Warbreaker Part 78

The man's shoulders slumped slightly. "Is there no hope for me then, my lord?"

"That is Arelish foolishness speaking, Arteth, not Fjordell pride." Hrathen reached down, grasping the man's shoulder. "Rise, my brother!" he commanded.

Fjon looked up, hope returning to his eyes.

"Your mind may have become tainted with Arelish thoughts, but your soul is still Fjordell. You are of Jaddeth's chosen people-all of the Fjordell have a place of service in His Empire. Return to our homeland, join a monastery to reacquaint yourself with those things you have forgotten, and you will be given another way to serve the Empire."

"Yes, my lord."

Hrathen's grip grew hard. "Understand this before you leave, Arteth. My arrival is more of a blessing than you can possibly understand. All of Jaddeth's workings are not open to you; do not think to second-guess our G.o.d." He paused, debating his next move. After a moment he decided-this man still had worth. Hrathen had a unique chance to reverse much of Arelon's perversion of Fjon's soul in a single stroke. "Look there on the table, Arteth. Read that scroll."

Fjon looked toward the desk, eyes finding the scroll resting thereon. Hrathen released the man's shoulder, allowing him to walk around the desk and read.

"This is the official seal of Wyrn himself!" Fjon said, picking up the scroll.

"Not just the seal, Arteth," Hrathen said. "That is his signature as well. The doc.u.ment you hold was penned by his Holiness himself. That isn't just a letter-it is scripture."

Fjon's eyes opened wide, and his fingers began to quiver. "Wyrn himself?" Then, realizing in full what he was holding in his unworthy hand, he dropped the parchment to the desk with a quiet yelp. His eyes didn't turn away from the letter, however. They were transfixed-reading the words as voraciously as a starving man devoured a joint of beef. Few people actually had an opportunity to read words written by the hand of Jaddeth's prophet and Holy Emperor.

Hrathen gave the priest time to read the scroll, then re-read it, and then read it again. When Fjon finally looked up, there was understanding-and grat.i.tude-in his face. The man was intelligent enough. He knew what the orders would have required of him, had he remained in charge of Kae.

"Thank you," Fjon mumbled.

Hrathen nodded graciously. "Could you have done it? Could you have followed Wyrn's commands?"

Fjon shook his head, eyes darting back to the parchment. "No, your Grace. I could not have... I couldn't have functioned-couldn't have even thought-with that on my conscience. I do not envy your place, my lord. Not anymore."

"Return to Fjorden with my blessing, brother," Hrathen said, taking a small envelope from a bag on the table. "Give this to the priests there. It is a letter from me telling them you accepted your rea.s.signment with the grace befitting a servant of Jaddeth. They will see that you are a.s.signed to a monastery. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to lead a chapel again-one well within Fjorden's borders."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

Fjon withdrew, closing the door behind him. Hrathen walked to his desk and slid another envelope-identical to the one he had given Fjon-from his letter bag. He held it for a few moments, then turned it to one of the desk's candles. The words it held-condemning Arteth Fjon as a traitor and an apostate-would never be read, and the poor, pleasant arteth would never know just how much danger he had been in.

"With your leave, my Lord Gyorn," said the bowing priest, a minor dorven who had served under Fjon for over a decade. Hrathen waved his hand, bidding the man to leave. The door shut silently as the priest backed from the room.

Fjon had done some serious damage to his underlings. Even a small weakness would build enormous flaws over two decades' time, and Fjon's problems were anything but 'small.' The man had been lenient to the point of flagrancy-he had run a chapel without order, bowing before Arelish culture rather than bringing the people strength and discipline. Half of the priests serving in Kae were hopelessly corrupted-including men as new to the city as six months. Within the next few weeks, Hrathen would be sending a veritable fleet of priests back to Fjorden. He'd have to pick a new head arteth from those who remained, few though they were.

A knock came at the door. "Come," Hrathen said. He had been seeing the priests one at a time, feeling out the extent of their contamination. So far, he had not often been impressed.

"Arteth Dilaf," the priest said, introducing himself as he entered.

Hrathen looked up-the name and words were Fjordell, but the accent was slightly off. It sounded almost ... "You're Arelish?" Hrathen said with surprise.

The priest bowed with the proper amount of subservience-his eyes, however, were defiant.

"How did you become a priest of Derethi?" Hrathen asked.

"I wanted to serve the Empire," the man replied, his voice quietly intense. "Jaddeth provided a way."

No, Hrathen realized. It isn't defiance in this man's eyes-it's religious fervor. One did not often find zealots in the Derethi religion-such people were more often drawn to the frenzied lawlessness of the Jeskeri Mysteries than the militaristic organization of Shu-Dereth. This man's face, however, burned with fanatical pa.s.sion. It was not a bad thing-while Hrathen himself spurned such lack of control, he had often found zealots to be useful tools.

"Jaddeth always provides a way, Arteth," Hrathen said carefully. "Be more specific."

"I met a Derethi arteth in Duladel twelve years ago. He preached to me, and I believed. He gave me copies of the Do-Keseg and the Do-Dereth, and I read them both in one night. The holy arteth sent me back to Arelon to help convert those in my home country, and I set up in Rain. I taught there for seven years, until the day I heard that a Derethi chapel had been built in Kae itself. I overcame my loathing for the Elantrians, knowing that Holy Jaddeth had struck them down with an eternal punishment, and came to join with my Fjordell brethren.

"I brought my converts with me-fully half of the believers in Kae came with me from Rain. Fjon was impressed with my diligence. He granted me the t.i.tle of arteth and allowed me to continue teaching."

Hrathen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarding the Arelish priest. "You know what Arteth Fjon did was wrong."

"Yes, my lord. An arteth cannot appoint another to his own position. When I speak to the people, I never refer to myself as a priest of Derethi, only a teacher."

A very good teacher, Dilaf's tone implied. "What did you think of Arteth Fjon?" Hrathen asked.

"He was an undisciplined fool, my lord. His laxness kept Jaddeth's kingdom from growing in Arelon, and has made a mockery of our religion."

Hrathen smiled-Dilaf, though not of the chosen race, was obviously a man who understood the doctrine and culture of his religion. However, his ardor could be dangerous. The wild intensity in Dilaf's eyes was barely under control-either he would have to be watched very closely, or he would have to be disposed of.

"It appears that Arteth Fjon did one thing right, even if he didn't have the proper authority," Hrathen said. Dilaf's eyes burned even more brightly at the declaration. "I make you a full arteth, Dilaf."

Dilaf bowed touching his head to the ground. His mannerisms were perfectly Fjordell, and Hrathen had never heard a foreigner speak the Holy Tongue so well. This man could prove useful indeed-after all, one common complaint against Shu-Dereth was that it favored the Fjordell. An Arelish priest could help prove that all were welcome within Jaddeth's Empire-even if the Fjordell were the most welcome.

Hrathen congratulated himself on creating such a useful tool, completely satisfied until the moment Dilaf looked up from his bow. The pa.s.sion was still there in Fjon's eyes-but there was something else as well. Ambition. Hrathen frowned slightly, wondering whether or not he had just been manipulated.

There was only one thing to do. "Arteth, are you sworn as any man's odiv?"

Surprise. Dilaf's eyes opened wide as he stared up at Hrathen, uncertainty flashing therein. "No, my lord."

"Good. Then I will make you mine."

"My lord ... I am, of course, your humble servant."

"You will be more than that, Arteth," Hrathen said, "if you would be my odiv, I your hroden. You will be mine, heart and soul. If you follow Jaddeth, you follow him through me. If you serve Wyrn, you do it under me. Whatever you think, act, or say will be by my direction. Am I understood?"

Fire burned in Dilaf's eyes. "Yes," he hissed. The man's fervor wouldn't let him reject such an offer. Though his lowly rank of arteth would remain unchanged, being odiv to a gyorn would enormously increase Dilaf's power and respectability. He would be Hrathen's slave, if that slavery would carry him higher. It was a very Fjordell thing to do-ambition was the one emotion Jaddeth would accept as readily as devotion.

"Good," Hrathen said. "Then your first order is to follow the priest Fjon. He should be getting on the ship to Fjordell right at this moment-I want you to make sure he does so. If Fjon gets off for any reason, kill him."

"Yes, my gyorn." Dilaf rushed from the room. He finally had an outlet for his enthusiasm-all Hrathen had to do now was keep that enthusiasm focused in the right direction.

Hrathen stood for a moment after the Arelish man had gone, then shook his head and turned back to his desk. The scroll still lay where it had fallen from Fjon's unworthy fingers; Hrathen picked it up with a smile, his touch reverent. He was not a man who delighted in possessions-Hrathen set his sights on much grander accomplishments than the simple acc.u.mulation of useless baubles. However, occasionally an object came along that was so unique, Hrathen reveled in simply knowing it belonged to him. One did not own such a thing for its usefulness, or for its ability to impress others, but because it was a privilege to possess. The scroll was such an object.

It had been scribed in front of Hrathen by Wyrn's own hand. It was revelation directly from Jaddeth; scripture intended for only one man. Few people ever got to meet Jaddeth's anointed, and even amongst the gyorns, private audiences were rare. To receive orders directly from Wyrn's hand... such was the most exquisite of experiences.

Hrathen ran his eyes over the sacred words again, even though he had long since memorized their every detail.

Behold the words of Jaddeth, through his servant Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Emperor and king.

High Priest and Son, your request has been granted. Go to the heathen peoples of the west and declare to them my final warning, for while my Empire is eternal, my patience will soon end. Not much longer will I slumber within a tomb of rock. The Day of Empire is at hand, and my glory will soon shine forth, a second sun blazing forth from Fjorden.

The pagan nations of Arelon and Teod have been blackened scars upon my land for long enough. Three hundred years have my priests served amongst those tainted by Elantris, and few have harkened to their call. Know this, High Priest, my faithful warriors are prepared and they wait only the word of my Wyrn. You have three months to prophesy to the people of Arelon. At the end of that time, the holy soldiers of Fjorden will descend on the nation like hunting predators, rending and tearing the unworthy life from those who heed not my words. Only three months will pa.s.s before the destruction of all who oppose my Empire.

The time for my ascension nears, my son. Be stalwart, and be diligent.

Words of Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation, through his servant Wyrn Wulfden the fourth, Emperor of Fjordell, Prophet of Shu-Dereth, Ruler of Jaddeth's Holy kingdom, and Regent of all Creation.

The time had finally come-only two nations resisted. Fjorden had regained its former glory, glory lost hundreds of years ago when the First Empire collapsed. Once again, Arelon and Teod were the only two kingdoms who resisted Fjordell rule. This time, with the might of Jaddeth's holy calling behind it, Fjorden would prevail. Then, with all mankind united under Wyrn's rule, Jaddeth could rise from his throne beneath the earth and reign in glorious majesty.

And Hrathen would be the one responsible for it. The conversion of Arelon and Teod was his urgent duty. He had three months to change the religious temperament of an entire culture; it was a monumental task, but it was vital that he succeed. If he did not, Fjorden's armies would destroy every living being in Arelon, and Teod would soon follow-the two nations, though separated by water, were the same in race, religion, and abstinence.

The people might not yet know it, but Hrathen was the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation. They had resisted Jaddeth and his people in arrogant defiance for far too long-Hrathen was their last chance.

Someday they would call him their savior.

Sample Chapters of Mistborn Book One: The Final Empire (Originally published in 2006, this is the first of my epic fantasy trilogy. The paperback was out in July of 2007, and Book Two was released in August, 2007. Book three is due October 2008. Warbreaker is next in line after it, scheduled for 2009.) Sometimes, I worry that I'm not the hero everyone thinks I am...

The philosophers a.s.sure me that this is the time, that the signs have been met. But I still wonder if they have the wrong man. So many people depend on me. They say I will hold the future of the entire world on my arms.

What would they think if they knew that their champion-the Hero of Ages, their savior-doubted himself? Perhaps they wouldn't be shocked at all. In a way, this is what worries me most. Maybe, in their hearts, they wonder-just as I do.

When they see me, do they see a liar?

Prologue Ash fell from the sky.

Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy, mid-day sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren't that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via ca.n.a.l boat from Luthadel itself. Fortunately, there wasn't much wind-the parasol would likely be effective.

Tresting stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio which overlooked the fields. Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring for the crops. There was a sluggishness to their efforts-but, of course, that was the way of the skaa. The peasants were an indolent, unproductive lot. They didn't complain, of course-they knew better than that. Instead, they simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet apathy. The pa.s.sing whip of a taskmaster would force them into dedicated motion for a few moments, but as soon as the taskmaster pa.s.sed, they would return to their languor.

Tresting turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. "One would think," Tresting noted, "that a thousand years of working in fields would have bred them to be a little more effective at it."

The obligator turned, raising an eyebrow-the motion done as if to highlight his most distinctive feature, the intricate tattoos that laced the skin around his eyes. The tattoos were enormous, reaching all the way across his brow and up the sides of his nose. This was a full prelan-a very important obligator indeed. Tresting had his own, personal obligators back at the manor, but they were only minor functionaries, with barely a few marks around their eyes. This man had arrived from Luthadel with the same ca.n.a.l boat that had brought Tresting's new suit.

"You should see city skaa, Tresting," the obligator said, turning back to watch the skaa workers. "These are actually quite diligent, compared to those inside Luthadel. You have more... direct control over your skaa here. How many would you say you lose a month?"

"Oh, a half-dozen or so," Tresting said. "Some to beatings, some to exhaustion."

"Runaways?"

"Never!" Tresting said. "When I first inherited this land from my t.i.tle, I had a few runaways-but I executed their families. The rest quickly lost heart. I've never understood men who have trouble with their skaa-I find the creatures easy to control, if you show a properly firm hand."

The obligator nodded, standing quietly in his gray robes. He seemed pleased-which was a good thing. The skaa weren't actually Tresting's property. Like all skaa, they belonged to the Lord Ruler-Tresting only leased the workers from his G.o.d, much in the same way he paid for the services of His obligators.

The obligator looked down, checking his pocket watch, then glanced up at the sun. Despite the ashfall, the sun was bright this day, shining a brilliant crimson red behind the smoky blackness of the upper sky. Tresting removed a handkerchief and wiped his brow, thankful for the parasol's shade against the mid-day heat.

"Very well, Tresting," the obligator said. "I will carry your proposal to Lord Venture, as requested. He will have a favorable report from me on your operations here."

Tresting held in a sigh of relief. An obligator was required to witness any contract or business deal between n.o.blemen. True, even a lowly obligator like the ones Tresting employed could serve as such a witness-but it meant so much more to impress Straff Venture's own obligator.

The obligator turned toward him. "I will leave back down the ca.n.a.l this afternoon."

"So soon?" Tresting asked. "Wouldn't you care to stay for supper?"

"No," the obligator replied. "Though there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. I came not only at the behest of Lord Venture, but to... look in on some matters for the Canton of Inquisition. Rumors say that you like to dally with your skaa women."

Tresting felt a chill.

The obligator smiled-he likely meant it to be disarming, but Tresting only found it eerie. "Don't worry yourself, Tresting," the obligator said. "If there had been any real worries about your actions, a Steel Inquisitor would have been sent here in my place."

Tresting nodded slowly. Inquisitor. He'd never seen one of the inhuman creatures, but he had heard... stories.

"I have been satisfied regarding your actions with the skaa women," the obligator said, looking back over the fields. "What I've seen and heard here indicates that you always clean up your messes. A man such as yourself-efficient, productive-could go far in Luthadel. A few more years of work, some inspired mercantile deals, and who knows?"

The obligator turned away, and Tresting found himself smiling. It wasn't a promise, or even an endors.e.m.e.nt-for the most part, obligators were more bureaucrats and witnesses than they were priests-but to hear such praise from one of the Lord Ruler's own servants... Tresting knew that some n.o.bility considered the obligators to be unsettling-some men even considered them a bother-but at that moment, Testing could have kissed his distinguished guest.

Tresting turned back toward the skaa, who worked quietly beneath the b.l.o.o.d.y sun and the lazy flakes of ash. Tresting had always been a country n.o.bleman, living on his plantation, dreaming of perhaps moving into Luthadel itself. He had heard of the b.a.l.l.s and the parties, the glamour and the intrigue, and it excited him to no end.

I'll have to celebrate tonight, he thought. There was that young girl in the fourteenth hovel that he'd been watching for some time...

He smiled again. A few more years of work, the obligator had said. But, could Tresting perhaps speed that up, if he worked a little harder? His skaa population had been growing lately. Perhaps if he pushed them a bit more, he could bring in an extra harvest this summer, fulfill his contract with Lord Venture in extra measure.

Tresting nodded as he watched the crowd of lazy skaa, some working with their hoes, others on hands and knees, pushing the ash away from the fledgling crops. They didn't complain. They didn't hope. They barely dared think. That was the way it should be, for they were skaa. They were- Tresting froze as one of the skaa looked up. The man met Tresting's eyes, a spark-no, a fire-of defiance showing in his expression. Tresting had never seen anything like it, not in the face of a skaa. Tresting stepped backward reflexively, a chill running through him as the strange, straight-backed skaa held his eyes.

And smiled.

Tresting looked away. "Kurdon!" he snapped.

The burly taskmaster rushed up the incline. "Yes, my lord?"

Tresting turned, pointing at...

He frowned. Where had that skaa been standing? Working with their heads bowed, bodies stained by soot and sweat, they were so hard to tell apart. Tresting paused, searching. He thought he knew the place... an empty spot, where n.o.body now stood.

But, no. That couldn't be it. The man couldn't have disappeared from the group so quickly. Where would he have gone? He must be in there, somewhere, working with his head now properly bowed. Still, his moment of apparent defiance was inexcusable.

"My lord?" Kurdon asked again.

The obligator stood at the side, watching curiously. It would not be wise to let the man know that one of the skaa had acted so brazenly.

"Work the skaa in that southern section a little harder," Tresting ordered, pointing. "I see them being sluggish, even for skaa. Beat a few of them."

Kurdon shrugged, but nodded. It wasn't much of a reason for a beating-but, then, he didn't need much of a reason to give the workers a beating.

They were, after all, only skaa.