Elantris

by Brandon Sanderson

  “There isn’t enough room for a decent crop,” Galladon argued. “It will be little more than a garden.”

  “There’s enough space to plant this little amount. Next year we’ll have more corn, and then we can worry about room. I hear the palace gardens were rather large—we could probably use those.”

  Galladon shook his head. “The problem in that statement, sule, is the part about ‘next year.’ There won’t be a ‘next year.’ Kolo? People in Elantris don’t last that long.”

  “Elantris will change,” Raoden said. “If not, then those who come here after us will plant the next season.”

  “I still doubt it will work.”

  “You’d doubt the sun’s rising if you weren’t proven wrong each day,” Raoden said with a smile. “Just give it a try.”

  “All right, sule,” Galladon said with a sigh. “I suppose your thirty days aren’t up yet.”

  Raoden smiled, passing the corn to his friend and placing his hand on the Dula’s shoulder. “Remember, the past need not become our future as well.”

  Galladon nodded, putting the corn back in its hiding place. “We won’t need this for another few days—I’m going to have to figure out a way to plow that garden.”

  “Lord Spirit!” Saolin’s voice called faintly from above, where he had constructed himself a makeshift watchtower. “Someone is coming.”

  Raoden stood, and Galladon hurriedly replaced the stone. A moment later one of Karata’s men burst into the room.

  “My lord,” the man said, “Lady Karata begs your presence immediately!”

  “You are a fool, Dashe!” Karata snapped.

  Dashe—the extremely large, well-muscled man who was her second-in-command—simply continued to strap on his weapons.

  Raoden and Galladon stood confused at the doorway to the palace. At least ten of the men in the entryway—a full two-thirds of Karata’s followers—looked as if they were preparing for battle.

  “You can continue to dream with your new friend, Karata,” Dashe replied gruffly, “but I will wait no longer—especially not as long as that man threatens the children.”

  Raoden edged closer to the conversation, pausing beside a thin-limbed, anxious man named Horen. Horen was the type who avoided conflict, and Raoden guessed that he was neutral in this argument.

  “What’s happening?” Raoden asked quietly.

  “One of Dashe’s scouts overheard Aanden planning to attack our palace tonight,” Horen whispered, carefully watching his leaders argue. “Dashe has wanted to strike at Aanden for months now, and this is just the excuse he needed.”

  “You’re leading these men into something far worse than death, Dashe,” Karata warned. “Aanden has more people than you do.”

  “He doesn’t have weapons,” Dashe replied, sliding a rusted sword into its sheath with a click. “All that university held was books, and he already ate those.”

  “Think about what you are doing,” Karata said.

  Dashe turned, his boardlike face completely frank. “I have, Karata. Aanden is a madman; we cannot rest while he shares our border. If we strike unexpectedly, then we can stop him permanently. Only then will the children be safe.”

  With that, Dashe turned to his grim band of would-be soldiers and nodded. The group moved out the door with purposeful strides.

  Karata turned to Raoden, her face a mixture of frustration and pained betrayal. “This is worse than suicide, Spirit.”

  “I know,” Raoden said. “We’re so few we can’t afford to lose a single man—not even those who follow Aanden. We have to stop this.”

  “He’s already gone,” Karata said, leaning back against the wall. “I know Dashe well. There’s no stopping him now.”

  “I refuse to accept that, Karata.”

  “Sule, if you don’t mind my asking, what in Doloken are you planning?”

  Raoden loped along beside Galladon and Karata, barely keeping up with the two. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I’m still working on that part.”

  “I figured as much,” Galladon muttered.

  “Karata,” Raoden asked, “what route will Dashe take?”

  “There’s a building that runs up against the university,” she replied. “Its far wall collapsed a while ago, and some of the stones knocked a hole in the university wall it abuts. I’m sure Dashe will try to get in there—he assumes Aanden doesn’t know about the breach.”

  “Take us there,” Raoden said. “But take a different route. I don’t want to run into Dashe.”

  Karata nodded, leading them down a side street. The building she’d mentioned was a low, single-story structure. One of the walls had been built so close to the university that Raoden was at a loss to guess what the architect had been thinking. The building had not fared well over the years; although it still had its roof—which was sagging horribly—the entire structure seemed on the edge of collapse.

  They approached apprehensively, poking their heads through a doorway. The building was open on the inside. They stood near the center of the rectangular structure, the collapsed wall a short distance to their left, another doorway a short distance to their right.

  Galladon cursed quietly. “I don’t trust this.”

  “Neither do I,” Raoden said.

  “No, it’s more than that. Look, sule.” Galladon pointed to the building’s inner support beams. Looking closely, Raoden recognized the marks of fresh cuts in the already weakened wood. “This entire place is rigged to fall.”

  Raoden nodded. “It appears as if Aanden is better informed than Dashe assumed. Maybe Dashe will notice the danger and use a different entrance.”

  Karata shook her head immediately. “Dashe is a good man, but very single-minded. He’ll march right through this building without bothering to look up.”

  Raoden cursed, kneeling beside the doorframe to think. He soon ran out of time, however, as he heard voices approaching. A moment later Dashe appeared in the doorway on the far side, to Raoden’s right.

  Raoden—halfway between Dashe and the fallen wall—took a deep breath and called out. “Dashe, stop! This is a trap—the building is rigged to collapse!”

  Dashe halted, half of his men already in the building. There was a cry of alarm from the university side of the room, and a group of men appeared behind the rubble. One, bearing Aanden’s familiar mustached face, held a worn fire axe in his hands. Aanden jumped into the room with a cry of defiance, axe raised toward the support pillar.

  “Taan, stop!” Raoden yelled.

  Aanden stopped his axe in midswing, shocked at the sound of his real name. One half of his fake mustache drooped limply, threatening to fall off.

  “Don’t try to reason with him!” Dashe warned, pulling his men from the room. “He’s insane.”

  “No, I don’t think he is,” Raoden said, studying Aanden’s eyes. “This man is not insane—just confused.”

  Aanden blinked a few times, his hands growing tense on the axe handle. Raoden searched desperately for a solution, and his eyes fell on the remnants of a large stone table near the center of the room. Gritting his teeth and muttering a silent prayer to Domi, Raoden stood and walked into the building.

  Karata gasped behind him, and Galladon cursed. The roof moaned ominously.

  Raoden looked at Aanden, who stood with the axe prepared to swing. His eyes followed Raoden into the center of the room.

  “I’m right, am I not? You aren’t mad. I heard you babbling insanely at your court, but anyone can babble. An insane man doesn’t think to boil parchment for food, and a madman doesn’t have the foresight to plan a trap.”

  “I am not Taan,” Aanden finally said. “I am Aanden, Baron of Elantris!”

  “If you wish,” Raoden said, taking the remnants of his sleeve and wiping it against the top of the fallen table. “Though I can’t imagine why you would rather be Aanden than Taan. This is, after all, Elantris.”

  “I know that!” Aanden snapped. No matter what Raoden had said, this man wasn
’t completely stable. The axe could fall at any moment.

  “Do you?” Raoden asked. “Do you really understand what it means to live in Elantris, the city of the gods?” He turned toward the table, still wiping, his back to Aanden. “Elantris, city of beauty, city of art … and city of sculpture.” He stepped back, revealing the now clean tabletop. It was covered with intricate carvings, just like the walls of the chapel.

  Aanden’s eyes opened wide, the axe drooping in his hand.

  “This city is a stonecarver’s dream, Taan,” Raoden said. “How many artists did you hear on the outside complain about the lost beauty of Elantris? These buildings are amazing monuments to the art of sculpture. I want to know who, when faced with such opportunity, would choose to be Aanden the baron instead of Taan the sculptor.”

  The axe clanged to the ground. Aanden’s face was stunned.

  “Look at the wall next to you, Taan,” Raoden said quietly.

  The man turned, his fingers brushing against a relief hidden in slime. His sleeve came up, his arm quivering as he buffed away the slime. “Merciful Domi,” he whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Think of the opportunity, Taan,” Raoden said. “Only you, out of all the sculptors in the world, can see Elantris. Only you can experience its beauty and learn from its masters. You are the luckiest man in Opelon.”

  A trembling hand ripped the mustache away. “And I would have destroyed it,” he mumbled. “I would have knocked it down….”

  With that, Aanden bowed his head and collapsed in a crying heap. Raoden exhaled thankfully—then noticed that the danger wasn’t over. Aanden’s squad of men was armed with stones and steel rods. Dashe and his people entered the room again, convinced that it wasn’t going to collapse on them any time soon.

  Raoden stood directly between the two groups. “Stop!” he commanded, raising an arm at each one. They halted, but warily.

  “What are you people doing?” Raoden demanded. “Hasn’t Taan’s realization taught you anything?”

  “Step aside, Spirit,” Dashe warned, hefting his sword.

  “I will not!” Raoden said. “I asked you a question—did you learn nothing from what just happened?”

  “We aren’t sculptors,” Dashe said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Raoden replied. “Don’t you understand the opportunity you have living in Elantris? We have a chance here that no one outside can ever achieve—we are free.”

  “Free?” scoffed someone from Aanden’s group.

  “Yes, free,” Raoden said. “For eternity man has struggled just to fill his mouth. Food is life’s one desperate pursuit, the first and the last thought of carnal minds. Before a person can dream, he must eat, and before he can love, he must fill his stomach. But we are different. At the price of a little hunger, we can be loosed from the bonds that have held every living thing since time began.”

  Weapons lowered slightly, though Raoden couldn’t be certain if they were considering his words, or just confused by them.

  “Why fight?” Raoden asked. “Why worry about killing? Outside they fight for wealth—wealth that is ultimately used to buy food. They fight for land—land to raise food. Eating is the source of all struggle. But, we have no needs. Our bodies are cold—we barely need clothing or shelter to warm us—and they continue on even when we don’t eat. It’s amazing!”

  The groups still eyed each other warily. Philosophic debate wasn’t a match for the sight of their enemies.

  “Those weapons in your hands,” Raoden said. “Those belong to the outside world. They have no purpose in Elantris. Titles and class, those are ideas for another place.

  “Listen to me! There are so few of us that we can’t afford to lose a single one of you. Is it really worth it? An eternity of pain in exchange for a few moments of released hatred?”

  Raoden’s words echoed through the silent room. Finally, a voice broke the tension.

  “I will join you,” Taan said, rising to his feet. His voice wavered slightly, but his face was resolute. “I thought I had to be mad to live in Elantris, but madness was what kept me from seeing the beauty. Put down your weapons, men.”

  They balked at the order.

  “I said put them down.” Taan’s voice grew firm, his short, large-bellied form suddenly commanding. “I still lead here.”

  “Baron Aanden ruled us,” one of the men said.

  “Aanden was a fool,” Taan said with a sigh, “and so was anyone who followed him. Listen to this man—there is more royalty in his argument than there ever was in my pretend court.”

  “Give up your anger,” Raoden pled. “And let me give you hope instead.”

  A clank sounded behind him—Dashe’s sword falling to the stones. “I cannot kill today,” he decided, turning to leave. His men regarded Aanden’s group for a moment, then joined their leader. The sword sat abandoned in the center of the room.

  Aanden—Taan—smiled at Raoden. “Whoever you are, thank you.”

  “Come with me, Taan,” Raoden said. “There is a building you should see.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Sarene strode into the palace dance hall, a long black bag on her shoulder. There were several gasps from the women inside.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s your clothing, dear,” Daora finally answered. “These women aren’t accustomed to such things.”

  “It looks like men’s clothing!” Seaden exclaimed, her double chin jiggling indignantly.

  Sarene looked down at her gray jumpsuit with surprise, then back at the collected women. “Well, you didn’t really expect us to fight in dresses, did you?” However, after studying the women’s faces, she realized that that was exactly what they had expected.

  “You have a long way to go here, Cousin,” Lukel warned quietly, entering behind her and taking a seat on the far side of the room.

  “Lukel?” Sarene asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I fully expect this to be the most entertaining experience of the week,” he said, reclining in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the gold in Wyrn’s coffers.”

  “Me too,” Kaise’s voice declared. The small girl pushed her way past Sarene and scuttled toward the chairs. Daorn, however, darted in from the side and hopped into Kaise’s chosen seat. Kaise stamped her foot with pique, then, realizing that every chair along the wall was exactly the same, chose another.

  “I’m sorry,” Lukel said with an embarrassed shrug. “I was stuck with them.”

  “Be nice to your siblings, dear,” Daora chided.

  “Yes, Mother,” Lukel responded immediately.

  Slightly put off by the sudden audience, Sarene turned to her prospective students. Every woman from the embroidery circle had come—even the stately Daora and the equally scatterbrained Queen Eshen. Sarene’s clothing and actions might have mortified them, but their hunger for independence was greater than their indignation.

  Sarene allowed the bag to slide off her shoulder and into her hands. One side opened with some snaps, and she reached inside to whip out one of her practice swords. The long, thin blade made a slight metallic scrape as she pulled it free, and the collected women shied away.

  “This is a syre,” Sarene said, making a few slices in the air. “It’s also called a kmeer or a jedaver, depending on which country you’re in. The swords were first crafted in Jaador as light weapons for scouts, but they fell into disuse after only a few decades. Then, however, the swords were adopted by Jaadorian nobility, who favored them for their grace and delicacy. Duels are common in Jaador, and the quick, neat style of syre fencing requires a great deal of skill.”

  She punctuated her sentences with a few thrusts and swipes—mostly moves she would never use in a real fight, but ones that looked good nonetheless. The women were captivated.

  “The Dulas were the first ones to turn fencing into a sport, rather than a means of killing the man who had decided to woo the same woman as yourself,” Sarene co
ntinued. “They placed this little knob on the tip and dulled the blade’s edge. The sport soon became quite popular amongst the republicans—Dula neutrality usually kept the country out of war, and so a form of fighting that didn’t have martial applications appealed to them. Along with the dulled edge and tip, they added rules that forbid the striking of certain body parts.

  “Fencing skipped Arelon, where the Elantrians frowned upon anything resembling combat, but was very well received in Teod—with one notable change. It became a woman’s sport. The Teoish men prefer more physical contests, such as jousting or broadsword fencing. For a woman, however, the syre is perfect. The light blade allows us to make full use of our dexterity and,” she added, eyeing Lukel with a smile, “allows us to capitalize on our superior intelligence.”

  With that, Sarene whipped out her second blade and tossed it to the young Torena, who stood at the front of the group. The reddish-gold-haired girl caught the sword with a confused look.

  “Defend yourself,” Sarene warned, raising her blade and falling into an attack stance.

  Torena brought up the syre clumsily, trying to imitate Sarene’s posture. As soon as Sarene attacked, Torena abandoned the stance with a yelp of surprise, swinging her syre in wild two-handed sweeps. Sarene easily batted the girl’s sword away and placed a thrust directly between her breasts.

  “You’re dead,” Sarene informed her. “Fencing does not depend on strength; it requires skill and precision. Only use one hand—you’ll have better control and reach that way. Turn your body a little to the side. It allows for a greater lunging distance and makes you more difficult to hit.”

  As she spoke, Sarene brought out a bundle of thin sticks she’d had made earlier. They were, of course, poor substitutes for a real sword, but they would do until the armorer finished the practice syres. After each woman received a weapon, Sarene began to teach them how to lunge.

  It was difficult work—much more difficult than Sarene had expected. She considered herself a decent fencer, but it had never occurred to her that having knowledge was entirely different from explaining that knowledge to others. The women seemed to find ways to hold their weapons that Sarene would have thought physically impossible. They thrust wildly, were frightened of oncoming blades, and tripped over their dresses.