Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [38]
“Still?” Galladon asked. “I would have thought such beliefs would be gone after ten years.”
Raoden shook his head. “Even yet there are many who pray for, or fear, the Elantrians’ return. The city was strong, Galladon. You can’t know how beautiful it once was.”
“I know, sule,” Galladon said. “I didn’t spend all of my life in Duladel.”
The priest’s voice rose to a crescendo, and he delivered one final wave of screams before spinning around and disappearing from view. Even from a distance, Raoden could hear the hate and anger in the gyorn’s voice. Galladon was right: This man’s words had been no blessing.
Raoden shook his head, looking from the wall to the gates. “Galladon,” he asked, “what are the chances of someone being thrown in here today?”
Galladon shrugged. “Hard to say, sule. Sometimes weeks go without a new Elantrian, but I have seen as many as five cast in at once. You came two days ago, that woman yesterday—who knows, maybe Elantris will have new flesh for the third day in a row. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded, watching the gate expectantly.
“Sule, what do you intend to do?” Galladon asked uncomfortably.
“I intend to wait.”
The newcomer was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, with a gaunt face and nervous eyes. As the gate slammed shut, Raoden climbed down from the rooftop, pausing just inside the courtyard. Galladon followed, a worried look on his face. He obviously thought Raoden might do something foolish.
He was right.
The unfortunate newcomer just stared morosely at the gate. Raoden waited for him to take a step, to make the unwitting decision that would determine who got the privilege of robbing him. The man stood where he was, watching the courtyard with nervous eyes, his thin frame pulled up inside his robes like he was trying to hide within them. After a few minutes of waiting, he finally took his first hesitant step—to the right, the same way Raoden had chosen.
“Come on,” Raoden declared, striding out of the alleyway. Galladon groaned, mumbling something in Duladen.
“Teoren?” Raoden called, choosing a common Aonic name.
The spindly newcomer looked up with surprise, then glanced over his shoulder with confusion.
“Teoren, it is you!” Raoden said, wrapping his hand around the man’s shoulder. Then, in a lower voice, he continued. “Right now you have two choices, friend. Either you do what I tell you, or you let those men in the shadows over there chase you down and beat you senseless.”
The man turned around to search the shadows with apprehensive eyes. Fortunately, at that moment, Shaor’s men decided to move, their shadowed forms emerging into the light, their carnal eyes staring at the new man with hunger. It was all the encouragement the newcomer needed.
“What do I do?” the man asked with a quavering voice.
“Run!” Raoden ordered, then took off toward one of the alleys at a dash.
The man didn’t need to be told twice; he bolted so quickly that Raoden was afraid he would go careering down a side alley and get lost. There was a muffled yell of surprise from behind as Galladon realized what Raoden was doing. The large Duladen man obviously wouldn’t have any problems keeping up; even considering his time in Elantris, Galladon was in much better shape than Raoden.
“What in the name of Doloken do you think you are doing, you idiot?” Galladon swore.
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Raoden said, conserving strength as he ran. Again, he noticed that he didn’t get out of breath, though his body did begin to grow tired. A dull feeling of fatigue began to grow within him, and of the three of them, Raoden was soon proven the slowest runner. However, he was the only one who knew where they were going.
“Right!” he yelled to Galladon and the new man, then took off down a side alley. The two men followed, as did the group of thugs, who were gaining quickly. Fortunately, Raoden’s destination wasn’t far away.
“Rulo,” Galladon cursed, realizing where they were going. It was one of the houses he had shown Raoden the day before, the one with