Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [124]
So, Hrathen had a chance, but he still had much work to do. An important piece of it lay in the man Hrathen was about to call. His contact was not a gyorn, which made Hrathen’s use of the Seon a little unorthodox. However, Wyrn had never directly commanded him not to call other people with his Seon, so Hrathen was able to rationalize the use.
The Seon responded promptly, and soon Forton’s large-eared, mouselike face appeared in its light.
“Who is it?” he asked in the harsh Fjordell dialect spoken in the country of Hrovell.
“It is I, Forton.”
“My lord Hrathen?” Forton asked with surprise. “My lord, it has been a long time.”
“I know, Forton. I trust you are well.”
The man laughed happily, though the laugh quickly turned to a wheeze. Forton had a chronic cough—a condition caused, Hrathen was certain, by the various substances the man was fond of smoking.
“Of course, my lord,” Forton said through his coughing. “When am I not well?” Forton was a man utterly contented with his life—a condition that was also caused by the various substances he was fond of smoking. “What can I do for you?”
“I have need of one of your elixirs, Forton,” Hrathen said.
“Of course, of course. What must it do?”
Hrathen smiled. Forton was an unparalleled genius, which was why Hrathen suffered his eccentricities. The man not only kept a Seon, but was a devout follower of the Mysteries—a degenerate form of the Jesker religion common in rural areas. Though Hrovell was officially a Derethi nation, most of it was a primitive, sparsely populated countryside which was difficult to supervise. Many of the peasants attended their Derethi services with devotion, then took part in their midnight Mystery ceremonies with equal devotion. Forton himself was considered something of a mystic in his town, though he always put on a show of Derethi orthodoxy when he spoke with Hrathen.
Hrathen explained what he wanted, and Forton repeated it back. Though Forton was often drugged, he was very accomplished at the mixing of potions, poisons, and elixirs. Hrathen had met no man in Sycla who could match Forton’s skill. One of the eccentric man’s concoctions had restored Hrathen to health after he had been poisoned by a political enemy. The slow-acting substance was said to have no antidote.
“This will be no problem, my lord,” Forton promised Hrathen in his thick dialect. Even after years of dealing with the Hroven, Hrathen had trouble understanding them. He was certain that most of them didn’t even know there was a pure, correct form of their language back in Fjorden.
“Good,” Hrathen said.
“Yes, all I’ll need to do is combine two formulas I already have,” Forton said. “How much do you want?”
“At least two doses. I will pay you the standard price.”
“My true payment is the knowledge I have served Lord Jaddeth,” the man said piously.
Hrathen resisted the urge to laugh. He knew how much of a hold the Mysteries had on Hrovell’s people. It was a distasteful form of worship, a syncretic combination of a dozen different faiths, with some aberrations—such as ritual sacrifice and fertility rites—added in to make it more alluring. Hrovell, however, was a task for another day. The people did what Wyrn commanded, and they were too politically insignificant to cause Fjorden distress. Of course, their souls were in serious danger; Jaddeth was not known for his leniency toward the ignorant.
Another day, Hrathen told himself. Another day.
“When will my lord be needing this potion?” the man asked.
“That is the thing, Forton. I need it immediately.”
“Where are you?”
“In Arelon,” Hrathen said.
“Ah, good,” Forton said. “My lord has finally decided to convert those heathens.”
“Yes,” Hrathen said with a slight smile. “We Derethi have been patient with the Arelenes long enough.”
“Well, Your Lordship couldn’t have picked a place farther away,” Forton said. “Even if I finish the potion tonight and send it in the morning, it will take at least two weeks to arrive.”
Hrathen chafed at the delay,