Elantris

by Brandon Sanderson

  Sarene thought for a moment before replying, tapping her cheek as she considered his words. “A wise choice, Father. If Domi were ever going to help us, it would be now. The end of Teod means the end of Shu-Korath.”

  “For a time, perhaps,” her father said. “Truth can never be defeated, Sarene. Even if people do forget about it occasionally.”

  Sarene was in bed, the lights down. Ashe hovered on the far side of the room, his light dimmed so much that he was barely an outline of Aon Ashe against the wall.

  The conversation with her father had ended an hour ago, but its implications would likely plague her mind for months. She had never considered surrender an option, but now it looked almost inevitable. The prospect worried her. She knew that it was unlikely that Wyrn would let her father continue to rule, even if he did convert. She also knew that Eventeo would willingly give his life if it would spare his people.

  She also thought about her own life, and her mixed memories of Teod. The kingdom contained the things she loved most—her father, brother, and mother. The forests around the port city of Teoin, the capital, were another very fond memory. She remembered the way the snow settled on the landscape. One morning she had awoken to find everything outside coated in a beautiful film of ice; the trees had looked like jewels sparkling in the winter daylight.

  Yet, Teod also reminded her of pain and loneliness. It represented her exclusion from society and her humiliation before men. She had established early in life that she had a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. Both things had set her apart from the other women—not that some of them weren’t intelligent; they just had the wisdom to hide it until they were married.

  Not all men wanted a stupid wife—but there also weren’t a lot of men who felt comfortable around a woman they assumed was their intellectual superior. By the time Sarene had realized what she was doing to herself, she had found that the few men who might have accepted her were already married. Desperate, she had ferreted out the masculine opinion of her in court, and had been mortified to learn just how much they mocked her. After that, it had only grown worse—and she had only grown older. In a land where nearly every woman was at least engaged by the age of eighteen, she was an old maid by twenty-five. A very tall, gangly, argumentative old maid.

  Her self-recrimination was interrupted by a noise. It didn’t come from the hallway or window, however, but from inside her room. She sat up with a start, breath catching in her throat as she prepared to jump away. Only then did she realize it wasn’t actually coming from her room, but from the wall beside her room. She frowned in confusion. There weren’t any rooms on the other side; she was at the very edge of the palace. She had a window looking out over the city.

  The noise was not repeated, and, determined to get some sleep despite her anxieties, Sarene told herself it had simply been the building settling.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dilaf walked in the door, looking a bit distracted. Then he saw the Elantrian sitting in the chair in front of Hrathen’s desk.

  The shock nearly killed him.

  Hrathen smiled, watching as Dilaf’s breath audibly caught in his throat, his eyes grew wide as shields, and his face turned a shade not unlike the color of Hrathen’s armor. “Hruggath Ja!” Dilaf yelped in surprise, the Fjordell curse rising quickly to his lips.

  Hrathen raised his eyebrows at the expletive—not so much because it offended him, but because he was surprised that it should come so easily to Dilaf. The arteth had submerged himself in Fjorden’s culture deeply indeed.

  “Say hello to Diren, Arteth,” Hrathen said, gesturing to the black-and-gray-faced Elantrian. “And kindly refrain from using Lord Jaddeth’s name as a curse. That is one Fjordell habit I would rather you hadn’t assumed.”

  “An Elantrian!”

  “Yes,” Hrathen said. “Very good, Arteth. And no, you may not set fire to him.”

  Hrathen leaned back slightly in his seat, smiling as Dilaf glared at the Elantrian. Hrathen had summoned Dilaf to the room knowing full well the kind of reaction he would get, and he felt a little petty at the move. That, however, didn’t stop him from enjoying the moment.

  Finally, Dilaf shot Hrathen a hateful look—though he quickly masked it with one of barely controlled submissiveness. “What is he doing here, my hroden?”

  “I thought it would be good to know the face of our enemy, Arteth,” Hrathen said, rising and walking over to the frightened Elantrian. The two priests were, of course, conversing in Fjordell. There was confusion in the Elantrian’s eyes, along with a feral sort of fear.

  Hrathen squatted down beside the man, studying his demon. “Are they all bald, Dilaf?” he asked with interest.

  “Not at first,” the arteth answered sullenly. “They usually have a full head when the Korathi dogs prepare them for the city. Their skin is paler as well.”

  Hrathen reached out, feeling the man’s cheek. The skin was tough and leathery. The Elantrian watched him with frightened eyes. “These black spots—these are what distinguish an Elantrian?”

  “It is the first sign, my hroden,” Dilaf said, subdued. Either he was getting used to the Elantrian, or he had simply gotten over his initial burst of hatred and had moved on to a more patient, smoldering form of disgust. “It usually happens overnight. When the accursed one wakes up, he or she will have dark blotches all over their body. The rest of their skin turns grayish brown, like this one, over time.”

  “Like the skin of an embalmed corpse,” Hrathen noted. He had visited the university in Svorden on occasion, and knew of the bodies they kept there for study.

  “Very similar,” Dilaf agreed quietly. “The skin isn’t the only sign, my hroden. Their insides are rotten as well.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Their hearts do not beat,” Dilaf said. “And their minds do not work. There are stories from the early days ten years ago, before they were all locked away in that city. Within a few months they turn comatose, barely able to move, except to bemoan their pain.”

  “Pain?”

  “The pain of their soul being burned by Lord Jaddeth’s fire,” Dilaf explained. “It builds within them until it consumes their consciousness. It is their punishment.”

  Hrathen nodded, turning away from the Elantrian.

  “You shouldn’t have touched him, my hroden,” Dilaf said.

  “I thought you said that Lord Jaddeth would protect his faithful,” Hrathen said. “What need have I to fear?”

  “You invited evil into the chapel, my hroden.”

  Hrathen snorted. “There is nothing sacred about this building, Dilaf, as you know. No holy ground can be dedicated in a country that hasn’t allied itself with Shu-Dereth.”

  “Of course,” Dilaf said. His eyes were growing eager for some reason.

  The look in Dilaf’s eyes made Hrathen uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be best to minimize the time the arteth spent in the same room as the Elantrian.

  “I summoned you because I’m going to need you to make the preparations for the evening sermon,” Hrathen said. “I can’t do them myself—I want to spend a bit of time interrogating this Elantrian.”

  “As you command, my hroden,” Dilaf said, still eyeing the Elantrian.

  “You are dismissed, Arteth,” Hrathen said firmly.

  Dilaf growled quietly, then scuttled from the room, off to do Hrathen’s bidding.

  Hrathen turned back to the Elantrian. The creature didn’t seem “mindless,” as Dilaf had put it. The Guard captain who’d brought the Elantrian had even mentioned the creature’s name; that implied that it could speak.

  “Can you understand me, Elantrian?” Hrathen asked in Aonic.

  Diren paused, then nodded his head.

  “Interesting,” Hrathen said musingly.

  “What do you want with me?” the Elantrian asked.

  “Just to ask you some questions,” Hrathen said, stepping back to his desk and sitting down. He continued to study the creature with curiosity. Never in all of his
varied travels had he seen a disease such as this.

  “Do you … have any food?” the Elantrian asked. There was a slight edge of wildness to his eyes as he mentioned the word “food.”

  “If you answer my questions, I promise to send you back to Elantris with a full basket of bread and cheese.”

  This got the creature’s attention. He nodded vigorously.

  So hungry, Hrathen thought with curiosity. And, what was it that Dilaf said? No heartbeat? Perhaps the disease does something to the metabolism—makes the heart beat so quickly that it’s hard to detect, increases the appetite somehow?

  “What were you before you were thrown into the city, Diren?” Hrathen asked.

  “A peasant, my lord. I worked the fields of Aor Plantation.”

  “And, how long have you been an Elantrian?”

  “I was thrown in during the fall,” Diren said. “Seven months? Eight? I lose track….”

  So Dilaf’s other assertion, that Elantrians fell “comatose” within a few months, was incorrect. Hrathen sat thoughtfully, trying to decide what kind of information this creature might have that could be of use to him.

  “What is it like in Elantris?” Hrathen asked.

  “It’s … terrible, my lord,” Diren said, looking down. “There’s the gangs. If you go the wrong place, they’ll chase you, or hurt you. No one tells the newcomers about things, so if you aren’t careful, you’ll walk into the market…. That’s not good. And, there’s a new gang now—so say a few of the Elantrians I know on the streets. A fourth gang, more powerful than the others.”

  Gangs. That implied a basic level of society, at least. Hrathen frowned to himself. If the gangs were as harsh as Diren implied, then perhaps he could use them as an example of Svrakiss for his followers. However, speaking with the complacent Diren, Hrathen was beginning to think that perhaps he should continue making his condemnations from a distance. If any percentage of the Elantrians were as harmless as this man, then the people of Kae would probably be disappointed in the Elantrians as “demons.”

  As the interrogation proceeded, Hrathen realized that Diren didn’t know much more that was of use. The Elantrian couldn’t explain what the Shaod was like—it had happened to him while he was sleeping. He claimed that he was “dead,” whatever that meant, and that his wounds no longer healed. He even showed Hrathen a cut in his skin. The wound wasn’t bleeding, however, so Hrathen just suspected that the pieces of skin hadn’t sealed properly as they healed.

  Diren knew nothing of the Elantrian “magic.” He claimed that he’d seen others doing magical drawings in the air, but Diren himself didn’t know how to do likewise. He did know that he was hungry—very hungry. He reiterated this idea several times, as well as mentioning twice more that he was frightened of the gangs.

  Satisfied that he knew what he’d wanted to find out—that Elantris was a brutal place, but disappointingly human in its methods of brutality—Hrathen sent for the Guard captain who had brought Diren.

  The captain of the Elantris City Guard entered obsequiously. He wore thick gloves, and he prodded the Elantrian out of its chair with a long stick. The captain eagerly accepted a bag of coins from Hrathen, then nodded as Hrathen made him promise to purchase Diren a basket of food. As the captain forced his prisoner out of the room, Dilaf appeared at Hrathen’s door. The arteth watched his prey leave with a look of disappointment.

  “Everything ready?” Hrathen asked.

  “Yes, my hroden,” Dilaf said. “People are already beginning to arrive for the services.”

  “Good,” Hrathen said, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers thoughtfully.

  “Does something concern you, my hroden?”

  Hrathen shook his head. “I was just planning for the evening speech. I believe it is time for us to move on to the next step in our plans.”

  “The next step, my hroden?”

  Hrathen nodded. “I think we have successfully established our stance against Elantris. The masses are always quick to find devils around them, as long as you give them proper motivation.”

  “Yes, my hroden.”

  “Do not forget, Arteth,” Hrathen said, “that there is a point to our hatred.”

  “It unifies our followers—it gives them a common enemy.”

  “Correct,” Hrathen said, resting his arms on his desk. “There is another purpose, however. One just as important. Now that we have given the people someone to hate, we need to create an association between Elantris and our rivals.”

  “Shu-Korath,” Dilaf said with a sinister smile.

  “Again correct. The Korathi priests are the ones who prepare new Elantrians—they are the motivation behind the mercy this country shows its fallen gods. If we imply that Korathi tolerance makes its priests sympathizers, the people’s loathing of Elantris will shift to Shu-Korath instead. Their priests will be faced with two options: Either they accept our incrimination, or they side with us against Elantris. If they choose the former, then the people will turn against them. If they choose the latter, then it puts them under our theological control. After that, a few simple embarrassments will make them appear impotent and irrelevant.”

  “It is perfect,” Dilaf said. “But will it happen quickly enough? There is so little time.”

  Hrathen started, looking over at the still smiling arteth. How had the man known about his deadline? He couldn’t—he must be guessing.

  “It will work,” Hrathen said. “With their monarchy unstable and their religion wavering, the people will look for a new source of leadership. Shu-Dereth will be like a rock amidst shifting sands.”

  “A fine analogy, my hroden.”

  Hrathen could never tell if Dilaf mocked him with such statements or not. “I have a task for you, Arteth. I want you to make the connection in your sermon tonight—turn the people against Shu-Korath.”

  “Will my hroden not do it himself?”

  “I will speak second, and my speech will offer logic. You, however, are more passionate—and their disgust for Shu-Korath must first come from their hearts.”

  Dilaf nodded, bowing his head to show that he acceded to the command. Hrathen waved his hand, indicating the conversation was over, and the arteth backed away, closing the door behind him.

  _______

  Dilaf spoke with characteristic zeal. He stood outside the chapel, on a podium Hrathen had commissioned once the crowds became too large to fit in the building. The warm spring nights were conducive to such meetings, and the half-light of sunset, combined with torches, gave the proper mixture of visibility and shadow.

  The people watched Dilaf with rapture, even though most of what he said was repetitious. Hrathen spent hours preparing his sermons, careful to combine both duplication for reinforcement and originality to provide excitement. Dilaf just spoke. It didn’t matter if he spouted the same denunciations of Elantris and the same redundant praises to Jaddeth’s empire; the people listened anyway. After a week of hearing the arteth speak, Hrathen had learned to ignore his own envy—to an extent, at least. He replaced it with pride.

  As he listened, Hrathen congratulated himself on the arteth’s effectiveness. Dilaf did as Hrathen had ordered, beginning with his normal ravings about Elantris, then moving boldly into a full accusation of Shu-Korath. The crowd moved with him, allowing their emotions to be redirected. It was as Hrathen had planned; there was no reason for him to be jealous of Dilaf. The man’s rage was like a river Hrathen himself had diverted toward the crowd. Dilaf might have the raw talent, but Hrathen was the master behind it.

  He told himself that right up to the moment Dilaf surprised him. The sermon progressed well, Dilaf’s fury investing the crowd with a loathing of everything Korathi. But then the tide shifted as Dilaf turned his attention back to Elantris. Hrathen thought nothing of it at first—Dilaf had an incorrigible tendency to wander during his sermons.

  “And now, behold!” Dilaf suddenly commanded. “Behold the Svrakiss! Look into its eyes, and find form for your hate!
Feed the outrage of Jaddeth that burns within you all!”

  Hrathen felt himself grow cold. Dilaf gestured to the side of the stage, where a pair of torches suddenly burst into flame. Diren the Elantrian stood tied to a post, his head bowed. There were cuts on his face that had not been there before.

  “Behold the enemy!” Dilaf screamed. “Look, see! He does not bleed! No blood runs through his veins, and no heart beats in his chest. Did not the philosopher Grondkest say that you can judge the equality of all men by their common unity of blood? But what of one who has no blood? What shall we call him?”

  “Demon!” a member of the crowd yelled.

  “Devil!”

  “Svrakiss!” Dilaf screamed.

  The crowd raged, each member yelling his own accusations at the wretched target. The Elantrian himself screamed with wild, feral passion. Something had changed within this man. When Hrathen had spoken with him, the Elantrian’s answers had been unenthusiastic, but lucid. Now there was nothing of sanity in his eyes—only pain. The sound of the creature’s voice reached Hrathen even over the congregation’s fury.

  “Destroy me!” the Elantrian pled. “End the pain! Destroy me!”

  The voice shocked Hrathen out of his stupor. He realized one thing immediately: that Dilaf couldn’t be allowed to murder this Elantrian in public. Visions of Dilaf’s crowd becoming a mob flashed through Hrathen’s mind, of them burning the Elantrian in a fit of collective passion. It would destroy everything; Iadon would never suffer something as violent as a public execution, even if the victim was an Elantrian. It smelled too much of chaos a decade old, chaos that had overthrown a government.

  Hrathen stood at the side of the podium dais, amid a group of priests. There was a pressing crowd bunched up against the front of the dais, and Dilaf stood in front of the podium itself, hands outstretched as he spoke.

  “They must be destroyed!” Dilaf screamed. “All of them! Cleansed by holy fire!”

  Hrathen leaped up onto the dais. “And so they shall be!” he yelled, cutting the arteth off.

  Dilaf paused only briefly. He turned to the side, nodding toward a lesser priest holding a lit torch. Dilaf probably assumed that there was nothing Hrathen could do to stop the execution—at least, nothing he could do that wouldn’t undermine his own credibility with the crowd.