Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [98]
I can’t afford to let this opportunity pass, Hrathen thought. If only he had more time. Fewer than eighty days remained of his three-month deadline. If he had been given even a year, he could have worked with more delicacy and precision. Unfortunately, he had no such luxury, and a blunt attack using Telrii was his best bet for a smooth change in leadership.
“Why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?” Hrathen said.
“Yes, well,” Telrii said carefully. “I’m just not sure that I want to work with Fjorden.”
Hrathen raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have that uncertainty before.”
Telrii eyed Hrathen from beneath his hood. In the dark moonlight, it looked like his birthmark was simply a continuation of the shadows, and it gave his features an ominous cast—or, at least, it would have, had his extravagant costume not ruined the effect.
Telrii simply frowned. “I heard some interesting things at the party tonight, Gyorn. Are you really the one who was assigned to Duladel before its collapse?”
Ah, so that’s it, Hrathen thought. “I was there.”
“And now you’re here,” Telrii said. “You wonder why a nobleman is made uncomfortable by that news? The entire Republican class—the rulers of Duladel—were slaughtered in that revolution! And my sources claim that you had a great deal to do with that.”
Perhaps the man wasn’t as foolish as Hrathen thought. Telrii’s concern was a valid one; Hrathen would have to speak with delicacy. He nodded toward Telrii’s guards, who stood a short distance down the wall walk. “Where did you get those soldiers, my lord?”
Telrii paused. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me,” Hrathen said.
Telrii turned, glancing at the soldiers. “I recruited them away from the Elantris City Guard. I hired them to be my bodyguards.”
Hrathen nodded. “And, how many such guards do you employ?”
“Fifteen,” Telrii said.
“How would you judge their skill?”
Telrii shrugged. “Good enough, I suppose. I’ve never actually seen them fight.”
“That’s probably because they never have fought,” Hrathen said. “None of the soldiers here in Arelon have ever seen combat.”
“What is your point, Gyorn?” Telrii asked testily.
Hrathen turned, nodding toward the Elantris City Guard post, lit in the distance by torches at the base of the wall. “The Guard is what, five hundred strong? Perhaps seven hundred? If you include local policing forces and personal guards, such as your own, there are perhaps a thousand soldiers in the city of Kae. Added to Lord Eondel’s legion, you still have well below fifteen hundred professional soldiers in the vicinity.”
“And?” Telrii asked.
Hrathen turned. “Do you really think that Wyrn needs a revolution to take control of Arelon?”
“Wyrn doesn’t have an army,” Telrii said. “Fjorden only has a basic defense force.”
“I didn’t speak of Fjorden,” Hrathen said. “I spoke of Wyrn, Regent of all Creation, leader of Shu-Dereth. Come now, Lord Telrii. Let us be frank. How many soldiers are there in Hrovell? In Jaador? In Svorden? In the other nations of the East? These are people who have sworn themselves Derethi. You don’t think they would rise up at Wyrn’s command?”
Telrii paused.
Hrathen nodded as he saw understanding growing in the duke’s eyes. The man didn’t understand the half of it. The truth was, Wyrn didn’t even need an army of foreigners to conquer Arelon. Few outside the high priesthood understood the second, more powerful force Wyrn had at his call: the monasteries. For centuries, the Derethi priesthood had been training its monks in war, assassination, and … other arts. Arelon’s defenses were so weak that a single monastery’s personnel could probably conquer the country.
Hrathen shivered at the thought of the … monks trained inside of Dakhor Monastery gaining access to defenseless Arelon. He glanced down at his arm, the place where—beneath his plate armor—he bore the marks of his time there. These were not things that could be explained to Telrii, however.
“My lord,” Hrathen said frankly, “I am here in Arelon because