Elantris (Elantris 1)

It was too much. Suddenly, it seemed as if his room were falling in on him. The walls and ceiling shrunk closer and closer, as if to crush him beneath their weight. Hrathen stumbled, trying to escape, and fell to the marble floor. Nothing worked, nothing could help him.

He groaned, feeling the pain as his armor bit into his skin at odd angles. He rolled to his knees, and began to pray.

As a priest of Shu-Dereth, Hrathen spent hours in prayer each week. However, those prayers were different—more a form of meditation than a communication, a means of organizing his thoughts. This time he begged.

For the first time in years he found himself pleading for aid. Hrathen reached out to that God that he had served so long he had almost forgotten Him. The God he had shuffled away in a flurry of logic and understanding, a God he had rendered impotent in his life, though he sought to further His influence.

For once, Hrathen felt unfit to perform on his own. For once he admitted a need for help.

He didn’t know how long he knelt, praying fervently for aid, compassion, and mercy. Eventually, he was startled from his trancelike pleading by a knock at his door.

“Come,” he said distractedly.

“I apologize for disturbing my lord,” said a minor underpriest, cracking open the door. “But this just arrived for you.” The priest pushed a small crate into the room, then closed the door.

Hrathen rose on unstable feet. It was dark outside, though he had begun his prayers before noon. Had he really spent that long in supplication? A little dazed, Hrathen picked up the box and placed it on his desk, prying loose the lid with a dagger. Inside, packed with hay, was a rack containing four vials.

My Lord Hrathen, the note read. Here is the poison you requested. All of the effects are exactly as you specified. The liquid must be ingested, and the victim won’t display any symptoms until about eight hours afterwards.

In all things, praise to Lord Jaddeth.

Forton, apothecary and loyal subject of Wyrn.

Hrathen picked up a vial, regarding its dark contents with wonder. He had almost forgotten his late-night call to Forton. He vaguely remembered assuming he would administer the poison to Dilaf. That plan wouldn’t work anymore. He needed something more spectacular.

Hrathen swished the poison around in its vial for a moment, then pulled off the stopper and drank it down in a single gulp.

CHAPTER 28

The most difficult part was deciding where to begin reading. The bookshelves extended out of sight, their information stretching as if to eternity. Raoden was certain that the clues he needed were contained somewhere within the vast sea of pages, but finding them seemed a daunting task indeed.

Karata was the one who made the discovery. She located a low bookshelf near the side of the room opposite the entrance. A set of about thirty volumes squatted on the shelf, waiting in their dust. They dictated a cataloguing system, with numbers relating to the various columns and rows of the library. From it, Raoden easily located the books on AonDor. He selected the least complicated volume he could find, and set to work.

Raoden restricted knowledge of the library to himself, Galladon, and Karata. Not only did he fear a repeat of Aanden’s book boiling, but he sensed a sacredness to the structure. It was not a place to be invaded by visitors, misunderstanding fingers that would disorganize books and shatter the calm.

They kept the pool a secret as well, giving Mareshe and Saolin a simplified explanation. Raoden’s own longings warned him how dangerous the pool was. There was a part of him that wanted to seek out its deadly embrace, the refreshment of destruction. If the people knew that there was an easy, painless way to escape the suffering, many would take it without deliberation. The city would be depopulated in a matter of months.

Letting them do so was an option, of course. What right had he to keep the others from their peace? Still, Raoden felt that it was too soon to give up on Elantris. In the weeks before Sarene began giving out food, he had seen that Elantris could forget its pains and its hungers. The Elantrians could move beyond their urges—there was an escape for them besides destruction.

But not for him. The pain swelled with each passing day. It drew strength from the Dor, bringing him a little closer to submission with its every assault. Fortunately, he had the books to distract him. He studied them with hypnotic fascination, finally discovering the simple explanations he had sought for so long.

He read how the complex Aon equations worked together. Drawing a line slightly longer in proportion to the rest of an Aon could have drastic effects. Two Aon equations could start the same, but—like two rocks rolled down a mountain on slightly different paths—they could end up doing completely different things. All by changing the length of a few lines.

He began to grasp the theory of AonDor. The Dor was as Galladon had described it: a powerful reservoir just beyond the normal senses. Its only desire was to escape. The books explained that the Dor existed in a place that was full of pressure, and so the energy pushed its way through any viable exit, moving from an area of high concentration to one of low.

However, because of the Dor’s nature, it could enter the physical world only through gates of the proper size and shape. Elantrians could create rifts with their drawings, providing a means for the Dor to escape, and those drawings would determine what form the energy took when it appeared. However, if even one line was of the wrong proportion, the Dor would be unable to enter—like a square trying to force its way through a round hole. Some theorists described the process using unfamiliar words like “frequency” and “pulse length.” Raoden was only beginning to understand how much scientific genius was held in the library’s musty pages.

Still, for all of his studies, he was disappointingly unable to find out what had made AonDor stop working. He could only guess that the Dor had changed somehow. Perhaps now, instead of a square, the Dor was a triangle—and, no matter how many square-shaped Aons Raoden drew, the energy couldn’t get through. What could have led to the Dor’s sudden shift was beyond him.

“How did that get in here?” Galladon asked, interrupting Raoden’s thoughts. The Dula pointed toward the Seon Ien, who floated along the top of a bookshelf, his light casting shadows on the books.

“I don’t know,” Raoden said, watching Ien loop a few times.

“I have to admit, sule. Your Seon is creepy.”

Raoden shrugged. “All of the mad Seons are that way.”

“Yes, but the others generally stay away from people.” Galladon eyed Ien, shivering slightly. The Seon, as usual, didn’t pay any apparent attention to Galladon—though Ien did seem to like staying near Raoden.

“Well, anyway,” Galladon said, “Saolin’s asking for you.”

Raoden nodded, closing his book and rising from the small desk—one of many at the back of the library. He joined Galladon at the doorway. The Dula shot one last, uncomfortable look at Ien before closing the door, locking the Seon in darkness.

“I don’t know, Saolin,” Raoden said hesitantly.

“My lord, we have little choice,” the soldier said. “My men have too many injuries. It would be pointless to stand against Shaor today—the wildmen would barely pause to laugh as they pushed us out of the way.”

Raoden nodded with a sigh. The soldier was right: They couldn’t keep holding Shaor’s men away from Sarene. Though Saolin had grown quite proficient at fighting with his left hand, there just weren’t enough warriors left to protect the courtyard. In addition, it seemed that Shaor’s men were growing more and more dangerous in their ferocity. They could obviously sense that there was food in the courtyard, and the inability to reach it had driven them to an even deeper level of insanity.

Raoden had tried leaving food out for them, but the distraction only worked for a short time. They stuffed their faces, then rushed on, even more furious than before. They were driven by a single-minded, obsessive goal: to reach the carts of food in the courtyard.

If only we had more soldiers! Raoden tho

ught with frustration. He’d lost many of his people to Sarene’s handouts, while Shaor’s numbers were apparently remaining strong. Raoden and Galladon had both offered to join Saolin’s fighters, but the grizzled captain would hear nothing of it.

“Leaders don’t fight,” the broken-nosed man had said simply. “You’re too valuable.”

Raoden knew the man was right. Raoden and Galladon were not soldiers; they wouldn’t do much besides disorder Saolin’s carefully trained troops. They had few choices left, and it appeared Saolin’s plan was the best of several bad options.

“All right,” Raoden said. “Do it.”

“Very good, my lord,” Saolin said with a slight bow. “I will begin the preparations—we only have a few minutes until the princess arrives.”

Raoden dismissed Saolin with a nod. The soldier’s plan was a desperate last-ditch attempt at a trap. Shaor’s men tended to take that same path each day before splitting up to try and work their way into the courtyard, and Saolin planned to ambush them as they approached. It was risky, but it was probably their only chance. The soldiers could not continue fighting as they were.

“I suppose we should go, then,” Raoden said.

Galladon nodded. As they turned to walk toward the courtyard, Raoden couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable with the decision he’d made. If Saolin lost, then the wildmen would break through. If Saolin won, it would mean the death or incapacitation of dozens of Elantrians—men, on both sides, that Raoden should have been able to protect.

Either way, I’m a failure, Raoden thought.

Sarene could tell something was wrong, but she wasn’t sure what it could be. Spirit was nervous, his friendly banter subdued. It wasn’t her—it was something else. Perhaps some burden of leadership.

She wanted to ask him what it was. She moved through the now familiar routine of food distribution, Spirit’s worry making her nervous. Each time he approached to accept an item from the cart, she looked into his eyes and saw his tension. She couldn’t force herself to ask about the problem. She had gone too long feigning coldness, too long rebuffing his attempts at friendship. Just as in Teod, she had locked herself into a role. And, just as before, she cursed herself, not quite knowing how to escape her self-imposed indifference.

Fortunately, Spirit didn’t share her same inhibitions. As the noblemen gathered to begin the handouts, Spirit pulled Sarene aside, walking just a short distance from the main group.

She eyed him curiously. “What?”

Spirit glanced back at the collection of noblemen, and even a few noblewomen, who were waiting for the Elantrians to approach and receive their food. Finally, he turned to Sarene. “Something might happen today,” he said.

“What?” she asked, frowning.

“Do you remember how I told you that not all Elantrians were as docile as the ones here?”

“Yes,” Sarene said slowly. What’s your trick, Spirit? What game are you playing? He seemed so honest, so earnest. Yet, she couldn’t help worrying that he was just toying with her.

“Well, just …” Spirit said. “Just be ready. Keep your guards close.”

Sarene frowned. She sensed a new emotion in his eyes—something she hadn’t seen in him before. Guilt.

As he turned back toward the food line, leaving his foreboding words ringing in her mind, a part of Sarene was suddenly grateful that she had remained aloof. He was hiding something from her—something big. Her political senses warned her to be wary.

Whatever he had been expecting, however, it didn’t come. By the time they had begun handing out food, Spirit had relaxed somewhat, speaking cheerfully. Sarene began to think that he had made a big show out of nothing.

Then the yelling began.

Raoden cursed, dropping his bag of food as he heard the howl. It was close—far too close. A moment later he saw Saolin’s beleaguered form appear at the mouth of an alley. The soldier was swinging his sword wildly at four separate opponents. One of the wildmen smashed a cudgel against Saolin’s legs, and the soldier fell.

Then Shaor’s men were upon them.

They spilled out of every alleyway—nearly two dozen howling madmen. The Elantris City Guards jumped up in surprise, startled from their leisurely idling near the gate, but they were too slow. Shaor’s men leapt toward the group of aristocrats and Elantrians, their mouths open savagely.

Then Eondel appeared. By some fortune of chance, he had chosen to accompany Sarene on the day’s trip and, as always, he had worn his sword—defying convention in favor of safety. In this instance, his caution was well placed.

Shaor’s men weren’t expecting resistance, and they stumbled over themselves before the general’s swinging blade. Despite his accumulating years, Eondel fought with spry dexterity, beheading two wildmen in one breath. Eondel’s weapon, powered by healthy muscles, easily cut through the Elantrian flesh. His attack slowed the wildmen long enough for the Guards to join the battle, and they formed a line beside him.

Finally realizing that they were in danger, the nobles began to scream. Fortunately, they were only a few steps away from the gate, and they easily fled the chaos. Soon only Raoden and Sarene remained, looking at each other through the battle.

One of Shaor’s followers fell at their feet, knocking over a carton of grain mush. The creature’s belly was sliced waist to neck, and his arms flailed awkwardly, mixing the white mush paste with the slime of the cobblestones. His lips trembled as he stared upward.

“Food. We only wanted a little food. Food …” the madman said, beginning the mantra of a Hoed.

Sarene looked down at the creature, then took a step back. When she looked back up at Raoden, her eyes shone with the icy rage of betrayal.

“You held food back from them, didn’t you?” she demanded.

Raoden nodded slowly, making no excuse. “I did.”

“You tyrant!” she hissed. “You heartless despot!”

Raoden turned to look at Shaor’s desperate men. In a way, she was right. “Yes. I am.”

Sarene took another step backward. However, she stumbled against something. Raoden reached out to steady her, but then stopped as he realized what had tripped her. It was a sack of food, one of the overstuffed bags Raoden had prepared for the Hoed. Sarene looked down as well, realization dawning.

“I almost started trusting you,” Sarene said bitterly. Then she was gone, dashing toward the gate as the soldiers fell back. Shaor’s men did not follow, instead falling on the bounty that the nobles had abandoned.

Raoden stepped back from the food. Shaor’s men didn’t even seem to notice him as they tore into the scattered supplies, stuffing their faces with dirty hands. Raoden watched them with tired eyes. It was over. The nobles would not enter Elantris again. At least none of them had been killed.

Then he remembered Saolin. Raoden dashed across the courtyard to kneel beside his friend. The old soldier stared sightlessly into the sky, his head rocking back and forth as he mumbled, “Failed my lord. Failed my lord Spirit. Failed, failed, failed….”

Raoden moaned, bowing his head in despair. What have I done? he wondered, helplessly cradling the newly made Hoed.

Raoden stayed there, lost in sorrow until long after Shaor’s men had taken the last of the food and run off. Eventually, an incongruous sound brought him out of his grief.

The gates of Elantris were opening again.

CHAPTER 29

“My lady, are you injured?” Ashe’s deep voice was wrought with concern.

Sarene tried to wipe her eyes, but the tears kept coming. “No,” she said through her quiet sobs. “I’m fine.”

Obviously unconvinced, the Seon floated around her in a slow semicircle, searching for any outward signs of injury. Houses and shops passed quickly beyond the carriage window as the vehicle sped them back to the palace. Eondel, the carriage’s owner, had stayed behind at the gate.

“My lady,” Ashe said, his tone frank. “What is wrong?”

“I was right, Ashe,” she said, try

ing to laugh at her stupidity through the tears. “I should be happy; I was right about him all along.”

“Spirit?”

Sarene nodded, then rested her head against the back of the seat, staring up at the carriage’s ceiling. “He was withholding food from the people. You should have seen them, Ashe—their starvation had driven them mad. Spirit’s warriors kept them away from the courtyard, but they must have finally gotten hungry enough to fight back. I can’t imagine how they did it—they didn’t have armor or swords, just their hunger. He didn’t even try to deny it. He just stood there, watching his schemes fall apart, a stash of hoarded food at his feet.”

Sarene raised her hands to her face, holding her head in frustration. “Why am I so stupid?”

Ashe pulsed with concern.

“I knew what he was doing. Why does it bother me to find out I was right?” Sarene took a deep breath, but it caught in her throat. Ashe had been right: She had allowed herself to get too caught up in Spirit and Elantris. She had become too emotionally involved to act on her suspicions.

The result was a disaster. The nobility had responded to Elantrian pain and wretchedness. Long-held prejudices had weakened, the Korathi teachings of temperate understanding proving their influence. Now, however, the nobility would only remember that they had been attacked. Sarene could only thank Domi that none of them had been hurt.

Sarene’s thinking was interrupted by the sounds of armor clinking outside of her window. Recouping her composure the best she could, Sarene poked her head out the window to see what was causing the ruckus. A double line of men in chain and leather marched past her carriage, their livery black and red. It was Iadon’s personal guard, and they were heading for Elantris.

Sarene felt a chill as she watched the grim-faced warriors. “Idos Domi,” she whispered. There was hardness in these men’s eyes—they were prepared to kill. To slaughter.