inscriptions beneath their skin shining. There was a jarring sensation, and Kae vanished around them.
They reappeared in an unfamiliar city. The houses lining the nearby street were tall and connected, rather than separated and squat like those of Kae. They had arrived in Teod.
The group still stood in a circle, but Hrathen did not fail to notice that the man in the center was now missing. Hrathen shuddered, images from his youth returning. The monk in the center had been fuel, his flesh and soul burned away-a sacrifice in return for the instantaneous transportation to Teod.
Dilaf stepped forward, leading his men up the street. As far as Hrathen could tell, Dilaf had brought the bulk of his monks with him, leaving Arelon in the care of regular Fjordell soldiers and a few Dakhor overseers. Arelon and Elantris had been defeated: the next battle was Teod. Hrathen could tell from Dilaf's eyes that the monk would not be satisfied until every person of Aonic descent was dead.
Dilaf chose a building with a flat roof and motioned for his men to climb. It was easy for them. their enhanced strength and agility helping them leap and
scramble up surfaces no normal man could possibly scale. Hrathen felt himself lifted and thrown over a monk's shoulder. and the ground fell away as he was carted up the side of the wall-carried without difficulty despite his plate armor. The Dakhor were unnatural monstrosities, but one couldn't help being awed at their power.
The monk dropped Hrathen unceremoniously on the roof, his armor clanking against the stone. As Hrathen pulled himself to his feet, his eyes found those of the princess. Sarene's face was a tempest of hatred. She blamed him, of course. She didn't realize that, in a way, Hrathen was as much a prisoner as she.
Dilaf stood at the edge of the roof, scanning the city. A fleet of ships was pulling into Teod's enormous bay.
'We are early.' Dilaf said, squatting down. 'We will wait.'
Galladon could almost imagine that the city was peaceful. He stood on a mountainside boulder. watching the morning's light creep across Kae-as if an invisible hand were pulling back a dark shade. He could almost convince himself that the rising smoke was coming from chimneys, not the ashen wrecks of buildings. He could nearly believe that the specks lining the streets were not bodies, but bushes or boxes, the crimson blood on the streets a trick of the early sunlight.
Galladon turned away from the city. Kae might he peaceful. but it was the peace of death, not of serenity. Dreaming otherwise did little good. Perhaps if he had been less inclined to delusion, he wouldn't have let Raoden pull him out of Elantris's gutters. He wouldn't have allowed one man's simplistic optimism to cloud his mind: he wouldn't have begun to believe that life in Elantris could be anything but pain. He wouldn't have dared to hope.
Unfortunately, he had listened. Like a rulo, he had allowed himself to give in to Raoden's dreams. Once, he'd thought that he could no longer feel hope; he'd chased it far away, wary of its fickle tricks. He should have left it there. Without hope, he wouldn't have to worry about disappointment.
'Doloken, sule,' Galladon mumbled, looking down at the mindless Raoden, you certainly made a mess of me.'
The worst of it was, he still hoped. The light that Raoden had kindled still flickered inside Galladon's chest, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it out. The images of New Elantris's destruction were still crisp in his memory. Mareshe, an enormous, ragged hole torn in his chest. The quiet craftsman Taan, his face crushed beneath a large stone, but his fingers still twitching. The old Kahar-who had cleaned all of New Elantris practically by himself- missing an arm and both legs.
Galladon had stood amid the carnage, screaming at Raoden for abandoning them, for leaving them behind. Their prince had betrayed them for Sarene.
And still, he hoped.
It was like a small rodent, cowering in the corner of his soul, frightened by the anger, the rage, and the despair. Yet every time he tried to grab hold of it. the hope slipped to another part of his heart. It was what had spurred him to leave the dead behind, to crawl from Elantris in search of Raoden, believing for some irrational reason that the prince could still fix everything.
You are the fog Galladon. Not Raoden, Galladon told himself bitterly. He couldn't help being what he was. You, however, know better.
Yet, he hoped. A part of Galladon still believed that Raoden would somehow make things better. This was the curse his friend had set upon him, the wicked seed of optimism that refused to be uprooted. Galladon still had hope. and he probably would until the moment he gave himself up to the pool.
Silently, Galladon nodded to Karata, and they picked Raoden up, ready to trek the last short distance to the pond. In few minutes he would be rid of both hope and despair.
Elantris was dark, even though dawn was breaking. The tall walls made a shadow, keeping the sunlight out, expanding the night for a few moments. It was here, at one side of the broad entry plaza, that the soldiers deposited Lukel and the other nobles. Another group of Fjordells was building an enormous pile of wood. hauling scraps of buildings and furniture into the city.
Surprisingly, there were very few of the strange demon warriors: only three directed the work. The rest of the men were regular soldiers, their armor covered with red surcoats marking them as Derethi monks. The worked quickly, keeping their eyes off of their prisoners, apparently trying not to think too hard about what the wood would be used for.
Lukel tried not to think about that either.
Jalla pulled close to him, her body trembling with fright. Lukel had tried to convince her to plead for freedom because of her Svordish blood, but she would not go. She was so quiet and unassertive that some mistook her for weak. but if they could have seen her as she was, voluntarily staying with her husband though it meant eertain death, they would have realized their mistake. Of all the deals, trades. and recognitions Lukel had won, the prize of Jalla's heart was by far the most valuable.
His family pulled close to him, Daora and the children having no place to turn now that Kiin was unconscious. Only Adien stood apart, staring at the pile of lumber. He kept mumbling some number to himself.
Lukel searched through the crowd of nobles, trying to smile and give encouragement. though he himself felt little confidence. Elantris would be their grave. As he looked. Lukel noticed a figure standing near the back of the group, hidden by bodies. He was moving slowly, his hands waving in front of himself.
Shuden? Lukel thought. The Jindo's eyes were closed, his hands moving fluidly in some sort of pattern. Lukel watched his friend with confusion, wondering if the Jindo's mind had snapped: then he remembered the strange dance that Shuden had done that first day in Sarenens fencing class. ChayShan.
Shuden moved his hands slowly, giving only a bare hint of the fury that was to come. Lukel watched with growing determination. somehow understanding. Shuden was no warrior. He practiced his dance for exercise, not for combat. However, he was not going to let the ones he loved be murdered without some sort of fight. He would rather die struggling than sit and wait, hoping that fate would send them a miracle.
Lukel took a breath, feeling ashamed. He searched around him, his eyes finding a table leg that one of the soldiers had dropped nearby. When the time came. Shuden would not fight alone.
Raoden floated, senseless and unaware. Time meant nothing to him-he was time. It was his essence. Occasionally he would bob toward the surface of what he had once called consciousness, but as he approached he would feel pain, and back away. The agony was like a lake's surface: if he broke through it. the pain would return and envelop him.
Those times he got close to the surface of pain. however, he thought he saw images. Visions chat might have been real, but were probably just reflections of his memory. He saw Galladon's face, concerned and angry at the same time. He saw Karata, her eyes heavy with despair. He saw a mountain landscape, covered with scrub and rocks.
It was all immaterial to him.
'I often wish that they'd just let her die.'
Hrathen looked up. Dilaf's voice was introspective, as if he were talking to himself. However, the priest's eyes were focused on Hrathen.
'What?' Hrathen asked hesitantly.
— If only they had let her die…' Dilaf trailed off. He sat at the edge of the rooftop, watching the ships gather below, his face reminiscent. His emotions had always been unstable. No man could keep Dilaf's level of ardor burning for long without doing emotional damage to his mind. A few more years. and Dilaf would probably be completely insane.
