Elantris (Elantris 1)

“Adien,” Raoden said with surprise. “You’re …”

The young man, looking strikingly like Lukel now that he was healed, stepped forward. “I … I feel like my entire life has been a dream, Raoden. I remember everything that happened. But, I couldn’t interact—I couldn’t say anything. That’s changed now, but one thing remains the same. My mind … I’ve always been able to figure numbers….”

“Footsteps,” Raoden whispered.

“One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” Adien repeated. “That is how many steps it is to Teod. Measure my stride, and use that as your unit.”

“Hurry, my lord!” Ashe exclaimed with fear. “She’s in danger. Mai—he’s watching the princess now. He says she’s surrounded. Oh, Domi! Hurry!”

“Where, Seon!” Raoden snapped, kneeling down and measuring Adien’s stride with a strip of cloth.

“Near the docks, my lord,” Ashe said. “She’s standing on the main road leading to the docks!”

“Adien!” Raoden said, drawing a line in his Aon that duplicated the length of the boy’s stride.

“One million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five,” Adien said. “That will take you to the docks.” He looked up, frowning. “I … I’m not sure how I know that. I went there as a child once, but …”

It’ll have to be enough, Raoden thought. He reached up and wrote a modifier beside his Aon, telling it to transport him one million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five lengths of the line.

“Sule, this is insane!” Galladon said.

Raoden looked at his friend, nodded in agreement, then with a broad stroke drew the Chasm line across his Aon.

“You are in charge of Arelon until I return, my friend,” Raoden said as Aon Tia began to shake, spewing light before him. He reached up and grabbed the center of the trembling Aon, and his fingers latched on to it, as if it were solid.

Idos Domi, he prayed, if you have ever heard my prayers before, direct my path now. Then, hoping Ashe had the angle correct, he felt the Aon’s power rush through and envelop his body. A moment later the world disappeared.

Sarene pressed her back against the hard brick wall. Dilaf approached with gleeful eyes. He crept forward, his line of monks closing on Sarene.

It was over. There was nowhere for her to run.

Suddenly, a spray of light crashed into one of the monks, throwing the creature into the air. Stupefied, Sarene watched the monk’s body as it arced before her, then fell to the ground with a thud. The other monks paused, stunned.

A figure dashed between the surprised line of monks, scrambling toward Sarene. His skin was silvery, his hair a blazing white, his face …

“Raoden?” she asked with shock.

Dilaf growled, and Sarene yelped as the priest dove at Raoden, moving supernaturally quickly. Yet somehow Raoden reacted just as quickly, spinning and backing away before Dilaf’s attack. The king’s hand whipped out, scrawling a quick Aon in the air.

A burst of light shot from the Aon, the air warping and twisting around it. The bolt took Dilaf in the chest and exploded, throwing the monk backward. Dilaf crashed into the side of a building and collapsed to the ground. Then, however, the priest groaned, stumbling back to his feet.

Raoden cursed. He dashed the short distance and grabbed Sarene. “Hold on,” he ordered, his free hand tracing another Aon. The designs Raoden crafted around Aon Tia were complex, but his hand moved dexterously. He finished it just as Dilaf’s men reached them.

Sarene’s body lurched, much as it had when Dilaf had brought them to Teod. Light surrounded her, shaking and pulsing. A brief second later the world returned. Sarene stumbled in confusion, falling against the familiar Teoish cobblestones.

She looked up with surprise. About fifty feet down the street she could see the bare chests of Dilaf’s monks standing in a confused circle. One of them raised a hand, pointing at Raoden and Sarene.

“Idos Domi!” Raoden cursed. “I forgot what the books said! The Aons grow weaker the farther one goes from Elantris.”

“You can’t get us home?” Sarene asked, climbing to her feet.

“Not by Aon, I can’t,” Raoden said. Then, taking her hand, he started running.

Her mind was so full of questions the entire world seemed a confused jumble. What had happened to Raoden? How had he recovered from the wound Dilaf gave him? She choked the questions back. It was enough that he had come.

Frantic, Raoden searched for a means of escape. Perhaps alone he could have outrun Dilaf’s men, but never with Sarene in tow. Their street emptied onto the docks, where Teod’s large warships were ponderously moving from the bay to engage a fleet bearing Fjorden’s flag. A man in royal green robes stood at the far side of the docks, conversing with a couple of adjuncts. King Eventeo—Sarene’s father. The king didn’t see them, instead turning to walk in a rushed step down a side alley.

“Father!” Sarene yelled out, but the distance was too far.

Raoden could hear footsteps approaching. He spun, thrusting Sarene behind him, and raised his arms to begin an Aon Daa with each hand. The Aons were weaker in Teod, but they weren’t ineffectual.

Dilaf held up a hand, slowing his men. Raoden froze, unwilling to commit himself to a final battle unless he had to. What was Dilaf waiting for?

Bare-chested monks poured from alleys and streets. Dilaf smiled, waiting as his warriors gathered. Within a few minutes his group had grown from twelve to fifty, and Raoden’s odds had plummeted from bad to hopeless.

“Not much of a rescue,” Sarene muttered, stepping forward to stand next to Raoden, staring down the group of monstrosities with a contemptuous air.

Her defiant irony brought a smile to Raoden’s lips. “Next time, I’ll remember to bring an army with me.”

Dilaf’s monks charged. Raoden completed his duplicate Aons—sending out a pair of powerful energy blasts—then quickly began drawing again. Yet, holding to his waist with tense hands, Sarene could see that Raoden wouldn’t finish before the supernaturally quick warriors arrived.

The docks shook with a powerful force. Wood cracked and stone shattered, and an explosion of wind blasted across her. She had to cling to Raoden’s somehow more stable body to keep from being thrown to the ground. When she finally dared open her eyes, they were surrounded by hundreds of silver-skinned forms.

“Aon Daa!” Galladon ordered with a booming voice.

Two hundred hands raised in the air, scribbling Aons. About half of them made mistakes, their Aons evaporating. Enough finished, however, to send a wave of destruction toward Dilaf’s men that was so powerful it tore completely through the first few monks.

Bodies collapsed and others were thrown backward. The remaining monks paused in shock, staring at the Elantrians.

Then the Dakhor scattered in an offensive charge, turning from Raoden and Sarene to attack this new foe.

Dilaf was the only one of his men who thought to duck. The rest, confidently arrogant in their strength, simply allowed the powerful blasts to hit them.

Fools! Dilaf thought as he rolled away. Every Dakhor was blessed with special skills and powers. They all had increased strength and nearly indestructible bones, but only Dilaf bore the power that made him resistant to attacks by the Dor—a power that had required the deaths of fifty men to create. He felt, rather than saw, as his men were torn apart by the Elantrians’ attack.

The remaining monks were horribly outnumbered. They attacked bravely, trying to kill as many of the vile Elantrians as they could. They had been trained well. They would die fighting. Dilaf yearned to join them.

But he did not. Some thought him mad, but he was not a fool. The screams in his head demanded revenge, and there was still a way left. One way to get vengeance on the Teoish princess and her Elantrians. One way to fulfill Wyrn’s commands. One way to turn the tide of this battle.

Dilaf scrambled away, stumbling slightly as a bolt of energy sprayed against his b

ack. His bone wardings held, and he was left unharmed by the attack.

When he had entered the docks a few moments before, he had seen King Eventeo disappear down a side alley. He now dashed toward that same alley.

His prey would follow.

“Raoden!” Sarene said, pointing at the fleeing Dilaf.

“Let him go,” Raoden said. “He can do no more damage.”

“But that’s the way my father went!” Sarene said, tugging him toward the alley.

She’s right, Raoden thought with a curse. He took off behind Dilaf. Sarene waved him on, and he left her behind, letting his newly reconditioned Elantrian legs carry him to the alleyway at an extraordinary speed. The other Elantrians didn’t see him go, but continued to fight the monks.

Raoden entered the alleyway, barely puffing. Dilaf tackled him a second later. The monk’s powerful body appeared out of a shadowed corner, slamming Raoden into the alley wall.

Raoden cried out, feeling his ribs crack. Dilaf backed away, unsheathing his sword with a smile. The priest lunged forward, and Raoden barely rolled away in time to avoid being impaled. As it was, Dilaf’s attack sliced through the flesh of Raoden’s left forearm, spilling silvery-white Elantrian blood.

Raoden gasped as pain washed through his arm. This pain, however, was weak and dull compared to his former agonies. He forgot it quickly, rolling again as Dilaf’s blade sought his heart. If his heart stopped again, Raoden would die. Elantrians were strong and quick-healing, but they were not immortal.

As he dodged, Raoden searched through his memory of Aons. Thinking quickly, he rolled to his feet, rapidly scribbling Aon Edo before him. It was a simple character, requiring only six strokes, and he finished it before Dilaf could make a third attack. The Aon flashed briefly, and then a thin wall of light appeared between himself and Dilaf.

Dilaf tested the wall hesitantly with the tip of his sword, and the wall resisted. The more one pressed against it, the more it drew from the Dor, pressing back with equal strength. Dilaf could not reach him.

Casually, Dilaf reached up and tapped the wall with his bare hand. His palm flashed briefly, and the wall shattered, shards of light scattering through the air.

Raoden cursed his stupidity—this was the man who had destroyed his illusionary face just a day before. Somehow, Dilaf had the power to negate Aons. Raoden jumped back, but the sword snapped forward more quickly. The tip did not strike Raoden’s chest, but struck his hand instead.

Raoden cried out as the sword pierced his right palm. He brought his other hand up to cup it around the injured one, but the wound on his forearm blazed with renewed vigor. Both hands were incapacitated; he could no longer draw Aons. Dilaf’s next attack was a casual kick, and Raoden’s already wounded ribs cracked further. He cried out and dropped to his knees.

Dilaf laughed, tapping Raoden on the side of the face with the tip of his sword. “The Skaze are right, then. Elantrians are not indestructible.”

Raoden didn’t answer.

“I will still win, Elantrian,” Dilaf said, his voice passionate and frenzied. “After Wyrn’s fleets defeat the Teoish armada, I will gather my troops and march on Elantris.”

“No one defeats the Teoish armada, priest,” a feminine voice interjected, a blade flashing out to strike at Dilaf’s head.

The priest yelped, barely bringing his own sword up in time to block Sarene’s attack. She had found a sword somewhere, and she whipped it in a pattern that moved too quickly for Raoden to track. He smiled at Dilaf’s surprise, remembering how easily the princess had defeated his own skills. Her weapon was thicker than a syre, but she still handled it with remarkable proficiency.

Dilaf, however, was no ordinary man. The bone patterns beneath his skin started glowing as he blocked Sarene’s attack, and his body began to move even more quickly. Soon Sarene stopped advancing, and almost immediately she was forced to begin retreating. The battle ended as Dilaf’s sword pierced her shoulder. Sarene’s weapon clanged to the cobblestones, and she stumbled, slumping down next to Raoden.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Raoden shook his head. No one could be expected to win a sword fight against one such as Dilaf.

“And my revenge begins,” Dilaf whispered reverently, bringing up his sword. “You may stop yelling, my love.”

Raoden grabbed Sarene protectively with a bleeding hand. Then he paused. There was something moving behind Dilaf—a form in the shadows of the alleyway.

Frowning, Dilaf turned to follow Raoden’s gaze. A figure stumbled from the darkness, holding his side in pain. The figure was a tall, broad-chested man with dark hair and determined eyes. Though the man no longer wore his armor, Raoden recognized him. The gyorn, Hrathen.

Strangely, Dilaf didn’t seem happy to see his companion. The Dakhor monk spun, raising his sword, eyes flashing with anger. He leapt, screaming something in Fjordell, and swung his sword at the obviously weakened gyorn.

Hrathen stopped, then whipped his arm out from beneath his cloak. Dilaf’s sword hit the flesh of Hrathen’s forearm.

And stopped.

Sarene gasped beside Raoden. “He’s one of them!” she whispered.

It was true. Dilaf’s weapon scraped along Hrathen’s arm, pushing back the sleeve there and revealing the skin beneath. The arm was not that of a normal man; it showed twisting patterns beneath the skin, the outcroppings of bone that were the sign of a Dakhor monk.

Dilaf, obviously, was surprised by the revelation as well. The monk stood stunned as Hrathen’s hand whipped out and grabbed Dilaf by the neck.

Dilaf began to curse, squirming in Hrathen’s grasp. The gyorn, however, began to stand up straighter, his grip tightening. Beneath his cloak, Hrathen was bare-chested, and Raoden could see that his skin there bore no Dakhor markings, though it was wet with blood from a wound at his side. Only the bones in his arm had the strange twisted patterns. Why the partial transformation?

Hrathen stood tall, ignoring Dilaf, though the monk began to swing at Hrathen’s enhanced arm with his short sword. The blows bounced off, so Dilaf swung at Hrathen’s side instead. The sword bit deeply into Hrathen’s flesh, but the gyorn didn’t even grunt. Instead, he tightened his grip on Dilaf’s neck, and the little monk gasped, dropping his sword in pain.

Hrathen’s arm began to glow.

The strange, twisting lines beneath Hrathen’s skin took on an eerie radiance as the gyorn lifted Dilaf off the ground. Dilaf squirmed and twisted, his breath coming in gasps. He struggled to escape, prying at Hrathen’s fingers, but the gyorn’s grip was firm.

Hrathen held Dilaf aloft, as if toward the heavens. He stared upward, toward the sky, eyes strangely unfocused, Dilaf proffered like some sort of holy offering. The gyorn stood there for a long moment, immobile, arm glowing, Dilaf becoming more and more frantic.

There was a snap. Dilaf stopped struggling. Hrathen lowered the body with a slow motion, then tossed it aside, the glow in his arm fading. He looked toward Raoden and Sarene, stood quietly for a moment, then toppled forward lifelessly.

When Galladon arrived a few moments later, Raoden was trying unsuccessfully to heal Sarene’s shoulder with his wounded hands. The large Dula took in the scene, then nodded for a couple of Elantrians to check on Dilaf and Hrathen’s corpses. Then Galladon settled down, letting Raoden tell him how to draw Aon Ien. A few moments later, Raoden’s hands and ribs had been restored, and he moved to help Sarene.

She sat quietly. Despite her wound, she had already checked on Hrathen. He was dead. In fact, either one of the wounds in his sides should have killed him long before he managed to break Dilaf’s neck. Something about his Dakhor markings had kept him alive. Raoden shook his head, drawing a healing Aon for Sarene’s shoulder. He still didn’t have an explanation as to why the gyorn had saved them, but he quietly blessed the man’s intervention.

“The armada?” Sarene asked anxiously as Raoden drew.

“Looks to me like it’s doing fine,” Galladon said with a shrug. ?

??Your father is searching for you—he came to the docks soon after we arrived.”

Raoden drew the Chasm line, and the wound in Sarene’s arm disappeared.

“I have to admit, sule, you are lucky as Doloken,” Galladon said. “Jumping here blind was just about the most idiotic thing I’ve ever seen a man do.”

Raoden shrugged, pulling Sarene tight. “It was worth it. Besides, you followed, didn’t you?”

Galladon snorted. “We had Ashe call ahead to make sure you arrived safely. We’re not kayana, unlike our king.”

“All right,” Sarene declared firmly. “Somebody is going to start explaining things to me right now.”

CHAPTER 63

Sarene straightened Raoden’s jacket, then stood back, tapping her cheek as she studied him. She would have preferred a white suit rather than a gold one, but for some reason white seemed pale and lifeless when placed next to his silvery skin.

“Well?” Raoden asked, holding his arms out to the sides. “You’ll have to do,” she decided airily.

He laughed, approaching and kissing her with a smile. “Shouldn’t you be alone in the chapel, praying and preparing? What ever happened to tradition?”

“I tried that once already,” Sarene said, turning to make sure he hadn’t mussed up her makeup. “This time I intend to keep a close eye on you. For some reason, my potential husbands have a way of disappearing.”

“That might say something about you, Leky Stick,” Raoden teased. He had laughed long when her father explained the nickname to him, and since then he had been careful to use it at every possible occasion.

She swatted at him absently, straightening her veil.

“My lord, my lady,” said a stoic voice. Raoden’s Seon, Ien, floated in through the doorway. “It is time.”

Sarene grabbed Raoden’s arm in a firm grip. “Walk,” she ordered, nodding toward the doorway. This time, she wasn’t letting go until someone married them.

Raoden tried to pay attention to the ceremony, but Korathi wedding services were lengthy and often dry. Father Omin, well aware of the precedent set by an Elantrian asking a Korathi priest to officiate at his wedding, had prepared an extensive speech for the occasion. As usual, the short man’s eyes took on a semiglazed look as he rambled, as if he had forgotten that there was anyone else present.