Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [189]
“You’re going to need to get over that, Sarene,” the duke said. “You can’t go running every time you meet someone with a stable relationship.”
Sarene decided not to point out that young love was hardly stable. “I don’t always get this way, Your Grace. I’ve just had a difficult week. Give me a few more days, and I’ll be back to my regular, stone-hearted self.”
Sensing her bitterness, Roial wisely decided not to respond to that particular remark. Instead, he glanced to the side, following the sound of a familiar voice’s laughter.
Duke Telrii had apparently decided not to join the king’s private section of the party. Quite the opposite, in fact. He stood entertaining a large group of noblemen in a small hedged courtyard opposite the pavilion of Iadon’s private gathering. It was almost as if he were starting his own exclusive subparty.
“Not a good sign,” Roial said quietly, voicing Sarene’s own thoughts.
“Agreed,” Sarene said. She did a quick count of Telrii’s fawners, trying to distinguish rank, then glanced back toward Iadon’s section of the party. Their numbers were about equal, but Iadon seemed to command more important nobility—for the moment.
“That’s another unforeseen effect of your tirade before the king,” Roial said. “The more unstable Iadon becomes, the more tempting other options appear.”
Sarene frowned as Telrii laughed again, his voice melodious and unconcerned. He did not at all sound like a man whose most important supporter—Gyorn Hrathen—had just fallen.
“What is he planning?” Sarene wondered. “How could he take the throne now?”
Roial just shook his head. After a moment more of contemplation, he looked up and addressed open air. “Yes?”
Sarene turned as Ashe approached. Then, with astonishment, she realized it wasn’t Ashe. It was a different Seon.
“The gardeners report that one of your guests has fallen into the pond, my lord,” the Seon said, bobbing almost to the ground as he approached. His voice was crisp and unemotional.
“Who?” Roial asked with a chuckle.
“Lord Redeem, Your Grace,” the Seon explained. “It appears the wine proved too much for him.”
Sarene squinted, searching deep into the ball of light and trying to make out the glowing Aon. She thought it was Opa.
Roial sighed. “He probably scared the fish right out of the pond. Thank you, Opa. Make sure that Redeem is given some towels and a ride home, if he needs it. Next time maybe he won’t mix ponds with alcohol.”
The Seon bobbed formally once more, then floated away to do his master’s bidding.
“You never told me you had a Seon, my lord,” Sarene said.
“Many of the nobles do, Princess,” Roial said, “but it is no longer fashionable to bring them along with us wherever we go. Seons are reminders of Elantris.”
“So he just stays here at your house?”
Roial nodded. “Opa oversees the gardeners of my estate. I think it fitting—after all, his name does mean ‘flower.’”
Sarene tapped her cheek, wondering about the stern formality in Opa’s voice. The Seons she knew back in Teod were much warmer with their masters, no matter what their personality. Perhaps it was because here, in the presumed land of their creation, Seons were now regarded with suspicion and dislike.
“Come,” Roial said, taking her arm. “I was serious when I said I wanted to check on the serving tables.”
Sarene allowed herself to be led away.
“Roial, you old prune,” a blustery voice called out as they approached the serving tables, “I’m astounded. You actually know how to throw a party! I was afraid you’d try and cram us all into that box you call a house.”
“Ahan,” Roial said, “I should have realized I would find you next to the food.”
The large count was draped in a yellow robe and clutched a plateful of crackers and shellfish. His wife’s plate, however, held only a few slices of fruit. During the weeks Seaden had been attending Sarene’s fencing