Mistborn Trilogy - Brandon Sanderson [734]
“He did not break me,” TenSoon said.
“Oh?” MeLaan said. “And why did you return to the Homeland in that . . . body you were using?”
“The dog’s bones?” TenSoon said. “Those weren’t given to me by Zane, but by Vin.”
“So she broke you.”
TenSoon exhaled quietly. How could he explain? On one hand, it seemed ironic to him that MeLaan—who intentionally wore a True Body that was inhuman—would find his use of a dog’s body so distasteful. Yet, he could understand. It had taken him quite some time to appreciate the advantages of those bones.
He paused.
But, no. He had not come to bring revolution. He had come to explain, to serve the interests of his people. He would do that by accepting his punishment, as a kandra should.
And yet . . .
There was a chance. A slim one. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to escape, but if there was an opportunity . . . “Those bones I wore,” TenSoon found himself saying. “You know where they are?”
MeLaan frowned. “No. Why would you want them?”
TenSoon shook his head. “I don’t,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “They were disgraceful! I was made to wear them for over a year, forced into the humiliating role of a dog. I would have discarded them, but I had no corpse to ingest and take, so I had to return here wearing that horrid body.”
“You’re avoiding the real issue, TenSoon.”
“There is no real issue, MeLaan,” he said, turning away from her. Whether or not his plan worked, he didn’t want the Seconds punishing her for associating with him. “I will not rebel against my people. Please, if you truly wish to help me, just let me be.”
MeLaan hissed quietly, and he heard her stand. “You were once the greatest of us.”
TenSoon sighed as she left. No, MeLaan. I was never great. Up until recently, I was the most orthodox of my generation, a conservative distinguished only by his hatred of humans. Now, I’ve become the greatest criminal in the history of our people, but I did it mostly by accident.
That isn’t greatness. That’s just foolishness.
It should be no surprise that Elend became such a powerful Allomancer. It is a well-documented fact—though that documentation wasn’t available to most—that Allomancers were much stronger during the early days of the Final Empire.
In those days, an Allomancer didn’t need duralumin to take control of a kandra or koloss. A simple Push or Pull on the emotions was enough. In fact, this ability was one of the main reasons that the kandra devised their Contracts with the humans—for, at that time, not only Mistborn, but Soothers and Rioters could take control of them at the merest of whims.
21
DEMOUX SURVIVED.
He was one of the larger group, the fifteen percent who grew sick, but did not die. Vin sat atop the cabin of her narrowboat, arm resting on a wooden ledge, idly fingering her mother’s earring—which, as always, she wore in her ear. Koloss brutes trudged along the towpath, dragging the barges and boats down the canal. Many of the barges still carried supplies—tents, foodstuffs, pure water. Several had been emptied, however, their contents carried on the backs of the surviving soldiers, making room for the wounded.
Vin turned away from the barges, looking toward the front of the narrowboat. Elend stood at the prow, as usual, staring west. He did not brood. He looked like a king, standing straight-backed, staring determinedly toward his goal. He looked so different now from the man he had once been, with his full beard, his longer hair, his uniforms that had been scrubbed white. They were growing worn. Not ragged . . . they were still clean and sharp, as white as things could get in the current state of the world. They were just no longer new. They were the uniforms of a man who had been at war for two years straight.
Vin knew him well enough to sense that all was not well. However, she also knew him well enough to sense that he didn’t want to talk about it for the moment.
She stood and stepped down, burning pewter unconsciously to heighten her balance. She slid a book off a bench