Mistborn #02 The Well of Ascension

glancing down the corridor of the southern valley. It was filled with blackened soil occasionally split by brown vines or shrubs. No mist, of course; mist came only during the night. The stories had to be mistakes. The thing he'd seen had to have been a fluke.
    And what did it matter if it wasn't? It wasn't his duty to investigate such things. Now that the Collapse had come, he had to disperse his knowledge, not waste his time chasing after foolish stories. Keepers were no longer investigators, but instructors. He carried with him thousands of books—information about farming, about sanitation, about government, and about medicine. He needed to give these things to the skaa. That was what the Synod had decided.
    And yet, a part of Sazed resisted. That made him feel deeply guilty; the villagers needed his teachings, and he wished dearly to help them. However. . .he felt that he was missing something. The Lord Ruler was dead, but the story did not seem finished. Was there something he had overlooked?
    Something larger, even, than the Lord Ruler? Something so large, so big, that it was effectively invisible?
    Or, do I just want there to be something else ? he wondered. I've spent most of my adult life resisting and fighting, taking risks that the other Keepers called mad. I wasn't content with feigned subservience—I had to get involved in the rebellion .
    Despite that rebellion's success, Sazed's brethren still hadn't forgiven him for his involvement. He knew that Vin and the others saw him as docile, but compared with other Keepers he was a wild man. A reckless, untrustworthy fool who threatened the entire order with his impatience. They had believed their duty was to wait, watching for the day when the Lord Ruler was gone. Feruchemists were too rare to risk in open rebellion.
    Sazed had disobeyed. Now he was having trouble living the peaceful life of a teacher. Was that because some subconscious part of him knew that the people were still in danger, or was it because he simply couldn't accept being marginalized?
    "Master Terrisman!"
    Sazed spun. The voice was terrified. Another death in the mists ? he thought immediately.
    It was eerie how the other skaa remained inside their hovels despite the horrified voice. A few doors creaked, but nobody rushed out in alarm—or even curiosity—as the screamer dashed up to Sazed. She was one of the fieldworkers, a stout, middle-aged woman. Sazed checked his reserves as she approached; he had on his pewtermind for strength, of course, and a very small steel ring for speed. Suddenly, he wished he'd chosen to wear just a few more bracelets this day.
    "Master Terrisman!" the woman said, out of breath. "Oh, he's come back! He's come for us!"
    "Who?" Sazed asked. "The man who died in the mists?"
    "No, Master Terrisman. The Lord Ruler ."

    Sazed found him standing just outside the village. It was already growing dark, and the woman who'd fetched Sazed had returned to her hovel in fear. Sazed could only imagine how the poor people felt—trapped by the onset of the night and its mist, yet huddled and worried at the danger that lurked outside.
    And an ominous danger it was. The stranger waited quietly on the worn road, wearing a black robe, standing almost as tall as Sazed himself. The man was bald, and he wore no jewelry—unless, of course, you counted the massive iron spikes that had been driven point-first through his eyes.
    Not the Lord Ruler. A Steel Inquisitor.
    Sazed still didn't understand how the creatures continued to live. The spikes were wide enough to fill the Inquisitor's entire eye sockets; the nails had destroyed the eyes, and pointed tips jutted out the back of the skull. No blood dripped from the wounds—for some reason, that made them seem more strange.
    Fortunately, Sazed knew this particular Inquisitor. "Marsh," Sazed said quietly as the mists began to form.
    "You are a very difficult person to track, Terrisman," Marsh said—and the sound of his voice shocked Sazed. It had changed, somehow, becoming more grating, more gristly. It now had a grinding quality, like that of a man with a cough. Just like the other Inquisitors Sazed had heard.
    "Track?" Sazed asked. "I wasn't planning on others needing to find me."
    "Regardless," Marsh said, turning south. "I did. You need to come with me."
    Sazed frowned. "What? Marsh, I have a work to do here."
    "Unimportant," Marsh said, turning back, focusing his eyeless gaze on Sazed.
    Is it me, or has he become stranger since