The Bands of Mourning

by Brandon Sanderson

  “How’s that?” he asked, looking back at them.

  Marasi blinked in shock. He’d said it in her language—strangely accented, true, but intelligible.

  “No?” the man asked. “You’re looking at me confused, still. These things never work right. She swore that—”

  “No, it works!” Marasi said. “At least, I can understand you.” She looked to the others, who nodded.

  “Aha!” the man said. “Great, great. Put these on.” He tossed a medallion at each of them. “Touching the skin, please, maskless barbarians. Except you, Metallic One. You will not need one, yah?”

  Marasi took hers and settled down on one of the seats, feeling dizzy. The painkiller seemed to finally be doing something, but she was still exhausted.

  Below, shouts sounded in the hallway.

  “Somebody better shut that door,” the masked man said, crawling down on the floor and fiddling with something underneath a counter.

  Wayne obliged, pulling up the ladder, which was tied to the trapdoor. It clicked closed, leaving them in even greater gloom. A gunshot sounded below, then another. Marasi jumped as the bullets hammered against the floor of the room.

  “Does this place have any other exits?” Waxillium asked.

  The masked man yanked on something, and the room shook with a jolt. “Nope,” he said.

  “Then why did you lead us here?” Waxillium demanded, grabbing him by the arm.

  The masked man looked back at him. “Medallions on, yah?”

  More bullets pelted the floor, but didn’t penetrate into the room, fortunately.

  “What do they do?” MeLaan asked.

  “Make you lighter,” the masked man said.

  As soon as he said it—as soon as she knew what it did—something inside of Marasi understood. She was holding metal that, somehow, she could feel. It wanted something from her, and she poured it in, filling the metal … the metalmind.

  She grew lighter, rising on her seat, the force of her body pushing less on her backside. Telsin gasped, obviously experiencing a similar sensation.

  “Now that,” Wayne said, “that’s right strange.”

  “Great Metallic One,” the masked man said, glancing at Waxillium, “I, of course, wouldn’t dare give orders to one of your stature, even if you wear your bare face out at all times. Who am I to judge? Even if you look equally crass as these others—even the cute one—I’m sure you’re not. But, if I may be so bold as to suggest—”

  “What?” Waxillium asked.

  “A little Push,” the masked man said, pointing downward. “On my mark.”

  “If I Push downward,” Waxillium said, “I’ll just fly up and hit the ceiling.” He hesitated as the masked man pointed to a pair of straps connected to the floor, with wooden handholds at the ends. Waxillium looked at them, then looked at the masked man, who nodded eagerly.

  Even in the darkness, Marasi could see the curiosity on Waxillium’s face. Despite the men shouting below, the muffled sound of gunshots, he was still the lawman—the detective. Questions teased him. He stepped over to the straps, picked them up, and held them firmly, bracing himself with his feet on the floor.

  “Ready,” he said.

  “A moment,” the masked man said, reaching for a lever. He yanked it hard, and the entire room shook, then slid sideways. Out of the hull, like a drawer in a dresser being opened. Marasi could see out of the front end now, which proved to have a large glass window that had been blocked by wood earlier.

  “Go!” the man said.

  Waxillium must have Pushed, for the room shook, then rose into the air. They weren’t in a room at all, but in a small boat that could detach from the main vessel.

  21

  Wax stood in the center of the small vessel, Pushing against some kind of plate down below, designed—obviously—for this very purpose. It would be attached to the shelf the vessel had been on—not something that rose with it, but some kind of launchpad for an Allomancer to use as an anchor.

  This vessel, though tiny, should still have been too heavy to lift. He should have broken those straps he held to, or been crushed by the force of his own Push. Yet he managed it. He held to those straps—essentially hitching himself to the ship—and lifted it, with all the people inside, off a ledge that had extended from the mother vessel.

  It’s those medallions, he realized. They allow everyone to do as I do—to make themselves light, nearly as light as air. That meant he was really only lifting the ship itself, along with their equipment.

  The vehicle was small—barely six feet wide, though it was maybe twice as long—and had wide openings like doorways on either side. Those had faced walls inside the pocketlike shelf they’d popped out of, but now they exposed the air.

  All in all, the thing felt like the cab of a motorcar with the doors ripped off. As the craft rose, small pontoons on extended arms folded down and clicked into place. Wax had a brief view of surprised soldiers on the portion of the catwalk he hadn’t broken, and then they were out, rising through the opening in the warehouse roof.

  The strange man in the red mask scrambled through the vehicle and leaned out one of the holes in the walls to look downward. He looked solemn as he saluted the ship below, then bowed his head, whispering something.

  Finally, he turned to Wax. “You are doing great, O Divine One!”

  “I’m not going to be able to Push it much higher,” Wax said with a grunt. “The anchor is too far away.”

  “You shouldn’t need to,” the man said, scrambling past Marasi—he patted her on the shoulder—then fiddling with some controls at the front of the machine. “I’ll need the primer cube, please,” he said, holding out a hand to Wayne.

  “Huh?” Wayne said, looking away from where he’d been hanging out the other door to look down. A few distant gunshots sounded as soldiers took potshots at the hovering vehicle. “Oh, this?” Wayne took out the Allomantic grenade.

  “Yah,” the man said, snatching it. “Thanks!” He spun and pressed it against Wax’s arm until—as he was still burning steel to keep them afloat—it started buzzing.

  The little man turned and snapped the cube into place under the shelf at the front of the ship. The machine shook, and then something started thumping underneath them. A fan? Yes, a very large one, blowing downward, powered by an unseen motor.

  “You can let go, Great Being of Metals,” the man said, looking back at Wax. “If it suits your divine desires.”

  Wax eased off on his Push. They immediately started to sink.

  “Reduce your weight!” the man cried. “I mean, if it is aligned with your magnificent will, O Metabolic One.”

  “Metabolic?” Wax asked, filling his metalmind and decreasing his weight. The ship stabilized in the air.

  “Uh,” the masked man said, seating himself at the front, “well, we’re supposed to use a different title each time, yah? I’ve never been very good at this, Your Magnificence. Please don’t launch a coin directly into my skull. I’m not insolent, just stupid.” He pushed a lever forward, and smaller fans began whirring at the ends of the pontoons.

  “They’re not boats,” MeLaan whispered. “Not this one, not the big one below. They’re flying ships.”

  “Harmony’s Bands,” Marasi said. She was very pale, holding to her wounded stomach.

  Flying ships that ran on some kind of Allomancy. Rust and Ruin. Wax felt the world seem to lurch around him. If electricity had changed life so dramatically, what would this do? Wax forced himself to shake out of his stupor and looked to the short masked man. “What’s your name?” Wax said.

  “Allik Neverfar, Tall One,” the man said.

  “Wait here a moment then, Allik.”

  “Whatever you desire, O—”

  Wax jumped out of the vehicle before he could be praised—or insulted, he couldn’t tell which these were—again. He got a better look at the small airship as he left. Yes, it looked more like a long motorcar cab than it did a boat, with that flat bottom. The lar
ge fan was separated from the ship by a short space, allowing air intake above. The doorways on the walls didn’t seem to close; it was fortunate the seats had straps.

  Wax dropped through the sky, afraid to Push off the small airship, but was able to use anchors down below to slow and direct himself toward the forests north of the camp.

  He wanted to be quick. That ship wasn’t up so high that it would be safe if they had access to cannons. He dropped into the forest and surprised Steris, who sat on her horse with the others in a line, all packed and ready to go.

  “Lord Waxillium!” she cried. “I assumed you’d be coming, and prepared—”

  “Great,” Wax said, walking to his horse. “Get down, and grab your pack and Marasi’s.”

  She did so without objection or question, pulling off her small pack of essentials, then fetched that of Marasi. Wax did the same for MeLaan and Wayne.

  “We’re leaving the horses?” Steris asked.

  He released the horses, then grabbed Steris around the waist. “Turns out we’ve found something better.” He pulled out one of his older guns, then dropped it—he’d need a large chunk of metal to get them high enough—and Pushed, launching them from the forest and into the sky.

  He’d worried about maneuvering—doing so up high wasn’t easy without skyscrapers to Push against. However, Allik steered the ship toward him, allowing him to get Steris one of the armbands, then set her into the vessel before climbing in himself. It managed to accept the new weight of the supplies, though Allik had to pull a lever to keep them from sinking.

  “Seven people,” the masked man said. “And supplies. Above the weight Wilg is supposed to carry, but she should manage. Until our metal runs out. The question is, where do you want her to take us?”

  “Elendel,” Wax said, walking toward the front of the little ship.

  “Great,” Allik said. “And … where is that?”

  “North,” Wax said, pointing. The little shelf at the front of the vehicle—like the dash of a motorcar—had a compass set into it. “If you head west first though, and find the river, we can—”

  “No.” Telsin seized Wax by the arm. “We need to talk.”

  Gunfire sounded below, followed by an echoing boom. Great. They did have a cannon.

  “Just get us away from here,” Wax said to Allik as he let Telsin tow him toward the back of the small ship. He passed Wayne, still hanging halfway out of one of the two open doorways and gawking. Marasi was on the floor, with MeLaan checking her wound, while Steris had already started packing their bags into an efficient pile between two of the seats.

  The fans whirred and the ship began to move—not quickly, but steadily—away from the enemy camp. Wax settled onto a bench at the back of the ship with his sister. Rusts … Telsin. Finally. It had been a year and a half since he’d promised to stop his uncle and free her. Now here she was, sitting beside him.

  She looked like a modern woman, with her hair in curls, wearing a stylish dress of contemporary fashion—thin material, hem up right below the knees, a neckline to emphasize a long neck and delicate drooping chains. If you didn’t look at her eyes, you could have assumed she was a fine lady on her way to a ball.

  If you did look into her eyes, all you found was coldness.

  “Waxillium,” she said softly, “there’s a weapon of some sort to the south, hidden among the mountains separating the Basin from the Roughs. Uncle Edwarn has found it. He’s on his way there.”

  “How much do you know?” Wax asked, taking her hand. “Telsin, do you know what he’s planning? Is it a revolution?”

  “He doesn’t tell me much,” she said. Her voice was so calm, so cold, compared to how it had been before. Always full of passion, ever nudging him to do things he should not. It seemed like they’d leeched the life out of her, during her months of captivity. “We have dinner together most nights when he is here, but he grows angry if I ask about his work. He wanted me for one of his … his projects, originally, but my age makes that impossible. Now I am just a pawn. To use against you, I believe.”

  “No longer,” Wax said, squeezing her hand. “No more, Telsin.”

  “And if he finds this weapon?” she asked. “He seems convinced it is there, and that it will give his group the power to dominate the Basin. Waxillium, we can’t let him have it.” Some passion returned to her eyes, some of the Telsin he remembered. “If he seizes the Basin, then he will take me again. He will kill you, and he will take me.”

  “We’ll get to Elendel, inform the governor, and then send an expedition.”

  “And if that takes too long?” Telsin said. “Do you know what the weapon is? The thing he is searching for?”

  Wax looked down at the medallion strapped to her arm. “Feruchemy and Allomancy anyone can use.”

  “The Lord Ruler’s own power, Waxillium,” Telsin said, passionate. “The Bands of Mourning. We could find them, use them before he does. He has to travel by foot on a treacherous mountain trail. I heard them preparing for it. We, however…” She looked out the doorway, toward the passing landcape. This was a view few ever saw. A view once reserved only for Coinshots.

  “Let me check on Marasi,” Wax said. “Then we’ll decide.”

  * * *

  Marasi soared above the world, looking at a land bathed in starlight. Trees like shrubs. Rivers like streams. Hills like little lumps. The land was Harmony’s garden. Was this how He saw it, with God’s perspective?

  The Path taught he was all around, that his body was the mists—that he saw all and was all. The mists were pervasive, but visible only when he wanted them to be. She’d always liked this teaching, as it made her feel His nearness. Yet other aspects of the Path bothered her. There was no structure to it, and because of that everyone seemed to have their own idea of how it should be followed.

  Survivorists, like Marasi herself, regarded Harmony differently. Yes, he was God, but to them he was more a force than a benevolent deity. He was there, but he was as likely to help a beetle as he was to help a man, for all were the same to him. If you really wanted to get something done, you prayed to the Survivor, who had—somehow—survived even death.

  Marasi winced as MeLaan continued to work. “Hmm, yes,” MeLaan said. “Very interesting.”

  Marasi lay on the floor of the vehicle, near the doorway, head on a pillow made from a wadded-up jacket. The wind wasn’t too bad, contrary to what Marasi would have expected, as they weren’t moving terribly fast—though the fans did make a fair amount of noise.

  MeLaan had spread Marasi’s uniform aside in a very improper way, barely keeping the most important bits covered. Nobody seemed to care though, so Marasi didn’t make a fuss. Besides, that was far less disconcerting than what MeLaan was doing to her. The kandra woman knelt over Marasi, hand on her side, the flesh having liquefied and run down into the wound.

  It was discomfortingly like what had happened when she’d picked the lock, as if Marasi were just another puzzle to be manipulated. Rusts, she could feel MeLaan poking around in there with bits of flesh that had become tentacles.

  “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Marasi asked softly.

  “Yes,” MeLaan said. Light from a small lantern from their packs illuminated her face. “Nothing I can do about that.”

  Marasi squeezed her eyes shut. It served her right, running about like some lawman from the Roughs, scrambling through firefights and assuming she was invincible.

  “How is it?” Waxillium’s voice asked. Marasi opened her eyes to see him leaning over, and she found herself blushing at her state of near-nudity. Of course. Her final emotion would be embarrassment because of damned Waxillium Ladrian.

  “Hmm?” MeLaan asked, pulling her arm out, the flesh forming back over her crystalline bones. “Oh. I caught a hole in the intestines, as you’d guessed. Sewed that up tight, using some catgut I made from some spare intestines I had brewing. I patched it with some of my flesh, grafted on.”

  “She’ll reject the flesh.”


  “Nah. I took a bite and replicated her skin. Her body will think it’s hers.”

  “You ate part of me?” Marasi said.

  “Wow,” Waxillium said. “That’s … wow.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m incredible,” MeLaan said. “Excuse me.” She reached her hand out the open side of the flying vehicle, then dropped a stream of something vile. “Had to slurp up things inside there to clean everything out. The safest way.” She eyed Marasi. “You owe me.”

  “Is that the part of me you … um … ate?” Marasi asked.

  “No, just what was leaking,” MeLaan said. “That grafted patch over the wound should hold until you heal on your own—I melded it to your veins and capillaries. It’s going to get itchy, but don’t scratch it, and let me know if it starts to go necrotic.”

  Marasi hesitated, then prodded at her wound with exploratory fingers. She found only tight flesh, like that from a scar, patching the hole. It barely hurt, more a dull pain like a bruise. She sat up, amazed. “You said I was going to die!”

  “Of course you’re going to die,” MeLaan said, cocking her head. “You’re mortal. Can’t turn you into a kandra by just— Oh, you thought today. Hell, girl. That shot barely clipped you.”

  “You’re an awful person,” Marasi said. “You realize this.”

  MeLaan grinned, nodding to Waxillium, who offered a hand to help Marasi up. She quickly straightened her uniform, though MeLaan had cut it in ways that made modesty difficult. She’d have to dig into her pack for something new, but how would she ever change in the vehicle’s crowded confines?

  She sighed, taking Waxillium’s hand and letting him pull her to her feet. For now she kept one hand at her waist, preventing her trousers from falling off. He offered her his mistcoat and, after a moment’s hesitation, she put it on.

  “Thanks,” she said, noting that underneath the coat he had been wearing a bandage of his own, upper left arm, right below the shoulder. Had he also been shot during the fighting? He hadn’t said anything, which made her feel even more foolish.