The Mistborn Trilogy

by Brandon Sanderson

  Vin nodded. “Is that why making this body took you so much longer than you’d said?”

  “No, Mistress,” OreSeur said. “The hair. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you—placing fur like this takes a great deal of precision and effort.”

  “Actually, you did mention it,” Vin said, waving her hand.

  “What do you think of the body, OreSeur?” Elend asked.

  “Honestly, Your Majesty?”

  “Of course.”

  “It is offensive and degrading,” OreSeur said.

  Vin raised an eyebrow. That’s forward of you, Renoux, she thought. Feeling a little belligerent today, are we?

  He glanced at her, and she tried—unsuccessfully—to read his canine expression.

  “But,” Elend said, “you’ll wear the body anyway, right?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” OreSeur said. “I would die before breaking the Contract. It is life.”

  Elend nodded to Vin, as if he’d just made a major point.

  Anyone can claim loyalty, Vin thought. If someone has a “Contract” to ensure their honor, then all the better. That makes the surprise more poignant when they do turn on you.

  Elend was obviously waiting for something. Vin sighed. “OreSeur, we’ll be spending more time together in the future.”

  “If that is what you wish, Mistress.”

  “I’m not sure if it is or not,” Vin said. “But it’s going to happen anyway. How well can you move about in that body?”

  “Well enough, Mistress.”

  “Come on,” she said, “let’s see if you can keep up.”

  7

  I am also afraid, however, that all I have known—that my story—will be forgotten. I am afraid for the world that is to come. Afraid that my plans will fail.

  Afraid of a doom worse, even, than the Deepness.

  Sazed never thought he’d have reason to appreciate dirt floors. However, they proved remarkably useful in writing instruction. He drew several words in the dirt with a long stick, giving his half-dozen students a model. They proceeded to scribble their own copies, rewriting the words several times.

  Even after living among various groups of rural skaa for a year, Sazed was still surprised by their meager resources. There wasn’t a single piece of chalk in the entire village, let alone ink or paper. Half the children ran around naked, and the only shelters were the hovels—long, one-room structures with patchy roofs. The skaa had farming tools, fortunately, but no manner of bows or slings for hunting.

  Sazed had led a scavenging mission up to the plantation’s abandoned manor. The leavings had been meager. He’d suggested that the village elders relocate their people to the manor itself for the winter, but he doubted they would do so. They had visited the manor with apprehension, and many hadn’t been willing to leave Sazed’s side. The place reminded them of lords—and lords reminded them of pain.

  His students continued to scribble. He had spent quite a bit of effort explaining to the elders why writing was so important. Finally, they had chosen him some students—partially, Sazed was sure, just to appease him. He shook his head slowly as he watched them write. There was no passion in their learning. They came because they were ordered, and because “Master Terrisman” willed it, not because of any real desire for education.

  During the days before the Collapse, Sazed had often imagined what the world would be like once the Lord Ruler was gone. He had pictured the Keepers emerging, bringing forgotten knowledge and truths to an excited, thankful populace. He’d imagined teaching before a warm hearth at night, telling stories to an eager audience. He’d never paused to consider a village, stripped of its working men, whose people were too exhausted at night to bother with tales from the past. He’d never imagined a people who seemed more annoyed by his presence than thankful.

  You must be patient with them, Sazed told himself sternly. His dreams now seemed like hubris. The Keepers who had come before him, the hundreds who had died keeping their knowledge safe and quiet, had never expected praise or accolades. They had performed their great task with solemn anonymity.

  Sazed stood up and inspected his students’ writings. They were getting better—they could recognize all of the letters. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He nodded to the group, dismissing them to help prepare the evening meal.

  They bowed, then scattered. Sazed followed them out, then realized how dim the sky was; he had probably kept his students too late. He shook his head as he strolled between the hill-like hovels. He again wore his steward’s robes, with their colorful V-shaped patterns, and he had put in several of his earrings. He kept to the old ways because they were familiar, even though they were also a symbol of oppression. How would future Terris generations dress? Would a lifestyle forced upon them by the Lord Ruler become an innate part of their culture?

  He paused at the edge of the village, glancing down the corridor of the southern valley. It was filled with blackened soil occasionally split by brown vines or shrubs. No mist, of course; mist came only during the night. The stories had to be mistakes. The thing he’d seen had to have been a fluke.

  And what did it matter if it wasn’t? It wasn’t his duty to investigate such things. Now that the Collapse had come, he had to disperse his knowledge, not waste his time chasing after foolish stories. Keepers were no longer investigators, but instructors. He carried with him thousands of books—information about farming, about sanitation, about government, and about medicine. He needed to give these things to the skaa. That was what the Synod had decided.

  And yet, a part of Sazed resisted. That made him feel deeply guilty; the villagers needed his teachings, and he wished dearly to help them. However…he felt that he was missing something. The Lord Ruler was dead, but the story did not seem finished. Was there something he had overlooked?

  Something larger, even, than the Lord Ruler? Something so large, so big, that it was effectively invisible?

  Or, do I just want there to be something else? he wondered. I’ve spent most of my adult life resisting and fighting, taking risks that the other Keepers called mad. I wasn’t content with feigned subservience—I had to get involved in the rebellion.

  Despite that rebellion’s success, Sazed’s brethren still hadn’t forgiven him for his involvement. He knew that Vin and the others saw him as docile, but compared with other Keepers he was a wild man. A reckless, untrustworthy fool who threatened the entire order with his impatience. They had believed their duty was to wait, watching for the day when the Lord Ruler was gone. Feruchemists were too rare to risk in open rebellion.

  Sazed had disobeyed. Now he was having trouble living the peaceful life of a teacher. Was that because some subconscious part of him knew that the people were still in danger, or was it because he simply couldn’t accept being marginalized?

  “Master Terrisman!”

  Sazed spun. The voice was terrified. Another death in the mists? he thought immediately.

  It was eerie how the other skaa remained inside their hovels despite the horrified voice. A few doors creaked, but nobody rushed out in alarm—or even curiosity—as the screamer dashed up to Sazed. She was one of the fieldworkers, a stout, middle-aged woman. Sazed checked his reserves as she approached; he had on his pewtermind for strength, of course, and a very small steel ring for speed. Suddenly, he wished he’d chosen to wear just a few more bracelets this day.

  “Master Terrisman!” the woman said, out of breath. “Oh, he’s come back! He’s come for us!”

  “Who?” Sazed asked. “The man who died in the mists?”

  “No, Master Terrisman. The Lord Ruler.”

  Sazed found him standing just outside the village. It was already growing dark, and the woman who’d fetched Sazed had returned to her hovel in fear. Sazed could only imagine how the poor people felt—trapped by the onset of the night and its mist, yet huddled and worried at the danger that lurked outside.

  And an ominous danger it was. The stranger waited quietly on the worn road, wearing a bl
ack robe, standing almost as tall as Sazed himself. The man was bald, and he wore no jewelry—unless, of course, you counted the massive iron spikes that had been driven point-first through his eyes.

  Not the Lord Ruler. A Steel Inquisitor.

  Sazed still didn’t understand how the creatures continued to live. The spikes were wide enough to fill the Inquisitor’s entire eye sockets; the nails had destroyed the eyes, and pointed tips jutted out the back of the skull. No blood dripped from the wounds—for some reason, that made them seem more strange.

  Fortunately, Sazed knew this particular Inquisitor. “Marsh,” Sazed said quietly as the mists began to form.

  “You are a very difficult person to track, Terrisman,” Marsh said—and the sound of his voice shocked Sazed. It had changed, somehow, becoming more grating, more gristly. It now had a grinding quality, like that of a man with a cough. Just like the other Inquisitors Sazed had heard.

  “Track?” Sazed asked. “I wasn’t planning on others needing to find me.”

  “Regardless,” Marsh said, turning south. “I did. You need to come with me.”

  Sazed frowned. “What? Marsh, I have a work to do here.”

  “Unimportant,” Marsh said, turning back, focusing his eyeless gaze on Sazed.

  Is it me, or has he become stranger since we last met? Sazed shivered. “What is this about, Marsh?”

  “The Conventical of Seran is empty.”

  Sazed paused. The Conventical was a Ministry stronghold to the south—a place where the Inquisitors and high obligators of the Lord Ruler’s religion had retreated after the Collapse.

  “Empty?” Sazed asked. “That isn’t likely, I think.”

  “True nonetheless,” Marsh said. He didn’t use body language as he spoke—no gesturing, no movements of the face.

  “I…” Sazed trailed off. What kinds of information, wonders, secrets, the Conventical’s libraries must hold.

  “You must come with me,” Marsh said. “I may need help, should my brethren discover us.”

  My brethren. Since when are the Inquisitors Marsh’s “brethren”? Marsh had infiltrated their numbers as part of Kelsier’s plan to overthrow the Final Empire. He was a traitor to their numbers, not their brother.

  Sazed hesitated. Marsh’s profile looked…unnatural, even unnerving, in the dim light. Dangerous.

  Don’t be foolish, Sazed chastised himself. Marsh was Kelsier’s brother—the Survivor’s only living relative. As an Inquisitor, Marsh had authority over the Steel Ministry, and many of the obligators had listened to him despite his involvement with the rebellion. He had been an invaluable resource for Elend Venture’s fledgling government.

  “Go get your things,” Marsh said.

  My place is here, Sazed thought. Teaching the people, not gallivanting across the countryside, chasing my own ego.

  And yet…

  “The mists are coming during the day,” Marsh said quietly.

  Sazed looked up. Marsh was staring at him, the heads of his spikes shining like round disks in the last slivers of sunlight. Superstitious skaa thought that Inquisitors could read minds, though Sazed knew that was foolish. Inquisitors had the powers of Mistborn, and could therefore influence other people’s emotions—but they could not read minds.

  “Why did you say that?” Sazed asked.

  “Because it is true,” Marsh said. “This is not over, Sazed. It has not yet begun. The Lord Ruler…he was just a delay. A cog. Now that he is gone, we have little time remaining. Come with me to the Conventical—we must search it while we have the opportunity.”

  Sazed paused, then nodded. “Let me go explain to the villagers. We can leave tonight, I think.”

  Marsh nodded, but he didn’t move as Sazed retreated to the village. He just remained, standing in the darkness, letting the mist gather around him.

  8

  It all comes back to poor Alendi. I feel bad for him, and for all the things he has been forced to endure. For what he has been forced to become.

  Vin threw herself into the mists. She soared in the night air, passing over darkened homes and streets. An occasional, furtive bob of light glowed in the mists—a guard patrol, or perhaps an unfortunate late-night traveler.

  Vin began to descend, and she immediately flipped a coin out before herself. She Pushed against it, her weight plunging it down into the quiet depths. As soon as it hit the street below, her Push forced her upward, and she sprang back into the air. Soft Pushes were very difficult—so each coin she Pushed against, each jump she made, threw her into the air at a terrible speed. The jumping of a Mistborn wasn’t like a bird’s flight. It was more like the path of a ricocheting arrow.

  And yet, there was a grace to it. Vin breathed deeply as she arced above the city, tasting the cool, humid air. Luthadel by day smelled of burning forges, sun-heated refuse, and fallen ash. At night, however, the mists gave the air a beautiful chill crispness—almost a cleanliness.

  Vin crested her jump, and she hung for just a brief moment as her momentum changed. Then she began to plummet back toward the city. Her mistcloak tassels fluttered around her, mingling with her hair. She fell with her eyes closed, remembering her first few weeks in the mist, training beneath Kelsier’s relaxed—yet watchful—tutelage. He had given her this. Freedom. Despite two years as a Mistborn, she had never lost the sense of intoxicating wonder she felt when soaring through the mists.

  She burned steel with her eyes closed; the lines appeared anyway, visible as a spray of threadlike blue lines set against the blackness of her eyelids. She picked two, pointing downward behind her, and Pushed, throwing herself into another arc.

  What did I ever do without this? Vin thought, opening her eyes, whipping her mistcloak behind her with a throw of the arm.

  Eventually, she began to fall again, and this time she didn’t toss a coin. She burned pewter to strengthen her limbs, and landed with a thump on the wall surrounding Keep Venture’s grounds. Her bronze showed no signs of Allomantic activity nearby, and her steel revealed no unusual patterns of metal moving toward the keep.

  Vin crouched on the dark wall for a few moments, right at the edge, toes curling over the lip of the stone. The rock was cool beneath her feet, and her tin made her skin far more sensitive than normal. She could tell that the wall needed to be cleaned; lichens were beginning to grow along its side, encouraged by the night’s humidity, protected from the day’s sun by a nearby tower.

  Vin remained quiet, watching a slight breeze push and churn the mists. She heard the movement on the street below before she saw it. She tensed, checking her reserves, before she was able to discern a wolfhound’s shape in the shadows.

  She dropped a coin over the side of the wall, then leapt off. OreSeur waited as she landed quietly before him, using a quick Push on the coin to slow her descent.

  “You move quickly,” Vin noted appreciatively.

  “All I had to do was round the palace grounds, Mistress.”

  “Still, you stuck closer to me this time than you ever did before. That wolfhound’s body is faster than a human one.”

  OreSeur paused. “I suppose,” he admitted.

  “Think you can follow me through the city?”

  “Probably,” OreSeur said. “If you lose me, I will return to this point so you can retrieve me.”

  Vin turned and dashed down a side street. OreSeur then took off quietly behind her, following.

  Let’s see how well he does in a more demanding chase, she thought, burning pewter and increasing her speed. She sprinted along the cool cobbles, barefoot as always. A normal man could never have maintained such a speed. Even a trained runner couldn’t have kept pace with her, for he would have quickly tired.

  With pewter, however, Vin could run for hours at breakneck speeds. It gave her strength, lent her an unreal sense of balance, as she shot down the dark, mist-ruled street, a flurry of cloak tassels and bare feet.

  OreSeur kept pace. He loped beside her in the night, breathing heavily, focused on his r
unning.

  Impressive, Vin thought, then turned down an alleyway. She easily jumped the six-foot-tall fence at the back, passing into the garden of some lesser nobleman’s mansion. She spun, skidding on the wet grass, and watched.

  OreSeur crested the top of the wooden fence, his dark, canine form dropping through the mists to land in the loam before Vin. He came to a stop, resting on his haunches, waiting quietly, panting. There was a look of defiance in his eyes.

  All right, Vin thought, pulling out a handful of coins. Follow this.

  She dropped a coin and threw herself backward up into the air. She spun in the mists, twisting, then Pushed herself sideways off a well spigot. She landed on a rooftop and jumped off, using another coin to Push herself over the street below.

  She kept going, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, using coins when necessary. She occasionally shot a glance behind, and saw a dark form struggling to keep up. He’d rarely followed her as a human; usually, she had checked in with him at specific points. Moving out in the night, jumping through the mists…this was the true domain of the Mistborn. Did Elend understand what he asked when he told her to bring OreSeur with her? If she stayed down on the streets, she’d expose herself.

  She landed on a rooftop, jarring to a sudden halt as she grabbed hold of the building’s stone lip, leaning out over a street three stories below. She maintained her balance, mist swirling below her. All was silent.

  Well, that didn’t take long, she thought. I’ll just have to explain to Elend that—

  OreSeur’s canine form thumped to the rooftop a short distance away. He padded over to her, then sat down on his haunches, waiting expectantly.

  Vin frowned. She’d traveled for a good ten minutes, running over rooftops with the speed of a Mistborn. “How…how did you get up here?” she demanded.