“What, sule?” Galladon demanded. “Assumed I knew what?”
“I’m sorry, Galladon,” Raoden said with compassion, turning around and sitting up. “The Duladen Republic collapsed.”
“No,” Galladon breathed, his eyes wide.
Raoden nodded. “There was a revolution, like the one in Arelon ten years ago, but even more violent. The republican class was completely destroyed, and a monarchy was instituted.”
“Impossible…. The republic was strong—we all believed in it so much.”
“Things change, my friend,” Raoden said, standing and walking over to place a hand on Galladon’s shoulder.
“Not the republic, sule,” Galladon said, his eyes unfocused. “We all got to choose who ruled, sule. Why rise up against that?”
Raoden shook his head. “I don’t know—not much information escaped. It was a chaotic time in Duladel, which is why the Fjordell priests were able to step in and seize power.”
Galladon looked up. “That means Arelon is in trouble. We were always there to keep the Derethi away from your borders.”
“I realize that.”
“What happened to Jesker?” he asked. “My religion, what happened to it?”
Raoden simply shook his head.
“You have to know something!”
“Shu-Dereth is the state religion in Duladel now,” Raoden said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Galladon’s eyes fell. “It’s gone then.”
“There are still the Mysteries,” Raoden offered weakly.
Galladon frowned, his eyes hard. “The Mysteries are not the same thing as Jesker, sule. They are a mockery of things sacred. A perversion. Only outsiders—those without any sort of true understanding of the Dor—practice the Mysteries.”
Raoden left his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder, unsure how to comfort him. “I thought you knew,” he said again, feeling helpless.
Galladon simply groaned, staring absently with morose eyes.
_______
Raoden left Galladon on the rooftop; the large Dula wanted to be alone with his grief. Unsure what else to do, Raoden returned to the chapel, distracted by his thoughts. He didn’t remain distracted for long.
“Kahar, it’s beautiful!” Raoden exclaimed, looking around with wonder.
The old man looked up from the corner he had been cleaning. There was a deep look of pride on his face. The chapel was empty of sludge; all that remained was clean, whitish gray marble. Sunlight flooded through the western windows, reflecting off the shiny floor and illuminating the entire chapel with an almost divine brilliance. Shallow reliefs covered nearly every surface. Only half an inch deep, the detailed sculptures had been lost in the sludge. Raoden ran his fingers across one of the tiny masterpieces, the expressions on the people’s faces so detailed as to be lifelike.
“They’re amazing,” he whispered.
“I didn’t even know they were there, my lord,” Kahar said, hobbling over to stand next to Raoden. “I didn’t see them until I started cleaning, and then they were lost in the shadows until I finished the floor. The marble is so smooth it could be a mirror, and the windows are placed just right to catch the light.”
“And the reliefs run all around the room?”
“Yes, my lord. Actually, this isn’t the only building that has them. You’ll occasionally run across a wall or a piece of furniture with carvings on it. They were probably common in Elantris before the Reod.”
Raoden nodded. “It was the city of the gods, Kahar.”
The old man smiled. His hands were black with grime, and a half-dozen ragged cleaning cloths hung from his sash. But he was happy.
“What next, my lord?” he asked eagerly.
Raoden paused, thinking quickly. Kahar had attacked the chapel’s grime with the same holy indignation a priest used to destroy sin. For the first time in months, perhaps years, Kahar had been needed.
“Our people have started living in the nearby buildings, Kahar,” Raoden said. “What good will all your cleaning here do if they track slime in every time we meet?”
Kahar nodded thoughtfully. “The cobblestones are a problem,” he mumbled. “This is a big project, my lord.” His eyes, however, were not daunted.
“I know.” Raoden agreed. “But it is a desperate one. A people who live in filth will feel like filth—if we are ever going to rise above our opinions of ourselves, we are going to need to be clean. Can you do it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll assign you some workers to speed the process.” Raoden’s band had grown enormously over the last few days as the people of Elantris had heard of Karata’s merger with him. Many of the random, ghostlike Elantrians who wandered the streets alone had begun to make their way to Raoden’s band, seeking fellowship as a final, desperate attempt to avoid madness.
Kahar turned to go, his wrinkled face turning around the chapel one last time, admiring it with satisfaction.
“Kahar,” Raoden called.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Do you know what it is? The secret, I mean?”
Kahar smiled. “I haven’t been hungry in days, my lord. It is the most amazing feeling in the world—I don’t even notice the pain anymore.”
Raoden nodded, and Kahar left. The man had come looking for a magical solution to his woes, but he had found an answer much more simple. Pain lost its power when other things became more important. Kahar didn’t need a potion or an Aon to save him—he just needed something to do.
Raoden strolled through the glowing room, admiring the different sculptures. He paused, however, when he reached the end of a particular relief. The stone was blank for a short section, its white surface polished by Kahar’s careful hand. It was so clean, in fact, that Raoden could see his reflection.
He was stunned. The face that stared out of the marble was unknown to him. He had wondered why so few people recognized him; he had been prince of Arelon, his face known even in many of the outer plantations. He had assumed that the Elantrians simply didn’t expect to find a prince in Elantris, so they didn’t think to associate “Spirit” with Raoden. However, now that he saw the changes in his face, he realized that there was another reason people didn’t recognize him.
There were hints in his features, clues to what had been. The changes, however, were drastic. Only two weeks had passed, but his hair had already fallen out. He had the usual Elantris blotches on his skin, but even the parts that had been flesh-toned a few weeks ago had turned a flat gray. His skin was wrinkling slightly, especially around the lips, and his eyes were beginning to take on a sunken look.
Once, before his own transformation, he had envisioned the Elantrians as living corpses, their flesh rotting and torn. That wasn’t the case; Elantrians retained their flesh and most of their figure, though their skin wrinkled and darkened. They were more withering husks than they were decaying corpses. Yet, even though the transformation wasn’t as drastic as he had once assumed, it was still a shock to see it in himself.
“We are a sorry people, are we not?” Galladon asked from the doorway.
Raoden looked up, smiling encouragingly. “Not as bad as we could be, my friend. I can get used to the changes.”
Galladon grunted, stepping into the chapel. “Your cleaning man does good work, su
le. This place looks almost free from the Reod.”
“The most beautiful thing, my friend, is the way it freed its cleanser in the process.”
Galladon nodded, joining Raoden beside the wall, looking out at the large crew of people who were clearing the chapel’s garden area. “They’ve been coming in droves, haven’t they, sule?”
“They hear that we offer something more than life in an alley. We don’t even have to watch the gates anymore—Karata brings us everyone she can rescue.”
“How do you intend to keep them all busy?” Galladon asked. “That garden is big, and it’s nearly completely cleared.”
“Elantris is a very large city, my friend. We’ll find things to keep them occupied.”
Galladon watched the people work, his eyes unreadable. He appeared to have overcome his grief, for the moment.
“Speaking of jobs,” Raoden began. “I have something I need you to do.”
“Something to keep my mind off the pain, sule?”
“You could think that. However, this project is a little more important than cleaning sludge.” Raoden waved Galladon to follow as he walked to the back corner of the room and pried a loose stone from the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a dozen small bags of corn. “As a farmer, how would you judge the grade of this seed?”
Galladon picked up a kernel with interest, turning it over in his hand a few times, testing its color and its hardness. “Not bad,” he said. “Not the best I’ve seen, but not bad.”
“The planting season is almost here, isn’t it?”
“Considering how warm it’s been lately, I’d say that it’s here already.”
“Good,” Raoden said. “This corn won’t last long in this hole, and I don’t trust leaving it out in the open.”
Galladon shook his head. “It won’t work, sule. Farming takes time before it brings rewards—those people will pull up and eat the first little sprouts they see.”
“I don’t think so,” Raoden said, pushing a few kernels of corn around in his palm. “Their minds are changing, Galladon. They can see that they don’t have to live as animals anymore.”