Only one fact gave him hope: Arelon's nobility was concentrated in Kae. To be away from Iadon's court was political suicide; the king granted and took away titles willfully, and a high profile was necessary to assure a firm place in the aristocracy. Wyrn didn't care if Hrathen converted the masses or not; as long as the nobility bowed, the country was considered Derethi.
So, Hrathen had a chance, bur he still had much work to do. An important piece of it lay in the man Hrathen was about to call. His contact was not a gyorn, which made Hrathen's use of the Seon a little unorthodox. However, Wyrn had never directly commanded him not to call other people with his Seon, so Hrathen was able to rationalize the use.
The Seon responded promptly, and soon Forton's large-eared, mouselike face appeared in its light.
"Who is it?" he asked in the harsh Fjordell dialect spoken in the country of Hrovell.
"It is I, Forton."
"My lord Hrathen?" Forton asked with surprise. "My lord, it has been a long time."
"I know, Forton. I trust you are well."
The man laughed happily, though the laugh quickly turned to a wheeze. For-ton had a chronic cough-a condition caused. Hrathen was certain, by the various substances the man was fond of smoking.
"Of course. my lord," Forton said through his coughing. "When am I not well?" Forton was a man utterly contented with his life-a condition that was also caused by the various substances he was fond of smoking. "What can I do for you?"
"I have need of one of your elixirs, Forton." Hrathen said.
"Of course, of course. What must it do?"
Hrathen smiled. Forton was an unparalleled genius, which was why Hrathen suffered his eccentricities. The man not only kept a Seon, but was a devout follower of the Mysteries-a degenerate form of the Jesker religion common in rural areas. Though Hrovell was officially a Derethi nation, most of it was a primitive, sparsely populated countryside which was difficult to supervise. Many of the
peasants attended their Derethi services with devotion, then took part in their midnight Mystery ceremonies with equal devotion. Forton himself was considered something of a mystic in his town. though he always put on a show of Derethi orthodoxy when he spoke with Hrathen.
Hrathen explained what he wanted, and Forton repeated it back. Though For-ton was often drugged, he was very accomplished at the mixing of potions, poisons, and elixirs. Hrathen had met no man in Sycla who could match Forton's skill. One of the eccentric man's concoctions had restored Hrathen to health after he had been poisoned by a political enemy. The slow-acting substance was said to have no antidote.
"This will be no problem, my lord," Forton promised Hrathen in his thick dialect. Even after years of dealing with the Hroven, Hrathen had trouble understanding them. He was certain that most of them didn't even know there was a pure, correct form of their language back in Fjorden.
"Good." Hrathen said.
"Yes, all I'll need to do is combine two formulas I already have," Forton said. "How much do you want?"
"At least two doses. I will pay you the standard price."
"My true payment is the knowledge I have served Lord Jaddeth," the man said piously.
Hrathen resisted the urge to laugh. He knew how much of a hold the Mysteries had on Hrovell's people. It was a distasteful form of worship, a syncretic combination of a dozen different faiths, with some aberrations-such as ritual sacrifice and fertility rites-added in to make it more alluring. Hrovell, however, was a task for another day. The people did what Wyrn commanded, and they were too politically insignificant to cause Fjorden distress. Of course. their souls were in serious danger: Jaddeth was not known for his leniency toward the ignorant.
Another day, Hrathen told himself. Another day.
"When will my lord be needing this potion?" the man asked.
"That is the thing. Forton. I need it immediately."
"Where are you?"
"In Arelon." Hrathen said.
"Ah, good," Forton said. "My lord has finally decided to convert those heathens."
"Yes," Hrathen said with a slight smile. "We Derethi have been patient with the Arelenes long enough."
"Well, Your Lordship couldn't have picked a place farther away," Forton said. "Even if I finish the potion tonight and send it in the morning, it will take at least two weeks to arrive."
Hrathen chafed at the delay, but there was no other option. "Then do so, For-ton. I will compensate you for working on such short notice."
lord."
"A true follower of Jaddeth wilI do anything to bring about His Empire, my
Well, at least he knows his Derethi doctrine, Hrathen thought with a mental shrug.
"Is there anything else, my lord?" Forton asked. coughing slightly. "No. Get to work, and send the potions as quickly as possible."
"Yes, my lord. I'll get started immediately. Feel free to pray to me any time you need to."
Hrathen frowned-he had forgotten about that Iittle inaccuracy. Perhaps For-ton's mastery of Derethi doctrine wasn't all that sound after all. Forton didn't know Hrathen had a Seon; he simply assumed that a gyorn could pray to Jaddeth and that God would direct his words through the Seons. As if Lord Jaddeth were a member of the post.
"Goodnight. Forton." Hrathen said, keeping the displeasure from his voice. Forton was a drug addict, a heretic, and a hypocrite-but he was still an invaluable resource. Hrathen had long ago decided that if Jaddeth would suffer his gyorns to communicate using Seons, then He would certainly let Hrathen use men such as Forton.
After all, Jaddeth had created all men-even the heretics.
CHAPTER 19
The city of Elantris glowed brilliantly. The very stones shone, as if each
one held a fire within. The shattered domes had been restored, their smooth, egglike surfaces blossoming across the landscape. Thin spires stabbed the air like streaks of light. The wall was no longer a barrier, for its gates were left permanently open-it existed not to protect, but for cohesion. The wall was part of the city somehow, an essential element of the whole, without which Elantris would not be complete.
And amid the beauty and the glory were the Elantrians. Their bodies seemed to shine with the same inner light as the city, their skin a luminous pale silver. Not
metallic. just… pure. Their hair was white, but not the worn-out dull gray or yellow of the aged. It was the blazing white of steel heated to an extreme temperature-a color free of impurities, a powerful, focused white.
Their bearings were equally striking. The Elantrians moved through their city with an air of complete control. The men were handsome and tall-even the short ones-and the women were undeniably beautiful-even the homely ones. They were unhurried; they strolled rather than walked, and they were quick to greet those they met. There was a power in them, however. It radiated from their eyes and underlay their motions. It was easy to understand why these beings were worshipped as gods.
Equally unmistakable were the Aons. The ancient glyphs covered the city: they were etched into walls, painted on doors, and written on signs. Most of them were inert-simple markings, rather than runes with an arcane purpose. Others, however, obviously held energy. Throughout the city stood large metal plates carved with Aon Tia, and occasionally an Elantrian would approach and place his or her hand in the center of the character. The Elantrian's body would flash, and then disappear in a circular burst of light, his body instantly transported to another section of the city.
Amid the glory was a small family of Kae townspeople. Their clothing was rich and fine, their words were educated, but their skin did not glow. There were other regular people in the city-not as many as the Elantrians, but a fair number nonetheless. This comforted the boy, giving him a familiar reference.
The father carried his young son tightly, looking around with distrust. Not everyone adored the Elantrians; some were suspicious. The boy's mother gripped her husband's arm with tense fingers. She had never been inside Elantris, though she had lived in Kae for over a decade. Unlike the b
oy's father, she was more nervous than distrustful. She was worried about her son's wound, anxious as any mother whose child was near death.
Suddenly, the boy felt the pain in his leg. It was blinding and intense, stemming from the festering wound and shattered bone in his thigh. He had fallen from someplace high. and his leg had snapped so soundly the shattered bone had torn through the skin to jut into the air.
His father had hired the best surgeons and doctors, but they had been unable to stop the infection. The bone had been set as well as possible. considering that it had fractured in at least a dozen places. Even without the infection, the boy would walk with a limp the rest of his days. With the infection… amputation seemed the only recourse. Secretly, the doctors feared it was too late for even that solution; the wound had occurred high on the leg, and the infection had probably spread to the torso. The father had demanded the truth. He knew his son was dying. And so he had come to Elantris, despite his lifelong distrust of its gods.
They took the boy to a domed building. He nearly forgot his pain as the door
opened on its own, sliding inward without a sound. His father stopped abruptly before the door, as if reconsidering his actions, but his mother tugged insistently on the man's arm. His father nodded. bowing his head and entering the building.
Light shone from glowing Aons on the walls. A woman approached, her white hair long and full, her silvery face smiling encouragingly. She ignored his father's distrust, her eyes sympathetic as she took the boy from hesitant arms. She laid him carefully on a soft mat, then brought her hand into the air above him, her long, thin index finger pointing at nothing.
The Elantrian moved her hand slowIy, and the air began to glow. A trail of light followed her finger. It was like a rupture in the air. a line that radiated with deep intensity. It was as if a river of light were trying to force its way through the small crack. The boy could feel the power, he could sense it raging to be free, but only this little was allowed to escape. Even that little was so bright that he could barely see for the light.
The woman traced carefully, completing Aon len-but it wasn't just Aon Ien, it was more complex. The core was the familiar Aon of healing, but there were dozens of lines and curves at the sides. The boy's brow wrinkled-he had been taught the Aons by his tutors. and it seemed odd that the woman should change this one so drastically.
The beautiful Elantrian made one final mark at the side of her complex construction. and the Aon began to glow even more intensely. The boy felt a burning in his leg. then a burning up through his torso. He began to yell, but the light suddenly vanished. The boy opened his eyes with surprise; the afterimage of Aon Ien still burned into his vision. He blinked, looking down. The wound was gone. Not even a scar remained.
But he could still feel the pain. It burned him, cut him, caused his soul to tremble. It should have been gone, but it was not.
"Rest now, little one," the Elantrian said in a warm voice, pushing him back.
His mother was weeping with joy, and even his father looked satisfied. The boy wanted to yell at them, to scream that something was wrong. His leg hadn't been healed. The pain still remained.
No! Something is wrong! He tried to say, but he couldn't. He couldn't speak…
"NO!" Raoden yelled, sitting upright with a sudden motion. He blinked a few times. disoriented in the darkness. Finally, he took a few deep breaths, putting his hand to his head. The pain did remain; it was growing so strong that it even corrupted his dreams. He had dozens of tiny wounds and bruises now, even though he had been in Elantris for only three weeks. He could feel each one distinctly, and together they formed a unified frontal assault on sanity.
Raoden groaned, leaning forward and grabbing his legs as he fought the pain. His body could no longer sweat, but he could feel it trembling. He clamped his teeth shut, gritting them against the surge of agony. Slowly, laboriously, he reasserted control. He rebuffed the pain, soothing his tortured body until, finally, he released his legs and stood.
It was growing worse. He knew it shouldn't be so bad yet: he hadn't even been in Elantris for a month. He also knew that the pain was supposed to be steady, or so everyone said, but for him it seemed to come in waves. It was always there-always ready to pounce on him in a moment of weakness.
Sighing, Raoden pushed open the door to his chambers. He still found it odd that Elantrians should sleep. Their hearts no longer beat, they no longer needed breath. Why did they need sleep? The others, however, could give him no answers. The only true experts had died ten years previously.
So, Raoden slept, and with that sleep came dreams. He had been eight when he broke his leg. His father had been loath to bring him into the city; even before the Reod, Iadon had been suspicious of Elantris. Raoden's mother, dead some twelve years now, had insisted.
The child Raoden hadn't understood how close he'd come to death. He had felt the pain, however, and the beautiful peace of its removal. He remembered the beauty of both the city and its occupants. Iadon had spoken harshly of Elantris as they left, and Raoden had contradicted the words with vehemence. It was the first time Raoden could remember taking a position against his father. After that, there had been many others.
As Raoden entered the main chapel, Saolin left his attendant position beside Raoden's chamber, falling into place beside him. Over the last week. the soldier had gathered a group of willing men and formed them into a squad of guards.
"You know I am flattered by your attentiveness, Saolin," Raoden said. "But is it really necessary?"
"A lord requires an honor guard, Lord Spirit," Saolin explained. "It wouldn't be proper for you to go about alone."
"I'm not a lord, Saolin." Raoden said. "I'm just a leader-there is to be no nobility in Elantris."
"I understand. my lord." Saolin said with a nod, obviously not seeing the paradox within his own words. "However, the city is still a dangerous place." "As you wish, Saolin," Raoden said. "How goes the planting?"
"Galladon has finished his plowing," Saolin said. "He has already organized the planting teams."
"I shouldn't have slept so long," Raoden said, looking out the chapel window to notice how high the sun had risen. He left the building, Saolin close behind, and walked around a neat cobblestone path to the gardens. Kahar and his crew had
cleaned off the stones, and then Dahad-one of Taan's followers-had used his skills with stoneworking to reset them.
The planting was aIready well under way. Galladon oversaw the work with a carefuI eye, his gruff tongue quick to point out any errors. However, there was a peace about the Dula. Some men were farmers because they had no other choice, but Galladon seemed to find true enjoyment in the activity.
Raoden remembered clearly that first day, when he had tempted Galladon with the bit of dried meat. His friend's pain had barely been under control back then-Raoden had been scared of the Dula severaI times during those first days. Now none of that remained. Raoden could see it in Galladon's eyes and in his bearing: He had found the "secret," as Kahar had put it. Galladon was in control again. Now the only one Raoden had to fear was himself.
His theories were working better than even he had expected-but only on everyone else. He had brought peace and purpose to the dozens who followed him, but he couldn't do the same for himself. The pain still burned him. It threatened him every morning when he awoke and stayed with him every moment he was conscious. He was more purposeful than any of the others, and was the most determined to see Elantris succeed. He filled his days, leaving no empty moments to contemplate his suffering. Nothing worked. The pain continued to build.
"My lord, watch out!" Saolin yelled.
Raoden jumped, turning as a growling, bare-chested Elantrian charged from a darkened hallway, running toward Raoden. Raoden barely had time to step backward as the wildman lifted a rusted iron bar and swung it directly at Raoden's face.
Bare steel flashed out of nowhere, and Saolin's blade parried the blow. The bestial newcomer halted, reorienting himself to
a new foe. He moved too slowly. Saolin's practiced hand delivered a thrust directly through the madman's abdomen. Then, knowing that such a blow wouldn't stop an Elantrian, Saolin swung a mighty backhand, separating the madman's head from his body. There was no blood.
The corpse tumbled to the ground, and Saolin saluted Raoden with his blade, shooting him a gap-toothed smile of reassurance. Then he spun around to face a group of wildmen charging down a nearby street toward them.
Stunned, Raoden stumbled backward. "Saolin. no! There are too many of them!"
Fortunately, Saolin's men had heard the commotion. Within seconds, there were five of them-Saolin, Dashe, and three other soldiers-standing against the attack. They fought in an efficient line, blocking their enemy's path to the rest of the gardens, working with the coordination of trained soldiers.
Shaor's men were more numerous, but their rage was no match for martial efficiency. They attacked solitarily, and their fervor made them stupid. In moments the battle was over, the few remaining attackers dashing away in retreat.
Saolin cleaned his blade efficiently, then turned with the others. They saluted Raoden in coordination.
The entire battle had happened almost more quickly than Raoden could follow. "Good work," he finally managed to say.
A grunt came from his side, where Galladon knelt beside the decapitated body of the first attacker. "They must have heard we had corn in here." the Dula mumbled. "Poor rulos."
Raoden nodded solemnly. regarding the faIIen madmen. Four of them lay on the ground, clutching various wounds-all of which would have been fatal had they not been Elantrians. As it was, they could only moan in torment. Raoden felt a stab of familiarity. He knew what that pain felt like.
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