Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [52]
“Yes, she is impressive,” he said.
“She is accursed above all others,” Dilaf hissed. “A member of the only race hated by Lord Jaddeth.”
So that was what was bothering him. Many Fjordells assumed that there was no hope for the Teos. It was foolishness, of course—a simple justification that infused Fjorden’s historical enemies with theological hatred. Still, many people believed it—and apparently Dilaf was among them.
“Jaddeth hates no one but those who hate Him,” Hrathen said.
“They do hate Him.”
“Most of them have never even heard His name preached, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “Their king, yes; he is most likely cursed for his injunction against Derethi priests. However, the people haven’t even been given a chance. Once Arelon falls to Lord Jaddeth, then we can worry about penetrating Teod. The country won’t last long with the rest of the civilized world pitted against it.”
“It will be destroyed,” Dilaf prophesied with angry eyes. “Jaddeth will not wait while our arteths preach His name against the unyielding walls of Teoish hearts.”
“Lord Jaddeth can only come when all men are united beneath Fjordell rule, Arteth,” Hrathen said, turning away from his contemplation of Elantris and moving to enter the chapel. “That includes the ones in Teod.”
Dilaf’s response was softly spoken, but every word sounded powerfully in Hrathen’s ears. “Perhaps,” the Arelish priest whispered. “But there is another way. Lord Jaddeth will rise when every living soul is united—the Teoish will be no obstacle if we destroy them. When the final Teo heaves his last sigh, when the Elantrians have been burned from the face of Sycla, then all men will follow Wyrn. Then Jaddeth will come.”
The words were disturbing. Hrathen had come to save Arelon, not to burn it. It might be necessary to undermine the monarchy, and perhaps he would have to spill some noble blood, but the end result would be the redemption of an entire nation. To Hrathen, uniting all mankind meant converting them to Derethi, not murdering those who didn’t believe.
Except, perhaps his way was wrong. Wyrn’s patience seemed only slightly greater than Dilaf’s—the three-month time limit proved that much. Suddenly Hrathen felt an extreme sense of urgency. Wyrn meant his words: Unless Hrathen converted Arelon, the country would be destroyed.
“Great Jaddeth Below …” Hrathen whispered, invoking his deity’s name—an action he reserved for only the most sacred of times. Right or wrong, he didn’t want the blood of an entire kingdom—even a heretical one—on his hands. He must succeed.
Fortunately, his loss to the Teoish girl hadn’t been as complete as she probably assumed. When Hrathen arrived at the meeting place—a large suite in one of Kae’s finest inns—many of the nobles he had invited were waiting for him. The speech on Elantris’s wall had been only one part of his plan to convert these men.
“Greetings, Lords,” Hrathen said with a nod of his head.
“Don’t pretend everything is fine between us, priest,” said Idan, one of the younger, more vocal nobles. “You promised your words would bring power. It appears powerful confusion was the only thing they produced.”
Hrathen waved his hand dismissively. “My speech baffled one simpleminded girl. It is said the fair princess has trouble remembering which is her right hand and which is her left. I wouldn’t have expected her to understand my speech—don’t tell me that you, Lord Idan, were similarly lost.”
Idan blushed. “Of course not, my lord. It’s just that … I failed to see how conversion could grant us power.”
“The power, my lord, comes in the perception of your enemy.” Hrathen strolled through the room, the ever-present Dilaf at his side, and chose a seat. Some gyorns preferred to use a standing posture as a form of intimidation, but Hrathen found it more useful to sit. More often than not, sitting made his listeners—especially those who were standing—uncomfortable. One appeared more in control when one could captivate an audience without towering