Elantris

by Brandon Sanderson

  No one knew what had caused the Reod. There were those who theorized—most of them Derethi priests—that the fall of Elantris had been caused by God. The pre-Reod Elantrians had lived as gods, allowing other religions in Arelon, but suffering them the same way a master lets his dog lick fallen food off the floor. The beauty of Elantris, the powers its inhabitants wielded, had kept the general population from converting to Shu-Keseg. Why seek an unseen deity when you had gods living before you?

  It had come with a tempest—that much even Raoden remembered. The earth itself had shattered, an enormous chasm appearing in the south, all of Arelon quaking. With the destruction, Elantris had lost its glory. The Elantrians had changed from brilliant white-haired beings to creatures with splotchy skin and bald scalps—like sufferers of some horrible disease in the advanced stages of decay. Elantris had stopped glowing, instead growing dark.

  And it had happened only ten years ago. Ten years was not enough. Stone should not crumble after just a decade of neglect. The filth should not have piled up so quickly—not with so few inhabitants, most of whom were incapacitated. It was as if Elantris were intent on dying, a city committing suicide.

  _______

  “The market section of Elantris,” Galladon said. “This place used to be one of the most magnificent marketplaces in the world—merchants came from across Opelon to sell their exotic goods to the Elantrians. A man could also come here to buy the more luxurious Elantrian magics. They didn’t give everything away for free. Kolo?”

  They stood atop a flat-roofed building; apparently, some Elantrians had preferred flat roofs as opposed to peaks or domes, for the flat sections allowed for rooftop gardens. Before them lay a section of city that looked pretty much the same as the rest of Elantris—dark and falling apart. Raoden could imagine that its streets had once been decorated with the colorful canvas awnings of street vendors, but the only remains of such was the occasional filth-covered rag.

  “Can we get any closer?” Raoden asked, leaning over the ledge to look down on the market section.

  “You can if you want, sule,” Galladon said speculatively. “But I’m staying here. Shaor’s men are fond of chasing people; it’s probably one of the few pleasures they have left.”

  “Tell me about Shaor himself, then.”

  Galladon shrugged. “In a place like this, many look for leaders—someone to ward off a bit of the chaos. Like any society, those who are strongest often end up in command. Shaor is one who finds pleasure in controlling others, and for some reason the most wild and morally corrupt Elantrians find their way to him.”

  “And he gets to take the offerings of one-third of the newcomers?” Raoden asked.

  “Well, Shaor himself rarely bothers with such things—but yes, his followers get first call on one-third of the offerings.”

  “Why the compromise?” Raoden asked. “If Shaor’s men are as uncontrollable you imply, then what convinced them to hold to such an arbitrary agreement?”

  “The other gangs are just as big as Shaor’s, sule,” Galladon explained. “On the outside, people tend to be convinced of their own immortality. We are more realistic. One rarely wins a battle without at least a few wounds, and here even a couple of slight cuts can be more devastating, and more agonizing, than a swift decapitation. Shaor’s men are wild, but they are not complete idiots. They won’t fight unless they have incredible odds or a promising reward. You think it was your physique that kept that man from attacking you yesterday?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Raoden admitted.

  “Even the slightest hint that you might fight back is enough to scare these men off, sule,” Galladon said. “The pleasure of torturing you just isn’t worth the gamble that you might get in a lucky blow.”

  Raoden shivered at the thought. “Show me where the other gangs live.”

  _______

  The university and the palace bordered one another. According to Galladon, Karata and Aanden had a very uneasy truce, and guards were usually posted on both sides to keep watch. Once again, Raoden’s companion led him to a flat-roofed building, an untrustworthy set of stairs leading to the top.

  However, after climbing the stairs—and nearly falling when one of the steps cracked beneath him—Raoden had to admit that the view was worth the effort. Elantris’s palace was large enough to be magnificent despite the inevitable decay. Five domes topped five wings, each with a majestic spire. Only one of the spires—the one in the middle—was still intact, but it rose high into the air, by far the tallest structure Raoden had ever seen.

  “That’s said to be the exact center of Elantris,” Galladon said, nodding to the spire. “Once you could climb the steps winding around it and look out over the entire city. Nowadays, I wouldn’t trust it. Kolo?”

  The university was large, but less magnificent. It consisted of five or six long, flat buildings and a lot of open space—ground that had probably once held grass or gardens, both things that would have been eaten to their roots long ago by Elantris’s starving inhabitants.

  “Karata is both the harshest and most lenient of the gang leaders,” Galladon said, gazing down on the university. There was something odd in his eyes, as if he were seeing things Raoden couldn’t. His description continued in its characteristic rambling tone, as if his mouth wasn’t aware that his mind was focused elsewhere.

  “She doesn’t often let new members into her gang, and she is extremely territorial. Shaor’s men might chase you for a while if you wander onto his turf, but only if they feel like it. Karata suffers no intruders. However, if you leave Karata alone, she leaves you alone, and she rarely harms newcomers when she takes their food. You saw her earlier today—she always takes the food personally. Maybe she doesn’t trust her underlings enough to handle it.”

  “Perhaps,” Raoden said. “What else do you know about her?”

  “Not much—leaders of violent thieving gangs don’t tend to be the type to spend their afternoons chatting.”

  “Now who’s taking things lightly?” Raoden said with a smile.

  “You’re a bad influence, sule. Dead people aren’t supposed to be cheerful. Anyway, the only thing I can tell you about Karata is that she doesn’t like being in Elantris very much.”

  Raoden frowned. “Who does?”

  “We all hate it, sule, but few of us have the courage to try and escape. Karata has been caught in Kae three times now—always in the vicinity of the king’s palace. One more time and the priests will have her burned.”

  “What does she want at the palace?”

  “She hasn’t been kind enough to explain it to me,” Galladon replied. “Most people think she intends to assassinate King Iadon.”

  “The king?” Raoden said. “What would that accomplish?”

  “Revenge, discord, bloodlust. All very good reasons when you’re already damned. Kolo?”

  Raoden frowned. Perhaps living with his father—who was absolutely paranoid about the prospect of getting killed by an assassin—had desensitized him, but murdering the king just didn’t seem like a likely goal to him. “What about the other gang leader?”

  “Aanden?” Galladon asked, looking back over the city. “He claims he was some kind of noble before he was thrown in here—a baron, I think. He’s tried to establish himself as monarch of Elantris, and he is incredibly annoyed that Karata has control of the palace. He holds court, claims he will feed those who join him—though all they’ve gotten so far are a few boiled books—and makes plans for attacking Kae.”

  “What?” Raoden asked with surprise. “Attacking?”

  “He isn’t serious,” Galladon said. “But he is good at propaganda. He claims to have a plan to free Elantris, and it’s gained him a large following. However, he’s also brutal. Karata only harms people who try to sneak into the palace—Aanden is notorious for dispensing judgments at a whim. Personally, sule, I don’t think he’s completely sane.”

  Raoden frowned. If this Aanden really had been a baron, then Raoden would have kn
own him. However, he didn’t recognize the name. Either Aanden had lied about his background, or he had chosen a new name after entering Elantris.

  Raoden studied the area in between the university and the palace. A certain object had caught his attention. Something so mundane he wouldn’t have given it a second look, had it not been the first of its kind he had seen in all of Elantris.

  “Is that a well?” he asked uncertainly.

  Galladon nodded. “The only one in the city.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Indoor plumbing, sule, courtesy of AonDor magic. Wells weren’t necessary.”

  “Then why build that one?”

  “I think it was used in religious ceremonies. Several Elantrian worship services required water that had been freshly gathered from a moving river.”

  “Then the Aredel river does run under the city,” Raoden said.

  “Of course. Where else would it go. Kolo?”

  Raoden narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, but he didn’t volunteer any information. As he stood, watching the city, he noticed a small ball of light floating through one of the streets below. The Seon meandered with an aimless air, occasionally floating in circles. It was far too distant for him to make out the Aon at its center.

  Galladon noticed Raoden’s scrutiny. “A Seon,” the Dula noted. “Not uncommon in the city.”

  “It’s true, then?” Raoden asked.

  Galladon nodded. “When a Seon’s master gets taken by the Shaod, the Seon itself is driven mad. There’s a number of them floating through the city. They don’t talk, they just hover about, mindless.”

  Raoden glanced away. Since being thrown into Elantris, he’d avoided thinking about his own Seon, Ien. Raoden had heard what happened to Seons when their masters became Elantrians.

  Galladon glanced up at the sky. “It will rain soon.”

  Raoden raised an eyebrow at the cloudless sky. “If you say so.”

  “Trust me. We should get inside, unless you want to spend the next few days in damp clothing. Fires are hard to make in Elantris; the wood is all too wet or too rotten to burn.”

  “Where should we go?”

  Galladon shrugged. “Pick a house, sule. Chances are it won’t be inhabited.”

  They had spent the previous night sleeping in an abandoned house—but now, something occurred to Raoden. “Where do you live, Galladon?”

  “In Duladel,” Galladon immediately answered.

  “I mean nowadays.”

  Galladon thought for a moment, eyeing Raoden uncertainly. Then, with a shrug, he waved Raoden to follow him down the unstable stairs. “Come.”

  “Books!” Raoden said with excitement.

  “Should never have brought you here,” Galladon muttered. “Now I’ll never get rid of you.”

  Galladon had led Raoden into what had seemed to be a deserted wine cellar, but had turned out to be something quite different indeed. The air was drier here—even though it was below ground—and much cooler as well. As if to revoke his earlier cautions about fire, Galladon had pulled a lantern from a hidden alcove and lit it with a bit of flint and steel. What the light had revealed was surprising indeed.

  It looked like a learned man’s study. There were Aons—the mystical ancient characters behind the Aonic language—painted all over the walls, and there were several shelves of books.

  “How did you ever find this place?” Raoden asked eagerly.

  “I stumbled upon it,” Galladon said with a shrug.

  “All these books,” Raoden said, picking one up off its shelf. It was a bit moldy, but still legible. “Maybe these could teach us the secret behind the Aons, Galladon! Did you ever think of that?”

  “The Aons?”

  “The magic of Elantris,” Raoden said. “They say that before the Reod, Elantrians could create powerful magics just by drawing Aons.”

  “Oh, you mean like this?” the large dark-skinned man asked, raising his hand. He traced a symbol in the air, Aon Deo, and his finger left a glowing white line behind it.

  Raoden’s eyes opened wide, and the book dropped from his stunned fingers. The Aons. Historically, only the Elantrians had been able to call upon the power locked within them. That power was supposed to be gone; it was said to have failed when Elantris fell.

  Galladon smiled at him through the glowing symbol that hovered in the air between them.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Merciful Domi,” Sarene asked with surprise, “where did he come from?”

  The gyorn strode into the king’s throne room with the arrogance characteristic of his kind. He wore the shining bloodred armor of a Derethi high priest, an extravagant crimson cloak billowing out behind him, though he bore no weapon. It was a costume meant to impress—and, despite what Sarene thought of the gyorns themselves, she had to admit that their clothing was effective. Of course, it was mostly for show; even in Fjorden’s martial society, few people could walk as easily as this gyorn while wearing full plate armor. The metal was probably so thin and light that it would be useless in battle.

  The gyorn marched past her without a second glance, his eyes focused directly on the king. He was young for a gyorn, probably in his forties, and his short, well-styled black hair had only a trace of gray in it.

  “You knew there was a Derethi presence in Elantris, my lady,” Ashe said, floating beside her as usual, one of only two Seons in the room. “Why should you be surprised to see a Fjordell priest?”

  “That is a full gyorn, Ashe. There are only twenty of them in the entire Fjordell Empire. There may be some Derethi believers in Kae, but not enough to warrant a visit from a high priest. Gyorns are extremely miserly with their time.”

  Sarene watched the Fjordell man stride through the room, cutting through groups of people like a bird tearing through a cloud of gnats. “Come on,” she whispered to Ashe, making her way through the peripheral crowd toward the front of the room. She didn’t want to miss what the gyorn said.

  She needn’t have worried. When the man spoke, his firm voice boomed through the throne room. “King Iadon,” he said, with only the slightest nod of his head in place of a bow. “I, Gyorn Hrathen, bring you a message from Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. He thinks that it is time our two nations shared more than a common border.” He spoke with the thick, melodic accent of a native Fjordell.

  Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowl. “What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden.”

  “His Holiness fears for the souls of your people, Your Majesty,” Hrathen said.

  “Well, then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon.”

  “The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push—a sign, if you will. Wyrn thinks it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth.”

  This time Iadon didn’t even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. “I already believe in Shu-Korath, priest. We serve the same God.”

  “Derethi is the only true form of Shu-Keseg,” Hrathen said darkly.

  Iadon waved a dismissive hand. “I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn’t believe—there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion.”

  “You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually,” the gyorn warned.

  “Honestly, priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats hold no weight—Fjorden hasn’t held any real influence for two centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you used to be?”

  Hrathen’s eyes grew dangerous. “Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before.”

  “Really?” Iadon asked. “Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago.”

  Hrathen paused for a moment; then he repeated his introductory nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically
as he stalked toward the door. Sarene’s prayers were not answered, however—he didn’t step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to shoot one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze however, found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a slight hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blond Teoish hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations.

  King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers.

  “He doesn’t see,” Sarene whispered. “He doesn’t understand.”

  “Understand what, my lady?” Ashe asked.

  “How dangerous that gyorn is.”

  “His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn’t see things the same way you do.”

  “Even so,” Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. “King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said—at least about Fjorden—was completely true. The Wyrns are more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire’s power.”

  “It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch,” Ashe said. “King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden’s army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were.”

  Sarene tapped her cheek for a moment in thought. “Well, Ashe, at least now you don’t have to worry about my causing too much unrest amongst Kae’s nobility.”

  “I seriously doubt that, my lady. How else would you spend your time?”

  “Oh, Ashe,” she said sweetly. “Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a full gyorn?” Then, more seriously, she continued. “Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn’t watch that man—and it doesn’t seem like he will—then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?”