Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [245]
Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen, throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light.
“Dilaf?” Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the arteth to hear. “What victory?”
CHAPTER 52
“Ow!” Raoden complained as Galladon stuck the needle into his cheek.
“Stop whining,” the Dula ordered, pulling the thread tight.
“Karata’s much better at this,” Raoden said. He sat before a mirror in their rooms at Roial’s mansion, his head cocked to the side, watching Galladon sew the sword wound.
“Well, wait until we get back to Elantris, then,” the Dula said grumpily, punctuating the remark by sticking Raoden again.
“No,” Raoden said with a sigh, “I’ve waited too long already—I can feel this one ripping a little bit each time I smile. Why couldn’t she have hit me on the arm?”
“Because we’re Elantrians, sule,” Galladon explained. “If a bad thing can happen to us, it will. You’re lucky to escape with only this. In fact, you’re lucky you were even able to fight at all with that body of yours.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Raoden said, keeping his head still as the Dula worked. “That’s why I had to end it so quickly.”
“Well, you fight better than I expected.”
“I had Eondel teach me,” Raoden said. “Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father’s laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing because he thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I’d end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces.”
Galladon snorted in amusement as he stabbed Raoden again, and Raoden gritted his teeth against the pain. The doors were all bolted tightly and the drapes closed, for Raoden had needed to drop his illusionary mask to let Galladon sew. The duke had been kind enough to board them—Roial seemed to be the only one of Raoden’s former friends who was intrigued, rather than annoyed, by his Kaloo personality.
“All right, sule,” Galladon said, tugging the final stitch.
Raoden nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He had almost begun to think that the handsome Duladen face belonged to him. That was dangerous. He had to remember that he was still an Elantrian, with all the weaknesses and pains of his kind, despite the unconcerned personality he had adopted.
Galladon still wore his mask. The Aon illusions were good as long as Raoden left them alone. Whether they were drawn in air or in mud, Aons could be destroyed only by another Elantrian. The books claimed that an Aon inscribed in dust would continue to function even if the pattern was scuffed or erased.
The illusions were attached to their underclothes, allowing them to change outfits each day without needing to redraw the Aon. Galladon’s illusion was that of a nondescript, broad-faced Dula, an image Raoden had found at the back of his book. Raoden’s face had been much harder to choose.
“How’s my personality?” Raoden asked, pulling out the AonDor book to begin re-creating his illusion. “Am I convincing?”
Galladon shrugged, taking a seat on Raoden’s bed. “I wouldn’t have believed you were a Dula, but they seem to. I don’t think you could have made a better choice, anyway. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded as he drew. The Arelish nobility were too well known, and Sarene would have immediately seen through any attempt at pretending to be from Teod. Assuming he wanted to speak Aonic, that left only Duladen. It had been obvious from his failed attempts to imitate Galladon’s accent that he could never make a convincing member of the Duladen underclass; even his pronunciation of a simple word such as “kolo” had sent Galladon into gales of laughter. Fortunately, there were a good number of lesser-known Duladen citizens—men who had been mayors of small towns or members of unimportant