The Larsta believed that life was about seeking the divine, he read. They taught that art draws us closer to understanding divinity. Since not all men can spend their time in art, it is to the benefit of society as a whole to support a group of dedicated artists to create great works, which then elevate those who experience them.
That was all well and good, in Sazed’s estimation, but what about questions of life and death? What about the spirit? What was the divine, and how could such terrible things happen to the world if divinity did exist?
“You know,” Breeze said from the saddle of his horse, “there’s something amazing about all of this.”
The comment broke Sazed’s concentration. He sighed, looking up from his research. The horse continued to clop along beneath him. “Amazing about what, Lord Breeze?”
“The ash,” Breeze said. “I mean, look at it. Covering everything, making the land look so black. It’s simply astounding how dreary the landscape has become. Back in the Lord Ruler’s reign, everything was brown, and most plants grown outdoors looked as if they were on the very edge of sickly death. I thought that was depressing. But ash falling every day, burying the entire land …” The Soother shook his head, smiling. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible for things to actually be worse without the Lord Ruler. But, well, we’ve certainly made a mess! Destroying the world. That’s no mean feat, if you think about it. I wonder if we should be impressed with ourselves.”
Sazed frowned. Occasional flakes drifted from the sky, the upper atmosphere darkened by its usual dark haze. The ashfall was light, if persistent, falling steadily for nearly two months now. Their horses moved through a good half-foot of the stuff as they moved southward, accompanied by a hundred of Elend’s soldiers. How long would it be before the ash grew so deep that travel was impossible? It already drifted several feet high in some places.
Everything was black—the hills, the road, the entire countryside. Trees drooped with the weight of ash on their leaves and branches. Most of the ground foliage was likely dead—bringing even two horses with them on the trip to Lekal City had been difficult, for there was nothing for them to graze on. The soldiers had been forced to carry feed.
“I do have to say, however,” Breeze continued, chatting along in his normal way, protected from the ash by a parasol attached to the back of his saddle, “the ash is a tad unimaginative.”
“Unimaginative?”
“Why, yes,” Breeze said. “While I do happen to like black as a color for suits, I otherwise find it a somewhat uninspired hue.”
“What else would the ash be?”
Breeze shrugged. “Well, Vin says that there’s something behind all this, right? Some evil force of doom or whatever? Well, if I were said force of doom, then I certainly wouldn’t have used my powers to turn the land black. It just lacks flair. Red. Now, that would be an interesting color. Think of the possibilities—if the ash were red, the rivers would run like blood. Black is so monotonous that you can forget about it, but red—you’d always be thinking, ‘Why, look at that. That hill is red. That evil force of doom trying to destroy me certainly has style.’”
“I’m not convinced there is any ‘evil force of doom,’ Breeze,” Sazed said.
“Oh?”
Sazed shook his head. “The ashmounts have always spewed out ash. Is it really that much of a stretch to assume that they have become more active than before? Perhaps this is all the result of natural processes.”
“And the mists?”
“Weather patterns change, Lord Breeze,” Sazed said. “Perhaps it was simply too warm during the day for them to come out before. Now that the ashmounts are emitting more ash, it would make sense that the days are growing colder, and so the mists stay longer.”
“Oh? And if that were the case, my dear man, then why haven’t the mists stayed out during the day in the winters? It was colder then than the summer, but the mists always left when day arrived.”
Sazed grew silent. Breeze made a good point. Yet, as Sazed checked each new religion off of his list, he wondered more and more if they were simply creating an enemy in this “force” Vin had felt. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t believe for a moment that she would have fabricated her stories. Yet, if there were no truth in the religions, was it too much of a stretch to infer that the world was simply ending because it was time?
“Green,” Breeze finally said.
Sazed turned.
“Now, that would be a color with style,” Breeze said. “Different. You can’t see green and forget about it—not like you can black or brown. Wasn’t Kelsier always talking about plants being green, once? Before the Ascension of the Lord Ruler, before the first time the Deepness came upon the land?”
“That’s what the histories claim.”
Breeze nodded thoughtfully. “Style indeed,” he said. “It would be pretty, I think.”
“Oh?” Sazed asked, genuinely surprised. “Most people with whom I have spoken seem to find the concept of green plants rather odd.”
“I thought that once, but now, after seeing black all day, every day … Well, I think a little variety would be nice. Fields of green … little specks of color … what did Kelsier call those?”
“Flowers,” Sazed said. The Larsta had written poems about them.
“Yes,” Breeze said. “It will be nice when those return.”
“Return?”
Breeze shrugged. “Well, the Church of the Survivor teaches that Vin will someday cleanse the sky of ash and the air of mists. I figure while she’s at it, she might as well bring back the plants and the flowers. Seems like a suitably feminine thing to do, for some reason.”
Sazed sighed, shaking his head. “Lord Breeze,” he said, “I realize that you are simply trying to encourage me. However, I have serious trouble believing that you accept the teachings of the Church of the Survivor.”
Breeze hesitated. Then, he smiled. “So I overdid it a bit, did I?”
“A tad.”
“It’s difficult to tell with you, my dear man. You’re so aware of my touch on your emotions that I can’t use much Allomancy, and you’ve been so … well, different lately.” Breeze’s voice grew wistful. “Still, it would be nice to see those green plants our Kelsier always spoke of. After six months of ash … well, it makes a man at least want to believe. Perhaps that’s enough for an old hypocrite like me.”
The sense of despair inside Sazed wanted to snap that simply believing wasn’t enough. Wishing and believing hadn’t gotten him anywhere. It wouldn’t change the fact that the plants were dying and the world was ending.
It wasn’t worth fighting, because nothing meant anything.
Sazed forced himself to stop that line of thought, but it was difficult. He worried, sometimes, about his melancholy. Unfortunately, much of the time, he had trouble summoning even the effort to care about his own pessimistic bent.
The Larsta, he told himself. Focus on that religion. You need to make a decision.
Breeze’s comments had set Sazed thinking. The Larsta focused so much on beauty and art as being “divine.” Well, if divinity was in any way related to art, then a god couldn’t in any way be involved in what was happening to the world. The ash, the dismal, depressing landscape … it was more than just “unimaginative,” as Breeze had put it. It was completely insipid. Dull. Monotonous.