He did not disparage the people who had followed the religions, but Sazed—so far—had found only contradiction and hypocrisy in each religion he studied. Divinity was supposed to be perfect. Divinity didn’t let its followers get slaughtered, and certainly didn’t allow the world to be destroyed by good men who were just trying to save it.
One of the remaining ones would provide an answer. There had to be truth he could discover. As his feelings of dark suffocation threatened to overwhelm him, he fell to his studies, taking out the next sheet in line and strapping it to the outside of the portfolio. He would study it as he walked, carrying the portfolio with the sheet on the bottom when he wasn’t reading, thereby keeping the ash off of it.
He’d find the answers. He dared not think what he would do if there weren’t any.
They eventually passed into the Central Dominance, entering lands where men could still struggle for food and life. Breeze and Allrianne stayed in the carriage, but Sazed was glad to walk, even if it made his religions difficult to study.
He wasn’t certain what to make of the cultivated fields. They passed scores of them—Elend had packed as many people as possible into the Central Dominance, then had ordered all of them to grow food for the coming winter. Even those skaa who had lived in the cities were well accustomed to hard work, and they quickly did as Elend ordered. Sazed wasn’t certain if the people understood just how dire their situation was, or if they were simply happy to have someone tell them what to do.
The roadside grew heaped with tall piles of ash. Each day, the skaa workers had to clear away the ash that had fallen during the night. This unending task—along with the need to carry water to most of the new, unirrigated fields—created a very labor-intensive system of agriculture.
The plants did grow, however. Sazed’s troop passed field after field, each one budding with brown plants. The sight should have brought him hope. Yet, it was difficult to look upon the sprouting stalks and not feel an even greater despair. They looked so weak and small beside the massive piles of ash. Even forgetting the mists, how was Elend going to feed an empire in these conditions? How long would it be before there was simply too much ash to move? Skaa worked the fields, their postures much as they had been during the days of the Lord Ruler. What had really changed for them?
“Look at them,” a voice said. Sazed turned to see Captain Goradel walking up beside him. Bald and rugged, the man had a good-natured disposition—a trait common in the soldiers whom Ham promoted.
“I know,” Sazed said quietly.
“Even with the ash and the mist, seeing them gives me hope.”
Sazed looked up sharply. “Really?”
“Sure,” Goradel said. “My family were farmers, Master Terrisman. We lived in Luthadel, but worked the outer fields.”
“But, you were a soldier,” Sazed said. “Weren’t you the one who led Lady Vin into the palace the night she killed the Lord Ruler?”
Goradel nodded. “Actually, I led Lord Elend into the palace to rescue Lady Vin, though she turned out to not need much help from us. Anyway, you’re right. I was a soldier in the Lord Ruler’s palace—my parents disowned me when I joined up. But, I just couldn’t face working in the fields my whole life.”
“It is arduous work.”
“No, it wasn’t that,” Goradel said. “It wasn’t the labor, it was the . . . hopelessness. I couldn’t stand to work all day to grow something I knew would belong to someone else. That’s why I left the fields to become a soldier, and that’s why seeing these farms gives me hope.”
Goradel nodded toward a passing field. Some of the skaa looked up, then waved as they saw Elend’s banner. “These people,” Goradel said, “they work because they want to.”
“They work because if they don’t, they will starve.”
“Sure,” Goradel said. “I guess you’re right. But they’re not working because someone will beat them if they don’t—they’re working so that their families and their friends won’t die. There’s a difference in that, to a farmer. You can see it in the way they stand.”
Sazed frowned as they walked, but said nothing further.
“Anyway, Master Terrisman,” Goradel said, “I came to suggest that we make a stop at Luthadel for supplies.”
Sazed nodded. “I suspected that we would do so. I, however, will need to leave you for a few days as you go to Luthadel. Lord Breeze can take command. I shall meet up with you on the northern highway.”
Goradel nodded, moving back to make the arrangements. He didn’t ask why Sazed wanted to leave the group, or what his destination was.
Several days later, Sazed arrived—alone—at the Pits of Hathsin. There was little to distinguish the area, now that the ash covered everything. Sazed’s feet kicked up clumps of it as he moved to the top of a hill. He looked down on the valley that contained the Pits—the place where Kelsier’s wife had been murdered. The place where the Survivor had been born.
It was now the home of the Terris people.
There were few of them remaining. They had never been a very large population, and the coming of the mists and the difficult trek down to the Central Dominance had claimed many lives. There were, perhaps, forty thousand of them left. And a good many of the men were eunuchs, like Sazed.
Sazed moved down the slope toward the valley. It had been a natural place to settle the Terris people. During the days of the Lord Ruler, hundreds of slaves had worked here, watched over by hundreds more soldiers. That had ended when Kelsier had returned to the Pits and destroyed their ability to produce atium. However, the Pits still had the buildings and infrastructure that had supported them during their working days. There was plenty of fresh water, and some shelter. The Terris people had improved on this, building other structures across the valley, making what was once the most terrifying of prison camps into a pastoral group of villages.
Even as Sazed walked down the hillside, he could see people brushing away the ash from the ground, letting the natural plant life poke through to provide grazing for the animals. The scrub that formed the dominant foliage in the Central Dominance was a resilient, hardy group of plants, and they were adapted to ash, and didn’t need as much water as farm crops. That meant that the Terris people actually had easier lives than most. They were herdsman, as they had been even during the centuries before the Lord Ruler’s Ascension. A hearty, short-legged breed of sheep mulled about on the hills, chewing down the uncovered stalks of scrub.
The Terris people, Sazed thought, living lives easier than most. What a strange world it has become.
His approach soon attracted attention. Children ran for their parents, and heads poked from shacks. Sheep began to gather around Sazed as he walked, as if hoping that he had come bearing treats of some sort.
Several aged men rushed up the hillside, moving as quickly as their gnarled limbs would allow. They—like Sazed—still wore their steward’s robes. And, like Sazed, they kept them cleaned of ash, showing the colorful V-shaped patterns that ran down the fronts. Those patterns had once indicated the noble house that the steward served.
“Lord Sazed!” one of the men said eagerly.
“Your Majesty!” said another.
Your Majesty. “Please,” Sazed said, raising his hands. “Do not call me that.”
The two aged stewards glanced at each other. “Please, Master Keeper. Let us get you something warm to eat.”
Yes, the ash was black. No, it should not have been. Most common ash has a dark component, but is just as much gray or white as it is black.
Ash from the ashmounts . . . it was different. Like the mists themselves, the ash covering our land was not truly a natural thing. Perhaps it was the influence of Ruin’s power—as black as Preservation was white. Or, perhaps it was simply the nature of the ashmounts, which were designed and created specifically to blast ash and smoke into the sky.
19
“GET UP!”
Everything was dark.
“Get up!”
Spo
ok opened his eyes. Everything seemed so dull, so muted. He could barely see. The world was a dark blur. And . . . he felt numb. Dead. Why couldn’t he feel?
“Spook, you need to get up!”
The voice, at least, was clear. Yet, everything else felt muddy. He couldn’t quite manage to think. He blinked, groaning quietly. What was wrong with him? His spectacles and cloth were gone. That should have left him free to see, but everything was so dark.
He was out of tin.
There was nothing burning in his stomach. The familiar flame, a comforting candle within, was no longer there. It had been his companion for over a year, always there. He’d feared what he was doing, but had never let it die. And now it was gone.
That was why everything seemed so dull. Was this really how other people lived? How he used to live? He could barely see—the sharp, rich detail he’d grown accustomed to was gone. The vibrant colors and crisp lines. Instead, everything was bland and vague.
His ears felt clogged. His nose . . . he couldn’t smell the boards beneath him, couldn’t tell the species of wood by scent. He couldn’t smell the bodies that had passed. He couldn’t feel the thumpings of people moving about in other rooms.
And . . . he was in a room. He shook his head, sitting up, trying to think. Immediately, a pain in his shoulder made him gasp. The wound had not been cared for. He remembered the sword piercing him near the shoulder. That was not a wound one recovered from easily—indeed, his left arm didn’t seem to work right, one of the reasons he was having so much trouble rising.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the voice said. “You’ll die soon, even if the flames don’t take you. Don’t bother to look for the pouch of tin at your belt—they took that.”
“Flames?” Spook croaked, blinking. How did people survive in a world that was this dark?
“Can’t you feel them, Spook? They’re near.”
There was a light nearby, down a hallway. Spook shook his head, trying to clear his mind. I’m in a house, he thought. A nice one. A nobleman’s house.
And they’re burning it down.
This, finally, gave him motivation to stand, though he immediately dropped again, his body too weak—his mind too fuzzy—to keep him on his feet.
“Don’t walk,” the voice said. Where had he heard that voice before? He trusted it. “Crawl,” it said.
Spook did as commanded, crawling forward.
“No, not toward the flames! You have to get out, so you can punish those who did this to you. Think, Spook!”
“Window,” Spook croaked, turning to the side, crawling toward one of them.
“Boarded shut,” the voice said. “You saw this before, from the outside. There’s only one way to survive. You have to listen to me.”
Spook nodded dully.
“Go out the room’s other door. Crawl toward the stairs leading to the second floor.”
Spook did so, forcing himself to keep moving. His arms were so numb they felt like weights tied to his shoulders. He’d been flaring tin so long that normal senses just didn’t seem to work for him anymore. He found the stairs, though he was coughing by the time he got there. That would be because of the smoke, a part of his mind told him. It was probably a good thing he was crawling.
He could feel the heat as he climbed. The flames seemed to be chasing him, claiming the room behind him as he moved up the stairs, still dizzy. He reached the top, then slipped on his own blood, slumping against the side of the wall, groaning.
“Get up!” the voice said.
Where have I heard that voice before? he thought again. Why do I want to do what it says? It was so close. He’d have it, if his mind weren’t so muddled. Yet, he obeyed, forcing himself to his hands and knees again.
“Second room on the left,” the voice commanded.
Spook crawled without thinking. Flames crept up the stairs, flickering across the walls. His nose was weak, like his other senses, but he suspected that the house had been soaked with oil. It made for a faster, more dramatic burn that way.
“Stop. This is the room.”
Spook turned left, crawling into the room. It was a study, well furnished. The thieves in the city complained that ransacking places like this one wasn’t worth the effort. The Citizen forbade ostentation, and so expensive furniture couldn’t be sold, even on the black market. Nobody wanted to be caught owning luxuries, lest they end up burning to death in one of the Citizen’s executions.
“Spook!”
Spook had heard of those executions. He’d never seen one. He’d paid Durn to keep an eye out for the next one. Spook’s coin would get him advance warning, as well as a good position to watch the building burn down. Plus, Durn promised he had another tidbit, something Spook would be interested in. Something worth the coin he’d paid.
Count the skulls.
“Spook!”
Spook opened his eyes. He’d fallen to the floor and begun to drift off. Flames were already burning the ceiling. The building was dying. There was no way Spook would get out, not in his current condition.
“Go to the desk,” the voice commanded.
“I’m dead,” Spook whispered.
“No you’re not. Go to the desk.”
Spook turned his head, looking at the flames. A figure stood in them, a dark silhouette. The walls dripped, bubbled, and hissed, their plaster and paints blackening. Yet, this shadow of a person didn’t seem to mind the fire. That figure seemed familiar. Tall. Commanding.
“You . . .?” Spook whispered.
“Go to the desk!”
Spook rolled to his knees. He crawled, dragging his useless arm, moving to the side of the desk.
“Right drawer.”
Spook pulled it open, then leaned against the side, slumping. Something was inside.
Vials?
He reached for them eagerly. They were the kinds of vials used by Allomancers to store metal shavings. With trembling fingers, Spook picked one up, then it slipped free of his numb fingers. It shattered. He stared at the liquid that had been inside—an alcohol solution that would keep the metal flakes from corroding, as well as help the Allomancer drink them down.
“Spook!” the voice said.
Dully, Spook took another vial. He worked off the stopper with his teeth, feeling the fires blaze around him. The far wall was nearly gone. The fires crept toward him.
He drank the contents of the vial, then searched inside of himself, seeking tin. But there was none. Spook cried out in despair, dropping the vial. It had contained no tin. How would that have saved him anyway? It would have made him feel the flames, and his wound, more acutely.
“Spook!” the voice commanded. “Burn it!”
“There is no tin!” Spook yelled.
“Not tin! The man who owned this house was no Tineye!”
Not tin. Spook blinked. Then—reaching within himself—he found something completely unexpected. Something he’d never thought to ever see, something that shouldn’t have existed.
A new metal reserve. He burned it.
His body flared with strength. His trembling arms became steady. His weakness seemed to flee, cast aside like darkness before the rising sun. He felt tension and power, and his muscles grew taut with anticipation.
“Stand!”
His head snapped up. He leaped to his feet, and this time the dizziness was gone. His mind still felt numb, but something was clear to him. Only one metal could have changed his body, making it strong enough to work despite his terrible wound and blood loss.
Spook was burning pewter.
The figure stood in the flames, dark, hard to make out. “I’ve given you the blessing of pewter, Spook,” the voice said. “Use it to escape this place. You can break through the boards on the far side of that hallway, escape out onto the roof of the building nearby. The soldiers won’t be watching for you—they’re too busy controlling the fire so it doesn’t spread.”
Spook nodded. The heat didn’t bother him anymore. “Thank you.”
The figure stepped forward, becoming more than just a silhouette. Flames played against the man’s firm face, and Spook’s suspicions were confirmed. There was a reason he’d trusted that voice, a reason why he’d done what it had said.
He’d do whatever this man commanded.
“I didn’t give you pewter just so you could live, Spook,” Kelsier said, pointing. “I gave it to you so you could get revenge. Now, go!”
More than one person reported feeling a sentient hatred in the mists. This is not necessarily related to the mists killing people, however. For most—even those it struck down—the mists seemed merely a weather phenomenon, no more sentient or vengeful than a terrible disease.
For some few, however, there was more. Those it favored, it swirled around. Those it was hostile to, it pulled away from. Some felt peace within it, others felt hatred. It all came down to Ruin’s subtle touch, and how much one responded to his promptings.
20
TENSOON SAT IN HIS CAGE.
The cage’s very existence was an insult. Kandra were not like men—even if he were not imprisoned, TenSoon would not have run or tried to escape. He had come willingly to his fate.
And yet, they locked him up. He wasn’t certain where they had gotten the cage—it certainly wasn’t something kandra normally would need. Still, the Seconds had found it and erected it in one of the main caverns of the Homeland. It was made of iron plates and hard steel bars with a strong wire mesh stretched across all four faces to keep him from reducing his body to base muscles and wriggling through. It was another insult.
TenSoon sat inside, naked on the cold iron floor. Had he accomplished anything other than his own condemnation? Had his words in the Trustwarren been of any value at all?
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