Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [59]
Raoden shrugged. “People do a better job when they assume they’re important.”
Galladon was quiet for another short moment before speaking again. “They’re right.”
“Who?”
“The other gangs. You are starting your own gang.”
Raoden shook his head. “Galladon, that is just a tiny part of it. No one accomplishes anything in Elantris—they’re all either too busy squabbling over food or contemplating their misery. The city needs a sense of purpose.”
“We’re dead, sule,” Galladon said. “What purpose can we have besides suffering?”
“That’s exactly the problem. Everyone’s convinced that their lives are over just because their hearts stopped beating.”
“That’s usually a pretty good indication, sule,” Galladon said dryly.
“Not in our case, my friend. We need to convince ourselves that we can go on. The Shaod isn’t causing all the pain here—I’ve seen people on the outside lose hope too, and their souls end up just as emaciated as those poor wretches in the square. If we can restore even a tiny bit of hope to these people, then their lives will improve drastically.” He emphasized the word “lives,” looking Galladon right in the eyes.
“The other gangs aren’t just going to sit around and watch you steal all their offerings, sule,” Galladon said. “They’re going to get tired of you very quickly.”
“Then I’ll just have to be ready for them.” Raoden nodded toward the large building around them. “This will make a rather good base of operations, wouldn’t you say? It has this open room in the middle, with all of those smaller ones at the back.”
Galladon squinted upward. “You could have picked a building with a roof.”
“Yes, I know,” Raoden replied. “But this one suits my purpose. I wonder what it used to be.”
“A church,” Galladon said. “Korathi.”
“How do you know?” Raoden asked with surprise.
“Has the feel, sule.”
“Why would there be a Korathi church in Elantris?” Raoden argued. “The Elantrians were their own gods.”
“But they were very lenient gods. There was supposed to be a grand Korathi chapel here in Elantris, the most beautiful of its kind. It was built as an offering of friendship to the people of Teod.”
“That seems so odd,” Raoden said with a shake of his head. “Gods of one religion building a monument to Domi.”
“Like I said. The Elantrians were very lax gods. They didn’t really care if the people worshipped them—they were secure in their divinity. Until the Reod came along. Kolo?”
“You seem to know quite a bit, Galladon,” Raoden noted.
“And since when has that been a sin?” Galladon said with a huff. “You’ve lived in Kae all your life, sule. Maybe instead of asking why I know these things, you should wonder why you don’t.”
“Point taken,” Raoden said, glancing to the side. Mareshe was still deeply involved in his explanation of an Elantrian’s danger-fraught life. “He’s not going to be done anytime soon. Come on, there’s something I want to do.”
“Does it involve running?” Galladon asked in a pained voice.
“Only if they spot us.”
Raoden recognized Aanden. It was difficult to see—the Shaod brought profound changes—but Raoden had a knack for faces. The so-called Baron of Elantris was a short man with a sizable paunch and a long drooping mustache that was obviously fake. Aanden did not look noble—of course, few noblemen Raoden knew looked very aristocratic.
Regardless, Aanden was no baron. The man before Raoden, seated on a throne of gold and presiding over a court of sickly-looking Elantrians, had been called Taan. He had been one of Kae’s finest sculptors before the Shaod took him, but he had not been of noble blood. Of course, Raoden’s own father had been nothing more than a simple trader until chance had made him king. In Elantris, Taan had apparently taken advantage of a similar opportunity.
The years in Elantris had not been kind to Taan. The man was blubbering incoherently to his court of rejects.
“He’s mad?” Raoden asked, crouched outside the window they were using to spy on Aanden’s court.
“We each have our own way of dealing with