Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [331]
Later that night, having filled her stomach at Elend’s insistence, Vin made her way with Elend to her rooms.
There, sitting on the floor, was a perfect replica of the wolfhound she had bought earlier. It eyed her, then bowed its head. “Welcome back, Mistress,” the kandra said in a growling, muffled voice.
Elend whistled appreciatively, and Vin walked in a circle around the creature. Each hair appeared to have been placed perfectly. If it hadn’t spoken, one would never have been able to tell it wasn’t the original dog.
“How do you manage the voice?” Elend asked curiously.
“A voice box is a construction of flesh, not bone, Your Majesty,” OreSeur said. “Older kandra learn to manipulate their bodies, not just replicate them. I still need to digest a person’s corpse to memorize and re-create their exact features. However, I can improvise some things.”
Vin nodded. “Is that why making this body took you so much longer than you’d said?”
“No, Mistress,” OreSeur said. “The hair. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you—placing fur like this takes a great deal of precision and effort.”
“Actually, you did mention it,” Vin said, waving her hand.
“What do you think of the body, OreSeur?” Elend asked.
“Honestly, Your Majesty?”
“Of course.”
“It is offensive and degrading,” OreSeur said.
Vin raised an eyebrow. That’s forward of you, Renoux, she thought. Feeling a little belligerent today, are we?
He glanced at her, and she tried—unsuccessfully—to read his canine expression.
“But,” Elend said, “you’ll wear the body anyway, right?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” OreSeur said. “I would die before breaking the Contract. It is life.”
Elend nodded to Vin, as if he’d just made a major point.
Anyone can claim loyalty, Vin thought. If someone has a “Contract” to ensure their honor, then all the better. That makes the surprise more poignant when they do turn on you.
Elend was obviously waiting for something. Vin sighed. “OreSeur, we’ll be spending more time together in the future.”
“If that is what you wish, Mistress.”
“I’m not sure if it is or not,” Vin said. “But it’s going to happen anyway. How well can you move about in that body?”
“Well enough, Mistress.”
“Come on,” she said, “let’s see if you can keep up.”
7
I am also afraid, however, that all I have known—that my story—will be forgotten. I am afraid for the world that is to come. Afraid that my plans will fail.
Afraid of a doom worse, even, than the Deepness.
Sazed never thought he’d have reason to appreciate dirt floors. However, they proved remarkably useful in writing instruction. He drew several words in the dirt with a long stick, giving his half-dozen students a model. They proceeded to scribble their own copies, rewriting the words several times.
Even after living among various groups of rural skaa for a year, Sazed was still surprised by their meager resources. There wasn’t a single piece of chalk in the entire village, let alone ink or paper. Half the children ran around naked, and the only shelters were the hovels—long, one-room structures with patchy roofs. The skaa had farming tools, fortunately, but no manner of bows or slings for hunting.
Sazed had led a scavenging mission up to the plantation’s abandoned manor. The leavings had been meager. He’d suggested that the village elders relocate their people to the manor itself for the winter, but he doubted they would do so. They had visited the manor with apprehension, and many hadn’t been willing to leave Sazed’s side. The place reminded them of lords—and lords reminded them of pain.
His students continued to scribble. He had spent quite a bit of effort explaining to the elders why writing was so important. Finally, they had chosen him some students—partially, Sazed was sure, just to appease him. He shook his head slowly as he watched them write. There was no passion in their learning. They came because they were ordered, and because “Master Terrisman” willed it, not because of any real desire for education.