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“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.”
City folk, particularly politicians, were intimidated by small arms. They preferred to kill people with more modern weapons, like poverty and despair.
Nearby, their motorcar pulled up to the curb and Hoid, the driver, stepped out. “Your carriage, sir,” he said, holding the passenger door. But rusts, who could deny a child when he looked at you like that?
“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—”
Myths became men. And every society knew how to kill other men.
We are watching, Marasi, it read. And we are impressed. It had a small symbol at the bottom, with three interlocking diamonds.
If he was going to be dead, he could at least be the polite kind what didn’t try to crawl out of the forest and eat you during thunderstorms. Even corpses needed standards.
Wax enjoyed it, mostly for the time with his wife—though he seemed to still be suffering the aftereffects of the explosion. 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.”
“Autonomy is driven to divide off from the rest of us, go her own way. She pushes her followers to prove themselves, and she rewards those who are bold, who survive against the odds. She respects big plans and big accomplishments. I presume this is why your sister has persuaded Autonomy not to destroy our planet outright. Or at least to delay doing so.”
“You’re the best detector that ever lived. Uncle Wayne told me. He said you can find any treasure there ever was to be found.” “I’ve already found the best treasures, Max,” Wax said, turning—mistcoat tassels rustling in that old familiar way. Like whispers speaking an ancient tongue. “Now I just have to keep them safe.”
You see these buildings? These houses? All pieces of a larger art installation. The grand creation is impressive, but it’s not yours. This kind of pattern, and those straight lines, those reflective panels … that’s from a Taldain movement known as brutalism.
“The last story my ma told me,” Wayne said, “was about a lawman. Funny, huh? That I’d end up becoming one. Except he was a hero. And I’m … well, I’m me.” “You do yourself a disservice, Master Wayne,” Hoid said softly. “Can’t be no hero if you were a villain, Hoid.” “But in most of the stories, it is the villain who knows the hero best.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, sliding his dueling canes into their loops on his belt. “Seems unfair to grouse at a man for getting discombobulated by definitive proof of an afterlife. Dark gods. Death himself dyin’. Rusting ghosts. Guess we gotta keep goin’, but after this, I don’t wanna see anyone complainin’ when I’ve traded for someone’s favorite shoes or whatnot. Hear me?”
“I don’t normally talk to conners. Ever.” “’S good advice,” Wayne mumbled through a mouthful of something. He walked up beside Wax and took another bite of what appeared to be grease and maybe some bits of meat wrapped in what might have been bread. Or a very large crepe?
“What even is that?” Wax asked as Marasi and Kim entered. “He called it ‘chouta.’ It’s good.” “It looks disgusting.” “Aw, mate. With street food, that’s how you know it’s good.”
“I thought you couldn’t read,” Marasi said, brushing past them and following the woman. “Oh, I can read,” Wayne said. “But I’m dumb, see, so I can only read things what are dumb too.”
“Autonomy is … odd. She respects those who are bold, strong, able to survive on their own. But she also wants them to obey her. I suppose that is the irony of godhood. Half the time, being ‘autonomous’ means following her plan. And there’s no Whimsy to her—that’s a different god. “Autonomy is rugged individualism filtered through the lens of a god who thinks she knows best. And in that context, individualism is a virtue best applied to finding ways to carry out the plans she has outlined. You get to be individual in your chosen path to do what she says…”
“Ha. Listening to me. 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.’”
“When you see Death,” Wayne said, kicking the corpse in the side, “tell him he owes me fifty clips.”
Harmony knows he’s growing impotent, that Discord is near, and so he created you. A sword. Who can act when he cannot.”
“Some things,” she said softly, “cannot be planned for in life. I struggled to learn that, Varlance. But there is one thing I’ve learned that is true: No matter what else happens, Waxillium Ladrian will get wherever he needs to be. Somehow.”
People suffered when the truth became a commodity to be speculated upon.
“Perhaps we can help,” the man in the lead said. “You are certain this is legal? The mass sinking of private ships?”
Nearby, the leader of the eight people nodded to her, then launched into the air.
The others followed one at a time, until only one remained. He nodded to Steris, and on the back of his hand—mostly obscured—she saw a red tattoo. “Your sister,” the man said, “sends her regards.” Then he launched after the others.
And suddenly he wasn’t alone. A figure—mostly transparent—stood beside him, a tall bald man. Terris. And another darker fellow stood behind him. Not in the skin tone sense or anything. Like … this other one was a shadow. It mimicked Harmony as he held out his hands to Wayne.
You aren’t the best I could do. You’re the best there is. And no being, neither god nor mortal, could have wished for more than one such as you.”
“Wayne,” Harmony asked, “do you know who you are?” “Yeah, I know who I am,” Wayne said. “I’m the God. Damn. HERO.” He paused. “Sorry.”
“Wayne,” God interrupted, “what is it Ranette always says to you?” “Try dodging this?” “The other thing.” “Don’t ruin the moment by bein’ all skeevy?” “Yes, that one.”
TwinSoul hated being unable to get a full read on the man’s expressions, but Dlavil—like his sister who ran amok on Roshar—wore a mask that he never removed; it was grown in to the point that it was practically part of his skin.
The messenger flitted off across the dark ocean of Shadesmar, glowing faintly. MeLaan sat in a boat kept afloat by some kind of glowing substance on the hull. The blackness beneath was like a liquid, more viscous than water. It was supposed to be perfectly transparent—if a person slipped into it and sank, you were said to be able to watch them fall, and fall, and fall. “Do you know,” MeLaan said, “what those messengers even are?” “An Invested entity,” her guide said, “which can read Connection to find anyone, anywhere.”
He nodded to the group of them, then handed a small note to Wax. From there, Death withdrew. Wax didn’t buy his explanation of using emotional Allomancy to remain hidden. There was something more here.
No one else moves you. Your life is yours. And you have my deepest apologies that I had a hand in teaching you otherwise.
