A deep, scratchy voice sounded behind her, and Sarene turned to find that Kiin had joined Lukel and Eondel.
"Uncle?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"
"I got home and found the house empty," Kiin said. "There's only one person who would dare steal a man's entire family."
"She didn't steal us, Father," Lukel joked. "We just heard that you were going to make Hraggish weed soup again."
Kiin regarded his jovial son for a moment. rubbing his chin where his beard once grew. "He got a good sale, then?"
"A very lucrative one," Eondel said.
"Domi protect us," Kiin grumbled. settling his stout body into a nearby chair. Sarene took a seat next to him.
"You heard about the king's projected earnings, 'Ene?" Kiin asked.
"Yes, Uncle."
Kiin nodded. "I never thought I'd see the day when I was encouraged by Iadon's success. Your plan to save him worked, and from what I hear. Eondel and the rest are expected to bring forth exemplary crops."
"Then why do you look so worried?" Sarene asked.
"I'm getting old, 'Ene, and old men tend to worry. Most recently I've been concerned about your excursions into Elantris. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you in there."
"Not that he's going to forgive you anytime soon anyway," Sarene said offhandedly.
Kiin grunted. "That's the truth." Then he stopped. turning suspicious eyes her direction. "What do you know of that?"
"Nothing," Sarene admitted. "But I'm hoping you will rectify my ignorance."
Kiin shook his head. "Some things are better left unrectified. Your father and I were both a whole lot more foolish when we were younger. Eventeo might be a great king, but he's a pathetic brother. Of course. I won't soon win any awards for my fraternal affection either."
"But what happened?"
"We had a ... disagreement."
"What kind of disagreement?"
Kiin laughed his bellowing, raspy laugh. "No, 'Ene. I'm not as easy to manipulate as your larks over there. You just keep on wondering about this one. And don't pout."
"I never pout." Sarene said, fighting hard to keep her voice from sounding childish. When it became apparent that her uncle wasn't going to offer any more information, Sarene finally changed the subject. "Uncle Kiin, are there any secret passages in Iadon's palace?"
"I'd be surprised as the Three Virgins if there aren't," he replied. "Iadon is just about the most paranoid man I've ever known. He must have at least a dozen escape routes in that fortress he calls home."
Sarene resisted the urge to point out that Kiin's home was as much a fortress as the king's. As their conversation lulled, Kiin turned to ask Eondel about Lukel's sourmelon deal. Eventually, Sarene stood and retrieved her syre. then walked out onto the practice floor. She fell into form and began moving through a solo pattern.
Her blade whipped and snapped, the well-practiced motions now routine. and her mind soon began to wander. Was Ashe right? Was she allowing herself to become distracted by Elantris and its enigmatic ruler? She couldn't lose track of her greater tasks—Hrathen was planning something, and Telrii couldn't possibly be as indifferent as he made himself out to be. She had a lot of things she needed to watch, and she had enough experience with politics to realize how easy it was to overextend oneself.
However, she was increasingly interested in Spirit. It was rare to find someone politically skilled enough to hold her attention, but in Arelon she had found two. In a way. Spirit was even more fascinating than the gyorn. While Hrathen and she were very frank about their enmity, Spirit somehow manipulated and foiled her while at the same time acting like an old friend. Most alarmingly. she almost didn't care.
Instead of being outraged when she filled his demands with useless items. he had seemed impressed. He had even complimented her on her frugality, noting that the cloth she sent must have been bought at a discount, considering its color. In all things he remained friendly, indifferent to her sarcasm.
And she felt herself responding. There, in the center of the cursed city, was finally a person who seemed willing to accept her. She wished she could laugh at his clever remarks, agree with his observations and share his concerns. The more confrontational she tried to be, the less threatened he was. He actually seemed to appreciate her defiance.
"Sarene, dear?" Daora's quiet voice broke through her contemplations. Sarene made one final sweep of her sword, then stood up, dazed. Sweat streamed down her face. running along the inside of her collar. She hadn't realized how vigorous her training had become.
She relaxed, resting the tip of her syre on the floor. Daora's hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her uniform was unstained by sweat. As usual. the woman did all things with grace—even exercise.
"Do you want to talk about it, dear?" Daora asked with a coaxing tone. They stood to the side of room. the thumping of feet and slapping of blades masking the conversation from prying ears.
"About what?" Sarene asked with confusion.
"I've seen that look before, child," Daora said comfortingly. "He's not for you. But, of course, you've realized that, haven't you?"
Sarene paled. How could she know? Could the woman read thoughts? Then, however, Sarene followed her aunt's gaze. Daora was looking at Shuden and Torena, who were laughing together as the young girl showed Shuden a few basic thrusts.
"I know it must be hard, Sarene," Daora said, "being locked into a marriage with no chance for affection ... never knowing your husband, or feeling the comfort of his love. Perhaps in a few years, after your place here in Arelon is more secure, you could allow yourself a relationship that is ... covert. It is much too soon for that now. however."
Daora's eyes softened as she watched Shuden clumsily drop the sword. The normally reserved Jindo was laughing uncontrollably at his mistake. "Besides, child," Daora continued, "this one is meant for another."
"You think ... ?" Sarene began.
Daora placed a hand on Sarene's arm, squeezing it lightly and smiling. "I've seen the look in your eyes these last few days, and I've also seen the frustration. The two emotions go together more often than youthful hearts expect."
Sarene shook her head and laughed slightly. "I assure you, Aunt," she said affectionately. yet firmly, "I have no interest in Lord Shuden."
"Of course. dear," Daora said, patting her arm, then retreating.
Sarene shook her head, walking over to get a drink. What were these "signs" Daora had claimed to see in her? The woman was usually so observant; what had made her misjudge so grievously in this instance? Sarene liked Shuden, of course. but not romantically. He was too quiet and, like Eondel, a bit too rigid for her taste. Sarene was well aware that she would need a man who would know when to give her space. but who also wouldn't let her bend him in any way she chose.
With a shrug, Sarene put Daora's misguided assumptions from her mind. then sat down to contemplate just how she was going to throw awry Spirit's latest, and most detailed, list of demands.
CHAPTER 27
HRATHEN stared at the paper for a long, long period of time. It was an accounting of King Iadon's finances, as calculated by Derethi spies. Somehow, Iadon had recovered from his lost ships and cargo. Telrii would not be king. Hrathen sat at his desk still in the armor he'd been wearing when he entered to find the note. The paper sat immobile in his stunned fingers. Perhaps if he hadn't been faced by other worries, the news wouldn't have shocked him so much—he had dealt with plenty of upset plans in his life. Beneath the paper, however, sat his list of local arteths. He had offered every single one of them the position of head arteth, and they had all refused. Only one man remained who could take the position. Iadon's recovery was only one more fallen brick in the collapsing wall of Hrathen's sense of control. Dilaf all but ruled in the chapel; he didn't even inform Hrathen of half the meetings and sermons he organized. There was a vengefulness to the way Dilaf was wresting control away from Hrathen. Perhaps the arteth was still angered over the incident with the Elantrian prisoner, or perhaps Dilaf was just transferring his anger and frustration over Sarene's humanization of the Elantrians against Hrathen instead.
Regardless, Dilaf was slowly seizing power. It was subtle, but it seemed inevitable. The crafty arteth claimed that menial organizational items were "beneath the time of my lord hroden"—a claim that was, to an extent. well founded. Gyorns rarely had much to do with day-to-day chapel practices, and Hrathen couldn't do everything himself. Dilaf stepped in to fill the gaps. Even if Hrathen didn't break down and make the obvious move—appointing Dilaf head arteth—the eventual result would be the same.
Hrathen was losing his grip on Arelon. Nobles went to Dilaf now instead of him, and while Derethi membership was still growing. it wasn't increasing quickly enough. Sarene had somehow foiled the plot to put Telrii on the throne—and after visiting the city, the people of Kae would no longer regard Elantrians as demons. Hrathen was setting a poor precedent for his activities in Arelon.
On top of it all stood Hrathen's wavering faith. This was not the time to call his beliefs into question. Hrathen understood this. However, understanding—as opposed to feeling—was the root of his problem. Now that the seed of uncertainty had been given purchase in his heart. he couldn't easily uproot it.
It was too much. Suddenly, it seemed as if his room were falling in on him. The walls and ceiling shrunk closer and closer, as if to crush him beneath their weight. Hrathen stumbled, trying to escape, and fell to the marble floor. Nothing worked, nothing could help him.
He groaned. feeling the pain as his armor bit into his skin at odd angles. He rolled to his knees, and began to pray.
As a priest of Shu-Dereth. Hrathen spent hours in prayer each week. However, those prayers were different—more a form of meditation than a communication, a means of organizing his thoughts. This time he begged.
For the first time in years he found himself pleading for aid. Hrathen reached out to that God that he had served so long he had almost forgotten Him. The God he had shuffled away in a flurry of logic and understanding, a God he had rendered impotent in his life, though he sought to further His influence.
For once, Hrathen felt unfit to perform on his own. For once he admitted a need for help.
He didn't know how long he knelt, praying fervently for aid, compassion, and mercy. Eventually. he was startled from his trancelike pleading by a knock at his door.
"Come." he said distractedly.
"I apologize for disturbing my lord." said a minor underpriest, cracking open the door. "But this just arrived for you." The priest pushed a small crate into the room, then closed the door.
Hrathen rose on unstable feet. It was dark outside, though he had begun his prayers before noon. Had he really spent that long in supplication? A lirtle dazed, Hrathen picked up the box and placed it on his desk, prying loose the lid with a dagger. Inside, packed with hay, was a rack containing four vials.
¤ ¤ ¤
My Lord Hrathen, the note read. Here is the poison you requested. All of the effects are exactly as you specified. The liquid must be ingested, and the victim won't display any symptoms until about eight hours afterwards.