Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [222]
Internal strife would provide that opening. If the Guard had decided to betray the king, civil conflict would throw Arelon into chaos once again, and the Fjordells were infamous for capitalizing on such events. Raoden had to find out what was happening beyond those walls.
Eventually, he and Galladon reached their destination. Not New Elantris, but the squat, unassuming building that was the passage to the holy place. Galladon hadn’t said a word when he’d found out that Raoden had taken Sarene to the library; the Dula had actually looked as if he’d expected such a development.
A few moments later, Raoden and Galladon strode into the underground library. Only a few of the wall lamps burned—an effort to save fuel—but Raoden could easily make out Sarene’s form sitting in one of the cubicles at the back, leaned over a book just where he had left her.
As they approached, her face became more distinct, and Raoden wasn’t able to keep himself from remarking again at her beauty. The dark-splotched skin of an Elantrian was prosaic to him now; he didn’t really notice it anymore. Actually, Sarene’s body seemed to be adapting remarkably well to the Shaod. Further signs of degeneration were usually visible after just a few days—wrinkles and creases appearing in the skin, the body’s remaining flesh color dulling to a pallid white. Sarene showed none of this—her skin was as smooth and vibrant as the day she had entered Elantris.
She claimed that her injuries didn’t continue hurting the way they should—though Raoden was certain that that was just because she had never lived outside of New Elantris. Many of the more recent newcomers never experienced the worst of Elantrian pain, the work and positive atmosphere keeping them from focusing on their injuries. The hunger hadn’t come upon her either—but, again, she had the fortune of coming at a time when everyone had the opportunity to eat at least once a day. Their supplies wouldn’t last more than a month, but there was no reason to stockpile. Starvation was not deadly to Elantrians, just uncomfortable.
Most beautiful were her eyes—the way she studied everything with keen interest. Sarene didn’t just look, she examined. When she spoke, there was thought behind her words. That intelligence was what Raoden found most attractive about his Teoish princess.
She looked up as they approached, an excited smile on her face. “Spirit! You are never going to guess what I found.”
“You’re right,” Raoden confessed with a smile—unsure how to approach the topic of information about the outside. “Therefore, you might as well just tell me.”
Sarene held up the book, showing him the spine, which read Seor’s Encyclopedia of Political Myths. Though Raoden had shown Sarene the library in an effort to sate her interest in AonDor, she’d postponed that study as soon as she had realized that there was an entire shelf of books on political theory. Part of the reason for her shift in interest probably had to do with her annoyance at AonDor. She couldn’t draw Aons in the air; she couldn’t even get the lines to start appearing behind her fingers. Raoden had been perplexed at first, but Galladon had explained that such a thing wasn’t uncommon. Even before the Reod, it had taken some Elantrians years to learn AonDor; if one began even the first line with an improper slant, nothing would appear. Raoden’s own immediate success was nothing short of extraordinary.
Sarene, however, didn’t see it that way. She was the type who grew annoyed when it took her longer to learn than someone else. She claimed she was drawing the Aons perfectly—and, in truth, Raoden couldn’t see any flaws in her form. The characters just refused to appear—and no amount of princessly indignation could convince them to behave.
So Sarene had turned her interest to political works—though