SARENE watched the gyorn with displeasure. Hrathen no longer gave his sermons at the Derethi chapel; there were too many people. Instead he organized meetings on the edge of the city, where he could stand on Kae’s five-foot border wall, his followers sitting at his feet to listen. The gyorn preached with more vibrancy and enthusiasm than he had before—for now, he was a saint. He had suffered the Shaod, and had proven himself superior to its curse.
He was, Sarene had to admit, an impressive opponent. Outfitted in his red armor, he stood like a bloodied metal statue above the crowd.
“It must have been some kind of trick,” she noted.
“Of course it was, Cousin,” Lukel said, standing beside her. “If we thought otherwise, we might as well join Shu-Dereth. Personally, I look horrible in red.”
“Your face is too pink,” Sarene said offhandedly.
“If it was a trick, Sarene,” Shuden said, “then I am at a loss to explain it.” The three of them stood at the periphery of the morning meeting. They had come to see for themselves the amazing numbers Hrathen’s meetings drew, even on the very day of the king’s funeral.
“It could have been makeup,” Sarene said.
“That survived the ritual washing?” Shuden said.
“Maybe the priests were in on it,” Lukel said.
“Have you ever tried to bribe a Korathi priest, Lukel?” Shuden asked pointedly.
Lukel looked around uncomfortably. “I’d rather not answer that question, thank you.”
“You sound almost as if you believe his miracle, Shuden,” Sarene said.
“I do not discount it,” Shuden said. “Why wouldn’t God bless one of his devout? Religious exclusivism is a Korathi and Derethi addition to Shu-Keseg.”
Sarene sighed, nodding for her friends to follow as she pushed her way through the outlying crowds and walked toward their waiting carriage. Trick or not, Hrathen had an uncomfortably strong hold on the people. If he managed to place a sympathizer on the throne, it would all be over. Arelon would become a Derethi nation, and only Teod would remain—though probably not for long.
Her companions were undoubtedly thinking along similar lines; both Lukel and Shuden’s faces bore disturbed, contemplative looks. They entered the coach in silent thought, but finally Lukel turned to her, his hawkish features troubled.
“What do you mean, my face is too pink?” he asked with a hurt tone.
* * *
THE SHIP’S MAST bore the royal crest of Teod—a gold Aon Teo on a blue background. Long and thin, there was no faster vessel on the water than a Teo straightboat.
Sarene felt it her duty to give the patriarch a better reception than she herself had received upon arriving at those same docks. She didn’t like the man, but that was no excuse for incivility, and so she had brought Shuden, Lukel, Eondel, and several of the count’s soldiers as an honor guard.
The thin ship came into dock smoothly, sailors throwing out a gangplank as soon as the vessel was secured. A blue-robed form strode past the sailors and down the gangplank with a firm step. Over a dozen attendants and lesser priests followed; the patriarch liked to be well cared for. As Seinalan approached, Sarene masked her face with controlled courtesy.
The patriarch was a tall man with delicate features. His golden hair was long, like that of a woman, and it blended with the enormous gold cape that fluttered behind him. The blue robe was embroidered with so much gold thread it was difficult at times to see the material underneath. His face bore the benevolently tolerant smile of one who wanted you to know he was patient with your inferiority.
“Your Highness!” Seinalan said as he approached. “It has been too long since my old eyes beheld your sweet features.”
Sarene did her best to smile, curtsying before the patriarch and his “old” eyes. Seinalan was no more than forty, though he tried to make himself seem more aged and wise than he really was.
“Your Holiness,” she said. “All of Arelon is blessed by your presence.”
He nodded, as if to say that he understood just how fortunate they all were. He turned toward Shuden and the others. “Who are your companions?”
“My cousin Lukel and Baron Shuden and Count Eondel of Arelon, Your Holiness.” Each man bowed as she made the introductions.
“Only barons and counts?” Seinalan asked, clearly disappointed.
“Duke Roial sends his greetings, Your Grace,” Sarene said. “He is busy preparing for King Iadon’s burial.”
“Ah,” Seinalan said, his luxurious hair—untouched by grey—waving in the sea wind. Sarene had wished many times to have locks half as fine as those of the patriarch. “I assume I am not too late to attend the funeral?”
“No, Your Holiness,” Sarene said. “It will occur this afternoon.”
“Good,” Seinalan said. “Come, you may show me to my lodgings now.”
* * *
“THAT WAS … DISAPPOINTING,” Lukel confessed as soon as they climbed back in their carriage. The patriarch had been given his own vehicle, courtesy of Roial, and the gift had cooled his dissatisfaction at the duke’s absence.
“He’s not exactly what you expect, is he?” Sarene said.
“That isn’t what Lukel meant, Sarene,” Shuden said.
Sarene glanced at Lukel. “What do you mean?”
“I was just hoping for something more entertaining,” Lukel said, twin flops of hair bouncing against his cheeks as he shrugged.
“He has been looking forward to this ever since he heard you describe the patriarch, Your Highness,” Eondel explained, looking dissatisfied. “He assumed you two would … argue more.”
Sarene sighed, giving Lukel a withering glare. “Just because I don’t like the man doesn’t mean I’m going to make a scene, Cousin. Remember, I was one of my father’s chief diplomats.”
Lukel nodded with resignation.
“I will admit, Sarene,” Shuden said, “your analysis of the patriarch’s personality seems accurate. I am left wondering how a man like that could be chosen for such an important position.”
“By mistake,” Sarene said curtly. “Seinalan gained the seat about fifteen years ago, when he was barely your age. It was just after Wulfden became Wyrn, and the leaders of Shu-Korath felt threatened by his vigor. For some reason, they got it into their minds that they needed to elect a patriarch who was just as young as Wulfden—if not younger. Seinalan was the result.”
Shuden raised an eyebrow.
“I agree completely,” Sarene said. “But I have to give them a bit of credit. Wulfden is said to be one of the most handsome men to ever take the Fjordell throne, and the Korathi leaders wanted someone who would be equally impressive.”
Lukel snorted. “Handsome and pretty are two completely different things, Cousin. Half the women who see that man will love him, the other half will just be jealous.”
Throughout the conversation, Lord Eondel grew progressively more pale. Finally, he found voice for his indignation. “Remember, my lords and lady, this is Domi’s holy chosen vessel.”
“And he couldn’t have picked a vessel more lovely,” Lukel quipped—earning him an elbow in the ribs from Sarene.
“We will try to make our comments more respectful, Eondel,” she apologized. “The patriarch’s looks are unimportant anyway—I’m more interested in why he came.”
“Isn’t a king’s funeral enough of a reason?” Shuden asked.
“Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced, as the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Korathi chapel. “Come on, let’s see His Holiness settled as soon as possible—the funeral is in less than two hours, and after that it appears that I’m getting married.”
* * *
WITH THE KING leaving no obvious heir, and with Eshen completely unhinged by her husband’s disgrace and subsequent death, Duke Roial took the burden of the funeral arrangements upon himself.
“Pagan murderer or not, Iadon was once my friend,” the duke had said. “He brought stability to this country in a time of need. For that much, he at least deserves a decent burial.”
Omin had requested that they not use the Korathi chapel for the services, so Roial decided to use the king’s throne room instead. The choice made Sarene a little uncomfortable—the throne room was the same place they would hold the wedding. However, Roial thought it symbolic that the same room would serve both the passing of the old king and the ascension of the new.
The decorations were tasteful and subdued. Roial, characteristically frugal, had planned arrangements and colors that would work for both a funeral and a wedding. The room’s pillars were wrapped in white ribbons, and there were various arrangements of flowers—mostly white roses or aberteens.
Sarene entered the room, looking to the side with a smile. Near the front, next to one of the pillars, was the place where she had first set up her easel. It seemed like so long ago, though barely more than a month had passed. Blessedly forgotten were the days when she had been considered an empty-headed girl—the nobility now regarded her with something akin to awe. Here was the woman who had manipulated the king, then made a fool of him, and finally toppled him from his throne. They would never love her as they had loved Raoden, but she would accept their admiration as an inferior substitute.
To the side, Sarene saw Duke Telrii. The bald, overdressed man actually looked displeased, rather than simply uncaring. Roial had announced his wedding to Sarene only a few hours earlier, giving the pompous Telrii little time to consider a response. Sarene met Telrii’s eyes, and sensed … frustration in the man’s bearing. She had expected something from him—some kind of attempt to block their marriage—but he had made no move. What held him back?
Roial’s arrival called the group to order, and the crowd fell silent. Roial walked to the front of the room, where the king’s casket lay sealed, and began to speak.
It was a short offering. Roial spoke of how Iadon had forged a country from the ashes of Elantris, and how he had given them all their titles. He warned them against making the same mistake as the king, counseling them not to forget Domi in their riches and comfort. He closed by advocating that they refrain from speaking ill of the deceased, remembering that Domi would see to Iadon’s soul, and such was none of their concern.
With that, he motioned for several of Eondel’s soldiers to pick up the casket. However, another form stepped forward before they could go more than a few steps.
“I have something to add,” Seinalan announced.
Roial paused in surprise. Seinalan smiled, showing perfect teeth to the room. He had already changed clothing, and was wearing a robe similar to the first, except it had a wide golden band running up his back and down his chest instead of the embroidery.
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Roial said.
“What is this about?” Shuden whispered.
Sarene simply shook her head as Seinalan walked up to stand behind the casket. He regarded the crowd with a self-important smile, melodramatically whipping a scroll from the sleeve of his robe.
“Ten years ago, just after his ascension, King Iadon came to me and made this statement,” Seinalan said. “You can see his seal at the bottom, as well as my own. He ordered that I present this to Arelon at his funeral, or fifteen years from the date of its creation, whichever arrived first.”
Roial moved across the side of the room until he was standing next to Sarene and Shuden. His eyes showed curiosity, and concern. At the front of the room, Seinalan broke the seal on the scroll and unrolled it.
“‘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, smiling. “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 Arelene 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 Teo 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 said. “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.
Using the carriages, it took a mere 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 silently. Sarene, dressed once again 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.
Should anyone have been surprised that 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 thought 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 Arelene 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, if 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 JinDo 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 on 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 Father 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 was there. It was odd, Sarene thought, that Hrathen’s 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 truly going to get married. At that thought, both terrifying and vindicating, she raised her veil.
The screaming started immediately.
Confused and embarrassed, 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. Stupefied, Sarene stared down at the long tresses. Her hands began to shake. She looked up. Roial was stunned, Seinalan outraged, and even Omin clutched his Korathi pendant in 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.