The Mistborn Trilogy

by Brandon Sanderson

  Demoux was hesitant about something. Elend waited, and finally the man dropped his eyes, looking embarrassed. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I feel that I must ask to be released from my post as general.”

  “And why do you say that?” Elend asked carefully.

  “I don’t think I’m worthy of the position anymore.”

  Elend frowned.

  “Only a man trusted by the Survivor should command in this army, my lord,” Demoux said.

  “I’m sure that he does trust you, Demoux.”

  Demoux shook his head. “Then why did he give me the sickness? Why pick me, of all the men in the army?”

  “I’ve told you, it was random luck, Demoux.”

  “My lord,” Demoux said, “I hate to disagree, but we both know that isn’t true. After all, you were the one who pointed out that those who fell sick did so at Kelsier’s will.”

  Elend paused. “I did?”

  Demoux nodded. “On that morning when we exposed our army to the mists, you shouted out for them to remember that Kelsier is the Lord of the Mists, and that the sickness must—therefore—be his will. I think you were right. The Survivor is Lord of the Mists. He proclaimed it so himself, during the nights before he died. He’s behind the sickness, my lord. I know he is. He saw those who lacked faith, and he cursed them.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, Demoux,” Elend said. “I was implying that Kelsier wanted us to suffer this setback, but not that he was targeting specific individuals.”

  “Either way, my lord, you said the words.”

  Elend waved his hand dismissively.

  “Then how do you explain the strange numbers, my lord?” Demoux asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Elend said. “I’ll admit that the number of people who fell sick does produce an odd statistic, but that doesn’t say anything about you specifically, Demoux.”

  “I don’t mean that number, my lord,” Demoux said, still looking down. “I mean the number who remained sick while the others recovered.”

  Elend paused. “Wait. What is this?”

  “Haven’t you heard, my lord?” Demoux asked in the quiet tent. “The scribes have been talking about it, and it’s gotten around to the army. I don’t think that most of them understand the numbers and such, but they understand that something strange is happening.”

  “What numbers?” Elend asked.

  “Five thousand people got taken by the sickness, my lord,” Demoux said.

  Exactly sixteen percent of the army, Elend thought.

  “Of those, some five hundred died,” Demoux said. “Of those remaining, almost everyone recovered in one day.”

  “But some didn’t,” Elend said. “Like you.”

  “Like me,” Demoux said softly. “Three hundred and twenty-seven of us remained sick when the others got better.”

  “So?” Elend asked.

  “That’s exactly one-sixteenth of those who fell to the sickness, my lord,” Demoux said. “And we stayed sick exactly sixteen days. To the hour.”

  The tent flap rustled quietly in the breeze. Elend fell quiet, and couldn’t completely suppress a shiver. “Coincidence,” he finally said. “Statisticians looking for connections can always find odd coincidences and statistical anomalies, if they try hard enough.”

  “This doesn’t seem like a simple anomaly, my lord,” Demoux said. “It’s precise. The same number keeps showing up, over and over. Sixteen.”

  Elend shook his head. “Even if it does, Demoux, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a number.”

  “It’s the number of months the Survivor spent in the Pits of Hathsin,” Demoux said.

  “Coincidence.”

  “It’s how old Lady Vin was when she became Mistborn.”

  “Again, coincidence,” Elend said.

  “There seem to be an awful lot of coincidences related to this, my lord,” Demoux said.

  Elend frowned, folding his arms. Demoux was right on that point. My denials are getting us nowhere. I need to know what people are thinking, not just contradict them.

  “All right, Demoux,” Elend said. “Let’s say that none of these things are coincidences. You seem to have a theory of what they mean.”

  “It’s what I said earlier, my lord,” Demoux said. “The mists are of the Survivor. They take certain people and kill them, others of us they make sick—leaving the number sixteen as a proof that he really was behind the event. So, therefore, the people who grow the most sick are the ones who have displeased him the most.”

  “Well, except for the ones who died from the sickness,” Elend noted.

  “True,” Demoux said, looking up. “So . . . maybe there’s hope for me.”

  “That wasn’t supposed to be a comforting comment, Demoux. I still don’t accept all of this. Perhaps there are oddities, but your interpretation is based on speculation. Why would the Survivor be displeased with you? You’re one of his most faithful priests.”

  “I took the position for myself, my lord,” Demoux said. “He didn’t choose me. I just . . . started teaching what I’d seen, and people listened to me. That must be what I did to offend him. If he’d wanted that from me, he’d have chosen me when he was alive, don’t you think?”

  I don’t think the Survivor cared much about this when he was alive, Elend thought. He just wanted to stir up enough anger in the skaa that they would rebel.

  “Demoux,” Elend said, “you know that the Survivor didn’t organize this religion when he was alive. Only men and women like you—those who looked toward his teachings after he died—have been able to build up a community of the faithful.”

  “True,” Demoux. “But he did appear to some people after his death. I wasn’t one of those people.”

  “He didn’t appear to anyone,” Elend said. “That was OreSeur the kandra wearing his body. You know that, Demoux.”

  “Yes,” Demoux said. “But, that kandra acted at the Survivor’s request. And, I wasn’t on the list to get visited.”

  Elend laid a hand on Demoux’s shoulder, looking in the man’s eyes. He had seen the general, worn and grizzled beyond his age, determinedly stare down a savage koloss a full five feet taller than he was. Demoux was not a weak man, either in body or in faith.

  “Demoux,” Elend said, “I mean this in the kindest way, but your self-pity is getting in the way. If these mists took you, then we need to use that as proof that their effects have nothing to do with Kelsier’s displeasure. We don’t have time for you to question yourself right now—we both know you’re twice as devoted as any other man in this army.”

  Demoux flushed.

  “Think about it,” Elend said, giving Demoux a little extra Allomantic shove in the emotions, “in you, we have obvious proof that a person’s faithfulness has nothing to do with whether or not they’re taken by the mists. So, rather than letting you mope, we need to move on and find the real reason the mists are behaving as they are.”

  Demoux stood for a moment, then finally nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, my lord. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.”

  Elend smiled. Then, he paused, thinking about his own words. Obvious proof that a person’s faithfulness has nothing to do with whether they’re taken by the mists. . . .

  It wasn’t exactly true. Demoux was one of the strongest believers in the camp. What of the others who had been sick as long as he? Had they been, perhaps, men of extreme faith as well? Elend opened his mouth to ask the question of Demoux. That was when the shouting started.

  Hemalurgic decay was less obvious in Inquisitors that had been created from Mistborn. Since they already had Allomantic powers, the addition of other abilities made them awesomely strong.

  In most cases, however, Inquisitors were created from Mistings. It appears that Seekers, like Marsh, were the favored recruits. For, when a Mistborn wasn’t available, an Inquisitor with enhanced bronze abilities was a powerful tool for searching out skaa Mistings.

  37

  SCREAMS ROSE IN THE DISTANCE. Vin star
ted upright in her cabin. She hadn’t been sleeping, though she’d been close. Another night of scouting Fadrex City had left her tired.

  All fatigue was forgotten, however, as the sounds of battle clanged from the north. Finally! she thought, throwing off her blankets and dashing from the cabin. She wore her standard trousers and shirt, and—as always—carried several vials of metals. She downed one of these as she scrambled across the deck of the narrowboat.

  “Lady Vin!” one of the bargemen called through the daymists. “The camp has been attacked!”

  “And about time, too,” Vin said as she Pushed herself off the boat’s cleats, hurling herself into the air. She shot through the morning mists, curls and wisps of white making her feel as a bird might flying through a cloud.

  With tin, she soon found the battle. Several groups of men on horseback had ridden into the north section of camp, and were apparently trying to make their way toward the supply barges, which floated in a well-protected bend in the canal. A group of Elend’s Allomancers had set up a perimeter at one side, Thugs in the front, Coinshots picking off the riders from behind. The regular soldiers held the middle, fighting well, since the horsemen were slowed by the camp’s barricades and fortifications.

  Elend was right, Vin thought with pride, descending through the air. If we hadn’t exposed our men to the mists, we’d be in trouble right now.

  The king’s planning had saved their supplies and baited out one of Yomen’s harrying forces. The riders had probably expected to run easily through the camp—catching the soldiers unaware and trapped by mist—then set fire to the supply barges. Instead, Elend’s scouts and patrols had provided enough warning, and the enemy cavalry was bogged down in a head-on fight.

  Yomen’s soldiers were punching through into the camp on the south side. Though Elend’s soldiers fought well, their enemies were mounted. Vin plunged down through the sky, flaring pewter and strengthening her body. She tossed a coin, Pushing on it to slow herself, and hit the dark ground, throwing up a huge spray of ash. The southern bank of riders had penetrated as far as the third line of tents. Vin chose to land right in the middle of them.

  No horseshoes, Vin thought as soldiers began to turn toward her. And spears—stone-tipped—instead of swords. Yomen certainly is careful.

  It almost felt like a challenge. Vin smiled, the adrenaline feeling good after so many days spent waiting. Yomen’s captains began to call out, turning their attack toward Vin. In seconds, they had a force of some thirty riders galloping straight at her.

  Vin stared them down. Then she jumped. She didn’t need steel to get herself high—her pewter-enhanced muscles were enough for that. She crested the lead soldier’s spear, feeling it pass through the air beneath her. Ash swirled in the morning mists as Vin’s foot took the soldier in the face, throwing him backward from the saddle. She landed beside his rolling body, then dropped a coin and Pushed herself to the side, out of the way of galloping hooves. The unfortunate rider she’d unhorsed cried out as his friends inadvertently trampled him.

  Vin’s Push carried her through the open flaps of a large canvas sleeping tent. She rolled to her feet, and then—still in motion—Pushed against the tent’s metal stakes, ripping them from the ground.

  The walls shook, and there was a snap of canvas as the tent shot upward into the air, spread taut as its stakes all went different directions. Ash blew outward from the burst of air, and soldiers on both sides of the conflict turned toward Vin. She allowed the tent to fall down in front of her, then Pushed. The canvas caught the air, puffing out, and the stakes ripped free from the tent, shooting forward to spear horses and riders.

  Men and beasts fell. Canvas fluttered to the ground before Vin. She smiled, then jumped over the discarded tangle as the riders tried to organize another assault. She didn’t give them time. Elend’s soldiers in the area had pulled back, shoring up the center of the defensive line, leaving Vin free to attack without fear of harming her own men.

  She dashed between the horsemen, their massive mounts hindering them as they tried to keep track of her. Men and horses spun, and Vin Pulled, tearing tents out of the ground and using their metal stakes like arrows. Dozens fell before her.

  The sound of galloping came from behind, and Vin spun to see that one of the enemy officers had managed to organize another charge. Ten men came straight at her, some with spears leveled, others drawing bows.

  Vin didn’t like killing. But she loved Allomancy—loved the challenge of using her skills, the strength and thrill of the Pushes and Pulls, the electric sense of power that came only from a body flared with pewter. When men such as these gave her an excuse to fight, she didn’t restrain herself.

  The arrows didn’t have a chance against her. Pewter gave her speed and balance as she spun out of the way, Pulling on a metal source behind her. She jumped into the air as a rippling tent passed beneath her, carried forward by her Pull a moment before. She landed, then Pushed on several of its stakes—a couple on each of two tent corners. The tent folded upon itself, looking a bit like a napkin with someone pulling tightly on opposite corners.

  And this hit the legs of the horses like a tripwire. Vin burned duralumin, then Pushed. The horses in front screamed, the improvised weapon scattering them to the ground. The canvas ripped, and the stakes pulled free, but the damage was done—those in front tripped those behind, and men tumbled beside their beasts.

  Vin downed another vial to replenish her steel. Then she Pulled, whipping another tent toward her. As it grew close, she jumped, then spun and Pushed the tent toward another group of mounted men behind. The tent’s stakes struck one of the soldiers in the chest, throwing him backward. He crashed through the other soldiers, causing chaos.

  The man hit the ground, slumping lifeless into the ash. Still tied to him by the stakes in his chest, the canvas tent fluttered down, covering his body like a funeral shroud. Vin spun, seeking more enemies. The riders, however, were beginning to withdraw. She stepped forward, intending to chase them down, but stopped. Someone was watching her—she could see his shadow in the mist. She burned bronze.

  The figure thumped with the power of metals. Allomancer. Mistborn. He was far too short to be Elend, but she couldn’t tell much more than that through the shadow of mist and ash. Vin didn’t pause to think. She dropped a coin and shot herself toward the stranger.

  He leaped backward, Pushing himself into the air as well. Vin followed, quickly leaving the camp behind, bounding after the Allomancer. He quickly made his way to the city, and she followed, moving in vast leaps over an ashen landscape. Her quarry crested the rock formations at the front of the city, and Vin followed, landing just a few feet from a surprised guard patrol, then launching herself over crags and windswept rocks into Fadrex proper.

  The other Allomancer stayed ahead of her. There was no playfulness to his motions, as there had been with Zane. This man was really trying to escape. Vin followed, now leaping over rooftops and streets. She gritted her teeth, frustrated at her inability to catch up. She timed each jump perfectly, barely pausing as she chose new anchors and Pushed herself from arc to arc.

  Yet, he was good. He rounded the city, forcing her to push herself to keep up. Fine! she finally thought, then prepared her duralumin. She’d gotten close enough to the figure that he was no longer shadowed in mist, and she could see that he was real and corporeal, not some phantom spirit. She was increasingly certain that this was the man she’d sensed watching her when she’d first come into Fadrex. Yomen had a Mistborn.

  However, to fight the man, she’d first need to catch him. She waited for the right moment, just when he was beginning to crest one of his arcing jumps, then extinguished her metals and burned duralumin. Then she Pushed.

  A crash sounded behind her as her unnatural Push shattered the door she’d used as an anchor. She was thrown forward with a terrible burst of speed, like an arrow released from a bow. She approached her opponent with awesome speed.

  And found nothing. Vin cursed, tu
rning her tin back on. She couldn’t leave it on while burning duralumin—otherwise, her tin would burn away in a single flash, leaving her blinded. But, she’d effectively done the same thing by turning it off. She Pulled herself down from her duralumin Push to land maladroitly atop a nearby roof. She crouched as she scanned the misty air.

  Where did you go? she thought, burning bronze, trusting in her innate—yet still unexplained—ability to pierce copperclouds to reveal her opponent. No Allomancer could hide from Vin unless he completely turned off his metals.

  Which, apparently this man had done. Again. This was the second time he’d eluded her.

  It bespoke a disquieting possibility. Vin had tried very hard to keep her ability to pierce copperclouds a secret, but it had been nearly four years since her discovery of it. Zane had known about it, and she couldn’t know who else had guessed, based on things she could do. Her secret could very well be out.

  Vin remained on that rooftop for a few moments, but knew she’d find nothing. A man clever enough to escape her at the exact moment when her tin was down would also be clever enough to remain hidden until she was gone. In fact, it made her wonder why he had let her see him in the first . . .

  Vin stood bolt upright, then downed a metal vial and Pushed herself off the rooftop, jumping with a furious anxiety back toward the camp.

  She found the soldiers cleaning up the wreckage and bodies at the camp’s perimeter. Elend was moving among them calling out orders, congratulating the men, and generally letting himself be seen. Indeed, sight of his white-clothed form immediately brought Vin a sense of relief.

  She landed beside him. “Elend, were you attacked?”

  He glanced at her. “What? Me? No, I’m fine.”