Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [268]
Galladon could almost imagine that the city was peaceful. He stood on a mountainside boulder, watching the morning’s light creep across Kae—as if an invisible hand were pulling back a dark shade. He could almost convince himself that the rising smoke was coming from chimneys, not the ashen wrecks of buildings. He could nearly believe that the specks lining the streets were not bodies, but bushes or boxes, the crimson blood on the streets a trick of the early sunlight.
Galladon turned away from the city. Kae might be peaceful, but it was the peace of death, not of serenity. Dreaming otherwise did little good. Perhaps if he had been less inclined to delusion, he wouldn’t have let Raoden pull him out of Elantris’s gutters. He wouldn’t have allowed one man’s simplistic optimism to cloud his mind; he wouldn’t have begun to believe that life in Elantris could be anything but pain. He wouldn’t have dared to hope.
Unfortunately, he had listened. Like a rulo, he had allowed himself to give in to Raoden’s dreams. Once, he’d thought that he could no longer feel hope; he’d chased it far away, wary of its fickle tricks. He should have left it there. Without hope, he wouldn’t have to worry about disappointment.
“Doloken, sule,” Galladon mumbled, looking down at the mindless Raoden, “you certainly made a mess of me.”
The worst of it was, he still hoped. The light that Raoden had kindled still flickered inside Galladon’s chest, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it out. The images of New Elantris’s destruction were still crisp in his memory. Mareshe, an enormous, ragged hole torn in his chest. The quiet craftsman Taan, his face crushed beneath a large stone, but his fingers still twitching. The old Kahar—who had cleaned all of New Elantris practically by himself—missing an arm and both legs.
Galladon had stood amid the carnage, screaming at Raoden for abandoning them, for leaving them behind. Their prince had betrayed them for Sarene.
And still, he hoped.
It was like a small rodent, cowering in the corner of his soul, frightened by the anger, the rage, and the despair. Yet every time he tried to grab hold of it, the hope slipped to another part of his heart. It was what had spurred him to leave the dead behind, to crawl from Elantris in search of Raoden, believing for some irrational reason that the prince could still fix everything.
You are the fool, Galladon. Not Raoden, Galladon told himself bitterly. He couldn’t help being what he was. You, however, know better.
Yet, he hoped. A part of Galladon still believed that Raoden would somehow make things better. This was the curse his friend had set upon him, the wicked seed of optimism that refused to be uprooted. Galladon still had hope, and he probably would until the moment he gave himself up to the pool.
Silently, Galladon nodded to Karata, and they picked Raoden up, ready to trek the last short distance to the pond. In few minutes he would be rid of both hope and despair.
Elantris was dark, even though dawn was breaking. The tall walls made a shadow, keeping the sunlight out, expanding the night for a few moments. It was here, at one side of the broad entry plaza, that the soldiers deposited Lukel and the other nobles. Another group of Fjordells was building an enormous pile of wood, hauling scraps of buildings and furniture into the city.
Surprisingly, there were very few of the strange demon warriors; only three directed the work. The rest of the men were regular soldiers, their armor covered with red surcoats marking them as Derethi monks. The worked quickly, keeping their eyes off of their prisoners, apparently trying not to think too hard about what the wood would be used for.
Lukel tried not to think about that either.
Jalla pulled close to him, her body trembling with fright. Lukel had tried to convince her to plead for freedom because of her Svordish blood, but she would not go. She was so quiet and unassertive that some mistook her for weak, but if they could have seen her as she was, voluntarily staying with her husband though