RAODEN was wrong about Shaor’s men. A few of them came to him that night to cook their food, the light of consciousness shining weakly in their eyes. The rest—the majority of Shaor’s followers—did not.
They came to him for another reason.
He watched several of them pull a large stone block on one of Mareshe’s sleds. Their minds were gone—their capacity for rational thought atrophied somehow by their extended submersion in bestial madness. While several had recovered—if only partially—the rest seemed beyond help. They never made the connection between fires and cooking; they had simply stood howling over the grain, outraged and confused by their inability to devour it.
No, these men had not fallen into his trap. But they had come anyway—for Raoden had dethroned their god.
He had entered Shaor’s territory and had escaped unscathed. He had power over food; he could make it inedible for one but succulent for another. His soldiers had repeatedly defeated Shaor’s band. To their simple, degenerate minds there was only one thing to do when faced by a god more powerful than their own: convert.
They came to him the morning after his attempt at restoring their intelligence. He had been walking the perimeter of New Elantris’s short defensive wall, and seen them slinking down one of the city’s main thoroughfares. He had raised the call, thinking they had finally decided to mount a coordinated attack.
But Shaor’s men had not come to fight. They had come to give him a gift: the head of their former god. Or at least her hair. The lead madman had tossed the golden wig at Raoden’s feet, its follicles stained with dark, stagnant Elantrian blood.
Despite searching, his people never found Shaor’s body.
Then, the fleece of their fallen goddess lying in the slime before them, the wildmen had bowed their faces to the ground in supplication. They now did exactly as Raoden said in all things. In turn, he had rewarded them with morsels of food, just as one would a favored pet.
It disturbed him, using men like beasts. He made other efforts to restore their rational minds, but even after just two days he knew that it was a futile hope. These men had surrendered their intellect—and regardless of whether psychology or the Dor was to blame, it would never return.
They were remarkably well behaved—docile, even. The pain didn’t seem to affect them, and they performed any duty, no matter how menial or laborious. If Raoden told them to push on a building until it fell over, he expected he could return days later to find them still standing against the same wall, their palms pressed against the belligerent stone. Yet despite their apparent obedience, Raoden didn’t trust them. They had murdered Saolin; they had even killed their former master. They were calm only because their god currently demanded it.
“Kayana,” Galladon declared, joining him.
“There’s not much left, is there?” Karata agreed.
The kayana was Galladon’s name for them. It meant the insane.
“Poor souls,” Raoden whispered.
Galladon nodded. “You sent for us, sule?”
“Yes, I did. Come with me.”
* * *
THE INCREASED MANPOWER of the kayana had given Mareshe and his workers the means to reconstruct some stone furniture, thereby conserving their already dwindling wood resources. Raoden’s new table inside the chapel was the same one that he had used to make Taan remember his stonecarving days. A large crack—patched with mortar—ran down the middle, but other than that it was remarkably intact, the carvings worn but distinct.
The table held several books. The recent restoration of New Elantris required Raoden’s leadership, making it difficult for him to sneak away to the hidden library, so he had brought out several volumes. The people were accustomed to seeing him with books, and hadn’t thought to question him—even though these tomes still had leather covers on them.
He studied AonDor with increasing urgency. The pain had grown. Sometimes it struck with such ferocity that Raoden collapsed, struggling against the agony. It was still manageable, if only barely, but it was growing worse. It had been five weeks since he entered Elantris, and he doubted he would see another five weeks come and go.
“I don’t see why you insist on sharing every AonDor detail with us, sule,” Galladon said, sighing as Raoden approached an open tome. “I barely understand half of what you tell us.”
“Galladon, you must force yourself to remember these things,” Raoden said. “No matter what you claim, I know you have the intellect for it.”
“Perhaps,” Galladon admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. AonDor is your hobby, not mine.”
“Listen, my friend,” Raoden said, “I know AonDor holds the secret to our curse. In time, with study, we can find the clues we need. But,” he continued, holding up a finger, “if something should happen to me, then there has to be someone to continue my work.”
Galladon snorted. “You’re about as close to becoming a Hoed as I am to being a Fjordell.”
I hide it well. “That doesn’t matter,” Raoden said. “It is foolish not to have a backup. I’ll write these things down, but I want you two to hear what I have to say.”
Galladon sighed. “All right, sule, what have you discovered? Another modifier to increase the range of an Aon?”
Raoden smiled. “No, this is far more interesting. I know why Elantris is covered in slime.”
Karata and Galladon perked up. “Really?” Karata asked, looking down at the open book. “Does it explain that here?”
“No, it’s a combination of several things,” Raoden said. “The key element, however, is this.” He pointed to an illustration.
“Aon Ashe?” Galladon asked.
“Correct,” Raoden said. “You know that Elantrian skin was so silvery that some people claimed it glowed.”
“It did,” Galladon said. “Not brightly, but when my father walked into a dark room, you could see his outline.”
“Well, the Dor was behind it,” Raoden said. “Every Elantrian’s body is connected constantly to the Dor. The same link existed between Elantris itself and the Dor, though the scholars don’t know why. The Dor infused the entire city, making stone and wood shine as if some quiet flame were burning within.”
“It must have been difficult to sleep,” Karata noted.
“You could cover it up,” Raoden said. “But the effect of the lighted city was so spectacular that many Elantrians just accepted it as natural, learning to sleep even with the glow.”
“Fascinating,” Galladon said indifferently. “So what does this have to do with the slime?”
“There are fungi and molds that live on light, Galladon,” Raoden said. “The Dor’s illumination was different from ordinary light, however, and it attracted a different kind of fungus. Apparently a thin translucent film grew on most things. The Elantrians didn’t bother to clean it off—it was practically imperceptible, and it in fact enhanced the radiance. The mold was tough, and it didn’t make much mess. Until it died.”
“The light faded…” Karata said.
“And the fungus rotted,” Raoden said with a nod. “Since the mold once covered the entire city, now the slime does as well.”
“So, what’s the point?” Galladon asked, yawning.
“This is another string in the web,” Raoden said, “another clue as to what happened when the Reod struck. We have to work backward, my friend. We are only now starting to pinpoint the symptoms of an event that happened ten years ago. Maybe after we understand everything the Reod did, we can begin to guess what might have caused it.”
“The slime explanation makes sense, my prince,” Karata said. “I’ve always known that there was something unnatural about that grime. I’ve stood outside in the rain, watching waves of water pound against a stone wall without cleaning it a speck.”
“The slime is oily,” Raoden said, “and repels water. Have you heard Kahar talk about how difficult it is to scrub away?”
Karata nodded, leafing through the tome. “These books contain much information.”
“They do,” Raoden said. “Though the scholars who wrote them could be frustratingly obscure. It takes a great deal of studying to find answers to specific questions.”
“Such as?” Karata asked.
Raoden frowned. “Well, for one thing, I haven’t found a single book that mentions how to make seons.”
“None at all?” Karata asked with surprise.
Raoden shook his head. “I always assumed that seons were created by AonDor, but if so, the books don’t explain how. A lot of them talk about the Passing of famous seons from one person to another, but that’s about it.”
“Passing?” Karata asked, frowning.
“Giving the seon to another person,” Raoden said. “If you have one, you can give it to someone else—or you can tell it who it’s supposed to go and serve if you should die.”
“So an ordinary person could have a seon?” she asked. “I thought it was only noblemen.”
Raoden shook his head. “It’s all up to the previous owner.”
“Though a nobleman’s not likely to Pass his seon to some random peasant,” Galladon said. “Seons, like wealth, tend to say in the family. Kolo?”
Karata frowned. “So … what happens if the owner dies, and hasn’t told the seon who to move on to?”
Raoden paused, then shrugged, looking to Galladon.
“Don’t look at me, sule,” Galladon said. “I never had a seon.”
“I don’t know,” Raoden admitted. “I guess it would just choose its next master on its own.”
“And if it didn’t want to?” Karata asked.
“I don’t think it would have a choice,” Raoden said. “There’s … something about seons and their masters. They’re bonded, somehow. Seons go mad when their masters are taken by the Shaod, for instance. I think they were created to serve—it’s part of their magic.”
Karata nodded.
“My lord Spirit!” called an approaching voice.
Raoden raised an eyebrow, closing the tome.
“My lord,” Dashe said as he rushed through the door. The tall Elantrian looked more confused than worried.
“What is it, Dashe?” Raoden asked.
“It’s the gyorn, my lord,” Dashe said, eyes alight with excitement. “He’s been healed.”