SARENE decided not to accept her uncle’s offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information, and the Arelene nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date.
So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon’s throne room.
“What in the name of Domi are you doing, girl!” the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side.
Sarene looked up from her canvas with feigned surprise. “I’m painting, Father,” she said, helpfully holding up her brush—an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of justice’s face.
Iadon sighed. “I can see that you’re painting. I meant why are you doing it here?”
“Oh,” Sarene said innocently. “I’m painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so.”
“You’re painting my…?” Iadon asked, his expression dumbfounded. “But…”
Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers.
“Oh for Domi’s sake!” Iadon bellowed. “Paint if you must, girl. Just don’t do it in the middle of my throne room!”
Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint.
Iadon groaned. “I meant … Bah, Domi curse it! You’re not worth the effort.” With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of business—a squabble between two minor nobles.
Ashe hovered down next to Sarene’s canvas, speaking to her softly. “I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady.”
Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. “Iadon has a quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he’s going to give me. He knows I’ll just misunderstand him, and he’ll end up more aggravated.”
“I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place,” Ashe noted.
“A good question,” Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. “Perhaps we aren’t giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him, I’m an expended resource—he has his treaty. I’m of no further concern.”
“I’m not convinced, my lady,” Ashe noted. “He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long.”
“He’s probably going to lose his throne,” Sarene said. “I suspect that is why the gyorn is here.”
“I agree, my lady,” Ashe noted in his deep voice. He floated in front of her painting for a moment, studying its irregular blotches and semistraight lines. “You’re getting better, my lady.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“No, really, Your Highness. When you started painting five years ago, I could never tell what it was you were trying to depict.”
“And this is a painting of…”
Ashe paused. “A bowl of fruit?” he asked hopefully.
Sarene sighed in frustration. She was usually good at everything she tried, but the secrets of painting completely eluded her. At first she had been astounded at her lack of talent, and she had pressed on with a determination to prove herself. Artistic technique, however, had totally refused to bow beneath her royal will. She considered herself adept at politics, an unquestionable leader, and could grasp even JinDo mathematics with ease. She was also a horrible painter. Not that she let it stop her—she was also undeniably stubborn.
“One of these days, Ashe, something will click, and I’ll figure out how to make the images in my head appear on canvas.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Sarene smiled. “Until then, let’s just pretend I was trained by someone from a Svordish school of extreme abstractionism.”
“Ah yes. The school of creative misdirection. Very good, my lady.”
Two men entered the throne room to present their case to the king. There was little to distinguish them; both wore fashionable vests over colorful frilled shirts and loose, wide-cuffed trousers. Much more interesting to Sarene was a third man, one who was brought into the room by a palace guard. He was a nondescript, light-haired peasant of Aonic blood dressed in a simple brown smock. It was obvious that he was horribly underfed, and there was a look of despairing hopelessness in his eyes that Sarene found haunting.
The dispute regarded the peasant. Apparently he had escaped from one of the noblemen about three years ago, but had been captured by the second. Instead of returning the man, the second noble had kept him and put him to work. The argument wasn’t over the peasant himself, however, but his children. He had married about two years ago, and had fathered two children during his stay with the second noble. Both nobles claimed ownership of the babies.
“I thought slavery was illegal in Arelon,” Sarene said quietly.
“It is, my lady,” Ashe said, his voice confused. “I don’t understand.”
“They speak of figurative ownership, Cousin,” a voice said from in front of her. Sarene peeked around the side of her canvas with surprise. Lukel, Kiin’s oldest son, stood smiling beside her easel.
“Lukel! What are you doing here?”
“I’m one of the most successful merchants in the city, Cousin,” he said, walking around the canvas to regard the painting with a raised eyebrow. “I have an open invitation to the court. I’m surprised you didn’t see me when you came in.”
“You were there?”
Lukel nodded. “I was near the back, reacquainting myself with some old contacts. I’ve been out of town for some time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was too interested in what you were doing,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think anyone has ever decided to requisition the middle of Iadon’s throne room to use as an art studio.”
Sarene felt herself blushing. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Beautifully—which is more than I can say for the painting.” He paused for a moment. “It’s a horse, right?”
Sarene scowled.
“A house?”
“It is not a bowl of fruit either, my lord,” Ashe said. “I already tried that.”
“Well, she said it was one of the paintings in this room,” Lukel said. “All we have to do is keep guessing until we find the right one.”
“Brilliant deduction, Master Lukel,” Ashe said.
“That’s enough, you two,” Sarene growled. “It’s the one across from us. The one I was facing while I painted.”
“That one?” Lukel asked. “But that’s a picture of flowers.”
“And?”
“What’s that dark spot in the middle of your painting?”
“Flowers,” Sarene said defensively.
“Oh.” Lukel looked once more at Sarene’s painting, then looked up at her model again. “Whatever you say, Cousin.”
“Maybe you could explain Iadon’s legal case before I turn violent, Cousin,” Sarene said with threatening sweetness.
“Right. What do you want to know?”
“Our studies tell us slavery is illegal in Arelon, but those men keep referring to the peasant as their possession.”
Lukel frowned, turning his gaze on the two contesting nobles. “Slavery is illegal, but it probably won’t be for long. Ten years ago there weren’t any nobles or peasants in Arelon—just Elantrians and everyone else. Over the past decade, commoners have changed from families that owned their own land, to peasants beneath feudal lords, to indentured servants, to something more resembling ancient Fjordell serfs. It won’t be much longer before they’re nothing more than property.”
Sarene frowned. The mere fact that the king would hear a case such as this—that he would even consider taking a man’s children away from him to save some nobleman’s honor—was atrocious. Society was supposed to have progressed beyond that point. The peasant watched the proceedings with dull eyes that had systematically and deliberately had the light beaten out of them.
“This is worse than I had feared,” Sarene said.
Lukel nodded at her side. “The first thing Iadon did when he took the throne was eliminate individual landholding rights. Arelon had no army to speak of, but Iadon could afford to hire mercenaries, forcing the people into compliance. He declared that all land belonged to the Crown, and then he rewarded those merchants who had supported his ascension with titles and holdings. Only a few men, such as my father, had enough land and money that Iadon didn’t dare try to take their property.”
Sarene felt her disgust for her new father rise. Once Arelon had boasted the happiest, most advanced society in the world. Iadon had crushed that society, transforming it into a system not even Fjorden used anymore.
Sarene glanced at Iadon, then turned to Lukel. “Come,” she said, pulling her cousin to the side of the room, where they could speak a little more openly. They were close enough to keep an eye on Iadon, but far enough away from other groups of people that a quiet conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
“Ashe and I were discussing this earlier,” she said. “How did that man ever manage to get the throne?”
Lukel shrugged. “Iadon is … a complex man, Cousin. He’s remarkably shortsighted in some areas, but he can be extremely crafty when dealing with people—that’s part of what makes him a good merchant. He was head of the local merchants’ guild before the Reod—which probably made him the most powerful man in the area who wasn’t directly connected to the Elantrians.
“The merchants’ guild was an autonomous organization—and many of its members didn’t get along too well with the Elantrians. You see, Elantris provided free food for everyone in the area, something that made for a happy populace, but was terrible for the merchants.”
“Why didn’t they just import other things?” Sarene asked. “Something besides food?”
“The Elantrians could make almost anything, Cousin,” Lukel said. “And while they didn’t give it all away for free, they could provide many materials at far cheaper prices than the merchants could—especially if you consider shipping costs. Eventually the merchants’ guild struck a deal with Elantris, getting the Elantrians to promise that they would only provide ‘basic’ items to the populace for free. That left the merchants’ guild to import the more expensive luxury items, catering to the wealthy crowd in the area—which tended to be other members of the merchants’ guild.”
“And then the Reod struck,” Sarene said, beginning to understand.
Lukel nodded. “Elantris fell, and the merchants’ guild—of which Iadon was chairman—was the largest, most powerful organization in the four outer cities. The fact that the guild had a history of disagreement with Elantris only strengthened its reputation in the eyes of the people. Iadon was a natural fit for king. That doesn’t mean that he’s a particularly good monarch though.”
Sarene nodded. Sitting on his throne, Iadon finally made his decision regarding the case. He declared in a loud voice that the runaway peasant did indeed belong to the first noble, but his children would remain with the second. “For,” Iadon pointed out, “the children have been fed all this time by their current master.”
The peasant didn’t cry out at the decision; he simply looked down at his feet, and Sarene felt a stab of sorrow. When the man looked up, however, there was something in his eyes—something beneath the enforced subservience. Hate. There was still enough spirit left in him for that.
“This won’t go on much longer,” she said quietly. “The people won’t stand for it.”
“The working class lived for centuries under the Fjordell feudal system,” Lukel pointed out. “And they were treated worse than farm animals.”
“Yes, but they were raised to it,” Sarene said. “People in ancient Fjorden didn’t know better—to them, the feudal system was the only system. These people are different. Ten years really isn’t all that long—the Arelene peasantry can remember a time when the men they now call masters were simple shopkeepers and tradesmen. They know that there is a better life. More importantly, they know a government can collapse, making those who were once servants into masters. Iadon has put too much on them too quickly.”
Lukel smiled. “You sound like Prince Raoden.”
Sarene paused, considering. “Did you know him well?”
“He was my best friend,” Lukel said with a sorrowful nod. “The greatest man I have ever known.”
“Tell me about him, Lukel,” she requested, her voice soft.
Lukel thought for a moment, then spoke with a reminiscent voice. “Raoden made people happy. Your day could have been as sour as winter, and the prince and his optimism would arrive, and with a few gentle words he would make you realize just how silly you were being. He was brilliant as well; he knew every Aon and could draw them with perfection, and he was always coming up with some weird new philosophy that no one but Father could understand. Even with my training at the university in Svorden, I still couldn’t follow half of his theories.”
“He sounds like he was flawless.”
Lukel smiled. “In everything but cards. He always lost when we played tooledoo, even if he did talk me into paying for dinner afterward. He would have made a horrible merchant—he didn’t really care about money. He would lose a game of tooledoo just because he knew I got a thrill from the victory. I never saw him sad or angry—except when he was at one of the outer plantations, visiting the people. He did that often; then he would come back to the court and speak his thoughts on the matter quite directly.”
“I’ll bet the king didn’t think much of that,” Sarene said with a slight smile.
“He hated it,” Lukel said. “Iadon tried everything short of banishing Raoden to keep him quiet, but nothing worked. The prince would find a way to work his opinion into any and every royal ruling. He was the crown prince, and so court laws—written by Iadon himself—gave Raoden a chance to speak his mind in every matter brought before the king. And let me tell you, Princess, you don’t know what a scolding is until you’ve had one from Raoden. The man could be so stern at times that even the stone walls would shrivel beneath his tongue.”
Sarene sat back, enjoying the image of Iadon being denounced by his own son before the entire court.
“I miss him,” Lukel said quietly. “This country needed Raoden. He was beginning to make some real differences; he had gathered quite a following among the nobles. Now the group is fragmenting without his leadership. Father and I are trying to hold them together, but I’ve been gone so long that I’m out of touch. And of course few of them trust Father.”
“What? Why not?”
“He has something of a reputation for being a scoundrel. Besides, he doesn’t have a title. He’s refused every one the king tried to give him.”
Sarene’s brow furrowed. “Wait a moment—I thought Uncle Kiin opposed the king. Why would Iadon try to give him a title?”
Lukel smiled. “Iadon can’t help it. The king’s entire government is built on the idea that monetary success is justification for rule. Father is extremely successful, and the law says that money equals nobility. You see, the king was foolish enough to think that everyone rich would think the same way he does, and so he wouldn’t have any opposition as long as he gave titles to everyone affluent. Father’s refusal to accept a title is really a way of undermining Iadon’s sovereignty, and the king knows it. As long as there’s even one rich man who isn’t technically a nobleman, the Arelene aristocratic system is flawed. Old Iadon nearly has a fit every time Father appears in court.”
“He should come by more often then,” Sarene said impishly.
“Father finds plenty of opportunities to show his face. He and Raoden met nearly every afternoon here in the court to play a game of ShinDa. It was an unending source of discomfort to Iadon that they chose to do this in his own throne room, but again, his own laws proclaimed that the court was open to everyone his son invited, so he couldn’t throw them out.”
“It sounds like the prince had a talent for using the king’s own laws against him.”
“It was one of his more endearing traits,” Lukel said, smiling. “Somehow Raoden would twist every one of Iadon’s new decrees until they turned around and slapped the king in the face. Iadon spent nearly every moment of the last five years trying to find a way to disinherit Raoden. It turns out Domi solved that problem for him in the end.”
Either Domi, Sarene thought with growing suspicion, or one of Iadon’s own assassins.… “Who inherits now?” she asked.
“That’s not exactly certain,” Lukel said. “I expect Iadon plans to have another son—Eshen is young enough. One of the more powerful dukes would be next in line until then. Lord Telrii or Lord Roial.”
“Are they here?” Sarene asked, scanning the crowd.
“Roial isn’t,” Lukel said, “but that’s Duke Telrii over there.” Lukel nodded toward a pompous-looking man standing near the far wall. Lean and strong-postured, he might have been handsome had he not displayed signs of gross indulgence. His clothing sparkled with sewn-in gemstones, and his fingers glittered gold and silver. As he turned, Sarene could see that the left side of his face was marred by a massive, purplish birthmark.
“Let us hope the throne never falls to him,” Lukel said. “Iadon is disagreeable, but at least he’s fiscally responsible. Iadon is a miser. Telrii, however, is a spender. He likes money, and he likes those who give it to him. He’d probably be the richest man in Arelon if he weren’t so lavish—as it is, he’s a poor third, behind the king and Duke Roial.”
Sarene frowned. “The king would have disinherited Raoden, leaving the country with no visible heir? Doesn’t he know anything about succession wars?”
Lukel shrugged. “Apparently he’d rather have no heir than risk leaving Raoden in charge.”
“He couldn’t have things like freedom and compassion ruining his perfect little monarchy,” Sarene said.
“Exactly.”
“These nobles who followed Raoden. Do they ever meet?”
“No.” Lukel frowned. “They’re too afraid to continue without the prince’s protection. We’ve convinced a few of the more dedicated ones to gather one last time the day after tomorrow, but I doubt anything will come of it.”
“I want to be there,” Sarene said.
“These men don’t like newcomers, Cousin,” Lukel warned. “They’ve grown very jumpy—they know their meetings could be considered treasonous.”
“It’s the last time they plan to meet anyway. What are they going to do if I show up? Refuse to come anymore?”
Lukel paused, then smiled. “All right, I’ll tell Father, and he’ll find a way to get you in.”
“We can both tell him over lunch,” Sarene said, taking one last dissatisfied look at her canvas, then walking over to pack up her paints.
“So you’re coming to lunch after all?”
“Well, Uncle Kiin did promise he’d fix Fjordell revertiss. Besides, after what I’ve learned today, I don’t think I can sit here and listen to Iadon’s judgments much longer. I’m liable to start throwing paints if he makes me more angry.”
Lukel laughed. “That probably wouldn’t be a good idea, princess or not. Come on, Kaise is going to be ecstatic that you’re coming. Father always makes better food when we have company.”
* * *
LUKEL WAS RIGHT.
“She’s here!” Kaise declared with an enthusiastic squeal as she saw Sarene walk in. “Father, you have to serve lunch now!”
Jalla appeared from a nearby doorway to meet her husband with a hug and a brief kiss. The Svordish woman whispered something to Lukel in Fjordell, and he smiled, rubbing her shoulder affectionately. Sarene watched with envy, then steeled herself with gritted teeth. She was a royal Teo princess; it wasn’t her place to complain about the necessities of state marriages. If Domi had taken her husband before she even met him, then He obviously wanted to leave her mind clear for other concerns.
Uncle Kiin emerged from the kitchen, stuffed a book in his apron, then gave Sarene one of his crushing hugs. “So you couldn’t stay away after all. The lure of Kiin’s magical kitchen was too much for you, eh?”
“No, Papa, she’s just hungry,” Kaise announced.
“Oh, is that all. Well, sit down, Sarene, I’ll have lunch out in a few moments.”
The meal proceeded in much the same way as dinner had the night before, Kaise complaining about the slowness, Daorn trying to act more mature than his sister, and Lukel teasing them both mercilessly—as was the solemn duty of any elder brother. Adien made his appearance late, looking distracted as he mumbled some numbers softly to himself. Kiin brought out several steaming platters of food, apologizing for his wife’s absence because of a prior engagement.
The meal was delightful—the food good, the conversation enjoyable. Until, that was, Lukel took it upon himself to inform the family of Sarene’s painting talents.
“She was engaged in some sort of new abstractionism,” her cousin proclaimed in a completely serious voice.
“Is that so?” Kiin asked.
“Yes,” Lukel said. “Though I can’t quite say what kind of statement she was trying to make by representing a flower patch with a brown smudge that only vaguely resembles a horse.”
Sarene blushed as everyone at the table laughed. However, it wasn’t over—Ashe chose that moment to betray her as well.
“She calls it the school of creative misdirection,” the seon said solemnly in his deep, stately voice. “I believe the princess feels empowered by crafting art that completely baffles one’s ability to distinguish what the subject could be.”
This was too much for Kiin, who nearly collapsed from laughter. Sarene’s torment was soon over, however, as the topic of conversation met with a slight change—the source of which was of some interest to the princess.
“There’s no such thing as a school of creative misdirection,” Kaise informed them.
“There isn’t?” her father asked.
“No. There’s the impressionist school, the neorepresentational school, the abstract derivational school, and the revivationist school. That’s it.”
“Oh, is that so?” Lukel asked, amused.
“Yes,” Kaise pronounced. “There was the realist movement, but that’s the same as the neorepresentational school. They just changed names to sound more important.”
“Stop trying to show off for the princess,” Daorn mumbled.
“I’m not showing off,” Kaise huffed. “I’m being educated.”
“You are too showing off,” Daorn said. “Besides, the realist school is not the same as the neorepresentational school.”
“Daorn, stop grumbling at your sister,” Kiin ordered. “Kaise, stop showing off.”
Kaise scowled, then sat back with a sullen look on her face and began mumbling incoherently.
“What’s she doing?” Sarene asked with confusion.
“Oh, she’s cursing at us in JinDo,” Daorn said offhandedly. “She always does that when she loses an argument.”
“She thinks she can save face by speaking in other languages,” Lukel said. “As if that proves that she’s more intelligent than the rest of the world.”
With that, the torrent of words from the small blonde girl’s mouth changed directions. With a start, Sarene realized Kaise was now muttering in Fjordell. Kaise wasn’t done, however; she topped off the tirade with a brief but biting accusation in what sounded like Duladen.
“How many languages does she speak?” Sarene asked in amazement.
“Oh, four or five, unless she’s learned a new one while I wasn’t looking,” Lukel said. “Though she’s going to have to stop soon. Svordish scientists claim that the human mind can only maintain six languages before it starts to jumble them.”
“It’s one of little Kaise’s life quests to prove them wrong,” Kiin said in his deep, scratchy voice. “That and to eat every morsel of food to be found in all of Arelon.”
Kaise stuck out her chin at her father with a dismissive sniff, then turned back to her meal.
“They’re both so … well informed,” Sarene said with surprise.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Lukel said. “Their tutors have been covering art history lately, and the two of them have been working hard to prove they can outdo one another.”
“Even so,” Sarene said.
Kaise, still displeased at her loss, mumbled something over her meal.
“What was that?” Kiin asked with a firm tone.
“I said, ‘If the prince were here, he would have listened to me.’ He always took my side.”
“He just sounded like he was agreeing with you,” Daorn said. “That is called sarcasm, Kaise.”
Kaise stuck out her tongue at her brother. “He thought I was beautiful, and he loved me. He was waiting for me to grow up so he could marry me. Then I would be queen, and I’d throw you all in the dungeon until you admitted that I was right.”
Daorn scowled. “He wouldn’t have married you, stupid. He married Sarene.”
Kiin must have noticed the way Sarene’s face fell when the prince’s name came up, for he quickly hushed the two children with hard looks. However, the damage had been done. The more she learned of him, the more Sarene remembered the prince’s soft, encouraging voice traveling hundreds of miles through the seon to speak with her. She thought of the rambling way his letters told her of life in Arelon, explaining how he was preparing a place for her. She had been so looking forward to surprising him with her early arrival—not early enough, apparently.
Perhaps she should have listened to her father. He had been hesitant to agree to the marriage, even though he knew Teod needed a solid alliance with the new Arelene government. Though the two countries were descendants of the same racial and cultural heritage, there had been little contact between Teod and Arelon during the last decade. The uprisings after the Reod threatened anyone associated with the Elantrians—and that certainly included the Teo royalty. But with Fjorden pushing the boundaries of its influence again—this time instigating the collapse of the Duladen Republic—it became obvious that Teod needed to either reacquaint itself with its ancient ally, or face Wyrn’s hordes alone.
And so Sarene had suggested the marriage. Her father had objected at first, but then had bowed beneath its utter practicality. There was no stronger bond than that of blood, especially when the marriage involved a crown prince. Never mind that the royal marriage contract forbade Sarene to ever marry again; Raoden was young and strong. They all assumed he would live for decades.
Kiin was talking to her. “What was that, Uncle?” she asked.
“I just wanted to know if there was anything you wanted to see in Kae. You’ve been here a couple of days; it’s probably time someone gave you a tour. I’m sure Lukel would be happy to show you the sights.”
The thin man raised his hands. “Sorry, Father. I’d love to show our beautiful cousin around the town, but Jalla and I have to go discuss the purchase of some silk for shipment to Teod.”
“Both of you?” Sarene asked with surprise.
“Of course,” Lukel said, dropping his napkin to the table and rising. “Jalla’s a fierce bargainer.”
“That be the only reason he married me,” the Svorden woman confessed with her thick accent and a slight smile. “Lukel is a merchant. Profit in everything, even marriage.”
“That’s right.” Lukel laughed, taking his wife’s hand as she rose. “The fact that she’s brilliant and beautiful didn’t even enter into it. Thanks for the meal, Father. It was delicious. Good day, all.”
With that the couple left, staring into each other’s eyes as they walked. Their exit was followed by a series of gagging sounds from Daorn. “Ugh. Father, you should speak to them. They’re so dopey-eyed they make it hard to eat.”
“Our dear brother’s mind has turned to mush,” Kaise agreed.
“Be patient, children,” Kiin said. “Lukel has only been married for a month now. Give him a while longer, and he’ll turn back to normal.”
“I hope so,” Kaise said. “He’s making me sick.” She didn’t look very sick to Sarene; she was still packing down the food with a vengeance.
Beside Sarene, Adien continued to mumble in his way. He didn’t seem to say much, except to quote numbers—that and the occasional word that sounded a lot like “Elantris.”
That jogged Sarene’s memory. “I would like to see the town, Uncle,” she said. “Especially Elantris—I want to know what all of the furor is about.”
Kiin rubbed his chin. “Well,” he said, “I suppose the twins can show you. They know how to get to Elantris, and it will keep them out of my hair for a little while.”
“Twins?”
Kiin smiled. “It’s Lukel’s nickname for them.”
“One we hate,” Daorn said. “We aren’t twins—we don’t even look alike.”
Sarene studied the two children, with their similar bobs of blond hair and their identical determined expressions, and smiled. “Not at all,” she agreed.
* * *
THE WALL OF Elantris stood over Kae like a disapproving sentry. Walking at its base, Sarene finally appreciated how truly formidable it was. She had once visited Fjorden, and had been impressed by many of that nation’s fortified cities—but even they couldn’t compete with Elantris. The wall was so high, its sides so smooth, that it obviously hadn’t been crafted by normal human hands. There were enormous, intricate Aons carved into its sides—many of which Sarene didn’t recognize, and she liked to consider herself well educated.
The children led her to a massive set of stone stairs that ran up the side of the outer wall. Magnificently carved, with archways and frequent viewing platforms, the stairs themselves were sculpted with a certain regality. There was also a sense of … arrogance about the tiered stairway. It was obviously part of the original Elantris city design, and proved that the massive walls had been constructed not as a means of defense, but as a means of separation. Only people supremely confident in themselves would craft such an amazing fortification, then place a wide set of stairs on the outside, leading up to the top.
That confidence had been proven unjustified, for Elantris had fallen. Yet, Sarene reminded herself, it hadn’t been invaders who had claimed the city, but something else. Something not yet understood. The Reod.
Sarene paused along a stone railing about halfway up to the top of the wall, looking out over the city of Kae. The smaller city stood like a little brother to the grand Elantris—it tried so hard to prove its significance, but next to the massive city it couldn’t help but seem inferior. Its buildings might have been impressive somewhere else, but they seemed tiny—petty, even—when compared with the majesty of Elantris.
Petty or not, Sarene told herself, Kae will have to be my focus. Elantris’s day has passed.
Several little bubbles of light floated along the outside of the wall—some of the first seons Sarene had seen in the area. She was excited at first, but then remembered the stories. Once, seons had been unaffected by the Shaod—but that had changed with the fall of Elantris. When a person was taken by the Shaod now, their seon—if they had one—gained a kind of madness. The seons here floated aimlessly, like lost children. She knew without asking that the city was where such maddened seons gathered, once their masters had fallen.
She looked away from the seons, nodded to the children, and continued her trek up the enormous set of stairs. Kae would be her focus, true, but she still wanted to see Elantris. There was something about it—its size, its Aons, its reputation—that she had to experience for herself.
As she walked, she reached out and rubbed her hand across the groove of a carved Aon sculpted into the side of the city wall. The line was as wide as her hand. There were no gaps where stone met stone. It was as she had read: the entire wall was one seamless piece of rock.
Except it was no longer flawless. Pieces of the enormous monolith were crumbling and cracking, especially near the top. As they neared the end of their climb there were places where great chunks of the wall had torn away, leaving jagged wounds in the stone reminiscent of bite marks. Still, the wall was impressive, especially when one was standing on top of it, looking down at the ground below.
“Oh my,” Sarene said, feeling herself grow dizzy.
Daorn pulled against the back of her dress urgently. “Don’t get too close, Sarene.”
“I’m all right,” she said, a bit dazed. She did, however, let him pull her back.
Ashe hovered next to her, glowing with concern. “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea, my lady. You know how you are with heights.”
“Nonsense,” Sarene said, recovering. Then she noticed for the first time the large gathering on the wall’s top a short distance away. There was a piercing voice rising over the group—one she couldn’t quite make out. “What’s that?”
The twins exchanged mutual shrugs of confusion. “I don’t know,” Daorn said.
“This place is usually empty, except for the guards,” Kaise added.
“Let’s have a look,” Sarene said. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she recognized the voice’s accent. As they approached the back of the crowd, Sarene confirmed her suspicion.
“It’s the gyorn!” Kaise said excitedly. “I wanted to see him.” And she was gone, darting into the crowd. Sarene could hear muffled cries of surprise and annoyance as the little girl pushed her way to the front of the group. Daorn shot his sister a longing look and took a step forward, but then looked back at Sarene and instead decided to remain beside her like a dutiful guide.
Daorn needn’t have worried about seeing the gyorn, however. Sarene was a bit more reserved than her young cousin, but she was just as determined to get close enough to hear Hrathen. So, her small guard at her side, Sarene politely—but resolutely—made her way through the crowd until she was standing at the front.
Hrathen stood on a small overlook built into the Elantris wall. His back was to the crowd, but he was angled in such a way as to let his words reach them. His speech was obviously intended for their ears, and not those down below. Sarene spared barely a glance for Elantris itself—she would study it later.
“Look at them!” Hrathen commanded, gesturing toward Elantris. “They have lost their right to be men. They are animals, having no will or desire to serve Lord Jaddeth’s kingdom. They know no God, and can follow only after their lusts.”
Sarene frowned. The doctrine that the only difference between men and animals was mankind’s ability to worship God, or “Jaddeth” in Fjordell, was not new to Sarene; her father had made sure to include an extensive knowledge of Shu-Dereth in her education. What she couldn’t figure out was why a gyorn would waste his time on the Elantrians. What could he possibly gain from denouncing a group that had already been beaten down so soundly?
One thing was clear, however. If the gyorn saw reason to preach against Elantris, then it was her duty to defend it. It was possible to block her enemy’s schemes before she fully understood them.
“… as all know, animals are far beneath men in the eyes of Lord Jaddeth,” Hrathen was saying, his speech rising toward its conclusion.
Sarene saw her chance and took it. She opened her eyes wide, assumed a dull look of confusion, and—with her most high-pitched innocent voice—asked a single word.
“Why?”
Hrathen stopped. She had timed the question so it fell directly in the awkward space between two of his sentences. The gyorn stumbled at the piercing inquiry, obviously trying to regain his momentum. However, Sarene’s placement had been too skillful, and the moment was gone. He turned around with harsh eyes to search out the one who had so foolishly interrupted him. All he found was a demure, perplexed Sarene.
“Why what?” Hrathen demanded.
“Why are animals beneath humans in Mr. Jaddeth’s eyes?” she asked.
The gyorn gritted his teeth at her use of the term “Mr. Jaddeth.” “Because, unlike men, they can do nothing but follow their own lusts.”
The standard follow-up question to such a statement would have been “But men follow their lusts as well,” which would have given Hrathen an opportunity to explain the difference between a man of God and a carnal, sinful man. Sarene didn’t oblige.
“But I heard that Mr. Jaddeth rewarded arrogance,” Sarene said, confusion coloring her voice.
The gyorn’s eyes grew suspicious. The question was just a bit too well placed to have come from one as simple as Sarene was pretending to be. He knew, or at least suspected, that she was toying with him. However, he still had to answer the question—if not for her, then for the rest of the crowd.
“Lord Jaddeth rewards ambition, not arrogance,” he said carefully.
“I don’t understand,” Sarene said. “Isn’t ambition serving our own lusts? Why does Mr. Jaddeth reward that?”
Hrathen was losing his audience, and he knew it. Sarene’s question was a century-old theological argument against Shu-Dereth, but the crowd knew nothing of ancient disputes or scholarly refutations. All they knew was that someone was asking questions Hrathen couldn’t answer quickly enough, or interestingly enough, to hold their attention.
“Ambition is different from carnality,” Hrathen declared in a snappish voice, making use of his commanding position to take control of the conversation. “People’s service in Jaddeth’s empire is quickly rewarded both here and in the afterlife.”
It was a masterful attempt: he managed not only to switch the topic, but to draw the crowd’s attention to another idea. Everyone found rewards fascinating. Unfortunately for him, Sarene wasn’t done yet.
“So if we serve Jaddeth, our lusts are fulfilled?”
“No one serves Jaddeth but Wyrn,” Hrathen said offhandedly as he considered how to best answer her objections.
Sarene smiled; she had been hoping he would make that mistake. It was a basic tenet of Shu-Dereth that only one man could serve Jaddeth directly; the religion was very regimented, and its structure was reminiscent of the feudal government that had once ruled in Fjorden. One served those above him, who served those above him, and so on until it reached Wyrn, who served Jaddeth. Everyone served Jaddeth’s empire, but only one man was holy enough to serve God Himself. There was much confusion about the distinction, and it was common for the Derethi priesthood to correct it as Hrathen just had.
Unfortunately, he had also just given Sarene another opportunity.
“No one can serve Jaddeth?” she asked with confusion. “Not even you?”
It was a silly argument—a misinterpretation of Hrathen’s point, not a true attack on Shu-Dereth. In a debate of pure religious merit, Sarene would never have been able to stand against a fully trained gyorn. However, Sarene wasn’t looking to disprove Hrathen’s teachings, just ruin his speech.
Hrathen looked up at her comment, apparently realizing his mistake. All of his former thinking and planning was now useless—and the crowd was wondering at this new question.
Nobly, the gyorn tried to cover for his mistake, attempting to bring the conversation back to more familiar grounds, but Sarene had the crowd now, and she held on to them with the viselike grip only a woman on the verge of hysterics could manage.
“What will we do?” she said, shaking her head. “I fear these things of priests are beyond common people such as myself.”
And it was over. The people began talking among themselves and wandering away. Most of them were laughing at the eccentricities of priests, and the abstruseness of theological reasonings. Sarene noticed that most of them were nobles; it must have taken a great deal of effort for the gyorn to lead them all up to Elantris’s wall. She found herself smiling wickedly at all of his wasted planning and coaxing.
Hrathen watched his carefully arranged gathering dribble away. He didn’t try speaking again; he probably knew that if he yelled or fumed, he would only do more damage than good.
Surprisingly, the gyorn turned away from the scattering people and nodded appreciatively at Sarene. It wasn’t a bow, but it was the most respectful gesture she had ever received from a Derethi priest. It was an acknowledgment of a battle well won, a concession given to a worthy opponent.
“You play a dangerous game, Princess,” he said softly in his slightly accented voice.
“You’ll find I am very good at games, Gyorn,” she replied.
“Until the next round then,” he said, waving for a shorter, light-haired priest to follow him as he climbed down from the wall. In this other man’s eyes there was no hint of respect or even tolerance. They burned with hatred, and Sarene shivered as he focused them on her. His teeth were clenched tightly, and Sarene got the feeling that there wasn’t much holding the man back from grabbing her by the neck and hurling her off the side of the wall. She grew dizzy just thinking about it.
“That one worries me,” Ashe observed by her side. “I have seen such men before, and my experience has not been favorable. A dam so poorly constructed must eventually collapse.”
Sarene nodded. “He was Aonic—not a Fjordell. He looks like a page or attendant of Hrathen’s.”
“Well, let us hope that the gyorn can keep his pet under control, my lady.”
She nodded, but her response was cut off by a sudden peal of laughter from beside her. She looked down to find Kaise rolling on the ground with mirth; apparently she had managed to hold her outburst until the gyorn was out of sight.
“Sarene,” she said between gasps of breath, “that was wonderful! You were so stupid! And his face … he got even redder than Papa after he finds out I’ve eaten all of his sweets. His face almost matched his armor!”
“I didn’t like him at all,” Daorn said solemnly from beside Sarene. He stood near an open part of the parapet, looking down toward Hrathen as the man descended the enormous flight of stairs leading back to Kae. “He was too … hard. Didn’t he know you were only acting stupid?”
“Probably,” Sarene said, motioning for Kaise to stand up and then brushing off the girl’s pink dress. “But there was no way for him to prove it, so he had to pretend that I was serious.”
“Father says the gyorn is here to convert us all to Shu-Dereth,” Daorn said.
“Does he now?” Sarene asked.
Daorn nodded. “He also says he’s afraid Hrathen will be successful. He says the crops didn’t do well last year, and a lot of the people are without food. If the planting this month doesn’t go well, next winter will be even harder, and hard times make people willing to accept a man who preaches change.”
“Your father is a wise man, Daorn,” Sarene said. Her confrontation with Hrathen had been little more than sport; people’s minds were fickle, and they would quickly forget this day’s debate. Whatever Hrathen had been doing was only part of something much larger—something to do with Elantris—and Sarene needed to discover what his intentions were. Finally remembering her original reason for visiting the wall, Sarene took her first good look at the city below.
It had once been beautiful. The feel of the city, how the buildings worked together, the way the roads crossed—the entire mass was … intentional. Art on a grand scale. Most of the arches had collapsed, many of the domed roofs had fallen, and even some of the walls looked as if they had little time left. Still, she could tell one thing. Elantris had been beautiful once.
“They’re so sad,” Kaise said next to her, on her tiptoes so she could see over the side of the stone safety wall.
“Who?”
“Them,” Kaise said, pointing to the streets below.
There were people down there—huddled forms that barely moved. They were camouflaged against the dark streets. Sarene couldn’t hear their groans, but she could feel them.
“No one takes care of them,” Kaise said.
“How do they eat?” Sarene asked. “Someone must feed them.” She couldn’t make out many details about the people below—only that they were human. Or at least they had the forms of humans; she had read many confusing things about the Elantrians.
“No one,” Daorn said from her other side. “No one feeds them. They should all be dead—there’s nothing for them to eat.”
“They must get it somewhere,” Sarene argued.
Kaise shook her head. “They’re dead, Sarene. They don’t need to eat.”
“They may not move much,” Sarene said dismissively, “but they obviously aren’t dead. Look, those ones over there are standing.”
“No, Sarene. They’re dead too. They don’t need to eat, they don’t need to sleep, and they don’t age. They’re all dead.” Kaise’s voice was uncharacteristically solemn.
“How do you know so much about it?” Sarene said, trying to dismiss the words as products of a child’s imagination. Unfortunately, these children had proven themselves remarkably well informed.
“I just do,” Kaise said. “Trust me. They’re dead.”
Sarene felt the hair on her arms rising, and she sternly told herself not to give in to the mysticism. The Elantrians were odd, true, but they were not dead. There had to be another explanation.
She scanned the city once more, trying to put Kaise’s disturbing comments out of her mind. As she did, her eyes fell on a particular trio of figures—ones who didn’t appear to be as pitiful as the rest. She squinted at the figures. They were Elantrian, but one seemed to have darker skin than the other two. They crouched on the top of a building, and they looked mobile, unlike most of the other Elantrians she had seen. There was something … different about these three.
“My lady?” Ashe’s concerned voice sounded in her ear, and she realized that she had begun to lean out over the stone parapet.
With a start, she looked down, noticing just how high up they were. Her eyes unfocused, and she began to lose her balance, transfixed by the undulating ground below.…
“My lady!” Ashe’s voice came again, shocking her out of her stupor.
Sarene stumbled back from the wall, squatting down and wrapping her arms around her knees. She breathed deeply for a moment. “I’ll be all right, Ashe.”
“We’re leaving this place as soon as you regain your balance,” the seon ordered, his voice firm.
Sarene nodded distractedly.
Kaise snorted. “You know, considering how tall she is, you’d think she’d get used to heights.”