Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [141]
Or … was something else behind this man’s refusal? A nagging voice inside of Hrathen whispered that the banished Fjon was not to blame. Dilaf—Dilaf had something to do with Thered’s refusal.
The thought was probably just paranoia, but it spurred Hrathen forward with his next item of business. Dilaf had to be dealt with; despite his stunt with the Elantrian, the arteth was growing increasingly influential with the other priests. Hrathen reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a small envelope. He had made a mistake with Dilaf. While it was possible to channel a zealot’s ardor, Hrathen currently had neither the time nor the energy to do so. The future of an entire kingdom depended on Hrathen’s ability to focus, and he hadn’t realized how much attention Dilaf would require.
It could not continue. Hrathen’s world was one of control and predictability, his religion a logical exercise. Dilaf was like a boiling pot of water poured on Hrathen’s ice. In the end, they would both just end up weakened and dissipated, like puffs of steam in the wind. And after they were gone, Arelon would die.
Hrathen put on his armor and left his room, entering the chapel. Several supplicants knelt in prayerful silence, and priests moved about busily. The chapel’s vaulted ceilings and spirited architecture was familiar—this was where he should be most comfortable. Too often, however, Hrathen found himself fleeing up to the walls of Elantris. Though he told himself that he simply went to the walls because their height gave him a vantage over Kae, he knew that there was another reason. He went, in part, because he knew that Elantris was a place that Dilaf would never voluntarily go.
Dilaf’s chamber was a small alcove much like the one Hrathen himself had occupied as an arteth many years ago. Dilaf looked up from his desk as Hrathen pushed open the room’s simple wooden door.
“My hroden?” the arteth said, standing with surprise. Hrathen rarely visited his chambers.
“I have an important task for you, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “One I cannot trust to anyone else.”
“Of course, my hroden,” Dilaf said submissively, bowing his head. However, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I serve with devotion, knowing I am part of the chain linked to Lord Jaddeth himself.”
“Yes,” Hrathen said dismissively. “Arteth, I need you to deliver a letter.”
“A letter?” Dilaf looked up with confusion.
“Yes,” Hrathen said flatly. “It is vital Wyrn know of our progress here. I have written him a report, but the matters discussed therein are very delicate. If it should be lost, irreparable damage could be done. I have chosen you, my odiv, to deliver it in person.”
“That will take weeks, my hroden!”
“I know. I will have to go without your service for a time, but I will be comforted by the knowledge that you are engaged in a vital mission.”
Dilaf lowered his eyes, his hands falling to rest lightly on the top of his table. “I go as my hroden commands.”
Hrathen paused, frowning slightly. It was impossible for Dilaf to escape; the hroden-odiv relationship was irrevocably binding. When one’s master commanded, one obeyed. Even so, Hrathen had expected more from Dilaf. A ploy of some kind. An attempt to wiggle out of the assignment.
Dilaf accepted the letter with apparent subservience. Maybe this was what he wanted all along, Hrathen realized. A way into Fjorden. His position as odiv to a gyorn would give him power and respect in the East. Perhaps Dilaf’s only purpose in antagonizing Hrathen had been to get out of Arelon.
Hrathen turned and walked back out into the chapel’s hollow sermon hall. The event had been even more painless than he had hoped. He held back a sigh of relief, stepping with a bit more confidence as he walked toward his chambers.
A voice sounded from behind. Dilaf’s voice. Speaking softly—yet with enough projection to be heard. “Send out messengers,” the arteth ordered to one of the dorvens. “We leave for Fjorden in the morning.”
Hrathen nearly kept walking. He almost didn’t care what Dilaf was planning or what he did,