Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [234]
Where Eventeo led, Teod would follow. It would take time, of course; the people of Teod were not sheep. However, as the arteths flooded her homeland, the people would give ear where they would have given only fists before—all because they knew that their king was Derethi. Teod had been changed forever.
And he had done it for her. Of course, he claimed that he also knew it was best for the country. No matter how good Teod’s navy was, sheer numbers insured that a determined Fjordell campaign would eventually punch through the armada. Eventeo claimed he would not fight a hopeless war.
Yet, this was the same man who had instructed Sarene that principle was always worth fighting to protect. Eventeo had sworn that truth was immutable, and that no battle—even a hopeless one—was in vain when defending what was right. But, apparently, his love was stronger than truth. She was flattered, but the emotion made her sick. Teod would fall because of her, becoming just another Fjordell state, its king little more than Wyrn’s servant.
Eventeo had implied that she should lead Arelon to do as he had done, though she could tell from his voice that he was proud when she refused. She would protect Arelon, and Elantris. She would struggle for the survival of her religion, because Arelon—poor sickly Arelon—was now Shu-Korath’s final sanctuary. Where Arelon had once been a nation populated by gods, now it would serve as the final haven for Domi Himself.
CHAPTER 48
Hrathen sat in the palace waiting room with growing dissatisfaction. Around him, the signs of a changing government were already evident. It seemed remarkable that one man could own so many tapestries, rugs, and brocades. The palace sitting room was so draped with cloth plushness that Hrathen had been forced to shove a virtual mountain of pillows out of the way before finding a stone ledge upon which to seat himself.
He sat near the stone hearth, jaw clenched as he regarded the assembled nobility. As could be expected, Telrii had quite suddenly become a very busy man. Every nobleman, landholder, and ambitious merchant in the city wanted to pay his “respects” to the new king. Dozens waited in the sitting room, many without firm appointments. They hid their impatience poorly, but not a one was brave enough to voice annoyance at the treatment.
Their inconvenience was unimportant. The intolerable factor was Hrathen’s inclusion in the group. The rabble of supposed nobility was a pandering, indolent lot. Hrathen, however, was backed by the power of Wyrn’s kingdom and Jaddeth’s empire—the very power that had given Telrii the wealth he needed to claim the throne.
And yet Hrathen was forced to wait. It was maddening, it was discourteous, and it was unbelievable. Yet Hrathen had no choice but to endure it. Backed by Wyrn’s power though he was, he had no troops, no might to force Telrii’s hand. He could not denounce the man openly—despite his frustration, Hrathen’s political instinct was too keen to let him do something like that. He had worked hard to get a potential sympathizer on the throne; only a fool would let his own pride ruin such an opportunity. Hrathen would wait, tolerating disrespect for a short time, to achieve the eventual prize.
An attendant entered the room, draped in fine silks—the exaggerated livery of Telrii’s personal heralds. The room’s occupants perked up, several men standing and straightening their clothing.
“Gyorn Hrathen,” the attendant announced.
The noblemen wilted, and Hrathen stood and brushed past them with a dismissive step. It was about time.
Telrii waited beyond. Hrathen paused just inside the door, regarding the chamber with displeasure. The room had once been Iadon’s study, and at that time it had been marked by a businessman’s efficiency. Everything had been well