Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [14]
“All right,” Sarene said with a wan smile. “I’ll wait at least two months then.”
Her father burst into another round of his characteristic laughter—a sound that did her more good than any of his consolations or counsels. “Wait for a minute, ’Ene,” he said after his laughter subsided. “Let me get your mother—she’ll want to speak with you.” Then, after a moment, he chuckled, continuing, “She’s going to faint dead away when I tell her you’ve already killed off poor Raoden.”
“Father!” Sarene said—but he was already gone.
CHAPTER 3
None of Arelon’s people greeted their savior when he arrived. It was an affront, of course, but not an unexpected one. The people of Arelon—especially those living near the infamous city of Elantris—were known for their godless, even heretical, ways. Hrathen had come to change that. He had three months to convert the entire kingdom of Arelon; otherwise Holy Jaddeth—lord of all creation—would destroy it. The time had finally come for Arelon to accept the truths of the Derethi religion.
Hrathen strode down the gangplank. Beyond the docks, with their continuous bustle of loading and unloading, stretched the city of Kae. A short distance beyond Kae, Hrathen could see a towering stone wall—the old city of Elantris. On the other side of Kae, to Hrathen’s left, the land sloped steeply, rising to a tall hill—a foothill of what would become the Dathreki Mountains. Behind him was the ocean.
Overall, Hrathen was not impressed. In ages past, four small cities had surrounded Elantris, but only Kae—the new capital of Arelon—was still inhabited. Kae was too unorganized, too spread out, to be defensible, and its only fortification appeared to be a small, five-foot-high wall of stones—more a border than anything else.
Retreat into Elantris would be difficult, and only marginally effective. Kae’s buildings would provide wonderful cover for an invading force, and a few of Kae’s more peripheral structures looked like they were built almost against Elantris’s wall. This was not a nation accustomed to war. Yet, of all the kingdoms on the Syclan continent—the land named Opelon by the Arelish people—only Arelon itself had avoided domination by the Fjordell Empire. Of course, that too was something Hrathen would soon change.
Hrathen marched away from the ship, his presence causing quite a stir among the people. Workers halted their labors as he passed, staring at him with impressed amazement. Conversations died when eyes fell upon him. Hrathen didn’t slow for anyone, but that didn’t matter, for people moved quickly from his path. It could have been his eyes, but more likely it was his armor. Bloodred and glittering in the sunlight, the plate armor of a Derethi imperial high priest was an imposing sight even when one was accustomed to it.
He was beginning to think he would have to find his own way to the city’s Derethi chapel when he made out a spot of red weaving its way through the crowd. The speck soon resolved into a stumpy, balding figure clad in red Derethi robes. “My lord Hrathen!” the man called.
Hrathen stopped, allowing Fjon—Kae’s Derethi head arteth—to approach. Fjon puffed and wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. The register had you scheduled to come in on a different ship. I didn’t find out you weren’t on board until they were halfway done unloading. I’m afraid I had to leave the carriage behind; I couldn’t get it through the crowd.”
Hrathen narrowed his eyes with displeasure, but he said nothing. Fjon continued to blather for a moment before finally deciding to lead Hrathen to the Derethi chapel, apologizing again for the lack of transportation. Hrathen followed his pudgy guide with a measured stride, dissatisfied. Fjon trotted along with a smile on his lips, occasionally waving to passers on the streets, shouting pleasantries. The people responded in kind