can I do for you?'
'I have need of one of your elixirs, Forton.' Hrathen said.
'Of course, of course. What must it do?'
Hrathen smiled. Forton was an unparalleled genius, which was why Hrathen suffered his eccentricities. The man not only kept a Seon, but was a devout follower of the Mysteries-a degenerate form of the Jesker religion common in rural areas. Though Hrovell was officially a Derethi nation, most of it was a primitive, sparsely populated countryside which was difficult to supervise. Many of the
peasants attended their Derethi services with devotion, then took part in their midnight Mystery ceremonies with equal devotion. Forton himself was considered something of a mystic in his town. though he always put on a show of Derethi orthodoxy when he spoke with Hrathen.
Hrathen explained what he wanted, and Forton repeated it back. Though For-ton was often drugged, he was very accomplished at the mixing of potions, poisons, and elixirs. Hrathen had met no man in Sycla who could match Forton's skill. One of the eccentric man's concoctions had restored Hrathen to health after he had been poisoned by a political enemy. The slow-acting substance was said to have no antidote.
'This will be no problem, my lord,' Forton promised Hrathen in his thick dialect. Even after years of dealing with the Hroven, Hrathen had trouble understanding them. He was certain that most of them didn't even know there was a pure, correct form of their language back in Fjorden.
'Good.' Hrathen said.
'Yes, all I'll need to do is combine two formulas I already have,' Forton said. 'How much do you want?'
'At least two doses. I will pay you the standard price.'
'My true payment is the knowledge I have served Lord Jaddeth,' the man said piously.
Hrathen resisted the urge to laugh. He knew how much of a hold the Mysteries had on Hrovell's people. It was a distasteful form of worship, a syncretic combination of a dozen different faiths, with some aberrations-such as ritual sacrifice and fertility rites-added in to make it more alluring. Hrovell, however, was a task for another day. The people did what Wyrn commanded, and they were too politically insignificant to cause Fjorden distress. Of course. their souls were in serious danger: Jaddeth was not known for his leniency toward the ignorant.
Another day, Hrathen told himself. Another day.
'When will my lord be needing this potion?' the man asked.
'That is the thing. Forton. I need it immediately.'
'Where are you?'
'In Arelon.' Hrathen said.
'Ah, good,' Forton said. 'My lord has finally decided to convert those heathens.'
'Yes,' Hrathen said with a slight smile. 'We Derethi have been patient with the Arelenes long enough.'
'Well, Your Lordship couldn't have picked a place farther away,' Forton said. 'Even if I finish the potion tonight and send it in the morning, it will take at least two weeks to arrive.'
Hrathen chafed at the delay, but there was no other option. 'Then do so, For-ton. I will compensate you for working on such short notice.'
lord.'
'A true follower of Jaddeth wilI do anything to bring about His Empire, my
Well, at least he knows his Derethi doctrine, Hrathen thought with a mental shrug.
'Is there anything else, my lord?' Forton asked. coughing slightly. 'No. Get to work, and send the potions as quickly as possible.'
'Yes, my lord. I'll get started immediately. Feel free to pray to me any time you need to.'
Hrathen frowned-he had forgotten about that Iittle inaccuracy. Perhaps For-ton's mastery of Derethi doctrine wasn't all that sound after all. Forton didn't know Hrathen had a Seon; he simply assumed that a gyorn could pray to Jaddeth and that God would direct his words through the Seons. As if Lord Jaddeth were a member of the post.
'Goodnight. Forton.' Hrathen said, keeping the displeasure from his voice. Forton was a drug addict, a heretic, and a hypocrite-but he was still an invaluable resource. Hrathen had long ago decided that if Jaddeth would suffer his gyorns to communicate using Seons, then He would certainly let Hrathen use men such as Forton.
After all, Jaddeth had created all men-even the heretics.
CHAPTER 19
The city of Elantris glowed brilliantly. The very stones shone, as if each
one held a fire within. The shattered domes had been restored, their smooth, egglike surfaces blossoming across the landscape. Thin spires stabbed the air like streaks of light. The wall was no longer a barrier, for its gates were left permanently open-it existed not to protect, but for cohesion. The wall was part of the city somehow, an essential element of the whole, without which Elantris would not be complete.
And amid the beauty and the glory were the Elantrians. Their bodies seemed to shine with the same inner light as the city, their skin a luminous pale silver. Not
metallic. just… pure. Their hair was white, but not the worn-out dull gray or yellow of the aged. It was the blazing white of steel heated to an extreme temperature-a color free of impurities, a powerful, focused white.
Their bearings were equally striking. The Elantrians moved through their city with an air of complete control. The men were handsome and tall-even the short ones-and the women were undeniably beautiful-even the homely ones. They were unhurried; they strolled rather than walked, and they were quick to greet those they met. There was a power in them, however. It radiated from their eyes and underlay their motions. It was easy to understand why these beings were worshipped as gods.
Equally unmistakable were the Aons. The ancient glyphs covered the city: they were etched into walls, painted on doors, and written on signs. Most of them were inert-simple markings, rather than runes with an arcane purpose. Others, however, obviously held energy. Throughout the city stood large metal plates carved with Aon Tia, and occasionally an Elantrian would approach and place his or her hand in the center of the character. The Elantrian's body would flash, and then disappear in a circular burst of light, his body instantly transported to another section of the city.
Amid the glory was a small family of Kae townspeople. Their clothing was rich and fine, their words were educated, but their skin did not glow. There were other regular people in the city-not as many as the Elantrians, but a fair number nonetheless. This comforted the boy, giving him a familiar reference.
The father carried his young son tightly, looking around with distrust. Not everyone adored the Elantrians; some were suspicious. The boy's mother gripped her husband's arm with tense fingers. She had never been inside Elantris, though she had lived in Kae for over a decade. Unlike the boy's father, she was more nervous than distrustful. She was worried about her son's wound, anxious as any mother whose child was near death.
Suddenly, the boy felt the pain in his leg. It was blinding and intense, stemming from the festering wound and shattered bone in his thigh. He had fallen from someplace high. and his leg had snapped so soundly the shattered bone had torn through the skin to jut into the air.
His father had hired the best surgeons and doctors, but they had been unable to stop the infection. The bone had been set as well as possible. considering that it had fractured in at least a dozen places. Even without the infection, the boy would walk with a limp the rest of his days. With the infection… amputation seemed the only recourse. Secretly, the doctors feared it was too late for even that solution; the wound had occurred high on the leg, and the infection had probably spread to the torso. The father had demanded the truth. He knew his son was dying. And so he had come to Elantris, despite his lifelong distrust of its gods.
They took the boy to a domed building. He nearly forgot his pain as the door
opened on its own, sliding inward without a sound. His father stopped abruptly before the door, as if reconsidering his actions, but his mother tugged insistently on the man's arm. His father nodded. bowing his head and entering the building.
Light shone from glowing Aons on the walls. A woman approached, her white hair long and full, her silvery face smiling encouragingly. She ignored his father's distrust, her eyes sympathetic as she took the boy from hesitant arms. She laid him carefully on a soft mat, then brought her hand into the air above him, her long, thin index finger
