Sarene lowered her sword uncertainly. Where had he gotten the flower? With a sigh, she accepted the gift. They both knew that his excuse was nothing more than a sneaky method of escaping embarrassment—but Sarene had to respect his cleverness. He had not only managed to avoid looking like a fool, but had impressed the women with his courtly sense of romance at the same time.
Sarene studied the man closely, searching for a wound. She'd been certain her blade had scratched him on the face as he jumped out of the fountain, but there was no sign of a hit. Uncertain, she looked down at the tip of her syre. There was no blood on it. She must have missed after all.
The women clapped at the show, and they began to urge the dandy back toward the pavilion. As he left, Kaloo looked back at her and smiled—not the silly, foppish smile he had used before, but a more knowing, sly smile. A smile she found strikingly familiar for some reason. He performed another one of his ridiculous bows, then allowed himself to be led away.
CHAPTER 51
THE market's tents were a bright burst of color in the center of the city.
Hrathen walked among them, noting the unsold wares and empty streets with dissatisfaction. Many of the merchants were from the East, and they had spent a great deal of money shipping their cargoes to Arelon for the spring market. If they failed to sell their goods, the losses would be a financial blow from which they might never recover.
Most of the merchants displaying dark Fjordell colorings, bowed their heads respectfully at his passing. Hrathen had been away so long—first in Duladel, then in Arelon—that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be treated with proper deference. Even as they bowed their heads, Hrathen could see something in these merchants' eyes. An edginess. They had planned for this market for months, their wares and passage purchased long before King Iadon's death. Even with the upheaval, they had no choice but to try and sell what they could.
Hrathen's cloak billowed behind him as he toured the market, his armor clinking comfortably with each step. He displayed a confidence he didn't feel, trying to give the merchants some measure of security. Things were not well, not at all. His hurried call via Seon to Wyrn had come too late: Telrii's message had already arrived. Fortunately, Wyrn had displayed only slight anger at Telrii's presumptuousness.
Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never—of course—name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen's subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he'd tossed Hrathen out, the king still resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.
The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelish nobility's confused state. Suddenly, they weren't certain if it were better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not—so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii's decision.
It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade, cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert.
Yet, despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelish nobility weren't really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough.
Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side. The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke: an incense merchant.
Hrathen frowned. He was certain he had seen the distinctive bloodred of a Derethi robe as someone ducked inside the tent. The arteths were supposed to be in solitary meditation at the moment, not idly shopping. Determined to discover which priest had disobeyed his command. Hrathen strode across the path and entered the tent.
It was dark inside, the thick canvas walls blocking out sunlight. A lantern burned at one side of the tent, but the large structure was so piled with boxes, barrels, and bins that Hrathen could see only shadows. He stood for a moment, eyes adjusting. There didn't seem to be anyone inside the tent, not even a merchant.
He stepped forward. moving through waves of scents both pungent and enticing. Sweetsands, soaps, and oils all perfumed the air, and the mixture of their many odors left the mind confused. Near the back of the tent, he found the solitary lantern sitting beside a box of ashes, the remnants of burned incense. Hrathen pulled off his gauntlet, then reached to rub the soft powder between his fingers.
"The ashes are like the wreckage of your power, are they not. Hrathen?" a voice asked.
Hrathen spun, startled by the sound. A shadowed figure stood in the tent behind him. a familiar form in Derethi robes.
"What are you doing here?" Hrathen asked, turning from Dilaf and brushing off his hand, then replacing his gauntlet.
Dilaf didn't respond. He stood in the darkness. his unseen face unnerving in its stare.
"Dilaf?" Hrathen repeated, turning. "I asked you a question."
"You have failed here. Hrathen," Dilaf whispered. "The fool Telrii is playing with you. You, a gyorn of Shu-Dereth. Men do not make demands of the Fjordell Empire, Hrathen. They should not."
Hrathen felt his face redden. "What know you of such things?" he snapped. "Leave me be. Arteth."
Dilaf didn't move. "You were close, I admit, but your foolishness cost you the victory."
"Bah!" Hrathen said, brushing past the small man in the darkness, walking toward the exit. "My battle is far from over—I still have time left."
"Do you?" Dilaf asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Hrathen saw Dilaf approach the ashes, running his fingers through them. "It has all slipped away, hasn't it. Hrathen? My victory is so sweet in the face of your failure."
Hrathen paused, then laughed, looking back at Dilaf. "Victory? What victory have you achieved? What ... ?"
Dilaf smiled. In the wan light of the lantern, his face pocketed with shadow. he smiled. The expression, filled with the passion, the ambition. and the zeal that Hrathen had noted on that first day so long ago, was so disturbing that Hrathen's question died on his lips. In the flickering light, the arteth seemed not a man at all, but a Svrakiss, sent to torment Hrathen.
Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen, throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light.
"Dilaf?" Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the arteth to hear. "What victory?"
CHAPTER 52
"OW!" Raoden complained as Galladon stuck the needle into his cheek.
"Stop whining." the Dula ordered, pulling the thread tight.
"Karata's much better at this." Raoden said. He sat before a mirror in their rooms at Roial's mansion, his head cocked to the side, watching Galladon sew the sword wound.
"Well, wait until we get back to Elantris, then," the Dula said grumpily, punctuating the remark by sticking Raoden again.
"No," Raoden said with a sigh, "I've waited too long already—I can feel this one ripping a little bit each time I smile. Why couldn't she have hit me on the arm?"
"Because we're Elantrians, sule," Galladon explained. "If a bad thing can happen to us, it will. You're lucky to escape with only this. In fact, you're lucky you were even able to fight at all with that body of yours."
"It wasn't easy," Raoden said. keeping his head still as the Dula worked. "That's why I had to end it so quickIy."
"Well, you fight better than I expected."
"I had Eondel teach me," Raoden said. "Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father's laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing because he thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I'd end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces."
Galladon snorted in amusement as he stabbed Raoden again, and Raoden gritted his teeth against the pain. The doors were all bolted tightly and the drapes closed, for Raoden had needed to drop his illusionary mask to let Galladon sew. The duke had been kind enough to board them—Roial seemed to be the only one of Raoden's former friends who was intrigued, rather than annoyed, by his Kaloo personality.
"All right. sule," Galladon said. tugging the final stitch.
Raoden nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He had almost begun to think that the handsome Duladen face belonged to him. That was dangerous. He had to remember that he was still an Elantrian, with all the weaknesses and pains of his kind, despite the unconcerned personality he had adopted.
Galladon still wore his mask. The Aon illusions were good as long as Raoden left them alone. Whether they were drawn in air or in mud, Aons could be destroyed only by another Elantrian. The books claimed that an Aon inscribed in dust would continue to function even if the pattern was scuffed or erased.
The illusions were attached to their underclothes, allowing them to change outfits each day without needing to redraw the Aon. Galladon's illusion was that of a nondescript, broad-faced Dula, an image Raoden had found at the back of his book. Raoden's face had been much harder to choose.
"How's my personality?" Raoden asked, pulling out the AonDor book to begin re-creating his illusion. "Am I convincing?"
Galladon shrugged. taking a seat on Raoden's bed. "I wouldn't have believed you were a Dula, but they seem to. I don't think you could have made a better choice, anyway. Kolo?"
Raoden nodded as he drew. The Arelish nobility were too well known, and Sarene would have immediately seen through any attempt at pretending to be from Teod. Assuming he wanted to speak Aonic, that left only Duladen. It had been obvious from his failed attempts to imitate Galladon's accent that he could never make a convincing member of the Duladen underclass; even his pronunciation of a simple word such as "kolo" had sent Galladon into gales of laughter. Fortunately, there were a good number of lesser-known Duladen citizens—men who had been mayors of small towns or members of unimportant councils—who spoke flawless Aonic. Raoden had met many such individuals, and mimicking their personality required only a sense of flamboyance and a nonchalant attitude.
Getting the clothing had been a little difficult—requiring Raoden, in another illusion, to go purchase it from the Arelene Market. Since his official arrival, however. he'd been able to get some better-tailored outfits. He thought he played a fairly good Dula, though not everyone was convinced.
"I think Sarene's suspicious," Raoden said, finishing the Aon and watching it spin around him and mold to his face.
"She's a bit more skeptical than most."
"True," Raoden said. He intended to tell her who he was as soon as possible, but she had resisted any attempts by "Kaloo" to get her alone: she'd even refused the letter he'd sent, returning it unopened.
Fortunately, things were going better with the rest of the nobility. Since Raoden had left Elantris two days before, entrusting New Elantris to Karata's care, he had managed to wiggle his way into Arelish high society with an ease that surprised even him. The nobles were too busy worrying about Telrii's rule to question Kaloo's background. In fact, they had latched on to him with startling vigor. Apparently, the sense of free-willed silliness he brought to gatherings gave the nobles a chance to laugh and forget the chaos of the last few weeks. So he soon became a necessary guest at any function.