Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [75]
Eventually, the arteth fell silent. The room remained completely quiet for a long moment after Dilaf’s speech. Then they burst into discussion, excited, speaking as they began to trail from the chapel. Dilaf stumbled off the podium and collapsed onto one of the pews near the front of the room.
“That was well done,” a voice noted from beside Hrathen. Duke Telrii watched the sermons from a private booth at the side of the chapel. “Having the short man speak after yourself was a wonderful move, Hrathen. I was worried when I saw people growing bored. The young priest refocused everyone’s attention.”
Hrathen hid his annoyance at Telrii’s use of his name rather than his title; there would be time to change such disrespect at a later date. He also restrained himself from making a comment about the audience’s supposed boredom during his sermon.
“Dilaf is a rare young man,” Hrathen said instead. “There are two sides to every argument, Lord Telrii: the logical and the passionate. We have to make our attack from both directions if we are to be victorious.”
Telrii nodded.
“So, my lord, have you considered my proposal?”
Telrii hesitated for a moment, then nodded again. “It is tempting, Hrathen. Very tempting. I don’t think there is any man in Arelon who could refuse it, let alone myself.”
“Good. I will contact Fjorden. We should be able to begin within the week.”
Telrii nodded, the birthmark on his neck looking like a large bruise in the shadows. Then, gesturing to his numerous attendants, the duke made his way out the side door to the chapel, disappearing into the twilight. Hrathen watched the door shut, then walked over to Dilaf, who was still sprawled on the pew.
“That was unexpected, Arteth,” he said. “You should have spoken with me first.”
“It was not planned, my lord,” Dilaf explained. “I suddenly felt the need to speak. It was only done in your service, my hroden.”
“Of course,” Hrathen said, dissatisfied. Telrii was right: Dilaf’s addition had been valuable. As much as Hrathen wanted to reproach the arteth, he could not. He would be negligent in his service to Wyrn if he didn’t use every tool at his command to convert the people of Arelon, and Dilaf had proven himself a very useful tool. Hrathen would need the arteth to speak at later meetings. Once again, Dilaf had left him without many choices.
“Well, it is done,” Hrathen said with calculated dismissiveness. “And they appear to have liked it. Perhaps I will have you speak again sometime. However, you must remember your place, Arteth. You are my odiv; you do not act unless I specifically tell you. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, my lord Hrathen.”
Hrathen quietly shut the door to his personal chambers. Dilaf was not there; Hrathen would never let him see what was about to take place. In this Hrathen could still feel superior to the young Arelish priest. Dilaf would never rise to the highest ranks of the priesthood, for he could never do what Hrathen was about to do—something known only to the gyorns and Wyrn.
Hrathen sat in his chair quietly, preparing himself. Only after a half hour of meditation did he feel controlled enough to act. Taking a measured breath, Hrathen rose from his seat and moved to the large trunk in the corner of his room. It was topped with a stack of folded tapestries, carefully draped to obscure. Hrathen moved the tapestries reverently, then reached beneath his shirt to pull forth the gold chain that encircled his neck. At the end of the chain was a small key. With this he opened the trunk, revealing the contents—a small metal box.