Elantris (Elantris 1)

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 Teod 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 won’t 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 smiled wickedly as he rammed the blade through Raoden’s stomach.

The pain washed over Raoden like a sudden wave of light. He hadn’t even seen the thrust coming.

He felt it, however. 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 feel 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 accused 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 cleanly.”

“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 Teod.”

Sarene fell into a disbelieving stupor as they pulled her away, watching Raoden until his slumped form was no longer visible in the night.

CHAPTER 60

Galladon hid in the shadows, careful not to move until the gyorn and his strange, bare-chested companions were gone. Then, motioning to Karata, he crept up to Raoden’s body. “Sule?”

Raoden did not move.

“Doloken, Sule!” Galladon said, choked with emotion. “Don’t do this to me!”

A noise came from Raoden’s mouth, and Galladon leaned in eagerly, listening.

“Failed …” Raoden whispered. “Failed my love …” The mantra of the fallen; Raoden had joined the Hoed.

Galladon sank down on the hard cobblestones, his body shaking as he wept tearlessly. The last hour had been a horror. Galladon and Karata had been at the library, planning how to lead the people away from Elantris. They had heard the screams even at that distance, but by the time they had arrived at New Elantris, no one but Hoed remained. As far as he knew, he and Karata were the last two conscious Elantrians.

Karata placed a hand on his shoulder. “Galladon, we should go. This place is not safe.”

“No,” Galladon said, climbing to his feet. “I have a promise to keep.” He looked up at the mountain slope just outside of Kae, a slope that held a special pool of water. Then, reaching down, he tied his jacket around Raoden to cover the wound, and hefted his friend up onto his shoulder.

“Raoden made me vow to give him peace,” Galladon said. “After I see to him, I intend to do the same for myself. We are the last, Karata; there is no more room for us in this world.”

The woman nodded, moving to take part of Raoden’s burden on herself. Together, the two of them began the hike that would end in oblivion.

Lukel didn’t struggle; there was little use in it. His father, however, was a different story. It took three Fjordells to bind Kiin and throw him on a horse—and even then, the large man managed to get off the odd kick at a passing head.

Eventually, one of the soldiers thought to smash him on the back of the skull with a rock, and Kiin fell still.

Lukel held his mother and wife close as the warriors herded them toward Elantris. There was a long line of people—nobles gathered from the corners of Kae, their clothing and faces ragged. Soldiers kept a watchful eye on the captives—as if any of them had the courage or will left to try escaping. Most of the people didn’t even look up as they were pushed through the streets.

Kaise and Daorn clung to Lukel, wide-eyed and frightened. Lukel pitied them the most, for their youth. Adien walked along behind him, apparently unconcerned. He slowly counted the steps as he moved. “Three hundred fifty-seven, three hundred fifty-eight, three hundred fifty-nine …”

Lukel knew that they were marching to their own execution. He saw the bodies that lined the streets, and he understood that these men were not intent on domination. They were here to commit a massacre, and no massacre would be complete with victims left alive.

He considered fighting back, grabbing a sword in some hopeless feat of heroism. But in the end, he simply plodded along with the others. He knew that he was going to die, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was no warrior. The best he could hope for was a quick end.

Hrathen stood next to Dilaf, remaining perfectly still as instructed. They stood in a circle—fifty Dakhor, Sarene, and Hrathen, with one solitary monk in the center. The Dakhor raised their hands, and the men on either side of Hrathen placed a hand on his shoulder. His heart began to pound as the monks began to glow, the bone inscriptions beneath their skin shining. There was a jarring sensation, and Kae vanished around them.

They reappeared in an unfamiliar city. The houses lining the nearby street were tall and connected, rather than separated and squat like those of Kae. They had arrived in Teod.

The group still stood in a circle, but Hrathen did not fail to notice that the man in the center was now missing. Hrathen shuddered, images fr

om his youth returning. The monk in the center had been fuel, his flesh and soul burned away—a sacrifice in return for the instantaneous transportation to Teod.

Dilaf stepped forward, leading his men up the street. As far as Hrathen could tell, Dilaf had brought the bulk of his monks with him, leaving Arelon in the care of regular Fjordell soldiers and a few Dakhor overseers. Arelon and Elantris had been defeated; the next battle was Teod. Hrathen could tell from Dilaf’s eyes that the monk would not be satisfied until every person of Aonic descent was dead.

Dilaf chose a building with a flat roof and motioned for his men to climb. It was easy for them, their enhanced strength and agility helping them leap and scramble up surfaces no normal man could possibly scale. Hrathen felt himself lifted and thrown over a monk’s shoulder, and the ground fell away as he was carted up the side of the wall—carried without difficulty despite his plate armor. The Dakhor were unnatural monstrosities, but one couldn’t help being awed at their power.

The monk dropped Hrathen unceremoniously on the roof, his armor clanking against the stone. As Hrathen pulled himself to his feet, his eyes found those of the princess. Sarene’s face was a tempest of hatred. She blamed him, of course. She didn’t realize that, in a way, Hrathen was as much a prisoner as she.

Dilaf stood at the edge of the roof, scanning the city. A fleet of ships was pulling into Teod’s enormous bay.

“We are early,” Dilaf said, squatting down. “We will wait.”

Galladon could almost imagine that the city was peaceful. He stood on a mountainside boulder, watching the morning’s light creep across Kae—as if an invisible hand were pulling back a dark shade. He could almost convince himself that the rising smoke was coming from chimneys, not the ashen wrecks of buildings. He could nearly believe that the specks lining the streets were not bodies, but bushes or boxes, the crimson blood on the streets a trick of the early sunlight.

Galladon turned away from the city. Kae might be peaceful, but it was the peace of death, not of serenity. Dreaming otherwise did little good. Perhaps if he had been less inclined to delusion, he wouldn’t have let Raoden pull him out of Elantris’s gutters. He wouldn’t have allowed one man’s simplistic optimism to cloud his mind; he wouldn’t have begun to believe that life in Elantris could be anything but pain. He wouldn’t have dared to hope.

Unfortunately, he had listened. Like a rulo, he had allowed himself to give in to Raoden’s dreams. Once, he’d thought that he could no longer feel hope; he’d chased it far away, wary of its fickle tricks. He should have left it there. Without hope, he wouldn’t have to worry about disappointment.

“Doloken, sule,” Galladon mumbled, looking down at the mindless Raoden, “you certainly made a mess of me.”

The worst of it was, he still hoped. The light that Raoden had kindled still flickered inside Galladon’s chest, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it out. The images of New Elantris’s destruction were still crisp in his memory. Mareshe, an enormous, ragged hole torn in his chest. The quiet craftsman Taan, his face crushed beneath a large stone, but his fingers still twitching. The old Kahar—who had cleaned all of New Elantris practically by himself—missing an arm and both legs.

Galladon had stood amid the carnage, screaming at Raoden for abandoning them, for leaving them behind. Their prince had betrayed them for Sarene.

And still, he hoped.

It was like a small rodent, cowering in the corner of his soul, frightened by the anger, the rage, and the despair. Yet every time he tried to grab hold of it, the hope slipped to another part of his heart. It was what had spurred him to leave the dead behind, to crawl from Elantris in search of Raoden, believing for some irrational reason that the prince could still fix everything.

You are the fool, Galladon. Not Raoden, Galladon told himself bitterly. He couldn’t help being what he was. You, however, know better.

Yet, he hoped. A part of Galladon still believed that Raoden would somehow make things better. This was the curse his friend had set upon him, the wicked seed of optimism that refused to be uprooted. Galladon still had hope, and he probably would until the moment he gave himself up to the pool.

Silently, Galladon nodded to Karata, and they picked Raoden up, ready to trek the last short distance to the pond. In few minutes he would be rid of both hope and despair.

Elantris was dark, even though dawn was breaking. The tall walls made a shadow, keeping the sunlight out, expanding the night for a few moments. It was here, at one side of the broad entry plaza, that the soldiers deposited Lukel and the other nobles. Another group of Fjordells was building an enormous pile of wood, hauling scraps of buildings and furniture into the city.

Surprisingly, there were very few of the strange demon warriors; only three directed the work. The rest of the men were regular soldiers, their armor covered with red surcoats marking them as Derethi monks. The worked quickly, keeping their eyes off of their prisoners, apparently trying not to think too hard about what the wood would be used for.

Lukel tried not to think about that either.

Jalla pulled close to him, her body trembling with fright. Lukel had tried to convince her to plead for freedom because of her Svordish blood, but she would not go. She was so quiet and unassertive that some mistook her for weak, but if they could have seen her as she was, voluntarily staying with her husband though it meant certain death, they would have realized their mistake. Of all the deals, trades, and recognitions Lukel had won, the prize of Jalla’s heart was by far the most valuable.

His family pulled close to him, Daora and the children having no place to turn now that Kiin was unconscious. Only Adien stood apart, staring at the pile of lumber. He kept mumbling some number to himself.

Lukel searched through the crowd of nobles, trying to smile and give encouragement, though he himself felt little confidence. Elantris would be their grave. As he looked, Lukel noticed a figure standing near the back of the group, hidden by bodies. He was moving slowly, his hands waving in front of himself.

Shuden? Lukel thought. The Jindo’s eyes were closed, his hands moving fluidly in some sort of pattern. Lukel watched his friend with confusion, wondering if the Jindo’s mind had snapped; then he remembered the strange dance that Shuden had done that first day in Sarene’s fencing class. ChayShan.

Shuden moved his hands slowly, giving only a bare hint of the fury that was to come. Lukel watched with growing determination, somehow understanding. Shuden was no warrior. He practiced his dance for exercise, not for combat. However, he was not going to let the ones he loved be murdered without some sort of fight. He would rather die struggling than sit and wait, hoping that fate would send them a miracle.

Lukel took a breath, feeling ashamed. He searched around him, his eyes finding a table leg that one of the soldiers had dropped nearby. When the time came, Shuden would not fight alone.

Raoden floated, senseless and unaware. Time meant nothing to him—he was time. It was his essence. Occasionally he would bob toward the surface of what he had once called consciousness, but as he approached he would feel pain, and back away. The agony was like a lake’s surface: if he broke through it, the pain would return and envelop him.

Those times he got close to the surface of pain, however, he thought he saw images. Visions that might have been real, but were probably just reflections of his memory. He saw Galladon’s face, concerned and angry at the same time. He saw Karata, her eyes heavy with despair. He saw a mountain landscape, covered with scrub and rocks.

It was all immaterial to him.

“I often wish that they’d just let her die.”

Hrathen looked up. Dilaf’s voice was introspective, as if he were talking to himself. However, the priest’s eyes were focused on Hrathen.

“What?” Hrathen asked hesitantly.

“If only they had let her die …” Dilaf trailed off. He sat at the edge of the rooftop, watching the ships gather below, his face reminiscent. His emotions had always been unstable. No man could keep Dilaf

’s level of ardor burning for long without doing emotional damage to his mind. A few more years, and Dilaf would probably be completely insane.

“I was already fifty years old back then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Did you know that? I have lived nearly seventy years, though my body doesn’t look older than twenty. She thought I was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, even though my body had been twisted and destroyed to fit the mold of an Arelene.”

Hrathen remained quiet. He had heard of such things, that the incantations of Dakhor could actually change the way a person looked. The process had undoubtedly been very painful.

“When she fell sick, I took her to Elantris,” Dilaf mumbled, his legs pulled tightly against his chest. “I knew it was pagan, I knew it was blasphemous, but even forty years as a Dakhor wasn’t enough to keep me away … not when I thought Elantris could save her. Elantris can heal, they said, while Dakhor cannot. And I took her.”

The monk was no longer looking at Hrathen. His eyes were unfocused. “They changed her,” he whispered. “They said the spell went wrong, but I know the truth. They knew me, and they hated me. Why, then, did they have to put their curse on Seala? Her skin turned black, her hair fell out, and she began to die. She screamed at night, yelling that the pain was eating her from the inside. Eventually she threw herself off the city wall.”

Dilaf’s voice turned reverently mournful. “I found her at the bottom, still alive. Still alive, despite the fall. And I burned her. She never stopped screaming. She screams still. I can hear her. She will scream until Elantris is gone.”

They reached the ledge, behind which lay the pool, and Galladon laid Raoden down. The prince slumped idly against the stone, his head hanging slightly over the side of the cliff, his unfocused eyes staring out over the city of Kae. Galladon leaned back against the rock face, next to the door of the tunnel that led down to Elantris. Karata slumped next to him in exhaustion. They would wait a brief moment, then find oblivion.