“They always said that Elantris was the most blessed of cities, but my father was never happy here. I guess even in paradise there are those who don’t fit in. He became a scholar—the study I showed you was his. However, Duladel never left his mind—he studied farming and agriculture, though both were useless in Elantris. Why farm when you can turn garbage into food?”
Galladon sighed, reaching out to pinch a piece of dirt between his fingers. He rubbed them together for a moment, letting the soil fall back to the ground.
“He wished he had studied healing when he found my mother dying beside him in bed one morning. Some diseases strike so quickly even Elantris can’t stop them. My father became the only depressed Elantrian I ever knew. That’s when I finally understood that they weren’t gods, for a god could never feel such agony. He couldn’t return home—the Elantrians of old were as exiled as we are today, no matter how beautiful they might have been. People don’t want to live with something so superior to themselves—they can’t stand such a visible sign of their own inferiority.
“He was happy when I returned to Duladen. He told me to be a farmer. I left him a poor, lonely god in a divine city, wishing for nothing so much as the freedom to be a simple man again. He died about a year after I left. Did you know that Elantrians could die of simple things, such as heart-death? They lived much longer than regular people, but they could still die. Especially if they wanted to. My father knew the signs of heart-death; he could have gone in to be healed, but he chose to stay in his study and disappear. Just like those Aons you spend so much time drawing.”
“So you hate Elantris?” Raoden asked, slipping quietly through the open window to approach his friend. He sat as well, looking across the small plant at Galladon.
“Hate?” Galladon asked. “No, I don’t hate—that isn’t the Dula way. Of course, growing up in Elantris with a bitter father made me a poor Dula. You’ve realized that—I can’t take things as lightly as my people would. I see a taint on everything. Like the sludge of Elantris. My people avoided me because of my demeanor, and I was almost glad when the Shaod took me—I didn’t fit Duladel, no matter how much I enjoyed my farming. I deserve this city, and it deserves me. Kolo?”
Raoden wasn’t certain how to respond. “I suppose an optimistic comment wouldn’t do much good right now.”
Galladon smiled slightly. “Definitely not—you optimists just can’t understand that a depressed person doesn’t want you to try and cheer them up. It makes us sick.”
“Then just let me say something true, my friend,” Raoden said. “I appreciate you. I don’t know if you fit in here; I doubt any of us do. But I value your help. If New Elantris succeeds, then it will be because you were there to keep me from throwing myself off a building.”
Galladon took a deep breath. His face was hardly joyful—yet, his gratitude was plain. He nodded slightly, then stood and offered Raoden a hand to help him up.
Raoden turned fitfully. He didn’t have much of a bed, just a collection of blankets in the chapel’s back room. However, discomfort wasn’t what kept him up. There was another problem—a worry in the back of his mind. He was missing something important. He had been close to it earlier, and his subconscious harried him, demanding that he make the connection.
But, what was it? What clue, barely registered, haunted him? After his discussion with Galladon, Raoden had returned to his Aon practice. Then he had gone for a short look around the city. All had been quiet—Shaor’s men had stopped attacking New Elantris, instead focusing on the more promising potential presented by Sarene’s visits.
It had to be related to his discussions with Galladon, he decided. Something to do with the Aons, or perhaps Galladon’s father. What would it have been like to be an Elantrian back then? Could a man really have been depressed within these amazing walls? Who, capable of marvelous wonders, would be willing to trade them for the simple life of a famer? It must have been beautiful back then, so beautiful….
“Merciful Domi!” Raoden yelled, snapping upright in his blankets.
A few seconds later, Saolin and Mareshe—who made their beds in the main room of the chapel—burst through the door. Galladon and Karata weren’t far behind. They found Raoden sitting in amazed stupefaction.
“Sule?” Galladon asked carefully.
Raoden stood and strode out of the room. A perplexed entourage followed. Raoden barely paused to light a lantern, and the pungent odor of Sarene’s oil didn’t even faze him. He marched into the night, heading straight for the Hall of the Fallen.
The man was there, still mumbling to himself as many of the Hoed did even at night. He was small and wrinkled, his skin folded in so many places he appeared a thousand years old. His voice whispered a quiet mantra.
“Beautiful,” he rasped. “Once so very beautiful….”
The hint hadn’t come during his discussions with Galladon at all. It had come during his short visit delivering food to the Hoed. Raoden had heard the man’s mumbling a dozen times, and never made the connection.
Raoden placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders. “What was so beautiful?”
“Beautiful …” the man mumbled.
“Old man,” Raoden pled. “If there is a soul left in that body of yours, even the slightest bit of rational thought, please tell me. What are you talking about?”
“Once so very beautiful …” the man continued, his eyes staring into the air.
Raoden raised a hand and began to draw in front of the man’s face. He had barely completed Aon Rao before the man reached out, gasping as he put his hand through the center of the character.
“We were so beautiful, once,” the man whispered. “My hair so bright, my skin full of light. Aons fluttered from my fingers. They were so beautiful….”
Raoden heard several muttered exclamations of surprise from behind. “You mean,” Karata asked, approaching, “all this time …?”
“Ten years,” Raoden said, still supporting the old man’s slight body. “This man was an Elantrian before the Reod.”
“Impossible,” Mareshe said. “It’s been too long.”
“Where else would they go?” Raoden asked. “We know some of the Elantrians survived the fall of city and government. They were locked in Elantris. Some might have burned themselves, a few others might have escaped, but the rest would still be here. They would have become Hoed, losing their minds and their strength after a few years … forgotten in the streets.”
“Ten years,” Galladon whispered. “Ten years of suffering.”
Raoden looked the old man’s eyes. They were lined with cracks and wrinkles, and seemed dazed, as if by some great blow. The secrets of AonDor hid somewhere in this man’s mind.
The man’s grip on Raoden’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly, his entire body quivering with effort. Three straining words hissed from his lips as his agony-laden eyes focused on Raoden’s face.
“Take. Me. Out.”
“Where?” Raoden asked with confusion. “Out of the city?”
“The. Lake.”
“I don’t know what you mean, old one,” Raoden whispered.
The man’s eyes moved slightly, looking at the door.
“Karata, grab that light,” Raoden ordered, picking up the old man. “Galladon, come with us. Mareshe and Saolin, stay here. I don’t want any of the others to wake up and find us all gone.”
“But …” Saolin began, but his words fell off. He recognized a direct order.
It was a bright night, moon hanging full in the sky, and the lantern almost wasn’t necessary. Raoden carried the old Elantrian carefully. It was obvious that the man no longer had the strength to lift his arm and point, so Raoden had to pause at every intersection, searching the old man’s eyes for some sign that they should turn.
It was a slow process, and it was nearly morning before they arrived at a fallen building at the very edge of Elantris. The structure looked much like any other, though its roof was mostly intact.
“Any
idea what this was?” Raoden asked.
Galladon thought for a moment, digging through his memory. “Actually, I think I do, sule. It was some sort of meetinghouse for the Elantrians. My father came here occasionally, though I was never allowed to accompany him.”
Karata gave Galladon a startled look at the explanation, but she held her questions for another time. Raoden carried the old Elantrian into the hollow building. It was empty and nondescript. Raoden studied the man’s face. He was looking at the floor.
Galladon knelt and brushed away debris as he searched the floor. “There’s an Aon here.”
“Which one?”
“Rao, I think.”
Raoden furled his brow. The meaning of Aon Rao was simple: It meant “spirit” or “spiritual energy.” However, the AonDor book had mentioned it infrequently, and had never explained what magical effect the Aon was meant to produce.
“Push on it,” Raoden suggested.
“I’m trying, sule,” Galladon said with a grunt. “I don’t think it’s doing any—” The Dula cut off as the section of floor began to fall away. He yelped and scrambled back as the large stone block sank with a grinding noise. Karata cleared her throat, pointing at an Aon she had pushed on the wall. Aon Tae—the ancient symbol that meant “open.”
“There are some steps here, sule,” Galladon said, sticking his head into the hole. He climbed down, and Karata followed with the lamp. After passing down the old Hoed, Raoden joined them.
“Clever mechanism,” Galladon noted, studying the series of gears that had lowered the enormous stone block. “Mareshe would be going wild about now. Kolo?”
“I’m more interested in these walls,” Raoden said, staring at the beautiful murals. The room was rectangular and squat, barely eight feet tall, but it was brilliantly decorated with painted walls and a double row of sculpted columns. “Hold the lantern up.”
White-haired figures with silver skin coated the walls, their two-dimensional forms engaged in various activities. Some knelt before enormous Aons; others walked in rows, heads bowed. There was a sense of formality about the figures.
“This place is holy,” Raoden said. “A shrine of some sort.”
“Religion amongst the Elantrians?” Karata asked.
“They must have had something,” Raoden said. “Perhaps they weren’t as convinced of their own divinity as the rest of Arelon.” He shot an inquiring look at Galladon.
“My father never spoke of religion,” the Dula said. “But his people kept many secrets, even from their families.”
“Over there,” Karata said, pointing at the far end of the rectangular room, where the wall held only a single mural. It depicted a large mirrorlike blue oval. An Elantrian stood facing the oval, his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. He appeared to be flying toward the blue disk. The rest of the wall was black, though there was a large white sphere on the other side of the oval.
“Lake.” The old Elantrian’s voice was quiet but insistent.
“It’s painted sideways,” Karata realized. “See, he’s falling into a lake.”
Raoden nodded. The Elantrian in the picture wasn’t flying, he was falling. The oval was the surface of a lake, lines on its sides depicting a shore.
“It’s like the water was considered a gate of some sort,” Galladon said, head cocked to the side.
“And he wants us to throw him in,” Raoden realized. “Galladon, did you ever see an Elantrian funeral?”
“Never,” the Dula said with a shake of his head.
“Come on,” Raoden said, looking down at the old man’s eyes. They pointed insistently at a side passage.
Beyond the doorway was a room even more amazing than the first. Karata held up her lantern with a wavering hand.
“Books,” Raoden whispered with excitement. Their light shone on rows and rows of bookshelves, extending into the darkness. The three wandered into the enormous room, feeling an incredible sense of age. Dust coated the shelves, and their footsteps left tracks.
“Have you noticed something odd about this place, sule?” Galladon asked softly.
“No slime,” Karata realized.
“No slime,” Galladon agreed.
“You’re right,” Raoden said with amazement. He had grown so used to New Elantris’s clean streets that he’d almost forgotten how much work it took to make them that way.
“I haven’t found a single place in this town that wasn’t covered with that slime, sule,” Galladon said. “Even my father’s study was coated with it before I cleaned it.”
“There’s something else,” Raoden said, looking back at the room’s stone wall. “Look up there.”
“A lantern,” Galladon said with surprise.
“They line the walls.”
“But why not use Aons?” the Dula asked. “They did everywhere else.”
“I don’t know,” Raoden said. “I wondered the same thing about the entrance. If they could make Aons that transported them instantly around the city, then they certainly could have made one that lowered a rock.”
“You’re right,” Galladon said.
“AonDor must have been forbidden here for some reason,” Karata guessed as they reached the far side of the library.
“No Aons, no slime. Coincidence?” Galladon asked.
“Perhaps,” Raoden said, checking the old man’s eyes. He pointed insistently at a small door in the wall. It was carved with a scene similar to the mural in the first room.
Galladon pulled open the door, revealing a long, seemingly endless passage cut into the stone. “Where in Doloken does this lead?”
“Out,” Raoden said. “The man asked us to take him out of Elantris.”
Karata walked into the passage, running her fingers along its smoothly carved walls. Raoden and Galladon followed. The path quickly grew steep, and they were forced to take frequent breaks to rest their weak Elantrian bodies. They took turns carrying the old man as the slope turned to steps. It took over an hour to reach the path’s end—a simple wooden door, uncarved and unadorned.
Galladon pushed it open, and stepped out into the weak light of dawn. “We’re on the mountain,” he exclaimed with surprise.
Raoden stepped out beside his friend, walking onto a short platform cut into the mountainside. The slope beyond the platform was steep, but Raoden could make out the hints of switchbacks leading down. Abutting the slope was the city of Kae, and beyond that stood the enormous monolith that was Elantris.
He had never really realized just how big Elantris was. It made Kae look like a village. Surrounding Elantris were the ghostly remains of the three other Outer Cities—towns that, like Kae, had once squatted in the shadow of the great city. All were now abandoned. Without Elantris’s magics, there was no way for Arelon to support such a concentration of people. The cities’ inhabitants had been forcibly removed, becoming Iadon’s workmen and farmers.
“Sule, I think our friend is getting impatient.”
Raoden looked down at the Elantrian. The man’s eyes twitched back and forth insistently, pointing at a wide path leading up from the platform. “More climbing,” Raoden said with a sigh.
“Not much,” Karata said from the top of the path. “It ends just up here.”
Raoden nodded and hiked the short distance, joining Karata on the ridge above the platform.
“Lake,” the man whispered in exhausted satisfaction.
Raoden frowned. The “lake” was barely ten feet deep—more like a pool. Its water was a crystalline blue, and Raoden could see no inlets or outlets.
“What now?” Galladon asked.
“We put him in,” Raoden guessed, kneeling to lower the Elantrian into the pool. The man floated for a moment in the deep sapphire water, then released a blissful sigh. The sound opened a longing within Raoden, an intense desire to be free of his pains both physical and mental. The old Elantrian’s face seemed to smooth slightly, his eyes alive again.
Those eyes held Raoden’s for a moment, thanks shining the
rein. Then the man dissolved.
“Doloken!” Galladon cursed as the old Elantrian melted away like sugar in a cup of adolis tea. In barely a second, the man was gone, no sign remaining of flesh, bone, or blood.
“I’d be careful if I were you, my prince,” Karata suggested.
Raoden looked down, realizing how close he was to the pool’s edge. The pain screamed; his body shook, as if it knew how close it was to relief. All he had to do was fall….
Raoden stood, stumbling slightly as he backed away from the beckoning pool. He wasn’t ready. He wouldn’t be ready until the pain ruled him—as long as he had will left, he would struggle.
He placed a hand on Galladon’s shoulder. “When I am Hoed, bring me here. Don’t make me live in pain.”
“You’re young to Elantris yet, sule,” Galladon said scoffingly. “You’ll last for years.”
The pain raged in Raoden, making his knees tremble. “Just promise, my friend. Swear to me you will bring me here.”
“I swear, Raoden,” Galladon said solemnly, his eyes worried. Raoden nodded. “Come, we have a long trek back to the city.”
CHAPTER 26
The gate slammed shut as Sarene’s cart rolled back into Kae. “You’re certain he’s the one in charge?” she asked.
Ashe bobbed slightly. “You were correct, my lady—my information about the gang leaders was outdated. They call this newcomer Lord Spirit. His rise was a recent event—most hadn’t heard of him more than a month ago, though one man claims that Lord Spirit and Shaor are the same person. The reports agree that he defeated both Karata and Aanden. Apparently, the second confrontation involved an enormous battle of some sort.”
“Then the people I’m meeting with are impostors,” Sarene said, tapping her cheek as she rode in the back of the cart. It was hardly fitting transportation for a princess, but none of the day’s nobles had offered her a ride in their coaches. She had intended to ask Shuden, but he had disappeared—the young Torena had beat Sarene to him.
“Apparently they are, my lady. Are you angered?” Ashe asked the question carefully. He had made it quite clear he still thought her preoccupation with Spirit was an unnecessary distraction.