Part 18 (1/2)

”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. he thought. You don't think that they know about you? 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 that you were broken by that last master of yours. The man Zane.”

”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 she broke you.” 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 punis.h.i.+ng her for a.s.sociating 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. 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-doc.u.mented fact-though that doc.u.mentation 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 ca.n.a.l. 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.