Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [270]
Dilaf’s voice turned reverently mournful. “I found her at the bottom, still alive. Still alive, despite the fall. And I burned her. She never stopped screaming. She screams still. I can hear her. She will scream until Elantris is gone.”
They reached the ledge, behind which lay the pool, and Galladon laid Raoden down. The prince slumped idly against the stone, his head hanging slightly over the side of the cliff, his unfocused eyes staring out over the city of Kae. Galladon leaned back against the rock face, next to the door of the tunnel that led down to Elantris. Karata slumped next to him in exhaustion. They would wait a brief moment, then find oblivion.
Once the wood was gathered, the soldiers began a new pile—this one of bodies. The soldiers went searching through the city, seeking the corpses of Elantrians who had been slain. Lukel realized something as he watched the pile grow. They weren’t all dead. In fact, most of them weren’t.
Most of them had wounds so grievous that it sickened Lukel to look at them, yet their arms and legs twitched, their lips moving. Elantrians, Lukel thought with amazement, the dead whose minds continue to live.
The pile of bodies grew higher. There were hundreds of them, all of the Elantrians that had been collecting in the city for ten years. None of them resisted; they simply allowed themselves to be heaped, their eyes uncaring, until the pile of bodies was larger than the pile of wood.
“Twenty-seven steps to the bodies,” Adien whispered suddenly, walking away from the crowd of nobles. Lukel reached for his brother, but it was too late.
A soldier yelled for Adien to get back with the others. Adien didn’t respond. Angry, the soldier slashed at Adien with a sword, leaving a large gash in his chest. Adien stumbled, but kept walking. No blood came from the wound. The soldier’s eyes opened wide, and he jumped back, making a ward against evil. Adien approached the pile of Elantrians and joined its ranks, flopping down among them and then lying still.
Adien’s secret of five years had finally been revealed. He had joined his people.
“I remember you, Hrathen.” Dilaf was smiling now, his grin wicked and demonic. “I remember you as a boy, when you came to us. It was just before I left for Arelon. You were frightened then, as you are frightened now. You ran from us, and I watched you go with satisfaction. You were never meant to be Dakhor—you are far too weak.”
Hrathen felt chilled. “You were there?”
“I was gragdet by then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Do you remember me?”
Then, looking into the man’s eyes, Hrathen had a flash of remembrance. He remembered evil eyes in the body of a tall, unmerciful man. He remembered chants. He remembered fires. He remembered screams—his screams—and a face hanging above him. They were the same eyes.
“You!” Hrathen said with a gasp.
“You remember.”
“I remember,” Hrathen said with a dull chill. “You were the one that convinced me to leave. In my third month, you demanded that one of your monks use his magic and send you to Wyrn’s palace. The monk complied, giving up his life to transport you a distance that you could have walked in fifteen minutes.”
“Absolute obedience is required, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “Occasional tests and examples bring loyalty from the rest.” Then, pausing, he looked out over the bay. The armada was docked, waiting as per Dilaf’s order. Hrathen scanned the horizon, and he could see several dark specks—the tips of masts. Wyrn’s army was coming.
“Come,” Dilaf ordered, rising to his feet. “We have been successful; the Teoish armada has docked. They will not be able to stop our fleet from landing. I have only one duty remaining—the death of King Eventeo.”
A vision sprung into Raoden’s impassive mind. He tried to ignore it. Yet, for some reason, it refused to leave. He saw it through the shimmering surface of his pain—a simple picture.
It was Aon Rao. A large square with four circles around it, lines connecting them to the center. It was a widely used Aon—especially among the Korathi—for its meaning. Spirit.