Shadows of Self (Mistborn #5)(40)

“You still need private time for that thinkin’ of yours?” Wayne asked.

“Yes.”

“Never touch the stuff myself,” Wayne said. “Causes headaches. Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?”

The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage. Wayne climbed up, and Wax stepped inside. This wouldn’t be ideal, but it would have to do. He pulled down the window shades, then settled back as the coach began rolling.

He took his earring out of his pocket—the earring of the Pathian religion. His was special. He’d been hand-delivered it under mysterious circumstances. Lately, though, he had avoided wearing it, as the book made clear what it must be. Long ago, a small spike of metal like this had allowed people to communicate with Ruin and Preservation, gods of the ancient world. It was Hemalurgy.

Had this earring, then, been made by killing someone?

Hesitantly, he slipped it in.

Unfortunately, a voice said in his mind, your fears about the earring are correct. It is a Hemalurgic spike.

Wax jumped, throwing open the carriage door with Allomancy—preparing his escape—while pulling out Vindication. Rusts! He’d heard that voice as if someone were sitting beside him.

Firing that gun would not have the effect you want, I think, the voice said. Even if you could see me, shooting at me would merely ruin the furnishings of your coach, costing precisely eighty-four boxings to repair when Miss Grimes takes it to the shop next week. You’d be left with a new wood panel on the coach body just behind me which would never quite match those around it.

Wax breathed in and out. “Harmony.”

Yes? the voice said.

“You’re here, in my coach.”

Technically, I am everywhere.

Wax trembled, mouth going dry. He forced himself to close the door and sit back down.

Tell me, the voice said in his head, what were you expecting to happen when you put in the earring, if not this?

“I…” Wax slid Vindication back into her holster. “I wasn’t expecting an answer so … promptly. And my reflexes tend to be on the jumpy side lately. Um, Your Deificness.”

You may call me Harmony, or “Lord” if you must. The voice sounded amused. Now. About what do you wish to speak?

“You know.”

Better to hear you say it.

“Better for You to hear me say it,” Wax said, “or for me to hear myself say it?”

Both.

“Am I insane?” Wax asked.

If you were, speaking to a figment of your delusion would certainly not diagnose that fact.

“You’re not helping much.”

Then ask better questions, Waxillium.

Wax leaned forward. “I…” He clasped his hands before him. “You’re real.”

You’ve heard my voice; you’ve followed my Path.

“A few whispered words when I was in a moment of great stress, when I was gravely wounded,” Wax said. “Words I’ve doubted ever since. This is different. This is … more real.”

You need to hear it then, do you? the voice said. It sounded as clear and ordinary as if someone normal, someone visible, sat there talking to him. Very well. I am Harmony, the Hero of Ages, once called Sazed. At the end of one world, I took upon myself the powers of protection and destruction, and in so doing became the caretaker of the world to come. I am here, Waxillium, to tell you that you are not insane.

“Bloody Tan lives.”

Not exactly.

Wax frowned.

There are … beings in this world who are neither human nor koloss. Something related to both. You call them the Faceless Immortals.

“Kandra,” Wax said. “Like TenSoon, the Guardian. Or the person who gave me this earring.”

They can take the corpses of the dead and use their bones to mimic a person who has died—they wear bodies like you wear clothing, changing back and forth as they wish. They were created by the Lord Ruler using Hemalurgy.

“Your Holy Books give few details about their organization,” Wax said. “But everyone knows that the Faceless Immortals are your servants. Not murderers.”

Any being has choice, Harmony said. Even koloss have the power to choose. This one … the being who wears Bloody Tan’s body … has not made very good choices.

“Who is he?”

She is a member of the Third Generation, and you should know better than to assume everyone dangerous to be a male. Paalm was what we called her, but she has chosen the name Bleeder for herself. Waxillium, Bleeder is ancient, older than the destruction of the world—almost as old as the Final Empire. Indeed, she is even older than I am, though not older than my powers. She is crafty, careful, and brilliant. And I’m afraid that she might have gone mad.

The carriage turned a corner.

“One of Your ancient servants,” Wax said, “has gone mad and is killing people.”

Yes.

“So stop her!”

It is not so simple.

“Free will?” Wax said, annoyed.

No, not in this case. I can directly control a being who has pierced herself with too much Hemalurgy. In this case I would act, for Bleeder has disobeyed her Contract with me and opened herself up for my intervention. Something is wrong, unfortunately.

“What?” Wax asked.