Elantris諸神之城：伊嵐翠
Elantris
By Brandon
Sanderson https://read-online-books.com/book/read-online-elantris-free
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 tall 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 would 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, sule? 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…. Idos 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 building
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. “Sule, 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 really
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. “‘Sule’ 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.”
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