Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [104]
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