Secret History

Oh, hell,” Kelsier said. “There’s actually a God?” “Yes.” Kelsier decked him. It was a good, clean punch, thrown from the shoulder while he brought his other arm up to block a counter strike.

She embraced him, and he found himself weeping. The daughter he'd never had, the little child of the streets. Though she was still small, she'd outgrown him. And she loved him anyway. He held his daughter close against his own broken soul.

Ideas are never original," Kelsier said. "Only one thing is." "And what is that? "Style," Kelsier said. Then he punched Ruin across the face.

Spook, child. You want to be like me? Really like me? Then fight when you are beaten!

Thievery was the most authentic form of flattery. What could be more satisfying than knowing the things you possessed were intriguing, captivating, or valuable enough to provoke another man to risk everything to obtain them? This was Kelsier’s purpose in life, to remind people of the value of the things they loved. By taking them away.

If there was one thing Kelsier was good at, it was lying to himself.

A good crewleader is always sure of himself, even when he isn't. Especially when he isn't.

He doesn’t know as much as he thinks,” Preservation whispered. “That is his weakness. The . . . weakness . . . of all clever men

Kelsier would not back down. He would not let this thing intimidate him again. He’d already killed one god. The second murder was always easier than the first.

Huh, Kelsier thought. He holds the powers of creation in twain, a god among gods. And he’s still a terrible liar.

Kelsier smiled. Gods, it appeared, could still fall for a classic misdirection con.

Kelsier watched after him, then did the only rational thing. He ate the bolt he'd taken from the bottom of the stool.

Kelsier: "You've got to have some idea what I could try, Fuzz." God: "What did you just call me?" Kelsier: "Fuzz, I've got to try something." Fuzz/God: "You could try 'My Lord,'" Fuzz said with a huff." Kelsier: "That's a terrible nickname for a crew member." ... "So," Fuzz said. "You are not only the first person to punch me, you're also the first to try and recruit me. You are a distinctively strange man." Kelsier: " You don't know my friends...

Anyway, there was a God. Adonalsium. I don’t know if it was a force or a being, though I suspect the latter. Sixteen people, together, killed Adonalsium, ripping it apart and dividing its essence between them, becoming the first who Ascended.” “Who were they?” Kelsier said, trying to make sense of this. “A diverse group,” she said. “With equally diverse motives. Some wished for the power; others saw killing Adonalsium as the only good option left to them. Together they murdered a deity, and became divine themselves.” She smiled in a kindly way, as if to prepare him for what came next. “Two of those created this planet, Survivor, including the people on it.” “So . . . my world, and everyone I know,” Kelsier said, “is the creation of a pair of . . . half gods?” “More like fractional gods,” Nazh said. “And ones with no particular qualifications for deityhood, other than being conniving enough to murder the guy who had the job before.” “Oh, hell . . .” Kelsier breathed. “No wonder we’re all so bloody messed up.” “Actually,” Khriss noted, “people are generally like that, no matter who made them. If it’s any consolation, Adonalsium originally created the first humans, therefore your gods had a pattern to use.” “So

I?” the man said. “I am a drifter. A miscreant. The flame’s last breath, made of smoke at its passing.

Do what you can,” Kelsier said. “I’ll seek these people to the west.” “They won’t help.” “I’m not going to ask for their help,” Kelsier said, then smiled. “I’m going to rob them.

Now, it’s finally time to reveal some secrets.

There was more to all of this than he’d ever known, and because of that he had a reason to live. Perhaps more importantly, he had a reason to stay sane.

Yes. Fortunately, before I died, I put a plan into motion. I can’t remember it, but I’m certain that it was brilliant.” “You know, I’ve said something similar myself on occasion, after a night of drinking." Kelsier rubbed his chin. "I'm free too.

I named you, Spook,” Kelsier whispered. “You were my friend. Isn’t that enough?

Metal. It was the key to everything.

It’s always a dangerous thing for a writer to resurrect a character. It threatens to undermine the consequences in a story, and minimizes the risks characters take. At the same time, I knew Kelsier’s story—in specific—was not yet finished. Readers sensed this. There was more to be told.

How much of what you’ve done was about love, and how much was about proving something?

What could be more satisfying than knowing the things you possessed were intriguing, captivating, or valuable enough to provoke another man to risk everything to obtain them? This was Kelsier’s purpose in life, to remind people of the value of the things they loved. By taking them away

He was running through mists again. Walls, people, buildings faded. Nothing but dark, swirling mists. But the mists had never been his enemy.

He wanted to go. He hurt so much. He wanted it all to end, to go away. Everything. He just wanted it to stop.

Nothing is eternal, not even time itself.

But he was fatigued. Worn out like an old banner allowed to flap in the wind through too many rainstorms.