The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

Workers heading to the rowdy pubs for a drink. He’d never really known that world; he’d grown up in a lavish mansion stuffed with fine clothes, caviar, and wine. Something about that simple life called to him. Perhaps he’d find it there. The thing he’d never found. The thing everyone else seemed to have, but he couldn’t even put a name to.

A shirt that smells of smoke, hanging behind his door. Muddied boots that match the size of the prints left outside the burned building. Flasks of oil in the chest beneath his bed.

understand how hard it must be for you. A child of two worlds.” Two worlds, he thought immediately, but no home.

“You promised me you would obey our rules while you were here.”

“Metal is your life,” Tellingdwar said from the front of the hut, moving into the final parts of the evening recitation. Waxillium knelt in meditation, listening to the words. Around him, rows of peaceful Terris were similarly bowed in reverence, offering praise to Preservation, the ancient god of their faith.

The constable’s bullet. Rain washed his hand, cleansing the metal. He didn’t even remember stuffing it into his pocket. In a case like this, the fire is often just a harbinger. . .. He should go get help. But that boy above was already bleeding. The knives were out. Something bigger is coming, Elder. Something you’ll all regret.

“I have to get to a wedding.” “Whose?” “Mine, I’m afraid.” “You came on a raid the morning of your wedding?” the captain asked.

“You gonna be all right?” Wayne asked. “Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.” Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’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.”

I think I loved you even on that day. So ridiculous, but so earnest. . . .

Standing up, he pulled himself together. He’d healed this wound once. He could do so again.

Steris paced in the foyer, wearing a sleek white dress that had been chosen because the magazines said it was fashionable. With her hair braided and her makeup done by a professional for the occasion, she was actually quite pretty. He smiled when he saw her. His stress, his nervousness, melted away a little. Steris looked up as soon as he entered, then hurried to his side. “And?” “I didn’t get killed,” he said, “so there’s that.” She glanced at the clock. “You’re late,” she said, “but not very late.” “I’m . . . sorry?” She’d insisted he go on the raid. She’d planned for it, in fact. Such was life with Steris.

Then he pulled off both that and his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. “I see I’m included in those you try to make uncomfortable,” Steris said.

“Not going to leave as I change?” Wax asked, amused. “We’re to be married in less than an hour, Lord Waxillium,” she said. “I think I can stand to see you bare-chested. As a side note, you’re the Pathian. Prudishness is part of your belief system, not mine. I’ve read of Kelsier. From what I’ve studied, I doubt he’d care if—” Wax undid the wooden buttons on his trousers. Steris blushed, before turning around and finally putting her back to him. She continued speaking a moment later, sounding flustered. “Well, at least you agreed to a proper ceremony.”

“I’m glad I had copies made.” “You made copies of our wedding pendants?” “Yes.” She chewed her lip a moment. “Six sets.” “Six?” “The other four didn’t arrive in time.” Wax grinned, doing up the buttons on his shirt, then letting his valet handle the cuffs. “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.”

just . . . feel better when I try,” Steris finally said. “It’s like, if everything goes wrong, at least I tried. Does that make any sense?”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he strapped on his gun-belt and slid Vindication into her holster. He’d worn a gun to his last wedding, so why not this one? Steris nodded in approval.

“This union is quite beneficial to my house and status.” She took Wax’s left hand in both of hers. “But Lord Waxillium,” she said softly, “I don’t want you to feel trapped, particularly after what happened to you earlier this year. If you wish to back out, I will accept it as your will.” The way she clutched his hand as she said those words sent a very different message.

When he’d first agreed to the marriage, he’d done so out of duty to his house. Now, he felt his emotions shifting. The way she’d been there for him these last months as he’d grieved . . . The way she looked at him right now . . . Rust and Ruin. He was actually fond of Steris. It wasn’t love, but he doubted he would love again. This would do.

Unfolding it revealed the two wedding pendants. Scrawled on the paper were the words: Gonna go get smashed till I can’t piss straight. Happy weddings ’n stuff. “Such beautiful imagery,” Steris observed,

“Harmony has been distracted as of late.” “How can God be distracted?” Marasi asked.

Steris said, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, and for obvious reasons I want nothing to do with them.” “Peace,” she said, holding his arm. “Do you need a moment?” “No.” “You’re sure?” Wax stopped in place. She waited, and he breathed in and out, banishing from his mind that awful, awful scene when he’d knelt on a bridge alone, holding Lessie. A woman he realized he’d never actually known. “I’m all right,” he said to Steris through clenched teeth. “But God should have known not to come for me. Particularly not today.”

“Ready?” “Yes, thank you.” Was she . . . teary-eyed? It was an expression of emotion he’d never seen from her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “Forgive me. It’s just . . . more wonderful than I’d imagined.”

but a few crackling braziers with green leaves on top let smoke trail upward to represent the mist. Smoke ascends while ash falls, he thought, remembering the priest’s words from his youth, back when he’d attended Survivorist ceremonies.

Sparkling crystal. A hushed crowd. Footsteps on scrunching carpet dappled with grey ash. His smile widened, and he looked to the side. But of course, the wrong woman was there. He almost stumbled. Idiot man, he thought. Focus. This day was important to Steris; the least he could do was not ruin it. Or rather, not ruin it in a way she hadn’t expected. Whatever that meant.

It all forced him, finally, to acknowledge a difficult fact. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t Steris, it wasn’t the setting. He just wasn’t ready for this. This marriage meant letting go of Lessie. But he was trapped, and he had to be strong.

said. “I’ll have to send the thing to be cleaned and oiled!” “Bill me the expense, my lord,” Wax said, ignoring the fact that a good pistol would hardly be ruined by a little—or, well, a lot of—water.

“Do you ever wonder if perhaps the cosmere is out to overwhelm you, Lord Waxillium?” “The cosmere? You mean Harmony?” “No, not Him,” Steris said. “Just cosmic chance rolling the dice anytime I pass, and always hitting all ones. There seems to be a poetry to it all.”

“Thank you, Lord Waxillium.” “For what, exactly?” he asked. “For being nice. For being willing to subject yourself to, well, me. I understand that it is not a pleasant concept.” “Steris . . .” “Do not think me self-deprecating, Lord Waxillium,” she said, sitting up and taking a deep breath, “and please do not assume I’m being morose. I am what I am, and I accept it. But I am under no illusions as to how my company is regarded. Thank you. For not making me feel as others have.”

“Are you saddened at the fact that our wedding is delayed? Can you truly say it, and be honest as a lawman, Lord Waxillium?” Damn. He floundered. He knew a few simple words could defuse or sidestep the question, but he couldn’t find them, despite searching for what was an awkwardly long time—until saying anything would have sounded condescending. “Perhaps,” he said, smiling, “I’ll just have to try something to relax me next time we attempt this.” “I doubt going to the ceremony drunk would be productive.” “I didn’t say I’d drink. Perhaps some Terris meditation beforehand.” She eyed him. “You’re still willing to move forward?” “Of course.” As long as it didn’t have to be today. “I assume you have a backup dress?” “Two,” she admitted, letting him help her to her feet. “And I did reserve another date for a wedding two months from now. Different church—in case this one exploded.” He grunted. “You sound like Wayne.” “Well, things do tend to explode around you, Lord Waxillium.” She looked up at the dome. “Considering that, getting drenched must be rather novel.”

Because people were people, and if there was one thing you could count on, it was that some of them would be weird. Or rather that all of them would be weird when circumstances happened to align with their own individual brand of insanity.

“The lads got a little carried away. ‘See that the church is flooded,’ I told them. Meant for the priest to open the place in the morning and find his plumbing had gotten a little case of the ‘being all busted up and leaking all over the rusting place.’ But the lads, they got a little excited is all.” “The ‘lads’?” “Just some friends.” “Saboteurs.” “Nah,” Wayne said. “You think they could pronounce that?” “Wayne . . .” “I slapped ’em around already, Marasi,” Wayne said. “Promise I did.” “He’s going to figure it out,” Marasi said. “What will you do then?” “Nah, you’re wrong,” Wayne said, finally coming out of the cupboard with a large glass jug. “Wax has a blind spot for things like this. In the back of his noggin, he’ll be relieved that I stopped the wedding. He’ll figure it was me, deep in his subcontinence,

“Moved on . . .” he said. “Rusted nuts! You can do that?” “Certainly.” “Huh. You think . . . I should . . . you know . . . Ranette . . .” “Wayne, if ever someone should have taken a hint, it was you. Yes. Move on. Really.” “Oh, I took the hint,” he said, taking a swig of sherry. “Just can’t remember which jacket I left it in.” He looked down at the jug. “You sure?” “She has a girlfriend, Wayne.” “’S only a phase,” he mumbled. “One what lasted fifteen years. . . .”

The kandra smiled broadly. “Tell me, Miss Colms. What do you know about the nature of Investiture and Identity?”

“I am VenDell, of the Sixth. Pleased to meet you, Lord Ladrian. If you must shoot me, please do it in the left leg, as I’ve no particular fondness for those bones.”

“Image projector,” VenDell said. “They call it an evanoscope. By next year these will be commonplace, I should think.” He paused. “Harmony implies that if we find this wondrous, it will really burn our metals when the images start moving.” “Moving?” Wax said, stepping forward. “How would they do that?” “We don’t know,” MeLaan said with a grimace. “He accidentally let it slip, but won’t say anything more.” “How does God,” Marasi asked, still staring at the image, “accidentally let something slip?”

Trell. It was a god from the old records, long before the Catacendre—indeed, long before the Lord Ruler. Harmony had memorized this religion, with many others, during his days as a mortal.

Suffice it to say, we’re worried about the possible intrusion of another god upon this domain.”

Fortune, Investiture, Identity, and Connection.

“compared to the amount of aluminum in the world before the Catacendre, the metal is now common. Bauxite refining, modern chemical processes, these have given us access to metals on a level that was never before possible. Why, the Last Obligator’s autobiography explains that early aluminum was harvested from the inside of the Ashmounts!”

“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.”

“Each man or woman has a Spiritual aspect, a piece of themselves that exists in another Realm entirely. You might call it your soul. Your Investiture is keyed to your soul—indeed, it might be a part of your soul, much as your blood is a part of your body.”

if a person could store their Identity,” Marasi said, “as Waxillium does with his weight . . .” “They’d be without it for a time,” VenDell said. “A blank slate, so to speak.”

they could use anyone’s metalmind?” ...

Miss Colms. What if a Feruchemist were to divest himself of all Identity, then fill another metalmind with an attribute. Say, strength. What would it do?” “Create an unkeyed metalmind?” Marasi asked. “One that another Feruchemist could access?”

Most people living right now have at least some Feruchemist blood in them. Could it be that such a metalmind as I describe, one that is keyed to no single individual, might be usable by anyone?”

“Anyone could be a Feruchemist,” Wax said. VenDell nodded. “Investiture—the innate ability to burn metals or tap metalminds—is also one of the things Feruchemy can store. Lord Waxillium . . .

“In the ancient days, the Last Emperor discovered a metal that transformed him into a Mistborn. A metal anyone could burn, it is said. This whispers of a hidden possibility, something lesser, but still incredible. What if one could somehow manipulate Identity and Investiture to create a set of bracers which imparted Feruchemical or Allomantic ability upon the person wearing them? One could make any person a Mistborn, or a Feruchemist, or both at once.”

“And how long has it been since a Full Feruchemist was born?” “A very, very long time,” VenDell said.

“Hemalurgy? Harmony hates it. I’ve read what the Lord Mistborn had to say on the topic.” “Yes,” VenDell said. “Hemalurgy is . . . problematic.” “In part because we wouldn’t exist without it,”

that people had to be murdered in order to bring you to sapience.”