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’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.”
“You’re one of a kind, Steris.” “Technically, so is Wayne—and actually so was Ruin, for that matter. If you consider it, that’s not much of a compliment.”
The kandra smiled broadly. “Tell me, Miss Colms. What do you know about the nature of Investiture and Identity?”
“The raw power of both Allomancy and Feruchemy,” VenDell said, “is something we call Investiture. This is very important, as in Feruchemy, an individual’s Investiture is keyed specifically to them. To what we call Identity.”
It was unnerving, and it was such a waste! If you had to shoot a man, society had already failed.
“Oh, my lord, I know it, I do.” The beggar laughed. “I own the place, technically. Now, regarding those coins for old Hoid, my good lord…” He pushed his hand forward farther, eyes staring sightlessly.
Classical pieces, like the Ascendant Warrior rising above a flock of ravens—the typical depiction of the Lord Ruler’s wraiths, of whom only Death himself remained.
Infant mortality on Scadrial is not as bad as some regions, but still shockingly high.
Survivorism therefore was not about winning, but about lasting as long as you could before you lost.
The man was watching the nearby fish tank, which stood beneath a depiction of Tindwyl, Mother of Terris, perched on the walls during her last stand against the darkness.
know you, lawman,” Devlin said. “And I can tell you, the group you chase, you don’t need to worry about them. They won’t be a danger for decades, perhaps centuries. You’re ignoring the bigger threat.”
Marasi rounded it, and was not surprised to find a feminine figure with short hair and a petite, heart-shaped face. The Ascendant Warrior was here, settled among the graves of the impoverished and the forgotten. Unlike Kelsier’s statue, which had loomed over those who passed beneath his gaze, this one seemed about to take flight, one leg raised, eyes toward the sky. “For years, I wanted to be you,” Marasi whispered. “Every girl does, I suppose. Who wouldn’t, after hearing the stories?” She’d even gone so far as to join the ladies’ target club because she figured if she couldn’t Push bits of
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Harmony watched through those mists. Harmony the impotent, Harmony the meaningless.
Wax looked down at her as she held to him while trying to stare in every direction at once. He suddenly found something burning in him, like a metal. A protectiveness for this woman in his arms, so full of logic and yet so full of wonder at the same time. And a powerful affection. So he let himself kiss her. She was surprised by it, but melted into the embrace.
His cigar eventually ran out. His questions lingered.
What if the Bands were real? What would happen to society if Metalborn powers were simply something you could purchase?
Freedom in the Roughs came at a cost. Either way, the Basin was—literally—paradise, crafted for men by a God who wanted to compensate the world for a millennium of ashes and ruin. It seemed that even in paradise, men would find reasons to squabble and fight.
“We don’t like killin’ folks,” Wayne said. “At least, unless they start shootin’ at us. They’re just chaps what are doing their job.” He looked to Marasi, as if for support. “Don’t look at me,” Marasi said. “I’m reeling from watching you trying to take the moral high ground.”
It seemed to him that the smarter a man was, the more likely he was to pretend he knew more than he did.
Normally Wayne would feel left out, since he didn’t get to do any hitting. This time though, Wayne got to make a bunch of idiots stand with their hands pressed against some wood, thinking they were keeping the ship from tipping over. So it evened out.
Survivorists, like Marasi herself, regarded Harmony differently. Yes, he was God, but to them he was more a force than a benevolent deity. He was there, but he was as likely to help a beetle as he was to help a man, for all were the same to him. If you really wanted to get something done, you prayed to the Survivor, who had—somehow—survived even death.
“The Sovereign was our king from three centuries ago. He told us he was your king first. And your god.” “The Lord Ruler?” Waxillium said. “He died.” “Yes,” Allik said. “He told us that too.”
the Sovereign came about ten years after the Ice Death happened, yah? Silly name, but you’ve got to call it something. The land was beautiful and warm, and then it froze.”
“The Catacendre?” Waxillium said. “Harmony remade the world. Saved it.” “Froze it,” Allik said, shaking his head. “The land was soft and warm, and now it is harsh and broken and frozen.”
“Sure did. Saved us, bless him. Taught us that the Metalborn were pieces of God, each one of them,
“The Lord Ruler,” Marasi said, “seeking redemption for what he did up here by saving the people down there.” “He was dead,” Waxillium said. “The records—”
“And then,” Steris said softly, “perhaps I came along because of the way it feels.…” Marasi looked sharply back at her sister. “Like the whole world has been upended,” Steris said, looking toward the ceiling. “Like the laws of nature and man no longer hold sway. They’re suddenly flexible, like a string given slack. We’re the spheres.… I love the idea that I can break out of it all—the expectations, the way I’m regarded, the way I regard myself—and soar. “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
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“At least it will help society,” Telsin said. “Unless it destroys society.” “Pushing society forward is no destruction. Even if, in doing so, it leaves us behind.”
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.”
“Wax,” he said, shaking his head. “No. No. I can’t do this without you.” “Yes you can. Fight.” “Not that part,” Wayne said. “The rest of it. Livin’. We … we’ll get you out of this.”
“We’re not done with our conversation,” Wax said. “You let her die. You let me kill her.” “And how long,” Harmony asked softly, “must you hate yourself for that?”
“And if you had known,” Harmony said, holding his eyes, “that you’d never have been able to pull that trigger unless your eyes were veiled? If you’d realized what knowledge of the truth would do to you—stilling your hand and trapping her in an endless prison of madness—what would you have asked of me?”
Down below, a tiny spark flickered on one of the landmasses. Wax blinked. He’d seen it, despite the incredible distance. “What was that?” he asked. Harmony smiled. “Trust.”
Mist? Where was it coming from? Me, she realized. She hovered in the sky, flush with power. In that moment, she was the Ascendant Warrior. She held the fullness of what Waxillium had barely tasted his whole life. She could be him, eclipse him. She could bring justice to entire peoples. Holding it all within her, having it and measuring it, she finally admitted the truth to herself. This isn’t what I want.
“No, Waxillium,” Harmony said gently. “Although that is how you’ve seen it. Duty or freedom. Burden or adventure. You were always the one who made the right choice, when others played. And so you resent it.” “No I don’t,” Wax said. Harmony smiled. The understanding in His face was infuriating.
Wax reached toward the left hand, and Harmony—shockingly—pulled it away. “Are you certain?” “I have to.” “Do you?” “I have to. It’s who I am.” “Then perhaps,” Harmony said, “you should stop hating that, my son.” He extended the hand. Wax hesitated. “Tell me one thing first.” “If it is within my means.” “Did she come here? When she passed?”
Harmony smiled. “She asked me to look after you.” Wax seized the left hand with his own. He was immediately pulled toward something,
“Go,” Marasi said. “Do what you do best, Waxillium Ladrian.” “Which is what? Break things?” “Break things,” Marasi said, “with style.” He grinned, then downed the vial of metals.
“The definition of a lawman, Uncle, is easy,” Wax said, feeling blood from a dozen cuts trickle down his face. He lifted Suit by the front of his clothing, bringing him close. “He’s the man who takes the bullet so nobody else has to.” With that, Wax decked him across the face and dropped him to the snow, unconscious.
When she did speak, she made a few curt gestures—but those could be faked far more easily than facial expressions, Marasi figured. What did one make of a society where everyone hid their true feelings behind a mask, only letting out calculated reactions?
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I still feel that I was basically luggage for most of the trip.” He shrugged. “Steris, I think we’re all like that. Shuffled from place to place by duty, or society, or God Himself. It seems like we’re just along for the ride, even in our own lives. But once in a while, we do face a choice. A real one. We may not be able to choose what happens to us, or where we’ll stop, but we point ourselves in a direction.” He squeezed her hand. “You pointed yourself toward me.”
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.
They called them copperminds. A very special kind of Feruchemical storage. One that stored memories. He tapped it.
