The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

“No Ashmounts to fill the sky with ash, to cool it . . .” “So, the world nearly ended,” Allik continued. “And the Sovereign, he came and he saved us. Taught us this.” He gestured toward the armband he wore, with the medallion,

He put it on, swapping it for the language one, and sighed in contentment. Marasi watched him, then raised her hand as if to touch his, and he nodded, allowing it. His skin grew warmer even as she sat there. “Heat,” she said, glancing toward Waxillium. “This medallion stores heat. That’s a property of Feruchemy, right?” Waxillium nodded. “The most archetypal. In the ancient days, my Terris ancestors dwelled in the highlands, often traveling through snow-filled mountain passes. The ability to store their heat, then draw upon it, allowed them to survive where nobody else could.”

“Without these,” he said, holding up the first medallion, “we’d be dead. Gone. All five peoples extinct, yah?” Marasi nodded. “And he taught you this? The Sovereign?” “Sure did. Saved us, bless him. Taught us that the Metalborn were pieces of God, each one of them, though we didn’t have any of those at first. He gave us devices, and started the Firemothers and Fire-fathers, who live to fill these medallions so the rest of us may leave our homes and survive in this too-cold world.

“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—” “Have been wrong before,” Marasi said. “It had to be him, Waxillium. And that means the Bands . . .”

“If we have the Metalborn to do so, and the Excisors, yes. The Excisors are the gifts the Sovereign made for us.” “So with one of those devices, a Metalborn can create a medallion like this—one for any Allomantic or Feruchemical ability?” “Holy words,” Allik said. “But if anyone can say them, it is you, O Blasphemous One. Yes. Any.”

It is stored with the ability to give yourself a sliver of holiness.” “Investiture,” Waxillium said. “This inner ring is nicrosil. You tap it, and it grants you Investiture—turning you into a temporary Feruchemist who has the ability to fill a metalmind with weight.”

“What’s this other ring built into the medallion?” “That grants the warmth,” Allik said. “It is a grand combination—two attributes, from separate rings. Took us long to make these work, yah? The one I wear now, also grants two. Weight and Connection. I’ve seen medallions with three. Twice in my life only. Every attempt at four has failed.”

“He did create one of these,” Waxillium said, rubbing the medallion with his thumb. “One with all of the abilities. A bracer, or a set of them, that granted all sixteen Allomantic abilities and all sixteen Feruchemical abilities.”

He’d taken them on a great journey, and had them build a temple for him in a hidden range of mountains. He’d left the priests there, with the Bands, and told them to protect them until he returned for them. And, that was dumb, yah? Because we could really use those to fight the Deniers of Masks.” “Deniers of masks? Like us?” “No, no,” Allik said, laughing. “You’re just barbarians. The Deniers are really dangerous.”

“No, no. You could not have so harmed Brunstell.

Bands of Mourning. In Allik’s lore, the Lord Ruler had filled them with a great deal of every attribute—but had also crafted them to grant any person who used them the ability to draw those forth. A kind of challenge to mankind to find them, along with a warning not to. Allik didn’t seem to consider this a contradiction at all.

Still other people, to whom he referred derisively, wore only plain, unpainted masks until they did something to earn a more ornate one. “They are the Fallen,” he explained to her, wagging one hand before himself in a gesture she didn’t understand. “They were our kings, yah? Before the world froze. They offended the Jaggenmire, which is why everything went wrong, and—” “Wait,” Marasi said, speaking softly so the others could sleep, “the . . . yayg—” “Jaggenmire?” he asked. “It didn’t translate? You don’t have a word for it in your language, then. It’s like a god, only not.”

“like a thing that runs the world, yah? When something grows, or dies, the Jaggenmire make that happen. There is Herr, and his sister Frue, who is also his wife. And she makes things stop, and he makes things go, but neither can—” “—make life on their own,” Marasi said. “Yah!” he said. “Ruin and Preservation,” she said. “The old Terris gods. They’re one now. Harmony.” “No, they were always one,” Allik said. “And always apart. Very odd, very complex.

“Wilg won’t last on the stone I’ve got,” he said, wiping the tears from first one cheek, then the other. “The stone?” “Fuel,” Allik said, glancing at her. “What, you think Wilg flies on clouds and dreams?” “I thought it flew on Allomancy.” “Allomancy Pushes the impellers,” Allik said. “But ettmetal is what supports it.”

and to the side she could see a greater light blazing with a pure whiteness. A stone, burning like a limelight. Or like Allomancy itself, Marasi realized. “What kind of metal is it, though?” “Ettmetal,” Allik said, shrugging. “There’s a little bit in the primer cube too, to make it work. A lot more to make a ship like Wilg go, and a lot, lot more to get Brunstell into the air. You don’t have this metal?”

“At first, the evil ones didn’t know how to care for it. Got some wet. That was a good day.” “Wet?” “Ettmetal explodes if it gets wet.”

“The Hunters,” Marasi said. He nodded. “They were warriors, in the time before the freezing. Now they hunt answers to what happened to us, and secrets to making it never happen again.

picked up the Connection medallion that he had set down. She turned it over in her fingers, noting the sinuous lines down the center, dividing it into separate metals. Iron for weight, duralumin for Connection, and most importantly nicrosil, to give her the ability to tap metals in the first place.

“Because we’re in your lands,” he said. “The visitor always has to wear the medallion. It’s filled with Connection, yah? Blank Connection, to no place. But Connection can’t just be connected to nothing, so when you tap it, it reaches out and connects you to the place where you are. Makes your soul think you were raised in this place instead, so your language changes.”

“Then why do you have an accent still?” Marasi asked. “If your brain thinks it was raised here?” “Ah,” Allik said, raising his finger. “My soul thinks I was raised here, in your lands, but it knows that I am Malwish by descent, and that parents are from Wiestlow, so I cannot help but have an accent, yah? I got it from them. It is how the medallions always work.”

Light, hovering in the darkness—only a glimmer, but stark against the blackness. “The Seran Range is uninhabited,” Waxillium said, “except in a few of the valleys. Too cold, too many storms.” “So if there’s a light . . .” Marasi said. “Suit has left on his expedition,”

Wayne was awakened quite rough-like, in a manner unbefitting his grand dreams, in which he was king of the dogs. Had a crown shaped like a bowl and everything.

The clouds happened to roll out of the way, releasing starlight like a bouncer stepping back and letting folks into the night’s most exclusive club. That light cascaded down, white and calm, upon a rusting castle in the middle of the mountains. A bleak stone fortress, cut of the same stone as the field. It looked to be only one story, hunkered down against the wind, but it glowed in the starlight like the spirit of some ancient building from anteverdant days.

“He can’t understand you, Wayne,” Marasi said, marching past. “He’s swapped metalminds to keep himself warm.” Wayne stopped in place as they all hiked onward. “Well, when he gets his brain back, someone tell him I’m a god, all right?” “Will do,” Wax called from up ahead.

“She’s been through a lot,” Wax said, eyes ahead. “We’ll get her home and give her some physicians to talk to. She’ll mend.” Wayne nodded.

“So I’ve been thinkin’,” Wayne said as MeLaan passed him. “Yeah?” she asked, glancing at him. Rusts. Wax might think it weird, considering she was like a billion years old or something, but it seemed like even longer since a woman had looked at him like that. It wasn’t a lusty look or anything like that, it was . . . what was the word . . . Fond. Yup, that would do.

He looked back at the statue, then poked at the spearhead with his toe. Then he hit it with his heel. Then he hit with a rock. Finally, he twisted it a few times. It fell right off, clanging to the stone beneath. It had been practically hanging free. And Wax was wrong, only the head was of metal—the oversized spear was wood. Aluminum, you say? Wayne thought with a smile.

The masks were different from Allik’s, that was for sure. Made of wood with bits of glass stuck to them, each in a different, odd pattern. And these ones showed the mouth, covering the top half the face, then running down the sides. The skin there, at the sides of the mask, seemed to have melded with the wood—though

“Unless they have explosives,” MeLaan said. “If I lose a spike, you’d better be ready to stick it right back in. And I was serious—this is going to be awful for my clothing.” “You could do it without,” Wayne said hopefully. She thought for a moment, then shrugged, reaching to grab her top. “I’ll buy you new clothing, MeLaan,” Wax said, interrupting her. “We don’t want to make poor Allik fall over dead.” “Actually,” Allik said, “I don’t think I’d mind.” “Good man,” Wayne said. “Knew I liked you.”

Ahead, a large spiked log swung out of a hidden compartment and crushed MeLaan against the wall. She shook it off like a champ, stumbling on down the hallway while her leg re-formed. “You know,” Wayne said, looking toward Steris and Marasi, “she might be even better at the Blackwatch Doublestomp than I

Marasi dug in her purse, pulling out the little spike that belonged to ReLuur. Such a small thing, and so clean—a shining sliver of . . . pewter, was it? Staring at it in the light of Steris’s lantern, she wished she didn’t know its history. A person had been killed to make this, their soul ripped apart so a piece could be used to make a kandra.

Yet, she thought, where would mankind be without the kandra, acting as Harmony’s hands—guiding and protecting us? Such good to come of something so awful. Indeed, according to the Historica, without the work the kandra had done through the ages collecting atium, mankind would likely have been destroyed.

“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 I’m out here, when I’m with him, I burn, Marasi. It’s wonderful.”

“You actually love him, don’t you?” Marasi asked. “Well, love is a strong emotion, one that requires careful deliberation to—” “Steris.” “Yes.”

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Wayne asked as she joined him beside the outer doorway. “I just had my long-held assumptions about someone shattered in a brief moment. I’m wondering if every person I pass has similar depths, and if there’s any way to avoid the mistake of judging them so shallowly that I’m rocked when they show their true complexity. You?” “I was lookin’ at you two,” Wayne said, contemplative as he regarded the snowy landscape outside rather than her, “and wondering. Do sisters ever really get sexy with one another for a fellow to watch, or does that only happen in pub songs?” Marasi let out a long breath. “Thank you for restoring my ability to trust my judgment, Wayne.” “Anytime.”

“These traps don’t make sense, then,” Wax said, waving back down the hallway. “Wouldn’t they have been worried for your king’s safety?” “Simple traps could not affect him, Unobservant Master,” Allik said with a laugh. A nervous laugh. He’d glanced at MeLaan again. “The traps are a declaration, and a challenge.” They walked on, but still Wax felt unsatisfied. Allik’s explanations made a sort of sense—as much sense as building the temple up in the mountains. It was everything Wax would have expected from such a place, down to the smallest details. Perhaps that was the problem.

“A pity the Lord Ruler gave his fantastic knowledge to them, don’t you think? Barely men. They must hide their—”

“That’s it?” Wax said. “Get them wrong and the thing freezes shut, I’m told,” Edwarn said idly. “It has a clockwork timer. Won’t be ready again for ten years. You could spend a lifetime guessing, and still have only a small chance of opening it.” He looked at Wax and smiled. “Apparently these symbols spell out something the Lord Ruler would have understood.”

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 spun, whipping out his gun. He pointed it not at Edwarn, but at his sister. She stared him down, hand at her pocket. Then she slowly removed a gun. Where had she gotten that? He couldn’t sense it. Aluminum. “Telsin,” Wax said, voice hoarse. Edwarn wouldn’t have come in here without a mole. She made the most sense. But rusts. “I’m sorry, Waxillium,” she said.

Edwarn was an Allomancer. Telsin was in the Set.

Telsin had tossed something between the two of them. A small metal cube. Another Allomantic grenade. She was an Allomancer too. She tossed a bag of something to Suit. Coins.

Suit obeyed her. She wasn’t simply a member of the Set; she outranked Waxillium’s uncle. And she was obviously an Allomancer; the way she’d used the Allomantic grenade proved that.

Light in a dark room. Set there to distract . . . That was what the dais up above had been. The Bands had never been there. The people who had built the place left the broken glass, the empty rack, the dais and the pedestal—all as a ruse. But they’d made a mistake. The glass box they’d broken had been too large to fit on the pedestal. Candle in a dark room . . . Wax thought. That meant the Bands were somewhere else.

He crawled toward the light, dragging his broken leg, scraping on stone, sweat streaming down the sides of his face and mixing with the blood he spilled to the ground. “Harmony,” he whispered. “Harmony.” No reply. Now he prayed? What of his hatred?

Corpses. Seated, somehow, draped in warm clothing. He passed the first row of them and looked in on frozen faces, shriveled with the passing of time but remarkably well preserved. Each held a mask in its lap. They sat in four concentric rings, looking at the light up ahead. Here, the ones who had built this place had died. Then how . . . how had word of the key to the door been passed on. . . .

clothing. He could imagine them seated here, waiting for the end, as the heat in their metalminds dwindled. The cold, creeping in as night does after sunset, a final, consuming darkness.

She’d caused Wayne to knock the backpack out the door. She’d killed the brute in the warehouse, when he’d been about to speak—potentially addressing her, outing her as a member of the Set. Suit wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t have come into the temple with them unless he had the upper hand. . . .

“What did you do to my sister?” Wax demanded, his voice echoing in the darkness. Suit smiled, walking forward, scanning the bodies. If he could draw the man closer. . . “I didn’t do anything to her,” Suit said. “Son, she recruited me.”

“The Bands were a possibility. An engaging one, yes, and I will not deny my disappointment. Irich will be particularly displeased. But we didn’t come here for them.” The airship, Marasi realized, looking toward it. Bearing a bomb intended to destroy the temple. A bomb that had never been used. Men moved about the large airship, investigating it. This was what Suit and the others had come for.