The Mistborn Trilogy (140 page)

Perhaps it came down to decision. Rashek, the Lord Ruler, had been forced to make a decision, too. He could have continued as he was, the pastoral villager. He would probably have had a happy life with his people.

But he had decided to become something more. In doing so, he had committed terrible atrocities. Yet, could she blame him for the decision itself? He had become what he’d thought he needed to be.

Her decision seemed more mundane, but she knew that other things—the Well of Ascension, the protection of Luthadel—could not be considered until she was certain what she wanted and who she was. And yet, standing in that room where Rashek had spent much of his time, thinking about the Well, the demanding thumps in her head sounded louder than they ever had before.

She had to decide. Elend was the one she wanted to be with. He represented peace. Happiness. Zane, however, represented what she felt she had to become. For the good of everyone involved.

The Lord Ruler’s palace held no clues or answers for her. A few moments later, frustrated and baffled at why she had even come, she left it behind, walking back out into the mists.

Zane awoke to the sound of a tent spike being pounded in a specific rhythm. His reaction was immediate.

He burned steel and pewter. He always swallowed a new bit of each before sleeping. He knew the habit would probably kill him someday; metals were poisonous if allowed to linger.

Dying someday was better, in Zane’s opinion, than dying today.

He flipped out of his cot, tossing his blanket toward the opening tent flap. He could barely see in the darkness of night. Even as he jumped, he heard something ripping. The tent walls being slit.

“Kill them!” God screamed.

Zane thumped to the ground and grabbed a handful of coins from the bowl beside his bed. He heard cries of surprise as he spun, throwing coins in a spinning spray around him.

He Pushed. Tiny plunks of sound thumped around him as coins met canvas, then continued on.

And men began to scream.

Zane fell to a crouch, waiting silently as the tent collapsed around him. Someone was thrashing the cloth to his right. He shot a few coins, and heard a satisfying grunt of pain. In the stillness, canvas resting atop him like a blanket, he heard footsteps running away.

He sighed, relaxing, and used a dagger to slice away the top of his tent. He emerged to a misty night. He’d gone to sleep later today than he usually did; it was probably near midnight. Time to be up anyway.

He strode across the fallen top of his tent—moving over to the now cloaked form of his cot—and cut a hole so he could reach through and pluck out the vial of metal he’d stored in a pocket beneath it. He downed the metals, and tin brought near light to his surroundings. Four men lay dying or dead around his tent. They were soldiers, of course—Straff’s soldiers. The attack had come later than Zane had expected.

Straff trusts me more than I assumed.
Zane stepped over the dead form of an assassin and cut his way into a storage chest, then pulled out his clothing. He changed quietly, then removed a small bag of coins from the chest.
It must have been the attack on Cett’s keep,
he thought.
It finally convinced Straff that I was too dangerous to let live.

Zane found his man working quietly beside a tent a short distance away, ostensibly testing the strength of a tent cord. He watched every night, paid to pound on a tent spike should anyone approach Zane’s tent. Zane tossed the man a bag of coins, then moved off into the darkness, passing the canal waters with their supply barges on his way to Straff’s tent.

His father had some few limitations. Straff was fine at large-scale planning, but the details—the subtleties—often got away from him. He could organize an army and crush his enemies. He, however, liked to play with dangerous tools. Like the atium mines at the Pits of Hathsin. Like Zane.

Those tools often ended up burning him.

Zane walked up to the side of Straff’s tent, then ripped a hole in the canvas and strode in. Straff waited for him. Zane gave the man credit: Straff watched his death coming with defiance in his eyes. Zane stopped in the middle of the room, in front of Straff, who sat in his hard wooden chair.

“Kill him,” God commanded.

Lamps burned in the corners, illuminating the canvas. The cushions and blankets in the corner were rumpled; Straff had taken one last romp with his favorite mistresses before sending his assassins. The king displayed his characteristic air of strong defiance, but Zane saw more. He saw a face too slick with sweat, and he saw hands trembling, as if from a disease.

“I have atium for you,” Straff said. “Buried in a place only I know.”

Zane stood quietly, staring at his father.

“I will proclaim you openly,” Straff said. “Name you my heir. Tomorrow, if you wish.”

Zane didn’t respond. Straff continued to sweat.

“The city is yours,” Zane finally said, turning away.

He was rewarded with a startled gasp from behind.

Zane glanced back. He’d never seen such a look of shock on his father’s face. That alone was almost worth everything.

“Pull your men back, as you are planning,” Zane said, “but don’t return to the Northern Dominance. Wait for those koloss to invade the city, let them take down the defenses and kill the defenders. Then, you can sweep in and rescue Luthadel.”

“But, Elend’s Mistborn…”

“Will be gone,” Zane said. “She’s leaving with me, tonight. Farewell, Father.” He turned and left through the slit he’d made.

“Zane?” Straff called from inside the tent.

Zane paused again.

“Why?” Straff asked, looking out through the slit. “I sent assassins to kill you. Why are you letting me live?”

“Because you’re my father,” Zane said. He turned away, looking into the mists. “A man shouldn’t kill his father.”

With that, Zane bid a final farewell to the man who had created him. A man whom Zane—despite his insanity, despite the abuse he’d known over the years—loved.

In the dark mists he threw down a coin and shot out over the camp. Outside its confines, he landed and easily located the bend in the canal he used as a marker. From the hollow of a small tree there, he pulled a bundle of cloth. A mistcloak, the first gift Straff had given him, years before when Zane had first Snapped. To him, it was too precious to wear around, to soil and use.

He knew himself a fool. However, he could not help how he felt. One could not use emotional Allomancy on one’s self.

He unwrapped the mistcloak and withdrew the things it protected—several vials of metal and a pouch filled with beads. Atium.

He knelt there for a long moment. Then, he reached up to his chest, feeling the space just above his rib cages. Where his heart thumped.

There was a large bump there. There always had been. He didn’t think about it often; his mind seemed to get distracted when he did. It, however, was the real reason he never wore cloaks.

He didn’t like the way that cloaks rubbed against the small point of the spike that stuck out of his back just between the shoulder blades. The head was against his sternum, and couldn’t be seen beneath clothing.

“It is time to go,” God said.

Zane stood, leaving the mistcloak behind. He turned from his father’s camp, leaving behind that which he had known, instead seeking the woman who would save him.

A part of Vin wasn’t even bothered by how many people she had killed. That very indifference, however, terrified her.

She sat on her balcony a short time after her visit to the palace, the city of Luthadel lost in darkness before her. She sat in the mists—but knew better, now, than to think she’d find solace in their swirling patterns. Nothing was that simple anymore.

The mist spirit watched her, as always. It was too distant to see, but she could feel it. And, even stronger than the mist spirit, she could feel something else. That powerful thumping, growing louder and louder. It had once seemed distant, but no longer.

The Well of Ascension.

That was what it had to be. She could
feel
its power returning, flowing back into the world, demanding to be taken up and used. She kept finding herself glancing north, toward Terris, expecting to see something on the horizon. A burst of light, a blazing fire, a tempest of winds. Something. But there was just mist.

It seemed that she couldn’t succeed at anything, lately. Love, protection, duty.
I’ve let myself get stretched too thin,
she thought.

There were so many things that demanded her attention, and she’d tried to give heed to them all. As a result, she had accomplished nothing. Her research about the Deepness and the Hero of Ages lay untouched for days, still arranged in piles scattered across her floor. She knew next to nothing about the mist spirit—only that it watched her, and that the logbook author had thought it dangerous. She hadn’t dealt with the spy in her crew; she didn’t know if Zane’s claims regarding Demoux were true.

And Cett still lived. She couldn’t even perform a proper massacre without stumbling halfway through. It was Kelsier’s fault. He had trained her to take his place, but could anyone ever really do that?

Why do we always have to be someone else’s knives?
Zane’s voice whispered in her head.

His words had seemed to make sense sometimes, but they had a flaw. Elend. Vin wasn’t his knife—not really. He didn’t want her to assassinate or kill. But, his ideals had left him without a throne, and had left his city surrounded by enemies. If she really loved Elend—if she really loved the people of Luthadel—wouldn’t she have done more?

The pulsings thumped against her, like the beats of a drum the size of the sun. She burned bronze almost constantly now, listening to the rhythm, letting it pull her away….

“Mistress?” OreSeur asked from behind. “What are you thinking about?”

“The end,” Vin said quietly, staring outward.

Silence.

“The end of what, Mistress?”

“I don’t know.”

OreSeur padded over to the balcony, walking into the mists and sitting down beside her. She was getting to know him well enough that she could see concern in his canine eyes.

She sighed, shaking her head. “I just have decisions to make. And, no matter which choice I make, it will mean an end.”

OreSeur sat for a moment, head cocked. “Mistress,” he finally said, “that seems excessively dramatic to me.”

Vin shrugged. “No advice for me, then?”

“Just make the decision,” OreSeur said.

Vin sat for a moment, then smiled. “Sazed would have said something wise and comforting.”

OreSeur frowned. “I fail to see why he should be part of this conversation, Mistress.”

“He was my steward,” Vin said. “Before he left, and before Kelsier switched your Contract to me.”

“Ah,” OreSeur said. “Well, I never did much like Terrismen, Mistress. Their self-important sense of subservience is very difficult to imitate—not to mention the fact that their muscles are far too stringy to taste good.”

Vin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve imitated Terrismen? I didn’t think there would be much cause for that—they weren’t a very influential people during the days of the Lord Ruler.”

“Ah,” OreSeur said. “But they were always
around
influential people.”

Vin nodded, standing. She walked back into her empty room and lit a lamp, extinguishing her tin. Mist carpeted the room, flowing over her stacks of paper, her feet throwing up puffs as she walked toward the bedroom.

She paused. That was a bit strange. Mist rarely remained long when it came indoors. Elend said it had to do with heat and enclosed spaces. Vin had always ascribed to it something more mystical. She frowned, watching it.

Even without tin, she heard the creak.

Vin spun. Zane stood on the balcony, his figure a black silhouette in the mists. He stepped forward, the mist following around him, as it did around anyone burning metals. And yet…it also seemed to be pushing
away
from him slightly.

OreSeur growled quietly.

“It’s time,” Zane said.

“Time for what?” Vin asked, setting the lamp down.

“To go,” Zane said. “To leave these men and their armies. To leave the squabbling. To be free.”

Free.

“I…don’t know, Zane,” Vin said, looking away.

She heard him step forward. “What do you owe him, Vin? He doesn’t know you. He fears you. The truth is, he was never worthy of you.”

“No,” Vin said, shaking her head. “That’s not it at all, Zane. You don’t understand. I was never worthy of him. Elend deserves someone better. He deserves…someone who shares his ideals. Someone who thinks he was right to give up his throne. Someone who sees more honor—and less foolishness—in that.”

“Either way,” Zane said, stopping a short distance from her. “He cannot understand you. Us.”

Vin didn’t reply.

“Where would you go, Vin?” Zane asked. “If you weren’t bound to this place, bound to him? If you were free, and could do whatever you wished, where would you go?”

The thumpings seemed louder. She glanced toward OreSeur, who sat quietly by the side wall, mostly in the dark. Why feel guilty? What did she have to prove to him?

She turned back to Zane. “North,” she said. “To Terris.”

“We can go there. Wherever you want. Location is irrelevant to me, as long as it is not this place.”

“I can’t abandon them,” Vin said.

“Even if by doing so, you steal away Straff’s only Mistborn?” Zane asked. “The trade is a good one. My father will know that I have disappeared, but he will not realize that you aren’t still in Luthadel. He’ll be even more afraid to attack. By giving yourself freedom, you’ll also be leaving your allies with a precious gift.”

Zane took her hand, forcing her to look at him. He did look like Elend—like a hard version of Elend. Zane had been broken by life, just as she had been, but both had put themselves back together. Had the re-forming made them stronger, or more fragile?

“Come,” Zane whispered. “You can save me, Vin.”

A war is coming to the city,
Vin thought with a chill.
If I stay, I will have to kill again.

And slowly, she let him draw her away from her desk, toward the mists and the comforting darkness beyond. She reached up, pulling out a metal vial for the journey, and the motion caused Zane to spin suspiciously.

He has good instincts,
Vin thought.
Instincts like my own. Instincts that won’t let him trust, but that keep him alive.

He relaxed as he saw what she was doing, and smiled and turned away again. Vin followed him, walking again, but she felt a sudden stab of fear.
This is it,
she thought.
After this, everything changes. The time for decisions has passed.

And I made the wrong choice.

Elend wouldn’t have jumped like that when I took out the vial.

She froze. Zane tugged on her wrist, but she didn’t move. He turned toward her in the mists, frowning as he stood at the edge of her balcony.

“I’m sorry,” Vin whispered, slipping her hand free. “I can’t go with you.”

“What?” Zane asked. “Why not?”

Vin shook her head, turning and walking back into the room.

“Tell me what it is!” Zane said, tone rising. “What is it about him that draws you? He isn’t a great leader. He’s not a warrior. He’s no Allomancer or general.
What is it about him?
”

The answer came to her simply and easily.
Make your decisions—I’ll support you in them.
“He trusts me,” she whispered.

“What?” Zane asked incredulously.

“When I attacked Cett,” Vin said, “the others thought I was acting irrationally—and they were right. But Elend told them I had a good reason, even if he didn’t know what it was.”

“So he’s a fool,” Zane said.

“When we spoke later,” Vin continued, not looking at Zane, “I was cold to him. I think he knew that I was trying to decide whether to stay with him or not. And…he told me that he trusted my judgment. He’d support me if I chose to leave him.”

“So he’s also unappreciative,” Zane said.

Vin shook her head. “No. He just loves me.”

“I love you.”

Vin paused, looking at Zane. He looked angry. Desperate, even. “I believe you. I still can’t go with you.”

“But
why
?”

“Because it would require leaving Elend,” she said. “Even if I can’t share his ideals, I can respect them. Even if I don’t deserve him, I can be near him. I’m staying, Zane.”

Zane stood quietly for a moment, mist falling around his shoulders. “I’ve failed, then.”

Vin turned away from him. “No. It isn’t that you’ve failed. You aren’t flawed simply because I—”

He slammed into her, throwing her toward the mist-covered floor. Vin turned her head, shocked, as she crashed into the wooden floor, the breath going out of her.

Zane loomed above her, his face dark. “You were supposed to save me,” he hissed.

Vin flared every metal she had in a sudden jolt. She shoved Zane backward and Pulled herself against the door hinges. She flew backward and hit the door hard, the wood cracking slightly, but she was too tense—too shocked—to feel anything but the thud.

Zane rose quietly, standing tall, dark. Vin rolled forward into a crouch. Zane was attacking her. Attacking her for real.

But…he…

“OreSeur!” Vin said, ignoring her mind’s objections, whipping out her daggers. “Run away!”

The code given, she charged, trying to distract Zane’s attention from the wolfhound. Zane sidestepped her attacks with a casual grace. Vin whipped a dagger toward his neck. It barely missed as Zane tipped his head backward. She struck at his side, at his arm, at his chest. Each strike missed.

She’d known he’d burn atium. She’d expected that. She skidded to a stop, looking at him. He hadn’t even bothered to pull out his own weapons. He stood before her, face dark, mist a growing lake at his feet. “Why didn’t you listen to me, Vin?” he asked. “Why force me to keep being Straff’s tool? We both know where that must lead.”

Vin ignored him. Gritting her teeth, she launched into an attack. Zane backhanded her indifferently, and she Pushed slightly against the deskmounts behind him—tossing herself backward, as if thrown by the force of his blow. She slammed into the wall, then slumped to the ground.

Directly beside the startled OreSeur.

He hadn’t opened his shoulder to give her the atium. Hadn’t he understood the code? “The atium I gave you,” Vin hissed. “I need it.
Now.
”

“Kandra,” Zane said. “Come to me.”

OreSeur met her eyes, and she saw something within them. Shame. He glanced away, then padded across the floor, mist up to his knees, as he joined Zane in the center of the room.

“No…” Vin whispered. “OreSeur—”

“You will no longer obey her commands, TenSoon,” Zane said.

OreSeur bowed his head.

“The Contract, OreSeur!” Vin said, climbing to her knees. “You
must
obey my orders!”

“My servant, Vin,” Zane said. “My Contract.
My
orders.”

My servant….

And suddenly, it clicked. She’d suspected everyone—Dockson, Breeze, even Elend—but she’d never connected the spy to the one person that made the most sense. There
had
been a kandra in the palace all along. And he had been at her side.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” OreSeur whispered.

“How long?” Vin asked, bowing her head.

“Since you gave my predecessor—the real OreSeur—the dog’s body,” the kandra said. “I killed him that day and took his place, wearing the body of a dog. You never saw him as a wolfhound.”

What easier way to mask the transformation?
Vin thought. “But, the bones we discovered in the palace,” she said. “You were with me on the wall when they appeared. They—”

She’d taken his word on how fresh those bones had been; she’d taken his word on when they had been produced. She’d assumed all along that the switch must have happened that day, when she was with Elend on the city wall—but she’d done so primarily because of what OreSeur had said.

Idiot!
she thought. OreSeur—or, TenSoon, as Zane had called him—had led her to suspect everyone but himself. What was wrong with her? She was usually so good at sniffing out traitors, at noticing insincerity. How had she missed spotting her own kandra?

Zane walked forward. Vin waited, on her knees.
Weak,
she told herself.
Look weak. Make him leave you alone. Try to—

“Soothing me will do no good,” Zane said quietly, grabbing her by the front of her shirt, picking her up, then throwing her back down. Mist sprayed beneath her, puffing up in a splash as she slammed to the floor. Vin stifled her cry of pain.

I have to stay quiet. If guards come, he’ll kill them. If Elend comes…

She had to stay quiet, quiet even as Zane kicked her in her wounded side. She grunted, eyes watering.

“You could have saved me,” Zane said, peering down at her. “I was willing to go with you. Now, what is left? Nothing. Nothing, but Straff’s orders.” He punctuated that sentence with a kick.