Bands of Mourning

by Brandon Sanderson

  Waxillium nodded his head toward the front of the vehicle, where Allik sat with his feet up on the dash, leaning back. Due to the mask, it was impossible to read his expression, but she felt his posture was reflective.

  “You feel up to talking with him?” Waxillium asked.

  “I suppose,” Marasi said. “I’m a little light-headed and a lot humiliated. But other than that, I’m fine.”

  Waxillium smiled, then took her arm. “You got ReLuur’s spike?”

  “Yes,” Marasi said, though she fished in her purse to make sure, to have her fingers on it, just in case. She held it up.

  “These degrade if they’re out of a body, don’t they?” Waxillium said, glancing at MeLaan, who had settled in a doorway with her legs dangling out, completely ignoring the perfectly good seats.

  “How do you know about that?” she asked.

  “The book Ironeyes gave me.”

  “Oh, right,” MeLaan said, her expression darkening. “That. You know, the Lord Mistborn was wrong to create it.”

  “I’ve read it, regardless.”

  MeLaan sighed, looking out. “The longer it’s away from ReLuur, the more its Blessing will weaken. But they are powerful, and can last some time—besides, even if the Blessing degrades, the spike will still restore his mind anyway. With some … loss of memory.” Her voice caught on that last part, and she turned away.

  “Well, we have it thanks to you,” Waxillium said, looking at Marasi. “And I have my sister. So we should turn back to Elendel and find out what Allik knows.”

  “We should,” Marasi agreed. “But your uncle—”

  “You heard my conversation with Telsin?”

  “Enough of it.” When she hadn’t been distracted by the fear that she was dying. Stupid kandra.

  “And what do you think?” Waxillium asked.

  “I don’t know, Waxillium,” Marasi said. “Did we really come here for the spike, or even your sister?”

  “No,” he said softly. “We came to stop Suit.”

  Marasi nodded, then dug a little more in her purse, bringing out the notebook she’d stolen from Irich’s study. She flipped to the page with the map and held it so both she and Waxillium could see it.

  It had a spot clearly labeled Second Site, some kind of base camp in the mountains. And beyond that, something high up among some other peaks, indicated as dangerously high. Notes from Irich said, Temple reported to be here.

  “The weapon,” Waxillium said, brushing the map with his fingers. “The Bands of Mourning.”

  “It’s real.”

  “My uncle thinks it is.” Waxillium hesitated. “And I do too.”

  “Can you imagine him as a Mistborn,” Marasi said, “and a Full Feruchemist? Immortal—like Miles, only far worse. Possessing the strength of all metals. Like the Lord Ruler come again.”

  “My uncle said he was going to the second site,” Waxillium said, studying the map. “It’s possible that his expedition hasn’t gotten to the temple yet, though. They know where it is, from their interrogations, but they were still planning their expedition. With this machine, we could beat him there.”

  Waxillium drew in a deep breath, then nodded toward Allik up in his seat. “Will you talk to him? Find out what he knows.”

  “The man’s been through a lot, Waxillium,” Marasi said softly. “I think they must have tortured and murdered his friends. He doesn’t deserve an interrogation right now.”

  “We don’t deserve a lot of things that happen to us, Marasi. Talk to him, please. I’d do it, but the way he treats me … well, I think you’ll get better answers.”

  She sighed, but nodded and climbed past Wayne, who was—unsurprisingly—slumped in a seat and snoring away. Steris sat with hands in her lap, content, as if riding in a flying machine were an everyday occurrence. Telsin sat in the very back.

  Marasi wobbled. Rusts, she was light-headed. Fortunately, the front of the vehicle had two seats, the one Allik used and a smaller stool next to him. Allik glanced at her, and she realized she’d been wrong about his posture. He wasn’t pensive, he was cold. He sat there with arms wrapped around himself, and even shivered a little.

  She was surprised. It was colder up here than down below, true, but she wasn’t particularly cold herself. Then again, she was wearing Waxillium’s coat now.

  Allik turned back toward the windshield as she settled down on the stool. “I had assumed,” he said, “that everyone up here in the land of the Sovereign was a barbarian. Nobody wears masks, and what your people did to my crewmates…”

  He shivered again. This didn’t seem to be the cold.

  “But then you let me out,” he continued. “And you had one of them with you, a grand Metalborn of the precious arts. So I’m left confused.”

  “I don’t feel like a barbarian,” Marasi said. “But I doubt all but the most barbarous of people feel like one. I’m sorry about what happened to your friends. They had the misfortune of running across a group of very evil people.”

  “There were fifteen masks on the wall,” Allik said. “But Brunstell’s crew was nearly a hundred, yah? I know that some died in the crash, but the rest … do you know where they might be?” He looked to her, and she could see pain in his eyes behind the mask.

  “Maybe,” Marasi said, surprised to realize she might. She turned the notebook around, showing the map. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Allik stared at it. “How did you get that?”

  “I found it in the desk of one of your captors.”

  “They couldn’t communicate with us,” Allik said, taking the notebook. “How did they get this from us?”

  Marasi grimaced. While torture was a terribly ineffective method of interrogation, at least as far as legal cases were concerned, she suspected it was a powerful motivator for overcoming barriers.

  “You think they’re here,” Allik said, pointing at the map. “You think the men who captured them, the evil men, brought my crewmates to find the Sovereign’s temple.”

  “It sounds like something Suit would do,” Marasi said, glancing back at Waxillium, who had settled into a seat behind her and leaned forward to listen. “Bring guides, or experts, just in case. He’s on his way here, the leader of those who killed your friends.”

  “Then that is where I must go,” Allik said, sitting up and changing the direction of the ship. “Wilg and I will drop you somewhere, if you demand it, for I’m not about to make that one angry.” He thumbed over his shoulder at Waxillium. “But I’ve got to find my crewmates.”

  “Who is the Sovereign?” Waxillium asked from behind.

  Allik winced. “Surely he was not as great as you, Remarkable One.”

  Waxillium said nothing.

  “He’s staring at me, isn’t he?” Allik asked softly of Marasi.

  She nodded.

  “Eyes like icicles,” Allik said, “drilling into me from behind.” He spoke more loudly. “The Sovereign was our king from three centuries ago. He told us he was your king first. And your god.”

  “The Lord Ruler?” Waxillium said. “He died.”

  “Yes,” Allik said. “He told us that too.”

  “Three hundred years ago,” Waxillium said. “Exactly?”

  “Three hundred and thirty, Persistent One.”

  Waxillium shook his head. “That’s after Harmony Ascended. Are you sure about those dates?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Allik said. “But if you wish me to revise my beliefs in order to—”

  “No,” Waxillium said. “Just speak the truth.”

  Allik sighed, rolling his eyes, an odd expression to see from one in a mask. “Gods,” he whispered to her. “Very temperamental. Anyway, the Sovereign came about ten years after the Ice Death happened, yah? Silly name, but you’ve got to call it something. The land was beautiful and warm, and then it froze.”

  Marasi glanced toward Waxillium, frowning. He shrugged. “Froze?” she said. “I don’t recall hearing of freezing.”

&n
bsp; “It’s frozen right now!” Allik said, shivering. “You had it here too, you must have. Over three centuries ago, the Ice Death came.”

  “The Catacendre?” Waxillium said. “Harmony remade the world. Saved it.”

  “Froze it,” Allik said, shaking his head. “The land was soft and warm, and now it is harsh and broken and frozen.”

  “Harmony…” Marasi whispered. “Allik’s from the South, Waxillium. Haven’t you read the old books? The people from the Final Empire never went in that direction. The oceans boiled, supposedly, if you got too close to the equator.”

  “The people who lived down south adapted,” Waxillium said softly. “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, then paused. “Well, not this one in particular. This one.” He reached into his desk and took out the other medallion he’d worn, the one he’d taken out of the safe back in the warehouse. 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.”

  Allik sat, basking in his warmth for a time, before—with obvious reluctance—pulling off his medallion and swapping it quickly for the one that somehow allowed him to speak to them.

  “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 Firefathers, who live to fill these medallions so the rest of us may leave our homes and survive in this too-cold world. After he left, we used his gifts to figure out the rest, like these that make us fly.”

  “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…”

  Waxillium moved up beside Allik, on the other side. The masked man eyed him, as if made very uncomfortable by his presence.

  “These,” Waxillium said, plucking the heat-giving medallion off the dash. “You can create these, as you wish?”

  “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.”

  “And did one of you create a medallion that grants all of the powers?” Waxillium asked.

  Allik laughed.

  Marasi frowned. “Why laugh?”

  “You think us gods?” Allik said, shaking his head. “You see that? The one you hold? It is very complicated. 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.” He held up the medallion. “The iron on this is for convenience, right? You can fill it, but so long as you’re tapping the Investiture, you could touch any source of iron and turn it into a metalmind.”

  “You know much about this, Mysterious One,” Allik said. “You are wise and—”

  “I learn quickly,” Waxillium said, glancing at Marasi. She nodded for him to continue. This was fascinating … but the Metallic Arts was not one of her areas of expertise. Waxillium had a passion for it though. “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.”

  “So wear multiple medallions,” Waxillium said. “Strap thirty-two to your body, and have all the abilities.”

  “I’m sorry, great Wise One,” Allik said. “You are obviously very knowledgeable about this, and know things that none of us would ever think to try. How could we be so foolish as to not realize that we could simply—”

  “Shut it,” Waxillium growled.

  Allik flinched.

  “Doesn’t work?” Waxillium asked.

  Allik shook his head. “They interfere with each other.”

  “So to create one with multiple powers…”

  “You must be very skilled,” Allik said. “More skilled than any who has lived among us. Or…” He chuckled. “Or you’d have to have all the powers, rather than adding yours to the medallion, then passing it to another to have it added to! If that were the case, you’d be a great god indeed. As powerful as the Sovereign.”

  “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.”

  Allik wilted.

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Allik?” Waxillium asked, looking into the man’s eyes.

  Marasi leaned forward. Waxillium said he wasn’t good at reading people, but he was wrong. He was great at it—so long as reading them involved bullying them.

  “Yes,” Allik whispered.

  “You traveled from your lands to find the Bands of Mourning,” Waxillium said. “Why are they up here?”

  “Hidden away,” Allik said. “When the Sovereign left us, he took them with him, along with his priests, his closest servants. Well, some of them eventually returned, yah? With stories to tell. 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.”

  “Hey,” Wayne called from behind them, hair whipping in the wind, hat held in his hands. When had he woken up? “We knocked your big ship outta the sky, didn’t we?”

  “You?” Allik said, laughing. “No, no. You could not have so harmed Brunstell. He fell to a great storm. It is a danger of our ships—so light, so easily troubled by storms. We would have landed Brunstell, but we were in the mountains, searching. We were so close to the temple, but then … yah. Blown out of the mountains over your lands. Smashed into that poor village. The barbarians there were nice at first. Then the others came.”

  He shrank down in his chair.

  Waxillium patted him on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Wonderful One,” Allik said. He heaved a sigh. “Well, ever since the Sovereign’s elite told us the stories, we’ve tried to find the bracers.”

  “Find them?” Waxillium said. “You told us he’d left the Bands there for himself.”

  “Well, yah, but everyone interprets it as a challenge. A test sent by the Sovereign? He was fond of those. Why would he let priests tell us about them, if he didn’t want us t
o come claim them?

  “Only, after years of searching, everyone started thinking the temple was some fancy legend, lost in time. Everyone’s uncle had a map, yah? The type worth less than the paper it’s written on? But then, recently, some interesting stories started circulating. Talk of lands up here, and of mountains nobody had explored. We sent several scout vessels, and they returned with stories of your people, in this land.

  “Well, five or six years back, the Hunters sent a big ship up with a quest to finally find the temple. And they succeeded, we think. One skimmer came back with a map of where they’d been. The rest froze to death; a blizzard in the mountains overwhelmed their medallions.”

  Wind rocked the small ship as Allik fell silent.

  “We’re going after that temple, right?” Marasi asked, looking at Waxillium.

  “Damn right we are.”

  22

  Marasi had plenty of time to think as they traveled southward toward the mountains. Allik guessed the trip would take about two hours, which surprised her. She’d imagined an airship to be a fast-moving vehicle, but this was likely slower than a train. Still, being able to proceed there in a straight line instead of having to follow the landscape was a distinct advantage.

  Even with the fans whirring in their casings, the airship seemed to spend much of its time gliding. Allik would increase their height or lower it, trying to find favorable winds—and he complained that he didn’t know the airstreams of this area. He did his navigation using devices she didn’t recognize along with some startlingly accurate maps of the lower Basin. How often had these people prowled through the skies up here, hidden in the darkness, observing and making their maps?

  Most of the others slept, comfortably tapping warmth as Allik had taught them. When Marasi considered sleeping herself, she could not banish the image of falling from one of those doorways and awakening just as she hit the ground—even with the waist belts tying them all in.

  Wayne gave her something else to help with the pain, though he wouldn’t say what it was. It felt good though, and she could mostly ignore her aching side. She settled into the seat beside Allik and chatted with him. She felt guilty, as that required him to wear the medallion that let him translate, but he seemed as eager to talk as she was. She could not say whether that was because he was starved for interaction following his incarceration, or if he wanted to be distracted from thinking about the friends he’d lost during his journey.