Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [209]
Seinalan lowered the paper to a stunned room. There was no sound, except for a quiet exhale from beside Sarene. Finally, people began to speak in hushed, excited tones.
“So that’s what he was planning all along,” Roial said softly. “He knew how unstable his system was. He intended it that way. He let them go at each other’s throats just to see who would be strong enough, or treacherous enough, to survive.”
“A good plan, if an unconscionable one,” Shuden said. “Perhaps we underestimated Iadon’s craftiness.”
Seinalan still stood at the front of the room, eyeing the nobles with knowing looks.
“Why him?” Shuden asked.
“Because he’s absolute,” Sarene said. “Not even Hrathen would dare question the word of the patriarch—not yet, at least. If Seinalan says that order was made ten years ago, then everyone in Arelon is bound to agree with him.”
Shuden nodded. “Does this change our plans?”
“Not at all,” Roial said, shooting a look toward Telrii, whose expression had turned even darker than before. “It strengthens our claim—my union with Iadon’s house will be even more creditable.”
“Telrii still bothers me,” Sarene said as the patriarch added a few platitudes about the wisdom of adopting the inheritance system. “His claim is definitely weakened by this—but will he accept it?”
“He’ll have to,” Roial said with a smile. “None of the nobility would dare follow him now. Iadon’s proclamation grants the thing they have all been wanting—stable titles. The nobility aren’t going to risk crowning a man who has no valid blood claim to the throne. The legality of Iadon’s declaration doesn’t matter; everyone is going to act as if it were Church doctrine.”
Eondel’s soldiers were finally allowed to come forward and pick up the casket. Faced with no precedent regarding the proper burial of an Arelish king, Roial had turned to the culture most similar to his own: Teod. The Teos favored large ceremonies, often burying their greatest kings with an entire shipload of riches, if not the ship itself. While such was obviously unfit for Iadon, Roial had adapted other ideas. A Teoish funeral procession was a long, drawn-out exercise, often requiring the attendants to walk an hour or more to reach the prepared site. Roial had included this tradition, with a slight modification.
A line of carriages waited outside the palace. To Sarene, using vehicles seemed disrespectful, but Shuden had made a good point.
“Roial is planning to make a bid for the crown this very afternoon,” the Jindo had explained. “He can’t afford to offend the plush lords and ladies of Arelon by requiring a forced march all the way out of the city.”
Besides, Sarene had added to herself, why worry about disrespect? This is, after all, only Iadon.
With the carriages, it took only about fifteen minutes to reach the burial site. At first it looked like a large hole that had been excavated, but careful inspection would have shown it to be a natural depression in the earth that had been further deepened. Once again, Roial’s frugality had been behind the choice.
With little ceremony, Roial ordered the coffin lowered into the hole. A large group of workers began to build the mound over it.
Sarene was surprised how many nobles stayed to watch. The weather had turned cold lately, bringing a chill wind from the mountains. A drizzle hung in the air, clouds obscuring the sun. She had expected most of the nobility to trickle away after the first few shovels of dirt were thrown.
But they stayed, watching the work with silent eyes. Sarene, dressed for once in black, pulled her shawl close to ward off the cold. There was something in the eyes of those nobles. Iadon had been the first king of Arelon, his rule—short though it had been—the beginning of a tradition. People would recall Iadon’s name for centuries, and children would be taught how he had risen to power in a land whose gods were dead.