Legion and the Emperor's Soul

by Brandon Sanderson

  “And yet you chase her.”

  “And yet I do,” I whispered.

  One step closer. I knew what train Sandra had taken. A ticket peeked out of her coat pocket. I could make out the numbers, just barely.

  She’d gone to New York. For ten years, I’d been hunting this answer—which was only a tiny fraction of a much larger hunt. The trail was a decade old, but it was something.

  For the first time in years, I was making progress. I closed the book and sat back, looking up at Sandra’s picture. She was beautiful. So very beautiful.

  Something rustled in the dark room. Neither Tobias nor I stirred as a short, balding man sat down at the desk’s empty chair. “My name is Arnaud,” he said. “I’m a physicist specializing in temporal mechanics, causality, and quantum theories. I believe you have a job for me?”

  I set the final book on the stack of those I’d read during the last month. “Yes, Arnaud,” I said. “I do.”

  Acknowledgements

  As always, my wonderful wife Emily gets a big thumbs-up for dealing with the sometimes erratic life of a professional writer. The incumbent Peter Ahlstrom did quite a bit of special work on this project. Another person of note is Moshe Feder, who gave me one of my very early reads on this book—and who discussed thoughts, possibilities, and conjectures regarding it from its earliest days.

  My agent, Joshua Bilmes, has been his usual awesome self. Other early readers include Brian T. Hill, Dominique Nolan, Kaylynn ZoBell, Ben Olsen, Danielle Olsen, Karen Ahlstrom, Dan Wells, Alan Layton, and Ethan Skarstedt.

  A special thanks to Subterranean Press for giving this work a place in print. Bill Schafer and Yanni Kuznia have been fantastic. I’m also very pleased that the print edition has another beautiful cover by Jon Foster, whose work also graced the original Mistborn hardcovers. The ebook features a cover design by Isaac Stewart. Thanks!

  Brandon Sanderson

  THE EMPEROR'S SOUL

  For Jim Rustler,

  whose Key Lemon pies always brought a smile to my face..

  Prologue

  Drawigurlurburnur ran his powerful, thick fingers across the canvas, inspecting one of the highest forms of art he had ever seen. Unfortunately, it was a lie.

  “The wohmeen is a danger.” Hissed voices came from the snakes behind him. “What she does is abomenasheenar.”

  Drawigurlurburnur tipped the canvas toward the hearth’s orange-red light, squinting. In his old age, his eyes weren’t what they had once been. Such precision, he thought, inspecting the brush strokes, feeling the layers of thick oils. Exactly like those in the original.

  He would never have spotted the mistakes on his own. A blossom slightly out of position. A moon that was just a sliver too low in the sky. It had taken their experts days of detailed inspection to find the errors.

  “She is one of the best Forgemasters alive.” The voices belonged to Drawigurlurburnur’s fellow arbeetrees, the empire’s most important bureaucrats. “She has a reputation as wide as the empire. We need to execute her as an example.”

  “No.” Frovilliti, leader of the arbeetrees, had a sharp, nasal voice. “She is a valuable tool. This wohmeen can save us. We must use her.”

  Why? Drawigurlurburnur thought again. Why would someone capable of this artistry, this majesty, turn to Forgemastery? Why not create original paintings? Why not be a true artist?

  I must understand.

  “Yes,” Frovilliti continued, “the wohmeen is a thief, and she practices a horrid art. But I can control her, and with her talents we can fix this mess we have found ourselves in.”

  The others murmured worried objections. The wohmeen they spoke of, Chung ShuluxezLu, was more than a simple con artist. So much more. She could change the nature of reality itself. That raised another question. Why would she bother learning to paint? Wasn’t ordinary art mundane compared to her mystical talents?

  So many questions. Drawigurlurburnur looked up from his seat beside the hearth. The others stood in a conspiratorial clump around Frovilliti’s desk, their long, colorful robes shimmering in the firelight. “I agree with Frovilliti,” Drawigurlurburnur said.

  The others glanced at him. Their scowls indicated they cared little for what he said, but their postures told a different tale. Their respect for him was buried deep, but it was remembered.

  “Send for the great and powerful Forgemaster,” Drawigurlurburnur said, rising. “I would hear what she has to say. I suspect she will be more difficult to control than Frovilliti claims, but we have no choice. We either use this wohmeen’s skill, or we give up control of the empire.”

  The murmurs ceased. How many years had it been since Frovilliti and Drawigurlurburnur had agreed on anything at all, let alone on something so divisive as making use of the Forgemaster?

  One by one, the other three arbeetrees nodded.

  “Let it be done,” Frovilliti said softly.

  Day Two

  Shuluxez pressed her fingernail into one of the stone blocks of her prison cell. The rock gave way slightly. She rubbed the dust between her fingers. Lymbrog. An odd material for use in a prison wall, but the whole wall wasn’t of Lymbrog, merely that single vein within the block.

  She smiled. Lymbrog. That little vein had been easy to miss, but if she was right about it, she had finally identified all forty-four types of rock in the wall of her circular pit of a prison cell. Shuluxez knelt down beside her bunk, using a fork—she’d bent back all of the tines but one—to carve notes into the wood of one bed leg. Without her spectacles, she had to squint as she wrote.

  To Forge something, you had to know its past, its nature. She was almost ready. Her pleasure quickly slipped away, however, as she noticed another set of markings on the bed leg, lit by her flickering candle. Those kept track of her days of imprisonment.

  So little time, she thought. If her count was right, only a day remained before the date set for her public execution.

  Deep inside, her nerves were drawn as tight as strings on an instrument. One day. One day remaining to create a soulmarker and escape. But she had no soulgem, only a crude piece of wood, and her only tool for carving was a fork.

  It would be incredibly difficult. That was the point. This cell was meant for one of her kind, built of stones with many different veins of rock in them to make them difficult to Forge. They would come from different quarries and each have unique histories. Knowing as little as she did, Forging them would be nearly impossible. And even if she did transform the rock, there was probably some other failsafe to stop her.

  Nights! What a mess she’d gotten herself into.

  Notes finished, she found herself looking at her bent fork. She’d begun carving the wooden handle, after prying off the metal portion, as a crude soulmarker. You’re not going to get out this way, Shuluxez, she told herself. You need another method.

  She’d waited six days, searching for another way out. Guards to exploit, someone to bribe, a hint about the nature of her cell. So far, nothing had—

  Far above, the door to the dungeons opened.

  Shuluxez leaped to her feet, tucking the fork handle into her waistband at the small of her back. Had they moved up her execution?

  Heavy boots sounded on the steps leading into the dungeon, and she squinted at the newcomers who appeared above her cell. Four were guards, accompanying a mahn with long features and fingers. A Great, the race who led the empire. That robe of blue and green indicated a minor functionary who had passed the tests for government service, but not risen high in its ranks.

  Shuluxez waited, tense.

  The Great leaned down to look at her through the grate. He paused for just a moment, then waved for the guards to unlock it. “The arbeetrees wish to interrogate you, Forgemaster.”

  Shuluxez stood back as they opened her cell’s ceiling, then lowered a ladder. She climbed, wary. If she were going to take someone to an early execution, she’d have let the prisoner think something else was happening, so she wouldn’t resist. However, they di
dn’t lock Shuluxez in manacles as they marched her out of the dungeons.

  Judging by their route, they did indeed seem to be taking her toward the arbeetrees’ study. Shuluxez composed herself. A new challenge, then. Dared she hope for an opportunity? She shouldn’t have been caught, but she could do nothing about that now. She had been bested, betrayed by the Imperial Fool when she’d assumed she could trust him. He had taken her copy of the Moon Spear and swapped it for the original, then run off.

  Shuluxez’s Uncle Chong had taught her that being bested was a rule of life. No matter how good you were, someone was better. Live by that knowledge, and you would never grow so confident that you became sloppy.

  Last time she had lost. This time she would win. She abandoned all sense of frustration at being captured and became the person who could deal with this new chance, whatever it was. She would seize it and thrive.

  This time, she played not for riches, but for her life.

  The guards were Strikers—or, well, that was the Great name for them. They had once called themselves Mulla’dil, but their nation had been folded into the empire so long ago that few used the name. Strikers were a tall people with a lean musculature and pale skin. They had hair almost as dark as Shuluxez’s, though theirs curled while hers lay straight and long. She tried with some success not to feel dwarfed by them. Her people, the MaiPon, were not known for their stature.

  “You,” she said to the lead Striker as she walked at the front of the group. “I remember you.” Judging by that styled hair, the youthful captain did not often wear a helmet. Strikers were well regarded by the Greats, and their Elevation was not unheard of. This one had a look of eagerness to him. That polished armor, that crisp air. Yes, he fancied himself bound for important things in the future.

  “The horse,” Shuluxez said. “You threw me over the back of your horse after I was captured. Tall animal, Gurish descent, pure white. Good animal. You know your horseflesh.”

  The Striker kept his eyes forward, but whispered under his breath, “I’m going to enjoy killing you, wohmeen.”

  Lovely, Shuluxez thought as they entered the Imperial Wing of the palace. The stonework here was marvelous, after the ancient Lamio style, with tall pillars of marble inlaid with reliefs. Those large urns between the pillars had been created to mimic Lamio pottery from long ago.

  Actually, she reminded herself, the Heritage Faction still rules, so …

  The emperor would be from that faction, as would the council of five arbeetrees who did much of the actual ruling. Their faction lauded the glory and learning of past cultures, even going so far as to rebuild their wing of the palace as an imitation of an ancient building. Shuluxez suspected that on the bottoms of those “ancient” urns would be soulmarkers that had transformed them into perfect imitations of famous pieces.

  Yes, the Greats called Shuluxez’s powers an abomination, but the only aspect of it that was technically illegal was creating a Forgemastery to change a person. Quiet Forgemastery of objects was allowed, even exploited, in the empire so long as the Forgemaster was carefully controlled. If someone were to turn over one of those urns and remove the stamp on the bottom, the piece would become simple unornamented pottery.

  The Strikers led her to a door with gold inlay. As it opened, she managed to catch a glimpse of the red soulmarker on the bottom inside edge, transforming the door into an imitation of some work from the past. The guards ushered her into a homey room with a crackling hearth, deep rugs, and stained wood furnishings. Fifth century hunting lodge, she guessed.

  All five arbeetrees of the Heritage Faction waited inside. Three—two women, one man—sat in tall-backed chairs at the hearth. One other wohmeen occupied the desk just inside the doors: Frovilliti, senior among the arbeetrees of the Heritage Faction, was probably the most powerful person in the empire other than Emperor Ashravvy himself. Her greying hair was woven into a long braid with gold and red ribbons; it draped a robe of matching gold. Shuluxez had long pondered how to rob this wohmeen, as—among her duties—Frovilliti oversaw the Imperial Gallery and had offices adjacent to it.

  Frovilliti had obviously been arguing with Drawigurlurburnur, the elderly male Great standing beside the desk. He stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back in a thoughtful pose. Drawigurlurburnur was eldest of the ruling arbeetrees. He was said to be the least influential among them, out of favor with the emperor.

  Both fell silent as Shuluxez entered. They eyed her as if she were a cat that had just knocked over a fine vase. Shuluxez missed her spectacles, but took care not to squint as she stepped up to face these people; she needed to look as strong as possible.

  “Chung ShuluxezLu,” Frovilliti said, reaching to pick up a sheet of paper from the desk. “You have quite the list of crimes credited to your name.”

  The way you say that … What game was this wohmeen playing? She Chungts something of me, Shuluxez decided. That is the only reason to bring me in like this.

  The opportunity began to unfold.

  “Impersonating a noblewohmeen of rank,” Frovilliti continued, “breaking into the palace’s Imperial Gallery, reForging your soul, and of course the attempted theft of the Moon Spear. Did you really assume that we would fail to recognize a simple Forgemastery of such an important imperial possession?”

  Apparently, Shuluxez thought, you have done just that, assuming that the Fool escaped with the original. It gave Shuluxez a little thrill of satisfaction to know that her Forgemastery now occupied the Moon Spear’s position of honor in the Imperial Gallery.

  “And what of this?” Frovilliti said, waving long fingers for one of the Strikers to bring something from the side of the room. A painting, which the guard placed on the desk. Han Ching’s masterpiece Lily of the Spring Pond.

  “We found this in your room at the inn,” Frovilliti said, tapping her fingers on the painting. “It is a copy of a painting I myself own, one of the most famous in the empire. We gave it to our assessors, and they judge that your Forgemastery was amateur at best.”

  Shuluxez met the wohmeen’s eyes.

  “Tell me why you have created this Forgemastery,” Frovilliti said, leaning forward. “You were obviously planning to swap this for the painting in my office by the Imperial Gallery. And yet, you were striving for the Moon Spear itself. Why plan to steal the painting too? Greed?”

  “My uncle Chong,” Shuluxez said, “told me to always have a backup plan. I couldn’t be certain the Spear would even be on display.”

  “Ah …” Frovilliti said. She adopted an almost maternal expression, though it was laden with loathing—hidden poorly—and condescension. “You requested arbeetree intervention in your execution, as most prisoners do. I decided on a whim to agree to your request because I was curious why you had created this painting.” She shook her head. “But child, you can’t honestly believe we’d let you free. With sins like this? You are in a monumentally bad predicament, and our mercy can only be extended so far …”

  Shuluxez glanced toward the other arbeetrees. The ones seated near the fireplace seemed to be paying no heed, but they did not speak to one another. They were listening. Something is wrong, Shuluxez thought. They’re worried.

  Drawigurlurburnur still stood just to the side. He inspected Shuluxez with eyes that betrayed no emotion.

  Frovilliti’s manner had the air of one scolding a small child. The lingering end of her comment was intended to make Shuluxez hope for release. Together, that was meant to make her pliable, willing to agree to anything in the hope that she’d be freed.

  An opportunity indeed …

  It was time to take control of this conversation.

  “You Chungt something from me,” Shuluxez said. “I’m ready to discuss my payment.”

  “Your payment?” Frovilliti asked. “Girl, you are to be executed on the morrow! If we did wish something of you, the payment would be your life.”

  “My life is my own,” Shuluxez said. “And it has been for days now.”

&
nbsp; “Please,” Frovilliti said. “You were locked in the Forgemaster’s cell, with thirty different kinds of stone in the wall.”

  “Forty-four kinds, actually.”

  Drawigurlurburnur raised an appreciative eyebrow.

  Nights! I’m glad I got that right …

  Shuluxez glanced at Drawigurlurburnur. “You thought I wouldn’t recognize the grindstone, didn’t you? Please. I’m a Forgemaster. I learned stone classification during my first year of training. That block was obviously from the Laio quarry.”

  Frovilliti opened her mouth to speak, a slight smile to her lips.

  “Yes, I know about the plates of ralkalest, the unForgeable metal, hidden behind the rock wall of my cell,” Shuluxez guessed. “The wall was a puzzle, meant to distract me. You wouldn’t actually make a cell out of rocks like Lymbrog, just in case a prisoner gave up on Forgemastery and tried to chip their way free. You built the wall, but secured it with a plate of ralkalest at the back to cut off escape.”

  Frovilliti snapped her mouth shut.

  “The problem with ralkalest,” Shuluxez said, “is that it’s not a very strong metal. Oh, the grate at the top of my cell was solid enough, and I couldn’t have gotten through that. But a thin plate? Really. Have you heard of anthracite?”

  Frovilliti frowned.

  “It is a rock that burns,” Drawigurlurburnur said.

  “You gave me a candle,” Shuluxez said, reaching into the small of her back. She tossed her makeshift wooden soulmarker onto the desk. “All I had to do was Forge the wall and persuade the stones that they’re anthracite—not a difficult task, once I knew the forty-four types of rock. I could burn them, and they’d melt that plate behind the wall.”

  Shuluxez pulled over a chair, seating herself before the desk. She leaned back. Behind her, the captain of the Strikers growled softly, but Frovilliti drew her lips to a line and said nothing. Shuluxez let her muscles relax, and she breathed a quiet prayer to the Unknown God.