Mistborn #02 The Well of Ascension

your position gets attacked."
    "So, you want me to begin sparring with Vin and Ham during their training sessions?"
    "Goodness, no! Can't you imagine how terrible it would be for morale if the men saw you being beaten up in public?" Tindwyl shook her head. "No, we'll have you trained discreetly by a dueling master. Given a few months, we should have you competent with the cane and the sword. Hopefully, this little siege of yours will last that long before the fighting starts."
    Elend flushed again. "You keep talking down to me. It's like I'm not even king in your eyes—like you see me as some kind of placeholder."
    Tindwyl didn't answer, but her eyes glinted with satisfaction. You said it, not I , her expression seemed to say.
    Elend flushed more deeply.
    "You can, perhaps, learn to be a king, Elend Venture," Tindwyl said. "Until then, you'll just have to learn to fake it."
    Elend's angry response was cut off by a knock at the door. Elend gritted his teeth, turning. "Come in."
    The door swung open. "There's news," Captain Demoux said, his youthful face excited as he entered. "I—" He froze.
    Elend cocked his head. "Yes?"
    "I. . .uh. . ." Demoux paused, looked Elend over again before continuing. "Ham sent me, Your Majesty. He says that a messenger from one of the kings has arrived."
    "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