“‘My lords and ladies of Arelon,’” Seinalan read, holding the paper before him as if it were a shining relic. “‘Let the will of your first king, Iadon of Kae, be known. I swear solemnly before Domi, my ancestors, and whatever other gods may be watching that this proclamation is lawful. If it be that I am dead or for some other reason unable to continue as your king, then let it be understood that I made this decree of sound mind, and it is binding according to the laws of our nation.
“‘I order that all titles of noble rank are to be frozen as they stand, to be handed down from generation to generation, father to son, as is commonly done in other nations. Let wealth no longer be the measure of a man’s nobility—those who have held to their rank this long have proven themselves worthy. The attached document is a codified list of inheritance laws patterned after those in Teod. Let this document become the law of our country.’”
Seinalan lowered the paper to a stunned room. There was no sound, except for a quiet exhale from beside Sarene. Finally, people began to speak in hushed, excited tones.
“So that’s what he was planning all along,” Roial said softly. “He knew how unstable his system was. He intended it that way. He let them go at each other’s throats just to see who would be strong enough, or treacherous enough, to survive.”
“A good plan, if an unconscionable one,” Shuden said. “Perhaps we underestimated Iadon’s craftiness.”
Seinalan still stood at the front of the room, eyeing the nobles with knowing looks.
“Why him?” Shuden asked.
“Because he’s absolute,” Sarene said. “Not even Hrathen would dare question the word of the patriarch—not yet, at least. If Seinalan says that order was made ten years ago, then everyone in Arelon is bound to agree with him.”
Shuden nodded. “Does this change our plans?”
“Not at all,” Roial said, shooting a look toward Telrii, whose expression had turned even darker than before. “It strengthens our claim—my union with Iadon’s house will be even more creditable.”
“Telrii still bothers me,” Sarene said as the patriarch added a few platitudes about the wisdom of adopting the inheritance system. “His claim is definitely weakened by this—but will he accept it?”
“He’ll have to,” Roial said with a smile. “None of the nobility would dare follow him now. Iadon’s proclamation grants the thing they have all been wanting—stable titles. The nobility aren’t going to risk crowning a man who has no valid blood claim to the throne. The legality of Iadon’s declaration doesn’t matter; everyone is going to act as if it were Church doctrine.”
Eondel’s soldiers were finally allowed to come forward and pick up the casket. Faced with no precedent regarding the proper burial of an Arelish king, Roial had turned to the culture most similar to his own: Teod. The Teos favored large ceremonies, often burying their greatest kings with an entire shipload of riches, if not the ship itself. While such was obviously unfit for Iadon, Roial had adapted other ideas. A Teoish funeral procession was a long, drawn-out exercise, often requiring the attendants to walk an hour or more to reach the prepared site. Roial had included this tradition, with a slight modification.
A line of carriages waited outside the palace. To Sarene, using vehicles seemed disrespectful, but Shuden had made a good point.
“Roial is planning to make a bid for the crown this very afternoon,” the Jindo had explained. “He can’t afford to offend the plush lords and ladies of Arelon by requiring a forced march all the way out of the city.”
Besides, Sarene had added to herself, why worry about disrespect? This is, after all, only Iadon.
With the carriages, it took only about fifteen minutes to reach the burial site. At first it looked like a large hole that had been excavated, but careful inspection would have shown it to be a natural depression in the earth that had been further deepened. Once again, Roial’s frugality had been behind the choice.
With little ceremony, Roial ordered the coffin lowered into the hole. A large group of workers began to build the mound over it.
Sarene was surprised how many nobles stayed to watch. The weather had turned cold lately, bringing a chill wind from the mountains. A drizzle hung in the air, clouds obscuring the sun. She had expected most of the nobility to trickle away after the first few shovels of dirt were thrown.
But they stayed, watching the work with silent eyes. Sarene, dressed for once in black, pulled her shawl close to ward off the cold. There was something in the eyes of those nobles. Iadon had been the first king of Arelon, his rule—short though it had been—the beginning of a tradition. People would recall Iadon’s name for centuries, and children would be taught how he had risen to power in a land whose gods were dead.
Was it any wonder he had turned to the Mysteries? With all he had seen—the glory of pre-Reod Elantris, then the death of an era thought eternal—was it any wonder he sought to control the chaos that seemed to reign in the land of the gods? Sarene though she understood Iadon a little bit better, standing in the chill dampness, watching the dirt slowly envelop his coffin.
Only when the last shovel of dirt was thrown, the last part of the mound patted down, did the Arelish nobility finally turn to leave. Their going was a quiet procession, and Sarene barely noticed. She stood for a while longer, looking at the king’s barrow in the rare afternoon fog. Iadon was gone; it was time for new leadership in Arelon.
A hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she turned to look into Roial’s comforting eyes. “We should get ready, Sarene.”
Sarene nodded and allowed herself to be led away.
Sarene knelt before the altar in the familiar, low-ceilinged Korathi chapel. She was alone; it was customary for a bride to have one last private communion with Domi before taking her marriage vows.
She was draped head to foot in white. She wore the dress that she had brought for her first wedding—a chaste, high-necked gown that her father had chosen. She wore white silken gloves that reached all the way to her shoulders, and her face was swathed in a thick veil—which, by tradition, wouldn’t be lifted until she entered the hallway where her fiancé waited.
She wasn’t certain what to pray about. Sarene considered herself religious, though she was nowhere near as devout as Eondel. Still, her fight for Teod was really a fight for the Korathi religion. She believed in Domi and regarded Him with reverence. She was faithful to the tenets the priests taught her—even if she was, perhaps, a little too headstrong.
Now it appeared that Domi had finally answered her prayers. He had delivered her a husband, though he was not at all what she had expected. Perhaps, she thought to herself, I should have been a little more specific.
There was no bitterness in the thought, however. She had known most of her life that she was meant for a marriage of policy, not of love. Roial really was one of the most decent men she had ever met—even if he was old enough to be her father, or even her grandfather. Still, she had heard of state marriages far more unbalanced; several Jindoeese kings were known to have taken brides as young as twelve years old.
So, her prayer was one of thanks. She recognized a blessing when she saw one: With Roial as her husband, she would be queen of Arelon. And, if Domi did decide to take Roial from her in a few years, she knew the duke’s promise was true. She would have another opportunity.
Please, she added as a close to her simple prayer, just let us be happy.
Her lady attendants waited outside, most of them daughters of nobility. Kaise was there, looking very solemn in her little white dress, as was Torena. They held Sarene’s long, cloaklike train as she walked the short distance to her carriage, then again as she alighted and entered the palace.
The throne-room doors were open, and Roial stood in a white suit near the front of the room. It was his intention to sit in the throne as soon as the ceremony was finished. If the duke did not make his claim in a forceful, unquestionable manner, then Telrii might still try to seize control.
The diminutive Fat
her Omin stood beside the throne, clutching the large tome of the Do-Korath. There was a dreamy look on his face; the little priest obviously enjoyed weddings. Seinalan stood beside him, petulant that Sarene hadn’t asked him to officiate. She didn’t really care. Living in Teod, she had always assumed that the patriarch would wed her. Now that she had an opportunity to use a priest she actually liked, she wasn’t going to give in.
She stepped into the room, and all eyes turned toward her. There were as many people at the wedding as there had been at the funeral—if not more. Iadon’s funeral had been an important political event, but Roial’s marriage was even more vital. The nobility would see it as paramount that they begin Roial’s reign with the proper level of sycophantic flattery.
Even the gyorn Hrathen was there. It was odd, Sarene thought, that his face appeared so calm. Her wedding to Roial was going to be a major obstacle to his conversion plans. For the moment, however, Sarene put the Fjordell priest out of her mind. She had been waiting for this day for a long time, and even if it wasn’t what she had once hoped for, she would make the best of it.
It was finally happening. After all the waiting, after two near misses, she was actually going to get married. With that thought, both terrifying and vindicating, she raised her veil.
The screaming started immediately.
Confused, mortified, and shocked, Sarene reached to pull off her veil, thinking perhaps that there was something wrong with it. When it came off, her hair went with it. Sarene stared down at the long tresses with stupefaction. Her hands began to shake. She looked up. Roial was stunned, Seinalan outraged, and even Omin clutched his Korathi pendant with shock.
Sarene turned frantically, her eyes finding one of the broad mirrors on either side of the throne room. The face that stared back was not her own. It was a repulsive thing covered with black spots, defects that stood out even more markedly against her white dress. Only a few fugitive strands of hair still clung to her diseased scalp.
Inexplicable and mysterious, the Shaod had come upon her.
CHAPTER 39
Hrathen watched several Korathi priests lead the stunned princess from the quiet room. “Such are the judgments of Holy Jaddeth,” he announced.
The duke, Roial, sat on the edge of the throne dais, head held between his hands. The young Jindo baron looked as if he wanted to follow the priests and demand Sarene’s release, and the martial Count Eondel was weeping openly. Hrathen was surprised to realize that he took no joy from their sorrow. Princess Sarene’s fall was necessary, but her friends were of no concern—or, at least, they shouldn’t be. Why was he bothered that no one had shed tears at his own fall before the Shaod?
Hrathen had begun to think that the poison would take effect too late, that the surprise marriage between Sarene and Roial would go forward unchallenged. Of course, Sarene’s fall would probably have been just as disastrous after the marriage—unless Roial had intended to take the throne this very evening. It was an uncomfortable possibility. One, fortunately, Hrathen would never have the opportunity to see fulfilled.
Roial wouldn’t crown himself now. Not only did he lack the legal right, but his fortune was still less than that of Telrii. Hrathen had checked the wedding contract—this time a death was not the same as a marriage.
Hrathen pushed his way through the stunned crowd toward the exit. He had to work quickly: Sarene’s potion would wear off in five days. Duke Telrii met Hrathen’s eyes as he passed, nodding with a respectful smile. The man had received Hrathen’s message, and had not acted against the wedding. Now his faith would be rewarded.
The conquest of Arelon was almost complete.
CHAPTER 40
“There should be a way to get up there,” Raoden said, shading his eyes as he looked at the Elantris city wall. During the last few hours the sun had emerged, burning away the morning mists. It hadn’t, however, brought much warmth with it.
Galladon frowned. “I don’t see how, sule. Those walls are rather high.”
“You forget, my friend,” Raoden said, “the walls weren’t made to keep people in, or even really to keep enemies out. The old Elantrians built stairs and viewing platforms on the outside of the wall—there should be others in here.”
Galladon grunted. Ever since the Guards had mysteriously disappeared from the walls, Raoden had wanted to find a way up. The walls belonged to Elantris, not the outside world. From them, perhaps they could find out what was happening in Kae.
The Guard’s inattentiveness bothered him. The disappearance was fortunate, in a way; it lessened the possibility that someone would notice New Elantris. However, Raoden could only think of a couple of reasons why the soldiers would leave their post on the walls, and the most likely one was also the most worrisome. Could the East finally have invaded?
Raoden knew that an invasion was all too possible. Wyrn was too opportunistic to let a gem like post-Reod Arelon go unmolested forever. Fjorden would attack eventually. And, if Arelon fell before Wyrn’s holy war, then Elantris would be destroyed. The Derethi priests would see to that.
Raoden didn’t voice his fears to the other Elantrians, but he did act on them. If he could place men on the walls, then he would have prior warning of an army’s approach. Perhaps with advance notice, Raoden would have time to hide his people. One of the three empty, ruined towns outside of Elantris was probably their best hope. He would lead them there, if he had the chance.
Assuming he was in any condition to help. The Dor had come against him twice in the last four days. Fortunately, while the pain was growing stronger, so was his resolve. Now, at least, he understood.
“There,” Galladon said, pointing to an outcropping.
Raoden nodded. There was a chance the stone column held a stairwell. “Let’s go.”
They were far from New Elantris, which was positioned in the center of the city to hide it from prying wall-top eyes. Here, in old Elantris, the slime still covered all. Raoden smiled: The dirt and grime was becoming repulsive to him again. For a while he had almost forgotten how disgusting it was.
They didn’t get very far. Soon after Galladon pointed out the stairwell, a messenger from New Elantris appeared from a side street behind them. The man approached on quick feet, waving toward Raoden.
“My lord Spirit,” the man said.
“Yes, Tenrao?” Raoden asked, turning.
“A newcomer has been thrown into the city, my lord.”
Raoden nodded. He preferred to greet each newcomer personally. “Shall we go?” he asked Galladon.
“The walls will wait,” the Dula agreed.
The newcomer turned out to be a she. The woman sat with her back to the gate, her knees pulled up against her chest, her head buried in her sacrificial robes.
“She’s a feisty one, my lord,” said Dashe, who had been serving as watcher when the newcomer arrived. “She screamed at the gate for a full ten minutes after they tossed her in. Then she threw her offering basket against the wall and sank down like she is now.”
Raoden nodded. Most newcomers were too stunned to do much besides wander. This one had strength.
Raoden gestured for the others to remain behind; he didn’t want to make her nervous by bringing a crowd. He strolled forward until he was directly in front of her, then squatted down to regard her at eye level.
“Hello, there,” he said affably. “I’m willing to guess you’ve had an awful day.”
The woman looked up. When he saw her face, Raoden nearly lost his balance in surprise. Her skin was splotched and her hair was missing, but she had the same thin face and round, mischievous eyes. Princess Sarene. His wife.
“You don’t know the half of it, Spirit,” she said, a small, ironic smile coming to her lips.
“I’ll bet I understand more than you think I do,” Raoden said. “I’m here to make things a little less dreary.”
“What?” Sarene asked, her voice suddenly turning bitter. “Are you going to steal the offering the priests gave me?”
“Well, I will if you really want me to,” Raoden said. “Though I don’t think we need it. Someone was kind enough to deliver us several large batches of food a few weeks back.”
Sarene regarded him with hostile eyes. She hadn’t forgotten his betrayal.
“Come with me,” he urged, holding out his hand.
“I don’t trust you anymore, Spirit.”
“Did you ever?”
Sarene paused, then shook her head. “I wanted to, but I knew that I shouldn’t.”
“Then you never really gave me a chance, did you?” He stretched his hand out a little closer. “Come with me.”
She regarded him for a moment, studying his eyes. Eventually she reached out her fine, thin-fingered hand and placed it in his own for the first time, allowing him to pull her to her feet.
CHAPTER 41
The sudden change was nothing less than stupefying. It was as if Sarene had stepped from darkness into sunlight, burst from brackish water into warm air. The dirt and grime of Elantris stopped in a crisp line, beyond which the cobblestones were pure and white. Anywhere else the street’s simple cleanliness would have been noticeable, but not remarkable. Here, with the rot of Elantris behind her, it seemed as if Sarene had stumbled into Domi’s Paradise.
She stopped before the stone gate, staring at the city-within-a-city, her eyes wide and disbelieving. People talked and worked within, each bearing the cursed skin of an Elantrian, but each wearing a pleasant smile as well. None wore the rags she had assumed were the only available clothing in Elantris; their outfits were simple skirts or trousers and a shirt. The cloth was strikingly colorful. With amazement Sarene realized that these were the colors she had chosen. What she had seen as offensive, however, the people wore with joy—the bright yellows, greens, and reds highlighting their cheerfulness.
These were not the people she had seen just a few weeks before, pathetic and begging for food. They looked as if they belonged to some pastoral village of lore—people who expressed a good-natured joviality Sarene had thought unrealistic in the real world. Yet, they lived in the one place everyone knew was even more horrible than the real world.