were receiving vital goods for their “cooperation.” Raoden would have to do a great deal of rebuilding after Sarene’s Trial finished, but the setbacks would be worth the effort. Assuming, of course, he survived long enough.
The casual thought brought a sudden awareness of his pains. They were with him as always, burning his flesh and eating at his resolve. He no longer counted them, though each one had its own feeling—an unformed name, a sense of individual agony. As far as he could tell, his pain was accelerating much more quickly than anyone else’s. A scrape on his arm felt like a gash running from shoulder to fingers, and his once-stubbed toe blazed with a fire that ran all the way to his knee. It was as if he had been in Elantris a year, and not a single lonely month.
Or, maybe his pain wasn’t stronger. Maybe he was just weaker than the others. Either way, he wouldn’t be able to endure much longer. A day would soon come, in a month or maybe two, when he would not awaken from his pain, and they would have to lay him in the Hall of the Fallen. There, he could finally give full devotion to his jealous agony.
He pushed such thoughts away, forcing himself to start handing out food. He tried to let the work distract him, and it helped a little. However, the pain still lurked within, like a beast hiding in the shadows, its red eyes watching with intense hunger.
Each Elantrian received a small sack filled with a variety of ready-to-eat items. This day’s portions were much like every other—though, surprisingly, Sarene had found some Jindoeese sourmelons. The fist-sized red fruits glistened in the crate beside Raoden, challenging the fact that they were supposed to be out of season. He dropped one fruit in every bag, followed by some steamed corn, various vegetables, and a small loaf of bread. The Elantrians accepted the offerings thankfully but greedily. Most of them scurried away from the cart as soon as they received their meal, off to eat it in solitude. They still couldn’t believe that no one was going to take it away from them.
As Raoden worked, a familiar face appeared before him. Galladon wore his Elantris rags, as well as a tattered cloak they had made from dirty Elantris scavangings. The Dula held out his sack, and Raoden carefully switched it for one filled with five times the regular allotment; it was so full it was hard to lift with one weakened Elantrian hand. Galladon received the sack with an extended arm, the side of his cloak obscuring it from casual eyes. Then he was gone, disappearing through the crowd.
Saolin, Mareshe, and Karata would come as well, and each would receive a bag like Galladon’s. They would store what items they could, then give the rest to the Hoed. Some of the fallen were able to recognize food, and Raoden hoped that regular eating would help restore their minds.
So far, it wasn’t working.
The gate thumped as it shut, the sound reminding Raoden of his first day in Elantris. His pain then had only been emotional, and comparatively weak at that. If he had truly understood what he was getting into, he probably would have curled up and joined the Hoed right then and there.
He turned, putting his back to the gate. Mareshe and Galladon stood in the center of the courtyard, looking down at several boxes Sarene had left behind—fulfillment of Karata’s most recent demands.
“Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to transport those,” Raoden said, joining his friends. The last few times, they had ended up carrying the boxes back to New Elantris one at a time, their weakened Elantrian muscles straining at the effort.
“Of course, I have,” Mareshe said with a sniff. “At least, it should work.”
The small man retrieved a slim metal sheet from behind a pile of rubble. All four sides curved up slightly, and there were three ropes connected to the front.
“A sled?” Galladon asked.
“Coated with grease on the bottom,” Mareshe explained. “I couldn’t find any wheels in Elantris that weren’t rusted or rotted, but this should work—the slime on these streets will provide lubrication to keep it moving.”
Galladon grunted, obviously biting off some sarcastic comment. No matter how poorly Mareshe’s sled worked, it couldn’t be any worse than walking back and forth between the gate and the chapel a dozen times.
In fact, the sled functioned fairly well. Eventually, the grease rubbed away and the streets grew too narrow to avoid the patches of torn-up cobblestones—and, of course, dragging it along the slime-free streets of New Elantris was even more difficult. On the whole, however, even Galladon had to admit that the sled saved them quite a bit of time.
“He finally did something useful,” the Dula grunted after they had pulled up in front of the chapel.
Mareshe snorted indifferently, but Raoden could see the pleasure in his eyes. Galladon stubbornly refused to acknowledge the little man’s ingenuity; the Dula complained
that he didn’t want to further inflate Mareshe’s ego, something Raoden figured was just about impossible.
“Let’s see what the princess decided to send us this time,” Raoden said, prying open the first box.
“Watch out for snakes,” Galladon warned.
Raoden chuckled, dropping the lid to the cobblestones. The box contained several bales of cloth—all of which were a sickeningly bright orange.
Galladon scowled. “Sule, that has to be the most vile color I have ever seen in my life.”
“Agreed,” Raoden said with a smile.
“You don’t seem very disappointed.”
“Oh, I’m thoroughly revolted,” Raoden said. “I just enjoy seeing the ways she finds to spite us.”
Galladon grunted, moving to the second box as Raoden held up an edge of the cloth, studying it with a speculative eye. Galladon was right; it was a particularly garish color. The exchange of demands and goods between Sarene and the “gang leaders” had become something of a game: Mareshe and Karata spent hours deciding how to word their demands, but Sarene always seemed to find a way to turn the orders against them.
“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Galladon said, peering into the second box with a shake of his head.
“What?”
“It’s our steel,” the Dula explained. Last time they had asked for twenty sheets of steel, and Sarene had promptly delivered twenty plates of the metal pounded so thin they almost floated when dropped. This time they had asked for their steel by weight.
Galladon reached into the box and pulled out a handful of nails. Bent nails. “There must be thousands of them in here.”