Elantris (Elantris 1)

“What …?”

Spirit smiled broadly, still holding her hand as he pulled her through the gateway into the village. “Welcome to New Elantris, Sarene. Everything you assumed is no longer valid.”

“I can see that.”

A squat Elantrian woman approached, her dress a mixture of vibrant greens and yellows. She eyed Sarene critically. “I doubt we’ve got anything in her size, Lord Spirit.”

Spirit laughed, taking in Sarene’s height. “Do your best, Maare,” he said, walking toward a low-ceilinged building at the side of the gate. The door was open, and Sarene could see rows of clothing hanging on pegs inside. Embarrassed, she was suddenly aware of her own clothing. She had already stained the white garment with slime and muck.

“Come, dearie,” Maare said, leading her to a second building. “Let’s see what we can do.”

The motherly woman eventually found a dress that fit Sarene reasonably well—or, at least, a blue skirt that showed her legs only up to midcalf, along with a bright red blouse. There were even undergarments, though they too were constructed of bright materials. Sarene didn’t complain—anything was better than her filth-soiled robe.

After pulling on the clothing, Sarene regarded herself in the room’s full-length mirror. Half of her skin was still flesh-toned, but that only made the dark splotches more striking. She assumed that her flesh tones would dim with time, becoming gray like those of the other Elantrians.

“Wait,” she asked hesitantly, “where did the mirror come from?”

“It isn’t a mirror, dearie,” Maare informed as she sifted through socks and shoes. “It’s a flat piece of stone—part of a table, I think—with thin sheets of steel wrapped around it.”

Looking closely, Sarene could see the folds where sheets of steel overlapped one another. All things considered, it made a remarkable mirror. The stone must have been extremely smooth.

“But where—” Sarene stopped. She knew exactly where they had gotten sheets of steel that thin. Sarene herself had sent them, again thinking to get the better of Spirit, who had demanded several sheets of metal as part of his bribe.

Maare disappeared for a moment, then returned with socks and shoes for Sarene. Both were different colors from either her shirt or her skirt. “Here we are,” the woman said. “I had to go over and pilfer these from the men.”

Sarene felt herself blush as she accepted the items.

“Don’t mind, dearie,” Maare said with a laugh. “It makes sense you’d have big feet—Domi knows you need more on the bottom to support all that height! Oh, and here’s the last thing.”

The woman held up a long scarflike piece of orange cloth. “For your head,” Maare said, pointing at the similar cloth wrapped around her own head. “It helps us forget about the hair.”

Sarene nodded thankfully, accepting the scarf and tying it around her scalp. Spirit waited for her outside, wearing a pair of red trousers and a yellow shirt. He smiled as she approached.

“I feel like an insane rainbow,” Sarene confessed, looking down at the menagerie of colors.

Spirit laughed, holding out his hand and leading her deeper into the city. Unconsciously, she found herself judging his height. He’s tall enough for me, she thought almost offhandedly, if only barely. Then, realizing what she was doing, she rolled her eyes. The entire world was toppling around her, and all she could do was size up the man walking next to her.

“… get used to the idea that we all look like secabirds in the spring,” he was saying. “The colors don’t bother you all that much once you wear them for a while. Actually, after the dull monotones of old Elantris, I find them quite refreshing.”

As they walked, Spirit explained New Elantris to her. It wasn’t very large, perhaps fifty buildings in all, but its compact nature made it feel more unified. Though there couldn’t have been many people in the town—five or six hundred at most—there always seemed to be motion around her. Men worked on walls or roofs, women sewed or cleaned—even children ran in the streets. It had never occurred to her that the Shaod would take children as well as adults.

Everyone greeted Spirit as he passed, calling out with welcoming smiles. There was true acceptance in their voices, displaying a level of loving respect Sarene had rarely seen given to a leader; even her father, who was generally well liked, had his dissenters. Of course, it was easier with such a small population, but she was still impressed.

At one point they walked by a man of indecipherable age—it was hard to put years with faces in Elantris—sitting on a stone block. He was short with a large belly, and he didn’t greet them. His inattention, however, was not a sign of incivility—he was just focused on the small object in his hand. Several children stood around the man, watching his bent-over work with eager eyes. As Sarene and Spirit passed, the man held the object out to one of the children; it was a beautifully carved stone horse. The girl clapped ecstatically, accepting the piece with exuberant fingers. The children ran off as the sculptor reached down to select another rock from the ground. He began to scrape at the stone with a short tool; as Sarene peered closely at his fingers, she realized what it was.

“One of my nails!” she said. “He’s using one of the bent nails I sent you.”

“Hmm?” Spirit asked. “Oh, yes. I have to tell you, Sarene, we had quite a time figuring out what to do with that particular box. It would have taken far too much fuel to melt them all down, even assuming we had the tools for smelting. Those nails were one of your more clever adaptations.”

Sarene flushed. These people were fighting to survive in a city deprived of resources, and she had been so petty as to send them bent nails. “I’m sorry. I was afraid you would make weapons out of the steel.”

“You were right to be wary,” Spirit said. “I did, after all, betray you in the end.”

“I’m sure you had a good reason,” she said quickly.

“I did,” he said with a nod. “But that didn’t matter much at the time, did it? You were right about me. I was—am—a tyrant. I kept food back from a part of the population, I broke our agreement, and I caused the deaths of some fine men.”

Sarene shook her head, her voice growing firm. “You are not a tyrant. This community proves that—the people love you, and there cannot be tyranny where there is love.”

He half smiled, his eyes unconvinced. Then, however, he regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Well, I suppose the time during your Trial wasn’t a complete loss. I gained something very important during those weeks.”

“The supplies?” Sarene asked.

“That too.”

Sarene paused, holding his eyes. Then she looked back at the sculptor. “Who is he?”

“His name is Taan,” Spirit said. “Though you might know of him by the name Aanden.”

“The gang leader?” Sarene asked with surprise.

Spirit nodded. “Taan was one of the most accomplished sculptors in Arelon before the Shaod took him. After coming to Elantris, he lost track of himself for a while. He came around eventually.”

They left the sculptor to his work, Spirit showing her through the last few sections of the city. They passed a large building that he referred to as “the Hall of the Fallen,” and the sorrow in his voice kept her from asking about it, though she did see several mindless Shaod Seons floating around above its roof.

Sarene felt a sudden stab of grief. Ashe must be like that now, she thought, remembering the mad Seons she had occasionally seen floating around Elantris. Despite what she’d seen, she’d continued to hope through the night that Ashe would find her. The Korathi priests had locked her in some sort of holding cell to wait—apparently, new Elantrians were only thrown into the city once a day—and she’d stood by the window, wishing he would arrive.

She’d waited in vain. With the confusion at the wedding, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen him. Not wanting to enter the chapel, he’d gone ahead to wait for her in the throne room. When she’d arrived, had she

seen him floating inside the room? Had she heard his voice, calling out amid the other shocked members of the wedding party? Or, was she simply letting hope cloud her memories?

Sarene shook her head, sighing as she let Spirit lead her away from the Hall of the Fallen. She kept looking over her shoulder, glancing upward, expecting Ashe to be there. He always had been before.

At least he isn’t dead, she thought, forcing aside her grief. He’s probably in the city somewhere. I can find him … maybe help him, somehow.

They continued to walk, and Sarene intentionally let herself be distracted by the scenery—she couldn’t bear to think of Ashe anymore. Soon, Spirit led her past several open areas that—looking closely—Sarene realized must be fields. Tiny sprouts were appearing in careful rows piled in the dirt, and several men walked among them, searching for weeds. There was a distinct smell in the air.

Sarene paused. “Fish?”

“Fertilizer,” Spirit said with a chuckle. “That’s one time we managed to get the better of you. We asked for trike knowing full well you would find the nearest barrel of rotten fish to include in the shipment.”

“It seems like you got the better of me more times than not,” Sarene said, remembering with shame the time she had spent gloating over her sly interpretations of the demands. It seemed no matter how twisted her attempt, the New Elantrians had found uses for all of her useless gifts.

“We don’t have much choice, Princess. Everything from pre-Reod Elantris is rotten or befouled; even the stones are starting to crumble. No matter how defective you may have thought those supplies, they were still far more useful than anything left in the city.”

“I was wrong,” Sarene said morosely.

“Don’t start that again,” Spirit said. “If you begin feeling sorry for yourself, I’ll lock you in a room with Galladon for an hour so that you can learn what true pessimism is.”

“Galladon?”

“He was the large fellow you met briefly back at the gates,” Spirit explained.

“The Dula?” Sarene asked with surprise, recalling the large, broad-faced Elantrian with the thick Duladen accent.

“That’s him.”

“A pessimistic Dula?” she repeated. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Spirit laughed again, leading her into a large, stately building. Sarene gasped in wonder at its beauty. It was lined with delicate, spiraled arches, and the floor was crafted of pale white marble. The wall reliefs were even more intricate than those on the Korathi temple in Teoras.

“It’s a chapel,” she said, running her fingers over the intricate marble patterns.

“Yes, it is. How did you know that?”

“These scenes are straight out of the Do-Korath,” she said, looking up with chiding eyes. “Someone didn’t pay much attention in chapel school.”

Spirit coughed to himself. “Well …”

“Don’t even try and convince me you didn’t go,” Sarene said, turning back to the carvings. “You’re obviously a nobleman. You would have gone to church to keep up appearances, even if you weren’t devout.”

“My lady is very astute. I am, of course, Domi’s humble servant—but I’ll admit that my mind sometimes wandered during the sermons.”

“So, who were you?” Sarene asked conversationally, finally asking the question that had bothered her ever since she first met Spirit weeks before.

He paused. “The second son of the Lord of Ien Plantation. A very minor holding in the south of Arelon.”

It could be the truth. She hadn’t bothered memorizing the names of minor lords; it had been difficult enough to keep track of the dukes, counts, and barons. It could also be a lie. Spirit appeared to be at least a passable statesman, and he would know how to tell a convincing falsehood. Whatever he was, he had certainly learned some excellent leadership skills—attributes she had found, for the most part, lacking in the Arelish aristocracy.

“How long—” she began, turning away from the wall. Then she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Spirit was glowing.

A spectral light grew from somewhere within; she could see the lines of his bones silhouetted before some awesome power that burned within his chest. His mouth opened in a voiceless scream; then he collapsed, quivering as the light flared.

Sarene rushed to his side, then paused, unsure what to do. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed him, lifting his head up to keep the spasms from pounding it repeatedly against the cold marble floor. And she felt something.

It brought bumps to her arms and sent a frigid shiver through her body. Something large, something impossibly immense, pressed against her. The air itself seemed to warp away from Spirit’s body. She could no longer see his bones; there was too much light. It was as if he were dissolving into pure whiteness; she would have thought him gone if she hadn’t felt his weight in her arms. His struggles jerked to a stop, and he fell limp.

Then he screamed.

A single note, cold and uniform, flew from his mouth in a defiant yell. The light vanished almost immediately, and Sarene was left with her heart pounding a rhythm in her breast, her arms bathed in anxious sweat, her breathing coming deeply and rapidly.

Spirit’s eyes fluttered open a few moments later. As comprehension slowly returned, he smiled wanly and rested his head back against her arm. “When I opened my eyes, I though that time I had died for certain.”

“What happened?” she asked anxiously. “Should I go for help?”

“No, this is becoming a common occurrence.”

“Common?” Sarene asked slowly. “For … all of us?”

Spirit laughed weakly. “No, just me. I’m the one the Dor is intent on destroying.”

“The Dor?” she asked. “What does Jesker have to do with this?”

He smiled. “So, the fair princess is a religious scholar as well?”

“The fair princess knows a lot of things,” Sarene said dismissively. “I want to know why a ‘humble servant of Domi’ thinks the Jesker overspirit is trying to destroy him.”

Spirit moved to sit, and she helped. “It has to do with AonDor,” he explained with a tired voice.

“AonDor? That’s a heathen legend.” There wasn’t much conviction to her words—not after what she had just seen.

Spirit raised an eyebrow. “So, it’s all right for us to be cursed with bodies that won’t die, but it’s not possible for our ancient magic to work? Didn’t I see you with a Seon?”

“That’s different….” Sarene trailed off weakly, her mind turning back to Ashe.

Spirit, however, immediately drew her attention again. He raised his hand and began drawing. Lines appeared in the air, following his finger’s movement.

Korathi teaching of the last ten years had done its best to downplay Elantris’s magic, despite the Seons. Seons were familiar, almost like benevolent spirits sent by Domi for protection and comfort. Sarene had been taught, and had believed, that Elantris’s magics had mostly been a sham.

Now, however, she was faced with a possibility. Perhaps the stories were true.

“Teach me,” she whispered. “I want to know.”

It wasn’t until later, after night had fallen, that Sarene finally allowed herself to cry. Spirit had spent the better part of the day explaining all he knew of AonDor. Apparently, he had done some extensive research on the subject. Sarene had listened with enjoyment, because of both the company and the distraction he provided. Before they had known it, dusk was falling outside the chapel windows, and Spirit had found her lodgings.

Now she lay curled up, shivering in the cold. The room’s two other women slept soundly, neither one bothering with a blanket despite the frigid air. The other Elantrians didn’t seem to notice temperature variation as much as Sarene did. Spirit claimed that their bodies were in a kind of stasis, that they had stopped working as they waited for the Dor to finish transforming them. Still, it seemed unpleasantly cold to Sarene.

The dismal atmosphere didn’t do much f

or her mood. As she bunched up against the hard stone wall, she remembered the looks. Those awful looks. Most other Elantrians had been taken at night, and they would have been discovered quietly. Sarene, however, had been exhibited before the entire aristocracy. And at her own wedding, no less.

It was a mortifying embarrassment. Her only consolation was that she would probably never see any of them again. It was a small comfort, for by the same reasoning she would probably never see her father, mother, or brother again. Kiin and his family were lost to her. So, where homesickness had never hit her before, now it attacked with a lifetime’s worth of repression.

Coupled with it was the knowledge of her failure. Spirit had asked her for news from the outside, but the topic had proven too painful for her. She knew that Telrii was probably already king, and that meant Hrathen would easily convert the rest of Arelon.

Her tears came silently. She cried for the wedding, for Arelon, for Ashe’s madness, and for the shame dear Roial must have felt. Thoughts of her father were worst of all. The idea of never again feeling the love of his gentle banter—never again sensing his overwhelming, unconditional approval—brought to her heart an overpowering sense of dread.

“My lady?” whispered a deep, hesitant voice. “Is that you?”

Shocked, she looked up through her tears. Was she hearing things? She had to be. She couldn’t have heard …

“Lady Sarene?”

It was Ashe’s voice.

Then she saw him, hovering just inside the window, his Aon so dim it was nearly invisible. “Ashe?” she asked with hesitant wonder.

“Oh, blessed Domi!” the Aon exclaimed, approaching quickly.

“Ashe!” she said, wiping her eyes with a quivering hand, numbed by shock. “You never use the Lord’s name!”

“If He has brought me to you, then He has His first Seon convert,” Ashe said, pulsing excitedly.