Brandon Sanderson - Shadows of Self

She huffed, turning away. “I can’t believe your audacity.”

“Really? Because I’m sure I’ve been this audacious before. Every month, in fact. So this seems a right believable thing for me to do.”

“I’m not letting you in. Not this time. You are a scoundrel.”

Wayne sighed. Heroes in stories never had to fight the same beast twice. Seemed unfair he had to face this one each month. “Look, I just want to check in on her.”

“She is fine.”

“I have money,” Wayne said. “To give her.”

“You can leave it here. You distress the girl, miscreant.”

Wayne stepped forward, taking the tyrant by the shoulder. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

She looked at him. And, to his surprise, she cracked her knuckles. Wow. He reached into his pocket quickly and pulled out a piece of pasteboard.

“One ticket,” Wayne said quickly, “admitting two people to the governor’s spring dinner and policy speech, occurring during a party at Lady ZoBell’s penthouse tonight. This here ticket lists no specific names. Anyone who has it can get in.”

Her eyes widened. “Who’d you steal that from?”

“Please,” Wayne said. “It came delivered to my house.”

Which was perfectly true. It was for Wax and Steris. But they were important enough folk that invitations sent to them had no names, so they could send an emissary if they wished. When it came to someone fancy like Wax, even getting their relative or friend to attend your party could be advantageous.

The tyrant didn’t count as either. But Wayne figured that Wax would be happy to not have to go to the blasted party anyway. Besides, Wayne had left a real nice-looking leaf he’d found in exchange. Rusting beautiful, that leaf was.

The tyrant hesitated, so Wayne waved the ticket in front of her.

“I guess…” she said. “I could let you in one last time. I’m not supposed to allow unrelated men into the visiting room, however.”

“I’m practically family,” he said. They made a big fuss about keeping the young women and young men separated around here, which Wayne found odd. With all of these smart people around, wouldn’t one of them have realized what boys and girls was supposed to do together?

The tyrant let him pass into the visiting room, then sent one of the girls at the desk to run for Allriandre. Wayne sat down, but couldn’t keep his feet from tapping. He’d been stripped of weapons, bribes, and even his own hat. He was practically naked, but he’d made it to the final test.

Allriandre entered a few moments later. She’d brought backup with her in the form of two other young ladies about her age—just shy of twenty. Smart girl, Wayne thought, proud. He rose.

“Madam Penfor says you’re drunk,” Allriandre said, remaining in the doorway.

Wayne tapped his metalmind, drawing forth healing. In a moment, his body burned away its impurities and healed its wounds. It thought alcohol was a poison, which showed that a fellow couldn’t always trust his own body, but today he didn’t complain. It also washed away his sniffles for the moment, though those would return. It was hard to heal from diseases with a metalmind for some reason.

Either way, sobriety hit him like a brick to the chin. He inhaled deeply, feeling even more naked than before. “I just like to play with her,” Wayne said, all hint of slur gone from his voice, eyes focused.

Allriandre studied him intently, then nodded. She did not enter the room.

“I brought this month’s money,” Wayne said, taking an envelope out and setting it on the low, glass-topped table beside him. He stood up straight, then shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Is that really him?” one of the girls asked Allriandre. “They say he rides with Dawnshot. Of the Roughs.”

“It’s him,” Allriandre said, eyes still on Wayne. “I don’t want your money.”

“Your mama told me to bring it to you,” Wayne said.

“You don’t need to bring it in person.”

“I do,” Wayne said quietly.

They stood in silence, neither party moving. Wayne finally cleared his throat. “How’re your studies? Are you treated well here? Is there anythin’ you need?”

Allriandre reached into her handbag and took out a large locket. She spread it open, displaying a strikingly distinct evanotype of a man with a wide mustache and a twinkle in his eyes. He had a long, friendly face, and his hair was thinning on top. Her father.

She made Wayne look at it every time.

“Tell me what you did,” she said. That voice. It could have been the voice of winter itself.

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”

The third trial.

“I killed your daddy,” Wayne said softly, looking at the picture. “I mugged him in an alley for his pocketbook. I shot a better man than me, and because of that, I don’t deserve to be alive.”

“You know you aren’t forgiven.”

“I know.”

“You will never be forgiven.”

“I know.”

“Then I’ll take your blood money,” Allriandre said. “If you care to know, my studies go well. I am thinking of taking up the law.”

Someday, he hoped he might be able to look into the girl’s eyes and see emotion. Hatred, maybe. Something other than that emptiness.

“Get out.”

Wayne ducked his head and left.

There should not have been a thatched log hut in the middle of Elendel, and yet here it was. Wax stooped to enter, seeming to step backward in time hundreds of years. The air inside smelled of old leather and furs.

The enormous firepit in the middle would never be needed in Elendel’s mild weather. Today, a smaller fire had been constructed at its very center, and over it simmered a small kettle of hot water for tea. However, charred stones indicated that the entire firepit was sometimes used. It, the furs, the ancient-style paintings on the wall—of winds, and frozen rain, and tiny figures painted with simple strokes on slopes—were all fragments of a myth.

Old Terris. A legendary land of snow and ice, with white-furred beasts and spirits that haunted frozen storms. During the early days following the Catacendre, refugees from Terris had written down memories of their homeland, as no Keepers had remained.

Wax settled down beside his grandmother’s firepit. Some said that Old Terris waited for this people, hidden somewhere in this new world of Harmony’s design. To the faithful, it might as well have been paradise; a frozen, hostile paradise. Living in a land naturally lush with bounteous fruit, where little cultivation was required, could warp one’s vision.

Grandmother V settled down opposite him, but did not start the fire. “Did you remove your guns before entering the Village this time?”

“I did not.”

She snorted. “So insolent. During your long absence, I often wondered if the Roughs might temper you.”

“They made me more stubborn, is all.”

“A land of heat and death,” Grandmother V said. She crinkled a handful of herbs, flakes dropping into a tea strainer above her cup. She poured steaming water over them, then placed the lid with a gnarled hand. “Everything about you stinks of death, Asinthew.”

“That isn’t what my father named me.”

“Your father didn’t have the right. I would demand you remove the weapons, but it would be meaningless. You could kill with a coin, or with a button, or with this pot.”

“Allomancy is not so evil as you make it out to be, Grandmother.”

“Neither power is evil,” she said. “It is mixing those powers that is dangerous. Your nature is not your fault, but I cannot help but see it as a sign. Another tyrant in our future, too powerful. It leads to death.”