Mistborn #03 The Hero of Ages

get in on a morning sparring session. Cett was gone a few moments later, carried back to his own tent. Demoux, however, lingered. It was sometimes hard to remember just how young Demoux was—barely older than Elend himself. The balding scalp and numerous scars made the man look much older than he was, as did the still-visible effects of his extended illness.
    Demoux was hesitant about something. Elend waited, and finally the man dropped his eyes, looking embarrassed. "Your Majesty," he said, "I feel that I must ask to be released from my post as general."
    "And why do you say that?" Elend asked carefully.
    "I don't think I'm worthy of the position anymore."
    Elend frowned.
    "Only a man trusted by the Survivor should command in this army, my lord," Demoux said.
    "I'm sure that he does trust you, Demoux."
    Demoux shook his head. "Then why did he give me the sickness? Why pick me, of all the men in the army?"
    "I've told you, it was random luck, Demoux."
    "My lord," Demoux said, "I hate to disagree, but we both know that isn't true. After all, you were the one who pointed out that those who fell sick did so at Kelsier's will."
    Elend paused. "I did?"
    Demoux nodded. "On that morning when we exposed our army to the mists, you shouted out for them to remember that Kelsier is the Lord of the Mists, and that the sickness must—therefore—be his will. I think you were right. The Survivor is Lord of the Mists. He proclaimed it so himself, during the nights before he died. He's behind the sickness, my lord. I know he is. He saw those who lacked faith, and he cursed them."
    "That isn't what I meant, Demoux," Elend said. "I was implying that Kelsier wanted us to suffer this setback, but not that he was targeting specific individuals."
    "Either way, my lord, you said the words."
    Elend waved his hand dismissively.
    "Then how do you explain the strange numbers, my lord?" Demoux asked.
    "I'm not sure," Elend said. "I'll admit that the number of people who fell sick does produce an odd statistic, but that doesn't say anything about you specifically, Demoux."
    "I don't mean that number, my lord," Demoux said, still looking down. "I mean the number who remained sick while the others recovered."
    Elend paused. "Wait. What is this?"
    "Haven't you heard, my lord?" Demoux asked in the quiet tent. "The scribes have been talking about it, and it's gotten around to the army. I don't think that most of them understand the numbers and such, but they understand that something strange is happening."
    "What numbers?" Elend asked.
    "Five thousand people got taken by the sickness, my lord," Demoux said.
    Exactly sixteen percent of the army, Elend thought.
    "Of those, some five hundred died," Demoux said. "Of those remaining, almost everyone recovered in one day."
    "But some didn't," Elend said. "Like you."
    "Like me," Demoux said softly. "Three hundred and twenty-seven of us remained sick when the others got better."
    "So?" Elend asked.
    "That's exactly one-sixteenth of those who fell to the sickness, my lord," Demoux said. "And we stayed sick exactly sixteen days. To the hour."
    The tent flap rustled quietly in the breeze. Elend fell quiet, and couldn't completely suppress a shiver. "Coincidence," he finally said. "Statisticians looking for connections can always find odd coincidences and statistical anomalies, if they try hard enough."
    "This doesn't seem like a simple anomaly, my lord," Demoux said. "It's precise. The same number keeps showing up, over and over. Sixteen."
    Elend shook his head. "Even if it does, Demoux, it doesn't mean anything. It's just a number."
    "It's the number of months the Survivor spent in the Pits of Hathsin," Demoux said.
    "Coincidence."
    "It's how old Lady Vin was when she became Mistborn."
    "Again, coincidence," Elend said.
    "There seem to be an awful lot of coincidences related to this, my lord," Demoux said.
    Elend frowned, folding his arms. Demoux was right on that point. My denials are getting us nowhere. I need to know what people are thinking, not just contradict them.
    "All right, Demoux," Elend said. "Let's say that none of these things are coincidences. You seem to have a theory of what they mean."
    "It's what I said earlier, my lord," Demoux said. "The mists are of the Survivor. They take certain people and kill them, others of us they make sick—leaving the number sixteen as a proof that he really was behind the event. So, therefore, the people who grow the most sick are the ones who have displeased