Elantris by Brandon Sanderson
“What was that?” Hrathen asked, approaching several guards who stood in a ring of glittering torchlight.
The guards shrugged, though one pointed at two forms walking through the darkened courtyard below. “They must have caught someone trying to escape.”
Hrathen wrinkled his brow. “Does that happen often?”
The guard shook his head. “Most of them are too mindless to try escaping. Every once in a while, one tries to scurry away, but we always catch ’em.”
“Thank you,” Hrathen said, leaving the guards behind as he began the long descent to the city below. At the foot of the stairs he found the main guardhouse. The captain was inside, his eyes drowsy as if he had just awakened.
“Trouble, Captain?” Hrathen asked.
The captain turned with surprise. “Oh, it’s you, Gyorn. No, no trouble. Just one of my lieutenants doing something he shouldn’t have.”
“Letting some Elantrians back into the city?” Hrathen asked.
The captain frowned, but nodded. Hrathen had met the man several times, and at each encounter he had fostered the captain’s greed with a few coins. This man was nearly his.
“Next time, Captain,” Hrathen said, reaching onto his belt and pulling out a pouch, “I can offer you a different option.”
The captain’s eyes shone as Hrathen began to pull gold wyrnings—stamped with Wyrn Wulfden’s head—out of the pouch.
“I have been wanting to study one of these Elantrians up close, for theological reasons,” Hrathen explained, setting a pile of coins on the table. “I would be appreciative if the next captured Elantrian found his way to my chapel before being thrown back into the city.”
“That can probably be arranged, my lord,” the captain said, slipping the coins off the table with an eager hand.
“No one would have to know about it, of course,” Hrathen said.
“Of course, my lord.”
CHAPTER 16
Raoden had once tried to set Ien free. He had been a young boy then, simple of mind but pure of intention. He had been learning about slavery from one of his tutors, and had somehow gotten it into his mind that the Seons were being held against their will. He had gone to Ien tearfully that day, demanding that the Seon accept his freedom.
“But I am free, young master,” Ien had replied to the crying boy.
“No you’re not!” Raoden had argued. “You’re a slave—you do whatever people tell you.”
“I do it because I want to, Raoden.”
“Why? Don’t you want to be free?”
“I want to serve, young master,” Ien explained, pulsing reassuringly. “My freedom is to be here, with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You look at things as a human, young master,” Ien said with his wise, indulgent voice. “You see rank and distinction; you try to order the world so that everything has a place either above you or beneath you. To a Seon, there is no above or beneath, there are only those we love. And we serve those we love.”
“But you don’t even get paid!” had been Raoden’s indignant response.
“But I do, young master. My payment is that of a father’s pride and a mother’s love. My wages come from the satisfaction of seeing you grow.”
It had been many years before Raoden understood those words, but they had always remained in his mind. As he had grown and learned, listening to countless Korathi sermons on the unifying power of love, Raoden had come to see Seons in a new way. Not as servants, or even as friends, but as something much more deep and more powerful. It was as if the Seons were an expression of Domi himself, reflections of God’s love for his people. Through their service, they were much closer to heaven than their supposed masters could ever really understand.
“You’re finally free, my friend,” Raoden said with a wan smile as he watched Ien float and bob. He still hadn’t been able to get even a flicker of recognition from the Seon, though Ien did seem to stay in Raoden’s general vicinity. Whatever the Shaod had done to Ien, it had taken away more than just his voice. It had broken his mind.
“I think I know what’s wrong with him,” Raoden said to Galladon, who sat in the shade a short distance away. They were on a rooftop a few buildings down from the chapel, ejected from their habitual place of study by an apologetic Kahar. The old man had been cleaning furiously in the days since his arrival, and the time had finally come for the final polishing. Early in the morning he had contritely, but insistently, thrown them all out so he could finish.
Galladon looked up from his book. “Who? The Seon?”
Raoden nodded, lying on his stomach near the edge of what was once a garden wall, still watching Ien. “His Aon isn’t complete.”
“Ien,” Galladon said thoughtfully. “That’s healing. Kolo?”
“That’s right. Except his Aon isn’t complete anymore—there are tiny breaks in its lines, and patches of weakness in its color.”
Galladon grunted, but didn’t offer anything more; he wasn’t as interested in Aons or Seons as Raoden was. Raoden watched Ien for a few more moments before turning back to his study of the AonDor book. He didn’t get far, however, before Galladon brought up a topic of his own.
“What do you miss most, sule?” the Dula asked contemplatively.
“Miss most? About the outside?”
“Kolo,” Galladon said. “What one thing would you bring here to Elantris if you could?”
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “I’d have to think about it. What about you?”
“My house,” Galladon said with a reminiscent tone. “I built it myself, sule. Felled every tree, worked every board, and pounded every nail. It was beautiful—no mansion or palace can compete with the work of one’s own hands.”
Raoden nodded, imagining the cabin in his mind. What had he owned that he missed the most strongly? He had been the son of a king, and had therefore had many possessions. The answer he came up with, however, surprised him.
“Letters,” he said. “I’d bring a stack of letters.”
“Letters, sule?” It obviously hadn’t been the response he had been expecting. “From whom?”
“A girl.”
Galladon laughed. “A woman, sule? I never figured you for the romantic type.”
“Just because I don’t mope around dramatically like a character from one of your Duladen romances doesn’t mean I don’t think about such things.”
Galladon held up his hands defensively. “Don’t get DeluseDoo on me, sule. I’m just surprised. Who was this girl?”
“I was going to marry her,” Raoden explained.
“Must have been some woman.”
“Must have been,” Raoden agreed. “I wish I could have met her.”
“You never met her?”
Raoden shook his head. “Hence the letters, my friend. She lived in Teod—she was the king’s daughter, as a matter of fact. She started sending me letters about a year ago. She was a beautiful writer, her words were laced with such wit that I couldn’t help but respond. We continued to write for the better part of five months; then she proposed.”
“She proposed to you?” Galladon asked.
“Unabashedly,” Raoden said with a smile. “It was, of course, politically motivated. Sarene wanted a firm union between Teod and Arelon.”
“And you accepted?”
“It was a good opportunity,” Raoden explained. “Ever since the Reod, Teod has kept its distance from Arelon. Besides, those letters were intoxicating. This last year has been … difficult. My father seems determined to run Arelon to its ruin, and he is not a man who suffers dissent with patience. But, whenever it seemed that my burdens were too great, I would get a letter from Sarene. She had a Seon too, and after the engagement was formalized we began to speak regularly. She would call in the evenings, her voice drifting from Ien to captivate me. We left the link open for hours sometimes.”
“What was that you said about not moping around like a character from a romance?” Galladon said wi
Raoden snorted, turning back to his book. “So, there you have it. If I could have anything, I’d want those letters. I was actually excited about the marriage, even if the union was just a reaction to the Derethi invasion of Duladel.”
There was silence.
“What was that you just said, Raoden?” Galladon finally asked in a quiet voice.
“What? Oh, about the letters?”
“No. About Duladel.”
Raoden paused. Galladon had claimed to have entered Elantris a “few months” ago, but Dulas were known for understatement. The Duladen Republic had fallen just over six months previously….
“I assumed you knew,” Raoden said.
“What, sule?” Galladon demanded. “Assumed I knew what?”
“I’m sorry, Galladon,” Raoden said with compassion, turning around and sitting up. “The Duladen Republic collapsed.”
“No,” Galladon breathed, his eyes wide.
Raoden nodded. “There was a revolution, like the one in Arelon ten years ago, but even more violent. The republican class was completely destroyed, and a monarchy was instituted.”
“Impossible…. The republic was strong—we all believed in it so much.”
“Things change, my friend,” Raoden said, standing and walking over to place a hand on Galladon’s shoulder.
“Not the republic, sule,” Galladon said, his eyes unfocused. “We all got to choose who ruled, sule. Why rise up against that?”
Raoden shook his head. “I don’t know—not much information escaped. It was a chaotic time in Duladel, which is why the Fjordell priests were able to step in and seize power.”
Galladon looked up. “That means Arelon is in trouble. We were always there to keep the Derethi away from your borders.”
“I realize that.”
“What happened to Jesker?” he asked. “My religion, what happened to it?”
Raoden simply shook his head.
“You have to know something!”
“Shu-Dereth is the state religion in Duladel now,” Raoden said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Galladon’s eyes fell. “It’s gone then.”
“There are still the Mysteries,” Raoden offered weakly.
Galladon frowned, his eyes hard. “The Mysteries are not the same thing as Jesker, sule. They are a mockery of things sacred. A perversion. Only outsiders—those without any sort of true understanding of the Dor—practice the Mysteries.”
Raoden left his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder, unsure how to comfort him. “I thought you knew,” he said again, feeling helpless.
Galladon simply groaned, staring absently with morose eyes.
_______
Raoden left Galladon on the rooftop; the large Dula wanted to be alone with his grief. Unsure what else to do, Raoden returned to the chapel, distracted by his thoughts. He didn’t remain distracted for long.
“Kahar, it’s beautiful!” Raoden exclaimed, looking around with wonder.
The old man looked up from the corner he had been cleaning. There was a deep look of pride on his face. The chapel was empty of sludge; all that remained was clean, whitish gray marble. Sunlight flooded through the western windows, reflecting off the shiny floor and illuminating the entire chapel with an almost divine brilliance. Shallow reliefs covered nearly every surface. Only half an inch deep, the detailed sculptures had been lost in the sludge. Raoden ran his fingers across one of the tiny masterpieces, the expressions on the people’s faces so detailed as to be lifelike.
“They’re amazing,” he whispered.
“I didn’t even know they were there, my lord,” Kahar said, hobbling over to stand next to Raoden. “I didn’t see them until I started cleaning, and then they were lost in the shadows until I finished the floor. The marble is so smooth it could be a mirror, and the windows are placed just right to catch the light.”
“And the reliefs run all around the room?”
“Yes, my lord. Actually, this isn’t the only building that has them. You’ll occasionally run across a wall or a piece of furniture with carvings on it. They were probably common in Elantris before the Reod.”
Raoden nodded. “It was the city of the gods, Kahar.”
The old man smiled. His hands were black with grime, and a half-dozen ragged cleaning cloths hung from his sash. But he was happy.
“What next, my lord?” he asked eagerly.
Raoden paused, thinking quickly. Kahar had attacked the chapel’s grime with the same holy indignation a priest used to destroy sin. For the first time in months, perhaps years, Kahar had been needed.
“Our people have started living in the nearby buildings, Kahar,” Raoden said. “What good will all your cleaning here do if they track slime in every time we meet?”
Kahar nodded thoughtfully. “The cobblestones are a problem,” he mumbled. “This is a big project, my lord.” His eyes, however, were not daunted.
“I know.” Raoden agreed. “But it is a desperate one. A people who live in filth will feel like filth—if we are ever going to rise above our opinions of ourselves, we are going to need to be clean. Can you do it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll assign you some workers to speed the process.” Raoden’s band had grown enormously over the last few days as the people of Elantris had heard of Karata’s merger with him. Many of the random, ghostlike Elantrians who wandered the streets alone had begun to make their way to Raoden’s band, seeking fellowship as a final, desperate attempt to avoid madness.
Kahar turned to go, his wrinkled face turning around the chapel one last time, admiring it with satisfaction.
“Kahar,” Raoden called.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Do you know what it is? The secret, I mean?”
Kahar smiled. “I haven’t been hungry in days, my lord. It is the most amazing feeling in the world—I don’t even notice the pain anymore.”
Raoden nodded, and Kahar left. The man had come looking for a magical solution to his woes, but he had found an answer much more simple. Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn’t need a potion or an Aon to save him—he just needed something to do.
Raoden strolled through the glowing room, admiring the different sculptures. He paused, however, when he reached the end of a particular relief. The stone was blank for a short section, its white surface polished by Kahar’s careful hand. It was so clean, in fact, that Raoden could see his reflection.
He was stunned. The face that stared out of the marble was unknown to him. He had wondered why so few people recognized him; he had been prince of Arelon, his face known even in many of the outer plantations. He had assumed that the Elantrians simply didn’t expect to find a prince in Elantris, so they didn’t think to associate “Spirit” with Raoden. However, now that he saw the changes in his face, he realized that there was another reason people didn’t recognize him.
There were hints in his features, clues to what had been. The changes, however, were drastic. Only two weeks had passed, but his hair had already fallen out. He had the usual Elantris blotches on his skin, but even the parts that had been flesh-toned a few weeks ago had turned a flat gray. His skin was wrinkling slightly, especially around the lips, and his eyes were beginning to take on a sunken look.
Once, before his own transformation, he had envisioned the Elantrians as living corpses, their flesh rotting and torn. That wasn’t the case; Elantrians retained their flesh and most of their figure, though their skin wrinkled and darkened. They were more withering husks than they were decaying corpses. Yet, even though the transformation wasn’t as drastic as he had once assumed, it was still a shock to see it in himself.
“We are a sorry people, are we not?” Galladon asked from the doorway.
Raoden looked up, smiling encouragingly. “Not as bad as we could be, my friend. I can get used to the changes.”
Galladon grunted, stepping into the chapel. “Your cleaning man does good work, su
“The most beautiful thing, my friend, is the way it freed its cleanser in the process.”
Galladon nodded, joining Raoden beside the wall, looking out at the large crew of people who were clearing the chapel’s garden area. “They’ve been coming in droves, haven’t they, sule?”
“They hear that we offer something more than life in an alley. We don’t even have to watch the gates anymore—Karata brings us everyone she can rescue.”
“How do you intend to keep them all busy?” Galladon asked. “That garden is big, and it’s nearly completely cleared.”
“Elantris is a very large city, my friend. We’ll find things to keep them occupied.”
Galladon watched the people work, his eyes unreadable. He appeared to have overcome his grief, for the moment.
“Speaking of jobs,” Raoden began. “I have something I need you to do.”
“Something to keep my mind off the pain, sule?”
“You could think that. However, this project is a little more important than cleaning sludge.” Raoden waved Galladon to follow as he walked to the back corner of the room and pried a loose stone from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a dozen small bags of corn. “As a farmer, how would you judge the grade of this seed?”
Galladon picked up a kernel with interest, turning it over in his hand a few times, testing its color and its hardness. “Not bad,” he said. “Not the best I’ve seen, but not bad.”
“The planting season is almost here, isn’t it?”
“Considering how warm it’s been lately, I’d say that it’s here already.”
“Good,” Raoden said. “This corn won’t last long in this hole, and I don’t trust leaving it out in the open.”
Galladon shook his head. “It won’t work, sule. Farming takes time before it brings rewards—those people will pull up and eat the first little sprouts they see.”
“I don’t think so,” Raoden said, pushing a few kernels of corn around in his palm. “Their minds are changing, Galladon. They can see that they don’t have to live as animals anymore.”