SARENE and Hrathen shambled down the city street, their nondescript cloaks pulled close. Hrathen kept his hood up to hide his dark hair. The people of Teoras had gathered in the streets, wondering why their king had brought the armada into the bay. Many wandered in the direction of the docks, and among these Sarene and Hrathen mingled, stooped and subservient, trying their best to look commonplace.
“When we arrive, we will seek passage on one of the merchant ships,” Hrathen said quietly. “They will bolt from Teod as soon as the armada launches. There are several places in Hrovell that don’t see a Derethi priest for months at a time. We can hide there.”
“You talk as if Teod will fall,” Sarene whispered back. “You may go, priest, but I will not leave my homeland.”
“If you value its safety, you will,” Hrathen snapped. “I know Dilaf—he is a man obsessed. If you stay in Teod, so will he. If you leave, perhaps he will follow.”
Sarene ground her teeth. The gyorn’s words had apparent sense in them, but it was possible he was concocting things to get her to accompany him. Of course, there was no reason for him to do such a thing. What cared he for Sarene? She had been his fervent enemy.
They moved slowly, unwilling to set themselves apart from the crowd by increasing their speed. “You didn’t really answer my question before, priest,” Sarene whispered. “You have turned against your religion. Why?”
Hrathen walked in silence for a moment. “I … I don’t know, woman. I have followed Shu-Dereth since I was a child—the structure and formality of it have always called to me. I joined the priesthood. I … thought I had faith. It turned out, however, that the thing I grew to believe was not Shu-Dereth after all. I don’t know what it is.”
“Shu-Korath?”
Hrathen shook his head. “That is too simple. Belief is not simply Korathi or Derethi, one or the other. I still believe Dereth’s teachings. My problem is with Wyrn, not God.”
* * *
HORRIFIED AT HIS show of weakness before the girl, Hrathen quickly steeled his heart against further questions. Yes, he had betrayed Shu-Dereth. Yes, he was a traitor. But for some reason, he felt calm now that he had made the decision. He had caused blood and death in Duladel. He would not let that happen again.
He had convinced himself that the republic’s fall was a necessary tragedy. Now he had dispelled that illusion. His work in Duladel had been no more ethical than what Dilaf had attempted here in Teod. Ironically, by opening himself to truth, Hrathen had also exposed himself to the guilt of his past atrocities.
One thing, however, kept him from despair—the knowledge that whatever else happened to him, no matter what he had done, he could say that he now followed the truth in his heart. He could die and face Jaddeth with courage and pride.
The thought crossed his mind right before he felt the stab of pain in his chest. He reached over in surprise, grunting as he brought his hand up. His fingers were stained with blood. He felt his feet weaken, and he slumped against a building, ignoring Sarene’s startled cry. Confused, he looked out into the crowd, and his eyes fell on the face of his murderer. He knew the man. His name was Fjon—the priest Hrathen had sent home from Kae the very day he had arrived. That had been two months ago. How had Fjon found him? How…? It was impossible.
Fjon smiled, then disappeared into the throng of people.
As the darkness closed in, Hrathen discarded all questions. Instead his view and consciousness was filled with Sarene’s worried face. The woman who had destroyed him. Because of her, he had finally rejected the lies he had believed all of his life.
She would never know that he had come to love her.
Goodbye, my princess, he thought. Jaddeth be merciful to my soul. I only did the best I could.
* * *
SARENE WATCHED THE light fading from Hrathen’s eyes.
“No!” she cried, pressing her hand against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. “Hrathen, don’t you dare leave me alone here!”
He didn’t respond. She had fought him over the fate of two countries, but had never really known who he was. She never would.
A startled scream shocked Sarene back into the tangible world. People gathered around her, upset by the sight of a dying man in the street. Stunned, Sarene realized she had become the center of attention. She lifted her hand, pulled away as if to hide, but it was too late. Several bare-chested forms appeared from an alley to investigate the disturbance. One of them had blood on his face, the sign of a broken nose.
* * *
FJON SLIPPED AWAY from the crowd, exulting at the ease of his first kill. They had told him that it would be simple: He needed only to knife a single man, and then he would be admitted into the monastery of Rathbore, where he would be trained as an assassin.
You were right, Hrathen, he thought. They did give me a new way to serve Jaddeth’s empire—an important one.
How ironic that the man he had been ordered to kill had turned out to be Hrathen himself. How had Wyrn known that Fjon would find Hrathen here, on the streets of Teoras of all places? Fjon would probably never know; Lord Jaddeth moved in ways beyond the understanding of men. But Fjon had performed his duty. His period of penance was over.
With a merry step, Fjon went back to his inn and ordered breakfast.
* * *
“LEAVE ME,” LUKEL said with a pained tone. “I’m nearly dead—see to the others.”
“Stop whining,” Raoden said, drawing Aon Ien in the air above the wounded Lukel. He crossed it with the Chasm line, and the wound in the merchant’s leg resealed instantly. Not only did Raoden know the proper modifiers this time, but his Aons had the power of Elantris behind them. With the resurrection of the city, AonDor had regained its legendary strength.
Lukel looked down, experimentally bending his leg and feeling where the cut had been. Then he frowned. “You know, you could have left a scar. I had to go through an awful lot to get that wound—you should have seen how courageous I was. My grandchildren are going to be disappointed that I don’t have any scars to show them.”
“They’ll live,” Raoden said, rising and walking away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lukel said from behind. “I thought we won.”
We won, Raoden thought, but I failed. They had searched the city—there was no sign of Sarene, Dilaf, or Hrathen. Raoden had captured a straggling Derethi soldier and demanded to know where they were, but the man had pled ignorance, and Raoden had released him in disgust.
He brooded, watching the people celebrate. Despite the deaths, despite the near-complete destruction of Kae, they were happy. Fjorden had been cast out and Elantris had returned. The days of the gods had come again. Unfortunately, Raoden couldn’t enjoy the sweetness of his victory. Not without Sarene.
Galladon approached slowly, ambling away from the group of Elantrians. The mass of silver-skinned people were, for the most part, disoriented. Many of them had been Hoed for years, and knew nothing of current events.
“They’re going to be—” the Dula began.
“My lord Raoden!” a voice suddenly interrupted—a voice Raoden recognized.
“Ashe?” he asked anxiously, seeking out the seon.
“Your Majesty!” Ashe said, zipping across the courtyard. “A seon just spoke with me. The princess! She is in Teoras, my lord. My kingdom is under attack as well!”
“Teoras?” Raoden asked, dumbfounded. “How in Domi’s name did she get there?”
* * *
SARENE BACKED AWAY, wishing desperately for a weapon. The townspeople noticed Dilaf and his warriors and, seeing the Fjordells’ odd twisted bodies and malevolent eyes, scattered in fright. Sarene’s reflexes urged her to join them, but such a move would only put her directly in Dilaf’s hands. The small monk’s warriors quickly fanned out to cut off Sarene’s escape.
Dilaf approached—his face stained with drying blood, his bare torso sweating in Teod’s cold air, the intricate patterns beneath the skin on his arms and chest bulging, his lips curved in a heartless smile. At that moment, Sarene knew that this man was the most horrifying thing she would ever see.
* * *
RAODEN CLIMBED TO the top of Elantris’s wall, taking the steps two at a time, his restored Elantrian muscles moving more quickly and tirelessly than even those of his pre-Shaod self.
“Sule!” Galladon called with concern, rushing up behind him.
Raoden didn’t respond. He topped the wall, pushing his way through the crowds of people who stood looking over the remains of Kae. They parted as they realized who he was, some kneeling and mumbling “Your Majesty.” Their voices were awed. In him they saw a return to their former lives. Hopeful, luxurious lives filled with ample food and time. Lives nearly forgotten over a decade of tyranny.
Raoden gave them no heed, continuing until he stood on the northern wall, which overlooked the broad blue Sea of Fjorden. On the other side of those waters lay Teod. And Sarene.
“Seon,” Raoden ordered, “show me the exact direction Teod’s capital is from this point.”
Ashe hovered for a moment, then moved to a spot in front of Raoden, marking a point on the horizon. “If you wanted to sail to Teoras, my lord, you would go in this direction.”
Raoden nodded, trusting the seon’s innate sense of direction. He began to draw. He constructed Aon Tia with frantic hands, his fingers tracing patterns he had learned by rote, never thinking they would do any good. Now, with Elantris somehow feeding the Aons’ strength, lines no longer simply appeared in the air when he drew—they exploded. Light streamed from the Aon, as if his fingers were ripping tiny holes through a mighty dam, allowing only some of the water to squirt through.
“Sule!” Galladon said, finally catching up to him. “Sule, what is going on?” Then, apparently recognizing the Aon, he cursed. “Doloken, Raoden, you don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I am going to Teoras,” Raoden said, continuing to draw.
“But sule,” Galladon protested. “You yourself told me how dangerous Aon Tia can be. What was it you said? If you don’t know the exact distance you need to travel, you could be killed. You can’t go into this blind. Kolo?”
“It’s the only way, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I have to at least try.”
Galladon shook his head, laying a hand on Raoden’s shoulder. “Sule, a meaningless attempt won’t prove anything but your stupidity. Do you even know how far it is to Teod?”
Raoden’s hand fell slowly to his side. He was no geographer; he knew Teod was about four days’ sail, but he had no practical knowledge of how many miles or feet that was. He had to work a frame of reference into Aon Tia, give it some sort of measurement, so that it knew how far to send him.
Galladon nodded, clapping Raoden on the shoulder. “Prepare a ship!” the Dula ordered to a group of soldiers—the last remnants of the Elantris City Guard.
It will be too late! Raoden thought with sorrow. What good is power, what good is Elantris, if I can’t use it to protect the one I love?
“One million, fifty-four thousand, four hundred and forty-two,” said a voice from behind Raoden.
Raoden turned in surprise. Adien stood a short distance away, his skin shining with a silvery Elantrian glow. His eyes betrayed none of the mental affliction that had burdened him since birth; instead they stared lucidly ahead.
“Adien,” Raoden said, “you’re…”
The young man, looking strikingly like Lukel now that he was healed, stepped forward. “I … I feel like my entire life has been a dream, Raoden. I remember everything that happened. But I couldn’t interact—I couldn’t say anything. That’s changed now, but one thing remains the same. My mind … I’ve always been able to figure numbers.…”
“Footsteps,” Raoden whispered.
“One million, fifty-four thousand, four hundred and forty-two,” Adien repeated. “That is how many steps it is to Teoras. Measure my stride, and use half of that as your unit.”
“Hurry, my lord!” Ashe exclaimed with fear. “She’s in danger. Mai—he’s watching the princess now. He says she’s surrounded. Oh, Domi! Hurry!”
“Where, seon!” Raoden snapped, kneeling down and measuring Adien’s stride with a strip of cloth.
“Near the docks, my lord,” Ashe said. “She’s standing on the main road leading to the docks!”
“Adien!” Raoden said, drawing a line in his Aon that was half the length of the boy’s stride.
“One million, fifty-four thousand, four hundred and one,” Adien said. “That will take you to the docks.” He looked up, frowning. “I … I’m not sure how I know that. I went there as a child once, but…”
It’ll have to be enough, Raoden thought. He reached up and wrote a modifier beside his Aon, telling it to transport him one million, fifty-four thousand, four hundred and one lengths of the line.
“Sule, this is insane!” Galladon said.
Raoden looked at his friend, nodded in agreement, then with a broad stroke drew the Chasm line across his Aon.
“You are in charge of Arelon until I return, my friend,” Raoden said as Aon Tia began to shake, spewing light before him. He reached up and grabbed the center of the trembling Aon, and his fingers latched on to it, as if it were solid.
Idos Domi, he prayed, if you have ever heard my prayers before, direct my path now. Then, hoping Ashe had the angle correct, he felt the Aon’s power rush through and envelop his body. A moment later the world disappeared.
* * *
SARENE PRESSED HER back against the hard brick wall. Dilaf approached with gleeful eyes. He crept forward, his line of monks closing on Sarene.
It was over. There was nowhere for her to run.
Suddenly a spray of light crashed into one of the monks, throwing the creature into the air. Stupefied, Sarene watched the monk’s body as it arced before her, then fell to the ground with a thud. The other monks paused, stunned.
A figure dashed between the surprised line of monks, scrambling toward Sarene. His skin was silvery, his hair a blazing white, his face …
“Raoden?”
Dilaf growled, and Sarene yelped as the priest dove at Raoden, moving supernaturally quickly. Yet somehow Raoden reacted just as quickly, spinning and backing away before Dilaf’s attack. The king’s hand whipped out, scrawling a quick Aon in the air.
A burst of light shot from the Aon, the air warping and twisting around it. The bolt took Dilaf in the chest and exploded, throwing the monk backward. Dilaf crashed into the side of a building and collapsed to the ground. Then, however, the priest groaned, stumbling back to his feet.
Raoden cursed. He dashed the short distance and grabbed Sarene. “Hold on,” he ordered, his free hand tracing another Aon. The designs Raoden crafted around Aon Tia were complex, but his hand moved dexterously. He finished it just as Dilaf’s men reached them.
Sarene’s body lurched, much as it had when Dilaf had brought them to Teoras. Light surrounded her, shaking and pulsing. A brief second later the world returned. Sarene stumbled in confusion, falling against the familiar Teo cobblestones.
She looked up in surprise. About fifty feet down the street she could see the bare chests of Dilaf’s monks standing in a confused circle. One of them raised a hand, pointing at Raoden and Sarene.
“Idos Domi!” Raoden cursed. “I forgot what the books said! The Aons grow weaker the farther one goes from Elantris.”
“You can’t get us home?” Sarene asked, climbing to her feet.
“Not by Aon, I can’t,” Raoden said. Then, taking her hand, he started running.
Her mind was so full of questions the entire world seemed a confused jumble. What had happened to Raoden? How had he recovered from the wound Dilaf gave him? She choked the questions back. It was enough that he had come.
* * *
FRANTIC, RAODEN SEARCHED for a means of escape. Perhaps alone he could have outrun Dilaf’s men, but never with Sarene in tow. Their street emptied onto the docks, where Teod’s large warships were ponderously moving from the bay to engage a fleet bearing Fjorden’s flag. A man in royal green robes stood at the far side of the docks, conversing with a couple of adjuncts. King Eventeo—Sarene’s father. The king didn’t see them, instead turning to walk in a rushed step down a side alley.
“Father!” Sarene yelled out, but the distance was too far.
Raoden could hear footsteps approaching. He spun, thrusting Sarene behind him, and raised his arms to begin an Aon Daa with each hand. The Aons were weaker in Teod, but they weren’t ineffectual.
Dilaf held up a palm, slowing his men. Raoden froze, unwilling to commit himself to a final battle unless he had to. What was Dilaf waiting for?
Bare-chested monks poured from alleys and streets. Dilaf smiled, waiting as his warriors gathered. Within a few minutes his group had grown from twelve to fifty, and Raoden’s odds had plummeted from bad to hopeless.
“Not much of a rescue,” Sarene muttered, stepping forward to stand next to Raoden, staring down the group of monstrosities with a contemptuous air.
Her defiant irony brought a smile to Raoden’s lips. “Next time, I’ll remember to bring an army with me.”
* * *
DILAF’S MONKS CHARGED. Raoden completed his duplicate Aons—sending out a pair of powerful energy blasts—then quickly began drawing again. Yet holding to his waist with tense hands, Sarene could see that Raoden wouldn’t finish before the supernaturally quick warriors arrived.
The docks shook with a powerful force. Wood cracked and stone shattered, and an explosion of wind blasted across her. She had to cling to Raoden’s somehow more stable body to keep from being thrown to the ground. When she finally dared open her eyes, they were surrounded by hundreds of silver-skinned forms.
“Aon Daa!” Galladon ordered in a booming voice.
Two hundred hands lifted in the air, scribbling Aons. About half of them made mistakes, their Aons evaporating. Enough finished, however, to send a wave of destruction toward Dilaf’s men that was so powerful it tore completely through the first few monks.
Bodies collapsed and others were thrown backward. The remaining monks stumbled to a halt, staring at the Elantrians.
Then the Dakhor regrouped, turning from Raoden and Sarene to attack this new foe.
* * *
DILAF WAS THE only one of his men who thought to duck. The rest, confidently arrogant in their strength, simply allowed the powerful blasts to hit them.
Fools! Dilaf thought as he rolled away. Every Dakhor was blessed with special skills and abilities. They all had increased strength and nearly indestructible bones, but only Dilaf bore the power that made him resistant to attacks by the Dor—a capacity that had required the deaths of fifty men to create. He felt, rather than saw, as his men were torn apart by the Elantrians’ attack.
The remaining monks were horribly outnumbered. They attacked bravely, trying to kill as many of the vile Elantrians as they could. They had been trained well. They would die fighting. Dilaf yearned to join them.
But he did not. Some thought him mad, but he was not a fool. The screams in his head demanded revenge, and there was still a way left. One way to get vengeance on the Teo princess and her Elantrians. One way to fulfill Wyrn’s commands. One way to turn the tide of this battle.
Dilaf scrambled away, stumbling as a bolt of energy sprayed against his back. His bone wardings held, and he was left unharmed by the attack.
When he had entered the docks a few moments before, he had seen King Eventeo disappear down a side alley. He now dashed toward that same alley.
His prey would follow.
* * *
“RAODEN!” SARENE SAID, pointing at the fleeing Dilaf.
“Let him go,” Raoden said. “He can do no more damage.”
“But that’s the way my father went!” Sarene said, tugging him toward the alley.
She’s right, Raoden thought with a curse. He took off behind Dilaf. Sarene waved him on, and he left her behind, letting his newly reconditioned Elantrian legs carry him to the alleyway at an extraordinary speed. The other Elantrians didn’t see him go, but continued to fight the monks.
Raoden entered the alleyway, barely puffing. Dilaf tackled him a second later. The monk’s powerful body appeared out of a shadowed corner, slamming Raoden into the alley wall.
Raoden cried out, feeling his ribs crack. Dilaf backed away, unsheathing his sword with a smile. The priest lunged forward, and Raoden barely rolled away in time to avoid being impaled. As it was, Dilaf’s attack sliced through the flesh of Raoden’s left forearm, spilling silvery-white Elantrian blood.
Raoden gasped as pain washed through his arm. This pain, however, was weak and dull compared to his former agonies. He forgot it rapidly, rolling again as Dilaf’s blade sought his heart. If his heart stopped again, Raoden would die. Elantrians were strong and quick-healing, but they were not immortal.
As he dodged, Raoden searched through his memory of Aons. Thinking quickly, he rolled to his feet, rapidly scribbling Aon Edo before him. It was a simple character, requiring only six strokes, and he finished it before Dilaf could make a third attack. The Aon flashed, and then a thin wall of light appeared between himself and Dilaf.
Dilaf tested the wall hesitantly with the tip of his sword, and the wall resisted. The more one pressed against it, the more it drew from the Dor, pressing back with equal strength. Dilaf could not reach him.
Casually, Dilaf reached up and tapped the wall with his bare hand. His palm flashed briefly and the wall shattered, shards of light scattering through the air.
Raoden cursed his stupidity—this was the man who had destroyed his illusory face just a day before. Somehow, Dilaf had the power to negate Aons. Raoden jumped back, but the sword snapped forward more quickly. The tip did not strike Raoden’s chest, but struck his hand instead.
Raoden cried out as the sword pierced his right palm. He brought his other hand up to cup it around the injured one, but the wound on his forearm blazed with renewed vigor. Both hands were incapacitated; he could no longer draw Aons. Dilaf’s next attack was a casual kick, and Raoden’s already wounded ribs cracked further. He cried out and dropped to his knees.
Dilaf laughed, tapping Raoden on the side of the face with the tip of his sword. “The skaze are right, then. Elantrians are not indestructible.”
Raoden didn’t answer.
“I will still win, Elantrian,” Dilaf said, his voice passionate and frenzied. “After Wyrn’s fleets defeat the Teo armada, I will gather my troops and march on Elantris.”
“No one defeats the Teo armada, priest,” a feminine voice interjected, a blade flashing out to strike at Dilaf’s head.
The priest yelped, barely bringing his own sword up in time to block Sarene’s attack. She had found a sword somewhere, and she whipped it in a pattern that moved too quickly for Raoden to track. He smiled at Dilaf’s surprise, remembering how easily the princess had defeated his own skills. Her weapon was thicker than a syre, but she still handled it with remarkable proficiency.
Dilaf, however, was no ordinary man. The bone patterns beneath his skin started glowing as he blocked Sarene’s attack, and his body began to move even more quickly. Soon Sarene stopped advancing, and almost immediately she was forced to begin retreating. The battle ended as Dilaf’s sword pierced her shoulder. Sarene’s weapon clanged to the cobblestones, and she stumbled, slumping down next to Raoden.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Raoden shook his head. No one could be expected to win a sword fight against one such as Dilaf.
“And my revenge begins,” Dilaf whispered reverently, bringing up his sword. “You may stop yelling, my love.”
Raoden grabbed Sarene protectively with a bleeding hand. Then he paused. There was something moving behind Dilaf—a form in the shadows of the alleyway.
Frowning, Dilaf turned to follow Raoden’s gaze. A figure stumbled from the darkness, holding his side in pain. The figure was a tall, broad-chested man with dark hair and determined eyes. Though the man no longer wore his armor, Raoden recognized him. The gyorn, Hrathen.
Strangely, Dilaf didn’t seem happy to see his companion. The Dakhor monk spun, raising his sword, eyes flashing with anger. He leapt, screaming something in Fjordell, and swung his sword at the obviously weakened gyorn.
Hrathen stopped, then whipped his arm out from beneath his cloak. Dilaf’s sword hit the flesh of Hrathen’s forearm.
And stopped.
Sarene gasped beside Raoden. “He’s one of them!” she whispered.
It was true. Dilaf’s weapon scraped along Hrathen’s arm, pushing back the sleeve there and revealing the skin beneath. The arm was not that of a normal man; it showed twisting patterns beneath the skin, the outcroppings of bone that were the sign of a Dakhor monk.
Obviously, Dilaf was surprised by the revelation as well. The monk stood stunned as Hrathen’s hand whipped out and grabbed Dilaf by the neck.
Dilaf began to curse, squirming in Hrathen’s grasp. The gyorn, however, began to stand up straighter, his grip tightening. Beneath his cloak, Hrathen was bare-chested, and Raoden could see that his skin there bore no Dakhor markings, though it was wet with blood from a wound at his side. Only the bones in his arm had the strange twisted patterns. Why the partial transformation?
Hrathen stood tall, ignoring Dilaf, though the monk began to swing at Hrathen’s enhanced arm with his short sword. The blows bounced off, so Dilaf swung at Hrathen’s side instead. The sword bit deeply into Hrathen’s flesh, but the gyorn didn’t even grunt. Instead he tightened his grip on Dilaf’s neck, and the little monk gasped, dropping his sword in pain.
Hrathen’s arm began to glow.
The strange, twisting lines beneath Hrathen’s skin took on an eerie radiance as the gyorn lifted Dilaf off the ground. Dilaf squirmed and twisted, his breath coming in gasps. He struggled to escape, prying at Hrathen’s fingers, but the gyorn’s grip was firm.
Hrathen held Dilaf aloft, as if toward the heavens. He stared upward, toward the sky, eyes strangely unfocused, Dilaf proffered like some sort of holy offering. The gyorn stood there for a long moment, immobile, arm glowing, Dilaf becoming more and more frantic.
There was a snap. Dilaf stopped struggling. Hrathen lowered the body with a slow motion, then tossed it aside, the glow in his arm fading. He looked toward Raoden and Sarene, stood quietly for a moment, then toppled forward lifelessly.
* * *
WHEN GALLADON ARRIVED a few moments later, Raoden was trying unsuccessfully to heal Sarene’s shoulder with his wounded hands. The large Dula took in the scene, then nodded for a couple of Elantrians to check on Dilaf and Hrathen’s corpses. Then Galladon settled down, letting Raoden tell him how to draw Aon Ien. A few moments later, Raoden’s hands and ribs had been restored, and he moved to help Sarene.
She sat quietly. Despite her wound, she had already checked on Hrathen. He was dead. In fact, either one of the wounds in his sides should have killed him long before he managed to break Dilaf’s neck. Something about his Dakhor markings had kept him alive. Raoden shook his head, drawing a healing Aon for Sarene’s shoulder. He still didn’t have an explanation as to why the gyorn had saved them, but he quietly blessed the man’s intervention.
“The armada?” Sarene asked anxiously as Raoden drew.
“Looks to me like it’s doing fine.” Galladon shrugged. “Your father is searching for you—he came to the docks soon after we arrived.”
Raoden drew the Chasm line, and the wound in Sarene’s arm disappeared.
“I have to admit, sule, you are lucky as Doloken,” Galladon said. “Jumping here blind was just about the most idiotic thing I’ve ever seen a man do.”
Raoden shrugged, pulling Sarene tight. “It was worth it. Besides, you followed, didn’t you?”
Galladon snorted. “We had Ashe call ahead to make sure you arrived safely. We’re not kayana, unlike our king.”
“All right,” Sarene declared firmly. “Somebody is going to start explaining things to me right now.”