Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [259]
Someone else was manipulating the Dor.
He searched through the crowd, masking his surprise. His eyes fell on a small red-robed form almost invisible among the noblemen. The power was coming from him.
A Derethi priest? Raoden thought incredulously. The man was smiling, and his hair was blond beneath his hood. What?
The mood of the congregation changed. Several people fainted immediately, but most simply stared. Dumbfounded. Shocked. Yet somehow unsurprised. They had been beaten down so much, they had expected something horrible to happen. Without checking, Raoden knew that his illusion had fallen.
The patriarch gasped, dropping the crown as he stumbled away. Raoden looked back to the crowd, his stomach sick. He had been so close….
A voice came at his side. “Look at him, nobles of Arelon!” Sarene declared. “Look at the man who would have been your king. Look at his dark skin and his Elantrian face! Then, tell me. Does it really matter?”
The crowd was quiet.
“Ten years you were ruled by a tyrant because you rejected Elantris,” Sarene said. “You were the privileged, the wealthy, but in a way you were the most oppressed, for you could never be secure. Were your titles worth your freedom?
“This is the man who loved you when all others sought to steal your pride. I ask you this: Can being an Elantrian make him any worse a king than Iadon or Telrii?”
She knelt before him. “I, for one, accept his rule.”
Raoden watched the crowd tensely. Then, one at a time, they began to kneel. It began with Shuden and Lukel, who stood near the front of the crowd, but it soon spread to the others. Like a wave, the forms knelt—some in a stupor, others with resignation. Some, however, dared to be happy.
Sarene reached down and snatched up the fallen crown. It was a simple thing—no more than a hastily constructed gold band—but it represented so much. With Seinalan stunned, the princess of Teod took his duty upon herself and, reaching up, placed the crown on Raoden’s head.
“Behold, your king!” she exclaimed.
Some of the people actually started cheering.
One man was not cheering, but hissing. Dilaf looked as if he wanted to claw his way through the crowd and rip Raoden apart with his bare hands. The people, whose cheers increased from a few scattered yells to a general exclamation of approval, kept him back. The priest looked around him with loathing, then forced his way through the crowd and escaped through the doors, out into a darkening city.
Sarene ignored the priest, instead looking over at Raoden. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” she said, kissing him lightly.
“I can’t believe they accepted me,” Raoden said with wonder.
“Ten years ago they rejected the Elantrians,” Sarene said, “and found that a man could be a monster no matter what he looked like. They’re finally ready to accept a ruler not because he’s a god or because he has money, but because they know he will lead them well.”
Raoden smiled. “Of course, it helps when that ruler has a wife who can deliver a moving speech at precisely the right moment.”
“True.”
Raoden turned, looking out over the crowd toward the fleeing Dilaf. “Who was that?”
“Just one of Hrathen’s priests,” Sarene said dismissively. “I imagine he isn’t having a very good day—Dilaf is known for his hatred of Elantrians.”
Raoden didn’t seem to think her dismissal was justified. “Something’s wrong, Sarene. Why did my illusion drop?”
“You didn’t do that?”
Raoden shook his head. “I … I think that priest did it.”
“What?”
“I sensed the Dor the moment before my Aon fell, and it was coming from that priest.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Can I borrow Ashe?”
“Of course,” Sarene said, waving the Seon closer.
“Ashe, would you deliver a message for me?” Raoden asked.
“Of course, my lord,” the Seon said with a bob.
“Find Galladon in New Elantris and tell him what just happened,” Raoden said. “Then warn him to be ready for something.”
“For what,