Just behind Raoden and Lukel, she could make out the silver-skinned form of Adien, Daora's second son. According to Lukel, the Shaod had taken Adien five years before but the family had determined to cover up his transformation with makeup rather than throw him into Elantris.
Adien's true nature was no more baffling than that of his father. Kiln hadn't been willing to explain much, but Sarene saw the confirmation in her uncle's eyes. Just over ten years ago. he had led his fleets against Sarene's father in an attempt to steal the throne—a throne that Sarene was beginning to believe might legally have belonged to Kiin. If it was true that Kiin was the older brother, then he should have inherited, not Eventeo. Her father still wouldn't speak on the subject, but she intended to get her answers eventually.
As she pondered, she noticed a carriage pulling up to the grave site. The door opened and Torena climbed out. leading her overweight father, Count Ahan. Ahan hadn't been the same since Roial's death: he spoke in a dazed. sickly voice, and he had lost an alarming amount of weight. The others hadn't forgiven him for his part in the duke's execution, but their scorn could never match the self-loathing he must feel.
Raoden caught her eye, nodding slightly. It was time. Sarene strode past Iadon's grave and four just like it—the resting places of Roial, Eondel, Karata, and a man named Saolin. This last barrow held no body, but Raoden had insisted that it be raised with the others.
This area was to become a memorial, a way of remembering those who had fought for Arelon—as well as the man who had tried to crush it. Every lesson had two sides. It was as important for them to remember Iadon's sickening greed as it was to remember Roial's sacrifice.
She slowly approached one final grave. The earth was raised high like the others, forming a barrow that would someday be covered with grass and foliage. For now, however, it was barren, the freshly piled earth still soft. Sarene hadn't needed to lobby hard for its creation. They all now knew the debt they owed to the man buried within. Hrathen of Fjorden, high priest and holy gyorn of Shu-Dereth. They had left his funeral until the last.
Sarene turned to address the crowd, Raoden at their front. "I will not speak long," she said, "for though I had more contact with the man Hrathen than most of you, I did not know him. I always assumed that I could come to understand a man through being his enemy and I thought that I understood Hrathen—his sense of duty, his powerful will, and his determination to save us from ourselves.
"I did not see his internal conflict. I could not know the man whose heart drove him, eventually, to reject all that he had once believed in the name of what he knew was right. I never knew the Hrathen who placed the lives of others ahead of his own ambition. These things were hidden, but in the end they are what proved most important to him.
"When you remember this man, think not of an enemy. Think of a man who longed to protect Arelon and its people. Think of the man he became, the hero who saved your king. My husband and I would have been killed by the monster of Dakhor, had Hrathen not arrived to protect us.
"Most important, remember Hrathen as the one who gave that vital warning that saved Teod's fleets. If the armada had fallen, then be assured that Teod wouldn't have been the only country to suffer. Wyrn's armies would have fallen on
Arelon, Elantris or no Elantris, and you all would be fighting for survival at this moment—if, that is, you were even still alive."
Sarene paused. letting her eyes linger on the grave. At its head stood a carefully arranged stack of bloodred armor. Hrathen's cloak hung on the end of a sword, its point driven into the soft earth. The crimson cape flapped in the wind.
"No." Sarene said. "When you speak of this man. let it be known that he died in our defense. Let it be said that after all else. Hrathen, gyorn of Shu-Dereth, was not our enemy. He was our savior."