The Bands of Mourning

  “Reflection on my mirror, child,” she said, holding a cup of tea in both hands, not looking toward him. “Obey. If you please.”

  Sullenly, he trudged around the building and through the front doors of the wooden lodge. The whole place smelled of the wood stain he’d recently helped apply. He still had the stuff under his fingernails.

  He stepped into the room and shut the door. “Why did you—”

  “Please sit down, Asinthew,” she said softly.

  He walked to the desk, but didn’t take the guest seat. He remained standing, right where the constable had.

  “Your handwriting,” Grandmother said, brushing at the paper the constable had left. “Did I not tell you that the matter of Forch was under control?”

  “You say a lot of things, Grandmother. I believe when I see proof.”

  Vwafendal leaned forward, steam rising from the cup in her hands. “Oh, Asinthew,” she said. “I thought you were determined to fit in here.”

  “I am.”

  “Then why are you listening at my window instead of doing evening meditations?”

  He looked away, blushing.

  “The Terris way is about order, child,” Grandmother said. “We have rules for a reason.”

  “And burning down buildings isn’t against the rules?”

  “Of course it is,” Grandmother said. “But Forch is not your responsibility. We’ve spoken to him. He’s penitent. His crime was that of a misguided youth who spends too much time alone. I’ve asked some of the others to befriend him. He will do penance for his crime, in our way. Would you rather see him rot in prison?”

  Waxillium hesitated, then sighed, dropping into the chair before his grandmother’s desk. “I want to find out what is right,” he whispered, “and do it. Why is that so hard?”

  Grandmother frowned. “It’s easy to discover what is right and wrong, child. I will admit that always choosing to follow what you know you should do is—”

  “No,” Waxillium said. Then he winced. It wasn’t wise to interrupt Grandmother V. She never yelled, but her disapproval could be sensed as surely as an imminent thunderstorm. He continued more softly. “No, Grandmother. Finding out what’s right isn’t easy.”

  “It is written in our ways. It is taught every day in your lessons.”

  “That’s one voice,” Waxillium said, “one philosophy. There are so many.…”

  Grandmother reached across the desk and put her hand on his. Her skin was warm from holding the teacup. “Ah, Asinthew,” she said. “I understand how hard it must be for you. A child of two worlds.”

  Two worlds, he thought immediately, but no home.

  “But you must heed what you are taught,” Grandmother continued. “You promised me you would obey our rules while you were here.”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “I know. I hear good reports from Tellingdwar and your other instructors. They say you learn the material better than anyone—that it’s as if you’ve lived here all your life! I’m proud of your effort.”

  “The other kids don’t accept me. I’ve tried to do as you say—to be more Terris than anyone, to prove my blood to them. But the kids … I’ll never be one of them, Grandmother.”

  “‘Never’ is a word youths often use,” Grandmother said, sipping her tea, “but rarely understand. Let the rules become your guide. In them, you will find peace. If some are resentful because of your zeal, let them be. Eventually, through meditation, they will make peace with such emotions.”

  “Could you … maybe order a few of the others to befriend me?” he found himself asking, ashamed of how weak it sounded to say the words. “Like you did with Forch?”

  “I will see,” Grandmother said. “Now, off with you. I will not report this indiscretion, Asinthew, but please promise me you will set aside this obsession with Forch and leave the punishment of others to the Synod.”

  Waxillium moved to stand up, and his foot slipped on something. He reached down. The bullet.

  “Asinthew?” Grandmother asked.

  He trapped the bullet in his fist as he straightened, then hurried out the door.

  * * *

  “Metal is your life,” Tellingdwar said from the front of the hut, moving into the final parts of the evening recitation.

  Waxillium knelt in meditation, listening to the words. Around him, rows of peaceful Terris were similarly bowed in reverence, offering praise to Preservation, the ancient god of their faith.

  “Metal is your soul,” Tellingdwar said.

  So much was perfect in this quiet world. Why did Waxillium sometimes feel like he was dragging dirt in solely by being here? That they were all part of one big white canvas, and he a smudge at the bottom?

  “You preserve us,” Tellingdwar said, “and so we will be yours.”

  A bullet, Waxillium thought, the bit of metal still clenched in his palm. Why did he leave a bullet as a reminder? What does it mean? It seemed an odd symbol.

  Recitation complete, the youths, children, and adults alike rose and stretched. There was some jovial interaction, but curfew had nearly arrived, which meant that the younger set had to be on their way to their homes—or in Waxillium’s case, the dormitories. He remained kneeling anyway.

  Tellingdwar started gathering up the mats people had used for kneeling. He kept his head shaved; his robes were bright yellows and oranges. Arms laden with mats, he paused as he noticed Waxillium hadn’t left with the others. “Asinthew? Are you well?”

  Waxillium nodded tiredly, climbing to his feet, legs numb from kneeling so long. He plodded toward the exit, where he paused. “Tellingdwar?”

  “Yes, Asinthew?”

  “Has there ever been a violent crime in the Village?”

  The short steward froze, his grip tightening on the load of mats. “What makes you ask?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “You needn’t worry. That was long ago.”

  “What was long ago?”

  Tellingdwar retrieved the remaining mats, moving more quickly than before. Perhaps someone else would have avoided the question, but Tellingdwar was as candid as they came. A classic Terris virtue—in his eyes, avoiding a question would be as bad as lying.

  “I’m not surprised they’re still whispering about it,” Tellingdwar said. “Fifteen years can’t wash away that blood, I suppose. The rumors are wrong, however. Only one person was killed. A woman, by her husband’s hand. Both Terris.” He hesitated. “I knew them.”

  “How did he kill her?”

  “Must you know this?”

  “Well, the rumors…”

  Tellingdwar sighed. “A gun. An outsider weapon. We don’t know where he got it.” Tellingdwar shook his head, dropping the mats into a stack at the side of the room. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Men are the same everywhere, Asinthew. You must remember this. Do not think yourself better than another because you wear the robe.”

  Trust Tellingdwar to turn any conversation into a lesson. Waxillium nodded to him and slipped out into the night. The sky rumbled above, foretelling rain, but there was no mist yet.

  Men are the same everywhere, Asinthew.… What was the purpose, then, of everything they taught in here? If it couldn’t prevent men from acting like monsters?

  He reached the boys’ dorm, which was quiet. It was just after curfew, and Waxillium had to bow his head to the dormmaster in apology before rushing down the hallway and into his room on the ground floor. Waxillium’s father had insisted he be given a room to himself, because of his noble heritage. That had only served to set him apart from the others.

  He shucked off his robe and threw open his wardrobe. His old clothing hung there. Rain began to patter against his window as he threw on some trousers and a buttoning shirt, which he found more comfortable than those rusting robes. He trimmed his lamp and sat back on his cot, opening a book for some evening reading.

  Outside, the sky rumbled like an empty stomach. Waxillium tried to read for a few minutes, then tossed the
book aside—nearly knocking over his lamp—and threw himself to his feet. He walked to the window, watching the water stream down. It fell in patches and columns, because of the thick canopy of leaves. He reached over and extinguished the lamp.

  He stared at the rain, thoughts tumbling in his head. He’d have to make a decision soon. The agreement between his grandmother and his parents required Waxillium to spend one year in the Village, and only a month of that remained. After that, it would be his choice whether to stay or to leave.

  What awaited him outside? White tablecloths, posturing people with nasal accents, and politics.

  What awaited him here? Quiet rooms, meditation, and boredom.

  A life he detested or a life of mind-numbing repetition. Day after day after day … and …

  Was that someone moving through the trees?

  Waxillium perked up, pressing against the cool glass. That was someone trudging through the wet forest, a shadowed figure with a familiar height and posture, stooped and carrying a sack over his shoulder. Forch glanced toward the dormitory, but then continued on into the night.

  So they were back. That was faster than he’d expected. What was Telsin’s plan for getting into the dorms? Slip in through the windows, then claim they’d come home before curfew and the dormmaster just hadn’t seen them?

  Waxillium waited, wondering if he’d spot the three girls as well, but saw nothing. Only Forch, disappearing into the shadows. Where was he going?

  Another fire, Waxillium thought immediately. But Forch wouldn’t do it in this rain, would he?

  Waxillium glanced at the clock ticking quietly on his wall. An hour after curfew. He hadn’t realized he’d spent so much time staring at the rain.

  Forch is not my problem, he told himself firmly. He walked back to lie on his bed, but soon found himself pacing instead. Listening to the rain, anxious, unable to stop his body from moving.

  Curfew …

  Let the rules become your guide. In them find peace.

  He stopped beside the window. Then he pushed it open and leaped out, bare feet sinking into the wet, rubbery ground. He scrambled forward, streams of water spraying across his head, trickling down the back of his shirt. Which way had Forch gone?

  He took his best guess, passing enormous trees like hewn monoliths, the rush of rain and streaming water drowning out all else. A boot print in the mud near a tree trunk hinted he was on the right track, but he had to lean down low to see it. Rusts! It was getting dark out here.

  Where next? Waxillium turned about. There, he thought. Storage hall. An old dormitory, now unoccupied, where the Terris kept extra furniture and rugs. That would be a perfect target for arson, right? Plenty of stuff inside to burn, and nobody would expect it in this rain.

  But Grandmother spoke to him, Waxillium thought, scrambling through the rain, feet cold as he kicked up fallen leaves and moss. They’ll know it was him. Didn’t he care? Was he trying to get into trouble?

  Waxillium stepped up to the old dormitory, a three-story mass of blackness in the already dark night, showers of water streaming off its eaves. Waxillium tested the door, and it was unlocked of course—this was the Village. He slipped inside.

  There. A pool of water on the floor. Someone had entered here recently. He followed in a crouch, touching the footprints one after another, until he reached the stairwell. Up one flight, then another. What was up here? He reached the top floor and saw a light ahead. Waxillium crept through a hallway with a rug down the center, approaching what turned out to be a flickering candle set on a table in a small room cluttered with furniture and with dark, heavy drapes on the walls.

  Waxillium stepped up to the candle. It shivered, frail and alone. Why had Forch left it here? What was—

  Something heavy smashed across Waxillium’s back. He gasped in pain, thrown forward by the blow, stumbling into a pair of chairs stacked atop one another. Boots thumped on the floor behind him. Waxillium managed to throw himself to the side, rolling to the floor as Forch smashed an old wooden post into the chairs, cracking them.

  Waxillium scrambled to his feet, his shoulders throbbing. Forch turned toward him, face all in shadow.

  Waxillium backed away. “Forch! It’s all right. I just want to talk.” He winced as his back hit the wall. “You don’t have to—”

  Forch came at him swinging. Waxillium yelped and ducked into the hallway. “Help!” he shouted as Forch followed him. “Help!”

  Waxillium had meant to scramble toward the stairs, but he’d gotten turned around. Instead he was running away from them. He slammed his shoulder against the door at the end of the hallway. That would lead to the upper meeting room, if the dormitory here had the same layout as his own. And maybe another set of steps?

  Waxillium pushed through the door and into a brighter room. Old tables stacked atop one another surrounded an open space at the center, like an audience and a stage.

  There, in the middle and lit by a dozen candles, a young boy of maybe five lay tied to a wooden plank that stretched between two tables. His shirt had been cut off and lay on the floor. His cries were muffled by a gag, and he struggled weakly against his bonds.

  Waxillium stumbled to a halt, taking in the boy, the line of gleaming knives set out on a table nearby, the trails of blood from cuts on the boy’s chest.

  “Oh, hell,” Waxillium whispered.

  Forch entered behind him, then closed the door with a click.

  “Oh, hell,” Waxillium said, turning, wide-eyed. “Forch, what is wrong with you?”

  “Don’t know,” the young man said softly. “I’ve just got to see what’s inside. You know?”

  “You went with the girls,” Waxillium said, “so you’d have an alibi. If your room is found empty, you’ll say you were with them. A lesser infraction to hide your true crime. Rusts! My sister and the others don’t know that you slipped back, do they? They’re out there drunk, and they won’t even remember that you were gone. They’ll swear you were—”

  Waxillium cut off as Forch looked up, eyes reflecting candlelight, face expressionless. He held up a handful of nails.

  That’s right. Forch is a—

  Waxillium shouted, throwing himself toward a pile of furniture as nails zipped from Forch’s hand, Pushed by his Allomancy. They hit like hail, snapping against wooden tables, chair legs, and the floor. A sudden pain struck Wax in the arm as he scuttled backward.

  He cried out, grabbing his arm as he got behind cover. One of the nails had ripped off a chunk of his flesh near the elbow.

  Metal. He needed metal.

  It had been months since he’d burned steel. Grandmother wanted him to embrace his Terris side. He raised his arms, and found them bare. His bracers …

  In your room, idiot, Waxillium thought. He fished in his trouser pocket. He always used to keep …

  A pouch of metal flakes. He dug it out as he scrambled away from Forch, who threw aside tables and chairs to get to him. In the background, the captive child whimpered.

  Waxillium’s fingers trembled as he tried to get the packet of metal flakes open, but it suddenly leaped from his fingers and shot across the room. He spun on Forch, desperate, just in time to see the man slide a metal bar off a table and toss it.

  Waxillium tried to duck. Too slow. The Steelpushed bar slammed against his chest, throwing him backward. Forch grunted, stumbling. He wasn’t practiced with his Allomancy, and hadn’t properly braced himself. His Push threw him backward as much as it tossed Waxillium.

  Still, Waxillium hit the wall with a grunt, and he felt something crack inside of him. He gasped, his vision blackening as he dropped to his knees. The room wavered.

  The pouch. Get the pouch!

  He searched the floor around him, frantic, barely able to think. He needed that metal! His fingers, bloodied, brushed it. Eager, he snatched the pouch and pulled open the cloth top. He tipped back his head to dump the flakes in.

  A shadow thundered over to him and kicked him in the stomach. The broken bone ins
ide of Waxillium gave, and he screamed, having gotten barely a pinch of metal into his mouth. Forch slapped the pouch out of his hand, scattering the flakes, then picked him up.

  The youth looked bulkier than he should have. Tapping a metalmind. A frenzied part of Waxillium’s brain tried to Push on the man’s bracers, but Feruchemical metalminds were infamously difficult to affect with Allomancy. His Push wasn’t strong enough.

  Forch shoved Waxillium out the open window, dangling him by his neck. Rain washed over Waxillium, and he struggled for breath. “Please … Forch…”

  Forch dropped him.

  Waxillium fell with the rain.

  Three stories down, through the branches of a maple tree, scattering wet leaves.

  Steel burned to life inside of him, spraying blue lines from his chest to nearby sources of metal. All above, none below. Nothing to Push on to save himself.

  Except one bit in his trouser pocket.

  Waxillium Pushed on it, desperate, as he tumbled in the air. It shot through his pocket, down along his leg, cutting a line in the side of his foot before being propelled down into the ground by his weight. Waxillium jerked in the air, slowing as soon as the bit of metal hit the ground.

  He crashed onto the sodden pathway feet-first, pain jolting up his legs. He fell back to the ground, and found himself dazed but alive. His Push had saved him.

  Rain fell on his face. He waited, but Forch didn’t come down to finish him off. The youth had slammed the shutters, perhaps worried someone would see the light of his candles.

  Every part of Waxillium ached. Shoulders from the first blow, legs from the fall, chest from the bar—how many ribs had he broken? He lay there in the rain, coughing, before finally rolling over to find the bit of metal that had saved his life. He found it easily by following its Allomantic line, and dug in the mud, pulling out something and holding it up.

  The constable’s bullet. Rain washed his hand, cleansing the metal. He didn’t even remember stuffing it into his pocket.

  In a case like this, the fire is often just a harbinger.…

  He should go get help. But that boy above was already bleeding. The knives were out.