Elantris (Elantris 1)

Galladon sighed. “If you wish.”

“I do. If I’m going to do any good in Elantris, I need to win followers because they like what I’m doing, not because they feel a patriotic obligation.”

Galladon nodded. “You could have at least told me, sule.”

“You said we shouldn’t talk about our pasts.”

“True.”

Raoden paused. “Of course, you know what this means.”

Galladon eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“Now that you know who I was, you have to tell me who you were. It’s only fair.”

Galladon’s response was long in coming. They had almost arrived at the church before he spoke. Raoden slowed his walk, not wanting to break off his friend’s narration by arriving at their destination. He needn’t have worried—Galladon’s declaration was brief and pointed.

“I was a farmer,” he said curtly.

“A farmer?” Raoden had been expecting something more.

“And an orchard-keeper. I sold my fields and bought an apple farm because I figured it would be easier—you don’t have to replant trees every year.”

“Was it?” Raoden asked. “Easier, I mean?”

Galladon shrugged. “I thought it was, though I know a couple of wheat farmers that would argue with me until the sun set. Kolo?” The larger man looked at Raoden with an insightful eye. “You don’t think I’m telling the truth about my past, do you?”

Raoden smiled, spreading his hands before him. “I’m sorry, Galladon, but you just don’t seem like a farmer to me. You have the build for it, but you seem too …”

“Intelligent?” Galladon asked. “Sule, I’ve seen some farmers with minds so sharp you could have used their heads to scythe grain.”

“I don’t doubt that you have,” Raoden said. “But, intelligent or not, those types still tend to be uneducated. You are a learned man, Galladon.”

“Books, sule, are a wonderful thing. A wise farmer has time to study, assuming he lives in a country such as Duladen, where men are free.”

Raoden raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re going to hold to this farmer story?”

“It’s the truth, sule,” Galladon said. “Before I became an Elantrian, I was a farmer.”

Raoden shrugged. Perhaps. Galladon had been able to predict the rain, as well as do a number of other eminently practical things. Still, it seemed like there was something more, something he wasn’t ready to share yet.

“All right,” Raoden said appreciatively. “I believe you.”

Galladon nodded curtly, his expression saying he was very glad the matter was settled. Whatever he was hiding, it wouldn’t come out this day. So, instead, Raoden took the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since the first day he came into Elantris.

“Galladon,” he asked, “where are the children?”

“Children, sule?”

“Yes, if the Shaod strikes randomly, then it should strike children as well as adults.”

Galladon nodded. “It does. I’ve seen babes barely old enough to walk get thrown in those gates.”

“Then where are they? I only see adults.”

“Elantris is a harsh place, sule,” Galladon said quietly as they strode through the doors to Raoden’s broken-down church. “Children don’t last very long here.”

“Yes, but—” Raoden cut himself off as he saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned with surprise.

“A Seon,” Galladon said, noticing the glowing ball.

“Yes,” Raoden said, watching the Seon float slowly through the open ceiling and spin in a lazy circle around the two men. “It’s so sad how they just drift around the city like this. I …” he trailed off, squinting slightly, trying to make out which Aon glowed at the center of the strange, silent Seon.

“Sule?” Galladon asked.

“Idos Domi,” Raoden whispered. “It’s Ien.”

“The Seon? You recognize it?”

Raoden nodded, holding out his hand with the palm up. The Seon floated over and alighted on his proffered palm for a moment; then it began to float away, flitting around the room like a careless butterfly.

“Ien was my Seon,” Raoden said. “Before I was thrown in here.” He could see the Aon at Ien’s center now. The character looked … weak, somehow. It glowed unevenly, sections of the character very dim, like …

Like the blotches on an Elantrian’s skin, Raoden realized, watching Ien float away. The Seon headed for the wall of the church, continuing on until he bounced against it. The small ball of light hovered for a moment, contemplating the wall, then spun away to float in a different direction. There was an awkwardness to the Seon’s motion—as if Ien could barely keep himself upright in the air. He jerked occasionally, and constantly moved in slow, dizzy loops.

Raoden’s stomach turned as he regarded what was left of his friend. He’d avoided thinking about Ien too much during his days in Elantris; he knew what happened to Seons when their masters were taken by the Shaod. He’d assumed—perhaps hoped—that Ien had been destroyed by the Shaod, as sometimes happened.

Raoden shook his head. “Ien used to be so wise. I never knew a creature, Seon or man, more thoughtful than he.”

“I’m … sorry, sule,” Galladon said solemnly.

Raoden held out his hand again, and the Seon approached dutifully, as it had once done for the young boy Raoden—a boy who hadn’t yet learned that Seons were more valuable as friends than as servants.

Does he recognize me? Raoden wondered, watching the Seon lurch slightly in the air before him. Or is it just the familiar gesture that he recognizes?

Raoden would probably never know. After hovering above the palm for a second, the Seon lost interest and floated away again.

“Oh, my dear friend,” Raoden whispered. “And I thought the Shaod had been harsh to me.”

CHAPTER 11

Only five men responded to Kiin’s request. Lukel scowled at the meager turnout. “Raoden had as many as thirty men at his meetings before he died,” the handsome merchant explained. “I didn’t expect them all to come running, but five? That’s barely even worth our time.”

“It’s enough, son,” Kiin said thoughtfully, peeking through the kitchen door. “They may be few in number, but we got the best of the lot. Those are five of the most powerful men in the nation, not to mention five of the most intelligent. Raoden had a way of attracting clever men to his side.”

“Kiin, you old bear,” one of the men called from the dining room. He was a stately man with graying lines of silver hair who wore a sharp martial uniform. “Are you going to feed us or not? Domi knows I only came because I heard you were going to fix some of your roast ketathum.”

“The pig is turning as we speak, Eondel,” Kiin called back. “And I made sure to prepare a double portion for you. Keep your stomach in check for a little while longer.”

The man laughed heartily, patting his belly—which, as far as Sarene could tell, was as flat and hard as that of a man many years younger. “Who is he?” she asked.