Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [182]
And wait they did—the better part of two hours.
Hrathen had heard that the priests would only throw people into Elantris during a certain time of day, but apparently it was a window of time, and not a specific moment. Eventually, the priests stuffed a small basket of food in Hrathen’s arms, offered one final prayer to their pitiful god, and pushed him through the gates.
He stood in the city, his head bald, his skin tainted with large black splotches. An Elantrian. The city was much the same at eye level as it had been from the wall—filthy, rotting, and unholy. It held nothing for him. He spun around, tossing aside the meager basket of food and dropping to his knees.
“Oh, Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation,” he began, his voice loud and firm. “Hear now the petition of a servant in your empire. Lift this taint from my blood. Restore me to life. I implore you with all the power of my position as a holy gyorn.”
There was no response. So, he repeated the prayer. Again, and again, and again….
CHAPTER 31
Saolin didn’t open his eyes as he sank into the pool, but he did stop mumbling. He bobbed for a moment, then took a sharp breath, reaching his hands toward the heavens. After that, he melted into the blue liquid.
Raoden watched the process solemnly. They had waited for three days, hoping against all that the grizzled soldier would regain his wits. He had not. They had brought him to the pool partially because his wound was so terrible, and partially because Raoden knew that he could never enter the Hall of the Fallen with Saolin inside. The mantra “I have failed my lord Spirit” would have been too much.
“Come, sule,” Galladon said. “He’s gone.”
“Yes, he is,” Raoden said. And it’s my fault. For once, the burdens and agonies of his body seemed insignificant compared with those of his soul.
They returned to him. First as a trickle, then as a flood. It took days for them to realize, and believe, that Sarene wasn’t going to return. No more handouts—no more eating, waiting, and eating again. Then they came back, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor, remembering that once—not so long ago—there had been purpose in their lives.
Raoden turned them back to their old jobs—cleaning, farming, and building. With proper tools and materials, the work became less an exercise in intentional time wasting and more a productive means of rebuilding New Elantris. Piecemeal roofs were replaced with more durable, functional creations. Additional seed corn provided a chance for a second planting, one much larger and ambitious than the first. The short wall around New Elantris was reinforced and expanded—though, for the moment, Shaor’s men remained quiet. Raoden knew, however, that the food they had gathered from Sarene’s cart wouldn’t last long. The wildmen would return.
The numbers that came to him after Sarene were much greater than those that had followed him before. Raoden was forced to acknowledge that despite the temporary setbacks they caused, Sarene’s excursions into Elantris had ultimately been beneficial. She had proven to the people that no matter how much their hunger hurt, simply feeding their bellies wasn’t enough. Joy was more than just an absence of discomfort.
So, when they came back to him, they no longer worked for food. They worked because they feared what they would become if they did not.
“He shouldn’t be here, Galladon,” Raoden said as he studied the Fjordell priest from atop their garden-roof observation point.
“You’re certain that’s the gyorn?” Galladon asked.
“He says so in that prayer of his. Besides, he’s definitely Fjordell. That frame of his is too large to be Aonic.”
“Fjordells don’t get taken by the Shaod,” Galladon said stubbornly. “Only people from Arelon, Teod, and occasionally Duladel.”
“I know,” Raoden said, sitting back in frustration. “Perhaps it’s just percentages. There aren’t many Fjordells in Arelon—perhaps that’s why they never