Roial chuckled. "You might have to stand in line to do that kicking, Princess. I doubt the city's priests—Derethi or Korathi—will let the king get away with taking part in the Jeskeri Mysteries."
"And sacrificing that poor woman," Ashe said quietly.
The tone of the conversation grew subdued as they remembered just what they were discussing. Sarene shuddered at the image of the blood-covered altar and its occupant. Ashe's right, she thought somberly. This is no time for joking.
"That's what it was, then?" Lukel asked.
Sarene nodded. "The Mysteries sometimes involve sacrifices. Iadon must have wanted something very badly."
"Our Derethi friend claimed to have some knowledge on the subject," Roial said. "He seemed to think the king was petitioning the Jesker spirits to destroy someone for him."
"Me?" Sarene asked, growing cold despite her blanket.
Roial nodded. "Arteth Dilaf said the instructions were written on the altar in that woman's blood."
Sarene shivered. "Well, at least now we know what happened to the maids and cooks who disappeared from the palace."
Roial nodded. "I'd guess he's been involved with the Mysteries for a long time—perhaps even since the Reod. He was obviously the leader of that particular band."
"The others?" Sarene asked.
"Minor nobles," Roial said. "Iadon wouldn't have invoIved anyone who could challenge him."
"Wait a moment." Sarene said, her brows furled. "Where did that Derethi priest come from, anyway?"
Roial looked down at his cup uncomfortably. "That's my fault. He saw me gathering Eondel's men—I was kind of in a hurry-and followed us. We didn't have time to deal with him."
Sarene sipped at her drink petulantly. The night's events definitely hadn't turned out as she had planned.
Suddenly Ahan waddled through the door. "Rag Domi, Sarene!" he declared. "First you oppose the king, then you rescue him, and now you dethrone him. Would you please make up your mind?"
Sarene pulled her knees up against her chest and dropped her head between them with a groan. "There's no chance of keeping it under cover, then?"
"No," Roial said. "The Derethi priest saw to that—he's already announced it to half of the city."
"Telrii will almost certainly seize power now," Ahan said with a shake of his head.
"Where is Eondel?" Sarene asked, her voice muffled by the blankets.
"Locking the king in the jailhouse." Ahan said.
"And Shuden?"
"Still seeing that the women got home safely, I assume." Lukel said.
"All right," Sarene said. raising her head and brushing her hair out of her eyes. "We'll have to proceed without them. Gentlemen. I'm afraid I just destroyed our brief respite of peace. We have some heavy planning to do—and most of it is going to be in the way of damage control."
CHAPTER 33
SOMETHING changed. Hrathen blinked, washing away the last remnants of his waking dream. He wasn't sure how much time had passed—it was dark now, hauntingly black save for a few lonely torches burning high above on Elantris's wall. There wasn't even any moonlight.
He fell into the stupor more and more often lately, his mind fuzzing as he knelt in the same penitent stance. Three days was a long time to spend in prayer.
He was thirsty. Hungry as well. He had expected that: he had fasted before. However, this time seemed different. His hunger seemed more urgent, as if his body were trying to warn him of something. Elantris had much do with his discomfort, he knew. There was a desperation about the town, a sense of anxiety in every vile, cracking stone.
Suddenly, light appeared in the sky. Hrathen looked up with awe, blinking tired eyes. The moon slowly appeared from darkness. First a scythe-shaped sliver. it grew even as Hrathen watched. He hadn't realized that there would be a lunar eclipse this night—he had stopped paying attention to such things since he left Duladel. That nation's now extinct pagan religion had ascribed special importance to the heaven's movements, and the Mysteries often practiced their rituals on such nights.
Squatting in the courtyard of Elantris, Hrathen finally understood what had prodded the Jeskers to regard nature with religious wonder. There was something beautiful about the pale-faced goddess of the heavens. a mysticism to her eclipse. It was as if she really were disappearing for a time—traveling to another place, as opposed to just falling into the planet's shadow, as Svordish scientists now claimed. Hrathen could almost feel her magic.
Almost. He could understand how, perhaps, a primitive culture could worship the moon—but he could not take part in that worship. Yet he wondered—was this the awe he should feel for his God? Was his own belief flawed because he did not regard Jaddeth with the same mixture of curious fear and wonder with which the people of Jesker had regarded the moon?
He would never have such emotions: he was not capable of irrational veneration. He understood. Even if he envied men who could gush praises to a god without understanding his teachings, Hrathen could not separate fact and religion.
Jaddeth bestowed attributes on men as He saw fit, and Hrathen had been given a logical intellect. He would never be content with simpleminded devotion.
It was not what Hrathen had been hoping for, but it was an answer, and he found comfort and strength within it. He was not a zealot: he would never be a man of extreme passion. In the end, he followed Derethi because it made sense. That would have to be enough.
Hrathen licked his drying lips. He didn't know how long it would be until he left Elantris: his exile could last days yet. He hadn't wanted to show signs of physical dependence, but he knew that he would need some nourishment. Reaching over, he retrieved his sacrificial basket. Caked with slime, the offerings were growing stale and moldy. Hrathen ate them anyway. resolve breaking as he finally made the decision to eat. He devoured it all-flaccid vegetables, moldy bread, meat, even some of the corn, the hard grains softened slightly by their extended bath in Elantris slime. At the end he downed the entire flask of wine with one prolonged gulp.
He tossed the basket aside. At least now he wouldn't have to worry about scavengers coming to steal his offerings, though he hadn't seen any more of them since the earlier attack. He was thankful to Jaddeth for the respite. He was becoming so weak and dehydrated that he might not have been able to fend off another assault.
The moon was almost completely visible now. Hrathen stared up with renewed resolve. He might lack passion, but he had an ample serving of determination. Licking his now wetted lips. Hrathen restarted his prayer. He would continue as he always had, doing his best to serve in Lord Jaddeth's empire.
There was nothing else God could expect of him.
CHAPTER 34
RAODEN was wrong about Shaor's men. A few of them came to him that night to cook their food, the light of consciousness shining weakly in their eyes. The rest—the majority of Shaor's followers—did not. They came to him for another reason.
He watched several of them pull a large stone block on one of Mareshe's sleds. Their minds were gone-their capacity for rational thought atrophied somehow by their extended submersion in bestial madness. While several had recovered—if only partially—the rest seemed beyond help. They never made the connection between fires and cooking; they had simply stood howling over the grain, outraged and confused by their inability to devour it.
No, these men had not fallen into his trap. But, they had come anyway—for Raoden had dethroned their god.
He had entered Shaor's territory and had escaped unscathed. He had power over food: he could make it inedible for one but succulent for another. His soldiers had repeatedly defeated Shaor's band. To their simple, degenerate minds there was only one thing to do when faced by a god more powerful than their own: convert.
They came to him the morning after his attempt at restoring their intelligence. He had been walking the perimeter of New Elantris's short defensive wall, and seen them slinking down one of the citys main thoroughfares. He had raised the call, thinking they had finally decided to mount a coordinated attack.
But Shaor's men had not come to fight. That had come to give him a gift: the head of their former god. Or, at least. her hair. The lead madman had tossed the golden wig at Raoden's feet, its follicles stained with dark, stagnant Elantrian blood.
Despite searching, his people never found Shaor's body.
Then, the fleece of their fallen goddess lying in the slime before them, the wildmen had bowed their faces to the ground in supplication. They now did exactly as Raoden said in all things. In turn. he had rewarded them with morsels of food, just as one would a favored pet.
It disturbed him, using men like beasts. He made other efforts to restore their rational minds, but even after just two days he knew that it was a futile hope. These men had surrendered their intellect—and, regardless of whether psychology or the Dor was to blame, it would never return.
They were remarkably well behaved—docile, even. The pain didn't seem to affect them, and they performed any duty, no matter how menial or laborious. If Raoden told them to push on a building until it fell over, he would return days later to find them still standing against the same wall, their palms pressed against the belligerent stone. Yet, despite their apparent obedience. Raoden didn't trust them. They had murdered Saolin; they had even killed their former master. They were calm only because their god currently demanded it.
"Kayana," Galladon declared, joining him.
"There's nor much left, is there?" Karata agreed.
The Kayana was Galladon's name for them. It meant the "Insane."
"Poor souls," Raoden whispered.
Galladon nodded. 'You sent for us, sule?"
"Yes, I did. Come with me."
¤ ¤ ¤
THE increased manpower of the Kayana had given Mareshe and his workers the means to reconstruct some stone furniture, thereby conserving their already dwindling wood resources. Raoden's new table inside the chapel was the same one that he had used to make Taan remember his stonecarving days. A large crack-patched with mortar—ran down the middle. but other than that it was remarkably intact, the carvings worn but distinct.
The table held several books. The recent restoration of New Elantris required Raoden's leadership, making it difficult for him to sneak away to the hidden library, so he had brought our several volumes. The people were accustomed to seeing him with books, and hadn't thought to question him-even though these tomes still had leather covers on them.
He studied AonDor with increasing urgency. The pain had grown. Sometimes, it struck with such ferocity that Raoden collapsed, struggling against the agony. It was still manageable, if only barely, but it was growing worse. It had been a month and a half since he entered Elantris, and he doubted he would see another month come and go.
"I don't see why you insist on sharing every AonDor detail with us, sule," Galladon said, sighing as Raoden approached an open tome. "I barely understand half of what you tell us."
"Galladon, you must force yourself to remember these things," Raoden said. "No matter what you claim, I know you have the intellect for it."
"Perhaps," Galladon admitted, "but that doesn't mean I enjoy it. AonDor is your hobby, not mine."