“Kae isn’t the only town here, you know. There used to be four of them, all surrounding Elantris, but the others dried up. Not enough food for so many people in such a small area, they said. We hide in the ruins.”
“Are there many of you?” Hrathen asked.
“No, not many. Only those who’ve the nerve to run away from the farms.” The old man’s eyes took on a dreamy look. “I wasn’t always a beggar, good sir. Used to work in Elantris—I was a carpenter, one of the best. I didn’t make a very good farmer, though. The king was wrong there, good sir—he sent me to the fields, but I was too old to work in them, so I ran away. Came here. The merchants in the town, they give us money sometimes. But we can only beg after night comes, and never from the high nobles. No, sir, they would tell the king.”
The old man squinted up at Hrathen—as if realizing for the first time why the boy was so apprehensive. “You don’t look much like a merchant, good sir,” he said hesitantly.
“I’m not,” Hrathen responded, dropping a bag of coins in the man’s hand. “That is for you.” Then he dropped a second bag beside the first. “That is for the others. Good night, old man.”
“Thank you, good sir!” the man cried.
“Thank Jaddeth,” Hrathen said.
“Who is Jaddeth, good sir?”
Hrathen bowed his head. “You’ll know soon enough, old man. One way or another, you’ll know.”
The breeze was gusty and strong atop the wall of Elantris, and it whipped at Hrathen’s cape with glee. It was a cool ocean wind, bearing the briny scent of saltwater and sea life. Hrathen stood between two burning torches, leaning against the low parapet and looking out over Kae.
The city wasn’t very large, not when compared with the sheer mass of Elantris, but it could have been far better fortified. He felt his old dissatisfaction returning. He hated being in a place that couldn’t protect itself. Perhaps that was part of the stress he was feeling with this assignment.
Lights sparked throughout Kae, most of them streetlamps, including a series that ran along the short wall that marked the formal border of the city. The wall ran in a perfect circle—so perfect, in fact, that Hrathen would have remarked upon it had he been in any other city. Here it was just another remnant of fallen Elantris’s glory. Kae had spilled out beyond that inner wall, but the old border remained—a ring of flame running around the center of the city.
“It was so much nicer, once,” a voice said behind him.
Hrathen turned with surprise. He had heard the footsteps approaching, but he had simply assumed it was one of the guards making his rounds. Instead he found a short, bald Arelene in a simple gray robe. Omin, head of the Korathi religion in Kae.
Omin approached the edge, pausing beside Hrathen and studying the city. “Of course, that was back then, when the Elantrians still ruled. The city’s fall was probably good for our souls. Still, I can’t help recalling those days with awe. Do you realize that no one in all of Arelon went without food? The Elantrians could turn stone into corn and dirt into steak. Confronted by those memories, I am left wondering. Could devils do that much good in this world? Would they even want to?”
Hrathen didn’t respond. He simply stood, leaning with his arms crossed on top of the parapet, the wind churning his hair. Omin fell silent.
“How did you find me?” Hrathen finally asked.
“It is well known that you spend your nights up here,” the squat priest explained. He could barely rest his arms on the parapet. Hrathen considered Dilaf short, but this man made the arteth look like a giant. “Your supporters say you come here and plan how to defeat the vile Elantrians,” Omin continued, “and your opponents say you come because you feel guilty for condemning a people who have already been cursed.”
Hrathen turned, looking down into the little man’s eyes. “And what do you say?”
“I say nothing,” Omin said. “It doesn’t matter to me why you climb these stairs, Hrathen. I do, however, wonder why you preach hatred of the Elantrians when you yourself simply pity them.”
Hrathen didn’t respond immediately, tapping his gauntleted finger against the stone parapet with a repetitious click. “It’s not so hard, once you accustom yourself to it,” he finally said. “A man can force himself to hate if he wishes, especially if he convinces himself that it is for a higher good.”
“The oppression of the few brings salvation to the many?” Omin asked, a slight smile on his face, as if he found the concept ridiculous.
“You’d best not mock, Arelene,” Hrathen warned. “You have few options, and we both know the least painful one will require you to do as I do.”
“To profess hatred where I have none? I will never do that, Hrathen.”
“Then you will become irrelevant,” Hrathen said simply.
“Is that the way it must be, then?”
“Shu-Korath is docile and unassuming, priest,” Hrathen said. “Shu-Dereth is vibrant and dynamic. It will sweep you away like a roaring flood rushing through a stagnant pool.”
Omin smiled again. “You act as if truth were something to be influenced by persistence, Hrathen.”
“I’m not speaking of truth or falsehood; I am simply referring to physical inevitability. You cannot stand against Fjorden—and where Fjorden rules, Shu-Dereth teaches.”
“One cannot separate truth from actions, Hrathen,” Omin said with a shake of his bald head. “Physically inevitable or not, truth stands above all things. It is independent of who has the best army, who can deliver the longest sermons, or even who has the most priests. It can be pushed down, but it will always surface. Truth is the one thing you can never intimidate.”
“And if Shu-Dereth is the truth?” Hrathen demanded.
“Then it will prevail,” Omin said. “But I didn’t come to argue with you.”
“Oh?” Hrathen said with raised eyebrows.
“No,” Omin said. “I came to ask you a question.”
“Then ask, priest, and leave me to my thoughts.”
“I want to know what happened,” Omin began speculatively. “What happened, Hrathen? What happened to your faith?”
“My faith?” Hrathen asked with shock.
“Yes,” Omin said, his words soft, almost meandering. “You must have believed at one point, otherwise you wouldn’t have pursued the priesthood long enough to become a gyorn. You lost it somewhere, though. I have listened to your sermons. I hear logic and complete understanding—not to mention determination. I just don’t hear any faith, and I wonder what happened to it.”
Hrathen hissed inward slowly, drawing a deep breath between his teeth. “Go,” he finally ordered, not bothering to look down at the priest.
Omin didn’t answer, and Hrathen turned. The Arelish man was already gone, strolling down the wall with a casual step, as if he had forgotten Hrathen were there.
Hrathen stood on the wall for a long time that night.
CHAPTER 22
Raoden inched forward, slowly peeking around the corner. He should have been sweating—in fact, he kept reaching up to wipe his brow, though the motion did nothing but spread black Elantris grime across his forehead. His knees trembled slightly as he huddled against the decaying wooden fence, anxiously searching the cross street for danger.
“Sule, behind you!”
Raoden turned with surprise at Galladon’s warning, sliding on the slimy cobblestones and slipping to the ground. The fall saved him. As he grappled for purchase, Raoden felt something whoosh through the air above him. The leaping madman howled in frustration as he missed and smashed through the fence, rotten wood chips spraying through the air.
Raoden stumbled to his feet. The madman moved far more quickly. Bald and nearly naked, the man howled as he ripped his way through the rest of the fence, growling and tearing at the wood like a mad hound.
Galladon’s board smacked the man directly in the face. Then, while the man was stunned, Galladon grabbed a cobblestone and smashed it against the side of the man’s head. Th
e madman collapsed and did not rise.
Galladon straightened. “They’re getting stronger somehow, sule,” he said, dropping his cobblestone. “They seem almost oblivious to pain. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded, calming his nerves. “They haven’t been able to capture a newcomer in weeks. They’re getting desperate, falling more and more into their bestial state. I’ve heard of warriors who grow so enraged during combat that they ignore even mortal wounds.” Raoden paused as Galladon poked at the attacker’s body with a stick to make sure he wasn’t feigning.
“Maybe they’ve found the final secret to stopping the pain,” Raoden said quietly.
“All they have to do is surrender their humanity,” Galladon said, shaking his head as they continued to sneak through what had been the Elantris market. They passed piles of rusted metal and crushed ceramics etched with Aons. Once these scraps had produced wondrous effects, their powerful magics demanding unparalleled prices. Now they were little more than obstacles for Raoden to avoid, lest they crunch noisily beneath his feet.