So Raoden let his mind wander too. He couldn’t stop thinking of a conversation he had held with Galladon earlier in the day, a conversation initiated because of a piece of bone. The bone, retrieved from the body of a dead Fjordell monk, was deformed and twisted—yet it was more beautiful than disgusting. It was like a carved piece of ivory, or a bundle of engraved wooden rods all twisted together. Most disturbingly, Raoden swore he could make out slightly familiar symbols in the carving. Symbols he recognized from his schooling—ancient Fjordell characters.
The Derethi monks had devised their own version of AonDor.
The worry pressed on his mind with such vigor that it drew his attention even in the middle of his own wedding. Over the centuries, only one thing had kept Fjorden from conquering the West: Elantris. If Wyrn had learned to access the Dor … Raoden kept remembering Dilaf and his strange ability to resist, and even destroy, Aons. If a few more of the monks had possessed that power, then the battle could easily have gone another way.
Ien’s familiar bubble-like ball of light floated approvingly at Raoden’s side. The Seon’s restoration almost made up for the dear friends Raoden had lost during the final battle to restore Elantris. Karata and the others would be missed. Ien claimed to remember nothing of his time of madness, but something seemed a little … different about the Seon. He was more quiet than normal, even more thoughtful. As soon as he had some free time, Raoden planned to interrogate the other Elantrians in the hopes of discovering more about the Seons. It disturbed him that throughout his studies, readings, and learning, he had never discovered exactly how Seons were created—if, indeed, they were even creations of AonDor.
That wasn’t the only thing that bothered him, however. There was also the question of Shuden’s strange ChayShan dance. Onlookers, including Lukel, claimed that the Jindo had managed to defeat one of Dilaf’s monks alone—with his eyes closed. Some even said they had seen the young baron glowing as he fought. Raoden was beginning to suspect there was more than one way to access the Dor—far more. And one of those methods was in the hands of the most brutal, domineering tyrant in Opelon: Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Regent of All Creation.
Apparently, Sarene noticed Raoden’s inattention, for she elbowed him in the side when Omin’s speech began to wind down. Ever the stateswoman, she was poised, in control, and alert. Not to mention beautiful.
They performed the ceremony, exchanging Korathi pendants that bore Aon Omi and pledging their lives and deaths to one another. The pendant he gave to Sarene had been delicately carved from pure jade by Taan himself, then overlaid with bands of gold to match her hair. Sarene’s own gift was less extravagant, but equally fitting. Somewhere she had found a heavy black stone that polished up as if it were metal, and its reflective darkness complimented Raoden’s silvery skin.
With that, Omin proclaimed to all of Arelon that its king was married. The cheering began, and Sarene leaned over to kiss him.
“Was it everything you hoped for?” Raoden asked. “You said you have been anticipating this moment for your entire life.”
“It was wonderful,” Sarene replied. “However, there is one thing I have looked forward to even more than my wedding.”
Raoden raised an eyebrow.
She smiled mischievously. “The wedding night.”
Raoden laughed his reply, wondering what he had gotten himself, and Arelon, into by bringing Sarene to Arelon.
EPILOGUE
The day was warm and bright, a complete contrast to the day of Iadon’s burial. Sarene stood outside Kae, regarding the former king’s barrow. Everything Iadon had fought for had been overturned; Elantris had been revitalized and serfdom proclaimed illegal. Of course, his son did sit on the throne of Arelon, even if that throne was inside of Elantris now.
Only a week had passed since the wedding, but so much had happened. Raoden had ended up allowing the nobility to keep their titles, though he had first tried to abolish the entire system. The people wouldn’t have it. It seemed unnatural for there not to be counts, barons, or other lords. So, Raoden had instead twisted the system to his own ends. He made each lord a servant of Elantris, charging them with the responsibility of caring for the people in remote parts of the country. The nobility became less aristocrats and more food distributors—which, in a way, was what they should have been in the first place.
Sarene watched him now, speaking with Shuden and Lukel, his skin glowing even in the sunlight. The priests who said the fall of Elantris had revealed its occupants’ true selves had not known Raoden. This was the true him, the glowing beacon, the powerful source of pride and hope. No matter how metallically bright his skin became, it could never match the radiance of his soul.
Beside Raoden stood the quiet Galladon, his skin glowing as well, though in a different way. It was darker, like polished iron, a remnant of his Duladen heritage. The large man’s head was still bald. Sarene had been surprised at that fact, for all the other Elantrians had grown heads of white hair. When asked about the oddity, Galladon had simply shrugged in his characteristic manner, mumbling, “Seems right to me. I’ve been bald since I hit my third decade. Kolo?”
Just behind Raoden and Lukel, she could make out the silver-skinned form of Adien, Daora’s second son. According to Lukel, the Shaod had taken Adien five years before, but the family had determined to cover up his transformation with makeup rather than throw him into Elantris.
Adien’s true nature was no more baffling than that of his father. Kiin hadn’t been willing to explain much, but Sarene saw the confirmation in her uncle’s eyes. Just over ten years ago, he had led his fleets against Sarene’s father in an attempt to steal the throne—a throne that Sarene was beginning to believe might legally have belonged to Kiin. If it was true that Kiin was the older brother, then he should have inherited, not Eventeo. Her father still wouldn’t speak on the subject, but she intended to get her answers eventually.
As she pondered, she noticed a carriage pulling up to the grave site. The door opened and Torena climbed out, leading her overweight father, Count Ahan. Ahan hadn’t been the same since Roial’s death; he spoke in a dazed, sickly voice, and he had lost an alarming amount of weight. The others hadn’t forgiven him for his part in the duke’s execution, but their scorn could never match the self-loathing he must feel.
Raoden caught her eye, nodding slightly. It was time. Sarene strode past Iadon’s grave and four just like it—the resting places of Roial, Eondel, Karata, and a man named Saolin. This last barrow held no body, but Raoden had insisted that it be raised with the others.
This area was to become a memorial, a way of remembering those who had fought for Arelon—as well as the man who had tried to crush it. Every lesson had two sides. It was as important for them to remember Iadon’s sickening greed as it was to remember Roial’s sacrifice.
She slowly approached one final grave. The earth was raised high like the others, forming a barrow that would someday be covered with grass and foliage. For now, however, it was barren, the freshly piled earth still soft. Sarene hadn’t needed to lobby hard for its creation. They all now knew the debt they owed to the man buried within. Hrathen of Fjorden, high priest and holy gyorn of Shu-Dereth. They had left his funeral until the last.
Sarene turned to address the crowd, Raoden at their front. “I will not speak long,” she said, “for though I had more contact with the man Hrathen than most of you, I did not know him. I always assumed that I could come to understand a man through being his enemy, and I thought that I understood Hrathen—his sense of duty, his powerful will, and his determination to save us from ourselves.
“I did not see his internal conflict. I could not know the man whose heart drove him, eventually, to reject all that he had once believed in the name of what he knew was right. I never knew the Hrathen who placed the lives of others ahead of his own ambition. These things were hidden, but in the end they are what proved most important to him.
“When you remember this man, think not of an enemy. Th
ink of a man who longed to protect Arelon and its people. Think of the man he became, the hero who saved your king. My husband and I would have been killed by the monster of Dakhor, had Hrathen not arrived to protect us.
“Most important, remember Hrathen as the one who gave that vital warning that saved Teod’s fleets. If the armada had fallen, then be assured that Teod wouldn’t have been the only country to suffer. Wyrn’s armies would have fallen on Arelon, Elantris or no Elantris, and you all would be fighting for survival at this moment—if, that is, you were even still alive.”
Sarene paused, letting her eyes linger on the grave. At its head stood a carefully arranged stack of bloodred armor. Hrathen’s cloak hung on the end of a sword, its point driven into the soft earth. The crimson cape flapped in the wind.
“No,” Sarene said. “When you speak of this man, let it be known that he died in our defense. Let it be said that after all else, Hrathen, gyorn of Shu-Dereth, was not our enemy. He was our savior.”