He probably hadn’t; Straff hadn’t until just recently. Penrod just shook his head. “Vin won’t attack you. Not if the Assembly votes to put you in command of the city. The transfer will be perfectly legal.”
“I doubt she cares about legality.”
“Perhaps,” Penrod said. “But Elend does. And, where he commands, the girl follows.”
Unless he has as little control over her as I have over Zane, Straff thought, shivering. No matter what Penrod said, Straff wasn’t going to take the city until that horrible creature was dealt with. In this, he could rely only on Zane.
And that thought frightened him almost as much as Vin did.
Without further discussion, Straff waved to Penrod, dismissing him. Penrod turned and retreated into the mists with his entourage. Even with his tin, Straff barely heard Zane land on the ground beside him. Straff turned, looking at the Mistborn.
“You really think he’d turn the atium over to you if he found it?” Zane asked quietly.
“Perhaps,” Straff said. “He has to know that he’d never be able to hold on to it—he doesn’t have the military might to protect a treasure like that. And, if he doesn’t give it to me … well, it would probably be easier to take the atium from him than it would be to find it on my own.”
Zane seemed to find the answer satisfactory. He waited for a few moments, staring into the mists. Then he looked at Straff, a curious expression on his face. “What time is it?”
Straff checked his pocket watch, something no Mistborn would carry. Too much metal. “Eleven seventeen,” he said.
Zane nodded, turning back to look at the city. “It should have taken effect by now.”
Straff frowned. Then he began to sweat. He flared tin, clamping his eyes shut. There! he thought, noticing a weakness inside of him. “More poison?” he asked, keeping the fear from his voice, forcing himself to be calm.
“How do you do it, Father?” Zane asked. “I thought for certain you’d missed this one. Yet, here you are, just fine.”
Straff was beginning to feel weak. “One doesn’t need to be Mistborn to be capable, Zane,” he snapped.
Zane shrugged, smiling in the haunting way only he could—keenly intelligent, yet eerily unstable. Then he just shook his head. “You win again,” he said, then shot upward into the sky, churning mists with his passing.
Straff immediately turned his horse, trying to maintain his decorum as he urged it back toward the camp. He could feel the poison. Feel it stealing his life. Feel it threatening him, overcoming him. …
He went, perhaps, too quickly. It was difficult to maintain an air of strength when you were dying. Finally, he broke into a gallop. He left his startled guards behind, and they called in surprise, breaking into a jog to try and keep up.
Straff ignored their complaints. He kicked the horse faster. Could he feel the poison slowing his reactions? Which one had Zane used? Gurwraith? No, it required injection. Tompher, perhaps? Or … perhaps he had found one that Straff didn’t even know about.
He could only hope that wasn’t the case. For, if Straff didn’t know of the poison, then Amaranta probably wouldn’t know of it either, and wouldn’t be able to put the antidote into her catch-all healing potion.
The lights of camp illuminated the mists. Soldiers cried out as Straff approached, and he was nearly run through as one of his own men leveled a spear at the charging horse. Fortunately, the man recognized him in time. Straff rode the man down even as he turned aside his spear.
Straff charged right up to his tent. By now, his men were scattering, preparing as if for an invasion, or some other attack. There was no way he could hide this from Zane.
I wouldn’t be able to hide my death either.
“My lord!” a captain said, dashing up to him.
“Send for Amaranta,” Straff said, stumbling off his horse.
The soldier paused. “Your mistress, lord?” the man said, frowning. “Why—”
“Now!” Straff commanded, throwing back his tent flap, walking inside. He paused, legs trembling as the tent flap closed. He wiped his brow with a hesitant hand. Too much sweat.
Damn him! he thought with frustration. I have to kill him, contain him … I have to do something. I can’t rule like this!
But what? He’d sat up nights, he’d wasted days, trying to decide what to do about Zane. The atium he used to bribe the man no longer seemed a good motivator. Zane’s actions this day—slaughtering Straff’s children in an obviously hopeless attempt to kill Elend’s mistress—proved that he could no longer be trusted, even in a small way.
Amaranta arrived with surprising speed, and she immediately began mixing her antidote. Eventually, as Straff slurped down the horrid-tasting concoction—feeling its healing effects immediately—he came to an uneasy conclusion.
Zane had to die.
And yet … something about all this seemed so convenient. It felt almost as if we constructed a hero to fit our prophecies, rather than allowing one to arise naturally. This was the worry I had, the thing that should have given me pause when my brethren came to me, finally willing to believe.
40
ELEND SAT BESIDE HER BED.
That comforted her. Though she slept fitfully, a piece of her knew that he was there, watching over her. It felt odd to be beneath his protective care, for she was the one who usually did the guarding.
So, when she finally woke, she wasn’t surprised to find him in the chair beside her bed, reading quietly by soft candlelight. As she came fully awake, she didn’t jump up, or search the room with apprehension. Instead, she sat up slowly, pulling the blanket up under her arms, then took a sip of the water that had been left for her beside the bed.
Elend closed the book and turned toward her, smiling. Vin searched those soft eyes, delving for hints of the horror she had seen before. The disgust, the terror, the shock.
He knew her for a monster. How could he smile so kindly?
“Why?” she asked quietly.
“Why what?” he asked.
“Why wait here?” she said. “I’m not dying—I remember that much.”
Elend shrugged. “I just wanted to be near you.”
She said nothing. A coal stove burned in the corner, though it needed more fuel. Winter was close, and it was looking to be a cold one. She wore only a nightgown; she’d asked the maids not to put one on her, but by then Sazed’s draught—to help her sleep—had already begun taking effect, and she hadn’t had the energy to argue.
She pulled the blanket closer. Only then did she realize something she should have noticed earlier. “Elend! You’re not wearing your uniform.”
He looked down at his clothing—a nobleman’s suit from his old wardrobe, with an unbuttoned maroon vest. The jacket was too big for him. He shrugged. “No need to continue the charade anymore, Vin.”
“Cett is king?” she asked with a sinking feeling.
Elend shook his head. “Penrod.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” he said. “We aren’t sure why the merchants betrayed Cett—but it doesn’t really matter anymore. Penrod is a far better choice anyway. Than either Cett, or me.”