Desperate, Raoden tossed the sacrificial basket over his head. The awkward motion threw him off balance, and an unseen schism in the cobblestones sent him into a maladroit skip that didn’t end until he collided with a rotting mass of wood. The wood—which might once have been a pile of crates—squished, breaking his fall.
Raoden sat up quickly, the motion tossing shreds of wood pulp across the damp alleyway. His assailants, however, were no longer concerned with him. The five men crouched in the street’s muck, picking scattered vegetables and grain off the cobblestones and out of the dark pools. Raoden felt his stomach churn as one of the men slid his finger down a crack, scraped up a dark handful that was more sludge than corn, then rammed the entire mass between eager lips. Brackish spittle dribbled down the man’s chin, dropping from a mouth that resembled a mud-filled pot boiling on the stove.
One man saw Raoden watching. The creature growled, reaching down to grab the almost-forgotten cudgel at his side. Raoden searched frantically for a weapon, finding a length of wood that was slightly less rotten than the rest. He held the weapon in uncertain hands, trying to project an air of danger.
The thug paused. A second later, a cry of joy from behind drew his attention: one of the others had located the tiny skin of wine. The struggle that ensued apparently drove all thoughts of Raoden from the men’s minds, and the five were soon gone—four chasing after the one who had been fortunate, or foolish, enough to escape with the precious liquor.
Raoden sat in the debris, overwhelmed. This is what you will become….
“Looks like they forgot about you, sule,” a voice observed.
Raoden jumped, looking toward the sound of the voice. A man, his smooth bald head reflecting the morning light, reclined lazily on a set of steps a short distance away. He was definitely an Elantrian, but before the transformation he must have been of a different race—not from Arelon, like Raoden. The man’s skin bore the telltale black splotches of the Shaod, but the unaffected patches weren’t pale, they were a deep brown instead.
Raoden tensed against possible danger, but this man showed no signs of the primal wildness or the decrepit weakness Raoden had seen in the others. Tall and firm-framed, the man had wide hands and keen eyes set in a dark-skinned face. He studied Raoden with a thoughtful attitude.
Raoden breathed a sigh of relief. “Whoever you are, I’m glad to see you. I was beginning to think everyone in here was either dying or insane.”
“We can’t be dying,” the man responded with a snort. “We’re already dead. Kolo?”
“Kolo.” The foreign word was vaguely familiar, as was the man’s strong accent. “You’re not from Arelon?”
The man shook his head. “I’m Galladon, from the sovereign realm of Duladel. I’m most recently from Elantris, land of sludge, insanity, and eternal perdition. Nice to meet you.”
“Duladel?” Raoden said. “But the Shaod only affects people from Arelon.” He picked himself up, brushing away pieces of wood in various stages of decomposition, grimacing at the pain in his stubbed toe. He was covered with slime, and the raw stench of Elantris now rose from him as well.
“Duladel is of mixed blood, sule. Arelish, Fjordell, Teoish—you’ll find them all. I—”
Raoden cursed quietly, interrupting the man.
Galladon raised an eyebrow. “What is it, sule? Get a splinter in the wrong place? There aren’t many right places for that, I suppose.”
“It’s my toe!” Raoden said, limping across the slippery cobblestones. “There’s something wrong with it—I stubbed it when I fell, but the pain isn’t going away.”
Galladon shook his head ruefully. “Welcome to Elantris, sule. You’re dead—your body won’t repair itself like it should.”
“What?” Raoden flopped to the ground next to Galladon’s steps. His toe continued to hurt with a pain as sharp as the moment he stubbed it.
“Every pain, sule,” Galladon whispered. “Every cut, every nick, every bruise, and every ache—they will stay with you until you go mad from the suffering. As I said, welcome to Elantris.”
“How do you stand it?” Raoden asked, massaging his toe, an action that didn’t help. It was such a silly little injury, but he had to fight to keep the pained tears from his eyes.
“We don’t. We’re either very careful, or we end up like those rulos you saw in the courtyard.”
“In the courtyard…. Idos Domi!” Raoden pulled himself to his feet and hobbled toward the courtyard. He found the beggar boy in the same location, near the mouth of the alley. He was still alive … in a way.
The boy’s eyes stared blankly into the air, the pupils quivering. His lips worked silently, no sound escaping. The boy’s neck had been completely crushed, and there was a massive gash in its side, exposing the vertebrae and throat. The boy tried without success to breathe through the mess.
Suddenly Raoden’s toe didn’t seem so bad. “Idos Domi …” Raoden whispered, turning his head as his stomach lurched. He reached out and grabbed the side of a building to steady himself, his head bowed, as he tried to keep from adding to the sludge on the cobblestones.
“There isn’t much left for this one,” Galladon said with a matter-of-fact tone, crouching down next to the beggar.
“How …?” Raoden began, then stopped as his stomach threatened him again. He sat down in the slime with a plop and, after a few deep breaths, continued. “How long will he live like that?”
“You still don’t understand, sule,” Galladon said, his accented voice sorrowful. “He isn’t alive—none of us are. That’s why we’re here. Kolo? The boy will stay like this forever. That is, after all, the typical length of eternal damnation.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
Galladon shrugged. “We could try burning him, assuming we could make a fire. Elantrian bodies seem to burn better than those of regular people, and some think that’s a fitting death for our kind.”
“And …” Raoden said, still unable to look at the boy. “And if we do that, what happens to him—his soul?”
“He doesn’t have a soul,” Galladon said. “Or so the priests tell us. Korathi, Derethi, Jesker—they all say the same thing. We’re damned.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Will the pain stop if he is burned?”
Galladon looked down at the boy. Eventually, he just shrugged. “Some say that if you burn us, or cut off our head, or do anything that completely destroys the body, we’ll just stop existing. Others, they say the pain goes on—that we become pain. They think we’d float thoughtlessly, unable to feel anything but agony. I don’t like either option, so I just try to keep myself in one piece. Kolo?”
“Yes,” Raoden whispered. “I kolo.” He turned, finally getting the courage to look back at the wounded boy. The enormous gash stared back at him. Blood seeped slowly from the wound—as if the liquid were just sitting in the veins, like stagnant water in a pool.
With a sudden chill Raoden reached up and felt his chest. “I don’t have a heartbeat,” he realized for the first time.
Galladon looked at Raoden as if he had made an utterly idiotic statement. “Sule, you’re dead. Kolo?”
_______
They didn’t burn the boy. Not only did they lack the proper implements to make fire, but Galladon forbade it. “We can’t make a decision like that. What if he really has no soul? What if he stopped existing when we burned his body? To many, an existence of agony is better than no existence at all.”
So, they left the boy where he had fallen—Galladon doing so without a second thought, Raoden following because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, though he felt the pain of guilt more sharply than even the pain in his toe.
Galladon obviously didn’t care whether Raoden followed him, went in another direction, or stood staring at an interesting spot of grime on the wall. The large, dark-skinned man walked back the way they had come, passing the occasional moaning body in a gutter, his back turned toward Raoden with a posture of complete indi
fference.
Watching the Dula go, Raoden tried to gather his thoughts. He had been trained for a life in politics; years of preparation had conditioned him to make quick decisions. He made one just then. He decided to trust Galladon.
There was something innately likable about the Dula, something Raoden found indefinably appealing, even if it was covered by a grime of pessimism as thick as the slime on the ground. It was more than Galladon’s lucidity, more than just his leisurely attitude. Raoden had seen the man’s eyes when he regarded the suffering child. Galladon claimed to accept the inevitable, but he felt sad that he had to do so.
The Dula found his former perch on the steps and settled back down. Taking a determined breath, Raoden walked over and stood expectantly in front of the man.
Galladon glanced up. “What?”
“I need your help, Galladon,” Raoden said, squatting on the ground in front of the steps.
Galladon snorted. “This is Elantris, sule. There’s no such thing as help. Pain, insanity, and a whole lot of slime are the only things you’ll find here.”
“You almost sound like you believe that.”
“You are asking in the wrong place, sule.”
“You’re the only noncomatose person I’ve met in here who hasn’t attacked me,” Raoden said. “Your actions speak much more convincingly than your words.”
“Perhaps I simply haven’t tried to hurt you because I know you don’t have anything to take.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Galladon shrugged an “I don’t care what you believe” shrug and turned away, leaning back against the side of the building and closing his eyes.
“Are you hungry, Galladon?” Raoden asked quietly.
The man’s eyes snapped open.
“I used to wonder when King Iadon fed the Elantrians,” Raoden mused. “I never heard of any supplies entering the city, but I always assumed that they were sent. After all, I thought, the Elantrians stay alive. I never understood. If the people of this city can exist without heartbeats, then they can probably exist without food. Of course, that doesn’t mean the hunger goes away. I was ravenous when I awoke this morning, and I still am. From the looks in the eyes of those men who attacked me, I’d guess the hunger only gets worse.”
Raoden reached under his grime-stained sacrificial robe, pulling out a thin object and holding it up for Galladon to see. A piece of dried meat. Galladon’s eyes opened all the way, his face changing from bored to interested. There was a glint in his eyes—a bit of the same wildness that Raoden had seen in the savage men earlier. It was more controlled, but it was there. For the first time, Raoden realized just how much he was gambling on his first impression of the Dula.
“Where did that come from?” Galladon asked slowly.
“It fell out of my basket when the priests were leading me here, so I stuffed it under my sash. Do you want it or not?”
Galladon didn’t answer for a moment. “What makes you think I won’t simply attack you and take it?” The words were not hypothetical; Raoden could tell that a part of Galladon was actually considering such an action. How large a part was still indeterminable.
“You called me ‘sule,’ Galladon. How could you kill one you’ve dubbed a friend?”
Galladon sat, transfixed by the tiny piece of meat. A thin drop of spittle ran unnoticed from the side of his mouth. He looked up at Raoden, who was growing increasingly anxious. When their eyes met, something sparked in Galladon, and the tension snapped. The Dula suddenly bellowed a deep, resounding laugh. “You speak Duladen, sule?”
“Only a few words,” Raoden said modestly.
“An educated man? Rich offerings for Elantris today! All right, you conniving rulo, what do you want?”
“Thirty days,” Raoden said. “For thirty days you will show me around and tell me what you know.”
“Thirty days? Sule, you’re kayana.”
“The way I see it,” Raoden said, moving to tuck the meat back in his sash, “the only food that ever enters this place arrives with the newcomers. One must get pretty hungry with so few offerings and so many mouths to feed. One would think the hunger would be almost maddening.”
“Twenty days,” Galladon said, a hint of his former intensity showing again.
“Thirty, Galladon. If you won’t help me, someone else will.”
Galladon ground his teeth for a moment. “Rulo,” he muttered, then held out his hand. “Thirty days. Fortunately, I wasn’t planning any extended trips during the next month.”
Raoden tossed him the meat with a laugh.
Galladon snatched the meat. Then, though his hand jerked reflexively toward his mouth, he stopped. With a careful motion he tucked the meat into a pocket and stood up. “So, what should I call you?”
Raoden paused. Probably best if people don’t know I’m royalty, for now. “‘Sule’ works just fine for me.”
Galladon chuckled. “The private type, I see. Well, let’s go then. It’s time for you to get the grand tour.”
CHAPTER 2
Sarene stepped off of the ship to discover that she was a widow. It was shocking news, of course, but not as devastating as it could have been. After all, she had never met her husband. In fact, when Sarene had left her homeland, she and Raoden had only been engaged. She had assumed that the kingdom of Arelon would wait to hold the wedding until she actually arrived. Where she came from, at least, it was expected that both partners would be present when they were married.
“I never liked that clause in the wedding contract, my lady,” said Sarene’s companion—a melon-sized ball of light hovering at her side.
Sarene tapped her foot in annoyance as she watched the packmen load her luggage onto a carriage. The wedding contract had been a fifty-page beast of a document, and one of its many stipulations made her betrothal legally binding if either she or her fiancé died before the actual wedding ceremony.
“It’s a fairly common clause, Ashe,” she said. “That way, the treaty of a political marriage isn’t voided if something happens to one of the participants. I’ve never seen it invoked.”
“Until today,” the ball of light replied, its voice deep and its words well enunciated.
“Until today,” Sarene admitted. “How was I to know Prince Raoden wouldn’t last the five days it took us to cross the Sea of Fjorden?” She paused, frowning in thought. “Quote the clause to me, Ashe. I need to know exactly what it says.”
“‘If it happens that one member of the aforementioned couple is called home to Merciful Domi before the prearranged wedding time,’” Ashe said, “‘then the engagement will be considered equivalent to marriage in all legal and social respects.’”
“Not much room for argument, is there?”
“Afraid not, my lady.”
Sarene frowned distractedly, folding her arms and tapping her cheek with her index finger, watching the packmen. A tall, gaunt man directed the work with bored eyes and a resigned expression. The man, an Arelish court attendant named Ketol, was the only reception King Iadon had seen fit to send her. Ketol had been the one to “regretfully inform her” that her fiancé had “died of an unexpected disease” during her journey. He had made the declaration with the same dull, uninterested tone that he used to command the packmen.
“So,” Sarene clarified, “as far as the law is concerned, I’m now a princess of Arelon.”
“That is correct, my lady.”
“And the widowed bride of a man I never met.”
“Again, correct.”
Sarene shook her head. “Father is going to laugh himself sick when he hears about this. I’ll never live it down.”
Ashe pulsed slightly in annoyance. “My lady, the king would never take such a solemn event with levity. The death of Prince Raoden has undoubtedly brought great grief to the sovereign family of Arelon.”
“Yes. So much grief, in fact, that they couldn’t even spare the effort it would take to come meet their new daughter.”
“Perhaps
King Iadon would have come himself if he’d had more warning of our arrival….”
Sarene frowned, but the Seon had a point. Her early arrival, several days ahead of the main wedding party, had been intended as a prewedding surprise for Prince Raoden. She’d wanted a few days, at least, to spend time with him privately and in person. Her secrecy, however, had worked against her.
“Tell me, Ashe,” she said. “How long do Arelish people customarily wait between a person’s death and their burial?”
“I’m not sure, my lady,” Ashe confessed. “I left Arelon long ago, and I lived here for such a short time that I can’t remember many specifics. However, my studies tell me that Arelish customs are generally similar to those of your homeland.”
Sarene nodded, then waved over King Iadon’s attendant.
“Yes, my lady?” Ketol asked in a lazy tone.
“Is a funeral wake being held for the prince?” Sarene asked.
“Yes, my lady,” the attendant replied. “Outside the Korathi chapel. The burial will happen this evening.”
“I want to go see the casket.”
Ketol paused. “Uh … His Majesty asked that you be brought to him immediately….”
“Then I won’t spend long at the funeral tent,” Sarene said, walking toward her carriage.
Sarene surveyed the busy funeral tent with a critical eye, waiting as Ketol and a few of the packmen cleared a way for her to approach the casket. She had to admit, everything was irreproachable—the flowers, the offerings, the praying Korathi priests. The only oddity about the event was how crowded the tent was.
“There certainly are a lot of people here,” she noted to Ashe.
“The prince was very well liked, my lady,” the Seon replied, floating beside her. “According to our reports, he was the most popular public figure in the country.”
Sarene nodded, walking down the passageway Ketol had made for her. Prince Raoden’s casket sat at the very center of the tent, guarded by a ring of soldiers who let the masses approach only so far. As she walked, she sensed true grief in the faces of those in attendance.
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