Split (1)

train · 9.05k rows

text stringlengths 1.73k 3.83k
of mine to arrive.” “Associates?” Sarene said. “Assassins,” Roial said. “Men I have hired out of Fjorden. Not all the people of that country are perfectly loyal to their god-some are sworn to gold instead.” “Where are they?” Sarene asked. “Staying in an inn not far away,” Roial said. “But,” Sarene said with confusion, “just last week you warned us against letting bloodshed advance our revolt.” Roial bowed his head. “The guilt was speaking, dear Sarene, for I had already sent for these men. However, I have changed my mind. This young man from Dula-” Roial was interrupted by the sound of feet clomping in the entry hallway: Ahan had returned. Odd, Sarene thought to herself as she turned, I didn't hear the front door close. When she turned, it was not Ahan she found standing in the doorway. Instead, she was confronted by a group of armed soldiers with a well-dressed man at their front. King Telrii. Sarene jumped up, but her yell of surprise was lost among other similar exclamations. Telrii stepped to the side, allowing a dozen men in Elantris City Guard uniforms to fill the room. They were followed by the portly Count Ahan. “Ahan!” Roial said. “What have you done?” “I finally got you, old man,” the count said gleefully, his jowls shaking. “I told you I would. Joke about how my caravans to Svorden are doing now, you cursed old idiot. We'll see how yours do while you spend the next few years in prison.” Roial shook a mournful, white-haired head. “You fool. Didn't you realize when this stopped being a game? We aren't playing with fruits and silks anymore.” “Protest if you will,” Ahan said with a triumphant shake of his finger. “But you have to admit, I got you! I've been waiting to do this for months-I could never get Iadon to believe me. Can you believe that he actually thought you incapable of betraying him? He claimed your old friendship went too deep.” Roial sighed, regarding Telrii, who was smiling broadly, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Oh, Ahan.” Roial said. “You have always been so fond of acting without thought.” Sarene was stunned. She couldn't move, or even speak. Traitors were supposed to be men with dark eyes and sour dispositions. She couldn't connect that image with Ahan. He was arrogant and impetuous, but she liked him. How could someone she liked do something so horrible? Telrii snapped his fingers, and a soldier stepped forward and rammed his sword directly into Duke Roial's belly. Roial gasped, then crumpled with a moan. “Thus are the judgments of your king,” Telrii said. Ahan yelled, eyes widening in his fat face. “No! You said prison!” He rushed past Telrii, blubbering as he knelt beside Roial. “Did I?” Telrii asked. Then he pointed at two of his soldiers. “You two, gather some men and find those assassins, then .. .” He tapped his thin thoughtfully. .. throw them off the walls of Elantris.” The two men saluted, then marched from the room. “The rest of you,” Telrii said.
“kill these traitors. Start with the dear princess. Let it be known that this is the punishment for all those who try to usurp the throne.” “No!” Shuden and Eondel yelled in unison. The soldiers started to move, and Sarene found herself behind a protective wall formed by Shuden, Eondel, and Lukel. Only Eondel was armed, however, and they were faced by ten men. “Interesting you should mention usurpers, Duke Telrii,” a voice said from across the table. “I was under the impression that the throne belonged to Iadon's family.” Sarene followed the sound. Her eyes found Spirit-or, at least, someone wearing Spirit's clothing. He had pale Aonic skin, sandy brown hair, and keen blue eyes. Spirit's eyes. But his face didn't show any signs of Elantris's taint. He tossed a rag on the table, and she could see the brown stains on one side-as if he wanted them to believe he had simply wiped away his makeup to reveal a completely different face underneath. Telrii gasped, stumbling back against the wall. “Prince Raoden!” he choked. “No! You died. They told me you were dead!” Raoden. Sarene felt numb. She stared at the man Spirit, wondering who he was, and if she had ever really known him. Spirit looked at the soldiers. “Would you dare slay the true king of Arelon?” he demanded. The Guard members stepped back, faces confused and frightened. “Men, protect me!” Telrii yelped, turning and scrambling from the room. The soldiers watched their leader flee, then unceremoniously joined him, leaving the conspirators alone. Spirit-Raoden-hopped over the table, brushing past Lukel. He shoved the still blubbering Ahan out of his way and knelt next to Kiin-the only one who had thought to try treating Roial's wound. Sarene watched dumbly from behind, her senses paralyzed. It was obvious that Kiin's care would be nowhere near enough to save the duke. The sword had passed completely through the man's body, delivering a painful wound that was eertainly mortal. “Raoden!” Duke Roial gasped. “You have returned to us!” “Be still, Roial,” Raoden said, stabbing the air with his finger. Light burst from its tip as he began to draw. “I should have kno1wn it was you,” the duke rambled. “All of that silly talk about trusting the people. Can you believe I actually started to agree with you? I should have sent those assassins to do their work the moment they arrived.” “You are too good a man for that, Roial.” Spirit said, his voice taut with emotion. Roial's eyes focused, perceiving for the first time the Aon that Spirit was drawing above him. He breathed out in awe. “Have you returned the beautiful city as wel I?” Spirit didn't respond, instead concentrating on his Aon. He drew differently from the way he had before, his fingers moving more dexterously and quickly. He finished the Aon with a small line near the bottom. It began to glow warmly, bathing Roial in its light. As Sarene watched, the edges of Roial's wound seemed to pull together slightly. A scratch on Roial's face disappeared,
and several of the liver spots on his scalp faded. Then the light fell away, the wound still belching blood with each futile pump of the duke's dying heart. Spirit cursed. “It's too weak.” he said, desperately beginning another Aon. “And I haven't studied the healing modifiers! I don't know how to target just one part of the body.” Roial reached up with a quivering arm and grabbed Spirit's hand. The partially completed Aon faded away as the duke's movement caused Spirit to make a mistake. Spirit did not start again, bowing his head as if weeping. “Do not cry, my boy,” Roial said. “Your return is blessed. You cannot save this tired old body, but you can save the kingdom. I will die in peace, knowing you are here to protect it.” Spirit cupped the old man's face in his hands. “You did a wonderful job with me, Roial,” he whispered, and Sarene felt intensely that she was intruding. “Without you to watch over me, I would have turned out like my father.” “No, boy.” Roial said. “You were more like your mother from the start. Domi bless you.” Sarene turned away then as the duke's death turned gruesome, his body spasming and blood coming to his lips. When she turned back, blinking the tears from her eyes, Raoden was still kneeling over the old man's corpse. Finally he took a deep breath and stood, turning to regard the rest of them with sad-but firm-eyes. Beside her, Sarene felt Shuden. Eondel, and Lukel fall to their knees, bowing their heads reverently. “My king,” Eondel said, speaking for all of them. “My. . . husband,” Sarene realized with shock. CHAPTER 54 “HE did what?” Hrathen asked with amazement. The priest, startled by Hrathen's sudden reaction, stuttered as he repeated the message. Hrathen cut the man off halfway through. The Duke of Ial Pl1antation, dead? By Telrii's command? What kind of random move was this? Hrathen could tell from the messenger's face that there was more, so he motioned for the man to continue. Soon Hrathen realized that the execution hadn't been random at all-that in fact it had been completely logical. Hrathen couldn't believe Telrii's fortune. Roial was said to be a crafty man; catching the duke in the act of treason had been amazingly propitious. What the messenger related next, however, was even more shocking. The rumors said that Prince Raoden had returned from the grave. Hrathen sat, dumbfounded, behind his desk. A tapestry fluttered on the wall as the messenger closed the door on his way out. Control, he thought. You can deal with this. The rumor of Raoden's return was false, of course, but Hrathen had to admit that it was a masterful stroke. He knew of the prince's saintly reputation; the people regarded Raoden with a level of idolizing adoration that was given only to dead men. If Sarene had somehow found a look-alike, she could call him husband and continue her bid for the throne even now that Roial was dead. She certainly works quickly, Hrathen thought
with a respectful smile. Telrii's slaughter of Roial still bothered Hrathen. Murdering the duke without trial or incarceration would make the other nobles even more apprehensive.Hrathen rose. Perhaps it wasn't too late to convince Telrii to at least draft a warrant of execution. It would ease the aristocratic minds if they were able to read such a document. Telrii refused to see him. Hrathen stood in the waiting room again, staring down two of Telrii's guards, arms folded in front of him. The two men watched at the ground sheepishly. Apparently, something had unsettled Telrii so much that he wasn't taking any visitors at all. Hrathen didn't intend to let himself be ignored. Though he could not force his way into the room, he could make himself such a nuisance that Telrii eventually agreed to meet with him. So he had spent the last hour demanding a meeting every five minutes. In fact, the time was approaching for another request. “Soldier,” he commanded. “Ask the king if he will see me.” The soldier sighed-just as he had the last half-dozen times Hrathen had made the demand. However, the soldier opened the door and obeyed, going in to search out his commander. A few moments later, the man returned. Hrathen's query froze in his throat. It wasn't the same man. The “guard” whipped out his sword and attacked the second guard. Sounds of metal against metal exploded from the king's audience chamber, and men began to scream-some in rage, others in agony. Hrathen cursed-a battle on the one night he had left his armor behind. Gritting his teeth, he spun past the fighting guards and entered the room. The tapestries were in flames, and men struggled desperately in the close confines. Several guards lay dead at the far doorway. Some wore the brown and yellow of the Elantris Guard. The others were in silver and blue-the colors of Count Eondel's legion. Hrathen dodged a few attacks, ducking blades or smashing them out of men's hands. He had to find the king. Telrii was too important to lose. Time froze as Hrathen saw the king through the melee, burning strips of cloth dripping from the brocad1es above. Telrii's eyes were wild with fear as he dashed toward the open door at the back of the room. Eondel's sword found Telrii's neck before the king had taken more than a few steps. Telrii's headless corpse fell at Count Eondel's feet. The count regarded it with grim eyes, then collapsed himself, holding a wound in his side. Hrathen stood quietly in the melee, chaos forgotten for the moment, regarding the two corpses. So much for avoiding a bloody change in power, he thought with resignation. CHAPTER 55 IT seemed unnatural to look at Elantris from the outside. Raoden belonged in the city. It was as if he stood outside of his own body, looking at it from another person's perspective. He should no more be separated from Elantris than his spirit should be separated from his body. He stood with Sarene atop Kiin's fortresslike house in
the noonday sun. The merchant, showing both foresight and healthy paranoia following the massacre ten years before, had built his mansion more like a castle than a house. It was a compact square, with straight stone walls and narrow windows, and it even stood atop a hill. The roof had a pattern of stones running along its lip, much like the battlements atop a city wall. It was against one such stone that Raoden leaned now, Sarene pressed close to his side, her arms around his waist as they regarded the city. Soon after Roial's death the night before, Kiln had barred his doors and informed them that he had enough supplies stockpiled to last years. Though Raoden doubted the doors would survive long against a determined attack, he welcomed the feelings of safety Kiin inspired. There was no telling how Telrii would react to Raoden's appearance. Chances were, however, that he would give up all pretense and seek Fjordell aid. The Elantris Guard might have been hesitant to attack Raoden, but Fjordell troops would have no such inhibitions. “I should have figured it out,” Sarene mumbled at Raoden's side. “Hum?” Raoden asked, raising his eyebrows. She was wearing one of Daora's dresses-which was, of course, too short for her, though Raoden rather liked the amount of leg it showed. She wore her short blond wig, which was cut in a style that made her look younger than she was, a schoolgirl instead of a mature woman. Well, Raoden revised, a six-foot-tall schoolgirl. Sarene raised her head, looking into his eyes. “I can't believe I didn't put it together. I was even suspicious about your-meaning Raoden's-disappearance. I assumed the king had killed you off, or at least exiled you.” “He certainly would have liked to,” Raoden said. “He tried to send me away on numerous occasions, but I usually wiggled out of it somehow.” “It was so obvious!” Sarene said, resting her head on his shoulder with a petulant thud. “The cover-up, the embarrassment ... it makes perfect sense.” “It's easy to see the answers once the puzzle is solved, Sarene,” Raoden said. “I'm not surprised that no one connected my disappearance with Elantris-that isn't the sort of thing an Arelene would assume. People don't talk about Elantris, and they1 certainly don't want to associate it with those they love. They would prefer to believe that I'd died than know that I'd been taken by the Shaod.” “But I'm not an Arelene,” Sarene said. “I don't have the same biases.” “You lived with them,” Raoden said. “You couldn't help being affected by their disposition. Besides, you haven't lived around Elantris-you didn't know how the Shaod worked.” Sarene huffed to herself. “And you let me go along in ignorance. My own husband.” “I gave you a clue,” he protested. “Yes, about five minutes before you revealed yourself.” Raoden chuckled, pulling her close. No matter what else happened, he was glad he had made the decision to leave Elantris. This short time with Sarene was worth it. After a few moments, he realized something.
“I'm not, you know.” “Not what?” “Your husband. At least, the relationship is disputable. The betrothal contract said our marriage would be binding if either of us died before the wedding. I didn't die-I went to Elantris. Though they're essentially the same thing, the contract's words were very specific.” Sarene looked up with concern. He laughed quietly. “I'm not trying to get out of it, Sarene.” he said. “I'm just saying we should make it formal, just so everyone's mind is put at ease.” Sarene thought for a moment, then she nodded sharply. 'Definitely. I've been engaged twice during the last two months, and I never got a wedding. A girl deserves a good wedding.” “A queen's wedding,” Raoden agreed. Sarene sighed as she looked back at Kae. The city seemed cold and lifeless, almost unpopulated. The political uncertainty was destroying the economy of Arelon as surely as Iadon's rule had destroyed its spirit. Where there should have been busy commerce, only a few hearty pedestrians slipped furtively through the streets. The only exception was the great city square, which held the tents of the Arelene Market. While some of the merchants had decided to cut their losses-moving on to Teod to sell what they could-a surprising number had stayed. What could have persuaded so many to remain to try and push wares upon a people that just weren't buying? The only other place that showed any sign of activity was the palace. Elantris City Guard members had been poring over the area like worried insects all morning. Sarene had sent her Seon to investigate, but he had vet to return. “He was such a good man,” Sarene said softly. “Roial?” Raoden asked. “Yes, he was. The duke was the role model I needed when my father proved unworthy.” Sarene chuckled softly. “When Kiin first introduced Roial to me, he said he wasn't sure if the duke helped us because he loved Arelon, or because he was just bored.” “Many people took Roial1's craftiness as a sign of deceitfulness,” Raoden said. They were wrong; Roial was clever, and he enjoyed intrigue, but he was a patriot. He taught me to believe in Arelon, even after its many stumbles.” “He was like a wily old grandfather,” Sarene said. “And he almost became my husband.” “I still can't believe that.” Raoden said. “I loved Roial, but to imagine him married? To you?” Sarene laughed. “I don't think we believed it either. Of course, that doesn't mean we wouldn't have gone through with it.” Raoden sighed, rubbing her shoulder. “If only I had known what capable hands I was leaving Arelon in. It would have saved me a great deal of worry.” “And New Elantris?” Sarene asked. “Is Karata watching it?” “New Elantris watches itself without much trouble,” Raoden said. “But, I did send Galladon back this morning with instructions to begin teaching the people AonDor. If we fail here, I don't want to leave Elantris unable to protect itself.” “There probably isn't much time left.” “Time enough to make sure they learn an Aon
or two,” Raoden said. “They deserve to know the secret to their power.” Sarene smiled. “I always knew you would find the answer. Domi doesn't let your kind of dedication go wasted.” Raoden smiled. The night before, she had made him draw several dozen Aons to prove that they actually worked. Of course, they hadn't been enough to save Roial. A rock of guilt burned in Raoden's chest. If he had known the proper modifiers, he might have been able to save Roial. A gut wound took a long time to kill a man; Raoden could have healed each organ separately, then sealed the skin. Instead, he had been able only to draw a general Aon that affected Roial's entire body. The Aon's power, already weak, had been diluted so much by the broad target that it did no good. Raoden had stayed up late memorizing modifiers. AonDor healing was a complex, difficult art, but he was determined to make certain no one else died because of his inability. It would take months of memorizing, but he would learn the modifier for every organ, muscle, and bone. Sarene turned back to her contemplation of the city. She retained a strong grip on Raoden's waist-Sarene did not like heights, especially if she didn't have something to hold on to. Looking over at the top of her head, Raoden suddenly remembered something from the night's studies. Reaching our, he pulled off her wig. It resisted as the glue held, then fell away, revealing the stubble underneath. Sarene turned with questioning, annoyed eyes, but Raoden was already drawing. It wasn't a complex Aon: it required him only to stipulate a target, how the target was to be affected, and a length of time. When he finished, her hair began to grow. It went lethargically, sliding out of her head like a breath slowly exhaled. In a few minutes, however, it was finished-her long golden hair once again reaching to the middle of her back. Sarene ran disbelieving fingers 1through the hair. Then she looked up at Raoden with teary eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him close. “You have no idea what that means.” After a moment, she pulled hack, staring at him with intent, silvery gray eyes. 'Show yourself to me.” “My face?” Raoden asked. Sarene nodded. “You've seen it before,” he said hesitantly. “I know, but I'm getting too used to this one. I want to see the real you.” The determination in her eyes stopped him from arguing further. With a sigh, he reached up, tapping the collar of his undershirt with his index finger. To him, nothing changed, but he could feel Sarene stiffen as the illusion fell away. He felt suddenly ashamed, and hurriedly began to draw the Aon again, but she stopped him. “It isn't as horrid as you think, Raoden,” she said, running her fingers across his face. “They say your bodies are like corpses, but that isn't true. Your skin may be diseolored and a little wrinkled, but there is still flesh underneath.” Her finger found the
cut on his cheek, and she gasped slightly. “I did this, didn't I?” Raoden nodded. “As I said-I had no idea how good of a fencer you are.” Sarene ran her finger down the wound. “It confused me terribly when I couldn't find the wound. Why does the illusion show your expressions, but nor a cut?” “It's complicated,” Raoden said. “You have to link each muscle in the face with its companion in the illusion. I could never have figured it out myself-the equations are all in one of my books.” “But you altered the illusion so quickly last night, changing from Kaloo to Raoden.” He smiled. “That's because I had two illusions on, one connected to my undershirt and the other to my coat. As soon as I dissolved the one on the top, the one underneath showed. I'm just glad it looks enough like me that the others recognized it. There weren't, of course, any equations describing how to create my own face-I had to figure that out on my own.” “You did a good job.” “I extrapolated from my Elantrian face, telling the illusion to use it as a base.” He smiled. “You're a lucky woman, having a man who can change faces at any time. You'll never get bored.” Sarene snorted. “I like this one just fine. This is the face that loved me when it thought I was an Elantrian, all rank and title abandoned.” “You think you can get used to this?” Raoden asked. “Raoden, I was going to marry Roial last week. He was a dear old man, but he was so incredibly homely that rocks looked handsome when he stood next to them.” Raoden laughed. Despite everything-Telrii. Hrathen, and p1oor Roial's demise-his heart was jubilant. “What are they doing?” Sarene said, looking back at the palace. Raoden turned to follow her view-an action that bumped Sarene forward slightly. She reacted by locking a deathlike grip on Raoden's shoulder, her fingers biting into his flesh. “Don't do that!” “Oops,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “I forgot about your fear of heights.” “I am not afraid of heights.” Sarene said, still holding on to his arm. “I just get dizzy.” “Of course,” Raoden said, squinting at the palace. He could barely make out a group of soldiers doing something in the grounds before the building. They were laying out blankets or sheets of some sort. “It's too far,” Sarene said. “Where is Ashe?” Raoden reached up and sketched Aon Nae-a large circular character-in the air before them. When he was finished, the air inside Aon Nae's circle rippled like water, then cleared to show a magnified view of the city. Placing his palm in the center of the circle. Raoden maneuvered the Aon until it was pointing at the palace. The view unblurred itself, and they were able to see the soldiers with such detail that they could read their rank insignias. “That's useful,” Sarene noted as Raoden raised the Aon slightly. The soldiers were indeed laying out sheets-sheets with what appeared to
be bodies on them. Raoden grew cold as he moved the disk along the line of corpses. The last two corpses in the row were familiar. Sarene gasped in horror as Eondel's and Telrii's dead faces came into focus. CHAPTER 56 “HE attacked late last night, my lady,” Ashe explained. The remaining members of their group-Kiin, Lukel, and Shuden were gathered atop the house, watching as Raoden focused his Aon spyglass on the funeral pyres being built in the palace courtyard. Baron Shuden sat morosely on the stone roof, shaking his head in disbelief. Sarene held the young Jindo's hand in an attempt to provide comfort, painfully aware of how difficult the last few days must have been for him. His future father-in-law had turned out to be a traitor, Torena had reportedly disappeared, and now his best friend was dead. “He was a brave man.” Kiin said, standing beside Raoden. “That was never in question,” Raoden said. “His actions were foolish nonetheless.” “He did it for honor, Raoden,” Sarene said, looking up from the despondent Shuden. “Telrii murdered a great man last night-Eondel acted to avenge the duke.” Raoden shook his head. “Revenge is always a foolish motivation, Sarene. Now we have lost not only Roial, but Eondel as well. The people are left with their second dead king in the space of a few weeks.” Sarene let the matter drop. Raoden spoke as a ruler, not as a friend. He couldn't afford to give Eondel leeway, even in death, because of the situation the count had created. The soldiers did not wait on ceremony to immolate the fallen men. They simply lit the pyre, then saluted en masse as the bodies burned away. Whatever else could be said about the Guard, they performed this one duty with solemnity and honor. “There,” Raoden said, pointing his Aon at a detachment of about fifty soldiers who left the pyre and galloped toward Kiin's house. All wore the brown capes that marked them as officers in the Elantris City Guard. “This could be bad,” Kiin said. “Or it could be good,” Raoden said. Kiin shook his head. “We should collapse the entryway. Let them try to break down my door with a ton of stone behind it.” “No,” Raoden said. “Trapping us inside won't do any good. I want to meet with them.” “There are other ways out of the building.” Kiin said. “Still, wait for my command to collapse your entryway, Kiin,” Raoden said. “That is an order.” Kiin ground his teeth for a moment, then nodded. “All right, Raoden, but not because you order it-but because I trust you. My son may call you king, but I accept the rule of no man.” Sarene regarded her uncle with a look of shocked surprise. She had never seen him speak in such a manner he was usually so jovial, like a happy circus bear. Now his face was flat and grim, covered with whiskers he had allowed to start growing the moment Iadon was found dead. Gone was the brusque but compliant
chef, and in his place was a man who seemed more like a grizzled admiral from her father's navy. “Thank you, Kiin,” Raoden said. Her uncle nodded. The horsemen approached quickly, fanning out to surround Kiin's hilltop fortress. Noticing Raoden on the roof, one of the soldiers urged his horse a few steps closer. “We have heard rumors that Lord Raoden, crown prince of Arelon, still lives,” the man announced. “If there is truth to this, let him come forward. Our country has need of a king.” Kiin untensed visibly, and Raoden let out a quiet sigh. The Guard officers stood in a row, still mounted, and even from the short distance, Raoden could see their faces. They were harried, confused, yet hopeful. “We have to move quickly, before that gyorn can respond,” Raoden said to his friends. “Send messengers to the nobility-I plan to hold my coronation within the hour.” Raoden strode into the palace throne room. Beside the throne dais stood Sarene and the young-looking patriarch of the Korathi religion. Raoden had only just met the man, but Sarene's description of him had been accurate. Long golden hair, a smile that claimed to know things it didn't, and a self-important air were his most striking features. However, Raoden needed him. The statement made by choosing the patriarch of Shu-Korath to crown him was an important precedent. Sarene smiled encouragingly as Raoden approached. It amazed him how much she had to give, considering what she had been through recently. He joined her on the dais, then turned to regard the nobility of Arelon. He recognized most of the faces. Many of them had supported him before his exile. Now most were simply confused. His appearance had been sudden, as had Telrii's death. Rumors were widespread that Raoden had been behind the assassination, but most of the people didn't seem to care. Their eyes were dull from the shock, and they were beginning to show the wearied signs of extended stress. It will change now. Raoden promised them silently. No more questioning. No more uncertainly. We will put forth a united front, with Teod and face Fjorden. “My lords and ladies,” Raoden said. “People of Arelon. Our poor kingdom has suffered too much over the last ten years. Let us set it at right once again. With this crown, I promise-” He froze. He felt ... a power. At first, he thought the Dor was attacking. However, he realized this was something else-something he had never experienced before. Something external. Someone else was manipulating the Dor. He searched through the crowd, masking his surprise. His eyes fell on a small red-robed form almost invisible among the noblemen. The power was coming from him. A Derethi priest? Raoden thought incredulously. The man was smiling, and his hair was blond beneath his hood. What? The mood of the congregation changed. Several people fainted immediately, but most simply stared. Dumbfounded. Shocked. Yet somehow unsurprised. They had been beaten down so much, they had expected something horrible to happen. Without checking. Raoden knew that his illusion
had fallen. The patriarch gasped, dropping the crown as he stumbled away. Raoden looked back to the crowd, his stomach sick. He had been so close.... A voice came at his side. “Look at him, nobles of Arelon!” Sarene declared. “Look at the man who would have been your king. Look at his dark skin and his Elantrian face! Then, tell me. Does it really matter?” The crowd was quiet. “Ten years you were ruled by a tyrant because you rejected Elantris,” Sarene said. “You were the privileged, the wealthy, but in a way you were the most oppressed, for you could never be secure. Were your titles worth your freedom? “This is the man who loved you when all others sought to steal your pride. I ask you this: Can being an Elantrian make him any worse a king than Iadon or Telrii?' She knelt before him. “I, for one, accept his rule.” Raoden watched the crowd tensely. Then, one at a time, they began to kneel. It began with Shuden and Lukel, who stood near the front of the crowd, but it soon spread to the others. Like a wave, the forms knelt-some in a stupor, others with resignation. Some, however, dared to be happy. Sarene reached down and snatched up the fallen crown. It was a simple thing-no more than a hastily constructed gold band-but it represented so mueh. With Seinalan stunned,1 the princess of Teod took his duty upon herself and, reaching up, placed the crown on Raoden's head. “Behold, your king!” she exclaimed. Some of the people actually started cheering. One man was not cheering, but hissing. Dilaf looked as if he wanted to claw his way through the crowd and rip Raoden apart with his bare hands. The people, whose cheers increased from a few scattered yells to a general exclamation of approval, kept him back. The priest looked around him with loathing, then forced his way through the crowd and escaped through the doors, out into a darkening city. Sarene ignored the priest, instead looking over at Raoden. “Congratulations, Your Majesty,” she said, kissing him lightly. “I can't believe they accepted me,” Raoden said with wonder. “Ten years ago they rejected the Elantrians,” Sarene said, “and found that a man could be a monster no matter what he looked like. They're finally ready to accept a ruler not because he's a god or because he has money, but because they know he will lead them well.” Raoden smiled. “Of course, it helps when that ruler has a wife who can deliver a moving speech at precisely the right moment.” “True.” Raoden turned, looking out over the crowd toward the fleeing Dilaf. “Who was that?” “Just one of Hrathen's priests.” Sarene said dismissively. “I imagine he isn't having a very good day-Dilaf is known for his hatred of Elantrians.” Raoden didn't seem to think her dismissal was justified. “Something's wrong, Sarene. Why did my illusion drop?” “You didn't do that?” Raoden shook his head. “I. . . I think that priest did it.” “What?” “I sensed
the Dor the moment before my Aon fell, and it was coming from that priest.” He paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. “Can I borrow Ashe?” “Of course,” Sarene said, waving the Seon closer. “Ashe, would you deliver a message for me?” Raoden asked. “Of course, my lord,” the Seon said with a bob. “Find Galladon in New Elantris and tell him what just happened,” Raoden said. “Then warn him to be ready for something.” “For what, my lord?” “I don't know,” Raoden said. “Just tell him to be prepared-and tell him that I'm worried.” CHAPTER 57 HRATHEN watched as “Raoden” strode into the throne room. No one challenged the impostor's claim-this man, Raoden or not, would soon be king. Sarene's move was a brilliant stroke. Telrii assassinated, a pretender on the throne ... Hrathen's plans were in serious danger. Hrathen eyed this pretender, feeling an odd surge of hatred as he saw the way that Sarene looked at the man. Hrathen could see the love in her eyes. Could that foolish adoration really be serious? Where had this man come from so suddenly? And how had he managed to capture Sarene, who was normally so discerning? Regardless, she had apparently given her heart to him. Logically, Hrathen knew his jealousy was foolish. Hrathen's own relationship with the girl had been one of antagonism, not of affection. Why should he be jealous of another man? No, Hrathen needed to be levelheaded. Only one month remained until the armies of united Derethi would wash over Arelon, slaughtering the peopleSarene included. Hrathen had to work quickly if he was going to find a way to convert the kingdom with so little time remaining. Hrathen pulled back as Raoden began the coronation. Many a king ordered his enemies' incarceration as a first royal decree, and Hrathen didn't want his presence to give the impostor a reminder. He was, however, close enough to the front to witness the transformation. Hrathen was confused by the sight: the Shaod was supposed to come suddenly, but not that suddenly. The oddity forced him to reconsider his assumptions. What if Raoden hadn't died? What if he had been hiding in Elantris all along? Hrathen had found a way to feign being an Elantrian. What if this man had done the same? Hrathen was shocked by the transformation, but he was even more shocked when the people of Arelon did nothing about it. Sarene gave her speech, and people just stood dully. They did not stop her from crowning the Elantrian king. Hrathen felt sick. He turned, and by happenstance he saw Dilaf slipping away from the crowd. Hrathen trailed behind-for once, he shared Dilaf's disgust. He was amazed that the people of Arelon could act so illogically. At that moment, Hrathen realized his mistake. Dilaf had been right: If Hrathen had focused more on Elantris, the people would have been too disgusted to grant Raoden kingship. Hrathen had neglected to instill in his followers a true sense of Jaddeth's holy will. He had used popularity to convert, rather than
doctrine. The result was a fickle congregation, capable of returning to their old ways as quickly as they had left. It is this cursed deadline! Hrathen thought to himself as he strode down Kae's quickly darkening evening streets. Three months was not enough time to build a stable following. Ahead of him, Dilaf turned down a side street. Hrathen paused. That wasn't the way to the chapel-it was the way to the center of the city. Curiosity overcoming brooding, Hrathen turned to follow the Arteth, staying far enough behind to diffuse the clicking of his armored feet on the cobblestones. He needn't have worried: the Arteth strode through the blackening night with single-minded purpose, not bothering to look back. Dusk had almost passed, and darkness cloaked the market square. Hrathen lost track of Dilaf in the waning light and stopped, looking around at the quiet tents. Suddenly, lights appeared around him. A hundred torches winked into existence from within dozens of different tents. Hrathen frowned, and then his eyes opened wide as men began to pour fro1m the tents, torchlight glistening off bare backs. Hrathen stumbled back in horror. He knew those twisted figures. Arms like knotted tree branches. Skin pulled tight over strange ridges and unspoken symbols. Though the night was quiet, memories howled in Hrathen's ears. The tents and merchants had been a ruse. That was why so many Fjordells had come to the Arelene Market despite the political chaos, and that was why they had stayed when others left. They weren't merchants at all, but warriors. The invasion of Arelon was to begin a month early. Wyrn had sent the monks of Dakhor. CHAPTER 58 RAODEN awoke to strange sounds. He lay disoriented for a moment in Roial's mansion. The wedding wasn't slated to happen until the following afternoon, and so Raoden had chosen to sleep in Kaloo's rooms back in Roial's mansion instead of staying at Kiin's house, where Sarene had already taken the guest bedroom. The sounds came again-sounds of fighting. Raoden leaped from his bed and threw open the balcony doors, staring out over the gardens and into Kae. Smoke billowed in the night sky, fires blazing throughout the city. Screams were audible, rising from the darkness like the cries of the damned, and metal clanged against metal from someplace nearby. Hurriedly throwing on a jacket. Raoden rushed through the mansion. Turning a corner, he stumbled across a squad of Guardsmen battling for their lives against a group of ... demons. They were bare-chested, and their eyes seemed to burn. They looked like men, but their flesh was ridged and disfigured, as if a carved piece of metal had somehow been inserted beneath the skin. One of Raoden's soldiers scored a hit, but the weapon left barely a mark-scratching where it should have sliced. A dozen soldiers lay dying on the floor, but the five demons looked unharmed. The remaining soldiers fought with terror, their weapons ineffective, their members dying one by one. Raoden stumbled backward in horror. The lead demon jumped at a soldier, dodging
the man's thrust with inhuman speed, then impaling him on a wicked-looking sword. Raoden froze. He recognized this demon. Though its body was twisted like the rest, its face was familiar. It was Dilaf, the Fjordell priest. Dilaf smiled, eyeing Raoden. Raoden scrambled for one of the fallen soldiers' weapons, but he was too slow. Dilaf darted across the room, moving like the wind, and brought his fist up into Raoden's stomach. Raoden gasped in pain and dropped to the floor. “Bring him,” the creature ordered. “Make certain you deliver these tonight.” Sarene said, pulling the lid closed on the final box of supplies. The beggar nodded, casting an apprehensive glance toward the wall of Elantris, which stood only a few feet away. “You needn't be so afraid, Hoid.” Sarene said. “You have a new king now. Things are going to change in Arelon.” Hoid shrugged. Despite Telrii's death, the beggar refused to meet with Sarene during the day. Hoid'1s people had spent ten years fearing Iadon and his farms; they weren't used to acting without the enveloping presence of night, no matter how legal their intentions. Sarene would have used someone else to make the delivery, but Hoid and his men already knew how and where to deposit the boxes. Besides, she would rather the populace of Arelon not discover what was in this particular shipment. “These boxes are more heavy than the ones before, my lady,” Hoid noted astutely. There was a reason he had managed to survive a decade on the streets of Kae without being caught. “What the boxes contain is none of your business,” Sarene replied, handing him a pouch of coins. Hoid nodded, his face hidden in the darkness of his hood. Sarene had never seen his face, but she assumed from his voice that he was an older man. She shivered in the night, eager to get back to Kiin's house. The wedding was set for the next day, and Sarene had a hard time containing her excitement. Despite all the trials, difficulties, and setbacks, there was finally an honorable king on the throne of Arelon. And, after years of waiting, Sarene had finally found someone her heart was as willing to marry as her mind. “Goodnight then, my lady,” Hoid said, following the train of beggars who slowly climbed the stairs of Elantris's wall. Sarene nodded to Ashe. “Go tell them that a shipment is coming, Ashe.” “Yes, my lady.” Ashe said with a bob, and hovered away to follow Hoid's beggars. Pulling her shawl close, Sarene climbed into her carriage and ordered the coachman home. Hopefully, Galladon and Karata would understand why she had sent crates full of swords and bows. Raoden's apprehensive warning earlier in the day had disturbed Sarene immensely. She kept worrying about New Elantris and its bright, accepting people, and so she had finally decided to do something. Sarene sighed as the carriage rolled down the quiet street. The weapons probably wouldn't help much; the people of New Elantris were not soldiers. But it had been something she could
do. The carriage pulled to a sudden stop. Sarene frowned, opening her mouth to call out a question to the coachman. Then she paused. Now that the rumbling of the coach had ceased, she could hear something. Something that sounded faintly like ... screams. She smelled the smoke a second later. Sarene pulled back the carriage curtain, poking her head out the window. She found a scene as if from hell itself. The carriage stood at an intersection. Three streets were calm, but the one directly before her blazed red. Fires billowed from homes, and corpses slumped on the cobblestones. Men and women ran screaming through the streets: others simply stood in dazed shock. Among them stalked shirtless warriors, their skin glistening with sweat in the firelight. It was a slaughter. The strange warriors killed with dispassion, cutting down man, woman, and child alike with casual swipes of their swords. Sarene watched for a stunned moment before screaming at the coachman to turn them around. The man shook himself from his stupor, whipping at the horses to turn. Sarene's yell died in her throat as one of the shirtless warriors noticed the carriage. The soldier dashed toward them as the carriage began to turn. Sarene yelled a warning to the coachman too late. The strange warrior leapt, sailing an incredible di1stance to land on the carriage horse's back. The soldier crouched lithely upon the beast's flesh, and for the first time Sarene could see the inhuman twisting of his body, the chilling fire in his eyes. Another short hop took the soldier to the top of the carriage. The vehicle rocked slightly, and the coachman screamed. Sarene threw open her door and stumbled out. She scrambled across the cobblestones, shoes thrown from her feet in haste. Just up the street, away from the fires, lay Kiin's house. If she could only make it there. The coachman's body slammed into a building beside her, then slumped to the ground. Sarene screamed, lurching back, nearly tripping. To the side, the demonic creature was a dark silhouette in the firelight as he dropped from the carriage top, prowling slowly along the street toward her. Though his motions seemed casual, he moved with a lithe alertness. Sarene could see the unnatural shadows and pockets beneath his skin, as if his skeleton had been twisted and carved. Pushing down another scream, Sarene scrambled away, running up the hill toward her uncle's house. Not fast enough. Catching her would barely be a game for this monster she could hear his footsteps behind. Approaching. Faster and faster. She could see the lights up ahead, but Something grabbed her ankle. Sarene jerked as the creature yanked with incredible strength, twisting her leg and spinning her so she smashed to the ground on her side. Sarene rolled onto her back, gasping at the pain. The twisted figure loomed above her. She could hear it whispering in a foreign tongue. Fjordell. Something dark and massive slammed into the monster, throwing it backward. Two figures struggled in the darkness. The creature howled, but
the newcomer bellowed louder. Dazed, Sarene pushed herself up, watching the shadowed forms. An approaching light soon unmasked them. The shirtless warrior was expected. The other was not. “Kiin?”Sarene asked. Her uncle held an enormous axe, large as a man's chest. He smashed it into the creature's back as it wiggled across the stones, reaching for its sword. The creature cursed in pain, though the axe didn't penetrate far. Kiin wrenched the weapon free, then raised it in a mighty swing and brought it down directly into the demon's face. The creature grunted, but did not stop moving. Neither did Kiin. He swung again and again, hacking at the monster's head with repeated swings, howling Teoish battle cries in his scratchy voice. Bones crunched, and finally the creature stopped moving. Something touched her arm, and Sarene yelped. Lukel, kneeling beside her, raised his lantern. “Come on!” he urged, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. They dashed the short distance to Kiin's mansion, her uncle lumbering behind. They pushed through the doors, then stumbled into the kitchen, where a frightened group waited for their return. Daora rushed to her husband as Lukel slammed the door. “Lukel, collapse the entryway,” Kiin ordered. Lukel complied, throwing the lever Sarene had always mistaken for a torch-holder. A second later there was a mighty crash from the entryway, and dust poured through the kitchen door. Sarene plopped into a chair, staring at the quiet room. Shuden was there, and he had managed to find Torena, who 1sniffled quietly in his arms. Daorn, Kaise, and Adien huddled in a corner with Lukel's wife. Raoden was not there. “What ... what are those things?” Sarene asked, looking up at Lukel. Her cousin shook his head. “I don't know. The attack started just a short time ago, and we were worried that something had happened to you. We were outside waiting-it's a good thing Father spotted your coach down at the bottom of the hill.” Sarene nodded, still a bit numb. Kiin stood with his wife in one arm, looking down at the bloodied axe in his other hand. “I swore I would never take up this cursed weapon again,” he whispered. Daora patted her husband's shoulder. Despite her shock, Sarene realized that she recognized the axe. It used to hang on the kitchen wall, with other mementoes of Kiin's travels. Yet he had held the weapon with obvious skill. The axe wasn't a simple ornament as she had assumed. Looking closely, she could see nicks and scratches on its blade. Etched into the steel was a heraldic Aon-Aon Reo. The character meant “punishment.” “Why would a merchant need to know how to use one of those?” Sarene asked, almost to herself. Kiin shook his head. “A merchant wouldn't.” Sarene knew of only one person who had used Aon Reo, though he was more a myth than a man. “They called him Dreok.” she whispered. “The pirate Crushthroat.” “That was always a mistake,” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “The true name was Dreok Crushedthroat.” “He tried
to steal the throne of Teod from my father,” Sarene said, looking up into Kiin's eyes. “No,” Kiin said, turning away. “Dreok wanted what belonged to him. He tried to take back the throne that his younger brother, Eventeo, stole-stole right from under Dreok's nose while he foolishly wasted his life on pleasure trips.” Dialf strode into the chapel, his face bright with satisfaction. One of his monks dropped an unconscious Raoden next to the far wall. “This, my dear Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “is how you deal with heretics.” Appalled, Hrathen turned away from the window. “You are massacring the entire town, Dilaf! What is the point? Where is the glory for Jaddeth in this?” “Do not question me!” Dilaf screamed, his eyes blazing. His raging zeal had finally been released. Hrathen turned away. Of all the titles in the hierarchy of the Derethi Church, only two outranked gyorn: Wyrn, and gragdet-leader of a monastery. The gragdets were usually discounted, for they generally had little to do with the world outside their monasteries. Apparently that had changed. Hrathen ran his eyes over Dilaf 's bare chest, seeing the twisted patterns that had always been hiding beneath the Arteth's robes. Hrathen's stomach turned at the lines and curves that ran like varicose veins beneath the man's skin. It was bone, Hrathen knew-hard1, unyielding bone. Dilaf wasn't just a monk, and he wasn't just a gragdet; he was monk and gragdet of the most infamous monastery in Fjorden. Dakhor. The Order of Bone. The prayers and incantations used to create Dakhor monks were secret; even the gyorns didn't know them. A few months after a boy was initiated into the Dakhor order, his bones started to grow and twist, adopting strange patterns like those visible beneath Dilaf 's skin. Somehow, each of those patterns gave its bearer abilities, such as heightened speed and strength. Horrible images washed through Hrathen's mind. Images of priests chanting over him: memories of an awesome pain rising within, the pain of his bones reshaping. It had been too much-the darkness, the screams, the torment. Hrathen had left after just a few months to join a different monastery. He had not left behind the nightmares or memories, however. One did not easily forget Dakhor. “So you were a Fjordell all this time?” Hrathen whispered. “You never suspected, did you?” Dilaf asked with a smile. “You should have realized. It is far easier to imitate an Arelene speaking Fjordell than it is for an actual man of Arelon to learn the Holy Language so perfectly.” Hrathen bowed his head. His duty was clear, Dilaf was his superior. He didn't know how long Dilaf had been in Arelon-the Dakhor lived unusually long lives-but it was obvious that Dilaf had been planning Kae's destruction for a very long time. “Oh, Hrathen,” Dilaf said with a laugh. “You never did understand your place, did you? Wyrn didn't send you to convert Arelon.” Hrathen looked up with surprise. He had a letter from Wyrn that said otherwise. “Yes, I know of your orders, Gyorn,” Dilaf
said. “Reread that letter sometime. Wyrn didn't send you to Arelon to convert, he sent you to inform the people of their impending destruction. You were a distraction, something for people like Eventeo to focus their attention on while I prepared for the city's invasion. You did your job perfectly.” “Distraction . . . ?” Hrathen asked. “But the people . ..” “Were never to be saved, Hrathen.” Dilaf said. “Wyrn always intended to destroy Arelon. He needs such a victory to insure his grip on the other countries-despite your efforts, our control of Duladel is tenuous. The world needs to know what happens to those who blaspheme against Jaddeth.” “These people don't blaspheme.” Hrathen said, feeling his anger rise. “They don't even know Jaddeth! How can we expect them to be righteous if we don't give them a chance to convert!” Dilaf's hand shot out, slapping Hrathen across the face. Hrathen stumbled back, cheek flaring with pain from the blow-delivered by an unnaturally strong hand, hardened by extra bones. “You forget to whom you speak, Gyorn,” Dilaf snapped. “This people is unholy. Only Arelenes and Teos can become Elantrians. If we destroy them, then we end the heresy of Elantris forever!” Hrathen ignored his throbbing cheek. With growing numbness, he finally realized how deeply Di!af's hatred w1ent. “You will slaughter them all? You would murder an entire nation of people?” “It is the only way to be certain,” Dilaf said, smiling. CHAPTER 59 RAODEN awoke to new pains. The sharpest was at the back of his head, but there were others-scratches, bruises, and cuts across his entire body. For a moment it was almost too much. Each wound stung sharply, never deadening, never weakening. Fortunately, he had spent weeks dealing with the Dot's all-powerful attacks. Compared to those crushing monuments of agony, the regular pains of his body-no matter how severe-seemed weaker. Ironically, the very force that had nearly destroyed him now allowed him to keep insanity at bay. Though dazed, he could feel himself being picked up and thrown onto something hard-a saddle. He lost track of time as the horse cantered, and he was forced to struggle against the darkness of insensibility. There were voices around him, but they spoke in Fjordell, which he didn't understand. The horse stopped. Raoden opened his eyes with a groan as hands pulled him off the beast and set him on the ground. “Wake up, Elantrian,” said a voice speaking Aonic. Raoden raised his head, blinking confused eyes. It was still night, and he could smell the thick scent of smoke. They were at the base of a hill-Kiin's hill. The blockish house stood only a few yards away, but he could barely make it out. His vision swam, everything blurry. Merciful Domi, he thought, let Sarene be safe. “I know you can hear me, Princess,” Dilaf yelled. “Look who I have here. Let us make a deal.” “No!” Raoden tried to say, but it came out as a croak. The blow to his head had done something to his brain. He could
barely keep himself upright, let alone speak. The worst part was, he knew it would never improve. He could not heal-now that the dizziness had come upon him, it would never leave. “You realize that there is no dealing with him,” Kiin said quietly. They watched Dilaf and the staggering Raoden through one of Kiin's slitlike windows. Sarene nodded quietly, feeling chill. Raoden wasn't doing well; he wobbled as he stood, looking disoriented in the firelight. “Merciful Domi. What have they done to him?” “Don't look. 'Ene,” Kiin said, turning away from the window. His enormous axe-the axe of Dreok the Pirate-stood ready in the corner. “I can't look away,” Sarene whispered. “I have to at least speak to him-to say goodbye.” Kiin sighed, then nodded. “All right. Let's go to the roof. At the first sign of bows, however, we're locking ourselves back in.” Sarene nodded solemnly, and the two climbed the steps up onto the roof. She approached the roof's ledge, looking down at Dilaf and Raoden. If she could convince the priest to take her in exchange for Raoden, she would do it. However, she suspected that Dilaf would demand the entire household, and Sarene could never agree to such a thing. Daora and the children huddled in the basement 1under Lukel's care. Sarene would not betray them, no matter whom Dilaf held hostage. She opened her mouth to speak, knowing that her words would probably be the last Raoden ever heard. “Go!” Dilaf ordered. Hrathen stood by, a dismayed observer, as Sarene fell into Dilaf 's trap. The Dakhor monks sprang forward, jumping from hiding places along the base of the building. They leaped to the walls, their feet seeming to stick as they found tiny footholds between bricks and arrow slits. Several monks, already in place hanging from the back of the rooftop, swung up and cut off Sarene's escape. Hrathen could hear startled yells as Sarene and her companion realized their predicament. It was too late. A few moments later, a Dakhor jumped down from the rooftop, a struggling princess in his arms. “Hrathen, get me your Seon,” Dilaf ordered. Hrathen complied, opening the metal box and letting the ball of light float free. Hrathen hadn't bothered asking how the monk knew about the Seon. The Dakhor were Wyrn's favored warriors: their leader would be privy to many of his secrets. “Seon, I wish to speak with King Eventeo,” Dilaf said. The Seon complied. Soon its light molded into the head of an overweight man with a proud face. “I do not know you,” Eventeo said. “Who calls for me in the middle of the night?” “I am the man who has your daughter, King,” Dilaf said, prodding Sarene in the side. The princess yelped despite herself. Eventeo's head turned, as if searching out the source of the sound, though he would only be able to see Dilaf 's face. “Who are you?” “I am Dilaf. Gragdet of the Dakhor Monastery.” “Merciful Domi . . .” Eventeo whispered. Dilaf's eyes thinned, and he smiled evilly. “I
thought you had converted, Eventeo. No matter. Wake your soldiers and gather them on their ships. I will arrive in Teod one hour from now, and if they are not ready to present a formal surrender, I will kill the girl.” “Father no!” Sarene yelled. “He can't be trusted!” “Sarene?” Eventeo asked anxiously. “One hour, Eventeo,” Dilaf said. Then he swiped his hand in the air dismissively. The king's confused face melted back into the smooth spherical shape of a Seon. “You will kill the Teos as well,” Hrathen said in Fjordell. “No,” Dilaf said. “Others will perform those executions. I will just kill their king, then burn Teod's ships with the sailors still on them. Once the armada is gone, Wyrn can land his armies on Teod's shore and use the country as a battleground to prove his might.” “It is unnecessary you know,” Hrathen said, feeling sick. “I had him-Eventeo was mine.” “He might have converted, Hrathen,” Dilaf said, “but you are simpleminded if you think he would have allowed our troops to land on his soil.” “You are a monster,” Hrathen whispered. “You will slaughter two kingdoms to feed your paranoia. What happened to make you hate Elantris so much?” “Enough!” Dilaf shouted. “Do not think I won't hesitate to kill you, Gyorn. The Dakhor are outside the law!” The monk stared at Hrathen with menacing eyes, then slowly calmed, breathing deeply as he noticed his captives again. The still disoriented Raoden was stumbling toward his wife, who was being held by a quiet Dakhor. The prince reached out to her, his arm wavering. “Oh,” Dilaf said, unsheathing his sword. “I forgot about you.” He smiled wickedly as he rammed the blade through Raoden's stomach. The pain washed over Raoden like a sudden wave of light. He hadn't even seen the thrust coming. He felt it, however. Groaning, he stumbled to his knees. The agony was unimaginable, even for one whose pain had been building steadily for two months. He held his stomach with trembling hands. He could feel the Dor. It felt . . . close. It was too much. The woman he loved was in danger, and he could do nothing. The pain, the Dor, his failure ... The soul that was Raoden crumpled beneath their combined weight, giving a final sigh of resignation. After that there was no longer pain, for there was no Ionger self. There was nothing. Sarene screamed as Raoden fell to the ground. She could see the suffering in his face, and she felt the sword as if it had been run through her own stomach. She shuddered, weeping as Raoden struggled for a moment, his legs working. Then he just ... stopped. “Failed . .” Raoden whispered, his lips forming a Hoed mantra. “Failed my love. Failed....” “Bring her,” Dilaf said. The words, spoken in Fjordell, barely registered in Sarene's mind. “And the others?” a monk asked. “Gather them with the rest of the people in this accused town and take them into Elantris,” Dilaf said. “You will find the Elantrians
near the center of the city, in a place that seems more cleanly.” “We found them, my gragdet.” the monk said. “Our men have already attacked.” “Ah, good,” Dilaf said with a hiss of pleasure. “Make certain you gather their bodies-Elantrians do not die as easily as normal men, and we do not want to let any of them escape.” “Yes, my gragdet.” “When you have them all in one place, bodies, Elantrians, and future Elantrians, say the purification rites. Then burn them all.” “Yes, my gragdet.” the warrior said, bowing his head. “Come, Hrathen.” Dilaf said. “You will accompany me to Teod.” Sarene fell into a disbelieving stupor as they pulled her away, watching Raoden until his slumped form was no1 longer visible in the night. CHAPTER 60 GALLADON hid in the shadows, careful not to move until the gyorn and his strange, bare-chested companions were gone. Then, motioning to Karata, he crept up to Raoden's body. “Sule?” Raoden did not move. “Doloken, Sule!” Galladon said, choked with emotion. “Don't do this to me!” A noise came from Raoden's mouth, and Galladon leaned in eagerly, listening. “Failed . . .” Raoden whispered. “Failed my love . . .” The mantra of the fallen: Raoden had joined the Hoed. Galladon sank down on the hard cobblestones, his body shaking as he wept tearlessly. The last hour had been a horror. Galladon and Karata had been at the library, planning how to lead the people away from Elantris. They had heard the screams even at that distance, but by the time they had arrived at New Elantris, no one but Hoed remained. As far as he knew, he and Karata were the last two conscious Elantrians. Karata placed a hand on his shoulder. “Galladon, we should go. This place is not safe.” “No,” Galladon said, climbing to his feet. “I have a promise to keep.” He looked up at the mountain slope just outside of Kae, a slope that held a special pool of water. Then, reaching down, he tied his jacket around Raoden to cover the wound, and hefted his friend up onto his shoulder. “Raoden made me vow to give him peace,” Galladon said. “After I see to him, intend to do the same for myself. We are the last, Karata: there is no more room for us in this world.” The woman nodded, moving to take part of Raoden's burden on herself. Together, the two of them began the hike that would end in oblivion. Lukel didn't struggle: there was little use in it. His father, however, was a different story. It took three Fjordells to bind Kiin and throw him on a horse-and even then, the large man managed to get off the odd kick at a passing head. Eventually, one of the soldiers thought to smash him on the back of the skull with a rock, and Kiin fell still. Lukel held his mother and wife close as the warriors herded them toward Elantris. There was a long line of people-nobles gathered from the eorners of Kae, their
clothing and faces ragged. Soldiers kept a watchful eye on the captives-as if any of them had the courage or will left to try escaping. Most of the people didn't even look up as they were pushed through the streets. Kaise and Daorn clung to Lukel, wide-eyed and frightened. Lukel pitied them the most, for their youth. Adien walked along behind him, apparently unconcerned. He slowly counted the steps as he moved. “Three hundred fifty-seven, three hundred fifty-eight, three hundred fifty-nine . . .” Lukel knew that they were marching to their own execution. He saw the bodies that lined the streets, and he understood that these men were not intent on domination. They were here to commit a massacre, and no massacre would be complete with victims left alive. He considered fighting back, grabbing a sword in some hopeless feat of heroism. But in the end, he simpl1y plodded along with the others. He knew that he was going to die, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was no warrior. The best he could hope for was a quick end. Hrathen stood next to Dilaf, remaining perfectly still as instructed. They stood in a circle-fifty Dakhor, Sarene, and Hrathen, with one solitary monk in the center. The Dakhor raised their hands, and the men on either side of Hrathen placed a hand on his shoulder. His heart began to pound as the monks began to glow, the bone inscriptions beneath their skin shining. There was a jarring sensation, and Kae vanished around them. They reappeared in an unfamiliar city. The houses lining the nearby street were tall and connected, rather than separated and squat like those of Kae. They had arrived in Teod. The group still stood in a circle, but Hrathen did not fail to notice that the man in the center was now missing. Hrathen shuddered, images from his youth returning. The monk in the center had been fuel, his flesh and soul burned away-a sacrifice in return for the instantaneous transportation to Teod. Dilaf stepped forward, leading his men up the street. As far as Hrathen could tell, Dilaf had brought the bulk of his monks with him, leaving Arelon in the care of regular Fjordell soldiers and a few Dakhor overseers. Arelon and Elantris had been defeated: the next battle was Teod. Hrathen could tell from Dilaf's eyes that the monk would not be satisfied until every person of Aonic descent was dead. Dilaf chose a building with a flat roof and motioned for his men to climb. It was easy for them, their enhanced strength and agility helping them leap and scramble up surfaces no normal man could possibly scale. Hrathen felt himself lifted and thrown over a monk's shoulder, and the ground fell away as he was carted up the side of the wall-carried without difficulty despite his plate armor. The Dakhor were unnatural monstrosities, but one couldn't help being awed at their power. The monk dropped Hrathen unceremoniously on the roof, his armor clanking against the stone.
As Hrathen pulled himself to his feet, his eyes found those of the princess. Sarene's face was a tempest of hatred. She blamed him, of course. She didn't realize that, in a way, Hrathen was as much a prisoner as she. Dilaf stood at the edge of the roof, scanning the city. A fleet of ships was pulling into Teod's enormous bay. “We are early.” Dilaf said, squatting down. “We will wait.” Galladon could almost imagine that the city was peaceful. He stood on a mountainside boulder, watching the morning's light creep across Kae-as if an invisible hand were pulling back a dark shade. He could almost convince himself that the rising smoke was coming from chimneys, not the ashen wrecks of buildings. He could nearly believe that the specks lining the streets were not bodies, but bushes or boxes, the crimson blood on the streets a trick of the early sunlight. Galladon turned away from the city. Kae might he peaceful, but it was the peace of death, not of serenity. Dreaming otherwise did little good. Perhaps if he had been less inclined to delusion, he wouldn't have let Raoden pull him out of Elantris's gutters. He wouldn't have allowed one man's simplistic optimism to cloud his mind: he wouldn't have begun to believe that life in Elantris could be anything but1 pain. He wouldn't have dared to hope. Unfortunately, he had listened. Like a rulo, he had allowed himself to give in to Raoden's dreams. Once, he'd thought that he could no longer feel hope; he'd chased it far away, wary of its fickle tricks. He should have left it there. Without hope, he wouldn't have to worry about disappointment. “Doloken, sule,” Galladon mumbled, looking down at the mindless Raoden, “you certainly made a mess of me.” The worst of it was, he still hoped. The light that Raoden had kindled still flickered inside Galladon's chest, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it out. The images of New Elantris's destruction were still crisp in his memory. Mareshe, an enormous, ragged hole torn in his chest. The quiet craftsman Taan, his face crushed beneath a large stone, but his fingers still twitching. The old Kahar-who had cleaned all of New Elantris practically by himself-missing an arm and both legs. Galladon had stood amid the carnage, screaming at Raoden for abandoning them, for leaving them behind. Their prince had betrayed them for Sarene. And still, he hoped. It was like a small rodent, cowering in the corner of his soul, frightened by the anger, the rage, and the despair. Yet every time he tried to grab hold of it, the hope slipped to another part of his heart. It was what had spurred him to leave the dead behind, to crawl from Elantris in search of Raoden, believing for some irrational reason that the prince could still fix everything. You are the fog Galladon. Not Raoden, Galladon told himself bitterly. He couldn't help being what he was. You, however, know better. Yet, he hoped. A part of Galladon still believed
that Raoden would somehow make things better. This was the curse his friend had set upon him, the wicked seed of optimism that refused to be uprooted. Galladon still had hope, and he probably would until the moment he gave himself up to the pool. Silently, Galladon nodded to Karata, and they picked Raoden up, ready to trek the last short distance to the pond. In few minutes he would be rid of both hope and despair. Elantris was dark, even though dawn was breaking. The tall walls made a shadow, keeping the sunlight out, expanding the night for a few moments. It was here, at one side of the broad entry plaza, that the soldiers deposited Lukel and the other nobles. Another group of Fjordells was building an enormous pile of wood, hauling scraps of buildings and furniture into the city. Surprisingly, there were very few of the strange demon warriors: only three directed the work. The rest of the men were regular soldiers, their armor covered with red surcoats marking them as Derethi monks. The worked quickly, keeping their eyes off of their prisoners, apparently trying not to think too hard about what the wood would be used for. Lukel tried not to think about that either. Jalla pulled close to him, her body trembling with fright. Lukel had tried to convince her to plead for freedom because of her Svordish blood, but she would not go. She was so quiet and unassertive that some mistook her for weak, but if they could have seen her as she was, voluntarily staying with her husband though it meant eertain death, they would have realized their mistake. Of all the deals, trades, and recognitions Lukel had won, the prize of Jalla's heart was by far the most valuable. His family pulled close to him, Daora and the children having no place to turn now that Kiin was unconscious. Only Adien stood apart, staring at the pile of lumber. He kept mumbling some number to himself. Lukel searched through the crowd of nobles, trying to smile and give encouragement, though he himself felt little confidence. Elantris would be their grave. As he looked. Lukel noticed a figure standing near the back of the group, hidden by bodies. He was moving slowly, his hands waving in front of himself. Shuden? Lukel thought. The Jindo's eyes were closed, his hands moving fluidly in some sort of pattern. Lukel watched his friend with confusion, wondering if the Jindo's mind had snapped: then he remembered the strange dance that Shuden had done that first day in Sarenens fencing class. ChayShan. Shuden moved his hands slowly, giving only a bare hint of the fury that was to come. Lukel watched with growing determination, somehow understanding. Shuden was no warrior. He practiced his dance for exercise, not for combat. However, he was not going to let the ones he loved be murdered without some sort of fight. He would rather die struggling than sit and wait, hoping that fate would send them a miracle. Lukel took a breath, feeling
ashamed. He searched around him, his eyes finding a table leg that one of the soldiers had dropped nearby. When the time came, Shuden would not fight alone. Raoden floated, senseless and unaware. Time meant nothing to him-he was time. It was his essence. Occasionally he would bob toward the surface of what he had once called consciousness, but as he approached he would feel pain, and back away. The agony was like a lake's surface: if he broke through it, the pain would return and envelop him. Those times he got close to the surface of pain, however, he thought he saw images. Visions chat might have been real, but were probably just reflections of his memory. He saw Galladon's face, concerned and angry at the same time. He saw Karata, her eyes heavy with despair. He saw a mountain landscape, covered with scrub and rocks. It was all immaterial to him. “I often wish that they'd just let her die.” Hrathen looked up. Dilaf's voice was introspective, as if he were talking to himself. However, the priest's eyes were focused on Hrathen. “What?” Hrathen asked hesitantly. “If only they had let her die ...” Dilaf trailed off. He sat at the edge of the rooftop, watching the ships gather below, his face reminiscent. His emotions had always been unstable. No man could keep Dilaf's level of ardor burning for long without doing emotional damage to his mind. A few more years, and Dilaf would probably be completely insane. “I was already fifty years old back then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Did you know that? I have lived nearly seventy years, though my body doesn't look older than twenty. She thought I was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, even though my body had been twisted and destroyed to fit the mold of an Arelene.” Hrathen remained quiet. He had heard of such things, that the incantations of Dakhor could actually change the way a person looked. The process had undoubtedly been very painful. “When she fell sick, I took her to Elantris.” Dilaf mumbled, his legs pulled tightly against his chest. “I knew it was pagan, I knew it was blasphemous, but even forty years as a Dakhor wasn't enough to keep me away. . . not when I thought Elantris could save her. Elantris can heal, they said, while Dakhor cannot. And I took her.” The monk was no longer looking at Hrathen. His eyes were unfocused. “They changed her,” he whispered. “They said the spell went wrong, but I know the truth. They knew me, and they hated me. Why, then, did they have to put their curse on Seala? Her skin turned black, her hair fell out, and she began to die. She screamed at night, yelling that the pain was eating her from the inside. Eventually she threw herself off the city wall.” Dilaf's voice turned reverently mournful. “I found her at the bottom, still alive. Still alive, despite the fall. And I burned her. She never stopped screaming. She screams still. I can hear her.
She will scream until Elantris is gone.” They reached the ledge, behind which lay the pool, and Galladon laid Raoden down. The prince slumped idly against the stone, his head hanging slightly over the side of the cliff, his unfocused eyes staring out over the city of Kae. Galladon leaned back against the rock face, next to the door of the tunnel that led down to Elantris. Karata slumped next to him in exhaustion. They would wait a brief moment, then find oblivion. Once the wood was gathered, the soldiers began a new pile-this one of bodies. The soldiers went searching through the city, seeking the corpses of Elantrians who had been slain. Lukel realized something as he watched the pile grow. They weren't all dead. In fact, most of them weren't. Most of them had wounds so grievous that it sickened Lukel to look at them, yet their arms and legs twitched, their lips moving. Elantrians, Lukel thought with amazement, the dead whose minds continue to live. The pile of bodies grew higher. There were hundreds of them, all of the Elantrians that had been collecting in the city for ten years. None of them resisted; they simply allowed themselves to be heaped, their eyes uncaring, until the pile of bodies was larger than the pile of wood. “Twenty-seven steps to the bodies.” Adien whispered suddenly, walking away from the crowd of nobles. Lukel reached for his brother, but it was too late. A soldier yelled for Adien to get back with the others. Adien didn't respond. Angry, the soldier slashed at Adien with a sword, leaving a large gash in his chest. Adien stumbled, but kept walking. No blood came from the wound. The soldier's eyes opened wide, and he jumped back, making a ward against evil. Adien approached the pile of Elantrians and joined its ranks, flopping down among them and then lying still. Adien's secret of five years had finally been revealed. He had joined his people. “I remember you, Hrathen.” Dilaf was smiling now, his grin wicked and demonic. “I remember you as a boy, when you came to us. It was just before I left for Arelon. You were frightened then, as you are frightened now. You ran from us, and I watched you 1go with satisfaction. You were never meant to be Dakhor-you are far too weak.” Hrathen felt chilled. “You were there?” “I was gragdet by then, Hrathen,” Dilaf said. “Do you remember me?” Then, looking into the man's eyes, Hrathen had a flash of remembrance. He remembered evil eyes in the body of a tall, unmerciful man. He remembered chants. He remembered fires. He remembered screams-his screams-and a face hanging above him. They were the same eyes. “You!” Hrathen said with a gasp. “You remember.” “I remember,” Hrathen said with a dull chill. “You were the one that convinced me to leave. In my third month, you demanded that one of your monks use his magic and send you to Wyrn's palace. The monk complied, giving up his life to transport you a
distance that you could have walked in fifteen minutes.” “Absolute obedience is required, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “Occasional tests and examples bring loyalty from the rest.” Then, pausing, he looked out over the bay. The armada was docked, waiting as per Dilaf's order. Hrathen scanned the horizon, and he could see several dark specks-the tips of masts. Wyrn's army was coming. “Come,” Dilaf ordered, rising to his feet. “We have been successful; the Teoish armada has docked. They will not be able to stop our fleet from landing. I have only one duty remaining-the death of King Eventeo.” A vision sprung into Raoden's impassive mind. He tried to ignore it. Yet, for some reason, it refused to leave. He saw it through the shimmering surface of his pain-a simple picture. It was Aon Rao. A large square with four circles around it, lines connecting them to the center. It was a widely used Aon-especially among the Korathi-for its meaning. Spirit. Soul. Floating in the white eternity, Raoden's mind tried to discard the image of Aon Rao. It was something from a previous existence, unimportant and forgotten. He didn't need it any longer. Yet, even as he strove to remove the image, another sprung up in its place. Elantris. Four walls forming a square. The four outer cities surrounding it, their borders circles. A straight road leading from each city to Elantris. “Merciful Domi!” The soldiers opened several barrels of oil, and Lukel watched with revulsion as they began pouring them over the heap of bodies. Three shirtless warriors stood at the side, singing some sort of chant in a foreign language that sounded too harsh and unfamiliar to be Fjordell. We will be next, Lukel realized. “Don't look.” Lukel ordered his family, turning away as the soldiers prepared Elantris for immolation. King Eventeo stood in the distance, a small honor guard surrounding him. He bowed his head as Dilaf approached. The monk smiled, preparing his knife. Eventeo thought he was presenting his country for surrender-he didn't realize that he was offering it up for a sacrifice. Hrathen walked beside Dilaf, thinking about necessity and duty. Men would die, true, but their lo1ss would not be meaningless. The entire Fjordell Empire would grow stronger for the victory over Teod. The hearts of men would increase in faith. It was the same thing Hrathen himself had done in Arelon. He had tried to convert the people for political reasons, using politics and popularity. He had bribed Telrii to convert, giving no heed to saving the man's soul. It was the same thing. What was a nation of unbelievers when compared with all of Shu-Dereth? Yet, even as he rationalized, his stomach grew sick. I was sent to save these people, not to slaughter them! Dilaf held Princess Sarene by the neck, her mouth gagged. Eventeo looked up and smiled reassuringly as they approached. He could not see the knife in Dilaf's hand. “I have waited for this,” Dilaf whispered softly. At first, Hrathen thought the priest referred to the destruction of Teod. But Dilaf wasn't
looking at the king. He was looking at Sarene, the blade of his knife pressed into her back. “You, Princess, are a disease,” Dilaf whispered in Sarene's ear, his voice barely audible to Hrathen. “Before you came to Kae, even the Arelenes hated Elantris. You are the reason they forgot that loathing. You associated with the unholy ones, and you even descended to their level. You are worse than they are-you are one who is not cursed, but seeks to be cursed. I considered killing your father first and making you watch, but now I realize it will be much worse the other way around. Think of old Eventeo watching you die, Princess. Ponder that image as I send you to Jaddeth's eternal pits of torment.” She was crying, the tears staining her gag. Raoden struggled toward consciousness. The pain hit him like an enormous block of stone, halting his progress, his mind recoiling in agony. He threw himself against it, and the torment washed over him. He slowly forced his way through the resistant surface, coming to a laborious awareness of the world outside himself. He wanted to scream, to scream over and over again. The pain was incredible. However, with the pain, he felt something else. His body. He was moving, being dragged along the ground. Images washed into his mind as sight returned. He was being pulled toward something round and blue. The pool. NO! He thought desperately. Not yet! I know the answer! Raoden screamed suddenly, twitching. Galladon was so surprised that he dropped the body. Raoden stumbled forward, trying to get his footing, and fell directly into the pool. CHAPTER 61 DILAF reached around the princess to press his dagger against her neck. Eventeo's eyes opened wide with horror. Hrathen watched the dagger begin to slice Sarene's skin. He thought of Fjorden. He thought of the work he had done, the people he had saved. He thought of a young boy, eager to prove his faith by entering the priesthood. Unity. “No!” Spinning, Hrathen drove his fist into Dilaf's face. Dilaf stumbled for a moment, lowering his weapon in surprise. Then the monk looked up with rage and plunged the dagger at Hrathen's breast. The knife slid off Hrathen's armor, scraping ineffectually along the painted steel. Dilaf regarded the breastplate with stunned eyes. “But, that armor is just for show....” “You should know by now, Dilaf,” Hrathen said, bringing his armored forearm up and smashing it into the monk's face. Though the unnatural bone had resisted Hrathen's fist, it crunched with a satisfying sound beneath steel. “Nothing I do is just for show.” Dilaf fell, and Hrathen pulled the monk's sword free from its scabbard. “Launch your ships, Eventeo!” he yelled. “Fjorden's armies come not to dominate, but to massacre. Move now if you want to save your people!” “Rag Domi!” Eventeo cursed, yelling for his generals. Then he paused. “My daughter “I will help the girl!” Hrathen snapped. “Save your kingdom, you fool!” Though Dakhor bodies were unnaturally quick, their minds recovered from shock no more
quickly than those of regular men. Their surprise bought Hrathen a few vital seconds. He brought his sword up, shoving Sarene toward an alleyway and backing up to block the entrance. The water held Raoden in a cool embrace. It was a thing alive: he could hear it calling in his mind. Come, it said, I give you release. It was a comforting parent. It wanted to take away his pain and sorrows, just as his mother had once done. Come, it pled. You can finally give up. No. Raoden thought. Not yet. The Fjordells finished dousing the Elantrians with oil, then prepared their torches. During the entire process, Shuden moved his arms in restrained circular patterns, not inereasing their speed as he had the time at the fencing class. Lukel began to wonder if Shuden wasn't planning an assault at all, but simply preparing himself for the inevitable. Then Shuden burst into motion. The young baron snapped forward, spinning like a dancer as he brought his fist around, driving it into the chest of a chanting warrior monk. There was an audible crack, and Shuden spun again, slapping the monk across the face. The demon's head spun completely around, his eyes bulging as his reinforced neck snapped. And Shuden did it all with his eyes closed. Lukel couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw something else-a slight glow following Shuden's movements in the dawn shadows. Yelling a battle cry-more to motivate himself than frighten his foes-Lukel grabbed the table leg and swung it at a soldier. The wood bounced off the man's helmet, but the blow was powerful enough to daze him, so Lukel followed it with a solid blow to the face. The soldier dropped and Lukel grabbed his weapon. Now he had a sword. He only wished he knew how to use it. The Dakhor were faster, stronger, and tou1gher, but Hrathen was more determined. For the first time in years, his heart and his mind agreed. He felt power-the same strength he had felt that first day when he had arrived in Arelon, confident in his ability to save its people. He held them off, though just barely. Hrathen might not have been a Dakhor monk, but he was a master swordsman. What he lacked in comparative strength and speed he could compensate for in skill. He swung, thrusting his sword at a Dakhor chest, slamming it directly in between two bone ridges. The blade slid past enlarged ribs, piercing the heart. The Dakhor gasped, dropping as Hrathen whipped his sword free. The monk's companions, however, forced Hrathen to retreat defensively into the alleyway. He felt Sarene stumbling behind him, pulling off her gag. “There are coo many!” she said. “You can't fight them all.” She was right. Fortunately, a wave moved through the crowd of warriors, and Hrathen heard the sounds of battle coming from the other side. Eventeo's honor guard had joined the affray. “Come on,” Sarene said, tugging his shoulder. Hrathen risked a glance behind him. The princess was pointing at a slightly ajar
door in the building next to them. Hrathen nodded, battering away another attack, then turned to run. Raoden burst from the water, gasping reflexively for breath. Galladon and Karata jumped back in surprise. Raoden felt the cool blue liquid streaming from his face. It wasn't water, but something else. Something thicker. He paid it little heed as he crawled from the pool. “Sule!” Galladon whispered in surprise. Raoden shook his head, unable to respond. They had expected him to dissolve-they didn't understand that the pool couldn't take him unless he wanted it to. “Come.” he finally rasped, stumbling to his feet. Despite Lukel's energetic assault and Shuden's powerful attack, the other townspeople simply stood and watched in dumb stupefaction. Lukel found himself desperately fighting three soldiers; the only reason he stayed alive was because he did more dodging and running than actual attacking. When aid finally did come, it was given by an odd source: the women. Several of Sarene's fencers snatched up pieces of wood or fallen swords and fell in behind Lukel, thrusting with more control and ability than he could even feign to know. The brunt of their onslaught was pushed forward by surprise, and for a moment Lukel thought they might actually break free. Then Shuden fell, crying out as a sword bit into his arm. As soon as the Jindo's concentration broke, so did his war dance, and a simple club to the head knocked him from the battle. The old queen, Eshen, fell next, a sword rammed through her chest. Her horrible scream, and the sight of the blood streaming down her dress, unnerved the other women. They broke, dropping their weapons. Lukel took a long gash on the thigh as one of his foes realized he had no clue how to use his weapon. Lukel yelled in pain and fell to the cobblestones, holding his leg. The soldier didn't even bother to finish him off. Raoden dashed down the side of the mountain at a horrifying p1ace. The prince leapt and scrambled, as if he hadn't been practically comatose just a few minutes earlier. One slip at this pace, one wrong step, and he wouldn't stop rolling until he hit the foot of the mountain. “Doloken!” Galladon said, trying his best to keep up. At this rate they would reach Kae in a matter of minutes. Sarene hid beside her unlikely rescuer, holding perfectly still in the darkness. Hrathen looked up through the floorboards. He had been the one to spot the cellar door, pulling it open and shoving her though. Underneath they had found a terrified family huddled in the blackness. They had all waited quietly, tense, as the Dakhor moved through the house then left out the front door. Eventually, Hrathen nodded. “Let's go,' he said, reaching over to lift the trapdoor. “Stay down here,” Sarene told the family. “Don't come up until you absolutely have to.” The gyorn's armor clinked as he climbed the steps, then peeked cautiously into the room. He motioned for Sarene to follow, then moved into the small
kitchen at the back of the house. He began pulling off his armor, dropping its pieces to the floor. Though he gave no explanation. Sarene understood the action. The bloodred gyorn's armor was far too distinctive to be worth its protective value. As he worked, Sarene was surprised at the apparent weight of the metal. “You've been walking around all these months in real armor? Wasn't that difficult?” “The burden of my calling,” Hrathen said, pulling off his final greave. Its bloodred paint was now scratched and dented. “A calling I no longer deserve.” He dropped it with a clank. He looked at the greave, then shook his head, pulling off his bulky cotton underclothing, meant to cushion the armor. He stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of thin, knee-length trousers and a long, sleevelike band of cloth around his right arm. Why the covered arm? Sarene wondered. Some piece of Derethi priest's garb? Other questions were more pressing, however. “Why did you do it, Hrathen?” she asked. “Why turn against your people?” Hrathen paused. Then he looked away. “Dilaf 's actions are evil.” “But your faith . . “My faith is in Jaddeth, a God who wants the devotion of men. A massacre does not serve Him.” “Wyrn seems to think differently.” Hrathen did not respond, instead selecting a cloak from a nearby chest. He handed it to her, then took another for himself. “Let us go.” Raoden's feet were so covered with bumps, lacerations, and scrapes that he no longer related to them as pieces of flesh. They were simply lumps of pain burning at the end of his legs. But still he ran on. He knew that if he stoppe1d, the pain would claim him once again. He wasn't truly free-his mind was on loan, returned from the void to perform a single task. When he was finished, the white nothingness would suck him down into its oblivion again. He stumbled toward the city of Kae, feeling as much as seeing his way. Lukel lay dazed as Jalla pulled him back toward the mass of terrified townspeople. His leg throbbed, and he could feel his body weakening as blood spilled from the long gash. His wife bound it as best she could, but Lukel knew that the action was pointless. Even if she did manage to stop the bleeding, the soldiers were only going to kill them in a few moments anyway. He watched in despair as one of the bare-chested warriors tossed a torch onto the pile of Elantrians. The oil-soaked bodies burst into flames. The demon-man nodded to several soldiers, who pulled out their weapons and grimly advanced on the huddled townspeople. “What is he doing?” Karata demanded as they reached the bottom of the slope. Raoden was still ahead of them, running in an unsteady gait toward Kae's short border wall. “I don't know,” Galladon said. Ahead, Raoden grabbed a long stick from the ground, then he started to run, dragging the length of wood behind him. What are you up to, sule? Galladon wondered. Yet
he could feel stubborn hope rising again. “Whatever it is, Karata, it is important. We must see that he finishes.” He ran after Raoden, following the prince along his path. After a few minutes, Karata pointed ahead of them. “There!” A squad of six Fjordell guards, probably searching the city for stragglers, walked along the inside of Kae's border wall. The lead soldier noticed Raoden and raised a hand. “Come on,” Galladon said, dashing after Raoden with sudden strength. “No matter what else happens, Karata, don't let them stop him!” Raoden barely heard the men approaching, and he only briefly recognized Galladon and Karata running up behind him, desperately throwing themselves at the soldiers. His friends were unarmed; a voice in the back of his head warned that they would not be able to win him much time. Raoden continued to run, the stick held in rigid fingers. He wasn't sure how he knew he was in the right place, but he did. He felt it. Only a little farther. Only a little farther. A hand grabbed him; a voice yelled at him in Fjordell. Raoden tripped, falling to the ground-but he kept the stick steady, not letting it slip even an inch. A moment later there was a grunt, and the hand released him. Only a little farther! Men battled around him, Galladon and Karata keeping the soldiers' attention. Raoden let out a primal sob of frustration, crawling like a child as he dug his line in the ground. Boots slammed into the earth next to Raoden's hand, coming within inches of crushing his fingers. Still he kept moving. He looked up as he neared the end. A soldier finished the swing that1 separated Karata's beleaguered head from her body. Galladon fell with a pair of swords in his stomach. A soldier pointed at Raoden. Raoden gritted his teeth, and finished his line in the dirt. Galladon's large bulk crashed to the ground. Karata's head knocked against the short stone wall. The soldier took a step. Light exploded from the ground. It burst from the dirt like a silver river, spraying into the air along the line Raoden had drawn. The light enveloped him-but it was more than just light. It was essential purity. Power refined. The Dor. It washed over him, covering him like a warm liquid. And for the first time in two months, the pain went away. The light continued along Raoden's line, which connected to Kae's short border wall. It followed the wall, spurting from the ground, continuing in a circle until it completely surrounded Kae. It didn't stop. The power shot up the short road between Kae and Elantris, spreading to coat the great city's wall as well. From Elantris it moved to the other three outer cities, their rubble all but forgotten in the ten years since the Reod. Soon all five cities were outlined with light-five resplendent pillars of energy. The city complex was an enormous Aon-a focus for Elantrian power. All it had needed was the Chasm line to make it begin working
again. One square, four circles. Aon Rao. The Spirit of Elantris. Raoden stood in the torrent of light, his clothing fluttering in its unique power. He felt his strength return, his pains evaporate like unimportant memories, and his wounds heal. He didn't need to look to know that soft white hair had grown from his scalp, that his skin had discarded its sickly taint in favor of a delicate silver sheen. Then he experienced the most joyful event of all. Like a thundering drum, his heart began to beat in his chest. The Shaod, the Transformation, had finally completed its work. With a sigh of regret, Raoden stepped from the light, emerging into the world as a metamorphosed creature. Galladon, stunned, rose from the ground a few feet away, his skin a dark metallic silver. The terrified soldiers stumbled away. Several made wards against evil, calling upon their god. “You have one hour,” Raoden said, raising a gIowing finger toward the docks. “Go.” Lukel clutched his wife, watching the fire consume its living fuel. He whispered his love to her as the soldiers advanced to do their grisly work. Father Omin whispered behind Lukel, offering a quiet prayer to Domi for their souls, and for those of their executioners. Then, like a lantern suddenly set aflame, Elantris erupted with light. The entire city shook, its walls seeming to stretch, distorted by some awesome power. The people inside were trapped in a vortex of energy, sudden winds ripping through the town. All fell still. They stood as if at the eye of an enor1mous white storm, power raging in a wall of luster that surrounded the city. Townspeople cried out in fear, and soldiers cursed, looking up at the shining walls with confusion. Lukel wasn't watching the walls. His mouth opened slightly in amazement as he stared at the pyre of corpses-and the shadows moving within it. Slowly, their bodies glistening with a light both more luminous and more powerful than the flames around them, the Elantrians began to step from the blaze, unharmed by its heat. The townspeople sat stunned. Only the two demon priests seemed capable of motion. One of them screamed in denial, dashing at the emerging Elantrians with his sword upraised. A flash of power shot across the courtyard and struck the monk in the chest, immolating the creature in a puff of energy. The sword dropped to the cobblestones with a clang, followed by a scattering of smoking bones and burnt flesh. Lukel turned bewildered eyes toward the source of the attack. Raoden stood in the still open gate of Elantris, his hand upraised. The king glowed like a specter returned from the grave, his skin silver, his hair a brilliant white, his face effulgent with triumph. The remaining demon priest screamed at Raoden in Fjorden, cursing him as a Svrakiss. Raoden raised a hand, quietly sketching in the air, his fingers leaving gleaming white trails-trails that shone with the same raging power that surrounded Elantris's wall. Raoden stopped, his hand poised next to the gleaming character-Aon Daa,
the Aon for power. The king looked through the glowing symbol, his eyes raised in a challenge to the lone Derethi warrior. The monk cursed again, then slowly lowered his weapon. “Take your men, monk,” Raoden said. “Board those ships and go. Anything Derethi, man or vessel, that remains in my country after the next hour's chime will suffer the force of my rage. I dare you to leave me with a suitable target.” The soldiers were already running, dashing past Raoden into the city. Their leader slunk behind them. Before Raoden's glory, the monk's horrible body seemed more pitiful than it did terrifying. Raoden watched them go, then he turned toward Lukel and the others. “People of Arelon. Elantris is restored!” Lukel blinked dizzily. Briefly, he wondered if the entire experience had been a vision concocted by his overtaxed mind. When the shouts of joy began to ring in his ears, however, he knew that it was all real. They had been saved. “How totally unexpected,” he declared, then proceeded to faint from blood loss. Dilaf tenderly prodded at his shattered nose, resisting the urge to bellow in pain. His men, the Dakhor, waited beside him. They had easily slain the king's guards, but in the combat they had somehow lost not only Eventeo and the princess, but the traitor Hrathen as well. “Find them!” Dilaf demanded, rising to his feet. Passion. Anger. The voice of his dead wife called in his ears, begging for revenge. She would have it. Eventeo would never launch his ships in time. Besides, fifty Dakhor already roamed his capital. Th1e monks themselves were like an army, each one as powerful as a hundred normal men. They would take Teod yet. CHAPTER 62 SARENE and Hrathen shambled down the city street, their nondescript cloaks pulled close. Hrathen kept his hood up to hide his dark hair. The people of Teod had gathered in the streets, wondering why their king had brought the armada into the bay. Many wandered in the direction of the docks, and with these Sarene and Hrathen mingled, stooped and subservient, trying their best to look commonplace. “When we arrive, we will seek passage on one of the merchant ships.” Hrathen said quietly. “They will bolt from Teod as soon as the armada launches. There are several places in Hrovell that don't see a Derethi priest for months at a time. We can hide there.” “You talk as if Teod will fall,” Sarene whispered back. “You may go, priest, but I will not leave my homeland.” “If you value its safety, you will,” Hrathen snapped. “I know Dilaf-he is a man obsessed. If you stay in Teod, so will he. If you leave, perhaps he will follow.” Sarene ground her teeth. The gyorn's words had apparent sense in them, but it was possible he was concocting things to get her to accompany him. Of course, there was no reason for him to do such a thing. What cared he for Sarene? She had been his fervent enemy. They moved slowly, unwilling to set
themselves apart from the crowd by increasing their speed. “You didn't really answer my question before, priest.” Sarene whispered. “You have turned against your religion. Why?” Hrathen walked in silence for a moment. “I ... I don't know, woman. I have followed Shu-Dereth since I was a child-the structure and formality of it have always called to me. I joined the priesthood. I ... thought I had faith. It turned out, however, that the thing I grew to believe was not Shu-Dereth after all. I don't know what it is.” “Shu-Korath?” Hrathen shook his head. “That is too simple. Belief is not simply Korathi or Derethi, one or the other. I still believe Dereth's teachings. My problem is with Wyrn, not God.” Horrified at his show of weakness before the girl, Hrathen quickly steeled his heart against further questions. Yes, he had betrayed Shu-Dereth. Yes, he was a traitor. But, for some reason, he felt calm now that he had made the decision. He had caused blood and death in Duladel. He would not let that happen again. He had convinced himself that the Republic's fall was a necessary tragedy. Now he had dispelled that illusion. His work in Duladel had been no more ethical than what Dilaf had attempted here in Teod. Ironically, by opening himself to truth. Hrathen had also exposed himself to the guilt of his past atrocities. One thing, however, kept him from despair-the knowledge that whatever else happened to him, no matter what he had done, he could say that he now followed the truth in his heart. He could die and face Jaddeth with courage and pride. The though1t crossed his mind right before he felt the stab of pain in his chest. He reached over in surprise, grunting as he brought his hand up. His fingers were stained with blood. He felt his feet weaken, and he slumped against a building, ignoring Sarene's startled cry. Confused, he looked out into the crowd, and his eyes fell on the face of his murderer. He knew the man. His name was Fjon-the priest Hrathen had sent home from Kae the very day he had arrived. That had been two months ago. How had Fjon found him? How. . . It was impossible. Fjon smiled, then disappeared into the throng of people. As the darkness closed in. Hrathen discarded all questions. Instead his view and consciousness was filled with Sarene's worried face. The woman who had destroyed him. Because of her, he had finally rejected the lies he had believed all of his life. She would never know that he had come to love her. Goodbye, my princess, he thought. Jaddeth, be merciful to my soul. I only did the best I could. Sarene watched the light fading from Hrathen's eyes. “No!” she cried, pressing her hand against his wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. “Hrathen, don't you dare leave me alone here!” He didn't respond. She had fought with him over the fate of two countries, but had never really known who he was.
She never would. A startled scream shocked Sarene back into the tangible world. People gathered around her, upset by the sight of a dying man in the street. Stunned, Sarene realized she had become the center of attention. She lifted her hand, pulled away as if to hide, but it was too late. Several bare-chested forms appeared from an alley to investigate the disturbance. One of them had blood on his face, the sign of a broken nose. Fjon slipped away from the crowd, exulting at the ease of his first kill. They had told him that it would be simple: He needed only to knife a single man, and then he would be admitted into the monastery of Rathbore, where he would be trained as an assassin. You were right, Hrathen, he thought. They did give me a new way to serve Jaddeth's empire-an important one. How ironic that the man he had been ordered to kill had turned out to be Hrathen himself. How had Wyrn known that Fjon would find Hrathen here, on the streets of Teod of all places? Fjon would probably never know; Lord Jaddeth moved in ways beyond the understanding of men. But Fjon had performed his duty. His period of penance was over. With a merry step, Fjon went back to his inn and ordered breakfast. “Leave me,” Lukel said with a pained tone. “I'm nearly dead-see to the oth-” “Stop whining.” Raoden said, drawing Aon Ten in the air above the wounded Lukel. He crossed it with the Chasm line, and the wound in the merchant's leg resealed instantly. Not only did Raoden know the proper modifiers this time, but his Aons had the power of Elantris behind them. With the resurrection of the city, AonDor had regained its legendary strength. Lukel looked down, experimentally bending his leg and feeling where the cut had been. Then he frowned. “You know, you could have left a scar. I had to go through an awful lot to get that wound-you should have seen how courageous I was. My grandchildren are going to be disappointed that I don't have any scars to show 1them.” “They'll live,” Raoden said, rising and walking away. “What's wrong with you?” Lukel said from behind. “I thought we won.” We won, Raoden thought, but I failed. They had searched the city-there was no sign of Sarene, Dilaf, or Hrathen. Raoden had captured a straggling Derethi soldier and demanded to know where they were, but the man had pled ignorance, and Raoden had released him with disgust. He brooded, watching the people celebrate. Despite the deaths, despite the near-complete destruction of Kae, they were happy. Fjorden had been cast out and Elantris had returned. The days of the gods had come again. Unfortunately, Raoden couldn't enjoy the sweetness of his victory. Not without Sarene. Galladon approached slowly, ambling away from the group of Elantrians. The mass of sliver-skinned people were, for the most part, disoriented. Many of them had been Hoed for years, and knew nothing of current events. “They're going to be-”
the Dula began. “My lord Raoden!” a voice suddenly interrupted-a voice Raoden recognized. “Ashe?” he asked anxiously, seeking out the Seon. “Your Majesty!” Ashe said, zipping across the courtyard. “A Seon just spoke with me. The princess! She is in Teod, my lord. My kingdom is under attack as well!” “Teod?” Raoden asked, dumbfounded. “How in Domi's name did she get there?” Sarene backed away, wishing desperately for a weapon. The townspeople noticed Dilaf and his warriors and, seeing the Fjordells' odd twisted bodies and malevolent eyes, scattered in fright. Sarene's reflexes urged her to join them, but such a move would only put her directly in Dilaf's hands. The small monk's warriors quickly fanned out to cut off Sarene's escape. Dilaf approached-his face stained with drying blood, his bare torso sweating in Teod's cold air, the intricate patterns beneath the skin on his arms and chest bulging, his lips curved in a wicked smile. At that moment, Sarene knew that this man was the most horrifying thing she would ever see. Raoden climbed to the top of Elantris's wall, taking the steps two at a time, his restored Elantrian muscles moving more quickly and tirelessly than even those of his pre-Shaod self. “Sule!” Galladon called with concern, rushing up behind him. Raoden didn't respond. He topped the wall, pushing his way through the crowds of people who stood looking over the remains of Kae. They parted as they realized who he was, some kneeling and mumbling “Your Majesty.” Their voices were awed. In him they saw a return to their former lives. Hopeful, luxurious lives filled with ample food and time. Lives nearly forgotten over a decade of tyranny. Raoden gave them no heed, continuing until he stood on the northern wall, which overlooked the broad blue Sea of Fjorden. On the other side of those waters lay Teod. And Sarene. “Seon,” Raoden ordered, “show me the exact direction Teod's capital is from this point.” Ashe hovered for a moment, then moved to a spot in front of Raoden, marking a point on the horizon. “If you wanted to sail to Teod, my lord, you would go in this direction.” Raoden nodded, trusting the Seon's innate sense of direction. He began to draw. He constructed Aon Tia with frantic hands, his fingers tracing patterns he had learned by rote, never thinking they would do any good. Now, with Elantris somehow feeding the Aons' strength, lines no longer simply appeared in the air when he drew-they exploded. Light streamed from the Aon, as if his fingers were ripping tiny holes through a mighty dam, allowing only some of the water to squirt through. “Stile!” Galladon said, finally catching up to him. “Sule, what is going on?” Then, apparently recognizing the Aon, he cursed. “Doloken, Raoden, you don't know what you're doing!” “I am going to Teod,” Raoden said, continuing to draw. “But sule,” Galladon protested. “You yourself told me how dangerous Aon Tia can be. What was it you said? If you don't know the exact distance you need to travel, you
could be killed. You can't go into this blind. Kolo?” “It's the only way, Galladon,” Raoden said. “I have to at least try.” Galladon shook his head, laying a hand on Raoden's shoulder. “Sule, a meaningless attempt won't prove anything but your stupidity. Do you even know how far it is to Teod?” Raoden's hand fell slowly to his side. He was no geographer; he knew Teod was about four days' sail, but he had no practical knowledge of how many miles or feet that was. He had to work a frame of reference into Aon Tia, give it some sort of measurement, so that it knew how far to send him. Galladon nodded, clapping Raoden on the shoulder. “Prepare a ship!” the Dula ordered to a group of soldiers-the last remnants of the Elantris City Guard. It will be too late! Raoden thought with sorrow. What good is power, what good is Elantris, if I can't use it to protect the one I love? “One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” said a voice from behind Raoden. Raoden turned with surprise. Adien stood a short distance away, his skin shining with a silvery Elantrian glow. His eyes betrayed none of the mental retardation that had eursed him since birth: instead they stared lucidly ahead. “Adien,” Raoden said with surprise. “You're ...” The young man, looking strikingly like Lukel now that he was healed, stepped forward. “I ... I feel like my entire life has been a dream, Raoden. I remember everything that happened. But, I couldn't interact-I couldn't say anything. That's changed now, but one thing remains the same. My mind ... I've always been able to figure numbers....” “Footsteps.” Raoden whispered. “One million, three hundred twenty-seven thousand, forty-two,” Ad1ien repeated. “That is how many steps it is to Teod. Measure my stride, and use that as your unit.” “Hurry, my lord!” Ashe exclaimed with fear. “She's in danger. Mai-he's watching the princess now. He says she's surrounded. Oh, Domi! Hurry!” “Where, Seon!” Raoden snapped, kneeling down and measuring Adien's stride with a strip of cloth. “Near the docks, my lord,” Ashe said. “She's standing on the main road leading to the docks!” “Adien!” Raoden said, drawing a line in his Aon that duplicated the length of the boy's stride. “One million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five.” Adien said. “That will take you to the docks.” He looked up, frowning. “I . . . I'm not sure how I know that. I went there as a child once, but .. .” It'll have to be enough, Raoden thought. He reached up and wrote a modifier beside his Aon, telling it to transport him one million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and five lengths of the line. “Sule, this is insane!” Galladon said. Raoden looked at his friend, nodded in agreement, then with a broad stroke drew the Chasm line across his Aon. “You are in charge of Arelon until I return, my friend,” Raoden said as Aon Tia began to shake, spewing light before him. He reached
up and grabbed the center of the trembling Aon, and his fingers latched on to it, as if it were solid. “Dos Domi, he prayed, if you have ever heard my prayers before, direct my path NOW. Then, hoping Ashe had the angle correct, he felt the Aon's power rush through and envelop his body. A moment later the world disappeared. Sarene pressed her back against the hard brick wall. Dilaf approached with gleeful eyes. He crept forward, his line of monks closing on Sarene. It was over. There was nowhere for her to run. Suddenly, a spray of light crashed into one of the monks, throwing the creature into the air. Stupefied, Sarene watched the monk's body as it arced before her, then fell to the ground with a thud. The other monks paused, stunned. A figure dashed between the surprised line of monks, scrambling toward Sarene. His skin was silvery, his hair a blazing white, his face .. . “Raoden?” she asked with shock. Dilaf growled, and Sarene yelped as the priest dove at Raoden, moving supernaturally quickly. Yet somehow Raoden reacted just as quickly, spinning and backing away before Dilaf's attack. The king's hand whipped out, scrawling a quick Aon in the air. A burst of light shot from the Aon, the air warping and twisting around it. The bolt took Dilaf in the chest and exploded, throwing the monk backward. Dilaf 1crashed into the side of a building and collapsed to the ground. Then, however, the priest groaned, stumbling back to his feet. Raoden cursed. He dashed the short distance and grabbed Sarene. “Hold on.” he ordered, his free hand tracing another Aon. The designs Raoden crafted around Aon Tia were complex, but his hand moved dexterously. He finished it just as Dilaf's men reached them. Sarene's body lurched, much as it had when Dilaf had brought them to Teod. Light surrounded her, shaking and pulsing. A brief second later the world returned. Sarene stumbled in confusion, falling against the familiar Teoish cobblestones. She looked up with surprise. About fifty feet down the street she could see the bare chests of Dilaf's monks standing in a confused circle. One of them raised a hand, pointing at Raoden and Sarene. “Idos Domi!” Raoden cursed. “I forgot what the books said! The Aons grow weaker the farther one goes from Elantris.” “You can't get us home?” Sarene asked, climbing to her feet. “Not by Aon, I can't,” Raoden said. Then, taking her hand, he started running. Her mind was so full of questions the entire world seemed a confused jumble. What had happened to Raoden? How had he recovered from the wound Dilaf gave him? She choked the questions back. It was enough that he had come. Frantic, Raoden searched for a means of escape. Perhaps alone he could have outrun Dilaf's men, but never with Sarene in tow. Their street emptied onto the docks, where Teod's large warships were ponderously moving from the bay to engage a fleet bearing Fjorden's flag. A man in royal green robes stood at
the far side of the docks, conversing with a couple of adjuncts. King Eventeo-Sarene's father. The king didn't see them, instead turning to walk in a rushed step down a side alley. “Father!” Sarene yelled out, but the distance was too far. Raoden could hear footsteps approaching. He spun, thrusting Sarene behind him, and raised his arms to begin an Aon Daa with each hand. The Aons were weaker in Teod, but they weren't ineffectual. Dilaf held up a hand, slowing his men. Raoden froze, unwilling to commit himself to a final battle unless he had to. What was Dilaf waiting for? Bare-chested monks poured from alleys and streets. Dilaf smiled, waiting as his warriors gathered. Within a few minutes his group had grown from twelve to fifty, and Raoden's odds had plummeted from bad to hopeless. “Not much of a rescue.” Sarene muttered, stepping forward to stand next to Raoden, staring down the group of monstrosities with a contemptuous air. Her defiant irony brought a smile to Raoden's lips. “Next time, I'll remember to bring an army with me.” Dilaf’s monks charged. Raoden completed his duplicate Aons-sending out a pair of powerful energy blasts-then quickly began drawing again. Yet, holding to his waist with tense hands, Sarene could see that Raoden wouldn't finish before the supernaturally quick warriors arrived. The docks shook with a powerful f1orce. Wood cracked and stone shattered, and an explosion of wind blasted across her. She had to cling to Raoden's somehow more stable body to keep from being thrown to the ground. When she finally dared open her eyes, they were surrounded by hundreds of silver-skinned forms. “Aon Daa!” Galladon ordered with a booming voice. Two hundred hands raised in the air, scribbling Aons. About half of them made mistakes, their Aons evaporating. Enough finished, however, to send a wave of destruction toward Dilaf's men that was so powerful it tore completely through the first few monks. Bodies collapsed and others were thrown backward. The remaining monks paused in shock, staring at the Elantrians. Then the Dakhor scattered in an offensive charge, turning from Raoden and Sarene to attack this new foe. Dilaf was the only one of his men who thought to duck. The rest, confidently arrogant in their strength, simply allowed the powerful blasts to hit them. Fools! Dilaf thought as he rolled away. Every Dakhor was blessed with special skills and powers. They all had increased strength and nearly indestructible bones, but only Dilaf bore the power that made him resistant to attacks by the Dor-a power that had required the deaths of fifty men to create. He felt, rather than saw, as his men were torn apart by the Elantrians' attack. The remaining monks were horribly outnumbered. They attacked bravely, trying to kill as many of the vile Elantrians as they could. They had been trained well. They would die fighting. Dilaf yearned to join them. But he did not. Some thought him mad, but he was not a fool. The screams in his head demanded revenge, and there was still a
way left. One way to get vengeance on the Teoish princess and her Elantrians. One way to fulfill Wyrn's commands. One way to turn the tide of this battle. Dilaf scrambled away, stumbling slightly as a bolt of energy sprayed against his back. His bone wardings held, and he was left unharmed by the attack. When he had entered the docks a few moments before, he had seen King Eventeo disappear down a side alley. He now dashed toward that same alley. His prey would follow. “Raoden!” Sarene said, pointing at the fleeing Dilaf. “Let him go,” Raoden said. “He can do no more damage.” “But that's the way my father went!” Sarene said, tugging him toward the alley. She's right, Raoden thought with a curse. He took off behind Dilaf. Sarene waved him on, and he left her behind, letting his newly reconditioned Elantrian legs carry him to the alleyway at an extraordinary speed. The other Elantrians didn't see him go, but continued to fight the monks. Raoden entered the alleyway, barely puffing. Dilaf tackled him a second later. The monk's powerful body appeared out of a shadowed corner, slamming Raoden into the alley wall. Raoden cried out, feeling his ribs crack. Dilaf backed away, unsheathing his sword with a smile. The priest lunged forward, and Raoden barely rolled away in time to avoid being impaled. As it was, Dilaf's attack sliced through the flesh of Raoden's left forearm, spilling silvery-white Elantrian blood. Raoden gasped as pain washed1 through his arm. This pain, however, was weak and dull compared to his former agonies. He forgot it quickly, rolling again as Dilaf 's blade sought his heart. If his heart stopped again. Raoden would die. Elantrians were strong and quick-healing, but they were not immortal. As he dodged. Raoden searched through his memory of Aons. Thinking quickly, he rolled to his feet, rapidly scribbling Aon Edo before him. It was a simple character, requiring only six strokes, and he finished it before Dilaf could make a third attack. The Aon flashed briefly, and then a thin wall of light appeared between himself and Dilaf. Dilaf tested the wall hesitantly with the tip of his sword, and the wall resisted. The more one pressed against it, the more it drew from the Dor, pressing back with equal strength. Dilaf could not reach him. Casually, Dilaf reached up and tapped the wall with his bare hand. His palm flashed briefly, and the wall shattered, shards of light scattering through the air. Raoden cursed his stupidity-this was the man who had destroyed his illusionary face just a day before. Somehow, Dilaf had the power to negate Aons. Raoden jumped back, but the sword snapped forward more quickly. The tip did not strike Raoden's chest, but struck his hand instead. Raoden cried out as the sword pierced his right palm. He brought his other hand up to cup it around the injured one, but the wound on his forearm blazed with renewed vigor. Both hands were incapacitated: he could no longer draw Aons. Dilaf's next attack
was a casual kick, and Raoden's already wounded ribs cracked further. He cried out and dropped to his knees. Dilaf laughed, tapping Raoden on the side of the face with the tip of his sword. “The Skaze are right, then. Elantrians are not indestructible.” Raoden didn't answer. “I will still win, Elantrian.” Dilaf said, his voice passionate and frenzied. “After Wyrn's fleets defeat the Teoish armada. I will gather my troops and march on Elantris.” “No one defeats the Teoish armada, priest.” a feminine voice interjected, a blade flashing out to strike at Dilaf's head. The priest yelped, barely bringing his own sword up in time to block Sarene's attack. She had found a sword somewhere, and she whipped it in a pattern that moved too quickly for Raoden to track. He smiled at Dilaf's surprise, remembering how easily the princess had defeated his own skills. Her weapon was thicker than a syre, but she still handled it with remarkable proficiency. Dilaf however, was no ordinary man. The bone patterns beneath his skin started glowing as he blocked Sarene's attack, and his body began to move even more quickly. Soon Sarene stopped advancing, and almost immediately she was forced to begin retreating. The battle ended as Dilaf 's sword pierced her shoulder. Sarene's weapon clanged to the cobblestones, and she stumbled, slumping down next to Raoden. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. Raoden shook his head. No one could be expected to win a sword fight against one such as Dilaf. “And my revenge begins.” Dilaf whispered reverently, bringing up his sword. “You may stop yelling, my love.” Raoden grabbed Sarene protectively with a bleeding hand. Then he paused. There was something moving behind Dilaf-a form in the shadows of the alleyway. Frowning, Dilaf turned to follow Raoden's gaze. A figure stumbled from the darkness, holding his side in pain. The figure was a tall, broad-chested man with dark hair and determined eyes. Though the man no longer wore his armor, Raoden recognized him. The gyorn, Hrathen. Strangely, Dilaf didn't seem happy to see his companion. The Dakhor monk spun, raising his sword, eyes flashing with anger. He leapt, screaming something in Fjordell, and swung his sword at the obviously weakened gyorn. Hrathen stopped, then whipped his arm our from beneath his cloak. Dilaf's sword hit the flesh of Hrathen's forearm. And stopped. Sarene gasped beside Raoden. “He's one of them!” she whispered. It was true. Dilaf's weapon scraped along Hrathen's arm, pushing back the sleeve there and revealing the skin beneath. The arm was not that of a normal man: it showed twisting patterns beneath the skin, the outcroppings of bone that were the sign of a Dakhor monk. Dilaf, obviously, was surprised by the revelation as well. The monk stood stunned as Hrathen's hand whipped out and grabbed Dilaf by the neck. Dilaf began to curse, squirming in Hrathen's grasp. The gyorn, however, began to stand up straighter, his grip tightening. Beneath his cloak. Hrathen was bare-chested, and Raoden could see that his skin there bore no Dakhor markings, though it was
wet with blood from a wound at his side. Only the bones in his arm had the strange twisted patterns. Why the partial transformation? Hrathen stood tall, ignoring Dilaf, though the monk began to swing at Hrathen's enhanced arm with his short sword. The blows bounced off, so Dilaf swung at Hrathen's side instead. The sword bit deeply into Hrathen's flesh, but the gyorn didn't even grunt. Instead, he tightened his grip on Dilaf's neck, and the little monk gasped, dropping his sword in pain. Hrathen's arm began to glow. The strange, twisting lines beneath Hrathen's skin took on an eerie radiance as the gyorn lifted Dilaf off the ground. Dilaf squirmed and twisted, his breath coming in gasps. He struggled to escape, prying at Hradien's fingers, but the gyorn's grip was firm. Hrathen held Dilaf aloft, as if toward the heavens. He stared upward, toward the sky, eyes strangely unfocused, Dilaf proffered like some sort of holy offering. The gyorn stood there for a long moment, immobile, arm glowing, Dilaf becoming more and more frantic. There was a snap. Dilaf stopped struggling. Hrathen lowered the body with a slow motion, then tossed it aside, the glow in his arm fading. He looked toward Raoden and Sarene, stood quietly for a moment, then toppled forward lifelessly. When Galladon arrived a few moments later, Raoden was trying unsuccessfully to heal Sarene's shoulder with his wounded hands. The large Dula took in the scene, then nodded for a couple of Elantrians to check on Dilaf and Hrathen's corpses. Then Galladon settled down, letting Raoden tell him how 1to draw Aon Ien. A few moments later, Raoden's hands and ribs had been restored, and he moved to help Sarene. She sat quietly. Despite her wound, she had already checked on Hrathen. He was dead. In fact, either one of the wounds in his sides should have killed him long before he managed to break Dilaf 's neck. Something about his Dakhor markings had kept him alive. Raoden shook his head, drawing a healing Aon for Sarene's shoulder. He still didn't have an explanation as to why the gyorn had saved them, but he quietly blessed the man's intervention. “The armada?” Sarene asked anxiously as Raoden drew. “Looks to me like it's doing fine,” Galladon said with a shrug. “Your father is searching for you-he came to the docks soon after we arrived.” Raoden drew the Chasm line, and the wound in Sarene's arm disappeared. “I have to admit, sule, you are lucky as Doloken,” Galladon said. “Jumping here blind was just about the most idiotic thing I've ever seen a man do.” Raoden shrugged, pulling Sarene tight. “It was worth it. Besides, you followed, didn't you?” Galladon snorted. “We had Ashe call ahead to make sure you arrived safely. We're not kayana, unlike our king.” “All right,” Sarene declared firmly. “Somebody is going to start explaining things to me right now.” CHAPTER 63 SARENE straightened Raoden's jacket, then stood back, tapping her cheek as she studied him. She would have preferred a white suit rather
than a gold one, but for some reason white seemed pale and lifeless when placed next to his silvery skin. “Well?” Raoden asked, holding his arms out to the sides. “You'll have to do,” she decided airily. He laughed, approaching and kissing her with a smile. “Shouldn't you be alone in the chapel, praying and preparing? What ever happened to tradition?” “I tried that once already,” Sarene said, turning to make sure he hadn't mussed up her makeup. “This time I intend to keep a close eye on you. For some reason, my potential husbands have a way of disappearing.” “That might say something about you, Leky Stick.' Raoden teased. He had laughed long when her father explained the nickname to him, and since then he had been careful to use it at every possible occasion. She swatted at him absently, straightening her veil. “My lord, my lady,” said a stoic voice. Raoden's Seon, Ien, floated in through the doorway. “It is time.” Sarene grabbed Raoden's arm in a firm grip. “Walk.” she ordered, nodding toward the doorway. This time, she wasn't letting go until someone married them. Raoden tried to pay attentio1n to the ceremony, but Korathi wedding services were lengthy and often dry. Father Omin, well aware of the precedent set by an Elantrian asking a Korathi priest to officiate at his wedding, had prepared an extensive speech for the occasion. As usual, the short man's eyes wok on a semiglazed look as he rambled, as if he had forgotten that there was anyone else present. So Raoden let his mind wander too. He couldn't stop thinking of a conversation he had held with Galladon earlier in the day, a conversation initiated because of a piece of bone. The bone, retrieved from the body of a dead Fjordell monk, was deformed and twisted-yet it was more beautiful than disgusting. It was like a carved piece of ivory, or a bundle of engraved wooden rods all twisted together. Most disturbingly, Raoden swore he could make out slightly familiar symbols in the carving. Symbols he recognized from his schooling-ancient Fjordell characters. The Derethi monks had devised their own version of AonDor. The worry pressed on his mind with such vigor that it drew his attention even in the middle of his own wedding. Over the centuries, only one thing had kept Fjorden from conquering the West: Elantris. If Wyrn had learned to access the Dor ... Raoden kept remembering Dilaf and his strange ability to resist, and even destroy, Aons. If a few more of the monks had possessed that power, then the battle could easily have gone another way. Ien's familiar bubble-like ball of light floated approvingly at Raoden's side. The Seon's restoration almost made up for the dear friends Raoden had lost during the final battle to restore Elantris. Karata and the others would be missed. Ien claimed to remember nothing of his time of madness, but something seemed a little ... different about the Seon. He was more quiet than normal, even more thoughtful. As soon as he had
some free time, Raoden planned to interrogate the other Elantrians in the hopes of discovering more about the Seons. It disturbed him that throughout his studies, readings, and learning, he had never discovered exactly how Seons were created-if, indeed, they were even creations of AonDor. That wasn't the only thing that bothered him, however. There was also the question of Shuden's strange ChayShan dance. Onlookers, including Lukel, claimed that the Jindo had managed to defeat one of Dilaf's monks alone-with his eyes closed. Some even said they had seen the young baron glowing as he fought. Raoden was beginning to suspect there was more than one way to access the Dor-far more. And one of those methods was in the hands of the most brutal, domineering tyrant in Opelon: Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. Regent of All Creation. Apparently, Sarene noticed Raoden's inattention, for she elbowed him in the side when Omin's speech began to wind down. Ever the stateswoman, she was poised, in control, and alert. Not to mention beautiful. They performed the ceremony, exchanging Korathi pendants that bore Aon Omi and pledging their lives and deaths to one another. The pendant he gave to Sarene had been delicately carved from pure jade by Taan himself, then overlaid with bands of gold to match her hair. Sarene's own gift was less extravagant, but equally fitting. Somewhere she had found a heavy black stone that polished up as if it were metal, and its reflective darkness complimented Raoden's silvery skin. With that, Omin proclaimed to all of Arelon that its king was married. The cheering began, and Sarene leaned over to kiss him. “Was it everything you hoped for?” Raoden asked. “You said you have been anticipating this moment for your entire life.” “It was wonderful,” Sarene replied. “However, there is one thing I have looked forward to even more than my wedding.” Raoden raised an eyebrow. She smiled mischievously. “The wedding night.” Raoden laughed his reply, wondering what he had gotten himself, and Arelon, into by bringing Sarene to Arelon. EPILOGUE THE day was warm and bright, a complete contrast to the day of Iadon's burial. Sarene stood outside Kae, regarding the former king's barrow. Everything Iadon had fought for had been overturned; Elantris had been revitalized and serfdom proclaimed illegal. Of course, his son did sit on the throne of Arelon, even if that throne was inside of Elantris now. Only a week had passed since the wedding, but so much had happened. Raoden had ended up allowing the nobility to keep their titles, though he had first tried to abolish the entire system. The people wouldn't have it. It seemed unnatural for there not to be counts, barons, or other lords. So, Raoden had instead twisted the system to his own ends. He made each lord a servant of Elantris, charging them with the responsibility of caring for the people in remote parts of the country. The nobility became less aristocrats and more food distributors-which, in a way, was what they should have been in the first place. Sarene watched
him now, speaking with Shuden and Lukel, his skin glowing even in the sunlight. The priests who said the fall of Elantris had revealed its occupants' true selves had not known Raoden. This was the true him, the glowing beacon, the powerful source of pride and hope. No matter how metallically bright his skin became, it could never match the radiance of his soul. Beside Raoden stood the quiet Galladon, his skin glowing as well, though in a different way. It was darker, like polished iron, a remnant of his Duladen heritage. The large man's head was still bald. Sarene had been surprised at that fact, for all the other Elantrians had grown heads of white hair. When asked about the oddity, Galladon had simply shrugged in his characteristic manner, mumbling. “Seems right to me. I've been bald since I hit my third decade. Kolo?” Just behind Raoden and Lukel, she could make out the silver-skinned form of Adien, Daora's second son. According to Lukel, the Shaod had taken Adien five years before, but the family had determined to cover up his transformation with makeup rather than throw him into Elantris. Adien's true nature was no more baffling than that of his father. Kiin hadn't been willing to explain much, but Sarene saw the confirmation in her uncle's eyes. Just over ten years ago, he had led his fleets against Sarene's father in an attempt to steal the throne-a throne that Sarene was beginning to believe might legally have belonged to Kiin. If it was true that Kiin was the older brother, then he should have inherited, not Eventeo.1 Her father still wouldn't speak on the subject, but she intended to get her answers eventually. As she pondered, she noticed a carriage pulling up to the grave site. The door opened and Torena climbed out, leading her overweight father, Count Ahan. Ahan hadn't been the same since Roial's death: he spoke in a dazed, sickly voice, and he had lost an alarming amount of weight. The others hadn't forgiven him for his part in the duke's execution, but their scorn could never match the self-loathing he must feel. Raoden caught her eye, nodding slightly. It was time. Sarene strode past Iadon's grave and four just like it-the resting places of Roial, Eondel, Karata, and a man named Saolin. This last barrow held no body, but Raoden had insisted that it be raised with the others. This area was to become a memorial, a way of remembering those who had fought for Arelon-as well as the man who had tried to crush it. Every lesson had two sides. It was as important for them to remember Iadon's sickening greed as it was to remember Roial's sacrifice. She slowly approached one final grave. The earth was raised high like the others, forming a barrow that would someday be covered with grass and foliage. For now, however, it was barren, the freshly piled earth still soft. Sarene hadn't needed to lobby hard for its creation. They all now knew the debt they owed to the
man buried within. Hrathen of Fjorden, high priest and holy gyorn of Shu-Dereth. They had left his funeral until the last. Sarene turned to address the crowd, Raoden at their front. “I will not speak long,” she said, “for though I had more contact with the man Hrathen than most of you, I did not know him. I always assumed that I could come to understand a man through being his enemy, and I thought that I understood Hrathen-his sense of duty, his powerful will, and his determination to save us from ourselves. “I did not see his internal conflict. I could not know the man whose heart drove him, eventually, to reject all that he had once believed in the name of what he knew was right. I never knew the Hrathen who placed the lives of others ahead of his own ambition. These things were hidden, but in the end they are what proved most important to him. “When you remember this man, think not of an enemy. Think of a man who longed to protect Arelon and its people. Think of the man he became, the hero who saved your king. My husband and I would have been killed by the monster of Dakhor, had Hrathen not arrived to protect us. “Most important, remember Hrathen as the one who gave that vital warning that saved Teod's fleets. If the armada had fallen, then be assured that Teod wouldn't have been the only country to suffer. Wyrn's armies would have fallen on Arelon, Elantris or no Elantris, and you all would be fighting for survival at this moment-if, that is, you were even still alive.” Sarene paused, letting her eyes linger on the grave. At its head stood a carefully arranged stack of bloodred armor. Hrathen's cloak hung on the end of a sword, its point driven into the soft earth. The crimson cape flapped in the wind. “No.” Sarene said. “When you speak of this man, let it be known that he died in our defense. Let it be said that after all else, Hrathen, gyorn of Shu-Dereth, was not o1ur enemy. He was our savior.” Elantris Glossary The following is a list of places, people, concepts, or other unfamiliar words used in ELANTRIS. I have made every effort to be exhaustive. However, this list was mostly complied during an earlier revision of ELANTRIS, and some things have changed since then. I caught some of these (Galladon's name change) but I think I might have missed others (some of the Aon definitions.) If you find an error—or if you find a topic or word that I have missed—feel free to email me. In the definitions, I have used (A) to indicate a word of Aonic descent, (F) for one of Fjordell descent, (D) for Duladel words, (J) for Jindoeese words, and (S) for Svordish words. For easy navigation please click on one of the letters below to automatically jump to that section. Aanden: (A) An Elantrian. One of the three gang leaders. He has control over the university section
of the city, and claims to have been a earl on the outside. He is rumored to be slightly insane. Aberteen: (F) A type of flower favored in Fjordell and northern Arelon. Ahan: (A) A Earl of Arelon. He is overweight, jovial, and prone to argument with Duke Roial. Alonoe: (A) A lake in the very center of Arelon. One of the largest lakes on the continent. Aon: (A) Name for an ancient Aonic rune. The Aons formed a logographic alphabet used in Arelon and Teod until the development of a phonetic alphabet. AonDor: (A) Ancient form of magic practiced by the Elantrians. It Aonic: (A) 1) A language spoken in Arelon and Teod. It was originally based on the Aons. 2) A racial group that originated in Teod. People of Aonic descent are characterized by blonde hair and tall frames. Most people in Teod are pure Aonic, while those in Arelon have intermixed more with the eastern nations. Aredel: (A) A river that runs from Lake Alonoe, beneath Elantris, through the city of Kae, and finally to the ocean. Arelene: (A) A person from Arelon. Arelish: (A) An adjective to describe an Arelene. Arteth: (F) A full Derethi priest. The lowest rank of priest in the Derethi priesthood that can lead a chapel on his own. Ashe: (A) 1) The Aon for 'light.' 2) Sarene's Seon. Ashgress: (F) The Fjordell ambassador to Teod. Atad: (A) The Aonic word for the mountains separating Arelon and Fjordell. (See also Dathreki) Atara: (A) Duke Telrii's wife. Chay: (J) A piece in the game of ShinDa. An ambiguous piece, the Chay piece moves differently depending on what other piece is closest to it. ChayShan: (J) An ancient Jindoeese martial art based on slow movements that build in speed. Rumored to have mystical applications. Many Jindoeese people who are not warriors practice ChayShan as a means of focusing the mind and toning the body. Crushthroat, Dreok: (A) A pirate who pillaged the Sea of Fjorden. About fifteen years before he tried to capture the throne of Teod for himself, but was defeated. Daa: (A) The Aon for 'power.' Dahad: (A) An Elantrian. Dakhor: (F) The most mysterious of Fjorden's monasteries. The specialized monasteries each train their monks in one expertise or another, but no spies have been able to determine what sort of training Dakhor imparts. Many enter as initiates, and most are never seen again. Daora: (A) Kiin's wife. Has the Arelish title of Kimess. Daorn: (A) Kiin and Daora's son. Dashe: (A) An Elantrian. Karata's second in command, a good warrior who is known to be hot-headed. Dathreki: (F) Fjordell name for the mountains separating Arelon and Fjorden. (See also Atad.) DeHwo: (J) The original Jindoeese name for the man named Dereth in Fjordell. He was a student of Keseg, and originally founded the Derethi religion. DeluseDoo: (D) A word that loosely translates as 'angered for being insulted.' Dendo: (D) A common name for a Duladen commoner. Deo: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Gold.' 2) A plantation in northwestern Arelon. 3) The basic coin
in Arelon. Dereth: (F) The founder of Shu-Dereth. He believed that all mankind must someday be united under the leadership of one nation. (See also DeHwo.) Derethi: (F) The Adjective for Shu-Dereth. Usually refers to the Derethi religion. Dieren: An Elantrian. Dii: (A) The Aon for 'Wood.' Dilaf: (F) A young Derethi priest serving in Kae. He has a Fjordell name, but is of Aonic descent. He is short, passionate, and hates Elantris violently. Dio: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Cold.' 2) King Eventeo's Seon. Diolen: (A) An baron in Arelon. Dion: (A) A young Elantrian Dionia: (A) Influenza. Do: (J) Book. Do-Kando: (J) The holy book of Shu-Keseg. It was from this book that Dereth and Korath developed their separate beliefs. DoMin: (J) The Jindoeese word for Domi, or god. Doloken: (D) Hell Domi: (A) The God of the Korathi religion. The religion claims that he is a loving parent of humankind. Dor: (D) Loosely translated as 'overspirit,' the Dor is a mystical force the Jesker religion controls the world. It is a force, not a being, but is what guides nature—and those who understand it—toward harmony. The term has also been adopted by the Jeskeri Mysteries, who treat it more like fate. The Mysteries teach that the Dor can be influenced to bring fortune or folly upon certain individuals, but only through the performance of proper rituals. Dorven: (F) The lowest level of Derethi priest. Dothgen: (A) A Derethi priest serving in Kae. He was trained at Rathbore monastery. Dreok: (A) See Crushthroat, Draok. Dula: (D) A word for those who are from Duladel. Duladel: (D) A country to the southeast of Arelon. Duladel is racially mixed, its people having heritage from all across the continent. Up until recent times, Duladel was ruled over by a republic, and all men were free. Duladen citizens tended to be of Aonic decent, while commoners tended to have the dark skin of Jindos. The division was not perfect, however. Dulas are known for their carefree lifestyle and their flamboyant dress. The country itself consists of steppes and highlands—it provides the only safe passes through the Atad/Dathreki mountains. Duladen: (D) An adverb to describe people or things from Duladel. Edan: (A) The baron of Tii plantation. A man known for his wastefulness, Edan has recently run into financial problems. Edo: (A) The Aon for 'Protection.' Ehe: (A) The Aon for 'Fire.' Elantrian: (A) The name for one who has been taken by the Shaod. One who lives in Elantris. Elantris: (A) Historical city of mystery and capital of Arelon. Up until ten years ago, Elantris was a place of power and magic. Its occupants, the Elantrians, were magical beings who healed quickly, had silvery shinning skin, and could use the magic of AonDor. Ten years ago, Elantris fell for some unknown reason. It's people lost their ability to perform magic, and instead of being silver-skinned gold-like beings, they became sickly-looking wretches. Modern Elantrians need not eat or breath—though they may do either if they wish. Any wound they incur will continue to hurt them
until, eventually, their collected pains drives them insane. Elao: (A) A maid in King Iadon's palace. Ene: (A) Aon for 'Wit.' Eno: (A) The Aon for 'Water.' Eoden: (A) A duke in Teod. Eoldess: (A) Duke Roial's deceased wife. Eondel: (A) A earl in Arelon. Eondel was a soldier before the Reod, and runs the most elite personal fighting force in Arelon. Eonic: (A) An1 Elantrian. He was a blacksmith before the Shaod took him. Eostek: (A) Sixth month of the Aonic year. Eshen: (A) King Iadon's second wife. Queen of Arelon. Eto: (A) The Aon for 'Physical.' Has reference to the earth and ground. Eventeo: (A) King of Teod; Sarene's father. Ferrin: (J) A bird common to the Jindoeese marshes. Fjeldor: (F) A Derethi monastery that trains spies. Fjon: (F) Head Arteth in Kae's Derethi monastery. Fjordell: (F) A word for a person from Fjorden. Also the adverb to describe such. Fjordell's tend to have dark black hair and are very wide of build. Many rival even Teos when it comes to height. Fjorden: (F) Strict and militaristic, Fjorden is the dominant country of the continent. Over three hundred years ago, Fjorden nearly conquered all of Sycla/Opelon—only Arelon, with the help of Elantrian magic, stood against it. The Old Empire, or First Empire, fell because of administrative problems—it conquered more than it could hold. Just after its fall, Wyrn Wulfden the First converted to the Derethi religion, and within a generation all of Fjorden had done likewise. Now, instead of sending troops across the continent, Fjorden sends priests. It is said that the conversions obtained—or forced—by these priests have granted Fjorden more power than even the First Empire once held. Forton: (F) An alchemist in Hrovell. Galladon: (D) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was from Duladel. Garha: (F) A caffeine rich drink from Fjorden. Gatrii: (A) An Arelene. Gorndel: (S) A common tuber grown throughout Sycla/Opelon. Graeo: (A) A Teois nobleman. Once betrothed to Sarene. Gradors: (F) The rank in the Derethi priesthood directly above Arteth. Generally, they lead chapels in large cities. Gragdet: (F) A special rank in the Derethi priesthood. The title is given to those who lead monasteries in Fjorden. Their rank in relation to the rest of the priesthood depends on the importance of their monastery. The three most important Gragdets—the ones who lead Rathbore, Dakhor, and Fjeldor monasteries—out-rank even Gyorns. Gretgor: (F) Mythical sword of Wyrn, founder of Fjorden. Grondkest: (F) A famous Derethi philosopher. Gyorn: (F) The highest sequential rank in the Derethi priesthood. Gyorns are only subject to the will of Wyrn and, occasionally, Gragdets. The Gyorns are amongst the most powerful people on the content—in Derethi nations, Kings are required to bow before them. Gyorns often serve to oversee the Derethi faithful in an entire nation, though they are also given special political duties, such as serving as Wyrn's personal emissary. Their blood-red ceremonial arm1or gives them an imposing aura, an aura enhanced by their reputation. It is said that Gyorns are the most politically savvy, and the most heartless,
people under Wyrn's control. Political unrest often follows in their wake, and where they are displeased Kings are often found assassinated. HaiKo: (J) A Jindoeese shrimp dish. Often cooked with crayfish from the Jindo marshes instead. Hama: (D) Grandmother Haona: (A) An Elantrian woman. Hoid: (A) A beggar in Kae Horen: (A) A nervous Elantrian man. Hraggen: (F) A small country to the southeast of Fjorden. It has long been under Fjorden's control, and is known for its fine cuisine. Hraggish: (F) An adjective to describe something or someone from Hraggen. Hrathen: (F) One of the most infamous Derethi Gyorns. Forty-two years old, Hrathen has been serving the Derethi church in one capacity or another since his childhood. In recent times, it is rumored that he was behind the collapse of the Duladen republic. Hroden: (F) 'Master' or 'Lord.' It is half of the two-part Derethi oath bond. (See also Odiv.) Hrovell: (F) A backwater country to the far southeast. Its people speak Fjordell with a harsh accent, and they have little knowledge of what is happening in the rest of the world. Hrovell claims Derethi as its state religion, but most people practice a jumbled combination of the Jeskeri Mysteries, Derethi, and shamanism. Hroven: (F) A word to describe someone or something from Hrovell. Hruggath: (F) An obscene oath in Fjordell; often used with 'Ja,' the shortened, vulgar word for Jaddeth. Iadon: (A) King of Arelon. Before the Reod, he was a well-respected merchant known for his straight-forwardness. He has a strong temper, and a slight paranoia of assassins. Ial: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Fertile.' 2) A large plantation in northern Arelon, currently held by Duke Roial. Iald: (A) A port city in Ial plantation. Iam: (A) The Aon for 'Age.' Idan: (A) A minor nobleman in Arelon. Ido: (A) The Aon for 'Mercy.' Idos: (A) Merciful. Often used when calling on Domi's name. Iir: (A) The Aon for 'Strength.' Ja: (F) The Vulgar version of 'Jaddeth,' God of the Derethi religion. Jaador: (F) A nation to the east. Its people are racially Jindo, but religiously Derethi. They are fond of dueling. Jaadorian: (F) A word to describe someone or something from Jaador. Jaddeth: (F) The historical Fjordell god of the underworld. Upon Wulfden's adoption of Shu-Dereth as the official state religion, Jaddeth was adapted to become the official god of the religion. Hold-overs from the ancient pantheistic Jaddeth still exist, however, such as the tradition that Jaddeth's Kingdom lies beneath the earth, not in the heavens. Jalla: (S) Lukel's Svordish wife. Jedaver: (F) The Jaadorian word for a fencing sword. Jesker: (D) The Duladen religion. It is the oldest theological system still practiced in the modern world. Historically, Jesker is a peaceful religion suited to the Duladen light-hearted lifestyle. It teaches that all men must bring themselves in harmony with the 'Dor,' thereby living in harmony with nature. The Jeskeri Mysteries have taken many precepts from Jesker and, according to strict Jesker believers, vulgarized them into a horrid approximation of the religion's true teachings. (See also 'Dor,' 'Jeskeri Mysteries.'
Jeskeri Mysteries: (D) A descendant of the original Jesker religion, the Mysteries combine traditional Jesker beliefs with new tenants. While Jesker teaches one to bring oneself in harmony with the Dor, the Mysteries teach that the better way is to try and influence the Dor—or fate—in one's favor. Through secret rites focusing on the creation and destruction of life, Jeskeri followers believe they can bring good fortune to themselves or downfall to their enemies. Because many of these rites involve fertility rites, sexual practices, and live sacrifices, most people fear or hate Jeskeri. The religion is most hated by the country where it found birth—Duladen. Despite its unpopular practices, the Mysteries continue to be a force in most nations. Many monarchs have tried, unsuccessfully, to stamp the religion out. Popular times for Jeskeri rites are during times of celestial import—such as the full moon or eclipses. Some Jeskeri sects are known to practice human sacrifice, but these are quickly stamped out when monarchs learn of them. Jindo: (J) A country directly east of Duladel. Jindo is the birthplace of both Shu-Dereth and Shu-Korath. An unassuming people with dark brown skin and fine features, the Jindoeese are soft-spoken and uncombative. About a century ago, Jindo finally submitted to allow Derethi priests past its borders. Not long after, the country officially converted—its people believe that to submit is better than to waste energy resisting. Jindoeese: (J) A word describing a person or thing from Jindo. Kaa: (A) 1) The Aon for 'plants.' 2) A plantation in southern Arelon, currently held by baron Shuden. Kae: (A) The current capital of Arelon. Before the Reod, Kae was one of the four smaller cities that surrounded Elantris. It was populated by wealthy merchants and craftsmen who pandered to the Elantrians. After the Reod, Kae became King Iadon's seat of power. The other three cities were quickly depopulated—not only did Iadon need people to man the plantations, without Elantris's magic, the country was not able to provide food for so many people living in one place. Kahar: (A) An elderly Elantrian man. Kaise: (A) Kiin and Daora's daughter. Kalomo River, the: (D) The river that marks the border between Arelon and Duladel. Kaloo: (D) A common Duladen name. Karata: (A) An Elantrian woman. One of the three gang leaders in Elantris, Karata holds the palace section of the city. Kathari: (F) A large pink fruit grown in Hraggen. Kayana: (D) Insane. KeHwo: (J) The honorific name given to Keshu to signify his status as a great teacher. Keseg: (F) The Fjordell name for Keshu. Keshu: (J) Keshu was an elderly Jindo philosopher who ended up spawning two of the most powerful religions in the world. Keshu was a revolutionary thinker who combined traditional Jindoeese ideas—such as the power of unity—with such concepts as a single, omnipotent god and an organized ministry. Keseg didn't see himself as a revolutionary; his teachings were meant to clarify what the Jindoeese already believed. His two disciples, however, collected his teachings in the Do-Keseg, then carried them through the world. Ketathum: (F) A
Hraggish pork dish. Kie: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Circle.' 2) A plantation in the middle of Arelon. Kike: (S) A common fish found in the Sea of Fjorden. Kiin: King Eventeo of Teod's brother. Estranged from his brother for some unknown reason, Kiin now lives in Arelon with his wife Daora, his two children, Daorn and Kaise, and his adopted children Maiben and Lukel. Kiin is tall, like many Teos, and has a sizable girth. His voice is scratchy, though it is uncertain if the state was caused by aging or some sort of disease. Kimeon: (A) A lowly Arelis noble title. Kimess: (A) The feminine version of Kimeon. Kmeer: (D) The Duladen name for a fencing sword. KoHwo: (J) The Jindoeese name of Korath. One of Keseg's two disciples, Korath carried his teachings to Teod. Kolo: (D) A tag question commonly used in Duladen, especially amongst the commoners. It means 'Isn't that right?' or 'Don't you think?' Korath: (F) One of Keseg's two disciples. Korath believed that all men would be unified by love. His teachings found root in Teod, which is where his religion originated. The name they use for him, ironically, is his Fjordell one. Korathi: (F) An adjective used for Shu-Korath. Usually refers to the Korathi religion. Krondet: (F) Half of the Derethi oath-bond. Krondet is similar to Odiv, but far less binding. (See Odiv.) Leky-stick: (S) A Svordish game popular in many nations. Loren: (A) An Elantrian man. Lukel: (A) A merchant, oldest son of Daora, and adopted son of Kiin. Lukel just finished studies in the Svordish university, where he married a Fjordell named Jalla. He was Raoden's 1best friend when the two of them were growing up. Maare: (A) An Elantrian woman. MaeDal: (A) Second day of the week according to the Aonic calendar. Maiben: Second son of Daora and adopted son of Kiin. Maiben is autistic, and spends most of his time at home mumbling numbers. His favorite thing to do is count how many steps it would take to travel from one place to another. Maipon sticks: (J) Eating utensils used in Jindo. Mareshe: (A) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was a jeweler. Meala: (A) Head maid in Iadon's castle. Nae: (A) The Aon for 'Sight.' Neoden: (A) The aging wife of an Arelis earl. Odiv: (F) Half of the Derethi oath-bond. Derethi society is stratified in a way that each person is linked back to Jaddeth. Common people swear an oath bond to their priests, who in turn swear an oath bond to the priest higher than them, who swear to those higher than them. Eventually, it all ends with Wyrn. There are two types of oaths: Odiv-Hroden and Krondet-Hroden. In both cases, the Hroden is the lord and the other is the servant. Odiv—the oath usually sworn by priests—is far more binding than Krondet. If one swears to be another's Odiv, then their spiritual salvation depends on how well they serve their Hroden. They are required to do whatever their Hroden commands, even if it is against
their own conscience or will. Omi: (A) The Aon for 'Love.' Omin: (A) Head priest of Shu-Korath in Arelon. Opa: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Flower.' 2) Duke Roial's Seon. Opais: (A) Young daughter of a guard in Iadon's palace. Ope: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Nation.' OpeDal: (A) Sixth day of the week according to the Aonic calendar. Opelon: (A) The Aonic word for the continent containing Arelon, Fjorden, Jindo, and all of the other nations except Teod. (See also Sycla.) Overspirit: (D) Another word for the Dor. Ragnat: (F) Rank in the Derethi priesthood directly below Gyorn. They usually oversee a region of Derethi worshipers. RaiDel: (J) A spicy peeper favored in Jindo RaiDomo Mai: (J) 'Meat with a fiery skin.' A Jindo delicacy. Ramear: (A) A young Arelis noble of lesser rank. Rao: (A) The Aon for 'Spirit' or 'Essence.' Raoden: (A) Crown Prince of Arelon Rathbore: (F) One of th1e most influential Fjordell monasteries. It trains assassins. Reo: (A) The Aon for 'Punishment' or 'Retribution.' Reod: (A) The name given to the fall of Elantris. No one knows what caused the Reod. It happened instantaneously; before it, the Elantrians were god-like individuals with incredible power. After the Reod, they were pathetic creatures barely alive. The Reod's effect was felt throughout Arelon; it caused riots in Kae and the surrounding cities, it caused the collapse of the Arelene religion. It was even said to have caused physical cataclysms in the land itself, instigating a massive earthquake that opened an enormous crack in the ground just south of lake Alonoe. Revertiss: (F) A famous food dish. Rii: (A) The Aon for wealth. Riil: (A) An Elantrian man. Before the Shaod took him, he was a bricklayer. Rivercrawler: (J) A type of Jindoeese crawfish. Roial: (A) An elderly Arelis Duke. Roial is one of the richest, and most influential, men in Arelon. His wealth is only matched by Duke Telrii. Roial is known for his fondness of political games—which he wins more often than not. Ruda: (D) Feminine of Rulo. Rulo: (D) A word that loosely translates as 'unfortunate one.' Saolin: (A) An Elantrian man. Before the Shaod took him, he was a warrior in Eondel's legion. Sarane: (A) Only daughter of King Eventeo of Teod. Sarene is twenty-five years old and unmarried. She is fond of politics, and has served for the last five years in her fathers diplomatic corps. Recently, she entered into a political betrothal with Prince Raoden of Arelon. Savery: (S) A precious rock. Green in color, it can only be found in caverns far beneath the earth. Seaden: (A) Earl Ahan's portly wife. Seala: (A) A young Arelene girl who died nearly twenty years ago. Secabird: (D) A brightly-colored bird native to the Duladen lowlands. Seinalan: (A) Patriarch of the Korathi Religion. He lives in Teod and is said to be a fashionable dresser. Seon: (A) Mystical sentient floating balls of light connected to Elantris. Each Seon bears an Aon at its center, which glows and causes the Seon's light. Seons are autonomous, intelligent beings who
have given themselves to the service of mankind. It is assumed that they were somehow constructed by the Elantrians, but no one knows how. There are only two ways a Seon can die. The first is if its master gets taken by the Shaod. It is unknown why this kills Seons—it did not kill them before the Reod. The other way a Seon can die is if it releases its Aon. If it does so, the Aon will let loose its power, as if it were drawn by AonDor. However, the Seon will cease to exist. Seor: (A) An ancient Elantrian scholar. Seraven: (S) The capital of Svorden.1p> Shao: (A) The Aon for 'Transform' Shaod: (A) 'The transformation.' This is the name for the mystical event that changes a regular person into an Elantrian. The Shaod takes only minutes, and it is irreversible. It chooses people with apparent randomness, though it does follow a couple of rules. It only takes people who live in Arelon or northwestern Duladel, and it only takes people of Aonic blood—meaning either Teos, Arelenes, or Dulas. Before the Reod, the Shaod transformed a person into a glowing, quick-healing being with god-like powers. After the Reod, the Shaod instead began to change people into corpse-like creatures with blotchy skin. Shaor: (A) An Elantrian. One of the three gang leaders of Elantris, Shaor controls the market section of the city. Sheo: (A) The Aon for 'Death.' ShinDa: (J) A popular board-game that originated in Jindo. Shu: (J) 'Path of.' Shu-Dereth: (J/F) The name given to the religion founded by Dereth. Shu-Dereth interpreted Keseg's teachings to mean that all men must be united beneath the rule of one nation. Dereth taught that once all men bow before a single monarch, proving their unified nature, God would come to live amongst them. Though Dereth's ideas were originally rejected in his native Jindo, they were embraced by the Fjordell. Wyrn Wulfden the First converted, and so, therefore, did most of his people. Since that time, Shu-Dereth has been the official religion of Fjorden, and has spread to all of the eastern nations. Fjorden's militaristic society stratified and organized Dereth's teachings into an almost martial level. Shuden: (J) A young baron in Arelon. Though Shuden is racially Jindo, he is nationally Arelene, where he holds lands and a title. Both were given to his father by King Iadon in exchange for opening a caravan route from Jindo to Kae. Sorii: (A) Youngest daughter of Duke Telrii. She died when she was very young, though it is rumored she was actually taken by the Shaod. Sourmelon: A delicious fruit that will only grow in the Duladen highlands. Sule: (D) Friend. Svorden: (S) Easternmost nation in Sycla. Svorden is a political alley of Fjorden. However, unlike most nations to the east, Svorden has been able to maintain a strong national identity, despite Derethi encroachment. It is the only eastern nation besides Jindo that has maintained its own language, and it is the second most politically important eastern nation. It is known for its university, its
culture, and its naval prowess. Svordish: (S) A word for someone, or something, from Svorden. Svrakiss: (S) A Svordish concept integrated into the Derethi Religion. The Svrakiss are beings forbidden entrance to heaven. They are forced to wander the world, preying on the living. They are half-ghost, half-demon, in the Derethi religion, and are often used to represent all that is evil. Sycla: (F) The Fjordell word for the continent which includes every nation but Teod. (See also Op1elon.) Syclan: (F) Of or relating to the continent of Sycla. Syre: (F) The Fjordell word for a fencing sword. Taan: (A) An Elantrian. Before the Shaod took him, he was a stonecarver. Telrii: (A) An Arelis Duke. Along with Roial and Iadon, he is one of the richest and most powerful men in Arelon. Tenrao: (A) An Elantrian man. Teo: (A) 1) The Aon for 'Learning.' 2) A person from Teod. Teod: (A) Nation that comprises the northern peninsula, the only part of the northern continent that is habitable. It is a relatively cold land, but not insufferably so. Teoin: (A) Capital of Teod. Teois: (A) An adjective referring to Teod. Teoras: (A) A city just east of Teoin. It houses the Largest Korathi temple in Teod. Teorn: (A) Son of King Eventeo of Teod. Crown prince and brother of Sarene. Tia: (A) The Aon for 'Travel.' Tii: (A) 1) The Aon for 'green.' 2) A plantation in the middle of Arelon. Tooledoo: (D) A card game that originated in Duladel. Torena: (A) Daughter of Earl Ahan. She is slight of frame and somewhat quiet. Tore: (A) A very minor noble title in Arelon. Waren: (A) A young noble in Arelon, known for his white hair and piety. Widor: (F) The capital of Fjorden. Wulfden: (F) A common name for Fjordell Wyrns. Wulfden the First was the one who instigated Derethi as the state religion of Fjorden. Wyrn: (F) Title of the Fjordell emperor. It is also a religious title, indicating the highest priest in the Derethi religion. His official title is 'Regent of all Creation,' referring to his state of rulership until Jaddeth rises to build his Empire. Wyrnigs: (F) The Fjordell gold coin. Zigareth: (F) Name for the Fjordell palace in Widor, where Wyrn lives. Table of Contents PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 CHAPTER 48 CHAPTER 49 CHAPTER 50 CHAPTER 51 CHAPTER 52 CHAPTER 53 CHAPTER 54 CHAPTER 55 CHAPTER 56 CHAPTER 57 CHAPTER 58 CHAPTER 59 CHAPTER 60 CHAPTER 61 CHAPTER 62 CHAPTER 63 EPILOGUE Elantris Glossary Table of Contents
PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 CHAPTER 48 CHAPTER 49 CHAPTER 50 CHAPTER 51 CHAPTER 52 CHAPTER 53 CHAPTER 54 CHAPTER 55 CHAPTER 56 CHAPTER 57 CHAPTER 58 CHAPTER 59 CHAPTER 60 CHAPTER 61 CHAPTER 62 CHAPTER 63 EPILOGUE Elantris Glossary PART ONE: THE SURVIVOR OF HATHSIN 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 PART TWO: REBELS BENEATH A SKY OF ASH 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 PART THREE: CHILDREN OF A BLEEDING SUN 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 PART FOUR: DANCERS IN A SEA OF MIST 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30 • 31 • 32 • 33 • 34 PART FIVE: BELIVERS IN A FORGOTTEN WORLD 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 Brandon Sanderson A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. MISTBORN: THE FINAL EMPIRE Copyright © 2006 by Brandon Sanderson All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. Edited by Moshe Feder Maps by Isaac Stewart A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. 0987654321 FOR BETH SANDERSON, ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Once again, I find myself in need of thanking my wonderful agent, Joshua Bilmes, and equally amazing editor, Moshe Feder. They did a wonderful job with this book, and I’m proud to have the opportunity to work with them. As always, my tireless writing groups have consistently provided feedback and encouragement: Alan Layton, Janette Layton, Kaylynne ZoBell, Nate Hatfield, Bryce Cundick, Kimball Larsen, and Emily Scorup. Alpha readers, who saw a version of this book in a much rougher form and helped me shape it into what you see now, included Krista Olson, Benjamin R. Olson, Micah Demoux, Eric Ehlers, Izzy Whiting, Stacy Whitman, Kristina Kugler, Megan Kauffman, Sarah Bylund, C. Lee Player, Ethan Skarstedt, Jillena O’Brien, Ryan Jurado, and the incalculable Peter Ahlstrom. There are also a few people in particular whom I would like to thank. Isaac Stewart, who did the map work for this novel, was an invaluable resource both in the idea department and with visual cues. Heather Kirby had excellent advice to help me with the mysterious
inner workings of a young woman’s mind. The proofreading done by Chersti Stapely and Kayleena Richins was much appreciated. In addition, I’d like to acknowledge some of the very important people who work behind the scenes on the books that you buy. Irene Gallo, the art director at Tor, does a brilliant job—it’s because of her that both this book and Elantris have the wonderful covers that they do. Also, David Moench, in the Tor publicity department, went far beyond the call of duty in helping make Elantris a success. Both have my thanks. Finally, as always, I am thankful to my family for their continued support and enthusiasm. In particular, I’d like to thank my brother, Jordan, for his enthusiasm, support, and loyalty. Check out his handiwork at my Web site: www.brandonsanderson.com. MISTBORN PROLOGUE ASH FELL FROM THE SKY. Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy midday sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind; the parasol would likely be effective. Tresting stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio that overlooked the fields. Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring for the crops. There was a sluggishness to their efforts—but, of course, that was the way of the skaa. The peasants were an indolent, unproductive lot. They didn’t complain, of course; they knew better than that. Instead, they simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet apathy. The passing whip of a taskmaster would force them into dedicated motion for a few moments, but as soon as the taskmaster passed, they would return to their languor. Tresting turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. “One would think,” Tresting noted, “that a thousand years of working in fields would have bred them to be a little more effective at it.” The obligator turned, raising an eyebrow—the motion done as if to highlight his most distinctive feature, the intricate tattoos that laced the skin around his eyes. The tattoos were enormous, reaching all the way across his brow and up the sides of his nose. This was a full prelan—a very important obligator indeed. Tresting had his own, personal obligators back at the manor, but they were only minor functionaries, with barely a few marks around their eyes. This man had arrived from Luthadel with the same canal boat that had brought Tresting’s new suit. “You should see city skaa, Tresting,” the obligator said, turning back to watch the skaa workers. “These are actually quite diligent compared to those inside Luthadel. You have more . . . direct control over your skaa here. How many would you say you lose a month?” “Oh, a half dozen or so,” Tresting said. “Some to beatings, some to exhaustion.” “Runaways?” “Never!” Tresting said. “When
I first inherited this land from my father, I had a few runaways—but I executed their families. The rest quickly lost heart. I’ve never understood men who have trouble with their skaa—I find the creatures easy to control, if you show a properly firm hand.” The obligator nodded, standing quietly in his gray robes. He seemed pleased—which was a good thing. The skaa weren’t actually Tresting’s property. Like all skaa, they belonged to the Lord Ruler; Tresting only leased the workers from his God, much in the same way he paid for the services of His obligators. The obligator looked down, checking his pocket watch, then glanced up at the sun. Despite the ashfall, the sun was bright this day, shining a brilliant crimson red behind the smoky blackness of the upper sky. Tresting removed a handkerchief and wiped his brow, thankful for the parasol’s shade against the midday heat. “Very well, Tresting,” the obligator said. “I will carry your proposal to Lord Venture, as requested. He will have a favorable report from me on your operations here.” Tresting held in a sigh of relief. An obligator was required to witness any contract or business deal between noblemen. True, even a lowly obligator like the ones Tresting employed could serve as such a witness—but it meant so much more to impress Straff Venture’s own obligator. The obligator turned toward him. “I will leave back down the canal this afternoon.” “So soon?” Tresting asked. “Wouldn’t you care to stay for supper?” “No,” the obligator replied. “Though there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. I came not only at the behest of Lord Venture, but to . . . look in on some matters for the Canton of Inquisition. Rumors say that you like to dally with your skaa women.” Tresting felt a chill. The obligator smiled; he likely meant it to be disarming, but Tresting only found it eerie. “Don’t worry yourself, Tresting,” the obligator said. “If there had been any real worries about your actions, a Steel Inquisitor would have been sent here in my place.” Tresting nodded slowly. Inquisitor. He’d never seen one of the inhuman creatures, but he had heard . . . stories. “I have been satisfied regarding your actions with the skaa women,” the obligator said, looking back over the fields. “What I’ve seen and heard here indicate that you always clean up your messes. A man such as yourself—efficient, productive—could go far in Luthadel. A few more years of work, some inspired mercantile deals, and who knows?” The obligator turned away, and Tresting found himself smiling. It wasn’t a promise, or even an endorsement—for the most part, obligators were more bureaucrats and witnesses than they were priests—but to hear such praise from one of the Lord Ruler’s own servants . . . Tresting knew that some nobility considered the obligators to be unsettling—some men even considered them a bother—but at that moment, Testing could have kissed his distinguished guest. Tresting turned back toward the skaa, who worked quietly beneath the bloody sun and the
lazy flakes of ash. Tresting had always been a country nobleman, living on his plantation, dreaming of perhaps moving into Luthadel itself. He had heard of the balls and the parties, the glamour and the intrigue, and it excited him to no end. I’ll have to celebrate tonight, he thought. There was that young girl in the fourteenth hovel that he’d been watching for some time. . . . He smiled again. A few more years of work, the obligator had said. But could Tresting perhaps speed that up, if he worked a little harder? His skaa population had been growing lately. Perhaps if he pushed them a bit more, he could bring in an extra harvest this summer and fulfill his contract with Lord Venture in extra measure. Tresting nodded as he watched the crowd of lazy skaa, some working with their hoes, others on hands and knees, pushing the ash away from the fledgling crops. They didn’t complain. They didn’t hope. They barely dared think. That was the way it should be, for they were skaa. They were— Tresting froze as one of the skaa looked up. The man met Tresting’s eyes, a spark—no, a fire—of defiance showing in his expression. Tresting had never seen anything like it, not in the face of a skaa. Tresting stepped backward reflexively, a chill running through him as the strange, straight-backed skaa held his eyes. And smiled. Tresting looked away. “Kurdon!” he snapped. The burly taskmaster rushed up the incline. “Yes, my lord?” Tresting turned, pointing at . . . He frowned. Where had that skaa been standing? Working with their heads bowed, bodies stained by soot and sweat, they were so hard to tell apart. Tresting paused, searching. He thought he knew the place . . . an empty spot, where nobody now stood. But, no. That couldn’t be it. The man couldn’t have disappeared from the group so quickly. Where would he have gone? He must be in there, somewhere, working with his head now properly bowed. Still, his moment of apparent defiance was inexcusable. “My lord?” Kurdon asked again. The obligator stood at the side, watching curiously. It would not be wise to let the man know that one of the skaa had acted so brazenly. “Work the skaa in that southern section a little harder,” Tresting ordered, pointing. “I see them being sluggish, even for skaa. Beat a few of them.” Kurdon shrugged, but nodded. It wasn’t much of a reason for a beating—but, then, he didn’t need much of a reason to give the workers a beating. They were, after all, only skaa. Kelsier had heard stories. He had heard whispers of times when once, long ago, the sun had not been red. Times when the sky hadn’t been clogged by smoke and ash, when plants hadn’t struggled to grow, and when skaa hadn’t been slaves. Times before the Lord Ruler. Those days, however, were nearly forgotten. Even the legends were growing vague. Kelsier watched the sun, his eyes following the giant red disk as it crept toward
the western horizon. He stood quietly for a long moment, alone in the empty fields. The day’s work was done; the skaa had been herded back to their hovels. Soon the mists would come. Eventually, Kelsier sighed, then turned to pick his way across the furrows and pathways, weaving between large heaps of ash. He avoided stepping on the plants—though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. The crops hardly seemed worth the effort. Wan, with wilted brown leaves, the plants seemed as depressed as the people who tended them. The skaa hovels loomed in the waning light. Already, Kelsier could see the mists beginning to form, clouding the air, and giving the moundlike buildings a surreal, intangible look. The hovels stood unguarded; there was no need for watchers, for no skaa would venture outside once night arrived. Their fear of the mists was far too strong. I’ll have to cure them of that someday, Kelsier thought as he approached one of the larger buildings. But, all things in their own time. He pulled open the door and slipped inside. Conversation stopped immediately. Kelsier closed the door, then turned with a smile to confront the room of about thirty skaa. A firepit burned weakly at the center, and the large cauldron beside it was filled with vegetable-dappled water—the beginnings of an evening meal. The soup would be bland, of course. Still, the smell was enticing. “Good evening, everyone,” Kelsier said with a smile, resting his pack beside his feet and leaning against the door. “How was your day?” His words broke the silence, and the women returned to their dinner preparations. A group of men sitting at a crude table, however, continued to regard Kelsier with dissatisfied expressions. “Our day was filled with work, traveler,” said Tepper, one of the skaa elders. “Something you managed to avoid.” “Fieldwork hasn’t ever really suited me,” Kelsier said. “It’s far too hard on my delicate skin.” He smiled, holding up hands and arms that were lined with layers and layers of thin scars. They covered his skin, running lengthwise, as if some beast had repeatedly raked its claws up and down his arms. Tepper snorted. He was young to be an elder, probably barely into his forties—at most, he might be five years Kelsier’s senior. However, the scrawny man held himself with the air of one who liked to be in charge. “This is no time for levity,” Tepper said sternly. “When we harbor a traveler, we expect him to behave himself and avoid suspicion. When you ducked away from the fields this morning, you could have earned a whipping for the men around you.” “True,” Kelsier said. “But those men could also have been whipped for standing in the wrong place, for pausing too long, or for coughing when a taskmaster walked by. I once saw a man beaten because his master claimed that he had ‘blinked inappropriately.’ ” Tepper sat with narrow eyes and a stiff posture, his arm resting on the table. His expression was unyielding. Kelsier sighed, rolling his eyes. “Fine. If
you want me to go, I’ll be off then.” He slung his pack up on his shoulder and nonchalantly pulled open the door. Thick mist immediately began to pour through the portal, drifting lazily across Kelsier’s body, pooling on the floor and creeping across the dirt like a hesitant animal. Several people gasped in horror, though most of them were too stunned to make a sound. Kelsier stood for a moment, staring out into the dark mists, their shifting currents lit feebly by the cooking pit’s coals. “Close the door.” Tepper’s words were a plea, not a command. Kelsier did as requested, pushing the door closed and stemming the flood of white mist. “The mist is not what you think. You fear it far too much.” “Men who venture into the mist lose their souls,” a woman whispered. Her words raised a question. Had Kelsier walked in the mists? What, then, had happened to his soul? If you only knew, Kelsier thought. “Well, I guess this means I’m staying.” He waved for a boy to bring him a stool. “It’s a good thing, too—it would have been a shame for me to leave before I shared my news.” More than one person perked up at the comment. This was the real reason they tolerated him—the reason even the timid peasants would harbor a man such as Kelsier, a skaa who defied the Lord Ruler’s will by traveling from plantation to plantation. A renegade he might be—a danger to the entire community—but he brought news from the outside world. “I come from the north,” Kelsier said. “From lands where the Lord Ruler’s touch is less noticeable.” He spoke in a clear voice, and people leaned unconsciously toward him as they worked. On the next day, Kelsier’s words would be repeated to the several hundred people who lived in other hovels. The skaa might be subservient, but they were incurable gossips. “Local lords rule in the West,” Kelsier said, “and they are far from the iron grip of the Lord Ruler and his obligators. Some of these distant noblemen are finding that happy skaa make better workers than mistreated skaa. One man, Lord Renoux, has even ordered his taskmasters to stop unauthorized beatings. There are whispers that he’s considering paying wages to his plantation skaa, like city craftsmen might earn.” “Nonsense,” Tepper said. “My apologies,” Kelsier said. “I didn’t realize that Goodman Tepper had been to Lord Renoux’s estates recently. When you dined with him last, did he tell you something that he did not tell me?” Tepper blushed: Skaa did not travel, and they certainly didn’t dine with lords. “You think me a fool, traveler,” Tepper said, “but I know what you’re doing. You’re the one they call the Survivor; those scars on your arms give you away. You’re a troublemaker—you travel the plantations, stirring up discontent. You eat our food, telling your grand stories and your lies, then you disappear and leave people like me to deal with the false hopes you give our children.” Kelsier raised an eyebrow. “Now, now, Goodman
Tepper,” he said. “Your worries are completely unfounded. Why, I have no intention of eating your food. I brought my own.” With that, Kelsier reached over and tossed his pack onto the earth before Tepper’s table. The loose bag slumped to the side, dumping an array of foods to the ground. Fine breads, fruits, and even a few thick, cured sausages bounced free. A summerfruit rolled across the packed earthen floor and bumped lightly against Tepper’s foot. The middle-aged skaa regarded the fruit with stunned eyes. “That’s nobleman’s food!” Kelsier snorted. “Barely. You know, for a man of renowned prestige and rank, your Lord Tresting has remarkably poor taste. His pantry is an embarrassment to his noble station.” Tepper paled even further. “That’s where you went this afternoon,” he whispered. “You went to the manor. You . . . stole from the master!” “Indeed,” Kelsier said. “And, might I add that while your lord’s taste in food is deplorable, his eye for soldiers is far more impressive. Sneaking into his manor during the day was quite a challenge.” Tepper was still staring at the bag of food. “If the taskmasters find this here . . .” “Well, I suggest you make it disappear then,” Kelsier said. “I’d be willing to bet that it tastes a fair bit better than watered-down farlet soup.” Two dozen sets of hungry eyes studied the food. If Tepper intended further arguments, he didn’t make them quickly enough, for his silent pause was taken as agreement. Within a few minutes, the bag’s contents had been inspected and distributed, and the pot of soup sat bubbling and ignored as the skaa feasted on a meal far more exotic. Kelsier settled back, leaning against the hovel’s wooden wall and watching the people devour their food. He had spoken correctly: The pantry’s offerings had been depressingly mundane. However, this was a people who had been fed on nothing but soup and gruel since they were children. To them, breads and fruits were rare delicacies—usually eaten only as aging discards brought down by the house servants. “Your storytelling was cut short, young man,” an elderly skaa noted, hobbling over to sit on a stool beside Kelsier. “Oh, I suspect there will be time for more later,” Kelsier said. “Once all evidence of my thievery has been properly devoured. Don’t you want any of it?” “No need,” the old man said. “The last time I tried lords’ food, I had stomach pains for three days. New tastes are like new ideas, young man—the older you get, the more difficult they are for you to stomach.” Kelsier paused. The old man was hardly an imposing sight. His leathered skin and bald scalp made him look more frail than they did wise. Yet, he had to be stronger than he looked; few plantation skaa lived to such ages. Many lords didn’t allow the elderly to remain home from daily work, and the frequent beatings that made up a skaa’s life took a terrible toll on the elderly. “What was your name again?” Kelsier asked. “Mennis.”
Kelsier glanced back at Tepper. “So, Goodman Mennis, tell me something. Why do you let him lead?” Mennis shrugged. “When you get to be my age, you have to be very careful where you waste your energy. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting.” There was an implication in Mennis’s eyes; he was referring to things greater than his own struggle with Tepper. “You’re satisfied with this, then?” Kelsier asked, nodding toward the hovel and its half-starved, overworked occupants. “You’re content with a life full of beatings and endless drudgery?” “At least it’s a life,” Mennis said. “I know what wages malcontent and rebellion bring. The eye of the Lord Ruler, and the ire of the Steel Ministry, can be far more terrible than a few whippings. Men like you preach change, but I wonder. Is this a battle we can really fight?” “You’re fighting it already, Goodman Mennis. You’re just losing horribly.” Kelsier shrugged. “But, what do I know? I’m just a traveling miscreant, here to eat your food and impress your youths.” Mennis shook his head. “You jest, but Tepper might have been right. I fear your visit will bring us grief.” Kelsier smiled. “That’s why I didn’t contradict him—at least, not on the troublemaker point.” He paused, then smiled more deeply. “In fact, I’d say calling me a troublemaker is probably the only accurate thing Tepper has said since I got here.” “How do you do that?” Mennis asked, frowning. “What?” “Smile so much.” “Oh, I’m just a happy person.” Mennis glanced down at Kelsier’s hands. “You know, I’ve only seen scars like those on one other person—and he was dead. His body was returned to Lord Tresting as proof that his punishment had been carried out.” Mennis looked up at Kelsier. “He’d been caught speaking of rebellion. Tresting sent him to the Pits of Hathsin, where he had worked until he died. The lad lasted less than a month.” Kelsier glanced down at his hands and forearms. They still burned sometimes, though he was certain the pain was only in his mind. He looked up at Mennis and smiled. “You ask why I smile, Goodman Mennis? Well, the Lord Ruler thinks he has claimed laughter and joy for himself. I’m disinclined to let him do so. This is one battle that doesn’t take very much effort to fight.” Mennis stared at Kelsier, and for a moment Kelsier thought the old man might smile in return. However, Mennis eventually just shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t—” The scream cut him off. It came from outside, perhaps to the north, though the mists distorted sounds. The people in the hovel fell silent, listening to the faint, high-pitched yells. Despite the distance and the mist, Kelsier could hear the pain contained in those screams. Kelsier burned tin. It was simple for him now, after years of practice. The tin sat with other Allomantic metals within his stomach, swallowed earlier, waiting for him to draw upon them. He reached inside with his mind and touched the tin, tapping powers he
still barely understood. The tin flared to life within him, burning his stomach like the sensation of a hot drink swallowed too quickly. Allomantic power surged through his body, enhancing his senses. The room around him became crisp, the dull firepit flaring to near blinding brightness. He could feel the grain in the wood of the stool beneath him. He could still taste the remnants of the loaf of bread he’d snacked on earlier. Most importantly, he could hear the screams with supernatural ears. Two separate people were yelling. One was an older woman, the other a younger woman—perhaps a child. The younger screams were getting farther and farther away. “Poor Jess,” a nearby woman said, her voice booming in Kelsier’s enhanced ears. “That child of hers was a curse. It’s better for skaa not to have pretty daughters.” Tepper nodded. “Lord Tresting was sure to send for the girl sooner or later. We all knew it. Jess knew it.” “Still a shame, though,” another man said. The screams continued in the distance. Burning tin, Kelsier was able to judge the direction accurately. Her voice was moving toward the lord’s manor. The sounds set something off within him, and he felt his face flush with anger. Kelsier turned. “Does Lord Tresting ever return the girls after he’s finished with them?” Old Mennis shook his head. “Lord Tresting is a law-abiding nobleman—he has the girls killed after a few weeks. He doesn’t want to catch the eye of the Inquisitors.” That was the Lord Ruler’s command. He couldn’t afford to have half-breed children running around—children who might possess powers that skaa weren’t even supposed to know existed. . . . The screams waned, but Kelsier’s anger only built. The yells reminded him of other screams. A woman’s screams from the past. He stood abruptly, stool toppling to the ground behind him. “Careful, lad,” Mennis said apprehensively. “Remember what I said about wasting energy. You’ll never raise that rebellion of yours if you get yourself killed tonight.” Kelsier glanced toward the old man. Then, through the screams and the pain, he forced himself to smile. “I’m not here to lead a rebellion among you, Goodman Mennis. I just want to stir up a little trouble.” “What good could that do?” Kelsier’s smile deepened. “New days are coming. Survive a little longer, and you just might see great happenings in the Final Empire. I bid you all thanks for your hospitality.” With that, he pulled open the door and strode out into the mist. Mennis lay awake in the early hours of morning. It seemed that the older he became, the more difficult it was for him to sleep. This was particularly true when he was troubled about something, such as the traveler’s failure to return to the hovel. Mennis hoped that Kelsier had come to his senses and decided to move on. However, that prospect seemed unlikely; Mennis had seen the fire in Kelsier’s eyes. It seemed such a shame that a man who had survived the Pits would instead find death here, on
a random plantation, trying to protect a girl everyone else had given up for dead. How would Lord Tresting react? He was said to be particularly harsh with anyone who interrupted his nighttime enjoyments. If Kelsier had managed to disturb the master’s pleasures, Tresting might easily decide to punish the rest of his skaa by association. Eventually, the other skaa began to awake. Mennis lay on the hard earth—bones aching, back complaining, muscles exhausted—trying to decide if it was worth rising. Each day, he nearly gave up. Each day, it was a little harder. One day, he would just stay in the hovel, waiting until the taskmasters came to kill those who were too sick or too elderly to work. But not today. He could see too much fear in the eyes of the skaa—they knew that Kelsier’s nighttime activities would bring trouble. They needed Mennis; they looked to him. He needed to get up. And so he did. Once he started moving, the pains of age decreased slightly, and he was able to shuffle out of the hovel toward the fields, leaning on a younger man for support. It was then that he caught a scent in the air. “What’s that?” he asked. “Do you smell smoke?” Shum—the lad upon whom Mennis leaned—paused. The last remnants of the night’s mist had burned away, and the red sun was rising behind the sky’s usual haze of blackish clouds. “I always smell smoke, lately,” Shum said. “The Ashmounts are violent this year.” “No,” Mennis said, feeling increasingly apprehensive. “This is different.” He turned to the north, toward where a group of skaa were gathering. He let go of Shum, shuffling toward the group, feet kicking up dust and ash as he moved. At the center of the group of people, he found Jess. Her daughter, the one they all assumed had been taken by Lord Tresting, stood beside her. The young girl’s eyes were red from lack of sleep, but she appeared unharmed. “She came back not long after they took her,” the woman was explaining. “She came and pounded on the door, crying in the mist. Flen was sure it was just a mistwraith impersonating her, but I had to let her in! I don’t care what he says, I’m not giving her up. I brought her out in the sunlight, and she didn’t disappear. That proves she’s not a mistwraith!” Mennis stumbled back from the growing crowd. Did none of them see it? No taskmasters came to break up the group. No soldiers came to make the morning population counts. Something was very wrong. Mennis continued to the north, moving frantically toward the manor house. By the time he arrived, others had noticed the twisting line of smoke that was just barely visible in the morning light. Mennis wasn’t the first to arrive at the edge of the short hilltop plateau, but the group made way for him when he did. The manor house was gone. Only a blackened, smoldering scar remained. “By the Lord Ruler!” Mennis whispered. “What happened here?”
“He killed them all.” Mennis turned. The speaker was Jess’s girl. She stood looking down at the fallen house, a satisfied expression on her youthful face. “They were dead when he brought me out,” she said. “All of them—the soldiers, the taskmasters, the lords . . . dead. Even Lord Tresting and his obligators. The master had left me, going to investigate when the noises began. On the way out, I saw him lying in his own blood, stab wounds in his chest. The man who saved me threw a torch in the building as we left.” “This man,” Mennis said. “He had scars on his hands and arms, reaching past the elbows?” The girl nodded silently. “What kind of demon was that man?” one of the skaa muttered uncomfortably. “Mistwraith,” another whispered, apparently forgetting that Kelsier had gone out during the day. But he did go out into the mist, Mennis thought. And, how did he accomplish a feat like this . . .? Lord Tresting kept over two dozen soldiers! Did Kelsier have a hidden band of rebels, perhaps? Kelsier’s words from the night before sounded in his ears. New days are coming. . . . “But, what of us?” Tepper asked, terrified. “What will happen when the Lord Ruler hears this? He’ll think that we did it! He’ll send us to the Pits, or maybe just send his koloss to slaughter us outright! Why would that troublemaker do something like this? Doesn’t he understand the damage he’s done?” “He understands,” Mennis said. “He warned us, Tepper. He came to stir up trouble.” “But, why?” “Because he knew we’d never rebel on our own, so he gave us no choice.” Tepper paled. Lord Ruler, Mennis thought. I can’t do this. I can barely get up in the mornings—I can’t save this people. But what other choice was there? Mennis turned. “Gather the people, Tepper. We must flee before word of this disaster reaches the Lord Ruler.” “Where will we go?” “The caves to the east,” Mennis said. “Travelers say there are rebel skaa hiding in them. Perhaps they’ll take us in.” Tepper paled further. “But . . . we’d have to travel for days. Spend nights in the mist.” “We can do that,” Mennis said, “or we can stay here and die.” Tepper stood frozen for a moment, and Mennis thought the shock of it all might have overwhelmed him. Eventually, however, the younger man scurried off to gather the others, as commanded. Mennis sighed, looking up toward the trailing line of smoke, cursing the man Kelsier quietly in his mind. New days indeed. PART ONE THE SURVIVOROF HATHSIN 1 ASH FELL FROM THE SKY. Vin watched the downy flakes drift through the air. Leisurely. Careless. Free. The puffs of soot fell like black snowflakes, descending upon the dark city of Luthadel. They drifted in corners, blowing in the breeze and curling in tiny whirlwinds over the cobblestones. They seemed so uncaring. What would that be like? Vin sat quietly in one of the crew’s watch-holes—a hidden alcove built into
the bricks on the side of the safe house. From within it, a crewmember could watch the street for signs of danger. Vin wasn’t on duty; the watch-hole was simply one of the few places where she could find solitude. And Vin liked solitude. When you’re alone, no one can betray you. Reen’s words. Her brother had taught her so many things, then had reinforced them by doing what he’d always promised he would—by betraying her himself. It’s the only way you’ll learn. Anyone will betray you, Vin. Anyone. The ash continued to fall. Sometimes, Vin imagined she was like the ash, or the wind, or the mist itself. A thing without thought, capable of simply being, not thinking, caring, or hurting. Then she could be . . . free. She heard shuffling a short distance away, then the trapdoor at the back of the small chamber snapped open. “Vin!” Ulef said, sticking his head into the room. “There you are! Camon’s been searching for you for a half hour.” That’s kind of why I hid in the first place. “You should get going,” Ulef said. “The job’s almost ready to begin.” Ulef was a gangly boy. Nice, after his own fashion—naive, if one who had grown up in the underworld could ever really be called “naive.” Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t betray her. Betrayal had nothing to do with friendship; it was a simple fact of survival. Life was harsh on the streets, and if a skaa thief wanted to keep from being caught and executed, he had to be practical. And ruthlessness was the very most practical of emotions. Another of Reen’s sayings. “Well?” Ulef asked. “You should go. Camon’s mad.” When is he not? However, Vin nodded, scrambling out of the cramped—yet comforting—confines of the watch-hole. She brushed past Ulef and hopped out of the trapdoor, moving into a hallway, then a run-down pantry. The room was one of many at the back of the store that served as a front for the safe house. The crew’s lair itself was hidden in a tunneled stone cavern beneath the building. She left the building through a back door, Ulef trailing behind her. The job would happen a few blocks away, in a richer section of town. It was an intricate job—one of the most complex Vin had ever seen. Assuming Camon wasn’t caught, the payoff would be great indeed. If he was caught . . . Well, scamming noblemen and obligators was a very dangerous profession—but it certainly beat working in the forges or the textile mills. Vin exited the alleyway, moving out onto a dark, tenement-lined street in one of the city’s many skaa slums. Skaa too sick to work lay huddled in corners and gutters, ash drifting around them. Vin kept her head down and pulled up her cloak’s hood against the still falling flakes. Free. No, I’ll never be free. Reen made certain of that when he left. “There you are!” Camon lifted a squat, fat finger and jabbed it toward her face. “Where were
you?” Vin didn’t let hatred or rebellion show in her eyes. She simply looked down, giving Camon what he expected to see. There were other ways to be strong. That lesson she had learned on her own. Camon growled slightly, then raised his hand and backhanded her across the face. The force of the blow threw Vin back against the wall, and her cheek blazed with pain. She slumped against the wood, but bore the punishment silently. Just another bruise. She was strong enough to deal with it. She’d done so before. “Listen,” Camon hissed. “This is an important job. It’s worth thousands of boxings—worth more than you a hundred times over. I won’t have you fouling it up. Understand?” Vin nodded. Camon studied her for a moment, his pudgy face red with anger. Finally, he looked away, muttering to himself. He was annoyed about something—something more than just Vin. Perhaps he had heard about the skaa rebellion several days to the north. One of the provincial lords, Themos Tresting, had apparently been murdered, his manor burned to the ground. Such disturbances were bad for business; they made the aristocracy more alert, and less gullible. That, in turn, could cut seriously into Camon’s profits. He’s looking for someone to punish, Vin thought. He always gets nervous before a job. She looked up at Camon, tasting blood on her lip. She must have let some of her confidence show, because he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and his expression darkened. He raised his hand, as if to strike her again. Vin used up a bit of her Luck. She expended just a smidgen; she’d need the rest for the job. She directed the Luck at Camon, calming his nervousness. The crewleader paused—oblivious of Vin’s touch, yet feeling its effects nonetheless. He stood for a moment; then he sighed, turning away and lowering his hand. Vin wiped her lip as Camon waddled away. The thiefmaster looked very convincing in his nobleman’s suit. It was as rich a costume as Vin had ever seen—it had a white shirt overlaid by a deep green vest with engraved gold buttons. The black suit coat was long, after the current fashion, and he wore a matching black hat. His fingers sparkled with rings, and he even carried a fine dueling cane. Indeed, Camon did an excellent job of imitating a nobleman; when it came to playing a role, there were few thieves more competent than Camon. Assuming he could keep his temper under control. The room itself was less impressive. Vin pulled herself to her feet as Camon began to snap at some of the other crewmembers. They had rented one of the suites at the top of a local hotel. Not too lavish—but that was the idea. Camon was going to be playing the part of “Lord Jedue,” a country nobleman who had hit upon hard financial times and come to Luthadel to get some final, desperate contracts. The main room had been transformed into a sort of audience chamber, set with
a large desk for Camon to sit behind, the walls decorated with cheap pieces of art. Two men stood beside the desk, dressed in formal stewards’ clothing; they would play the part of Camon’s manservants. “What is this ruckus?” a man asked, entering the room. He was tall, dressed in a simple gray shirt and a pair of slacks, with a thin sword tied at his waist. Theron was the other crewleader—this particular scam was actually his. He’d brought in Camon as a partner; he’d needed someone to play Lord Jedue, and everyone knew that Camon was one of the best. Camon looked up. “Hum? Ruckus? Oh, that was just a minor discipline problem. Don’t bother yourself, Theron.” Camon punctuated his remark with a dismissive wave of the hand—there was a reason he played such a good aristocrat. He was arrogant enough that he could have been from one of the Great Houses. Theron’s eyes narrowed. Vin knew what the man was probably thinking: He was deciding how risky it would be to put a knife in Camon’s fat back once the scam was over. Eventually, the taller crewleader looked away from Camon, glancing at Vin. “Who’s this?” he asked. “Just a member of my crew,” Camon said. “I thought we didn’t need anyone else.” “Well, we need her,” Camon said. “Ignore her. My end of the operation is none of your concern.” Theron eyed Vin, obviously noting her bloodied lip. She glanced away. Theron’s eyes lingered on her, however, running down the length of her body. She wore a simple white buttoned shirt and a pair of overalls. Indeed, she was hardly enticing; scrawny with a youthful face, she supposedly didn’t even look her sixteen years. Some men preferred such women, however. She considered using a bit of Luck on him, but eventually he turned away. “The obligator is nearly here,” Theron said. “Are you ready?” Camon rolled his eyes, settling his bulk down into the chair behind the desk. “Everything is perfect. Leave me be, Theron! Go back to your room and wait.” Theron frowned, then spun and walked from the room, muttering to himself. Vin scanned the room, studying the decor, the servants, the atmosphere. Finally, she made her way to Camon’s desk. The crewleader sat riffling through a stack of papers, apparently trying to decide which ones to put out on the desktop. “Camon,” Vin said quietly, “the servants are too fine.” Camon frowned, looking up. “What is that you’re babbling?” “The servants,” Vin repeated, still speaking in a soft whisper. “Lord Jedue is supposed to be desperate. He’d have rich clothing left over from before, but he wouldn’t be able to afford such rich servants. He’d use skaa.” Camon glared at her, but he paused. Physically, there was little difference between noblemen and skaa. The servants Camon had appointed, however, were dressed as minor noblemen—they were allowed to wear colorful vests, and they stood a little more confidently. “The obligator has to think that you’re nearly impoverished,” Vin said. “Pack the room with a lot of skaa
servants instead.” “What do you know?” Camon said, scowling at her. “Enough.” She immediately regretted the word; it sounded too rebellious. Camon raised a bejeweled hand, and Vin braced herself for another slap. She couldn’t afford to use up any more Luck. She had precious little remaining anyway. However, Camon didn’t hit her. Instead, he sighed and rested a pudgy hand on her shoulder. “Why do you insist on provoking me, Vin? You know the debts your brother left when he ran away. Do you realize that a less merciful man than myself would have sold you to the whoremasters long ago? How would you like that, serving in some nobleman’s bed until he grew tired of you and had you executed?” Vin looked down at her feet. Camon’s grip grew tight, his fingers pinching her skin where neck met shoulder, and she gasped in pain despite herself. He grinned at the reaction. “Honestly, I don’t know why I keep you, Vin,” he said, increasing the pressure of his grip. “I should have gotten rid of you months ago, when your brother betrayed me. I suppose I just have too kindly a heart.” He finally released her, then pointed for her to stand over by the side of the room, next to a tall indoor plant. She did as ordered, orienting herself so she had a good view of the entire room. As soon as Camon looked away, she rubbed her shoulder. Just another pain. I can deal with pain. Camon sat for a few moments. Then, as expected, he waved to the two “servants” at his side. “You two!” he said. “You’re dressed too richly. Go put on something that makes you look like skaa servants instead—and bring back six more men with you when you come.” Soon, the room was filled as Vin had suggested. The obligator arrived a short time later. Vin watched Prelan Laird step haughtily into the room. Shaved bald like all obligators, he wore a set of dark gray robes. The Ministry tattoos around his eyes identified him as a prelan, a senior bureaucrat in the Ministry’s Canton of Finance. A set of lesser obligators trailed behind him, their eye tattoos far less intricate. Camon rose as the prelan entered, a sign of respect—something even the highest of Great House noblemen would show to an obligator of Laird’s rank. Laird gave no bow or acknowledgment of his own, instead striding forward and taking the seat in front of Camon’s desk. One of the crewmen impersonating a servant rushed forward, bringing chilled wine and fruit for the obligator. Laird picked at the fruit, letting the servant stand obediently, holding the platter of food as if he were a piece of furniture. “Lord Jedue,” Laird finally said. “I am glad we finally have the opportunity to meet.” “As am I, Your Grace,” Camon said. “Why is it, again, that you were unable to come to the Canton building, instead requiring that I visit you here?” “My knees, Your Grace,” Camon said. “My physicians recommend that I travel as
little as possible.” And you were rightly apprehensive about being drawn into a Ministry stronghold, Vin thought. “I see,” Laird said. “Bad knees. An unfortunate attribute in a man who deals in transportation.” “I don’t have to go on the trips, Your Grace,” Camon said, bowing his head. “Just organize them.” Good, Vin thought. Make sure you remain subservient, Camon. You need to seem desperate. Vin needed this scam to succeed. Camon threatened her and he beat her—but he considered her a good-luck charm. She wasn’t sure if he knew why his plans went better when she was in the room, but he had apparently made the connection. That made her valuable—and Reen had always said that the surest way to stay alive in the underworld was to make yourself indispensable. “I see,” Laird said again. “Well, I fear that our meeting has come too late for your purposes. The Canton of Finance has already voted on your proposal.” “So soon?” Camon asked with genuine surprise. “Yes,” Laird replied, taking a sip of his wine, still not dismissing the servant. “We have decided not to accept your contract.” Camon sat for a moment, stunned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace.” Laird came to meet you, Vin thought. That means he’s still in a position to negotiate. “Indeed,” Camon continued, seeing what Vin had. “That is especially unfortunate, as I was ready to make the Ministry an even better offer.” Laird raised a tattooed eyebrow. “I doubt it will matter. There is an element of the Council who feels that the Canton would receive better service if we found a more stable house to transport our people.” “That would be a grave mistake,” Camon said smoothly. “Let us be frank, Your Grace. We both know that this contract is House Jedue’s last chance. Now that we’ve lost the Farwan deal, we cannot afford to run our canal boats to Luthadel anymore. Without the Ministry’s patronage, my house is financially doomed.” “This is doing very little to persuade me, Your Lordship,” the obligator said. “Isn’t it?” Camon asked. “Ask yourself this, Your Grace—who will serve you better? Will it be the house that has dozens of contracts to divide its attention, or the house that views your contract as its last hope? The Canton of Finance will not find a more accommodating partner than a desperate one. Let my boats be the ones that bring your acolytes down from the north—let my soldiers escort them—and you will not be disappointed.” Good, Vin thought. “I . . . see,” the obligator said, now troubled. “I would be willing to give you an extended contract, locked in at the price of fifty boxings a head per trip, Your Grace. Your acolytes would be able to travel our boats at their leisure, and would always have the escorts they need.” The obligator raised an eyebrow. “That’s half the former fee.” “I told you,” Camon said. “We’re desperate. My house needs to keep its boats running. Fifty boxings will not make us a profit, but that doesn’t
matter. Once we have the Ministry contract to bring us stability, we can find other contracts to fill our coffers.” Laird looked thoughtful. It was a fabulous deal—one that might ordinarily have been suspicious. However, Camon’s presentation created the image of a house on the brink of financial collapse. The other crewleader, Theron, had spent five years building, scamming, and finagling to create this moment. The Ministry would be remiss not to consider the opportunity. Laird was realizing just that. The Steel Ministry was not just the force of bureaucracy and legal authority in the Final Empire—it was like a noble house unto itself. The more wealth it had, the better its own mercantile contracts, the more leverage the various Ministry Cantons had with each other—and with the noble houses. Laird was still obviously hesitant, however. Vin could see the look in his eyes, the suspicion she knew well. He was not going to take the contract. Now, Vin thought, It’s my turn. Vin used her Luck on Laird. She reached out tentatively—not even really sure what she was doing, or why she could even do it. Yet her touch was instinctive, trained through years of subtle practice. She’d been ten years old before she’d realized that other people couldn’t do what she could. She pressed against Laird’s emotions, dampening them. He became less suspicious, less afraid. Docile. His worries melted away, and Vin could see a calm sense of control begin to assert itself in his eyes. Yet, Laird still seemed slightly uncertain. Vin pushed harder. He cocked his head, looking thoughtful. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pushed against him again, desperately using up her last pinch of Luck. He paused again. “Very well,” he finally said. “I will take this new proposal to the Council. Perhaps an agreement can still be reached.” 2 IN KELSIER’S OPINION, THE CITY of Luthadel—seat of the Lord Ruler—was a gloomy sight. Most of the buildings had been built from stone blocks, with tile roofs for the wealthy, and simple, peaked wooden roofs for the rest. The structures were packed closely together, making them seem squat despite the fact that they were generally three stories high. The tenements and shops were uniform in appearance; this was not a place to draw attention to oneself. Unless, of course, you were a member of the high nobility. Interspersed throughout the city were a dozen or so monolithic keeps. Intricate, with rows of spearlike spires or deep archways, these were the homes of the high nobility. In fact, they were the mark of a high noble family: Any family who could afford to build a keep and maintain a high-profile presence in Luthadel was considered to be a Great House. Most of the open ground in the city was around these keeps. The patches of space amid the tenements were like clearings in a forest, the keeps themselves like solitary mounts rising above the rest of the landscape. Black mountains. Like the rest of the city, the keeps were stained by countless years of ashfalls.
Every structure in Luthadel—virtually every structure Kelsier had ever seen—had been blackened to some degree. Even the city wall, upon which Kelsier now stood, was blackened by a patina of soot. Structures were generally darkest at the top, where the ash gathered, but rainwaters and evening condensations had carried the stains over ledges and down walls. Like paint running down a canvas, the darkness seemed to creep down the sides of buildings in an uneven gradient. The streets, of course, were completely black. Kelsier stood waiting, scanning the city as a group of skaa workers worked in the street below, clearing away the latest mounds of ash. They’d take it to the River Channerel, which ran through the center of the city, sending the piles of ash to be washed away, lest it pile up and eventually bury the city. Sometimes, Kelsier wondered why the entire empire wasn’t just one big mound of ash. He supposed the ash must break down into soil eventually. Yet, it took a ridiculous amount of effort to keep cities and fields clear enough to be used. Fortunately, there were always enough skaa to do the work. The workers below him wore simple coats and trousers, ash-stained and worn. Like the plantation workers he had left behind several weeks before, they worked with beaten-down, despondent motions. Other groups of skaa passed the workers, responding to the bells in the distance, chiming the hour and calling them to their morning’s work at the forges or mills. Luthadel’s main export was metal; the city was home to hundreds of forges and refineries. However, the surgings of the river provided excellent locations for mills, both to grind grains and make textiles. The skaa continued to work. Kelsier turned away from them, looking up into the distance, toward the city center, where the Lord Ruler’s palace loomed like some kind of massive, multi-spined insect. Kredik Shaw, the Hill of a Thousand Spires. The palace was several times the size of any nobleman’s keep, and was by far the largest building in the city. Another ashfall began as Kelsier stood contemplating the city, the flakes falling lightly down upon the streets and buildings. A lot of ashfalls, lately, he thought, glad for the excuse to pull up the hood on his cloak. The Ashmounts must be active. It was unlikely that anyone in Luthadel would recognize him—it had been three years since his capture. Still, the hood was reassuring. If all went well, there would come a time when Kelsier would want to be seen and recognized. For now, anonymity was probably better. Eventually, a figure approached along the wall. The man, Dockson, was shorter than Kelsier, and he had a squarish face that seemed well suited to his moderately stocky build. A nondescript brown hooded cloak covered his black hair, and he wore the same short half beard that he’d sported since his face had first put forth whiskers some twenty years before. He, like Kelsier, wore a nobleman’s suit: colored vest, dark coat and trousers, and a thin cloak to
keep off the ash. The clothing wasn’t rich, but it was aristocratic—indicative of the Luthadel middle class. Most men of noble birth weren’t wealthy enough to be considered part of a Great House—yet, in the Final Empire, nobility wasn’t just about money. It was about lineage and history; the Lord Ruler was immortal, and he apparently still remembered the men who had supported him during the early years of his reign. The descendants of those men, no matter how poor they became, would always be favored. The clothing would keep passing guard patrols from asking too many questions. In the cases of Kelsier and Dockson, of course, that clothing was a lie. Neither was actually noble—though, technically, Kelsier was a half-blood. In many ways, however, that was worse than being just a normal skaa. Dockson strolled up next to Kelsier, then leaned against the battlement, resting a pair of stout arms on the stone. “You’re a few days late, Kell.” “I decided to make a few extra stops in the plantations to the north.” “Ah,” Dockson said. “So you did have something to do with Lord Tresting’s death.” Kelsier smiled. “You could say that.” “His murder caused quite a stir among the local nobility.” “That was kind of the intention,” Kelsier said. “Though, to be honest, I wasn’t planning anything quite so dramatic. It was almost more of an accident than anything else.” Dockson raised an eyebrow. “How do you ‘accidentally’ kill a nobleman in his own mansion?” “With a knife in the chest,” Kelsier said lightly. “Or, rather, a pair of knives in the chest—it always pays to be careful.” Dockson rolled his eyes. “His death isn’t exactly a loss, Dox,” Kelsier said. “Even among the nobility, Tresting had a reputation for cruelty.” “I don’t care about Tresting,” Dockson said. “I’m just considering the state of insanity that led me to plan another job with you. Attacking a provincial lord in his manor house, surrounded by guards . . . Honestly, Kell, I’d nearly forgotten how foolhardy you can be.” “Foolhardy?” Kelsier asked with a laugh. “That wasn’t foolhardy—that was just a small diversion. You should see some of the things I’m planning to do!” Dockson stood for a moment, then he laughed too. “By the Lord Ruler, it’s good to have you back, Kell! I’m afraid I’ve grown rather boring during the last few years.” “We’ll fix that,” Kelsier promised. He took a deep breath, ash falling lightly around him. Skaa cleaning crews were already back at work on the streets below, brushing up the dark ash. Behind, a guard patrol passed, nodding to Kelsier and Dockson. They waited in silence for the men to pass. “It’s good to be back,” Kelsier finally said. “There’s something homey about Luthadel—even if it is a depressing, stark pit of a city. You have the meeting organized?” Dockson nodded. “We can’t start until this evening, though. How’d you get in, anyway? I had men watching the gates.” “Hmm? Oh, I snuck in last night.” “But how—” Dockson paused. “Oh, right. That’s going to
take some getting used to.” Kelsier shrugged. “I don’t see why. You always work with Mistings.” “Yes, but this is different,” Dockson said. He held up a hand to forestall further argument. “No need, Kell. I’m not hedging—I just said it would take some getting used to.” “Fine. Who’s coming tonight?” “Well, Breeze and Ham will be there, of course. They’re very curious about this mystery job of ours—not to mention rather annoyed that I won’t tell him what you’ve been up to these last few years.” “Good,” Kelsier said with a smile. “Let them wonder. How about Trap?” Dockson shook his head. “Trap’s dead. The Ministry finally caught up with him a couple months ago. Didn’t even bother sending him to the Pits—they beheaded him on the spot.” Kelsier closed his eyes, exhaling softly. It seemed that the Steel Ministry caught up with everyone eventually. Sometimes, Kelsier felt that a skaa Misting’s life wasn’t so much about surviving as it was about picking the right time to die. “This leaves us without a Smoker,” Kelsier finally said, opening his eyes. “You have any suggestions?” “Ruddy,” Dockson said. Kelsier shook his head. “No. He’s a good Smoker, but he’s not a good enough man.” Dockson smiled. “Not a good enough man to be on a thieving crew . . . Kell, I have missed working with you. All right, who then?” Kelsier thought for a moment. “Is Clubs still running that shop of his?” “As far as I know,” Dockson said slowly. “He’s supposed to be one of the best Smokers in the city.” “I suppose,” Dockson said. “But . . . isn’t he supposed to be kind of hard to work with?” “He’s not so bad,” Kelsier said. “Not once you get used to him. Besides, I think he might be . . . amenable to this particular job.” “All right,” Dockson said, shrugging. “I’ll invite him. I think one of his relatives is a Tineye. Do you want me to invite him too?” “Sounds good,” Kelsier said. “All right,” Dockson said. “Well, beyond that, there’s just Yeden. Assuming he’s still interested . . .” “He’ll be there,” Kelsier said. “He’d better be,” Dockson said. “He’ll be the one paying us, after all.” Kelsier nodded, then frowned. “You didn’t mention Marsh.” Dockson shrugged. “I warned you. Your brother never did approve of our methods, and now . . . well, you know Marsh. He won’t even have anything to do with Yeden and the rebellion anymore, let alone with a bunch of criminals like us. I think we’ll have to find someone else to infiltrate the obligators.” “No,” Kelsier said. “He’ll do it. I’ll just have to stop by to persuade him.” “If you say so.” Dockson fell silent then, and the two stood for a moment, leaning against the railing and looking out over the ash-stained city. Dockson finally shook his head. “This is insane, eh?” Kelsier smiled. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Dockson nodded. “Fantastic.” “It will be a job like no other,” Kelsier said, looking north—across the city and
toward the twisted building at its center. Dockson stepped away from the wall. “We have a few hours before the meeting. There’s something I want to show you. I think there’s still time—if we hurry.” Kelsier turned with curious eyes. “Well, I was going to go and chastise my prude of a brother. But . . .” “This will be worth your time,” Dockson promised. Vin sat in the corner of the safe house’s main lair. She kept to the shadows, as usual; the more she stayed out of sight, the more the others would ignore her. She couldn’t afford to expend Luck keeping the men’s hands off of her. She’d barely had time to regenerate what she’d used a few days before, during the meeting with the obligator. The usual rabble lounged at tables in the room, playing at dice or discussing minor jobs. Smoke from a dozen different pipes pooled at the top of the chamber, and the walls were stained dark from countless years of similar treatment. The floor was darkened with patches of ash. Like most thieving crews, Camon’s group wasn’t known for its tidiness. There was a door at the back of the room, and beyond it lay a twisting stone stairway that led up to a false rain grate in an alleyway. This room, like so many others hidden in the imperial capital of Luthadel, wasn’t supposed to exist. Rough laughter came from the front of the chamber, where Camon sat with a half-dozen cronies enjoying a typical afternoon of ale and crass jokes. Camon’s table sat beside the bar, where the overpriced drinks were simply another way Camon exploited those who worked for him. The Luthadel criminal element had learned quite well from the lessons taught by the nobility. Vin tried her best to remain invisible. Six months before, she wouldn’t have believed that her life could actually get worse without Reen. Yet, despite her brother’s abusive anger, he had kept the other crewmembers from having their way with Vin. There were relatively few women on thieving crews; generally, those women who got involved with the underworld ended up as whores. Reen had always told her that a girl needed to be tough—tougher, even, than a man—if she wanted to survive. You think some crewleader is going to want a liability like you on his team? he had said. I don’t even want to have to work with you, and I’m your brother. Her back still throbbed; Camon had whipped her the day before. The blood would ruin her shirt, and she wouldn’t be able to afford another one. Camon was already retaining her wages to pay the debts Reen had left behind. But, I am strong, she thought. That was the irony. The beatings almost didn’t hurt anymore, for Reen’s frequent abuses had left Vin resilient, while at the same time teaching her how to look pathetic and broken. In a way, the beatings were self-defeating. Bruises and welts mended, but each new lashing left Vin more hardened. Stronger. Camon stood up. He reached
into his vest pocket and pulled out his golden pocket watch. He nodded to one of his companions, then he scanned the room, searching for . . . her. His eyes locked on Vin. “It’s time.” Vin frowned. Time for what? The Ministry’s Canton of Finance was an imposing structure—but, then, everything about the Steel Ministry tended to be imposing. Tall and blocky, the building had a massive rose window in the front, though the glass was dark from the outside. Two large banners hung down beside the window, the soot-stained red cloth proclaiming praises to the Lord Ruler. Camon studied the building with a critical eye. Vin could sense his apprehension. The Canton of Finance was hardly the most threatening of Ministry offices—the Canton of Inquisition, or even the Canton of Orthodoxy, had a far more ominous reputation. However, voluntarily entering any Ministry office . . . putting yourself in the power of the obligators . . . well, it was a thing to do only after serious consideration. Camon took a deep breath, then strode forward, his dueling cane tapping against the stones as he walked. He wore his rich nobleman’s suit, and he was accompanied by a half-dozen crewmembers—including Vin—to act as his “servants.” Vin followed Camon up the steps, then waited as one of the crewmembers jumped forward to pull the door open for his “master.” Of the six attendants, only Vin seemed to have been told nothing of Camon’s plan. Suspiciously, Theron—Camon’s supposed partner in the Ministry scam—was nowhere to be seen. Vin entered the Canton building. Vibrant red light, sparkled with lines of blue, fell from the rose window. A single obligator, with midlevel tattoos around his eyes, sat behind a desk at the end of the extended entryway. Camon approached, his cane thumping against the carpet as he walked. “I am Lord Jedue,” he said. What are you doing, Camon? Vin thought. You insisted to Theron that you wouldn’t meet with Prelan Laird in his Canton office. Yet, now you’re here. The obligator nodded, making a notation in his ledger. He waved to the side. “You may take one attendant with you into the waiting chamber. The rest must remain here.” Camon’s huff of disdain indicated what he thought of that prohibition. The obligator, however, didn’t look up from his ledger. Camon stood for a moment, and Vin couldn’t tell if he was genuinely angry or just playing the part of an arrogant nobleman. Finally, he jabbed a finger at Vin. “Come,” he said, turning and waddling toward the indicated door. The room beyond was lavish and plush, and several noblemen lounged in various postures of waiting. Camon chose a chair and settled into it, then pointed toward a table set with wine and red-frosted cakes. Vin obediently fetched him a glass of wine and a plate of food, ignoring her own hunger. Camon began to pick hungrily at the cakes, smacking quietly as he ate. He’s nervous. More nervous, even, than before. “Once we get in, you will say nothing,” Camon grumbled between bites.
“You’re betraying Theron,” Vin whispered. Camon nodded. “But, how? Why?” Theron’s plan was complex in execution, but simple in concept. Every year, the Ministry transferred its new acolyte obligators from a northern training facility south to Luthadel for final instruction. Theron had discovered, however, that those acolytes and their overseers brought down with them large amounts of Ministry funds—disguised as baggage—to be strongholded in Luthadel. Banditry was very difficult in the Final Empire, what with the constant patrols along canal routes. However, if one were running the very canal boats that the acolytes were sailing upon, a robbery could become possible. Arranged at just the right time . . . the guards turning on their passengers . . . a man could make quite a profit, then blame it all on banditry. “Theron’s crew is weak,” Camon said quietly. “He expended too many resources on this job.” “But, the return he’ll make—” Vin said. “Will never happen if I take what I can now, then run,” Camon said, smiling. “I’ll talk the obligators into a down payment to get my caravan boats afloat, then disappear and leave Theron to deal with the disaster when the Ministry realizes that it’s been scammed.” Vin stood back, slightly shocked. Setting up a scam like this would have cost Theron thousands upon thousands of boxings—if the deal fell through now, he would be ruined. And, with the Ministry hunting him, he wouldn’t even have time to seek revenge. Camon would make a quick profit, as well as rid himself of one of his more powerful rivals. Theron was a fool to bring Camon into this, she thought. But, then, the amount Theron had promised to pay Camon was great; he probably assumed that Camon’s greed would keep him honest until Theron himself could pull a double cross. Camon had simply worked faster than anyone, even Vin, had expected. How could Theron have known that Camon would undermine the job itself, rather than wait and try and steal the entire haul from the caravan boats? Vin’s stomach twisted. It’s just another betrayal, she thought sickly. Why does it still bother me so? Everyone betrays everyone else. That’s the way life is. . . . She wanted to find a corner—someplace cramped and secluded—and hide. Alone. Anyone will betray you. Anyone. But there was no place to go. Eventually, a minor obligator entered and called for Lord Jedue. Vin followed Camon as they were ushered into an audience chamber. The man who waited inside, sitting behind the audience desk, was not Prelan Laird. Camon paused in the doorway. The room was austere, bearing only the desk and simple gray carpeting. The stone walls were unadorned, the only window barely a handspan wide. The obligator who waited for them had some of the most intricate tattoos around his eyes that Vin had ever seen. She wasn’t even certain what rank they implied, but they extended all the way back to the obligator’s ears and up over his forehead. “Lord Jedue,” the strange obligator said. Like Laird, he wore gray
robes, but he was very different from the stern, bureaucratic men Camon had dealt with before. This man was lean in a muscular way, and his clean-shaven, triangular head gave him an almost predatory look. “I was under the impression that I would be meeting with Prelan Laird,” Camon said, still not moving into the room. “Prelan Laird has been called away on other business. I am High Prelan Arriev—head of the board that was reviewing your proposal. You have a rare opportunity to address me directly. I normally don’t hear cases in person, but Laird’s absence has made it necessary for me to share in some of his work.” Vin’s instincts made her tense. We should go. Now. Camon stood for a long moment, and Vin could see him considering. Run now? Or, take a risk for the greater prize? Vin didn’t care about prizes; she just wanted to live. Camon, however, had not become crewleader without the occasional gamble. He slowly moved into the room, eyes cautious as he took the seat opposite the obligator. “Well, High Prelan Arriev,” Camon said with a careful voice. “I assume that since I have been called back for another appointment, the board is considering my offer?” “Indeed we are,” the obligator said. “Though I must admit, there are some Council members who are apprehensive about dealing with a family that is so near to economic disaster. The Ministry generally prefers to be conservative in its financial operations.” “I see.” “But,” Arriev said, “there are others on the board who are quite eager to take advantage of the savings you offered us.” “And with which group do you identify, Your Grace?” “I, as of yet, have not made my decision.” The obligator leaned forward. “Which is why I noted that you have a rare opportunity. Convince me, Lord Jedue, and you will have your contract.” “Surely Prelan Laird outlined the details of our offer,” Camon said. “Yes, but I would like to hear the arguments from you personally. Humor me.” Vin frowned. She remained near the back of the room, standing near the door, still half convinced she should run. “Well?” Arriev asked. “We need this contract, Your Grace,” Camon said. “Without it we won’t be able to continue our canal shipping operations. Your contract would give us a much needed period of stability—a chance to maintain our caravan boats for a time while we search for other contracts.” Arriev studied Camon for a moment. “Surely you can do better than that, Lord Jedue. Laird said that you were very persuasive—let me hear you prove that you deserve our patronage.” Vin prepared her Luck. She could make Arriev more inclined to believe . . . but something restrained her. The situation felt wrong. “We are your best choice, Your Grace,” Camon said. “You fear that my house will suffer economic failure? Well, if it does, what have you lost? At worst, my narrowboats would stop running, and you would have to find other merchants to deal with. Yet, if your patronage is enough to
maintain my house, then you have found yourself an enviable long-term contract.” “I see,” Arriev said lightly. “And why the Ministry? Why not make your deal with someone else? Surely there are other options for your boats—other groups who would jump at such rates.” Camon frowned. “This isn’t about money, Your Grace, it is about the victory—the showing of confidence—that we would gain by having a Ministry contract. If you trust us, others will too. I need your support.” Camon was sweating now. He was probably beginning to regret this gamble. Had he been betrayed? Was Theron behind the odd meeting? The obligator waited quietly. He could destroy them, Vin knew. If he even suspected that they were scamming him, he could give them over to the Canton of Inquisition. More than one nobleman had entered a Canton building and never returned. Gritting her teeth, Vin reached out and used her Luck on the obligator, making him less suspicious. Arriev smiled. “Well, you have convinced me,” he suddenly declared. Camon sighed in relief. Arriev continued, “Your most recent letter suggested that you need three thousand boxings as an advance to refurbish your equipment and resume shipping operations. See the scribe in the main hallway to finish the paperwork so that you may requisition the necessary funds.” The obligator pulled a sheet of thick bureaucratic paper from a stack, then stamped a seal at the bottom. He proffered it to Camon. “Your contract.” Camon smiled deeply. “I knew coming to the Ministry was the wise choice,” he said, accepting the contract. He stood, nodding respectfully to the obligator, then motioned for Vin to open the door for him. She did so. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. She paused as Camon left, looking back at the obligator. He was still smiling. A happy obligator was always a bad sign. Yet, no one stopped them as they passed through the waiting room with its noble occupants. Camon sealed and delivered the contract to the appropriate scribe, and no soldiers appeared to arrest them. The scribe pulled out a small chest filled with coins, and then handed it to Camon with an indifferent hand. Then, they simply left the Canton building, Camon gathering his other attendants with obvious relief. No cries of alarm. No tromping of soldiers. They were free. Camon had successfully scammed both the Ministry and another crew-leader. Apparently. Kelsier stuffed another one of the little red-frosted cakes into his mouth, chewing with satisfaction. The fat thief and his scrawny attendant passed through the waiting room, entering the entryway beyond. The obligator who had interviewed the two thieves remained in his office, apparently awaiting his next appointment “Well?” Dockson asked. “What do you think?” Kelsier glanced at the cakes. “They’re quite good,” he said, taking another one. “The Ministry has always had excellent taste—it makes sense that they would provide superior snacks.” Dockson rolled his eyes. “About the girl, Kell.” Kelsier smiled as he piled four of the cakes in his hand, then nodded toward the doorway. The Canton waiting room was
growing too busy for the discussion of delicate matters. On the way out, he paused and told the obligator secretary in the corner that they needed to reschedule. Then the two crossed through the entry chamber—passing the overweight crewleader, who stood speaking with a scribe. Kelsier stepped out onto the street, pulled his hood up against the still falling ash, then led the way across the street. He paused beside an alleyway, standing where he and Dockson could watch the Canton building’s doors. Kelsier munched contentedly on his cakes. “How’d you find out about her?” he asked between bites. “Your brother,” Dockson replied. “Camon tried to swindle Marsh a few months ago, and he brought the girl with him then, too. Actually, Camon’s little good-luck charm is becoming moderately famous in the right circles. I’m still not sure if he knows what she is or not. You know how superstitious thieves can get.” Kelsier nodded, dusting off his hands. “How’d you know she’d be here today?” Dockson shrugged. “A few bribes in the right place. I’ve been keeping an eye on the girl ever since Marsh pointed her out to me. I wanted to give you an opportunity to see her work for yourself.” Across the street, the Canton building’s door finally opened, and Camon made his way down the steps surrounded by a group of “servants.” The small, short-haired girl was with him. The sight of her made Kelsier frown. She had a nervous anxiety to her step, and she jumped slightly whenever someone made a quick move. The right side of her face was still slightly discolored from a partially healed bruise. Kelsier eyed the self-important Camon. I’ll have to come up with something particularly suitable to do to that man. “Poor thing,” Dockson muttered. Kelsier nodded. “She’ll be free of him soon enough. It’s a wonder no one discovered her before this.” “Your brother was right then?” Kelsier nodded. “She’s at least a Misting, and if Marsh says she’s more, I’m inclined to believe him. I’m a bit surprised to see her using Allomancy on a member of the Ministry, especially inside a Canton building. I’d guess that she doesn’t know that she’s even using her abilities.” “Is that possible?” Dockson asked. Kelsier nodded. “Trace minerals in the water can be burned, if just for a tiny bit of power. That’s one of the reasons the Lord Ruler built his city here—lots of metals in the ground. I’d say that . . .” Kelsier trailed off, frowning slightly. Something was wrong. He glanced toward Camon and his crew. They were still visible in the near distance, crossing the street and heading south. A figure appeared in the Canton building’s doorway. Lean with a confident air, he bore the tattoos of a high prelan of the Canton of Finance around his eyes. Probably the very man Camon had met with shortly before. The obligator stepped out of the building, and a second man exited behind him. Beside Kelsier, Dockson suddenly grew stiff. The second man was tall with a strong
build. As he turned, Kelsier was able to see that a thick metal spike had been pounded tip-first through each of the man’s eyes. With shafts as wide as an eye socket, the nail-like spikes were long enough that their sharp points jutted out about an inch from the back of the man’s clean-shaven skull. The flat spike ends shone like two silvery disks, sticking out of the sockets in the front, where the eyes should have been. A Steel Inquisitor. “What’s that doing here?” Dockson asked. “Stay calm,” Kelsier said, trying to force himself to do the same. The Inquisitor looked toward them, spiked eyes regarding Kelsier, before turning in the direction that Camon and the girl had gone. Like all Inquisitors, he wore intricate eye tattoos—mostly black, with one stark red line—that marked him as a high-ranking member of the Canton of Inquisition. “He’s not here for us,” Kelsier said. “I’m not burning anything—he’ll think that we’re just ordinary noblemen.” “The girl,” Dockson said. Kelsier nodded. “You say Camon’s been running this scam on the Ministry for a while. Well, the girl must have been detected by one of the obligators. They’re trained to recognize when an Allomancer tampers with their emotions.” Dockson frowned thoughtfully. Across the street, the Inquisitor conferred with the other obligator, then the two of them turned to walk in the direction that Camon had gone. There was no urgency to their pace. “They must have sent a tail to follow them,” Dockson said. “This is the Ministry,” Kelsier said. “There’ll be two tails, at least.” Dockson nodded. “Camon will lead them directly back to his safe house. Dozens of men will die. They’re not all the most admirable people, but . . .” “They fight the Final Empire, in their own way,” Kelsier said. “Besides, I’m not about to let a possible Mistborn slip away from us—I want to talk to that girl. Can you deal with those tails?” “I said I’d become boring, Kell,” Dockson said. “Not sloppy. I can handle a couple of Ministry flunkies.” “Good,” Kelsier said, reaching into his cloak pocket and pulling out a small vial. A collection of metal flakes floated in an alcohol solution within. Iron, steel, tin, pewter, copper, bronze, zinc, and brass—the eight basic Allomantic metals. Kelsier pulled off the stopper and downed the contents in a single swift gulp. He pocketed the now empty vial, wiping his mouth. “I’ll handle that Inquisitor.” Dockson looked apprehensive. “You’re going to try and take him?” Kelsier shook his head. “Too dangerous. I’ll just divert him. Now, get going—we don’t want those tails finding the safe house.” Dockson nodded. “Meet back at the fifteenth crossroad,” he said before taking off down the alley and disappearing around a corner. Kelsier gave his friend a count of ten before reaching within himself and burning his metals. His body came awash with strength, clarity, and power. Kelsier smiled; then—burning zinc—he reached out and yanked firmly on the Inquisitor’s emotions. The creature froze in place, then spun, looking back toward the Canton building.
Let’s have a chase now, you and I, Kelsier thought. 3 CAMON COUNTED HIS COINS, DROPPING THE golden boxings one by one into the small chest on his table. He still looked a bit stunned, as well he should have. Three thousand boxings was a fabulous amount of money—far more than Camon would earn in even a very good year. His closest cronies sat at the table with him, ale—and laughter—flowing freely. Vin sat in her corner, trying to understand her feelings of dread. Three thousand boxings. The Ministry should never have let such a sum go so quickly. Prelan Arriev had seemed too cunning to be fooled with ease. Camon dropped another coin into the chest. Vin couldn’t decide if he was being foolish or clever by making such a display of wealth. Underworld crews worked under a strict agreement: Everyone received a cut of earnings in proportion to their status in the group. While it was sometimes tempting to kill the crewleader and take his money for yourself, a successful leader created more wealth for everyone. Kill him prematurely, and you would cut off future earnings—not to mention earn the wrath of the other crewmembers. Still, three thousand boxings . . . that would be enough to tempt even the most logical thief. It was all wrong. I have to get out of here, Vin decided. Get away from Camon, and the lair, in case something happens. And yet . . . leave? By herself? She’d never been alone before; she’d always had Reen. He’d been the one to lead her from city to city, joining different thieving crews. She loved solitude. But the thought of being by herself, out in the city, horrified her. That was why she’d never run away from Reen; that was why she’d stayed with Camon. She couldn’t go. But she had to. She looked up from her corner, scanning the room. There weren’t many people in the crew for whom she felt any sort of attachment. Yet, there were a couple that she would be sorry to see hurt, should the obligators actually move against the crew. A few men who hadn’t tried to abuse her, or—in very rare cases—who had actually shown her some measure of kindness. Ulef was at the top of that list. He wasn’t a friend, but he was the closest thing she had now that Reen was gone. If he would go with her, then at least she wouldn’t be alone. Cautiously, Vin stood and moved along the side of the room to where Ulef sat drinking with some of the other younger crewmembers. She tugged on Ulef’s sleeve. He turned toward her, only slightly drunk. “Vin?” “Ulef,” she whispered. “We need to go.” He frowned. “Go? Go where?” “Away,” Vin whispered. “Out of here.” “Now?” Vin nodded urgently. Ulef glanced back at his friends, who were chuckling among themselves, shooting suggestive looks at Vin and Ulef. Ulef flushed. “You want to go somewhere, just you and I?” “Not like that,” Vin said. “Just . . . I need
to leave the lair. And I don’t want to be alone.” Ulef frowned. He leaned closer, a slight stink of ale on his breath. “What is this about, Vin?” he asked quietly. Vin paused. “I . . . think something might happen, Ulef,” she whispered. “Something with the obligators. I just don’t want to be in the lair right now.” Ulef sat quietly for a moment. “All right,” he finally said. “How long will this take?” “I don’t know,” Vin said. “Until evening, at least. But we have to go. Now.” He nodded slowly. “Wait here for a moment,” Vin whispered, turning. She shot a glance at Camon, who was laughing at one of his own jokes. Then she quietly moved through the ash-stained, smoky chamber into the lair’s back room. The crew’s general sleeping quarters consisted of a simple, elongated corridor lined with bedrolls. It was crowded and uncomfortable, but it was far better than the cold alleyways she’d slept in during her years traveling with Reen. Alleyways that I might have to get used to again, she thought. She had survived them before. She could do so again. She moved to her pallet, the muffled sounds of men laughing and drinking sounding from the other room. Vin knelt down, regarding her few possessions. If something did happen to the crew, she wouldn’t be able to come back to the lair. Ever. But, she couldn’t take the bedroll with her now—it was far too obvious. That left only the small box that contained her personal effects: a pebble from each city she’d visited, the earring Reen said Vin’s mother had given her, and a bit of obsidian the size of a large coin. It was chipped into an irregular pattern—Reen had carried it as some kind of good luck charm. It was the only thing he’d left behind when he’d snuck away from the crew half a year before. Abandoning her. Just like he always said he would, Vin told herself sternly. I never thought he’d actually go—and that’s exactly why he had to leave. She gripped the bit of obsidian in her hand and pocketed the pebbles. The earring she put in her ear—it was a very simple thing. Little more than a stud, not even worth stealing, which was why she didn’t fear leaving it in the back room. Still, Vin had rarely worn it, for fear that the ornamentation would make her look more feminine. She had no money, but Reen had taught her how to scavenge and beg. Both were difficult in the Final Empire, especially in Luthadel, but she would find a way, if she had to. Vin left her box and bedroll, slipping back out into the common room. Maybe she was overreacting; perhaps nothing would happen to the crew. But, if it did . . . well, if there was one thing Reen had taught her, it was how to protect her neck. Bringing Ulef was a good idea. He had contacts in Luthadel. If something happened to Camon’s crew, Ulef could probably get
her and him jobs on— Vin froze just inside the main room. Ulef wasn’t at the table where she had left him. Instead, he stood furtively near the front of the room. Near the bar. Near . . . Camon. “What is this!” Camon stood, his face red as sunlight. He pushed his stool out of the way, then lurched toward her, half drunk. “Running away? Off to betray me to the Ministry, are you!” Vin dashed toward the stairwell door, desperately scrambling around tables and past crewmembers. Camon’s hurled wooden stool hit her square in the back, throwing her to the ground. Pain flared between her shoulders; several crewmembers cried out as the stool bounced off of her and thumped against the floorboards nearby. Vin lay in a daze. Then . . . something within her—something she knew of but didn’t understand—gave her strength. Her head stopped swimming, her pain becoming a focus. She climbed awkwardly to her feet. Camon was there. He backhanded her even as she stood. Her head snapped to the side from the blow, twisting her neck so painfully that she barely felt herself hit the floor again. Camon bent over, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and pulling her up, raising his fist. Vin didn’t pause to think or to speak; there was only one thing to do. She used up all of her Luck in a single furious effort, pushing against Camon, calming his fury. Camon teetered. For a moment, his eyes softened. He lowered her slightly. Then the anger returned to his eyes. Hard. Terrifying. “Damn wench,” Camon muttered, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “That backstabbing brother of yours never respected me, and you’re the same. I was too easy on you both. Should have . . .” Vin tried to twist free, but Camon’s grip was firm. She searched desperately for aid from the other crewmembers—however, she knew what she would find. Indifference. They turned away, their faces embarrassed but not concerned. Ulef still stood near Camon’s table, looking down guiltily. In her mind, she thought she heard a voice whispering to her. Reen’s voice. Fool! Ruthlessness—it’s the most logical of emotions. You don’t have any friends in the underworld. You’ll never have any friends in the underworld! She renewed her struggles, but Camon hit her again, knocking her to the ground. The blow stunned her, and she gasped, breath knocked from her lungs. Just endure, she thought, mind muddled. He won’t kill me. He needs me. Yet, as she turned weakly, she saw Camon looming above her in the caliginous room, drunken fury showing in his face. She knew this time would be different; it would be no simple beating. He thought that she intended to betray him to the Ministry. He wasn’t in control. There was murder in his eyes. Please! Vin thought with desperation, reaching for her Luck, trying to make it work. There was no response. Luck, such as it was, had failed her. Camon bent down, muttering to himself as he grabbed her
by the shoulder. He raised an arm—his meaty hand forming another fist, his muscles tensing, an angry bead of sweat slipping off his chin and hitting her on the cheek. A few feet away, the stairwell door shook, then burst open. Camon paused, arm upraised as he glared toward the door and whatever unfortunate crewmember had chosen such an inopportune moment to return to the lair. Vin seized the distraction. Ignoring the newcomer, she tried to shake herself free from Camon’s grip, but she was too weak. Her face blazed from where he’d hit her, and she tasted blood on her lip. Her shoulder had been twisted awkwardly, and her side ached from where she’d fallen. She clawed at Camon’s hand, but she suddenly felt weak, her inner strength failing her just as her Luck had. Her pains suddenly seemed greater, more daunting, more . . . demanding. She turned toward the door desperately. She was close—painfully close. She had nearly escaped. Just a little farther . . . Then she saw the man standing quietly in the stairwell doorway. He was unfamiliar to her. Tall and hawk-faced, he had light blond hair and wore a relaxed nobleman’s suit, his cloak hanging free. He was, perhaps, in his mid-thirties. He wore no hat, nor did he carry a dueling cane. And he looked very, very angry. “What is this?” Camon demanded. “Who are you?” How did he get by the scouts . . .? Vin thought, struggling to get her wits back. Pain. She could deal with pain. The obligators . . . did they send him? The newcomer looked down at Vin, and his expression softened slightly. Then he looked up at Camon and his eyes grew dark. Camon’s angry demands were cut off as he was thrown backward as if had been punched by a powerful force. His arm was ripped free from Vin’s shoulder, and he toppled to the ground, causing the floorboards to shake. The room fell quiet. Have to get away, Vin thought, forcing herself up to her knees. Camon groaned in pain from a few feet away, and Vin crawled away from him, slipping beneath an unoccupied table. The lair had a hidden exit, a trapdoor beside the far back wall. If she could crawl to it— Suddenly, Vin felt an overwhelming peace. The emotion slammed into her like a sudden weight, her emotions squished silent, as if crushed by a forceful hand. Her fear puffed out like an extinguished candle, and even her pain seemed unimportant. She slowed, wondering why she had been so worried. She stood up, pausing as she faced the trapdoor. She breathed heavily, still a little dazed. Camon just tried to kill me! the logical part of her mind warned. And someone else is attacking the lair. I have to get away! However, her emotions didn’t match the logic. She felt . . . serene. Unworried. And more than a little bit curious. Someone had just used Luck on her. She recognized it somehow, even though she’d never felt it upon
her before. She paused beside the table, one hand on the wood, then slowly turned around. The newcomer still stood in the stairwell doorway. He studied her with a critical eye, then smiled in a disarming sort of way. What is going on? The newcomer finally stepped into the room. The rest of Camon’s crew remained sitting at their tables. They looked surprised, but oddly unworried. He’s using Luck on them all. But . . . how can he do it to so many at once? Vin had never been able to store up enough Luck to do more than give the occasional, brief push. As the newcomer entered the room, Vin could finally see that a second person stood in the stairwell behind him. This second man was less imposing. He was shorter, with a dark half beard and close-cropped straight hair. He also wore a nobleman’s suit, though his was less sharply tailored. On the other side of the room, Camon groaned and sat up, holding his head. He glanced at the newcomers. “Master Dockson! Why, uh, well, this is a surprise!” “Indeed,” said the shorter man—Dockson. Vin frowned, realizing she sensed a slight familiarity to these men. She recognized them from somewhere. The Canton of Finance. They were sitting in the waiting room when Camon and I left. Camon climbed to his feet, studying the blond newcomer. Camon looked down at the man’s hands, both of which were lined with strange, overlapping scars. “By the Lord Ruler . . .” Camon whispered. “The Survivor of Hathsin!” Vin frowned. The title was unfamiliar to her. Should she know this man? Her wounds still throbbed despite the peace she felt, and her head was dizzy. She leaned on the table for support, but did not sit. Whoever this newcomer was, Camon obviously thought him important. “Why, Master Kelsier!” Camon sputtered. “This is a rare honor!” The newcomer—Kelsier—shook his head. “You know, I’m not really interested in listening to you.” Camon let out an “urk” of pain as he was thrown backward again. Kelsier made no obvious gesture to perform the feat. Yet, Camon collapsed to the ground, as if shoved by some unseen force. Camon fell quiet, and Kelsier scanned the room. “The rest of you know who I am?” Many of the crewmembers nodded. “Good. I’ve come to your lair because you, my friends, owe me a great debt.” The room was silent save for Camon’s groans. Finally, one of the crewmen spoke. “We . . . do, Master Kelsier?” “Indeed you do. You see, Master Dockson and I just saved your lives. Your rather incompetent crewleader left the Ministry’s Canton of Finance about an hour ago, returning directly to this safe house. He was followed by two Ministry scouts, one high-ranking prelan . . . and a single Steel Inquisitor.” No one spoke. Oh, Lord . . . Vin thought. She’d been right—she just hadn’t been fast enough. If there was an Inquisitor— “I dealt with the Inquisitor,” Kelsier said. He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.
What kind of person could so lightly claim to have “dealt” with an Inquisitor? Rumors said the creatures were immortal, that they could see a man’s soul, and that they were unmatched warriors. “I require payment for services rendered,” Kelsier said. Camon didn’t get up this time; he had fallen hard, and he was obviously disoriented. The room remained still. Finally, Milev—the dark-skinned man who was Camon’s second—scooped up the coffer of Ministry boxings and dashed forward with it. He proffered it to Kelsier. “The money Camon got from the Ministry,” Milev explained. “Three thousand boxings.” Milev is so eager to please him, Vin thought. This is more than just Luck—either that, or it’s some sort of Luck I’ve never been able to use. Kelsier paused, then accepted the coin chest. “And you are?” “Milev, Master Kelsier.” “Well, Crewleader Milev, I will consider this payment satisfactory—assuming you do one other thing for me.” Milev paused. “What would that be?” Kelsier nodded toward the near-unconscious Camon. “Deal with him.” “Of course,” Milev said. “I want him to live, Milev,” Kelsier said, holding up a finger. “But I don’t want him to enjoy it.” Milev nodded. “We’ll make him a beggar. The Lord Ruler disapproves of the profession—Camon won’t have an easy time of it here in Luthadel.” And Milev will dispose of him anyway as soon as he thinks this Kelsier isn’t paying attention. “Good,” Kelsier said. Then he opened the coin chest and began counting out some golden boxings. “You’re a resourceful man, Milev. Quick on your feet, and not as easily intimidated as the others.” “I’ve had dealings with Mistings before, Master Kelsier,” Milev said. Kelsier nodded. “Dox,” he said, addressing his companion, “where were we going to have our meeting tonight?” “I was thinking that we should use Clubs’s shop,” said the second man. “Hardly a neutral location,” Kelsier said. “Especially if he decides not to join us.” “True.” Kelsier looked to Milev. “I’m planning a job in this area. It would be useful to have the support of some locals.” He held out a pile of what looked like a hundred boxings. “We’ll require use of your safe house for the evening. This can be arranged?” “Of course,” Milev said, taking the coins eagerly. “Good,” Kelsier said. “Now, get out.” “Out?” Milev asked hesitantly. “Yes,” Kelsier said. “Take your men—including your former leader—and leave. I want to have a private conversation with Mistress Vin.” The room grew silent again, and Vin knew she wasn’t the only one wondering how Kelsier knew her name. “Well, you heard him!” Milev snapped. He waved for a group of thugs to go grab Camon, then he shooed the rest of the crewmembers up the stairs. Vin watched them go, growing apprehensive. This Kelsier was a powerful man, and instinct told her that powerful men were dangerous. Did he know of her Luck? Obviously; what other reason would he have for singling her out? How is this Kelsier going to try and use me? she thought, rubbing her arm where she’d hit the floor.
“By the way, Milev,” Kelsier said idly. “When I say ‘private,’ I mean that I don’t want to be spied on by the four men watching us through peek-holes behind the far wall. Kindly take them up into the alley with you.” Milev paled. “Of course, Master Kelsier.” “Good. And, in the alleyway you’ll find the two dead Ministry spies. Kindly dispose of the corpses for us.” Milev nodded, turning. “And Milev,” Kelsier added. Milev turned back again. “See that none of your men betray us,” Kelsier said quietly. And Vin felt it again—a renewed pressure on her emotions. “This crew already has the eye of the Steel Ministry—do not make an enemy of me as well.” Milev nodded sharply, then disappeared into the stairwell, pulling the door closed behind him. A few moments later, Vin heard footsteps from the peek room; then all was still. She was alone with a man who was—for some reason—so singularly impressive that he could intimidate an entire room full of cutthroats and thieves. She eyed the bolt door. Kelsier was watching her. What would he do if she ran? He claims to have killed an Inquisitor, Vin thought. And . . . he used Luck. I have to stay, if just long enough to find out what he knows. Kelsier’s smile deepened, then finally he laughed. “That was far too much fun, Dox.” The other man, the one Camon had called Dockson, snorted and walked toward the front of the room. Vin tensed, but he didn’t move toward her, instead strolled to the bar. “You were insufferable enough before, Kell,” Dockson said. “I don’t know how I’m going to handle this new reputation of yours. At least, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it and maintain a straight face.” “You’re jealous.” “Yes, that’s it,” Dockson said. “I’m terribly jealous of your ability to intimidate petty criminals. If it’s of any note to you, I think you were too harsh on Camon.” Kelsier walked over and took a seat at one of the room’s tables. His mirth darkened slightly as he spoke. “You saw what he was doing to the girl.” “Actually, I didn’t,” Dockson said dryly, rummaging through the bar’s stores. “Someone was blocking the doorway.” Kelsier shrugged. “Look at her, Dox. The poor thing’s been beaten nearly senseless. I don’t feel any sympathy for the man.” Vin remained where she was, keeping watch on both men. As the tension of the moment grew weaker, her wounds began to throb again. The blow between her shoulder blades—that would be a large bruise—and the slap to her face burned as well. She was still a little dizzy. Kelsier was watching her. Vin clinched her teeth. Pain. She could deal with pain. “You need anything, child?” Dockson asked. “A wet handkerchief for that face, perhaps?” She didn’t respond, instead remaining focused on Kelsier. Come on. Tell me what you want with me. Make your play. Dockson finally shrugged, then ducked beneath the bar for a moment. He eventually came up with a couple of bottles.
“Anything good?” Kelsier asked, turning. “What do you think?” Dockson asked. “Even among thieves, Camon isn’t exactly known for his refinement. I have socks worth more than this wine.” Kelsier sighed. “Give me a cup anyway.” Then he glanced back at Vin. “You want anything?” Vin didn’t respond. Kelsier smiled. “Don’t worry—we’re far less frightening than your friends think.” “I don’t think they were her friends, Kell,” Dockson said from behind the bar. “Good point,” Kelsier said. “Regardless, child, you don’t have anything to fear from us. Other than Dox’s breath.” Dockson rolled his eyes. “Or Kell’s jokes.” Vin stood quietly. She could act weak, the way she had with Camon, but instincts told her that these men wouldn’t respond well to that tactic. So, she remained where she was, assessing the situation. The calmness fell upon her again. It encouraged her to be at ease, to be trusting, to simply do as the men were suggesting. . . . No! She stayed where she was. Kelsier raised an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected.” “What?” Dockson asked as he poured a cup of wine. “Nothing,” Kelsier said, studying Vin. “You want a drink or not, lass?” Dockson asked. Vin said nothing. All her life, as long as she could remember, she’d had her Luck. It made her strong, and it gave her an edge over other thieves. It was probably why she was still alive. Yet, all that time, she’d never really known what it was or why she could use it. Logic and instinct now told her the same thing—that she needed to find out what this man knew. However he intended to use her, whatever his plans were, she needed to endure them. She had to find out how he’d grown so powerful. “Ale,” she finally said. “Ale?” Kelsier asked. “That’s it?” Vin nodded, watching him carefully. “I like it.” Kelsier rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to work on that,” he said. “Anyway, have a seat.” Hesitant, Vin walked over and sat down opposite Kelsier at the small table. Her wounds throbbed, but she couldn’t afford to show weakness. Weakness killed. She had to pretend to ignore the pain. At least, sitting as she was, her head cleared. Dockson joined them a moment later, giving Kelsier a glass of wine and Vin her mug of ale. She didn’t take a drink. “Who are you?” she asked in a quiet voice. Kelsier raised an eyebrow. “You’re a blunt one, eh?” Vin didn’t reply. Kelsier sighed. “So much for my intriguing air of mystery.” Dockson snorted quietly. Kelsier smiled. “My name is Kelsier. I’m what you might call a crewleader—but I run a crew that isn’t like any you’ve probably known. Men like Camon, along with his crew, like to think of themselves as predators, feeding off of the nobility and the various organizations of the Ministry.” Vin shook her head. “Not predators. Scavengers.” One would have thought, perhaps, that so close to the Lord Ruler, such things as thieving crews would not be able to exist. Yet, Reen had shown her that the
opposite was true: Powerful, rich nobility congregated around the Lord Ruler. And, where power and riches existed, so did corruption—especially since the Lord Ruler tended to police his nobility far less than he did the skaa. It had to do, apparently, with his fondness for their ancestors. Either way, thieving crews like Camon’s were the rats who fed on the city’s corruption. And, like rats, they were impossible to entirely exterminate—especially in a city with the population of Luthadel. “Scavengers,” Kelsier said, smiling; apparently he did that a lot. “That’s an appropriate description, Vin. Well, Dox and I, we’re scavengers too . . . we’re just a higher quality of scavenger. We’re more well-bred, you might say—or perhaps just more ambitious.” She frowned. “You’re noblemen?” “Lord, no,” Dockson said. “Or, at least,” Kelsier said, “not full-blooded ones.” “Half-breeds aren’t supposed to exist,” Vin said carefully. “The Ministry hunts them.” Kelsier raised an eyebrow. “Half-breeds like you?” Vin felt a shock. How . . .? “Even the Steel Ministry isn’t infallible, Vin,” Kelsier said. “If they can miss you, then they can miss others.” Vin paused thoughtfully. “Milev. He called you Mistings. Those are some kind of Allomancer, right?” Dockson glanced at Kelsier. “She’s observant,” the shorter man said with an appreciative nod. “Indeed,” Kelsier agreed. “The man did call us Mistings, Vin—though the appellation was a bit hasty, since neither Dox nor I are technically Mistings. We do, however, associate with them quite a bit.” Vin sat quietly for a moment, sitting beneath the scrutiny of the two men. Allomancy. The mystical power held by the nobility, granted to them by the Lord Ruler some thousand years before as a reward for their loyalty. It was basic Ministry doctrine; even a skaa like Vin knew that much. The nobility had Allomancy and privilege because of their ancestors; the skaa were punished for the same reason. The truth was, however, that she didn’t really know what Allomancy was. It had something to do with fighting, she’d always assumed. One “Misting,” as they were called, was said to be dangerous enough to kill an entire thieving team. Yet, the skaa she knew spoke of the power in whispered, uncertain tones. Before this moment, she’d never even paused to consider the possibility that it might simply be the same thing as her Luck. “Tell me, Vin,” Kelsier said, leaning forward with interest. “Do you realize what you did to that obligator in the Canton of Finance?” “I used my Luck,” Vin said quietly. “I use it to make people less angry.” “Or less suspicious,” Kelsier said. “Easier to scam.” Vin nodded. Kelsier held up a finger. “There are a lot of things you’re going to have to learn. Techniques, rules, and exercises. One lesson, however, cannot wait. Never use emotional Allomancy on an obligator. They’re all trained to recognize when their passions are being manipulated. Even the high nobility are forbidden from Pulling or Pushing the emotions of an obligator. You are what caused that obligator to send for an Inquisitor.” “Pray the creature never
catches your trail again, lass,” Dockson said quietly, sipping his wine. Vin paled. “You didn’t kill the Inquisitor?” Kelsier shook his head. “I just distracted him for a bit—which was quite dangerous enough, I might add. Don’t worry, many of the rumors about them aren’t true. Now that he’s lost your trail, he won’t be able to find you again.” “Most likely,” Dockson said. Vin glanced at the shorter man apprehensively. “Most likely,” Kelsier agreed. “There are a lot of things we don’t know about the Inquisitors—they don’t seem to follow the normal rules. Those spikes through their eyes, for instance, should kill them. Nothing I’ve learned about Allomancy has ever provided an explanation for how those creatures keep living. If it were only a regular Misting Seeker on your trail, we wouldn’t need to worry. An Inquistor . . . well, you’ll want to keep your eyes open. Of course, you already seem pretty good at that.” Vin sat uncomfortably for a moment. Eventually, Kelsier nodded to her mug of ale. “You aren’t drinking.” “You might have slipped something in it,” Vin said. “Oh, there was no need for me to sneak something into your drink,” Kelsier said with a smile, pulling an object out of his suit coat pocket. “After all, you’re going to drink this vial of mysterious liquid quite willingly.” He set a small glass vial on the tabletop. Vin frowned, regarding the liquid within. There was a dark residue at its bottom. “What is it?” she asked. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be mysterious,” Kelsier said with a smile. Dockson rolled his eyes. “The vial is filled with an alcohol solution and some flakes of metal, Vin.” “Metal?” she asked with a frown. “Two of the eight basic Allomantic metals,” Kelsier said. “We need to do some tests.” Vin eyed the vial. Kelsier shrugged. “You’ll have to drink it if you want to know any more about this Luck of yours.” “You drink half first,” Vin said. Kelsier raised an eyebrow. “A bit on the paranoid side, I see.” Vin didn’t respond. Finally, he sighed, picking up the vial and pulling off the plug. “Shake it up first,” Vin said. “So you get some of the sediment.” Kelsier rolled his eyes, but did as requested, shaking the vial, then downing half of its contents. He set it back on the table with a click. Vin frowned. Then she eyed Kelsier, who smiled. He knew that he had her. He had shown off his power, had tempted her with it. The only reason to be subservient to those with power is so that you can learn to someday take what they have. Reen’s words. Vin reached out and took the vial, then she downed its contents. She sat, waiting for some magical transformation or surge of power—or even signs of poison. She felt nothing. How . . . anticlimactic. She frowned, leaning back in her chair. Out of curiosity, she felt at her Luck. And felt her eyes widen in shock. It was there, like a massive
golden hoard. A storage of power so incredible that it stretched her understanding. Always before, she had needed to be a scrimp with her Luck, holding it in reserve, using up morsels sparingly. Now she felt like a starving woman invited to a high nobleman’s feast. She sat, stunned, regarding the enormous wealth within her. “So,” Kelsier said with a prodding voice. “Try it. Soothe me.” Vin reached out, tentatively touching her newfound mass of Luck. She took a bit, and directed it at Kelsier. “Good.” Kelsier leaned forward eagerly. “But we already knew you could do that. Now the real test, Vin. Can you go the other way? You can dampen my emotions, but can you enflame them too?” Vin frowned. She’d never used her Luck in such a way; she hadn’t even realized that she could. Why was he so eager? Suspicious, Vin reached for her source of Luck. As she did so, she noticed something interesting. What she had first interpreted as one massive source of power was actually two different sources of power. There were different types of Luck. Eight. He’d said there were eight of them. But . . . what do the others do? Kelsier was still waiting. Vin reached to the second, unfamiliar source of Luck, doing as she’d done before and directing it at him. Kelsier’s smile deepened, and he sat back, glancing at Dockson. “That’s it then. She did it.” Dockson shook his head. “To be honest, Kell, I’m not sure what to think. Having one of you around was unsettling enough. Two, though . . .” Vin regarded them with narrowed, dubious eyes. “Two what?” “Even among the nobility, Vin, Allomancy is modestly rare,” Kelsier said. “True, it’s a hereditary skill, with most of its powerful lines among the high nobility. However, breeding alone doesn’t guarantee Allomantic strength. “Many high noblemen only have access to a single Allomantic skill. People like that—those who can only perform Allomancy in one of its eight basic aspects—are called Mistings. Sometimes these abilities appear in skaa—but only if that skaa has noble blood in his or her near ancestry. You can usually find one Misting in . . . oh, about ten thousand mixed-breed skaa. The better, and closer, the noble ancestry, the more likely the skaa is to be a Misting.” “Who were your parents, Vin?” Dockson asked. “Do you remember them?” “I was raised by my half brother, Reen,” Vin said quietly, uncomfortable. These were not things she discussed with others. “Did he speak of your mother and father?” Dockson asked. “Occasionally,” she admitted. “Reen said that our mother was a whore. Not out of choice, but the underworld . . .” She trailed off. Her mother had tried to kill her, once, when she was very young. She vaguely remembered the event. Reen had saved her. “What about your father, Vin?” Dockson asked. Vin looked up. “He is a high prelan in the Steel Ministry.” Kelsier whistled softly. “Now, that’s a slightly ironic breach of duty.” Vin looked down at the table. Finally,
she reached over and took a healthy pull on her mug of ale. Kelsier smiled. “Most ranking obligators in the Ministry are high noblemen. Your father gave you a rare gift in that blood of yours.” “So . . . I’m one of these Mistings you mentioned?” Kelsier shook his head. “Actually, no. You see, this is what made you so interesting to us, Vin. Mistings only have access to one Allomantic skill. You just proved you have two. And, if you have access to at least two of the eight, then you have access to the rest as well. That’s the way it works—if you’re an Allomancer, you either get one skill or you get them all.” Kelsier leaned forward. “You, Vin, are what is generally called a Mistborn. Even amongst the nobility, they’re incredibly rare. Amongst skaa . . . well, let’s just say I’ve only met one other skaa Mistborn in my entire life.” Somehow, the room seemed to grow more quiet. More still. Vin stared at her mug with distracted, uncomfortable eyes. Mistborn. She’d heard the stories, of course. The legends. Kelsier and Dockson sat quietly, letting her think. Eventually, she spoke. “So . . . what does this all mean?” Kelsier smiled. “It means that you, Vin, are a very special person. You have a power that most high noblemen envy. It is a power that, had you been born an aristocrat, would have made you one of the most deadly and influential people in all of the Final Empire.” Kelsier leaned forward again. “But, you weren’t born an aristocrat. You’re not noble, Vin. You don’t have to play by their rules—and that makes you even more powerful.” 4 “YOU HEARD WHAT HE SAID! He’s planning a job.” Ulef’s eyes shone with excitement. “I wonder which of the Great Houses he’s going to strike.” “It’ll be one of the most powerful ones,” said Disten, one of Camon’s head pointmen. He was missing a hand, but his eyes and ears were among the keenest in the crew. “Kelsier never bothers himself with small-time jobs.” Vin sat quietly, her mug of ale—the same one Kelsier had given her—still sitting mostly full on the tabletop. Her table was crowded with people; Kelsier had let the thieves return to their home for a bit before his meeting began. Vin, however, would have preferred to remain by herself. Life with Reen had accustomed her to loneliness—if you let someone get too close, it would just give them better opportunities to betray you. Even after Reen’s disappearance, Vin had kept to herself. She hadn’t been willing to leave; however, she also hadn’t felt the need to become familiar with the other crewmembers. They had, in turn, been perfectly willing to let her alone. Vin’s position had been precarious, and associating with her could have tainted them by association. Only Ulef had made any moves to befriend her. If you let someone get close to you, it will only hurt more when they betray you, Reen seemed to whisper in her mind. Had Ulef
even really been her friend? He’d certainly sold her out quickly enough. In addition, the crewmembers had taken Vin’s beating and sudden rescue in stride, never mentioning their betrayal or refusal to help her. They’d only done what was expected. “The Survivor hasn’t bothered himself with any jobs lately,” said Harmon, an older, scraggly-bearded burglar. “He’s barely been seen in Luthadel a handful of times during the last few years. In fact, he hasn’t pulled any jobs since . . .” “This is the first one?” Ulef asked eagerly. “The first since he escaped the Pits? Then it’s bound to be something spectacular!” “Did he say anything about it, Vin?” Disten asked. “Vin?” He waved a stumpy arm in her direction, catching her attention. “What?” she asked, looking up. She had cleaned herself slightly since her beating at Camon’s hand, finally accepting a handkerchief from Dockson to wipe the blood from her face. There was little she could do about the bruises, however. Those still throbbed. Hopefully, nothing was broken. “Kelsier,” Disten repeated. “Did he say anything about the job he’s planning?” Vin shook her head. She glanced down at the bloodied handkerchief. Kelsier and Dockson had left a short time ago, promising to return after she’d had some time to think about the things they had told her. There was an implication in their words, however—an offer. Whatever job they were planning, she was invited to participate. “Why’d he pick you to be his twixt, anyway, Vin?” Ulef asked. “Did he say anything about that?” That’s what the crew assumed—that Kelsier had chosen her to be his contact with Camon’s . . . Milev’s . . . crew. There were two sides to the Luthadel underground. There were the regular crews, like Camon’s. Then there were . . . the special ones. Groups composed of the extremely skillful, the extremely foolhardy, or the extremely talented. Allomancers. The two sides of the underworld didn’t mix; regular thieves left their betters alone. However, occasionally one of these Misting crews hired a regular team to do some of its more mundane work, and they would choose a twixt—a go-between—to work with both crews. Hence Ulef’s assumption about Vin. Milev’s crewmembers noticed her unresponsiveness, and turned to another topic: Mistings. They spoke of Allomancy with uncertain, whispered tones, and she listened, uncomfortable. How could she be associated with something they held in such awe? Her Luck . . . her Allomancy . . . was something small, something she used to survive, but something really quite unimportant. But, such power . . . she thought, looking in at her Luck reserve. “What’s Kelsier been doing these last few years, I wonder?” Ulef asked. He had seemed a bit uncomfortable around her at the beginning of the conversation, but that had passed quickly. He’d betrayed her, but this was the underworld. No friends. It didn’t seem that way between Kelsier and Dockson. They appeared to trust each other. A front? Or were they simply one of those rare teams that actually didn’t worry about each other’s
betrayal? The most unsettling thing about Kelsier and Dockson had been their openness with her. They seemed willing to trust, even accept, Vin after a relatively short time. It couldn’t be genuine—no one could survive in the underworld following such tactics. Still, their friendliness was disconcerting. “Two years . . .” said Hrud, a flat-faced, quiet thug. “He must have spent the entire time planning for this job.” “It must be some job indeed. . . .” Ulef said. “Tell me about him,” Vin said quietly. “Kelsier?” Disten asked. Vin nodded. “They didn’t talk about Kelsier down south?” Vin shook her head. “He was the best crewleader in Luthadel,” Ulef explained. “A legend, even among the Mistings. He robbed some of the wealthiest Great Houses in the city.” “And?” Vin asked. “Someone betrayed him,” Harmon said in a quiet voice. Of course, Vin thought. “The Lord Ruler himself caught Kelsier,” Ulef said. “Sent Kelsier and his wife to the Pits of Hathsin. But he escaped. He escaped from the Pits, Vin! He’s the only one who ever has.” “And the wife?” Vin asked. Ulef glanced at Harmon, who shook his head. “She didn’t make it.” So, he’s lost someone too. How can he laugh so much? So honestly? “That’s where he got those scars, you know,” Disten said. “The ones on his arms. He got them at the Pits, from the rocks on a sheer wall he had to climb to escape.” Harmon snorted. “That’s not how he got them. He killed an Inquisitor while escaping—that’s where he got the scars.” “I heard he got them fighting one of the monsters that guard the Pits,” Ulef said. “He reached into its mouth and strangled it from the inside. The teeth scraped his arms.” Disten frowned. “How do you strangle someone from the inside?” Ulef shrugged. “That’s just what I heard.” “The man isn’t natural,” Hrud muttered. “Something happened to him in the Pits, something bad. He wasn’t an Allomancer before then, you know. He entered the Pits a regular skaa, and now . . . Well, he’s a Misting for sure—if he’s even human anymore. Been out in the mists a lot, that one has. Some say that the real Kelsier is dead, that the thing wearing his face is . . . something else.” Harmon shook his head. “Now, that’s just plantation-skaa foolishness. We’ve all gone out in the mists.” “Not in the mists outside the city,” Hrud insisted. “The mistwraiths are out there. They’ll grab a man and take his face, sure as the Lord Ruler.” Harmon rolled his eyes. “Hrud’s right about one thing,” Disten said. “That man isn’t human. He might not be a mistwraith, but he’s not skaa either. I’ve heard of him doing things, things like only they can do. The ones that come out at night. You saw what he did to Camon.” “Mistborn,” Harmon muttered. Mistborn. Vin had heard the term before Kelsier had mentioned it to her, of course. Who hadn’t? Yet, the rumors about Mistborn made stories of Inquisitors and Mistings seem
rational. It was said that Mistborn were heralds of the mists themselves, endowed with great powers by the Lord Ruler. Only high noblemen could be Mistborn; they were said to be a secret sect of assassins who served him, only going out at night. Reen had always taught her that they were a myth, and Vin had assumed he was right. And Kelsier says I—like he himself—am one of them. How could she be what he said? Child of a prostitute, she was nobody. She was nothing. Never trust a man who tells you good news, Reen had always said. It’s the oldest, but easiest, way to con someone. Yet, she did have her Luck. Her Allomancy. She could still sense the reserves Kelsier’s vial had given her, and had tested her powers on the crewmembers. No longer limited to just a bit of Luck a day, she found she could produce far more striking effects. Vin was coming to realize that her old goal in life—simply staying alive—was uninspired. There was so much more she could be doing. She had been a slave to Reen; she had been a slave to Camon. She would be a slave to this Kelsier too, if it would lead her to eventual freedom. At his table, Milev looked at his pocket watch, then stood. “All right, everyone out.” The room began to clear in preparation for Kelsier’s meeting. Vin remained where she was; Kelsier had made it quite clear to the others that she was invited. She sat quietly for a bit, the room feeling far more comfortable to her now that it was empty. Kelsier’s friends began to arrive a short time later. The first man down the steps had the build of a soldier. He wore a loose, sleeveless shirt that exposed a pair of well-sculpted arms. He was impressively muscular, but not massive, and had close-cropped hair that stuck up slightly on his head. The soldier’s companion was a sharply dressed man in a nobleman’s suit—plum vest, gold buttons, black overcoat—complete with short-brimmed hat and dueling cane. He was older than the soldier, and was a bit portly. He removed his hat upon entering the room, revealing a head of well-styled black hair. The two men were chatting amiably as they walked, but they paused when they saw the empty room. “Ah, this must be our twixt,” said the man in the suit. “Has Kelsier arrived yet, my dear?” He spoke with a simple familiarity, as if they were longtime friends. Suddenly, despite herself, Vin found herself liking this well-dressed, articulate man. “No,” she said quietly. Though overalls and a work shirt had always suited her, she suddenly wished that she owned something nicer. This man’s very bearing seemed to demand a more formal atmosphere. “Should have known that Kell would be late to his own meeting,” the soldier said, sitting down at one of the tables near the center of the room. “Indeed,” said the suited man. “I suppose his tardiness leaves us with a chance for some refreshment. I could
so use something to drink. . . .” “Let me get you something,” Vin said quickly, jumping to her feet. “How gracious of you,” the suited man said, choosing a chair next to the soldier. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his dueling cane held to the side, tip against the floor, one hand resting on the top. Vin walked to the bar and began rummaging for drinks. “Breeze . . .” the soldier said with a warning tone as Vin selected a bottle of Camon’s most expensive wine and began pouring a cup. “Hum . . .?” the suited man said, raising an eyebrow. The soldier nodded toward Vin. “Oh, very well,” the suited man said with a sigh. Vin paused, wine half poured, and frowned slightly. What am I doing? “I swear, Ham,” the suited man said, “you are dreadfully stiff sometimes.” “Just because you can Push someone around doesn’t mean you should, Breeze.” Vin stood, dumbfounded. He . . . used Luck on me. When Kelsier had tried to manipulate her, she’d felt his touch and had been able to resist. This time, however, she hadn’t even realized what she was doing. She looked up at the man, thinning her eyes. “Mistborn.” The suited man, Breeze, chuckled. “Hardly. Kelsier’s the only skaa Mistborn you’re likely to ever meet, my dear—and pray you never are in a situation where you meet a noble one. No, I am just an ordinary, humble Misting.” “Humble?” Ham asked. Breeze shrugged. Vin looked down at the half-full cup of wine. “You Pulled on my emotions. With . . . Allomancy, I mean.” “I Pushed on them, actually,” Breeze said. “Pulling makes a person less trusting and more determined. Pushing on emotions—Soothing them—makes a person more trusting.” “Regardless, you controlled me,” Vin said. “You made me fetch you a drink.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say that I made you do it,” Breeze said. “I just altered your emotions slightly, putting you in a frame of mind where you’d be more likely to do as I wished.” Ham rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Breeze. It’s an interesting question. By influencing her emotions, did you take away her ability to choose? If, for instance, she were to kill or steal while under your control, would the crime be hers or yours?” Breeze rolled his eyes. “There’s really no question to it at all. You shouldn’t think about such things, Hammond—you’ll hurt your brain. I offered her encouragement, I simply did it through an irregular means.” “But—” “I’m not going to argue it with you, Ham.” The beefy man sighed, looking a little bit forlorn. “Are you going to bring me the drink . . .?” Breeze asked hopefully, looking at Vin. “I mean, you’re already up, and you’re going to have to come back this direction to reach your seat anyway. . . .” Vin examined her emotions. Did she feel irregularly drawn to do as the man asked? Was he manipulating her again? Finally, she simply walked away from the bar, leaving the
drink where it was. Breeze sighed. He didn’t stand to go get the drink himself, however. Vin walked tentatively toward the two men’s table. She was accustomed to shadows and corners—close enough to eavesdrop, but far enough away to escape. Yet, she couldn’t hide from these men—not while the room was so empty. So, she chose a chair at the table beside the one that the two men were using, then sat cautiously. She needed information—as long as she was ignorant, she was going to be at a severe disadvantage in this new world of Misting crews. Breeze chuckled. “Nervous little thing, aren’t you?” Vin ignored the comment. “You,” Vin said, nodding to Ham. “You’re a . . . a Misting too?” Ham nodded. “I’m a Thug.” Vin frowned in confusion. “I burn pewter,” Ham said. Again, Vin looked at him questioningly. “He can make himself stronger, my dear,” Breeze said. “He hits things—particularly other people—who try to interfere with what the rest of us are doing.” “There’s much more to it than that,” Ham said. “I run general security for jobs, providing my crewleader with manpower and warriors, assuming such are necessary.” “And he’ll try and bore you with random philosophy when it isn’t,” Breeze added. Ham sighed. “Breeze, honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I . . .” Ham trailed off as the door opened again, admitting another man. The newcomer wore a dull tan overcoat, a pair of brown trousers, and a simple white shirt. However, his face was far more distinctive than his clothing. It was knotted and gnarled, like a twisted piece of wood, and his eyes shone with the level of disapproving dissatisfaction only the elderly can display. Vin couldn’t quite place his age—he was young enough that he wasn’t stooped over, yet he was old enough that he made even the middle-aged Breeze look youthful. The newcomer looked over Vin and the others, huffed disdainfully, then walked to a table on the other side of the room and sat down. His steps were marked by a distinct limp. Breeze sighed. “I’m going to miss Trap.” “We all will,” Ham said quietly. “Clubs is very good, though. I’ve worked with him before.” Breeze studied the newcomer. “I wonder if I could get him to bring my drink over. . . .” Ham chuckled. “I’d pay money to see you try it.” “I’m sure you would,” Breeze said. Vin eyed the newcomer, who seemed perfectly content to ignore her and the other two men. “What’s he?” “Clubs?” Breeze asked. “He, my dear, is a Smoker. He is what will keep the rest of us from being discovered by an Inquisitor.” Vin chewed on her lip, digesting the new information as she studied Clubs. The man shot her a glare, and she looked away. As she turned, she noticed that Ham was looking at her. “I like you, kid,” he said. “The other twixts I’ve worked with have either been too intimidated to talk to us, or they’ve been jealous of us for moving into their territory.” “Indeed,”

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.