The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,117

“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