Mistborn Trilogy

by Sanderson, Brandon

  The time for anonymity had passed, though Breeze had used it well. During the few days when people hadn’t known who he was, he’d managed to build both goodwill and contacts in the local underground. Now, he and Sazed could sit and enjoy a quiet drink without really drawing much attention. Breeze would, of course, be Soothing the people to ensure that—but, even so, Sazed was impressed. For one as fond of high society as Breeze, the man did a remarkable job of relating to ordinary skaa workers.

  A group of men laughed at the next table, and Breeze smiled, then stood and made his way over to join them. Sazed remained where he was, a mug of untouched wine on the table before him. In his opinion, there was an obvious reason why the skaa were no longer afraid to go out in the mists. Their superstitions had been overcome by something stronger: Kelsier. The one they were now calling the Lord of the Mists.

  The Church of the Survivor had spread much further than Sazed had expected. It wasn’t organized the same way in Urteau as in Luthadel, and the focus seemed to be different, but the fact remained that men were worshipping Kelsier. In fact, the differences were part of what made the whole phenomenon fascinating.

  What am I missing? Sazed thought. What is the connection here?

  The mists killed. Yet, these people went out in the mists. Why weren’t the people terrified of them?

  This is not my problem, Sazed told himself. I need to remain focused. I’ve let my studies of the religions in my portfolio lapse. He was getting close to being finished, and that worried him. So far, every single religion had proven full of inconsistencies, contradictions, and logical flaws. He was growing more and more worried that, even among the hundreds of religions in his metalminds, he would never be able to find the truth.

  A wave from Breeze distracted him. So, Sazed stood—forcing himself not to show the despair he felt—and moved over to the table. The men there made room.

  “Thank you,” Sazed said, sitting.

  “You forgot your cup, friend Terrisman,” one of the men pointed out.

  “I apologize,” Sazed said. “I have never been one fond of intoxicants. Please, do not take offense. Your thoughtful gift was nevertheless appreciated.”

  “Does he always talk like that?” one of the men asked, looking at Breeze.

  “You’ve never known a Terrismen, have you?” asked another.

  Sazed flushed, to which Breeze chuckled, laying a hand on Sazed’s shoulder. “All right, gentlemen. I’ve brought you the Terrisman, as requested. Go ahead, ask your questions.”

  There were six local men at the table—all mine workers, from what Sazed could tell. One of the men leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, knuckles scarred by rock. “Breeze here says a lot of things,” the man said in a low voice. “But people like him always make promises. Quellion said a lot of the same things a year ago, when he was taking control after Straff Venture left.”

  “Yes,” Sazed said. “I can understand your skepticism.”

  “But,” the man said, raising a hand. “Terrismen don’t lie. They’re good people. Everyone knows that—lords, skaa, thieves, and obligators.”

  “So, we wanted to talk to you,” another of the men said. “Maybe you’re different; maybe you’ll lie to us. But, better to hear it from a Terrisman than a Soother.”

  Breeze blinked, revealing just a faint hint of surprise. Apparently, he hadn’t realized they’d been aware of his abilities.

  “Ask your questions,” Sazed said.

  “Why did you come to this city?” one of the men asked.

  “To take control of it,” Sazed said.

  “Why do you care?” another asked. “Why does Venture’s son even want Urteau?”

  “Two reasons,” Sazed said. “First, because of the resources it offers. I cannot go into details, but suffice it to say that your city is very desirable for economic reasons. The second reason, however, is equally important. Lord Elend Venture is one of the best men I have ever known. He believes he can do better for this people than the current government.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” one of the men grumbled.

  Another man shook his head. “What? You want to give the city back to the Ventures? One year, and you’ve forgotten the things that Straff used to do in this city?”

  “Elend Venture is not his father,” Sazed said. “He is a man worthy of being followed.”

  “And the Terris people?” one of the skaa asked. “Do they follow him?”

  “In a way,” Sazed said. “Once, my people tried to rule themselves, as your people now do. However, they realized the advantages of an alliance. My people have moved to the Central Dominance, and they accept the protection of Elend Venture.” Of course, Sazed thought, they’d rather follow me. If I would be their king.

  The table fell silent.

  “I don’t know,” one of the men said. “What business do we have even talking about this? I mean, Quellion is in charge, and these strangers don’t have an army to take his throne away from him. What’s the point?”

  “The Lord Ruler fell to us when we had no army,” Breeze pointed out, “and Quellion himself seized the government from noble rule. Change can occur.”

  “We’re not trying to form an army or rebellion,” Sazed quickly added. “We just want you to start . . . thinking. Talking with your friends. You are obviously influential men. Perhaps if Quellion hears of discontent among his people, he will begin to change his ways.”

  “Maybe,” one of the men said.

  “We don’t need these outsiders,” the other man repeated. “The Survivor of the Flames has come to deal with Quellion.”

  Sazed blinked. Survivor of the Flames? He caught a sly smile on Breeze’s lips—the Soother had apparently heard the term before, and now he appeared to be watching Sazed for a reaction.

  “The Survivor doesn’t enter into this,” one of the men said. “I can’t believe we’re even thinking of rebellion. Most of the world is in chaos, if you hear the reports! Shouldn’t we just be happy with what we’ve got?”

  The Survivor? Sazed thought. Kelsier? But, they seem to have given him a new title. Survivor of the Flames?

  “You’re starting to twitch, Sazed,” Breeze whispered. “You might as well just ask. No harm in asking, right?”

  No harm in asking.

  “The . . . Survivor of the Flames?” Sazed asked. “Why do you call Kelsier that?”

  “Not Kelsier,” one of the men said. “The other Survivor. The new one.”

  “The Survivor of Hathsin came to overthrow the Lord Ruler,” one of the men said. “So, can’t we assume the Survivor of the Flames has come to overthrow Quellion? Maybe we should listen to these men.”

  “If the Survivor is here to overthrow Quellion,” another man said, “then he won’t need the help of these types. They just want the city for themselves.”

  “Excuse me,” Sazed said. “But . . . might we meet this new Survivor?”

  The group of men shared looks.

  “Please,” Sazed said. “I was a friend to the Survivor of Hathsin. I should very much like to meet a man whom you have deemed worthy of Kelsier’s stature.”

  “Tomorrow,” one of the men said. “Quellion tries to keep the dates quiet, but they get out. There will be executions near Marketpit. Be there.”

  Even now, I can barely grasp the scope of all this. The events surrounding the end of the world seem even larger than the Final Empire and the people within it. I sense shards of something from long ago, a fractured presence, something spanning the void.

  I have delved and searched, and have only been able to come up with a single name: Adonalsium. Who, or what, it was, I do not yet know.

  39

  TENSOON SAT ON HIS HAUNCHES. Horrified.

  Ash rained down like shards of a broken sky, floating, making the very air look pocked and sickly. Even where he sat, atop a windswept hill, there was a layer of ash smothering the plant life. Some trees had branches broken by the weight of repeated ash pileups.


  How could they not see? he thought. How can they hide in their hole of a Homeland, content to let the land above die?

  Yet, TenSoon had lived for hundreds of years, and a part of him understood the tired complacency of the First and Second Generations. At times he’d felt the same thing himself. A desire to simply wait. To spend years idly, content in the Homeland. He’d seen the outside world—seen more of it than any human or koloss would ever know. What need had he of experiencing more?

  The Seconds had seen him as more orthodox and obedient than his brethren, all because he had continually wanted to leave the Homeland and serve Contracts. The Second Generation had always misunderstood him. TenSoon hadn’t served out of a desire to be obedient. He’d done it out of fear: fear that he’d become content and apathetic like the Seconds and begin to think that the outside world didn’t matter to the kandra people.

  He shook his head, then rose to all fours and loped off down the side of the hill, scattering ash into the air with each bound. As frightening as things had gotten, he was happy for one thing. The wolfhound’s body felt good on him. There was such a power in it—a capacity for movement—that no human form could match. It was almost as if this were the form he always should have worn. What better body for a kandra with an incurable wanderlust? A kandra who had left his Homeland behind more often than any other, serving under the hated hands of human masters, all because of his fear of complacency?

  He made his way through the thin forest cover, over hills, hoping that the blanket of ash wouldn’t make it too difficult for him to navigate. The falling ash did affect the kandra people—it affected them greatly. They had legends about this exact event. What good was the First Contract, what good was the waiting, the protection of the Trust? To most of the kandra, apparently, these things had become a point unto themselves.

  Yet, these things meant something. They had an origin. TenSoon hadn’t been alive back then. However, he had known the First Generation and been raised by the Second. He grew up during days when the First Contract—the Trust, the Resolution—had been more than just words. The First Contract was a set of instructions. Actions to take when the world began to fall. Not just ceremony, and not just metaphor. He knew that its contents frightened some of the kandra. For them, it was better that the First Contract be a philosophical, abstract thing—for if it were still concrete, still relevant, it would require great sacrifices of them.

  TenSoon stopped running; he was up to his wolfhound knees in deep black ash. The location looked vaguely familiar. He turned south, moving through a small rocky hollow—the stones now just dark lumps—looking for a place he had been over a year before. A place he’d visited after he had turned against Zane, his master, and left Luthadel to return to the Homeland.

  He scrambled up a few rocks, then rounded the side of a stone outcrop, knocking lumps of ash off with his passing. They broke apart as they fell, throwing more flakes into the air.

  And there it was. The hollow in the rock, the place where he had stopped a year before. He remembered it, despite how the ash had transformed the landscape. The Blessing of Presence, serving him again. How would he get along without it?

  I would not be sentient without it, he thought, smiling grimly. It was the bestowing of a Blessing on a mistwraith that brought the creature to wakefulness and true life. Each kandra got one of the four: Presence, Potency, Stability, or Awareness. It didn’t matter which one a kandra gained; any of the four would give him or her sentience, changing the mistwraith into a fully conscious kandra.

  In addition to sentience, each Blessing gave something else. A power. But there were stories of kandra who had gained more than one by taking them from others.

  TenSoon stuck a paw into the depression, digging out the ash, working to uncover the things he had hidden a year before. He found them quickly, rolling one—then the other—out onto the rock shelf in front of him. Two small, polished iron spikes. It took two spikes to form a single Blessing. TenSoon didn’t know why this was. It was simply the way of things.

  TenSoon lay down, commanding the skin of his shoulder to part, and absorbed the spikes into his body. He moved them through muscles and ligaments—dissolving several organs, then re-forming them with the spikes piercing them.

  Immediately, he felt power wash through him. His body became stronger. It was more than the simple adding of muscles—he could do that by re-forming his body. No, this gave each muscle an extra innate strength, making them work much better, much more powerfully, than they would have otherwise.

  The Blessing of Potency. He’d stolen the two spikes from OreSeur’s body. Without this Blessing, TenSoon would never have been able to follow Vin as he had during their year together. It more than doubled the power and endurance of each muscle. He couldn’t regulate or change the level of that added strength—this was not Feruchemy or Allomancy, but something different. Hemalurgy.

  A person had died to create each spike. TenSoon tried not to think about that too much; just as he tried not to think about how he only had this Blessing because he had killed one of his own generation. The Lord Ruler had provided the spikes each century, giving the number requested, so that the kandra could craft a new generation.

  He now had four spikes, two Blessings, and was one of the most powerful kandra alive. His muscles strengthened, TenSoon jumped confidently from the top of the rock formation, falling some twenty feet to land safely on the ash-covered ground below. He took off, running far more quickly now. The Blessing of Potency resembled the power of an Allomancer burning pewter, but it was not the same. It would not keep TenSoon moving indefinitely, nor could he flare it for an extra burst of power. On the other hand, it required no metals to fuel it.

  He made his path eastward. The First Contract was very explicit. When Ruin returned, the kandra were to seek out the Father to serve him. Unfortunately, the Father was dead. The First Contract didn’t take that possibility into consideration. So—unable to go to the Father—TenSoon did the next best thing. He went looking for Vin.

  Originally, we assumed that a koloss was a combination of two people into one. That was wrong. Koloss are not the melding of two people, but five, as evidenced by the four spikes needed to make them. Not five bodies, of course, but five souls.

  Each pair of spikes grants what the kandra would call the Blessing of Potency. However, each spike also distorts the koloss body a little more, making it increasingly inhuman. Such is the cost of Hemalurgy.

  40

  “NOBODY KNOWS PRECISELY how Inquisitors are made,” Elend said from the front of the tent, addressing a small group, which included Ham, Cett, the scribe Noorden, and the mostly recovered Demoux. Vin sat at the back, still trying to sort through what she had discovered. Human . . . all koloss . . . they had once been people.

  “There are lots of theories about it, however,” Elend said. “Once the Lord Ruler fell, Sazed and I did some research, and discovered some interesting facts from the obligators we interviewed. For instance, Inquisitors are made from ordinary men—men who remember who they were, but gain new Allomantic abilities.”

  “Our experience with Marsh proves that as well,” Ham said. “He remembered who he was, even after he had all of those spikes driven through his body. And he gained the powers of a Mistborn when he became an Inquisitor.”

  “Excuse me,” Cett said, “but will someone please explain what the hell this has to do with our siege of the city? There aren’t any Inquisitors here.”

  Elend folded his arms. “This is important, Cett, because we’re at war with more than just Yomen. Something we don’t understand, something far greater than those soldiers inside of Fadrex.”

  Cett snorted. “You still believe in this talk of doom and gods and the like?”

  “Noorden,” Elend said, looking at the scribe. “Please tell Lord Cett what you told me earlier today.”

  The former obligator nodded. “Well, my lord, it’s like this. Those numbers relating to the percentage of people who fall ill t
o the mists, they’re just too regular to be natural. Nature works in organized chaos—randomness on the small scale, with trends on the large scale. I cannot believe that anything natural could have produced such precise results.”

  “What do you mean?” Cett asked.

  “Well, my lord,” Noorden said. “Imagine that you hear a tapping sound somewhere outside your tent. If it repeats occasionally, with no exact set pattern, then it might be the wind blowing a loose flap against a pole. However, if it repeats with exact regularity, you know that it must be a person, beating against a pole. You’d be able to make the distinction immediately, because you’ve learned that nature can be repetitive in a case like that, but not exact. These numbers are the same, my lord. They’re just too organized, too repetitive, to be natural. They had to have been crafted by somebody.”

  “You’re saying that a person made those soldiers sick?” Cett asked.

  “A person? . . . No, not a person, I’d guess,” Noorden said. “But something intelligent must have done it. That’s the only conclusion I can draw. Something with an agenda, something that cares to be precise.”

  The room fell silent.

  “And, this relates to Inquisitors somehow, my lord?” Demoux asked carefully.

  “It does,” Elend said. “At least, it does if you think as I do—which, I’ll admit, not many people do.”

  “For better or for worse . . .” Ham said, smiling.

  “Noorden, what do you know of how Inquisitors are made?” Elend asked.

  The scribe grew uncomfortable. “I was in the Canton of Orthodoxy, as you may know, not the Canton of Inquisition.”

  “Surely there were rumors,” Elend asked.

  “Well, of course,” Noorden said. “More than rumors, actually. The higher obligators were always trying to discover how the Inquisitors got their power. There was a rivalry between the Cantons, you see, and . . . well, I suppose you don’t care about that. Regardless, we did have rumors.”