Mistborn: secret history

you deserve, Kelsier, a piece of him thought. You wished to dance with the divine and steal from gods.

Should you now be surprised that you’ve found yourself in over your head?

The sound of rustling leaves made him scramble back to his feet. Nazh emerged from the shadows. The

shorter man stopped at the perimeter of the abandoned camp, then cursed softly before stepping forward

and removing his side knife, sheath and all, and handing it toward Kelsier.

Hesitant, Kelsier accepted the leatherbound weapon.

“It’s a bad state you and yours are in,” Nazh said softly, “but I rather like this place. Damnable mists and

all.” He pointed westward. “They’ve set up out there.”

“They?”

“The Eyree,” he said. “They’ve been at this far longer than we have, Survivor. If someone will know how

to help you, it will be the Eyree. Look for them where the land becomes solid again.”

“Solid again…” Kelsier said. “Lake Tyrian?”

“Beyond. Far beyond, Survivor.”

“The ocean? That’s miles and miles away. Past Farmost!”

Nazh patted him on the shoulder, then turned back to hike after Khriss.

“Is there hope?” Kelsier called.

---

“What if I told you no?” Nazh said over his shoulder. “What if I said I figured you were damn well ruined,

so to speak. Would it change what you were going to do?”

“No.”

Nazh raised his fingers to his forehead in a kind of salute. “Farewell, Survivor. Take care of my knife. I’m

fond of it.”

He vanished into the darkness. Kelsier watched after him, then did the only rational thing.

He ate the bolt he’d taken from the bottom of the stool.

---