What? TenSoon thought. Sazed hadn’t even twitched at the mention of religious matters. It didn’t seem like him at all.
Yet, Sazed continued speaking, as if TenSoon hadn’t just hinted at one of the greatest religious secrets of their age.
I’ll never understand humans, he thought, shaking his head.
The prison Preservation created for Ruin was not created out of Preservation’s power, though it was of Preservation. Rather, Preservation sacrificed his consciousness—one could say his mind—to fabricate that prison. He left a shadow of himself, but Ruin, once escaped, began to suffocate and isolate this small remnant vestige of his rival. I wonder if Ruin ever thought it strange that Preservation had cut himself off from his own power, relinquishing it and leaving it in the world, to be gathered and used by men.
In Preservation’s gambit, I see nobility, cleverness, and desperation. He knew that he could not defeat Ruin. He had given too much of himself and, beyond that, he was the embodiment of stasis and stability. He could not destroy, not even to protect. It was against his nature. Hence the prison.
Mankind, however, had been created by both Ruin and Preservation—with a hint of Preservation’s own soul to give them sentience and honor. In order for the world to survive, Preservation knew he had to depend upon his creations. To give them his trust.
I wonder what he thought when those creations repeatedly failed him.
60
THE BEST WAY TO FOOL SOMEONE, in Vin’s estimation, was to give them what they wanted. Or, at the very least, what they expected. As long as they assumed that they were one step ahead, they wouldn’t look back to see if there were any steps that they’d completely missed.
Yomen had designed her prison well. Any metal used in the construction of her cot or facilities was Allomantically useless. Silver, while expensive, seemed the metal of choice—and there was very little even of that. Just a few screws in the cot that Vin managed to work free with her fingernails.
Her meals—a greasy, flavorless gruel—were served in wooden bowls, with wooden spoons. The guards were hazekillers: men who carried staves and wore no metal on their bodies, and who had been trained to fight Allomancers. Her room was a simple stone construction with a solid wooden door, its hinges and bolts made of silver.
She knew from her guards’ behavior that they expected something from her. Yomen had prepared them well, and so when they slid her food through the slit, she could see the tension in their bodies and the speed of their retreat. It was like they were feeding a viper.
So, the next time they came to take her to Yomen, she attacked.
She moved as soon as the door opened, wielding a wooden leg she’d pulled off her cot. She dropped the first guard with a club to the arm, then a second hit on the back of his head. Her blows felt weak without pewter, but it was the best she could manage. She scrambled past the second guard in line, then slammed her shoulder into the stomach of the third. She didn’t weigh much, but it was enough to get him to drop his staff—which she immediately grabbed.
Ham had spent a long time training her with the staff, and he’d often made her fight without Allomancy. Even with all of their preparation, the guards were obviously surprised to see a metalless Allomancer make so much trouble, and she dropped two more of them as she scurried to escape.
Unfortunately, Yomen was not a fool. He had sent so many guards to bring her that even dropping four of them made little difference. There had to be at least twenty men in the hallway outside her cell, clogging her exit, if nothing else.
Her goal was to give them what they expected, not get herself killed. So, as soon as she confirmed that her “escape attempt” really was doomed, she let one of the soldiers hit her on the shoulder and she dropped her staff with a grunt. Disarmed, she raised her hands and backed away. The soldiers, of course, swept her feet out from beneath her and piled on top of her, holding her down while one manacled her arms.
Vin suffered the treatment, shoulder pulsing with pain. How long would she have to go without metal before she’d stop instinctively trying to burn pewter? She hoped she’d never actually find out.
Eventually, the soldiers pulled her to her feet and pushed her down the hallway. The three she’d knocked down—not to mention the one that she’d disarmed—grumbled a bit, rubbing their wounds. All twenty men regarded her even more warily, if that was possible.
She didn’t give them any trouble until they got her into Yomen’s audience chamber. When they moved to chain her manacles to the bench, she squirmed a bit, earning herself a knee in the stomach. She gasped, then slumped to the floor beside the bench. There, groaning, she rubbed her hands and wrists with the gruel grease that she’d soaked into her undershirt. It was smelly and grimy, but it was very slick—and the guards, distracted by her escape attempt, had completely forgotten to search her.
“Surely you didn’t think to escape without any metals to burn,” Yomen asked.
Vin lifted her head. He stood with his back to her again, though this time he was looking out a dark window. Vin found it very odd to see the mists curling up against the window glass. Most skaa couldn’t afford glass, and most noblemen chose the colored kind. The darkness outside of Yomen’s window seemed a waiting beast, the mists its fur brushing against the glass as it shifted.
“I would think that you’d be flattered,” Yomen continued. “I didn’t know if you were really as dangerous as reported, but I decided to assume that you were. You see, I—”
Vin didn’t give him any more time. There were only two ways she could escape from the city: the first would be to find some metals, the second would be to take Yomen captive. She planned to try both.
She yanked her greased hands free from the manacles, which had been fastened to her arms when they were squirming and flexed. She ignored the pain and the blood as the manacles scraped her hands, then she leaped to her feet, reaching into a fold in her shirt and pulling out the silver screws that she’d taken from her cot. These, she threw at the soldiers.
The men, of course, yelled in surprise and threw themselves to the ground, ducking her presumed Steelpush. Their own preparation and worry worked against them—for Vin had no steel. The screws bounced against the wall ineffectively, and the guards lay confused by her feint. She was halfway to Yomen before the first one thought to scramble back to his feet.
Yomen turned. As always, he wore the little drop of atium at his forehead. Vin lunged for it.
Yomen stepped casually out of the way. Vin lunged again, this time feinting, then trying to elbow him in the stomach. Her attack didn’t land, however, as Yomen—hands still clasped behind his back—sidestepped her again.
She knew that look on his face—that look of complete control, of power. Yomen obviously had very little battle training, but he dodged her anyway.
He was burning atium.
Vin stumbled to a halt. No wonder he wears that bit on his forehead, she thought. It’s for emergencies. She could see in his smile that he really had anticipated her. He’d known that she would try something, and he’d baited her, letting her get close. But, he’d never really been in danger.
The guards finally caught up with her, but Yomen raised a hand, waving them back. Then he gestured toward the bench. Quietly, Vin returned and sat down. She had to think, and she certainly wasn’t going to get anywhere with Yomen burning atium.
As she sat, Ruin appeared next to her—materializing as if from dark smoke, wearing Reen’s body. None of the others reacted; they obviously couldn’t see him.
“Too bad,” Ruin said. “In a way, you almost had him. But . . . then, in a way, you were never really close, either.”
She ignored Ruin, looking up at Yomen. “You’re Mistborn.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t turn back toward his window, however. He stood facing her, wary. He’d probably turned off his atium—it was far too valuable to leave burning—but he’d have it in reserve, careful to watch her for signs of another attack.<
br />
“No?” Vin said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You were burning atium, Yomen. I saw that much.”
“Believe as you wish,” Yomen said. “But know this, woman: I do not lie. I’ve never needed lies, and I find that is particularly true now, when the entire world is in chaos. People need truth from those they follow.”
Vin frowned.
“Regardless, it is time,” Yomen said.
“Time?” Vin asked.
Yomen nodded. “Yes. I apologize for leaving you for so long in your cell. I have been . . . distracted.”
Elend, Vin thought. What has he been doing? I feel so blind!
She glanced at Ruin, who stood on the other side of the bench, shaking his head as if he understood far more than he was telling her. She turned back to Yomen. “I still don’t understand,” she said. “Time for what?”
Yomen met her eyes. “Time for me to make a decision about your execution, Lady Venture.”
Oh, she thought. Right. Between her dealings with Ruin and her plans to escape, she’d nearly forgotten Yomen’s declaration that he intended to let her “defend” herself before he executed her.
Ruin walked across the room, circling Yomen in a leisurely stroll. The obligator king stood, still meeting Vin’s eyes. If he could see Ruin, he didn’t show it. Instead, he waved to a guard, who opened a side door, leading in several obligators in gray robes. They seated themselves on a bench across the room from Vin.
“Tell me, Lady Venture,” Yomen said, turning back to her, “why did you come to Fadrex City?”
Vin cocked her head. “I thought this wasn’t to be a trial. You said that you didn’t need that sort of thing.”
“I would think,” Yomen replied, “that you would be pleased with any delay in the process.”
A delay meant more time to think—more time to possibly escape. “Why did we come?” Vin asked. “We knew you had one of the Lord Ruler’s supply caches beneath your city.”
Yomen raised an eyebrow. “How did you know about it?”
“We found another one,” Vin said. “It had directions to Fadrex.”
Yomen nodded to himself. She could tell that he believed her, but there was something . . . else. He seemed to be making connections that she didn’t understand, and probably didn’t have the information to understand. “And the danger my kingdom posed to yours?” Yomen asked. “That didn’t have anything at all to do with your invasion of my lands?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Vin said. “Cett had been pushing Elend to move into this dominance for some time.”
The obligators conferred quietly at this comment, though Yomen stood aloof, arms folded as he regarded her. Vin found the experience unnerving. It had been years—from her days in Camon’s crew—since she had felt so much in another’s power. Even when she’d faced the Lord Ruler, she’d felt differently. Yomen seemed to see her as a tool.
But a tool to do what? And, how could she manipulate his needs so that he kept her alive long enough for her to escape?
Make yourself indispensable, Reen had always taught. Then a crewleader can’t get rid of you without losing power himself. Even now, the voice of her brother still seemed to whisper the words in her mind. Were they memories, interpretations of his wisdom, or effects of Ruin’s influence? Regardless, it seemed like good advice at the moment.
“So, you came with the express purpose of invasion?” Yomen asked.
“Elend intended to try diplomacy first,” Vin said carefully. “However, we both knew that it’s a bit hard to play the diplomat when you camp an army outside of someone’s city.”
“You admit to being conquerors, then,” Yomen said. “You are more honest than your husband.”
“Elend is more sincere than either of us, Yomen,” Vin snapped. “Just because he interprets things differently from you or me does not mean he’s being dishonest when he expresses his view.”
Yomen raised an eyebrow, perhaps at the quickness of her response. “A valid point.”
Vin sat back on the bench, wrapping her cut hands with a bit of clean cloth from her shirt. Yomen stood beside the windows of the large, stark room. It felt very odd to be speaking to him. On one hand, she and he seemed very different. He was a bureaucrat obligator whose lack of muscle or warrior’s grace proved that he’d spent his life concerned with forms and records. She was a child of the streets and an adult practiced in war and assassination.
Yet, his mannerisms, his way of speaking, seemed to resemble her own. Is this what I might have been more like, she wondered, had I not been born a skaa? A blunt bureaucrat rather than a terse warrior?
As Yomen contemplated her, Ruin walked in a slow circle around the obligator king. “This one is a disappointment,” Ruin said quietly.
Vin glanced at Ruin just briefly. He shook his head. “Such destruction this one could have caused, had he struck out, rather than staying huddled in his little city, praying to his dead god. Men would have followed him. I could never get through to him on the long term, unfortunately. Not every ploy can be successful, particularly when the will of fools like him must be accounted for.”
“So,” Yomen said, drawing her attention back to him, “you came to take my city because you heard of my stockpile, and because you feared a return of the Lord Ruler’s power.”
“I didn’t say that,” Vin said, frowning.
“You said that you feared me.”
“As a foreign power,” Vin said, “with a proven ability to undermine a government and take it over.”
“I didn’t take over,” Yomen said. “I returned this city, and the dominance, to its rightful rule. But that is beside the point. I want you to tell me of this religion your people preach.”
“The Church of the Survivor?”
“Yes,” Yomen said. “You are one of its heads, correct?”
“No,” Vin said. “They revere me. But I’ve never felt that I properly fit as part of the religion. Mostly, it’s focused around Kelsier.”
“The Survivor of Hathsin,” Yomen said. “He died. How is it that people worship him?”
Vin shrugged. “It used to be common to worship gods that one couldn’t see.”
“Perhaps,” Yomen said. “I have . . . read of such things, though I find them difficult to understand. Faith in an unseen god—what sense does that make? Why reject the god that they lived with for so long—the one that they could see, and feel—in favor of one that died? One that the Lord Ruler himself struck down?”
“You do it,” Vin said. “You’re still worshipping the Lord Ruler.”
“He’s not gone,” Yomen said.
Vin paused.
“No,” Yomen said, apparently noting her confusion. “I haven’t seen or heard of him since his disappearance. However, neither do I put any credence in reports of his death.”
“He was rather dead,” Vin said. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you, I’m afraid,” Yomen said. “Tell me of that evening. Tell me precisely what happened.”
So Vin did. She told him of her imprisonment, and of her escape with Sazed. She told him of her decision to fight the Lord Ruler, and of her reliance on the Eleventh Metal. She left out her strange ability to draw upon the power of the mists, but she explained pretty much everything else—including Sazed’s theory that the Lord Ruler had been immortal through the clever manipulation of his Feruchemy and Allomancy in combination.
And Yomen actually listened. Her respect for the man increased as she spoke, and as he didn’t interrupt her. He wanted to hear her story, even if he didn’t believe it. He was a man who accepted information for what it was—another tool to be used, yet to be trusted no more than any other tool.
“And so,” Vin finished, “he is dead. I stabbed him through the heart myself. Your faith in him is admirable, but it can’t change what happened.”
Yomen stood silently. The older obligators—who still sat on their benches—had grown white in the face. She knew that her testimony might have damned h
er, but for some reason she felt that honesty—plain, blunt honesty—would serve her better than guile. That’s how she usually felt.
An odd conviction for one who grew up in thieving crews, she thought. Ruin had apparently grown bored during her account, and had walked over to look out the window.
“What I need to find out,” Yomen finally said, “is why the Lord Ruler thought it necessary for you to think that you had killed him.”
“Didn’t you listen to what just I said?” Vin demanded.
“I did,” Yomen said calmly. “And do not forget that you are a prisoner here—one who is very close to death.”
Vin forced herself to be quiet.
“You find my words ridiculous?” Yomen said. “More ridiculous than your own? Think of how I see you, claiming to have slain a man I know to be God. Is it not plausible that he wanted this to happen? That he’s out there, still, watching us, waiting . . .”
That’s what this is all about, she realized. Why he captured me, why he’s so eager to speak with me. He’s convinced that the Lord Ruler is still alive. He just wants to figure out where I fit into all of this. He wants me to give him the proof that he’s so desperately wishing for.
“Why don’t you think you should be part of the skaa religion, Vin?” Ruin whispered.
She turned, trying not to look directly at him, lest Yomen see her staring into empty space.
“Why?” Ruin asked. “Why don’t you want them worshipping you? All of those happy skaa? Looking toward you for hope?”
“The Lord Ruler must be behind all of this,” Yomen mused out loud. “That means that he wanted the world to see you as his killer. He wanted the skaa to worship you.”
“Why?” Ruin repeated. “Why be so uncomfortable? Is it because you know you can’t offer them hope? What is it they call him, the one you are supposed to have replaced? The Survivor? A word of Preservation, I think. . . .”
“Perhaps he intends to return dramatically,” Yomen said. “To depose you and topple you, to prove that faith in him is the only true faith.”
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