Galladon’s eyes fell. “It’s gone then.”
“There are still the Mysteries,” Raoden offered weakly.
Galladon frowned, his eyes hard. “The Mysteries are
not
the same thing as Jesker, sule. They are a mockery of things sacred. A perversion. Only outsiders—those without any sort of true understanding of the Dor—practice the Mysteries.”
Raoden left his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder, unsure how to comfort him. “I thought you knew,” he said again, feeling helpless.
Galladon simply groaned, staring absently with morose eyes.
_______
Raoden left Galladon on the rooftop; the large Dula wanted to be alone with his grief. Unsure what else to do, Raoden returned to the chapel, distracted by his thoughts. He didn’t remain distracted for long.
“Kahar, it’s beautiful!” Raoden exclaimed, looking around with wonder.
The old man looked up from the corner he had been cleaning. There was a deep look of pride on his face. The chapel was empty of sludge; all that remained was clean, whitish gray marble. Sunlight flooded through the western windows, reflecting off the shiny floor and illuminating the entire chapel with an almost divine brilliance. Shallow reliefs covered nearly every surface. Only half an inch deep, the detailed sculptures had been lost in the sludge. Raoden ran his fingers across one of the tiny masterpieces, the expressions on the people’s faces so detailed as to be lifelike.
“They’re amazing,” he whispered.
“I didn’t even know they were there, my lord,” Kahar said, hobbling over to stand next to Raoden. “I didn’t see them until I started cleaning, and then they were lost in the shadows until I finished the floor. The marble is so smooth it could be a mirror, and the windows are placed just right to catch the light.”
“And the reliefs run all around the room?”
“Yes, my lord. Actually, this isn’t the only building that has them. You’ll occasionally run across a wall or a piece of furniture with carvings on it. They were probably common in Elantris before the Reod.”
Raoden nodded. “It was the city of the gods, Kahar.”
The old man smiled. His hands were black with grime, and a half-dozen ragged cleaning cloths hung from his sash. But he was happy.
“What next, my lord?” he asked eagerly.
Raoden paused, thinking quickly. Kahar had attacked the chapel’s grime with the same holy indignation a priest used to destroy sin. For the first time in months, perhaps years, Kahar had been needed.
“Our people have started living in the nearby buildings, Kahar,” Raoden said. “What good will all your cleaning here do if they track slime in every time we meet?”
Kahar nodded thoughtfully. “The cobblestones are a problem,” he mumbled. “This is a big project, my lord.” His eyes, however, were not daunted.
“I know.” Raoden agreed. “But it is a desperate one. A people who live in filth will feel like filth—if we are ever going to rise above our opinions of ourselves, we are going to need to be clean. Can you do it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll assign you some workers to speed the process.” Raoden’s band had grown enormously over the last few days as the people of Elantris had heard of Karata’s merger with him. Many of the random, ghostlike Elantrians who wandered the streets alone had begun to make their way to Raoden’s band, seeking fellowship as a final, desperate attempt to avoid madness.
Kahar turned to go, his wrinkled face turning around the chapel one last time, admiring it with satisfaction.
“Kahar,” Raoden called.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Do you know what it is? The secret, I mean?”
Kahar smiled. “I haven’t been hungry in days, my lord. It is the most amazing feeling in the world—I don’t even notice the pain anymore.”
Raoden nodded, and Kahar left. The man had come looking for a magical solution to his woes, but he had found an answer much more simple. Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn’t need a potion or an Aon to save him—he just needed something to do.
Raoden strolled through the glowing room, admiring the different sculptures. He paused, however, when he reached the end of a particular relief. The stone was blank for a short section, its white surface polished by Kahar’s careful hand. It was so clean, in fact, that Raoden could see his reflection.
He was stunned. The face that stared out of the marble was unknown to him. He had wondered why so few people recognized him; he had been prince of Arelon, his face known even in many of the outer plantations. He had assumed that the Elantrians simply didn’t expect to find a prince in Elantris, so they didn’t think to associate “Spirit” with Raoden. However, now that he saw the changes in his face, he realized that there was another reason people didn’t recognize him.
There were hints in his features, clues to what had been. The changes, however, were drastic. Only two weeks had passed, but his hair had already fallen out. He had the usual Elantris blotches on his skin, but even the parts that had been flesh-toned a few weeks ago had turned a flat gray. His skin was wrinkling slightly, especially around the lips, and his eyes were beginning to take on a sunken look.
Once, before his own transformation, he had envisioned the Elantrians as living corpses, their flesh rotting and torn. That wasn’t the case; Elantrians retained their flesh and most of their figure, though their skin wrinkled and darkened. They were more withering husks than they were decaying corpses. Yet, even though the transformation wasn’t as drastic as he had once assumed, it was still a shock to see it in himself.
“We are a sorry people, are we not?” Galladon asked from the doorway.
Raoden looked up, smiling encouragingly. “Not as bad as we could be, my friend. I can get used to the changes.”
Galladon grunted, stepping into the chapel. “Your cleaning man does good work, sule. This place looks almost free from the Reod.”
“The most beautiful thing, my friend, is the way it freed its cleanser in the process.”
Galladon nodded, joining Raoden beside the wall, looking out at the large
crew of people who were clearing the chapel’s garden area. “They’ve been coming in droves, haven’t they, sule?”
“They hear that we offer something more than life in an alley. We don’t even have to watch the gates anymore—Karata brings us everyone she can rescue.”
“How do you intend to keep them all busy?” Galladon asked. “That garden is big, and it’s nearly completely cleared.”
“Elantris is a very large city, my friend. We’ll find things to keep them occupied.”
Galladon watched the people work, his eyes unreadable. He appeared to have overcome his grief, for the moment.
“Speaking of jobs,” Raoden began. “I have something I need you to do.”
“Something to keep
my
mind off the pain, sule?”
“You could think that. However, this project is a little more important than cleaning sludge.” Raoden waved Galladon to follow as he walked to the back corner of the room and pried a loose stone from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a dozen small bags of corn. “As a farmer, how would you judge the grade of this seed?”
Galladon picked up a kernel with interest, turning it over in his hand a few times, testing its color and its hardness. “Not bad,” he said. “Not the best I’ve seen, but not bad.”
“The planting season is almost here, isn’t it?”
“Considering how warm it’s been lately, I’d say that it’s here already.”
“Good,” Raoden said. “This corn won’t last long in this hole, and I don’t trust leaving it out in the open.”
Galladon shook his head. “It won’t work, sule. Farming takes time before it brings rewards—those people will pull up and eat the first little sprouts they see.”
“I don’t think so,” Raoden said, pushing a few kernels of corn around in his palm. “Their minds are changing, Galladon. They can see that they don’t have to live as animals anymore.”
“There isn’t enough room for a decent crop,” Galladon argued. “It will be little more than a garden.”
“There’s enough space to plant this little amount. Next year we’ll have more corn, and then we can worry about room. I hear the palace gardens were rather large—we could probably use those.”
Galladon shook his head. “The problem in that statement, sule, is the part about ‘next year.’ There won’t be a ‘next year.’ Kolo? People in Elantris don’t last that long.”
“Elantris will change,” Raoden said. “If not, then those who come here after us will plant the next season.”
“I still doubt it will work.”
“You’d doubt the sun’s rising if you weren’t proven wrong each day,” Raoden said with a smile. “Just give it a try.”
“All right, sule,” Galladon said with a sigh. “I suppose your thirty days aren’t up yet.”
Raoden smiled, passing the corn to his friend and placing his hand on the Dula’s shoulder. “Remember, the past need not become our future as well.”
Galladon nodded, putting the corn back in its hiding place. “We won’t need this for another few days—I’m going to have to figure out a way to plow that garden.”
“Lord Spirit!” Saolin’s voice called faintly from above, where he had constructed himself a makeshift watchtower. “Someone is coming.”
Raoden stood, and Galladon hurriedly replaced the stone. A moment later one of Karata’s men burst into the room.
“My lord,” the man said, “Lady Karata begs your presence immediately!”
“You are a fool, Dashe!” Karata snapped.
Dashe—the extremely large, well-muscled man who was her second-in-command—simply continued to strap on his weapons.
Raoden and Galladon stood confused at the doorway to the palace. At least ten of the men in the entryway—a full two-thirds of Karata’s followers—looked as if they were preparing for battle.
“You can continue to dream with your new friend, Karata,” Dashe replied gruffly, “but I will wait no longer—especially not as long as that man threatens the children.”
Raoden edged closer to the conversation, pausing beside a thin-limbed, anxious man named Horen. Horen was the type who avoided conflict, and Raoden guessed that he was neutral in this argument.
“What’s happening?” Raoden asked quietly.
“One of Dashe’s scouts overheard Aanden planning to attack our palace tonight,” Horen whispered, carefully watching his leaders argue. “Dashe has wanted to strike at Aanden for months now, and this is just the excuse he needed.”
“You’re leading these men into something far worse than death, Dashe,” Karata warned. “Aanden has more people than you do.”
“He doesn’t have weapons,” Dashe replied, sliding a rusted sword into its sheath with a click. “All that university held was books, and he already ate those.”
“Think about what you are doing,” Karata said.
Dashe turned, his boardlike face completely frank. “I have, Karata. Aanden is a madman; we cannot rest while he shares our border. If we strike unexpectedly, then we can stop him permanently. Only then will the children be safe.”
With that, Dashe turned to his grim band of would-be soldiers and nodded. The group moved out the door with purposeful strides.
Karata turned to Raoden, her face a mixture of frustration and pained betrayal. “This is worse than suicide, Spirit.”
“I know,” Raoden said. “We’re so few we can’t afford to lose a single man—not even those who follow Aanden. We have to stop this.”
“He’s already gone,” Karata said, leaning back against the wall. “I know Dashe well. There’s no stopping him now.”
“I refuse to accept that, Karata.”
“Sule, if you don’t mind my asking, what in Doloken are you planning?”
Raoden loped along beside Galladon and Karata, barely keeping up with the two. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I’m still working on that part.”
“I figured as much,” Galladon muttered.
“Karata,” Raoden asked, “what route will Dashe take?”
“There’s a building that runs up against the university,” she replied. “Its far wall collapsed a while ago, and some of the stones knocked a hole in the university wall it abuts. I’m sure Dashe will try to get in there—he assumes Aanden doesn’t know about the breach.”
“Take us there,” Raoden said. “But take a different route. I don’t want to run into Dashe.”
Karata nodded, leading them down a side street. The building she’d mentioned was a low, single-story structure. One of the walls had been built so close to the university that Raoden was at a loss to guess what the architect had been thinking. The building had not fared well over the years; although it still had its roof—which was sagging horribly—the entire structure seemed on the edge of collapse.
They approached apprehensively, poking their heads through a doorway. The building was open on the inside. They stood near the center of the rectangular structure, the collapsed wall a short distance to their left, another doorway a short distance to their right.
Galladon cursed quietly. “I don’t trust this.”
“Neither do I,” Raoden said.
“No, it’s more than that. Look, sule.” Galladon pointed to the building’s inner support beams. Looking closely, Raoden recognized the marks of fresh cuts in the already weakened wood. “This entire place is rigged to fall.”
Raoden nodded. “It appears as if Aanden is better informed than Dashe assumed. Maybe Dashe will notice the danger and use a different entrance.”
Karata shook her head immediately. “Dashe is a good man, but very single-minded. He’ll march right through this building without bothering to look up.”
Raoden cursed, kneeling beside the doorframe to think. He soon ran out of time, however, as he heard voices approaching. A moment later Dashe appeared in the doorway on the far side, to Raoden’s right.
Raoden—halfway between Dashe and the fallen wall—took a deep breath and called out. “Dashe, stop! This is a trap—the building is rigged to collapse!”
Dashe halted, half of his men already in the building. There was a cry of alarm from the university side of the room, and a group of men appeared behind the rubble. One, bearing Aanden’s familiar mustached face, held a worn fire axe in his hands. Aanden jumped into the room with a cry of defiance, axe raised toward the support pillar.
“Taan, stop!” Raoden yelled.