Shadows of Self: A Mistborn Novel by Brandon Sanderson

Author:Brandon Sanderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, epic, Action & Adventure
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2015-10-06T04:39:11+00:00

13

Wayne didn’t consider himself to be a particularly religious man. He figured that Harmony didn’t pay much attention to fellows like him, for the same reason a master painter didn’t often wonder what his mom had done with the pictures he’d given her as a toddler.

That said, Wayne did like to visit the temple of the common man now and then. It made him feel better and forget his problems for a spell. So he knew the place when Wax sent him on ahead to check it over.

The temple huddled on the corner of an intersection, a stately old building, squat and stubborn. Newer tenements perched on either side, some six stories tall, but the temple had the air of an old gaffer in his chair who hadn’t the inclination to look higher than a fellow’s knees. As Wayne had expected, the door was open and friendly, still spilling out light, though it was starting to get late. He strolled down the lane and nodded to the temple guard, who wore a cap and overalls for his uniform and bore a ceremonial stick what seemed to have bits of hair sticking out of the end, likely from clubbing men upside the head for being too rowdy.

Wayne tipped his hat to the man and chanted the proper invocation to gain admittance. “Hello, Blue. How watery’s the beer today?”

“Don’t make trouble at the pub tonight, Wayne,” the man intoned in response. “My temper is really short.”

“Temper?” Wayne said, passing him. “That’s a funny name for it, mate, but if the ladies like you givin’ silly names to your body parts, I ain’t gonna say nothin’.”

Ritual introductions finished, Wayne stepped into the temple proper. Inside, men and women bowed at their places, heads drooping as they considered the deep complexities of the cosmere. Their prayers were made in mumbled exchanges to friends, and their incense in the burning of pipes. A picture of Old Ladrian himself hung over the altar, a man with a ripe paunch and a cup thrust forward, as if to demand attention.

Wayne stood in the doorway, head bowed in respect, and dabbed his fingers into a trail of beer dripping from a nearby table, then anointed himself on the forehead and navel, the mark of the spear.

The scent marked him as a pilgrim upon this holy ground, and he passed among the penitent seeking forgiveness on his way to the altar. The air of the place was odd tonight. Solemn. Yes, the temple was a place of contemplation, but it should also be a place of joy. Where were the hymns, sung in a holy slur? Where was the laughter, the joyful noise of celebration?

Not good, he thought as he settled onto one of the pews—in this case a rough, circular table with scriptures carved into it, like Mic is a total git and The sausages is rubbish. He’d always liked that one. It brought up real theological implications, it did. If the food they ate was trash, were

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