Galladon smiled at him through the glowing symbol that hovered in the air between them.
CHAPTER 5
MERCIFUL Domi," Sarene asked with surprise, "where did he come from?" The gyorn strode into the king's throne room with the arrogance characteristic of his kind. He wore the shining bloodred armor of a Derethi high priest, an extravagant crimson cloak billowing out behind him, though he bore no weapon. It was a costume meant to impress—and, despite what Sarene thought of the gyorns themselves, she had to admit that their clothing was effective. Of course, it was mostly for show: even in Fjorden's martial society, few people could walk as easily as this gyorn while wearing full plate armor. The metal was probably so thin and light that it would be useless in battle.
The gyorn marched past her without a seeond glance, his eyes focused directly on the king. He was young for a gyorn, probably in his forties, and his short, well-styled black hair had only a trace of gray in it.
"You knew there was a Derethi presence in Elantris, my lady," Ashe said, floating beside her as usual, one of only two Seons in the room. "Why should you be surprised to see a Fjordell priest?"
"That is a full gyorn, Ashe. There are only twenty of them in the entire Fjordell Empire. There may be some Derethi believers in Kae, but not enough to warrant a visit from a high priest. Gyorns are extremely miserly with their time."
Sarene watched the Fjordell man stride through the room. cutting through groups of people like a bird tearing through a cloud of gnats. "Come on," she whispered to Ashe, making her way through the peripheral crowd toward the front of the room. She didn't want to miss what the gyorn said.
She needn't have worried. When the man spoke, his firm voice boomed through the throne room. "King Iadon." he said, with only the slightest nod of his head in place of a bow. "I, Gyorn Hrathen, bring you a message from Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. He thinks that it is time our two nations shared more than a common border." He spoke with the thick, melodic accent of a native FjordeIl.
Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowI. "What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden."
"His Holiness fears for the souls of your people. Your Majesty," Hrathen said. "Well, then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon."
"The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push—a sign, if you will. Wyrn thinks it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth."
This time Iadon didn't even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. "I already believe in Shu-Korath. priest. We serve the same God."
"Derethi is the only true form of Shu-Keseg," Hrathen said darkly.
Iadon waved a dismissive hand. "I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn't believe—there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion."
"You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually," the gyorn warned.
'Honestly. priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats hold no weight—Fjorden hasn't held any real influence for two centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you used to be?"
Hrathen's eyes grew dangerous. "Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before."
"Really?" Iadon asked. "Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago."
Hrathen paused for a moment: then he repeated his introductory nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Sarene's prayers were not answered, however—he didn't step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to shoot one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze however found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a slight hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blond Teoish hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations.
King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers.
"He doesn't see," Sarene whispered. "He doesn't understand."
"Understand what, my lady?" Ashe asked.
"How dangerous that gyorn is."
"His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn't see things the same way you do."
"Even so," Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. "King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said—at least about Fjorden—was completely true. The Wyrns are more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire's power."
"It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch," Ashe said. 'King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden's army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were."
Sarene tapped her cheek for a moment in thought. "Well. Ashe, at least now you don't have to worry about my causing too much unrest amongst Kae's nobility."
"I seriously doubt that. my lady. How else would you spend your time?"
"Oh, Ashe," she said sweetly. "Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a full gyorn?" Then, more seriously, she continued. "Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn't watch that man—and it doesn't seem like he will—then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?"
"You may be overreacting. my lady," Ashe said with a pulse. The words were familiar—it seemed that Ashe often felt a need to say them to her.
Sarene shook her head. "Not this time. Today was a test, Ashe. Now Hrathen will feel justified in taking action against the king—he has convinced himself that Arelon is indeed ruled by a blasphemer. He'll try to find a way to overthrow Iadon's throne, and Arelon's government will collapse for the second time in ten years. This time it won't be the merchant class that fills the void of leadership—it will be the Derethi priesthood."
"So you are going to help Iadon?" Ashe said with an amused tone.
"He is my sovereign king."
"Despite your opinion that he is insufferable?"
"Anything is better than Fjordell rule. Besides, maybe I was wrong about Iadon." Things hadn't gone too poorly between the two of them since that first embarrassing meeting. Iadon had practically ignored her at Raoden's funeral, which had suited Sarene just fine; she'd been too busy watching for discrepancies in the ceremony. Unfortunately, the event had occurred with a disappointing level of orthodoxy. and no predominant noblemen had given themselves away by failing to show up or by looking too guilty during the proceedings.
"Yes . . ." she said. "Perhaps Iadon and I can get along by just ignoring each other."
"What in the name of Burning Domi are you doing back in my court, girl!" the king swore from behind her.
Sarene raised her eyes to the sky in a look of resignation, and Ashe pulsed a quiet laugh as she turned to face King Iadon.
"What?" she asked. trying her best to sound innocent.
"You!" Iadon barked, pointing at her. He was understandably in a bad mood—of course. from what she heard, Iadon was rarely in a good mood. "Don't you understand that women aren't to come to my court unless they're invited?"
Sarene blinked her eyes in confusion. "No one told me that. Your Majesty." she said, intentionally trying to sound as if she didn't have a wit in her head.
Iadon grumbled something about foolish women. shaking his head at her obvious lack of intelligence.
"I just wanted to see the paintings," Sarene said, putting a quaver in her voice. as if she were on the brink of crying.
Iadon held his hand palm—forward in the air to forestall any more of her drivel, turning back to his ledgers. Sarene barely kept herself from smiling as she wiped her eyes and pretended to study the painting behind her.
"That was unexpected," Ashe said quietly.
"I'll deal with Iadon later," Sarene mumbled. "I have someone more important to worry about now."
"I just never thought I'd see the day when you of all women gave into the feminine stereotype—even if it was just an act."
"What?" Sarene asked, fluttering her eyes. "Me, act?"
Ashe snorted.
"You. know, I've never been able to figure out how you Seons manage sounds like that." Sarene said. "You don't have noses—how can you snort?"
`Years of practice, my lady," Ashe replied. "Am I truly going to have to suffer your whimpering every time you speak with the king?"
Sarene shrugged. "He expects women to be foolish, so I'll be foolish. It's much easier to manipulate people when they assume you can't gather enough wits to remember your own name."
'Ene?" a sudden voice bellowed. "Is that you?" The deep, scratchy voice was oddly familiar. It was as if the speaker had a sore throat, though she had never heard someone with a sore throat yell so loudly.
Sarene turned hesitantly. An enormous man—taller, broader, pudgier, and more muscled than seemed possible-shoved his way through the crowd in her direction. He was dressed in a broad blue silken doublet—she shuddered to think of how many worms had toiled to make it-and wore the ruffle-cuffed trousers of an Arelish courtier.
"It is you!" the man exclaimed. "We thought you weren't coming for another week!"
"Ashe," Sarene mumbled, "who is this lunatic and what does he want with me?"
"He looks familiar, my lady. I'm sorry, my memory isn't what it used to be."
"Ha!" the enormous man said, scooping her up into a bear hug. It was an odd feeling—her bottom half squished into his oversized gut while her face was crushed by his hard, well-muscled chest. She resisted the urge to whimper, waiting and hoping the man would drop her before she passed out. Ashe would probably go for help if her face started to change colors.
Fortunately, the man let go long before she asphyxiated, instead holding her by her shoulders at arms length. "You've changed. When I last saw you, you were only knee high." Then he looked over her tall figure. "Well ... I doubt you were ever knee high, but you were certainly no taller than a waist. Your mother always said you'd be a lanky one!"
Sarene shook her head. The voice was slightly familiar, but she couldn't place his features. She usually had such a good memory for faces. . .. Unless. ...
"Hunkey Kay?" she asked hesitantly. "Gracious Domi! What happened to your beard?"
"Arelish nobles don't wear beards, little one. I haven't had one in years."
It was him. The voice was different, the beardless face unfamiliar, but the eyes were the same. She remembered looking up at those wide brown eyes, always full of laughter. "Hunkey Kay," she mumbled distractedly. "Where's my present?"
Her uncle Kiin laughed. his odd scratchy voice making it sound more like a wheeze than a chortle. Those had always been the first words out of her mouth when he came to visit: her uncle brought the most exotic of gifts, delights that were extravagant enough to be unique even to the daughter of a king.