RAODEN awoke to new pains. The sharpest was at the back of his head, but there were others—scratches, bruises, and cuts across his entire body.
For a moment it was almost too much. Each wound stung sharply, never deadening, never weakening. Fortunately he had spent weeks dealing with the Dor’s all-powerful attacks. Compared to those crushing monuments of agony, the ordinary pains of his body—no matter how severe—seemed weaker. Ironically, the very force that had nearly destroyed him now allowed him to keep insanity at bay.
Though dazed, he could feel himself being picked up and thrown onto something hard—a saddle. He lost track of time as the horse cantered, and he was forced to struggle against the darkness of insensibility. There were voices around him, but they spoke in Fjordell, which he didn’t understand.
The horse stopped. Raoden opened his eyes with a groan as hands pulled him off the beast and set him on the ground.
“Wake up, Elantrian,” said a voice speaking Aonic.
Raoden raised his head, blinking confused eyes. It was still night, and he could smell the thick scent of smoke. They were at the base of a hill—Kiin’s hill. The blockish house stood only a few yards away, but he could barely make it out. His vision swam, everything blurry.
Merciful Domi, he thought, let Sarene be safe.
“I know you can hear me, Princess,” Dilaf yelled. “Look who I have here. Let us make a deal.”
“No!” Raoden tried to say, but it came out as a croak. The blow to his head had done something to his brain. He could barely keep himself upright, let alone speak. The worst part was, he knew it would never improve.
He could not heal—now that the dizziness had come upon him, it would never leave.
* * *
“YOU REALIZE THAT there is no negotiating with him,” Kiin said quietly. They watched Dilaf and the staggering Raoden through one of Kiin’s slitlike windows.
Sarene nodded quietly, feeling chill. Raoden wasn’t doing well; he wobbled as he stood, looking disoriented in the firelight. “Merciful Domi. What have they done to him?”
“Don’t look, ’Ene,” Kiin said, turning away from the window. His enormous axe—the axe of Dreok the pirate—stood ready in the corner.
“I can’t look away,” Sarene whispered. “I have to at least speak to him—to say goodbye.”
Kiin sighed, then nodded. “All right. Let’s go to the roof. At the first sign of bows, however, we’re locking ourselves back in.”
Sarene nodded solemnly, and the two climbed the steps up onto the roof. She approached the roof’s ledge, looking down at Dilaf and Raoden. If she could convince the priest to take her in exchange for Raoden, she would do it. However, she suspected that Dilaf would demand the entire household, and Sarene could never agree to such a thing. Daora and the children huddled in the basement under Lukel’s care. Sarene would not betray them, no matter whom Dilaf held hostage.
She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that her words would probably be the last Raoden ever heard.
* * *
“GO!” DILAF ORDERED.
Hrathen stood by, a dismayed observer, as Sarene fell into Dilaf’s trap. The Dakhor monks sprang forward, jumping from hiding places along the base of the building. They leaped to the walls, their feet seeming to stick as they found tiny footholds between bricks and arrow slits. Several monks, already in place hanging from the back of the rooftop, swung up and cut off Sarene’s escape.
Hrathen could hear startled yells as Sarene and her companion realized their predicament. It was too late. A few moments later, a Dakhor jumped down from the rooftop, a struggling princess in his arms.
“Hrathen, get me your seon,” Dilaf ordered.
Hrathen complied, opening the metal box and letting the ball of light float free. Hrathen hadn’t bothered asking how the monk knew about the seon. The Dakhor were Wyrn’s favored warriors; their leader would be privy to many of his secrets.
“Seon, I wish to speak with King Eventeo,” Dilaf said.
The seon complied. Soon its light molded into the head of an overweight man with a proud face.
“I do not know you,” Eventeo said. “Who calls for me in the middle of the night?”
“I am the man who has your daughter, King,” Dilaf said, prodding Sarene in the side. The princess yelped despite herself.
Eventeo’s head turned, as if searching out the source of the sound, though he would only be able to see Dilaf’s face. “Who are you?”
“I am Dilaf. Gragdet of the Dakhor Monastery.”
“Merciful Domi…” Eventeo whispered.
Dilaf’s eyes thinned, and he smiled evilly. “I thought you had converted, Eventeo. No matter. Wake your soldiers and gather them on their ships. I will arrive in Teoras one hour from now, and if they are not ready to present a formal surrender, I will kill the girl.”
“Father, no!” Sarene yelled. “He can’t be trusted!”
“Sarene?” Eventeo asked anxiously.
“One hour, Eventeo,” Dilaf said. Then he swiped his hand in the air dismissively. The king’s confused face melted back into the smooth spherical shape of a seon.
“You will kill the Teos as well,” Hrathen said in Fjordell.
“No,” Dilaf said. “Others will perform those executions. I will just kill their king, then burn Teod’s ships with the sailors still on them. Once the armada is gone, Wyrn can land his armies on Teod’s shore and use the country as a battleground to prove his might.”
“It is unnecessary, you know,” Hrathen said, feeling sick. “I had him—Eventeo was mine.”
“He might have converted, Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “but you are simpleminded if you think he would have allowed our troops to land on his soil.”
“You are a monster,” Hrathen whispered. “You will slaughter two kingdoms to feed your paranoia. What happened to make you hate Elantris so much?”
“Enough!” Dilaf shouted. “Do not think I will hesitate to kill you, Gyorn. The Dakhor are outside the law!” The monk stared at Hrathen with menacing eyes, then slowly calmed, breathing deeply as he noticed his captives again.
The still disoriented Raoden was stumbling toward his wife, who was being held by a quiet Dakhor. The prince reached out to her, his arm wavering.
“Oh,” Dilaf said, unsheathing his sword. “I forgot about you.” He smirked as he rammed the blade through Raoden’s stomach.
* * *
THE PAIN WASHED over Raoden like a sudden flood of light. He hadn’t even seen the thrust coming.
But he felt it. Groaning, he stumbled to his knees. The agony was unimaginable, even for one whose pain had been building steadily for two months. He held his stomach with trembling hands. He could sense the Dor. It felt … close.
It was too much. The woman he loved was in danger, and he could do nothing. The pain, the Dor, his failure … The soul that was Raoden crumpled beneath their combined weight, giving a final sigh of resignation.
After that there was no longer pain, for there was no longer self. There was nothing.
* * *
SARENE SCREAMED AS Raoden fell to the ground. She could see the suffering in his face, and she felt the sword as if it had been run through her own stomach. She shuddered, weeping as Raoden struggled for a moment, his legs working. Then he just … stopped.
“Failed…” Raoden whispered, his lips forming a Hoed mantra. “Failed my love. Failed…”
“Bring her,” Dilaf said. The words, spoken in Fjordell, barely registered in Sarene’s mind.
“And the others?” a monk asked.
“Gather them with the rest of the people in this accursed town and take them into Elantris,” Dilaf said. “You will find the Elantrians near the center of the city, in a place that seems more clean.”
“We found them, my gragdet,” the monk said. “Our men have already attacked.”
“Ah, good,” Dilaf said with a hiss of pleasure. “Make certain you gather their bodies—Elantrians do not die as easily as normal men, and we do not want to let any of them escape.”
“Yes, my gragdet.”
“When you have them all in one place—bodies, Elantrians, and future Elantrians—say the purification rites. Then burn them all.”
“Yes, my gragdet,” the warrior said, bowing his head.
“Come, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “You will accompany me to Teoras.”
Sarene fell into a disbelieving stupor as they pulled her away, watching Raoden until his slumped form was no longer visible in the night.