Elantris

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Kae isn’t the only town here, you know. There used to be four of them, all surrounding Elantris, but the others dried up. Not enough food for so many people in such a small area, they said. We hide in the ruins.”

  “Are there many of you?” Hrathen asked.

  “No, not many. Only those who’ve the nerve to run away from the farms.” The old man’s eyes took on a dreamy look. “I wasn’t always a beggar, good sir. Used to work in Elantris—I was a carpenter, one of the best. I didn’t make a very good farmer, though. The king was wrong there, good sir—he sent me to the fields, but I was too old to work in them, so I ran away. Came here. The merchants in the town, they give us money sometimes. But we can only beg after night comes, and never from the high nobles. No, sir, they would tell the king.”

  The old man squinted up at Hrathen—as if realizing for the first time why the boy was so apprehensive. “You don’t look much like a merchant, good sir,” he said hesitantly.

  “I’m not,” Hrathen responded, dropping a bag of coins in the man’s hand. “That is for you.” Then he dropped a second bag beside the first. “That is for the others. Good night, old man.”

  “Thank you, good sir!” the man cried.

  “Thank Jaddeth,” Hrathen said.

  “Who is Jaddeth, good sir?”

  Hrathen bowed his head. “You’ll know soon enough, old man. One way or another, you’ll know.”

  The breeze was gusty and strong atop the wall of Elantris, and it whipped at Hrathen’s cape with glee. It was a cool ocean wind, bearing the briny scent of saltwater and sea life. Hrathen stood between two burning torches, leaning against the low parapet and looking out over Kae.

  The city wasn’t very large, not when compared with the sheer mass of Elantris, but it could have been far better fortified. He felt his old dissatisfaction returning. He hated being in a place that couldn’t protect itself. Perhaps that was part of the stress he was feeling with this assignment.

  Lights sparked throughout Kae, most of them streetlamps, including a series that ran along the short wall that marked the formal border of the city. The wall ran in a perfect circle—so perfect, in fact, that Hrathen would have remarked upon it had he been in any other city. Here it was just another remnant of fallen Elantris’s glory. Kae had spilled out beyond that inner wall, but the old border remained—a ring of flame running around the center of the city.

  “It was so much nicer, once,” a voice said behind him.

  Hrathen turned with surprise. He had heard the footsteps approaching, but he had simply assumed it was one of the guards making his rounds. Instead he found a short, bald Arelene in a simple gray robe. Omin, head of the Korathi religion in Kae.

  Omin approached the edge, pausing beside Hrathen and studying the city. “Of course, that was back then, when the Elantrians still ruled. The city’s fall was probably good for our souls. Still, I can’t help recalling those days with awe. Do you realize that no one in all of Arelon went without food? The Elantrians could turn stone into corn and dirt into steak. Confronted by those memories, I am left wondering. Could devils do that much good in this world? Would they even want to?”

  Hrathen didn’t respond. He simply stood, leaning with his arms crossed on top of the parapet, the wind churning his hair. Omin fell silent.

  “How did you find me?” Hrathen finally asked.

  “It is well known that you spend your nights up here,” the squat priest explained. He could barely rest his arms on the parapet. Hrathen considered Dilaf short, but this man made the arteth look like a giant. “Your supporters say you come here and plan how to defeat the vile Elantrians,” Omin continued, “and your opponents say you come because you feel guilty for condemning a people who have already been cursed.”

  Hrathen turned, looking down into the little man’s eyes. “And what do you say?”

  “I say nothing,” Omin said. “It doesn’t matter to me why you climb these stairs, Hrathen. I do, however, wonder why you preach hatred of the Elantrians when you yourself simply pity them.”

  Hrathen didn’t respond immediately, tapping his gauntleted finger against the stone parapet with a repetitious click. “It’s not so hard, once you accustom yourself to it,” he finally said. “A man can force himself to hate if he wishes, especially if he convinces himself that it is for a higher good.”

  “The oppression of the few brings salvation to the many?” Omin asked, a slight smile on his face, as if he found the concept ridiculous.

  “You’d best not mock, Arelene,” Hrathen warned. “You have few options, and we both know the least painful one will require you to do as I do.”

  “To profess hatred where I have none? I will never do that, Hrathen.”

  “Then you will become irrelevant,” Hrathen said simply.

  “Is that the way it must be, then?”

  “Shu-Korath is docile and unassuming, priest,” Hrathen said. “Shu-Dereth is vibrant and dynamic. It will sweep you away like a roaring flood rushing through a stagnant pool.”

  Omin smiled again. “You act as if truth were something to be influenced by persistence, Hrathen.”

  “I’m not speaking of truth or falsehood; I am simply referring to physical inevitability. You cannot stand against Fjorden—and where Fjorden rules, Shu-Dereth teaches.”

  “One cannot separate truth from actions, Hrathen,” Omin said with a shake of his bald head. “Physically inevitable or not, truth stands above all things. It is independent of who has the best army, who can deliver the longest sermons, or even who has the most priests. It can be pushed down, but it will always surface. Truth is the one thing you can never intimidate.”

  “And if Shu-Dereth is the truth?” Hrathen demanded.

  “Then it will prevail,” Omin said. “But I didn’t come to argue with you.”

  “Oh?” Hrathen said with raised eyebrows.

  “No,” Omin said. “I came to ask you a question.”

  “Then ask, priest, and leave me to my thoughts.”

  “I want to know what happened,” Omin began speculatively. “What happened, Hrathen? What happened to your faith?”

  “My faith?” Hrathen asked with shock.

  “Yes,” Omin said, his words soft, almost meandering. “You must have believed at one point, otherwise you wouldn’t have pursued the priesthood long enough to become a gyorn. You lost it somewhere, though. I have listened to your sermons. I hear logic and complete understanding—not to mention determination. I just don’t hear any faith, and I wonder what happened to it.”

  Hrathen hissed inward slowly, drawing a deep breath between his teeth. “Go,” he finally ordered, not bothering to look down at the priest.

  Omin didn’t answer, and Hrathen turned. The Arelish man was already gone, strolling down the wall with a casual step, as if he had forgotten Hrathen were there.

  Hrathen stood on the wall for a long time that night.

  CHAPTER 22

  Raoden inched forward, slowly peeking around the corner. He should have been sweating—in fact, he kept reaching up to wipe his brow, though the motion did nothing but spread black Elantris grime across his forehead. His knees trembled slightly as he huddled against the decaying wooden fence, anxiously searching the cross street for danger.

  “Sule, behind you!”

  Raoden turned with surprise at Galladon’s warning, sliding on the slimy cobblestones and slipping to the ground. The fall saved him. As he grappled for purchase, Raoden felt something whoosh through the air above him. The leaping madman howled in frustration as he missed and smashed through the fence, rotten wood chips spraying through the air.

  Raoden stumbled to his feet. The madman moved far more quickly. Bald and nearly naked, the man howled as he ripped his way through the rest of the fence, growling and tearing at the wood like a mad hound.

  Galladon’s board smacked the man directly in the face. Then, while the man was stunned, Galladon grabbed a cobblestone and smashed it against the side of the man’s head. Th
e madman collapsed and did not rise.

  Galladon straightened. “They’re getting stronger somehow, sule,” he said, dropping his cobblestone. “They seem almost oblivious to pain. Kolo?”

  Raoden nodded, calming his nerves. “They haven’t been able to capture a newcomer in weeks. They’re getting desperate, falling more and more into their bestial state. I’ve heard of warriors who grow so enraged during combat that they ignore even mortal wounds.” Raoden paused as Galladon poked at the attacker’s body with a stick to make sure he wasn’t feigning.

  “Maybe they’ve found the final secret to stopping the pain,” Raoden said quietly.

  “All they have to do is surrender their humanity,” Galladon said, shaking his head as they continued to sneak through what had been the Elantris market. They passed piles of rusted metal and crushed ceramics etched with Aons. Once these scraps had produced wondrous effects, their powerful magics demanding unparalleled prices. Now they were little more than obstacles for Raoden to avoid, lest they crunch noisily beneath his feet.

  “We should have brought Saolin,” Galladon said quietly.

  Raoden shook his head. “Saolin is a wonderful soldier and a good man, but he’s completely lacking in stealth. Even I can hear him approaching. Besides, he would have insisted on bringing a group of his guards. He refuses to believe I can protect myself.”

  Galladon glanced at the fallen madman, then back at Raoden with sardonic eyes. “Whatever you say, sule.”

  Raoden smiled slightly. “All right,” he admitted, “he might have been useful. However, his men would have insisted on pampering me. Honestly, I thought I’d left that sort of thing behind in my father’s palace.”

  “Men protect things they find important,” Galladon said with a shrug. “If you object, you shouldn’t have made yourself so irreplaceable. Kolo?”

  “Point taken,” Raoden said with a sigh. “Come on.”

  They fell quiet as they continued their infiltration. Galladon had protested for hours when Raoden had explained his plan to sneak in and confront Shaor. The Dula had called it foolhardy, pointless, dangerous, and just plain stupid. He hadn’t, however, been willing to let Raoden go alone.

  Raoden knew the plan probably was foolhardy, pointless, and all the other things Galladon said. Shaor’s men would rip them apart without a second thought—probably without even a first thought, considering their mental state. However, during the last week, Shaor’s men had tried to capture the garden three more times. Saolin’s guards were collecting more and more wounds while Shaor’s men seemed to be getting even more feral and wild.

  Raoden shook his head. While his troop was growing, most of his followers were physically weak. Shaor’s men, however, were frighteningly strong—and every one of them was a warrior. Their rage gave them strength, and Raoden’s followers couldn’t stand against them for much longer.

  Raoden had to find Shaor. If only he could speak with the man, he was sure they could find a compromise. It was said that Shaor himself never went on the raids. Everyone referred to the band as “Shaor’s men,” but no one could ever remember seeing Shaor himself. It was entirely possible that he was just another maniac, indistinguishable from the rest. It was also possible that the man Shaor had joined the Hoed long ago, and the group continued without leadership.

  Still, something told him that Shaor was alive. Or, perhaps Raoden simply wanted to believe so. He needed an adversary he could face; the madmen were too scattered to be efficiently defeated, and they outnumbered Raoden’s soldiers by a significant number. Unless Shaor existed, unless Shaor could be swayed, and unless Shaor could control his men, Raoden’s band was in serious trouble.

  “We’re close now,” Galladon whispered as they approached one final street. There was movement to one side, and they waited apprehensively until it appeared to have passed on.

  “The bank,” Galladon said, nodding to a large structure across the street. It was large and boxy, its walls dark beyond even what the slime normally produced. “The Elantrians maintained the place for the local merchants to keep their wealth. A bank inside Elantris was seen as far more secure than one in Kae.”

  Raoden nodded. Some merchants, like his father, hadn’t trusted the Elantrians. Their insistence on storing their fortunes outside of the city had eventually proven wise. “You think Shaor’s in there?” he asked.

  Galladon shrugged. “If I were going to choose a base, this would be it. Large, defensible, imposing. Perfect for a warlord.”

  Raoden nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  The bank was definitely occupied. The slime around the front door was scuffed by the frequent passing of feet, and they could hear voices coming from the back of the structure. Galladon looked at Raoden inquiringly, and Raoden nodded. They went in.

  The inside was as drab as the outside—dull and stale, even for fallen Elantris. The vault door—a large circle etched with a thick Aon Edo—was open, and the voices came from inside. Raoden took a deep breath, ready to confront the last of the gang leaders.

  “Bring me food!” wailed a high-pitched voice.

  Raoden froze. He craned his neck to the side, peeking into the vault, then recoiled with surprise. At the back of the chamber, sitting on a pile of what appeared to be gold bars, was a young girl in a pristine, unsoiled pink dress. She had long Aonic blond hair, but her skin was black and gray like that of any other Elantrian. Eight men in ragged clothing knelt before her, their arms spread out in adoration.

  “Bring me food!” the girl repeated in a demanding voice.

  “Well, behead me and see me in Doloken,” Galladon swore behind him. “What is that?”

  “Shaor,” Raoden said with amazement. Then his eyes refocused, and he realized that the girl was staring at him.

  “Kill them!” Shaor screamed.

  “Idos Domi!” Raoden yelped, spinning around and dashing toward the door.

  _______

  “If you weren’t dead already, sule, I’d kill you,” Galladon said.

  Raoden nodded, leaning tiredly against a wall. He was getting weaker. Galladon had warned him it would happen—an Elantrian’s muscles atrophied the most near the end of his first month. Exercise couldn’t stop it. Even though the mind still worked and the flesh did not decay, the body was convinced that it was dead.

  The old tricks worked the best—they had eventually lost Shaor’s men by climbing up the side of a broken wall and hiding on a rooftop. The madmen might act like hounds, but they certainly hadn’t acquired a dog’s sense of smell. They had passed by Raoden and Galladon’s hiding place a half-dozen times, and never thought to look up. The men were passionate, but they weren’t very intelligent.

  “Shaor is a little girl,” Raoden said, still shocked.

  Galladon shrugged. “I don’t understand either, sule.”

  “Oh, I understand it—I just can’t believe it. Didn’t you see them kneeling before her? That girl, Shaor, is their god—a living idol. They’ve regressed to a more primitive way of life, and have adopted a primitive religion as well.”

  “Be careful, sule,” Galladon warned, “many people called Jesker a ‘primitive’ religion.”

  “All right,” Raoden said, gesturing that they should begin moving again. “Perhaps I should have said ‘simplistic.’ They found something extraordinary—a child with long golden hair—and decided that it should be worshipped. They placed it on an altar, and it makes demands of them. The girl wants food, so they get it for her. Then, ostensibly, she blesses them.”

  “What about that hair?”

  “It’s a wig,” Raoden said. “I recognized her. She was the daughter of one of the most wealthy dukes in Arelon. She never grew hair, so her father had a wig made for her. I guess the priests didn’t think to take it off before throwing her in here.”

  “When was she taken by the Shaod?”

  “Over two years ago,” Raoden said. “Her father, Duke Telrii, tried to keep the matter quiet. He always claimed she had died of dionia,
but there were a lot of rumors.”

  “Apparently all true.”

  “Apparently,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “I only met her a few times. I can’t even recall her name—it was based on Aon Soi, Soine or something like that—I only remember that she was the most spoiled, insufferable child I’d ever met.”

  “Probably makes a perfect goddess then,” Galladon said with a sarcastic grimace.

  “Well, you were right about one thing,” Raoden said. “Speaking with Shaor isn’t going to work. She was unreasonable on the outside; she’s probably ten times worse now. All she knows is that she’s very hungry, and those men bring her food.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” a sentry said as they rounded a corner and approached their section of Elantris—or New Elantris, as the people were starting to call it. The sentry, a stout younger man named Dion, stood up tall as Raoden approached, a makeshift spear held firmly at his side. “Captain Saolin was quite disturbed by your disappearance.”

  Raoden nodded. “I’ll be sure to apologize, Dion.”

  Raoden and Galladon pulled off their shoes and placed them along the wall next to several other dirty pairs, then put on the clean ones they had left behind. Also present was a bucket of water, which they used to wash off as much of the slime as they could manage. Their clothing was still dirty, but there was nothing else they could do; cloth was rare, despite the numerous scavenging parties Raoden had organized.

  It was amazing how much they found. True, most of it was rusted or rotting, but Elantris was enormous. With a little organization—and some motivation—they had discovered a great number of useful items, from metal spearheads to furniture that could still hold weight.

  With Saolin’s help, Raoden had sectioned off a marginally defensible section of town to be New Elantris. Only eleven streets led into the area, and there was even a small wall—the original purpose of which baffled them—running along about half of the perimeter. Raoden had placed sentries at the tip of every road to watch for approaching marauders.

  The system kept them from being overwhelmed. Fortunately, Shaor’s men tended to attack in small bands. As long as Raoden’s guards could get enough warning, they could gather and defeat any one group. If Shaor ever organized a larger, multidirectional assault, however, the result would be disastrous. Raoden’s band of women, children, and weakened men just couldn’t stand against the feral creatures. Saolin had begun teaching simple combat techniques to those capable, but he could use only the safest and most elementary training methods, lest the combatants’ sparring wounds prove more dangerous than Shaor’s attacks.