Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [180]
“Merciful Domi,” Sarene whispered, her hand rising to her breast, her fingers seeking out her small Korathi pendant. She scanned the courtyard with disbelieving eyes. Some of the other bodies were moving as well, despite horrible wounds.
They say that the Elantrians are dead, she realized. That they are the deceased whose minds refuse to rest. Her eyes open for the first time, Sarene realized how the Elantrians survived without food. They didn’t need to eat.
But, why then did they?
Sarene shook her head, trying to clear her mind of both confusion and the struggling corpses below. As she did so, her eyes fell on another figure. It knelt in the shadow of Elantris’s wall, its posture somehow bespeaking incredible sorrow. Sarene felt herself drawn along the walkway in the direction of the form, her hand dragging along the stone railing. She stopped when she stood above him.
Somehow she knew the figure belonged to Spirit. He was clutching a body in his arms, rocking back and forth with his head bowed. The message was clear: Even a tyrant could love those who followed him.
I saved you, Sarene thought. The king would have destroyed you, but I saved your life. It wasn’t for you, Spirit. It was for all those poor people that you rule over.
Spirit didn’t notice her.
She tried to remain angry at him. However, looking down and sensing his agony, she couldn’t lie—even to herself. The day’s events disturbed her for several reasons. She was angry at having her plans disrupted. She regretted that she would no longer be able to feed the struggling Elantrians. She was unhappy with the way the aristocracy would see Elantris.
But she was also saddened that she would never be able to see him again. Tyrant or not, he had seemed like a good man. Perhaps … perhaps only a tyrant could lead in a place like Elantris. Perhaps he was the best that the people had.
Regardless, she would probably never see him again. She would never again look into those eyes that, despite the emaciated form of his body, seemed so vibrant and alive. There was a complexity in them that she would never be able to unravel.
It was over.
She sought refuge in the only place in Kae she felt safe. Kiin let her in, then held her as she fell into his arms. It was a perfectly humiliating end to a very emotional day. However, the hug was worth it. She had decided as a child that her uncle was very good at hugging, his broad arms and enormous chest sufficient to envelope even a tall and gangly girl.
Sarene finally released him, wiping her eyes, disappointed in herself for crying again. Kiin simply placed a large hand on her shoulder and led her into the dining room, where the rest of the family sat around the table, even Adien.
Lukel had been talking animatedly, but he cut off as he saw Sarene. “Speak the name of the lion,” he said, quoting a Jindoeese proverb, “and he will come to feast.”
Adien’s haunted, slightly unfocused eyes found her face. “Six hundred and seventy-two steps from here to Elantris,” he whispered.
There was silence for a moment. Then Kaise jumped up onto her chair. “Sarene! Did they really try and eat you?”
“No, Kaise,” Sarene replied, finding a seat. “They just wanted some of our food.”
“Kaise, leave your cousin alone,” Daora ordered firmly. “She has had a full day.”
“And I missed it,” Kaise said sullenly, plopping down in her seat. Then she turned angry eyes on her brother. “Why did you have to get sick?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Daorn protested, still a little wan. He didn’t seem very disappointed to have missed the battle.
“Hush, children,” Daora repeated.
“It’s all right,” Sarene said. “I can talk about it.”
“Well, then,” Lukel said, “is it true?”
“Yes,