Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [206]
He turned back to his studies.
CHAPTER 38
Sarene watched the gyorn with displeased eyes. Hrathen no longer gave his sermons at the Derethi chapel; there were too many people. Instead he organized meetings on the edge of the city, where he could stand on Kae’s five-foot border wall, his followers sitting at his feet to listen. The gyorn preached with more vibrancy and enthusiasm than he had before. For now, he was a saint. He had suffered the Shaod, and had proven himself superior to its curse.
He was, Sarene had to admit, an impressive opponent. Outfitted in his red armor, he stood like a bloodied metal statue above the crowd.
“It must have been some kind of trick,” she noted.
“Of course it was, Cousin,” Lukel said, standing beside her. “If we thought otherwise, we might as well join Shu-Dereth. Personally, I look horrible in red.”
“Your face is too pink,” Sarene said offhandedly.
“If it was a trick, Sarene,” Shuden said, “then I am at a loss to explain it.” The three of them stood at the periphery of the morning meeting. They had come to see for themselves the amazing numbers Hrathen’s meetings drew, even on the very day of the king’s funeral.
“It could have been makeup,” Sarene said.
“That survived the ritual washing?” Shuden said.
“Maybe the priests were in on it,” Lukel said.
“Have you ever tried to bribe a Korathi priest, Lukel?” Shuden asked pointedly.
Lukel looked around uncomfortably. “I’d rather not answer that question, thank you.”
“You sound almost as if you believe his miracle, Shuden,” Sarene said.
“I do not discount it,” Shuden said. “Why wouldn’t God bless one of his devout? Religious exclusivism is a Korathi and Derethi addition to Shu-Keseg.”
Sarene sighed, nodding for her friends to follow as she pushed her way through the outlying crowds and walked toward their waiting carriage. Trick or not, Hrathen had an uncomfortably strong hold on the people. If he managed to place a sympathizer on the throne, it would all be over. Arelon would become a Derethi nation, and only Teod would remain—though probably not for long.
Her companions were undoubtedly thinking along similar lines; both Lukel and Shuden’s faces bore disturbed, contemplative looks. They entered the coach in silent thought, but finally Lukel turned to her, his hawkish features troubled.
“What do you mean, my face is too pink?” he asked with a hurt tone.
The ship’s mast bore the royal crest of Teod—a gold Aon Teo on a blue background. Long and thin, there was no faster vessel on the water than a Teoish strightboat.
Sarene felt it her duty to give the patriarch a better reception than she herself had received upon arriving at those same docks. She didn’t like the man, but that was no excuse for incivility, and so she had brought Shuden, Lukel, Eondel, and several of the count’s soldiers as an honor guard.
The thin ship came into dock smoothly, sailors throwing out a gangplank as soon as the vessel was secured. A blue-robed form strode past the sailors and down the gangplank with a firm step. Over a dozen attendants and lesser priests followed; the patriarch liked to be well cared for. As Seinalan approached, Sarene masked her face with controlled courtesy.
The patriarch was a tall man with delicate features. His golden hair was long, like that of a woman, and it blended with the enormous gold cape that fluttered behind him. The blue robe was embroidered with so much gold thread it was difficult at times to see the material underneath. He smiled with the benevolently tolerant face of one who wanted you to know he was patient with your inferiority.
“Your Highness!” Seinalan said as he approached. “It has been too long since my old eyes beheld your sweet features.”
Sarene did her best to smile, curtsying before the patriarch and his “old” eyes. Seinalan was no more than forty, though he tried to make himself seem more aged and wise than he really was.