The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Pardon. But I thought that was exactly the purpose of a contract. To define and set bounds.” “And the purpose of life is to push our bounds,” Wax said, “to shatter them, escape them.”

“People,” Wax said, “are like cords, Steris. We snake out, striking this way and that, always looking for something new. That’s human nature, to discover what is hidden. There’s so much we can do, so many places we can go.” He shifted in his seat, changing his center of gravity, which caused the sphere to rotate upward on its tether. “But if there aren’t any boundaries,” he said, “we’d get tangled up. Imagine a thousand of these cords, zipping through the room. The law is there to keep us from ruining everyone else’s ability to explore. Without law, there’s no freedom. That’s why I am what I am.”

“Steel flakes in suspension,” she said, wiggling the vial. “Since when have you carried one of these?” Wax asked, taking it from her. “Since about six months ago. I put one into my purse in case you might need it.” She raised her other hand, displaying two more. “I carry the other two because I’m neurotic.” He grinned, taking all three. He downed the first one, then nearly choked. “What the hell is in this?” “Other than steel?” Steris asked. “Cod-liver oil.” He looked at her, gaping. “Whiskey is bad for you, Lord Waxillium. A wife must look out for her husband’s health.”

“You stalked away,” Wayne pointed, “indigenously.” “And now I’m stalking back in,” Marasi said, striding toward Wax and fishing in her pocket. “I can be indigen—indignant in here just as easily.”

Survivorism therefore was not about winning, but about lasting as long as you could before you lost.

A man found himself when he was alone. You only had one person to chat with, one person to blame.

“Tube Run,” Wayne said. “No glue.” “Banefielder?” “Too dark.” “Blackwatch Doublestomp.” Wax hesitated. “… The hell is that?” “Just made it up,” Wayne said, grinning. “It’s a nifty code name though, eh?” “Not bad,” Wax admitted. “And what type of plan is it?” “Same as Spoiled Tomato,” Wayne said.

“Gettin’ old,” Wayne said with a grin, passing him and starting up the next ladder. “Don’t be dense,” Wax said, grabbing the ladder below him and climbing. “I’m trying to pace myself. What if we reach the top and have to fight?” “You can throw your wooden teeth at ’em,” Wayne said from above. “Do some cane waggin’ as well. I’m sure you’re cross about stayin’ up so late.”

It seemed to him that the smarter a man was, the more likely he was to pretend he knew more than he did. Like the way the drunkest fellow at the pub was always the one who was most sure he could handle another pint.

“I saw it in his eyes, first. That hunger, that fire. And then I found it in myself. He’s a flame, Waxillium is, and fire can be shared. When I’m out here, when I’m with him, I burn, Marasi. It’s wonderful.”

The difference between good and evil men is not found in the acts they are willing to commit—but merely in what name they are willing to commit them in.”

“Go,” Marasi said. “Do what you do best, Waxillium Ladrian.” “Which is what? Break things?” “Break things,” Marasi said, “with style.”

Tales of men with red eyes who visited in the night. She added the stories to her files of research about Trell, the ancient god that people were somehow worshipping again. A god that had crafted spikes to corrupt the kandra Paalm, and whose name was on the lips of many of the prisoners.