Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [172]
“I’m getting old, ’Ene, and old men tend to worry. Most recently I’ve been concerned about your excursions into Elantris. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you in there.”
“Not that he’s going to forgive you anytime soon anyway,” Sarene said offhandedly.
Kiin grunted. “That’s the truth.” Then he stopped, turning suspicious eyes her direction. “What do you know of that?”
“Nothing,” Sarene admitted. “But I’m hoping you will rectify my ignorance.”
Kiin shook his head. “Some things are better left unrectified. Your father and I were both a whole lot more foolish when we were younger. Eventeo might be a great king, but he’s a pathetic brother. Of course, I won’t soon win any awards for my fraternal affection either.”
“But what happened?”
“We had a … disagreement.”
“What kind of disagreement?”
Kiin laughed his bellowing, raspy laugh. “No, ’Ene, I’m not as easy to manipulate as your larks over there. You just keep on wondering about this one. And don’t pout.”
“I never pout,” Sarene said, fighting hard to keep her voice from sounding childish. When it became apparent that her uncle wasn’t going to offer any more information, Sarene finally changed the subject. “Uncle Kiin, are there any secret passages in Iadon’s palace?”
“I’d be surprised as the Three Virgins if there aren’t,” he replied. “Iadon is just about the most paranoid man I’ve ever known. He must have at least a dozen escape routes in that fortress he calls home.”
Sarene resisted the urge to point out that Kiin’s home was as much a fortress as the king’s. As their conversation lulled, Kiin turned to ask Eondel about Lukel’s sourmelon deal. Eventually, Sarene stood and retrieved her syre, then walked out onto the practice floor. She fell into form and began moving through a solo pattern.
Her blade whipped and snapped, the well-practiced motions now routine, and her mind soon began to wander. Was Ashe right? Was she allowing herself to become distracted by Elantris and its enigmatic ruler? She couldn’t lose track of her greater tasks—Hrathen was planning something, and Telrii couldn’t possibly be as indifferent as he made himself out to be. She had a lot of things she needed to watch, and she had enough experience with politics to realize how easy it was to overextend oneself.
However, she was increasingly interested in Spirit. It was rare to find someone politically skilled enough to hold her attention, but in Arelon she had found two. In a way, Spirit was even more fascinating than the gyorn. While Hrathen and she were very frank about their enmity, Spirit somehow manipulated and foiled her while at the same time acting like an old friend. Most alarmingly, she almost didn’t care.
Instead of being outraged when she filled his demands with useless items, he had seemed impressed. He had even complimented her on her frugality, noting that the cloth she sent must have been bought at a discount, considering its color. In all things he remained friendly, indifferent to her sarcasm.
And she felt herself responding. There, in the center of the cursed city, was finally a person who seemed willing to accept her. She wished she could laugh at his clever remarks, agree with his observations, and share his concerns. The more confrontational she tried to be, the less threatened he was. He actually seemed to appreciate her defiance.
“Sarene, dear?” Daora’s quiet voice broke through her contemplations. Sarene made one final sweep of her sword, then stood up, dazed. Sweat streamed down her face, running along the inside of her collar. She hadn’t realized how vigorous her training had become.
She relaxed, resting the tip of her syre on the floor. Daora’s hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her uniform was unstained by sweat. As usual, the woman did all things with grace—even exercise.
“Do you want to talk about it, dear?” Daora asked with a coaxing tone. They stood to the side of room, the thumping of feet and slapping of blades masking the conversation from prying ears.
“About what?” Sarene asked with confusion.
“I’ve seen that look