“SO you’ve returned to wearing black, have you, my dear?” Duke Roial asked as he helped her into the carriage.
Sarene looked down at her dress. It wasn’t one that Eshen had sent her, but something she’d asked Shuden to bring up on one of his caravans through Duladel. Less full than most current trends in Arelene fashion, it hugged tightly to her form. The soft velvet was embroidered with tiny silver patterns, and rather than a cape it had a short mantle that covered her shoulders and upper arms.
“It’s actually blue, Your Grace,” she said. “I never wear black.”
“Ah.” The older man was dressed in a white suit with a deep maroon undercoat. The outfit worked well with his carefully styled head of white hair.
The coachman closed the door and climbed into his place. A short moment later they were on their way to the ball.
Sarene stared out at the dark streets of Kae, her mood tolerant but unhappy. She couldn’t refuse to attend the ball—Roial had agreed to throw it at her suggestion. However, she had made those plans a week ago, before events in Elantris. The last three days had been devoted to reflection; she spent them trying to work through her feelings and reorganize her plans. She didn’t want to bother with a night of frivolities, even if there was a point behind it.
“You look ill at ease, Your Highness,” Roial said.
“I haven’t quite recovered from what happened the other day, Your Grace,” she said, leaning back in her seat.
“The day was rather overwhelming,” he agreed. Then, leaning his head out the carriage’s window, he checked the sky. “It is a beautiful night for our purposes.”
Sarene nodded absently. It no longer mattered to her whether the eclipse would be visible or not. Ever since her tirade before Iadon, the entire court had begun to step lightly around her. Instead of growing angry as Kiin had predicted, Iadon simply avoided her. Whenever Sarene entered a room, heads turned away and eyes looked down. It was as if she were a monster—a vengeful Svrakiss sent to torment them.
The servants were no better. Where they had once been subservient, now they cringed. Her dinner had come late, and though the cook insisted it was because one of her serving women had suddenly run off, Sarene was certain it was simply because no one wanted to face the fearful princess’s wrath. The entire situation was putting Sarene on edge. Why, in the blessed name of Domi, she wondered, does everyone in this country feel so threatened by an assertive woman?
Of course, this time she had to admit that woman or not, what she had done to the king had been too forward. Sarene was just paying the price for her loss of temper.
“All right, Sarene,” Roial declared. “That is enough.”
Sarene started, looking up at the elderly duke’s stern face. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”
“I said it’s enough. By all reports, you’ve spent the last three days moping in your room. I don’t care how emotionally disturbing that attack in Elantris was, you need to get over it—and quickly. We’re almost to my mansion.”
“Excuse me?” she said again, taken aback.
“Sarene,” Roial continued, his voice softening, “we didn’t ask for your leadership. You wiggled your way in and seized control. Now that you’ve done so, you can’t just leave us because of injured feelings. When you accept authority, you must be willing to take responsibility for it at all times—even when you don’t particularly feel like it.”
Suddenly abashed by the duke’s wisdom, Sarene lowered her eyes in shame. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah, Princess,” Roial said, “we’ve come to rely on you so much in these last few weeks. You crept into our hearts and did what no one else, even myself, could have done—you unified us. Shuden and Eondel all but worship you, Lukel and Kiin stand by your side like two unmoving stones, I can barely unravel your delicate schemes, and even Ahan describes you as the most delightful young woman he’s ever met. Don’t leave us now—we need you.”
Flushing, Sarene shook her head as the carriage pulled up Roial’s drive. “But what is left, Your Grace? Through no cleverness of my own, the Derethi gyorn has been neutralized, and it appears that Iadon has been quelled. It seems to me that the time of danger has passed.”
Roial raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Perhaps. But Iadon is more clever than we usually credit. The king has some overwhelming blind spots, but he was capable enough to seize control ten years ago, and he has kept the aristocracy at one another’s throats all this time. And as for the gyorn…”
Roial looked out the carriage window, toward a vehicle pulling up next to them. Inside was a short man dressed completely in red; Sarene recognized the young Aonic priest who had served as Hrathen’s assistant.
Roial frowned. “I think we may have traded Hrathen for a foe of equal danger.”
“Him?” Sarene asked, surprised. She’d seen the young man with Hrathen, of course—even remarked on his apparent fervor. However, he could hardly be as dangerous as the calculating gyorn, could he?
“I’ve been watching that one,” the duke said. “His name is Dilaf—he’s an Arelene, which means he was probably raised Korathi. I’ve noticed that those who turn away from a faith are often more hateful toward it than any outsider could be.”
“You might be right, Your Grace,” Sarene admitted. “We’ll have to change our plans. We can’t deal with this one the same way we did Hrathen.”
Roial smiled, a slight twinkle in his eyes. “That’s the girl I remember. Come; it wouldn’t do for me to be late to my own party.”
Roial had decided to have the eclipse-observation party on the grounds behind his house—an action necessitated by the relative modesty of his home. For the third-richest man in Arelon, the duke was remarkably frugal.
“I’ve only been a duke for ten years, Sarene,” Roial had said when she first visited his home, “but I’ve been a businessman all my life. You don’t make money by being wasteful. The house suits me—I fear I’d get lost in anything larger.”
The grounds surrounding the home, however, were extensive—a luxury Roial admitted was a bit extravagant. The duke was a lover of gardens, and he spent more time outside wandering his grounds than he did in his house.
Fortunately the weather had decided to comply with the duke’s plans, providing a warm breeze from the south and a completely cloudless sky. Stars splattered the sky like specks of paint on a black canvas, and Sarene found her eyes tracing the constellations of the major Aons. Rao shone directly overhead, a large square with four circles at its sides and a dot in the center. Her own Aon, Ene, crouched barely visible on the horizon. The full moon rose ponderously toward its zenith. In just a few hours it would vanish completely—or at least that was what the astronomers claimed.
“So,” Roial said, walking at her side, their arms linked, “are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“What what’s all about?”
“The ball,” Roial said. “You can’t claim that you had me organize it on a whim. You were much too specific about the date and location. What are you planning?”
Sarene smiled, rekindling the night’s schemes. She had nearly forgotten about the party, but the more she considered it, the more excited she became. Before this night was over, she hoped to find the answer to a problem that had been bothering her almost since she’d arrived in Arelon.
“Let’s just say I wanted to view the eclipse with company,” she said, a sly smile on her lips.
“Ah, Sarene, ever dramatic. You’ve missed your calling in life, my dear—you should have been an actress.”
“As a matter of fact, I considered it once,” Sarene said, reminiscing. “I was eleven years old at the time. A troop of players came through Teoras. After watching them, I informed my parents that I had decided to grow up to be not a princess, but an actress instead.”
Roial laughed. “I would like to have seen old Eventeo’s face when his precious daughter told him she wanted to become a traveling performer.”
“You know my father?”
“Really, Sarene,” Roial said with indignation, “I haven’t been old and senile all my life. There was a time when I traveled, and every good merchant has a few contacts in Teod. I’ve had two audiences with your father, and both times he mocked my wardrobe.”
Sarene chuckled. “He’s merciless with visiting merchants.”
Roial’s grounds centered around a large open lawn of grass upon which had been erected a temporary wooden dancing pavilion. Hedge-walled pathways led away from the pavilion toward newly blooming flower beds, bridge-covered ponds, and sculpture displays. Torches lined the pavilion, providing full illumination. These would be doused prior to the eclipse. However, if things went as Sarene planned, she wouldn’t be there to see it.
“The king!” Sarene exclaimed. “Is he here?”
“Of course,” Roial said, pointing toward an enclosed sculpture garden to one side of the pavilion. Sarene could barely make out the form of Iadon within, Eshen next to him.
Sarene relaxed. Iadon was the whole point of the night’s activities. The king’s pride wouldn’t let him miss a ball thrown by one of his dukes. If he had attended Telrii’s party, he would certainly make it to Roial’s.
“What could the king have to do with little Sarene’s schemes?” Roial mused to himself. “Maybe she sent someone to peruse his chambers while he’s here. Her seon, perhaps?”
However, at that moment Ashe floated into view a short distance away. Sarene shot Roial a sly look.
“All right, perhaps it wasn’t the seon,” Roial said. “That would be too obvious anyway.”
“My lady,” Ashe said, bobbing in greeting as he approached.
“What did you find out?” Sarene asked.
“The cook did indeed lose a serving woman this afternoon, my lady. They claim she ran off to be with her brother, who was recently moved to one of the king’s provincial mansions. The man, however, swears he hasn’t seen anything of her.”
Sarene frowned. Perhaps she had been too quick in judging the cook and her minions. “All right. Good work.”
“What was that about?” Roial asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Sarene said, this time completely honest.
Roial, however, nodded knowingly.
The problem with being clever, Sarene thought with a sigh, is that everyone assumes you’re always planning something.
“Ashe, I want you to keep an eye on the king,” Sarene said, aware of Roial’s curious smile. “He’ll probably spend most of his time in his exclusive portion of the party. If he decides to move, tell me immediately.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, hovering away to take an unobtrusive place next to one of the torches, where the flame’s light masked his own.
Roial nodded again. He was obviously having a delightful time trying to decipher Sarene’s plans.
“So, do you feel like joining the king’s private gathering?” Sarene asked, trying to divert the duke’s attention.
Roial shook his head. “No. As much good as it would do me to watch Iadon squirm in your presence, I’ve never approved of the way he holds himself aloof. I’m the host, thanks to you, and a host should mingle. Besides, being around Iadon tonight will be intolerable—he’s looking for someone to replace Baron Edan, and every minor noble at the party will make a play for the title.”
“As you wish,” Sarene said, allowing Roial to lead her toward the open-walled pavilion where a group of musicians was playing and some couples were dancing, though most stood talking at the perimeter.
Roial chuckled, and Sarene followed his gaze. Shuden and Torena spun near the center of the dance floor, completely captivated by one another.
“What are you laughing about?” Sarene asked, watching the fire-haired girl and the JinDo.
“It is one of the great joys of my old age to see young men proven hypocrites,” Roial said with a fiendish smile. “After all those years swearing that he would never let himself be caught—after endless balls spent complaining when women fawned over him—his heart, and his mind, have turned to mush as surely as any other man’s.”
“You’re a mean old man, Your Grace.”
“And that is the way it should be,” Roial said. “Mean young men are trivial, and kindly old men boring. Here, let me get us something to drink.”
The duke wandered away, and Sarene was left watching the young couple dance. The look in Shuden’s eyes was so sickeningly dreamy that she had to turn away. Perhaps Daora’s words had been more accurate than Sarene had been willing to admit. Sarene was jealous, though not because she had assumed any romantic possibilities with Shuden. However, ever since her arrival in Arelon, Shuden had been one of her most fervent supporters. It was hard to watch him giving his attention to another woman, even for a completely different purpose.
There was another reason as well—a deeper, more honest reason. She was jealous of that look in Shuden’s eyes. She was envious of his opportunity to court, to fall in love, and to be swept up in the stupefying joy of romance.
They were ideals Sarene had dreamed about since early adolescence. As she grew older, Sarene recognized such things would never be hers. She had rebelled at first, cursing her offensive personality. She knew she intimidated the court’s men, and so for a short while she had forced herself to adopt a more subservient, docile temperament. Her engagement, and near marriage, to a young count named Graeo had been the result.
She still remembered the man—more a boy—with pity. Only Graeo had been willing to take a chance on the newly even-tempered Sarene—risking the mockery of his peers. The union had not been one of love, but she had liked Graeo despite his weak will. There had been a kind of childish hesitancy about him; an overdone compulsion to do what was right, to succeed in a world where most people understood things much better than he.
In the end, she had broken off the engagement—not because she knew living with the dull-minded Graeo would have driven her mad, but because she had realized that she was being unfair. She had taken advantage of Graeo’s simple ingenuousness, knowing full well he was getting himself into something far over his head. It was better he bear the scorn of being refused at the last moment than live the rest of his life with a woman who would stifle him.
The decision had sealed her fate as an unmarried spinster. Rumors spread that she had led Graeo on simply to make a fool out of him, and the embarrassed young man had left the court, living the next three years holed up on his lands like a hermit. After that, no man had dared woo the king’s daughter.
She’d fled Teod at that point, immersing herself in her father’s diplomatic corps. She served as an envoy in all the major cities of Opelon, from Wyrn’s Seat in Fjorden to the Svordish capital of Seraven. The prospect of going to Arelon had intrigued her of course, but her father had remained adamant about his prohibition. He barely allowed spies into the country, let alone his only daughter.
Still, she had made it eventually. It was worth it, Sarene decided; her engagement to Raoden had been a good idea, no matter how horribly it had turned out. For a while, when they had been exchanging letters, she had allowed herself to hope again. The promise had eventually been crushed, but she still had the memory of that hope. It was more than she had ever expected to obtain.
“You look as if your best friend just died,” Roial noted, returning to hand her a cup of blue Jaadorian wine.
“No, just my husband,” Sarene said, sighing.
“Ah.” Roial’s nod was understanding. “Perhaps we should move somewhere else—a place where we won’t have such a clear view of our young baron’s rapture.”
“A wonderful suggestion, Your Grace.”
They moved along the pavilion’s outer border, Roial nodding to those who complimented him on the fine party. Sarene strolled along at the elderly man’s side, growing increasingly confused at the dark looks she occasionally got from noblewomen they passed. It was a few minutes before she realized the reason behind the hostility; she had completely forgotten Roial’s status as the most marriageable man in Arelon. Many of the women had come this night expecting the duke to be unaccompanied. They had probably planned long and hard on how to corner the old man, intent on currying his favor. Sarene had ruined any chance of that.
Roial chuckled, studying her face. “You’ve figured it out then, haven’t you?”
“This is why you never throw parties, isn’t it?”
The duke nodded. “As difficult as it is to deal with them at another man’s ball, it is nearly impossible to be a good host with those vixens nipping at my hide.”
“Be careful, Your Grace,” Sarene said. “Shuden complained about exactly the same sort of thing the first time he took me to a ball, and look where he ended up.”
“Shuden went about it the wrong way,” Roial said. “He just ran from them—and everyone knows that no matter how hard you run, there’s always going to be someone faster. I, on the other hand, don’t run. I find far too much enjoyment in playing with their greedy little minds.”
Sarene’s chastising reply was cut off by the approach of a familiar couple. Lukel wore his customarily fashionable outfit, a gold-embroidered blue vest and tan trousers, while Jalla, his dark-haired wife, was in a simple lavender dress—JinDo, by the look of its high-necked cut.
“Now, there’s a mismatched couple if I’ve ever seen one,” Lukel said with an open smile as he bowed to the duke.
“What?” Roial asked. “A crusty old duke and his lovely young companion?”
“I was referring more to the height difference, Your Grace,” Lukel said, laughing.
Roial glanced up and raised an eyebrow; Sarene stood a full head taller than him. “At my age, you take what you can get.”
“I think that’s true no matter what your age, Your Grace,” Lukel said, looking down at his pretty, black-eyed wife. “We just have to accept whatever the women decide to allot us, and count ourselves blessed for the offering.”
Sarene felt sick—first Shuden, now Lukel. She was definitely not in the mood to deal with happy couples this night.
Sensing her disposition, the duke bade Lukel farewell, pleading the need to check on the food in other parts of the garden. Lukel and Jalla turned back to their dancing as Roial led Sarene out of the lighted pavilion and back under the darkened sky and flickering torchlight.
“You’re going to need to get over that, Sarene,” the duke said. “You can’t go running every time you meet someone who’s in a stable relationship.”
Sarene decided not to point out that young love was hardly stable. “I don’t always get this way, Your Grace. I’ve just had a difficult week. Give me a few more days, and I’ll be back to my regular, stone-hearted self.”
Perhaps sensing her bitterness, Roial wisely chose not to respond to that particular remark. Instead he glanced to the side, following the sound of a familiar voice’s laughter.
Duke Telrii had apparently elected not to join the king’s private section of the party. Quite the opposite, in fact. He stood entertaining a large group of noblemen in a small hedged courtyard opposite the pavilion of Iadon’s private gathering. It was almost as if he were starting his own exclusive subparty.
“Not a good sign,” Roial said quietly, voicing Sarene’s own thoughts.
“Agreed,” Sarene said. She did a quick count of Telrii’s fawners, trying to distinguish rank, then glanced back toward Iadon’s section of the party. Their numbers were about equal, but Iadon seemed to command more important nobility—for the moment.
“That’s another unforeseen effect of your tirade before the king,” Roial said. “The more unstable Iadon becomes, the more tempting other options appear.”
Sarene frowned as Telrii laughed again, his voice melodious and unconcerned. He did not at all sound like a man whose most important supporter—Gyorn Hrathen—had just fallen.
“What is he planning?” Sarene wondered. “How could he take the throne now?”
Roial just shook his head. After a moment more of contemplation, he looked up and addressed open air. “Yes?”
Sarene turned as Ashe approached. Then, startled, she realized it wasn’t Ashe. It was a different seon.
“The gardeners report that one of your guests has fallen into the pond, my lord,” the seon said, bobbing almost to the ground as he approached. His voice was crisp and unemotional.
“Who?” Roial asked with a chuckle.
“Lord Redeen, Your Grace,” the seon said. “It appears the wine proved too much for him.”
Sarene squinted, searching deep into the ball of light and trying to make out the glowing Aon. She thought it was Opa.
Roial sighed. “He probably scared the fish right out of the water. Thank you, Opa. Make sure that Redeen is given some towels and a ride home, if he needs it. Next time maybe he won’t mix ponds with alcohol.”
The seon bobbed formally once more, then floated away to do his master’s bidding.
“You never told me you had a seon, my lord,” Sarene said.
“Many of the nobles do, Princess,” Roial said, “but it is no longer fashionable to bring them along with us wherever we go. Seons are reminders of Elantris.”
“So he just stays here at your house?”
Roial nodded. “Opa oversees the gardeners of my estate. I think it fitting—after all, his name does mean ‘flower.’”
Sarene tapped her cheek, wondering about the stern formality in Opa’s voice. The seons she knew back in Teod were much warmer with their masters, no matter what their personality. Perhaps it was because here, in the presumed land of their creation, seons were now regarded with suspicion and dislike.
“Come,” Roial said, taking her arm. “I was serious when I said I wanted to check on the serving tables.”
Sarene allowed herself to be led away.
“Roial, you old prune,” a blustery voice called out as they approached the serving tables, “I’m astounded. You do know how to throw a party! I was afraid you’d try and cram us all into that box you call a house.”
“Ahan,” Roial said, “I should have realized I would find you next to the food.”
The large count was draped in a yellow robe and clutched a plateful of crackers and shellfish. His wife’s plate, however, held only a few slices of fruit. During the weeks Seaden had been attending Sarene’s fencing lessons, she had lost considerable weight.
“Of course—best part of a party!” The count laughed. Then, nodding to Sarene, he said, “Your Highness. I’d warn you not to let this old scoundrel corrupt you, but I’m just as worried about you doing the same to him.”
“Me?” Sarene said with mock indignation. “What danger could I be?”
Ahan snorted. “Ask the king,” he said, shoving a wafer into his mouth. “Actually, you can ask me—just look what you’re doing to my poor wife. She refuses to eat!”
“I’m enjoying my fruit, Ahan,” Seaden said. “I think you should try some of it.”
“Maybe I’ll try a plate of it after I’m done here,” Ahan huffed. “You see what you’re doing, Sarene? I would never have agreed to this ‘fencing’ thing if I had known how it would ruin my wife’s figure.”
“Ruin?” Sarene asked, surprised.
“I’m from southern Arelon, Princess,” Ahan said, reaching for some more clams. “To us, round is beautiful. Not everyone wants their women to look like starving schoolboys.” Then, realizing that he might have said too much, Ahan paused. “No offense intended.”
Sarene frowned. Ahan really was a delightful man, but he often spoke—and acted—without thought. Unsure how to properly respond, Sarene hesitated.
The wonderful Duke Roial came to her rescue. “Well, Ahan, we have to keep moving—I have a lot of guests to greet. Oh, by the way—you might want to tell your caravan to hurry.”
Ahan looked up as Roial began to lead Sarene off. “Caravan?” he asked, suddenly very serious. “What caravan?”
“Why, the one you have carrying sourmelons from Duladel to Svorden, of course,” the duke said offhandedly. “I sent a shipment of them myself a week ago. It should reach there tomorrow morning. I’m afraid, my friend, that your caravan will arrive to a saturated market—not to mention the fact that your melons will be overripe.”
Ahan cursed, the plate going limp in his hand, shellfish tumbling unnoticed to the grass below. “How in the name of Domi did you manage that?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Roial asked. “I was equal partner in young Lukel’s venture. I got all the unripened fruits from his shipment last week—they should be ready by the time they hit Svorden.”
Ahan shook his head, laughing in a low voice. “You got me again, Roial. But just you watch—one of these days I’m finally going to get the better of you, and you’ll be so surprised that you won’t be able to look at yourself for a week!”
“I look forward to it,” Roial said as they left the serving tables behind.
Sarene chuckled, the sound of Seaden scolding her husband rising behind. “You really are as good a businessman as they say, aren’t you?”
Roial spread his hands in humility. Then he said, “Yes. Every bit as good.”
Sarene laughed.
“However,” Roial continued, “that young cousin of yours puts me to shame. I have no idea how he kept that sourmelon shipment a secret—my Duladen agents are supposed to inform me of such things. I only got in on the deal because Lukel came to me for capital.”
“Then it’s a good thing he didn’t go to Ahan instead.”
“A good thing indeed,” Roial agreed. “I would never hear the end of it if he had. Ahan’s been trying to best me for two decades now—one of these days he’s going to realize I only act brilliant to keep him off-balance, and then life isn’t going to be half as entertaining.”
They continued to walk, speaking with guests and enjoying Roial’s excellent gardens. The early blooming flower beds were cleverly lit with torchlight, lanterns, and even candles. Most impressive were the crosswood trees, whose branches—bedecked with pink and white blossoms—were lit from behind by lanterns running up the trunks. Sarene was enjoying herself so much that she almost lost track of time. Only Ashe’s sudden appearance reminded her of the night’s true purpose.
“My lady!” Ashe exclaimed. “The king is leaving the party!”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her attention snapping away from the crosswood flowers.
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said. “He left furtively, claiming he needed to use the privy, but he called his carriage instead.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Sarene curtly told Roial. “I must be going.”
“Sarene?” Roial asked with surprise as Sarene walked back toward the house. Then, more urgently, he called again. “Sarene! You can’t go.”
“I apologize, Your Grace, but this is important!”
He tried to follow her, but her legs were longer. In addition, the duke had a party to host. He couldn’t just disappear in the middle of it.
Sarene rounded the side of Roial’s house in time to see the king climbing into his carriage. She cursed—why hadn’t she thought to arrange transportation of her own? She looked around frantically, searching for a vehicle to requisition. She picked a likely candidate as the king’s carriage pulled away, hooves clopping against the cobblestones.
“My lady!” Ashe warned. “The king is not in that carriage.”
Sarene froze. “What?”
“He slipped out the other side and disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the driveway. The carriage is a ruse.”
Sarene didn’t bother to question the seon—his senses were much more acute than those of a human. “Let’s go,” she said, heading in the proper direction. “I’m not dressed for sneaking; you’ll have to keep watch on him and tell me where he goes.”
“Yes, my lady,” Ashe said, dimming his light to a nearly imperceptible level and flying after the king. Sarene followed at a slower pace.
They continued in that manner, Ashe staying close to the king and Sarene following at a less conspicuous distance. They covered the ground surrounding Roial’s mansion quickly, then set out into the city of Kae. Iadon moved strictly through alleys, and Sarene realized for the first time that she might be putting herself in danger. Women didn’t travel alone after dark—even in Kae, which was one of the safest cities in Opelon. She considered turning back a half-dozen times, once nearly dashing away in a panic as a drunk man stumbled in the darkness next to her. However, she kept going. She was only going to get one chance to find out what Iadon was up to, and her curiosity was stronger than her fear … for the moment at least.
Ashe, sensing the danger, advised that she let him follow the king alone, but she pressed on with determination. The seon, accustomed to Sarene’s ways, gave no further argument. He flitted back and forth between her and the king, doing his best to keep watch over Sarene while at the same time following Iadon.
Eventually the seon slowed, returning to Sarene, and gave an apprehensive bob. “He just entered the sewers, my lady.”
“The sewers?” Sarene asked incredulously.
“Yes, my lady. And he is not alone—he met two cloaked men just after he left the party, and was joined by a half-dozen more at the mouth of the sewers.”
“And you didn’t follow them in?” she asked with disappointment. “We’ll never be able to tail them.”
“That is unfortunate, my lady.”
Sarene ground her teeth in frustration. “They’ll leave tracks in the muck,” she said, stalking forward. “You should be able to follow them.”
Ashe hesitated. “My lady, I must insist that you return to the duke’s party.”
“Not a chance, Ashe.”
“I have the solemn duty of your protection, my lady,” Ashe said. “I can’t allow you to go climbing through refuse in the middle of the night—I was wrong to let you go this far. It is my responsibility to stop this before it goes any further.”
“And how will you do that?” Sarene asked impatiently.
“I could call your father.”
“Father lives in Teod, Ashe,” Sarene pointed out. “What is he going to do?”
“I could go get Lord Eondel or one of the others.”
“And leave me to get lost in the sewers on my own?”
“You would never do something that foolish, my lady,” Ashe declared. Then he paused, hovering uncertainly in the air, his Aon so dim it was translucent. “All right,” he finally admitted. “You are indeed that foolish.”
Sarene smiled. “Come on—the fresher those tracks are, the easier it will be for you to follow them.”
The seon sullenly led the way down the street, which soon ended in a dirty, fungus-lined arch. Sarene strode forward with determination, paying no heed to the damage the sludge would do to her dress.
The moonlight lasted only as far as the first turnoff. Sarene stood for a moment in the suffocating, dank blackness, realizing that even she would never have been foolish enough to enter the directionless maze without guidance. Fortunately her bluff had convinced Ashe—though she wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the level of arrogant idiocy of which he thought her capable.
Ashe increased his light slightly. The sewer was a hollow tube, a remnant of the days when Elantris’s magic provided running water for every house in Kae. Now the sewers were used as a receptacle for trash and excrement. They were flushed out by a periodic diversion of the Aredel—something which obviously hadn’t been done in a while, for the wet muck at the bottom of the corridor came up to her ankles. She didn’t want to consider what that sludge must be composed of, but the pungent stink was an overpowering clue.
All of the tunnels looked the same to Sarene. One thing reassured her: the seon sense of direction. It was impossible to get lost when accompanied by Ashe. The creatures always knew where they were, and could point the exact direction to any place they had ever been.
Ashe led the way, floating close to the muck’s surface. “My lady, may I be allowed to know just how you knew the king would sneak away from Roial’s party?”
“I expect you can figure it out, Ashe,” she chided.
“Let me assure you, my lady, I have tried.”
“Well, what day of the week is it?”
“MaeDal?” the seon replied, leading her around a corner.
“Right. And what happens every week on MaeDal?”
Ashe didn’t answer immediately. “Your father plays ShinDa with Lord Eoden?” he asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic frustration. The night’s activities—especially her belligerence—were wearing away even Ashe’s formidable patience.
“No,” Sarene said. “Every week on MaeDal at eleven o’clock I hear scraping in the passage that runs through my wall—the one that leads to the king’s rooms.”
The seon made a slight “ah” of understanding.
“I heard noises in the passage some other nights as well,” Sarene said. “But MaeDal was the only consistent day.”
“So you had Roial throw a party tonight, expecting that the king would keep to his schedule,” the seon said.
“Right,” Sarene said, trying not to slip in the muck. “And I had to make it a late party so that people would stay at least until midnight—the eclipse provided a convenient excuse. The king had to come to the party; his pride wouldn’t let him stay away. However, his weekly appointment must be important, for he risked leaving early to attend it.”
“My lady, I don’t like this,” Ashe said. “What good could the king be doing in the sewers at midnight?”
“That is exactly what I intend to find out,” Sarene said, brushing away a spiderweb. One thought drove her through muck and darkness—a possibility she was barely willing to acknowledge. Perhaps Prince Raoden lived. Maybe Iadon hadn’t confined him to the dungeons, but in the sewers. Sarene might not be a widow after all.
A noise came from ahead. “Turn down your light, Ashe,” she said. “I think I hear voices.”
He did so, becoming nearly invisible. There was an intersection just ahead, and torchlight flickered from the rightmost tunnel. Sarene approached the corner slowly, intending to peek around it. Unfortunately, she hadn’t noticed that the floor declined just before the intersection, and her feet slipped. She waved desperate arms, barely stabilizing herself as she slid a few feet down the incline and came to a halt at the bottom.
The motion placed her directly in the middle of the intersection. Sarene looked up slowly.
King Iadon stared back, looking as stunned as she felt.
“Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered. The king stood facing her behind an altar, a red-streaked knife raised in his hand. He was completely naked except for the blood smearing his chest. The remains of an eviscerated young woman lay tied to the altar, her torso sliced open from neck to crotch.
The knife dropped from Iadon’s hand, hitting the muck below with a muffled plop. Only then did Sarene notice the dozen black-robed forms standing behind him, Duladen runes sewn into their clothing. Each one carried a long dagger. Several approached her with quick steps.
Sarene wavered between her body’s urge to retch and her mind’s insistence that she scream.
The scream came out on top.
She stumbled backward, slipping and splashing down into the slime. The figures rushed for her, their cowled eyes intent. Sarene kicked and struggled in the slime, still screaming as she tried to regain her feet. She almost missed the sounds of footsteps from her right.
Then Eondel was there.
The aged general’s sword flashed in the dim light, cleanly slicing off an arm that was reaching for Sarene’s ankle. Other figures moved through the corridor as well, men in the livery of Eondel’s legion. There was also a man in a red robe—Dilaf, the Derethi priest. He didn’t join the fighting, but stood to the side with a fascinated look on his face.
Dumbfounded, Sarene tried to stand again, but only ended up slipping in the sewage once more. A hand grabbed her arm, helping her up. Roial’s wrinkled face smiled in relief as he pulled Sarene to her feet.
“Maybe next time you’ll tell me what you are planning, Princess,” he suggested.
* * *
“YOU TOLD HIM,” Sarene realized, shooting Ashe an accusatory look.
“Certainly I told him, my lady,” the seon responded, pulsing to punctuate the remark. She sat in Roial’s study with Ashe and Lukel. Sarene wore a robe that the duke had borrowed from one of his maids. It was too short of course, but it was better than a sewage-covered velvet dress.
“When?” Sarene demanded, leaning back in Roial’s deep plush couch and wrapping herself in a blanket. The duke had ordered a bath drawn for her, and her hair was still wet, chilled in the night air.
“He called Opa as soon as you left my drive,” Roial said, walking into the room, carrying three steaming cups. He handed one to her and another to Lukel before taking a seat.
“That soon?” Sarene said, surprised.
“I knew you would never turn back, no matter what I said,” Ashe said.
“You know me too well,” she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. It was Fjordell garha—which was good; she couldn’t afford to fall asleep just yet.
“I will admit to that failing without argument, my lady,” Ashe said.
“Then why did you try and stop me before leading me into the sewer?” she asked.
“I was stalling, my lady,” Ashe explained. “The duke insisted on coming himself, and his group moved slowly.”
“I might be slow, but I was not going to miss whatever you had planned, Sarene,” Roial said. “They say age brings wisdom, but it only gave me a torturous case of curiosity.”
“Eondel’s soldiers?” Sarene asked.
“Were already at the party,” Lukel said. He had insisted on knowing what had happened as soon as he saw Sarene sneaking into Roial’s house, covered in slime. “I saw some of them mingling with the guests.”
“I invited Eondel’s officers,” Roial said. “Or at least the half-dozen of them that were in town.”
“All right,” Sarene said. “So after I ran off, Ashe called your seon and told you I was pursuing the king.”
“‘The foolish girl is going off to get herself killed’ were his exact words, I believe,” Roial said, chuckling.
“Ashe!”
“I apologize, my lady,” the seon said, pulsing in embarrassment. “I was rather out of sorts.”
“Anyway,” Sarene continued, “Ashe called Roial and he gathered Eondel and his men from the party. You all followed me to the sewers, where you had your seon guide you.”
“Until Eondel heard you screaming,” Roial finished. “You are a very lucky lady to have that man’s loyalty, Sarene.”
“I know,” Sarene said. “That’s the second time this week his sword has proven useful. Next time I see Iadon, remind me to kick him for convincing the nobility that military training is beneath them.”
Roial chuckled. “You might have to stand in line to do that kicking, Princess. I doubt the city’s priests—Derethi or Korathi—will let the king get away with taking part in the Jeskeri Mysteries.”
“And sacrificing that poor woman,” Ashe said quietly.
The tone of the conversation grew subdued as they remembered just what they were discussing. Sarene shuddered at the image of the blood-covered altar and its occupant. Ashe’s right, she thought somberly. This is no time for joking.
“That’s what it was, then?” Lukel asked.
Sarene nodded. “The Mysteries sometimes involve sacrifices. Iadon must have wanted something very badly.”
“Our Derethi friend claimed to have some knowledge on the subject,” Roial said. “He seemed to think the king was petitioning the Jesker spirits to destroy someone for him.”
“Me?” Sarene asked, growing cold despite her blanket.
Roial nodded. “Arteth Dilaf said the instructions were written on the altar in that woman’s blood.”
Sarene shivered. “Well, at least now we know what happened to the maids and cooks who disappeared from the palace.”
Roial nodded. “I’d guess he’s been involved with the Mysteries for a long time—perhaps even since the Reod. He was obviously the leader of that particular band.”
“The others?” Sarene asked.
“Minor nobles,” Roial said. “Iadon wouldn’t have involved anyone who could challenge him.”
“Wait a moment,” Sarene said, her brow furrowed. “Where did that Derethi priest come from, anyway?”
Roial looked down at his cup uncomfortably. “That’s my fault. He saw me gathering Eondel’s men—I was kind of in a hurry—and followed us. We didn’t have time to deal with him.”
Sarene sipped at her drink petulantly. The night’s events definitely hadn’t turned out as she had planned.
Suddenly Ahan waddled through the door. “Rag Domi, Sarene!” he declared. “First you oppose the king, then you rescue him, and now you dethrone him. Would you please make up your mind?”
Sarene pulled her knees up against her chest and dropped her head between them, groaning. “There’s no chance of keeping it under cover, then?”
“No,” Roial said. “The Derethi priest saw to that—he’s already announced it to half of the city.”
“Telrii will almost certainly seize power now,” Ahan said, shaking his head.
“Where is Eondel?” Sarene asked, her voice muffled by the blankets.
“Locking the king in the jailhouse,” Ahan said.
“And Shuden?”
“Still seeing that the women got home safely, I assume,” Lukel said.
“All right,” Sarene said, raising her head and brushing her hair out of her eyes. “We’ll have to proceed without them. Gentlemen, I’m afraid I just destroyed our brief respite of peace. We have some heavy planning to do—and most of it is going to be in the way of damage control.”