Elantris (Elantris 1)

Raoden continued to run, the stick held in rigid fingers. He wasn’t sure how he knew he was in the right place, but he did. He felt it.

Only a little farther. Only a little farther.

A hand grabbed him; a voice yelled at him in Fjordell. Raoden tripped, falling to the ground—but he kept the stick steady, not letting it slip even an inch. A moment later there was a grunt, and the hand released him.

Only a little farther!

Men battled around him, Galladon and Karata keeping the soldiers’ attention. Raoden let out a primal sob of frustration, crawling like a child as he dug his line in the ground. Boots slammed into the earth next to Raoden’s hand, coming within inches of crushing his fingers. Still he kept moving.

He looked up as he neared the end. A soldier finished the swing that separated Karata’s beleaguered head from her body. Galladon fell with a pair of swords in his stomach. A soldier pointed at Raoden.

Raoden gritted his teeth, and finished his line in the dirt.

Galladon’s large bulk crashed to the ground. Karata’s head knocked against the short stone wall. The soldier took a step.

Light exploded from the ground.

It burst from the dirt like a silver river, spraying into the air along the line Raoden had drawn. The light enveloped him—but it was more than just light. It was essential purity. Power refined. The Dor. It washed over him, covering him like a warm liquid.

And for the first time in two months, the pain went away.

The light continued along Raoden’s line, which connected to Kae’s short border wall. It followed the wall, spurting from the ground, continuing in a circle until it completely surrounded Kae. It didn’t stop. The power shot up the short road between Kae and Elantris, spreading to coat the great city’s wall as well. From Elantris it moved to the other three outer cities, their rubble all but forgotten in the ten years since the Reod. Soon all five cities were outlined with light—five resplendent pillars of energy.

The city complex was an enormous Aon—a focus for Elantrian power. All it had needed was the Chasm line to make it begin working again.

One square, four circles. Aon Rao. The Spirit of Elantris.

Raoden stood in the torrent of light, his clothing fluttering in its unique power. He felt his strength return, his pains evaporate like unimportant memories, and his wounds heal. He didn’t need to look to know that soft white hair had grown from his scalp, that his skin had discarded its sickly taint in favor of a delicate silver sheen.

Then he experienced the most joyful event of all. Like a thundering drum, his heart began to beat in his chest. The Shaod, the Transformation, had finally completed its work.

With a sigh of regret, Raoden stepped from the light, emerging into the world as a metamorphosed creature. Galladon, stunned, rose from the ground a few feet away, his skin a dark metallic silver.

The terrified soldiers stumbled away. Several made wards against evil, calling upon their god.

“You have one hour,” Raoden said, raising a glowing finger toward the docks. “Go.”

Lukel clutched his wife, watching the fire consume its living fuel. He whispered his love to her as the soldiers advanced to do their grisly work. Father Omin whispered behind Lukel, offering a quiet prayer to Domi for their souls, and for those of their executioners.

Then, like a lantern suddenly set aflame, Elantris erupted with light. The entire city shook, its walls seeming to stretch, distorted by some awesome power. The people inside were trapped in a vortex of energy, sudden winds ripping through the town.

All fell still. They stood as if at the eye of an enormous white storm, power raging in a wall of luster that surrounded the city. Townspeople cried out in fear, and soldiers cursed, looking up at the shining walls with confusion. Lukel wasn’t watching the walls. His mouth opened slightly in amazement as he stared at the pyre of corpses—and the shadows moving within it.

Slowly, their bodies glistening with a light both more luminous and more powerful than the flames around them, the Elantrians began to step from the blaze, unharmed by its heat.

The townspeople sat stunned. Only the two demon priests seemed capable of motion. One of them screamed in denial, dashing at the emerging Elantrians with his sword upraised.

A flash of power shot across the courtyard and struck the monk in the chest, immolating the creature in a puff of energy. The sword dropped to the cobblestones with a clang, followed by a scattering of smoking bones and burnt flesh.

Lukel turned bewildered eyes toward the source of the attack. Raoden stood in the still open gate of Elantris, his hand upraised. The king glowed like a specter returned from the grave, his skin silver, his hair a brilliant white, his face effulgent with triumph.

The remaining demon priest screamed at Raoden in Fjorden, cursing him as a Svrakiss. Raoden raised a hand, quietly sketching in the air, his fingers leaving gleaming white trails—trails that shone with the same raging power that surrounded Elantris’s wall.

Raoden stopped, his hand poised next to the gleaming character—Aon Daa, the Aon for power. The king looked through the glowing symbol, his eyes raised in a challenge to the lone Derethi warrior.

The monk cursed again, then slowly lowered his weapon.

“Take your men, monk,” Raoden said. “Board those ships and go. Anything Derethi, man or vessel, that remains in my country after the next hour’s chime will suffer the force of my rage. I dare you to leave me with a suitable target.”

The soldiers were already running, dashing past Raoden into the city. Their leader slunk behind them. Before Raoden’s glory, the monk’s horrible body seemed more pitiful than it did terrifying.

Raoden watched them go, then he turned toward Lukel and the others. “People of Arelon. Elantris is restored!”

Lukel blinked dizzily. Briefly, he wondered if the entire experience had been a vision concocted by his overtaxed mind. When the shouts of joy began to ring in his ears, however, he knew that it was all real. They had been saved.

“How totally unexpected,” he declared, then proceeded to faint from blood loss.

_______

Dilaf tenderly prodded at his shattered nose, resisting the urge to bellow in pain. His men, the Dakhor, waited beside him. They had easily slain the king’s guards, but in the combat they had somehow lost not only Eventeo and the princess, but the traitor Hrathen as well.

“Find them!” Dilaf demanded, rising to his feet. Passion. Anger. The voice of his dead wife called in his ears, begging for revenge. She would have it. Eventeo would never launch his ships in time. Besides, fifty Dakhor already roamed his capital. The monks themselves were like an army, each one as powerful as a hundred normal men.

They would take Teod yet.

CHAPTER 62

Sarene and Hrathen shambled down the city street, their nondescript cloaks pulled close. Hrathen kept his hood up to hide his dark hair. The people of Teod had gathered in the streets, wondering why their king had brought the armada into the bay. Many wandered in the direction of the docks, and with these Sarene and Hrathen mingled, stooped and subservient, trying their best to look commonplace.

“When we arrive, we will seek passage on one of the merchant ships,” Hrathen said quietly. “They will bolt from Teod as soon as the armada launches. There are several places in Hrovell that don’t see a Derethi priest for months at a time. We can hide there.”

“You talk as if Teod will fall,” Sarene whispered back. “You may go, priest, but I will not leave my homeland.”

“If you value its safety, you will,” Hrathen snapped. “I know Dilaf—he is a man obsessed. If you stay in Teod, so will he. If you leave, perhaps he will follow.”

Sarene ground her teeth. The gyorn’s words had apparent sense in them, but it was possible he was concocting things to get her to accompany him. Of course, there was no reason for him to do such a thing. What cared he for Sarene? She had been his fervent enemy.

They moved slowly, unwilling to set themsel

ves apart from the crowd by increasing their speed. “You didn’t really answer my question before, priest,” Sarene whispered. “You have turned against your religion. Why?”

Hrathen walked in silence for a moment. “I … I don’t know, woman. I have followed Shu-Dereth since I was a child—the structure and formality of it have always called to me. I joined the priesthood. I … thought I had faith. It turned out, however, that the thing I grew to believe was not Shu-Dereth after all. I don’t know what it is.”

“Shu-Korath?”

Hrathen shook his head. “That is too simple. Belief is not simply Korathi or Derethi, one or the other. I still believe Dereth’s teachings. My problem is with Wyrn, not God.”

Horrified at his show of weakness before the girl, Hrathen quickly steeled his heart against further questions. Yes, he had betrayed Shu-Dereth. Yes, he was a traitor. But, for some reason, he felt calm now that he had made the decision. He had caused blood and death in Duladel. He would not let that happen again.

He had convinced himself that the Republic’s fall was a necessary tragedy. Now he had dispelled that illusion. His work in Duladel had been no more ethical than what Dilaf had attempted here in Teod. Ironically, by opening himself to truth, Hrathen had also exposed himself to the guilt of his past atrocities.

One thing, however, kept him from despair—the knowledge that whatever else happened to him, no matter what he had done, he could say that he now followed the truth in his heart. He could die and face Jaddeth with courage and pride.

The thought crossed his mind right before he felt the stab of pain in his chest. He reached over in surprise, grunting as he brought his hand up. His fingers were stained with blood. He felt his feet weaken, and he slumped against a building, ignoring Sarene’s startled cry. Confused, he looked out into the crowd, and his eyes fell on the face of his murderer. He knew the man. His name was Fjon—the priest Hrathen had sent home from Kae the very day he had arrived. That had been two months ago. How had Fjon found him? How …? It was impossible.

Fjon smiled, then disappeared into the throng of people.

As the darkness closed in, Hrathen discarded all questions. Instead his view and consciousness was filled with Sarene’s worried face. The woman who had destroyed him. Because of her, he had finally rejected the lies he had believed all of his life.

She would never know that he had come to love her.

Goodbye, my princess, he thought. Jaddeth, be merciful to my soul. I only did the best I could.

Sarene watched the light fading from Hrathen’s eyes.

“No!” she cried, pressing her hand against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. “Hrathen, don’t you dare leave me alone here!”

He didn’t respond. She had fought with him over the fate of two countries, but had never really known who he was. She never would.

A startled scream shocked Sarene back into the tangible world. People gathered around her, upset by the sight of a dying man in the street. Stunned, Sarene realized she had become the center of attention. She lifted her hand, pulled away as if to hide, but it was too late. Several bare-chested forms appeared from an alley to investigate the disturbance. One of them had blood on his face, the sign of a broken nose.

Fjon slipped away from the crowd, exulting at the ease of his first kill. They had told him that it would be simple: He needed only to knife a single man, and then he would be admitted into the monastery of Rathbore, where he would be trained as an assassin.

You were right, Hrathen, he thought. They did give me a new way to serve Jaddeth’s empire—an important one.

How ironic that the man he had been ordered to kill had turned out to be Hrathen himself. How had Wyrn known that Fjon would find Hrathen here, on the streets of Teod of all places? Fjon would probably never know; Lord Jaddeth moved in ways beyond the understanding of men. But Fjon had performed his duty. His period of penance was over.

With a merry step, Fjon went back to his inn and ordered breakfast.

“Leave me,” Lukel said with a pained tone. “I’m nearly dead—see to the others.”

“Stop whining,” Raoden said, drawing Aon Ien in the air above the wounded Lukel. He crossed it with the Chasm line, and the wound in the merchant’s leg re-sealed instantly. Not only did Raoden know the proper modifiers this time, but his Aons had the power of Elantris behind them. With the resurrection of the city, AonDor had regained its legendary strength.

Lukel looked down, experimentally bending his leg and feeling where the cut had been. Then he frowned. “You know, you could have left a scar. I had to go through an awful lot to get that wound—you should have seen how courageous I was. My grandchildren are going to be disappointed that I don’t have any scars to show them.”

“They’ll live,” Raoden said, rising and walking away.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lukel said from behind. “I thought we won.”

We won, Raoden thought, but I failed. They had searched the city—there was no sign of Sarene, Dilaf, or Hrathen. Raoden had captured a straggling Derethi soldier and demanded to know where they were, but the man had pled ignorance, and Raoden had released him with disgust.

He brooded, watching the people celebrate. Despite the deaths, despite the near-complete destruction of Kae, they were happy. Fjorden had been cast out and Elantris had returned. The days of the gods had come again. Unfortunately, Raoden couldn’t enjoy the sweetness of his victory. Not without Sarene.

Galladon approached slowly, ambling away from the group of Elantrians. The mass of sliver-skinned people were, for the most part, disoriented. Many of them had been Hoed for years, and knew nothing of current events.

“They’re going to be—” the Dula began.

“My lord Raoden!” a voice suddenly interrupted—a voice Raoden recognized.

“Ashe?” he asked anxiously, seeking out the Seon.

“Your Majesty!” Ashe said, zipping across the courtyard. “A Seon just spoke with me. The princess! She is in Teod, my lord. My kingdom is under attack as well!”

“Teod?” Raoden asked, dumbfounded. “How in Domi’s name did she get there?”

Sarene backed away, wishing desperately for a weapon. The townspeople noticed Dilaf and his warriors and, seeing the Fjordells’ odd twisted bodies and malevolent eyes, scattered in fright. Sarene’s reflexes urged her to join them, but such a move would only put her directly in Dilaf’s hands. The small monk’s warriors quickly fanned out to cut off Sarene’s escape.

Dilaf approached—his face stained with drying blood, his bare torso sweating in Teod’s cold air, the intricate patterns beneath the skin on his arms and chest bulging, his lips curved in a wicked smile. At that moment, Sarene knew that this man was the most horrifying thing she would ever see.

Raoden climbed to the top of Elantris’s wall, taking the steps two at a time, his restored Elantrian muscles moving more quickly and tirelessly than even those of his pre-Shaod self.

“Sule!” Galladon called with concern, rushing up behind him.

Raoden didn’t respond. He topped the wall, pushing his way through the crowds of people who stood looking over the remains of Kae. They parted as they realized who he was, some kneeling and mumbling “Your Majesty.” Their voices were awed. In him they saw a return to their former lives. Hopeful, luxurious lives filled with ample food and time. Lives nearly forgotten over a decade of tyranny.

Raoden gave them no heed, continuing until he stood on the northern wall, which overlooked the broad blue Sea of Fjorden. On the other side of those waters lay Teod. And Sarene.

“Seon,” Raoden ordered, “show me the exact direction Teod’s capital is from this point.”

Ashe hovered for a moment, then moved to a spot in front of Raoden, marking a point on the horizon. “If you wanted to sail to Teod, my lord, you would go in this direction.”

Raoden nodded, trusting the Seon’s innate sense of direction. He began to draw. He constructed Aon Tia with frantic hands, his fingers traci

ng patterns he had learned by rote, never thinking they would do any good. Now, with Elantris somehow feeding the Aons’ strength, lines no longer simply appeared in the air when he drew—they exploded. Light streamed from the Aon, as if his fingers were ripping tiny holes through a mighty dam, allowing only some of the water to squirt through.

“Sule!” Galladon said, finally catching up to him. “Sule, what is going on?” Then, apparently recognizing the Aon, he cursed. “Doloken, Raoden, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I am going to Teod,” Raoden said, continuing to draw.

“But sule,” Galladon protested. “You yourself told me how dangerous Aon Tia can be. What was it you said? If you don’t know the exact distance you need to travel, you could be killed. You can’t go into this blind. Kolo?”

“It’s the only way, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I have to at least try.”

Galladon shook his head, laying a hand on Raoden’s shoulder. “Sule, a meaningless attempt won’t prove anything but your stupidity. Do you even know how far it is to Teod?”

Raoden’s hand fell slowly to his side. He was no geographer; he knew Teod was about four days’ sail, but he had no practical knowledge of how many miles or feet that was. He had to work a frame of reference into Aon Tia, give it some sort of measurement, so that it knew how far to send him.

Galladon nodded, clapping Raoden on the shoulder. “Prepare a ship!” the Dula ordered to a group of soldiers—the last remnants of the Elantris City Guard.

It will be too late! Raoden thought with sorrow. What good is power, what good is Elantris, if I can’t use it to protect the one I love?

“One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” said a voice from behind Raoden.

Raoden turned with surprise. Adien stood a short distance away, his skin shining with a silvery Elantrian glow. His eyes betrayed none of the mental retardation that had cursed him since birth; instead they stared lucidly ahead.