Elantris e-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  "Why would a merchant need to know how to use one of those?" Sarene asked, almost to herself.

  Kiin shook his head. "A merchant wouldn't."

  Sarene knew of only one person who had used Aon Reo, though he was more a myth than a man. "They called him Dreok." she whispered. "The pirate Crushth roar."

  "That was always a mistake," Kiin said in his raspy voice. "The true name was Dreok Crushedthr oat."

  "He tried to steal the throne of Teod from my father," Sarene said, looking up into Kiin's eyes.

  "No," Kiin said, turning away. "Dreok wanted what belonged to him. He tried to take back the throne that his younger brother, Eventeo, stole-stole right from under Dreok's nose while he foolishly wasted his life on pleasure trips."

  Dilaf strode into the chapel, his face bright with satisfaction. One of his monks dropped an unconscious Raoden next to the far wall.

  "This, my dear Hrathen," Dilaf said, "is how you deal with heretics."

  Appalled, Hrathen turned away from the window. "You are massacring the entire town, Dilaf! What is the point? Where is the glory for Jaddeth in this?"

  "Do not question me!" Dilaf screamed. his eyes blazing. His raging zeal had finally been released.

  Hrathen turned away. Of all the titles in the hierarchy of the Derethi Church, only two outranked gyorn: Wyrn, and gragdet-leader of a monastery. The gragdets were usually discounted, for they generally had little to do with the world outside their monasteries. Apparently that had changed.

  Hrathen ran his eyes over Dilaf 's bare chest, seeing the twisted patterns that had always been hiding beneath the arteth's robes. Hrathen's stomach turned at the lines and curves that ran like varicose veins beneath the man's skin. It was bone, Hrathen knew-hard, unyielding bone. Dilaf wasn't just a monk, and he wasn't just a gragdet; he was monk and gragdet of the most infamous monastery in Fjorden. Dakhor. The Order of Bone.

  The prayers and incantations used to create Dakhor monks were secret; even the gyorns didn't know them. A few months after a boy was initiated into the Dakhor order, his bones started to grow and twist, adopting strange patterns like those visible beneath Dilaf 's skin. Somehow, each of those patterns gave its bearer abilities, such as heightened speed and strength.

  Horrible images washed through Hrathen's mind. Images of priests chanting over him: memories of an awesome pain rising within, the pain of his bones reshaping. It had been too much-the darkness, the screams, the torment. Hrathen had left after just a few months to join a different monastery.

  He had not left behind the nightmares or memories, however. One did not easily forget Dakhor.

  "So you were a Fjordell all this time?" Hrathen whispered.

  "You never suspected, did you?" Mal asked with a smile. "You should have realized. It is far easier to imitate an Arelene speaking Fjordell than it is for an actual man of Arelon to learn the Holy Language so perfectly."

  Hrathen bowed his head. His duty was clean Dilaf was his superior. He didn't know how long Dilaf had been in Arelon-the Dakhor lived unusually long lives-but it was obvious that Dilaf had been planning Kae's destruction for a very long time.

  "Oh, Hrathen," Dilaf said with a laugh. "You never did understand your place, did you? Wyrn didn't send you to convert Arelon."

  Hrathen looked up with surprise. He had a letter from Wyrn that said otherwise.

  "Yes, I know of your orders. Gyorn," Dilaf said. "Reread that letter sometime. Wyrn didn't send you to Arelon to convert, he sent you to inform the people of their impending destruction. You were a distraction, something for people like Eventeo to focus their attention on while I prepared for the city's invasion. You did your job perfectly."

  "Distraction…?" Hrathen asked. "But the people…"

  "Were never to be saved, Hrathen." Dilaf said. "Wyrn always intended to destroy Arelon. He needs such a victory to insure his grip on the other countries-despite your efforts. our control of Duladel is tenuous. The world needs to know what happens to those who blaspheme against Jaddeth."

  "These people don't blaspheme." Hrathen said, feeling his anger rise. "They don't even know Jaddeth! How can we expect them to be righteous if we don't give them a chance to convert!"

  Dilaf's hand shot out. slapping Hrathen across the face. Hrathen stumbled back, cheek flaring with pain from the blow-delivered by an unnaturally strong hand, hardened by extra bones.

  "You forget to whom you speak, Gyorn," Dilaf snapped. "This people is unholy. Only Arelenes and Teos can become Elantrians. If we destroy them, then we end the heresy of Elantris forever!"

  Hrathen ignored his throbbing cheek. With growing numbness, he finally realized how deeply Di!af's hatred went. "You will slaughter them all? You would murder an entire nation of people?"

  "It is the only way to be certain," Dilaf said, smiling.

  CHAPTER 59

  Raoden awoke to new pains. The sharpest was at the back of his head,

  but there were others-scratches, bruises, and cuts across his entire body.

  For a moment it was almost too much. Each wound stung sharply, never deadening, never weakening. Fortunately, he had spent weeks dealing with the Dot's all-powerful attacks. Compared to those crushing monuments of agony, the regular pains of his body-no matter how severe-seemed weaker. Ironically. the very force that had nearly destroyed him now allowed him to keep insanity at bay.

  Though dazed, he could feel himself being picked up and thrown onto something hard-a saddle. He lost track of time as the horse cantered, and he was forced to struggle against the darkness of insensibility. There were voices around him, but they spoke in Fjordell, which he didn't understand.

  The horse stopped. Raoden opened his eyes with a groan as hands pulled him off the beast and set him on the ground.

  "Wake up, Elantrian," said a voice speaking Aonic.

  Raoden raised his head, blinking confused eyes. It was still night, and he could smell the thick scent of smoke. They were at the base of a hill-Kiin's hill. The blockish house stood only a few yards away, but he could barely make it out. His vision swam, everything blurry.

  Merciful Domi, he thought. let Sarene be safe.

  "I know you can hear me. Princess," Dilaf yelled. "Look who I have here. Let us make a deal."

  "No!" Raoden tried to say, but it came out as a croak. The blow to his head had done something to his brain. He could barely keep himself upright, let alone speak. The worst part was, he knew it would never improve.

  He could not heal-now that the dizziness had come upon him, it would never leave.

  "You realize that there is no dealing with him," Kiin said quietly. They watched Dilaf and the staggering Raoden through one of Kiin's slitlike windows.

  Sarene nodded quietly, feeling chill. Raoden wasn't doing well; he wobbled as he stood, looking disoriented in the firelight. "Merciful Domi. What have they done to him?"

  "Don't look. 'Ene," Kiin said, turning away from the window. His enormous axe-the axe of Dreok the Pirate-stood ready in the corner.

  "I can't look away," Sarene whispered. "I have to at least speak to him-to say goodbye."

  Kiin sighed, then nodded. "All right. Let's go to the roof. At the first sign of bows, however, we're locking ourselves back in."

  Sarene nodded solemnly, and the two cIimbed the steps up onto the roof. She approached the roof's ledge, looking down at Dilaf and Raoden. If she could convince the priest to take her in exchange for Raoden, she would do it. However, she suspected that Dilaf would demand the entire household, and Sarene could never agree to such a thing. Daora and the children huddled in the basement under Lukel's care. Sarene would not betray them, no matter whom Dilaf held hostage.

  She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that her words would probably be the last Raoden ever heard.

  "Go!" Dilaf ordered.

  Hrathen stood by, a dismayed observer, as Sarene fell into Dilaf 's trap. The Dakhor monks sprang forward. jumping from hiding places along the base of the building. They leaped to the walls, their feet seemi
ng to stick as they found tiny footholds between bricks and arrow slits. Several monks. already in place hanging from the back of the rooftop, swung up and cut off Sarene's escape.

  Hrathen could hear startled yells as Sarene and her companion realized their predicament. It was too late. A few moments later, a Dakhor jumped down from the rooftop, a struggling princess in his arms.

  "Hrathen, get me your Seon," Dilaf ordered.

  Hrathen complied, opening the metal box and letting the ball of light float free. Hrathen hadn't bothered asking how the monk knew about the Seon. The Dakhor were Wyrn's favored warriors: their leader would be privy to many of his secrets.

  "Seon, I wish to speak with King Eventeo," Dilaf said.

  The Seon complied. Soon its light molded into the head of an overweight man with a proud face.

  "I do not know you," Eventeo said. "Who calls for me in the middle of the night?"

  "I am the man who has your daughter. King," Dilaf said, prodding Sarene in the side. The princess yelped despite herself.

  Eventeo's head turned, as if searching out the source of the sound, though he would only be able to see Dilaf 's face. "Who are you?"

  "I am Dilaf. Gragdet of the Dakhor Monastery."

  "Merciful Domi…" Eventeo whispered.

  Dilaf's eyes thinned, and he smiled evilly. "I thought you had converted, Eventeo. No matter. Wake your soldiers and gather them on their ships. I will arrive in Teod one hour from now, and if they are not ready to present a formal surrender, I will kill the girl."

  "Father no!" Sarene yelled. "He can't be trusted!"

  "Sarene?" Eventeo asked anxiously.

  "One hour, Eventeo," Dilaf said. Then he swiped his hand in the air dismissively. The king's confused face melted back into the smooth spherical shape of a Seon.

  "You will kill the Teos as well," Hrathen said in Fjordell.

  "No," Dilaf said. "Others will perform those executions. I will just kill their king, then burn Teod's ships with the sailors still on them. Once the armada is gone, Wyrn can land his armies on Teod's shore and use the country as a battleground to prove his might."

  "It is unnecessary you know," Hrathen said, feeling sick. "I had him-Eventeo was mine."

  "He might have converted, Hrathen," Dilaf said, "but you are simpleminded if you think he would have allowed our troops to land on his soil."

  "You are a monster," Hrathen whispered. "You will slaughter two kingdoms to feed your paranoia. What happened to make you hate Elantris so much?"

  "Enough!" Dilaf shouted. "Do not think I won't hesitate to kill you. Gyorn. The Dakhor are outside the law!" The monk stared at Hrathen with menacing eyes. then slowly calmed, breathing deeply as he noticed his captives again.

  The still disoriented Raoden was stumbling toward his wife, who was being held by a quiet Dakhor. The prince reached out to her, his arm wavering.

  "Oh," Dilaf said, unsheathing his sword. "I forgot about you." He smiled wickedly as he rammed the blade through Raoden's stomach.

  The pain washed over Raoden like a sudden wave of light. He hadn't even seen the thrust coming.

  He felt it, however. Groaning, he stumbled to his knees. The agony was unimaginable, even for one whose pain had been building steadily for two months. He held his stomach with trembling hands. He could feel the Dor. It felt… close.

  It was too much. The woman he loved was in danger, and he could do nothing. The pain, the Dor, his failure… The soul that was Raoden crumpled beneath their combined weight, giving a final sigh of resignation.

  After that there was no longer pain, for there was no Ionger seIf. There was nothing.

  Sarene screamed as Raoden fell to the ground. She could see the suffering in his face, and she felt the sword as if it had been run through her own stomach. She shuddered, weeping as Raoden struggled for a moment, his legs working. Then he just… stopped.

  "Failed.." Raoden whispered, his lips forming a Hoed mantra. "Failed my love. Failed…"

  "Bring her," Dilaf said. The words, spoken in Fjordell, barely registered in Sarene's mind.

  "And the others?" a monk asked.

  "Gather them with the rest of the people in this accused town and take them into Elantris," Dilaf said. "You will find the Elantrians near the center of the city. in a place that seems more cleanly."

  "We found them, my gragdet." the monk said. "Our men have already attacked."

  "Ah, good," Dilaf said with a hiss of pleasure. "Make certain you gather their bodies-Elantrians do not die as easily as normal men, and we do not want to let any of them escape."

  "Yes, my gragdet."

  "When you have them all in one place, bodies, Elantrians, and future Elantrians. say the purification rites. Then burn them all."

  "Yes, my gragdet." the warrior said. bowing his head.

  "Come. Hrathen." Dilaf said. "You will accompany me to Teod."

  Sarene fell into a disbelieving stupor as they pulled her away, watching Rao-den until his slumped form was no longer visible in the night.

  CHAPTER 60

  Galladon hid in the shadows, careful not to move until the gyorn and his strange, bare-chested companions were gone. Then, motioning to Karata, he crept up to Raoden's body. "Sule?" Raoden did not move.

  "Doloken, Sule!" Galladon said, choked with emotion. 'Don't do this to me!" A noise came from Raoden's mouth, and Galladon leaned in eagerly, listening.

  "Failed…" Raoden whispered. "Failed my love…" The mantra of the fallen: Raoden had joined the Hoed.

  Galladon sank down on the hard cobblestones. his body shaking as he wept tearlessly. The last hour had been a horror. Galladon and Karata had been at the library, planning how to lead the people away from Elantris. They had heard the screams even at that distance, but by the time they had arrived at New Elantris. no one but Hoed remained. As far as he knew, he and Karata were the last two conscious Elantrians.

  Karata placed a hand on his shoulder. "Galladon, we should go. This place is

  not safe."

  "No," Galladon said, climbing to his feet. "I have a promise to keep." He looked up at the mountain slope just outside of Kae, a slope that held a special pool of water. Then, reaching down. he tied his jacket around Raoden to cover the wound, and hefted his friend up onto his shoulder.

  "Raoden made me vow to give him peace," Galladon said. "After I see to him. intend to do the same for myself. We are the last, Karata: there is no more room for us in this world."

  The woman nodded, moving to take part of Raoden's burden on herself. Together. the two of them began the hike that would end in oblivion.

  Lukel didn't struggle: there was little use in it. His father, however, was a different story. It took three Fjordells to bind Kiin and throw him on a horse-and even then. the large man managed to get off the odd kick at a passing head.

  Eventually, one of the soldiers thought to smash him on the back of the skull with a rock, and Kiin fell still.

  Lukel held his mother and wife close as the warriors herded them toward Elantris. There was a long line of people-nobles gathered from the eorners of Kae, their clothing and faces ragged. Soldiers kept a watchful eye on the captives-as if any of them had the courage or will left to try escaping. Most of the people didn't even look up as they were pushed through the streets.

  Kaise and Daorn clung to Lukel, wide-eyed and frightened. Lukel pitied them the most. for their youth. Adien walked along behind him, apparently unconcerned. He slowly counted the steps as he moved. "Three hundred fifty-seven, three hundred fifty-eight, three hundred fifty-nine…"

  Lukel knew that they were marching to their own execution. He saw the bodies that lined the streets, and he understood that these men were not intent on domination. They were here to commit a massacre, and no massacre would be complete with victims left alive.

  He considered fighting back, grabbing a sword in some hopeless feat of heroism. But in the end. he simply plodded along with the others. He knew that he was going to die, and he knew there was nothing he
could do to stop it. He was no warrior. The best he could hope for was a quick end.

  Hrathen stood next to Dilaf, remaining perfectly still as instructed. They stood in a circle-fifty Dakhor, Sarene, and Hrathen, with one solitary monk in the center. The Dakhor raised their hands, and the men on either side of Hrathen placed a hand on his shoulder. His heart began to pound as the monks began E0 glow. the bone inscriptions beneath their skin shining. There was a jarring sensation, and Kae vanished around them.

  They reappeared in an unfamiliar city. The houses lining the nearby street were tall and connected, rather than separated and squat like those of Kae. They had arrived in Teod.

  The group still stood in a circle, but Hrathen did not fail to notice that the man in the center was now missing. Hrathen shuddered, images from his youth returning. The monk in the center had been fuel, his flesh and soul burned away-a sacrifice in return for the instantaneous transportation to Teod.

  Dilaf stepped forward, leading his men up the street. As far as Hrathen could tell, Dilaf had brought the bulk of his monks with him, leaving Arelon in the care of regular Fjordell soldiers and a few Dakhor overseers. Arelon and Elantris had been defeated: the next battle was Teod. Hrathen could tell from Dilaf's eyes that the monk would not be satisfied until every person of Aonic descent was dead.

  Dilaf chose a building with a flat roof and motioned for his men to climb. It was easy for them. their enhanced strength and agility helping them leap and

  scramble up surfaces no normal man could possibly scale. Hrathen felt himself lifted and thrown over a monk's shoulder. and the ground fell away as he was carted up the side of the wall-carried without difficulty despite his plate armor. The Dakhor were unnatural monstrosities, but one couldn't help being awed at their power.

  The monk dropped Hrathen unceremoniously on the roof, his armor clanking against the stone. As Hrathen pulled himself to his feet, his eyes found those of the princess. Sarene's face was a tempest of hatred. She blamed him, of course. She didn't realize that, in a way, Hrathen was as much a prisoner as she.