Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [277]
Fjon smiled, then disappeared into the throng of people.
As the darkness closed in, Hrathen discarded all questions. Instead his view and consciousness was filled with Sarene’s worried face. The woman who had destroyed him. Because of her, he had finally rejected the lies he had believed all of his life.
She would never know that he had come to love her.
Goodbye, my princess, he thought. Jaddeth, be merciful to my soul. I only did the best I could.
Sarene watched the light fading from Hrathen’s eyes.
“No!” she cried, pressing her hand against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. “Hrathen, don’t you dare leave me alone here!”
He didn’t respond. She had fought with him over the fate of two countries, but had never really known who he was. She never would.
A startled scream shocked Sarene back into the tangible world. People gathered around her, upset by the sight of a dying man in the street. Stunned, Sarene realized she had become the center of attention. She lifted her hand, pulled away as if to hide, but it was too late. Several bare-chested forms appeared from an alley to investigate the disturbance. One of them had blood on his face, the sign of a broken nose.
Fjon slipped away from the crowd, exulting at the ease of his first kill. They had told him that it would be simple: He needed only to knife a single man, and then he would be admitted into the monastery of Rathbore, where he would be trained as an assassin.
You were right, Hrathen, he thought. They did give me a new way to serve Jaddeth’s empire—an important one.
How ironic that the man he had been ordered to kill had turned out to be Hrathen himself. How had Wyrn known that Fjon would find Hrathen here, on the streets of Teod of all places? Fjon would probably never know; Lord Jaddeth moved in ways beyond the understanding of men. But Fjon had performed his duty. His period of penance was over.
With a merry step, Fjon went back to his inn and ordered breakfast.
“Leave me,” Lukel said with a pained tone. “I’m nearly dead—see to the others.”
“Stop whining,” Raoden said, drawing Aon Ien in the air above the wounded Lukel. He crossed it with the Chasm line, and the wound in the merchant’s leg re-sealed instantly. Not only did Raoden know the proper modifiers this time, but his Aons had the power of Elantris behind them. With the resurrection of the city, AonDor had regained its legendary strength.
Lukel looked down, experimentally bending his leg and feeling where the cut had been. Then he frowned. “You know, you could have left a scar. I had to go through an awful lot to get that wound—you should have seen how courageous I was. My grandchildren are going to be disappointed that I don’t have any scars to show them.”
“They’ll live,” Raoden said, rising and walking away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lukel said from behind. “I thought we won.”
We won, Raoden thought, but I failed. They had searched the city—there was no sign of Sarene, Dilaf, or Hrathen. Raoden had captured a straggling Derethi soldier and demanded to know where they were, but the man had pled ignorance, and Raoden had released him with disgust.
He brooded, watching the people celebrate. Despite the deaths, despite the near-complete destruction of Kae, they were happy. Fjorden had been cast out and Elantris had returned. The days of the gods had come again. Unfortunately, Raoden couldn’t enjoy the sweetness of his victory. Not without Sarene.
Galladon approached slowly, ambling away from the group of Elantrians. The mass of sliver-skinned people were, for the most part, disoriented. Many of them had been Hoed for years, and