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ten times worse than any other bandit that ever walked the Roughs.” “Ten times?” Wayne said. “Yup.” “That’s a lot! Almost double!”
“What’s harder, love?” she asked. “Doing what’s right or doing what’s wrong?” “Doing what’s right.” “So who gets stronger?” Ma asked. “The fellow what does the easy thing, or what does the hard thing?”
“You are whatever you want to be, Wayne. You’re the wind. You’re the stars. You are all endless things.”
squelch
there had been no greater test of his faith in humanity—serial killers included—than working with politicians.
Nearby, their motorcar pulled up to the curb and Hoid, the driver, stepped out.
“The ash comes again,” the man said through bloody lips, his voice strangely grating. “The world will fall to it. You will get what you deserve, and all will wither beneath a cloud of blackness and a blanket of burned bodies made ash.” Marasi gritted her teeth, working on the rusty-looking spike, slick with blood. “Your end,” the voice whispered. “Your end comes. Either in ash, or at the hands of the men of gold and red. Gold and—”
People are elastic, Wax thought. We can keep reshaping ourselves. And if we’re not quite the same as before, well, that’s good. It means we can grow.
“I did want to tell you something important,” she whispered as she pulled away. “Something meaningful.” “Yeah?” “You,” she said, squeezing his hand one last time, “were a really good lay, Wayne.” “Really?” “Really. To be honest, you were the best I’ve known.” “You’re seven hundred years old,” he said. “And I was the best?” She nodded.
Once, she’d assumed they had the same worries she did, but hid their anxiety extremely well. As she’d grown older, she’d come to understand something more incredible. They just didn’t feel that anxiety. They didn’t have a constant, hovering worry in the back of their brain, whispering they’d forgotten something important. They didn’t spend hours thinking about the mistakes they’d made, and how they could have planned better. They lived in a perpetual state between blessed contentment and frightening ignorance.
she wanted to cry out a warning, hold them back safe, forbid them from risking themselves. She also knew how extreme she got sometimes. That was the biggest revelation of recent years—helped by discussions with the women of her book group. Some of her preparations went beyond helpful. Understanding that line was vital to understanding herself.
Silence didn’t bother Steris. It was a purely neutral experience.
His vision kept behaving oddly, distorting at times for just a second or two. And his mind kept playing tricks on him, making him think he glimpsed blue Allomantic lines without burning metals.
“Trell is the god Autonomy,” Harmony replied. “What we call a Shard of Adonalsium. Autonomy carries power like my own, a dangerous force for manipulating the very nature of reality and existence. Though Autonomy is held by a woman named Bavadin, her many different faces—or avatars—act with independence. Trell, a male god from the ancient records, can be considered one of these.”
She could make him out talking the ear off his driver—who turned out to be Hoid, Wax’s coachman. How had he gotten involved in the sting? “Can’t tell these days,” Moonlight said, “if I’m keeping watch on him, or if he’s keeping watch on me. Realistically, we’re both just keeping watch on the same third parties…” “What. Hoid?” Marasi asked. “He’s been in Wax’s employ for years. He’s an odd fellow, but…” In the next truck, Hoid glanced at them—past Marasi—and nodded to Moonlight.
These pieces of art exist, Marasi, and your planet’s god holds two of them.” “Ruin and Preservation.” “Indeed. That makes Harmony the most valuable—the most Invested—being in the cosmere. One of the other sixteen decided the best way to improve his stock was to try to destroy all the others. He managed it in a few cases.” “And … is that Trell?” Moonlight shook her head. “No, his name is Odium.
“I think we live stories every day,” Hoid replied. “Ones that we will remember, and tell, and shape like clay to be what we need them to be.”
“Death is not a religion,” Ironeyes said. “It is a fact.”
“What even is that?” Wax asked as Marasi and Kim entered. “He called it ‘chouta.’ It’s good.”
how many full Ghostblood agents do we have in Bilming?”
“Silajana is one of the primal aethers. They predate Adonalsium, you know, and exist outside of his power.”
“They predate the Shattering,” Moonlight said. “That doesn’t mean they predate Adonalsium.”
“This is only a fraction of the talents members of the Ghostbloods have,” Moonlight noted. “You’ll be amazed at the things we will show you.”
“Rusts, I feel old. I’m not supposed to feel old. I’m the spry one!” Wax settled down next to him on a dry part of the concrete. “You’re thirty-nine, Wayne. It catches up to you.”
“Why not?” Wax replied, taking another pull on his beer. “What’s any of this for, if people can’t change? If there’s no chance for you, Wayne, there’s no chance for anyone. We might as well shoot a man the first time he does anything wrong, because hey … he’ll never change, so who cares?” “That’s not fair.” “You’re not fair,” Wax said, “to yourself.
Might as well write the stuff I say on a plaque or something. ‘You’re meant to be helping people. Also, remember—ain’t no fellow who regretted giving it one extra shake, but you can bet every guy has regretted giving one too few.’”
“Assassinating the Lord Ruler?” Wax asked. “Isn’t that a little violent for a children’s book?” “Mate,” Wayne said, “it ain’t violence if it’s religion. Don’t you know anythin’?”
“Don’t ask me to do this again,” Wax whispered, turning away from the carnage below. “This wasn’t an adventure. It was a massacre. I’ll finish the job, but don’t ask me again. Find yourself another sword. You don’t know how this feels.” In reply, he was given a distinct impression. Almost like a memory implanted directly into his mind: an exhausted, overwhelmed man lying broken on an ashen street, in front of a shattered city gate. Surrounded by death.
People expected a man like him to run out of such an expensive metal. But the fellow didn’t know. He wasn’t merely fighting Wayne the amiable miscreant. He was fighting Wayne Terrisborn, filthy rich snob with way, way too much money to burn.
His crystalline speed bubble shattered. And all became red light and blossoms of fire.
Dlavil—like his sister who ran amok on Roshar—wore a mask that he never removed;
“Damn,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I really do miss that little miscreant.” Jaxy smiled, leaning into her, holding to her arm. “Ranette. That was almost kind.” “I mean it. I miss him.” She smiled. “Wasn’t ever a person I’ve known who was more fun to shoot.”
He was larger than life-size, smiling slyly, with an outstretched hand. Likely so that he could pick your pocket with the other, but most people would think he was offering help.
