The Mistborn Trilogy

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Lord Elend!” said a man sitting at the head of the army contingent. “You’re ahead of schedule!”

  “I assume you’re ready anyway, General,” Elend said, dismounting.

  “Well, you know me,” Demoux said, smiling as he approached. The general wore well-used armor of leather and steel, his face bearing a scar on one cheek, the left side of his scalp missing a large patch of hair where a koloss blade had nearly taken his head. Ever formal, the grizzled man bowed to Elend, who just slapped him on the shoulder affectionately.

  Vin’s smile lingered. I remember when that man was little more than a fresh recruit standing frightened in a tunnel. Demoux wasn’t actually that much older than she was, even though his tanned face and callused hands gave that impression.

  “We’ve held position, my lord,” Demoux said as Fatren and his brother dismounted and joined the group. “Not that there was much to hold it against. Still, it was good for my men to practice fortifying a camp.”

  Indeed, the army’s camp beside the canal was surrounded by heaped earth and spikes—a considerable feat, considering the army’s size.

  “You did well, Demoux,” Elend said, turning back to look over the townspeople. “Our mission was a success.”

  “I can see that, my lord,” Demoux said, smiling. “That’s a fair pack of koloss you picked up. I hope the Inquisitor leading them wasn’t too sad to see them go.”

  “Couldn’t have bothered him too much,” Elend said. “Since he was dead at the time. We found the storage cavern as well.”

  “Praise the Survivor!” Demoux said.

  Vin frowned. At his neck, hanging outside his clothing, Demoux wore a necklace that bore a small silver spear: the increasingly popular symbol of the Church of the Survivor. It seemed odd to her that the weapon that had killed Kelsier would become the symbol of his followers.

  Of course, she didn’t like to think about the other possibility—that the spear might not represent the one that had killed Kelsier. It might very well represent the one that she herself had used to kill the Lord Ruler. She’d never asked Demoux which it was. Despite three years of growing Church power, Vin had never become comfortable with her own part in its doctrine.

  “Praise the Survivor indeed,” Elend said, looking over the army’s supply barges. “How did your project go?”

  “Dredging the southern bend?” Demoux asked. “It went well—there was blessed little else to do while we waited. You should be able to get barges through there now.”

  “Good,” Elend said. “Form two task forces of five hundred men. Send one with barges back to Vetitan for the supplies we had to leave down in that cavern. They will transfer the supplies to the barges and send them up to Luthadel.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Demoux said.

  “Send the second group of soldiers north to Luthadel with these refugees,” Elend said, nodding to Fatren. “This is Lord Fatren. He’s in command of the townspeople. Have your men respect his wishes, as long as they are reasonable, and introduce him to Lord Penrod.”

  Once—not long ago—Fatren would probably have complained about being handed off. However, his time with Elend had transformed him surprisingly quickly. The dirty leader nodded gratefully at the escort. “You . . . aren’t coming with us then, my lord?”

  Elend shook his head. “I have other work to do, and your people need to get to Luthadel, where they can begin farming. Though, if any of your men wish to join my army, they are welcome. I’m always in need of good troops, and against the odds, you succeeded in training a useful force.”

  “My lord . . . why not just compel them? Pardon me, but that’s what you’ve done so far.”

  “I compelled your people to safety, Fatren,” Elend said. “Sometimes even a drowning man will fight the one who tries to save him and must be compelled. My army is a different matter. Men who don’t want to fight are men you can’t depend on in battle, and I won’t have any of those in my army. You yourself need to go to Luthadel—your people need you—but please let your soldiers know that I will gladly welcome any of them into our ranks.”

  Fatren nodded. “All right. And . . . thank you, my lord.”

  “You are welcome. Now, General Demoux, are Sazed and Breeze back yet?”

  “They should arrive sometime this evening, my lord,” Demoux said. “One of their men rode ahead to let us know.”

  “Good,” Elend said. “I assume my tent is ready?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Demoux said.

  Elend nodded, suddenly looking very tired to Vin.

  “My lord?” Demoux asked eagerly. “Did you find the . . . other item? The location of the final cache?”

  Elend nodded. “It’s in Fadrex.”

  “Cett’s city?” Demoux asked, laughing. “Well, he’ll be happy to hear that. He’s been complaining for over a year that we haven’t ever gotten around to conquering it back for him.”

  Elend smiled wanly. “I’ve been half convinced that if we did, Cett would decide that he—and his soldiers—didn’t need us anymore.”

  “He’ll stay, my lord,” Demoux said. “After the scare Lady Vin gave him last year . . .”

  Demoux glanced at Vin, trying to smile, but she saw it in his eyes. Respect, far too much of it. He didn’t joke with her the way he did with Elend. She still couldn’t believe that Elend had joined that silly religion of theirs. Elend’s intentions had been political—by joining the skaa faith, Elend had forged a link between himself and the common people. Even so, the move made her uncomfortable.

  A year of marriage had taught her, however, that there were some things one just had to ignore. She could love Elend for his desire to do the right thing, even when she thought he’d done the opposite.

  “Call a meeting this evening, Demoux,” Elend said. “We have much to discuss—and let me know when Sazed arrives.”

  “Should I inform Lord Hammond and the others of the meeting’s agenda, my lord?”

  Elend paused, glancing toward the ashen sky. “Conquering the world, Demoux,” he finally said. “Or, at least, what’s left of it.”

  Allomancy was, indeed, born with the mists. Or, at least, Allomancy began at the same time as the mists’ first appearances. When Rashek took the power at the Well of Ascension, he became aware of certain things. Some were whispered to him by Ruin; others were granted to him as an instinctive part of the power.

  One of these was an understanding of the Three Metallic Arts. He knew, for instance, that the nuggets of metal in the Chamber of Ascension would make those who ingested them into Mistborn. These were, after all, fractions of the very power in the Well itself.

  9

  TENSOON HAD VISITED the Trustwarren before; he was of the Third Generation. He had been born seven centuries ago, when the kandra were still new—though by that time, the First Generation had already given over the raising of new kandra to the Second Generation.

  The Seconds hadn’t done very well with TenSoon’s generation—or, at least, that was how the Seconds felt. They’d wanted to form a society of individuals who followed strict rules of respect and seniority. A “perfect” people who lived to serve their Contracts—and, of course, the members of the Second Generation.

  Up until his return, TenSoon had generally been considered one of the least troublesome of the Thirds. He’d been known as a kandra who cared little for Homeland politics; one who served out his Contracts, content to keep himself as far away from the Seconds and their machinations as possible. It was ironic indeed that TenSoon would end up on trial for the most heinous of kandra crimes.

  His guards marched him right into the center of the Trustwarren—onto the platform itself. TenSoon wasn’t certain whether to be honored or ashamed. Even as a member of the Third Generation, he hadn’t often been allowed so near the Trust.

  The room was large and circular, with metal walls. The platform was a massive steel disk set into the rock floor. It wasn’t very high—perhaps a foot tall—but it was ten feet in diameter. TenSoon’s
feet felt cold hitting its slick surface, and he was reminded again of his nudity. They didn’t bind his hands; that would have been too much of an insult even for him. Kandra obeyed the Contract, even those of the Third Generation. He would not run, and he would not strike down one of his own. He was better than that.

  The room was lit by lamps, rather than glowstone, though each lamp was enclosed in blue glass. Oil was difficult to get—the Second Generation, for good reason, didn’t want to rely on supplies from the world of men. The people above, even most of the Father’s servants, didn’t know there was a centralized kandra government. It was much better that way.

  In the blue light, TenSoon could easily see the members of the Second Generation—all twenty of them, standing behind their lecterns, arranged in tiers on the far side of the room. They were close enough to see, study, and speak to—yet far enough away that TenSoon felt isolated, standing alone in the center of the platform. His feet were cold. He looked down, and noticed the small hole in the floor near his toes. It was cut into the steel disk of the platform.

  The Trust, he thought. It was directly underneath him.

  “TenSoon of the Third Generation,” a voice said.

  TenSoon looked up. It was KanPaar, of course. He was a tall kandra—or, rather, he preferred to use a tall True Body. Like all of the Seconds, his bones were constructed of the purest crystal—his with a deep red tint. It was an impractical body in many ways. Those bones wouldn’t stand up to much punishment. Yet, for the life of an administrator in the Homeland, the weakness of the bones was apparently an acceptable trade-off for their sparkling beauty.

  “I am here,” TenSoon said.

  “You insist on forcing this trial?” KanPaar said, keeping his voice lofty, reinforcing his thick accent. By staying away from humans for so long, his language hadn’t been corrupted by their dialects. The Seconds’ accents were similar to that of the Father, supposedly.

  “Yes,” TenSoon said.

  KanPaar sighed audibly, standing behind his fine stone lectern. Finally, he bowed his head toward the upper reaches of the room. The First Generation watched from above. They sat in their individual alcoves running around the perimeter of the upper room, shadowed to the point where they were little more than humanoid lumps. They did not speak. That was for the Seconds.

  The doors behind TenSoon opened, and hushed voices sounded, feet rustling. He turned, smiling to himself as he watched them enter. Kandra of various sizes and ages. The very youngest ones wouldn’t be allowed to attend an event this important, but those of the adult generations—everyone up through the Ninth Generation—could not be denied. This was his victory, perhaps the only one he would have in the entire trial.

  If he was to be condemned to endless imprisonment, then he wanted his people to know the truth. More important, he wanted them to hear this trial, to hear what he had to say. He would not convince the Second Generation, and who knew what the Firsts would silently think, sitting in their shadowed alcoves? The younger kandra, however . . . perhaps they would listen. Perhaps they would do something, once TenSoon was gone. He watched them file in, filling the stone benches. There were hundreds of kandra now. The elder generations—Firsts, Seconds, Thirds—were small in number, since many had been killed in the early days, when the humans had feared them. However, later generations were well populated—the Tenth Generation had over a hundred individuals in it. The Trustwarren’s benches had been constructed to hold the entire kandra population, but they were now filled just by those who happened to be free from both duty and Contract.

  He had hoped that MeLaan wouldn’t be in that group. Yet, she was virtually the first in the doors. For a moment, he worried that she’d rush across the chamber—stepping on the platform, where only the most blessed or cursed were allowed. Instead, she froze just inside the doorway, forcing others to push around her in annoyance as they found seats.

  He shouldn’t have recognized her. She had a new True Body—an eccentric one, with bones made of wood. They were thin and willowy in an exaggerated, unnatural way: her wooden skull long with a pointed triangular chin, her eyes too large, twisted bits of cloth sticking from her head like hair. The younger generations were pushing the boundaries of propriety, annoying the Seconds. Once, TenSoon would probably have agreed with them—even now, he was something of a traditionalist. Yet, this day, her rebellious body simply made him smile.

  That seemed to give her comfort, and she found a seat, near the front, with a group of other Seventh Generationers. They all had deformed True Bodies—one too much like a block, another actually sporting four arms.

  “TenSoon of the Third Generation,” KanPaar said formally, quieting the crowd of watching kandra. “You have obstinately demanded judgment before the First Generation. By the First Contract, we cannot condemn you without first allowing you the opportunity to plead before the Firsts. Should they see fit to stay your punishment, you will be freed. Otherwise, you must accept the fate the Council of Seconds assigns you.”

  “I understand,” TenSoon said.

  “Then,” KanPaar said, leaning forward on his lectern. “Let us begin.”

  He’s not worried at all, TenSoon realized. He actually sounds like he’s going to enjoy this.

  And why not? After centuries of preaching that the Third Generation is filled with miscreants? They’ve tried all this time to overcome their mistakes with us—mistakes like giving us too much freedom, letting us think that we were as good as they were. By proving that I—the most “temperate” of the Thirds—am a danger, KanPaar will win a struggle he’s been fighting for most of his life.

  TenSoon had always found it strange how threatened the Seconds felt by the Thirds. It had taken them only one generation to understand their mistakes—the Fourths were nearly as loyal as the Fifths, with only a few deviant members.

  And yet, with some of the younger generations—MeLaan and her friends providing an example—acting as they did . . . well, perhaps the Seconds had a right to feel threatened. And TenSoon was to be their sacrifice. Their way of restoring order and orthodoxy.

  They were certainly in for a surprise.

  Nuggets of pure Allomancy, the power of Preservation itself. Why Rashek left one of those nuggets at the Well of Ascension, I do not know. Perhaps he didn’t see it, or perhaps he intended to save it to bestow upon a fortunate servant.

  Perhaps he feared that someday, he would lose his powers, and would need that nugget to grant him Allomancy. Either way, I bless Rashek for his oversight, for without that nugget, Elend would have died that day at the Well.

  10

  LARSTAISM WAS A DIFFICULT one for Sazed to measure. The religion seemed innocent enough. They knew much about it; a Keeper during the fourth century had managed to uncover an entire trove of prayer materials, scriptures, notes, and writings which had once belonged to a high-ranking member of the religion.

  And yet, the religion itself didn’t seem very . . . well, religious. It had focused on art, not the sacred in the usual sense, and had centered around donating money to support monks so that they could compose poetry and paint and sculpt works of art. That, actually, blocked Sazed’s attempts to dismiss it, as he couldn’t find any contradictions in its doctrines. It just didn’t have enough of those for them to conflict with one another.

  He held the paper in front of him, shaking his head, reading over the sheet again. It was strapped to the front of the portfolio to keep it from being caught in the wind, and a parasol strapped to his saddle kept most of the ash from smearing the page. He had heard Vin complain that she didn’t know how people could possibly read while riding a horse, but this method made it rather easy.

  He didn’t have to turn pages. He simply read the same words over and over, turning them in his mind, playing with them. Trying to decide. Did this one have the truth? It was the one that Mare, Kelsier’s wife, had believed. She’d been one of the few people Sazed had ever met who had chosen to believe in one of the old religions he had preached.
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  The Larsta believed that life was about seeking the divine, he read. They taught that art draws us closer to understanding divinity. Since not all men can spend their time in art, it is to the benefit of society as a whole to support a group of dedicated artists to create great works, which then elevate those who experience them.

  That was all well and good, in Sazed’s estimation, but what about questions of life and death? What about the spirit? What was the divine, and how could such terrible things happen to the world if divinity did exist?

  “You know,” Breeze said from the saddle of his horse, “there’s something amazing about all of this.”

  The comment broke Sazed’s concentration. He sighed, looking up from his research. The horse continued to clop along beneath him. “Amazing about what, Lord Breeze?”

  “The ash,” Breeze said. “I mean, look at it. Covering everything, making the land look so black. It’s simply astounding how dreary the landscape has become. Back in the Lord Ruler’s reign, everything was brown, and most plants grown outdoors looked as if they were on the very edge of sickly death. I thought that was depressing. But ash falling every day, burying the entire land . . .” The Soother shook his head, smiling. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible for things to actually be worse without the Lord Ruler. But, well, we’ve certainly made a mess! Destroying the world. That’s no mean feat, if you think about it. I wonder if we should be impressed with ourselves.”

  Sazed frowned. Occasional flakes drifted from the sky, the upper atmosphere darkened by its usual dark haze. The ashfall was light, if persistent, falling steadily for nearly two months now. Their horses moved through a good half-foot of the stuff as they moved southward, accompanied by a hundred of Elend’s soldiers. How long would it be before the ash grew so deep that travel was impossible? It already drifted several feet high in some places.