“Really?” Elend said. “From Lord Cett?”
“No, Your Majesty. The messenger is from your father.”
Elend frowned. “Well, tell Ham I’ll be there in a moment.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Demoux said, retreating. “Uh, I like the new uniform, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Demoux,” Elend said. “Do you, by chance, know where Lady Vin is? I haven’t seen her all day.”
“I think she’s in her quarters, Your Majesty.”
Her quarters? She never stays there. Is she sick?
“Do you want me to summon her?” Demoux asked.
“No, thank you,” Elend said. “I’ll get her. Tell Ham to make the messenger comfortable.”
Demoux nodded, then withdrew.
Elend turned to Tindwyl, who was smiling to herself with a look of satisfaction. Elend brushed by her, walking over to grab his notebook. “I’m going to learn to do more than just ‘fake’ being king, Tindwyl.”
“We’ll see.”
Elend shot a glance at the middle-aged Terriswoman in her robes and jewelry.
“Practice expressions like that one,” Tindwyl noted, “and you just might do it.”
“Is that all it is, then?” Elend asked. “Expressions and costumes? Is that what makes a king?”
“Of course not.”
Elend stopped by the door, turning back. “Then, what does? What do you think makes a man a good king, Tindwyl of Terris?”
“Trust,” Tindwyl said, looking him in the eyes. “A good king is one who is trusted by his people—and one who deserves that trust.”
Elend paused, then nodded. Good answer, he acknowledged, then pulled open the door and rushed out to find Vin.
If only the Terris religion, and belief in the Anticipation, hadn’t spread beyond our people.
17
THE PILES OF PAPER SEEMED to multiply as Vin found more and more ideas in the logbook that she wanted to isolate and remember. What were the prophecies about the Hero of Ages? How did the logbook author know where to go, and what did he think he’d have to do when he got there?
Eventually, lying amid the mess—overlapping piles turned in odd directions to keep them separate—Vin acknowledged a distasteful fact. She was going to have to take notes.
With a sigh, she rose and crossed the room, stepping carefully over several stacks and approaching the room’s desk. She’d never used it before; in fact, she’d complained about it to Elend. What need did she have of a writing desk?
So she’d thought. She selected a pen, then pulled out a little jar of ink, remembering the days when Reen had taught her to write. He’d quickly grown frustrated with her scratchings, complaining about the cost of ink and paper. He’d taught her to read so that she could decipher contracts and imitate a noblewoman, but he’d thought that writing was less useful. In general, Vin shared this opinion.
Apparently, however, writing had uses even if one wasn’t a scribe. Elend was always scribbling notes and memos to himself; she’d often been impressed by how quickly he could write. How did he make the letters come so easily?
She grabbed a couple of blank sheets of paper and walked back over to her sorted piles. She sat down with crossed legs and unscrewed the top of the ink bottle.
“Mistress,” OreSeur noted, still lying with his paws before him, “you do realize that you just left the writing desk behind to sit on the floor.”
Vin looked up. “And?”
“The purpose of a writing desk is, well, writing.”
“But my papers are all over here.”
“Papers can be moved, I believe. If they prove too heavy, you could always burn pewter to give yourself more strength.”
Vin eyed his amused face as she inked the nib of her pen. Well, at least he’s displaying something other than his dislike of me. “The floor is more comfortable.”
“If you say so, Mistress, I will believe it to be true.”
She paused, trying to determine if he was still mocking her or not. Blasted dog’s face, she thought. Too hard to read.
With a sigh, she leaned down and began to write out the first word. She had to make each line precisely so that the ink didn’t smudge, and she had to pause often to sound out words and find the right letters. She’d barely written a couple of sentences before a knock came at her door. She looked up with a frown. Who was bothering her?
“Come in,” she called.
She heard a door open in the other room, and Elend’s voice called out. “Vin?”
“In here,” she said, turning back to her writing. “Why did you knock?”
“Well, you might have been changing,” he said, entering.
“So?” Vin asked.
Elend chuckled. “Two years, and privacy is still a strange concept to you.”
Vin looked up. “Well, I did—”
For just the briefest flash of a moment, she thought he was someone else. Her instincts kicked in before her brain, and she reflexively dropped the pen, jumping up and flaring pewter.
Then she stopped.
“That much of a change, eh?” Elend asked, holding out his arms so she could get a better look at his costume.
Vin put a hand to her chest, so shocked that she stepped right on one of her stacks. It was Elend, but it wasn’t. The brilliant white costume, with its sharp lines and firm figure, looked so different from his normal loose jacket and trousers. He seemed more commanding. More regal.
“You cut your hair,” she said, walking around him slowly, studying the costume.
“Tindwyl’s idea,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Less for people to grab on to in a fight,” Vin said.
Elend smiled. “Is that all you think about?”
“No,” Vin said absently, reaching up to tug his cape. It came free easily, and she nodded approvingly. Mistcloaks were the same; Elend wouldn’t have to worry about someone grabbing his cape in a fight.
She stepped back, arms folded. “Does this mean I can cut my hair, too?”
Elend paused just briefly. “You’re always free to do what you want, Vin. But, I kind of think it’s pretty longer.”
It stays, then.
“Anyway,” Elend said. “You approve?”
“Definitely,” Vin said. “You look like a king.” Though, she suspected a part of her would miss the tangle-haired, disheveled Elend. There had been something … endearing about that mixture of earnest competence and distracted inattention.
“Good,” Elend said. “Because I think we’re going to need the advantage. A messenger just …” He trailed off, looking over her stacks of paper. “Vin? Were you doing research?”
Vin flushed. “I was just looking through the logbook, trying to find references to the Deepness.”
“You were!” Elend stepped forward excitedly. To her chagrin, he quickly located the paper with her fledgling notes on it. He held the paper up, then looked over at her. “Did you write this?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Your penmanship is beautiful,” he said, sounding a bit surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me you could write like this?”