The Mistborn Trilogy

by Brandon Sanderson

  She sat up. She only vaguely remembered this section of the logbook. The book was organized like a diary, with sequential—but dateless—entries. It had a tendency to ramble, and the Hero had been fond of droning on about his insecurities. This section had been particularly dry.

  But there, in the middle of his complaining, was a tidbit of information.

  I believe that it would kill me, if it could, the text continued.

  There is an evil feel to the thing of shadow and fog, and my skin recoils at its touch. Yet, it seems limited in what it can do, especially to me.

  It can affect this world, however. The knife it placed in Fedik’s chest proves that much. I’m still not certain which was more traumatic for him—the wound itself, or seeing the thing that did it to him.

  Rashek whispers that I stabbed Fedik myself, for only Fedik and I can give witness to that night’s events. However, I must make a decision. I must determine that I am not mad. The alternative is to admit that it was I who held that knife.

  Somehow, knowing Rashek’s opinion on the matter makes it much easier for me to believe the opposite.

  The next page continued on about Rashek, and the next several entries contained no mention of the mist spirit. However, Vin found even these few paragraphs exciting.

  He made a decision, she thought. I have to make the same one. She’d never worried that she was mad, but she had sensed some logic in Elend’s words. Now she rejected them. The mist spirit was not some delusion brought on by a mixture of stress and memories of the logbook. It was real.

  That didn’t mean the Deepness was returning, nor did it mean that Luthadel was in any sort of supernatural danger. Both, however, were possibilities.

  She set this page with the two others that contained concrete information about the mist spirit, then turned back to her studies, determined to pay closer attention to her reading.

  The armies were digging in.

  Elend watched from atop the wall as his plan, vague though it was, began to take form. Straff was making a defensive perimeter to the north, holding the canal route back a relatively short distance to Urteau, his home city and capital. Cett was digging in to the west of the city, holding the Luth-Davn Canal, which ran back to his cannery in Haverfrex.

  A cannery. That was something Elend wished he had in the city. The technology was newer—perhaps fifty years old—but he’d read of it. The scholars had considered its main use that of providing easily carried supplies for soldiers fighting at the fringes of the empire. They hadn’t considered stockpiles for sieges—particularly in Luthadel. But, then, who would have?

  Even as Elend watched, patrols began to move out from the separate armies. Some moved to watch the boundaries between the two forces, but others moved to secure other canal routes, bridges across the River Channerel, and roads leading away from Luthadel. In a remarkably short time, the city felt completely surrounded. Cut off from the world, and the rest of Elend’s small kingdom. No more moving in or out. The armies were counting on disease, starvation, and other weakening factors to bring Elend to his knees.

  The siege of Luthadel had begun.

  That’s a good thing, he told himself. For this plan to work, they have to think me desperate. They have to be so sure that I’m willing to side with them, that they don’t consider that I might be working with their enemies, too.

  As Elend watched, he noticed someone climbing up the steps to the wall. Clubs. The general hobbled over to Elend, who had been standing alone. “Congratulations,” Clubs said. “Looks like you now have a full-blown siege on your hands.”

  “Good.”

  “It’ll give us a little breathing room, I guess,” Clubs said. Then he eyed Elend with one of his gnarled looks. “You’d better be up to this, kid.”

  “I know,” Elend whispered.

  “You’ve made yourself the focal point,” Clubs said. “The Assembly can’t break this siege until you meet officially with Straff, and the kings aren’t likely to meet with anyone on the crew other than yourself. This is all about you. Useful place for a king to be, I suppose. If he’s a good one.”

  Clubs fell silent. Elend stood, looking out over the separate armies. The words spoken to him by Tindwyl the Terriswoman still bothered him. You are a fool, Elend Venture….

  So far, neither of the kings had responded to Elend’s requests for a meeting—though the crew was sure that they soon would. His enemies would wait, to make Elend sweat a bit. The Assembly had just called another meeting, probably to try and bully him into releasing them from their earlier proposal. Elend had found a convenient reason to skip the meeting.

  He looked at Clubs. “And am I a good king, Clubs? In your opinion.”

  The general glanced at him, and Elend saw a harsh wisdom in his eyes. “I’ve known worse leaders,” he said. “But I’ve also known a hell of a lot better.”

  Elend nodded slowly. “I want to be good at this, Clubs. Nobody else is going to look after the skaa like they deserve. Cett, Straff. They’d just make slaves of the people again. I…I want to be more than my ideas, though. I want to—need to—be a man that others can look to.”

  Clubs shrugged. “My experience has been that the man is usually made by the situation. Kelsier was a selfish dandy until the Pits nearly broke him.” He glanced at Elend. “Will this siege be your Pits of Hathsin, Elend Venture?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

  “Then we’ll have to wait and see, I guess. For now, someone wants to speak with you.” He turned, nodding down toward the street some forty feet below, where a tall, feminine figure stood in colorful Terris robes.

  “She told me to send you down,” Clubs said. He paused, then glanced at Elend. “It isn’t often you meet someone who feels like they can order me around. And a Terriswoman at that. I thought those Terris were all docile and kindly.”

  Elend smiled. “I guess Sazed spoiled us.”

  Clubs snorted. “So much for a thousand years of breeding, eh?”

  Elend nodded.

  “You sure she’s safe?” Clubs asked.

  “Yes,” Elend said. “Her story checks out—Vin brought in several of the Terris people from the city, and they knew and recognized Tindwyl. She’s apparently a fairly important person back in her homeland.”

  Plus, she had performed Feruchemy for him, growing stronger to free her hands. That meant she wasn’t a kandra. All of it together meant that she was trustworthy enough; even Vin admitted that, even if she continued to dislike the Terriswoman.

  Clubs nodded to him, and Elend took a deep breath. Then he walked down the stairs to meet Tindwyl for another round of lessons.

  “Today, we will do something about your clothing,” Tindwyl said, closing the door to Elend’s study. A plump seamstress with bowl-cut white hair waited inside, standing respectfully with a group of youthful assistants.

  Elend glanced down at his clothing. It actually wasn’t bad. The suit coat and vest fit fairly well. The trousers weren’t as stiff as those favored by imperial nobility, but he was the king now; shouldn’t he be able to set the trends?

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with it,” he said. He held up a hand as Tindwyl began to speak. “I know it’s not quite as formal as what other men like to wear, but it suits me.”

  “It’s disgraceful,” Tindwyl said.

  “Now, I hardly see—”

  “Don’t argue with me.”

  “But, see, the other day you said that—”

  “Kings don’t argue, Elend Venture,” Tindwyl said firmly. “They command. And, part of your ability to command comes from your bearing. Slovenly clothing invites other slovenly habits—such as your posture, which I’ve already mentioned, I believe.”

  Elend sighed, rolling his eyes as Tindwyl snapped her fingers. The seamstress and her assistants started unpacking a pair of large trunks.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Elend said. “I already have some suits that fit more snugly; I wear them on formal occasions.”


  “You’re not going to wear suits anymore,” Tindwyl said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Tindwyl eyed him with a commanding stare, and Elend sighed.

  “Explain yourself!” he said, trying to sound commanding.

  Tindwyl nodded. “You have maintained the dress code preferred by the nobility sanctioned by the Final Emperor. In some respects, this was a good idea—it gave you a connection to the former government, and made you seem less of a deviant. Now, however, you are in a different position. Your people are in danger, and the time for simple diplomacy is over. You are at war. Your dress should reflect that.”

  The seamstress selected a particular costume, then brought it over to Elend while the assistants set up a changing screen.

  Elend hesitantly accepted the costume. It was stiff and white, and the front of the jacket appeared to button all the way up to a rigid collar. All and all, it looked like…

  “A uniform,” he said, frowning.

  “Indeed,” Tindwyl said. “You want your people to believe that you can protect them? Well, a king isn’t simply a lawmaker—he’s a general. It is time you began to act like you deserve your title, Elend Venture.”

  “I’m no warrior,” Elend said. “This uniform is a lie.”

  “The first point we will soon change,” Tindwyl said. “The second is not true. You command the armies of the Central Dominance. That makes you a military man whether or not you know how to swing a sword. Now, go change.”

  Elend acceded with a shrug. He walked around the changing screen, pushed aside a stack of books to make room, then began to change. The white trousers fit snugly and fell straight around the calves. While there was a shirt, it was completely obscured by the large, stiff jacket—which had military shoulder fittings. It had an array of buttons—all of which, he noticed, were wood instead of metal—as well as a strange shieldlike design over the right breast. It seemed to have some sort of arrow, or perhaps spear, emblazoned in it.

  Stiffness, cut, and design considered, Elend was surprised how well the uniform fit. “It’s sized quite well,” he noted, putting on the belt, then pulling down the bottom of the jacket, which came all the way to his hips.

  “We got your measurements from your tailor,” Tindwyl said.

  Elend stepped around the changing screen, and several assistants approached. One politely motioned for him to step into a pair of shiny black boots, and the other attached a white cape to fastenings at his shoulders. The final assistant handed him a polished hardwood dueling cane and sheath. Elend hooked it onto the belt, then pulled it through a slit in the jacket so it hung outside; that much, at least, he had done before.

  “Good,” Tindwyl said, looking him up and down. “Once you learn to stand up straight, that will be a decent improvement. Now, sit.”

  Elend opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. He sat down, and an assistant approached to attach a sheet around his shoulders. She then pulled out a pair of shears.

  “Now, wait,” Elend said. “I see where this is going.”

  “Then voice an objection,” Tindwyl said. “Don’t be vague!”

  “All right, then,” Elend said. “I like my hair.”

  “Short hair is easier to care for than long hair,” Tindwyl said. “And you have proven that you cannot be trusted in the area of personal grooming.”

  “You aren’t cutting my hair,” Elend said firmly.

  Tindwyl paused, then nodded. The apprentice backed away, and Elend stood, pulling off the sheet. The seamstress produced a large mirror, and Elend walked forward to inspect himself.

  And froze.

  The difference was surprising. All his life, he’d seen himself as a scholar and socialite, but also as just a bit of a fool. He was Elend—the friendly, comfortable man with the funny ideas. Easy to dismiss, perhaps, but difficult to hate.

  The man he saw now was no dandy of the court. He was a serious man—a formal man. A man to be taken seriously. The uniform made him want to stand up straighter, to rest one hand on the dueling cane. His hair—slightly curled, long on the top and sides, and blown loose by the wind atop the city wall—didn’t fit.

  Elend turned. “All right,” he said. “Cut it.”

  Tindwyl smiled, then nodded for him to sit. He did so, waiting quietly while the assistant worked. When he stood again, his head matched the suit. It wasn’t extremely short, not like Ham’s hair, but it was neat and precise. One of the assistants approached and handed him a loop of silver-painted wood. He turned to Tindwyl, frowning.

  “A crown?” he asked.

  “Nothing ostentatious,” Tindwyl said. “This is a more subtle era than some of those gone by. The crown isn’t a symbol of your wealth, but of your authority. You will wear it from now on, whether you are in private or in public.”

  “The Lord Ruler didn’t wear a crown.”

  “The Lord Ruler didn’t need to remind people that he was in charge,” Tindwyl said.

  Elend paused, then slipped on the crown. It bore no gemstones or ornamentation; it was just a simple coronet. As he might have expected, it fit perfectly.

  He turned back toward Tindwyl, who waved for the seamstress to pack up and leave. “You have six uniforms like this one waiting for you in your rooms,” Tindwyl said. “Until this siege is over, you will wear nothing else. If you want variety, change the color of the cape.”

  Elend nodded. Behind him, the seamstress and her assistants slipped out the door. “Thank you,” he told Tindwyl. “I was hesitant at first, but you are right. This makes a difference.”

  “Enough of one to deceive people for now, at least,” Tindwyl said.

  “Deceive people?”

  “Of course. You didn’t think that this was it, did you?”

  “Well…”

  Tindwyl raised an eyebrow. “A few lessons, and you think you’re through? We’ve barely begun. You are still a fool, Elend Venture—you just don’t look like one anymore. Hopefully, our charade will begin reversing some of the damage you’ve done to your reputation. However, it is going to take a lot more training before I’ll actually trust you to interact with people and not embarrass yourself.”

  Elend flushed. “What do you—” He paused. “Tell me what you plan to teach me, then.”

  “Well, you need to learn how to walk, for one thing.”

  “Something’s wrong with the way I walk?”

  “By the forgotten gods, yes!” Tindwyl said, sounding amused, though no smile marred her lips. “And your speech patterns still need work. Beyond that, of course, there is your inability to handle weapons.”

  “I’ve had some training,” Elend said. “Ask Vin—I rescued her from the Lord Ruler’s palace the night of the Collapse!”

  “I know,” Tindwyl said. “And, from what I’ve heard, it was a miracle you survived. Fortunately, the girl was there to do the actual fighting. You apparently rely on her quite a bit for that sort of thing.”

  “She’s Mistborn.”

  “That is no excuse for your slovenly lack of skill,” Tindwyl said. “You cannot always rely on your woman to protect you. Not only is it embarrassing, but your people—your soldiers—will expect you to be able to fight with them. I doubt you will ever be the type of leader who can lead a charge against the enemy, but you should at least be able to handle yourself if your position gets attacked.”

  “So, you want me to begin sparring with Vin and Ham during their training sessions?”

  “Goodness, no! Can’t you imagine how terrible it would be for morale if the men saw you being beaten up in public?” Tindwyl shook her head. “No, we’ll have you trained discreetly by a dueling master. Given a few months, we should have you competent with the cane and the sword. Hopefully, this little siege of yours will last that long before the fighting starts.”

  Elend flushed again. “You keep talking down to me. It’s like I’m not even king in your eyes—like you see me as some kind of placeholder.”

  Tindwyl didn’t answer,
but her eyes glinted with satisfaction. You said it, not I, her expression seemed to say.

  Elend flushed more deeply.

  “You can, perhaps, learn to be a king, Elend Venture,” Tindwyl said. “Until then, you’ll just have to learn to fake it.”

  Elend’s angry response was cut off by a knock at the door. Elend gritted his teeth, turning. “Come in.”

  The door swung open. “There’s news,” Captain Demoux said, his youthful face excited as he entered. “I—” He froze.

  Elend cocked his head. “Yes?”

  “I…uh…” Demoux paused, looked Elend over again before continuing. “Ham sent me, Your Majesty. He says that a messenger from one of the kings has arrived.”

  “Really?” Elend said. “From Lord Cett?”

  “No, Your Majesty. The messenger is from your father.”

  Elend frowned. “Well, tell Ham I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Demoux said, retreating. “Uh, I like the new uniform, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Demoux,” Elend said. “Do you, by chance, know where Lady Vin is? I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “I think she’s in her quarters, Your Majesty.”

  Her quarters? She never stays there. Is she sick?

  “Do you want me to summon her?” Demoux asked.

  “No, thank you,” Elend said. “I’ll get her. Tell Ham to make the messenger comfortable.”

  Demoux nodded, then withdrew.

  Elend turned to Tindwyl, who was smiling to herself with a look of satisfaction. Elend brushed by her, walking over to grab his notebook. “I’m going to learn to do more than just ‘fake’ being king, Tindwyl.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Elend shot a glance at the middle-aged Terriswoman in her robes and jewelry.

  “Practice expressions like that one,” Tindwyl noted, “and you just might do it.”

  “Is that all it is, then?” Elend asked. “Expressions and costumes? Is that what makes a king?”