Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [228]
Two things helped him forget the pain of loss—Sarene and the Aons. When he wasn’t with one, he was with the other. New Elantris all but ran itself now; the people found their own projects to keep them busy, and there were rarely arguments that required his attention. So, he came to the library often, drawing Aons while Sarene studied.
“There is surprisingly little information here about modern Fjorden,” Sarene said, poking through a tome so large she had nearly needed Raoden’s help to carry it.
“Maybe you just haven’t found the right book yet,” Raoden said as he traced Aon Ehe. She sat at her customary desk, a pile of books next to her chair, and he stood with his back to the wall, practicing a new batch of Aon modifiers.
“Perhaps,” Sarene said, unconvinced. “Everything in here seems to be about the Old Empire; only that book on historical reconstruction even mentions the Fjorden of the last hundred years. I assumed that the Elantrians would have studied other religions with care—if only to know what they were up against.”
“As I understand it, the Elantrians didn’t really mind competition,” Raoden said. As he spoke his finger slipped slightly, breaking its line. The Aon held for a moment in the air, then faded away, his mistake invalidating the entire construction. He sighed before continuing his explanation. “The Elantrians figured they were so obviously superior to anything else that they didn’t need to worry about other religions. Most of them didn’t even care if they were worshipped or not.”
Sarene considered his comment, then looked back at her book, pushing aside the empty plate that had held this afternoon’s rations. Raoden didn’t tell her that he increased her portion of food—just as he did for every newcomer during their first week. He had learned from experience that gradual reductions in food intake helped a mind adjust to the hunger.
He started his drawing again, and a few moments later the library door opened. “Is he still up there?” Raoden asked as Galladon entered.
“Kolo,” the Dula replied. “Still screaming at his god.”
“You mean ‘praying.’”
Galladon shrugged, wandering over to take a seat next to Sarene. “You’d think a god would be able to hear him no matter how softly he spoke.”
Sarene looked up from her book. “Are you talking about the gyorn?”
Raoden nodded. “He’s been standing on the wall above the gate since early this morning. Apparently, he’s been petitioning his god to heal us.”
Sarene started. “Heal us?”
“Something like that,” Raoden said. “We can’t hear him very well.”
“Healing Elantris? That’s a switch.” Her eyes were suspicious.
Raoden shrugged, continuing his drawing. Galladon selected a book on farming and began searching through it. Over the last few days he had been trying to devise a method of irrigation that would work under their particular circumstances.
A few minutes later, when Raoden had nearly completed the Aon and its modifiers, he realized that Sarene had put down her book and was watching him with interested eyes. The scrutiny made him slip again, and the Aon faded away before he even realized what he had done. She was still regarding him as he raised his hand to begin Aon Ehe again.
“What?” he finally asked. His fingers instinctively drew the first three strokes—the line across the top, line down the side, and dot in the middle that were the beginning of every Aon.
“You’ve been drawing that same one for the last hour now,” she noted.
“I want to get it right.”
“But you have—at least a dozen times in a row.”
Raoden shrugged. “It helps me think.”
“About what?” she asked curiously, apparently bored of the Old Empire for the time being.
“Lately, about