Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [40]
“No longer heal …?”
“Would you care for an example, artisan?” Galladon asked helpfully. “I can arrange one quite easily. Kolo?”
Mareshe’s face turned pale, and he looked back at Raoden. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much,” he said quietly.
“Nonsense,” Raoden said, putting his arm around Mareshe’s shoulder and turning him away from Galladon’s grinning face. “That’s how he shows affection.”
“If you say so, Master …”
Raoden paused. “Just call me Spirit,” he decided, using the translation of Aon Rao.
“Master Spirit.” Then Mareshe’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar for some reason.”
“You’ve never seen me before in your life. Now, about those shoes …”
“They have to fit perfectly, without a bit of scraping or rubbing?” Mareshe asked.
“I know it sounds difficult. If it’s beyond your ability …”
“Nothing is beyond my ability,” Mareshe said. “I’ll do it, Master Spirit.”
“Excellent.”
“They’re not leaving,” Galladon said from behind them.
Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. “What does it matter? It’s not like we have anything pressing to do. It’s actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it.”
An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head.
“Fantastic,” Galladon grumbled. “I’m enjoying myself already.”
CHAPTER 8
Sarene decided not to accept her uncle’s offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information, and the Arelish nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date.
So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon’s throne room.
“What in the name of Domi are you doing, girl!” the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side.
Sarene looked up from her canvas with imitation surprise. “I’m painting, Father,” she said, helpfully holding up her brush—an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of defense’s face.
Iadon sighed. “I can see that you’re painting. I meant why are you doing it here?”
“Oh,” Sarene said innocently. “I’m painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so.”
“You’re painting my …?” Iadon asked with a dumbfounded expression. “But …”
Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers.
“Oh for Domi’s sake!” Iadon bellowed. “Paint if you must, girl. Just don’t do it in the middle of my throne room!”
Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint.
Iadon groaned. “I meant … Bah, Domi curse it! You’re not worth the effort.” With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of business—a squabble between two minor nobles over some possessions.
Ashe hovered down next to Sarene’s canvas, speaking to her softly. “I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady.”
Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. “Iadon has a quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he’s going to give me. He knows I’ll just misunderstand him, and he’ll just end up aggravated.”
“I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place,” Ashe noted.
“A good point,” Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. “Though, perhaps we aren’t giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him, I’m an expended resource—he has his treaty. I’m just of no further concern.”
“I’m not convinced, my lady,” Ashe noted. “He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long.”
“Which is why he’s probably going