Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [174]
On top of it all stood Hrathen’s wavering faith. This was not the time to call his beliefs into question. Hrathen understood this. However, understanding—as opposed to feeling—was the root of his problem. Now that the seed of uncertainty had been given purchase in his heart, he couldn’t easily uproot it.
It was too much. Suddenly, it seemed as if his room were falling in on him. The walls and ceiling shrunk closer and closer, as if to crush him beneath their weight. Hrathen stumbled, trying to escape, and fell to the marble floor. Nothing worked, nothing could help him.
He groaned, feeling the pain as his armor bit into his skin at odd angles. He rolled to his knees, and began to pray.
As a priest of Shu-Dereth, Hrathen spent hours in prayer each week. However, those prayers were different—more a form of meditation than a communication, a means of organizing his thoughts. This time he begged.
For the first time in years he found himself pleading for aid. Hrathen reached out to that God that he had served so long he had almost forgotten Him. The God he had shuffled away in a flurry of logic and understanding, a God he had rendered impotent in his life, though he sought to further His influence.
For once, Hrathen felt unfit to perform on his own. For once he admitted a need for help.
He didn’t know how long he knelt, praying fervently for aid, compassion, and mercy. Eventually, he was startled from his trancelike pleading by a knock at his door.
“Come,” he said distractedly.
“I apologize for disturbing my lord,” said a minor underpriest, cracking open the door. “But this just arrived for you.” The priest pushed a small crate into the room, then closed the door.
Hrathen rose on unstable feet. It was dark outside, though he had begun his prayers before noon. Had he really spent that long in supplication? A little dazed, Hrathen picked up the box and placed it on his desk, prying loose the lid with a dagger. Inside, packed with hay, was a rack containing four vials.
My Lord Hrathen, the note read. Here is the poison you requested. All of the effects are exactly as you specified. The liquid must be ingested, and the victim won’t display any symptoms until about eight hours afterwards.
In all things, praise to Lord Jaddeth.
Forton, apothecary and loyal subject of Wyrn.
Hrathen picked up a vial, regarding its dark contents with wonder. He had almost forgotten his late-night call to Forton. He vaguely remembered assuming he would administer the poison to Dilaf. That plan wouldn’t work anymore. He needed something more spectacular.
Hrathen swished the poison around in its vial for a moment, then pulled off the stopper and drank it down in a single gulp.
CHAPTER 28
The most difficult part was deciding where to begin reading. The bookshelves extended out of sight, their information stretching as if to eternity. Raoden was certain that the clues he needed were contained somewhere within the vast sea of pages, but finding them seemed a daunting task indeed.
Karata was the one who made the discovery. She located a low bookshelf near the side of the room opposite the entrance. A set of about thirty volumes squatted on the shelf, waiting in their dust. They dictated a cataloguing system, with numbers relating to the various columns and rows of the library. From it, Raoden easily located the books on AonDor. He selected the least complicated volume he could find, and set to work.
Raoden restricted knowledge of the library to himself, Galladon, and Karata. Not only did he fear a repeat of Aanden’s book boiling, but he sensed a sacredness to the structure. It was not a place to be invaded by visitors, misunderstanding fingers that would disorganize books and shatter the calm.
They kept the pool a secret as well, giving Mareshe and Saolin a simplified explanation. Raoden’s own longings warned him how dangerous the pool was. There was a part of him that wanted to seek out its deadly embrace, the refreshment of destruction. If the people knew