King Iadon waved her over. She carefully hid her annoyance at the wait, and approached him with the proper air of n.o.ble submission. He interrupted her halfway through her curtsy.

"No one told me you would be so tall," he declared.

"My lord?" she said, looking up.

"Well, I guess the only one who would have cared about that isn't around to see it. Eshen!" he snapped, causing an almost unseen woman near the far side of the room to jump in compliance.

"Take this one to her rooms and see that she has plenty of things to keep her occupied. Embroidery or whatever else it is that entertains you women." With that, the king turned to his next appointment-a group of merchants.

Sarene stood mid-curtsy, stunned at Iadon's complete lack of courtesy. Only years of courtly training kept her jaw from dropping. Quick but una.s.sertive, the woman Iadon had ordered-Queen Eshen, the king's wife-scuttled over and took Sarene's arm. Eshen was short and slight of frame, her brownish-blonde Aonic hair only beginning to streak with gray.

"Come, child," Eshen said in a high-pitched voice. "We mustn't waste the king's time."

Sarene allowed herself to be pulled through one of the room's side doors. "Merciful Domi," she muttered to herself. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"... and you'll love it when the roses come in. I have the gardeners plant them so you can smell them without even leaning out the window. I wish they weren't so big, though."

Sarene frowned in confusion. "The roses?"

"No, dear," the queen continued, barely pausing, "the windows. You can't believe how bright the sun is when it shines through them in the morning. I asked them-the gardeners, that is-to find me some orange ones, because I so adore orange, but so far all they found were some ghastly yellow ones. 'If I wanted yellow,' I said to them, 'I would have had you plant Aberteens.' You should have seen them apologize-I'm sure we'll have some orange ones by the end of next year. Don't you think that would be lovely, dear? Of course, the windows will still be too big. Maybe I can have a couple of them bricked off."

Sarene nodded, fascinated-not by the conversation, but by the queen. Sarene had a.s.sumed that the lecturers at her father's Academy had been skilled at saying nothing with lots of words, but Eshen put them all to shame. The queen flitted from one topic to the next like a b.u.t.terfly looking for a place to land, but never finding one suitable enough for an extended stay. Any one of the topics would have been potential fuel for an interesting conversation, but the queen never let Sarene grab hold of one long enough to do it justice.

Sarene took a calming breath, telling herself to be patient. She couldn't blame the queen for being the way she was-Domi taught that all people's personalities were gifts to be enjoyed. The queen was charming, in her own meandering way. Unfortunately, after meeting both king and queen, Sarene was beginning to suspect that she would have trouble finding political allies in Arelon.

Something else bothered Sarene-something odd about the way Eshen acted. No one could possibly talk as much as the queen did; she never let a silent moment pa.s.s. It was almost like the woman was uncomfortable around Sarene. Then, in a moment of realization, Sarene understood what it was. Eshen spoke on every imaginable topic except for the one most important-the departed prince. Sarene's narrowed her eyes with suspicion. She couldn't be certain-Eshen was, after all, a very flighty person-but it seemed that the Queen was acting far too cheerful for a woman who had just lost her son.

"Here is your room, dear. We unpacked your things, and added some as well. You have clothing in every color, even yellow, though I can't imagine why you would want to wear it. Horrid color. Not that your hair is horrid, of course. Blonde isn't the same as yellow, no. No more than a horse is a vegetable. We don't have a horse for you yet, but you are welcome to use any in the king's stables. We have lots of fine animals, you see, Duladel is beautiful this time of year."

"Of course," Sarene said, looking over the room. It was small, but suited her tastes. Too much s.p.a.ce could be as daunting as too little could be cramped.

"Now, you'll be needing these, dear," Eshen said, pointing a small hand at a pile of clothing that wasn't hanging like the rest-as if it had been delivered more recently. All of the dresses in the pile shared a single attribute.

"Black?" Sarene asked.

"Of course. You're ... you're in ... " Eshen fumbled with the words.

"I'm in mourning," Sarene realized. She tapped her foot with dissatisfaction-black was not one of her favorite colors.

Eshen nodded. "You can wear one of those to the funeral this evening. It should be a nice service-I did the arrangements." She began talking about her favorite flowers again, and the monologue soon degenerated into a discourse on how much she hated Fjordell cooking. Gently, but firmly, Sarene led the woman to the door, nodding pleasantly. As soon as they reached the hallway, Sarene pled fatigue from her travels, and plugged the queen's verbal torrent by closing of the door.

"That's going to get old very quickly," Sarene said to herself.

"The queen does have a robust gift for conversation, my lady," a deep voice agreed.

"What did you find out?" Sarene asked, walking over to pick through the pile of dark clothing as Ashe floated in through the open window.

"I didn't find as many Seons as I had expected. I seem to recall that this city was once overflowing with us."

"I noticed that too," Sarene said, holding up a dress in front of the mirror, then discarding it with a shake of her head. "I guess things are different now."

"They are indeed. As per your instructions, I asked the other Seons what they knew of the prince's untimely death. Unfortunately, my lady, they were hesitant to discuss the event-they consider it extremely ill-omened for the prince to die so soon before he was to be married."

"Especially for him," Sarene mumbled, pulling off her clothing to try on the dress. "Ashe, something strange is going on. I think maybe someone killed the prince."

"Killed, my lady?" Ashe's deep voice was disapproving, and he pulsed slightly at the comment. "Who would do such a thing?"

"I don't know, but... something feels odd about the prince's death. This doesn't seem like a court that is in mourning. Take the queen, for instance. She didn't appear distraught when she spoke to me-you'd think she would be at least a little bothered by the fact that her son died yesterday."

"There is a simple explanation for that, my lady. Queen Eshen is not Prince Raoden's mother. Raoden was born of Iadon's first wife, who died over twelve years ago."

"When did he re-marry?"

"Right after the Reod," Ashe said. "Just a few months after he took the throne."

Sarene frowned. "I'm still suspicious," she decided, reaching around awkwardly to b.u.t.ton the back of her dress. Then she regarded herself in the mirror, looking at the dress critically. "Well, at least it fits-even if it does make me look pale. I was half afraid it would cut off at my knees. These Arelish women are all so unnaturally short."

"If you say so, my lady," Ashe replied. He knew as well as she did that Arelish women weren't that short-even in Teod, Sarene had been a head taller than most of the other women. Her father had called her Leky-stick as a child-borrowing the name of the tall thin post that marked the goal line in his favorite sport. Even after filling out during adolescence, Sarene was still undeniably lanky.

"My lady," Ashe said, interrupting her contemplations.

"Yes, Ashe?"

"Your father is desperate to talk to you. I think you have some news he deserves to hear."

Sarene nodded, holding in a sigh, and Ashe began to pulse brightly. A moment later the ball of light that formed his essence melted into a bust-like glowing head. King Eventeo of Teod.

"'Ene?" her father asked, the glowing head's lips moving. He was a robust man, with a large oval face and a thick chin.

"Yes, father. I'm here." Her father would be standing beside a similar Seon-probably Dio-who would have changed to resemble a glowing approximation of Sarene's head.

"Are you nervous for the wedding?" Eventeo asked anxiously.

"Well, about that wedding..." she said slowly. "You'll probably want to cancel your plans to come next week. There won't be much for you to see."

"What?"

Ashe had been right-her father didn't laugh when he heard Raoden was dead. Instead, his voice turned to one of sharp concern, the glowing face worried. His worry increased when Sarene explained how the death was as binding as an actual wedding.

"Oh, 'Ene, I'm sorry," her father said. "I know how much you were expecting from this marriage."

"Nonsense, father." Eventeo knew her far too well. "I hadn't even met the man-how could I have had any expectations?"

"You hadn't met him," said her father's soothing voice, "but you had spoken with him through Seon, and you had written all those letters. I know you, 'Ene-you're a romantic. You would never have decided to go through with this if you hadn't thoroughly convinced yourself that you could love Raoden."

The words rang true, and suddenly Sarene's loneliness returned. She had spent the trip across the Sea of Fjorden in a state of disbelieving nervousness, both excited and apprehensive at the prospect of meeting the man who was to become her husband. More excited, however, than apprehensive.

She had been away from Teod many times, but she had always gone with others from her homeland. This time she had come by herself, traveling ahead of the rest of the wedding party to surprise Raoden. She had read and reread the prince's letters so many times that she had begun to feel she knew him, and the person she'd constructed from those sheets of paper was a complex, compa.s.sionate man that she had been very anxious to meet.

And now she never would. She felt more than alone, she felt rejected-again. Unwanted. She had waited all these years, suffered by a patient father who didn't know how the men of her homeland avoided her, how they were frightened by her forward, even arrogant, personality. Finally, she had found a man who was willing to have her, and Domi had s.n.a.t.c.hed him away at the last moment.

Sarene finally began to let herself feel some of the emotions she had been keeping in a tight noose since stepping off the ship. She was glad the Seon only transferred her features, for she would have been mortified if her father had seen the tear rolling down her cheek.

"That's silly, father," she said. "This was a simple political marriage, and we all knew it. Now our countries have more in common than just language-our royal lines are related."

"Oh, honey ... " her father whispered. "My little Sarene. I had so hoped this would work out-you don't know how your mother and I prayed that you would find happiness there. Idos Domi! We shouldn't have gone through with this."

"I would have made you, father," Sarene said. "We need the treaty with Arelon far too badly. Our armada won't keep Fjorden off our sh.o.r.es for much longer-the entire Svordish navy is under Wyrn's command."

"Little Sarene, all grown up now," her father said through the Seon link.

"All grown up and fully capable of marrying herself off to a corpse." Sarene laughed weakly. "It's probably for the best. I don't think Prince Raoden would have turned out as I had imagined-you should meet his father."

"I've heard stories. I hoped they weren't true."

"Oh, they are," Sarene said, letting her dissatisfaction with the Arelish monarch burn away her sorrow. "King Iadon has to be just about the most disagreeable man I have ever met. He barely even acknowledged me before sending me off to, as he put it, 'go knit, and whatever else you women do.' If Raoden was anything like his father, then I'm better off this way."

There was a momentary pause before her father responded. "Sarene, do you want to come home? I can void the contract if I want, no matter what the laws say."

The offer was tempting-more tempting than she would ever admit. She paused. "No, father," she finally said with an unconscious shake of her head. "I have to stay. This was my idea, and Raoden's death doesn't change the fact that we need this alliance. Besides, returning home would break tradition-we both know that Iadon is my father now. It would be unseemly for you to take me back into your household."

"I will always be your father, 'Ene. Domi curse the customs-Teod will always be open for you."

"Thank you father," Sarene said quietly. "I needed to hear that. But I still think I should stay. For now, at least. Besides, it could be interesting. I have an entirely new court full of people to play with."

"'Ene..." her father said apprehensively. "I know that tone. What are you planning?"

"Nothing," she said. "There's just a few things I want to poke my nose into before I give up completely on this marriage."

There was a pause, then her father chuckled. "Domi protect them-they don't know what we've shipped over there. Go easy on them, Leky-stick. I don't want to get a note from Minister Naolen in a month telling me that King Iadon has run off to join a Korathi monastery and the Arelish people have named you monarch instead."

"All right," Sarene said with a wan smile. "I'll wait at least two months then."

Her father burst into another round of his characteristic laughter-a sound that did her more good than any of his consolations or counsels. "Wait for a minute, 'Ene," he said after his laughter subsided. "Let me get your mother-she'll want to speak with you." Then, after a moment, he chuckled, continuing, "She's going to faint dead away when I tell her you've already killed off poor Raoden."

"Father!" Sarene said-but he was already gone.

Chapter Three None of Arelon's people greeted their savior when he arrived. It was an affront, of course, but not an unexpected one. The people of Arelon-especially those living near the infamous city of Elantris-were known for their G.o.dless, even heretical, ways. Hrathen had come to change that. He had three months to convert the entire kingdom of Arelon, otherwise Holy Jaddeth-Lord of all creation-would destroy it. The time had finally come for Arelon to accept the truths of the Derethi religion.

Hrathen strode down the gangplank. Beyond the docks, with its continuous bustle of loading and unloading, stretched the city of Kae. A short distance beyond Kae, Hrathen could see a towering stone wall-the old city of Elantris. On the other side of Kae, to Hrathen's left, the land sloped steeply, rising to a tall hill-a foothill of what would become the Dathreki Mountains. Behind him was the ocean.

Overall, Hrathen was not impressed. In ages past, four small cities had surrounded Elantris, but only Kae-the new capital of Arelon-was still inhabited. Kae was too unorganized, too spread out, to be defensible, and its only fortification appeared to be a small, five-foot high wall of stones-more a border than anything else.

Retreat into Elantris would be difficult, and only marginally effective. Kae's buildings would provide wonderful cover for an invading force, and a few of Kae's more peripheral structures looked like they were built almost against Elantris's wall. This was not a nation accustomed to war. Yet, of all the kingdoms on the Syclan continent-the land named 'Opelon' by the Arelish people-only Arelon itself had avoided domination by the Fjordell Empire. Of course, that too was something Hrathen would soon change.

Hrathen marched away from the ship, his presence causing quite a stir among the people. Workers halted their labors as he pa.s.sed, staring at him with impressed amazement. Conversations died when eyes fell upon him. Hrathen didn't slow for anyone, but that didn't matter, for people moved quickly from his path. It could have been his eyes, but, more likely, it was his armor. Blood red and glittering in the sunlight, the plate armor of a Derethi imperial high priest was an imposing sight even when one was accustomed to it.

He was beginning to think he would have to find his own way to the city's Derethi chapel when he made out a spot of red weaving its way through the crowd. The speck soon resolved into a stumpy balding figure clad in red Derethi robes. "My Lord Hrathen!" the man called.

Hrathen stopped, allowing Fjon-Kae's Derethi head arteth-to approach. Fjon puffed and wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. "I'm terribly sorry, your grace. The register had you scheduled to come in on a different ship. I didn't find out you weren't on board until they were halfway done unloading. I'm afraid I had to leave the carriage behind; I couldn't get it through the crowd."

Hrathen's narrowed his eyes with displeasure, but he said nothing. Fjon continued to blather for a moment before finally deciding to lead Hrathen to the Derethi chapel, apologizing again for the lack of transportation. Hrathen followed his pudgy guide with a measured stride, dissatisfied. Fjon trotted along with a smile on his lips, occasionally waving to pa.s.sers on the streets, shouting pleasantries. The people responded in kind-at least, until they saw Hrathen, his blood cloak billowing behind him and his exaggerated armor cut with sharp angles and harsh lines. Then they fell silent, greetings withering, their eyes following Hrathen until he pa.s.sed. Such was as it should be.

The chapel was a tall stone structure, complete with bright red tapestries and towering spires. Here, at least, Hrathen found some of the majesty he was accustomed to. Within, however, he was confronted by a disturbing sight-a crowd of people involved in some kind of social activity. People milled around, ignoring the holy structure in which they stood, laughing and joking. It was too much. Hrathen had heard, and believed, the reports. Now he had confirmation.

"Arteth Fjon, a.s.semble your priests," Hrathen said-the first words he had spoken since his arrival on Arelish soil.

The arteth jumped, as if surprised to finally hear sounds coming from his distinguished guest. "Yes, my lord," he said, motioning for the gathering to end.

It took a frustratingly long time, but Hrathen endured the process with a flat expression. When the people had left, he approached the priests, his armored feet clicking against the chapel's stone floor. When he finally spoke, his words were directed at Fjon.

"Arteth," he said, using the man's Derethi t.i.tle, "the ship that brought me here will leave for Fjorden in one hour. You are to be on board."

Fjon's jaw dropped in alarm. "Wha-"

"Speak Fjordell, man!" Hrathen snapped. "Surely ten years amongst the Arelish heathens hasn't corrupted you to the point that you have forgotten your native tongue?"

"No, no, your grace," Fjon replied, switching from Aonic to Fjordell. "But I-"

"Enough," Hrathen interrupted again. "I have orders from Wyrn himself. You have spent far too long in the Arelish culture-you have forgotten your holy calling, and are unable to see to the progress of Jaddeth's Empire. These people don't need a friend; they need a priest. A Derethi priest. One would think you were Korathi, watching you fraternize. We're not here to love the people; we are here to help them. You will go."

Fjon slumped back against one of the room's pillars, his eyes widening and his limbs losing their strength. "But who will be head arteth of the chapel in my absence, my lord? The other arteths are so inexperienced."

"These are pivotal times, Arteth," Hrathen said. "I'll be remaining in Arelon to personally direct the work here. May Jaddeth grant me success."

He had hoped for an office with a better view, but the chapel, majestic as it was, held no second floor. Fortunately, the grounds were well-kept, and his office-Fjon's old room-overlooked nicely trimmed hedges and carefully-arranged flower beds.

Now that he had cleared the walls of paintings-agrarian nature scenes, for the most part-and thrown out Fjon's numerous personal effects, the chamber was approaching a level of dignified orderliness appropriate for a Derethi gyorn. All it needed was a few tapestries and maybe a shield or two.

Nodding to himself, Hrathen turned his attention back to the scroll on his desk. His orders. He barely dared hold them in his profane hands. He read the words over and over again in his mind, imprinting both their physical form and their theological meaning on his soul.

"My lord... your grace?" a quiet voice asked in Fjordell.

Hrathen looked up. Fjon's entered the room, then crouched in a subservient huddle on the floor, his forehead rubbing the ground. Hrathen allowed himself to smile, knowing the penitent arteth couldn't see his face. Perhaps there was hope for Fjon yet.

"Speak," Hrathen said.

"I have done wrong, my lord. I have acted contrary to the plans of our Lord Jaddeth."

"Your sin was complacency, Arteth. Contentment has destroyed more nations than any army, and it has claimed the souls of more men than even Elantris's heresies."

"Yes, my lord."

"You still must leave, Arteth," Hrathen said.