The Lost Metal (Mistborn, #7)

by Brandon Sanderson

“You ever seen this?” Wax asked VenDell. “Uh …” he said, “that is a question I’m forbidden to answer. My apologies, Lord Ladrian.” “Forbidden?” Steris asked. “By whom?” “Harmony himself, Lady Ladrian,” VenDell said.

Wayne was dead. And in his place lived a fellow who was fancy. No, who was downright opulent. “You at least,” he said, “have my bendalloy?”

“This level of energy release could happen only if some of the Investiture or the matter itself was transformed into energy.”

Along with my foremost expertise on skulls …” “Not for sale,” Wax reminded him. “Mine is,” Steris said. Both looked at her. “Why would I need it when I’m dead?” she asked. “Seems much better to have the money now.” “As I always say,” VenDell replied. “Your impermanence is outlived by the beautiful internal shells you create—like sand medallions from the ocean, so are the bones of the human being. A lasting testimony of your presence on Scadrial. We shall discuss the terms of your sale at a later date, Lady Ladrian.

Everything in the cosmere is made up of one of three essences. The first is matter: the physical substances around you. Formed of axi, the smallest possible thing we know.”

“There’s energy.” He waved to the ceiling, where two of the room’s recessed and reinforced lights were still working. “Electricity, heat, light …

“Investiture,” VenDell said. “The essence of the gods. Everything has an Invested component, normally inaccessible without certain abilities. When you burn metals, Lord Ladrian, you pull Investiture directly from the Spiritual Realm and use it to do work. Much like energy does work in those lights. But here is the key idea: Investiture, matter, and energy are all the same, fundamentally.”

“When I held the Bands. That all things were one substance.” “Indeed!” VenDell replied. “And states can change from one to the other. Energy can become Investiture. This is the soul of Feruchemy. Investiture can become matter. That is where harmonium comes from. And matter can become energy.”

“We could search for unexplained explosions in the Outer Cities,” Wax said. “Smart. Ashes … What if an explosive like this were placed in one of the old Ashmounts? Could they be restarted?” “That sounds appropriately terrifying,” Steris said,

Silence didn’t bother Steris. It was a purely neutral experience.

Upon marrying Waxillium Ladrian, there was one thing she had vowed to herself: She wouldn’t stop fretting about him, but she would not prevent him from being the person he wanted to be. Each time he decided on an investigation, it terrified her. She did not let that control how she treated him. She would not be an obstacle. She loved him too much for that. Instead she did her best to be part of his world. It was far less frightening to be shot at than to sit at home wondering if he was being shot at.

“Harmony is … worried.” VenDell paused. “Trellium has a repulsing effect on other forms of Investiture. Merely touching it to harmonium is dangerous—but doing as you did, heating and stretching the harmonium first, created what he called ‘an Invested matter-energy transference.’ That’s … very bad.” “Did the news surprise him?” Wax asked. “Did Harmony seem shocked we were able to do this? Or did he expect it?” “I couldn’t tell,” VenDell said. “He only said what I’ve relayed. More than that … well, Harmony can be difficult to read. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Did he send you a note, Lord Waxillium?” “Yes,” Wax said. “I think he implied that I should make an earring out of trellium.”

“VenDell, you want to come with? Maybe I could give you tips on your accent?” “Master Wayne,” he said, “I am an immortal kandra with hundreds of years’ experience doing impersonations.” “And you always sound snide and upper class,” Wayne said, “in every body I’ve seen you use. So … want some tips or not, mate?” “I …” He sighed. “Harmony did directly order me to be about this. Ugh. Field work is so distasteful. But I suppose I can’t say no.”

Ashes falling again, he thought, shivering. He’d often imagined what it would have been like to live in the mythical days before the Catacendre. When the Ascendant Warrior and Wax’s own distant ancestor, the Counselor of Gods, had walked the land. When people had moved through stories like the sun behind clouds on a mostly overcast day. In those days, the world had been dying. Ash had been its skin, flaking off as it disintegrated …

“Another god,” Steris whispered. He took out a second envelope. “I had this made,” he said, shaking something out of it. Another earring. With a red tinge to the metal. It was nothing more than a stud, with the only trellium portion the bar in the middle, as the metal couldn’t be melted to be forged.

What would they want to smuggle into Elendel? A bomb.

So he put the earring in. And was suddenly in another place. Floating, seeing the entire world before him, and the dark vastness beyond. He spent a moment disoriented, though his feet felt like they were on solid ground. It was unnerving. This didn’t normally happen when he used an earring. But he had been here once before. On that frozen mountaintop. Harmony stood in the distance. A serene figure in traditional Terris robes. Kindly eyes.

If he let his eyes unfocus, Harmony seemed as vast as the cosmere—two sweeping wings. One white, one black. Spinning together in the middle, the edges extending to infinity. At the heart of it was that figure. Terris. Head shaved smooth. Rounded features, with an elongated face. The face of a legend, standing with hands clasped behind his back. Looking worried.

“Where is the redness I saw last time?” Wax asked, nodding to the planet. Six years ago a red haze had been coming over the planet, as if to swallow it. “Did you drive it off?” “No,” Harmony said softly. “It Invested the planet. Invested … me. What you saw was a shroud, Waxillium. I responded too slowly. It is … a failing that grows more dangerous in me. By the time I realized what was happening, that shroud had come over me. It doesn’t hurt, it merely dampens my ability to see.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Harmony said softly, staring down at the planet. “What is Trell doing? What are they planning? They put that haze up as a kind of smoke screen. When I attacked it, the haze infected my ability to see the future. Temporarily. I will be rid of it in a few years. That’s nothing on the timescale of gods. And yet …”

“Harmony,” he said, “who is Trell?” “Trell is the god Autonomy,” Harmony replied. “What we call a Shard of Adonalsium. Autonomy carries power like my own, a dangerous force for manipulating the very nature of reality and existence. Though Autonomy is held by a woman named Bavadin, her many different faces—or avatars—act with independence. Trell, a male god from the ancient records, can be considered one of these.”

“You rarely get to speak to Autonomy herself,” Harmony continued. “As I’ve come to find, she speaks through avatars. Sometimes pieces of herself that she’s allowed to gain a semblance of self-awareness, sometimes through chosen people she has given a portion of her power. “Autonomy decided to destroy our world, as it is a dangerous threat to her. But I believe she has been persuaded to let it persist, so long as it can be … controlled. Autonomy offered me an ultimatum last year, as my blinding was taking effect and when she assumed I would be the most desperate. She demanded I give this world to her, then move to another.

“I rejected the demand—and one of the last things I saw was the person Autonomy has chosen. The same one who persuaded her that this world had value, and who presented a plan for its domination.” “My sister?” Harmony nodded. “The leader of the Set. Invested by Autonomy. Avatar of a god on this world.”

And so, I come back to the one weapon I’ve always been able to rely upon.”

“You should know, perhaps, that each of these powers—these Shards—has what we call an Intent. A driving motivation. I bear two: one driving me to preserve and protect, the other driving me to destroy. “Autonomy is driven to divide off from the rest of us, go her own way. She pushes her followers to prove themselves, and she rewards those who are bold, who survive against the odds. She respects big plans and big accomplishments. I presume this is why your sister has persuaded Autonomy not to destroy our planet outright. Or at least to delay doing so.”

So I must ask. Will you be my sword again, Waxillium?” “It is absolutely necessary?” “That depends,” he said, “on how you feel about the prospect of your sister taking my place as this planet’s steward.”

“Do you trust me, Waxillium?” God asked. “No,” Wax said honestly.

Ranette’s finest creations. Vindication II and the Steel Survivor. The first was a powerful, large-caliber gun designed to hold hazekiller rounds in two extra chambers. Those rounds were oversized, the bullets designed with a secondary explosion for dealing with Hemalurgists.

The second gun was a sleek mid-caliber pistol with an extra-long barrel for firing precision rounds. He generally loaded it with ordinary bullets that could be Pushed.

gun bag, two feet long, holding something extra special, in several pieces that could be assembled. Ranette’s most deadly design. He hesitated as he put a hand on it. Inside was a weapon not for a lawman, but for a soldier. Intent on destruction.

“Or maybe they’re not drawing a house. They’re drawing someone else’s picture of a house. What they’ve seen others make. An icon. A symbol.”

“I go by Moonlight,” the woman said. “We like code names. It’s one of our things.” “I … have never heard that word before.” “You wouldn’t have, since you have no moon here.”

“And … are you human?” “One hundred percent,” the woman said. “I’m not a local though.” She pulled off her cap, revealing straight black hair in a ponytail and uncommon features. A shape to the eyes Marasi had never seen, prominent cheekbones.

“We don’t always share answers with outsiders, Marasi.”

“Strange how similar cops are, regardless of the planet.”

“Can’t tell these days,” Moonlight said, “if I’m keeping watch on him, or if he’s keeping watch on me. Realistically, we’re both just keeping watch on the same third parties …” “What. Hoid?” Marasi asked. “He’s been in Wax’s employ for years. He’s an odd fellow, but …”

“My experiences have given me an interest in the quirks of the artistic world—and its … values, you might say. Tell me. Let’s say you had one of only sixteen extremely rare pieces of art by the same artist. What would you do to ensure yours becomes the most valuable?”

“I wouldn’t show it off. I’d let the other fifteen become common by comparison—and the value of mine would increase as people shared the story. There is one more. One no one has seen.” “Clever,” Moonlight said. “I’m impressed.” “And what would you do?” Marasi said. “Steal the other fifteen,” Moonlight said.

your planet’s god holds two of them.” “Ruin and Preservation.” “Indeed. That makes Harmony the most valuable—the most Invested—being in the cosmere. One of the other sixteen decided the best way to improve his stock was to try to destroy all the others. He managed it in a few cases.”

“No, his name is Odium.

“Trellism is the remnants of an ancient religion on your world, originally founded by Autonomy long, long ago. A seed for when she decided to move in. Now, that time has come. Autonomy is looking for someone on this planet to fully take up that role, that identity.”

“She wants to leave a god behind on this planet,” Moonlight explained. “Someone who bears some of her power, who sees to her interests, and is—in many ways—a piece of her soul. She does this all around the cosmere. Some worlds have entire pantheons that are all versions of her, each of which has a distinct personality and identity.”

“But Autonomy’s Investiture has a life of its own, and so each version of her becomes its own thing over time. Sometimes they aren’t a person but only power. Other times, if the situation needs more oversight, she picks someone to elevate.”

You had gunpowder weapons and electricity before any planet in the cosmere aside from her core homeworld.

“Because you’ve impressed my organization,” Moonlight said.

“But Marasi, I can only say so much to an outsider. For now I’m just here to watch.”

“Can I have my harmonica back now?” Hoid asked.

“I call him Sir Squeekins,” Wayne said. “I wasn’t gonna bring him, but he snuck into my pocket, he did. So I figure, ‘That’s the seventeenth time you’ve let him escape his cage, Wayne. Better give him to someone responsible.’ ” “You are a uniquely bizarre individual,” Hoid said, smiling as the rat crawled up his arm. “But … trade accepted, I guess?” “Great, great,” Wayne replied. “He likes strawberries and booze, but don’t give him none of the booze, ’cuz he’s a rat.” “Noted.”

“I think we live stories every day,” Hoid replied. “Ones that we will remember, and tell, and shape like clay to be what we need them to be.”

He scrunched up his face, squinting like Franis did—that was the guy he’d gotten the hat off of. A fellow Wayne’s height and age, but more weathered. By time, by smokes, by the things he’d done. Wayne already wore a wig to change his hair color, along with a bit of rubber on his chin to square it out, and some makeup to sink his eyes. With the hat, he was Franis—missing only one thing. He climbed out and swaggered. Franis sure knew how to swagger.