“I THINK, perhaps, that she needs this food as much as we do,” Raoden said, regarding the slight-framed Torena with a skeptical eye. Ahan’s daughter had pulled her reddish gold hair up under a protective scarf, and she wore a simple blue dress—something she’d probably had to borrow from one of her maids, considering the average Arelene noblewoman’s extravagant wardrobe.
“Be nice to her,” Sarene ordered, handing Raoden a box from the cart. “She’s the only woman brave enough to come—though she only agreed because I had Shuden ask her. If you scare that girl away, none of the others will ever come.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Raoden said, bowing. It seemed that a week’s worth of distributing food together had softened her hatred of him somewhat, but she was still cold. She would respond to his comments, even converse with him, but she would not let herself be his friend.
The week had been surreally unnerving for Raoden. He’d spent his time in Elantris accustoming himself to the strange and the new. This week, however, he had been forced to reacquaint himself with the familiar. It was worse, in a way. He could accept Elantris as a source of pain. It was entirely different to see his friends the same way.
Even now, Shuden stood next to the girl Torena, his hand on her elbow as he encouraged her to approach the line of food. Shuden had been one of Raoden’s best friends; the solemn JinDo and he had spent hours at a time discussing their views on Arelon’s civic problems. Now Shuden barely noticed him. It had been the same with Eondel, Kiin, Roial, and even Lukel. They had been companions to the handsome Prince Raoden, but never to the accursed creature known as Spirit.
Yet Raoden found it hard to be bitter. He couldn’t blame them for not recognizing him; he barely recognized himself anymore, with his wrinkled skin and spindly body. Even his voice was different. In a way, his own subterfuge hurt even more than his friends’ ignorance. He couldn’t tell them who he was, for news of his survival could destroy Arelon. Raoden knew very well that his own popularity exceeded that of his father—there would be some who would follow him, Elantrian or not. Civil war would serve no one, and at the end of it, Raoden would probably find himself beheaded.
No, he definitely had to remain hidden. Knowledge of his fate would only give his friends pain and confusion. However, concealing his identity required vigilance. His face and voice had changed, but his mannerisms had not. He made a point of staying away from anyone who had known him too well, trying to be cheerful and friendly, but not open.
Which was one reason why he found himself gravitating toward Sarene. She hadn’t known him before, and so he could discard his act around her. In a way, it was kind of a test. He was curious to see how they would have gotten along as husband and wife, without their separate political necessities getting in the way.
His initial feelings seemed to have been correct. He liked her. Where the letters had hinted, Sarene fulfilled. She wasn’t like the women he had grown accustomed to in the Arelene court. She was strong and determined. She didn’t avert her eyes downward whenever a man addressed her, no matter how noble his rank. She gave direction easily and never feigned weakness in order to draw a man’s attentiveness.
Yet the lords followed her. Eondel, Shuden, even Duke Roial—they deferred to her in judgment and responded to her commands as if she were king. There was never a look of bitterness in their eyes, either. She gave her orders courteously, and they responded naturally. Raoden could only smile in amazement. It had taken him years to earn these men’s trust. Sarene had done it in a matter of weeks.
She was impressive in every attribute—intelligent, beautiful, and strong. Now, if only he could convince her not to hate him.
Raoden sighed and turned back to the work. Except for Shuden, all of the day’s nobles were new to the process. Most were minor noblemen of little import, but there were a couple of important additions. Duke Telrii, for instance, stood to one side, watching the unloading process with lazy eyes. He didn’t participate himself, but had brought a manservant to fill his place. Telrii obviously preferred to avoid any actual exertion.
Raoden shook his head. He had never cared much for the duke. He had once approached the man, hoping that Telrii might be persuaded to join in Raoden’s opposition to the king. Telrii had simply yawned and asked how much Raoden was willing to pay for his support, then had laughed as Raoden stalked away. Raoden had never been able to decide whether Telrii had asked the question out of actual greed, or if he had simply known how Raoden would react to the demand.
Raoden turned to the other noblemen. As usual, the newcomers stood in a small, apprehensive cluster around the cart they had unloaded. Now it was Raoden’s turn. He approached with a smile, introducing himself and shaking hands—mostly against the owners’ wills. However, their tension began to wane after just a few minutes of mingling. They could see that there was at least one Elantrian who wasn’t going to eat them, and none of the other food distributors had fallen to the Shaod, so they could dismiss their fears of infection.
The clot of people relaxed, falling to Raoden’s affable proddings. Acclimatizing the nobles was a task he had taken upon himself. It had been obvious on the second day that Sarene had nowhere near as much influence with most aristocrats as she did with Shuden and the others of Raoden’s former circle. If Raoden hadn’t stepped in, that second group would probably still be standing frozen around the cart. Sarene hadn’t thanked him for his efforts, but she had nodded in slight appreciation. Afterward, it had been assumed that Raoden would help each new batch of nobles as he had that second one.
It was odd to him, participating in the event that was singularly destroying everything he had worked to build in Elantris. However, beyond creating an enormous incident, there was little he could do to stop Sarene. In addition, Mareshe and Karata were receiving vital goods for their “cooperation.” Raoden would have to do a great deal of rebuilding after Sarene’s Trial finished, but overcoming the setbacks would be worth the effort. Assuming of course that he survived long enough.
The casual thought brought a sudden awareness of his pains. They were with him as always, burning his flesh and eating at his resolve. He no longer counted them, though each one had its own feeling—an unformed name, a sense of individual agony. As far as he could tell, his pain was accelerating much more quickly than anyone else’s. A scrape on his arm felt like a gash running from shoulder to fingers, and his once-stubbed toe blazed with a fire that ran all the way to his knee. It was as if he had been in Elantris a year, and not a single lonely month.
Or maybe his pain wasn’t stronger. Maybe he was just weaker than the others. Either way, he wouldn’t be able to endure much longer. A day would soon come, in a month or maybe two, when he would not awaken from his pain, and they would have to lay him in the Hall of the Fallen. There, he could finally give full devotion to his jealous agony.
He pushed such thoughts away, forcing himself to start handing out food. He tried to let the work distract him, and it helped a little. However, the pain still lurked within, like a beast hiding in the shadows, its red eyes watching with intense hunger.
Each Elantrian received a small sack filled with a variety of ready-to-eat items. This day’s portions were much like every other—though surprisingly Sarene had found some JinDo sourmelons. The fist-sized red fruits glistened in the crate beside Raoden, challenging the fact that they were supposed to be out of season. He dropped one fruit in every bag, followed by some steamed corn, various vegetables, and a small loaf of bread. The Elantrians accepted the offerings thankfully but greedily. Most of them scurried away from the cart as soon as they received their meal, off to eat it in solitude. They still couldn’t believe that no one was going to take it away from them.
As Raoden worked, a familiar face appeared before him. Galladon wore his Elantris rags, as well as a tattered cloak they had made from dirty Elantris scavangings. The Dula held out his sack, and Raoden carefully switched it for one filled with five times the typical allotment; it was so full it was hard to lift with one weakened Elantrian hand. Galladon received the sack with an extended arm, the side of his cloak obscuring it from casual eyes. Then he was gone, disappearing through the crowd.
Saolin, Mareshe, and Karata would come as well, and each would receive a bag like Galladon’s. They would store what items they could, then give the rest to the Hoed. Some of the fallen were able to recognize food, and Raoden hoped that regular eating would help restore their minds.
So far, it wasn’t working.
* * *
THE GATE THUMPED as it shut, the sound reminding Raoden of his first day in Elantris. His pain then had been only emotional, and comparatively weak at that. If he had truly understood what he was getting into, he probably would have curled up and joined the Hoed right then and there.
He turned, putting his back to the gate. Mareshe and Galladon stood in the center of the courtyard, looking down at several boxes Sarene had left behind—fulfillment of Karata’s most recent demands.
“Please tell me you’ve figured out a way to transport those,” Raoden said, joining his friends. The last few times, they had ended up carrying the boxes back to New Elantris one at a time, their weakened Elantrian muscles straining at the effort.
“Of course I have.” Mareshe sniffed. “At least it should work.”
The small man retrieved a slim metal sheet from behind a pile of rubble. All four sides curved upward, and there were three ropes connected to the front.
“A sled?” Galladon asked.
“Coated with grease on the bottom,” Mareshe explained. “I couldn’t find any wheels in Elantris that weren’t rusted or rotted, but this should work—the slime on these streets will provide lubrication to keep it moving.”
Galladon grunted, obviously biting off some sarcastic comment. No matter how poorly Mareshe’s sled worked, it couldn’t be any worse than walking back and forth between the gate and the chapel a dozen times.
In fact, the sled functioned fairly well. Eventually the grease rubbed away and the streets grew too narrow to avoid the patches of torn-up paving stones—and of course dragging it along the slime-free streets of New Elantris was even more difficult. On the whole, however, even Galladon had to admit that the sled saved them quite a bit of time.
“He finally did something useful,” the Dula grunted after they had pulled up in front of the chapel.
Mareshe snorted indifferently, but Raoden could see the pleasure in his eyes. Galladon stubbornly refused to acknowledge the little man’s ingenuity; the Dula complained that he didn’t want to further inflate Mareshe’s ego, something Raoden figured was just about impossible.
“Let’s see what the princess decided to send us this time,” Raoden said, prying open the first box.
“Watch out for snakes,” Galladon warned.
Raoden chuckled, dropping the lid to the ground. The box contained several bales of cloth—all of which were a sickeningly bright orange.
Galladon scowled. “Sule, that has to be the most vile color I have ever seen in my life.”
“Agreed.” Raoden smiled.
“You don’t seem very disappointed.”
“Oh, I’m thoroughly revolted,” Raoden said. “I just enjoy seeing the ways she finds to spite us.”
Galladon grunted, moving to the second box as Raoden held up an edge of the cloth, studying it with a speculative eye. Galladon was right; it was a particularly garish color. The exchange of demands and goods between Sarene and the “gang leaders” had become something of a game: Mareshe and Karata spent hours deciding how to word their demands, but Sarene always seemed to find a way to turn the orders against them.
“Oh, you’re going to love this.” Galladon shook his head, peering into the second box.
“What?”
“It’s our steel,” the Dula said. Last time they had asked for twenty sheets of steel, and Sarene had promptly delivered twenty plates of the metal pounded so thin they almost floated when dropped. This time they had asked for their steel by weight.
Galladon reached into the box and pulled out a handful of nails. Bent nails. “There must be thousands of them in here.”
Raoden laughed. “Well, I’m sure we can find something to do with them.” Fortunately Eonic the blacksmith had been one of the few Elantrians to remain true to Raoden.
Galladon dropped the nails back into their box and shrugged. The rest of the supplies weren’t quite as bad. The food was stale, but Karata had stipulated that it had to be edible. The oil gave off a pungent smell when it was burned—Raoden had no idea where the princess had found that particular item—and the knives were sharp, but they had no handles.
“At least she hasn’t figured out why we demand wooden boxes,” Raoden said, inspecting the vessels themselves. The grain was good and strong. They would be able to pry the boxes apart and use the wood for a multitude of purposes.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she left them unsanded just to give us splinters,” Galladon said, sorting through a pile of rope, looking for an end to begin unraveling the mess. “If that woman was your fate, sule, then your Domi blessed you by sending you to this place.”
“She’s not that bad,” Raoden said, standing as Mareshe began to catalogue the acquisitions.
“I think it’s odd, my lord,” Mareshe said. “Why is she going to such lengths to aggravate us? Isn’t she afraid of spoiling our deal?”
“I think she suspects how powerless we really are, Mareshe.” Raoden shook his head. “She fulfills our demands because she doesn’t want to back out of her promise, but she doesn’t feel the need to keep us happy. She knows we can’t stop the people from accepting her food.”
Mareshe nodded, turning back to his list.
“Come on, Galladon,” Raoden said, picking up the bags of food for the Hoed. “Let’s find Karata.”
* * *
NEW ELANTRIS SEEMED hollow now. Once, right before Sarene’s arrival, they had collected over a hundred people. Now barely twenty remained, not counting children and Hoed. Most of those who had stayed were newcomers to Elantris, people like Saolin and Mareshe that Raoden had “rescued.” They didn’t know any other life beyond New Elantris, and were hesitant to leave it behind. The others—those who had wandered into New Elantris on their own—had felt only faint loyalty to Raoden’s cause. They had left as soon as Sarene offered them something of more immediate benefit; most now lined the streets surrounding the gate, waiting for their next handout.
“Sad. Kolo?” Galladon regarded the now clean, but empty, houses.
“Yes,” Raoden said. “It had potential, if only for a week.”
“We’ll get there again, sule,” Galladon said.
“We worked so hard to help them become human again, and now they’ve abandoned what they learned. They wait with open mouths—I wonder if Sarene realizes that her three-meal bags usually last only a few minutes. The princess is trying to stop hunger, but the people devour her food so fast that they end up feeling sick for a few hours, then starve for the rest of the day. An Elantrian’s body doesn’t work the same way as an ordinary person’s.”
“You were the one who said it, sule,” Galladon said. “The hunger is psychological. Our bodies don’t need food; the Dor sustains us.”
Raoden nodded. “Well, at least it doesn’t make them explode.” He had worried that eating too much would cause the Elantrians’ stomachs to burst. Fortunately, once an Elantrian’s belly was filled, the digestive system started to work. Like Elantrian muscles, it still responded to stimulus.
They continued to walk, eventually passing Kahar scrubbing complacently at a wall with a brush they had gotten him in the last shipment. His face was peaceful and unperturbed; he hardly seemed to have noticed that his assistants had left. He did, however, look up at Raoden and Galladon with critical eyes.
“Why hasn’t my lord changed?” he asked pointedly.
Raoden looked down at his Elantris rags. “I haven’t had time yet, Kahar.”
“After all the work Mistress Maare went to to sew you a proper outfit, my lord?” Kahar asked critically.
“All right,” Raoden said, smiling. “Have you seen Karata?”
“She’s in the Hall of the Fallen, my lord, visiting the Hoed.”
* * *
FOLLOWING THE ELDERLY cleaner’s direction, Raoden and Galladon changed before continuing on to find Karata. Raoden was instantly glad that they had done so. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to put on fresh, clean clothing—cloth that didn’t smell of muck and refuse, and that wasn’t coated in a layer of brown slime. Of course the colors left something to be desired—Sarene was rather clever with her selections.
Raoden regarded himself in a small piece of polished steel. His shirt was yellow dyed with blue stripes, his trousers bright red, and his vest a sickly green. Overall, he looked like some kind of confused tropical bird. His only consolation was that as silly as he looked, Galladon was much worse.
The large, dark-skinned Dula looked down at his pink and light green clothing, his expression resigned.
“Don’t look so sour, Galladon,” Raoden said with a laugh. “Aren’t you Dulas supposed to be fond of garish clothing?”
“That’s the aristocracy—the citizens and republicans. I’m a farmer; pink isn’t exactly what I consider a flattering color. Kolo?” Then he looked up at Raoden with narrowed eyes. “If you make even one comment about my resembling a kathari fruit, I will take off this tunic and hang you with it.”
Raoden chuckled. “Someday I’m going to find that scholar who told me all Dulas were even-tempered, then force him to spend a week locked in a room with you, my friend.”
Galladon grunted, declining to respond.
“Come on,” Raoden said, leading the way out of the chapel’s back room. They found Karata sitting outside of the Hall of the Fallen, a length of string and a needle held in her hand. Saolin sat in front of her, his sleeve pulled back, exposing a long, deep gash running along his entire arm. There was no flowing blood, but the flesh was dark and slick. Karata was efficiently sewing the gash back together.
“Saolin!” Raoden exclaimed. “What happened?”
The soldier looked down in embarrassment. He didn’t seem pained, though the cut was so deep a normal man would have fainted long before from pain and blood loss. “I slipped, my lord, and one of them got to me.”
Raoden regarded the wound with dissatisfaction. Saolin’s soldiers had not thinned as badly as the rest of Elantris; they were a stern group, not so quick to abandon newfound responsibility. However, their numbers had never been that great, and they barely had enough men to watch the streets leading from Shaor’s territory to the courtyard. Each day while the rest of Elantris glutted themselves on Sarene’s offerings, Saolin and his men fought a bitter struggle to keep Shaor’s beasts from overrunning the courtyard. Sometimes howling could be heard in the distance.
“I am sorry, Saolin,” Raoden said as Karata stitched.
“No mind, my lord,” the soldier said bravely. However, this wound was different from previous ones. It was on his sword arm.
“My lord…” he began, looking away from Raoden’s eyes.
“What is it?”
“We lost another man today. We barely kept them back. Now, without me … well, we’ll have a very difficult time of it, my lord. My lads are good fighters, and they are well equipped, but we won’t be able to hold out for much longer.”
Raoden nodded. “I’ll think of something.” The man nodded hopefully, and Raoden, feeling guilty, spoke on. “Saolin, how did you get a cut like that? I’ve never seen Shaor’s men wield anything other than sticks and rocks.”
“They’ve changed, my lord,” Saolin said. “Some of them have swords now, and whenever one of my men falls they drag his weapons away from him.”
Raoden raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, my lord. Is that important?”
“Very. It means that Shaor’s men aren’t quite as bestial as they would have us believe. There’s room enough in their minds to adapt. Some of their wildness, at least, is an act.”
“Doloken of an act,” Galladon said with a snort.
“Well, perhaps not an act,” Raoden said. “They behave like they do because it’s easier than dealing with the pain. However, if we can give them another option, they might take it.”
“We could just let them through to the courtyard, my lord,” Saolin suggested hesitantly, grunting as Karata finished her stitching. The woman was proficient; she had met her husband while serving as a nurse for a small mercenary group.
“No,” Raoden said. “Even if they didn’t kill some of the nobles, the Elantris City Guards would slaughter them.”
“Isn’t that what we want, sule?” Galladon asked, an evil twinkle in his eyes.
“Definitely not,” Raoden said. “I think Princess Sarene has a secondary purpose behind this Trial of hers. She brings different nobles with her every day, as if she wanted to acclimatize them to Elantris.”
“What good would that do?” Karata asked, speaking for the first time as she put away her sewing utensils.
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “But it is important to her. If Shaor’s men attacked the nobility, it would destroy whatever the princess is trying to accomplish. I’ve tried to warn her that not all Elantrians are as docile as the ones she’s seen, but I don’t think she believes me. We’ll just have to keep Shaor’s men away until Sarene is done.”
“Which will be?” Galladon asked.
“Domi only knows,” Raoden replied, shaking his head. “She won’t tell me—she gets suspicious every time I try to probe her for information.”
“Well, sule,” Galladon said, regarding Saolin’s wounded arm, “you’d better find a way to make her stop soon—either that, or prepare her to deal with several dozen ravenous maniacs. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded.
* * *
A DOT IN the center, a horizontal line running a few inches above it, and another line running down its right side—Aon Aon, the starting point of every other Aon. Raoden continued to draw, his fingers moving delicately and quickly, leaving luminescent trails behind them. He completed the central box, then drew two larger circles around it. Aon Tia, the symbol for travel.
Raoden didn’t stop here either. He drew two long lines extending from the corners of the box—an injunction that the Aon was to affect only him—then four smaller Aons down the side to delineate the exact distance it was to send him. A series of lines crossing the top instructed the Aon to wait to take effect until he tapped its center, indicating that he was ready.
He made each line or dot precisely; length and size were very important to the calculations. It was still a relatively simple Aon, nothing like the incredibly complex healing Aons that the book described. Still, Raoden was proud of his increasing ability. It had taken him days to perfect the four-Aon series that instructed Tia to transport him precisely ten body lengths away.
He watched the glowing pattern with a smile of satisfaction until it flashed and disappeared, completely ineffective.
“You’re getting better, sule,” Galladon said, leaning on the windowsill, peering into the chapel.
Raoden shook his head. “I have a long way to go, Galladon.”
The Dula shrugged. Galladon had stopped trying to convince Raoden that practicing AonDor was pointless. No matter what else happened, Raoden always spent a few hours each day drawing his Aons. It comforted him—he felt the pain less when he was drawing Aons, and he felt more at peace during those few short hours than he had in a long time.
“How are the crops?” Raoden asked.
Galladon turned around, looking back at the garden. The cornstalks were still short, barely more than sprouts. Raoden could see their stems beginning to wilt. The last week had seen the disappearance of most of Galladon’s workers, and now only the Dula remained to labor on the diminutive farm. Every day he made several treks to the well to bring water to his plants, but he couldn’t carry much, and the bucket Sarene had given them leaked.
“They’ll live,” Galladon said. “Remember to have Karata send for some fertilizer in the next order.”
Raoden shook his head. “We can’t do that, my friend. The king mustn’t find out that we’re raising our own food.”
Galladon scowled. “Well, I suppose you could order some dung instead.”
“Too obvious.”
“Well, ask for some fish then,” he said. “Claim you’ve gotten a sudden craving for trike.”
Raoden sighed, nodding. He should have thought a little more before he put the garden behind his own home; the scent of rotting fish was not something he looked forward to.
“You learned that Aon from the book?” Galladon asked, leaning through the window with a leisurely posture. “What was it supposed to do?”
“Aon Tia?” Raoden asked. “It’s a transportation Aon. Before the Reod, that Aon could move a person from Elantris to the other side of the world. The book mentions it because it was one of the most dangerous Aons.”
“Dangerous?”
“You have to be very precise about the distance it is to send you. If you tell it to transport you exactly ten feet, it will do so—no matter what happens to be ten feet away. You could easily materialize in the middle of a stone wall.”
“You’re learning much from the book, then?”
Raoden shrugged. “Some things. Hints, mostly.” He flipped back in the book to a page he had marked. “Like this case. About ten years before the Reod, a man brought his wife to Elantris to receive treatment for her palsy. However, the Elantrian healer drew Aon Ien slightly wrong—and instead of just vanishing, the character flashed and bathed the poor woman in a reddish light. She was left with black splotches on her skin and limp hair that soon fell out. Sound familiar?”
Galladon raised an eyebrow.
“She died a short time later,” Raoden said. “She threw herself off a building, screaming that the pain was too much.”
Galladon frowned. “What did the healer do wrong?”
“It wasn’t an error so much as an omission,” Raoden said. “He left out one of the three basic lines. A foolish error, but it shouldn’t have had such a drastic effect.” Raoden studied the page thoughtfully. “It’s almost like…”
“Like what, sule?”
“Well, the Aon wasn’t completed, right?”
“Kolo.”
“So, maybe the healing began, but couldn’t finish because its instructions weren’t complete,” Raoden said. “What if the mistake still created a viable Aon—one that could access the Dor, but couldn’t provide enough energy to finish what it started?”
“What are you implying, sule?”
Raoden’s eyes opened wide. “That we aren’t dead, my friend.”
“No heartbeat. No breathing. No blood. I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“No, really,” Raoden said, growing excited. “Don’t you see—our bodies are trapped in some kind of half transformation. The process began, but something blocked it—just like in that woman’s healing. The Dor is still within us, waiting for the direction and the energy to finish what it started.”
“I don’t know that I follow you, sule,” Galladon said hesitantly.
Raoden wasn’t listening. “That’s why our bodies never heal—it’s like they’re trapped in the same moment in time. Frozen, like a fish in a block of ice. The pain doesn’t go away because our bodies think time isn’t passing. They’re stuck, waiting for the end of their transformation. Our hair falls away and nothing new grows to replace it. Our skin turns black in the spots where the Shaod began, then halted as it ran out of strength.”
“It seems like a leap to me, sule,” Galladon said.
“It is,” Raoden agreed. “But I’m sure it’s true. Something is blocking the Dor—I can sense it through my Aons. The energy is trying to get through, but there’s something in the way—as if the Aon patterns are mismatched.”
Raoden looked up at his friend. “We’re not dead, Galladon, and we’re not damned. We’re just unfinished.”
“Great, sule,” Galladon said. “Now you just have to find out why.”
Raoden nodded. They understood a little more, but the true mystery—the reason behind Elantris’s fall—remained.
“But,” the Dula continued, turning to tend to his plants again, “I’m glad the book was of help.”
Raoden cocked his head to the side as Galladon walked away. “Wait a minute, Galladon.”
The Dula turned, a quizzical expression on his face.
“You don’t really care about my studies, do you?” Raoden asked. “You just wanted to know if your book was useful.”
“Why would I care about that?” Galladon scoffed.
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “But you’ve always been so protective of your study. You haven’t shown it to anyone, and you never even go there yourself. What is so sacred about that place and its books?”
“Nothing.” The Dula shrugged. “I just don’t want to see them ruined.”
“How did you find that place anyway?” Raoden asked, walking over to the window and leaning against the sill. “You say you’ve only been in Elantris a few months, but you seem to know your way through every road and alley. You led me straight to Shaor’s bank, and the market’s not exactly the kind of place you’d have casually explored.”
The Dula grew increasingly uncomfortable as Raoden spoke. Finally he muttered, “Can a man keep nothing to himself, Raoden? Must you drag everything out of me?”
Raoden leaned back, surprised by his friend’s sudden intensity. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, realizing how accusatory his words had sounded. Galladon had given him nothing but support since his arrival. Embarrassed, Raoden turned to leave the Dula alone.
“My father was an Elantrian,” Galladon said quietly.
Raoden paused. To the side, he could see his friend. The large Dula had taken a seat on the freshly watered soil and was staring at a small cornstalk in front of him.
“I lived with him until I was old enough to move away,” Galladon said. “I always thought it was wrong for a Dula to live in Arelon, away from his people and his family. I guess that’s why the Dor decided to give me the same curse.
“They said that Elantris was the most blessed of cities, but my father was never happy here. I guess even in paradise there are those who don’t fit in. He became a scholar—the study I showed you was his. However, Duladel never left his mind—he studied farming and agriculture, though both were useless in Elantris. Why farm when you can turn garbage into food?”
Galladon sighed, reaching out to pinch a piece of dirt between his fingers. He rubbed them together for a moment, letting the soil fall back to the ground.
“He wished he had studied healing when he found my mother dying beside him in bed one morning. Some diseases strike so quickly even AonDor can’t stop them. My father became the only depressed Elantrian I ever knew. That’s when I finally understood that they weren’t gods, for a god could never feel such agony. He couldn’t return home—the Elantrians of old were as exiled as we are today, no matter how beautiful they might have been. People don’t want to live with something so superior to themselves—they can’t stand such a visible sign of their own inferiority.
“He was happy when I returned to Duladel. He told me to be a farmer. I left him a poor, lonely god in a divine city, wishing for nothing so much as the freedom to be a simple man again. He died about a year after I left. Did you know that Elantrians could die of simple things, such as heart-death? They lived much longer than ordinary people, but they could still die. Especially if they wanted to. My father knew the signs of heart-death; he could have gone in to be healed, but he chose to stay in his study and disappear. Just like those Aons you spend so much time drawing.”
“So you hate Elantris?” Raoden asked, slipping quietly through the open window to approach his friend. He sat as well, looking across the small plant at Galladon.
“Hate?” Galladon asked. “No, I don’t hate—that isn’t the Duladen way. Of course, growing up in Elantris with a bitter father made me a poor Dula. You’ve realized that—I can’t take things as lightly as my people would. I see a taint on everything. Like the sludge of Elantris. Other Dulas avoided me because of my demeanor, and I was almost glad when the Shaod took me—I didn’t fit Duladel, no matter how much I enjoyed my farming. I deserve this city, and it deserves me. Kolo?”
Raoden wasn’t certain how to respond. “I suppose an optimistic comment wouldn’t do much good right now.”
Galladon smiled slightly. “Definitely not—you optimists just can’t understand that a depressed person doesn’t want you to try and cheer them up. It makes us sick.”
“Then just let me say something true, my friend,” Raoden said. “I appreciate you. I don’t know if you fit in here; I doubt any of us do. But I value your help. If New Elantris succeeds, then it will be because you were there to keep me from throwing myself off a building.”
Galladon took a deep breath. His face was hardly joyful—yet his gratitude was plain. He nodded, then stood and offered Raoden a hand to help him up.
* * *
RAODEN TURNED FITFULLY. He didn’t have much of a bed, just a collection of blankets in the chapel’s back room. However, discomfort wasn’t what kept him up. There was another problem—a worry in the back of his mind. He was missing something important. He had been close to it earlier, and his subconscious harried him, demanding that he make the connection.
But what was it? What clue, barely registered, haunted him? After his discussion with Galladon, Raoden had returned to his Aon practice. Then he had gone for a short look around the city. All had been quiet—Shaor’s men had stopped attacking New Elantris, instead focusing on the more promising potential presented by Sarene’s visits.
It had to be related to what he had discussed with Galladon, he decided. Something to do with the Aons, or perhaps Galladon’s father. What would it have been like to be an Elantrian back then? Could a man really have been depressed within these amazing walls? Who, capable of marvelous wonders, would be willing to trade them for the simple life of a farmer? It must have been beautiful back then, so beautiful.…
“Merciful Domi!” Raoden yelled, snapping upright in his blankets.
A few seconds later, Saolin and Mareshe—who made their beds in the main room of the chapel—burst through the door. Galladon and Karata weren’t far behind. They found Raoden sitting in amazed stupefaction.
“Sule?” Galladon asked carefully.
Raoden stood and strode out of the room. A perplexed entourage followed. Raoden barely paused to light a lantern, and the pungent odor of Sarene’s oil didn’t even faze him. He marched into the night, heading straight for the Hall of the Fallen.
The man was there, still mumbling to himself as many of the Hoed did even at night. He was small and wrinkled, his skin folded in so many places he appeared a thousand years old. His voice whispered a quiet mantra.
“Beautiful,” he rasped. “Once so very beautiful…”
The hint hadn’t come during his discussions with Galladon at all. It had come during his short visit delivering food to the Hoed. Raoden had heard the man’s mumbling a dozen times, but never made the connection.
Raoden placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders. “What was so beautiful?”
“Beautiful…” the man mumbled.
“Old man,” Raoden pled. “If there is a soul left in that body of yours, even the slightest bit of rational thought, please tell me. What are you talking about?”
“Once so very beautiful…” the man continued, his eyes staring into the air.
Raoden raised a hand and began to draw in front of the man’s face. He had barely completed Aon Rao before the man reached out, gasping as he put his hand through the center of the character.
“We were so beautiful once,” the man whispered. “My hair so bright, my skin full of light. Aons fluttered from my fingers. They were so beautiful.…”
Raoden heard several muttered exclamations of surprise from behind. “You mean,” Karata asked, approaching, “all this time…?”
“Ten years,” Raoden said, still supporting the old man’s slight body. “This man was an Elantrian before the Reod.”
“Impossible,” Mareshe said. “It’s been too long.”
“Where else would they go?” Raoden asked. “We know some of the Elantrians survived the fall of city and government. They were locked in Elantris. Some might have burned themselves, a few others might have escaped, but the rest would still be here. They would have become Hoed, losing their minds and their strength after a few years … forgotten in the streets.”
“Ten years,” Galladon whispered. “Ten years of suffering.”
Raoden looked into the old man’s eyes. They were lined by cracks and wrinkles, and seemed dazed, as if by some great blow. The secrets of AonDor hid somewhere in this man’s mind.
The man’s grip on Raoden’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly, his entire body quivering with effort. Three straining words hissed from his lips as his agony-laden eyes focused on Raoden’s face.
“Take. Me. Out.”
“Where?” Raoden asked, confused. “Out of the city?”
“The. Lake.”
“I don’t know what you mean, old one,” Raoden whispered.
The man’s eyes moved, looking at the door.
“Karata, grab that light,” Raoden ordered, picking up the old man. “Galladon, come with us. Mareshe and Saolin, stay here. I don’t want any of the others to wake up and find us all gone.”
“But…” Saolin began, but his words fell off. He recognized a direct order.
It was a bright night, moon hanging full in the sky, and the lantern almost wasn’t necessary. Raoden carried the old Elantrian carefully. It was obvious that the man no longer had the strength to lift his arm and point, so Raoden had to halt at every intersection, searching the old man’s eyes for some sign that they should turn.
It was a slow process, and it was nearly morning before they arrived at a fallen building at the southwest corner of Elantris. The structure looked much like any other, though its roof was mostly intact.
“Any idea what this was?” Raoden asked.
Galladon thought for a moment, digging through his memory. “I think I do, sule. It was some sort of meetinghouse for the Elantrians. My father came here occasionally, though I was never allowed to accompany him.”
Karata gave Galladon a startled look at the explanation, but she held her questions for another time. Raoden carried the old Elantrian into the hollow building. It was empty and nondescript. Raoden studied the man’s face. He was looking at the floor.
Galladon knelt and brushed away debris as he searched the floor. “There’s an Aon here.”
“Which one?”
“Rao, I think.”
Raoden furrowed his brow. The meaning of Aon Rao was simple: It meant “spirit” or “spiritual energy.” However, the AonDor book had mentioned it infrequently, and had never explained what magical effect the Aon was meant to produce.
“Push on it,” Raoden suggested.
“I’m trying, sule,” Galladon said with a grunt. “I don’t think it’s doing any—” The Dula cut off as the section of floor began to fall away. He yelped and scrambled back as the large stone block sank with a grinding noise. Karata cleared her throat, pointing at an Aon she had pushed on the wall. Aon Tae—the ancient symbol that meant “open.”
“There are some steps here, sule,” Galladon said, sticking his head into the hole. He climbed down, and Karata followed holding the lamp. After passing down the old Hoed, Raoden joined them.
“Clever mechanism,” Galladon noted, studying the series of gears that had lowered the enormous stone block. “Mareshe would be going wild about now. Kolo?”
“I’m more interested in these walls,” Raoden said, staring at the beautiful murals. The room was rectangular and squat, barely eight feet tall, but it was brilliantly decorated with painted walls and a double row of sculpted columns. “Hold the lantern up.”
White-haired figures with silver skin coated the walls, their two-dimensional forms engaged in various activities. Some knelt before enormous Aons; others walked in rows, heads bowed. There was a sense of formality about the figures.
“This place is holy,” Raoden said. “A shrine of some sort.”
“Religion amongst the Elantrians?” Karata asked.
“They must have had something,” Raoden said. “Perhaps they weren’t as convinced of their own divinity as the rest of Arelon.” He shot an inquiring look at Galladon.
“My father never spoke of religion,” the Dula said. “But his people kept many secrets, even from their families.”
“Over there,” Karata said, pointing at the far end of the rectangular room, where the wall held only a single mural. It depicted a large mirrorlike blue oval. An Elantrian stood facing the oval, his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. He appeared to be flying toward the blue disk. The rest of the wall was black, though there was a large white sphere on the other side of the oval.
“Lake.” The old Elantrian’s voice was quiet but insistent.
“It’s painted sideways,” Karata said. “See, he’s falling into a lake.”
Raoden nodded. The Elantrian in the picture wasn’t flying, he was falling. The oval was the surface of a lake, lines on its sides depicting a shore.
“It’s like the water was considered a gate of some sort,” Galladon said, head cocked to the side.
“And he wants us to throw him in,” Raoden realized. “Galladon, did you ever see an Elantrian funeral?”
The Dula shook his head. “Never.”
“Come on,” Raoden said, looking down at the old man’s eyes. They pointed insistently at a side passage.
Beyond the doorway was a room even more amazing than the first. Karata held up her lantern in a wavering hand.
“Books,” Raoden whispered with excitement. Their light shone on rows and rows of bookshelves extending into the darkness. The three wandered into the enormous room, feeling an incredible sense of age. Dust coated the shelves, and their footsteps left tracks.
“Have you noticed something odd about this place, sule?” Galladon asked softly.
“No slime,” Karata said.
“No slime,” Galladon agreed.
“You’re right,” Raoden said, amazed. He had grown so used to New Elantris’s clean streets that he’d almost forgotten how much work it took to make them that way.
“I haven’t found a single place in this town that wasn’t covered in that slime, sule,” Galladon said. “Even my father’s study was coated with it before I cleaned it.”
“There’s something else,” Raoden said, looking back at the room’s stone wall. “Look up there.”
“A lantern,” Galladon said with surprise.
“They line the walls.”
“But why not use Aons?” the Dula asked. “They did everywhere else.”
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “I wondered the same thing about the entrance. If they could make Aons that transported them instantly around the city, then they certainly could have made one that lowered a rock.”
“You’re right,” Galladon said.
“AonDor must have been forbidden here for some reason,” Karata guessed as they reached the far side of the library.
“No Aons, no slime. Coincidence?” Galladon asked.
“Perhaps,” Raoden said, checking the old man’s eyes. He pointed insistently at a small door in the wall. It was carved with a scene similar to the mural in the first room.
Galladon pulled open the door, revealing a long, seemingly endless passage cut into the stone. “Where in Doloken does this lead?”
“Out,” Raoden said. “The man asked us to take him out of Elantris.”
Karata walked into the passage, running her fingers along its smoothly carved walls. Raoden and Galladon followed. The path quickly grew steep, and they were forced to take frequent breaks to rest their weak Elantrian bodies. They took turns carrying the old man as the slope turned to stairs. It took close to an hour to reach the path’s end—a simple wooden door, uncarved and unadorned.
Galladon pushed it open, and stepped out into the weak light of dawn. “We’re on the mountain,” he exclaimed.
Raoden stepped out beside his friend, walking onto a short platform cut into the mountainside. The slope beyond the platform was steep, but Raoden could make out the hints of switchbacks leading down. Abutting the slope to the north was the city of Kae, and to the northwest stood the enormous monolith that was Elantris.
He had never really realized just how big Elantris was. It made Kae look like a village. Surrounding Elantris were the ghostly remains of the three other outer cities—towns that, like Kae, had once squatted in the shadow of the great city. All were now abandoned. Without Elantris’s magics, there was no way for Arelon to support such a concentration of people. The cities’ inhabitants had been forcibly removed, becoming Iadon’s workmen and farmers.
“Sule, I think our friend is getting impatient.”
Raoden looked down at the Elantrian. The man’s eyes twitched back and forth insistently, pointing at a wide path leading up from the platform. “More climbing.” Raoden sighed.
“Not much,” Karata said from the top of the path. “It ends just up here.”
Raoden nodded and hiked the short distance, joining Karata on the ridge above the platform.
“Lake,” the man whispered in exhausted satisfaction.
Raoden frowned. The “lake” was barely ten feet deep—more like a pool. Its water was a crystalline blue, and Raoden could see no inlets or outlets.
“What now?” Galladon asked.
“We put him in,” Raoden guessed, kneeling to lower the Elantrian into the pool. The man floated for a moment in the vivid sapphire water, then released a blissful sigh. The sound opened a longing within Raoden, an intense desire to be free of his pains both physical and mental. The old Elantrian’s face seemed to smooth, his eyes alive again.
Those eyes held Raoden’s for a moment, thanks shining therein. Then the man dissolved.
“Doloken!” Galladon cursed as the old Elantrian melted away like sugar in a cup of adolis tea. In barely a second, the man was gone, no sign remaining of flesh, bone, or blood.
“I’d be careful if I were you, my prince,” Karata suggested.
Raoden looked down, realizing how close he was to the pool’s edge. The pain screamed; his body shook, as if it knew how close it was to relief. All he had to do was fall.…
Raoden stood, stumbling as he backed away from the beckoning pool. He wasn’t ready. He wouldn’t be ready until the pain ruled him—as long as he had will left, he would struggle.
He placed a hand on Galladon’s shoulder. “When I am Hoed, bring me here. Don’t make me live in pain.”
“You’re young to Elantris yet, sule,” Galladon said scoffingly. “You’ll last for years.”
The pain raged in Raoden, making his knees tremble. “Just promise, my friend. Swear to me you will bring me here.”
“I swear, Raoden,” Galladon said solemnly, his eyes worried.
Raoden nodded. “Come, we have a long trek back to the city.”