Brandon Sanderson - Elantris

"We don't know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life."

Galladon snorted. "So now you have another follower-at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris's criminal element."

"And this is only the beginning," Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn't quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans.

I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don't let the pain take control.

"I'M a jeweler," the man explained. "Mareshe is my name."

"A jeweler." Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. "That won't be of much use. What else can you do?"

Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had. just a few moments ago. been cowering in fear. "Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir."

"Not in Elantris, Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn't, for he gave Raoden a withering look.

Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. "What else can you do?"

"Anything."

"That's quite broad, friend," Raoden said. "Could you be a bit more specific?"

Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. "I. am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything. for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist."

Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell.

"How about shoes?" Raoden asked.

"Shoes?" Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone.

"Yes, shoes."

"I suppose I could," Mareshe said, "though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan."

"And a full id-" Galladon began before Raoden hushed him.

"Artisan Mareshe," Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. "Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed."

"What kind of shoes?" Mareshe asked.

"Leather ones,' Raoden said. "It won't be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don't have the luxury of trial and error-if the first pair of shoes do not fit. then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave."

"What do you mean, never leave?" Mareshe asked uncomfortably.

"We are Elantrians now, Mareshe," Raoden explained. "Our wounds no longer heal.'

"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."

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 to lose his throne," Sarene said. "I suspect that is why the gyorn is here."

"A good point, my lady." Ashe noted in his deep voice. He floated in front of her painting for a moment, studying its irregular blotches and semistraight lines. "You're getting better, my lady."

"Don't patronize me."

"No, really, Your Highness. When you started painting five years ago, I could never tell what it was you were trying to depict."

"And this is a painting of.."

Ashe paused. "A bowl of fruit?" he asked hopefully.

Sarene sighed in frustration. She was usually good at everything she tried, but the secrets of painting completely eluded her. At first, she had been astounded at her lack of talent, and she had pressed on with a determination to prove herself. Artistic technique, however, had totally refused to bow beneath her royal will. She was a master of politics, an unquestionable leader, and could grasp even Jindoeese mathematics with ease. She was also a horrible painter. Not that she let it stop her-she was also undeniably stubborn.

"One of these days, Ashe, something will click, and I'll figure out how to make the images in my head appear on canvas."