“It isn’t as horrid as you think, Raoden,” she said, running her fingers across his face. “They say your bodies are like corpses, but that isn’t true. Your skin may be discolored and a little wrinkled, but there is still flesh underneath.”
Her finger found the cut on his cheek, and she gasped slightly. “I did this, didn’t I?”
Raoden nodded. “As I said—I had no idea how good of a fencer you are.”
Sarene ran her finger down the wound. “It confused me terribly when I couldn’t find the wound. Why does the illusion show your expressions, but not a cut?”
“It’s complicated,” Raoden said. “You have to link each muscle in the face with its companion in the illusion. I could never have figured it out myself—the equations are all in one of my books.”
“But you altered the illusion so quickly last night, changing from Kaloo to Raoden.”
He smiled. “That’s because I had two illusions on, one connected to my undershirt and the other to my coat. As soon as I dissolved the one on the top, the one underneath showed. I’m just glad it looks enough like me that the others recognized it. There weren’t, of course, any equations describing how to create my own face—I had to figure that out on my own.”
“You did a good job.”
“I extrapolated from my Elantrian face, telling the illusion to use it as a base.” He smiled. “You’re a lucky woman, having a man who can change faces at any time. You’ll never get bored.”
Sarene snorted. “I like this one just fine. This is the face that loved me when it thought I was an Elantrian, all rank and title abandoned.”
“You think you can get used to this?” Raoden asked.
“Raoden, I was going to marry Roial last week. He was a dear old man, but he was so incredibly homely that rocks looked handsome when he stood next to them.”
Raoden laughed. Despite everything—Telrii, Hrathen, and poor Roial’s demise—his heart was jubilant.
“What are they doing?” Sarene said, looking back at the palace.
Raoden turned to follow her view—an action that bumped Sarene forward slightly. She reacted by locking a deathlike grip on Raoden’s shoulder, her fingers biting into his flesh. “Don’t do that!”
“Oops,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I forgot about your fear of heights.”
“I am not afraid of heights,” Sarene said, still holding on to his arm. “I just get dizzy.”
“Of course,” Raoden said, squinting at the palace. He could barely make out a group of soldiers doing something in the grounds before the building. They were laying out blankets or sheets of some sort.
“It’s too far,” Sarene said. “Where is Ashe?”
Raoden reached up and sketched Aon Nae—a large circular character—in the air before them. When he was finished, the air inside Aon Nae’s circle rippled like water, then cleared to show a magnified view of the city. Placing his palm in the center of the circle, Raoden maneuvered the Aon until it was pointing at the palace. The view unblurred itself, and they were able to see the soldiers with such detail that they could read their rank insignias.
“That’s useful,” Sarene noted as Raoden raised the Aon slightly. The soldiers were indeed laying out sheets—sheets with what appeared to be bodies on them. Raoden grew cold as he moved the disk along the line of corpses. The last two corpses in the row were familiar.
Sarene gasped in horror as Eondel’s and Telrii’s dead faces came into focus.
CHAPTER 56
“He attacked late last night, my lady,” Ashe explained.
The remaining members of their group—Kiin, Lukel, and Shuden—were gathered atop the house, watching as Raoden focused his Aon spyglass on the funeral pyres being built in the palace courtyard.
Baron Shuden sat morosely on the stone roof, shaking his head in disbelief. Sarene held the young Jindo’s hand in an attempt to provide comfort, painfully aware of how difficult the last few days must have been for him. His future father-in-law had turned out to be a traitor, Torena had reportedly disappeared, and now his best friend was dead.
“He was a brave man,” Kiin said, standing beside Raoden.
“That was never in question,” Raoden said. “His actions were foolish nonetheless.”
“He did it for honor, Raoden,” Sarene said, looking up from the despondent Shuden. “Telrii murdered a great man last night—Eondel acted to avenge the duke.”
Raoden shook his head. “Revenge is always a foolish motivation, Sarene. Now we have lost not only Roial, but Eondel as well. The people are left with their second dead king in the space of a few weeks.”
Sarene let the matter drop. Raoden spoke as a ruler, not as a friend. He couldn’t afford to give Eondel leeway, even in death, because of the situation the count had created.
The soldiers did not wait on ceremony to immolate the fallen men. They simply lit the pyre, then saluted en masse as the bodies burned away. Whatever else could be said about the Guard, they performed this one duty with solemnity and honor.
“There,” Raoden said, pointing his Aon at a detachment of about fifty soldiers who left the pyre and galloped toward Kiin’s house. All wore the brown capes that marked them as officers in the Elantris City Guard.
“This could be bad,” Kiin said.
“Or it could be good,” Raoden said.
Kiin shook his head. “We should collapse the entryway. Let them try to break down my door with a ton of stone behind it.”
“No,” Raoden said. “Trapping us inside won’t do any good. I want to meet with them.”
“There are other ways out of the building,” Kiin said.
“Still, wait for my command to collapse your entryway, Kiin,” Raoden said. “That is an order.”
Kiin ground his teeth for a moment, then nodded. “All right, Raoden, but not because you order it—but because I trust you. My son may call you king, but I accept the rule of no man.”
Sarene regarded her uncle with a look of shocked surprise. She had never seen him speak in such a manner; he was usually so jovial, like a happy circus bear. Now his face was flat and grim, covered with whiskers he had allowed to start growing the moment Iadon was found dead. Gone was the brusque but compliant chef, and in his place was a man who seemed more like a grizzled admiral from her father’s navy.
“Thank you, Kiin,” Raoden said.
Her uncle nodded. The horsemen approached quickly, fanning out to surround Kiin’s hilltop fortress. Noticing Raoden on the roof, one of the soldiers urged his horse a few steps closer.
“We have heard rumors that Lord Raoden, crown prince of Arelon, still lives,” the man announced. “If there is truth to this, let him come forward. Our country has need of a king.”
Kiin untensed visibly, and Raoden let out a quiet sigh. The Guard officers stood in a row, still mounted, and even from the short distance, Raoden could see their faces. They were harried, confused, yet hopeful.
“We have to move quickly, before that gyorn can respond,” Raoden said to his friends. “Send messengers to the nobility—I plan to hold my coronation within the hour.”
Raoden strode into the palace throne room. Beside the throne dais stood Sarene and the young-looking patriarch of the Korathi religion. Raoden had only just met the man, but Sarene’s description of him had been accurate. Long golden hair, a smile that claimed to know things it didn’t, and a self-important air were his most striking features. However, Raoden needed him. The statement made by choosing the patriarch of Shu-Korath to crown him was an important precedent.
Sarene smiled encouragingly as Raoden approached. It amazed him how much she had to give, considering what she had been through recently. He joined her on the dais, then turned to regard the nobility of Arelon.
He recognized most of the faces. Many of them had supported him before his exile. Now most were simply confused. His appearance had been sudden, as had Telrii’s death. Rumors were widespread that Raoden had been behind the assassination, but mo
st of the people didn’t seem to care. Their eyes were dull from the shock, and they were beginning to show the wearied signs of extended stress.
It will change now, Raoden promised them silently. No more questioning. No more uncertainty. We will put forth a united front, with Teod, and face Fjorden.
“My lords and ladies,” Raoden said. “People of Arelon. Our poor kingdom has suffered too much over the last ten years. Let us set it at right once again. With this crown, I promise—”
He froze. He felt … a power. At first, he thought the Dor was attacking. However, he realized this was something else—something he had never experienced before. Something external.
Someone else was manipulating the Dor.
He searched through the crowd, masking his surprise. His eyes fell on a small red-robed form almost invisible among the noblemen. The power was coming from him.
A Derethi priest? Raoden thought incredulously. The man was smiling, and his hair was blond beneath his hood. What?
The mood of the congregation changed. Several people fainted immediately, but most simply stared. Dumbfounded. Shocked. Yet somehow unsurprised. They had been beaten down so much, they had expected something horrible to happen. Without checking, Raoden knew that his illusion had fallen.
The patriarch gasped, dropping the crown as he stumbled away. Raoden looked back to the crowd, his stomach sick. He had been so close….
A voice came at his side. “Look at him, nobles of Arelon!” Sarene declared. “Look at the man who would have been your king. Look at his dark skin and his Elantrian face! Then, tell me. Does it really matter?”
The crowd was quiet.
“Ten years you were ruled by a tyrant because you rejected Elantris,” Sarene said. “You were the privileged, the wealthy, but in a way you were the most oppressed, for you could never be secure. Were your titles worth your freedom?
“This is the man who loved you when all others sought to steal your pride. I ask you this: Can being an Elantrian make him any worse a king than Iadon or Telrii?”
She knelt before him. “I, for one, accept his rule.”
Raoden watched the crowd tensely. Then, one at a time, they began to kneel. It began with Shuden and Lukel, who stood near the front of the crowd, but it soon spread to the others. Like a wave, the forms knelt—some in a stupor, others with resignation. Some, however, dared to be happy.
Sarene reached down and snatched up the fallen crown. It was a simple thing—no more than a hastily constructed gold band—but it represented so much. With Seinalan stunned, the princess of Teod took his duty upon herself and, reaching up, placed the crown on Raoden’s head.
“Behold, your king!” she exclaimed.
Some of the people actually started cheering.
One man was not cheering, but hissing. Dilaf looked as if he wanted to claw his way through the crowd and rip Raoden apart with his bare hands. The people, whose cheers increased from a few scattered yells to a general exclamation of approval, kept him back. The priest looked around him with loathing, then forced his way through the crowd and escaped through the doors, out into a darkening city.
Sarene ignored the priest, instead looking over at Raoden. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” she said, kissing him lightly.
“I can’t believe they accepted me,” Raoden said with wonder.
“Ten years ago they rejected the Elantrians,” Sarene said, “and found that a man could be a monster no matter what he looked like. They’re finally ready to accept a ruler not because he’s a god or because he has money, but because they know he will lead them well.”
Raoden smiled. “Of course, it helps when that ruler has a wife who can deliver a moving speech at precisely the right moment.”
“True.”
Raoden turned, looking out over the crowd toward the fleeing Dilaf. “Who was that?”
“Just one of Hrathen’s priests,” Sarene said dismissively. “I imagine he isn’t having a very good day—Dilaf is known for his hatred of Elantrians.”
Raoden didn’t seem to think her dismissal was justified. “Something’s wrong, Sarene. Why did my illusion drop?”
“You didn’t do that?”
Raoden shook his head. “I … I think that priest did it.”
“What?”
“I sensed the Dor the moment before my Aon fell, and it was coming from that priest.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Can I borrow Ashe?”
“Of course,” Sarene said, waving the Seon closer.
“Ashe, would you deliver a message for me?” Raoden asked.
“Of course, my lord,” the Seon said with a bob.
“Find Galladon in New Elantris and tell him what just happened,” Raoden said. “Then warn him to be ready for something.”
“For what, my lord?”
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “Just tell him to be prepared—and tell him that I’m worried.”
CHAPTER 57
Hrathen watched as “Raoden” strode into the throne room. No one challenged the impostor’s claim—this man, Raoden or not, would soon be king. Sarene’s move was a brilliant stroke. Telrii assassinated, a pretender on the throne … Hrathen’s plans were in serious danger.
Hrathen eyed this pretender, feeling an odd surge of hatred as he saw the way that Sarene looked at the man. Hrathen could see the love in her eyes. Could that foolish adoration really be serious? Where had this man come from so suddenly? And how had he managed to capture Sarene, who was normally so discerning?
Regardless, she had apparently given her heart to him. Logically, Hrathen knew his jealousy was foolish. Hrathen’s own relationship with the girl had been one of antagonism, not of affection. Why should he be jealous of another man? No, Hrathen needed to be levelheaded. Only one month remained until the armies of united Derethi would wash over Arelon, slaughtering the people—Sarene included. Hrathen had to work quickly if he was going to find a way to convert the kingdom with so little time remaining.
Hrathen pulled back as Raoden began the coronation. Many a king ordered his enemies’ incarceration as a first royal decree, and Hrathen didn’t want his presence to give the impostor a reminder.
He was, however, close enough to the front to witness the transformation. Hrathen was confused by the sight; the Shaod was supposed to come suddenly, but not that suddenly. The oddity forced him to reconsider his assumptions. What if Raoden hadn’t died? What if he had been hiding in Elantris all along? Hrathen had found a way to feign being an Elantrian. What if this man had done the same?
Hrathen was shocked by the transformation, but he was even more shocked when the people of Arelon did nothing about it. Sarene gave her speech, and people just stood dully. They did not stop her from crowning the Elantrian king.
Hrathen felt sick. He turned, and by happenstance he saw Dilaf slipping away from the crowd. Hrathen trailed behind—for once, he shared Dilaf’s disgust. He was amazed that the people of Arelon could act so illogically.
At that moment, Hrathen realized his mistake. Dilaf had been right: If Hrathen had focused more on Elantris, the people would have been too disgusted to grant Raoden kingship. Hrathen had neglected to instill in his followers a true sense of Jaddeth’s holy will. He had used popularity to convert, rather than doctrine. The result was a fickle congregation, capable of returning to their old ways as quickly as they had left.
It is this cursed deadline! Hrathen thought to himself as he strode down Kae’s quickly darkening evening streets. Three months was not enough time to build a stable following.
Ahead of him, Dilaf turned down a side street. Hrathen paused. That wasn’t the way to the chapel—it was the way to the center of the city. Curiosity overcoming brooding, Hrathen turned to follow the arteth, staying far enough behind to diffuse the clicking of his armored feet on the cobblestones. He needn’t have worried; the arteth strode through the blackening night with single-minded purpose, not bothering to look back.
Dusk had almost passed, and darkness c
loaked the market square. Hrathen lost track of Dilaf in the waning light and stopped, looking around at the quiet tents.
Suddenly, lights appeared around him.
A hundred torches winked into existence from within dozens of different tents. Hrathen frowned, and then his eyes opened wide as men began to pour from the tents, torchlight glistening off bare backs.
Hrathen stumbled back in horror. He knew those twisted figures. Arms like knotted tree branches. Skin pulled tight over strange ridges and unspoken symbols.
Though the night was quiet, memories howled in Hrathen’s ears. The tents and merchants had been a ruse. That was why so many Fjordells had come to the Arelene Market despite the political chaos, and that was why they had stayed when others left. They weren’t merchants at all, but warriors. The invasion of Arelon was to begin a month early.
Wyrn had sent the monks of Dakhor.
CHAPTER 58
Raoden awoke to strange sounds. He lay disoriented for a moment in Roial’s mansion. The wedding wasn’t slated to happen until the following afternoon, and so Raoden had chosen to sleep in Kaloo’s rooms back in Roial’s mansion instead of staying at Kiin’s house, where Sarene had already taken the guest bedroom.
The sounds came again—sounds of fighting.
Raoden leaped from his bed and threw open the balcony doors, staring out over the gardens and into Kae. Smoke billowed in the night sky, fires blazing throughout the city. Screams were audible, rising from the darkness like the cries of the damned, and metal clanged against metal from someplace nearby.
Hurriedly throwing on a jacket, Raoden rushed through the mansion. Turning a corner, he stumbled across a squad of Guardsmen battling for their lives against a group of … demons.
They were bare-chested, and their eyes seemed to burn. They looked like men, but their flesh was ridged and disfigured, as if a carved piece of metal had somehow been inserted beneath the skin. One of Raoden’s soldiers scored a hit, but the weapon left barely a mark—scratching where it should have sliced. A dozen soldiers lay dying on the floor, but the five demons looked unharmed. The remaining soldiers fought with terror, their weapons ineffective, their members dying one by one.