Brandon Sanderson - Elantris

PROLOGUE

ELANTRIS was beautiful, once. It was called the city of the gods: a place of

power. radiance, and magic. Visitors say that the very stones glowed with an

inner light, and that the city contained wondrous arcane marvels. At night,

Elantris shone like a great silvery fire, visible even from a great distance.

Yet, as magnificent as Elantris was, its inhabitants were more so. Their hair

a brilliant white, their skin an almost metallic silver. the Elantrians seemed

to shine like the city itself. Legends claim that they were immortal, or at

least nearly so. Their bodies healed quickly, and they were blessed with great

strength, insight, and speed. They could perform magics with a bare wave of

the hand: men visited Elantris from all across Opelon to receive Elantrian

healings, food. or wisdom. They were divinities.

And anyone could become one.

The Shaod, it was called. The Transformation. It struck randomly—usually at

night, during the mysterious hours when life slowed to rest. The Shaod could

take beggar, craftsman, nobleman, or warrior. When it came, the fortunate

person's life ended and began anew; he would discard his old, mundane

existence, and move to Elantris. Elantris, where he could live in bliss, rule

in wisdom, and be worshipped for eternity.

Eternity ended ten years ago.

CHAPTER 1

PRINCE Raoden of Arelon awoke early that morning, completely unaware

that he had been damned for all eternity. Still drowsy, Raoden sat up,

blinking in the soft morning light. Just outside his open balcony windows he

could see the enormous city of Elantris in the distance, its stark walls

casting a

deep shadow over the smaller city of Kae, where Raoden lived. Elantris's walls

were incredibly high, but Raoden could see the tops of black towers rising

behind them, their broken spires a clue to the fallen majesty hidden within.

The abandoned city seemed darker than usual. Raoden stared at it for a moment,

then glanced away. The huge Elantrian walls were impossible to ignore, but

people of Kae tried very hard to do just that. It was painful to remember the

city's beauty, to wonder how ten years ago the blessing of the Shaod had

become a curse instead....

Raoden shook his head, climbing out of bed. It was unusually warm for such an

early hour; he didn't feel even a bit chilly as he threw on his robe, then

pulled the servant's cord beside his bed, indicating that he wanted breakfast.

That was another odd thing. He was hungry—very hungry. Almost ravenous. He had

never liked large breakfasts, but this morning he found himself waiting

impatiently for his meal to arrive. Finally, he decided to send someone to see

what was taking so long.

Ien?" he called in the unlit chambers.

There was no response. Raoden frowned slightly at the Seon's absence. Where

could Ien be?

Raoden stood, and as he did, his eyes fell on Elantris again. Resting in the

great city's shadow, Kae seemed like an insignificant village by comparison.

Elantris. An enormous, ebony block—not really a city anymore, just the corpse

of one. Raoden shivered slightly.

A knock came at his door.

"Finally." Raoden said, walking over to pull open the door. Old Elao stood

outside with a tray of fruit and warm bread.

The tray dropped to the ground with a crash, slipping from the stunned maid's

fingers even as Raoden reached out to accept it. Raoden froze, the tray's

metallic ring echoing through the silent morning hallway.

"Merciful Domi!" Elao whispered, her eyes horrified and her hand trembling as

she reached up to grab the Korathi pendant at her neck.

Raoden reached out, but the maid took a quivering step away. stumbling on a

small melon in her haste to escape.

"What?" Raoden asked. Then he saw his hand. What had been hidden in the

shadows of his darkened room was now illuminated by the hallway's flickering

lantern.

Raoden turned, throwing furniture out of his way as he stumbled to the taIl

mirror at the side of his chambers. The dawn's light had grown just strong

enough for him to see the reflection that stared back at him. A stranger's

reflection.

His blue eyes were the same, though they were wide with terror. His hair,

however, had changed from sandy brown to limp gray. The skin was the worst.

The mirrored face was covered with sickly black patches, like dark bruises.

The splotches could mean only one thing.

The Shaod had come upon him.

THE Elantris city gate boomed shut behind him with a shocking sound of

finality. Raoden slumped against it, thoughts numbed by the day's events.

It was as if his memories belonged to another person. His father, King Iadon,

hadn't met Raoden's gaze as he ordered the priests to prepare his son and

throw him into Elantris. It had been done swiftly and quietly: Iadon couldn't

afford to let it be known that the crown prince was an Elantrian. Ten years

ago, the Shaod would have made Raoden a god. Now, instead of making people

into silver-skinned deities. it changed them into sickly monstrosities.

Raoden shook his head in disbelief. The Shaod was a thing that happened to

other people—distant people. People who deserved to be cursed. Not the crown

prince of Arelon. Not Raoden.

The city of Elantris stretched out before him. Its high walls were lined with

guardhouses and soldiers—men intended not to keep enemies out of the city, but

to keep its inhabitants from escaping. Since the Reod, every person taken by

the Shaod had been thrown into Elantris to rot: the fallen city had become an

expansive tomb for those whose bodies had forgotten how to die.

Raoden could remember standing on those walls, looking down on Elantris's

dread inhabitants, just as the guards now looked down on him. The city had

seemed far away then, even though he had been standing just outside of it. He

had wondered. philosophically, what it wouId be like to walk those blackened

streets.

Now he was going to find out.

Raoden pushed against the gate for a moment. as if to force his body through,

to cleanse his flesh of its taint. He lowered his head, releasing a quiet

moan. He felt like curling into a ball on the grimy stones and waiting until

he woke from this

dream. Except. he knew he would never awaken. The priests said that this

nightmare would never end.

But, somewhere, something within urged him forward. He knew he had to keep

moving—for if he stopped, he feared he'd simply give up. The Shaod had taken

his body. He couldn't let it take his mind as well.

So, using his pride like a shield against despair, dejection, and-most

important—self-pity, Raoden raised his head to stare damnation in the eyes.

BEFORE, when Raoden had stood on the walls of Elantris to look down—both

literally and figuratively-on its inhabitants, he had seen the filth that

covered the city. Now he stood in it.

Every surface—from the walls of the buildings to the numerous cracks in the

cobblestones—was coated with a patina of grime. The slick, oily substance had

an equalizing effect on Elantris's colors, blending them all into a single,

depressing hue—a color that mixed the pessimism of black with the polluted

greens and browns of sewage.

Before, Raoden had been able to see a few of the city's inhabitants. Now he

could hear them as well. A dozen or so Elantrians lay scattered across the

courtyard's fetid cobblestones. Many sat uncaringly, or unknowingly, in pools

of dark water, the remains of the night's rainstorm. And they were moaning.

Most of them were quiet about it, mumbling to themselves or whimpering with

some unseen pain. One woman at the far end of the courtyard, however, screamed

with a sound of raw anguish. She fell silent after a moment, her breath or her

strength giving out.

Most of them wore what looked like rags—dark, loose-fitting garments that were

as soiled as the streets. Looking closely, however, Raoden recognized the

clothing. He glanced down at his own white burial cloths. They were long and

flowing, like ribbons sewn together into a loose robe. The linen on his arms

and legs was already stained with grime from brushing up against the city gate

and stone pillars. Raoden suspected they would soon be indistinguishable from

the other Elantrians' garb.

This is what I will become, Raoden thought. It has already begun. In a few

weeks I will be nothing more than a dejected body, a corpse whimpering in the

corner.

A slight motion on the other side of the courtyard brought Raoden out of his

self-pity. Some Elantrians were crouching in a shadowed doorway across from

him. He couldn't make out much from their silhouetted forms. but they seemed

to be waiting for something. He could feel their eyes on him.

Raoden raised an arm to shade his eyes. and only then did he remember the

small thatch basket in his hands. It held the ritual Korathi sacrifice sent

with the dead into the next life—or, in this case. into Elantris. The basket

contained a loaf

of bread, a few thin vegetables, a handful of grain, and a small flask of

wine. Normal death sacrifices were far more extensive, but even a victim of

the Shaod had to be given something.

Raoden glanced back at the figures in the doorway, his mind flashing to rumors

he'd heard on the outside—stories of Elantrian brutality. The shadowed figures

had yet to move, but their study of him was unnerving.

Taking a deep breath, Raoden took a step to the side, moving along the city

wall toward the east side of the courtyard. The forms still seemed to be

watching him, but they didn't follow. In a moment, he could no longer see

through the doorway, and a second later he had safely passed into one of the

side streets.

Raoden released his breath, feeling that he had escaped something, though he

didn't know what. After a few moments, he was certain that no one followed,

and he began to feel foolish for his alarm. So far, he had yet to see anything

that corroborated the rumors about Elantris. Raoden shook his head and

continued moving.

The stench was almost overwhelming. The omnipresent sludge had a musty, rotten

scent, like that of dying fungus. Raoden was so bothered by the smell that he

nearly stepped directly on the gnarled form of an old man huddled next to a

building's wall. The man moaned piteously, reaching up with a thin arm. Raoden

looked down, and felt a sudden chill. The "old man' was no more than sixteen

years old. The creature's soot-covered skin was dark and spotted, but his face

was that of a child, not a man. Raoden took an involuntary step backward.

The boy, as if realizing that his chance would soon pass, stretched his arm

forward with the sudden strength of desperation. "Food?" he mumbled through a

mouth only half full of teeth. "Please?"

Then the arm fell. its endurance expended, and the body slumped back against

the cold stone wall. His eyes, however, continued to watch Raoden. Sorrowful,

pained eyes. Raoden had seen beggars before in the Outer Cities, and he had

probably been fooled by charlatans a number of times. This boy, however, was

not faking.

Raoden reached up and pulled the loaf of bread from his sacrificial offerings,

then handed it to the boy. The look of disbelief that ran across the boy's

face was somehow more disturbing than the despair it had replaced. This

creature had given up hope long ago; he probably begged out of habit rather

than expectation.

Raoden left the boy behind, turning to continue down the small street. He had

hoped that the city would grow less gruesome as he left the main

courtyard—thinking, perhaps, that the dirt was a result of the area's

relatively frequent use. He had been wrong; the alley was covered with just as

much filth as the courtyard, if not more.

A muffled thump sounded from behind. Raoden turned with surprise. A group of

dark forms stood near the mouth of the side street, huddled around an

object on the ground. The beggar. Raoden watched with a shiver as five men

devoured his loaf of bread. fighting among themselves and ignoring the boy's

despairing cries. Eventually, one of the newcomers—obviously annoyed—brought a

makeshift club down on the boy's head with a crunch that resounded through the

small alley.

The men finished the bread. then turned to regard Raoden. He took an

apprehensive step backward; it appeared that he had been hasty in assuming he

hadn't been followed. The five men slowly stalked forward, and Raoden spun.

taking off at a run.

Sounds of pursuit came from behind. Raoden scrambled away in fear—something

that, as a prince, he had never needed to do before. He ran madly. expecting

his breath to run short and a pain to stab him in the side, as usually

happened when he overextended himself. Neither occurred. Instead, he simply

began to feel horribly tired, weak to the point that he knew he would soon

collapse. It was a harrowing feeling, as if his life were slowly seeping away.

Desperate, Raoden tossed the sacrificial basket over his head. The awkward

motion threw him off balance, and an unseen schism in the cobblestones sent

him into a maladroit skip that didn't end until he collided with a rotting

mass of wood. The wood-which might once have been a pile of crates—squished,

breaking his fall.

Raoden sat up quickly, the motion tossing shreds of wood pulp across the damp

alleyway. His assailants, however, were no longer concerned with him. The five

men crouched in the street's muck. picking scattered vegetables and grain off

the cobblestones and out of the dark pools. Raoden felt his stomach churn as

one of the men slid his finger down a crack. scraped up a dark handful that

was more sludge than corn. then rammed the entire mass between eager lips.

Brackish spittle dribbled down the man's chin, dropping from a mouth that

resembled a mud-filled pot boiling on the stove.

One man saw Raoden watching. The creature growled, reaching down to grab the

almost-forgotten cudgel at his side. Raoden searched frantically for a weapon,

finding a length of wood that was slightly less rotten than the rest. He held

the weapon in uncertain hands. trying to project an air of danger.

The thug paused. A second later, a cry of joy from behind drew his attention:

one of the others had located the tiny skin of wine. The struggle that ensued

apparently drove all thoughts of Raoden From the men's minds, and the five

were soon gone—four chasing after the one who had been fortunate, or foolish,

enough to escape with the precious liquor.

Raoden sat in the debris, overwhelmed. This is what you will become. . . .

"Looks like they forgot about you, sule," a voice observed.

Raoden jumped, looking toward the sound of the voice. A man, his smooth bald

head reflecting the morning light, reclined lazily on a set of steps a short

distance away. He was definitely an Elantrian, but before the transformation

he must have been of a different race—not from Arelon, like Raoden. The man's

skin bore the telltale black splotches of the Shaod, but the unaffected

patches weren't pale, they were a deep brown instead.

Raoden tensed against possible danger, but this man showed no signs of the

primal wildness or the decrepit weakness Raoden had seen in the others. Tall

and firm-framed, the man had wide hands and keen eyes set in a dark-skinned

face. He studied Raoden with a thoughtful attitude.

Raoden breathed a sigh of relief. "Whoever you are. I'm glad to see you. I was

beginning to think everyone in here was either dying or insane."

"We can't be dying," the man responded with a snort. "We're already dead.

Kolo?"

"Kolo." The foreign word was vaguely familiar, as was the man's strong accent.

"You're not from Arelon?"

The man shook his head. "I'm Galladon, from the sovereign realm of Duladel.

I'm most recently from Elantris, land of sludge, insanity, and eternal

perdition. Nice to meet you."

"Duladel?" Raoden said. "But the Shaod only affects people from Arelon." He

picked himself up, brushing away pieces of wood in various stages of

decomposition, grimacing at the pain in his stubbed toe. He was covered with

slime, and the raw stench of Elantris now rose from him as well.

"Duladel is of mixed blood, sule. Arelish, Fjordell, Teoish—you'll find them

all. I-"

Raoden cursed quietly, interrupting the man.

Galladon raised an eyebrow. "What is it, stile? Get a splinter in the wrong

place? There aren't many right places for that, I suppose.'

"It's my toe!" Raoden said, limping across the slippery cobblestones. "There's

something wrong with it—I stubbed it when I fell, but the pain isn't going

away."

Galladon shook his head ruefully. "Welcome to Elantris. sule. You're dead—your

body won't repair itself like it should."

"What?" Raoden flopped to the ground next to Galladon's steps. His toe

continued to hurt with a pain as sharp as the moment he stubbed it.

"Every pain, sule," Galladon whispered. "Every cut, every nick. every bruise,

and every ache—they will stay with you until you go mad from the suffering. As

I said, welcome to Elantris."

"How do you stand it?" Raoden asked, massaging his toe. an action that didn't

help. It was such a silly little injury, but he had to fight to keep the

pained tears from his eyes.

"We don't. We're either very careful, or we end up like those rulos you saw in

the courtyard."

"In the courtyard.... [dos Domi!" Raoden pulled himself to his feet and

hobbled toward the courtyard. He found the beggar boy in the same location,

near the mouth of the alley. He was still alive ... in a way.

The boy's eyes stared blankly into the air, the pupils quivering. His lips

worked silently, no sound escaping. The boy's neck had been completely

crushed, and there was a massive gash in its side, exposing the vertebrae and

throat. The boy tried without success to breathe through the mess.

Suddenly Raoden's toe didn't seem so bad. "Idos Domi ." Raoden whispered,

turning his head as his stomach lurched. He reached out and grabbed the side

of a buiIding to steady himself. his head bowed, as he tried to keep from

adding to the sludge on the cobblestones.

"There isn't much left for this one," Galladon said with a matter-of-fact

tone. crouching down next to the beggar.

"How ?" Raoden began, then stopped as his stomach threatened him again. He sat

down in the slime with a plop and. after a few deep breaths, continued. "How

long will he live like that?"

"You still don't understand, sule." Galladon said, his accented voice

sorrowful. "He isn't alive—none of us are. That's why we're here. Kolo? The

boy will stay like this forever. That is, after all, the typical length of

eternal damnation."

"Is there nothing we can do?"

Galladon shrugged. "We could try burning him, assuming we could make a fire.

Elantrian bodies seem to burn better than those of regular people, and some

think that's a fitting death for our kind."

"And ..." Raoden said, still unable to look at the boy. "And if we do that,

what happens to him—his soul?"

"He doesn't have a soul," Galladon said. "Or so the priests tell us. Korathi,

Derethi, Jesker—they all say the same thing. We're damned."

"That doesn't answer my question. Will the pain stop if he is burned?"

Galladon looked down at the boy. Eventually, he just shrugged. "Some say that

if you burn us, or cut off our head, or do anything that completely destroys

the body. we'll just stop existing. Others, they say the pain goes on-that we

become pain. They think we'd float thoughtlessly, unable to feel anything but

agony. I don't like either option. so I just try to keep myself in one piece.

Kolo?"

"Yes," Raoden whispered. "I kolo." He turned, finally getting the courage to

look back at the wounded boy. The enormous gash stared back at him. Blood

seeped slowly from the wound—as if the liquid were just sitting in the veins,

like stagnant water in a pool.

With a sudden chill Raoden reached up and felt his chest. "I don't have a

heartbeat," he realized for the first time.

Galladon looked at Raoden as if he had made an utterly idiotic statement.

"Stile, you're dead. Kolo?"

THEY didn't burn the boy. Not only did they lack the proper implements to make

fire, but Galladon forbade it. "We can't make a decision like that. What if he

reaIly has no soul? What if he stopped existing when we burned his body? To

many, an existence of agony is better than no existence at all."

So, they left the boy where he had fallen—Galladon doing so without a second

thought, Raoden following because he couldn't think of anything else to do,

though he felt the pain of guilt more sharply than even the pain in his toe.

Galladon obviously didn't care whether Raoden followed him, went in another

direction, or stood staring at an interesting spot of grime on the wall. The

large, dark-skinned man walked back the way they had come, passing the

occasional moaning body in a gutter, his back turned toward Raoden with a

posture of complete indifference.

Watching the Dula go, Raoden tried to gather his thoughts. He had been trained

for a life in politics; years of preparation had conditioned him to make quick

decisions. He made one just then. He decided to trust Galladon.

There was something innately likable about the Dula. something Raoden found

indefinably appealing, even if it was covered by a grime of pessimism as thick

as the slime on the ground. It was more than Galladon's lucidity, more than

just his leisurely attitude. Raoden had seen the man's eyes when he regarded

the suffering child. Galladon claimed to accept the inevitable, but he felt

sad that he had to do so.

The Dula found his former perch on the steps and settled back down. Taking a

determined breath, Raoden walked over and stood expectantly in front of the

man.

Galladon glanced up. "What?"

"I need your help, Galladon," Raoden said, squatting on the ground in front of

the steps.

Galladon snorted. "This is Elantris, sule. There's no such thing as help.

Pain, insanity, and a whole lot of slime are the only things you'll find

here." "You almost sound like you believe that."

"You are asking in the wrong place, sule."

"You're the only noncomatose person I've met in here who hasn't attacked me,"

Raoden said. "Your actions speak much more convincingly than your words."

"Perhaps I simply haven't tried to hurt you because I know you don't have

anything to take."

"I don't believe that."

Galladon shrugged an "I don't care what you believe" shrug and turned away,

leaning back against the side of the building and closing his eyes.

"Are you hungry, Galladon?" Raoden asked quietly.

The man's eyes snapped open.

"I used to wonder when King Iadon fed the Elantrians," Raoden mused. "I

never heard of any supplies entering the city, but I always assumed that they

were sent. After all, I thought, the Elantrians stay alive. I never

understood. If the people of this city can exist without heartbeats, then they

can probably exist without food. Of course, that doesn't mean the hunger goes

away. I was ravenous when I awoke this morning, and I still am. From the looks

in the eyes of those men who attacked me, I'd guess the hunger only gets

worse."

Raoden reached under his grime-stained sacrificial robe, pulling out a thin

object and holding it up for Galladon to see. A piece of dried meat.

Galladon's eyes opened all the way, his face changing from bored to

interested. There was a glint in his eyes—a bit of the same wildness that

Raoden had seen in the savage men earlier. It was more controlled, but it was

there. For the first time, Raoden realized just how much he was gambling on

his first impression of the Dula.

"Where did that come from?" Galladon asked slowly.

"It fell out of my basket when the priests were leading me here, so I stuffed

it under my sash. Do you want it or not?"

Galladon didn't answer for a moment. "What makes you think I won't simply

attack you and take it?" The words were not hypothetical: Raoden could tell

that a part of Galladon was actually considering such an action. How large a

part was still indeterminable.

"You called me 'sule,' Galladon. How could you kill one you've dubbed a

friend?"

Galladon sat, transfixed by the tiny piece of meat. A thin drop of spittle ran

unnoticed from the side of his mouth. He looked up at Raoden, who was growing

increasingly anxious. When their eyes met, something sparked in Galladon, and

the tension snapped. The Dula suddenly bellowed a deep, resounding laugh. "You

speak Duladen, sule?"

"Only a few words." Raoden said modestly.

"An educated man? Rich offerings for Elantris today! All right, you conniving

rulo, what do you want?"

"Thirty days," Raoden said. "For thirty days you will show me around and tell

me what you know."

"Thirty days? Sule, you're kayana."

"The way I see it," Raoden said. moving to tuck the meat back in his sash,

"the only food that ever enters this place arrives with the newcomers. One

must get pretty hungry with so few offerings and so many mouths to feed. One

would think the hunger would be almost maddening."

"Twenty days," Galladon said, a hint of his former intensity showing again.

"Thirty, Galladon. If you won't help me, someone else will."

Galladon ground his teeth for a moment. "Rulo," he muttered. then held out his

hand. "Thirty days. Fortunately, I wasn't planning any extended trips during

the next month."

Raoden tossed him the meat with a laugh.

Galladon snatched the meat. Then. though his hand jerked reflexively toward

his mouth, he stopped. With a careful motion he tucked the meat into a pocket

and stood up. "So. what should I call you?"

Raoden paused. Probably best if people don't know I'm royalty, for now. "

works just fine for me."

Galladon chuckled. "The private type, I see. Well, let's go then. It's time

for you to get the grand tour."

CHAPTER 2

SARENE stepped off of the ship to discover that she was a widow. It was

shocking news, of course, but not as devastating as it could have been. After

all, she had never met her husband. In fact, when Sarene had left her

homeland, she and Raoden had only been engaged. She had assumed that the

kingdom of Arelon would wait to hold the wedding until she actually arrived.

Where she came from, at least. it was expected that both partners would be

present when they were married.

"I never liked that clause in the wedding contract. my lady." said Sarene's

companion—a melon-sized ball of light hovering at her side.

Sarene tapped her foot in annoyance as she watched the packmen load her

luggage onto a carriage. The wedding contract had been a fifty-page beast of a

document, and one of its many stipulations made her betrothal legally binding

if either she or her fiancé died before the actual wedding ceremony.

"It's a fairly common clause, Ashe," she said. "That way, the treaty of a

politieal marriage isn't voided if something happens to one of the

participants. I've never seen it invoked."

"Until today," the ball of light replied, its voice deep and its words well

enunciated.

"Until today," Sarene admitted. "How was I to know Prince Raoden wouldn't last

the five days it took us to cross the Sea of Fjorden?" She paused, frowning in

thought. -Quote the clause to me, Ashe. I need to know exactly what it says.'

" 'If it happens that one member of the aforementioned couple is called home

to Merciful Domi before the prearranged wedding time." Ashe said, "'then the

engagement will be considered equivalent to marriage in all legal and social

re- spects. "

"Not much room for argument, is there?"

"Afraid not, my lady."

Sarene frowned distractedly, foIding her arms and tapping her cheek with her

index finger, watching the packmen. A tall, gaunt man directed the work with

bored eyes and a resigned expression. The man, an Arelish court attendant

named Ketol, was the only reception King Iadon had seen fit to send her. Ketol

had been the one to "regretfully inform her" that her fiance had "died of an

unexpected disease" during her journey. He had made the declaration with the

same dull, uninterested tone that he used to command the packmen.

"So," Sarene clarified. "as far as the law is concerned, I'm now a princess of

Arelon."

"That is correct, my lady."

"And the widowed bride of a man I never met."

"Again, correct."

Sarene shook her head. "Father is going to laugh himself sick when he hears

about this. I'll never live it down."

Ashe pulsed slightly in annoyance. "My lady, the king would never take such a

solemn event with levity. The death of Prince Raoden has undoubtedly brought

great grief to the sovereign family of Arelon."

"Yes. So much grief, in fact, that they couldn't even spare the effort it

would take to come meet their new daughter."

"Perhaps King Iadon would have come himself if he'd had more warning of

our arrival....,

Sarene frowned, but the Seon had a point. Her early arrival, several days

ahead of the main wedding party, had been intended as a prewedding surprise

for Prince Raoden. She'd wanted a few days, at least, to spend time with him

privately and in person. Her secrecy, however, had worked against her.

"Tell me, Ashe," she said. "How long do Arelish people customarily wait

between a person's death and their burial?"

"I'm not sure, my lady," Ashe confessed. "I left Arelon long ago, and I lived

here for such a short time that I can't remember many specifics. However, my

studies tell me that Arelish customs are generally similar to those of your

homeland."

Sarene nodded, then waved over King Iadon's attendant.

"Yes, my lady?" Ketol asked in a lazy tone.

"Is a funeral wake being held for the prince?" Sarene asked.

"Yes, my lady," the attendant replied. "Outside the Korathi chapel. The burial

will happen this evening."

"I want to go see the casket."

Ketol paused. "Uh ... His Majesry asked that you be brought to him

immediately... .

"Then I won't spend long at the funeral tent," Sarene said, walking toward her

carriage.

SARENE surveyed the busy funeral tent with a critical eye, waiting as Ketol

and a few of the packmen cleared a way for her to approach the casket. She had

to admit, everything was irreproachable—the flowers, the offerings, the

praying Korathi priests. The only oddity about the event was how crowded the

tent was.

"There certainly are a lot of people here," she noted to Ashe.

"The prince was very well liked, my lady," the Seon replied, floating beside

her. "According to our reports, he was the most popular public figure in the

country."

Sarene nodded, walking down the passageway Ketol had made for her. Prince

Raoden's casket sat at the very center of the tent, guarded by a ring of

soldiers who let the masses approach only so far. As she walked, she sensed

true grief in the faces of those in attendance.

So it is true, she thought. The people did love him.

The soldiers made way for her, and she approached the casket. It was carved

with Aons—most of them symbols of hope and peace—after the Korathi way. The

entire wooden casket was surrounded by a ring of lavish foods—an offering made

on behalf of the deceased.

"Can I see him?" she asked, turning toward one of the Korathi priests—a small,

kindly-looking man.

"I'm sorry, child," the priest said. "But the prince's disease was

unpleasantly disfiguring. The king has asked that the prince be allowed

dignity in death."

Sarene nodded, turning back to the casket. She wasn't sure what she had

expected to feel, standing before the dead man she would have married. She was

oddly ... angry.

She pushed that emotion away for the moment, instead turning to look around

the tent. It almost seemed too formal. Though the visiting people were

obviously grieved, the tent, the offerings, and the decorations seemed

sterile.

A man of Raoden's age and supposed vigor, she thought. Dead of the coughing

shivers. It could happen—but it certainly doesn't seem likely.

"My ... lady?" Ashe said quietly. "Is something wrong?"

Sarene waved to the Seon and walked back toward their carriage. "I don't

know," she said quietly. "Something just doesn't feel right here, Ashe."

"You have a suspicious nature, my lady,' Ashe pointed out.

"Why isn't Iadon having a vigil for his son? Ketol said he was holding court.

as if his own son's death didn't even bother him." Sarene shook her head. 'I

spoke with Raoden just before I left Teod, and he seemed fine. Something is

wrong, Ashe. and I want to know what it is."

`Oh, dear . . Ashe said. "You know, my lady, your father did ask me to try and

keep you out of trouble."

Sarene smiled. "Now, there's an impossible task. Come on, we need to go meet

my new father."

SARENE leaned against the carriage window, watching the city pass as she rode

toward the palace. She sat in silence for the moment, a single thought

crowding everything else out of her mind.

What am I doing here?

Her words to Ashe had been confident, but she had always been good at hiding

her worries. True, she was curious about the prince's death, but Sarene knew

herself very well. A large part of that curiosity was an attempt to take her

mind off of her feelings of inferiority and awkwardness-anything to keep from

acknowledging what she was: a lanky, brusque woman who was almost past her

prime. She was twenty-five years old; she should have been married years ago.

Raoden had been her last chance.

How dare you die on me, prince of Arelon! Sarene thought indignantly. Yet, the

irony did not escape her. It was fitting that this man, one she had thought

she might actually grow to like, would die before she even got to meet him.

Now she was alone in an unfamiliar country, politically bound to a king she

did not trust. It was a daunting, lonely feeling.

You've been lonely before, Sarene, she reminded herself. You'll get through

it. Just find something to occupy your mind. You have an entire new court to

explore. Enjoy it.

With a sigh, Sarene turned her attention back to the city. Despite

considerable experience serving in her father's diplomatic corps, she had

never visited Arelon. Ever since the fall of Elantris, Arelon had been

unofficially quarantined by most other kingdoms. No one knew why the mystical

city had been cursed, and everyone worried that the Elantrian disease might

spread.

Sarene was surprised, however, by the lushness she saw in Kae. The city

thoroughfares were wide and well maintained. The people on the street were

well dressed, and she didn't see a single beggar. To one side, a group of

blue-robed Korathi priests walked quietly through the crowd, leading an odd,

white-robed person. She watched the procession, wondering what it could be,

until the group disappeared around a corner.

From her vantage, Kae reflected none of the economic hardship Arelon was

supposed to be suffering. The carriage passed dozens of fenced-in mansions,

each one built in a different style of architecture. Some were expansive, with

large wings and pointed roofs, following Duladen construction. Others were

more like castles, their stone walls looking as if they had been directly

transported from the militaristic countryside of Fjorden. The mansions all

shared one thing. however: wealth. The people of this country might be

starving, but Kae-seat of Arelon's aristocracy-didn't appear to have noticed.

Of course. one disturbing shadow still hung over the city. The enormous wall

of Elantris rose in the distance, and Sarene shivered as she glanced at its

stark. imposing stones. She had heard stories about Elantris for most of her

adult life, tales of the magics it had once produced and the monstrosities

that now inhabited its dark streets. No matter how gaudy the houses, no matter

how wealthy the streets, this one monument stood as a testament that all was

not well in Arelon.

"Why do they even live here. I wonder?" Sarene asked.

"My lady?" Ashe asked.

"Why did King Iadon build his palace in Kae? Why choose a city that is so

close to Elantris?"

"I suspect the reasons are primarily economic, my lady." Ashe said. "There are

only a couple of viable ports on the northern Arelish coast, and this is the

finest."

Sarene nodded. The bay formed by the merging of the Aredel River with the

ocean made for an enviable harbor. But even still ...

"Perhaps the reasons are political." Sarene mused. "Iadon took power during

turbulent times-maybe he thinks that remaining close to the old capital will

lend him authority."

"Perhaps. my lady," Ashe said.

It's not like it really matters that much, she thought. Apparently. proximity

to Elantris—or Elantrians—didn't actually increase one's chances of being

taken by the Shaod.

She turned away from the window. looking over at Ashe. who hovered above the

seat beside her. She had yet to see a Seon in the streets of Kae, though the

creatures—said to be the ancient creations of Elantris magic-were supposed to

be even more common in Arelon than in her homeland. If she squinted, she could

barely make out the glowing Aon at the center of Ashe's light.

"At least the treaty is safe," Sarene finally said.

"Assuming you remain in Arelon, my lady," Ashe said in his deep voice. "At

least, that is what the wedding contract says. As long as you stay here, and

'remain faithful to your husband,' King Iadon must honor his alliance with

Teod."

"Remain faithful to a dead man," Sarene mumbled with a sigh. "Well, that means

Brandon Sanderson - Elantris

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