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city. "We have to help!" Allrianne insisted. "No," Cett said quietly, shrugging off the effects of her Raging his emotions. He'd grown used to her manipulations long ago. "Our help wouldn't matter now." "We have to do something!" Allrianne said, pulling his arm. "No," Cett said more forcefully. "But you came back!" she said. "Why did we return, if not to help?" "We will help," Cett said quietly. "We'll help Straff take the city when he wishes, then we'll submit to him and hope he doesn't kill us." Allrianne paled. "That's it?" she hissed. "That's why we returned, so that you can give our kingdom to that monster?" "What else did you expect?" Cett demanded. "You know me, Allrianne. You know that this is the choice I have to make." "I thought I knew you," she snapped. "I thought you were a good man, down deep." Cett shook his head. "The good men are all dead, Allrianne. They died inside that city." Sazed fought on. He was no warrior; he didn't have honed instincts or training. He calculated that he should have died hours before. And yet, somehow, he managed to stay alive. Perhaps it was because the koloss didn't fight with skill, either. They were blunt—like their giant, wedgelike swords—and they simply threw themselves at their opponents with little thought of tactics. That should have been enough. Yet, Sazed held—and where he held, his few men held with him. The koloss had rage on their side, but Sazed's men could see the weak and elderly standing, waiting, just at the edge of the square. The soldiers knew why they fought. This reminder seemed enough to keep them going, even when they began to be surrounded, the koloss working their way into the edges of the square. Sazed knew, by now, that no relief was going to come. He'd hoped, perhaps, that Straff would decide to take the city, as Clubs had suggested. But it was too late for that; night was approaching, the sun inching toward the horizon. The end is finally here, Sazed thought as the man next to him was struck down. Sazed slipped on blood, and the move saved him as the koloss swung over his head. Perhaps Tindwyl had found a way to safety. Hopefully, Elend would deliver the things he and she had studied. They were important, Sazed thought, even if he didn't know why. Sazed attacked, swinging the sword he'd taken from a koloss. He enhanced his muscles in a final burst as he swung, giving them strength right as the sword met koloss flesh. He hit. The resistance, the wet sound of impact, the shock up his arm—these were familiar to him now. Bright koloss blood sprayed across him, and another of the monsters fell. And Sazed's strength was gone. Pewter tapped clean, the koloss sword was now heavy in his hands. He tried to swing it at the next koloss in line, but the weapon slipped from his weak, numb, tired fingers. This koloss was a big one. Nearing twelve feet tall, it
was the largest of the monsters Sazed had seen. Sazed tried to step away, but he stumbled over the body of a recently killed soldier. As he fell, his men finally broke, the last dozen scattering. They'd held well. Too well. Perhaps if he'd let them retreat. . . No, Sazed thought, looking up at his death. I did well, I think. Better than any mere scholar should have been able to. He thought about the rings on his fingers. They could, perhaps, give him a little bit of an edge, let him run. Flee. Yet, he couldn't summon the motivation. Why resist? Why had he resisted in the first place? He'd known that they were doomed. You're wrong about me, Tindwyl, he thought. I do give up, sometimes. I gave up on this city long ago. The koloss loomed over Sazed, who still lay half sprawled in the bloody slush, and raised its sword. Over the creature's shoulder, Sazed could see the red sun hanging just above the top of the wall. He focused on that, rather than on the falling sword. He could see rays of sunlight, like. . .shards of glass in the sky. The sunlight seemed to sparkle, twinkling, coming for him. As if the sun itself were welcoming him. Reaching down to accept his spirit. And so, I die. . .. A twinkling droplet of light sparkled in the beam of sunlight, then hit the koloss directly in the back of the skull. The creature grunted, stiffening, dropping its sword. It collapsed to the side, and Sazed lay, stupefied, on the ground for a moment. Then he looked up at the top of the wall. A small figure stood silhouetted by the sun. Black before the red light, a cloak flapped gently on her back. Sazed blinked. The bit of sparkling light he'd seen. . .it had been a coin. The koloss before him was dead. Vin had returned. She jumped, leaping as only an Allomancer could, to soar in a graceful arc above the square. She landed directly in the midst of the koloss and spun. Coins shot out like angry insects, cutting through blue flesh. The creatures didn't drop as easily as humans would have, but the attack got their attention. The koloss turned away from the fleeing soldiers and defenseless townspeople. The skaa at the back of the square began to chant. It was a bizarre sound to hear in the middle of a battle. Sazed sat up, ignoring his pains and exhaustion as Vin jumped. The city gate suddenly lurched, its hinges twisting. The koloss had already beaten on it so hard. . .. The massive wooden portal burst free from the wall, Pulled by Vin. Such power, Sazed thought numbly. She must be Pulling on something behind herself—but, that would mean that poor Vin is being yanked between two weights as heavy as that gate. And yet, she did it, lifting the gate door with a heave, Pulling it toward herself. The huge hardwood gate crashed through the koloss ranks, scattering bodies.
Vin twisted expertly in the air, Pulling herself to the side, swinging the gate to the side as if it were tethered to her by a chain. Koloss flew in the air, bones cracking, sprayed like splinters before the enormous weapon. In a single sweep, Vin cleared the entire courtyard. The gate dropped. Vin landed amid a group of crushed bodies, silently kicking a soldier's war staff up into her hands. The remaining koloss outside the gate paused only briefly, then charged. Vin began to attack swiftly, but precisely. Skulls cracked, koloss falling dead in the slush as they tried to pass her. She spun, sweeping a few of them to the ground, spraying ashen red slush across those running up behind. I. . .I have to do something, Sazed thought, shaking off his stupefaction. He was still bare-chested, the cold ignored because of his brassmind—which was nearly empty. Vin continued to fight, felling koloss after koloss. Even her strength won't last forever. She can't save the city. Sazed forced himself to his feet, then moved toward the back of the square. He grabbed the old man at the front of the crowd of skaa, shaking the man out of his chanting. "You were right," Sazed said. "She returned." "Yes, Holy First Witness." "She will be able to give us some time, I think," Sazed said. "The koloss have broken into the city. We need to gather what people we can and escape." The old man paused, and for a moment Sazed thought he would object—that he would claim Vin would protect them, would defeat the entire army. Then, thankfully, he nodded. "We'll run out the northern gate," Sazed said urgently. "That is where the koloss first entered the city, and so it is likely that they have moved on from that area." I hope, Sazed thought, rushing off to raise the warning. The fallback defensive positions were supposed to be the high noble keeps. Perhaps they would find survivors there. So, Breeze thought, it turns out that I'm a coward. It was not a surprising revelation. He had always said that it was important for a man to understand himself, and he had always been aware of his selfishness. So, he was not at all shocked to find himself huddling against the flaking bricks of an old skaa home, shutting his ears to the screams just outside. Where was the proud man now? The careful diplomat, the Soother with his immaculate suits? He was gone, leaving behind this quivering, useless mass. He tried several times to burn brass, to Soothe the men fighting outside. However, he couldn't accomplish this most simple of actions. He couldn't even move. Unless one counted trembling as movement. Fascinating, Breeze thought, as if looking at himself from the outside, seeing the pitiful creature in the ripped, bloodied suit. So this is what happens to me, when the stress gets too strong? It's ironic, in a way. I've spent a lifetime controlling the emotions of others. Now I'm so afraid, I can't even function. The fighting continued
outside. It was going on an awful long time. Shouldn't those soldiers be dead? "Breeze?" He couldn't move to see who it was. Sounds like Ham. That's funny. He should be dead, too. "Lord Ruler!" Ham said, coming into Breeze's view. He wore a bloodied sling on one arm. He fell urgently to Breeze's side. "Breeze, can you hear me?" "We saw him duck in here, my lord," another voice said. A soldier? "Took shelter from the fight. We could feel him Soothing us, though. Kept us fighting, even when we should have given up. After Lord Cladent died. . ." I'm a coward. Another figure appeared. Sazed, looking concerned. "Breeze," Ham said, kneeling. "My keep fell, and Sazed's gate is down. We haven't heard anything from Dockson in over an hour, and we found Clubs's body. Please. The koloss are destroying the city. We need to know what to do." Well, don't ask me, Breeze said—or tried to say. He thought it came out as a mumble. "I can't carry you, Breeze," Ham said. "My arm is nearly useless." Well, that's all right, Breeze mumbled. You see, my dear man, I don't think I'm of much use anymore. You should move on. It's quite all right if you just leave me here. Ham looked up at Sazed, helpless. "Hurry, Lord Hammond," Sazed said. "We can have the soldiers carry the wounded. We will make our way to Keep Hasting. Perhaps we can find sanctuary there. Or. . .perhaps the koloss will be distracted enough to let us slip out of the city." Distracted? Breeze mumbled. Distracted by the killing of other people, you mean. Well, it is somewhat comforting to know that we're all cowards. Now, if I could just lie here for a little longer, I might be able to fall asleep. . . And forget all of this. Alendi will need guides through the Terris Mountains. I have charged Rashek with making certain that he and his trusted friends are chosen as those guides. VIN'S STAFF BROKE AS SHE slammed it across a koloss face. Not again, she thought with frustration, spinning and ramming the broken shard into another creature's chest. She turned and came face-to-face with one of the big ones, a good five feet taller than she. It thrust its sword toward her. Vin jumped, and the sword collided with broken cobblestones beneath her. She shot upward, not needing any coins to carry herself up to eye level with the creature's twisted face. They always looked surprised. Even after watching her fight dozens of their companions, they seemed shocked to see her dodge their blows. Their minds seemed to equate size with power; a larger koloss always beat a smaller one. A five-foot-tall human should have been no problem for a monster this big. Vin flared pewter as she smashed her fist into the beast's head. The skull cracked beneath her knuckles, and the beast fell backward as she dropped back to the ground. Yet, as always, there was another to take its place. She was getting
tired. No, she'd started the battle tired. She'd pewter-dragged, then used a convoluted personal spikeway to carry herself across an entire dominance. She was exhausted. Only the pewter in her last metal vial was keeping her upright. I should have asked Sazed for one of his empty pewterminds! she thought. Feruchemical and Allomantic metals were the same. She could have burned that—though it would probably have been a bracer or a bracelet. To large to swallow. She ducked to the side as another koloss attacked. Coins didn't stop these things, and they all weighed too much for her to Push them away without an anchor. Besides, her steel and iron reserves were extremely low. She killed koloss after koloss, buying time for Sazed and the people to get a good head start. Something was different this time—different from when she'd killed at Cett's palace. She felt good. It wasn't just because she killed monsters. It was because she understood her purpose. And she agreed with it. She could fight, could kill, if it meant defending those who could not defend themselves. Kelsier might have been able to kill for shock or retribution, but that wasn't good enough for Vin. And she would never let it be again. That determination fueled her attacks against the koloss. She used a stolen sword to cut off the legs of one, then threw the weapon at another, Pushing on it to impale the koloss in the chest. Then she Pulled on the sword of a fallen soldier, yanking it into her hand. She ducked backward, but nearly stumbled as she stepped on another body. So tired, she thought. There were dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of corpses in the courtyard. In fact, a pile was forming beneath her. She climbed it, retreating slightly as the creatures surrounded her again. They crawled over the corpses of their fallen brethren, rage frothing in their blood-drop eyes. Human soldiers would have given up, going to seek easier fights. The koloss, however, seemed to multiply as she fought them, others hearing the sounds of battle and coming to join in. She swiped, pewter aiding her strength as she cut off an arm from one koloss, then a leg from another, before finally going for the head of a third. She ducked and dodged, jumping, staying out of their reach, killing as many as she could. But as desperate as her determination—as strong as her newfound resolve to defend—she knew that she couldn't keep fighting, not like this. She was only one person. She couldn't save Luthadel, not alone. "Lord Penrod!" Sazed yelled, standing at the gates to Keep Hasting. "You must listen to me." There was no response. The soldiers at the top of the short keep wall were quiet, though Sazed could sense their discomfort. They didn't like ignoring him. In the distance, the battle still raged. Koloss screamed in the night. Soon they would find their way to Sazed and Ham's growing band of several thousand, who now huddled quietly outside Keep Hasting's gate. A haggard messenger approached Sazed. He was
the same one that Dockson had been sending to Steel Gate. He'd lost his horse somewhere, and they'd found him with a group of refugees in the Square of the Survivor. "Lord Terrisman," the messenger said quietly. "I. . .just got back from the command post. Keep Venture has fallen. . .." "Lord Dockson?" The man shook his head. "We found a few wounded scribes hiding outside the keep. They saw him die. The koloss are still in the building, breaking windows, rooting about. . .." Sazed turned back, looking over the city. So much smoke billowed in the sky that it seemed the mists had come already. He'd begun filling his scent tinmind to keep the stench away. The battle for the city might be over, but now the true tragedy would begin. The koloss in the city had finished killing soldiers. Now they would slaughter the people. There were hundreds of thousands of them, and Sazed knew the creatures would gleefully extend the devastation. No looting. Not when there was killing to be done. More screams sounded in the night. They'd lost. Failed. And now, the city would truly fall. The mists can't be far away, he thought, trying to give himself some hope. Perhaps that will give us some cover. Still, one image stood out to him. Clubs, dead in the snow. The wooden disk Sazed had given him earlier that same day tied to a loop around his neck. It hadn't helped. Sazed turned back to Keep Hasting. "Lord Penrod," he said loudly. "We are going to try and slip out of the city. I would welcome your troops and your leadership. If you stay here, the koloss will attack this keep and kill you." Silence. Sazed turned, sighing as Ham—arm still in a sling—joined him. "We have to go, Saze," Ham said quietly. "You're bloody, Terrisman." Sazed turned. Ferson Penrod stood on the top of his wall, looking down. He still looked immaculate in his nobleman's suit. He even wore a hat against the snow and ash. Sazed looked down at himself. He still wore only his loincloth. He hadn't had time to worry about clothing, particularly with his brassmind to keep him warm. "I've never seen a Terrisman fight," Penrod said. "It is not a common occurrence, my lord," Sazed replied. Penrod looked up, staring out over the city. "It's falling, Terrisman." "That is why we must go, my lord," Sazed said. Penrod shook his head. He still wore Elend's thin crown. "This is my city, Terrisman. I will not abandon it." "A noble gesture, my lord," Sazed said. "But these with me are your people. Will you abandon them in their flight northward?" Penrod paused. Then he just shook his head again. "There will be no flight northward, Terrisman. Keep Hasting is among the tallest structures in the city—from it, we can see what the koloss are doing. They will not let you escape." "They may turn to pillaging," Sazed said. "Perhaps we can get by them and escape." "No," Penrod said, his voice echoing
hauntingly across the snowy streets. "My Tineye claims the creatures have already attacked the people you sent to escape through the northern gate. Now the koloss have turned this way. They're coming for us." As cries began to echo through the distant streets, coming closer, Sazed knew that Penrod's words must be true. "Open your gates, Penrod!" Sazed yelled. "Let the refugees in!" Save their lives for a few more pitiful moments. "There is no room," Penrod said. "And there is no time. We are doomed." "You must let us in!" Sazed screamed. "It is odd," Penrod said, voice growing softer. "By taking this throne from the Venture boy, I saved his life—and I ended my own. I could not save the city, Terrisman. My only consolation is that I doubt Elend could have done so either." He turned to go, walking down somewhere beyond the wall. "Penrod!" Sazed yelled. He did not reappear. The sun was setting, the mists were appearing, and the koloss were coming. Vin cut down another koloss, then jumped back, Pushing herself off of a fallen sword. She shot away from the pack, breathing heavily, bleeding from a couple of minor cuts. Her arm was growing numb; one of the creatures had punched her there. She could kill—kill better than anyone she knew. However, she couldn't fight forever. She landed on a rooftop, then stumbled, falling to kneel in a pile of snow. The koloss called and howled behind her, and she knew they would come, chasing her, hounding her. She'd killed hundreds of them, but what was a few hundred when compared with an army of over twenty thousand? What did you expect? she thought to herself. Why keep fighting once you knew Sazed was free? Did you think to stop them all? Kill every koloss in the army? Once, she'd stopped Kelsier from rushing an army by himself. He had been a great man, but still just one person. He couldn't have stopped an entire army—no more than she could. I have to find the Well, she thought with determination, burning bronze, the thumpings—which she'd been ignoring during the battle—becoming loud to her ears. And yet, that left her with the same problem as before. She knew it was in the city now; she could feel the thumpings all around her. Yet, they were so powerful, so omnipresent, that she couldn't sense a direction from them. Besides, what proof did she have that finding the Well would even help? If Sazed had lied about the location—had gone so far as to draw up a fake map—then what else had he lied about? The power might stop the mists, but what good would that do for Luthadel, burning and dying? She knelt in frustration, pounding the top of the roof with her fists. She had proven too weak. What good was it to return—what good was it to decide to protect—if she couldn't do anything to help? She knelt for a few moments, breathing in gasps. Finally, she forced herself to her feet and jumped into
the air, throwing down a coin. Her metals were nearly gone. She barely had enough steel to carry her through a few jumps. She ended up slowing near Kredik Shaw, the Hill of a Thousand Spires. She caught one of the spikes at the top of the palace, spinning in the night, looking out over the darkening city. It was burning. Kredik Shaw itself was silent, quiet, left alone by looters of both races. Yet, all around her, Vin saw light in the darkness. The mists glowed with a haunting light. It's like. . .like that day two years ago, she thought. The night of the skaa rebellion. Except, on that day, the firelight had come from the torches of the rebels as they marched on the palace. This night, a revolution of a different type was occurring. She could hear it. She had her tin burning, and she forced herself to flare it, opening her ears. She heard the screams. The death. The koloss hadn't finished their killing work by destroying the army. Not by far. They had only just begun. The koloss are killing them all, she thought, shivering as the fires burned before her. Elend's people, the ones he left behind because of me. They're dying. I am his knife. Their knife. Kelsier trusted me with them. I should be able to do something. . .. She dropped toward the ground, skidding off an angled rooftop, landing in the palace courtyard. Mists gathered around her. The air was thick. And not just with ash and snow; she could smell death in its breezes, hear screams in its whispers. Her pewter ran out. She slumped to the ground, a wave of exhaustion hitting her so hard that everything else seemed inconsequential. She suddenly knew she shouldn't have relied on the pewter so much. Shouldn't have pushed herself so hard. But, it had seemed like the only way. She felt herself begin to slip into unconsciousness. But people were screaming. She could hear them—had heard them before. Elend's city. . .Elend's people. . .dying. Her friends were out there somewhere. Friends that Kelsier had trusted her to protect. She gritted her teeth, shoving aside the exhaustion for a moment longer, struggling up to her feet. She looked through the mists, toward the phantom sounds of terrified people. She began to dash toward them. She couldn't jump; she was out of steel. She couldn't even run very fast, but as she forced her body to move, it responded better and better, fighting off the dull numbness that she'd earned from relying on pewter so long. She burst out of an alleyway, skidding in the snow, and found a small group of people running before a koloss raiding party. There were six of the beasts, small ones, but still dangerous. Even as Vin watched, one of the creatures cut down an elderly man, slicing him nearly in two. Another picked up a small girl, slamming her against the side of a building. Vin dashed forward, past the fleeing skaa, whipping out her daggers.
She still felt exhausted, but adrenaline helped her somewhat. She had to keep moving. Keep going. To stop was to die. Several of the beasts turned toward her, eager to fight. One swung for her, and Vin let herself slide in the slush—slipping closer to him—before cutting the back of his leg. He howled in pain as her knife got caught in his baggy skin. She managed to yank it free as a second creature swung. I feel so slow! she thought with frustration, barely sliding to her feet before backing away from the creature's reach. His sword sprayed chill water across her, and she jumped forward, planting a dagger in the creature's eye. Suddenly thankful for the times Ham had made her practice without Allomancy, she caught the side of a building to steady herself in the slush. Then she threw herself forward, shouldering the koloss with the wounded eye—he was clawing at the dagger and yelling—into his companions. The koloss with the young girl turned, shocked, as Vin rammed her other dagger into his back. He didn't drop, but he did let go of the child. Lord Ruler, these things are tough! she thought, cloak whipping as she grabbed the child and dashed away. Especially when you're not tough yourself. I need some more metals. The girl in Vin's arms cringed as a koloss howl sounded, and Vin spun, flaring her tin to keep herself from falling unconscious from her fatigue. The creatures weren't following, however—they were arguing over a bit of clothing the dead man had been wearing. The howl sounded again, and this time, Vin realized, it had come from another direction. People began to scream again. Vin looked up, only to find those she'd just rescued facing down an even larger group of koloss. "No!" Vin said, raising a hand. But, they'd run far while she'd been fighting. She wouldn't even have been able to see them, save for her tin. As it was, she was able to see painfully well as the creatures began to lay into the small group with their thick-bladed swords. "No!" Vin screamed again, the deaths startling her, shocking her, standing as a reminder of all the deaths she'd been unable to prevent. "No. No! No!" Pewter, gone. Steel, gone. Iron, gone. She had nothing. Or. . .she had one thing. Not even pausing to think on what prompted her to use it, she threw a duralumin-enhanced Soothing at the beasts. It was as if her mind slammed into Something. And then, that Something shattered. Vin skidded to a halt, shocked, child still in her arms as the koloss stopped, frozen in their horrific act of slaughter. What did I just do? she thought, tracing through her muddled mind, trying to connect why she had reacted as she had. Was it because she had been frustrated? No. She knew that the Lord Ruler had built the Inquisitors with a weakness: Remove a particular spike from their back, and they'd die. He had also built the kandra with a weakness. The koloss had
to have a weakness, too. TenSoon called the koloss. . .his cousins, she thought. She stood upright, the dark street suddenly quiet save for the whimpering skaa. The koloss waited, and she could feel herself in their minds. As if they were an extension of her own body, the same thing she had felt when she'd taken control of TenSoon's body. Cousins indeed. The Lord Ruler had built the koloss with a weakness—the same weakness as the kandra. He had given himself a way to keep them in check. And suddenly she understood how he'd controlled them all those long years. Sazed stood at the head of his large band of refugees, snow and ash—the two now indistinguishable in the misty darkness—falling around him. Ham sat to one side, looking drowsy. He'd lost too much blood; a man without pewter would have died by now. Someone had given Sazed a cloak, but he had used it to wrap the comatose Breeze. Even though be barely tapped his brassmind for warmth, Sazed himself wasn't cold. Maybe he was just getting too numb to care. He held two hands up before him, forming fists, ten rings sparkling against the light of the group's single lantern. Koloss approached from the dark alleyways, their forms huddled shadows in the night. Sazed's soldiers backed away. There was little hope left in them. Sazed alone stood in the quiet snow, a spindly, bald scholar, nearly naked. He, the one who preached the end. He, who should have had the most faith of all. Ten rings. A few minutes of power. A few minutes of life. He waited as the koloss gathered. The beasts grew strangely silent in the night. They stopped approaching. They stood still, a line of dark, moundlike silhouettes in the night. Why don't they attack! Sazed thought, frustrated. A child whimpered. Then, the koloss began to move again. Sazed tensed, but the creatures didn't walk forward. They split, and a quiet figure walked through the center of them. "Lady Vin?" Sazed asked. He still hadn't had a chance to speak with her since she'd saved him at the gate. She looked exhausted. "Sazed," she said tiredly. "You lied to me about the Well of Ascension." "Yes, Lady Vin," he said. "That isn't important now," she said. "Why are you standing naked outside of the keep's walls?" "I. . ." He looked up at the koloss. "Lady Vin, I—" "Penrod!" Vin shouted suddenly. "Is that you up there?" The king appeared. He looked as confused as Sazed felt. "Open your gates!" Vin yelled. "Are you mad?" Penrod yelled back. "I'm not sure," Vin said. She turned, and a group of koloss moved forward, walking quietly as if commanded. The largest one picked Vin up, holding her up high, until she was nearly level with the top of the keep's low wall. Several guards atop the wall shied away from her. "I'm tired, Penrod," Vin said. Sazed had to tap his hearing tinmind to listen in on her words. "We're all tired, child," Penrod said. "I'm particularly
tired," Vin said. "I'm tired of the games. I'm tired of people dying because of arguments between their leaders. I'm tired of good men being taken advantage of." Penrod nodded quietly. "I want you to gather our remaining soldiers," Vin said, turning to look over the city. "How many do you have in there?" "About two hundred," he said. Vin nodded. "The city is not lost—the koloss have fought against the soldiers, but haven't had much time to turn on the population yet. I want you to send out your soldiers to find any groups of koloss that are pillaging or killing. Protect the people, but don't attack the koloss if you can help it. Send a messenger for me instead." Remembering Penrod's bullheadedness earlier, Sazed thought the man might object. He didn't. He just nodded. "What do we do then?" Penrod asked. "I'll take care of the koloss," Vin said. "We'll go reclaim Keep Venture first—I'm going to need more metals, and there are plenty stored there. Once the city is secure, I want you and your soldiers to put out those fires. It shouldn't be too hard; there aren't a lot of buildings left that can burn." "Very well," Penrod said, turning to call out his orders. Sazed watched in silence as the massive koloss lowered Vin to the ground. It stood quietly, as if it were a monster hewn of stone, and not a breathing, bleeding, living creature. "Sazed," Vin said softly. He could sense the fatigue in her voice. "Lady Vin," Sazed said. To the side, Ham finally shook himself out of his stupor, looking up in shock as he noticed Vin and the koloss. Vin continued to look at Sazed, studying him. Sazed had trouble meeting her eyes. But, she was right. They could talk about his betrayal later. There were other, more important tasks that had to be accomplished. "I realize you probably have work for me to do," Sazed said, breaking the silence. "But, might I instead be excused? There is. . .a task I wish to perform." "Of course, Sazed," Vin said. "But first, tell me. Do you know if any of the others survived?" "Clubs and Dockson are dead, my lady," Sazed said. "I have not seen their bodies, but the reports were from reliable sources. You can see that Lord Hammond is here, with us, though he has suffered a very bad wound." "Breeze?" she asked. Sazed nodded to the lump that lay huddled beside the wall. "He lives, thankfully. His mind, however, appears to be reacting poorly to the horrors he saw. It could simply be a form of shock. Or. . .it could be something more lasting." Vin nodded, turning to Ham. "Ham. I need pewter." He nodded dully, pulling out a vial with his good hand. He tossed it to her. Vin downed it, and immediately her fatigue seemed to lessen. She stood up straighter, her eyes becoming more alert. That can't be healthy, Sazed thought with worry. How much of that has she been burning? Step more energetic,
she turned to walk toward her koloss. "Lady Vin?" Sazed asked, causing her to turn around. "There is still an army out there." "Oh, I know," Vin said, turning to take one of the large, wedge like koloss swords from its owner. It was actually a few inches taller than she was. "I am well aware of Straff's intentions," she said, hefting the sword up onto her shoulder. Then she turned in to the snow and mist, walking toward Keep Venture, her strange koloss guards tromping after her. It took Sazed well into the night to complete his self-appointed task. He found corpse after corpse in the frigid night, many of them iced over. The snow had stopped falling, and the wind had picked up, hardening the slush to slick ice. He had to break some of the corpses free to turn them over and inspect their faces. Without his brassmind to provide heat, he could never have performed his grisly job. Even so, he had found himself some warmer clothing—a simple brown robe and a set of boots. He continued working through the night, the wind swirling flakes of snow and ice around him. He started at the gate, of course. That was where the most corpses were. However, he eventually had to move into alleyways and thoroughfares. He found her body sometime near morning. The city had stopped burning. The only light he had was his lantern, but it was enough to reveal the strip of fluttering cloth in a snowbank. At first, Sazed thought it was just another bloodied bandage that had failed in its purpose. Then he saw a glimmer of orange and yellow, and he moved over—he no longer had the strength to rush—and reached into the snow. Tindwyl's body cracked slightly as he rolled it out. The blood on her side was frozen, of course, and her eyes were iced open. Judging from the direction of her flight, she had been leading her soldiers to Keep Venture. Oh, Tindwyl, he thought, reaching down to touch her face. It was still soft, but dreadfully cold. After years of being abused by the Breeders, after surviving so much, she had found this. Death in a city where she hadn't belonged, with a man—no, a half man—who did not deserve her. He released his brassmind, and let the night's cold wash over him. He didn't want to feel warm at the moment. His lantern flickered uncertainly, illuminating the street, shadowing the icy corpse. There, in that frozen alley of Luthadel, looking down at the corpse of the woman he loved, Sazed realized something. He didn't know what to do. He tried to think of something proper to say—something proper to think—but suddenly, all of his religious knowledge seemed hollow. What was the use in giving her a burial? What was the value in speaking the prayers of a long-dead god? What good was he? The religion of Dadradah hadn't helped Clubs; the Survivor hadn't come to rescue the thousands of soldiers who had died. What was the point? None
of Sazed's knowledge gave him comfort. He accepted the religions he knew—believed in their value—but that didn't give him what he needed. They didn't assure him that Tindwyl's spirit still lived. Instead, they made him question. If so many people believed so many different things, how could any one of them—or, even, anything at all—actually be true? The skaa called Sazed holy, but at that moment he realized that he was the most profane of men. He was a creature who knew three hundred religions, yet had faith in none of them. So, when his tears fell—and nearly began to freeze to his face—they gave him as little comfort as his religions. He moaned, leaning over the frozen corpse. My life, he thought, has been a sham. Rashek is to try and lead Alendi in the wrong direction, to discourage him, or otherwise foil his quest. Alendi doesn't know that he has been deceived, that we've all been deceived, and he will not listen to me now. STRAFF WOKE IN THE COLD morning and immediately reached for a leaf of Black Frayn. He was beginning to see the benefits of his addiction. It woke him quickly and easily, making his body feel warm despite the early hour. When he might have once taken an hour to get ready, he was up in minutes, dressed, prepared for the day. And glorious that day would be. Janarle met him outside his tent, and the two walked through the bustling camp. Straff's boots cracked on half ice, half snow as he made his way to his horse. "The fires are out, my lord," Janarle explained. "Probably due to the snows. The koloss probably finished their rampaging and took shelter from the cold. Our scouts are afraid to get too close, but they say the city is like a graveyard. Quiet and empty, save for the bodies." "Maybe they actually killed each other off," Straff said cheerfully, climbing into his saddle, breath puffing in the crisp morning air. Around him, the army was forming up. Fifty thousand soldiers, eager at the prospect of taking the city. Not only was there plundering to be done, but moving into Luthadel would mean roofs and walls for all of them. "Perhaps," Janarle said, mounting. Wouldn't that be convenient, Straff thought with a smile. All of my enemies dead, the city and its riches mine, and no skaa to worry about. "My lord!" someone cried. Straff looked up. The field between his camp and Luthadel was colored gray and white, the snow stained by ash. And gathering on the other side of that field were koloss. "Looks like they are alive after all, my lord," Janarle said. "Indeed," Straff said, frowning. There were still a lot of the creatures. They piled out of the western gate, not attacking immediately, instead gathering in a large body. "Scout counts say there are fewer of them than there were," Janarle said after a short time. "Perhaps two-thirds their original number, maybe a bit fewer. But, they are koloss. . .." "But they're abandoning
their fortifications," Straff said, smiling, Black Frayn warming his blood, making him feel like he was burning metals. "And they're coming to us. Let them charge. This should be over quickly." "Yes, my lord," Janarle said, sounding a little less certain. He frowned, then, pointing toward the southern section of the city. "My. . .lord?" "What now?" "Soldiers, my lord," Janarle said. "Human ones. Looks to be several thousand of them." Straff frowned. "They should all be dead!" The koloss charged. Straff's horse shuffled slightly as the blue monsters ran across the gray field, the human troops falling into more organized ranks behind. "Archers!" Janarle shouted. "Prepare first volley!" Perhaps I shouldn't be at the front, Straff thought suddenly. He turned his horse, then noticed something. An arrow suddenly shot from the midst of the charging koloss. But, koloss didn't use bows. Besides, the monsters were still far away, and that object was far too big to be an arrow anyway. A rock, perhaps? It seemed larger than. . . It began to fall down toward Straff's army. Straff stared into the sky, riveted by the strange object. It grew more distinct as it fell. It wasn't an arrow, nor was it a rock. It was a person—a person with a flapping mistcloak. "No!" Straff yelled. She's supposed to be gone! Vin screamed down from her duralumin-fueled Steeljump, massive koloss sword light in her hands. She hit Straff directly in the head with the sword, then continued on downward, slamming into the ground, throwing up snow and frozen dirt with the power of her impact. The horse fell into two pieces, front and back. What remained of the former king slid to the ground with the equine corpse. She looked at the remnants, smiled grimly, and bid Straff farewell. Elend had, after all, warned him what would happen if he attacked the city. Straff's generals and attendants stood around her in a stunned circle. Behind her, the koloss army barreled forward, confusion in Straff's ranks making the archer volleys ragged and less effective. Vin kept a tight hold on her sword, then Pushed outward with a duralumin-enhanced Steelpush. Riders were thrown, their beasts tripped by their shoes, and soldiers sprayed backward from her in a circle of several dozen yards. Men screamed. She downed another vial, restoring both steel and pewter. Then she jumped up, seeking out generals and other officers to attack. As she moved, her koloss troops hit the front ranks of Straff's army, and the real carnage began. "What are they doing?" Cett asked, hurriedly throwing on his cloak as he was placed and tied into his saddle. "Attacking, apparently," said Bahmen, one of his aides. "Look! They're working with the koloss." Cett frowned, doing up his cloak clasp. "A treaty?" "With koloss?" Bahmen asked. Cett shrugged. "Who's going to win?" "No way to tell, my lord," the man said. "Koloss are—" "What is this!" Allrianne demanded, riding up the snowy incline, accompanied by a couple of abashed guards. Cett had, of course, ordered them to keep her in
the camp—but he had also, of course, expected that she'd get past them eventually. At least I can count on her to be slowed down by getting ready in the morning, he thought with amusement. She wore one of her dresses, immaculately arranged, her hair done. If a building were burning down, Allrianne would still pause to do her makeup before escaping. "Looks like the battle has begun," Cett said, nodding toward the fighting. "Outside the city?" Allrianne asked, riding up next to him. Then she brightened. "They're attacking Straff's position!" "Yes," Cett said. "And that leaves the city—" "We have to help them, Father!" Cett rolled his eyes. "You know we're going to do nothing of the sort. We'll see who wins. If they're weak enough—which I hope they will be—we'll attack them. I didn't bring all of my forces back with me, but maybe. . ." He trailed off as he noticed the look in Allrianne's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, she kicked her horse into motion. Her guards cursed, dashing forward—too late—to try and grab her reins. Cett sat, stunned. This was a little insane, even for her. She wouldn't dare. . . She galloped down the hill toward the battle. Then she paused, as he had expected. She turned, looking back at him. "If you want to protect me, Father," she yelled, "you'd better charge!" With that, she turned and started galloping again, her horse throwing up puffs of snow. Cett didn't move. "My lord," Bahmen said. "Those forces look almost evenly matched. Fifty thousand men against a force of some twelve thousand koloss and about five thousand men. If we were to add our strength to either side. . ." Damn fool girl! he thought, watching Allrianne gallop away. "My lord?" Bahmen asked. Why did I come to Luthadel in the first place? Was it because I really thought I could take the city? Without Allomancers, with my homeland in revolt? Or, was it because I was looking for something? A confirmation of the stories. A power like I saw on that night, when the Heir almost killed me. How exactly did they get the koloss to fight with them, anyway? "Gather our forces!" Cett commanded. "We're marching to the defense of Luthadel. And somebody send riders after that fool daughter of mine!" Sazed rode quietly, his horse moving slowly in the snow. Ahead of him, the battle raged, but he was far enough behind it to be out of danger. He'd left the city behind, where Luthadel's surviving women and elderly watched from the walls. Vin had saved them from the koloss. The real miracle would be to see if she could save them from the other two armies. Sazed didn't ride into the fight. His metalminds were mostly empty, and his body was nearly as tired as his mind. He simply brought his horse to a halt, its breath puffing in the cold as he sat alone on the snowy plain. He didn't know how to deal
with Tindwyl's death. He felt. . .hollow. He wished that he could just stop feeling. He wished that he could go back and defend her gate, instead of his own. Why hadn't he gone in search of her when he'd heard of the northern gate's fall? She'd still been alive then. He might have been able to protect her. . . Why did he even care anymore? Why bother? But, the ones who had faith were right, he thought. Vin came back to defend the city. I lost hope, but they never did. He started his horse forward again. The sounds of battle came in the distance. He tried to focus on anything but Tindwyl, but his thoughts kept returning to things he had studied with her. The facts and stories became more precious, for they were a link to her. A painful link, but one he couldn't bear to discard. The Hero of Ages was not simply to be a warrior, he thought, still riding slowly toward the battlefield. He was a person who united others, who brought them together. A leader. He knew that Vin thought she was the Hero. But Tindwyl was right: it was too much of a coincidence. And, he wasn't even certain what he believed anymore. If anything. The Hero of Ages was removed from the Terris people, he thought, watching the koloss attack. He was not royalty himself, but came to it eventually. Sazed pulled his horse up, pausing in the center of the open, empty field. Arrows stuck from the snow around him, and the ground was thoroughly trampled. In the distance, he heard a drum. He turned, watching as an army of men marched over a rise to the west. They flew Cett's banner. He commanded the forces of the world. Kings rode to his aid. Cett's forces joined the battle against Straff. There was a crash of metal against metal, bodies grunting, as a new front came under attack. Sazed sat on the field between the city and the armies. Vin's forces were still outnumbered, but as Sazed watched, Straff's army began to pull back. It broke into pieces, its members fighting without direction. Their movements bespoke terror. She's killing their generals, he thought. Cett was a clever man. He himself rode to battle, but he stayed near the back of his ranks—his infirmities requiring him to remain tied into his saddle and making it difficult for him to fight. Still, by joining the battle, he ensured that Vin would not turn her koloss on him. For there was really no doubt in Sazed's mind who would win this conflict. Indeed, before even an hour had passed, Straff's troops began to surrender in large groups. The sounds of battle died down, and Sazed kicked his horse forward. Holy First Witness, he thought. I don't know that I believe that. But, either way, I should be there for what happens next. The koloss stopped fighting, standing silently. They parted for Sazed as he rode up through their ranks. Eventually, he found Vin standing,
bloodied, her massive koloss sword held on one shoulder. Some koloss pulled a man forward—a lord in rich clothing and a silvery breastplate. They dropped him before Vin. From behind, Penrod approached with an honor guard, led by a koloss. Nobody spoke. Eventually, the koloss parted again, and this time a suspicious Cett rode forward, surrounded by a large group of soldiers and led by a single koloss. Cett eyed Vin, then scratched his chin. "Not much of a battle," he said. "Straff's soldiers were afraid," Vin said. "They're cold, and they have no desire to fight koloss." "And their leaders?" Cett asked. "I killed them," Vin said. "Except this one. Your name?" "Lord Janarle," said Straff's man. His leg appeared broken, and koloss held him by either arm, supporting him. "Straff is dead," Vin said. "You control this army now." The nobleman bowed his head. "No, I don't. You do." Vin nodded. "On your knees," she said. The koloss dropped Janarle. He grunted in pain, but then bowed forward. "I swear my army to you," he whispered. "No," Vin said sharply. "Not to me—to the rightful heir of House Venture. He is your lord now." Janarle paused. "Very well," he said. "Whatever you wish. I swear loyalty to Straff's son, Elend Venture." The separate groups stood in the cold. Sazed turned as Vin did, looking at Penrod. Vin pointed at the ground. Penrod quietly dismounted, then bowed himself to the ground. "I swear as well," he said. "I give my loyalty to Elend Venture." Vin turned to Lord Cett. "You expect this of me?" the bearded man said, amused. "Yes," Vin said quietly. "And if I refuse?" Cett asked. "Then I'll kill you," Vin said quietly. "You brought armies to attack my city. You threatened my people. I won't slaughter your soldiers, make them pay for what you did, but I will kill you, Cett." Silence. Sazed turned, looking back at the lines of immobile koloss, standing in the bloodied snow. "That is a threat, you know," Cett said. "Your own Elend would never stand for such a thing." "He's not here," Vin said. "And what do you think he'd say?" Cett asked. "He'd tell me not to give in to such a demand—the honorable Elend Venture would never give in simply because someone threatened his life." "You're not the man that Elend is," Vin said. "And you know it." Cett paused, then smiled. "No. No, I'm not." He turned to his aides. "Help me down." Vin watched quietly as the guards undid Cett's legs, then lifted him down to the snowy ground. He bowed. "Very well, then. I swear myself to Elend Venture. He's welcome to my kingdom. . .assuming he can take it back from that damn obligator who now controls it." Vin nodded, turning to Sazed. "I need your help, Sazed." "Whatever you command, Mistress," Sazed said quietly. Vin paused. "Please don't call me that." "As you wish," Sazed said. "You're the only one here I trust, Sazed," Vin said, ignoring the three kneeling men. "With Ham wounded
and Breeze. . ." "I will do my best," Sazed said, bowing his head. "What is it you want me to do?" "Secure Luthadel," Vin said. "Make certain the people are sheltered, and send for supplies from Straff's storehouses. Get these armies so that they won't kill each other, the send a squad to fetch Elend. He'll be coming south on the canal highway." Sazed nodded, and Vin turned to the three kneeling kings. "Sazed is my second. You will obey him as you would Elend or myself." They each nodded in turn. "But, where will you be?" Penrod asked, looking up. Vin sighed, suddenly looking terribly weak. "Sleeping," she said, and dropped her sword. Then she Pushed against it, shooting backward into the sky, toward Luthadel. He left ruin in his wake, but it was forgotten, Sazed thought, turning to watch her fly. He created kingdoms, and then destroyed them as he made the world anew. We had the wrong gender all along. If Rashek fails to lead Alendi astray, then I have instructed the lad to kill Alendi. HOW CAN VIN STAND THIS? Elend wondered. He could barely see twenty feet in the mists. Trees appeared as apparitions around him as he walked, their branches curling around the road. The mist almost seemed to live: it moved, swirled, and blew in the cold night air. It snatched up his puffs of breath, as if drawing a piece of him into it. He shivered and kept walking. The snow had melted patchily over the last few days, leaving heaps in shadowed areas. The canal road, thankfully, was mostly clear. He walked with a pack over his shoulder, carrying only the necessities. At Spook's suggestion, they'd traded their horses at a village several days back. They'd rode the creatures hard the last few days, and it was Spook's estimation that trying to keep them fed—and alive—for the last leg of their trip to Luthadel wouldn't be worth the effort. Besides, whatever was going to happen at the city had likely already occurred. So Elend walked, alone, in the darkness. Despite the eeriness, he kept his word and traveled only at night. Not only was it Vin's will, but Spook claimed that night was safer. Few travelers braved the mists. Therefore, most bandits didn't bother watching roadways at night. Spook prowled ahead, his keen senses allowing him to detect danger before Elend blundered into it. How does that work, anyway? Elend wondered as he walked. Tin is supposed to make you see better. But what does it matter how far you can see, if the mists just obscure everything? Writers claimed that Allomancy could help a person pierce the mists, somehow. Elend had always wondered what that was like. Of course, he had also wondered what it felt like to feel the strength of pewter, or to fight with atium. Allomancers were uncommon, even among Great Houses. Yet, because of the way Straff had treated him, Elend had always felt guilty that he hadn't been one. But, I ended up as king eventually,
even without Allomancy, he thought, smiling to himself. He'd lost the throne, true. But, while they could take his crown, they could not take away his accomplishments. He'd proved that an Assembly could work. He'd protected the skaa, given them rights, and a taste of freedom they'd never forget. He'd done more than anyone would have expected of him. Something rustled in the mists. Elend froze, staring out into the darkness. Sounds like leaves, he thought nervously. Something moving across them? Or. . .just the wind blowing them? He decided at that moment that there was nothing more unnerving than staring into the misty darkness, seeing ever-shifting silhouettes. A part of him would rather face down a koloss army than stand alone, at night, in an unknown forest. "Elend," someone whispered. Elend spun. He put a hand to his chest as he saw Spook approaching. He thought about chastising the boy for sneaking up on him—but, well, there wasn't really any other way to approach in the mists. "Did you see something?" Spook asked quietly. Elend shook his head. "But I think I heard something." Spook nodded, then darted off into the mists again. Elend stood, uncertain whether he should continue on, or just wait. He didn't have to debate for very long. Spook returned a few moments later. "Nothing to worry about," Spook said. "Just a mistwraith." "What?" Elend asked. "Mistwraith," Spook said. "You know. Big goopy things? Related to kandra? Don't tell me you haven't read about them?" "I have," Elend said, nervously scanning the darkness. "But, I never thought I'd be out in the mists with one." Spook shrugged. "It's probably just following our scent, hoping that we'll leave some trash for it to eat. The things are harmless, mostly." "Mostly?" Elend asked. "You probably know more about them than I do. Look, I didn't come back here to chat about scavengers. There's light up ahead." "A village?" Elend asked, thinking back to when they'd come this way before. Spook shook his head. "Looks like watchfires." "An army?" "Maybe. I'm just thinking you should wait behind for a bit. It could be awkward if you wander into a scout post." "Agreed," Elend said. Spook nodded, then took off into the mists. And Elend was alone in the darkness again. He shivered, pulling his cloak close, and eyed the mists in the direction from which he'd heard the mistwraith. Yes, he'd read about them. He knew they were supposed to be harmless. But the thought of something crawling out there—its skeleton made from random sets of bones—watching him. . . Don't focus on that, Elend told himself. He turned his attention, instead, to the mists. Vin was right about one thing, at least. They were lingering longer and longer despite the sunrise. Some mornings, they remained a full hour after the sun came up. He could easily imagine the disaster that would befall the land should the mists persist all day. Crops would fail, animals would starve, and civilization would collapse. Could the Deepness really be something so simple? Elend's
own impressions of the Deepness were seated in scholarly tradition. Some writers dismissed the entire thing as a legend—a rumor used by the obligators to enhance their god's aura of divinity. The majority accepted the historical definition of the Deepness—a dark monster that had been slain by the Lord Ruler. And yet, thinking of it as the mist made some sense. How could a single beast, no matter how dangerous, threaten an entire land? The mists, though. . .they could be destructive. Kill plants. Perhaps even. . .kill people, as Sazed had suggested? He eyed it shifting around him, playful, deceptive. Yes, he could see it as the Deepness. Its reputation—more frightening than a monster, more dangerous than an army—was one it would deserve. In fact, watching it as he was, he could see it trying to play tricks on his mind. For instance, the mist bank directly in front of him seemed to be forming shapes. Elend smiled as his mind picked out images in the mists. One almost looked like a person standing there, in front of him. The person stepped forward. Elend jumped, taking a slight step backward, his foot crunching on a bit of ice-crusted snow. Don't be silly, he told himself. Your mind is playing tricks on you. There's nothing— The shape in the mists took another step forward. It was indistinct, almost formless, and yet it seemed real. Random movements in the mists outlined its face, its body, its legs. "Lord Ruler!" Elend yelped, jumping back. The thing continued to regard him. I'm going mad, he thought, hands beginning to shake. The mist figure stopped a few feet in front of him and then raised its right arm and pointed. North. Away from Luthadel. Elend frowned, glancing in the direction the figure pointed. There was nothing but more empty mists. He turned back toward it, but it stood quietly, arm upraised. Vin spoke of this thing, he remembered, forcing down his fear. She tried to tell me about it. And I thought she was making things up! She was right—just as she'd been right about the mists staying longer in the day, and the possibility of the mists being the Deepness. He was beginning to wonder which of them was the scholar. The mist figure continued to point. "What?" Elend asked, his own voice sounding haunting in the silent air. It stepped forward, arm still raised. Elend put a useless hand to his sword, but held his ground. "Tell me what you wish of me!" he said forcefully. The thing pointed again. Elend cocked his head. It certainly didn't seem threatening. In fact, he felt an unnatural feeling of peace coming from it. Allomancy? he thought. It's Pulling on my emotions! "Elend?" Spook's voice drifted out of the mists. The figure suddenly dissolved, its form melting into the mists. Spook approached, his face dark and shadowed in the night. "Elend? What were you saying?" Elend took his hand off his sword, standing upright. He eyed the mists, still not completely convinced that he wasn't seeing things.
"Nothing," he said. Spook glanced back the way he had come. "You should come look at this." "The army?" Elend asked, frowning. Spook shook his head. "No. The refugees." "The Keepers are dead, my lord," the old man said, sitting across from Elend. He didn't have a tent, only a blanket stretched between several poles. "Either dead, or captured." Another man brought Elend a cup of warm tea, his demeanor servile. Both wore the robes of stewards, and while their eyes bespoke exhaustion, their robes and hands were clean. Old habits, Elend thought, nodding thankfully and taking a sip of the tea. Terris's people might have declared themselves independent, but a thousand years of servitude cannot be so easily thrown off. The camp was an odd place. Spook said he counted nearly a thousand people in it—a nightmare of a number to care for, feed, and organize in the cold winter. Many were elderly, and the men were mostly stewards: eunuchs bred for genteel service, with no experience in hunting. "Tell me what happened," Elend said. The elderly steward nodded, his head shaking. He didn't seem particularly frail—actually, he had that same air of controlled dignity that most stewards exhibited—but his body had a slow, chronic tremble. "The Synod came out into the open, my lord, once the empire fell." He accepted a cup of his own, but Elend noticed that it was only half full—a precaution that proved wise as the elderly steward's shaking nearly spilled its contents. "They became our rulers. Perhaps it was not wise to reveal themselves so soon." Not all Terrismen were Feruchemists; in fact, very few were. The Keepers—people like Sazed and Tindwyl—had been forced into hiding long ago by the Lord Ruler. His paranoia that Feruchemical and Allomantic lines might mix—thereby potentially producing a person with his same powers—had led him to try and destroy all Feruchemists. "I've known Keepers, friend," Elend said softly. "I find it hard to believe that they could have been easily defeated. Who did this?" "Steel Inquisitors, my lord," the old man said. Elend shivered. So that's where they've been. "There were dozens of them, my lord," the old man said. "They attacked Ththingdwen with an army of koloss brutes. But, that was just a distraction, I think. Their real goal as the Synod and the Keepers themselves. While our army, such as it was, fought the beasts, the Inquisitors themselves struck at the Keepers." Lord Ruler. . .Elend thought, stomach twisting. So, what do we do with the book Sazed told us to deliver to the Synod? Do we pass it on to these men, or keep it? "They took the bodies with them, my lord," the old man said. "Terris is in ruins, and that is why we are going south. You said you know King Venture?" "I. . .have met him," Elend said. "He ruled Luthadel, where I am from." "Will he take us in, do you think?" the old man asked. "We have little hope anymore. Tathingdwen was the Terris capital, but even it wasn't large.
We are few, these days—the Lord Ruler saw to that." "I. . .do not know if Luthadel can help you, friend." "We can serve well," the old man promised. "We were prideful to declare ourselves free, I think. We struggled to survive even before the Inquisitors attacked. Perhaps they did us a favor by casting us out." Elend shook his head. "Koloss attacked Luthadel just over a week ago," he said quietly. "I am a refugee myself, Master Steward. For all I know, the city itself has fallen." The old man fell silent. "Ah, I see," he finally said. "I'm sorry," Elend said. "I was traveling back to see what happened. Tell me—I traveled this way not long ago. How is it that I missed you in my journey north?" "We didn't come by the canal route, my lord," the old man said. "We cut across country, straight down, so that we could gather supplies at Suringshath. You. . .have no further word of events at Luthadel, then? There was a senior Keeper in residence there. We were hoping, perhaps, to seek her counsel." "Lady Tindwyl?" Elend asked. The old man perked up. "Yes. You know her?" "She was an attendant at the king's court," Elend said. "Keeper Tindwyl could be considered our leader now, I think," the old man said. "We aren't certain how many traveling Keepers there are, but she is the only known member of the Synod who was out of the city when we were attacked." "She was still in Luthadel when I left," Elend said. "Then she might live still," the old man said. "We can hope, I think. I thank you, traveler, for your information. Please, make yourself comfortable in our camp." Elend nodded, rising. Spook stood a short distance away, in the mists near a pair of trees. Elend joined him. The people kept large fires burning in the night, as if to defy the mists. The light did some good in dispelling the mists' power—and yet the light seemed to accentuate them as well, creating three-dimensional shadows that bewildered the eye. Spook leaned against the scraggly tree trunk, looking around at things Elend couldn't see. Elend could hear, however, some of what Spook must be inspecting. Crying children. Coughing men. Shuffling livestock. "It doesn't look good, does it?" Elend said quietly. Spook shook his head. "I wish they'd take down all these fires," he muttered. "The light hurts my eyes." Elend glanced to the side. "They aren't that bright." Spook shrugged. "They're just wasting wood." "Forgive them their comfort, for now. They'll have little enough of it in the weeks to come." Elend paused, looking over at a passing squad of Terris "soldiers"—a group of men who were obviously stewards. Their posture was excellent, and they walked with a smooth grace, but Elend doubted they knew how to use any weapons beyond a cooking knife. No, there is no army in Terris to help my people. "You sent Vin back to gather our allies," Spook said quietly. "To bring them up to meet with
us, perhaps to seek refuge in Terris." "I know," Elend said. "We can't gather in Terris, though," Spook said. "Not with the Inquisitors up there." "I know," Elend said again. Spook was silent for a moment. "The whole world is falling apart, El," he finally said. "Terris, Luthadel. . ." "Luthadel has not been destroyed," Elend said, looking sharply at Spook. "The koloss—" "Vin will have found a way to stop them," Elend said. "For all we know, she already found the power at the Well of Ascension. We need to keep going. We can, and will, rebuild whatever was lost. Then we'll worry about helping Terris." Spook paused, then nodded and smiled. Elend was surprised to see how much his confident words seemed to soothe the boy's concerns. Spook leaned back, eyeing Elend's still steaming cup of tea, and Elend handed it over with a mumble that he didn't like heartroot tea. Spook drank happily. Elend, however, found matters more troubling than he'd admitted. The Deepness returning, ghosts in the mist, and Inquisitors making a play for the Terris Dominance. What else have I been ignoring? It is a distant hope. Alendi has survived assassins, wars, and catastrophes. And yet, I hope that in the frozen mountains of Terris, he may finally be exposed. I hope for a miracle. "LOOK, WE ALL KNOW WHAT we need to do," Cett said, pounding the table. "We've got our armies here, ready and willing to fight. Now, let's go get my damn country back!" "The empress gave us no command to do such a thing," Janarle said, sipping his tea, completely unfazed by Cett's lack of decorum. "I, personally, think that we should wait at least until the emperor returns." Penrod, the oldest of the men in the room, had enough tact to look sympathetic. "I understand that you are concerned for your people, Lord Cett. But we haven't even had a week to rebuild Luthadel. It is far too early to be worrying about expanding our influence. We cannot possibly authorize these preparations." "Oh, leave off, Penrod," Cett snapped. "You're not in charge of us." All three men turned to Sazed. He felt very awkward, sitting at the head of the table in Keep Venture's conference chamber. Aides and attendants, including some of Dockson's bureaucrats, stood at the perimeter of the sparse room, but only the three rulers—now kings beneath Elend's imperial rule—sat with Sazed at the table. "I think that we should not be hasty, Lord Cett," Sazed said. "This isn't haste," Cett said, pounding the table again. "I just want to order scout and spy reports, so that we can have information we need when we invade!" "If we do invade," Janarle said. "If the emperor decides to recover Fadrex City, it won't happen until this summer, at the very earliest. We have far more pressing concerns. My armies have been away from the Northern Dominance for too long. It is basic political theory that we should stabilize what we have before we move into new territory." "Bah!" Cett said, waving
an indifferent hand. "You may send your scouts, Lord Cett," Sazed said. "But they are to seek information only. They are to engage in no raids, no matter how tempting the opportunity." Cett shook a bearded head. "This is why I never bothered to play political games with the rest of the Final Empire. Nothing gets done because everyone is too busy scheming!" "There is much to be said for subtlety, Lord Cett," Penrod said. "Patience brings the greater prize." "Greater prize?" Cett asked. "What did the Central Dominance earn itself by waiting? You waited right up until the moment that your city fell! If you hadn't been the ones with the best Mistborn. . ." "Best Mistborn, my lord?" Sazed asked quietly. "Did you not see her take command of the koloss? Did you not see her leap across the sky like an arrow in flight? Lady Vin isn't simply the 'best Mistborn.'" The group fell silent. I have to keep them focused on her, Sazed thought. Without Vin's leadership—without the threat of her power—this coalition would dissolve in three heartbeats. He felt so inadequate. He couldn't keep the men on-topic, and he couldn't do much to help them with their various problems. He could just keep reminding them of Vin's power. The trouble was, he didn't really want to. He was feeling something very odd in himself, feelings he usually didn't have. Disconcern. Apathy. Why did anything that these men talked about matter? Why did anything matter, now that Tindwyl was dead? He gritted his teeth, trying to force himself to focus. "Very well," Cett said, waving a hand. "I'll send the scouts. Has that food arrived from Urteau yet, Janarle?" The younger nobleman grew uncomfortable. "We. . .may have trouble with that, my lord. It seems that an unwholesome element has been rabble-rousing in the city." "No wonder you want to send troops back to the Northern Dominance!" Cett accused. "You're planning to conquer your kingdom back and leave mine to rot!" "Urteau is much closer than your capital, Cett," Janarle said, turning back to his tea. "It only makes sense to set me up there before we turn our attention westward." "We will let the empress make that decision," Penrod said. He liked to act the mediator—and by doing so, he made himself seem above the issues. In essence, he put himself in control by putting himself in between the other two. Not all that different from what Elend tried to do, Sazed thought, with our armies. The boy had more of a sense of political strategy than Tindwyl had ever credited him with. I shouldn't think about her, he told himself, closing his eyes. Yet, it was hard not to. Everything Sazed did, everything he thought, seemed wrong because she was gone. Lights seemed dimmer. Motivations were more difficult to reach. He found that he had trouble even wanting to pay attention to the kings, let alone give them direction. It was foolish, he knew. How long had Tindwyl been back in his life? Only a few
months. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would never be loved—in general—and that he certainly would never have her love. Not only did he lack manhood, but he was a rebel and a dissident—a man well outside of the Terris orthodoxy. Surely her love for him had been a miracle. Yet, whom did he thank for that blessing, and whom did he thank for that blessing, and whom did he curse for stealing her away? He knew of hundreds of gods. He would hate them all, if he thought it would do any good. For the sake of his own sanity, he forced himself to get distracted by the kings again. "Listen," Penrod was saying, leaning forward, arms on the tabletop. "I think we're looking at this the wrong way, gentlemen. We shouldn't be squabbling, we should be happy. We are in a very unique position. In the time since the Lord Ruler's empire fell, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of men have tried to set themselves up as kings in various ways. The one thing they shared, however, was that they all lacked stability. "Well, it appears that we are going to be forced to work together. I am starting to see this in a favorable light. I will give my allegiance to the Venture couple—I'll even live with Elend Venture's eccentric views of government—if it means that I'll still be in power ten years from now." Cett scratched at his beard for a moment, then nodded. "You make a good point, Penrod. Maybe the first good one I've ever heard out of you." "But we can't continue trying to assume that we know what we are to do," Janarle said. "We need direction. Surviving the next ten years, I suspect, is going to depend heavily on my not ending up dead on the end of that Mistborn girl's knife." "Indeed," Penrod said, nodding curtly. "Master Terrisman. When can we expect the empress to take command again?" Once again, all three pairs of eyes turned to Sazed. I don't really care, Sazed thought, then immediately felt guilty. Vin was his friend. He did care. Even if it was hard to care about anything for him. He looked down in shame. "Lady Vin is suffering greatly from the effects of an extended pewter drag," he said. "She pushed herself very hard this last year, and then ended it by running all the way back to Luthadel. She is in great need of rest. I think we should let her be for a time longer." The others nodded, and returned to their discussion. Sazed's mind, however, turned to Vin. He'd understated her malady, and he was beginning to worry. A pewter drag drained the body, and he suspected that she'd been forcing herself to stay awake with the metal for months now. When a Keeper stored up wakefulness, he slept as if in a coma for a time. He could only hope that the effects of such a terrible pewter drag were the same, for Vin hadn't awoken a single time since
her return a week before. Perhaps she'd awake soon, like a Keeper who came out of sleep. Perhaps it would last longer. Her koloss army waited outside the city, controlled—apparently—even though she was unconscious. But for how long? Pewter dragging could kill, if the person had pushed themselves too hard. What would happen to the city if she never woke up? Ash was falling. A lot of ashfalls lately, Elend thought as he and Spook emerged from the trees and looked out over the Luthadel plain. "See," Spook said quietly, pointing. "The city gates are broken." Elend frowned. "But the koloss are camped outside the city." Indeed, Straff's army camp was also still there, right where it had been. "Work crews," Spook said, shading his face against the sunlight to protect his overly sensitive Allomancer's eyes. "Looks like they're burying corpses outside the city." Elend's frown deepened. Vin. What happened to her? Is she all right? He and Spook had cut across country, taking a cue from the Terrismen, to make certain that they didn't get discovered by patrols from the city. Indeed, this day they'd broken their pattern, traveling a little bit during the day so that they could arrive at Luthadel just before nightfall. The mists would soon be coming, and Elend was fatigued—both from rising early and from walking so long. More than that, he was tired of not knowing what had happened to Luthadel. "Can you see whose flag is set over the gates?" he asked. Spook paused, apparently flaring his metals. "Yours," he finally said, surprised. Elend smiled. Well, either they managed to save the city somehow, or this is a very elaborate trap to capture me. "Come on," he said, pointing to a line of refugees who were being allowed back into the city—likely those who had fled before, returning for food now that the danger was past. "We'll mix with those and make our way in." Sazed sighed quietly, shutting the door to his room. The kings were finished with the day's arguments. Actually, they were starting to get along quite well, considering the fact that they'd all tried to conquer each other just a few weeks before. Sazed knew he could take no credit for their newfound amiability, however. He had other preoccupations. I've seen many die, in my days, he thought, walking into the room. Kelsier. Jadendwyl. Crenda. People I respected. I never wondered what had happened to their spirits. He set his candle on the table, the fragile light illuminating a few scattered pages, a pile of strange metal nails taken from koloss bodies, and one manuscript. Sazed sat down at the table, fingers brushing the pages, remembering the days spent with Tindwyl, studying. Maybe this is why Vin put me in charge, he thought. She knew I'd need something to take my mind off Tindwyl. And yet, he was finding more and more that he didn't want to take his mind off her. Which was more potent? The pain of memory, or the pain of forgetting? He was a Keeper—it was
his life's work to remember. Forgetting, even in the name of personal peace, was not something that appealed to him. He flipped through the manuscript, smiling fondly in the dark chamber. He'd sent a cleaned-up, rewritten version with Vin and Elend to the north. This, however, was the original. The frantically—almost desperately—scribbled manuscript made by two frightened scholars. As he fingered the pages, the flickering candlelight revealed Tindwyl's firm, yet beautiful, script. It mixed easily with paragraphs written in Sazed's own, more reserved hand. At times, a page would alternate between their different hands a dozen different times. He didn't realize that he was crying until he blinked, sending loose a tear, which hit the page. He looked down, stunned as the bit of water caused a swirl in the ink. "What now, Tindwyl?" he whispered. "Why did we do this? You never believed in the Hero of Ages, and I never believed in anything, it appears. What was the point of all this?" He reached up and dabbed the tear with his sleeve, preserving the page as best he could. Despite his tiredness, he began to read, selecting a random paragraph. He read to remember. To think of days when he hadn't worried about why they were studying. He had simply been content to do what he enjoyed best, with the person he had come to love most. We gathered everything we could find on the Hero of Ages and the Deepness, he thought, reading. But so much of it seems contradictory. He flipped through to a particular section, one that Tindwyl had insisted that they include. It contained the several most blatant self-contradictions, as declared by Tindwyl. He read them over, giving them fair consideration for the first time. This was Tindwyl the scholar—a cautious skeptic. He fingered through the passages, reading her script. The Hero of Ages will be tall of stature, one read. A man who cannot be ignored by others. The power must not be taken, read another. Of this, we are certain. It must be held, but not used. It must be released. Tindwyl had found that condition foolish, since other sections talked about the Hero using the power to defeat the Deepness. All men are selfish, read another. The Hero is a man who can see the needs of all beyond his own desires. "If all men are selfish," Tindwyl had asked, "then how can the Hero be selfless, as is said in other passages? And, indeed, how can a humble man be expected to conquer the world?" Sazed shook his head, smiling. At times, her objections had been very well conceived—but at other times, she had just been struggling to offer another opinion, no matter how much of a stretch it required. He ran his fingers across the page again, but paused on the first paragraph. Tall of stature, it said. That wouldn't refer to Vin. It hadn't come from the rubbing, but another book. Tindwyl had included it because the rubbing, the more trustworthy source, said he'd be short. Sazed flipped through the
book to the complete transcription of Kwaan's iron-plate testimony, searching for the passage. Alendi's height struck me the first time I saw him, it read. Here was a man who was small of stature, but who seemed to tower over others, a man who demanded respect. Sazed frowned. Before, he'd argued that there was no contradiction, for one passage could be interpreted as referring to the Hero's presence or character, rather than just his physical height. Now, however, Sazed paused, really seeing Tindwyl's objections for the first time. And something felt wrong to him. He looked back at his book, scanning the contents of the page. There was a place for me in the lore of the Anticipation, he read. I thought myself the Holy First Witness, the prophet foretold to discover the Hero of Ages. Renouncing Alendi then would have been to renounce my new position, my acceptance, by the others. Sazed's frown deepened. He traced the paragraph. Outside, it was growing dark, and a few trails of mist curled around the shutters, creeping into the room before vanishing. Holy First Witness, he read again. How did I miss that? It's the same name the people called me, back at the gates. I didn't recognize it. "Sazed." Sazed jumped, nearly toppling his book to the floor as he turned. Vin stood behind him, a dark shadow in the poorly lit room. "Lady Vin! You're up!" "You shouldn't have let me sleep so long," she said. "We tried to wake you," he said softly. "You were in a coma." She paused. "Perhaps it is for the best, Lady Vin," Sazed said. "The fighting is done, and you pushed yourself hard these last few months. It is good for you to get some rest, now that this is over." She stepped forward, shaking her head, and Sazed could see that she looked haggard, despite her days of rest. "No, Sazed," she said. "This is not 'over.' Not by far." "What do you mean?" Sazed asked, growing concerned. "I can still hear it in my head," Vin said, raising a hand to her forehead. "It's here. In the city." "The Well of Ascension?" Sazed asked. "But, Lady Vin, I lied about that. Truly and apologetically, I don't even know if there is such a thing." "Do you believe me to be the Hero of Ages?" Sazed looked away. "A few days ago, on the field outside the city, I felt certain. But. . .lately. . .I don't seem to know what I believe anymore. The prophecies and stories are a jumble of contradictions." "This isn't about prophecies," Vin said, walking over to his table and looking at his book. "This is about what needs to be done. I can feel it. . .pulling me." She glanced at the closed window, with the mists curling at the edges. Then, she walked over and threw the shutters open, letting in the cold winter air. Vin stood, closing her eyes and letting the mists wash over her. She wore only a simple shirt and trousers. "I drew
upon it once, Sazed," she said. "Do you know that? Did I tell you? When I fought the Lord Ruler. I drew power from the mists. That's how I defeated him." Sazed shivered, not just from the cold. From the tone in her voice, and the air of her words. "Lady Vin. . ." he said, but wasn't sure how to continue. Drew upon the mists? What did she mean? "The Well is here," she repeated, looking out the window, mist curling into the room. "It can't be, Lady Vin," Sazed said. "All of the reports agree. The Well of Ascension was found in the Terris Mountains." Vin shook her head. "He changed the world, Sazed." He paused, frowning. "What?" "The Lord Ruler," she whispered. "He created the Ashmounts. The records say he made the vast deserts around the empire, that he broke the land in order to preserve it. Why should we assume that things look like they did when he first climbed to the Well? He created mountains. Why couldn't he have flattened them?" Sazed felt a chill. "It's what I would do," Vin said. "If I knew the power would return, if I wanted to preserve it. I'd hide the Well. I'd let the legends remain, talking about mountains to the north. Then, I would build my city around the Well so that I could keep an eye on it." She turned, looking at him. "It's here. The power waits." Sazed opened his mouth to object, but could find nothing. He had no faith. Who was he to argue with such things? As he paused, he heard voices below, from outside. Voices? he thought. At night? In the mists? Curious, he strained to hear what was being said, but they were too far away. He reached into the bag beside his table. Most of his metalminds were empty; he wore only his copperminds, with their stores of ancient knowledge. Inside the sack, he found a small pouch. It contained the ten rings he had prepared for the siege, but had never used. He pulled it open, took out one of the ten, then tucked the bag into his sash. With this ring—a tinmind—he could tap hearing. The words below became distinct to him. "The king! The king has returned!" Vin leaped out the window. "I don't fully understand how she does it either, El," Ham said, walking with his arm in a sling. Elend walked through the city streets, people trailing behind him, speaking in excited tones. The crowd was growing larger and larger as people heard that Elend had returned. Spook eyed them uncertainly, but seemed to be enjoying the attention. "I was out cold for the last part of the battle," Ham was saying. "Only pewter kept me alive—koloss slaughtered my team, breached the walls of the keep I was defending. I got out, and found Sazed, but my mind was growing muddled by then. I remember falling unconscious outside Keep Hasting. When I woke up, Vin had already taken the city back. I. . ." They
paused. Vin stood in front of them in the city street. Quiet, dark. In the mists, she almost looked like the spirit Elend had seen earlier. "Vin?" he asked in the eerie air. "Elend," she said, rushing forward, into his arms, and the air of mystery was gone. She shivered as she held him. "I'm sorry. I think I did something bad." "Oh?" he asked. "What is that?" "I made you emperor." Elend smiled. "I noticed, and I accept." "After all you did to make certain the people had a choice?" Elend shook his head. "I'm beginning to think my opinions were simplistic. Honorable, but. . .incomplete. We'll deal with this. I'm just glad to find that my city is still standing." Vin smiled. She looked tired. "Vin?" he asked. "Are you still pewter-dragging?" "No," she said. "This is something else." She glanced to the side, face thoughtful, as if deciding something. "Come," she said. Sazed watched out the window, a second tinmind enhancing his sight. It was indeed Elend below. Sazed smiled, one of the weights on his soul removed. He turned, intending to go and meet the king. And then he saw something blowing on the floor in front of him. A scrap of paper. He knelt down, picking it up, noticing his own handwriting on it. Its edges were jagged from having been ripped. He frowned, walking over to his table, opening the book to the page with Kwaan's narrative. A piece was missing. The same piece as before, the one that had been ripped free that time with Tindwyl. He'd almost forgotten the strange occurrence with the pages all missing the same sentence. He'd rewritten this page, from his metalmind, after they'd found the torn sheets. Now the same bit had been torn free, the last sentence. Just to make certain, he put it up next to his book. It fit perfectly. Alendi must not reach the Well of Ascension, it read, for he must not be allowed to take the power for himself. It was the exact wording Sazed had in his memory, the exact wording of the rubbing. Why would Kwaan have worried about this? he thought, sitting down. He says he knew Alendi better than anyone else. In fact, he called Alendi an honorable man on several occasions. Why would Kwaan be so worried about Alendi taking the power for himself? Vin walked through the mists. Elend, Ham, and Spook trailed behind her, the crowd dispersed by Elend's order—though some soldiers did stay close to protect Elend. Vin continued on, feeling the pulsings, the thumpings, the power that shook her very soul. Why couldn't the others feel it? "Vin?" Elend asked. "Where are we going?" "Kredik Shaw," she said softly. "But. . .why?" She just shook her head. She knew the truth, now. The Well was in the city. With how strong the pulsings were growing, she might have assumed that their direction would be harder to discern. But that wasn't the way it was at all. Now that they were loud and full, she
found it easier. Elend glanced back at the others, and she could sense his concern. Up ahead, Kredik Shaw loomed in the night. Spires, like massive spikes, jutted from the ground in an off-balance pattern, reaching accusingly toward the stars above. "Vin," Elend said. "The mists are acting. . .strangely." "I know," she said. "They're guiding me." "No, actually," Elend said. "They kind of look like they're pulling away from you." Vin shook her head. This felt right. How could she explain? Together, they entered the remnants of the Lord Ruler's palace. The Well was here all along, Vin thought, amused. She could feel the pulses vibrating through the building. Why hadn't she noticed it before? The pulses were still too weak, then, she realized. The Well wasn't full yet. Now it is. And it called to her. She followed the same path as before. The path she'd followed with Kelsier, breaking into Kredik Shaw on a doomful night when she had nearly died. The path she'd followed on her own, the night she had come to kill the Lord Ruler. The tight stone corridors opened into the room shaped like an upside-down bowl. Elend's lantern glistened against the fine stonework and murals, mostly in black and gray. The stone shack stood in the center of the room, abandoned, enclosed. "I think we're finally going to find your atium, Elend," Vin said, smiling. "What?" Elend said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "Vin, we searched here. We tried everything." "Not enough, apparently," Vin said, eyeing the small building-within-a-building, but not moving toward it. This is where I'd put it, she thought. It makes sense. The Lord Ruler would have wanted to keep the Well close so that when the power returned, he'd be able to take it. But I killed him before that could happen. The booming came from below. They'd torn up sections of the floor, but had stopped when they'd hit solid rock. There had to be a way down. She walked over, searching through the building-within-a-building, but found nothing. She left, passing her confused friends, frustrated. Then she tried burning her metals. As always, the blue lines shot up around her, pointing to sources of metal. Elend was wearing several, as was Spook, though Ham was clean. Some of the stonework bore metal inlays, and lines pointed to those. Everything was as expected. There was nothing. . . Vin frowned, stepping to the side. One of the inlays bore a particularly thick line. Too thick, in fact. She frowned, inspecting the line as it—like the others—pointed from her chest directly at the stone wall. This one seemed to be pointing beyond the wall. What? She Pulled on it. Nothing happened. So, she Pulled harder, grunting as she was yanked toward the wall. She released the line, glancing about. There were inlays on the floor. Deep ones. Curious, she anchored herself by Pulling on these, then Pulled on the wall again. She thought she felt something budge. She burned duralumin and Pulled as hard as she could. The explosion of
power nearly ripped her apart, but her anchor held, and duralumin-fueled pewter kept her alive. And a section of the wall slid open, stone grinding against stone in the quiet room. Vin gasped, letting go as her metals ran out. "Lord Ruler!" Spook said. Ham was quicker, however, moving with the speed of pewter and peeking into the opening. Elend stayed at her side, grabbing her arm as she nearly fell. "I'm fine," Vin said, downing a vial and restoring her metals. The power of the Well thumped around her. It almost seemed to shake the room. "There are stairs in here," Ham said, poking his head back out. Vin steadied herself and nodded to Elend, and the two of them followed Ham and Spook through the false section of the wall. But, I must continue with the sparsest of detail, Kwaan's account read. Space is limited. The other Worldbringers must have thought themselves humble when they came to me, admitting that they had been wrong about Alendi. Even then, I was beginning to doubt my original declaration. But, I was prideful. In the end, my pride may have doomed us all. I had never received much attention from my brethren; they thought that my work and my interests were unsuitable to a Worldbringer. The couldn't see how my studies, which focused on nature instead of religion, benefited the people of the fourteen lands. As the one who found Alendi, however, I became someone important. Foremost among the Worldbringers. There was a place for me in the lore of the Anticipation—I thought myself the Holy First Witness, the prophet foretold to discover the Hero of Ages. Renouncing Alendi then would have been to renounce my new position, my acceptance, by the others. And so I did not. But I do so now. Let it be known that I, Kwaan, Worldbringer of Terris, am a fraud. Alendi was never the Hero of Ages. At best, I have amplified his virtues, creating a hero where there was none. At worst, I fear that I have corrupted all we believe. Sazed sat at his table, reading from his book. Something is not right here, he thought. He traced back a few lines, looking at the words "Holy First Witness" again. Why did that line keep bothering him? He sat back, sighing. Even if the prophecies did speak about the future, they wouldn't be things to follow or use as guideposts. Tindwyl was right on that count. His own study had proven them to be unreliable and shadowed. So what was the problem? It just doesn't make sense. But, then again, sometimes religion didn't make literal sense. Was that the reason, or was that his own bias? His growing frustration with the teachings he had memorized and taught, but which had betrayed him in the end? It came down to the scrap of paper on his desk. The torn one. Alendi must not be allowed to reach the Well of Ascension. . .. Someone was standing next to his desk. Sazed gasped, stumbling back, nearly tripping
over his chair. It wasn't actually a person. It was a shadow—formed, it seemed, from streams of mist. They were very faint, still trailing through the window that Vin had opened, but they made a person. Its head seemed turned toward the table, toward the book. Or. . .perhaps the scrap of paper. Sazed felt like running, like scrambling away in fear, but his scholar's mind dredged something up to fight his terror. Alendi, he thought. The one everyone thought was the Hero of Ages. He said he saw a thing made of mist following him. Vin claimed to have seen it as well. "What. . .do you want?" he asked, trying to remain calm. The spirit didn't move. Could it be. . .her? he wondered with shock. Many religions claimed that the dead continued to walk the world, just beyond the view of mortals. But this thing was too short to be Tindwyl. Sazed was sure that he would have recognized her, even in such an amorphous form. Sazed tried to gauge where it was looking. He reached out a hesitant hand, picking up the scrap of paper. The spirit raised an arm, pointing toward the center of the city. Sazed frowned. "I don't understand," he said. The spirit pointed more insistently. "Write down for me what you want me to do." It just pointed. Sazed stood for a long moment in the room with only one candle, then glanced at the open book. The wind flipped its pages, showing his handwriting, then Tindwyl's, then his again. Alendi must not be allowed to reach the Well of Ascension. He must not be allowed to take the power for himself. Perhaps. . .perhaps Kwaan knew something that nobody else had. Could the power corrupt even the best of people? Could that be why he turned against Alendi, trying to stop him? The mist spirit pointed again. If the spirit tore free that sentence, perhaps it was trying to tell me something. But. . .Vin wouldn't take the power for herself. She wouldn't destroy, as the Lord Ruler did, would she? And if she didn't have a choice? Outside, someone screamed. The yell was of pure terror, and it was soon joined by others. A horrible, echoing set of sounds in a dark night. There wasn't time to think. Sazed grabbed the candle, spilling wax on the table in his haste, and left the room. The winding set of stone stairs led downward for quite some time. Vin walked down them, Elend at her side, the thumping sounding loudly in her ears. At the bottom, the stairwell opened into. . . A vast chamber. Elend held his lantern high, looking down into a huge stone cavern. Spook was already halfway down the stone steps leading to the floor. Ham was following. "Lord Ruler. . ." Elend whispered, standing at Vin's side. "We'd have never found this without tearing down the entire building!" "That was probably the idea," Vin said. "Kredik Shaw isn't simply a palace, but a capstone. Built to hide something. This.
Above, those inlays on the walls hid the cracks of the doorway, and the metal in them obscured the opening mechanism from Allomantic eyes. If I hadn't had a hint. . ." "Hint?" Elend asked, turning to her. Vin shook her head, nodding to the steps. The two began down them. Below, she heard Spook's voice ring. "There's food down here!" he yelled. "Cans and cans of it!" Indeed, they found rank upon rank of shelves sitting on the cavern floor, meticulously packed as if set aside in preparation for something important. Vin and Elend reached the cavern floor as Ham chased after Spook, calling for him to slow down. Elend made as if to follow, but Vin grabbed his arm. She was burning iron. "Strong source of metal that way," she said, growing eager. Elend nodded, and they rushed through the cavern, passing shelf after shelf. The Lord Ruler must have prepared these, she thought. But for what purpose? She didn't care at the moment. She didn't really care about the atium either, but Elend's eagerness to find it was too much to ignore. They rushed up to the end of the cavern, where they found the source of the metal line. A large metal plaque hung on the wall, like the one Sazed had described finding in the Conventical of Seran. Elend was clearly disappointed when they saw it. Vin, however, stepped forward, looking through tin-enhanced eyes to see what it contained. "A map?" Elend asked. "That's the Final Empire." Indeed, a map of the empire was carved into the metal. Luthadel was marked at the center. A small circle marked another city nearby. "Why is Statlin City circled?" Elend asked, frowning. Vin shook her head. "This isn't what we came for," she said. "There." A tunnel split off from the main cavern. "Come on." Sazed ran through the streets, not even certain what he was doing. He followed the mist spirit, which was difficult to trace in the night, as his candle had long since puffed out. People screamed. Their panicked sounds gave him chills, and he itched to go and see what the problem was. Yet the mist spirit was demanding; it paused to catch his attention if it lost him. It could simply be leading him to his death. And yet. . .he felt a trust for it that he could not explain. Allomancy? he thought. Pulling on my emotions? Before he could consider that further, he stumbled across the first body. It was a skaa man in simple clothing, skin stained with ash. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, and the ash on the ground was smeared from his thrashings. Sazed gasped as he pulled to a halt. He knelt, studying the body by the dim light of an open window nearby. This man had not died easily. It's. . .like the killings I was studying, he thought. Months ago, in the village to the south. The man there said that the mists had killed his friend. Caused him to fall to the
ground and thrash about. The spirit appeared in front of Sazed, its posture insistent. Sazed looked up, frowning. "You did this?" he whispered. The thing shook its head violently, pointing. Kredik Shaw was just ahead. It was the direction Vin and Elend had gone earlier. Sazed stood. Vin said she thought the Well was still in the city, he thought. The Deepness has come upon us, as its tendrils have been doing in the far reaches of the empire for some time. Killing. Something greater than we comprehend is going on. He still couldn't believe that Vin going to the Well would be dangerous. She had read; she knew Rashek's story. She wouldn't take the power for herself. He was confident. But not completely certain. In fact, he was no longer certain what they should do with the Well. I have to get to her. Stop her, talk to her, prepare her. We can't rush into something like this. If, indeed, they were going to take the power at the Well, they needed to think about it first and decide what the best course was. The mist spirit continued to point. Sazed stood and ran forward, ignoring the horror of the screams in the night. He approached the doors of the massive palace structure with its spires and spikes, then dashed inside. The mist spirit remained behind, in the mists that had birthed it. Sazed lit his candle again with a flint, and waited. The mist spirit did not move forward. Still feeling an urgency, Sazed left it behind, continuing into the depths of the Lord Ruler's former home. The stone walls were cold and dark, his candle a wan light. The Well couldn't be here, he thought. It's supposed to be in the mountains. Yet, so much about that time was vague. He was beginning to doubt that he'd ever understood the things he'd studied. He quickened his step, shading his candle with his hand, knowing where he needed to go. He'd visited the building-within-a-building, the place where the Lord Ruler had once spent his time. Sazed had studied the place after the empire's fall, chronicling and cataloguing. He stepped into the outer room, and was halfway across it before he noticed the unfamiliar opening in the wall. A figure stood in doorway, head bowed. Sazed's candlelight reflected the polished marble walls, the silvery inlayed murals, and the spikes in the man's eyes. "Marsh?" Sazed asked, shocked. "Where have you been?" "What are you doing, Sazed?" Marsh whispered. "I'm going to Vin," he said, confused. "She has found the Well, Marsh. We have to get to her, stop her from doing anything with it until we're sure what it does." Marsh remained silent for a short time. "You should not have come here, Terrisman," he finally said, head still bowed. "Marsh? What is going on?" Sazed took a step forward, feeling urgent. "I wish I knew. I wish. . .I wish I understood." "Understood what?" Sazed asked, voice echoing in the domed room. Marsh stood silently for a moment. Then he
looked up, focusing his sightless spikeheads on Sazed. "I wish I understood why I have to kill you," he said, then lifted a hand. An Allomantic Push slammed into the metal bracers on Sazed's arms, throwing him backward, crashing him into the hard stone wall. "I'm sorry," Marsh whispered. Alendi must not reach the Well of Ascension. . .. "LORD RULER!" ELEND WHISPERED, pausing at the edge of the second cavern. Vin joined him. They had walked in the passage for some time, leaving the storage cavern far behind, walking through a natural stone tunnel. It had ended here, at a second, slightly smaller cavern that was clogged with a thick, dark smoke. It didn't seep out of the cavern, as it should have, but billowed and churned upon itself. Vin stepped forward. The smoke didn't choke her, as she expected. There was something oddly welcoming about it. "Come on," she said, walking through it across the cavern floor. "I see light up ahead." Elend joined her nervously. Thump. Thump. Thump. Sazed slammed into the wall. He was no Allomancer; he had no pewter to strengthen his body. As he collapsed to the ground, he felt a sharp pain in his side, and knew he had cracked a rib. Or worse. Marsh strode forward, faintly illuminated by Sazed's candle, which burned fitfully where Sazed had dropped it. "Why did you come?" Marsh whispered as Sazed struggled to his knees. "Everything was going so well." He watched with iron eyes as Sazed slowly crawled away. Then Marsh Pushed again, throwing Sazed to the side. Sazed skidded across the beautiful white floor, crashing into another wall. His arm snapped, cracking, and his vision shuddered. Through his pain, he saw Marsh stoop down and pick something up. A small pouch. It had fallen from Sazed's sash. It was filled with bits of metal; Marsh obviously thought it was a coin pouch. "I'm sorry," Marsh said again, then raised a hand and Pushed the bag at Sazed. The pouch shot across the room and hit Sazed, ripping, the bits of metal inside tearing into Sazed's flesh. He didn't have to look down to know how badly he was injured. Oddly, he could no longer feel his pain—but he could feel the blood, warm, on his stomach and legs. I'm. . .sorry, too, Sazed thought as the room grew dark, and he fell to his knees. I've failed. . .though I know not at what. I can't even answer Marsh's question. I don't know why I came here. He felt himself dying. It was an odd experience. His mind was resigned, yet confused, yet frustrated, yet slowly. . .having. . .trouble. . . Those weren't coins, a voice seemed to whisper. The thought rattled in his dying mind. The bag Marsh shot at you. Those weren't coins. They were rings, Sazed. Eight of them. You took out two—eyesight and hearing. You left the other ones where they were. In the pouch, tucked into your sash. Sazed collapsed, death coming upon him like a cold shadow. And yet,
the thought rang true. Ten rings, embedded into his flesh. Touching him. Weight. Speed of body. Sight. Hearing. Touch. Scent. Strength. Speed of mind. Wakefulness. And health. He tapped gold. He didn't have to be wearing the metalmind to use it—he only had to be touching it. His chest stopped burning, and his vision snapped back into focus. His arm straightened, the bones reknitting as he drew upon several days' worth of health in a brief flash of power. He gasped, his mind recovering from its near death, but the goldmind restored a crisp clarity to his thoughts. The flesh healed around the metal. Sazed stood, pulling the empty bag from where it stuck from his skin, leaving the rings inside of him. He dropped it to the ground, the wound sealing, draining the last of the power from the goldmind. Marsh stopped at the mouth of the doorway, turning in surprise. Sazed's arm still throbbed, probably cracked, and his ribs were bruised. Such a short burst of health could only do so much. But he was alive. "You have betrayed us, Marsh," Sazed said. "I did not realize those spikes stole a man's soul, as well as his eyes." "You cannot fight me," Marsh replied quietly, his voice echoing in the dark room. "You are no warrior." Sazed smiled, feeling the small metalminds within him give him power. "Neither, I think, are you." I am involved in something that is far over my head, Elend thought as they passed through the strange, smoke-filled cavern. The floor was rough and uneven, and his lantern seemed dim—as if the swirling black smoke were sucking in the light. Vin walked confidently. No, determinedly. There was a difference. Whatever was at the end of this cavern, she obviously wanted to discover it. And. . .what will it be? Elend thought. The Well of Ascension? The Well was a thing of mythology—something spoken of by obligators when they taught about the Lord Ruler. And yet. . .he had followed Vin northward, expecting to find it, hadn't he? Why be so tentative now? Perhaps because he was finally beginning to accept what was happening. And it worried him. Not because he feared for his life, but because suddenly he didn't understand the world. Armies he could understand, even if he didn't know how to defeat them. But a thing like the Well? A thing of gods, a thing beyond the logic of scholars and philosophers? That was terrifying. They finally approached the other side of the smoky cavern. Here, there appeared to be a final chamber, one much smaller than the first two. As they stepped into it, Elend noticed something immediately: this room was man-made. Or, at least, it had the feel of something man-made. Stalactites formed pillars through the low-ceilinged room, and they were spaced far too evenly to be random. Yet, at the same time, they looked as if they had grown naturally, and showed no signs of being worked. The air seemed warmer inside—and, thankfully, they passed out of the smoke as they
entered. A low light came from something on the far side of the chamber, though Elend couldn't distinguish the source. It didn't look like torchlight. It was the wrong color, and it shimmered rather than flickered. Vin wrapped an arm around him, staring toward the back of the chamber, suddenly seeming apprehensive. "Where is that light coming from?" Elend asked, frowning. "A pool," Vin said quietly, her eyes far keener than his. "A glowing white pool." Elend frowned. But, the two of them didn't move. Vin seemed hesitant. "What?" he asked. She pulled against him. "That's the Well of Ascension. I can feel it inside of my head. Beating." Elend forced a smile, feeling a surreal sense of displacement. "That's what we came for, then." "What if I don't know what to do?" Vin asked quietly. "What if I take the power, but I don't know how to use it? What if I. . .become like the Lord Ruler?" Elend looked down at her, arms wrapped around him, and his fear lessened a bit. He loved her. The situation they faced, it couldn't easily fit into his logical world. But Vin had never really needed logic. And he didn't need it either, if he trusted her. He took her head in his hands, rotating it up to look at him. "Your eyes are beautiful." She frowned. "What—" "And," Elend continued, "part of the beauty in them comes from your sincerity. You won't become the Lord Ruler, Vin. You'll know what to do with that power. I trust you." She smiled hesitantly, then nodded. However, she didn't move forward into the cavern. Instead, she pointed at something over Elend's shoulder. "What's that?" Elend turned, noticing a ledge on the back wall of the small room. It grew straight out of the rock just beside the doorway they had entered. Vin approached the ledge, and Elend followed behind her, noticing the shards that lay upon it. "It looks like broken pottery," Elend said. There were several patches of it, and more of it was scattered on the floor beneath the ledge. Vin picked up a piece, but there didn't seem to be anything distinctive about it. She looked at Elend, who was fishing through the pottery pieces. "Look at this," he said, holding up one that hadn't been broken like the others. It was a disklike piece of fired clay with a single bead of some metal at the center. "Atium?" she asked. "It looks like the wrong color," he said, frowning. "What is it, then?" "Maybe we'll find the answers over there," Elend said, turning and looking down the rows of pillars toward the light. Vin nodded, and they walked forward. Marsh immediately tried to Push Sazed away by the metal bracers on his arms. Sazed was ready, however, and he tapped his ring ironmind—drawing forth the weight he had stored within it. His body grew denser, and he felt its weight pulling him down, his fists feeling like balls of iron on the ends of lead arms. Marsh immediately lurched away, thrown
violently backward by his own Push. He slammed into the back wall, a cry of surprise escaping his lips. It echoed in the small, domed room. Shadows danced in the room as the candle grew weaker. Sazed tapped sight, enhancing his vision, and released iron as he dashed toward the addled Inquisitor. Marsh, however, recovered quickly. He reached out, Pulling an unlit lamp off the wall. It zipped through the air, flying toward Marsh. Sazed tapped zinc. He felt something like a twisted hybrid of an Allomancer and a Feruchemist, his sources of metal embedded within him. The gold had healed his insides, made him whole, but the rings still remained within his flesh. This was what the Lord Ruler had done, keeping his metalminds inside of him, piercing his flesh so that they would be harder to steal. That had always seemed morbid to Sazed. Now, he saw how useful it could be. His thoughts sped up, and he quickly saw the trajectory of the lamp. Marsh would be able to use it as a weapon against him. So Sazed tapped steel. Allomancy and Feruchemy had one fundamental difference: Allomancy drew its powers from the metals themselves, and so the amount of power was limited; in Feruchemy, one could compound an attribute many times, drawing out months' worth of power in a few minutes. Steel stored physical speed. Sazed zipped across the room, air rushing in his ears as he shot past the open doorway. He snatched the lamp out of the air, then tapped iron hard—increasing his weight manyfold—and tapped pewter to give himself massive strength. Marsh didn't have time to react. He was now Pulling on a lamp held in Sazed's inhumanly strong, inhumanly heavy, hand. Again, Marsh was yanked by his own Allomancy. The Pull threw him across the room, directly toward Sazed. Sazed turned, slamming the lamp into Marsh's face. The metal bent in his hand, and the force threw Marsh backward. The Inquisitor hit the marble wall, a spray of blood misting in the air. As Marsh slumped to the ground, Sazed could see that he'd driven one of the eye-spikes back into the front of the skull, crushing the bone around the socket. Sazed returned his weight to normal, then jumped forward, raising his impromptu weapon again. Marsh, however, threw an arm up and Pushed. Sazed skidded back a few feet before he was able to tap the ironmind again, increasing his weight. Marsh grunted, his Push forcing him back against the wall. It also, however, kept Sazed at bay. Sazed struggled to step forward, but the pressure of Marsh's Push—along with his own bulky, weighed-down body—made walking difficult. The two strained for a moment, Pushing against each other in the darkening light. The room's inlays sparkled, quiet murals watching them, open doorway leading down to the Well just to the side. "Why, Marsh?" Sazed whispered. "I don't know," Marsh said, his voice coming out in a growl. With a flash of power, Sazed released his ironmind and instead tapped steel, increasing his speed again.
He dropped the lamp, ducking to the side, moving more quickly than Marsh could track. The lamp was forced backward, but then fell to the ground as Marsh let go of his Push, jumping forward, obviously trying to keep from being trapped against the wall. But Sazed was faster. He spun, raising a hand to try to pull out Marsh's linchpin spike—the one in between his shoulder blades, pounded down lengthwise into the back. Pulling this one spike would kill an Inquisitor; it was the weakness the Lord Ruler had built into them. Sazed skidded around Marsh to attack from behind. The spike in Marsh's right eye protruded several extra inches out the back of his skull, and it dribbled blood. Sazed's steelmind ran out. The rings had never been intended to last long, and his two extreme bursts had drained this one in seconds. He slowed with a dreadful lurch, but his arm was still raised, and he still had the strength of ten men. He could see the bulge of the linchpin spike underneath Marsh's robe. If he could just— Marsh spun, then dexterously knocked aside Sazed's hand. He rammed an elbow into Sazed's stomach, then brought a backhand up and crashed it into his face. Sazed fell backward, and his pewtermind ran out, his strength disappearing. He hit the hard steel ground with a grunt of pain, and rolled. Marsh loomed in the dark room. The candle flickered. "You were wrong, Sazed," Marsh said quietly. "Once, I was not a warrior, but that has changed. You spent the last two years teaching, but I spent them killing. Killing so many people. . .." Marsh stepped forward, and Sazed coughed, trying to get his bruised body to move. He worried that he'd rebroken his arm. He tapped zinc again, speeding up his thoughts, but that didn't help his body move. He could only watch—more fully aware of his predicament and unable to do a thing to stop it—as Marsh picked up the fallen lamp. The candle went out. Yet, Sazed could still see Marsh's face. Blood dripped from the crushed socket, making the man's expression even harder to read. The Inquisitor seemed. . .sorrowful as he raised the lamp in a clawlike grip, intending to smash it down into Sazed's face. Wait, Sazed thought. Where is that light coming from? A dueling cane smashed against the back of Marsh's head, shattering and throwing up splinters. Vin and Elend walked up to the pool. Elend knelt quietly beside it, but Vin just stood. Staring at the glittering waters. They were gathered in a small depression in the rock, and they looked thick—like metal. A silvery white, glowing liquid metal. The Well was only a few feet across, but its power loomed in her mind. Vin was so enraptured by the beautiful pool, in fact, that she didn't notice the mist spirit until Elend's grip tightened on her arm. She looked up, noticing the spirit standing before them. It seemed to have its head bowed, but as she turned, its shadowy form
stood up straighter. She'd never seen the creature outside of the mist. It still wasn't completely. . .whole. Mist puffed from its body, flowing downward, creating its amorphous form. A persistent pattern. Vin hissed quietly, pulling out a dagger. "Wait!" Elend said, standing. She frowned, shooting him a glance. "I don't think it's dangerous, Vin," he said, stepping away from her, toward the spirit. "Elend, no!" she said, but he gently shook her free. "It visited me while you were gone, Vin," he explained. "It didn't hurt me. It just. . .seemed like it wanted me to know something." He smiled, still wearing his nondescript cloak and traveling clothing, and walked slowly up to the mist spirit. "What is it you want?" The mist spirit stood immobile for a moment, then it raised its arm. Something flashed, reflecting the pool's light. "No!" Vin screamed, dashing forward as the spirit slashed across Elend's gut. Elend grunted in pain, then stumbled back. "Elend!" Vin said, scrambling to Elend's side as he slipped and fell to the ground. The spirit backed away, dripping blood from somewhere within its deceptively incorporeal form. Elend's blood. Elend lay, shocked, eyes wide. Vin flared pewter and ripped open the front of his jacket, exposing the wound. The spirit had cut deeply into his stomach, slashing the gut open. "No. . .no. . .no. . ." Vin said, mind growing numb, Elend's blood on her hands. The wound was very bad. Deadly. Ham dropped the broken cane, one arm still in a sling. The beefy Thug looked incredibly pleased with himself as he stepped over Marsh's body and reached his good hand toward Sazed. "Didn't expect to find you here, Saze," the Thug said. Dazed, Sazed took the hand and climbed to his feet. He stumbled over Marsh's body, somehow distractedly knowing that a simple club to the head wouldn't be enough to kill the creature. Yet Sazed was too addled to care. He picked up his candle, lit it from Ham's lantern, then made his way toward the stairs, forcing himself onward. He had to keep going. He had to get to Vin. Vin cradled Elend in her arms, her cloak forming a hasty—and dreadfully inadequate—bandage around his torso. "I love you," she whispered, tears warm on her cold cheeks. "Elend, I love you. I love you. . ." Love wouldn't be enough. He was trembling, eyes staring upward, barely able to focus. He gasped, and blood bubbled in his spittle. She turned to the side, numbly realizing where she knelt. The pool glowed beside her, just inches from where Elend had fallen. Some of his blood had dribbled into the pool, though it didn't mix with the liquid metal. I can save him, she realized. The power of creation rests just inches from my fingers. This was the place where Rashek had ascended to godhood. The Well of Ascension. She looked back at Elend, at his dying eyes. He tried to focus on her, but he seemed to be having trouble controlling his muscles. It seemed like. .
.he was trying to smile. Vin rolled up her coat and put it beneath his head. Then, wearing just her trousers and shirt, she walked up to the pool. She could hear it thumping. As if. . .calling to her. Calling for her to join with it. She stepped onto the pool. It resisted her touch, but her foot began to sink, slowly. She stepped forward, moving into the center of the pool, waiting as she sank. Within seconds, the pool was up to her chest, the glowing liquid all around her. She took a breath, then leaned her head back, looking up as the pool absorbed her, covering her face. Sazed stumbled down the stairs, candle held in quivering fingers. Ham was calling after him. He passed a confused Spook on the landing below, and ignored the boy's questions. However, as he began to make his way down to the cavern floor, he slowed. A small tremor ran through the rock. Somehow, he knew that he was too late. The power came upon her suddenly. She felt the liquid pressing against her, creeping into her body, crawling, forcing its way through the pores and openings in her skin. She opened her mouth to scream, and it rushed in that way too, choking her, gagging her. With a sudden flare, her earlobe began to hurt. She cried out, pulling her earring free, dropping it into the depths. She pulled off her sash, letting it—and her Allomantic vials—go as well, removing the only metals on her person. Then she started to burn. She recognized the sensation: it was exactly like the feeling of burning metals in her stomach, except it came from her entire body. Her skin flared, her muscles flamed, and her very bones seemed on fire. She gasped, and realized the metal was gone from her throat. She was glowing. She felt the power within, as if it were trying to burst back out. It was like the strength she gained by burning pewter, but amazingly more potent. It was a force of incredible capacity. It would have been beyond her ability to understand, but it expanded her mind, forcing her to grow and comprehend what she now possessed. She could remake the world. She could push back the mists. She could feed millions with the wave of her hand, punish the evil, protect the weak. She was in awe of herself. The cavern was as if translucent around her, and she saw the entire world spreading, a magnificent sphere upon which life could exist only in a small little area at the poles. She could fix that. She could make things better. She could. . . She could save Elend. She glanced down and saw him dying. She immediately understood what was wrong with him. She could fix his damaged skin and sliced organs. You mustn't do it, child. Vin looked up with shock. You know what you must do, the Voice said, whispering to her. It sounded aged. Kindly. "I have to save him!" she cried. You know what
you must do. And she did know. She saw it happen—she saw, as if in a vision, Rashek when he'd taken the power for himself. She saw the disasters he created. It was all or nothing—like Allomancy, in a way. If she took the power, she would have to burn it away in a few moments. Remaking things as she pleased, but only for a brief time. Or. . .she could give it up. I must defeat the Deepness, the Voice said. She saw that, too. Outside the palace, in the city, across the land. People in the mists, shaking, falling. Many stayed indoors, thankfully. The traditions of the skaa were still strong within them. Some were out, however. Those who trusted in Kelsier's words that the mists could not hurt them. But now the mists could. They had changed, bringing death. This was the Deepness. Mists that killed. Mists that were slowly covering the entire land. The deaths were sporadic; Vin saw many falling dead, but saw others simply falling sick, and still others going about in the mists as if nothing were wrong. It will get worse, the Voice said quietly. It will kill and destroy. And, if you try to stop it yourself, you will ruin the world, as Rashek did before you. "Elend. . ." she whispered. She turned toward him, bleeding on the floor. At that moment, she remembered something. Something Sazed had said. You must love him enough to trust his wishes, he had told her. It isn't love unless you learn to respect him—not what you assume is best, but what he actually wants. . .. She saw Elend weeping. She saw him focusing on her, and she knew what he wanted. He wanted his people to live. He wanted the world to know peace, and the skaa to be free. He wanted the Deepness to be defeated. The safety of his people meant more to him than his own life. Far more. You'll know what to do, he'd told her just moments before. I trust you. . .. Vin closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Apparently, gods could cry. "I love you," she whispered. She let the power go. She held the capacity to become a deity in her hands, and she gave it away, releasing it to the waiting void. She gave up Elend. Because she knew that was what he wanted. The cavern immediately began to shake. Vin cried out as the flaring power within her was ripped away, soaked up greedily by the void. She screamed, her glow fading, then fell into the now empty pool, head knocking against the rocks. The cavern continued to shake, dust and chips falling from the ceiling. And then, in a moment of surreal clarity, Vin heard a single, distinct sentence ringing in her mind. I am FREE! . . .for he must not be allowed to release the thing that is imprisoned there. VIN LAY, QUIETLY, WEEPING. The cavern was still, the tempest over. The thing was gone, and the thumping
in her mind was finally quiet. She sniffled, arms around Elend, holding him as he gasped his final few breaths. She'd screamed for help, calling for Ham and Spook, but had gotten no response. They were too far away. She felt cold. Empty. After holding that much power, then having it ripped from her, she felt like she was nothing. And, once Elend died, she would be. What would be the point? she thought. Life doesn't mean anything. I've betrayed Elend. I've betrayed the world. She wasn't certain what had happened, but somehow she'd made a horrible, horrible mistake. The worst part was, she had tried so hard to do what was right, even if it hurt. Something loomed above her. She looked up at the mist spirit, but couldn't even really feel rage. She was having trouble feeling anything at the moment. The spirit raised an arm, pointing. "It's over," she whispered. It pointed more demandingly. "I won't get to them in time," she said. "Besides, I saw how bad the cut was. Saw it with the power. There's nothing any of them could do, not even Sazed. So, you should be pleased. You got what you wanted. . ." She trailed off. Why had the spirit stabbed Elend? To make me heal him, she thought. To keep me. . .from releasing the power. She blinked her eyes. The spirit waved its arm. Slowly, numbly, she got to her feet. She watched the spirit in a trance as it floated a few steps over and pointed at something on the ground. The room was dark, now that the pool was empty, and was illuminated only by Elend's lantern. She had to flare tin to see what the spirit was pointing at. A piece of pottery. The disk Elend had taken from the shelf in the back of the room, and had been holding in his hand. It had broken when he'd collapsed. The mist spirit pointed urgently. Vin approached and bent over, fingers finding the small nugget of metal that had been at the disk's center. "What is it?" she whispered. The mist spirit turned and drifted back to Elend. Vin walked up quietly. He was still alive. He seemed to be getting weaker, and was trembling less. Eerily, as he grew closer to death, he actually seemed a bit more in control. He looked at her as she knelt, and she could see his lips moving. "Vin. . ." he whispered. She knelt beside him, looked at the bead of metal, then looked up at the spirit. It stood motionless. She rolled the bead between her fingers, then moved to eat it. The spirit moved urgently, shaking its hands. Vin paused, and the spirit pointed at Elend. What? she thought. However, she wasn't really in a state to think. She held the nugget up to Elend. "Elend," she whispered, leaning close. "You must swallow this." She wasn't certain if he understood her or not, though he did appear to nod. She placed the bit of metal in his mouth. His
lips moved, but he started to choke. I have to get him something to wash it down, she thought. The only thing she had was one of her metal vials. She reached into the empty well, retrieving her earring and her sash. She pulled free a vial, then poured the liquid into his mouth. Elend continued to cough weakly, but the liquid did its work well, washing down the bead of metal. Vin knelt, feeling so powerless, a depressing contrast to how she had been just moments before. Elend closed his eyes. Then, oddly, the color seemed to return to his cheeks. Vin knelt, confused, watching him. The look on his face, the way he lay, the color of his skin. . . She burned bronze, and with shock, felt pulses coming from Elend. He was burning pewter. TWO WEEKS LATER, A SOLITARY figure arrived at the Conventical of Seran. Sazed had left Luthadel quietly, troubled by his thoughts and by the loss of Tindwyl. He'd left a note. He couldn't stay in Luthadel. Not at the moment. The mists still killed. They struck random people who went out at night, with no discernible pattern. Many of the people did not die, but only became sick. Others, the mists murdered. Sazed didn't know what to make of the deaths. He wasn't even certain if he cared. Vin spoke of something terrible she had released at the Well of Ascension. She had expected Sazed to want to study and record her experience. Instead, he had left. He made his way through the solemn, steel-plated rooms. He half expected to be confronted by one Inquisitor or another. Perhaps Marsh would try to kill him again. By the time he and Ham had returned from the storage cavern beneath Luthadel, Marsh had vanished again. His work had, apparently, been done. He'd stalled Sazed long enough to keep him from stopping Vin. Sazed made his way down the steps, through the torture chamber, and finally into the small rock room he'd visited on his first trip to the Conventical, so many weeks before. He dropped his pack to the ground, working it open with tired fingers, then looked up at the large steel plate. Kwaan's final words stared back at him. Sazed knelt, pulling a carefully tied portfolio from his pack. He undid the string, and then removed his original rubbing, made in this very room months before. He recognized his fingerprints on the thin paper, knew the strokes of the charcoal to be his own. He recognized the smudges he had made. With growing nervousness, he held the rubbing up and slapped it against the steel plate on the wall. And the two did not match. Sazed stepped back, uncertain what to think now that his suspicions had been confirmed. The rubbing slipped limply from his fingers, and his eyes found the sentence at the end of the plate. The last sentence, the one that the mist spirit had ripped free time and time again. The original one on the steel plate was different from
the one Sazed had written and studied. Alendi must not reach the Well of Ascension, Kwaan's ancient words read, for he must not be allowed to release the thing that is imprisoned there. Sazed sat down quietly. It was all a lie, he thought numbly. The religion of the Terris people. . .the thing the Keepers spent millennia searching for, trying to understand, was a lie. The so-called prophecies, the Hero of Ages. . .a fabrication. A trick. What better way for such a creature to gain freedom? Men would die in the name of prophecies. They wanted to believe, to hope. If someone—something—could harness that energy, twist it, what amazing things could be accomplished. . .. Sazed looked up, reading the words on the wall, reading the second half once again. It contained paragraphs that were different from his rubbing. Or, rather, his rubbing had been changed somehow. Changed to reflect what the thing had wished Sazed to read. I write these words in steel, Kwaan's first words said, for anything not set in metal cannot be trusted. Sazed shook his head. They should have paid attention to that sentence. Everything he had studied after that had, apparently, been a lie. He looked up at the plate, scanning its contents, coming to the final section. And so, they read, I come to the focus of my argument. I apologize. Even forcing my words into steel, sitting and scratching in this frozen cave, I am prone to ramble. This is the problem. Though I believed in Alendi at first, I later became suspicious. It seemed that he fit the signs, true. But, well, how can I explain this? Could it be that he fit them too well? I know your argument. We speak of the Anticipation, of things foretold, of promises made by our greatest prophets of old. Of course the Hero of Ages will fit the prophecies. He will fit them perfectly. That's the idea. And yet. . .something about all this seems so convenient. It feels almost as if we constructed a hero to fit our prophecies, rather than allowing one to arise naturally. This was the worry I had, the thing that should have given me pause when my brethren came to me, finally willing to believe. After that, I began to see other problems. Some of you may know of my fabled memory. It is true; I need not a Feruchemist's metalmind to memorize a sheet of words in an instant. And I tell you, call me daft, but the words of the prophecies are changing. The alterations are slight. Clever, even. A word here, a slight twist there. But the words on the pages are different from the ones in my memory. The other Worldbringers scoff at me, for they have their metalminds to prove to them that the books and prophecies have not changed. And so, this is the great declaration I must make. There is something—some force—that wants us to believe that the Hero of Ages has come, and that he must travel to the
Well of Ascension. Something is making the prophecies change so that they refer to Alendi more perfectly. And whatever this power is, it can change words within a Feruchemist's metalmind. The others call me mad. As I have said, that may be true. But must not even a madman rely on his own mind, his own experience, rather than that of others? I know what I have memorized. I know what is now repeated by the other Worldbringers. The two are not the same. I sense a craftiness behind these changes, a manipulation subtle and brilliant. I have spent the last two years in exile, trying to decipher what the alterations could mean. I have come to only one conclusion. Something has taken control of our religion, something nefarious, something that cannot be trusted. It misleads, and it shadows. It uses Alendi to destroy, leading him along a path of death and sorrow. It is pulling him toward the Well of Ascension, where the millennial power has gathered. I can only guess that it sent the Deepness as a method of making mankind more desperate, of pushing us to do as it wills. The prophecies have changed. They now tell Alendi that he must give up the power once he takes it. This is not what was once implied by the texts—they were more vague. And yet, the new version seems to make it a moral imperative. The texts now outline a terrible consequence if the Hero of Ages takes the power for himself. Alendi believes as they do. He is a good man—despite it all, he is a good man. A sacrificing man. In truth, all of his actions—all of the deaths, destructions, and pains that he has caused—have hurt him deeply. All of these things were, in truth, a kind of sacrifice for him. He is accustomed to giving up his own will for the common good, as he sees it. I have no doubt that if Alendi reaches the Well of Ascension, he will take the power and then—in the name of the presumed greater good—will give it up. Give it away to this same force that has changed the texts. Give it up to this force of destruction that has brought him to war, that has tempted him to kill, that has craftily led him to the north. This thing wants the power held in the Well, and it has raped our religion's holiest tenets in order to get it. And so, I have made one final gamble. My pleas, my teachings, my objections, and even my treasons were all ineffectual. Alendi has other counselors now, ones who tell him what he wants to hear. I have a young nephew, one Rashek. He hates all of Khlennium with the passion of envious youth. He hates Alendi even more acutely—though the two have never met—for Rashek feels betrayed that one of our oppressors should have been chosen as the Hero of Ages. Alendi will need guides through the Terris Mountains. I have charged Rashek with making certain that he
and his trusted friends are chosen as those guides. Rashek is to try and lead Alendi in the wrong direction, to dissuade him, discourage him, or otherwise foil his quest. Alendi doesn't know that he has been deceived, that we've all been deceived, and he will not listen to me now. If Rashek fails to lead the trek astray, then I have instructed the lad to kill Alendi. It is a distant hope. Alendi has survived assassins, wars, and catastrophes. And yet, I hope that in the frozen mountains of Terris, he may finally be exposed. I hope for a miracle. Alendi must not reach the Well of Ascension, for he must not be allowed to release the thing that is imprisoned there. Sazed sat back. It was the final blow, the last strike that killed whatever was left of his faith. He knew at that moment that he would never believe again. Vin found Elend standing on the city wall, looking over the city of Luthadel. He wore a white uniform, one of the ones that Tindwyl had made for him. He looked. . .harder than he had just a few weeks before. "You're awake," she said, moving up beside him. He nodded. He didn't look at her, but continued to watch the city, with its bustling people. He'd spent quite a bit of time delirious and in bed, despite the healing power of his newfound Allomancy. Even with pewter, the surgeons had been uncertain if he'd survive. He had. And, like a true Allomancer, he was up and about the first day he was lucid. "What happened?" he asked. She shook her head, leaning against the stones of the battlement. She could still hear that terrible, booming voice. I am FREE. . .. "I'm an Allomancer," Elend said. She nodded. "Mistborn, apparently," he continued. "I think. . .we know where they came from, now," Vin said. "The first Allomancers." "What happened to the power? Ham didn't have a straight answer for me, and all anyone else knows are rumors." "I set something free," she whispered. "Something that shouldn't have been released; something that led me to the Well. I should never have gone looking for it, Elend." Elend stood in silence, still regarding the city. She turned, burying her head in his chest. "It was terrible," she said. "I could feel that. And I set it free." Finally, Elend wrapped his arms around her. "You did the best you could, Vin," he said. "In fact, you did the right thing. How could you have known that everything you'd been told, trained, and prepared to do was wrong?" Vin shook her head. "I am worse than the Lord Ruler. In the end, maybe he realized he was being tricked, and knew he had to take the power rather than release it." "If he'd been a good man, Vin," Elend said, "he wouldn't have done the things he did to this land." "I may have done far worse," Vin said. "This thing I released. . .the mists killing people, and coming during
the day. . .Elend, what are we going to do?" He looked at her for a moment, then turned back toward the city and its people. "We're going to do what Kelsier taught us, Vin. We're going to survive." 1. Metals Quick-Reference Chart 2. Names and Terms 3. Summary of Book One You can also find extensive annotations of every chapter in the book along with deleted scenes, a very active blog, and expanded world information at www.brandonsanderson.com. METALS QUICK-REFERENCE CHART METAL ALLOMANTIC POWER FERUCHEMICAL POWER Iron Pushes on Nearby Sources of Metals Stores Physical Weight Steel Pulls on Nearby Sources of Metal Stores Physical Speed Tin Increases Senses Stores Senses Pewter Increases Physical Abilities Stores Physical Strength Brass Soothes (Dampens) Emotions Stores Warmth Zinc Riots (Enflames) Emotions Stores Mental Speed Copper Hides Allomantic Pulses Stores Memories Bronze Allows One to Hear Allomantic Pulses Stores Wakefulness METAL ALLOMANTIC POWER FERUCHEMICAL POWER Atium See into Other People's Futures Stores Age Malatium See into Other People's Pasts Unknown Gold See into Your Own Past Stores Health Electrum See into Your Own Future Unknown NAMES AND TERMS ALENDI: A man who conquered the world a thousand years ago, before the Lord Ruler's Ascension. Vin found his journal in the Lord Ruler's palace, and thought—at first—that he had become the Lord Ruler. It was later discovered that his servant, Rashek, killed him and took his place. Alendi was a friend and protege of Kwaan, a Terris scholar who thought that Alendi might be the Hero of Ages. ALLOMANCY: A mystical hereditary power involving the burning of metals inside the body to gain special abilities. ALLOMANTIC METALS: There are eight basic Allomantic metals. These come in pairs, comprising a base metal and its alloy. They can also be divided into two groups of four as internal metals (tin, pewter, copper, bronze) and external metals (iron, steel, zinc, brass). It was long assumed that there were only two other Allomantic metals: gold and atium. However, the discovery of alloys for gold and atium has expanded the number of metals to twelve. There have been rumors of other metals, one of which has been discovered. (See also: Aluminum.) ALLOMANTIC PULSE: The signal given off by an Allomancer who is burning metals. Only someone who is burning bronze can "hear" an Allomantic pulse. ALLRIANNE: Lord Ashweather Cett's only daughter. ALUMINUM: A metal Vin was forced to burn in the Lord Ruler's palace. Once known only to the Steel Inquisitors, this metal, when burned, depletes all of an Allomancer's other metal reserves. Its alloy, if it has one, is unknown. AMARANTA: One of Straff Venture's mistresses. An herbalist. ANCHOR (ALLOMANTIC): A term used to refer to a piece of metal that an Allomancer Pushes on or Pulls on when burning iron or steel. ASCENSION (OF THE LORD RULER): The Ascension is the term used to describe what happened to Rashek when he took the power at the Well of Ascension and became the Lord Ruler. ASHFALLS: Ash falls frequently from the sky in the Final Empire because of the Ashmounts. ASHMOUNTS:
Seven large ash volcanoes that appeared in the Final Empire during the Ascension. ASHWEATHER: Lord Cett's first name. ATIUM: A strange metal formerly produced in the Pits of Hathsin. It collected inside of small geodes that formed in crystalline pockets in caves beneath the ground. BIRCHBANE: A common poison. BOXING: The slang name for an imperial gold coin. The name comes from the picture on its back of Kredik Shaw, the Lord Ruler's palace—or, the "box" in which he lives. BREEZE: A Soother on Kelsier's crew, now one of Elend's foremost counselors. BRONZEPULSE: Another term for an Allomantic pulse. BURN (ALLOMANCY): An Allomancer utilizing or expending the metals in their stomachs. First, they must swallow a metal, then Allomantically metabolize it inside of them to access its power. BURNLANDS: The deserts at the edges of the Final Empire. CAMON: Vin's old crewleader. A harsh man who often beat her, Camon was cast out by Kelsier. The Inquisitors eventually killed him. CANTON: A suboffice within the Steel Ministry. CETT: Lord Ashweather Cett is the most prominent king who has managed to gain power in the Western Dominance. His home city is Fadrex. CHANNEREL: The river that runs through Luthadel. CLADENT: Clubs's real name. CLIP (COINAGE): The nickname for an imperial copper coin in the Final Empire. Commonly used by Mistborn and Coinshots for jumping and attacking. CLUBS: A Smoker on Kelsier's crew, now general of Elend's armies. He once was a skaa carpenter. COINSHOT: A Misting who can burn steel. COLLAPSE, THE: The death of the Lord Ruler and the fall of the Final Empire. COPPERCLOUD: The invisible, obsuring field set up by someone burning copper. If an Allomancer burns metals while within a coppercloud, their Allomantic pulses are hidden from those burning bronze. The term "Coppercloud" is also, sometimes, used to refer to a Smoker (a Misting who can burn copper). DEEPNESS, THE: The mythological monster or force that threatened the land just before the rise of the Lord Ruler and the Final Empire. The term comes from Terris lore, and the Hero of Ages was the one prophesied to come and eventually defeat the Deepness. The Lord Ruler claims to have defeated it when he Ascended. DEMOUX, CAPTAIN: Ham's second-in-command, a soldier in Elend's palace guard. DOCKSON: Kelsier's old right-hand man, informal leader of his crew now that Kelsier is dead. He has no Allomantic powers. DOMINANCE (FINAL EMPIRE): A province of the Final Empire. Luthadel is in the Central Dominance. The four surrounding dominances are called the Inner Dominances, and include most of the population and culture of the Final Empire. After the Collapse, the Final Empire shattered, and different kings took power, trying to claim leadership of the various dominances, effectively turning each one into a kingdom of its own. DOX: Dockson's nickname. ELEND VENTURE: King of the Central Dominance, son of Straff Venture. EXTINGUISH (ALLOMANTIC): To cease burning an Allomantic metal. FADREX: A modestly sized, well-fortified city in the Western Dominance. Capital city and home to Ashweather Cett. A main place of stockpile for the Canton of Resource.
FELT: Once one of Straff's spies, the man was (like most of Straff's employees) left behind at the fall of Luthadel. He gave his allegiance to Elend instead. FINAL EMPIRE: The empire established by the Lord Ruler. The name came from the fact that, being immortal, he felt that it would be the last empire the world ever knew, since it would never fall or end. FLARE (ALLOMANTIC): To draw a little extra power from an Allomantic metal at the expense of making it burn faster. GNEORNDIN: Ashweather Cett's only son. GORADEL: Once a soldier in the Luthadel Garrison, Goradel was guarding the palace when Vin decided to infiltrate and kill the Lord Ruler. Vin convinced him to switch sides, and he later led Elend through the palace to try and rescue her. Now a member of Elend's guard. HAM: A Thug on Kelsier's crew, now captain of Elend's palace guard. HAMMOND: Ham's real name. HATHSIN: See Pits of Hathsin. HERO OF AGES, THE: The mythological prophesied savior of the Terris people. It was foretold that he would come, take the power at the Well of Ascension, then be selfless enough to give it up in order to save the world from the Deepness. Alendi was thought to be the Hero of Ages, but was killed before he could complete his quest. INQUISITORS, STEEL: A group of strange creatures, priests who served the Lord Ruler. They have spikes driven completely through their heads—point-first through the eyes—yet continue to live. They were fanatically devoted to him, and were used primarily to hunt out and kill skaa with Allomantic powers. They have the abilities of a Mistborn, and some others. IRONEYES: Marsh's nickname in the crew. IRONPULL: Pulling on a metal when Allomantically burning iron. This Pull exerts a force on the metal item, yanking it directly toward the Allomancer. If the metallic item, known as an anchor, is heavier than the Allomancer, he or she will instead be Pulled toward the metal source. JANARLE: Straff Venture's second-in-command. JASTES LEKAL: Heir to the Lekal house title, one of Elend's former friends. He and Elend often talked politics and philosophy together with Telden. KANDRA: A race of strange creatures who can ingest the dead body of a person, then reproduce that body with their own flesh. They keep the bones of the person they imitate, using them, as kandra themselves have no bones. They serve Contracts with mankind—which must be bought with atium—and are relatives of mistwraiths. KEEPER (TERRIS): "Keeper" is often used as simply another term for a Feruchemist. The Keepers are actually an organization of Feruchemists dedicated to discovering, then memorizing, all of the knowledge and religions that existed before the Ascension. The Lord Ruler hunted them to near extinction, forcing them to remain hidden. KELL: Kelsier's nickname. KELSIER: The most famous thieving crewleader in the Final Empire, Kelsier raised a rebellion of skaa and overthrew the Lord Ruler, but was killed in the process. He was Mistborn, and was Vin's teacher. KHLENNIUM: An ancient kingdom that existed before the rise of the
Final Empire. It was Alendi's homeland. KLISS: A woman whom Vin knew in the court at Luthadel. She eventually turned out to be an informant for hire. KOLOSS: A race of bestial warriors created by the Lord Ruler during his Ascension, then used by him to conquer the world. KREDIK SHAW: The Lord Ruler's palace in Luthadel. It means "the Hill of a Thousand Spires" in the old Terris language. KWAAN: A Terris scholar before the Collapse. He was a Worldbringer, and was the first to mistakenly think that Alendi was the Hero of Ages. He later changed his mind, betraying his former friend. LADRIAN: Breeze's real name. LESTIBOURNES: Spook's real name. LLAMAS, MISTBORN: Brandon's writing group. Mistborn Llamas burn various kinds of plants to gain super-llaman powers. T-shirts can be found on the Web site. LORD RULER: The emperor who ruled the Final Empire for a thousand years. He was once named Rashek, and was a Terris servant who was hired by Alendi. He killed Alendi, however, and went to the Well of Ascension in his place, and there took the power and Ascended. He was finally killed by Vin. LURCHER: A Misting who can burn steel. LUTHADEL: Capital of the Final Empire, and largest city in the land. Luthadel is known for its textiles, its forges, and its majestic noble keeps. MALATIUM: The metal discovered by Kelsier, often dubbed the Eleventh Metal. Nobody knows where he found it, or why he thought it could kill the Lord Ruler. It did, however, eventually lead Vin to the clue she needed to defeat the emperor. MARDRA: Ham's wife. She doesn't like to be involved in his thieving practices, or exposing their children to the danger of his lifestyle, and generally keeps her distance from the members of the crew. METALMIND: A piece of metal that a Feruchemist uses as a kind of battery, filling it with certain attributes that he or she can later withdraw. Specific metalminds are named after the different metals: tinmind, steelmind, etc. MIST: The strange, omnipresent fog that falls on the Final Empire every night. Thicker than a regular fog, it swirls and churns about, almost as if it were alive. MISTBORN: An Allomancer who can burn all of the Allomantic metals. MISTCLOAK: A garment worn by many Mistborn as a mark of their station. It is constructed from dozens of thick ribbons of cloth that are sewn together at the top, but allowed to spread free from the shoulders down. MISTING: An Allomancer who can burn only one metal. They are much more common than Mistborn. (Note: In Allomancy, an Allomancer has either one power or all of them. There are no in-betweens with two or three.) MISTWRAITH: A nonsentient relative of the kandra people. Mistwraiths are globs of boneless flesh that scavenge the land at night, eating bodies they find, then using the skeletons for their own bodies. MOORDEN: One of the only obligators who chose to stay in Luthadel and serve Elend. OBLIGATOR: A member of the Lord Ruler's priesthood. Obligators were more than just
religious figures, however; they were civil bureaucrats, and even a spy network. A business deal or promise that wasn't witnessed by an obligator was not considered legally or morally binding. ORESEUR: A kandra employed by Kelsier. He once played the part of Lord Renoux, Vin's uncle. Vin now holds his Contract. PENROD, FERSON: One of the most prominent noblemen left in Luthadel. A member of Elend's Assembly. PEWTERARM: Another term for a Thug, a Misting who can burn pewter. PHILEN: A prominent merchant in Luthadel and a member of Elend's Assembly. PITS OF HATHSIN, THE: A network of caverns that were once the only place in the Final Empire that produced atium. The Lord Ruler used prisoners to work them. Kelsier destroyed their ability to produce atium shortly before he died. PULL (ALLOMANTIC): Using Allomancy to Pull on something—either people's emotions with zinc, or metals with iron. PUSH (ALLOMANTIC): Using Allomancy to Push on something—either people's emotions with brass, or metals with steel. RASHEK: A Terris packman before the Ascension, Rashek was hired by Alendi to help him make the trek to the Well of Ascension. Rashek never got along well with Alendi, and eventually killed him. He took the power himself, and became the Lord Ruler. REEN: Vin's brother, the one who protected her and trained her as a thief. Reen was brutal and unforgiving, but he did save Vin from their insane mother, then protected her during her childhood. RELEASE (FERUCHEMICAL): When a Feruchemist stops tapping a metalmind, no longer drawing forth its power. RENOUX, LORD: A nobleman that Kelsier killed, then hired the kandra OreSeur to imitate. Vin played the part of his niece, Valette Renoux. RIOT (ALLOMANTIC): When an Allomancer burns zinc and Pulls on a person's emotions, enflaming them. RIOTER (ALLOMANTIC): A Misting who can burn zinc. SAZE: Sazed's nickname on the crew. SAZED: A Terris Keeper who joined Kelsier's crew against the wishes of his people, then helped overthrow the Final Empire. SEEKER (ALLOMANTIC): A Misting who can burn bronze. SHAN ELARIEL: Elend's former fiancee, a Mistborn whom Vin killed. SKAA: The peasantry of the Final Empire. They were once of different races and nationalities, but over the thousand-year span of the empire the Lord Ruler worked hard to stamp out any sense of identity in the people, eventually succeeding in creating a single, homogeneous race of slave workers. SMOKER (ALLOMANTIC): An Allomancer who can burn copper. Also known as a Coppercloud. SOOTHE (ALLOMANTIC): When an Allomancer burns brass and Pushes on a person's emotions, dampening them. SOOTHER: A Misting who can burn brass. SPOOK: A Tineye on Kelsier's crew. The youngest member of the crew, Spook was only fifteen when the Lord Ruler was overthrown. He is Clubs's nephew, and was once known for his use of garbled street slang. STEEL MINISTRY: The Lord Ruler's priesthood, consisting of a small number of Steel Inquisitors and a larger body of priests called obligators. The Steel Ministry was more than just a religious organization; it was the civic framework of the Final Empire as well. STRAFF VENTURE:
Elend's father, king of the Northern Dominance. He makes his home in Urteau. SURVIVOR OF SATHSIN: A cognomen of Kelsier, referring to the fact that he is the only known prisoner to ever escape the prison camps at the Pits of Hathsin. SYNOD (TERRIS): The elite leaders of the Terris Keeper organization. TAP (FERUCHEMICAL): Drawing power from within a Feruchemist's metalminds. It is parallel to the term "burn" used by Allomancers. TATHINGDWEN: Capital of the Terris Dominance. TELDEN: One of Elend's old friends, with whom he would talk politics and philosophy. TENSOON: Straff Venture's kandra. TERRIS: The dominance in the far north of the Final Empire. It is the only dominance to retain the name of the kingdom it used to be, perhaps a sign of the Lord Ruler's fondness for his homeland. THUG (ALLOMANTIC): A Misting who can burn pewter. TINDWYL: A Terris Keeper and a member of the Synod. TINEYE: A Misting who can burn tin. URTEAU: Capital of the Northern Dominance, and seat of House Venture. VALETTE RENOUX: The alias that Vin used when infiltrating noble society during the days before the Collapse. WELL OF ASCENSION: A mythological center of power from Terris lore. The Well of Ascension was said to hold a magical reserve of power that could be drawn upon by one who made the trek to visit it at the right time. WORLDBRINGER: A sect of scholarly Terris Feruchemists before the Collapse. The subsequent Order of Keepers was based on the Worldbringers. YEDEN: A member of Kelsier's crew and the skaa rebellion. He was killed during the fight against the Lord Ruler. YOMEN, LORD: An obligator in Urteau who was politically opposed to Cett. SUMMARY OF BOOK ONE Mistborn: The Final Empire introduced the land of the Final Empire, ruled over by a powerful immortal known as the Lord Ruler. A thousand years before, the Lord Ruler took the power at the Well of Ascension and supposedly defeated a powerful force or creature known only as the Deepness. The Lord Ruler conquered the known world and founded the Final Empire. He ruled for a thousand years, stamping out all remnants of the individual kingdoms, cultures, religions, and languages that used to exist in his land. In their place he set up his own system. Certain peoples were dubbed "skaa," a word that meant something akin to "slave" or "peasant." Other peoples were dubbed nobility, and most of these were descendants of those people who had supported the Lord Ruler during his years of conquest. The Lord Ruler had supposedly given them the power of Allomancy in order to gain powerful assassins and warriors who had minds that could think, as opposed to the brutish koloss, and had used them well in conquering and maintaining his empire. Skaa and nobility were forbidden to interbreed, and the nobility were somehow given the power of Allomancy. During the thousand years of the Lord Ruler's reign, many rebellions occurred among the skaa, but none were successful. Finally, a half-breed Mistborn known as Kelsier decided to challenge the Lord Ruler. Once
the most famous of gentleman thieves in the Final Empire, Kelsier had been known for his daring schemes. Those eventually ended with his capture, however, and he had been sent to the Lord Ruler's death camp at the Pits of Hathsin, the secret source of atium. It was said that nobody ever escaped the Pits of Hathsin alive—but Kelsier did just that. He gained his powers as a Mistborn during that time, and managed to free himself, earning the title the Survivor of Hathsin. At this point, he turned from his selfish ways and decided to try his most daring plan yet: the overthrow of the Final Empire. He recruited a team of thieves, mostly half-breed Mistings, to help him achieve his goal. During this time, he also recruited a young half-breed Mistborn girl named Vin. Vin was unaware of her powers, and Kelsier brought her into the crew to train her, theoretically to have someone to whom he could pass his legacy. Kelsier's crew slowly gathered an underground army of skaa rebels. The crew began to fear that Kelsier was setting himself up to be another Lord Ruler. He sought to make himself a legend among the skaa, becoming almost a religious figure to them. Meanwhile, Vin—who had been raised on the streets by a cruel brother—was growing to trust people for the first time in her life. As this happened, Vin began to believe in Kelsier and his purpose. During the process of working on their plan, Vin was used as a spy among the nobility, and was trained to infiltrate their balls and parties playing the part of "Valette Renoux," a young noblewoman from the countryside. During the first of these balls, she met Elend Venture, a young, idealistic nobleman. He eventually showed her that not all noblemen were deserving of their poor reputation, and the two became enamored of each other, despite Kelsier's best efforts. The crew also discovered a journal, apparently written by the Lord Ruler himself during the days before the Ascension. This book painted a different picture of the tyrant; it depicted a melancholy, tired man who was trying his best to protect the people against the Deepness, despite the fact that he didn't really understand it. In the end, it was revealed that Kelsier's plan had been much more broad than simple use of the army to overthrow the empire. He'd partially spent so much effort on raising troops so that he would have an excuse to spread rumors about himself. He also used it to train his crew in the arts of leadership and persuasion. The true extent of his plan was revealed when he sacrificed his life in a very visible way, making himself a martyr to the skaa and finally convincing them to rise up and overthrow the Lord Ruler. One of Kelsier's crewmembers—a man who had been playing the part of "Lord Renoux," Valette's uncle—turned out to be a kandra named OreSeur. OreSeur took on Kelsier's form, then went about spreading rumors that Kelsier had returned from the grave, inspiring
the skaa. After this, he became Contractually bound to Vin, and was charged with watching over her after Kelsier's death. Vin was the one who in fact killed the Lord Ruler. She discovered that he wasn't actually a god, or even immortal—he had simply found a way to extend his life and his power by making use of both Allomancy and Feruchemy at the same time. He wasn't the hero from the logbook—but, instead, was that man's servant, a Feruchemist of some great power. Still, he was much stronger in Allomancy than Vin. While she was fighting him, she drew upon the mists somehow, burning them in place of metals. She still doesn't know why or how this happened. With that power—and with the knowledge of his true nature—she was able to defeat and kill him. The Final Empire was thrown into chaos. Elend Venture took control of Luthadel, the capital, and put Kelsier's crew in prime governmental positions. One year has passed. If you've enjoyed The Well of Ascension—and I certainly hope you have I—you don't have long to wait for the conclusion of Vin and Elend's story. The Hero of Ages is set for publication in October. You can find a free sample of it on my Web site at www.brandonsanderson.com. While you're waiting, I think you might enjoy the work of a colleague of mine, someone I think is doing great things for fantasy and deserves more attention. Daniel Abraham is one of the field's brightest new talents. His series, The Long Price Quartet, is beautiful. It has everything I love about a good fantasy story: an intriguing magic system, deep and complex characters who deviate from fantasy cliches, and an unexpected plot. Daniel's works are thoughtful, inquiring and—most important—just plain fun to read. So it is my pleasure and privilege to present to you a chapter from An Autumn War, the third book of Daniel's Long Price Quartet. Enjoy! Brandon Sanderson Turn the page for a preview THREE MEN CAME OUT OF the desert. Twenty had gone in. The setting sun pushed their shadows out behind them, lit their faces a ruddy gold, blinded them. The weariness and pain in their bodies robbed them of speech. On the horizon, something glimmered that was no star, and they moved silently toward it. The farthest tower of Far Galt, the edge of the Empire, beckoned them home from the wastes, and without speaking, each man knew that they would not stop until they stood behind its gates. The smallest of them shifted the satchel on his back. His gray commander's tunic hung from his flesh as if the cloth itself were exhausted. His mind turned inward, half-dreaming, and the leather straps of the satchel rubbed against his raw shoulder. The burden had killed seventeen of his men, and now it was his to carry as far as the tower that rose up slowly in the violet air of evening. He could not bring himself to think past that. Copyright © 2008 by Daniel Abraham One of the others stumbled and
fell to his knees on wind-paved stones. The commander paused. He would not lose another, not so near the end. And yet he feared bending down, lifting the man up. If he paused, he might never move again. Grunting, the other man recovered his feet. The commander nodded once and turned again to the west. A breeze stirred the low, brownish grasses, hissing and hushing. The punishing sun made its exit and left behind twilight and the wide swath of stars hanging overhead, cold candles beyond numbering. The night would bring chill as deadly as the midday heat. It seemed to the commander that the tower did not so much come closer as grow, plantlike. He endured his weariness and pain, and the structure that had been no larger than his thumb was now the size of his hand. The beacon that had seemed steady flickered now, and tongues of flame leapt and vanished. Slowly, the details of the stonework came clear; the huge carved relief of the Great Tree of Galt. He smiled, the skin of his lip splitting, wetting his mouth with blood. "We're not going to die," one of the others said. He sounded amazed. The commander didn't respond, and some measureless time later, another voice called for them to stop, to offer their names and the reason that they'd come to this twice-forsaken ass end of the world. When the commander spoke, his voice was rough, rusting with disuse. "Go to your High Watchman," he said. "Tell him that Balasar Gice has returned." Balasar Gice had been in his eleventh year when he first heard the word andat. The river that passed through his father's estates had turned green one day, and then red. And then it rose fifteen feet. Balasar had watched in horror as the fields vanished, the cottages, the streets and yards he knew. The whole world, it seemed, had become a sea of foul water with only the tops of trees and the corpses of pigs and cattle and men to the horizon. His father had moved the family and as many of his best men as would fit to the upper stories of the house. Balasar had begged to take the horse his father had given him up as well. When the gravity of the situation had been explained, he changed his pleas to include the son of the village notary, who had been Balasar's closest friend. He had been refused in that as well. His horses and his playmates were going to drown. His father's concern was for Balasar, for the family; the wider world would have to look after itself. Even now, decades later, the memory of those six days was fresh as a wound. The bloated bodies of pigs and cattle and people like pale logs floating past the house. The rich, low scent of fouled water. The struggle to sleep when the rushing at the bottom of the stairs seemed like the whisper of something vast and terrible for which he had no name. He could still hear men's
voices questioning whether the food would last, whether the water was safe to drink, and whether the flood was natural, a catastrophe of distant rains, or an attack by the Khaiem and their andat. He had not known then what the word meant, but the syllables had taken on the stench of the dead bodies, the devastation where the village had been, the emptiness and the destruction. It was only much later—after the water had receded, the dead had been mourned, the village rebuilt—that he learned how correct he had been. Nine generations of fathers had greeted their new children into the world since the God Kings of the East had turned upon each other, his history tutor told him. When the glory that had been the center of all creation fell, its throes had changed the nature of space. The lands that had been great gardens and fields were deserts now, permanently altered by the war. Even as far as Galt and Eddensea, the histories told of weeks of darkness, of failed crops and famine, a sky dancing with flames of green, a sound as if the earth were tearing itself apart. Some people said the stars themselves had changed positions. But the disasters of the past grew in the telling or faded from memory. No one knew exactly how things had been those many years ago. Perhaps the Emperor had gone mad and loosed his personal god-ghost—what they called andat—against his own people, or against himself. Or there might have been a woman, the wife of a great lord, who had been taken by the Emperor against her will. Or perhaps she'd willed it. Or the thousand factions and minor insults and treacheries that accrue around power had simply followed their usual course. As a boy, Balasar had listened to the story, drinking in the tales of mystery and glory and dread. And, when his tutor had told him, somber of tone and gray, that there were only two legacies left by the fall of the God Kings—the wastelands that bordered Far Galt and Obar State, and the cities of the Khaiem where men still held the andat like Cooling, Seedless, Stone-Made-Soft—Balasar had understood the implication as clearly as if it had been spoken. What had happened before could happen again at any time and without warning. "And that's what brought you?" the High Watchman said. "It's a long walk from a little boy at his lessons to this place." Balasar smiled again and leaned forward to sip bitter kafe from a rough tin mug. His room was baked brick and close as a cell. A cruel wind hissed outside the thick walls, as it had for the three long, feverish days since he had returned to the world. The small windows had been scrubbed milky by sandstorms. His little wounds were scabbing over, none of them reddened or hot to the touch, though the stripe on his shoulder where the satchel strap had been would doubtless leave a scar. "It wasn't as romantic as I'd imagined," he said. The
High Watchman laughed, and then, remembering the dead, sobered. Balasar shifted the subject. "How long have you been here? And who did you offend to get yourself sent to this. . .lovely place?" "Eight years. I've been eight years at this post. I didn't much care for the way things got run in Acton. I suppose this was my way of saying so." "I'm sure Acton felt the loss." "I'm sure it didn't. But then, I didn't do it for them." Balasar chuckled. "That sounds like wisdom," Balasar said, "but eight years here seems an odd place for wisdom to lead you." The High Watchman smacked his lips and shrugged. "It wasn't me going inland," he said. Then, a moment later, "They say there's still andat out there. Haunting the places they used to control." "There aren't," Balasar said. "There are other things. Things they made or unmade. There's places where the air goes bad on you—one breath's fine, and the next it's like something's crawling into you. There's places where the ground's thin as eggshell and a thousand-foot drop under it. And there are living things too—things they made with the andat, or what happened when the things they made bred. But the ghosts don't stay once their handlers are gone. That isn't what they are." Balasar took an olive from his plate, sucked away the flesh, and spat back the stone. For a moment, he could hear voices in the wind. The words of men who'd trusted and followed him, even knowing where he would take them. The voices of the dead whose lives he had spent. Coal and Eustin had survived. The others—Little Ott, Bes, Mayarsin, Laran, Kellem, and a dozen more—were bones and memory now. Because of him. He shook his head, clearing it, and the wind was only wind again. "No offense, General," the High Watchman said, "but there's not enough gold in the world for me to try what you did." "It was necessary," Balasar said, and his tone ended the conversation. The journey to the coast was easier than it should have been. Three men, traveling light. The others were an absence measured in the ten days it took to reach Lawton. It had taken sixteen coming from. The arid, empty lands of the East gave way to softly rolling hills. The tough yellow grasses yielded to blue-green almost the color of a cold sea, wavelets dancing on its surface. Farmsteads appeared off the road, windmills with broad blades shifting in the breezes; men and women and children shared the path that led toward the sea. Balasar forced himself to be civil, even gracious. If the world moved the way he hoped, he would never come to this place again, but the world had a habit of surprising him. When he'd come back from the campaign in the Westlands, he'd thought his career was coming to its victorious end. He might take a place in the Council or at one of the military colleges. He even dared to dream of a quiet estate someplace away
from the yellow coal-smoke of the great cities. When the news had come—a historian and engineer in Far Galt had divined a map that might lead to the old libraries—he'd known that rest had been a chimera, a thing for other men but never himself. He'd taken the best of his men, the strongest, smartest, most loyal, and come here. He had lost them here. The ones who had died, and perhaps also the ones who had lived. Coal and Eustin were both quiet as they traveled, both respectful when they stopped to camp for the night. Without conversation, they had all agreed that the cold night air and hard ground was better than the company of men at an inn or wayhouse. Once in a while, one or the other would attempt to talk or joke or sing, but it always failed. There was a distance in their eyes, a stunned expression that Balasar recognized from boys stumbling over the wreckage of their first battlefield. They were seasoned fighters, Coal and Eustin. He had seen both of them kill men and boys, knew each of them had raped women in the towns they'd sacked, and still, they had left some scrap of innocence in the desert and were moving away from it with every step. Balasar could not say what that loss would do to them, nor would he insult their manhood by bringing it up. He knew, and that alone would have to suffice. They reached the ports of Parrinshall on the first day of autumn. Half a hundred ships awaited them: great merchant ships built to haul cargo across the vast emptiness of the southern seas, shallow fishing boats that darted out of port and back again, the ornate three-sailed roundboats of Bakta, the antiquated and changeless ships of the east islands. It was nothing to the ports at Kirinton or Lanniston or Saraykeht, but it was enough. Three berths on any of half a dozen of these ships would take them off Far Galt and start them toward home. "Winter'll be near over afore we see Acton," Coal said, and spat off the dock. "I imagine it will," Balasar agreed, shifting the satchel against his hip. "If we sail straight through. We could also stay here until spring if we liked. Or stop in Bakta." "Whatever you like, General," Eustin said. "Then we'll sail straight through. Find what's setting out and when. I'll be at the harbor master's house." "Anything the matter, sir?" "No," Balasar said. The harbor master's house was a wide building of red brick settled on the edge of the water. Banners of the Great Tree hung from the archway above its wide bronze doors. Balasar announced himself to the secretary and was shown to a private room. He accepted the offer of cool wine and dried figs, asked for and received the tools for writing the report now required of him, and gave orders that he not be disturbed until his men arrived. Then, alone, he opened his satchel and drew forth the books
he had recovered, laying them side by side on the desk that looked out over the port. There were four, two bound in thick, peeling leather, another whose covers had been ripped from it, and one encased in metal that appeared to be neither steel nor silver, but something of each. Balasar ran his fingers over the mute volumes, then sat, considering them and the moral paradox they represented. For these, he had spent the lives of his men. While the path back to Galt was nothing like the risk he had faced in the ruins of the fallen empire, still it was sea travel. There were storms and pirates and plagues. If he wished to be certain that these volumes survived, the right thing would be to transcribe them here in Parrinshall. If he were to die on the journey home, the books, at least, would not be drowned. The knowledge within them would not be lost. Which was also the argument against making copies. He took the larger of the leather-bound volumes and opened it. The writing was in the flowing script of the dead empire, not the simpler chop the Khaiem used for business and trade with foreigners like himself. Balasar frowned as he picked out the symbols his tutor had taught him as a boy. There are two types of impossibility in the andat: those which cannot be understood, and those whose natures make binding impossible. His translation was rough, but sufficient for his needs. These were the books he'd sought. And so the question remained whether the risk of their loss was greater than the risk posed by their existence. Balasar closed the book and let his head rest in his hands. He knew, of course, what he would do. He had known before he'd sent Eustin and Coal to find a boat for them. Before he'd reached Far Galt in the first place. It was his awareness of his own pride that made him hesitate. History was full of men whom thought themselves to be the one great soul who power would not corrupt. He did not wish to be among that number, and yet here he sat, holding in his hands the secrets that might remake the shape of the human world. A humble man would have sought counsel from those wiser than himself, or at least feared to wield the power. He did not like what it said of him that giving the books to anyone besides himself seemed as foolish as gambling with their destruction. He would not even have trusted them to Eustin or Coal or any of the men who had died helping him. He took the paper he'd been given, raised the pen, and began his report and, in a sense, his confession. Three weeks out, Eustin broke. The sea surrounded them, empty and immense as the sky. So far south, the water was clear and the air warm even with the slowly failing days. The birds that had followed them from Parrinshall had vanished. The only animal was a
three-legged dog the ship's crew had taken on as a mascot. Nor were there women on board. Only the rank, common smell of men and the sea. The rigging creaked and groaned, unnerving no one but Balasar. He had never loved traveling by water. Campaigning on land was no more comfortable, but at least when the day ended he was able to see that this village was not the one he'd been in the night before, the tree under which he slept looked out over some different hillside. Here, in the vast nothingness of water, they might almost have been standing still. Only the long white plume of their wake gave him a sense of movement, the visible promise that one day the journey would end. He would often sit at the stern, watch that constant trail, and take what solace he could from it. Sometimes he carved blocks of wax with a small, thin knife while his mind wandered and softened in the boredom of inaction. It should not have surprised him that the isolation had proved corrosive for Eustin and Coal. And yet when one of the sailors rushed up to him that night, pale eyes bulging from his head, Balasar had not guessed the trouble. His man, the one called Eustin, was belowdecks with a knife, the sailor said. He was threatening to kill himself or else the crippled mascot dog, no one was sure which. Normally, they'd all have clubbed him senseless and thrown him over the side, but as he was a paying passage, the General might perhaps want to take a hand. Balasar put down the wax block half-carved into the shape of a fish, tucked his knife in his belt, and nodded as if the request were perfectly common. The scene in the belly of the ship was calmer than he'd expected. Eustin sat on a bench. He had the dog by a rope looped around the thing's chest and a field dagger in his other hand. Ten sailors were standing in silence either in the room or just outside it, armed with blades and cudgels. Balasar ignored them, taking a low stool and setting it squarely in front of Eustin before he sat. "General," Eustin said. His voice was low and flat, like a man half-dead from a wound. "I hear there's some issue with the animal." "He ate my soup." One of the sailors coughed meaningfully, and Eustin's eyes narrowed and flickered toward the sound. Balasar spoke again quickly. "I've seen Coal sneak half a bottle of wine away from you. It hardly seems a killing offense." "He didn't steal my soup, General. I gave it to him." "You gave it to him?" "Yessir." The room seemed close as a coffin, and hot. If only there weren't so many men around, if the bodies were not so thick, the air not so heavy with their breath, Balasar thought he might have been able to think clearly. He sucked his teeth, struggling to find something wise or useful to say, some way to disarm
the situation and bring Eustin back from his madness. In the end, his silence was enough. "He deserves better, General," Eustin said. "He's broken. He's a sick, broken thing. He shouldn't have to live like that. There ought to be some dignity at least. If there's nothing else, there should at least be some dignity." The dog whined and craned its neck toward Eustin. Balasar could see distress in the animal's eyes, but not fear. The dog could hear the pain in Eustin's voice, even if the sailors couldn't. The bodies around him were wound tight, ready for violence, all of them except for Eustin. He held the knife weakly. The tension in his body wasn't the hot, loose energy of battle; he was knotted, like a boy tensed against a blow; like a man facing the gallows. "Leave us alone. All of you," Balasar said. "Not without Tripod!" one of the sailors said. Balasar met Eustin's eyes. With a small shock he realized it was the first time he'd truly looked at the man since they'd emerged from the desert. Perhaps he'd been ashamed of what he might see reflected there. And perhaps his shame had some part in this. Eustin was his man, and so the pain he bore was Balasar's responsibility. He'd been weak and stupid to shy away from that. And weakness and stupidity always carried a price. "Let the dog go. There's no call to involve him, or these men," Balasar said. "Sit with me awhile, and if you still need killing, I'll be the one to do it." Eustin's gaze flickered over his face, searching for something. To see whether it was a ruse, to see whether Balasar would actually kill his own man. When he saw the answer, Eustin's wide shoulders eased. He dropped the rope, freeing the animal. It hopped in a circle, uncertain and confused. "You have the dog," Balasar said to the sailors without looking at them. "Now go." They filed out, none of them taking their eyes from Eustin and the knife still in his hand. Balasar waited until they had all left, the low door pulled shut behind them. Distant voices shouted over the creaking timbers, the oil lamp swung gently on its chain. This time, Balasar used the silence intentionally, waiting. At first, Eustin looked at him, anticipation in his eyes. And then his gaze passed into the distance, seeing something beyond the room, beyond them both. And then silently, Eustin wept. Balasar shifted his stool nearer and put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I keep seeing them, sir." "I know." "I've seen a thousand men die one way or the other. But. . .but that was on a field. That was in a fight." "It isn't the same," Balasar said. "Is that why you wanted those men to throw you in the sea?" Eustin turned the blade slowly, catching the light. He was still weeping, his face now slack and empty. Balasar wondered which of them he was seeing now, which of their number haunted him in
that moment, and he felt the eyes of the dead upon him. They were in the room, invisibly crowding it as the sailors had. "Can you tell me they died with honor?" Eustin breathed. "I'm not sure what honor is," Balasar said. "We did what we did because it was needed, and we were the men to do it. The price was too high for us to bear, you and I and Coal. But we aren't finished, so we have to carry it a bit farther. That's all." "It wasn't needed, General. I'm sorry, but it wasn't. We take a few more cities, we gain a few more slaves. Yes, they're the richest cities in the world. I know it. Sacking even one of the cities of the Khaiem would put more gold in the High Council's coffers than a season in the Westlands. But how much do they need to buy Little Ott back from hell?" Eustin asked. "And why shouldn't I go there and get him myself, sir?" "It's not about gold. I have enough gold of my own to live well and die old. Gold's a tool we use—a tool I use—to make men do what must be done." "And honor?" "And glory. Tools, all of them. We're men, Eustin. We've no reason to lie to each other." He had the man's attention now. Eustin was looking only at him, and there was confusion in his eyes—confusion and pain—but the ghosts weren't inside him now. "Why then, sir? Why are we doing this?" Balasar sat back. He hadn't said these words before, he had never explained himself to anyone. Pride again. He was haunted by his pride. The pride that had made him take this on as his task, the work he owed to the world because no one else had the stomach for it. "The ruins of the Empire were made," he said. "God didn't write it that the world should have something like that in it. Men created it. Men with little gods in their sleeves. And men like that still live. The cities of the Khaiem each have one, and they look on them like plow horses. Tools to feed their power and their arrogance. If it suited them, they could turn their andat loose on us. Hold our crops in permanent winter or sink our lands into the sea or whatever else they could devise. They could turn the world itself against us the way you or I might hold a knife. And do you know why they haven't?" Eustin blinked, unnerved, Balasar thought, by the anger in his voice. "No, sir." "Because they haven't yet chosen to. That's all. They might. Or they might turn against each other. They could make everything into wastelands just like those. Acton, Kirinton, Marsh. Every city, every town. It hasn't happened yet because we've been lucky. But someday, one of them will grow ambitious or mad. And then all the rest of us are ants on a battlefield, trampled into the mud. That's what I mean when I
say this is needed. You and I are seeing that it never happens," he said, and his words made his own blood hot. He was no longer uncertain or touched by shame. Balasar grinned wide and wolfish. If it was pride, then let him be proud. No man could do what he intended without it. "When I've finished, the god-ghosts of the Khaiem will be a story women tell their babes to scare them at night, and nothing more than that. That's what Little Ott died for. Not for money or conquest or glory. "I'm saving the world," Balasar said. "So, now. Say you'd rather drown than help me." BRANDON SANDERSON grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University and lives in Provo, Utah with his wife, Emily. For fascinating behind-the-scenes information about the Mistborn trilogy and his acclaimed first novel, Elantris, visit him at www.brandonsanderson.com. *Forthcoming BRANDON SANDERSON grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. He lives in Utah with his wife and children and teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University. In addition to completing Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time, he is the author of such bestsellers as the Mistborn saga, Warbreaker, the Stormlight Archive series beginning with The Way of Kings, The Rithmatist, the Skyward series, the Reckoners series beginning with Steelheart, and the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series. He won the Hugo Award for The Emperor’s Soul, a novella set in the world of his acclaimed first novel, Elantris. For behind-the-scenes information on all his books, visit brandonsanderson.com. HOWARD LYON grew up in Arizona, where he met and married his wife, Shari. They have three wonderful kids together: Isaac, Isabel, and Alex. Howard defines his artistic journey as a pursuit of that which is beautiful in all things. You can find his work at howardlyon.com. What a ride. When I sat down to write this book on a whim, I had no idea where the whole project would end up going. (Be sure to check out the postscript at the end of the book, where I talk about my inspirations for it in ways that might be a little too spoilery to put up front.) I envisioned something special for the four books from the 2022 Secret Projects Kickstarter campaign, but my team has gone above and beyond. This turned out to be an absolutely gorgeous volume. I know that many of you will be listening to the audiobook, which certainly has its own special artistry—but if you get a chance, make sure you leaf through the print version. Because wow. It’s fitting, therefore, to start off our thank-you with Howard Lyon. I envisioned these books being kind of an “artist’s showcase,” where we picked an artist and let them go a little wild with what they wanted to do in creating the book. Howard did so much on this book. The cover, the endpapers, the interior illustrations—but really, the entire design owes a lot to him. Thank you, Howard, for being willing to take on this huge project. You did an amazing
job. ʫaac Stewart is our art director at Dragonsteel, and was essential in making this all come together. Rachael Lynn Buchanan was our art assistant. Bill Wearne at American Print and Bindery really came through for us to get this thing printed, considering shortages. Many thanks, Bill. And I’d also like to thank all the people in the supply chain, from the paper mills to the cover and foil material suppliers, the press, the bindery, and the delivery drivers. At Dragonsteel, our COO is Emily Sanderson. Our Editorial department is Peter Ahlstrom, Karen Ahlstrom, Kristy S. Gilbert, and Betsey Ahlstrom. Kristy Kugler was our copyeditor. Our Operations department is Matt “Are you going to do this in every book, Brandon?” Hatch, Emma Tan-Stoker, Jane Horne, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Makena Saluone, and Hazel Cummings. Our Publicity and Marketing department is Adam Horne, Jeremy Palmer, and Taylor Hatch. These folks don’t get enough credit for all the wonderful things they do to make my projects happen. In particular, with this Kickstarter campaign, I needed their enthusiasm and their wonderful ideas. (For example, the original idea for a subscription box was Adam’s several years ago.) It was a lot of work to get all of this put together and executed, so if you have a chance, thank my team in person. And, of course, we need to give an extra special thanks to my Fulfillment department. Kara Stewart’s team worked long hours to get these books to you all. They deserve a round of applause, and include Christi Jacobsen, Lex Willhite, Kellyn Neumann, Mem Grange, Michael Bateman, Joy Allen, Katy Ives, Richard Rubert, Sean VanBuskirk, Isabel Chrisman, Tori Mecham, Ally Reep, Jacob Chrisman, Alex Lyon, and Owen Knowlton. I’d like to thank Margot Atwell, Oriana Leckert, and the rest of the team at Kickstarter. In addition I’d like to thank Anna Gallagher, Palmer Johnson, Antonio Rosales, and the rest of the BackerKit team. We had a special sensitivity reader help us with this book—Jenna Beacom—and she was incredible. If you ever need someone to give you help on a book in regards to Deaf representation and how to write a deaf character, go straight to Jenna. She’ll help you get it right. Our alpha readers for this project were Adam Horne, Rachael Lynn Buchanan, Kellyn Neumann, Lex Wilhite, Christi Jacobsen, Jennifer Neal, and Joy Allen. Our beta readers were Mi’chelle Walker, Matt Wiens, Ted Herman, Robert West, Evgeni “Argent” Kirilov, Jessie Lake, Kalyani Poluri, Bao Pham, Linnea Lindstrom, Jory Phillips, Darci Cole, Craig Hanks, Sean VanBuskirk, Frankie Jerome, Giulia Costantini, Eliyahu Berelowitz Levin, Trae Cooper, and Lauren McCaffrey. Gamma proofreaders also included Joy Allen, Jayden King, Chris McGrath, Jennifer Neal, Joshua Harkey, Eric Lake, Ross Newberry, Bob Kluttz, Brian T. Hill, Shannon Nelson, Suzanne Musin, Glen Vogelaar, Ian McNatt, Gary Singer, Erika Kuta Marler, Drew McCaffrey, David Behrens, Rosemary Williams, Tim Challener, Jessica Ashcraft, Anthony Acker, Alexis Horizon, Liliana Klein, Christopher Cottingham, Aaron Biggs, and William Juan. Last but not least, I need to give a special thanks to all of you who backed the
Kickstarter project. I wasn’t gunning for the number one spot—let alone double that. I just wanted to do something different, something interesting, and something cool. Your support continues to mean so very much to me. Thank you. Brandon Sanderson * items with an asterisk are contained in Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere Collection. Elantris The Emperor’s Soul * The Hope of Elantris * The Eleventh Metal * Mistborn: The Final Empire The Well of Ascension The Hero of Ages Mistborn: Secret History * The Alloy of Law Shadows of Self The Bands of Mourning The Lost Metal Allomancer Jak and the Pits of Eltania * Warbreaker White Sand Shadows for Silence in the Forests of Hell * Sixth of the Dusk * The Way of Kings Words of Radiance Oathbringer Rhythm of War Edgedancer * Dawnshard Tress of the Emerald Sea Defending Elysium Skyward Starsight Cytonic Sunreach ReDawn Evershore Steelheart Mitosis: A Reckoners Story Firefight Calamity Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians The Scrivener’s Bones The Knights of Crystallia The Shattered Lens The Dark Talent Bastille vs. the Evil Librarians The Rithmatist Legion: The Many Lives of Stephen Leeds I Hate Dragons Dreamer Firstborn Perfect State Snapshot Children of the Nameless The Original Dark One The Gathering Storm Towers of Midnight A Memory of Light In the middle of the ocean, there was a girl who lived upon a rock. This was not an ocean like the one you have imagined. Nor was the rock like the one you have imagined. The girl, however, might be as you imagined—assuming you imagined her as thoughtful, soft-spoken, and overly fond of collecting cups. Men often described the girl as having hair the color of wheat. Others called it the color of caramel, or occasionally the color of honey. The girl wondered why men so often used food to describe women’s features. There was a hunger to such men that was best avoided. In her estimation, “light brown” was sufficiently descriptive—though the hue of her hair was not its most interesting trait. That would be her hair’s unruliness. Each morning she heroically tamed it with brush and comb, then muzzled it with a ribbon and a tight braid. Yet some strands always found a way to escape and would wave free in the wind, eagerly greeting everyone she passed. The girl had been given the unfortunate name of Glorf upon her birth (don’t judge; it was a family name), but her wild hair earned her the name everyone knew her by: Tress. That moniker was, in Tress’s estimation, her most interesting feature. Tress had been raised to possess a certain inalienable pragmatism. Such is a common failing among those who live on dour lifeless islands from which they can never leave. When you are greeted each day by a black stone landscape, it influences your perspective on life. The island was shaped rather like an old man’s crooked finger, emerging from the ocean to point toward the horizon. It was made entirely of barren black saltstone, and was large enough to support a fair-sized town and a
duke’s mansion. Though locals called the island the Rock, its name on the maps was Diggen’s Point. No one remembered who Diggen was anymore, but he had obviously been a clever fellow, for he’d left the Rock soon after naming it and never returned. In the evenings, Tress would often sit on her family’s porch and sip salty tea from one of her favorite cups while looking out over the green ocean. Yes, I did say the ocean was green. Also, it was not wet. We’re getting there. As the sun set, Tress would wonder about the people who visited the Rock in their ships. Not that anyone in their right mind would deem the Rock a tourist destination. The black saltstone was crumbly and got into everything. It also made most kinds of agriculture impossible, eventually tainting any soil brought from off the island. The only food the island grew came from compost vats. While the Rock did have important wells that brought up water from a deep aquifer—something that visiting ships required—the equipment that worked the salt mines belched a constant stream of black smoke into the air. In summary, the atmosphere was dismal, the ground wretched, and the views depressing. Oh, and have I mentioned the deadly spores? Diggen’s Point lay near the Verdant Lunagree. The term lunagree, you should know, refers to the places where the twelve moons hang in the sky around Tress’s planet in oppressively low stationary orbits. Big enough to fill a full third of the sky, one of the twelve is always visible, no matter where you travel. Dominating your view, like a wart on your eyeball. The locals worshipped those twelve moons as gods, which we can all agree is far more ridiculous than whatever it is you worship. However, it’s easy to see where the superstition began, bearing in mind the spores—like colorful sand—that the moons dropped upon the land. They’d pour down from the lunagrees, and the Verdant Lunagree was visible some fifty or sixty miles from the island. That was as close as you ever wanted to get to a lunagree—a great shimmering fountain of colorful motes, vibrant and exceedingly dangerous. The spores filled the world’s oceans, creating vast seas not of water, but of alien dust. Ships sailed that dust like ships sail water here, and you should not find that so unusual. How many other planets have you visited? Perhaps they all sail oceans of pollen, and your home is the freakish one. The spores were only dangerous if you got them wet. Which was rather a problem, considering the number of wet things that leak from human bodies even when they’re healthy. The least bit of water would cause the spores to sprout explosively, and the results ranged from uncomfortable to deadly. Breathe in a burst of verdant spores, for example, and your saliva would send vines growing out of your mouth—or in more interesting cases, into your sinuses and out around your eyes. The spores could be rendered inert by two things: salt or silver. Hence
the reason the locals of Diggen’s Point didn’t terribly mind the salty taste of their water or food. They’d teach their children this ever-so-important rule: salt and silver halt the killer. An acceptable little poem, if you’re the sort of barbarian who enjoys slant rhymes. Regardless, with the spores, the smoke, and the salt, one can perhaps see why the king who the duke served needed a law requiring the population to remain on the Rock. Oh, he gave reasons that involved important military phrases like “essential personnel,” “strategic resupply,” and “friendly anchorage,” but everyone knew the truth. The place was so inhospitable, even the smog found it depressing. Ships visited periodically for repairs, to drop off waste for the compost vats, and to take on new water. But each strictly obeyed the king’s rules: no locals were to be taken from Diggen’s Point. Ever. And so, Tress would sit on her steps in the evenings, watching ships sail away as a column of spores dropped from the lunagree and the sun moved out from behind the moon and crept toward the horizon. She’d sip salty tea from a cup with horses painted on it, and she’d think, There’s a beauty to this, actually. I like it here. And I believe I shall be fine to remain here all my life. Perhaps you were surprised to hear those last words. Tress wanted to stay on the Rock? She liked it there? Where was her sense of adventure? Her yearning for new lands? Her wanderlust? Well, this isn’t the part of the story where you ask questions. So kindly keep them to yourself. That said, you must understand that this is a tale about people who are both what they seem and not what they seem. Simultaneously. A story of contradictions. In other words, it is a story about human beings. In this case, Tress wasn’t your ordinary heroine—in that she was in fact decidedly ordinary. Indeed, Tress considered herself categorically boring. She liked her tea lukewarm. She went to bed on time. She loved her parents, occasionally squabbled with her little brother, and didn’t litter. She was fair at needlepoint and had a talent for baking, but had no other noteworthy skills. She didn’t train at fencing in secret. She couldn’t talk to animals. She had no hidden royalty or deities in her lineage, though her great-grandmother Glorf had reportedly once waved at the king. That had been from atop the Rock while he was sailing past, many miles away, so Tress didn’t think it counted. In short, Tress was a normal teenage girl. She knew this because the other girls often mentioned how they weren’t like “everyone else,” and after a while Tress figured that the group “everyone else” must include only her. The other girls were obviously right, as they all knew how to be unique—they were so good at it, in fact, that they did it together. Tress was generally more thoughtful than most people, and she didn’t like to impose by asking for what she wanted. She’d remain
quiet when the other girls were laughing or telling jokes about her. After all, they were having so much fun. It would be impolite to spoil that, and presumptuous of her to request that they stop. Sometimes the more boisterous youths talked of seeking adventure in foreign oceans. Tress found that notion frightening. How could she leave her parents and brother? Besides, she had her cup collection. Tress cherished her cups. She had fine porcelain cups with painted glaze, clay cups that felt rough beneath her fingers, and wooden cups that were rugged and well-used. Several of the sailors who frequently docked at Diggen’s Point knew of her fondness, and they sometimes brought her cups from all across the twelve oceans: distant lands where the spores were reportedly crimson, azure, or even golden. She’d give the sailors pies in exchange for their gifts, the ingredients purchased with the pittance she earned scrubbing windows. The cups they brought her were often battered and worn, but Tress didn’t mind. A cup with a chip or ding in it had a story. She loved them all because they brought the world to her. Whenever she sipped from one of the cups, she imagined she could taste far-off foods and drinks, and perhaps understand a little of the people who had crafted them. Each time Tress acquired a new cup, she brought it to Charlie to show it off. Charlie claimed to be the groundskeeper at the duke’s mansion at the top of the Rock, but Tress knew he was actually the duke’s son. Charlie’s hands were soft like a child’s rather than callused, and he was better fed than anyone else in town. His hair was always cut neatly, and though he took his signet ring off when he saw her, it left a slightly lighter patch of skin that made it clear he usually wore it—on the finger that marked a member of the nobility. Besides, Tress wasn’t certain what “grounds” Charlie thought needed keeping. The mansion was, after all, on the Rock. There had been a tree on the property once, but it had done the sensible thing and died a few years earlier. There were some potted plants though, which let him pretend. Grey motes swirled in the wind by her feet as she climbed the path up to the mansion. Grey spores were dead—the very air around the Rock was salty enough to kill spores—but she still held her breath as she hurried past. She turned left at the fork—the right path went to the mines—then wove up the switchbacks to the overhang. Here the mansion squatted like a corpulent frog atop its lily. Tress wasn’t certain why the duke liked it up here. It was closer to the smog, so maybe he liked the similarly tempered company. Climbing all this way was difficult—but judging by how the duke’s family fit their clothing, perhaps they figured they could use the exercise. Five soldiers watched the grounds—though only Snagu and Lead were on duty now—and they did their job well. After all,
it had been a horribly long time since anyone in the duke’s family had died from the myriad of dangers a nobleman faced while living on the Rock. (Those included boredom, stubbed toes, and choking on cobbler.) She’d brought the soldiers pies, naturally. As they ate, she considered showing the two men her new cup. It was made completely of tin, stamped with letters in a language that ran top to bottom instead of left to right. But no, she didn’t want to bother them. They let her pass, although it wasn’t her day to wash the mansion’s windows. She found Charlie around back, practicing with his fencing sword. When he saw her, he put it down and hurriedly took off his signet ring. “Tress!” he said. “I thought you wouldn’t be by today!” Having just turned seventeen, Charlie was two months older than she was. He had an abundance of smiles, and she had identified each one. For instance, the wide-toothed one he gave her now said he was genuinely happy to have an excuse to be done with fencing practice. He wasn’t as fond of it as his father thought he should be. “Swordplay, Charlie?” she asked. “Is that a groundskeeper’s task?” He picked up the thin dueling sword. “This? Oh, but it is for gardening.” He took a half-hearted swipe at one of the potted plants on the patio. The plant wasn’t quite dead yet, but the leaf Charlie split certainly wasn’t going to improve its chances. “Gardening,” Tress said. “With a sword.” “It’s how they do things on the king’s island,” Charlie said. He swiped again. “There is always war there, you know. So if you consider it, it’s natural the groundskeepers would learn to trim plants with a sword. Don’t want to get ambushed when you’re unarmed.” He wasn’t a good liar, but that was part of what Tress liked about him. Charlie was genuine. He even lied in an authentic way. And seeing how bad he was at telling them, the lies couldn’t be held against him. They were so obvious, they were better than many a person’s truths. He swiped his sword in the vague direction of the plant once more, then looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. She shook her head. So he gave her his “you’ve caught me but I can’t admit it” grin and rammed the sword into the dirt of the pot, then plopped down on the low garden wall. The sons of dukes were not supposed to plop. One might therefore consider Charlie to have been a young man of extraordinary talents. Tress settled in next to him, basket in her lap. “What did you bring me?” he said. She took out a small meat pie. “Pigeon,” she said, “and carrots. With a thyme-seasoned gravy.” “A noble combination,” he said. “I think the duke’s son, if he were here, would disagree.” “The duke’s son is only allowed to eat dishes with names that have weird foreign accents over their letters,” Charlie said. “And he’s never allowed to stop sword
practice to eat. So it is fortunate that I am not him.” Charlie took a bite. She watched for the smile. And there it was: the smile of delight. She had spent an entire day in thought, contemplating what she could make with the ingredients that had been on sale in the port market, hoping to earn that particular smile. “So, what else did you bring?” he asked. “Charlie the groundskeeper,” she said, “you have just received a very free pie, and now you presume to ask for more?” “Presume?” he said around a mouthful of pie. He poked her basket with his free hand. “I know there’s more. Out with it.” She grinned. To most she wouldn’t dare impose, but Charlie was different. She revealed the tin cup. “Aaah,” Charlie said, then put aside the pie and took the cup reverently in both hands. “Now this is special.” “Do you know anything about that writing?” she asked, eager. “It’s old Iriali,” he said. “They vanished, you know. The entire people: poof. There one day, gone the next, their island left uninhabited. Now, that was three hundred years ago, so no one alive has ever met one of them, but they supposedly had golden hair. Like yours, the color of sunlight.” “My hair is not the color of sunlight, Charlie.” “Your hair is the color of sunlight, if sunlight were light brown,” Charlie said. It might be said he had a way with words. In that his words often got away. “I’d wager this cup has quite the history,” he said. “Forged for an Iriali nobleman the day before he—and his people—were taken by the gods. The cup was left on the table, to be collected by the poor fisherwoman who first arrived on the island and discovered the horror of an entire people gone. She passed the cup down to her grandson, who became a pirate. He eventually buried his ill-gotten treasure deep beneath the spores. Only to be recovered now, after eons in darkness, to find its way to your hands.” He held the cup up to catch the light. Tress smiled as he spoke. While washing the mansion’s windows, she’d occasionally hear Charlie’s parents berate him for talking so much; they thought it silly and unbecoming of his station. They rarely let him finish. She found that a shame. For while yes, he did ramble sometimes, she’d come to understand it was because Charlie liked stories the way Tress liked cups. “Thank you, Charlie,” she whispered. “For what?” “For giving me what I want.” He knew what she meant. It wasn’t cups or stories. “Always,” he said, placing his hand on hers. “Always what you want, Tress. And you can always tell me what it is. I know you don’t usually do that, with others.” “What do you want, Charlie?” she asked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Other than one thing, that is. One thing I shouldn’t want, but I do. Instead, I’m supposed to want adventure. Like in the stories. You know those stories?” “The ones with fair
maidens,” Tress said, “who always get captured and don’t get to do much besides sit there? Maybe call for help now and then?” “I suppose that does happen,” he said. “Why are they always fair maidens?” she said. “Are there maidens that are unfair? Perhaps they mean ‘fare,’ as in food. I could be that kind of maiden. I’m good with food.” She grimaced. “I’m glad I’m not in a story, Charlie. I’d end up captured for certain.” “And I would probably die quickly,” he said. “I’m a coward, Tress. It’s the truth.” “Nonsense. You’re merely an ordinary person.” “Have you…seen how I respond around the duke?” She grew silent. Because she had. “If I weren’t a coward,” he said, “I’d be able to tell you things I cannot. But Tress, if you did get captured, I’d help anyway. I’d put on armor, Tress. Shining armor. Or maybe dull armor. I think if someone I knew were captured, I wouldn’t take the time to shine the armor. Do you think those heroes pause to shine it, when people are in danger? That doesn’t sound very helpful.” “Charlie,” Tress said, “do you have armor?” “I’d find some,” he promised. “I would figure something out, surely. Even a coward would be brave in the proper armor, right? There are lots of dead people in those types of stories. Surely I could get some from one of—” A shout sounded from within the mansion, interrupting the conversation. It was Charlie’s father grousing. So far as Tress had been able to tell, yelling at things was the duke’s one and only job on the island, and he took it very seriously. Charlie glanced toward the sounds and grew tense, his smile fading. But when the shouts didn’t draw near, he looked back at the cup. The moment was gone, but another took its place, as they tend to do. Not as intimate, but still valuable because it was time with him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “for bringing up silly things like fare maidens and robbing armor from dead people. But I like that you listen to me anyway. Thank you, Tress.” “I am fond of your stories,” she said, taking the cup and turning it over. “Do you think any of what you said about this cup is true?” “It could be,” Charlie said. “That’s the great thing about stories. But look at this writing—it says it did once belong to a king. His name is right here.” “And you learned that language in…” “…gardening school,” he said. “In case we had to read the warnings on the packaging of certain dangerous plants.” “Like how you wear a lord’s doublet and hose…” “…because it makes me an excellent decoy, should assassins arrive and try to kill the duke’s son.” “As you’ve said. But why then do you take off your ring?” “Uh…” He glanced at his hand, then met her eyes. “Well, I guess I’d rather you not mistake me for someone else. Someone I don’t want to have to be.” He smiled then, his
timid smile. His “please go with me on this, Tress” smile. Because the son of a duke could not openly fraternize with the girl who washed the windows. A nobleman pretending to be a commoner though? Feigning low station to learn of the people of his realm? Why, that was expected. It happened in so many stories, it was practically an institution. “That,” she said, “makes perfect sense.” “Now then,” he said, retrieving his pie. “Tell me about your day. I must hear.” “I went browsing through the market for ingredients,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I purchased a pound of fish—salmon, imported from Erik Island, where they have many lakes. Poloni marked it down because he thought it was going bad, but that was actually the fish in the next barrel. So I got my fish for a steal.” “Fascinating,” he said. “No one throws a fit when you visit? They don’t call their children out and make you shake their hands? Tell me more. Please, I want to know how you realized the fish wasn’t bad.” With his prodding, she continued elucidating the mundane details of her life. He forced her to do it each time she visited. He, in turn, paid attention. That was the proof that his fondness for talking wasn’t a failing. He was equally good at listening. At least to her. Indeed, Charlie found her life interesting for some unfathomable reason. As she talked, Tress felt warm. She often did when she visited—because she climbed up high and was closer to the sun, so it was warmer up here. Obviously. Except it was moonshadow at the moment, when the sun hid behind the moon and everything became a few degrees cooler. And today she was growing tired of certain lies she told herself. Perhaps there was another reason she felt warm. It was there in Charlie’s current smile, and she knew it would be in her own as well. He didn’t listen to her only because he was fascinated by the lives of peasants. She didn’t visit only because she wanted to hear his stories. In fact, on the deepest level it wasn’t about cups or stories at all. It was, instead, about gloves. Tress had noticed that a nice pair of gloves made her daily work go so much better. Now, she meant the good kind of gloves, made of a soft leather that molds to your hands as you use them. The kind that—if you oil them well and don’t leave them out in the sun—don’t ever grow stiff. The kind that are so comfortable, you go to wash your hands and are surprised to find you’re still wearing them. The perfect set of gloves is invaluable. And Charlie was like a good set of gloves. The longer she spent with him, the more right their time together felt. The brighter even the moonshadows were, and the easier her burdens became. She did love interesting cups, but a part of that was because each one gave her an
excuse to come and visit him. The thing growing between them felt so good, so wonderful, that Tress was frightened to call it love. From the way the other youths talked, “love” was dangerous. Their love seemed to be about jealousy and insecurity. It was about passionate shouting matches and more passionate reconciliations. It was less like a good pair of gloves, and more like a hot coal that would burn your hands. Love had always frightened Tress. But when Charlie put his hand on hers again, she felt heat. The fire she’d always feared. The coal was in there after all, just contained—like in a good stove. She wanted to leap into his heat, all logic discarded. Charlie froze. They’d touched many times before, of course, but this was different. This moment. This dream. He blushed, but let his hand linger. Then he finally raised it and ran his fingers through his hair, grinning sheepishly. Because he was Charlie, that didn’t spoil the moment, but instead only made it more sweet. Tress searched for the perfect thing to say. There were any number of lines that would have capitalized on that moment. She could have said, “Charlie, could you hold this for me while I walk around the grounds?” then offered her hand back to him. She could have said, “Help, I can’t breathe. Staring at you has taken my breath away.” She could even have said something completely insane, such as “I like you.” Instead she said, “Huuhhh. Hands are warm.” She followed it with a laugh that she choked on halfway through, exactly mimicking—by pure chance—the call of an elephant seal. It might be said that Tress had a way with words. In that her words tended to get in her way. In response, Charlie gave her a smile. A wonderful smile, more and more confident the longer it lasted. It was one she’d never seen before. It said: “I think I love you, Tress, elephant seal notwithstanding.” She smiled back at him. Then, over his shoulder, she saw the duke standing in the window. Tall and straight, the man wore military-style clothing that looked like it had been pinned to him by the various medals on the breast. He was not smiling. Indeed, she’d seen him smile only once, during the punishment of old Lotari—who had tried to sneak off the island by stowing away on a merchant ship. That seemed the duke’s sole smile; perhaps Charlie had used the entire family’s quota. Nevertheless, if the duke did have just one smile, he made up for it by displaying far too many teeth. The duke faded into the shadows of the house, but his presence loomed over Tress as she bade farewell to Charlie. On her way down the steps, she expected to hear shouting. Instead an ominous silence followed her. The tense silence that came after a lightning flash. It chased her down the path and around to her home, where she murmured something to her parents about being tired. She went to her room and waited
for the silence to end. For the soldiers to knock, then demand to know why the girl who washed the windows had dared to touch the duke’s son. When nothing like that came, she dared hope that she was reading too much into the duke’s expression. Then she remembered the duke’s singular smile. After that, worries nipped at her all night. She rose early in the morning, wrestled her hair into a tail, then trudged to the market. Here she’d sort through the day-old goods and near-spoiled ingredients for something she could afford. Despite the early hour, the market was abuzz with activity. Men swept dead spores off the path while people gathered in chattering knots. Tress braced herself for the news, then decided nothing could be worse than the awful anticipation she’d suffered all night. She was wrong. The duke had sent out a declaration: he and his family were going to leave the island that very day. Leave. Leave the island? People didn’t leave the island. Tress knew, logically, that wasn’t explicitly true. Royal officials could leave. The duke left on occasion to report to the king. Plus he’d earned all those fancy medals by killing people from a distant place where they looked slightly different. He’d apparently been quite heroic during those wars; you could tell because a great number of his troops had died, while he lived. But in the past, the duke had never taken his family. “The ducal heir has come of age,” the proclamation announced, “and so we shall present him for betrothal to the various princesses of the civilized seas.” Now, Tress was a pragmatic young woman. And so she only thought about ripping her shopping basket to shreds in frustration. She merely deliberated whether it would be appropriate to swear at the top of her lungs. She barely considered marching up to the duke’s mansion to demand he change his mind. Instead she went about her shopping in a numb haze, using the familiar action to give her suddenly crumbling life a semblance of normality. She found some garlic she was certain she could salvage, several potatoes that hadn’t withered too badly, and even some grain where the weevils were large enough to pick out. Yesterday, she’d have been pleased with this haul. Today she couldn’t think of anything but Charlie. It seemed so incredibly unfair. She’d only just acknowledged what she felt for him, and already everything was turning upside down? Yes, she’d been told to expect this pain. Love involved pain. But that was the salt in your tea—wasn’t there also supposed to be a dab of honey? Wasn’t there supposed to be—dared she wish—passion? She was to receive all of the detriments of a romantic affair with none of the advantages. Unfortunately, her practicality began to assert itself. So long as the two of them had been able to pretend, the real world hadn’t been able to claim them. But the days of pretending were over. What had she thought was going to happen? That the duke would let her
marry his son? What did she think she could offer someone like Charlie? She was nothing compared to a princess. Think of how many cups they could afford! In the pretend world, marriage was about love. In the real world, it was about politics. A word laden with a large number of meanings, though most of them boiled down to: This is a matter for nobles—and (begrudgingly) the very rich—to discuss. Not peasants. She finished her shopping and started up the path toward her home, where at least she could commiserate with her parents. But it appeared that the duke was wasting no time, for she saw a procession snaking down toward the docks. She turned around and walked back via a different path, arriving right after the procession—which began to load the family’s things onto a merchant ship. Nobody was allowed to leave the island. Unless they were, instead, somebody. Tress worried she wouldn’t get a chance to speak with Charlie. Then she worried that she would, but he wouldn’t want to see her. Mercifully, she caught him standing at the side of the crowd, searching among the gathering people. The moment he spotted her, he rushed over. “Tress! Oh, moons. I worried I wouldn’t find you in time.” “I…” What did she say? “Fare maiden,” he said, bowing, “I must take my leave.” “Charlie,” she said softly, “don’t try to be someone you aren’t. I know you.” He grimaced. He was wearing a traveling coat and even a hat. The duke considered hats improper wear except during travel. “Tress,” he said, softer, “I’m afraid I’ve lied to you. You see…I’m not the groundskeeper. I’m…um…the duke’s son.” “Amazing. Who would have thought that Charlie the groundskeeper and Charles the duke’s heir would be the same person, considering they’re the same age, look the same, and wear the same clothing?” “Er, yes. Are you angry at me?” “Anger is in line right now,” Tress said. “It’s seventh down, sandwiched between confusion and fatigue.” Behind them, Charlie’s father and mother marched up onto the ship. Their servants followed with the last of the luggage. Charlie gazed at his feet. “It seems I am to be married. To a princess of some nation or another. What do you think of that?” “I…” What should she say? “I wish you well?” He looked up and met her eyes. “Always, Tress. Remember?” It was hard for her, but after groping around for a moment, she found the words hiding in a corner, trying to avoid her. “I wish,” she said, seizing hold of them, “that you wouldn’t do that. Get married. To someone else.” “Oh?” He blinked. “Do you really?” “I mean, I’m sure they are very nice. The princesses.” “I believe it’s part of the job description,” Charlie said. “Like…have you heard of the things they do in stories? Resuscitate amphibians? Notice for parents that their children have wet the bed? One would have to be relatively kind to do these services.” “Yes,” Tress said. “I…” She took a deep breath. “I would still…rather you
didn’t marry one of them.” “Well then, I shan’t,” Charlie said. “I don’t believe you have a choice, Charlie. Your father wants you married. It’s politics.” “Ah, but you see, I have a secret weapon.” He took her hands and leaned in. Behind, his father moved up to the prow of the ship and looked down, scowling. Charlie, however, smiled a lopsided smile. His “look how sneaky I am” smile. He used it when he wasn’t being particularly sneaky. “What…kind of secret weapon, Charlie?” she asked. “I can be incredibly boring.” “That’s not a weapon.” “It might not be one in a war, Tress,” he said. “But in courtship? It is as fine a weapon as the sharpest rapier. You know how I go on. And on. And on.” “I like how you go on, Charlie. I don’t mind the on, in fact. I sometimes quite enjoy the on.” “You are a special case,” Charlie said. “You are…well, this is kind of silly…but you’re like a pair of gloves, Tress.” “I am?” she said, choking up. “Yes. Don’t be offended. I mean, when I have to practice the sword, I wear these gloves and—” “I understand,” she whispered. From atop the ship, Charlie’s father shouted for him to be quick. Tress realized then that—like Charlie had different kinds of smiles—his father had different kinds of scowls. She didn’t much like what the current one implied about her. Charlie squeezed her hands. “Listen, Tress. I promise you. I’m not going to get married. I’m going to go to those kingdoms, and I’m going to be so insufferably boring that none of the girls will have me. “I’m not good at much. I’ve never scored a single point against my father in sparring. I spill my soup at formal dinners. I talk so much, even my footman—who is paid to listen—comes up with creative reasons to interrupt me. The other day I was telling him the story of the fish and the gull, and he pretended to stub his toe, and…” The duke shouted again. “I can do this, Tress,” Charlie insisted. “I will do this. At each stop, I’ll pick out a cup for you, all right? Once I’ve bored the current princess to death—and my father has decided we need to move on—I’ll send you the cup. As proof, you see.” He squeezed her hands once more. “I’ll do it, not only because you listen. But because you know me, Tress. You’ve always been able to see me when others don’t.” He began turning to finally respond to his father’s shouts. Tress held on, clinging to his hands. Unwilling to let it end. Charlie gave her one last smile. And though he was plainly trying to act confident, she knew his smiles. This was his uncertain one, hopeful but worried. “You are my gloves too, Charlie,” Tress said to him. After that, she had to let go so he could jog up the plank. She’d imposed enough already. The duke forced his son belowdecks as the ship slipped off the dead grey
spores nearest the Rock and into the true verdant ocean. Wind caught the ship’s sails and it struck out toward the horizon, leaving a wake of disturbed emerald dust behind it. Tress climbed up to her house, then watched from the cliff until the ship was the size of a cup. Then the size of a speck. Then it vanished. After that, the waiting began. They say that to wait is the most excruciating of life’s torments. “They” in this case refers to writers, who have nothing useful to do, so fill their time thinking of things to say. Any working person can tell you that having time to wait is a luxury. Tress had windows to wash. Meals to cook. A little brother to watch. Her father, Lem, had never recovered from his accident in the mines, and though he tried to assist, he could barely walk. He helped Tress’s mother, Ulba, knit socks all day, which they sold to sailors, but with the expense of yarn they turned only a meager profit. So Tress didn’t wait. She worked. Still, it was an enormous relief when the first cup arrived. It was delivered by Hoid the cabin boy. (Yes, that’s me. What tipped you off? Was it perhaps the name?) A beautiful porcelain cup, without even a single chip in it. The world brightened that day. Tress could almost imagine Charlie speaking as she read the accompanying letter, which detailed the affections of the first princess. With heroic monotony, he had listed the sounds his stomach made when he lay in various positions at night. As that hadn’t been quite enough, he’d then explained how he kept his toenail clippings and gave them names. That had done it. Fight on, my loquacious love, Tress thought as she scrubbed the mansion’s windows the next day. Be brave, my mildly gross warrior. The second cup was of pure red glass, tall and thin, and looked like it could contain more liquid than it actually did. Perhaps it came from a particularly stingy tavern. He’d put off this princess by explaining what he’d had for breakfast in intricate detail, as he’d counted the pieces of the scrambled egg and categorized them by size. The third cup was an enormous solid pewter tankard with heft to it. Perhaps it was from one of those places Charlie had made up, where people always needed to carry weapons. Tress was reasonably certain she could knock out an attacker by swinging the tankard. The latest princess hadn’t been able to withstand an extended conversation about the benefits of various punctuation marks, including a few Charlie had invented. The fourth package’s card included no letter, only a small drawing: two gloved hands holding to one another. The cup had a painted butterfly on it with a red ocean underneath; she found it odd that the butterfly wasn’t terrified of the spores. Maybe it was a prisoner, forced to fly out over the ocean to its doom. The fifth cup never arrived. Tress tried to play it off, telling herself
that it must have been interrupted in transit. After all, any number of dangerous things could happen to a ship sailing the spores. Pirates or…you know…spores. But the months stretched long, each more tedious than the one before. Every time a ship arrived at the docks, Tress was there asking for mail. Nothing. She did this for months on end, until an entire year had passed since Charlie had left. Then, finally, a note. Not from Charlie, but from his father, sent to the entire town. The duke was returning to Diggen’s Point at long last, and he was bringing his wife, his heir…and his new daughter-in-law. Tress sat upon her porch, leaning against her mother, and watched the horizon. She held the last cup Charlie had sent. The one with the suicidal butterfly. Her lukewarm tea tasted of tears. “It wasn’t very practical,” she whispered to her mother. “Love rarely is,” her mother replied. She was a stout woman, with a cheerful kind of girth. Five years ago, she’d been thin as a reed. Then Tress had learned her mother was giving up a portion of her food to her children—from then on, Tress had taken over shopping and had made their money stretch further. A ship appeared on the horizon. “I’ve finally thought of what I should have said.” Tress pushed her hair out of her eyes. “When he left. I called him a glove. It isn’t so bad as it sounds. He’d just called me one, you see. I’ve had a year to think about it, and I realized I could have said something more.” Her mother squeezed her shoulder as the ship drew inevitably closer. “I should have said,” Tress whispered, “that I loved him.” Her mother joined her as she marched, like a soldier on the front lines facing cannon fire, down to the docks to greet the ship. Her father, with his bad leg, stayed behind—which was good. She feared he’d make a scene, the way he’d been grumbling about the duke and his son these last few months. But Tress could not find it in herself to blame Charlie. It wasn’t his fault that he was the duke’s son. It could have happened to anyone, really. A crowd had gathered. The duke’s letter said he wanted a celebration—and he was bringing food and wine. Whatever else the people thought of getting a new future duchess, they were not going to miss a chance at free alcohol. (As it has ever been, gifts are the secret to popularity. That and having the power to behead anyone who dislikes you.) Tress and her mother arrived at the back of the crowd, but Holmes the baker waved them up on his steps so they could see better. He was a kind man, always saving the ends of loaves, then selling them to her for pennies. So it was that Tress had a good view of the princess as she appeared on the deck. She was beautiful. Rosy cheeks, shimmering hair, delicate features. She was so perfect, the finest
painter in the seas couldn’t have made improvements in her portrait. Charlie had at last been able to become part of a story. With effort, Tress was happy for him. The duke appeared next, waving his hand so the people knew to cheer for him. “I present,” he shouted, “my heir!” A young man stepped up onto the deck beside the princess. And it was most definitely not Charlie. This young man was around the same age as Charlie, but he was six and a half feet tall and had a jaw so straight it made other men question if they were. He bulged with muscles—to the point that when he lifted his arm to wave, Tress swore she could hear the seams on his shirt begging for mercy. What under the twelve moons? “After an unfortunate accident,” the duke proclaimed to the hushed crowd, “I was forced to adopt my nephew Dirk and appoint him as my new heir.” He gave a moment for the crowd to take that in. “He’s an excellent fencer,” the duke continued, “and responds to questions with single-sentence answers. Sometimes using only one word! Also, he’s a war hero. He lost ten thousand men in the Battle of Lakeprivy.” “Ten thousand?” Tress’s mother said. “My, that’s a lot.” “We shall now celebrate Dirk’s marriage to the princess of Dormancy!” the duke shouted, raising his hands high. The crowd remained quiet, still confused. “I brought thirty kegs!” the duke shouted. They cheered. And so, a party it was. The townspeople led the way up to the feast hall. They remarked on the princess’s beauty and marveled that Dirk managed to balance so well while walking, considering his center of gravity must have been located somewhere around his upper sternum. Tress’s mother told her she would get answers, and followed the crowd. However, when Tress came out of her shock, she found Flik—one of the duke’s servants—waving to her from near the bottom of the gangplank. He was a kindly man, with wide ears that looked as if they were waiting for the right moment to bolt and fly away. “Flik?” she whispered. “What happened? An accident? Where is Charlie?” Flik glanced up at the train of people walking to the feast hall. The duke and his family had joined them, and were far enough away that any scowls would lose their potency due to wind resistance and gravitational drop. “He wanted me to give you this,” Flik said, handing her a small sack. It tinkled as she took it. Inside were broken pieces of ceramic. The fifth cup. “He tried so hard, Miss Tress,” Flik whispered. “Oh, you should have seen the young master. He did everything he could to put those women off. He memorized eighty-seven different types of plywood and their uses. He told every princess he met—at length—about his childhood pets. He even talked about religion. I thought they had ’im at the fifth kingdom, as that princess was deaf, but the young master went and threw up on her at dinner.” “He threw
up?” “Straight in ’er lap, Miss Tress.” Flik looked both ways, then waved for her to follow as he carried some luggage off the docks, leading them to a more secluded location. “But his father got wise, Miss Tress. Figured out what the young master was doing. The duke got right mad. Right mad indeed.” He gestured to the broken cup she was carrying in her sack. “Yes, but what happened to Charlie?” Tress asked. Flik looked away. “Please,” Tress asked. “Where is he?” “He sailed the Midnight Sea, Miss Tress,” he said. “Beneath Thanasmia’s own moon. The Sorceress took him.” Those names sent a chill through Tress. The Midnight Sea? The domain of the Sorceress? “Why would he ever do such a thing?” “Well, I right think it’s because his father forced him to,” Flik said. “The Sorceress isn’t married. And the king has long wanted to try to make her less of a threat. So…” “The king sent Charlie to try to marry the Sorceress?” Flik didn’t respond. “No,” Tress said, realizing it. “He sent Charlie to die.” “I didn’t say anything like that,” Flik said, hurrying off. “If anyone asks, I didn’t say anything like that.” Numb, Tress sat down on one of the dock pillars. She listened to the spores stirring, a sound like pouring sand. Even on an out-of-the-way island like hers, they knew of the Sorceress. She periodically sent ships in to raid the borders of the Verdant Sea, and it was incredibly difficult to fight her. Her stronghold lay hidden somewhere in the remote Midnight Sea, most dangerous of them all. And to get to it you had to cross the Crimson Sea, an unpopulated sea that was only slightly less deadly. Finding out Charlie had been captured by her was like finding out he’d gone up to one of the moons. Tress couldn’t just take one man’s word. Not on something like this. She didn’t dare bother others with questions, but she listened as the servants talked in hushed tones to inquisitive dock workers, eager to get the ship unloaded so they could join the party. They all gave similar answers. Yes, Charlie had been sent to the Midnight Sea. The duke and the king had decided it together, so it must have been a good idea. After all, someone had to try to stop the Sorceress from raiding. And Charlie, of all people, was…erm…the obvious choice…for…reasons. The implications horrified Tress. The duke and the king had realized Charlie was being difficult, and their solution had been to simply get rid of him. Dirk had been instated as heir within hours of receiving word that Charlie’s ship had vanished. In the eyes of the nobles, this was an elegant result. The duke got an heir he could finally be proud of. The king got an advantageous marriage alliance in Dirk’s bride from another kingdom. And everyone got to blame another death on the Sorceress, building public opinion toward another war. After three days, Tress at last dared impose on Brunswick—the duke’s steward—with a plea
for more information. As he liked her pies, he admitted that they’d received a ransom letter from the Sorceress. But the duke, in his wisdom, had judged it to be a trick to lure more ships into the Midnight Sea. The king had declared Charlie officially dead. Days passed. Tress lived them in a daze, realizing nobody cared. They called it politics and moved on. Though the new heir had the intellect of a soggy piece of bread, he was popular, handsome, and very good at getting other people killed. While Charlie had been…well, Charlie. Tress spent weeks gathering her courage, then went to ask the duke if he’d please pay the ransom. Such a bold move was difficult for her. She wasn’t a coward, but imposing upon people…well, it simply wasn’t something she did. But with her parents’ encouragement, she made the long trek and quietly made her request. The duke, in turn, called her a “hazelnut-haired strumpet” and forbade her from washing windows anywhere in town. She was forced to begin knitting socks with her parents for greatly reduced pay. As the weeks passed, Tress fell into a lethargy. She felt less like a mere human being, and more like a human who was merely being. Life on the Rock for everyone else returned to normal, easy as that. Nobody cared. Nobody was going to do anything. Until it was, two months after the duke’s return, that Tress made her decision. There was somebody who cared. Naturally, it would be up to that person to do something. Tress couldn’t impose on anyone else. She was going to have to go rescue Charlie herself. Once Tress made the decision, a knot came undone within her—like she’d finally worked a tangle out of a stubborn lock of hair. She would do it. She had no idea how, but she would find a way to get off the island, cross the terrible Crimson Sea, enter the Midnight Sea, and rescue Charlie. Yes, each of those problems seemed equally impossible. But somehow less impossible than imagining the rest of her life without him. First though, Tress went to talk to her parents. (Something more people in stories such as this should do.) She sat them both down, then explained her love for Charlie, her realization that no one would help him, and her determination to go find him—though she expressed worry that her absence might cause them hardship. Both listened quietly as she spoke. This was, in part, because she’d baked them quail-egg pies. It’s more difficult to object to your daughter’s temporary insanity when your mouth is full. Once she’d finished, Lem asked for seconds. It was a two-pie type of predicament. Ulba only finished half of her meal, sitting back and leaving the rest untouched. It was also a half-pie type of predicament. Tress’s father ate his second pie with deliberate care, digging down from the top, then eating outward, saving the crust for the end. Finally, he crunched through that. Then he stared at the plate for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Was it…perhaps…a three-pie predicament? “I think,” he said at last, turning to Ulba, “we are going to have to let her do this.” “It’s lunacy!” Tress’s mother said. “Leave the island? Travel to the Midnight Sea? Steal a prisoner from the Sorceress?” Lem felt at his mustache bristles with his napkin, cleaning out remnants of the meal. “Ulba, would you say our daughter is more practical than we are?” “Yes, I would normally say that,” Ulba said. “And would you also say she is more thoughtful than we are?” “She is always thinking,” Tress’s mother agreed. “How often does she impose upon people or ask for what she wants?” “Almost never.” “With all that in mind,” Tress’s father said, “it must be the right decision for her to leave. She will have considered all other options. Leaving the island to rescue the man she loves might sound like lunacy, but if every other option has been discarded as impossible, then insanity might—in this case—be practical.” Tress felt a small thrill inside. He agreed? “Tress,” her father said, leaning forward, resting his once-powerful arms on the tabletop, “we can care for your brother and ourselves if you go. Please do not worry about us; you are too accommodating in this regard. But neither of us can go with you. You understand this?” “Yes, Father,” she said. “I had always wondered if this island would prove too small for one such as you.” This made Tress frown. “Why do you act like that?” he asked her. “I don’t want to be rude.” “Then I demand you tell me, so that not speaking would be even more rude.” Her grimace worsened. “Well, why would you say the island is too small for me, Father? There’s nothing extraordinary about me. If anything, I am too small for it.” “Everything is extraordinary about you, Tress,” her mother said. “That’s why nothing in particular stands out.” Well, parents have to say things like that. They’re required to see the best in their children, otherwise living with the little sociopaths would drive a person mad. “I have your blessing then?” Tress asked them. “I still think this is a terrible idea,” Ulba noted. Lem nodded. “It is. But a terrible idea executed brilliantly has to be better than a brilliant idea executed terribly. I mean, look at pelicans.” “True,” Tress’s mother said. “But are we capable of either kind of brilliance?” “No,” Tress said. “But maybe we can take a whole lot of little steps that, when looked at together, might seem brilliant to somebody who doesn’t know us.” And so, they set to work. Tress was keenly aware that Charlie might be suffering, but she resolved to take her time. If she was going to do something as stupid as leave the island, she figured she should be meticulous about it. Perhaps that would dilute the stupidity with time, like how good flour could dilute the stale and improve the bake. She took to knitting socks at the cliffside so she could watch the ships that came and
left. Her mother began to make stockings at a table near the dock so she could take notes. They compared their findings each night, with Tress’s father listening and offering his thoughts. Though Tress had always possessed a curiosity about the mechanics of shipping, she now had a motive to learn the details. There were two types of people who regularly left the island. The first was, of course, the crews of the various ships. When they landed, they’d come ashore to shop or visit the local taverns. The Rock didn’t have much to recommend it, but Brick’s ale was known as some of the best in the region. Plus, with enough of it in you, the rest of the amenities looked a whole lot better. The second type of people who left the Rock were government officials. Not only the duke and his family, but other royal administrators, such as tax collectors, royal messengers, and cargo inspectors. They were allowed to leave when they saw fit. Members of the nobility who visited could also leave—and they usually did so quickly, after realizing their awful mistake. Tress’s biggest challenge would be the current cargo inspector. The severe woman authenticated the writs of visiting merchants, then examined cargo for stowaways. For a place where no one wanted to live, the Rock certainly had lots of things people wanted. Salt from the mines, Brick’s ale, even down and feathers from the gulls. The townspeople couldn’t sell these things except to ships that had a writ of commission from the king. The cargo inspector oversaw it all. When the current one had arrived earlier in the year, she’d refused to give her name, insisting they simply call her “Inspector.” She claimed she wouldn’t be remaining on the Rock long enough for names to matter. Tress couldn’t remember an inspector who had been more strict. This woman was always watching, swinging the rod she carried, searching for any excuse to deliver a punishment. She seemed too stern to be fully human. As if instead of being born, she’d been spawned—and instead of growing up, she’d metastasized. Tress and her mother spent hours covertly studying how the inspector searched outgoing shipments. Bags of feathers were weighed, while barrels of salt were stabbed, to search for possible stowaways. But some things being shipped—like large kegs of the local brew—couldn’t be opened without spoiling them. What if a person were to hide in a keg? Could they fill it with something like salt to make it weigh and balance correctly? Unfortunately, the inspector had an answer to such potential escape plans. When examining kegs, she employed a special listening device, like the ones physicians used for hearts. The inspector would linger on each keg, listening for someone moving or breathing inside. Reportedly, the inspector had extremely good hearing and could detect the very heartbeats of stowaways. Was there a way around this? A way to exploit the situation? One night, two weeks after she’d first decided to leave, Tress sat up with a notebook full of ideas. The Emerald
Moon shone bright as always, stoic and immobile in the sky. Spores poured downward in the distance, like crystalline moonlight. Her father limped over, settled down, then waved for her to show him her plans. He read them carefully, then nodded. “This could work.” “It could,” Tress said, yawning. “But I don’t think it will. I might be able to fool a bunch of sailors, but I’d never fool Brick, Gremmy, or Sor. They will know that something is wrong.” She rubbed her eyes. She’d been going without sleep, fraught as she was. (Worry, it might be said, is the carrion feeder of emotions. Drawn to other, better emotions like crows to a battlefield.) “Perhaps you don’t have to fool them,” her father said. “Perhaps they would be willing to help.” “I couldn’t ask that of them,” Tress said. “What if the inspector catches me? The others would get into too much trouble.” Her father nodded again. That was, of course, the sort of thing Tress would say. So he suggested she go to bed. Tress looked as if she were about to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation—which was saying something, considering how many of Charlie’s stories she’d survived without so much as a yawn. After she went upstairs, Lem retrieved his cane, put on his coat, and went out to do some advanced fathering. Lem was not a poor man. Now, you might say to me, “Hoid, this entire story has shown me the opposite. Lem’s family is always scrimping to survive.” And I would reply, “Please stop interrupting.” Lem was not poor, he simply didn’t have a lot of money. That night as Tress slept, Lem limped down the long road to Brick’s tavern. He knew for certain that Gremmy and Sor would be there. After all, the tavern didn’t close until two. Lem hobbled in. It was still early enough that the place was happy and boisterous. Evenings at the tavern, as you know, are like fires in a hearth. They live two lives. There’s the part where they’re roaring, festive, and cheerful. Then the evening begins to drift. The tavern becomes colder, darker, and quieter. Those who populate the tavern during its second life don’t want companionship. Just company. That was a few hours away, so Lem passed laughing miners sharing rounds and chatting about their boring boring. He spotted Gremmy and Sor together, as they often were. The dockworker and the dockmaster looked like opposite ends of a tack. Gremmy—with his squat body and flat head—had a haircut that said, “What’s the cheapest?” Sor was ostensibly Gremmy’s boss, but rarely brought the matter up, in case it might accidentally sound like he was offering to pay the tab. He sat tall and straight, and sipped at a beer because he didn’t want to be seen drinking the wine that he could afford. Brick, of course, was behind the bar, standing on his stool to be at eye height to his patrons. Tress needed all three men’s help, but Lem didn’t approach any of them.
Instead he took up position near the dartboard. Jule was playing, and offered Lem the next game, which he happily accepted. Lem threw the first dart several feet below the board, hitting the wood there on one of two knots that bore holes from a large number of darts. Jule eyed it approvingly and took his own throw, hitting near Lem’s. “I heard,” Lem said, taking his second throw, “you helped Gremmy with his tab again. Right nice of you, that was.” Jule nodded in appreciation. Next game was against old Rod, the innkeeper. Lem missed his first two throws, unfortunately. One was so off, it hit the dartboard. The third hit far beneath it though. “Nice,” Rod said. “Does that cane help with your balance, Lem? I swear you’ve gotten better at darts since the accident.” “Having a cane doesn’t help with darts, Rod,” Lem said. “Havin’ nothing to do though…” Rod grunted. “You still help Brick with the brewing on weekends?” Lem asked. “More often than not,” Rod said, and took his throws. After that Rod moved off, making way for another game, and another. As men came to play Lem, they read the unspoken script of his questions. They remembered that time when Rod had been drunk, and Lem had helped him home. And Jule, when he’d lost his roof during the windstorm, Lem had helped build a new one. There were dozens of similar stories. Lem was the human equivalent of a deep, pure well, always full of water when you needed it. He’d offer what you needed and ask nothing in return. In fact, he’d never bring it up again. Unless it was urgent. Unless it was important. In those cases, well, Lem might have been poor in the kind of currency that paid taxes. But he was downright wealthy when it came to the kind of currency that mattered. Word got around that night. Lem needed something, specifically from Gremmy, Sor, and Brick. Lem—the man with no debt—needed this favor so badly, he almost asked for it. In the language of men like these, that’s the equivalent of begging. Lem continued playing darts, and scored quite well. If you’re wondering at the odd targets they used, it should be noted that—one evening a couple years earlier—someone had noticed that a group of knots high on the wall looked an awful lot like a face. The duke’s face, in fact, if you imagined the grain of that wood as his hair, and the dart board as the family insignia on his chest. And, well, somewhere below that were two prominent knots in the wall. Right above where the legs would have been. Lem threw, and nearby men winced. “Nice,” one noted. As the night progressed, quiet, invisible ledgers were tallied. Decisions were reached, but not spoken. They didn’t need to be, for the next morning—too early for any of them—Tress found the barkeep, the dockmaster, and the dockworker on her doorstep. They demanded to help her in whatever she was doing. So it was that a little
over a week later, a large keg was deposited on the dock for inspection. Gremmy pushed it up alongside five others. The perfect ship had arrived for executing Tress’s plan, a vessel known as the Oot’s Dream. It needed to be a ship with a crew that didn’t often visit Diggen’s Point, and it needed a king’s writ authorizing the purchase of Brick’s ale. The sailors of the Oot’s Dream nearly took the kegs on board without inspection, but the captain had read the terms of his writ. “There is supposed to be an inspection, is there not?” he demanded. “We cannot leave port until it has been done.” So, the inspector was summoned. She arrived with a scowl that could have killed spores, her rod held at the ready to deal out justice. She examined the first keg, then used her listening device on it. Nearby, Sor peered at his pocket watch, counting the seconds, his heart thumping. Gremmy mopped his head as the inspector moved down the line of kegs. Brick nudged him, trying to urge him to not look so suspicious. Finally, the inspector listened to the last large keg. Just big enough for a girl to curl up inside, it was. The inspector listened closely, and found…nothing. She waved for the cargo to be loaded. The three conspirators exchanged glances. Until the inspector paused and turned back. Then in a sudden motion, she kicked over the last keg. It went thump. Then it went ouch. “I thought so!” the inspector said, grabbing a crowbar from the dock, then prying the keg’s top free to reveal the truth—a raven-haired young woman hiding inside, trying to sneak off the island. “Feathers as insulation!” the inspector cried. “You thought that would muffle the sounds enough to fool my ear?” Well, after that, things went downhill at speed. “This couldn’t have been managed without help!” the inspector snapped at the dockmaster. “This couldn’t have been managed without a conspiracy!” Poor Gremmy couldn’t take it, and started bawling right there. Brick tried to quiet him, while Sor wondered out loud if maybe he could order Gremmy to take his punishment for him. “The king has worried about your disloyalty,” the inspector said with a sneer. “He warned me about the people of this town. He will be told of this, that you all worked together to circumvent his laws. Pay for only five kegs, Captain.” The other five kegs were loaded onto the ship, and the ship took off toward the Emerald Sea’s Core Archipelago to deliver the ale. The inspector went with them—leaving her assistant to watch the docks—declaring she would tell the king personally of the betrayal at Diggen’s Point. Now, you might have noticed that the young woman in the barrel was not Tress, and you might think she was actually in one of the other kegs. She was not. Tress was not hiding in some other piece of cargo. Tress was not hiding at all. Tress was the inspector. Tress thought she could see the real inspector arriving on
the docks in the distance. A tiny irate figure who gestured in anger at the fleeing ship. She would be told that the captain had insisted on leaving without inspection. By now, Gret—the dockmaster’s daughter—would have climbed out of the hollow keg and left. There would be no other witnesses left on the Rock except for Brick, Gremmy, and Sor—whose debts had now been paid. Just like that, Tress was free. This time, Diggen’s Point was the thing that grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Practically everything and everyone that Tress had ever known lived on that island. And soon she wouldn’t even be able to see it. Leaving didn’t feel exciting. It felt heavy. Every child looked forward to the day when they could choose a different path from the one their parents were on. Tress sincerely hoped she hadn’t decided on one that led straight off a cliff. But she was free. She’d escaped without a hitch. She wondered if maybe her other tasks would be accomplished with similar ease. She could wonder this because—lacking formal training in the arts—Tress had no concept of dramatic irony. She turned her gaze to the sky. It was so blue out here, away from the mining smog. That felt immoral somehow, as if she were seeing the sky without its clothing. The air smelled…not of salt anymore, but pure and clean. And dangerous. No salt meant free spores. Fortunately, the deck’s railing was lined with silver. And surely people wouldn’t travel the Emerald Sea if it weren’t reasonably safe. The ship’s sails billowed and shook as the vessel turned, sailors calling to one another as they worked. They’d been forced to take her; the king’s writs of purchase obligated captains to ferry government officials who required passage away from the Rock. So the crew left Tress alone as she stood at the back of the ship, on the quarterdeck, near the wheel where the captain chatted with the helmsman. Tress wore an inspector’s uniform, with a bright red and gold coat going down past her knees. They’d stolen it the night before; it was the spare one from the inspector’s closet. Tress’s mother had altered it perfectly to appear as if it had been made for Tress. And, of course, a “mistake” on the dock register in the inspector’s room had indicated the wrong time for the Oot’s Dream to leave the Rock, so she’d shown up late. The only things Tress had brought with her were a small bundle of clothing and a bag of cups. Her favorite among them was the fourth cup that Charlie had sent. The one with the butterfly on it. Something about the simple design struck her. She was glad the sailors ignored her, because it was difficult to cover up how much she gawked at the green spore ocean. Tress wasn’t aware of the science of what made the ship float, but it’s actually rather interesting. Vents deep below on the ocean floor sent up bursts of air. With this agitation, the spores became as
liquid. The phenomenon is possible on any world, including your own. Fluidization, it’s called. Pump air up underneath a box of sand, and you’ll see something similar to what Tress was watching. Bubbles burst from the spores all around, making the ocean churn and undulate. It slapped the ship’s hull and flowed away, splashing, making waves. It wasn’t quite like water; it was too thick, and the tips of the waves broke apart into puffs of green spores. In fact, the sea was wrong in the way that solely something almost right can be. Familiar, yet alien. As if it were liquid’s disrespectful cousin who told inappropriate jokes at Grandma’s funeral. The ship sailed like any ship would on water. But it could move only as long as the air bubbled up from below; the people on Tress’s world called this phenomenon “the seethe.” It came and went randomly, fluidizing entire oceans for days at a time. Periodically it would cease—stranding all the ships sailing upon it. Interruptions were usually short, but occasionally lasted hours or even days. A wave broke high against the side of the ship, tossing up a burst of spores. Tress cried out despite herself and backed away, but the spores turned grey, dying. “Haven’t sailed much, eh?” the captain asked from nearby. He had terrible breath, a crispy tan complexion, and stringy, matted hair. Imagine him as the answer to the question: “What if that gunk from your shower drain were to come to life?” Still, he was the best option Tress had found in her weeks of watching, so she wasn’t going to complain. Even if he did laugh at her again the next time the spores surged. “We have silver enough,” the captain said, waving toward the trim on the railing and built into the wood of the deck. A line of it ran up the mast. “Kills any spores that come too close, Inspector. You’re safe.” Tress nodded, trying to look as if she didn’t care. But she kept her coat buttoned up tight and found herself breathing shallowly and wishing for a salted mask. Instead, she brought out her notebook and worked on her plan. She’d made it off the island. Next, she needed only to wait. The vessel would deliver her to the king’s island in the Core Archipelago. From there, Tress had to find her way into the palace so she could get a copy of Charlie’s ransom note. That would be the easiest way to free him. Yes, paying off a ransom herself would be next to impossible, but it did seem easier than sneaking across the Midnight Sea to confront the Sorceress. Hopefully if she could find a way to pay—or persuade the king to pay—Charlie would be delivered to her, safe. The deck creaked as the captain stepped nearer. “You have beautiful hair, Inspector,” he said. “The color of a good cup of mead!” Tress snapped her book closed. “Perhaps I will retire to my cabin now.” He smiled. The man was exactly the sort of person who
thought every woman in the room was thinking about him. Which they were, as each desperately hoped he would head the other direction. He waved for Tress to join him in walking down from the quarterdeck toward the cabins below it. Thankfully, the captain left her without needing to be ordered. The room was small but private, and the door locked. Tress felt a great deal better once she was safe inside. She poured some water into her butterfly cup and settled onto the bunk to think. It all felt so much more real now. Was she really doing this? Had she really left her home? What were those strange colorful pigeons, and why were they talking to her? This last part was a side effect of the poison the captain had ordered put in Tress’s drink. There are, unfortunately, no talking pigeons in this story. Merely talking rats. Tress awoke. That was nice. Tress very much approved of not dying on the first day of her adventure. However, she had a pounding headache, and all she could see was blackness. Did one see blackness, or was it the mark of not seeing? Can you hear silence? Taste nothing? Well, judging by the creaking of the wood, she was in the ship’s hold. She groaned and sat up, then felt around. Her fingers met bars. She was in a cage. “You won’t find a way out,” said a quiet voice. It sounded male, but had a pinched quality to it, like someone had taken the speaker’s words and was squeezing out the juice. “Who are you?” Tress asked softly. “A fellow prisoner. I heard them talking about you. You’re an inspector?” “Yes,” Tress lied. “For the king. I can’t believe they’d dare assault me.” On the inside, Tress was panicking. The captain must have figured out her ruse. The ship would be returning to Diggen’s Point to find the real inspector, and everything would fall apart. No. It had already fallen apart. She sat down, her back to some bars. “Lunatic choice you made, Inspector,” the voice said. “You boarded the ship alone? How did you think this would play out? Were you planning to take them all on your own?” “Take them?” Tress asked. “Where?” “You…don’t know?” In case you’re new to this, nothing good ever follows a question like that. “This is a smugglers’ vessel,” the voice explained. “They forged mercantile writs from the king. It lets them buy and sell goods without paying tariffs.” Tress groaned, thumping her head against the bars. “And they thought I was suspicious of them. They thought that’s why I got on their ship.” “It wasn’t?” the voice said, then started laughing. Or rather, Tress thought it was laughter. It came out as a high-pitched series of squeaks—like the sound of a hyperventilating donkey. “It was completely coincidental? Oh, you poor woman.” Tress folded her arms tight in the darkness, suffering the mockery. At least she wasn’t going to be taken back to Diggen’s Point to be turned in to the duke. Instead the
smugglers would undoubtedly murder her and dispose of the body. She decided not to cry. Crying would be utterly impractical. So it was settled. Absolutely no crying. Her eyes vetoed the resolution. “Hey,” the voice said. “Hey, it’s all right. At least you got off the Rock, right?” “You know about the Rock?” Tress asked, wiping her eyes. Stupid things. Probably just wanted something to do, with the not seeing and all. “I was on my way there for a visit,” the voice said, “before the sailors found me out. Locked me in here.” “Why would you visit Diggen’s Point?” Tress demanded. “I have my reasons,” the voice said. “My kind are mysterious like that.” “Your kind?” Tress asked. “Here, let me show you. Might want to shade your eyes.” A moment later light poured into the chamber, spilling from a small hole in the hull. Tress blinked, pushing her frazzled hair out of her eyes as she made out her surroundings. She was in a cell built into part of the ship’s hold, maybe four feet on each side and not much taller. Across from her, lashed on top of some boxes, was a much smaller cage. In it sat a common black rat. He’d pulled a cork from the hole with his little paws. “I keep this thing plugged,” he said, “so they don’t know about it. Don’t want them to move the cage, you know? I…” The rat trailed off as he turned and saw her for the first time, then cocked his head. “What?” Tress asked. The rat was silent. The only sounds came from the ship rocking in the spores and the boots thumping on the deck above. Tress pulled back. She didn’t like the way the rat stared at her with those beady little eyes. “What?” she demanded. “Didn’t get a good look at you when they brought you down. I didn’t realize…didn’t expect you to be so young. You’re no royal inspector.” “I have a young face.” “I’m sure,” the rat said. He moved to the edge of his cage and sat on his haunches, leaning forward, tiny paws together. It was a very ratlike pose, which Tress supposed made sense. “You’re sneaking off the island,” he said. “Why under the moons would you do that?” “I told you,” Tress snapped. “Nobody wants to be on Diggen’s Point. Anyway, the sailors bought my act, so you don’t need to keep staring at me like that. My escape plan worked.” “Save for the whole ‘accidentally frightening a bunch of smugglers’ part, I assume.” Tress wiped her eyes once more. “Can we maybe backtrack on this conversation? It looks like we missed the main roadway. I don’t mean to be rude, but you are a rat.” “Seems self-evident.” “But you’re talking.” “Again, self-evident.” “Yes, but…but how?” “With my mouth,” he said. “Also, reference my previous answer.” She bit her lip. It was a testament to her state of mind that she’d pushed him that far already. Was asking a talking rat why he could talk impolite? She
probably would have been offended if someone had asked her why she could talk. The rat moved to pick up the cork. “There’s a story behind how I can talk, I suppose. It’s not one I’m interested in telling.” “Huh,” Tress said. “What?” “It’s just…I’m not used to people saying things like that.” The rat nibbled a bit on the cork, then moved it toward the hole. “Could you leave the hole open?” Tress asked. “A little longer?” The rat sighed, as he nearly had the cork positioned. But he lowered it to the cage floor again. The boots up above were stomping around quickly. Perhaps they were changing course? “So…smugglers,” Tress said. “Smugglers,” the rat agreed, sniffing the air. “Got caught chewing on their rations, and had to either give up my secret and talk, or get tossed overboard as a pest. Turns out they think a talking rat might be worth something. I considered warning them I didn’t have anything interesting to say, then thought it unwise to give them reason to doubt my value.” The rat gnawed more on the cork. “Because of the impending war, every second captain is a smuggler these days. So you shouldn’t feel too bad for falling in with some.” “The war?” Tress asked. “With the Sorceress,” the rat said. “She’s been sending more ships in to raid, and the king has been building up his forces—commandeering merchant vessels like a child reaching for treats. Seeing how easily you can find yourself conscripted these days, it’s no wonder so many sailors are having a bout of prolapsed morals, so to speak.” “Do you think I could deal with them?” Tress said. “Explain that I’m not actually an inspector?” “Oh, suddenly you aren’t?” “I’m whatever gets me out of this cage. A friend of mine is in trouble, and I need to rescue him.” “Him?” the rat said. “You left your home for a man?” Tress remained silent. “Hon, no man is worth getting killed over,” the rat said. “If you manage to escape, you should head on home to your rock.” “He’s not just any man,” Tress said. “And—” She cut off as a loud pop sounded somewhere outside. Tress cocked her head. What an odd noise to hear out on the ocean. Whatever could it be? Fate answered her by sending a cannonball, priority delivery, right through the ship’s hull. The cannonball crashed through the far wall and soared across the center of the hold. When it hit the opposite wall, it burst into shards of wet ceramic and what looked like metal beads. Those scattered to the floor, mixing with splinters of broken wood. The deck above clamored with the sounds of scrambling feet and screaming men. “What’s happening?” Tress shouted toward the rat. He’d pulled back against the far corner of his cage, cringing and shivering. “We’re being attacked!” “I mean,” Tress said, “what can you see out there? Go look through your hole!” Though the cannonball had left a rather large second hole, it wasn’t close to Tress and didn’t
let her see much of the outside world. Unnervingly, each time the ship crossed a wave, the new hole sank low enough to let spores spill in. She could see those just fine. “I spot one other ship,” the rat said. “Can’t see a flag.” “Pirates?” Tress asked. “Pirates shouldn’t be firing, at least not without demanding surrender first,” the rat said. “What’s the good of sinking all your potential booty under an ocean of spores? Must be a royal ship who found out this lot were smugglers, and decided to deal with them the civilized way.” “Civilized?” Tress screamed as another shot sounded outside. This one appeared to miss, fortunately. “Takes a civilization to build a cannon. What? You think there are forests out there growing them spontaneously?” Each pop of the cannon made her wince, but the immediate danger was those spores. As the ship rocked, more and more of them flooded the hold, covering the floor, spreading toward her in a green pool. Some of the spores died, turning a dull grey, but the silver in the deck above was far enough away that many survived. Inching closer to her cage each time the ship climbed a wave and tipped the floor in her direction. Though sometimes described as dust, aether spores are thicker—more like fine sand. So they don’t float around in the air like dust does, without a strong breeze. Tress pulled her shirt collar up over her mouth anyway, watching with terror. For the spores were rolling toward the fragments of the broken cannonball—and the water it had sprayed all over the wall. In that moment, Tress was given a crash course in naval warfare upon the spore seas. Yes, the enemy could have used uninteresting metal cannonballs. Instead they used ones designed to blast open and dump water—making each shot far more interesting. (Assuming you, like me, find creative deaths interesting.) Some living spores finally touched the water. They grew in a flash. Imagine lightning, but made of vines. They burgeoned, sweeping around one another, almost instantly growing into a jagged pattern some ten feet tall. Within moments a snarl of vines—vaguely shaped like a tree—had grown in the hold, with vine “roots” cracking the wood underneath and vine “branches” pushing up to bow the deck above. Tress couldn’t help imagining some of those spores growing /her mouth or nose. She got a few things wrong, but she understood the basics. In case you have a more limited imagination, it begins with a feeling like hands forcing your jaws apart. Then vines fill your throat, growing wherever they can find space, snaking down into your lungs. They knock loose teeth, and drill up through your soft palate and into your sinuses. They don’t usually reach your brain though, so you get the pleasure of suffocating to death as you feel the vines rip your eyes out of their sockets. You’re welcome. Fortunately for Tress, a sailor soon stumbled down the steps with a lantern, wearing a cloth mask and bearing some odd equipment. Among it
was a strange device called a splintbox. (A device which—I happen to know by pure coincidence—is exactly the right size to carry a human head.) The sailor held the splintbox up beside the hole in the hull, then carefully poured a few drops of water in the top. A sheet of reddish-pink stone grew out the front of the box. Translucent, like cloudy crystal, the stone fused with the wood on the sides, plugging the hole. The sailor cut the sheet off the front of the box with a silver knife. Every ship on Tress’s world had at least one sailor trained to handle and use spores, known as a sprouter. Tress watched in amazement. She’d heard of that substance: roseite. It grew from the pink-red spores of the Rose Sea, which bordered her own Emerald Sea. Unlike the Crimson Sea or the Midnight Sea, the Rose Sea was inhabited—which meant its spores weren’t quite as deadly as others’. Still, it seemed plenty dangerous to her. Growing vines in your mouth was bad enough. Crystals sounded even worse. Yet the sailor had casually used them to repair the ship, leaving the roseite on the hole like a bandage. You could use spores? For practical purposes? Just like that, Tress’s lesson in naval warfare was shoved aside by a lesson in utilitarian economics. With the hole patched, the sprouter unslung the device he’d been carrying over his shoulder; it looked like a pole with a plate on the bottom end. When he waved it over the floor, the remaining green spores turned grey. The plate, Tress realized, had to be made of silver. He gave the vine growth a quick glance, but apparently decided it wouldn’t do more harm for the moment, and so left it and walked toward the steps to the upper deck. “Wait!” Tress called to him, grabbing the bars at the front of her cage. “That has to be a royal ship out there, right? If it’s firing on us, rather than demanding ransom or surrender? They’re here to exterminate some smugglers.” “Better hope they don’t!” the sailor said to her. “You’ll go down with us, inspector or not.” He made a rude gesture toward her, which on their planet involved flipping his fingers in her direction, as if flinging water. “That’s my exact point!” Tress said. “If they knew there was a royal inspector on board, do you think they’d be so eager to fire on us?” The sprouter stared at her a long moment, then scrambled to grab the keys to her cell. The sight that confronted Tress as she emerged from the hold could have unnerved a dragon. The ship that had been firing on them was far closer than she’d expected—close enough that she could make out the sailors on the deck. The enemy ship had two cannons, one on the foredeck, one aft. Now, you might have heard stories of great sailing ships with a dozen or more guns on each side. They hadn’t reached such heights on Tress’s world; many ships had only
one cannon, and they kept them on swiveling platforms. Often a ship’s crew had a cannonmaster in charge of aiming. The Oot’s Dream had a single small cannon on the foredeck. At the moment, the smuggler ship was heeling hard as part of a weaving maneuver, rather than firing. Tress didn’t know sailing mechanics; she simply saw the enemy ship looming and watched with a slack jaw as their front cannon lobbed a shot toward the Oot’s Dream. It hit the spore sea starboard amidships, and—unlike the cannonball that had broken through the hull earlier—this one smashed on first impact, releasing its cargo of water into the spores. A treelike burst of vines exploded into existence inches away from Tress. More twisted than a librarian’s love life (trust me, they’re a strange bunch), it writhed with overlapping tendrils. It reminded Tress of her hair most mornings, before she got out her brush. The gnarled vines grabbed hold of the ship, latching onto its gunwale. The vines that strayed near silver greyed and died, like spores did, but they held on tight nonetheless. It seemed this method of bombardment could rip a ship apart, silver or no silver. Either that or the vines would get a good hold and strand the ship in place, leaving it easy pickings. Tress was shoved aside as sailors with axes rushed over to attack the vines in an attempt to cut the ship free. “That was too close!” the captain said, shouting to the helmsman. “Keep weaving, Gustal!” He stood nearby, and Tress could—regrettably—smell his breath as he spun on the sailor who had pulled her up the steps. “What under the moons are you doing with that woman, Dorp!” “She’s a royal inspector, Cap’n,” Dorp said, gesturing to Tress. “I figured maybe if they saw ’er, they wouldn’t be so keen on sinkin’ us. Cap’n, sir!” The captain’s expression turned from angry to excited. “Dorp, that’s the first good idea you’ve ever had. Drag her to the quarterdeck. Hoist her up high, if you have to, and let’s pray to the moons it gives those yaldsons pause!” Tress bore the treatment with as much dignity as she could manage. They soon had her standing up on the rim of the quarterdeck, waving for everything she had, hoping that the red coat would persuade them to hold their fire. Unfortunately, the attacking ship either didn’t see or didn’t care, because the next cannonball hit the quarterdeck bulkhead, smashing through and causing quite a clutter in the captain’s cabin. The sprouter cursed. “What a stupid idea,” he snapped, dragging Tress by her collar as he went belowdecks again to check for more leaks and return her to her cage. Unexpectedly, a second after they reached the hold, the ship lurched. It was so jarring that Tress tripped and fell face-first into the dead spores that covered the floor of the hold. She scrambled to her knees and wiped away the spores with frantic hands, panicking. What if a few live ones remained? The sprouter had let go of
her collar. “No,” he said, turning to stare up the steps. “No, no, no.” The ship groaned around them, sliding to a halt. Then it fell quiet. Even the footsteps stilled—and it took her a moment to realize what had happened. The seethe—the bubbles that fluidized the spores—had stopped. The ship had essentially run aground on the ocean itself. Until the seethe began again, they’d be trapped. Stuck in one place. “Nononono!” the sprouter cried, forgetting Tress and running up the steps. The reason for his panic occurred to Tress almost immediately. The enemy cannon was already pointed straight at them. And they were no longer moving. A second later, a cannonball blasted through the aft hull, ripping a wide hole. Tress screamed and covered her head as the cannonball soared over her and crashed right through the front of the ship, never shattering as it was supposed to. Tress cowered on the floor, awaiting the next inevitable shot. Then, through the terror, her practicality asserted itself. She turned, shifting wood debris off her back, and looked out through the large new hole in the hull. Across the ocean at the enemy ship, which was also stuck in place several hundred feet away. The sea had become, essentially, solid. At least as solid as a sand dune. It was made of deadly spores, but it could be walked on. And while the people on that enemy ship might wish her harm, those on the Oot’s Dream most certainly did. It didn’t take long for her to make the decision. She threw herself to her feet and pushed past the vine growth in the hold, making for the hole. “Watch out!” the rat said from behind as something dropped on her. The sprouter, seeing her move, had leaped off the broken steps above to tackle her. “Here now,” he said. “That’s a right good idea. You’re gonna give me that coat, and I’m gonna go plead for my life with those fellows.” He began to rip at her clothing, and she frantically felt around for a weapon. Her fingers latched onto something metal and she swung it up, clocking the sailor on the head. He dropped like a streaker’s trousers. Tress gasped, panting on the floor, then glanced at what she’d grabbed. A pewter cup. Wait, her pewter cup. Huh, she thought. Didn’t expect to be right about that. She searched around and spotted her things nearby, along with some other items that had been tossed around in the explosion. Then she cried out as another cannonball hit the ship somewhere above, making men scream. She grabbed her sack, then stumbled over to the rat’s cage. “Almost forgot about you,” she said. “Sorry.” “It’s a common human failing,” he said. “Don’t get me started on the way your people talk about my kind.” “Brace yourself,” Tress said. “I don’t have anything to cut that cage free, so…” She raised her heavy metal cup, then swung it down and broke off the little lock. The rat shoved out with his snout, then leaped onto
her arm and climbed up her shoulder. She supposed that, with spores all over the floor, she didn’t blame him for getting up high. “The name is…” The rat coughed. “The name is…Huck. That’ll do, as I don’t think my real name will work.” “Something in rat language that a human couldn’t say?” “Basically,” he said as she turned and walked over to the hole in the ship. “You?” “Tress,” she said. “Well then, Tress,” Huck said, “you ready to do something absolutely insane?” “Such is, unfortunately, becoming a theme to my life,” Tress said, then stepped out onto the spores. The spores scrunched under her feet. Tress tried to breathe slowly and shallowly. Even with her shirt once more pulled up over her mouth, she felt exposed. All it would take was a single spore. Another cannonball whooshed overhead, crunching through the ship. However, she walked carefully, slowly, to keep from kicking spores up into the air. Steady and deliberate, that was the way. Despite her entire body being taut with anxiety, knowing that at any moment the seethe could start again—and she’d sink to her death. “Now that’s a sight,” Huck said softly from her shoulder. Tress risked a glance back. For some reason, a flock of seagulls was beginning to gather around the Oot’s Dream. Several sailors had been wounded in the most recent shot, and one man had fallen off the side of the ship. He was bleeding. The poor man thrashed and screamed, spraying blood across the spores—which grew in bursts, undulating and latching onto the ship like enormous tentacles from some unseen leviathan. The sailor disappeared in the contorted explosion of vines, but she could hear him screaming in there somewhere as he was crushed, more and more blood leaking out to feed the hungry ocean. Gulls dived at the vines and attacked them with apparent gusto. What was that about? Tress turned forward and continued, step after step, toward the enemy ship. Though it had seemed close from the hold, out here it felt miles away. “I’ve never done this before,” Huck said from her shoulder. “You know. Walked out on it.” “Me either,” Tress said, trying to prevent herself from hyperventilating. Keep. Moving. Forward. “I don’t mean to alarm you,” Huck said, “but the seethe will probably start up again any minute now…” Tress nodded. She knew the basics. There were long stillings now and then, maybe every day or two, when the seethe stopped for several hours. There were times when it would stop for a day or more, though those were rare. Most stillings were only a few minutes long. As if the seethe were some singer deep under the ocean, pausing briefly to draw in another breath. She tried to pick up her pace, but the spores were deceptively difficult to walk on. Her feet slid, and moons above, she hadn’t laced her boots tight enough. She could feel spores getting into her shoes, slipping between the fibers of her socks and rubbing against her skin. How much sweat would it
take to set one off? Just keep moving. Step. After. Step. She heard scrunching noises approaching and glanced behind her. One of the smugglers had seen what she was doing, and was running toward the enemy ship. He was kicking up so many spores. She tensed, bracing herself, worried that— Snap. A mess of vines burst from his eyes, and he dropped, writhing, making more grow up around him. Tress kept going, but another sailor passed her, walking with a confident steady stride. Faster than she dared. They were over halfway to the other ship. Please, Emerald Moon, she prayed. Please. Just a little more time. She could see sailors gathering on the foredeck of the other ship. They’d stopped firing. They didn’t need weapons any longer. The smuggler ship cracked and popped in the distance as an overwhelming number of vines grew up on the side where the bleeding sailor had fallen. Tress felt the eyes of the enemy sailors on her. One figure in particular—standing right at the prow of the ship, wearing a hat with a tall black feather—looked ominous. The shadowed figure raised a long musket and aimed straight at Tress. Then the figure turned slightly. The musket shook, and the crack sounded a fraction of a second later. The sailor who had been striding toward the ship in front of Tress dropped, his blood starting another eldritch spire of twisting vines. Tress stopped, then braced herself for a second shot. When it didn’t come, she started forward again. It was too late to turn back, and certain death lay that direction anyway. So she pressed forward, feeling an awful tension, like a bowstring being drawn farther, and farther, and even farther. She kept waiting for that crack, or for the ground to start trembling beneath her feet. Or for a spore to slip into her nose or to touch one of her eyes. When she at last reached the shadow of the grounded enemy ship, it felt like she’d been walking for an eternity with a knife right at her throat. Sailors gathered at the ship’s rail and stared down at her. She spotted no uniforms, except maybe on that figure in the center. With the black-plumed hat, their face was lost in shadow as the sun shone from near the horizon, silhouetting them. No one said anything. The sailors didn’t offer Tress a place on their ship, but they didn’t shoot her either. So, lacking any other options, Tress tied her sack of cups to her belt and tried to find a way to climb up. Unfortunately, the keel and hull of the ship were of smooth brown wood, and after a few attempts Tress knew that scaling it would be impossible. “I’m sorry,” Huck said. “I think I must have been wrong. Those don’t look like the king’s people up above, Tress. I wish…I wish that I…” Tress gave their situation a moment of thought. Then she wiped her finger to remove any spores before putting it to her mouth. She got some spittle on
her fingernail, took a deep breath, and flicked it toward the spores a few feet away. A midsized vine “tree” grew from the spores, curling around itself and reaching into the sky. Tress grabbed it, feeling the rough coils beneath her fingers, like rope. Then she climbed. “That’s it!” Huck said, scrambling off her shoulder and up higher along the vine. “Come on, Tress. Hurry!” She did her best, pulling herself up some ten feet until she could barely reach a porthole on the side of the ship. Huck leaped onto her shoulder again as she grabbed ahold and clung to the hull. She could see the ship’s name there, painted in golden letters. The Crow’s Song. Up above, some of the sailors were laughing, chatting with a jovial nonchalance about her struggle. Spores streamed from her boots as she hung there, scrabbling for a foothold on a small ledge running along the outside of the ship below the portholes. “There it is,” Huck said. “Listen.” It started as a low humming that vibrated the ship. Moments later the spores began churning, air rising up through them. The ship lurched—nearly shaking Tress free. Orders above led to unfurled sails. Tress’s vine ladder slipped away, sinking into the suddenly fluid ocean. She glanced at the Oot’s Dream as it listed to one side, dragged down by the many vines that wrapped it. The entire thing bobbed, then capsized, before finally sinking entirely. Vines mushroomed up around the vanishing wreck as men screamed, giving their water to the ocean, and the flock of gulls scattered. Tress’s current ship sailed past the wreck, but the Oot’s Dream was gone before they arrived. Just three lonely crewmembers remained. Two on pieces of wreckage, one in a small lifeboat. All three wore scarves over their mouths, their eyes squeezed shut. Two shots sounded from the deck, killing the two on the wreckage. For some reason, the Crow’s Song left the man in the lifeboat alive. The sole remnant of the smuggler crew. An…ignoble end to Tress’s first voyage. She clung to the hull of the Crow’s Song. Her fingers began to burn, her arms to ache. But there were no handholds above—plus, the side of the deck and gunwale extended out there. She doubted she had the strength or skill to get up over that, if she could even reach it. So she hung on. Tight as she could, as the ship rocked and swayed. Faces periodically appeared above, glancing down to see if she was still there. Then they’d call out to their fellows to relay her status. Still there. Still there. “Go,” she whispered to Huck. “You’re a rat. You can climb that.” “Doubt it,” he said. “You could try.” “That’s a fact. I could.” Together they clung there. For what seemed like an eternity. Finally she started to slip. Her aching muscles screamed, and— A rope slapped the wood next to her. She stared at it, numb, wondering if she had the strength to climb it. Instead she snatched it, hung on, and tucked

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