Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [685]
Elend had had trouble believing Sazed’s stories two years before, when the Terrisman had come to Luthadel with horrific reports of terrified villagers and mists that killed. Vin too had assumed that Sazed was mistaken. A part of her wished she could continue in that delusion as she watched the waiting townspeople, huddled together on the broad open plain, surrounded by soldiers and koloss.
The deaths began as soon as the mists appeared. Though the mists left most of the people alone, they chose some at random, causing them to begin shaking. These fell to the ground, having a seizure, while their friends and family watched in shock and horror.
Horror was still Vin’s reaction. That, and frustration. Kelsier had promised her that the mists were an ally—that they would protect her and give her power. She’d believed that to be true until the mists started to feel alien to her, hiding shadowed ghosts and murderous intent.
“I hate you,” she whispered as the mists continued their grisly work. It was like watching a beloved old relative pick strangers out of a crowd and, one at a time, slit their throats. And there was nothing at all she could do. Elend’s scholars had tried everything—hoods to keep the mists from being breathed in, waiting to go outside until the mists had already established themselves, rushing people inside the moment they started shaking. Animals were immune for some reason, but every human was potentially susceptible. If one went outside in the mists, one risked death, and nothing could prevent it.
It was over soon. The mists gave the fits to fewer than one in six, and only a small fraction of those died. Plus, one only needed to risk these new mists once—one gamble, and then you were immune. Most who fell sick would recover. That was no comfort to the families of those who died.
She sat on her stump, staring out into the mists, which were still lit by the setting sun. Ironically, it was more difficult for her to see than it would have been if it were dark. She couldn’t burn much tin, lest the sunlight blind her—but without it, she couldn’t pierce the mists.
The result was a scene that reminded her why she had once feared the mists. Her visibility reduced to barely ten feet, she could see little more than shadows. Amorphous figures ran this way and that, calling out. Silhouettes knelt or stood terrified. Sound was a traitorous thing, echoing against unseen objects, cries coming from phantom sources.
Vin sat among them, ash raining around her like burnt tears, and bowed her head.
“Lord Fatren!” Elend’s voice called, causing Vin to look up. Once, his voice hadn’t carried nearly as much authority. That seemed like so long ago. He appeared from the mists, dressed in his second white uniform—the one that was still clean—his face hardened against the mortalities. She could feel his Allomantic touch on those around him as he approached—his Soothing would make the people’s pain less acute, but he didn’t Push as hard as he could have. She knew from talking to him that he didn’t feel it was right to remove all of a person’s grief at the death of one they loved.
“My lord!” she heard Fatren say, and saw him approaching. “This is a disaster!”
“It looks far worse than it is, Lord Fatren,” Elend said. “As I explained, most of those who have fallen will recover.”
Fatren stopped beside Vin’s stump. Then, he turned and stared into the mists, listening to the weeping and the pain of his people. “I can’t believe we did this. I can’t . . . I can’t believe you talked me into making them stand in the mists.”
“Your people needed to be inoculated, Fatren,” Elend said.
It was true. They didn’t have tents for all of the townsfolk, and that left only two options. Leave them behind in their dying village, or force them north—make them go out in the mists, and see who died. It was terrible, and it was brutal, but it would have happened eventually. Still, even though she knew the logic of what they had done, Vin felt terrible for being part of it.
“What kind of monsters are we?” Fatren