The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Mixing the powers is incredibly dangerous.” “Says the Twinborn,” MeLaan said. “I’m safe,” Wax said, glancing at her. “My powers don’t compound—they’re from different metals.” “They may not compound,” VenDell said, “but they’re still fascinating, Lord Waxillium. Any mixing of Allomancy and Feruchemy has unanticipated effects.”

“Is that the way to speak to someone who bears your ancestor’s hands?” “His . . . hands?” Wax said. “Are you speaking metaphorically?” “Ah, no,” VenDell said. “Breeze did say I could have them after he died. Excellent metacarpals. I bring them out for special occasions.” Wax stood still for a moment, holding the book in his hand, trying to digest what the kandra had just said. His ancestor, the first Lord Ladrian, Counselor of Gods . . . had given this creature his hands. In a way, Wax had shaken hands with Breeze’s corpse.

Wax recognized the iconography, if not the specific image. Rashek. The First Emperor. The Lord Ruler.

Bands of Mourning, Miss Colms?” VenDell asked. “The Lord Ruler’s metalminds,” Marasi said with a shrug. “Relics from mythology, like the Lady Mistborn’s knives, or the Lance of the Fountains.”

four individuals,” VenDell said, “who, to our knowledge, have held the power of Ascension. Rashek, the Survivor, the Ascendan...

“Curiously, nobody knows exactly what happened to the Bands of Mourning.

“The mythology surrounding the Bands is quite extensive. You can find myths about them dating back to before the Catacendre, and you can find someone telling new ones in a pub around the corner, invented on the spot for your amusement. But a theme runs through them all—if you held the Lord Ruler’s bracers, you supposedly gained his powers.”

“Lore says the Bands have the very power that science has only now determined is plausible to assemble?”

Besides, the Bands would have been destroyed when Harmony remade the world.

image changed to another evanotype, this one of a mural on a wall. It depicted a room with a central dais in the shape of a truncated pyramid. Set upon a pedestal on the dais was a pair of bracers made of delicate, curling metal, shaped in spirals. Only a mural. But it did seem like it was depicting the Bands of Mourning.

a picture of a large metal plate set into a wall and inscribed with a strange script. Wax narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that language.” “Nobody does,” VenDell said. “It’s completely alien to us, unrelated to any Terris, Imperial, or other root.

“You mean to tell me your brother, this ReLuur, actually found the Bands of Mourning?”

“TenSoon . . . relinquished one of his own spikes to give our fallen brother a few moments of lucidity. It was very painful for TenSoon, and—unfortunately—accomplished nothing. ReLuur only screamed, begging for his spike. He spat out TenSoon’s a moment later.

How did they decide what was valuable? Did they all just gather together, sit around in their suits and gowns, and say, “Oi. Let’s start eatin’ fish eggs, and make the stuff real expensive. That’ll rust their brains, it will.” Then they’d have a nice round of rich folks’ laughter and throw some servants off the top of a building to see what kind of splats they’d make when they hit.

They used me. Lessie was only trying, in a broken way, to free me from them. Now they saunter back, no mention of what I lost, and expect me to just pick up and do their bidding again.”

Holding your brain hostage against your own stupidity—that was how to get stuff done.

“You can’t just say ‘don’t be offended’ and then say something offensive, man! That’s not how it works.” Wayne settled back, arms folded.

That wallet was nice. His god would like that. Everyone needed wallets, right? He got it out and opened and closed it repeatedly, until he noticed that one side was worn. Rusts. He’d been cheated! This wouldn’t work at all for an offering.

“Here’s the thing,” he said to one of the urchins, a girl not seven. He settled down on his haunches. “I ain’t travailed enough.” “. . . Sir?” the girl asked. “In the old stories of quests, you gotta travail. That’s like traveling, but with an ailment stapled on. Headaches and the like; maybe a sore backside too.”

Ranette was a jealous god, known for shooting people—for her, it was practically a governmental mandate. If the constables didn’t find a few corpses on her doorstep every week, they’d start to wonder if she wasn’t feeling well. Wayne slipped away. He smiled, imagining Ranette’s reaction when she opened the door, and was so distracted that he almost ran right into Ranette herself walking up the path to her house.

Perfect brown hair, pulled back to expose a gorgeous face, weathered from her time in the Roughs. A fantastic figure, round in all the right places. Tall. Taller than Wayne. So he had something to look up to.

“Gotta grow up sometime, right? I’ve found that . . . well, a man wantin’ something don’t make it true, you know?” Ranette smiled. Seemed an awful long time since he’d seen her do that. She walked to him, and he didn’t even flinch when she extended her hand. He was proud of that. He took her hand, and she raised his, then kissed it on the back. “Thank you, Wayne.”

“Marasi says you’re courtin’ another girl.” “. . . I am.” Wayne nodded. “Now, I don’t want to go wrong, seein’ as I’m being so gentlemanly and grown-up and the like. But you can’t blame a man for gettin’ ideas when hearing something such as that. So . . . I don’t suppose that there’s a chance for the three of us to—” “Wayne.” “I don’t mind none if she’s fat, Ranette. I likes a girl what has something to hold on to.”

“Finally!” Wax snapped. “Wayne, our train is nearly boarding. Where have you been?” “Makin’ an offering to a beautiful god,” Wayne said,

In fact, as the thing finally started to chug into motion, he swung out his compartment’s window—much to Herve’s consternation—and climbed up onto the roof. He sat there whistling softly, watching Elendel pass for a time, wind ruffling his hair. A simple tune, easy and familiar, and the accompanying beat played on the tracks below. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick . . . energetic. He lay down then, staring at the sky, the clouds, the sun. Eyes forward, back turned toward the past.

Everything was green and vibrant, refreshed on evenings when the mists came out.

Experimenting with extra-powerful loads, a note read, and enormous slugs, for stopping Thugs or full-blooded koloss. Please test. Will require increased weight on your part to fire. Recoil should be exceptional. Rust and Ruin, the shells for this thing were almost as wide as a man’s wrist. It was like a cannon.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, but windows in the town were bright with electricity. Electric lights. He lowered the shell, studying them. The outer cities had electricity? Of course they do, idiot, he immediately thought to himself. Why wouldn’t they? He’d fallen into the same trap he’d once mocked others for. He’d started to assume that anything important, trendy, or exciting happened inside Elendel.

“Steris?” No reply. Wax cocked his head, trying to read the spine and make out what had her so fascinated, but she’d wrapped the volume in a cloth cover. He inched to the side, and saw that her eyes were wide as she read. She turned the page quickly. Wax frowned, rising and leaning across to get a view of one of the pages. Steris saw him, jumped, and snapped the book closed. “Oh!” she said. “Did you say something?” “What are you reading?” “History of New Seran,” Steris said, tucking the book under her arm. “You looked shocked as you read.”

but the name Seran has a very disturbing history.

many in the Basin feel that Elendel is trying to act as if our governor were some kind of emperor—something that was supposed to have ended when the Lord Mistborn stepped down after his century of rule.”

delight. How could anyone ever think you dull?” “But I am dull.” “Nonsense.”

“You just don’t like it.” “A man doesn’t have to like his duty. He just has to do it.”

He flipped forward to the page she’d marked, curious to discover exactly what about New Seran had captivated her so. He was completely shocked, then, when the page didn’t contain a historical description, but instead anatomy sketches. Along with long descriptions explaining . . . human reproduction? The room grew very still. Wax glanced up to find Steris staring at him with a look of horror on her face. She went beet red and dropped to her seat, covering her face with her hands and groaning loudly. “Um . . .” Wax said. “I guess . . . hm . . .” “I think I’m going to throw up,” Steris said.

‘You’ll figure it out,’ they say with a wink and a grin. ‘The body knows what to do.’ But what if mine doesn’t? What if I do it wrong?” “You could have asked me.”

I get the impression they thought I was cute. What about being a spinster could possibly be cute? Do you realize I’m almost thirty?” “One foot in the grave, obviously,” Wax said. “It’s easy to joke when you’re a man,” she snapped. “You’re not on a deadline to provide something useful to this arrangement.” “You’re worth more than your ability to bear children, Steris.”

“And all I am to this arrangement is a title,” Wax said. “It goes both ways.” Steris settled back, breathing in and out through her teeth for a few moments. Finally she cracked one eye. “You can shoot things too.” “What every proper lady needs in a man.” “Murdering is very traditional. Goes all the way back.”

“Actually, if you want to be strictly traditional—going back to the Imperial Pair—it was the lady in the relationship who did the murdering.”

for. I shall endeavor to be firmer with myself following our union.” “Don’t be silly,” Wax said. “I like seeing moments like this from you.” “You like it when ladies are in distress?” “I like it when you show me something new. It’s good to remember that people have different sides.”

This was to be the night, he realized. Our first night of marriage. He’d known, of course, but thinking about it made him feel . . . what? Relieved? Sad? Both?

“I don’t like this talk from you. Or from me. It’s become a habit for us to pretend this relationship is nothing more than titles and money. But Steris, when Lessie died . . .” He choked off, then took a deep breath before continuing. “Everyone wanted to talk to me. Speak at me. Blather about how they knew what I was feeling. But you just let me weep. Which was what I needed more than anything. Thank you.” She met his eyes, then squeezed his hand. “What we are together,” Wax said to her, “and what we make of our future need not be spelled out by a piece of paper.” Or, well, a large stack of them. “The contract need not set our bounds.”

“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.”

The law is there to keep us from ruining everyone else’s ability to explore. Without law, there’s no freedom.

A wild sketch using two colors of pencil to depict a terrible visage. A burning red face, a distorted mouth, horns and spikes streaking out along the rim. But black eyes, drawn like voids on the red skin. It looked like a childhood terror ripped right out of a nightmare. The bottom of the page had a caption. ReLuur’s sketch of the creature described on 8/7/342. Yesterday.

The darkness above. It is of the void. It has no eyes. It looks at me! It’s looking at me now!

Something is wrong with the eyes of the creature. Perhaps spikes?

written by the Lord Mistborn, Lestibournes. So far as I’ve been able to figure out, Hemalurgy can create practically anything by rewriting its Spiritual aspect. But hell, even the Lord Ruler had trouble getting it right. His koloss were great soldiers—I mean, they could eat dirt and stuff to stay alive—but they basically spent all day killing each other on a whim, and resented no longer being human. The kandra are better, but they turn to piles of goop if they don’t have spikes—and they can’t reproduce on their own. I guess what I’m saying is that you shouldn’t experiment too much with this aspect of Hemalurgy. It’s basically useless; there are a million ways to mess up for every one way there is to get a good result.

This was the Survivor of the Flames, the governor who had ruled mankind in benevolence for a century, guiding them on the difficult path to rebuild civilization. He sounded so normal. He even admitted in one section to having Breeze, Counselor of Gods, write most of his speeches for him. So all of the famous words, quotes, and inscriptions attributed to the Lord Mistborn were fabrications.

The Lord Mistborn advocated gathering the Metalborn who were elderly or terminally ill, then asking them to sacrifice themselves to make these . . . spikes, which could in turn be used to create individuals of great power. He made a good argument in the book. It wouldn’t have been so disturbing if it had been easy to dismiss.

Could this drawing be of a new kind of Hemalurgic monster, like those Wax had encountered under Elendel? Designed by the Set, or perhaps the result of a failed experiment? Or was this instead related to the continually ephemeral Trell, the god with an unknown metal?