“How did you escape them?” Raoden asked, handing Galladon the loaf of bread he had grabbed for the Dula. Galladon regarded it, then ripped it in half and offered one part to Raoden, who held up his hand forestallingly.
Galladon shrugged an “okay, starve if it suits you” shrug, and began to gnaw on the loaf. “Ran into a building with a collapsed set of stairs, then went out the back door,” he explained between mouthfuls. “I threw some rocks up onto the roof when Shaor’s men entered. After what you did to them the other day, they just assumed I was up there. They’re probably still sitting there waiting for me.”
“Smooth,” Raoden said.
“Somebody didn’t leave me much choice.”
Galladon continued to eat in quiet, listening to the newcomers discuss their various “important duties.” “You going to tell all of them that?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“What’s that?”
“The newcomers, sule. You made them all think they are of vital importance, just like Mareshe. Shoes are nice, but not a matter of life and death.”
Raoden shrugged. “People do a better job when they assume they’re important.”
Galladon was quiet for another short moment before speaking again. “They’re right.”
“Who?”
“The other gangs. You are starting your own gang.”
Raoden shook his head. “Galladon, that is just a tiny part of it. No one accomplishes anything in Elantris—they’re all either too busy squabbling over food or contemplating their misery. The city needs a sense of purpose.”
“We’re dead, sule,” Galladon said. “What purpose can we have besides suffering?”
“That’s exactly the problem. Everyone’s convinced that their lives are over just because their hearts stopped beating.”
“That’s usually a pretty good indication, sule,” Galladon said dryly.
“Not in our case, my friend. We need to convince ourselves that we can go on. The Shaod isn’t causing all the pain here—I’ve seen people on the outside lose hope too, and their souls end up just as emaciated as those poor wretches in the square. If we can restore even a tiny bit of hope to these people, then their lives will improve drastically.” He emphasized the word “lives,” looking Galladon right in the eyes.
“The other gangs aren’t just going to sit around and watch you steal all their offerings, sule,” Galladon said. “They’re going to get tired of you very quickly.”
“Then I’ll just have to be ready for them.” Raoden nodded toward the large
building around them. “This will make a rather good base of operations, wouldn’t you say? It has this open room in the middle, with all of those smaller ones at the back.”
Galladon squinted upward. “You could have picked a building with a roof.”
“Yes, I know,” Raoden replied. “But this one suits my purpose. I wonder what it used to be.”
“A church,” Galladon said. “Korathi.”
“How do you know?” Raoden asked with surprise.
“Has the feel, sule.”
“Why would there be a Korathi church in Elantris?” Raoden argued. “The Elantrians were their own gods.”
“But they were very lenient gods. There was supposed to be a grand Korathi chapel here in Elantris, the most beautiful of its kind. It was built as an offering of friendship to the people of Teod.”
“That seems so odd,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “Gods of one religion building a monument to Domi.”
“Like I said. The Elantrians were very lax gods. They didn’t really care if the people worshipped them—they were secure in their divinity. Until the Reod came along. Kolo?”
“You seem to know quite a bit, Galladon,” Raoden noted.
“And since when has that been a sin?” Galladon said with a huff. “You’ve lived in Kae all your life, sule. Maybe instead of asking why I know these things, you should wonder why you
don’t.”
“Point taken,” Raoden said, glancing to the side. Mareshe was still deeply involved in his explanation of an Elantrian’s danger-fraught life. “He’s not going to be done anytime soon. Come on, there’s something I want to do.”
“Does it involve running?” Galladon asked in a pained voice.
“Only if they spot us.”
Raoden recognized Aanden. It was difficult to see—the Shaod brought profound changes—but Raoden had a knack for faces. The so-called Baron of Elantris was a short man with a sizable paunch and a long drooping mustache that was obviously fake. Aanden did not look noble—of course, few noblemen Raoden knew looked very aristocratic.
Regardless, Aanden was no baron. The man before Raoden, seated on a throne of gold and presiding over a court of sickly-looking Elantrians, had been called Taan. He had been one of Kae’s finest sculptors before the Shaod took him, but he had not been of noble blood. Of course, Raoden’s own father had been nothing more than a simple trader until chance had made him king. In Elantris, Taan had apparently taken advantage of a similar opportunity.
The years in Elantris had not been kind to Taan. The man was blubbering incoherently to his court of rejects.
“He’s mad?” Raoden asked, crouched outside the window they were using to spy on Aanden’s court.
“We each have our own way of dealing with death, sule,” Galladon whispered. “The rumors say Aanden’s insanity was a conscious decision. They say that after being thrown into Elantris he looked around and said, ‘There’s no way I can face this sane.’ After that, he declared himself Baron Aanden of Elantris and began giving orders.”
“And people follow him?”
“Some do,” Galladon whispered with a shrug. “He may be mad, but so is the rest of the world—at least, to the eyes of one who’s been thrown in here. Kolo? Aanden is a source of authority. Besides, maybe he was a baron on the outside.”
“He wasn’t. He was a sculptor.”
“You knew him?”
“I met him once,” Raoden said with a nod. Then he looked back at Galladon with inquisitive eyes. “Where did you hear the rumors about him?”
“Can we move back first, sule?” Galladon requested. “I’d rather not end up a participant in one of Aanden’s mock trials and executions.”
“Mock?”
“Everything’s mock but the axe.”
“Ah. Good idea—I’ve seen all I needed to.”
The two men moved back, and as soon as they were a few streets away from the university, Galladon answered Raoden’s question. “I talk to people, sule; that’s where I get my information. Granted, the great majority of the city’s people are Hoed, but there’re enough conscious ones around to talk with. Of course, my mouth is what got me in trouble with you. Maybe if I’d kept it shut I’d still be sitting on those steps enjoying myself, rather than spying on one of the most dangerous men in the city.”
“Perhaps,” Raoden said. “But you wouldn’t be having half as much fun. You’d be chained to your boredom.”
“I’m so glad you liberated me, sule.”
“Anytime.”
Raoden thought as they walked, trying to decide on a plan of action should Aanden ever come looking for him. It hadn’t taken Raoden long to adjust to walking on Elantris’s uneven, slime-covered streets; his still painful toe was a wonderful motivator. He was actually beginning to regard the dun-colored walls and grime as normal, which bothered him much more than the city’s dirtiness ever had.
“Sule,” Galladon eventually asked. “Why did you want to see Aanden? You couldn’t have known you’d recognize him.”
Raoden shook his head. “If Aanden had been a baron from the outside, I would have known him almost immediately.”
“You’re certain?”
Raoden nodded absently.
Galladon was silent for a few more streets, then spoke with sudden understanding. “Now, sule, I’m not very good with these Aons you Arelenes hold in such esteem, but unless I’m completely wrong, the Aon for ‘spirit’ is Rao.”
“Yes,” Raoden said hesitantly.
“And doesn’t the king of Arelon have a son named Raoden?”
“He did.”
“And here you are, sule, claiming to know all the barons in Arelon. You’re obviously a man with a good education, and you give commands easily.”
“You could say that,” Raoden said.
“Then, to top it all off, you call yourself ‘Spirit.’ Pretty suspicious. Kolo?”
Raoden sighed. “I should have picked a different name, eh?”
“By Doloken, boy! You’re telling me you’re the crown prince of Arelon?”
“I
was
the crown prince of Arelon, Galladon,” Raoden corrected. “I lost the title when I died.”
“No wonder you’re so frustrating. I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid royalty, and here I end up with you. Burning Doloken!”
“Oh quiet down,” Raoden said. “It’s not like I’m really royalty—it’s been in the family for less than a generation.”
“That’s long enough, sule,” Galladon said sullenly.
“If it helps, my father didn’t think I was fit to rule. He tried everything to keep me from the throne.”
Galladon snorted. “I’d be scared to see the man Iadon found fit to rule. Your father’s an idiot—no offense intended.”
“None taken,” Raoden replied. “And I trust you’ll keep my identity secret.”
Galladon sighed. “If you wish.”
“I do. If I’m going to do any good in Elantris, I need to win followers because they like what I’m doing, not because they feel a patriotic obligation.”
Galladon nodded. “You could have at least told me, sule.”
“You said we shouldn’t talk about our pasts.”
“True.”
Raoden paused. “Of course, you know what this means.”
Galladon eyed him suspiciously. “What?”
“Now that you know who I was, you have to tell me who you were. It’s only fair.”
Galladon’s response was long in coming. They had almost arrived at the church before he spoke. Raoden slowed his walk, not wanting to break off his friend’s narration by arriving at their destination. He needn’t have worried—Galladon’s declaration was brief and pointed.
“I was a farmer,” he said curtly.
“A farmer?” Raoden had been expecting something more.
“And an orchard-keeper. I sold my fields and bought an apple farm because I figured it would be easier—you don’t have to replant trees every year.”
“Was it?” Raoden asked. “Easier, I mean?”
Galladon shrugged. “I thought it was, though I know a couple of wheat farmers that would argue with me until the sun set. Kolo?” The larger man looked at Raoden with an insightful eye. “You don’t think I’m telling the truth about my past, do you?”
Raoden smiled, spreading his hands before him. “I’m sorry, Galladon, but you just don’t seem like a farmer to me. You have the build for it, but you seem too …”
“Intelligent?” Galladon asked. “Sule, I’ve seen some farmers with minds so sharp you could have used their heads to scythe grain.”
“I don’t doubt that you have,” Raoden said. “But, intelligent or not, those types still tend to be uneducated. You are a learned man, Galladon.”
“Books, sule, are a wonderful thing. A wise farmer has time to study, assuming he lives in a country such as Duladen, where men are free.”
Raoden raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re going to hold to this farmer story?”
“It’s the truth, sule,” Galladon said. “Before I became an Elantrian, I was a farmer.”
Raoden shrugged. Perhaps. Galladon had been able to predict the rain, as well as do a number of other eminently practical things. Still, it seemed like there was something more, something he wasn’t ready to share yet.
“All right,” Raoden said appreciatively. “I believe you.”
Galladon nodded curtly, his expression saying he was very glad the matter was settled. Whatever he was hiding, it wouldn’t come out this day. So, instead, Raoden took the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since the first day he came into Elantris.
“Galladon,” he asked, “where are the children?”
“Children, sule?”
“Yes, if the Shaod strikes randomly, then it should strike children as well as adults.”
Galladon nodded. “It does. I’ve seen babes barely old enough to walk get thrown in those gates.”
“Then where are they? I only see adults.”
“Elantris is a harsh place, sule,” Galladon said quietly as they strode through the doors to Raoden’s broken-down church. “Children don’t last very long here.”
“Yes, but—” Raoden cut himself off as he saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned with surprise.
“A Seon,” Galladon said, noticing the glowing ball.
“Yes,” Raoden said, watching the Seon float slowly through the open ceiling
and spin in a lazy circle around the two men. “It’s so sad how they just drift around the city like this. I …” he trailed off, squinting slightly, trying to make out which Aon glowed at the center of the strange, silent Seon.
“Sule?” Galladon asked.
“Idos Domi,” Raoden whispered. “It’s Ien.”
“The Seon? You recognize it?”
Raoden nodded, holding out his hand with the palm up. The Seon floated over and alighted on his proffered palm for a moment; then it began to float away, flitting around the room like a careless butterfly.
“Ien was my Seon,” Raoden said. “Before I was thrown in here.” He could see the Aon at Ien’s center now. The character looked … weak, somehow. It glowed unevenly, sections of the character very dim, like …
Like the blotches on an Elantrian’s skin
, Raoden realized, watching Ien float away. The Seon headed for the wall of the church, continuing on until he bounced against it. The small ball of light hovered for a moment, contemplating the wall, then spun away to float in a different direction. There was an awkwardness to the Seon’s motion—as if Ien could barely keep himself upright in the air. He jerked occasionally, and constantly moved in slow, dizzy loops.
Raoden’s stomach turned as he regarded what was left of his friend. He’d avoided thinking about Ien too much during his days in Elantris; he knew what happened to Seons when their masters were taken by the Shaod. He’d assumed—perhaps hoped—that Ien had been destroyed by the Shaod, as sometimes happened.
Raoden shook his head. “Ien used to be so wise. I never knew a creature, Seon or man, more thoughtful than he.”
“I’m … sorry, sule,” Galladon said solemnly.
Raoden held out his hand again, and the Seon approached dutifully, as it had once done for the young boy Raoden—a boy who hadn’t yet learned that Seons were more valuable as friends than as servants.