The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,12
led to the dome proper.
“You,” Wax said. “How did you get here before Wayne?”
“I don’t believe your friend is coming,” the man said. He stepped in beside Marasi and nodded to her, then closed the doors, shutting out the ash girls. He turned and tossed Wax a wadded-up ball of paper.
When Wax caught it, it clinked. Unfolding it revealed the two wedding pendants. Scrawled on the paper were the words: Gonna go get smashed till I can’t piss straight. Happy weddings ’n stuff.
“Such beautiful imagery,” Steris observed, taking Wax’s wedding pendant in a white-gloved hand as Marasi looked over his shoulder to read the note. “At least he didn’t forget these.”
“Thank you,” Wax said to the man in brown, “but as you can see, I’m quite busy getting married. Whatever you need from me can—”
The man’s face turned translucent, displaying the bones of his skull and spine beneath.
Steris stiffened. “Holy One,” she whispered.
“Holy pain,” Wax said. “Tell Harmony to get someone else this time. I’m busy.”
“Tell … Harmony…” Steris mumbled, her eyes wide.
“Unfortunately, this is part of the problem,” the man in brown said, his skin returning to normal. “Harmony has been distracted as of late.”
“How can God be distracted?” Marasi asked.
“We’re not sure, but it has us worried. I need you, Waxillium Ladrian. I have a job you’ll find of interest. I realize you’re off to the ceremony, but afterward, if I could have a moment of your time…”
“No,” Wax said.
“But—”
“No.”
Wax pulled Steris by the arm, shoving open the doors, striding past Marasi, leaving the kandra. It had been six months since those creatures had manipulated him, played him, and lied to him. The result? A dead woman in his arms.
Bastards.
“Was that really one of the Faceless Immortals?” Steris said, looking over her shoulder.
“Yes, and for obvious reasons I want nothing to do with them.”
“Peace,” she said, holding his arm. “Do you need a moment?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Wax stopped in place. She waited, and he breathed in and out, banishing from his mind that awful, awful scene when he’d knelt on a bridge alone, holding Lessie. A woman he realized he’d never actually known.
“I’m all right,” he said to Steris through clenched teeth. “But God should have known not to come for me. Particularly not today.”
“Your life is … decidedly odd, Lord Waxillium.”
“I know,” he said, moving again, stepping with her beside the last door before they entered the dome. “Ready?”
“Yes, thank you.” Was she … teary-eyed? It was an expression of emotion he’d never seen from her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Forgive me. It’s just … more wonderful than I’d imagined.”
They pushed open the doors, revealing the glistening dome, sunlight streaming through it and upon the waiting crowd. Acquaintances. Distant family members. Seamstresses and forgeworkers from his house. Wax sought out Wayne, and was surprised when he didn’t find the man, despite the note. He was the only real family Wax had.
The ash girls scampered out, sprinkling small handfuls of ash on the carpeted walkway that ringed the perimeter of the dome. Wax and Steris started forward in a stately walk, presenting themselves for those in attendance. There was no music at a Survivorist ceremony, but a few crackling braziers with green leaves on top let smoke trail upward to represent the mist.
Smoke ascends while ash falls, he thought, remembering the priest’s words from his youth, back when he’d attended Survivorist ceremonies. They walked all the way around the crowd. At least Steris’s family had made a decent showing, her father included—the red-faced man gave Waxillium an enthusiastic fist-raise as they passed.
Wax found himself smiling. This was what Lessie had wanted. They’d joked time and time again about their simple Pathian ceremony, finalized on horseback to escape a mob. She said that someday, she’d make him do it proper.
Sparkling crystal. A hushed crowd. Footsteps on scrunching carpet dappled with grey ash. His smile widened, and he looked to the side.
But of course, the wrong woman was there.
He almost stumbled. Idiot man, he thought. Focus. This day was important to Steris; the least he could do was not ruin it. Or rather, not ruin it in a way she hadn’t expected. Whatever that meant.
Unfortunately, as they walked the remaining distance around the rotunda, his discomfort increased. He felt nauseous. Sweaty. Sick, like the feeling he had gotten the few times he had been forced to run from a killer and leave innocents in danger.
It all forced him, finally, to acknowledge a difficult fact. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t