“I’m not sure,” Raoden said. A few moments earlier he had hesitantly redrawn Aon Ehe with the same modifications, creating the complex rune that was supposed to form another column of flame. Instead, the Aon had barely sputtered out enough fire to warm a cup of tea. He suspected that the first explosion had something do with the Dor’s surge through him … an expression of its long-awaited freedom.
“Perhaps there was some sort of buildup in the Dor,” Raoden said. “Like a pocket of gas trapped in the top of a cave. The first Aon I drew drained that reserve.”
Galladon shrugged. There was just so much they didn’t understand. Raoden sat for a moment, eyes falling on one of his tomes, a thought occurring.
He rushed over to his stack of AonDor books, selecting a large volume that contained nothing but page after page of Aon diagrams. Galladon, whom he had left behind midsentence, followed with a grumpy expression, peeking over Raoden’s shoulder at the page Raoden chose.
The Aon was extensive and complex. Raoden had to take several steps to the side as he drew it, the modifications and stipulations going far beyond the central Aon. His arm ached by the time he had finished, and the construction hung in the air like a wall of glowing lines. Then, it began to gleam, and the sheet of inscriptions twisted, turning and wrapping around Raoden. Galladon yelped in surprise at the suddenly bright light.
In a few seconds, the light vanished. Raoden could tell from the startled look on Galladon’s face that he had been successful.
“Sule … you’ve done it! You’ve healed yourself!”
“I’m afraid not,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “It’s only an illusion. Look.” He held up his hands, which were still gray and spotted with black. His face, however, was different. He walked over, regarding his reflection in a polished plaque on the end of a bookshelf.
The garbled image showed an unfamiliar face—it was free from spots, true, but it didn’t look anything like his real face had before the Shaod had taken him.
“An illusion?” Galladon asked.
Raoden nodded. “It’s based on Aon Shao, but there are so many things mixed in that the base Aon is almost irrelevant.”
“But it shouldn’t work on you,” Galladon said. “I thought we decided the Aons couldn’t target Elantrians.”
“It doesn’t,” Raoden said, turning. “It targets my shirt. The illusion is like an article of clothing—it only covers up my skin; it doesn’t change anything.”
“Then what good is it?”
Raoden smiled. “It is going to get us out of Elantris, my friend.”
CHAPTER 50
“What took you so long?”
“I couldn’t find Spirit, my lady,” Ashe explained, floating into her carriage window. “So I had to deliver the message to Master Galladon. After that, I went to check on King Telrii.”
Sarene tapped her cheek with annoyance. “How is he doing, then?”
“Galladon or the king, my lady?”
“The king.”
“His Majesty is quite busy lounging in his palace while half of Arelon’s nobility waits outside,” the Seon said with a disapproving tone. “I believe his largest current complaint is that there aren’t enough young women left on the palace staff.”
“We’ve exchanged one idiot for another,” Sarene said with a shake of her head. “How did that man ever acquire enough wealth to become a duke?”
“He didn’t, my lady,” Ashe explained. “His brother did most of the work. Telrii inherited upon the man’s death.”
Sarene sighed, leaning back as the carriage hit a bump. “Is Hrathen there?”
“Often, my lady,” Ashe said. “Apparently, he visits the king on a daily basis.”
“What are they waiting for?” Sarene asked with frustration. “Why doesn’t Telrii just convert?”
“No one is certain, my lady.”
Sarene frowned. The continued game left her baffled. It was well known that Telrii had attended Derethi meetings, and there was no reason for him to maintain an illusion of Korathi conservatism. “No new news on that proclamation the gyorn has supposedly drafted?” she asked with trepidation.
“No, my lady,” came the blessed reply. Rumors claimed that Hrathen had drawn up a bill that would force all of Arelon to convert to Shu-Dereth or face incarceration. Though the merchants put on a face of normalcy, holding the spring Arelene Market, the entire city was on edge with a sense of tense anxiety.
Sarene could easily imagine the future. Soon Wyrn would send a fleet of priests into Arelon, followed closely by his warrior monks. Telrii, at first a sympathizer, then a convert, would eventually become less than a pawn. In just a few years Arelon wouldn’t be just a country of Derethi believers, but a virtual extension of Fjorden itself.
Once Hrathen’s bill passed, the priest would waste no time in arresting Sarene and the others. They would be locked away or, more likely, executed. After that, there would be no one to oppose Fjorden. The entire civilized world would belong to Wyrn, a final fulfillment of the Old Empire’s dream.
And yet, despite all of this, her allies debated and talked. None of them believed that Telrii would actually sign a document forcing conversion; such atrocities didn’t happen in their world. Arelon was a peaceful kingdom; even the so-called riots of a decade past hadn’t been that destructive—unless one was an Elantrian. Her friends wanted to move carefully. Their caution was understandable, laudable even, but their timing was terrible. It was a good thing she had an opportunity to practice fencing this day. She needed to release a little aggression.
As if in response to her thoughts, the carriage pulled to a halt in front of Roial’s manor. In the wake of Telrii’s move into the palace, the women had relocated their fencing practice to the old duke’s gardens. The weather of late had been warm and breezy, as if spring had decided to stay this time, and Duke Roial had welcomed them.
Sarene had been surprised when the women insisted that they continue the fencing practice. However, the ladies had shown strength in their resolve. This one meeting would continue, every second day, as it had for over a month now. Apparently, Sarene wasn’t the only one who needed an opportunity to work out her frustration with a sword.
She climbed out of the carriage, dressed in her usual white jumpsuit and wearing her new wig. As she rounded the building, she could make out the sounds of syres clashing in the background. With shade and a wooden floor, Roial’s garden pavilion was a perfect place for practice. Most of the women had already arrived, and they greeted Sarene with smiles and curtsies. None of them had quite gotten over her sudden return from Elantris; now they regarded her with even more respect, and fear, than they had before. Sarene nodded back with polite affection. She liked these women, even if she could never be one of them.
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.
Sar
ene 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 cliché 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 Kaloo—which 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 will 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 across 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 pre-sumptuousness.