Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [693]
“And the mists?”
“Weather patterns change, Lord Breeze,” Sazed said. “Perhaps it was simply too warm during the day for them to come out before. Now that the ashmounts are emitting more ash, it would make sense that the days are growing colder, and so the mists stay longer.”
“Oh? And if that were the case, my dear man, then why haven’t the mists stayed out during the day in the winters? It was colder then than the summer, but the mists always left when day arrived.”
Sazed grew silent. Breeze made a good point. Yet, as Sazed checked each new religion off of his list, he wondered more and more if they were simply creating an enemy in this “force” Vin had felt. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t believe for a moment that she would have fabricated her stories. Yet, if there were no truth in the religions, was it too much of a stretch to infer that the world was simply ending because it was time?
“Green,” Breeze finally said.
Sazed turned.
“Now, that would be a color with style,” Breeze said. “Different. You can’t see green and forget about it—not like you can black or brown. Wasn’t Kelsier always talking about plants being green, once? Before the Ascension of the Lord Ruler, before the first time the Deepness came upon the land?”
“That’s what the histories claim.”
Breeze nodded thoughtfully. “Style indeed,” he said. “It would be pretty, I think.”
“Oh?” Sazed asked, genuinely surprised. “Most people with whom I have spoken seem to find the concept of green plants rather odd.”
“I thought that once, but now, after seeing black all day, every day . . . Well, I think a little variety would be nice. Fields of green . . . little specks of color . . . what did Kelsier call those?”
“Flowers,” Sazed said. The Larsta had written poems about them.
“Yes,” Breeze said. “It will be nice when those return.”
“Return?”
Breeze shrugged. “Well, the Church of the Survivor teaches that Vin will someday cleanse the sky of ash and the air of mists. I figure while she’s at it, she might as well bring back the plants and the flowers. Seems like a suitably feminine thing to do, for some reason.”
Sazed sighed, shaking his head. “Lord Breeze,” he said, “I realize that you are simply trying to encourage me. However, I have serious trouble believing that you accept the teachings of the Church of the Survivor.”
Breeze hesitated. Then, he smiled. “So I overdid it a bit, did I?”
“A tad.”
“It’s difficult to tell with you, my dear man. You’re so aware of my touch on your emotions that I can’t use much Allomancy, and you’ve been so . . . well, different lately.” Breeze’s voice grew wistful. “Still, it would be nice to see those green plants our Kelsier always spoke of. After six months of ash . . . well, it makes a man at least want to believe. Perhaps that’s enough for an old hypocrite like me.”
The sense of despair inside Sazed wanted to snap that simply believing wasn’t enough. Wishing and believing hadn’t gotten him anywhere. It wouldn’t change the fact that the plants were dying and the world was ending.
It wasn’t worth fighting, because nothing meant anything.
Sazed forced himself to stop that line of thought, but it was difficult. He worried, sometimes, about his melancholy. Unfortunately, much of the time, he had trouble summoning even the effort to care about his own pessimistic bent.
The Larsta, he told himself. Focus on that religion. You need to make a decision.
Breeze’s comments had set Sazed thinking. The Larsta focused so much on beauty and art as being “divine.” Well, if divinity was in any way related to art, then a god couldn’t in any way be involved in what was happening to the world. The ash, the dismal, depressing landscape . . . it was more than just “unimaginative,” as Breeze had put it. It was completely insipid. Dull. Monotonous.
Religion not true, Sazed wrote at the bottom of the paper. Teachings are directly