Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [17]
A knock came at the door. “Come,” Hrathen said. He had been seeing the priests one at a time, feeling out the extent of their contamination. So far, he had not often been impressed.
“Arteth Dilaf,” the priest said, introducing himself as he entered.
Hrathen looked up. The name and words were Fjordell, but the accent was slightly off. It sounded almost … “You’re Arelish?” Hrathen said with surprise.
The priest bowed with the proper amount of subservience; his eyes, however, were defiant.
“How did you become a priest of Derethi?” Hrathen asked.
“I wanted to serve the empire,” the man replied, his voice quietly intense. “Jaddeth provided a way.”
No, Hrathen realized. It isn’t defiance in this man’s eyes—it’s religious fervor. One did not often find zealots in the Derethi religion; such people were more often drawn to the frenzied lawlessness of the Jeskeri Mysteries than to the militaristic organization of Shu-Dereth. This man’s face, however, burned with fanatical passion. It was not a bad thing; while Hrathen himself spurned such lack of control, he had often found zealots to be useful tools.
“Jaddeth always provides a way, Arteth,” Hrathen said carefully. “Be more specific.”
“I met a Derethi arteth in Duladel twelve years ago. He preached to me, and I believed. He gave me copies of the Do-Keseg and the Do-Dereth, and I read them both in one night. The holy arteth sent me back to Arelon to help convert those in my home country, and I set up in Rain. I taught there for seven years, until the day I heard that a Derethi chapel had been built in Kae itself. I overcame my loathing for the Elantrians, knowing that Holy Jaddeth had struck them down with an eternal punishment, and came to join with my Fjordell brethren.
“I brought my converts with me—fully half of the believers in Kae came with me from Rain. Fjon was impressed with my diligence. He granted me the title of arteth and allowed me to continue teaching.”
Hrathen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarding the Arelish priest. “You know what Arteth Fjon did was wrong.”
“Yes, my lord. An arteth cannot appoint another to his own position. When I speak to the people, I never refer to myself as a priest of Derethi, only a teacher.”
A very good teacher, Dilaf’s tone implied. “What did you think of Arteth Fjon?” Hrathen asked.
“He was an undisciplined fool, my lord. His laxness kept Jaddeth’s kingdom from growing in Arelon, and has made a mockery of our religion.”
Hrathen smiled: Dilaf, though not of the chosen race, was obviously a man who understood the doctrine and culture of his religion. However, his ardor could be dangerous. The wild intensity in Dilaf’s eyes was barely under control. Either he would have to be watched very closely, or he would have to be disposed of.
“It appears that Arteth Fjon did one thing right, even if he didn’t have the proper authority,” Hrathen said. Dilaf’s eyes burned even more brightly at the declaration. “I make you a full arteth, Dilaf.”
Dilaf bowed, touching his head to the ground. His mannerisms were perfectly Fjordell, and Hrathen had never heard a foreigner speak the Holy Tongue so well. This man could prove useful indeed; after all, one common complaint against Shu-Dereth was that it favored the Fjordell. An Arelish priest could help prove that all were welcome within Jaddeth’s empire—even if the Fjordell were the most welcome.
Hrathen congratulated himself on creating such a useful tool, completely satisfied until the moment Dilaf looked up from his bow. The passion was still there in Dilaf’s eyes—but there was something else as well. Ambition. Hrathen frowned slightly, wondering whether or not he had just been manipulated.
There was only one thing to do. “Arteth, are you sworn as any man’s odiv?”
Surprise. Dilaf’s eyes opened wide as he stared up at Hrathen, uncertainty flashing therein. “No, my lord.”
“Good. Then I will make you mine.”
“My lord … I am, of course, your humble servant.”
“You will be more than that, Arteth,” Hrathen said, “if you would