The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

He leaned forward, taking Steris’s hand in his. She squeezed it, eyes closed once more, and they sat there. Still. Everyone else could wait a few minutes. “Thank you,” Wax said softly. “For what?” she said. “Coming with me.”

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.”

“You pointed yourself toward me.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “being near you is generally the safest place. . . .” He cupped her face with his hand, all cal...

“It almost feels,” Steris said softly, “like this entire experience was a dream. I need to write it all down quickly, lest it fade.” Wax found himself nodding as he thought of his meeting with Harmony.

Allik stood at the door, and he lifted his mask as Wax approached. No bow or nod, just the mask lift. Among this people, perhaps that was the same thing—as behind him, the other airmen did the same.

“For my next fire is home, yah?” He looked to Marasi, and then reached up and removed his mask—the broken one, which he had glued. He held it out with two hands, which caused a few gasps behind him. “Please,” Allik said. The word had more accent to it than the way he’d been speaking before. The captain, who had not lifted her mask to Wax, grew stiff at the gesture. Marasi hesitated, then accepted the mask. “Thank you.” “Thank you, Miss Marasi,” Allik said. “For life.”

“Hey,” Wayne said, pulling up on his other side, but then twisting his neck to look at the people in the ship behind them. “Marasi, I think that pilot fellow fancies you.” “Thank you,” Marasi said, “for lending us your brilliant powers of observation, Wayne.” “That could be useful politically,” Steris noted. “Please,” Marasi said. “He’s practically a child compared to me. And don’t you snicker.” “I wouldn’t dare,” Wax said, eyes ahead. He didn’t miss how reverently Marasi carried the mask, however.

reverent. He eyed Wax. “You realize precisely how unfair it is to deal with you, when you can fall back on heavenly messengers to talk you out of trouble?” “That’s nothing,” Wax said, guiding Steris toward the steps down. “Ask me sometime about the conversation I had with God the last time I died.”