The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn #6) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,132

points plotted on it. Usefulness was listed on one axis, and it had names up the other. Rusts—she’d assigned a number to everyone’s level of worth on the mission. Waxillium was a hundred, as was MeLaan. Wayne was a seventy-five.

Marasi was an eighty-three. She hadn’t expected that.

“I would say that ten is the threshold below which one’s uselessness outweighs the little one does add to the project. I’m thinking I might be a seven, as there are instances where it is better to have me along, though they are few. What do you think?”

“Steris,” Marasi said, pushing the notebook aside. “Why do you care about being useful here in the first place?”

“Well, why do you?”

“Because this is who I am,” Marasi said. “Who I want to be. But not you—you’re perfectly happy sitting in a parlor digging through ledgers. Yet here you are, on the top of a mountain in a blizzard, waiting for a gunfight.”

Steris pursed her lips. “I assumed,” she eventually said, “that I would be of help to Lord Waxillium at the party, and I was. It was my original understanding that this would be primarily a political enterprise.”

Of course. So analytical in everything. Marasi settled back, glancing out the doorway at those approaching lights. Wayne, fortunately, was watching carefully. He acted the fool sometimes, but he took his duties seriously.

“And then,” Steris said softly, “perhaps I came along because of the way it feels.…”

Marasi looked sharply back at her sister.

“Like the whole world has been upended,” Steris said, looking toward the ceiling. “Like the laws of nature and man no longer hold sway. They’re suddenly flexible, like a string given slack. We’re the spheres.… I love the idea that I can break out of it all—the expectations, the way I’m regarded, the way I regard myself—and soar.

“I saw it in his eyes, first. That hunger, that fire. And then I found it in myself. He’s a flame, Waxillium is, and fire can be shared. When I’m out here, when I’m with him, I burn, Marasi. It’s wonderful.”

Marasi’s jaw dropped, and she gawked at her sister. Had those words left Steris’s mouth? Careful, monotonous, boring Steris? She glanced toward Marasi and blushed.

“You actually love him, don’t you?” Marasi asked.

“Well, love is a strong emotion, one that requires careful deliberation to—”

“Steris.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her notebook. “It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Marasi said. “Love is always a foolish emotion. That’s what makes it work.” She found herself reaching over and pulling Steris into a hug with one arm. “I’m happy for you, Steris.”

“And you?” Steris asked. “When will you find someone to make you happy?”

“It’s not about finding someone, Steris. Not for me.”

But what was it about? She gave Steris another hug and, distracted by her own jumble of thoughts, went to check on Wayne.

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Wayne asked as she joined him beside the outer doorway.

“I just had my long-held assumptions about someone shattered in a brief moment. I’m wondering if every person I pass has similar depths, and if there’s any way to avoid the mistake of judging them so shallowly that I’m rocked when they show their true complexity. You?”

“I was lookin’ at you two,” Wayne said, contemplative as he regarded the snowy landscape outside rather than her, “and wondering. Do sisters ever really get sexy with one another for a fellow to watch, or does that only happen in pub songs?”

Marasi let out a long breath. “Thank you for restoring my ability to trust my judgment, Wayne.”

“Anytime.”

“Those lights are still distant,” Marasi said. “You think they got trapped in the snows?”

Wayne shook his head.

Marasi frowned, noting his posture—seeming relaxed, but he’d gotten out one of his dueling canes and rested it across his knees.

“What?” she asked.

“I figure,” Wayne said, “that if I knew I’d been spotted, the best way to sneak up would be to leave my lights behind and make it seem like I’m goin’ slowly.”

Marasi looked again. She ignored the lights this time, scanning a nearer darkness full of shifting snow. And there, almost to the windswept patch of rock before the temple, she caught movement. Shadows in the shadows.

“Time to call for Waxillium?” Marasi asked.

“I think…” He trailed off, and Marasi pulled her rifle up, nervous.

“What?” she asked.

Wayne pointed to an approaching shadow. It bore a little flag, crossed with an X. The symbol for parley.

* * *

Wax pulled on the rope, helping MeLaan climb from the pit. She crawled over the edge, then flopped down. She’d been