Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [195]
Almost. He could understand how, perhaps, a primitive culture could worship the moon—but he could not take part in that worship. Yet he wondered—was this the awe he should feel for his God? Was his own belief flawed because he did not regard Jaddeth with the same mixture of curious fear and wonder with which the people of Jesker had regarded the moon?
He would never have such emotions; he was not capable of irrational veneration. He understood. Even if he envied men who could gush praises to a god without understanding his teachings, Hrathen could not separate fact and religion. Jaddeth bestowed attributes on men as He saw fit, and Hrathen had been given a logical intellect. He would never be content with simpleminded devotion.
It was not what Hrathen had been hoping for, but it was an answer, and he found comfort and strength within it. He was not a zealot; he would never be a man of extreme passion. In the end, he followed Derethi because it made sense. That would have to be enough.
Hrathen licked his drying lips. He didn’t know how long it would be until he left Elantris; his exile could last days yet. He hadn’t wanted to show signs of physical dependence, but he knew that he would need some nourishment. Reaching over, he retrieved his sacrificial basket. Caked with slime, the offerings were growing stale and moldy. Hrathen ate them anyway, resolve breaking as he finally made the decision to eat. He devoured it all—flaccid vegetables, moldy bread, meat, even some of the corn, the hard grains softened slightly by their extended bath in Elantris slime. At the end he downed the entire flask of wine with one prolonged gulp.
He tossed the basket aside. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about scavengers coming to steal his offerings, though he hadn’t seen any more of them since the earlier attack. He was thankful to Jaddeth for the respite. He was becoming so weak and dehydrated that he might not have been able to fend off another assault.
The moon was almost completely visible now. Hrathen stared up with renewed resolve. He might lack passion, but he had an ample serving of determination. Licking his now wetted lips, Hrathen restarted his prayer. He would continue as he always had, doing his best to serve in Lord Jaddeth’s empire.
There was nothing else God could expect of him.
CHAPTER 34
Raoden was wrong about Shaor’s men. A few of them came to him that night to cook their food, the light of consciousness shining weakly in their eyes. The rest—the majority of Shaor’s followers—did not.
They came to him for another reason.
He watched several of them pull a large stone block on one of Mareshe’s sleds. Their minds were gone—their capacity for rational thought atrophied somehow by their extended submersion in bestial madness. While several had recovered—if only partially—the rest seemed beyond help. They never made the connection between fires and cooking; they had simply stood howling over the grain, outraged and confused by their inability to devour it.
No, these men had not fallen into his trap. But, they had come anyway—for Raoden had dethroned their god.
He had entered Shaor’s territory and had escaped unscathed. He had power over food; he could make it inedible for one but succulent for another. His soldiers had repeatedly defeated Shaor’s band. To their simple, degenerate minds there was only one thing to do when faced by a god more powerful than their own: convert.
They came to him the morning after his attempt at restoring their intelligence. He had been walking the perimeter of New Elantris’s short defensive wall, and seen them slinking down one of the city’s main thoroughfares. He had raised the call, thinking they had finally decided to mount a coordinated attack.
But Shaor’s men had not come to fight. That had come to give him a gift: the head of their former god. Or, at least, her hair. The lead madman had tossed the golden wig at Raoden’s feet, its follicles stained with dark,