Elantris

  “I brought my converts with me—fully half of the believers in Kae came with me from Rain. Fjon was impressed with my diligence. He granted me the title of arteth and allowed me to continue teaching.”

  Hrathen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarding the Arelish priest. “You know what Arteth Fjon did was wrong.”

  “Yes, my lord. An arteth cannot appoint another to his own position. When I speak to the people, I never refer to myself as a priest of Derethi, only a teacher.”

  A very good teacher, Dilaf’s tone implied. “What did you think of Arteth Fjon?” Hrathen asked.

  “He was an undisciplined fool, my lord. His laxness kept Jaddeth’s kingdom from growing in Arelon, and has made a mockery of our religion.”

  Hrathen smiled: Dilaf, though not of the chosen race, was obviously a man who understood the doctrine and culture of his religion. However, his ardor could be dangerous. The wild intensity in Dilaf’s eyes was barely under control. Either he would have to be watched very closely, or he would have to be disposed of.

  “It appears that Arteth Fjon did one thing right, even if he didn’t have the proper authority,” Hrathen said. Dilaf’s eyes burned even more brightly at the declaration. “I make you a full arteth, Dilaf.”

  Dilaf bowed, touching his head to the ground. His mannerisms were perfectly Fjordell, and Hrathen had never heard a foreigner speak the Holy Tongue so well. This man could prove useful indeed; after all, one common complaint against Shu-Dereth was that it favored the Fjordell. An Arelish priest could help prove that all were welcome within Jaddeth’s empire—even if the Fjordell were the most welcome.

  Hrathen congratulated himself on creating such a useful tool, completely satisfied until the moment Dilaf looked up from his bow. The passion was still there in Dilaf’s eyes—but there was something else as well. Ambition. Hrathen frowned slightly, wondering whether or not he had just been manipulated.

  There was only one thing to do. “Arteth, are you sworn as any man’s odiv?”

  Surprise. Dilaf’s eyes opened wide as he stared up at Hrathen, uncertainty flashing therein. “No, my lord.”

  “Good. Then I will make you mine.”

  “My lord … I am, of course, your humble servant.”

  “You will be more than that, Arteth,” Hrathen said, “if you would be my odiv, I your hroden. You will be mine, heart and soul. If you follow Jaddeth, you follow Him through me. If you serve the empire, you do it under me. Whatever you think, act, or say will be by my direction. Am I understood?”

  Fire burned in Dilaf’s eyes. “Yes,” he hissed. The man’s fervor wouldn’t let him reject such an offer. Though his lowly rank of arteth would remain unchanged, being odiv to a gyorn would enormously increase Dilaf’s power and respectability. He would be Hrathen’s slave, if that slavery would carry him higher. It was a very Fjordell thing to do—ambition was the one emotion Jaddeth would accept as readily as devotion.

  “Good,” Hrathen said. “Then your first order is to follow the priest Fjon. He should be getting on the ship to Fjordell right at this moment—I want you to make sure he does so. If Fjon gets off for any reason, kill him.”

  “Yes, my gyorn.” Dilaf rushed from the room. He finally had an outlet for his enthusiasm. All Hrathen had to do now was keep that enthusiasm focused in the right direction.

  Hrathen stood for a moment after the Arelish man had gone, then shook his head and turned back to his desk. The scroll still lay where it had fallen from Fjon’s unworthy fingers; Hrathen picked it up with a smile, his touch reverent. He was not a man who delighted in possessions; he set his sights on much grander accomplishments than the simple accumulation of useless baubles. However, occasionally an object came along that was so unique, Hrathen reveled in simply knowing it belonged to him. One did not own such a thing for its usefulness, or for its ability to impress others, but because it was a privilege to possess. The scroll was such an object.

  It had been scribed in front of Hrathen by Wyrn’s own hand. It was revelation directly from Jaddeth; scripture intended for only one man. Few people ever got to meet Jaddeth’s anointed, and even among the gyorns, private audiences were rare. To receive orders directly from Wyrn’s hand … such was the most exquisite of experiences.

  Hrathen ran his eyes over the sacred words again, even though he had long since memorized their every detail.

  Behold the words of Jaddeth, through His servant Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Emperor and King.

  High Priest and Son, your request has been granted. Go to the heathen peoples of the West and declare to them my final warning, for while my Empire is eternal, my patience will soon end. Not much longer will I slumber within a tomb of rock. The Day of Empire is at hand, and my glory will soon shine forth, a second sun blazing forth from Fjorden.

  The pagan nations of Arelon and Teod have been blackened scars upon my land for long enough. Three hundred years have my priests served amongst those tainted by Elantris, and few have harkened to their call. Know this, High Priest: My faithful warriors are prepared and they wait only the word of my Wyrn. You have three months to prophesy to the people of Arelon. At the end of that time, the holy soldiers of Fjorden will descend on the nation like hunting predators, rending and tearing the unworthy life from those who heed not my words. Only three months will pass before the destruction of all who oppose my Empire.

  The time for my ascension nears, my son. Be stalwart, and be diligent.

  Words of Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation, through his servant Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Emperor of Fjorden, Prophet of Shu-Dereth, Ruler of Jaddeth’s Holy Kingdom, and Regent of all Creation.

  The time had finally come. Only two nations resisted. Fjorden had regained its former glory, glory lost hundreds of years ago when the First Empire collapsed. Once again, Arelon and Teod were the only two kingdoms who resisted Fjordell rule. This time, with the might of Jaddeth’s holy calling behind it, Fjorden would prevail. Then, with all mankind united under Wyrn’s rule, Jaddeth could rise from His throne beneath the earth and reign in glorious majesty.

  And Hrathen would be the one responsible for it. The conversion of Arelon and Teod was his urgent duty. He had three months to change the religious temperament of an entire culture; it was a monumental task, but it was vital that he succeed. If he did not, Fjorden’s armies would destroy every living being in Arelon, and Teod would soon follow; the two nations, though separated by water, were the same in race, religion, and obstinance.

  The people might not yet know it, but Hrathen was the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation. They had resisted Jaddeth and His people in arrogant defiance for far too long. Hrathen was their last chance. Someday they would call him their savior.

  CHAPTER 4

  The woman screamed until she grew too tired, calling for help, for mercy, for Domi. She clawed at the broad gate, her fingernails leaving marks in the film of slime. Eventually, she slumped to the ground in a quiet heap, shaking from occasional sobs. Seeing her agony reminded Raoden of his own pain—the sharp twinge of his toe, the loss of his life outside.

  “They won’t wait much longer,” Galladon whispered, his hand firmly on Raoden’s arm, holding the prince back.

  The woman finally stumbled to her feet, looking dazed, as if she had forgotten where she was. She took a single, uncertain step to her left, her palm resting on the wall, as if it were a comfort—a connection to the outside world, rather than the barrier separating her from it.

  “It’s done,” Galladon said.

  “Just like that?” Raoden asked.

  Galladon nodded. “She picked well—or, as well as one could. Watch.”

  Shadows stirred in an alleyway directly across the courtyard; Raoden and Galladon watched from inside a ramshackle stone building, one of many that lined Elantris’s entry courtyard. The shadows resolved into a group of men, and they approached the woman with determined, controlled steps, surrounding her. One reached out and took her basket of offerings. The woman didn’t ha
ve the strength left to resist; she simply collapsed again. Raoden felt Galladon’s fingers dig into his shoulder as he involuntarily pulled forward, wanting to dash out to confront the thieves.

  “Not a good idea. Kolo?” Galladon whispered. “Save your courage for yourself. If stubbing your toe nearly knocked you out, think how it would feel to have one of those cudgels cracking across your brave little head.”

  Raoden nodded, relaxing. The woman had been robbed, but it didn’t look like she was in further danger. It hurt, however, to watch her. She wasn’t a young maiden; she bore the stout figure of a woman accustomed to childbirth and the running of a household. A mother, not a damsel. The strong lines of the woman’s face bespoke hard-won wisdom and courage, and somehow that made watching her more difficult. If such a woman could be defeated by Elantris, what hope was there for Raoden?

  “I told you she chose well,” Galladon continued. “She might be a few pounds of food lighter, but she doesn’t have any wounds. Now, if she had turned right—like you did, sule—she would have been at the dubious mercy of Shaor’s men. If she had gone forward, then Aanden would have had the right to her offerings. The left turn is definitely best—Karata’s men take your food, but they rarely hurt you. Better to be hungry than spend the next few years with a broken arm.”

  “Next few years?” Raoden asked, turning away from the courtyard to regard his tall, dark-skinned companion. “I thought you said our wounds would last us an eternity.”

  “We only assume they will, sule. Show me an Elantrian who has managed to keep his wits until eternity ends, and maybe he’ll be able to prove the theory.”

  “How long do people usually last in here?”

  “A year, maybe two,” Galladon said.

  “What?”

  “Thought we were immortal, did you? Just because we don’t age, we’ll last forever?”

  “I don’t know,” Raoden said. “I though you said we couldn’t die.”

  “We can’t,” Galladon said. “But the cuts, the bruises, the stubbed toes … they pile up. One can only take so much.”

  “They kill themselves?” Raoden asked quietly.

  “That’s not an option. No, most of them lie around mumbling or screaming. Poor rulos.”

  “How long have you been here, then?”

  “A few months.”

  The realization was another shock to pile on the already teetering stack. Raoden had assumed that Galladon had been an Elantrian for at least a few years. The Dula spoke of life in Elantris as if it had been his home for decades, and he was impressively adept at navigating the enormous city.

  Raoden looked back at the courtyard, but the woman had already gone. She could have been a maid in his father’s palace, a wealthy merchant’s lady, or a simple housewife. The Shaod respected no classes; it took from all equally. She was gone now, having entered the gaping pit that was Elantris. He should have been able to help her.

  “All that for a single loaf of bread and a few flaccid vegetables,” Raoden muttered.

  “It may not seem like much now, but just wait a few days. The only food that enters this place comes clutched in the arms of its new arrivals. You wait, sule. You will feel the desire as well. It takes a strong man to resist when the hunger calls.”

  “You do it,” Raoden said.

  “Not very well—and I’ve only been here a few months. There’s no telling what the hunger will drive me to do a year from now.”

  Raoden snorted. “Just wait until my thirty days are done before you become a primordial beast, if you please. I’d hate to feel that I hadn’t got my beef’s worth out of you.”

  Galladon paused for a moment, then laughed. “Does nothing frighten you, sule?”

  “Actually, pretty much everything here does—I’m just good at ignoring the fact that I’m terrified. If I ever realize how scared I am, you’ll probably find me trying to hide under those cobblestones over there. Now, tell me more about these gangs.”

  Galladon shrugged, walking away from the broken door and pulling a chair away from the wall. He turned a critical eye on its legs, then carefully settled down. He moved just quickly enough to stand again as the legs cracked. He tossed the chair away with disgust, and settled on the floor.

  “There are three sections of Elantris, sule, and three gangs. The market section is ruled by Shaor; you met a few members of his court yesterday, though they were too busy licking the slime off your offerings to introduce themselves. In the palace section you’ll find Karata—she’s the one who so very politely relieved that woman of her food today. Last is Aanden. He spends most of his time in the university section.”

  “A learned man?”

  “No, an opportunist. He was the first one who realized that many of the library’s older texts were written on vellum. Yesterday’s classics have become tomorrow’s lunch. Kolo?”

  “Idos Domi!” Raoden swore. “That’s atrocious! The old scrolls of Elantris are supposed to hold countless original works. They’re priceless!”

  Galladon turned him a suffering eye. “Sule, do I need to repeat my speech about hunger? What good is literature when your stomach hurts so much your eyes water?”

  “That’s a terrible argument. Two-century-old lambskin scrolls can’t possibly taste very good.”

  Galladon shrugged. “Better than slime. Anyway, Aanden supposedly ran out of scrolls a few months back. They tried boiling books, but that didn’t work very well.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t tried boiling one another.”

  “Oh, it’s been tried,” Galladon said. “Fortunately, something happens to us during the Shaod—apparently the flesh of a dead man doesn’t taste too good. Kolo? In fact, it’s so violently bitter that no one can keep it down.”

  “It’s nice to see that cannibalism has been so logically ruled out as an option,” Raoden said dryly.

  “I told you, sule. The hunger makes men do strange things.”

  “And that makes it all right?”

  Wisely, Galladon didn’t answer.

  Raoden continued. “You talk about hunger and pain as if they are forces which can’t be resisted. Anything is acceptable, as long as the hunger made you do it—remove our comforts, and we become animals.”

  Galladon shook his head. “I’m sorry, sule, but that’s just the way things work.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Ten years wasn’t long enough. Even in Arelon’s thick humidity, it should have taken longer for the city to deteriorate so much. Elantris looked as if it had been abandoned for centuries. Its wood was decaying, its plaster and bricks were disintegrating—even stone buildings were beginning to crumble. And coating everything was the omnipresent film of brown sludge.

  Raoden was finally getting used to walking on the slippery, uneven cobblestones. He tried to keep himself clean of the slime, but the task proved impossible. Every wall he brushed and every ledge he grasped left its mark on him.

  The two men walked slowly down a broad street; the thoroughfare was far larger than any of its kind back in Kae. Elantris had been built on a massive scale, and while the size had seemed daunting from without, Raoden was only now beginning to grasp just how enormous the city was. He and Galladon had been walking for hours, and Galladon said they were still a moderate distance from their destination.

  The two did not rush, however. That was one of the first things Galladon had taught: In Elantris, one took one’s time. Everything the Dula did was performed with an air of utter precision, his movements relaxed and careful. The slightest scratch, no matter how negligible, added to an Elantrian’s pain. The more careful one was, the longer one would stay sane. So, Raoden followed, trying to mimic Galladon’s attentive gait. Every time Raoden began to feel that the caution was excessive, all he had to do was look at one of the numerous forms that lay huddled in gutters and on street corners, and his determination would return.

  The Hoed, Galladon called them: those Elantrians who had succumbed to the pain. Their minds l
ost, their lives were filled with continual, unrelenting torture. They rarely moved, though some had enough feral instinct to remain crouched in the shadows. Most of them were quiet, though few were completely silent. As he passed, Raoden could hear their mumbles, sobs, and whines. Most seemed to be repeating words and phrases to themselves, a mantra to accompany their suffering.

  “Domi, Domi, Domi …”

  “So beautiful, once so very beautiful …”

  “Stop, stop, stop. Make it stop….”

  Raoden forced himself to close his ears to the words. His chest was beginning to constrict, as if he were suffering with the poor, faceless wretches. If he paid too much attention, he would go mad long before the pain took him.

  However, if he let his mind wander, it invariably turned to his outside life. Would his friends continue their clandestine meetings? Would Kiin and Roial be able to hold the group together? And what of his best friend, Lukel? Raoden had barely gotten to know Lukel’s new wife; now he would never get to see their first child.

  Even worse were the thoughts of his own marriage. He had never met the woman he was to have married, though he had spoken to her via Seon on many occasions. Was she really as witty and interesting as she had seemed? He would never know. Iadon had probably covered up Raoden’s transformation, pretending that his son was dead. Sarene would never come to Arelon now; once she heard the news, she would stay in Teod and seek another husband.

  If only I had been able to meet her, if just once. But, such thoughts were useless. He was an Elantrian now.

  Instead, he focused on the city itself. It was difficult to believe that Elantris had once been the most beautiful city in Opelon, probably in the world. The slime was what he saw—the rot and the erosion. However, beneath the filth were the remnants of Elantris’s former greatness. A spire, the remains of a delicately carved wall relief, grand chapels and vast mansions, pillars and arches. Ten years ago this city had shone with its own mystical brightness, a city of pure white and gold.