Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [278]
“They’re going to be—” the Dula began.
“My lord Raoden!” a voice suddenly interrupted—a voice Raoden recognized.
“Ashe?” he asked anxiously, seeking out the Seon.
“Your Majesty!” Ashe said, zipping across the courtyard. “A Seon just spoke with me. The princess! She is in Teod, my lord. My kingdom is under attack as well!”
“Teod?” Raoden asked, dumbfounded. “How in Domi’s name did she get there?”
Sarene backed away, wishing desperately for a weapon. The townspeople noticed Dilaf and his warriors and, seeing the Fjordells’ odd twisted bodies and malevolent eyes, scattered in fright. Sarene’s reflexes urged her to join them, but such a move would only put her directly in Dilaf’s hands. The small monk’s warriors quickly fanned out to cut off Sarene’s escape.
Dilaf approached—his face stained with drying blood, his bare torso sweating in Teod’s cold air, the intricate patterns beneath the skin on his arms and chest bulging, his lips curved in a wicked smile. At that moment, Sarene knew that this man was the most horrifying thing she would ever see.
Raoden climbed to the top of Elantris’s wall, taking the steps two at a time, his restored Elantrian muscles moving more quickly and tirelessly than even those of his pre-Shaod self.
“Sule!” Galladon called with concern, rushing up behind him.
Raoden didn’t respond. He topped the wall, pushing his way through the crowds of people who stood looking over the remains of Kae. They parted as they realized who he was, some kneeling and mumbling “Your Majesty.” Their voices were awed. In him they saw a return to their former lives. Hopeful, luxurious lives filled with ample food and time. Lives nearly forgotten over a decade of tyranny.
Raoden gave them no heed, continuing until he stood on the northern wall, which overlooked the broad blue Sea of Fjorden. On the other side of those waters lay Teod. And Sarene.
“Seon,” Raoden ordered, “show me the exact direction Teod’s capital is from this point.”
Ashe hovered for a moment, then moved to a spot in front of Raoden, marking a point on the horizon. “If you wanted to sail to Teod, my lord, you would go in this direction.”
Raoden nodded, trusting the Seon’s innate sense of direction. He began to draw. He constructed Aon Tia with frantic hands, his fingers tracing patterns he had learned by rote, never thinking they would do any good. Now, with Elantris somehow feeding the Aons’ strength, lines no longer simply appeared in the air when he drew—they exploded. Light streamed from the Aon, as if his fingers were ripping tiny holes through a mighty dam, allowing only some of the water to squirt through.
“Sule!” Galladon said, finally catching up to him. “Sule, what is going on?” Then, apparently recognizing the Aon, he cursed. “Doloken, Raoden, you don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I am going to Teod,” Raoden said, continuing to draw.
“But sule,” Galladon protested. “You yourself told me how dangerous Aon Tia can be. What was it you said? If you don’t know the exact distance you need to travel, you could be killed. You can’t go into this blind. Kolo?”
“It’s the only way, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I have to at least try.”
Galladon shook his head, laying a hand on Raoden’s shoulder. “Sule, a meaningless attempt won’t prove anything but your stupidity. Do you even know how far it is to Teod?”
Raoden’s hand fell slowly to his side. He was no geographer; he knew Teod was about four days’ sail, but he had no practical knowledge of how many miles or feet that was. He had to work a frame of reference into Aon Tia, give it some sort of measurement, so that it knew how far to send him.
Galladon nodded, clapping Raoden on the shoulder. “Prepare a ship!” the Dula ordered to a group of soldiers—the last remnants of the Elantris City Guard.
It will be too late! Raoden thought with sorrow. What good is power, what good is Elantris, if I can’t use it to protect the one I love?
“One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” said a voice from behind Raoden.
Raoden turned with surprise. Adien stood