Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [733]
And then he saw a particularly familiar face amidst the watching groups. TenSoon turned aside, ashamed, as MeLaan approached, pain showing in those overly large eyes of hers.
“TenSoon?” a whisper soon came.
“Go away, MeLaan,” he said quietly, his back to the bars, which only let him look out at another group of kandra, watching him from the other side.
“TenSoon . . .” she repeated.
“You need not see me like this, MeLaan. Please go.”
“They shouldn’t be able to do this to you,” she said, and he could hear the anger in her voice. “You’re nearly as old as they, and far more wise.”
“They are the Second Generation,” TenSoon said. “They are chosen by those of the First. They lead us.”
“They don’t have to lead us.”
“MeLaan!” he said, finally turning toward her. Most of the gawkers stayed back, as if TenSoon’s crime were a disease they could catch. MeLaan crouched alone beside his cage, her True Body of spindly wooden bones making her look unnaturally slim.
“You could challenge them,” MeLaan said quietly.
“What do you think we are?” TenSoon asked. “Humans, with their rebellions and upheavals? We are kandra. We are of Preservation. We follow order.”
“You still bow before them?” MeLaan hissed, pressing her thin face up against the bars. “After what you said—with what is happening above?”
TenSoon paused. “Above?”
“You were right, TenSoon,” she said. “Ash cloaks the land in a mantle of black. The mists come during the day, killing both crops and people. Men march to war. Ruin has returned.”
TenSoon closed his eyes. “They will do something,” he finally said. “The First Generation.”
“They are old,” MeLaan said. “Old, forgetful, impotent.”
TenSoon opened his eyes. “You have changed much.”
She smiled. “They should never have given children of a new generation to be raised by a Third. There are many of us, the younger ones, who would fight. The Seconds can’t rule forever. What can we do, TenSoon? How can we help you?”
Oh, child, he thought. You don’t think that they know about you?
Those of the Second Generation were not fools. They might be lazy, but they were old and crafty—TenSoon understood this, for he knew each of them quite well. They would have kandra listening, waiting to see what was said at his cage. A kandra of the Fourth or Fifth Generation who had the Blessing of Awareness could stand a distance away, and still hear every word being spoken at his cage.
TenSoon was kandra. He had returned to receive his punishment because that was right. It was more than honor, more than Contract. It was who he was.
And yet, if the things MeLaan had said were true . . .
Ruin has returned.
“How can you just sit here?” MeLaan said. “You’re stronger than they are, TenSoon.”
TenSoon shook his head. “I broke Contract, MeLaan.”
“For a higher good.”
At least I convinced her.
“Is it true, TenSoon?” she asked very quietly.
“What?”
“OreSeur. He had the Blessing of Potency. You must have inherited it, when you killed him. Yet, they didn’t find it on your body when they took you. So, what did you do with it? Can I fetch it for you? Bring it, so that you can fight?”
“I will not fight my own people, MeLaan,” TenSoon said. “I am kandra.”
“Someone must lead us!” she hissed.
That statement, at least, was true. But, it wasn’t TenSoon’s right. Nor, really, was it the right of the Second Generation—or even the First Generation. It was the right of the one who had created them. That one was dead. But, another had taken his place.
MeLaan was silent for a time, still kneeling beside his cage. Perhaps she waited for him to offer encouragement, or perhaps to become the leader she sought. He didn’t speak.
“So, you just came to die,” she finally said.
“To explain what I’ve discovered. What I’ve felt.”
“And then what? You come, proclaim dread news, then leave us to solve the problems on our own?”
“That’s not fair, MeLaan,” he said. “I came to be the best kandra I know how.”
“Then fight!”
He shook his head.
“It’s true then,” she said. “The others of my generation, they said