Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [229]
“Maybe something’s wrong with the land,” Sarene said offhandedly, leaning back in her chair so the front two legs rose off the ground.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Sarene said speculatively, “you say that the Aons and the land are linked—though even I could have told you that.”
“Oh?” Raoden asked, smiling as he drew. “Did your training as a princess include some secret lessons in Elantrian magic?”
“No,” Sarene said with a dramatic toss of her head. “But it did include training in the Aons. To begin every Aon, you draw a picture of Arelon. I learned that as a little girl.”
Raoden froze, his hand pausing in midline. “Say that again.”
“Hum?” Sarene asked. “Oh, it’s just a silly trick my teacher used to make me pay attention. See? Every Aon starts the same way—with a line at the top to represent the coast, a line down the side that looks like the Atad Mountains, and a dot in the middle to be Lake Alonoe.”
Galladon stood, wandering over to look at Raoden’s still glowing Aon. “She’s right, sule. It does kind of look like Arelon. Didn’t your books say anything about that?”
“No,” Raoden said with amazement. “Well, they claimed there was a connection between the Aons and Arelon, but they never mentioned that the characters actually represented the land. Perhaps the concept was just too elementary.”
Galladon picked up his book, folding something out of its back—a map of Arelon. “Keep drawing, sule. Otherwise that Aon’s going to vanish away.”
Raoden complied, forcing his finger back into motion. Galladon held up the map and Sarene moved to stand at the Dula’s side. They looked through the thin paper at the glowing Aon.
“Doloken!” Galladon swore. “Sule, the proportions are exactly the same. They even slant the same way.”
Raoden finished the Aon with one last stroke. He joined the other two, regarding the map, then looked over at Sarene. “But, what’s wrong, then? The mountains are still there, as is the coast, and the lake.”
Sarene shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You’re the expert—I can’t even get the first line right.”
Raoden turned back to the Aon. A few seconds later it flashed briefly and disappeared, its potential blocked for some inexplicable reason. If Sarene’s hypothesis was right, then the Aons were even more closely linked to Arelon than he had assumed. Whatever had stopped AonDor must have affected the land as well.
He turned, intending to praise Sarene for the clue. However, his words choked in his mouth. Something was wrong. The dark splotches on the princess’s skin were the wrong color: they were a mixture of blues and purple, like bruises. They seemed to fade before his eyes.
“Merciful Domi!” he exclaimed. “Galladon, look at her!”
The Dula turned with alarm, then his face changed from worried to awed.
“What?” the princess demanded, shooting them nervous looks.
“What did you do, sule?” Galladon asked.
“Nothing!” Raoden insisted, looking at the place where his Aon had been. “Something else must be healing her.”
Then he made the connection. Sarene had never been able to draw Aons. She had complained of being cold, and she still insisted that her wounds didn’t hurt. Raoden reached out and felt Sarene’s face. Her flesh was warm—too warm, even for a new Elantrian whose body hadn’t completely cooled yet. He pushed the scarf off her head with trembling fingers, and felt the nearly invisible blond stubble on her scalp.
“Idos Domi,” he whispered. Then he grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the library.
“Spirit, I don’t understand,” she protested as they entered the courtyard before Elantris’s gate.
“You were never an Elantrian, Sarene,” he said. “It was a trick—the same one that gyorn used to appear as if he were an Elantrian. Somehow Hrathen can make it seem that you’ve been taken by the Shaod when you haven’t.”
“But—” she objected.
“Think, Sarene!” Raoden