Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [144]
Hrathen didn’t respond. He simply stood, leaning with his arms crossed on top of the parapet, the wind churning his hair. Omin fell silent.
“How did you find me?” Hrathen finally asked.
“It is well known that you spend your nights up here,” the squat priest explained. He could barely rest his arms on the parapet. Hrathen considered Dilaf short, but this man made the arteth look like a giant. “Your supporters say you come here and plan how to defeat the vile Elantrians,” Omin continued, “and your opponents say you come because you feel guilty for condemning a people who have already been cursed.”
Hrathen turned, looking down into the little man’s eyes. “And what do you say?”
“I say nothing,” Omin said. “It doesn’t matter to me why you climb these stairs, Hrathen. I do, however, wonder why you preach hatred of the Elantrians when you yourself simply pity them.”
Hrathen didn’t respond immediately, tapping his gauntleted finger against the stone parapet with a repetitious click. “It’s not so hard, once you accustom yourself to it,” he finally said. “A man can force himself to hate if he wishes, especially if he convinces himself that it is for a higher good.”
“The oppression of the few brings salvation to the many?” Omin asked, a slight smile on his face, as if he found the concept ridiculous.
“You’d best not mock, Arelene,” Hrathen warned. “You have few options, and we both know the least painful one will require you to do as I do.”
“To profess hatred where I have none? I will never do that, Hrathen.”
“Then you will become irrelevant,” Hrathen said simply.
“Is that the way it must be, then?”
“Shu-Korath is docile and unassuming, priest,” Hrathen said. “Shu-Dereth is vibrant and dynamic. It will sweep you away like a roaring flood rushing through a stagnant pool.”
Omin smiled again. “You act as if truth were something to be influenced by persistence, Hrathen.”
“I’m not speaking of truth or falsehood; I am simply referring to physical inevitability. You cannot stand against Fjorden—and where Fjorden rules, Shu-Dereth teaches.”
“One cannot separate truth from actions, Hrathen,” Omin said with a shake of his bald head. “Physically inevitable or not, truth stands above all things. It is independent of who has the best army, who can deliver the longest sermons, or even who has the most priests. It can be pushed down, but it will always surface. Truth is the one thing you can never intimidate.”
“And if Shu-Dereth is the truth?” Hrathen demanded.
“Then it will prevail,” Omin said. “But I didn’t come to argue with you.”
“Oh?” Hrathen said with raised eyebrows.
“No,” Omin said. “I came to ask you a question.”
“Then ask, priest, and leave me to my thoughts.”
“I want to know what happened,” Omin began speculatively. “What happened, Hrathen? What happened to your faith?”
“My faith?” Hrathen asked with shock.
“Yes,” Omin said, his words soft, almost meandering. “You must have believed at one point, otherwise you wouldn’t have pursued the priesthood long enough to become a gyorn. You lost it somewhere, though. I have listened to your sermons. I hear logic and complete understanding—not to mention determination. I just don’t hear any faith, and I wonder what happened to it.”
Hrathen hissed inward slowly, drawing a deep breath between his teeth. “Go,” he finally ordered, not bothering to look down at the priest.
Omin didn’t answer, and Hrathen turned. The Arelish man was already gone, strolling down the wall with a casual step, as if he had forgotten Hrathen were there.
Hrathen stood on the wall for a long time that night.
CHAPTER 22
Raoden inched forward, slowly peeking around the corner. He should have been sweating—in fact, he kept reaching up to wipe