“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 priests 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 lead a chapel 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 out 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 passion. It was not a bad thing; while Hrathen himself spurned such lack of control, he had often found zealots to be useful tools.
“Jaddeth always provides a way, Arteth,” Hrathen said carefully. “Be more specific.”
“I met a Derethi arteth in Duladel twelve years ago. He preached to me, and I believed. He gave me copies of the Do-Keseg and the Do-Dereth, and I read them both in one night. The holy arteth sent me back to Arelon to help convert those in my home country, and I set up in Rain. I taught there for seven years, until the day I heard that a Derethi chapel had been built in Kae itself. I overcame my loathing for the Elantrians, knowing that Holy Jaddeth had struck them down with an eternal punishment, and came to join with my Fjordell brethren.