White Sand

Prologue

The wind caressed the stark dunes with a whispering touch, catching fine grains of sand between its fingers and bearing them forth like thousands of tiny charioteers. The sand, like the dunes it sculpted, was bone white. It had been bleached by the sun’s harsh stare--a stare that never slackened, for here, in the empire of the white sand, the sun never set. It hung motionless, neither rising or falling, ever watching the dunes like a jealous monarch.

Praxton could feel the wind-born grains of sand biting into his cheek. He pulled up the hood of his robe, but it seemed to make little difference. He could still feel the particles attacking the side of his face like furious insects. The sand masters would have to hurry--the winds could whip the Kerla sands from stagnace to a whirling typhoon in a matter of minutes.

A dozen forms stood a short distance away, clothed in brown robes. They had their hoods pulled up against the wind, but it was easy to tell from their small frames that they were children, barely into their second decade of life. The boys stood uncomfortably, shuffling with nervous feet as the winds whipped at their robes. They knew how important this day was. They couldn’t understand as Praxton did; they couldn’t know how many times they would look back on the event, how often the results of the testing would determine the course of their lives. Still, they could sense the significance of what was about to happen.

At the bidding of a white-robed mastrell, the boys reached into their robes and pulled out small cloth bags. Praxton watched the event with a stern face--the face he usually wore--presiding over the ceremony as Lord Mastrell, leader of the sand masters. He watched with emotionless eyes as each boy pulled a handful of white sand from within his bag. They had to hold tightly to keep the increasingly powerful wind from tearing the sand away and scattering it across the Kerla.

Praxton frowned, as if his simple displeasure could force the wind to abate. The testing took place close to the mountain KraeDa--one of the few places in the Kerla where stone jutted free from the sand. Here the wind was usually blocked by both mountain and surrounding cliffs.

He shook his head, taking his mind off the wind as the first boy began the testing. Two mastrells stood before him, instructing him in quiet voices that were lost upon the wind. Praxton saw the results, even if he couldn’t hear the voices--the boy stared at the sand in his hand for a moment, a brief flutter of wind revealing the look of concentration on his face. The sand, cupped protectively in his open palm, began to glow faintly for a moment, then turned a dull black, like the charred remnants of a fire.

“A good start,” one of the senior mastrells, Tendel, mumbled from behind him. Praxton nodded silently--Tendel was correct; it was a good sign. The boy--Praxton thought he recognized him as Traiben, son of a lower sand master--had been able to make the sand glow bright enough to be seen even from a short distance, which meant he had at least moderate power.

The testing continued, some of the boys producing glows similar to Traiben’s, some barely managing to turn the sand black. Over all, however, it was an unusually strong batch. They would bring much strength to the Diem.

There was a sudden flash, one so bright that it produced an explosive crack loud enough to be heard even over the wind. Praxton blinked in surprise, trying to clear the bright after-image from his eyes. The two mastrells performing the test stood stunned before a small child with a shaking hand.

Tendel whistled beside Praxton. “I haven’t seen one so powerful in years,” the old mastrell mumbled. “Who is that?”

“Drile,” Praxton mumbled despite himself. “Son of Reenst Rile.”

“A profitable catch in more than one way, then,” Tendel noted.

The testing mastrells recovered from their surprise and moved on to the next, and final, boy. Despite his age, his determined calmness, and his stern nature, Praxton felt his heart beat a little more quickly as the final child listened to their instructions.

Oh please, felt himself mutter in a half-conscious prayer. He was not a religious man, but this was his final opportunity. He had failed so many times before . . .

The boy looked at his sand. His hood had fallen to the wind, and his face, round and topped pile of short blonde hair, adopted a look of total concentration. Praxton held his breath, waiting, excited in spite of himself.

The boy stared at the sand, his teeth clenched. Praxton felt his excitement dribble away as nothing happened. Finally, the sand gave a very weak glimmer--one so dark Praxton couldn’t be certain he hadn’t just imagined it--then faded to a dun black.

Though he knew he betrayed no look of disappointment, Praxton felt the senior mastrells around him grow stiff with anticipation.

“I’m . . . sorry, Lord Mastrell,” Tendel mumbled beside him.

“It is nothing,” Praxton replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not every boy is meant to be a sand master.”

“But . . . this was your last son,” Tendel pointed out--a rather unnecessary acknowledgement, in Praxton’s estimation.

“Take them away,” Praxton ordered in a loud voice. So, this will be my legacy, he thought to himself. A Lord Mastrell who couldn’t produce a single sand master child. I will remembered as the man who married a woman from darkside, thereby sullying his line.

He sighed, continuing. “Those who have skill may enter the Diem; the rest will chose another Profession.”

The sand masters moved quickly, their feet sinking easily into the swirling, fine-grained dunes beneath. They were eager to seek refuge from the furious elements. One form, however, did not follow the white-robed mastrells. Small and slight of frame, the boy stood in the increasingly violent wind. His robe whipped around him, writhing like a beast in the throes of a gruesome death.

“Kenton,” Praxton mumbled to himself.

“I will be a sand master!” the young boy informed, his voice barely audible over the wind. A short distance away the line of retreating mastrells and boys paused, several heads turning in surprise.

“You have no talent for sand mastery, boy!” Praxton spat, waving for the group to continue moving. They made only a perfunctory show of obeying the order. Few people ever challenged the Lord Mastrell, especially not young boys. Such a sight was worth standing in a sandstorm to watch.

“The Law says I have enough!” Kenton rebutted, his small voice nearly a scream.

Praxton frowned. “You’ve studied the Law, have you boy?”

“I have.”

“Then you know that I am the only one who can grant advancement in the Diem,” Praxton informed, growing more and more furious at the challenge to his authority. It looked bad to be confronted by a child, especially his own son. “The Lord Mastrell must give his approval before any sand master can increase in rank.”

“Every rank but the first!” Kenton shouted back.

Praxton paused, feeling his rage build. Everything beat against him--the insufferable wind, the boy’s insolence, the other sand masters’ eyes . . . . The worst of it was his own knowledge. Knowledge that the boy was right. Anyone who could make the sand glow was technically allowed to join the Diem. Boys with less power than Kenton had become sand masters. Of course, none of them had been children of the Lord Mastrell. If Kenton joined the Diem, his inability would weaken Praxton’s authority by association.

The boy continued to stand, his posture determined. The wind-blown sand was piling around his legs, burying him up to the knees in a shifting barrow.

“You will not find it easy in the Diem, boy,” Praxton hissed. “By sands, see reason!”

Kenton did not move.

Praxton sighed. “Fine!” he declared. “You may join.”

Kenton smiled in victory, pulling his legs free from the dune and scrambling over to join the line of students. Praxton watched motionlessly as the boy moved.

The buffeting wind tore at his robes, sand scraping its way into his eyes and between his lips. Such discomfort would be little compared to the pain Kenton would soon know--the Diem was a place of unforgiving politics, and sheer power was often the means by which a sand master was judged. No, life would not be easy for one so weak, especially since his father was so powerful. No matter what Praxton did, the other students would resent Kenton for supposed codlings or favoritism.

Oblivious to the trials ahead of him, the young boy made his way to the caves a short distance away. It appeared as if Praxton’s final child would also prove to be his largest embarrassment.

White Sand

Chapter One

It almost seemed to Kenton as if the sands were breathing. Heat from the immobile sun reflected off the grains, distorting the air--making the dunes seem like they were composed of tiny coals, white-hot with energy. In the distance, Kenton could hear wind moaning through crevices in the rock. There was only one place in the enormous dune-covered expanse of the Kerla that such rock protrusions could be found: here, beside Mount KraeDa, in the place sacred to the sand masters. Everywhere else the sands were far too deep.

Kenton, now a man, once again stood before a group of mastrells. In many ways he was very similar to the boy who had stood in this exact place eight years before. He had the same close-cropped blondish hair, the same roundish face and determined expression, and--most importantly--the same look of rebellious conviction in his eyes. He now wore the white robes of a sand master, but, unlike most others of his kind, he wore no colored sash. His sash was plain white--the sign of a student who hadn’t yet been assigned a rank in the Diem. Tied at his waist was another oddity--a sword. He was the only person in the group of sand masters who was armed.

“Don’t tell me you intend to go through with this foolishness?” the man in front of Kenton demanded. Praxton, looking older than the sand itself, stood at the head of the Diem’s twenty gold-sashed mastrells. Though he had seen barely sixty years, Praxton’s skin was dry, wrinkled like a fruit that had been left out in the sun. Like most sand masters, he wore no beard.

Kenton looked back defiantly, something he had grown very good at doing over the last eight years. Praxton regarded his son with a mixture of disgust and embarrassment. Then, with a sigh, the old man did something unexpected. He moved away from the rest of the mastrells, who stood silently on the rock plateau. Kenton watched with confusion as Praxton waved him over, standing far enough away from the others that the two could have a private conversation. For once, Kenton did as commanded, moving over to hear what the Lord Mastrell had to say.

Praxton looked back at the mastrells, then turned back to Kenton. His eyes only briefly shot down at the sword tied at Kenton’s waist before coming up to stare him in the eyes.

“Look, boy,” Praxton said, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “I have suffered your insolence and games for eight years. The Sand Lord only knows how much trouble you’ve caused. Why must you constantly defy me?”

Kenton shrugged. “Because I’m good at it?”

Praxton scowled.

“Lord Mastrell,” Kenton continued, more serious but no less defiant. “Once a sand master has accepted a rank, he’s forever frozen in that place.”

“So?” Praxton demanded.

Kenton didn’t answer. He had refused advancement four times now, a move that had made him into a fool and a novelty before the rest of the Diem. Inept students were sometimes forced to spend five years as an acolent, but never in the history of sand mastery had anyone remained a student for eight.

Praxton sighed again, reaching down to take a sip of water from his qido. “All right, boy,” Praxton finally said. “Despite the pain--despite the shame--I will admit that you’ve worked hard. The Sand Lord knows you haven’t any talent to speak of, but at least you did something with the small amount you have. Give up this stupid decision to run the Path, and tomorrow I’ll offer you the rank of fen.”

Fen. It was the next to lowest of the nine sand master ranks; only underfen--the rank Kenton had been offered the four previous years--was beneath it.

“No,” Kenton informed. “I think I want to be a mastrell.”

“Aisha!” Praxton cursed.

“Don’t swear now, father,” Kenton suggested. “Wait until I run the Path successfully. Then what will you do?”

Kenton’s defiant words were more optimistic than his heart, however. Even as his father raged, Kenton felt the questions resurfacing.

What on the sands am I doing? Eight years ago no one thought I could even be a sand master, and now I’ve been offered a respectable rank in the Diem. It isn’t what I wanted, but . . . .

“Boy, you’re inept enough to make the Hundred Idiots look brilliant. Running the Mastrell’s Path won’t prove anything. It’s meant for mastrells--not for simple acolents.”

“The Law doesn’t say a student cannot run it,” Kenton said, thoughts of his inadequacy still strong in his mind.

“I won’t make you a mastrell,” Praxton warned. “Even if you find all five spheres, I won’t do it. The Path is not a test or a proof. Mastrells run it if they want to, but only after they’ve been advanced. Your success will mean nothing. You’ll never be a mastrell--you aren’t even worthy to be a sand master!”

Praxton’s words burned away Kenton’s doubts like water in the sun. If there was one person who could fuel Kenton’s sense of defiance, it was Praxton.

“Then I’ll be an acolent until the day I die, Lord Mastrell,” Kenton replied, folding his arms.

“You can’t be a mastrell,” Praxton reiterated. “You don’t have the power.”

“I don’t believe in power, father. I believe in ability. I can do anything a mastrell can; I just have different methods.” It was an old argument, one he had been making for the last eight years.

“Can you slatrify?”

Kenton paused. No, that was one thing he couldn’t do. Slatrification, the ability to change sand into water, was the ultimate art of sand mastery. It was wildly different from sand mastery’s other abilities, and none of Kenton’s creativity or ingenuity could replicate it.

“There have been mastrells who couldn’t slatrify,” Kenton replied weakly.

“Only two,” Praxton replied. “And both were able to control over two dozen ribbons of sand at once. How many can you control, boy?”

Kenton ground his teeth. It was a direct question, however, and he couldn’t refuse to respond. “One,” he finally admitted.

“One,” Praxton repeated. “One ribbon. I’ve never known a mastrell who couldn’t control at least fifteen. You’re telling me you can do as much with one as they can with fifteen? Why can’t you see how preposterous that is?”

Kenton smiled slightly. Thank you for the encouragement, father. “Well, I’ll just have prove it to you then, Lord Mastrell,” he said with a mocking bow, turning away from his father.

“The Path was meant for mastrells, boy,” Praxton’s cracking voice repeated behind him. “Most of them don’t even use it--it’s too dangerous.”

Kenton ignored the old man, instead approaching another sand master who was standing a short distance away. His short frame cast no shadow, for the sun was directly overhead here, in the jagged rocklands south of Mount KraeDa. The sand master was bald and had a slightly fat, oval face. Around his waist was tied the yellow sash of an undermastrell, the rank directly below mastrell. The man smiled as Kenton approached.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Kenton?”

Kenton nodded. “Yes, Elorin, I do.”

“Your father’s objections are well-founded,” Elorin cautioned. “The Mastrell’s Path was created by a group of men with inflated egos who wanted very desperately to prove themselves better than their peers. It was designed for those with massive power. Mastrells have died running it before.”

“I understand,” Kenton said, but inwardly he was curious. No one who had run the Path was allowed to reveal its secrets, and for all his studying, Kenton hadn’t been able to determine what could be so dangerous about a simple race through the Kerla. Was it the lack of water? Steep cliffs? Neither should have provided much of a challenge to well-trained sand masters.

Elorin continued. “All right then. The Lord Mastrell has asked me to mediate your run. A group of us will watch as you move through the Path, evaluating your progress and making certain you don’t cheat. We cannot help you unless you ask, and if we do the intervention will end your run where it stands.”

The shorter man reached into his white sand master’s robes, pulling out a small red sphere. “There are five of these hidden on the Path,” he explained. “Your goal is to find all five. You may start when I say so. You have until the moon passes behind the mountain and reappears on the other side. The test is over the moment you either run out of time or you find the fifth sphere.”

Kenton looked up. The moon circled the sky once per day, hovering just above the horizon the entire time. Soon it would pass behind Mount KraeDa. He would probably have about an hour, a hundred minutes, to run the path.

“So don’t have to make it back to the starting point?” Kenton clarified.

Elorin shook his head. “The moment the moon reappears, your run is over. We will count the spheres you have found, and that is your score.”

Kenton nodded.

“You may not take your qido with you,” Elorin informed, reaching out a hand to take Kenton’s water bottle from his side.

“The sword too,” Praxton called from behind, his lips curled downward in their characteristic look of disapproval.

“That is not in the rules, old man,” Kenton objected, his hand falling to the hilt.

“A true sand master has no need of such a clumsy weapon,” Praxton argued.

“It’s not in the rules,” Kenton repeated.

“He is right, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin agreed. He was frowning too--as kind as the undermastrell was, even he didn’t agree with Kenton’s insistence on carrying a sword. In the eyes of most sand masters, weapons were crass things, meant for lowly Professions such as soldiers.

Praxton rolled his eyes in a look of frustration, but made no further objections. A few minutes later the last bit of the moon’s sphere disappeared behind the mountain.

“May the Sand Lord protect you, young Kenton,” Elorin offered.

#

The path started simply enough, and Kenton quickly found the first two spheres. The red sandstone globes had been so easy to locate, in fact, that he began to worry that he had missed something. Unfortunately, Kenton knew that he didn’t have time to go back and recheck his steps. Either he found them all on the first try, or he failed.

That determination drove Kenton forward as he ran across the top of a rock ledge. Around him the strange formations of stone jutted from the sand floor, some rising hundreds of feet into the air, others barely breaking the surface. The scenery was familiar to him--the sand masters came to this place every year to choose new members and award merits to old ones. It was almost a sacred place, though sand masters tended to be irreligious. None of the Kerla’s Kershtian inhabitants came to this place--its sand was far too shallow to sustain a town. In fact, few even knew of its existence. It was a place of the sand masters.

And, for four years, it had been a place of embarrassment--to Kenton at least. Four years of standing before the entire population of the Diem, presenting himself for an advancement that would not be granted. He knew that most of the others considered him a fool--an arrogant fool. At times, he wondered if they might be right. Why did he keep pushing for a rank he did not deserve? Why not be satisfied with what Praxton was willing to give him?

Life in the Diem had not been easy for Kenton. Sand master society was ancient and stratified--new students were immediately given positions of leadership and favor based on their power. Those with lesser ability were made the virtual servants and attendants of those more talented--and such was a situation that continued up through the entire sand master hierarchy.

To them, power was everything. Kenton had watched the other acolents in his group, and seen how easily sand mastery came to them. They didn’t have to stretch themselves, didn’t have to learn how to control their sand. Their answer to any problem was to throw a dozen ribbons at it and hope it went away. Today, Kenton intended to prove that there was a better way.

Kenton paused, stopping abruptly. He had run out of ground--directly in front of him the sand-covered earth ended in a steep chasm. It rose again perhaps fifty feet away. He could barely make out a flag flapping on the other side of the gorge--a marker to indicate the direction he was to take.

And so the real test begins, Kenton thought, reaching down to grab a handful of sand from the ground. Another sand master, one more powerful, could have leapt the chasm, propelling himself through the air on a stream of sand. Kenton didn’t have that option.

So, instead, he jumped off the cliff.

He plummeted toward the ground, his white robes flapping in the sudden wind. He didn’t look down, instead concentrating on the sand clutched in his fist.

The sand burst to life.

With an explosion of light, the sand changed from bone white to shimmering mother-of-pearl. Kenton opened his hand as he fell, commanding the sand to move. It shot forward, forming into a ribbon of light that extended from his palm toward the quickly-approaching dunes below.

When the sand had reached the ground, he commanded it to gather mass from the dunes below and move back up. A second later there was a shimmering line of mastered sand extending from Kenton to the ground. He was still falling, but as he commanded the sand to push, his descent slowed. The sand worked like a shimmering coil, slowing him more and more as he approached the ground. He came to a stop just a foot above the surface of the dunes, then stepped off the ribbon and dropped to the ground. As he did so, he released the ribbon from his control, and the shimmering sand immediately darkened and fell dead. No longer white, it was now a dull black, its energy spent.

Kenton jogged along the bottom of the ravine, forcing himself not to slow despite the fatigue of sand mastery. He was beginning to regret his insistence on bringing his sword--the weapon seemed to grow more and more heavy as he ran, dragging at his side.

Going along the bottom of the chasm instead of jumping was costing him precious time. He had already wasted about sixty minutes of his hour. He licked his lips, which were growing dry. Sand mastery didn’t just take strength, it required water, sucking the precious liquid from the body of the sand master. A sand master had to be careful not to master to the point that his body took permanent damage from dehydration.

Kenton reached the second cliff and looked up, gathering his strength. In the distance he could see a group of white-robed forms. The mastrells, evaluating his progress. Even at a distance, Kenton could sense the finality in their postures. They assumed he was stuck--it was well known that Kenton could barely lift himself a few feet with his sand. Of course, that much in itself was amazing--no other sand master could do so much with only a single ribbon. Amazing or not, however, it wasn’t enough to get him to the top of the cliff, which was at least a hundred feet tall.

The mastrells were turning their heads, discussing amongst themselves in voices far too distant to hear. Ignoring them, Kenton reached down and grabbed another handful of sand. He called it to life, feeling it begging to squirm and shimmer in his hand. The sand shone brightly--more brightly, even, than that of a mastrell. Kenton could only control one ribbon, but it was by far the most powerful ribbon any sand master had ever created.

This had better work . . . Kenton thought to himself.

He let the sand slip forward, dropping to the ground like a stream of water. There, he gathered more sand, calling to life as much as he could handle--enough to make a thin string perhaps twenty-feet long. This time, however, he didn’t form the sand into the ribbon. Instead he created a step.

He couldn’t lift himself very far, true. The higher a sand master lifted himself in the air, the more sand was required, and Kenton could only control a relatively small amount. He could, however, hold himself in place.

Taking a breath, he stepped onto his small platform of sand, pressing his body against the rough stone cliff face. Then, holding on as best he could and not looking down, he began to inch sideways, dropping sand off one edge of the platform and replacing it on the other. He concentrated on making his sand cling to the cliff wall, slipping in cracks and holding to its imperfections, rather than pushing it against the ground. Slowly, Kenton moved to the side, sloping his platform of sand just enough that he moved in a diagonal direction up the wall.

He must have looked incredibly silly. Sand masters were supposed to flow and dance, soaring through the air in clouds of radiant sand, not creep up the side of a wall like a sleepy sandling. Still, the process worked, and barely a few minutes later he was nearing the top of the chasm. It was then that he noticed something--a small ledge about ten feet down the side of the cliff. Perched on the ledge was a small red sphere.

Kenton smiled in triumph, maladroitly climbing onto the top of the ledge. He then shook his rectangle of sand into a ribbon and sent it to collect the sphere. Guided by his commands, the rope of sand wrapped around the sphere and brought it back to its master. There were only two spheres left to find. Unfortunately, he had just over thirty minutes to do so.

The group of mastrells watched him with dumbfounded frowns as he jogged past the marking flag and located the next one in the distance. The rocks were growing more and more frequent now, forming caverns and walls of stone. Kenton moved along on the sandy ground, his eyes searching for any hints of red. The next sphere couldn’t be far away--if he guessed right, the path wound in a circle, and he was nearing the place where he had started. For a moment, his horror returned--had he missed two entire spheres?

A short distance away several lines of glimmering sand marked his silent followers. True to mastrell form, each of them was making a huge display of power, gathering as many ribbons of sand around them as they could manage. While it wasn’t actually possible to fly with sand mastery, powerful mastrells could launch themselves in extended leaps that could span hundreds of feet. Each jumping mastrell left a trail of sand behind him--sand pushing against the ground to form a means of propulsion.

The mastrells stopped atop a pillar of rock a short distance away. Kenton slowed his jog to a walk, watching them with careful eyes. The place they landed looked too predetermined to be random--the sphere had to be somewhere close. Kenton searched around him, his eyes seeking out shadows and places that could hide one of the diminutive spheres. Unfortunately, there was no shortage of options.

A short distance away a large wall-like section of rock extended from the sand. It was filled with fist-sized holes, each one extending back into darkness. With a sinking feeling, Kenton realized that this was his next test.

Any one of them could hold a sphere! He thought with an internal moan. If he had been able to control two dozen ribbons, searching through the holes would have taken no time at all. However, using his single ribbon to do the same would probably take longer than he had left.

Yet, it appeared as if that were his only choice. Sighing, Kenton brought a handful of sand to life. Perhaps he would get lucky and choose the right hole. He paused, however, as he prepared to send the ribbon forth. There had to be a better way.

His eyes skimmed the rock wall. Ironically, one thing he had learned from his lack of ability was that sometimes sand mastery wasn’t the answer. His eyes almost passed over the solution before his brain registered it. A small pile of black sand. There were only two things that could change sand from white to black--water or sand mastery.

Kenton smiled, approaching the discolored sand. It wasn’t pure black, more of a dull gray. It had probably been recharging in the sunlight for a couple of hours now--a few more and it would be completely indistinguishable from the white sand around it. Kenton raised his eyes from the sand, looking at the wall directly above it. Just over his head he noticed a trail of black grains sitting on the lip of one of the holes.

Kenton reached into the hole, retrieving the red sandstone sphere that was hidden in its depths. Though there was a smile on his lips when he turned to look back at the mastrells, inwardly Kenton was worried. If the sand master who had hidden the spheres hadn’t been careless--if he had used his hands instead of sand mastery--Kenton would never have found the sphere.

Still, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction as the mastrells jumped away, twisting ribbons of sand carrying them into the air. Now there was only one sphere left. If Kenton found it, he would have succeeded in a task that baffled many mastrells.

As he moved to begin running again, Kenton noticed one of the mastrells had stayed behind. Even though the column of rock was far away, somehow Kenton knew that the stooped-over form belonged to his father. The wind wailed through rock hollows around Kenton as he stared up at Praxton’s face.

The Lord Mastrell was not pleased. Kenton stared at him for a long moment, trying to project his defiance. Eventually, Praxton raised his hands, summoning a dozen strings of sand from the floor below. They twisted around him like living creatures, their bright translucent glow shifting from color to color in the way of mastered sand. When Praxton jumped, the ribbons threw him into the air, and Kenton was left alone beside the rock wall.

One more. Kenton took a deep breath and started to move again. He was running out of time--not only would the moon soon reappear, but he was beginning feel the affects of his sand mastery. His mouth was parched, refusing to salivate, and his eyes were beginning to burn. His brow, which had been slick with sweat during the beginning of the run, was now crusted with salty residue. The price a sand master had to pay, the fuel that his art burned, was the water from his own body.

The dry mouth and eyes were the first signs that he was getting close to doing permanent damage to himself. The first thing a sand master learned was to keep track of his water, to pace himself so he didn’t overmaster. Students who even approached the point of overmastery were severely punished.

If only I could slatrify, he thought, not for the first time. There was a reason the ability to change sand into water was the most valuable of sand mastery’s skills.

Casting such thoughts aside, Kenton continued to jog. The rock walls were rising high around him again. Even as he began to think the area looked familiar, he rounded a corner and stopped. Up ahead he could just barely make out the rock plateau where he had begun the Path. The mastrells stood atop it, waiting for him to approach.

Kenton paused with a groan, leaning against the smooth rock wall. His breath was beginning to come more and more difficulty; both running and sand mastery sapped strength, and his dry throat made each breath painful. The mastrells held his qido and its water--he anticipated that first drink with such ferocity that he almost didn’t care that he had failed.

And he had failed. Somewhere, back on the path, he had missed one of the spheres. He had done well--four out of five was a respectable number. Some of the mastrells he knew had only found three. Unfortunately, Kenton couldn’t afford anything less than perfection. Praxton wouldn’t see the four spheres his son had found, but the one he had missed.

Kenton rested the back of his head against the rock for a moment. He briefly considered turning back to try and find the sphere, but he probably only had ten minutes left. That was barely enough time to make it back to the rock wall where he had found the last sphere. He opened his eyes and stood upright. He knew he had done better than anyone could have assumed.

Kenton kicked away the wind-blown sand that had gathered at his feet, striding out into the middle of the basin. Realistically, he knew that even a successful run of the Path wouldn’t have changed Praxton’s mind. The Lord Mastrell was as harsh as the sands themselves; few things impressed him.

Kenton picked up a handful of sand--he would have to use his step method to climb up the back of the rock basin and join the mastrells. He only paused for a moment to regard the strange rock formation around him. The sides were smooth and steep, almost forming a pit with a sand-filled bottom, perhaps fifty feet across. How many years had it taken the Kerla’s dry winds to carve such an odd bowl-like formation?

Kenton froze, his abrupt stop kicking up a small spray of sand. As his eyes had scanned the basin, they fell on something so dumbfounding it almost caused him to trip in surprise. There, sitting in the middle of the circular flooring of sand, was a speck of red. It sat like a drop of blood, stark against the white background. Ripples in the sand had caused him to miss it earlier, but now there was no mistaking the red sphere.

Kenton looked up at the mastrells with confusion. They stood along the rim of the basin, their white robes fluttering, as if in unison, before the wind.

Something’s wrong. There had to be more--some test. This was the last sphere. It should have been the most difficult to find.

Only a moment later he felt the sand begin to shift beneath his feet.

“Aisha!” Kenton yelped in surprise, jumping backward. It couldn’t be . . . .

The sand near the sphere began to churn like boiling water. There was something beneath it--something that was rising.

Deep sand! Kenton thought with shock. The sand-filled pit must go down further than he had assumed.

A black form burst from the sand, burying the sphere in a wave of sand. Kenton gasped in amazement as he regarded the creature that slid from the ground. Sand streamed like water off the twenty-foot tall monstrosity’s carapace as it rose into the air. Its body was formed of bulbous, chitenous segments stacked on top of one another. A pair of arms sprouted from each ‘waist’ where segments met, arms that were tipped with thick, jagged claws. Its head--if that was the right term--was little more than a box with deep black spots instead of eyes, with no visible mouth. The worst thing was, Kenton knew that the bulk of the creature’s body was probably still hidden beneath the sands.

He was so busy staring that he was almost crushed as the creature swiped a claw in his direction. Kenton yelped, dodging to the side, dashing toward the wall of the basin. The sandling’s body was huge--perhaps ten feet wide. Kenton was going to have a difficult time staying out of its way.

His body, invigorated by adrenaline and excitement, no longer responded sluggishly. His heart began to race, but his mind worked even faster. Kenton had read of deep sandlings, and even seen drawings of them, but he had never visited deep sand in person. Few people--even Kershtians--were foolish enough to wander onto deep sand. Mentally, he ran through the catalogue of deep sandlings he had studied, but this one didn’t seem to fit any of the descriptions. Kenton dodged again as the sandling reached for him. The creature seemed to glide through the sand as if it were water--Kenton could barely see the thousands of tiny hair-like tentacles that lined the beast’s carapace, the means by which it moved.

All observation was abandoned as the creature’s claw slammed down in front of him. Kenton dropped to the sand, barely rolling out of the way as a second claw swiped through the air above him. The creature was incredibly fast--there was a reason deep sand was regarded with terror. The creatures that lurked within its depths were said to be nearly indestructible.

Kenton rolled to his feet, thankful for the hours he had spent sparring with soldiers from the Tower. His movements were quick and dexterous as he whipped his sword free with his left hand and grabbed a handful of sand in the other.

“We cannot intercede unless you ask!” a voice came from above. Kenton didn’t spare a look upwards, instead focusing on his foe. The creature had eyespots on each side of its head--it would not be easy to surprise. Of course, sandlings were said to have poorly developed sight. Their true sense was the sand itself. It was more than an ability to feel movement, for some reason sandlings could sense the location of even a completely still body. The Kershtians said deep sandlings could actually speak with the sand, though few from Lossand gave credence to their mysticisms.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the voice repeated as Kenton dodged again. “Ask us to bring you out!” It belonged to Elorin. Kenton ignored him, calling his sand to life as he spun away from a claw. He raised his sword, deflecting a second attack. The creature’s strength was such that his parry barely seemed to do much good, but it did allow him to dodge the attack just long enough to strike.

Even as he turned, Kenton raised his fist, commanding his sand forward. The sand tore out of his palm, streaking toward the sandling’s head. It extended like a spear from Kenton’s hand, leaving a glowing trail behind. The sand moved so quickly it seemed to scream in the air--Kenton might not be able to control dozens of lines at once, but when it came to a single ribbon, he was unmatched. No sand master could move sand with half as much speed or precision.

The sand snapped against the creatures shell of a head and immediately lost its luster, spraying to the sides like a stream of water hitting a stone wall. Kenton stood in confusion, so stunned that the creature’s next attack took him in the side, throwing him back against the stone wall and ripping a deep gash in his shoulder. Kenton’s sword dropped to the sand, slipping from stunned fingers.

The sandling was terken. It was impervious to sand mastery.

Kenton cursed again, feeling blood begin to flow from his shoulder. He had, of course, read of terken creatures, but they were supposed to be extremely rare. Only the most ancient and feared of deep sandlings--creatures said to be protected by the Sand Lord himself--had terken shells. How had one come to live here, in the middle of shallow sands and rock formations?

Regardless, it was obvious what he was supposed to do. All sandlings, whether from the deep sands or not, had one powerful weakness: water. The liquid could dissolve their carapaces, melting away their shell and skin, leaving behind nothing but sludge.

It made sense. The final challenge in the Mastrell’s Path would test the most powerful of sand mastery’s skills--the ability to change sand into water. With Slatrification, a sand master could melt away the sandling’s shell with barely a thought. Unfortunately, Kenton couldn’t slatrify. Suddenly Elorin’s suggestion that he escape made a great deal of sense.

Kenton cast his speculations aside, concentrating on staying alive. He was moving more and more slowly; he could feel himself weakening. Trying to ignore the pain of his shoulder, he stooped as he ran, grabbing another handful of sand. As the next attack came he used the mastered sand to give himself a boost, jumping high into the air and tumbling over the claws.

Kenton dropped heavily to the sand, then scrambled in the direction of the sandling’s original position. Somewhere in that sand was the sphere. He didn’t really need to kill the sandling; he just needed to find the sphere and get away.

He released his sand, dropping it to the ground black and stale. Instead, he placed his hand on the ground near where he had last seen the sphere. He called ribbon after ribbon to life, commanding them to jump away and then releasing them. Sand flew from the ground where he knelt; he commanded and released ribbons in such quick succession that it almost seemed like he could control more than one at a time.

Unfortunately, the sandling did not leave him to his digging. Kenton’s jump had confused it, but it quickly reoriented itself. It came at him, the only sound of its movement that of sand rubbing against sand. Kenton continued to dig until the last moment, then dashed away, running desperately. He could feel the dryness on his skin, and each time he blinked his lids seemed to stick to his eyes. His lungs were beginning to burn, and his breaths came painfully. He was approaching the last of his water reserves--he would probably even be chastised for going this far. For the good of the Diem, one mustn’t even come close to overmastery, the familiar teaching claimed. It was time to give up.

Just as he made the determination to escape, however, he saw it. Resting beside the far wall of the basin was a speck of red, brighter than the dark drops of his own blood which ran behind him. Crying out, Kenton switched directions, ducking beneath the sandling’s arms and dashing so close to its body that he could smell the sulfurous pungence of its carapace.

And, as he ran by the creature, feeling the sand slither beneath his feet from the sandling’s motion, he noticed an incredulous sight. There, trapped between two bowl-like chinks in the sandling’s carapace, was another red sphere.

Kenton continued his dash, his mind confused. He stopped beside the wall, digging in the sand until his fingers found something round and hard. He pulled the sphere free, looking at it with a frown, then turned his eyes back on the sandling. From this angle he could see it distinctly--a red sphere, just like the five he had already found. There weren’t five spheres on the Path, but six.

Kenton dropped the sphere into the pouch at his side, then turned eyes up to the edge of the cliff. Directly above he could see the faces of twenty mastrells looking down at him. He could escape now; his time was probably all but up anyway. He had won--he had found all five spheres. What was he waiting for?

For some reason he turned eyes back at the sandling. Its shell and skin were terken, but its insides . . .

Kenton knew his father wouldn’t be satisfied with perfection--he never was. Praxton would demand more. Well, Kenton would give him more.

The mastrells cried out in surprise as Kenton dashed away from the wall, his face resolute.

“Idiot boy!” Praxton’s voice sounded behind him.

Kenton brought sand to life, whipping it past the creature and using it to snatch his discarded sword from the sand floor. The blade flashed through the air, carried on fingers of sand. Kenton caught it as he ducked beneath the sandling’s first attack, grabbing a second handful of sand as he came up barely inches from the creature’s chest.

With a cry of determination, Kenton slammed his sword into the creature’s side. The blade slipped off a segment of carapace and crunched through a less-protected line of skin, digging deeply into the soft area between plates. Kenton jammed the weapon in with all the strength he had left.

Suddenly, his sword jerked, then ripped free from his hands, blasted backward by a powerful force. A loud hissing sound exploded from the cut. He had pierced the skin. Kenton caught a face-full of acrid gas--what sandlings had instead of blood--just before one of the monster’s legs caught him full in the chest, flinging him into the air.

Even as he soared away from the creature, Kenton called the sand in his fist to life. He commanded it forward, driving it with all of his skill. Kenton slammed against the rock wall at the same time that his sand hit the creature’s chest, yet he did not release control of his ribbon. He felt his body slump to the ground, but ignored the pain, commanding his sand to find the cut, to wiggle past the terken carapace into the creature’s cavernous insides. He had to fight against air pressure and his own approaching unconsciousness, but he refused to release the sand.

He felt it break through, the resistance of the air pressure suddenly vanishing. With a final surge of effort, Kenton ordered the ribbon around wildly, slicing it through organs inside the monster’s chest. The sandling began to shake and spasm as Kenton commanded the sand to move vaguely upwards. A second later Kenton found the head, and the sandling grew rigid in a sudden motion, throwing sand in all directions. Then, as silent in death as it had been in life, the creature slumped to the side, its corpse sinking slightly in the sand before coming to a rest.

Kenton didn’t know where he found the strength to stumble to his feet and cross the sand. He only vaguely remembered retrieving his sword and using it to pry the sixth sphere free from the creature’s carapace.

One image remained stark in his mind, however--that of looking up at the ridge and seeing his father’s hard, angry face. Just behind the Lord Mastrell, the enormous Mountain KraeDa towered in the distance. As Kenton watched, the silvery edge of the moon began to peek out from behind the mountain.

White Sand

Chapter Two

Khriss woke slowly--a method which was, in her estimation, by far the best way. She yawned in the darkness, stretching lethargically, her mind still clouded with images of dreams that were only just beyond memory. She stumbled off of the bunk, only half-aware of the ship’s rocking motions beneath her, and threw open the shutters to her cabin.

The world exploded with light.

Khriss gasped, stumbling back against her bunk. Light surrounded her, drilling through her eyes directly into her brain. She threw an arm in front of her face in an attempt to ward off the burning whiteness. Head turned to the side, eyes watering in agony, she blindly searched around inside the small chest beside her bunk. Finally, she located the thick, darkened spectacles and placed them on her face.

The burning didn’t stop, of course. The afterimage of what she’d seen remained like a sparkling sheet in front of her, and her mind continued to throb. As she lay on the bunk, however, her teeth clinched against the pain, her vision slowly returned and the torment lessened. Eventually, she risked opening her eyes again, though she didn’t dare look out the window.

The cabin, her home for the past two months, appeared before her. Even with the darkened spectacles, the light was much brighter than she was accustomed to. They must have finally passed through the Border Ocean’s mists and crossed over to Dayside.

Shella! She wondered in amazement. I had no idea it would be so powerful!

A knock came at her door.

“You may enter,” she mumbled.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure pushed the door open, his deep brown skin darkened even further by the effects of her spectacles. He wore a simple form-fitting shirt and a pair of canvas trousers.

“You look horrible,” he commented in a flat voice.

Khriss gritted her teeth, standing up. Trust Baon to be painfully honest. “We’ve left the fog behind, I presume.”

Baon nodded. He was also wearing a pair of the darkened spectacles. “Several hours ago. You should make an appearance on the deck--we’ve sighted land, and the men are anxious.”

“All right,” Khriss said, interest rising in her voice. “Let me put something on first.”

Baon nodded, backing from the room and pulling the door closed. As soon as he left, Khriss let her excitement show, hurriedly pulling off her nightgown and throwing on the first clothing she found--a colorful blue pair of thick trousers and a knit sweater. Though it felt odd, she didn’t put on a jacket. It was supposed to be warmer here on Dayside.

She checked her face in the cabin’s small mirror--Baon was right, she did look horrible. Her long, black hair was tangled from sleep, and it was obvious even through the spectacles that her eyes had been watering from the pain.

She hurriedly pulled a brush through her hair, trying to make herself look at least presentable. People had certain expectations of a duchess, even one who had just awoken. Finally arriving at a compromise between excitement and grooming, she turned from the mirror and, composing herself, pulled open the door and walked out into the light.

The first thing she noticed was the burning sphere of brilliance in the sky. She found herself staring at it before her pained eyes forced her to look away. She blinked, tears forming in her eyes, but she could still feel it above her, blazing like an enormous eye. She immediately began to sweat--despite her relatively thin clothing. She had read stories of the sun, and even believed some of them, but it was different to personally experience its power.

She could actually feel it burning. Even across the incredible distance, she could feel its heat on her skin like a hearthfire. So this what a star looks like up close, she thought. Such was the current theory back in Elis. It’s a wonder that anything can survive in its constant heat.

The deck was busy with men. The sailors, excited to arrive after two months of sailing, were enthusiastically climbing riggings and doing other sailorly things Khriss didn’t understand. The ship had been half-drifting for a month, letting the powerful Border Ocean current pull it from Darkside to Dayside. The ship had been spun through spinning maelstroms of wind, and only the clever sailing--and even more clever ship design--had allowed them to survive.

The only group of men who weren’t moving stood at the front of the ship, watching land approach. Three men, dressed in nondescript trousers and coats, stood beside Baon. Their skin, like Khriss’s, was dark after the fashion of Elis, but none of them approached Baon’s deep blackness. None could approach his height either, the nearest standing a full six inches shorter than the massive foreigner.

Khriss crossed the deck carefully, trying to stay out of the sailors’s way. As she reached the others, the three soldiers put one foot forward and bowed. One man, Flennid, stood at their lead. Typical of the Elisian military, all were of noble blood, but they were also all at least third sons.

Baon didn’t bow. The mercenary simply continued to stare at the dark line in the distance--a line that was quickly resolving into a series of cliffs.

“I half thought we would fall off the side of the world, like the stories claim,” the tall man mentioned as she joined him, leaning against the ship’s gunnel. Baon’s accent betrayed his nationality as much as his skin color--he was from Iiaria, a Kingdom on the northern end of Darkside, seat of the Dynasty itself. She’d never found a way to tactfully ask him how he had come to be a member of the Elisian military--especially since crossing Dynastic borders was expressly forbidden by law.

Khriss snorted at his reference to falling off the edge of the world. “At worst our ship would have gotten caught in the wrong border currents and carried us right back to Darkside.”

“I know,” Baon said quietly, his eyes unreadable beneath the dark spectacles.

The other thee nobleman soldiers were talking quietly amongst themselves, and Khriss could see the excitement in their eyes. They were young--Flennid, the oldest, had probably seen twenty-two years. Young men were the only kind who volunteered for a mission like this one. They had a spirit of adventure, and were eager to be among the first Darksiders to set foot on Dayside in five hundred years. There was little frontier left on Darkside--even the glacial wastes at the center of the continent were crossed with some frequency.

Dayside, however, was something new. The only records they had of Dayside were of dubious validity, and most scholars--Khriss included--gave them little credibility. Even if they were accurate, five centuries was a long time. Traveling to Dayside was an adventure few experiences could match. It was daring, exciting, and new--precisely the sort of thing that Khriss usually avoided.

What in the name of the Divine am I doing? Khriss thought with an inward groan. Just as the approaching continent brought excitement to the soldiers, it carried dread into Khriss’ heart. I’m not a solider or an explorer. I hate travelling. I’ve never even left the capital, let alone left Elis.

Of course, that was the problem. The prince had always complained that she was far too unwilling to take risks, that she avoided excitement. He was much more free-willed.

Yes, and where did it get him? She reminded herself, only to realize a moment later that she was now guilty of exactly the same impetuousness. She had, after all, come looking for him.

Look what you’ve made me do, Gevin. When I find you, I’m going to . . .

“You were ordered to keep those hidden.”

Baon’s sudden comment interrupted Khriss’s musings. The tall mercenary was staring accusingly at Flennid. The younger soldier was leaning against the ships wale, his hand idly cocking and uncocking the flintlock pistol in his hand.

Flennid looked up at the accusation, his eyes hostile. “What does it mater?” he asked. “They won’t know what it is if they see it.”

“Put it away, soldier,” Baon said firmly.

Flennid sighed. “Yes, Captain,” he mumbled, stuffing the pistol back into its place underneath his cloak.

Baon turned back away from Flennid, his eyes falling on Khriss’s confused face.

“I thought I ordered you to leave the guns behind,” she said slowly.

“You did,” Baon replied.

Khriss waited for more of an explanation. “And?” she finally asked.

“I ignored you.”

Khriss stopped, dumbfounded. “But . . .”

“Duchess,” Baon said, turning black-spectacled eyes on her. “We’re travelling to an unknown continent, completely blind as to what we’ll find. Did you really expect your soldiers to give up the only advantage we have?”

“Well . . .” Khriss admitted. She was accustomed to people doing what she said. “I thought it would be a good idea to keep the technology secret, just in case.”

Baon shook his head. “The boy is right about one thing. Assuming they haven’t developed gunpowder on their own, then getting hold of one of our pistols will do them little good. They couldn’t replicate it--they don’t have the technology. They couldn’t even make new gunpowder.”

“True,” Khriss admitted. Then she frowned. “Are you going to ignore all of my orders?”

“No. Only the stupid ones.”

Khriss wasn’t certain whether or not to be offended. Finally, she just sighed. If there was one thing this trip was teaching her, it was that life was much different outside of the capital. “Just keep an eye on those three. For some reason, the idea of firearms in Flennid’s hands makes me nervous.”

“On that we agree,” Baon said with a nod.

“I doubt we’ll even need the guns.”

“You’re optimistic. That’s good. You’re paying me to be the opposite, however.”

“Our mission is purely to gather information,” Khriss said firmly. “We find Prince Gevalden, we learn as much as we can about Dayside, and we go home. Who knows, perhaps the Daysiders will be the ones who end up helping us.”

Baon snorted. “Duchess, if you’re intending to find something on Dayside to help you stop the Dynasty, then the legends about this place better not just be true--they’d better be gross underestimations.”

Khriss didn’t respond.

“You know,” Baon said, leaning back against the wale to look out over the waters. “You shouldn’t have put me in charge.”

Khriss frowned. Sometimes Baon’s bluntness still took her by surprise. “What do you mean?”

The large man nodded to his side, where she briefly caught sight of the three younger soldiers giving him--and Khriss--unveiled bitter looks.

“They don’t like me,” Baon informed frankly.

“They don’t have to like you to follow your orders,” Khriss responded.

“True,” Baon agreed. “But they resent me as well. Technically all three outrank me. They’re noblemen; I’m not. I’m also a foreigner.”

“You’re older than they are, you’re more experienced than they are, and you are a better leader,” Khriss replied. “Even after travelling with you for a month, I knew that much.”

“I’m also a mercenary,” Baon said, folding his arms.

“Well, so is every soldier, in a way,” Khriss argued.

“Duchess,” Baon said tolerantly, “you have a quick tongue, but, despite what politicians and scholars claim, arguing cannot change facts. Those men resent me. You should have let their natural ranks determine who would lead when Captain Deral died.”

Khriss turned away from him, instead focusing on the approaching cliffs. She was not accustomed to being contradicted--but she knew Baon was probably right. She had made a mistake. Of course, it had seemed logical at the time. Baon’s wise bluntness had impressed her from the first time they met months ago when the expedition had begun.

“Don’t berate yourself,” Baon said from beside her, leaning against the gunnel. “You’re young yet--barely as old as those boys. In fact, I’d guess you’re younger.”

He paused eyeing her to see if she corrected him which, unfortunately, she couldn’t do. She hated it when people realized how young she was.

“You’ll learn.”

Khriss bowed her head, nodding to herself. Giving orders to the maids who brought her lunch was quite a bit different from organizing and heading an expedition to another continent. Shella! What delusion ever persuaded me to try something like this? I should have listened to the King. Gevin will be all right--for all I know, we crossed each other in the ocean. I’ll probably return from this fiasco to find him strutting about the court, laughing to himself about his silly fiancée.

Yet, even as she thought such things, she knew that in this case her optimism was unfounded. Three years was too long. If Gevin were coming home on his own, he would have done so by now. If he were still alive . . . .

Stop it! She warned herself. That won’t get you anywhere either.

“Should I go wake the others?” Baon asked beside her, providing a welcome distraction from her thoughts.

“They’ll probably want to see this,” Khriss agreed.

The large man nodded, turning back across the deck to climb down to the lower cabins. Khriss was left alone with the three noblemen, whose faces now betrayed none of their earlier looks of resentment.

Do they dislike me too? She wondered. I am the one that put Baon in charge of them. Even more than her decision to cross the Border Ocean, she was beginning to wonder if she had been wrong to assume she could be a leader of men.

#

“I suppose that thing is going to be there the entire time we’re on Dayside,” a slow, droll voice said from behind her. Khriss turned to see two men climbing out onto the deck. One was glancing up at the sun overhead.

“It doesn’t appear to move, Cynder,” she replied with a slight smile.

The speaker, an older man with barely a few wisps of hair clinging to the top of his otherwise bald head, stepped onto the deck, shading his already spectacled eyes. “Well,” he said in his unhurried voice, “I suppose I would have been disappointed if there weren’t some light to be found over here. The legends do say a great deal about that point, don’t they?”

Khriss couldn’t help smiling at the linguist’s voice. Professor Allstren Cynder, sixty-years old with a liver-spotted cranium to prove it, had been one of her teachers during the years of her university schooling. He had a dry, almost cynical way of speaking that was always unrushed and somewhat melodramatic. He would draw out some words just a second longer than natural, and force his voice into a monotone that was easily mistaken for disinterest. At the same time, however, there was a twinkle in his eyes, a clue that his solemn façade was just a clever way of laughing at the world and anyone foolish enough to take it too seriously.

“My lady Khrissalla,” he said, strolling over to stand beside her, offering a simple, but proper, bow, “you appear to have had a poor night--woke up on the wrong side of the ocean, I suppose.”

“By the Divine,” the second man exclaimed, giving Khriss a quick bow. “The adventure finally begins!”

Jon Acron, anthropologist, was a stoopy man of about five feet, though when it came to body mass, Acron’s sizable paunch more than made up for his lack of height. He wore the long mustache over a goatee that was the current style in Elis.

Acron stood excitedly beside the wale, his attitude a sharp contrast to Cynder’s soft dignity. Acron was practically jumping up and down with excitement--Khriss had constantly been amazed at Acron’s energy. He was overweight and well into his fifth decade, but in many ways he acted with the energy of a child.

Both anthropologist and linguist were dressed formally--they had obviously taken more time getting ready than she had. They wore suits after the fashion of their rank, with vests and matching collarpieces. The long-tailed jackets had wide, drooping sleeves, and Cynder had added pocketwatch and wristchains, as was his custom. Behind the two stood Baon, who had donned a functional knee-length jacket to obscure the two pistols at his hips.

Seeing the jacket reminded Khriss of just how hot she was. She had assumed that perhaps she would get used to it, but so far she’d had no luck. Her clothing, which had seemed so reasonable in her shaded cabin, now felt sweltering.

Acron wasn’t doing much better. In fact, the overweight man had already taken to wiping his face with a handkerchief. At the rate he was sweating, he would likely run out of dry kerchiefs before a few hours had passed.

“By the Divine, this is a dour place, isn’t it?” Cynder commented.

“I’d think you would be excited, Cynder,” Acron said, wiping his enthusiastic face with a handkerchief. “After all that studying you’ve done, now you finally get to visit.”

“I studied the language, not the sun, dear man,” Cynder noted, rolling his eyes and chuckling softly to himself at some joke that only he could understand.

“When do we dock?” Khriss wondered. The land was close enough now that she could see a town crouching on one of the slopes.

“In about an hour,” Baon replied, leaning against the foremast. “Those cliffs taper a bit to the east, and that’s apparently where our town is.”

Acron shot Baon an uncomfortable look--the anthropologist always seemed nervous around Baon for some reason. Khriss looked in the direction Baon had indicated, searching for signs of a town. They probably wouldn’t arrive for some time. None of them went down below, however, despite the heat.

#

Cynder lowered the spyglass. “It appears as if we were correct in our hypothesis.”

“Let me see, man,” Acron said, snatching the spyglass and putting it up to his eye.

Khriss turned from the overweight anthropologist to raise an eyebrow at Cynder.

“About their culture, my lady,” Cynder explained. “I see little evidence of advanced technology.”

“I concur,” Acron agreed. He was scanning the city as the boat slid into the city bay. “No sign of . . . wait, there’s a man carrying a bow. They’re definitely still in the sword-age. Poor fellows.”

“I can’t help thinking you should say poor us,” Cynder mumbled, reaching up to scratch the side of his head.

“Why?” Khriss wondered, taking the spyglass from Acron.

“From the looks of things, your soldiers seem to have discovered a couple of pistols,” Cynder said. “However, despite such and obvious advantage, the Elisian military is not known for its . . . martial superiority. I can’t help wondering how we’ll fare against the natives.”

Khriss shot a look at Baon.

“He has a point,” the warrior said, then nodded to Flennid and the other two noblemen standing a short distance away. “I’ve seen you Elisians fight. Your military is more a tool for the pampered to dispose of their offspring than a true defensive army. Your country remains independent through clever politics, superior technology, and the fact that it’s so small no one wants to conquer it. Those three will be practically useless against a well-trained squad of natives, pistols or no pistols.”

The ‘useless’ comment didn’t gain Baon any ground with Flennid and the others, who were just within earshot. Honesty is one thing, Baon, but there’s also something to be said for tact.

“We’re in a foreign land, Baon,” Khriss said in reemphasizing her earlier stance. “An ocean away from civilization. If this expedition turns violent, I doubt all the muskets in Elis could save us. You soldiers were more to get us through Dynastic blockades than to protect us from Daysiders.”

Baon nodded in agreement, and Khriss turned to scan the city. Cynder was definitely right--the population looked considerably less-advanced than what she was used to. The houses were simple clay brick for the most part, and though the streets were cobbled in places, the stones were uneven and cracked. Most of the vehicles were simple carts, rather than fine carriages, and none of the buildings had glass in the windows.

There were other differences besides the level of technology. Notably absent were the lantern-poles that lined every street in her homeland; but, of course, such wouldn’t be necessary with the sun’s constant light. The greatest difference by far, however, were the beasts of burden. Up until the point that she looked through the spyglass, Khriss had discounted the stories of strange monsters living in the deserts of Dayside. Now, however, she was forced to reconsider.

They were black in color, and the light reflected off their shiny skin. They were proportioned something like a horse, but with shorter legs and a stumpier neck. Her first inclination was to think they were reptilian, but that was wrong. Their bodies seemed to be composed of plated segments, something like an insect, but they were proportioned nothing like bugs. More like the armored war-horses that the Dynasty sometimes employed.

Most disconcerting were their faces. They were covered with horn-like protrusions that stuck out in random directions. Each creature was different; some had only a couple, others were covered with dozens, and still others only had one massive spike sticking out like an overgrown nose.

Amazed, she lowered the spyglass and handed it to Baon. “They must be cosmetic,” she mumbled.

“What’s that, my lady?” Cynder asked.

“The horns. They must be used to frighten rivals; many of them look too weak to be used for combat.”

“Everything must have an explanation, I suppose,” the old linguist said, lounging back against the gunnel with a quiet chuckle.

“I am a scientist, Cynder,” she explained. “We explain things.”

“I thought you were a duchess.”

“Last I checked, the two weren’t mutually exclusive.”

Cynder nodded in agreement, but was still chuckling to himself.

“You’re going to have to find some dresses,” Baon noted, lowering the spyglass from his spectacled eye.

“What?” Khriss asked, turning.

“Look at the women,” Baon said, handing the glass back. “They wear dresses and keep their hair tied up under hoods. Most Darkside cultures don’t look favorably on women who dress like men, and I suspect it’s the same over here. So, you should find some dresses.”

“I have dresses,” Khriss mumbled testily, taking the spyglass back, though they were close enough now that she barely needed it. Baon was right, of course. Every woman visible, even the children, had her hair tied up and kept under a hood-like cloth. They wore one-piece dresses--actually, they fit more like robes--that were loose around the waist, and the styles didn’t seem to vary much. The men also wore loose-fitting robe, though they kept theirs tied at the waist, and many wore two layers of clothing--a shirt and skirt-like item underneath with an open-fronted robe over the top. All of the clothing was much more drab than she was used to, the pervading colors white and tan.

“This is going to be so exciting!” Acron said, his chubby head darting from side to side as he tried to take in everything at once.

She lowered the spyglass as the ship docked. “Well, Cynder, I guess we’ll soon find out how much the language has changed over the last five hundred years.”

Cynder frowned slightly, nodding to himself. The only texts they had from dayside were five centuries old. Courses in daysider language were popular in the university, and Cynder was one of the experts, but underneath all of the postulation and studying was the knowledge that to darkside, at least, daysider was a dead language. They really had no clue how to pronounce the words.

She had resisted bringing Cynder on the expedition because of his age. However, he was Elis’s premier authority on linguistics--the only other competent man, his assistant Wilheln, had gone with Gevin two years before. So, she had reluctantly agreed to bring Cynder on the expedition. In a way, she was glad he was along--his wry humor lightened her mood. However, she worried that the expedition would prove too much for him. Cynder was much better suited to a lecture hall than a daring exploration.

But, so are you, Khriss, she reminded herself. You’ll both just have to do what you can.

“Let’s go,” she said as the sailors put down the plank. There was only a hint of a tremble in her voice.

#

“Iresha’takasha Ai’Dakasha Lri’Heesth’Ker’Naisha ‘Totar.” Cynder said the words, then smiled hopefully.

The Daysider frowned at Cynder, his eyes wide. He scuttled away immediately, as if in fear. They were an odd-looking people. Their skin was different than her own--it wasn’t completely white, like darksiders from the eastern countries, but it was definitely paler than her own.

There seemed to be two races of them. Some had skin that was a little pale, kind of a dark tanish color. The rest of them had odd olive-colored skin that was a bit darker than the others, but still different from anything in Khriss’s experience.

Khriss sighed watching the daysider Cynder had approached move through the crowd, shooting them distrustful looks.

“This isn’t working,” she noted unnecessarily.

“I don’t know what it is, My Lady,” Cynder said with a frown. “At first, it seems like they might understand me--some of them, at least. They always run off, however.”

“I know,” Khriss said. Confusion she had expected--the language had probably changed dramatically over the last five centuries. But fear? It didn’t make sense.

They stood a short distance from the docks--they had been careful to keep the ship in sight, though what good that would do Khriss didn’t know. They were obviously in a market of some kind, mostly composed of one-story clay buildings with colorful tent-like drapings providing shade. The Daysiders, in general, paid Khriss and her companions little heed, streaming past the small clump of Darksiders with indifference.

Khriss found their lack of interest odd. She would have expected more . . . trepidation. She obviously wasn’t from Dayside--not only was her skin the wrong color, but her dress was such a bright shade of green that made the shop-tents looked wan by contrast. It was one of her favorite dresses, sleek and form-fitting, unlike the bulky Daysider ones. However, standing amidst the people, looking at their functional outfits and general disregard for flamboyancy, she was suddenly self-conscious.

Still, despite her oddity, the only looks she got were at her chest--which likely had little to do with her nationality and more to do with the dress’s low neckline.

And Esra told me I dress too conservatively! She thought with amusement, remembering a conversation just a few months previously. Of course, that had been on Darkside.

“Well, it’s comforting to know one thing, at least,” Cynder commented after making another failed attempt at speaking with a passerby.

Khriss looked up with curiosity.

Cynder smiled. “It would have been tragic if we could actually speak the language,” the scholar explained. “It would have destroyed my reliance on the frivolous nature of higher learning. Some universal constants just have to remain unchallenged.”

“Perhaps it’s our accent,” Khriss said, shaking her head at Cynder’s sarcasm.

“But, they reacted the same way to written phrases,” Cynder reminded. “By the way, you might want to keep an eye on him.”

Khriss followed Cynder’s gesture. Acron had wandered away from them, and was poking through a shopkeeper’s wares with wide, eager eyes. He didn’t seem to care that they couldn’t communicate--the sheer joy of being in another culture was enough for him.

Of course, it made sense. The Dynasty strictly controlled travel on darkside. Even though Elis wasn’t part of the Dynasty, most of the surrounding countries were, and that made it difficult to actually visit other cultures--a frustrating situation if one were an anthropologist. Every year or so, Elis was able to trade for some Dynastic travel passes, and Acron usually managed to secure one of those. Even still, his visits to Dynastic countries would have been strictly controlled. She could understand Acron’s excitement to immerse himself in a new culture without Dynastic officials watching over his shoulder.

“That man is a fool.”

Khriss looked up at Flennid’s hissing voice. Baon had left the other two soldiers behind on the ship, bringing only Flennid to guard them. The younger man was watching the passing crowd with suspicion, frowning and shying back whenever one of them got too close to him. His hand kept straying to his pistol.

Beside her, Baon was frowning, but not at Flennid. He was regarding Acron.

“What is it?” she asked of the large warrior. He had watched Cynder’s communication attempts with disinterest--for the most part, he had instead been focused on the crowds, his eyes watchful, his posture alert. To him, dayside’s newness wasn’t as much exciting as it was potentially dangerous. Unlike Flennid, however, he seemed observant, rather than nervous.

Baon nodded toward Acron. “That man seems to understand him,” Baon explained simply.

“What?” Cynder asked.

Khriss looked again. Baon was right, it did seem almost like . . . Acron were conversing with the man.

“Look in the window,” Baon suggested.

She did so, squinting against the sun’s light. She could barely make something out--a sign. A sign written in Dynastic.

“Shella!” she breathed in amazement. The sign read, in very distinct letters, ‘Dayside Supplies and Maps.’ “It’s in Dynastic!” she realized.

“Yes,” Cynder said slowly, noticing the board. “Though the spelling is atrocious.”

“Come on,” Khriss said, heading directly for the building. A shopkeeper--one of the lighter-skinned Daysiders with a broad smile and short brown hair, was speaking eagerly with Acron. He noticed Khriss’s approach and smiled eagerly.

“Ah, more Darkside good friends! You want supplies, okay friend?”

“How . . .” Khriss said with amazement. “How does he . . . ?”

“I don’t know,” Acron said. “He just started talking to me. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Good Dynastic, yes friend?” the daysider said with satisfaction. “Darksider come much, escape Dynasty. Very bad. Much exciting. Need much supplies, yes friend?”

“Perhaps the Dynastic blockades aren’t as effective as dear Emperor Scythe would have us believe,” Cynder noted at her side.

“Much Darksiders,” Khriss repeated. “How many?”

“One, maybe two ship one week,” the man explained.

“Shella!” Khriss said with disbelief. “Those blockades are supposed to be impervious. The Dynasty doesn’t even let its subjects travel from one province to another! There’s no way they let that many ships escape.”

“We got through,” Baon noted.

Khriss turned “True,” she agreed. “We got through.”

“And it wasn’t very hard,” the warrior continued.

“We lost two men!” Flennid objected, still looking at the daysiders with anxious eyes.

“Also, true,” Khriss agreed. “And not just any men--Captain Deral and his lieutenant were well-trained warriors.”

“They weren’t killed by the blockade,” Baon explained. “We lost them sneaking out of Elis and crossing Dynastic lands to reach the ocean. Once we were on the waters, we barely even saw another ship.”

Khriss paused. She’d assumed they had just been lucky, but . . . . “Shella,” she cursed. “This just got more difficult. Come on, we’ll buy supplies later.”

She turned to walk away from the shop, and her entourage followed, leaving behind a disappointed shopkeeper. Khriss could hear him swearing under his breath in poor Dynastic, thinking he had lost a potential sale.

“I assume you plan to tell us what suddenly made our lives grow more difficult,” Cynder said, strolling beside her.

“The Darksiders,” Khriss explained. “That’s why no one thinks we look strange--Darksider fugitives are a common sight.”

“Ah. It is a difficult thing to realize you’re not as unique as you thought.”

Khriss snorted. “It is a difficult thing to realize no one in this entire town would have taken note of Prince Gevalden’s arrival two years ago. I was counting on the event having been unique enough that people still remembered it. Now we have no idea which way he went.”

“At least we know this is where he started,” Acron chimed in.

“If the ship captain’s telling the truth,” Khriss mumbled.

“He has no reason to lie,” Cynder pointed out. “Unless, of course, someone paid him to do so. Or he just forgot. Or maybe he wasn’t really the one who ferried the prince to Dayside, and just said that to get our business. No reason beyond those three, and maybe a couple more.”

“All right, back to the ship,” Khriss decided. “I have to think.”

The group began to wander back toward the ship. Khriss walked quietly, thinking to herself. How was she going to find Gevin now? Their ability to speak the language had proven even less-useful than she had assumed, and the fact that darksiders were common on dayside . . . .

She only had one option. The sand mages were supposed to live in a kingdom called ‘Lossand.’ She would have to make her way in that direction and assume Gevin had done the same. She would have liked to follow his trail exactly, but . . . .

Khriss’s thoughts trailed off as something else grabbed her attention. A voice. She wasn’t certain what about it bothered her--it was a faint voice, barely audible over the market’s crowd. It wasn’t in Dynastic, but she felt like she could almost understand it.

Khriss stopped. The others paused, looking back at her, but she raised her hand to forestall questions.

A short distance away, sitting in an open space beside the market street, was a domed building with broad windows. People were gathered inside it, and it seemed like the voice was coming from inside. Not bothering to look to see if the others followed, she crossed the small distance to the building and peeked inside.

At the front of the room stood an olive-skinned man with a shaven head. He wore nondescript robes, with a golden chain around his neck, and in his hand he clutched what appeared to be a long spear with a bone head. Directly in the center of his forehead were a pair of stark white scar marks that formed an ‘X’.

The man was speaking forcibly to the crowd, his tone familiar for some reason. He stood with his arms outstretched, the spear pointing toward the sky. The language was gibberish, though it seemed like Khriss could almost . . .

Ker’Naisha’Totar’Kersha. The words, pronounced almost so oddly that she missed them, suddenly jumped out at her. She would have missed them completely if they hadn’t formed the single most pervasive phrase in the books she’d studied. She wasn’t a genius at daysider, but she had taken some classes.

“May the Sand Lord Bless us,” she whispered. The words, or ones similar to them, ended nearly half the sentences written in dayside, one of the reasons the dayside books were so incredibly thick.

“I understand it too,” Cynder whispered. “It seems to be a speech of some sort. A religious ceremony?”

Khriss frowned. He obviously understood more than she did.

Cynder stepped forward into the room, clearing his voice. The man at the front looked down at him with a frown of annoyance.

““Iresha’takasha Ai’Dakasha--” Cynder began, obviously trying to pronounce them as clearly as possible.

“Aiesha!” the man said angrily. “A’Reel Karshad’n Shan’Tershadan!”

Cynder backed away before the man’s anger, leaving the building and its occupants behind.

“Do you understand it?” Acron asked eagerly.

“A little,” Cynder said with a frown. “The words were spoken so quickly . . . . Karshad. It means . . . .”

“Holy language,” Khriss realized, her eyes opening wide with understanding.

Cynder nodded. “Why, yes. You’re right, duchess. Kar . . . priest. Priest-language.”

Baon snorted, “You mean . . . .”

“We learned the language of the clergy,” Khriss realized.

“There is precedent for such things,” Cynder agreed. “I have studied class-specific dialects.”

Khriss sighed, turning away from the building. “Well, I guess it’s not as bad as it could be.”

“True,” Cynder agreed. “If we can’t get directions out of them, then at least we can call them to repentance.”

White Sand

Chapter Three

Kenton lay frozen in the darkness. He hung in forced immobility, unable to cry out, unable to feel his limbs--unable to feel anything except the horrible nothingness. Like a maelstrom of ice, the blackness ripped at his soul and flayed his mind. He struggled against it, terrified of this one awesome power that every Daysider feared. Darkness. Frigid, emotionless, lightless . . . .

Kenton cried out, sitting up with such force that he flung the wet rag off his face, hurling it across the room. It slapped against the side of the tent, leaving a wet stain on the cloth as it plopped to the ground. Kenton sat for a moment, breathing heavily, his injured arm pulsing in protest. Finally, his heart coming under control, he groaned and reached up to wipe the droplets of water and sweat off his face.

“You’re awake!” a voice exclaimed.

“Eric?” Kenton asked with confusion. Then, however, memory flooded back to him. He was on the sands. He had run the path. The voice couldn’t belong to Eric--his friend had left for Darkside years before.

Standing in the tent doorway was a small, red-haired boy. Dirin. He looked younger than his sixteen years, probably because of his Talloner heritage--they were a racially small people.

“Dirin?” Kenton asked, shaking his head to clear his mind. “How long was I out?”

“About a day,” the boy explained, still standing hesitantly at the doorway. There was a look of excitement in his eyes. “When they brought you back, Kenton, all covered in sand and blood . . . we assumed you were dead. But . . . six spheres, Kenton! How did you do it?”

Kenton looked down at his shoulder, inspecting the clean white bandage as memories of the previous day’s events returned. “Honestly, Dirin, I don’t know,” he confessed.

“Hush now, boy,” a new voice said. “Go and fetch mastrell Traiben as you were instructed.”

Dirin nodded, moving away as a taller, blondish form entered. One of the physicians maintained by the Diem, a cool man who prominently wore a Kershtian sun medallion around his chest even when working on sand masters. He walked over, feeling Kenton’s forehead and checking the bandage.

“No fever,” the healer mumbled. “I assume you will insist on attending the advancement ceremonies tonight?”

Kenton nodded, reaching for the clean sand master’s robe sitting on the floor beside his cot. Then he paused--there was something more important he needed to check first. Suddenly worried, he hesitantly reached over and scooped a pinch of sand off the tent’s cloth floor. Then, taking an anxious breath, he commanded the sand to life.

The small pile of sand flashed, glowing brilliantly and remaining in the air even when he removed his hand. Kenton sighed in relief; he hadn’t overmastered. His abilities, such as they were, still remained.

The healer’s lips turned down at the sight, but he didn’t say anything. He simply rose and left the room as Dirin returned, followed by two familiar forms.

“You scoundrel!” Traiben exclaimed, rushing over to clap Kenton on his good shoulder.

Kenton smiled, allowing his sand to fall stale. Traiben looked immaculate as always in his robes and golden sash. He had gone bald early in life, and kept what hair he had close shaven, accentuating his firm square face.

“I knew it,” Traiben continued, stepping back as Kenton threw on his robes and tied them with a white sash. “The moment you declared you were going to run the path, I knew you would surprise us. Kenton, if you weren’t around, life in the Diem wouldn’t be half as exciting.”

Kenton shrugged, retrieving his qido and sword from the corner of the tent. He nodded in greeting to Elorin, who stood more reservedly at the front of the room. The aging undermastrell was often unassuming, especially when there was a mastrell in the room.

“So, how did I do it?” Kenton asked as he tied on his sword. “Where did that sixth sphere come from? Were there always six possible, and I’m just the first to find the last one?”

“No. It must have been--”

“Mastrell Traiben,” Elorin interrupted softly, nodding to Dirin, who had started to fold the cot’s bedsheets and place them meticulously in a pile.

“Oh, yes,” Traiben realized. “Dirin, lad, thank you for fetching us. Why don’t you go tell the Lord Mastrell that his son has recovered?”

“Yes, mastrell,” Dirin said lightly, leaving the room.

Elorin nodded for Traiben to continue. Though there was little chance the boy would ever run the Path, it was general policy not to let younger sand masters hear the Path’s secrets.

“Anyway,” Traiben continued eagerly. “There aren’t supposed to be six spheres. The one you found must have gotten left behind following someone else’s run.”

“As you might expect,” Elorin added, “spheres are often lost where the sandling is concerned. They get buried deep in the sand, where even the most powerful mastrell wouldn’t be able to retrieve them. It is just assumed that they will never turn up again, but . . .”

“One must have gotten lodged in the creature’s carapace,” Kenton realized, taking a ladle of water from the bucket next to the doorway.

“For all we know, it could have been my sphere. I only found three of them, you know.”

“What’s the other one you missed?” Kenton asked curiously.

Traiben flushed slightly. “The one on the cliff ledge. I just jumped over the canyon, never bothering to look down.”

Kenton smiled slightly to himself. It made sense--Traiben was known for his impetuousness. Still, the failure had been difficult for the mastrell. Kenton could remember well his return to the camp after only finding three of the spheres, his normally energetic personality reserved.

Kenton remembered being slightly surprised at the failure. Traiben was one of those rare individuals who was good at everything he tried. He had entered the Diem the same day as Kenton, but had quickly proven himself a capable sand master. He hadn’t even needed to stretch himself to make mastrell--though it was impossible to be jealous of him. Traiben was just too amiable. Sometimes Kenton found it frustrating--if only Traiben were a bit more like Drile, then it would be possible to envy him. As it was, they remained friends even despite Traiben’s status as a mastrell, something that should have kept him from associating with a lowly acolent.

“The Lord Mastrell is calling sixth sphere invalid,” Traiben was saying. “But, that doesn’t really matter--the entire Diem has already heard about what you did.”

Kenton shrugged, pulling open the tent flap to check the time. The moon hovered above the horizon in the northeast; it was about seventh hour, just past mid-day. The advancement ceremony wouldn’t be until tenth hour.

“The Lord Mastrell is, of course, rather perturbed with you,” Traiben noted.

Kenton smiled. “When isn’t he?”

“Now more than usual, acolent,” Elorin explained. “You weren’t supposed to slay the creature.”

Kenton looked away from the moon, instead turning to study Elorin’s reserved face. Up until six months ago, the undermastrell had been the one who oversaw the training of new sand masters. He hadn’t ever explained why he had given up the position, or why he continued to pay particular attention to Kenton. The man had a gentle wisdom about him that was far more powerful than any mastrell’s sand, and Kenton could sense there was something behind his words. He seemed . . . anxious for some reason.

“What do you mean?”

“The Path is destroyed forever now, Kenton,” the undermastrell explained. “No one knows how that deep sandling came to be isolated so far away from the deep sands, but it was the central trial of the Path. More mastrells failed to recover that one sphere it was guarding all the other spheres combined. For centuries the mastrells have fed the monster, using it to test their newer members. Now it is gone.”

Kenton frowned.

“Good riddance,” Traiben mumbled. “When that thing burst from the sand I nearly died from the shock.”

“Wait a minute,” Kenton interrupted. “You can slatrify. Why did it give you trouble?”

“I did slatrify,” Traiben explained. “It fled beneath the sand as soon as I tossed a handful of water on it. Unfortunately, it took the sphere with it. Its digging probably buried the sphere all the way down to Darkside. Personally, I don’t think it was a very fair test--I did what I was supposed to, and I still didn’t get my sphere.”

“The point is irrelevant now,” Elorin said, shaking his head. “The Path, or at least the Path as we know it, is no more.”

Kenton flexed his shoulder, feeling the pain of his gash. He had always wondered what happened in the rare cases when a mastrell died while running the Path. “I’m going to have to agree with Traiben,” he decided, wincing in pain. “I know it hasn’t killed anyone in decades, but we’re still probably better off without it.”

“And you will be remembered as the one who defeated the Path,” Traiben said with a congratulatory smile. “And an acolent, no less!”

“Kenton,” Elorin said, looking at his shoulder with concerned eyes. “Perhaps you should . . . stay back and rest today.”

“What?” Traiben said, his face shocked. “Elorin, how could you even suggest such a thing?”

Kenton frowned as well. It was an odd suggestion. All sand masters, except those left behind to watch the Diem, were expected to attend the ceremony--no matter what their state of health.

“I apologize, mastrell,” Elorin said immediately. “It was a thoughtless suggestion.”

“I mean, today of all days!” Traiben continued. “After what you did, Kenton, the Lord Mastrell will have to make you a mastrell.”

“My father doesn’t have to do anything,” Kenton said with a shake of his head. “In fact, knowing him, I’ll bet he’s less likely to make me a mastrell after what I did yesterday.”

“What?” Traiben asked incredulously.

“Praxton is very concerned with image,” Kenton explained with a sigh, seating himself back on his cot. “The more I protest his decisions, the more he’s going to resist giving me what I want. If he were to grant me mastrellship now, it would mean admitting defeat in front of the entire Diem.”

“But . . .” Traiben asked uncertainly.

“Why do I keep trying?” Kenton finished. Then he shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not even convinced that I deserve to be a mastrell. Maybe an undermastrell or a lesstrell. I’d probably even be happy as a fen, except . . .”

“Except?”

“Except I just can’t force myself to let Praxton win,” Kenton admitted with a wry smile. He had argued with his father for eight years now, always claiming he deserved to be a mastrell. Kenton had stopped believing his own assertions years ago--now that he knew more about sand mastery, now that he had lost his child’s innocence, he had learned to accept that he just didn’t have as much power as others. His one ribbon, no matter how cleverly used, couldn’t match a mastrell’s two dozen.

But, he still kept fighting. Even though he didn’t really think he deserved to be a mastrell, he claimed he did. “I guess I’m too much like him,” Kenton mumbled. “It isn’t the rank that bothers me; it’s his acknowledgement of what I’ve done. Of what I am.”

Elorin laid a comforting hand on Kenton’s shoulder. “You should rest now, acolent. Be assured, we will wake you in time for the ceremonies.”

Kenton nodded, laying back on the cot. He did not, however, let them place the damp cloth on his forehead again. Instead, he let himself drift to sleep in the comforting warmth of daylight.

#

“Is it true, what they say about Drile?” Dirin asked with a hushed, excited tone.

“I don’t know,” Kenton admitted, walking through the camp of tents toward the place for the advancement ceremonies. True to his word, Elorin had sent Dirin to wake Kenton at the proper time. The moon hung just to the southeast, marking the approach of tenth hour.

“They say Drile was caught making plans to sell his powers,” Dirin continued. “They say he was gathering a group of sand masters to hire out as mercenaries.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Kenton mumbled. Drile. It was rare enough for a group of students to produce one mastrell, but Kenton’s had produced two. Drile was even more powerful than Traiben--in fact, there were those who whispered he was stronger than Praxton himself. And the worst thing was, Drile knew exactly how good he was.

“Do you think . . . do you think they’ll kick him out of the Diem?” Dirin asked with a hushed tone.

“Maybe,” Kenton said. It had happened before, but not in centuries, and never to one so powerful. “That will be up to the Lord Mastrell, won’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Dirin agreed, falling to his own contemplations.

The ceremonies were always held in the same place, a flat plain of sand. There were cliffs visible in the distance--they surrounded wide plain, like the lip of a crater. Kenton and Dirin left the campsite behind, walking out onto the edge of the plain, where a group of white-robed forms was already gathering.

The sand masters milled together, for the most part remaining self-segregated by the colors of their sashes. The gold Mastrells were at the front, with a group of yellow undermastrells to the side. Lestrells in black, underlestrells in gray, Diemfens in brown, fens in tan, and underfens in cream. And, of course, the acolents, who stood in smaller groups, staying with those their same year. There were about two thousand of them all together.

Kenton approached the back of the crowd, letting Dirin drift off to join the other acolents. Of them all, only Kenton had no place. Every member of his acolent group had been advanced four years previously, leaving Kenton to attend increasingly redundant classes with acolents who seemed to get younger every year.

He got numerous looks as he walked amongst them, most encouraging, but none accepting. Kenton was alone in the Diem. He knew some of the others, especially the lower ranks, respected him. He also knew that many sand masters--regardless of rank--disliked him. Even as he passed a group of acolents, he heard muffled snickers and comments. The students generally mocked their odd, over-aged companion. Young as they were, that hadn’t yet been forced to deal with advancement, and the limit on their potential it would proclaim.

This day, however, more of the faces seemed comraderous than normal. More than one bid him traid’ka, a Kershtian word to suggest good fortune. Kenton walked through them, smiling at those he knew, generally impressed by the level of support he felt. Well, he determined, I may not have managed to convince the only one who matters, but at least the rest of them agree with me.

The cliffs in the distance were to far away to provide cover, and so the ever-prevalent wind couldn’t be excluded from the gathering. It blew softly this day, whipping through the crowd like an unpleasant guest, tugging at robes and swirling small cones of sand. Kenton’s optimism faded as he worked his way through a group of lestrells to stand at the front of the crowd. Lord Mastrell Praxton, his eyes hard enough to subdue even the wind, sat, surrounded by a half-circle of mastrells.

The chair, crafted completely of wood, was really more like a throne, though kings hadn’t been seen in Lossand since the beginning of the Taishin era several centuries before. Praxton huddled in the massive chair like a sandling, his thin, spindly arms more like feelers than arms. His face displayed as much emotion as a chitenous shell.

Kenton walked to the side of the crowd, standing off by himself. Despite their overtures of friendship, none of the sand masters invited him to join them. In many ways, the lower ranks were just as exclusive as the higher ones. Perhaps Elorin or Traiben would have done otherwise, but they were required to stand with the Lord Mastrell. The undermastrells were already taking their places, forming a larger semi-circle behind the mastrells. The rest of the groups began to quiet, standing in their separate ranks as they waited for the ceremony to begin.

Kenton frowned as he watched. There was something wrong. Silently, Kenton searched for what was bothering him. The hushed sound of whispers ran through the crowd of sand masters--they had noticed it too. There were only seventeen mastrells standing behind Praxton--three were missing.

Where’s Drile? Kenton realized. Kenton shook his head in amazement--despite his words, he hadn’t really believed Drile capable of something so revolting. Sand masters were one cohesive whole, regulated by the Diem. If smaller groups began selling their services like common tradesmen, chaos would soon be the result. For all of Kenton’s grievances with the Diem--and there were many--he had never once thought of selling his powers elsewhere.

The mumbling grew louder near the back of the crowd, and Kenton turned. A pair of mastrells were leading a tall, brown-haired man through the group. Firm-featured with thin, knowing lips and a lean build, Drile represented all that a sand master was supposed to be: powerful, controlling, and arrogant. He walked indifferently through the ranks, as if he were striding before a group of subjects, not being taken under guard to his own trial.

At the front of the crowd he paused briefly, turning eyes on the gathered sand masters. The mastrells behind him froze, uncertain what to do. Drile was more powerful than any other living sand master, save maybe for Praxton himself. If Drile decided to run, then the struggle to restrain him could potentially turn dangerous. Fortunately, Kenton was certain there was one law even Drile would not break. No sa­­nd master was allowed to use his skills to hurt another of their kind--it was an injunction as old as the sands themselves.

Drile regarded the Diem for a moment, still smiling. Don’t feign horror before me, his look said. I know you. You created me. The Diem--its arrogance, its wastefulness--is what had led Drile to become what he was. Drile might have been the one to take the conceit one step further, but that was only because the rest of them assumed they couldn’t get away with it.

Drile spun and approached the mastrells, his guards following like retainers. The crowd hushed once again as Praxton spoke.

“Drile, what have you done?” he asked with a tired voice. Despite his age, Praxton’s words still carried, loud enough to be heard by those at the front of the crowd.

Drile did not answer.

Praxton sighed. “You may go,” he said to the guards. The two mastrells bowed and took their places with the rest of their rank.

“Take your place, Drile,” Praxton ordered. “You’re still a mastrell.”

Drile complied with a curt bow, walking over to stand at the head of the mastrells.

“Let us begin,” Praxton said, nodding to Elorin.

The undermastrell, foremost of his rank, bowed in reply. He knelt and freed his qido from his belt, pouring its contents into an earthen bowl. This he handed to Praxton, who drank a sip and handed it back. Elorin accepted the bowl, then stood uncertainly for a moment, his eyes apprehensive for some reason. Then, apparently deciding that tradition held even in the face of irregularity, he carried the bowl over and handed it to Drile.

Drile snorted to himself, taking the bowl. He held it for just a second, his eyes meeting those of Praxton. Then, without taking a drink, he handed it to the sand master beside him. Kalmeer accepted the bowl hesitantly, but eventually regained his poise and took a sip before handing it to the next in line. The bowl moved through the mastrells, then back to the undermastrells, before Elorin accepted it once more and carried it back to Praxton. With one final sip, Praxton officially initiated the advancement ceremonies.

Elorin walked over, refilling the bowl and handing it to the first line of watching sand masters. They began to drink, each one taking a sip and handing it to his neighbor, refilling it from their qidoin when necessary.

The ceremony, however, didn’t need to wait for everyone to drink. As soon as Elorin had given away the bowl, he picked up a sack from beside Praxton’s chair and removed several colored sashes from within. Kenton squinted, counting. There were seven--none of them gold. There would be no new mastrells this day. Elorin accepted a thin scroll from the Lord Mastrell and took a few steps forward. He unrolled the scroll and read with a loud voice.

“Reendel, son of Craftsman Keshdel,” Elorin announced. A white-sashed youth stepped forward from the back of the crowd, approaching Praxton’s chair on nervous legs.

“You have been offered the rank of underlesstrell,” Elorin informed. “Take the sash and be advanced.”

Reendel reached forward a trembling hand and accepted the gray sash from the Lord Mastrell. “Congratulations,” Praxton said in a flat, unconcerned voice.

Elorin proceeded, reading the names of Reendel’s acolent group. Kenton took a sip from the bowl as it reached him, frowning at the salty taste. Whoever had refilled the bowl last hadn’t been carrying very good water.

Each boy stepped forward as his name was called, accepting a different sash from Praxton. Only one placed higher than the first--a scrawny boy who was given the black of a lesstrell. It was an average group--undermastrells and mastrells were rare.

Finally, only one sash remained in Praxton’s hand: a brown one. Kenton regarded it with trepidation. Brown. The rank of Diemfen. It was about midway through the Diem’s hierarchy, with three ranks below it and four above.

The sash was obviously meant for Kenton--there had only been six acolents in this year’s group. A Diemfen was no mastrell, but it was higher than Kenton had ever realistically thought he would be offered. Despite himself, Kenton found his mood begin to brighten. Part of his heart warned that he was giving up, that he was settling for less than he deserved. The rest, however--the logical, realistic side--realized that he had made his statement, and had succeeded. There would be no more to be gained from pointless resistance.

Surprisingly, the next name Elorin called was not Kenton’s. “Drile, mastrell of the Diem,” Elorin announced.

Drile stepped out of line. His eyes were calm--he had been expecting this.

Elorin looked back at Praxton with a question on his face.

“Read it,” Praxton croaked.

“Drile, you have been offered the rank of Diemfen,” Elorin all but whispered. “Take the sash, and be unadvanced.”

Kenton blinked in surprise, and the crowd immediately began to buzz with conversation. Never, in all the history of the Diem, had a sand master been unadvanced. It was unheard of.

Drile looked down at the sash in Praxton’s hand with stunned eyes. He had probably expected a reprimand of some sort, perhaps even formal expulsion from the Diem. But to be forced into a lower rank . . . that was a humiliation greater even than being kicked out.

“I don’t trust you, Drile,” Praxton informed. “If I expelled you, I doubt you would obey the Law and refrain from using your powers. This way I can still keep an eye on you.”

Drile continued to stare at the sash, his handsome face confused. “I . . .” To stay in the Diem would mean humiliation, but he would still be able to use his powers. Drile reached out, but then lowered his hand without accepting the sash. He looked up with determination, meeting Praxton’s eyes.

From his place at the head of the crowd, Kenton could see the look that passed between them. A contest of power, no less great than that of crashing waves or battling swordsmen. Drile stood, his lips slightly parted, as if prepared to denounce Praxton’s offer and take expulsion instead of humiliation.

The Lord Mastrell’s stare quelled him. Slowly, Drile’s face seemed to grow wan before Praxton’s harsh eyes. His determination faltered, his rebelliousness weakened, as Praxton made use of the talent that had gained him the position of Lord Mastrell--a talent that had nothing to do with mastering sand. Drile was defeated by a force that wasn’t mystical or arcane, but one that had been used by humankind since its birth. More than his ability as a sand master, more than his haughty air, it was Praxton’s sheer willpower that made him such a great leader.

With a limp hand, Drile took the sash from Praxton’s outstretched hand. As the former mastrell stood looking at the sign of his defeat, Praxton reached out, whipping the gold mastrell’s sash off Drile’s waist and dropping it to the ground.

“Go join your rank, Diemfen,” Praxton ordered.

Head bowed, Drile turned, shuffling across the sand in a stunned daze, as if unable to believe what he had just done.

Kenton frowned. If the brown sash had been for Drile . . . . Even as he watched, Kenton watched his father retrieve something from the pouch at his side. A sash. A cream-colored sash.

No! Kenton thought with sharp disappointment.

“Kenton, son of Praxton, step forward,” Elorin said, reading from the scroll. The undermastrell’s voice shook with sympathy.

Kenton stepped forward, trying to control his emotions. For some reason, this blow took him harder than any before. He had been ready to give in, prepared to accept the compromise of Diemfen. He approached the Lord Mastrell’s seat with a slow step, resting a comforting hand on Elorin’s shoulder as he passed.

“You thought it was for you, didn’t you?” Praxton asked with a slight smile as Kenton bowed.

Feeling sick, Kenton did not reply.

“I told you yesterday, I would offer you fen if you agreed not to run the Path. Why would I reward you for disobeying me?”

“I . . .” Kenton mumbled. “I was fooling myself, I guess.”

“You slew the Marken,” Praxton continued. “Because you disobeyed me, the Path has been ruined. For the rest of time, the Diem will remember you as the one who deprived others from running the Path.”

Kenton sighed, looking down at the sash in Praxton’s hand.

“You don’t even deserve this,” the Lord Mastrell informed, his voice growing quiet. “But I offer it to you this one last time. Accept your place as underfen. Reject it, and I will expel you from the Diem. I will not continue to allow you to make a mockery of this ceremony.”

Praxton thrust the sash toward him. You don’t even deserve this . . . . The words were true; Kenton had never belonged in the Diem. He had forced them to accept him when they didn’t want to, had demanded that they give him attention he didn’t deserve, and cried injustice when he was offered the ranks he had earned.

I’m tired of fighting, he realized with weariness. Tired of the hostility, the awkwardness, and the laughter.

Resigned, he looked up, reaching out to take the sash. And then he met Praxton’s eyes. Praxton’s demanding, intolerant eyes. The eyes of his father, a man who had lived apart from his family, like all sand masters. A man Kenton had never known. If there had been a leak of concern in that wall of a face, Kenton would have taken the sash.

“No,” he felt himself whisper, his hand falling back to his side. “I won’t be beaten down, father. I’ve proven myself worthy of more.”

“You are certain you want to do this?” Praxton asked flatly.

“Yes,” Kenton said with growing resolve.

“Then I have no other choice left,” Praxton said with a sigh. “Kenton, son of Praxton, I grant you the rank of mastrell.”

Kenton froze, stupefied. The Lord Mastrell nodded down to the sand at the base of his chair where a fluttering piece of gold was half-buried in the wind-blown sand. Drile’s sash.

“Take it,” Praxton ordered.

“But, why?” Kenton asked with amazement.

“Take it,” Praxton commanded again.

Dumbfounded, Kenton complied, reaching down to pull the length of cloth from the sand.

“Turn around,” Praxton commanded.

Kenton did so, his mind still stunned by what had just happened. What he was about to see confused him even further. He stared into the eyes of two thousand faces, and instead of joy or congratulations, he felt a single, overpowering emotion. Jealousy.

The sand masters looked as confused as he, but their emotion had an edge of hostility--of hatred. Even as Kenton watched, the wind-whipped golden sash writhing in his hands, the faces grew increasingly dark.

“Have you learned nothing of the Diem during your years here, boy?” Praxton hissed behind him “Yes, they supported you when you were the victim, but that was when they thought you were below them. No one ever thought you would actually succeed.”

Kenton turned, shielding his eyes from the mass of animosity behind him. His shocked eyes fell back on his father, who was shaking his aged head in sorrow.

“You think I hated you, boy? I was trying to protect you. Right now every single one of them is thinking to himself, ‘why was Kenton made a mastrell when I was not?’ And they are all coming to the same conclusion.”

“Because I’m your son,” Kenton whispered with growing horror.

Praxton nodded slowly. “You will find no peace in this rank, child, only hatred. The mastrells will think you unworthy of them, the lower ranks will be envious of your favored position. You could have had purpose and fellowship in one of the lower ranks--you, more than anyone else, should have known how pointless a title is. What would it have mattered if people called you underfen instead of mastrell? Would that have altered your power, made you any less capable?”

“No,” Kenton whispered, the word more of a cry of despair than an answer. Despite all of his accusations, his appeals for reform, Kenton had caught the same disease as every other sand master.

“You wanted it, boy,” Praxton hissed, a twisted delight shining in his eyes. “Well, you can have it. Learn what happens to those who defy me.”

Kenton bowed his head, sash fluttering in his hands. He could hear the whispers beginning behind him--whispers of outrage. He had thought being an acolent had been hard. He hadn’t understood . . . .

He looked up, his eyes seeking for some sort of sympathy from his father. Praxton stared back flatly, his eyes dull. Almost like they weren’t looking at him at all.

Only then did Kenton notice the arrow sticking out of his father’s side.

Screams flew into the air behind him and Kenton spun in concern. Tan-clothed forms poured over the short cliffs behind the sand masters--they must have snuck up through the camp. Arrows were falling from bowmen in the back ranks. The crowd of sand masters, confused and frightened, stood in mass as the arrows descended on them.

“Kershtians!” one of the mastrells screamed, calling sand to life.

Kenton cursed, dropping to the ground and grabbing a handful of sand. He rolled to his feet, whipping his sword out with the other hand. All around him sand masters were mastering sand, dashing about in a chaotic mixture of bodies and glowing sand. Some darted into the air, though where they were jumping, Kenton didn’t know. Others called up massive walls in front of themselves to block the arrows. Still others didn’t seem to know what to do, standing uncertainly with ribbons of sand hovering around them.

It doesn’t make sense! Kenton thought to himself with confusion. Lossand hadn’t had a war with the Kershtians for centuries. True, they hated the Diem, but they were also supposed to fear sand mastery to the point of irrationality. What could have convinced them to attack such a large group?

Kenton pushed speculation aside, dashing forward. Regardless of their motives, the Kershtians were doing surprisingly well in the battle. Sand mastery was the most dangerous weapon on the sands, but its practitioners hadn’t needed to defend themselves in hundreds of years. The sand masters fought as individuals, sending their ribbons against random Kershtians. The olive-skinned warriors were taking heavy losses, but they were advancing as their superior numbers allowed them to take down the sand masters one at a time.

Unfortunately, most of the sand masters had decided to call up walls of sand to protect themselves--a method that also prevented them from seeing their enemies. The Kershtians easily ducked around the sides of the sand walls, attacking the unprepared sand masters with their bolts. Those who were powerful enough had made rings of sand around themselves instead, but that left them totally cut off from the battle--leaving the less powerful to fend for themselves.

Kenton ran into the affray, whipping his sand to life. A Kershtian took sight of him, raising the tube-like zinkall on his arm. With a flick of his wrist, the warrior released the zinkall’s air pressure, launching an arrow at Kenton’s heart.

Kenton waved his hand, and his sand obeyed, slapping the arrow out of the air. Then he snapped his finger forward with a sharp motion, drilling the ribbon of sand directly through the Kershtian’s forehead. The sand fell dead a moment after it touched blood, but a moment was all that was necessary.

Another Kershtian was on him a moment later, wielding a spear whose tip was fashioned from sandling carapace. Kenton brushed the attack aside with his sword, and the Kershtian looked down with surprise, as if noticing the weapon for the first time. Kenton’s blade took him in the chest before he realized that this sand master, at least, had more than one weapon at his disposal.

Kenton paused. Something was wrong--wrong with the warriors. Their foreheads all bore ‘X’-shaped scars. That’s not right, Kenton thought. Some Kershtians wore scars on their foreheads, but . . . .

He dropped the line of reasoning, however, as he saw several sand masters a short distance away. “Not like that!” Kenton yelled at the group of lestrells who were trying to defend themselves with walls of sand. Kenton reached forward, using his sand to grab an arrow out of the air just before it hit one of the lestrells in the chest.

The young man, barely sixteen years old, looked down at the bolt with a pale face.

“Use ribbons,” Kenton urged, “not walls. Don’t leave yourself vulnerable.”

“I . . .” the boy mumbled. “I couldn’t catch one like that!”

Kenton cursed, blocking another arrow. “You two,” he said, pointing at two of the lestrells. “Watch for Kershtians that are aiming at us, and throw up a wall in front of them not us. You two, attack. Understand?”

The four lestrells, three of them far older than Kenton, obeyed without a question, fear in their eyes. Kershtians began to fall as Kenton gathered other sand masters, adding them to the four lestrells and creating a ring of organized sand masters.

As he worked, however, he thought on the impossibility of what was happening. Even surprised, even unorganized, the sand masters should easily have defeated their foes. Something was wrong. Kenton scanned the battlefield, which was scattered with bodies, blood, and blackened sand. All of the rings of protective sand had fallen for some reason, and the sand masters in sight--especially the mastrells and undermastrells--seemed to be in pain for some reason, even the ones who were unharmed.

Then Kenton realized what it was. His throat was sharply dry, his breath starting to come painfully. He was running out of water. But, I’ve only been mastering for a few minutes! He thought incredulously. He could go a half-hour without a drink, longer if he didn’t do anything strenuous. He couldn’t argue with his body, however, which was warning him he had wasted too much water.

A short distance away he saw Traiben holding his face in agony. “Traiben!” Kenton yelled, rushing to his friend’s side. Traiben stumbled as Kenton arrived, looking up as he dropped to the sand. Kenton froze in horror. Where Traiben’s eyes had been there were now two dry, empty sockets. Overmastery had set in--Traiben had sucked the water out of his own eyes.

“No!” Kenton yelled lifting Traiben’s head to stare into the sightless sockets. Even the newest sand master knew how to control himself well enough not to do such a thing. Traiben’s skin flaked beneath Kenton’s hands, cracking and splitting.

This is impossible! Kenton thought, clutching his friend’s body. This isn’t just overmastery, this is insanity! Why would they go so far?

Traiben tried to speak, but his tongue was a limp, dried strip in his mouth. Kenton quickly pulled out his qido, pouring its contents into the fallen mastrell’s mouth. Then, uncertain what else to do, he pulled Traiben back to the ring of sand masters he had formed, setting the wounded man in their center. Then he looked up with concern at the sand masters around him.

When he had left them moments ago, the group had been doing well. That was changing quickly, however. Men were falling to the ground, doubled over in unseen agony, others holding their faces or their chests.

They’re all overmastering! Kenton thought with alarm. He cast aside his amazement, forcing his confused, frightened mind to focus in their predicament. They needed water. There were stores of it back in the camp a short distance away.

“Wait here!” Kenton yelled to the group. “Master as little as possible to defend yourselves; I’ll return with water.”

Those that could hear him nodded, their eyes wild with panic. Kenton raced through the line of men, attacking a Kershtian with his sword, his movements desperate. Realistically, he knew their chances were slim. He couldn’t see a single mastrell or undermastrell still standing--in fact, a good half of the white-robed forms on the plain were immobile.

Still, he fought, slaying the Kershtian with a scream of anger. He whipped his sand forward, slicing it through the chests of three archers in a row before letting it die, lest it drain him of water. Even as he did so, three more Kershtians moved in to surround him, their short-hafted spears long enough to keep him from getting close enough to strike with his sword. He took a breath, preparing to reach for another handful of sand, when he heard a bellow of rage.

The scream surged across the plain, drawing attention of both sand master and Kershtian. Back where the battle had begun, beside the fallen throne, stood a form in a golden sash, an arrow sticking from his side. Praxton. Not dead after all.

The ancient mastrell’s eyes were wild with anger as he roared, raising his hands above his head. The sand at his feet rumbled, then exploded with light, shining like a second sun. A column of sand fully thirty-feet in diameter rose up around him, swirling and pulsing like one of the horrible storms that sometimes struck the coast.

Suddenly, the column shot outward, thinning into a wide disk, spreading like a ripple on a pond. The slammed into Kershtians, spraying gore as it sliced them in half. It moved blindingly quick, sheering bodies, hitting most of them before they realized they were in danger. It split where it encountered white robes, however, leaving sand masters unharmed.

Dozens of Kershtians fell to the sands before the wave of sand. Praxton continued to scream, ribbons of sand to dancing and twisting twist around him. There was an edge to his screams now, however, an edge of pain. The Kershtians around Kenton dashed away as the wave approached. Then, however, it faltered, its glow dimming. Finally it pulsed one last time, and fell to the ground as a wide ring of black.

The plain was quiet for a calm moment. Then Kershtians began to call to one another, and their force regrouped, reloading their zinkallin and organizing for a final assault. There were only a few hundred of them left, but the sand masters they faced were tired and overmastered. White-robbed forms slumped across the sand, waiting in a daze as the Kershtians began to advance once again.

“Get up!” Kenton encouraged, his voice frantic. The Kershtian archers, noting him as one of the few standing, took aim and Kenton froze, staring down no less than a dozen bowmen. Even he couldn’t block that many arrows.

Praxton’s wail had turned high pitched. The sound floated across the plain like an inhuman, ghostly thing. Dozens of archers took aim at the Lord Mastrell, letting loose their arrows. At the very same time, the archers aiming at Kenton released their missiles.

Kenton jumped, intent on rolling to the ground, but he knew he was too late. Some arrows would miss, but too many would fly true. He ducked his head, turning away from the oncoming arrows.

His eyes fell on Praxton. The mighty sand master stood as if oblivious to the death approaching him. Instead, he ordered his sand forward. Toward Kenton. Every last grain under the Lord Mastrell’s control burst forth, racing the arrows. A dozen shafts pierced Praxton’s body, but still he held onto his sand.

Praxton’s sand enveloped Kenton, blocking the arrows that would have claimed his life. As Kenton watched, blinking against the sand, Praxton’s form fell limp. As it did so, his sand stopped shining--and fell directly on top of Kenton.

He tried to call out, but rough sand choked him, buried him, pressed against him. The darkness claimed Kenton for the second time that day. There, in total blackness, Kenton fell unconscious.

White Sand

Chapter Four

“I think that merchant over-charged us,” Khriss informed, making a final notation on her ledger. The beetle-like riding beast--called a tonk--swayed beneath her, moving in its unhurried, rhythmic way. She had been scared to climb on one at first, but they were really quite docile. She had even gotten used to the faint sulfurous smell they gave off.

“Really?” Cynder asked in an unconcerned voice, his tonk walking beside her own. “What makes you think so?”

“I used some of the change he gave us to buy a loaf of bread in that last town,” she explained. “You can tell a lot about a society’s economic system from how much a loaf of bread costs.” Closing the ledger, she reached over and stuffed it in her tonk’s saddlebags, pulling out a small pouch instead. From inside she removed several stone discs, shaped like thick coins.

“This gray one seems to be worth the least,” she explained, leaning over to hand Cynder the coin. The dark spectacles made his expression difficult to read, so she couldn’t tell if he was actually interested, or just playing along. Of course, even without the glasses, it was hard to tell if Cynder were serious or not.

“Fascinating,” the balding professor said, turning the smooth stone coin over in his fingers.

“I think the marble ones are next in line,” Khriss continued, “then the white ones, the gold ones, then the metallic silver ones.”

“You figured this all out by buying a loaf of bread?” Cynder asked, tossing the coin back to her.

“That, and how much the merchant charged us for the supplies,” Khriss said, repacking the coins.

“Who would have thought a loaf of bread could be so useful?” Cynder mumbled, chuckling softly to himself.

Khriss frowned, trying to decide if he’d made a joke or not, then simply shook her head. Cynder’s sense of humor was beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.

“I could have told you he over-charged us,” Baon said, moving his tonk up next to hers. The large, dark warrior was adapting very quickly to the strange Dayside beetle-horses. Somehow, he could get his tonk to obey commands, while Khriss’s own creature--which she had dubbed ‘Stump’ because the largest of his horns was broken halfway down--seemed incapable of doing anything besides following the rest of the group.

Khriss shot Baon a questioning look. “You know the monetary system?”

Baon shook his head, snorting softly to himself. “Really, duchess. Did you expect him not to cheat us? He’s the only one who spoke our language--I expect he made quite a profit off of those gems we traded him. And rightly so. It must have taken quite a bit of effort on his part to learn Dynastic.”

“That’s one way to look at it, I supposed,” Khriss said without conviction.

Over the last week of riding, Khriss had almost convinced herself that she was getting used to the heat. She wore a wide-brimmed hat she had purchased in one of the towns, along with a white dayside dress that was surprisingly thick--she would have thought dayside clothing would be thinner than darkside varieties. However, the thick clothing actually felt cooler than the thin darkside dress she had worn in the town.

Despite the clothing and hat, she could feel the sun burning above her, its heat baking her skin. It had risen slowly in the sky as they moved to the southwest, and seemed to grow increasingly powerful the more lofty it became. She hadn’t realized how much she was capable of sweating.

The others were doing little better. Acron had abandoned his darkside clothing at the first opportunity, and draped in white robes like he now was, he resembled a bale of cloth. Baon had bought himself a white robe as well, though he had made a few alterations, and wore it more like a coat, providing easy access to his sword and pistols underneath. Other than that, he wore a pair of nondescript trousers and a tight white shirt. Only Cynder insisted on maintaining his traditional dress--for some reason, the heat didn’t seem to affect him. He still wore his three-piece suit with the long tails and stiff vest.

Fortunately, there seemed to be a constant wind here on Dayside, and it helped alleviate some of the heat. However, the wind carried with it problems of its own--thousands of them, in the form of tiny sand grains.

The sand seemed to get into everything. It wiggled between her lips, blew into her eyes, and worked its way underneath her clothing. It was so fine it was almost like powder, but it still had the gritty roughness of sand. Since the day they had left that first town a week ago, Khriss hadn’t seen a single bit of stone or dirt--nothing but endless dunes of white sand.

“Town up ahead,” Baon informed, lowering the spyglass from his eye. Of their group, he was the only one who no longer wore the darkened spectacles.

“Doesn’t the light hurt your eyes?” Khriss asked curiously as he leaned over to hand her the spyglass. She gripped the reins of her tonk tightly and leaned over to accept it.

“Yes,” Baon said simply.

“Well, why not wear the spectacles?”

“They are a disadvantage I’d distance myself from as soon as possible,” he informed. Then, nodding ahead, he continued, “Do you want to stop?”

Khriss scanned the town through the glass. It looked much like the other towns they had passed, though it was on the small side.

“Not unless you can think of a way to refill our water,” she finally replied.

Baon shrugged. “I can try,” he said, moving his tonk forward until he was riding next to their guide--a young boy of perhaps fourteen years named Indan. He was one of the olive-skinned natives that formed the predominant part of the population in the towns they had passed. The merchant had promised that Idan would be able to lead them to the nation of Lossand--despite the fact that he didn’t speak a word of Dynastic.

Khriss reached into her saddlebags, pulling free a folded sheet of paper. The map had been copied from a Darkside book, and hardly seemed accurate. However, using the enormous mountain visible in the distance as a guide, she guessed they had only crossed about a third of the distance to their destination. Their water was already halfway gone.

Their inability to communicate with Indan was proving to be a major difficulty in this one important area: water. Khriss had assumed that the Daysider would provide a way for them to fill their water containers when they passed native towns, but so far that had not been the case. In fact, the young boy didn’t seemed concerned at all about water--he used it with a level of wastefulness that amazed Khriss. She had read of desert-like areas on Darkside and the people who lived in them. She would have assumed that water would be a precious, almost sacred commodity to these Daysiders.

But, amazingly, they didn’t seem to care about it. The tonks never needed refreshment--quite the opposite, in fact. Khriss had spilled some water from her canteen--Indan called it a Kido, or something like that--on the second day. The liquid had burned through her mount’s carapace like acid, sending the beast into a pained rage that had tossed her to the ground. Even now, there was a palm-sized hole in the creature’s headplate.

But the insect-like tonks were one thing, humans were something completely different. Surely they couldn’t survive without water? Their guide certainly drank a lot of it. But, she had yet to see a well or rainbucket in any of the towns they had passed.

This village was no different--a collection of about fifty small tents and several large pens, only one of which held any animals. The beasts were very similar to their bug-like mounts, though they were squatter and didn’t have the horns. They Khriss and the others road by, the villagers watching them with a suspicion that was matched by Flennid and the other two nobleman soldiers.

“What a beautiful aboriginal society!” Professor Acron exclaimed from just up front. “My friends in the anthropology department are going to fits of envy when we tell them about this, Cynder.” The plump man had removed a ledger from his bags, and was attempting--rather unsuccessfully--to scribble notes on it. “Look how primitive they are,” he exclaimed. “Nomads, wouldn’t you say?”

“The tents do seem to imply that, don’t they?” The Cynder agreed.

“Yes, yes,” Acron continued, scribbling. “Perhaps . . . twelve hundred years behind Elis. What a life it must be--no running water, no carriages, no theater! Though, I guess there must be something to be said for the simple life of a native.”

Acron’s comment earned a quiet snort from ahead, and Khriss looked up to see Baon trotting his mount back toward her. Acron shot a slightly uncomfortable look at the mercenary, then turned back to his notes.

“What?” Khriss demanded as Baon pulled his mount up next to hers.

“Look to your right,” Baon ordered, nodding to the side.

Khriss did as directed, her eyes finding a pair of wary guards that stood at the front of the village. Khriss’s expedition didn’t approach the town, though it had visited others. The villagers and Darksiders were mutually unable to communicate, and though the darksiders’s odd skin usually caused some stir amongst the children, most people paid them little heed. Apparently, these villages weren’t unaccustomed to visitors.

The guards watched them pass, squatting in the shadow of a tent wall. As far as Khriss could tell, there was nothing about them worth noting.

“I give up,” Khriss confessed. “What do you want me to see, Baon?”

“On the arm of the left one,” the warrior said, handing her spyglass. “Look closely.”

Khriss raised the glass to her eye, focusing on the warrior. It was difficult to pick out details in the shade, and she had to watch for a few moments before she saw what Baon was indicating--a strange device was attached to the man’s arm.

It seemed kind of like a shield or buckler, but it wasn’t wide enough. It seemed to be constructed of carapace, and it was perhaps as wide as a man’s palm. It ran all the way up the man’s forearm, extending from wrist to elbow. Most interesting, however, was the front of the device. She could see what appeared to be the tips of three arrows sticking out over the daysider’s wrist.

“What is it?” Khriss asked.

Baon shook his head. “A weapon of some sort,” he guessed. “A crossbow, maybe?”

“But there’s no bow,” Khriss objected.

Baon just shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Khriss raised the spyglass again. The man definitely acted as if the contraption were a weapon. As Khriss watched, one of the men unfolded something from the side of his contraption. It was a long rod that had been hidden under the weapon’s lip, and it attached to the weapon near the man’s wrist. Khriss watched with curiosity as the man held the far end of the rod and slowly began to pull it away from his arm then press it back down. Almost like he was . . . pumping.

“Pneumonic?” Khriss asked with surprise, handing the spyglass back to Baon.

“Air-powered crossbows,” Baon mumbled.

“They couldn’t possibly have a level of technology capable of such a thing,” Khriss objected.

“It appears that our primitives aren’t quite so primitive,” Cynder said from beside her.

Khriss turned with surprise--she’d almost forgotten the linguist was there. “We’ll have to find someone else to make us feel superior,” Cynder said, smiling to himself, his bushy eyebrows raised contentedly. “Of course, you might also have asked why a group of ‘nomads’ would bother growing crops.”

“Crops?” Khriss asked with surprise, turning back to look at the town, which was not receding in the distance. She hadn’t seen any sign of crops--just tent and . . . the pens. Why would they need so many empty ones? As she looked closer, she could see a couple of men walking about in each pen. They weren’t raking or weeding, like farmers would do back on darkside, but they did occasionally squat down to pick at unseen items in the sand.

“They aren’t pens, they’re fields,” she realized. “It just must be early in the growing season.”

“Either that, or the crops never break the surface of the sand,” Cynder said with a shrug. “Perhaps they even grow in layers, one on top of the other--that would explain why the pens are so relatively small. Remember this, My Lady, we are in a world completely foreign from our own. Any assumptions we make are bound to be wrong. Or, at least,” he continued with a quiet chuckle, “so I assume.”

Khriss nodded quietly to herself. Well, you were right about one thing, my prince. These people aren’t as backward as we’ve always thought. Oh, Gevin . . . .

“Duchess?” Baon asked, noticing the look on her face.

She started, realizing she hadn’t been paying attention. The town was fading in the distance, and they weren’t any closer to solving their water problem. “I’m sorry, Baon. I was just thinking about the prince.”

“We’ll find him, duchess,” Baon said confidently.

“He was right about so many things, Baon. He said that it wouldn’t be as difficult to cross the Border Ocean as the Dynasty claimed, which it wasn’t. He thought that the daysiders would be more advanced than the university taught, and again he was right. It almost makes me think him might have been right about . . . .”

“The Sand Mages?” Baon finished.

“It’s silly, of course,” Khriss said more forcefully. “Magic and superstition are the crutches of the unlearned, and so I told Prince Gevalden a dozen times over. He still believed, though, no mater what evidence the rest of Elis provided. He had a dream from those foolish stories, an image of mystical warriors that could somehow save us from the Dynasty. And now . . . .”

“We’ll find him,” Baon repeated.

Khriss took a deep breath, forcing herself not to think of Gevin, lest the tears start flowing again. “Of course we will. Now, what did the boy say about water?”

Baon shook his head. “He doesn’t understand. I point at my water bottle, and he thinks I’m offering him a drink. I point at the pack-mounts--and their half-empty jugs--and he only laughs and shakes his head.”

“How much time do we have?” Khriss asked.

“A week, with rationing. But it would be better to deal with it now. Perhaps you or the linguist should speak with him again.”

Khriss sighed. Cynder’s last attempts hadn’t been encouraging. Baon’s comment had not been a suggestion, however--he was worried. And so, therefore, was she.

“All right,” she said. “If, that is, I can get Stump here to speed up.” She shook the reins ineffectually, kicking at the beast’s armored sides.

Baon chuckled to himself.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Khriss retorted, still shaking her reigns in frustration.

“Try the hammer,” Baon suggested.

“Hammer?”

Baon reached under the front of his saddle, pulling out a small hammer, perhaps a foot long, with steel-capped ends. Khriss mimicked the action, and was surprised to find a similar device secured under the upraised lip of her saddle. It was connected to the saddle by a short cloth strap.

“Tap it on the right or left if you want him to turn,” the warrior instructed, demonstrating but snapping his hammer lightly against the side of the beast’s carapace just below the neck. The tonk turned slightly. “The harder you hit, the sharper the turn. If you hit it on the head, it will speed up. Hit it back near your saddle, and it will slow down, depending on the strength of the tap.”

Khriss tested his instructions, and Stump responded alacritously, moving as she commanded. “How did you . . . ?”

Baon smiled. “Observation,” he said, nodding toward Indan. “Something they often fail to teach in that university of yours.”

Khriss tapped the mallet lightly on the back of the beast’s head, causing it to speed up. As she gained on the guide’s tonk, the young boy turned apprehensive eyes her direction. She tapped Stump again as she moved up level with the guide, slowing the beast to match speeds.

Indan watched her with suspicious eyes. Like most of his kind, he had a rather large triangular nose and thick hair that tended to lay stiffly and flat.

Khriss smiled. “Iresha’takasha Do’Dakasha--”

“Aisha!” the boy swore, his face growing harsh. “A’Reel Karshad’n Shan’Tershadan!”

Khriss fell silent before the attack, and sat in resignation as he moved away from her.

#

With a sudden spasm of strength, Kenton burst into the sunlight. Sand poured off his parched and cracked face, leaving behind confused, delirious eyes. Sand clung to his cheeks, crusted into the wells of his eyes and around his lips. Only half conscious, he immediately fell back with a groan, slumping against the dune in which half of his body was still buried.

Tiny sandlings scuttled away from his body, hiding themselves beneath the sand as they realized their prey wasn’t quite dead. As Kenton leaned back, his muddled mind reaching for the bliss of sleep, he felt the burning sun above him, and knew, somehow, that he could not afford to fall unconscious again. He didn’t know how long he had spent half-buried in his tomb of sand, but he would not last much longer with his skin exposed to the sun’s fury.

Moving with a lethargy born of severe dehydration, Kenton began to struggle. He slowly pulled his body free from the dune, then let himself slide down the slope until he came to a stop at the bottom. His knee bumped something soft. His burning, dried eyes barely recognized it as a body--though it was only recognizable by the white robe and gray sash. Sandlings, ranging from the size of a fist all the way down to dots smaller than a fingernail, feasted on the corpse, chewing away layers of skin as the sun obligingly sucked away the body’s deadly water. Most of the corpse had already been reduced to bone.

Kenton turned away--unable to feel sick. He could conceive only one thing: the desire for water. Ignoring the burning sands, Kenton moved on hands and knees in what he hoped direction of the camp. He passed more corpses--hundreds of them, all in white. The Kershtians would have taken their dead for a proper burial in the deep sands. Soon he stopped paying attention to the bodies, moving with a monotonous roteness. He forgot why he was moving. He forgot where he was going. He even forgot why it mattered that he arrive. And so he was completely amazed when, by pure fortune, he crawled into the shade of a tent.

A tiny spark of sentience returned and, with a quiet gasp, he stumbled over to the far corner of the tent. There, sitting in the regular place, was a small barrel. He pulled the lid free with ragged fingers, and dipped his hand into the cool water beneath. After drinking deeply, he fell unconscious once again.

#

Khriss traced their trail on the map, which had been penned by one of her personal scribes back in Elis. It was crude and outdated, but it did show their destination. Lossand was a large, triangular nation that ran from nearly the center of the continent to the southern shore. It followed what appeared to be Dayside’s only river, and though the nation was long, it probably wasn’t more than a few hundred ells wide.

It was the river that interested Khriss. Lossand was bound to be different than the rest of the continent’s repetitious dunes and unbroken winds. Where there was a river, the land would be fertile and wet, an extended oasis. It was here that the Sand Mages were said to rule.

The legends were extensive and varied. Some told of mighty sorcerers that granted boons to their supplicants, others warned of devious creatures that gamed with the innocent. None were specific about just what a Sand Mage was, of course. Like tales of fairies and monsters, the legends were unsubstantiated, even ridiculous. They were yarns told to children, though if the truth be known, many adults believed them as well. Adults such as Prince Gevalden.

Somehow, Gevin had managed to convince the court--and his father--that these Sand Mages provided a valid source of aid against the Dynasty. Before the Dynastic blockades segregated the continents five centuries before, Elis and Lossand had been frequent trade partners. The prince had pointed to journals and merchants’ accounts, trying to prove that these Sand Mages were, in fact, a reality.

And the court had believed him. Despite logic, despite learning, the king had given his son leave to make the journey. Gevin had been so confident, so convincing, that even Khriss had half-believed him. Of course, that was the way he was. Few people could stand against a determined Gevin--he was the court’s most respected politician.

Why didn’t you listen to me? Khriss thought, bowing her head. Had Gevin died here, on the sands? Such an outcome was looking increasingly likely for her own expedition.

No, she decided, Gevin is too stubborn to have let something as mindless as these sands defeat him. He would have at least made it to Lossand. Gevin was an accomplished explorer--a few years back, he had even managed to sneak out of Elis and into the heart of Dynastic lands, hiding as a mercenary. He would have been prepared for the desert.

Of course, his expedition had started out much better outfitted than her own. He had been given twenty veteran soldiers to guard him, not a handful of hirelings and novices. His expedition to dayside had been extolled; her own proposed expedition had barely been suffered. She remembered well the senate’s reaction when she declared her intention to search for her betrothed. Even the King, who had been hard hit by his son’s disappearance, had laughed at the ridiculous notion.

You, child, travel to Dayside? Survive where Gevin failed? Really, Khrissalla, go back to your books.

And here she was, leading a group of men to their deaths. If her map was accurate, they still had over a week to travel, but barely enough water for a few days. The guide, who she had determined must be mad, continued on without care. They hadn’t seen one of the small desert villages since that last one a week ago, and sharp water rationings had left the entire group sullen. Only Cynder, with his ineffable wryness, was taking the foreboding circumstances in stride. He actually seemed to find it quite funny that they might die here on the sands, despite all their precautions and water hoarding.

Khriss had one last hope. Her map showed a group of markings that appeared to be stone formations--cliffs or hills of some sort, just below the mountain. Though it was a bit of a detour, she had ordered Indan to take them there. Her limited grasp of geology told her that if there was any hope of locating water, it would be where dirt and rock could be found.

#

“We’re there,” Baon informed, looking through the spyglass.

“Shella!” Khriss exclaimed. “Are you serious?”

Baon lowered the spyglass, giving her a flat look.

“Of course you are,” Khriss finished sheepishly. “Here, let me see.”

Sure enough, she could see very distinctly through the glass that what appeared to the naked eye as a dark blot on the horizon was, indeed, a line of ragged cliffs. She moved to hand the glass to Cynder, but another hand grabbed it first.

“By the Divine!” Flennid said. “Do you really think there might be water there?”

“If it is anywhere,” Khriss said, her lips downturned. Over the last few weeks, the nobleman had stopped using her title. It was a small oversight, but one that would have been an enormous mistake had they been back on Elis. However, out here on the sands, Flennid obviously knew he could get away with the disrespect. Unfortunately, Khriss also knew that she had done little to deserve this man’s loyalty. She had led him into the desert with improper provisions--he probably had a right to grumble.

She caught Baon’s eye as Flennid called to the other two soldiers, leading them in a gallop--or, at least, the insectile equivalent--toward the rocks.

“You shouldn’t let them be so disrespectful,” Baon informed.

“I know,” Khriss said.

“You’re encouraging dissention.”

“Well, you don’t always use my title,” she reminded.

“I know,” he said simply. “You shouldn’t let me get away with it either.”

Khriss sighed, walking over to Stump, who sat huddled in the sand, his legs buried. As she swung on his back, however, his thick legs rose beneath him and he began to waddle forward. Baon said nothing further, climbing on his own mount and following her, as did the two professors and the confused guide.

#

The cliffs rose like intricate ceramic vases, molded and brushed by the wind’s incorporeal hands. Khriss had seen nothing like them on darkside--logically, she knew that their strange, column-like arches and pillars must have been formed by the constant winds. Looking upon their beauty, however, she couldn’t shake the sense that the rock’s colorful strata had been etched by an intelligent mind.

The group circled for a good half an hour before finding a break in the wall of rock that was wide enough to bring their mounts through. Khriss had hoped to find a plain or plateau on the other side, a place where a natural spring could have been found. Unfortunately, her first glimpse revealed something much less encouraging.

“Imagine that, more sand,” Cynder noted.

It was a broad white basin, a continuation of the sands they had crossed, though the sheltered plain had created dunes that were much less pronounced. The rock continued in a ring, perhaps the remnants of an enormous volcanic crater. Whatever it been before, it was now filled with the same white grains that saturated every other piece of Dayside’s cursed ground.

Flennid, Torth, and Jeron stood in a disconsolate line near the mouth of the opening. “No water,” Flennid spat quietly, shooting Khriss an accusatory look.

“No water,” Baon agreed, scanning the plain with the spyglass, “but there’s definitely something here.”

“What?” Khriss asked with surprise.

“Specks of color,” Baon informed, passing her the glass. “Ones that don’t fit what we’ve seen in the desert.”

Khriss looked across the plain. She could barely make out what Baon had seen--to her, they only looked like dark marks on the otherwise white plain. They might have just been rocks, she couldn’t say for certain.

“If you say so,” she said, lowering the glass.

“I do,” Baon replied, throwing back the side of his rope and pulling free a pistol. “I assume you want to investigate?”

Khriss paused, then nodded, tapping Stump to move forward. The other soldiers, sensing Baon’s careful wariness, nervously fingered their pistols.

“Put those away,” she ordered curtly. “You won’t need them.”

The three noblemen looked at each other, then tapped their mounts forward, guns still held at the ready.

The ride that followed was nervous to the point of anxiety. Tension was high because of the rationing, and Khriss could see from the look in Flennid’s eyes that if anything so much as squirmed, he would shoot it. Baon’s dots of color resolved as they approached, taking on human shapes. As they got closer, however, they soon realized that even squirming was beyond the forms’ power.

Baon, watching through the glass as they approached, was the first to make the determination. “Dead bodies,” he announced quietly. “Hundreds of them.”

“Ridos,” Flennid swore silently, growing even more nervous as he scanned around the crater’s rim.

“Looks like they’ve been dead for some time,” Baon continued. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, “Duchess, you might want to stay back.”

“I can handle dead bodies, captain,” she informed with more resolve than she felt.

“I don’t know that I can,” Acron confessed, wiping his brow with a dirty handkerchief.

“Come, now, Jon,” Cynder said encouragingly. “Weren’t you the one who was so excited to experience the ‘simple life of a primitive?’ I suppose nothing could be more simple than this.”

Baon ignored them both, climbing off his mount as they approached the first body. It was mostly buried in the sand, the only clue of its existence a piece of cloth that had once been white. Dried with blood and crusted with sand, it was easy to tell that the poor soul hadn’t died of natural causes.

Baon approached with a firm step, sliding his thin longsword out of its sheath and using it to pull the rest of the corpse from its shallow sand grave. Khriss gasped in disgust as a group of tiny black insects scuttled away from the body, leaving behind a corpse that was mostly bone.

“No weapons,” Baon noted, continuing to pull the body free. “No armor either, just a robe.” There was a brief flash of gold from the sand and, curious, Baon dug it out with the point of his sword, uncovering what appeared to be a gold-colored sash.

“Ry’kensha!” a sudden voice yelped.

Khriss spun in surprise. Indan sat atop his mount, his eyes wide with fear. Then, suddenly, he grabbed his hammer and spun his beast around, galloping it away from the group. “Ker’Naisha, Ai’Dakasha Nan’Mashainto!”

“Oh, Ridos,” Baon swore, dashing toward his own mount, intent on following the frightened boy.

A sudden explosion sounded in the air. Indan slumped in his saddle, then toppled backward onto the white sands. His mount continued forward, oblivious to the fact that it had lost its rider.

Flennid sat, his smoking pistol held clutched in shaking fingers, staring at the dead guide. A second later Baon tore the nobleman from his saddle.

“Boy, you are an idiot!” the mercenary informed, slamming Flennid back against the mount’s hard carapace. The pistol slid from stunned fingers.

“I . . . I thought he was going for help,” the nobleing stuttered. “That he’d led us into a trap.”

Baon held Flennid for a moment, his eyes wide with anger. Then he sighed, dropping the boy to the sands. Flennid sat shaking as Baon retrieved the fallen pistol and slid it into his belt. “I hope to the Divine that map of yours is accurate,” he mumbled to Khriss as he climbed atop his mount and galloped in the direction of the fallen guide.

#

“Recognize this?” Baon asked, holding up a large piece of what appeared to be tonk carapace. There were thin wooden tubes extending from its sides, however, and several bulbous chambers underneath. The front of the contraption held three thin carapace tubes, the ends of which just barely jutted out from underneath the dome-like shield on the top.

The weapon, however, was hardly in good condition--even ignorant of its workings, Khriss could tell that much. Several of the tubes had been torn out, and there was a large crack running across its carapace top. All three of the chambers underneath bore similar spider-web crackings.

“I assume it’s one of the weapons we saw earlier,” Khriss noted. They had found a collection of tents in a sheltered hollow at the back of the plain. Most of the tents were void of anything useful, but, thankfully, a few held barrels of stale water. She had sent Flennid and the others to search through the camp for supplies, and left Baon to investigate the field of bodies. Indan’s wound had been, unfortunately, fatal. It felt odd to Khriss, using the habitation of what must belong to one of the corpses on the field, but it made more sense than erecting their own tents.

“Right,” the mercenary agreed, dropping an arrow on tent’s table. It was long--like an arrow fired from a bow, rather than a crossbow. The tip, however, was cylindrical, rather than flat like a regular arrowhead, and it had a small plug behind it that fit the size of the weapon’s tubes.

“There aren’t very many of them,” Baon continued, “though from what I can tell--which isn’t much, considering the level of decomposition--most of those people were either killed by arrows like these or longer ones, probably fired from a regular bow.”

“And is it really fired by air pressure?” Cynder asked. The older professor sat on a stool to Khriss’ left, rubbing his chin with interest. Acron, however, was stooped over on the other side of the tent, inspecting the contents of a small chest beside the wall.

Baon shrugged. “I don’t know how it works, professor. The broken piece on the side does look like a pump, however.”

Cynder shook his head in thought. “I still find it hard to believe that the people on this side of the world have the technology to create the seals and valves that would be required of such a weapon.”

“Try and find us one that isn’t broken,” Khriss requested, accepting the device from Baon.

“I’ll try, duchess,” Baon said without conviction. “There isn’t much left besides bodies. There aren’t even very many arrows. I would guess arrows like these--or, rather, the wood to make them--is scarce, which would explain why most of them were recovered by the victors.”

“But they left these tents alone,” Khriss noted. The tents had been blown by winds, but there were no signs of their being searched--the fact that a few contained water proved that much.

“True,” Baon agreed. “Regardless, the arrows are gone. None of the fallen men have weapons on them. Either their weapons were gathered by the victors, or they never had them in the first place.”

“Why wouldn’t they have had weapons?” Acron asked. With a disrespect for the dead that appalled Khriss, the stoopy professor had confiscated a robe from the room’s chest, and was cutting it into spare handkerchiefs.

“You’re the one who is always talking about primitive cultures, professor,” Baon said. “Primitive people don’t fight the same way that the Dynasty does, with supposedly ‘civilized’ restrictions. If these people were surprised by their enemies, then it would have been a slaughter. The way the bodies fell--in a disorganized, haphazard manner--seems to suggest such was the case. There’s no sign of ranks--most of the bodies are scattered and isolated.”

“You know a lot about war, dear man,” Cynder noted. “Of course, I guess that’s what you are paid for. What is that?” Cynder pointed to the other object Baon had brought into the tent--what looked like a human leg bone.

Baon picked up the bone lightly then, grasping it in two hands, he snapped it in two. The bone practically disintegrated in his fingers, shattering into tiny shards and chips at the slightest amount of pressure.

“What do you make of that, professors?” he asked, dusting off his hands. “I only found a few of those, but they were the only bodies that had been completely stripped of flesh. In fact, they looked like they had been drying in the sun for years.”

Cynder fingered a chip of bone, grinding it into powder on the table top. “These bones are old,” he mumbled. “Amazingly old. A burial ground of some sort?”

“You are the learned one, professor,” Baon said, taking a quick drink from his canteen, then taking a seat by the table.

Cynder chuckled. “Learning is all a matter of circumstance, my friend,” he noted. “I have no skill in this area.

“I think you’re right,” Khriss said, looking at the bone. “If it weren’t a burial ground, why would there be aged bones here? Perhaps they came for a ceremony of some sort.”

Cynder nodded to himself, rubbing his chin in thought. “Perhaps one of the villages lost a valued elder,” he mused, “and its people came to the sacred place to bury him. They were ambushed, however, by a rival village, and slaughtered. Maybe the fight itself unearthed a few graves--or maybe the victors did so to defile them--which would explain why you found some on the surface.”

Baon shrugged. “Sounds good to me. You might be missing one thing, though.”

Cynder looked up with a questioning look. Baon reached over to tap on the table with a dark finger. It was made of wood, though the base appeared to be shiny black carapace. “This wood didn’t come from one of those desert villages. It was cut from real logs, not the thin reed-like strips that make up our tent poles and the wood we’ve seen in the villages.”

“By the Divine,” Cynder said with a chuckle, rubbing his fingers across the table. “I didn’t even think of that.”

Baon caught Khriss’ eyes, and his earlier comment came back to her. Observation. Something they often fail to teach in that university of yours.

“Lossand,” Khriss decided. “It’s the only place where there would be enough water to grow proper lumber.”

“If you say--”

“Duchess!” a voice screamed. A second later, Baon was out of his seat, pistol cocked. Jeron’s cries were not warnings of danger, however. The thick-armed soldier pulled back the tent flap, panting in the heat. “Duchess,” he repeated, “we’ve found one that’s still breathing!”

#

Cynder turned the man’s head to the side, checking his pupil. The daysider was unconscious, but judging from the empty water barrel next to him, he had at one point been awake enough to drink. His skin was dried and cracked, and the skin on his face was peeling. He was alive, however, which was more than could be said for the rest of the bodies.

“Well?” Khriss asked.

“Well, My Lady, he’s dehydrated--but you could probably have guessed that much. Other than that, I can tell you little. My medical training is hardly comprehensive.”

“Leave him,” Flennid decided. “We barely have enough water for ourselves.”

The group looked from the young nobleman to Khriss, who knelt next to Cynder. Flennid’s order was a challenge. “No,” she decided. “We bring him.”

“Ridos, woman!” Flennid spat. “You will kill us all!”

Khriss met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “We can’t leave him,” she affirmed.

“Besides,” Baon growled. “Since someone was kind enough to murder our guide, we might need some help getting out of this desert.”

Flennid hissed, but backed down before Baon’s hard face. Finally, the young nobleman pushed his way out of the tent, mumbling something about Khriss’s foolishness. Jeron and Torth stood hesitantly at the departure, then rushed out after him.

Khriss turned her eyes back on the daysider. He wasn’t the same race as the villagers--his hair was light, instead of the uniform black, and his features more subdued. He wore the same white robe as the rest of the fallen, and tucked into his white sash was a second, golden one.

Who are you? She wondered. Will you be able to tell us what happened here?

They sat for a few minutes, watching Cynder do his best to administer to the fallen man. After about five minutes, Baon suddenly turned, his head cocked to the side. Khriss looked at the mercenary, a question on her face, but he quieted her, frowning in consternation. Then he cursed, dashing out of the tent. Khriss and the professors followed, and Khriss hastily replaced her dark spectacles as they stumbled back out into direct sunlight.

In the distance, already out of bow range, three familiar figures rode toward the basin’s exit. By rope, they led eight other tonks--the rest of the mounts and pack animals . . . pack animals that held every drop of water the expedition had left.

White Sand

Chapter Five

Baon set three pistols on the table, each one thunking dully against the wood. “We have three pistols,” he said, “my two, and the one I took from Flennid. However,” he continued, lining a small handful of cylindrical, paper-wrapped charges below the weapons, “we only have ten charges, plus the four loaded in my pistols. We also have my sword,” he said, nodding to the sheathed weapon tied at his side.

“We have barely enough water to fill our three canteens,” Acron said nervously. “I searched through the tents--the water we found earlier had already been packed on the tonks.”

Eyes turned to Khriss. She shook her head. “I assumed we were going to sleep here today, so I brought my bags into the tent, but they aren’t going to be of much use. I have the map, some changes of clothing, and my scientific instruments.”

“This isn’t good,” Baon mumbled.

“My good man,” Cynder said with a chuckle, “I hardly think you need to point that out to us.”

Baon continued to rub his chin in thought. “All right,” he finally said. “You have some decisions to make, duchess.”

“Me?” Khriss asked.

“You are in charge of this expedition, are you not?” Baon asked. “This isn’t the Elisian senate. It’s your expedition; you tell us what to do.”

“I know,” Khriss continued. “It’s just that I didn’t think we had a choice.”

“We always have choices, duchess,” Baon informed. “We can try to make it to a town, or we can wait here and hope someone comes to bury those bodies.”

“Of course,” Cynder added, “if the entire town was slaughtered, then there won’t be anyone left to care.”

“That is the risk,” Baon said. “And, even if they did survive, there is a good chance that they aren’t willing to risk coming back--otherwise, why leave the bodies for so long? Still, we would definitely last longer on the water we have if we stayed here in the shade.”

“Waiting to die,” Khriss said with a sick feeling.

“I’m not giving an opinion, duchess, I’m stating options. So, we can go or we can stay, or we can try a mixture of both--wait for a while, then go. Another consideration is what we do with him,” Baon nodded to the daysider who lay, still unconscious, on the room’s cot. Over the last few hours, Cynder had incrementally dumped nearly half a canteen’s worth of precious water between his immobile lips, hoping to hydrate him somewhat. Even though the ministrations were done at Khriss’s order, it was difficult to watch the water go in such a potentially wasteful manner.

“We don’t have mounts anymore, duchess,” Baon explained. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to carry an unconscious man, but it is not an easy task. I would be the only one strong enough to attempt it, and I can guarantee that we won’t be able to go very far if I do.”

“We can’t leave him,” Khriss mumbled, almost to herself.

“Poor savage,” Acron agreed.

Khriss studied the sleeping form, a feeling of helpless responsibility weighing on her back. Her expedition had started as nine, but she had almost immediately lost Captain Deral and his lieutenant to that Dynastic border patrol. Now, three more had deserted because of her poor leadership. Besides herself, only three remained--and it appeared it was her prerogative to choose which way they were going to die.

“We stay,” she finally said. “For now, at least. The map shows a four-day hike to the border of Lossand, and it’s a few days further before we reach the first marked town. If there’s anything closer, then it’s not on the map. That unconscious man is our only chance.”

Baon nodded, accepting her decision without argument. “Very well,” he said. “Then I am going scouting. These rock formations appear to extend back for a distance--perhaps your original instinct was correct, and I’ll find a natural spring.”

He didn’t sound very optimistic.

#

Kenton could hear a voice. It seemed familiar for some reason, like words spoken by a friend long forgotten. He focused on the voice, letting it lead him through the darkness, the unfamiliar blackness, the night of his mother’s stories. He wanted so much to retreat before the dark, to huddle in the back of his mind, but the voice coaxed him forward. It burned like a candle in the distance, a guide through the darkness, and he followed it, crawling forward until . . . .

His eyes snapped open. He was in his tent--he had just finished fighting the deep sandling. In a moment, Dirin would speak to him, then Traiben would visit. The advancement ceremony, the deaths, the slaughter . . . a dream.

“I should never have come to Dayside, Cynder,” the voice said--a female voice. The voice he had heard in his darkness. He looked around with confusion as the voice continued. “I’m not a leader of men. I have the title, but that means less and less in Elis these days. I rarely even gave orders to servants--I spent most of my time in the university. Really, all being a duchess did was get me into parties and balls. Or, at least, whenever Gevin could drag me away from my studies long enough for such things.”

Kenton was wrong--this wasn’t his tent. It was similar, but the personal effects weren’t his. The voice, it was speaking in Dynastic--his mother’s language. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn with dehydration. It hadn’t been a dream--it had happened, all of it. Traiben, Elorin, dead. His father . . . dead.

A groan of despair rose in his throat, though it escaped his desiccated lips as a pitiful croak.

The room fell silent. “Shella!” the voice finally said. There was a sound of chairs being moved, and then a face appeared above his own. Through his despair, Kenton had time for a moment of confusion--his muddled mind hadn’t connected the language with the nationality until he saw her face. What is a darksider doing here?

The girl, in her late teens or perhaps early twenties, had the dark skin and thin, fine features of a Darksider. Her eyes were a soft gray, her hair, which was worn without bun or braids, was long, well past shoulder-length. Her face was concerned, but at the same time excited.

“His eyes are open, Cynder!”

“I can see that, My Lady,” a second voice said.

Kenton turned his head slightly, focusing on a second darksider, a balding man of perhaps sixty. He wore one of the strange, constrictive suits that darksiders were fond of, and he also seemed excited, though his emotions were much harder to read than those of the girl.

The man reached out, taking Kenton’s pulse and inspecting his face with a critical eye.

“He’s probably scared,” the girl said with concern. “Waking up after such a slaughter to find strange, dark-skinned people hovering over him, speaking a strange language.”

“Undoubtedly,” the man agreed. “Either that, or he thinks he died and his god has a very odd sense of humor.”

Kenton frowned. His Dynastic was rusty--since his mother’s death two years ago, he had been given little chance to practice it. Their words, however, were familiar enough. He opened his mouth to speak--to ask one of the hundred questions that were blooming in his mind as his senses returned. He was cut off, however, by a movement from the tent door.

The largest man Kenton had ever seen stood silhouetted by the sunlight. His skin was even darker that of other Darksiders--a black, rather than a soft brown. He wore a Kershtian robe, but left it open at the front, turning into something more like a duster or a jacket. Underneath he wore a tight shirt made of the strange springy cloth Kenton had sometimes seen traders peddling, along with a stiff pair of Darksider leggings. His face was less fine-featured than those of the other two--his nose larger, his chin more pronounced--and his stance, eyes, and expression left little speculation as to his profession. This man was a warrior.

“He’s awake,” the man stated simply.

“You almost sound disappointed, Baon,” the girl countered.

“It’s just, I assumed I had solved one of our problems.” The warrior lifted back the tent flap, revealing a large tonk--female, by the horn-count--grazing on sand outside.

“A tonk!” the girl yelped with amazement. “Baon, how did you manage it?”

“It’s the guide’s,” Baon explained. “I found it chewing on sand a short distance away.”

“Is there any water on it?” the girl asked eagerly, rising to push past Baon to inspect the tonk’s saddlebags. As she did so, the large warrior’s eyes fell on Kenton. They studied him for some reason, searching Kenton’s features with a calculating scrutiny.

“A little,” the warrior said. “Not very much, I’m afraid.”

“By the Divine!” the girl cursed. “What was he thinking? How was he planning to survive out here without water?”

Baon’s eyes continued to study Kenton, though Kenton couldn’t fathom what the man was searching for. The man’s eyes were . . . suspicious.

He knows, Kenton realized. He can tell that I understand what they’re saying.

“Well?” Baon asked directly at Kenton. “How do you people survive out here without water?”

The girl froze, turning around with confused eyes.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Kenton asked. The words came out slowly--he hadn’t spoken Dynastic in some time. The language still felt fairly natural, however.

“No,” the warrior, Baon, replied.

The girl’s eyes opened wide in disbelief, and the other Darksider, still sitting on a stool beside Kenton, chuckled softly to himself.

“The water?” Baon reminded.

“How can you be out of water?” Kenton asked, shaking his head. “You aren’t in the desert yet.”

Baon raised an eyebrow, lifting the tent flap again and pointing outside. “Sun. Sand. Desert.”

Kenton frowned. Could it be that the word in Dynastic didn’t mean what he thought it meant? “No, I mean, a desert--a place with no water.”

“Wait a minute!” the girl interrupted, stalking back into the tent. “How do you speak Dynastic so well?”

“One topic at a time, duchess,” Baon said, cutting off her question. He looked directly at Kenton. “Daysider, I don’t understand you. If this isn’t a desert, where’s the water?”

“Well, all around us, of course,” Kenton replied. “You mean . . . . No,” he realized, shaking his head. “Of course no one told you. It’s just, on dayside it’s common knowledge.”

“You were faking!” the girl said, folding her arms indignantly. “You pretended not to speak our language!”

“I did not,” Kenton protested.

“You sat there listening to us, all the time understanding what we were saying!” the girl challenged. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You never gave me an opportunity to speak!” Kenton replied trying to sound sincere, though he couldn’t help smiling slightly at the ridiculousness of his situation. “You have some water left, I assume,” he said, turning to Baon.

The warrior nodded. “Only a little, daysider. Why?”

“Give it to me.”

The warrior frowned slightly, but he reached down to his belt and pulled out a round container with a cap. Kenton accepted the container, then rose from his cot. Instantly, a wave of light-headedness struck, and his vision began to darken.

He felt his arm grabbed by a powerful hand as Baon steadied him. A moment later the wave passed, but he could still feel the weakness in his limbs. He was far from healed.

“Do we need to go far?” Baon asked.

Kenton shook his head, breathing deeply. “No. Just outside. I can walk.”

The warrior released his grip, allowing Kenton to shuffle across the tent floor to the door. He pulled back the flap, stepping into the warm sun. The darksiders followed--though the girl and the old man put strange contraptions over their eyes--something like Kershtian eye-lenses, but much darker.

Kenton’s strength gave out as he walked out onto the sand, but he waved Baon back as he sank to his knees. He shook the water container, judging its contents. It was mostly full. Probably enough, he thought.

With that, he took of the stopper and began to pour the water onto the sand in front of him.

The girl gasped in alarm, moving to stop him, but the warrior grabbed her by the shoulder. “Wait,” he ordered.

Kenton continued to pour, letting the water drain slowly so it soaked down more than it did out. Hopefully, there’s one near the surface . . .

A moment later, the ground began to tremble slightly. Kenton thrust his hands into the ground, digging through the sand and grabbing the form he felt beneath. With a heave of his weakened arms, he pulled a thick vine from the sand. It was wider than a man’s arm, a dull brown in color. He could only lift it about a foot out of the sand--both of its ends continued on beneath the surface. What he had pulled free was part of a much, much larger network.

“Knife,” he requested, noting the exhaustion in his voice. He could hardly believe how difficult such simple actions seemed.

Baon produced a knife from a sheath at his calf--a well-crafted blade obviously intended for use as a weapon. Kenton sawed at the vine, slicing through its skin at an angle. “Good,” he said, handing back the knife. “Now, go get something to store this in.” With that, he pulled the two parts of the vine apart, and water began to seep from the hundreds of tiny tubes that ran inside its center.

“Shella!” the girl breathed as Kenton refilled Baon’s water container. The warrior ducked into a tent and returned with several of the water barrels from inside. It took Kenton a few moments to fill all three. Then he pushed the two halves of the vine together, pressing firmly to help them reseal. A second later it was done, and as he let the vine drop to the sand, its cilia quickly wiggled it beneath the surface.

“I don’t understand,” the girl objected, standing with her hands on her hips as she regarded the patch of sand--turned to black from the spill of water--where the vine had vanished. “Why would they carry water like that?”

“Does it mater?” Baon asked, lifting a ladle to his lips and tasting the water.

“Yes,” the girl said mater-of-factly. “It does.”

“It’s for protection,” Kenton explained. “Most . . .” What was a word for sandling in Dynastic? “Most sand-creatures have hard shells that dissolve when they touch water. The dorim vines keep the water as a defensive mechanism--if sand-creatures try to eat it, their mouths melt.”

“But, where does the water come from?” she continued.

“I don’t know,” Kenton confessed.

“It must be the water table, My Lady,” the older darksider guessed. “Somewhere beneath all this sand, there must be a place where water collects.”

Kenton frowned. He’d called her ‘My Lady.’ He remembered something from what he mother had said about Darkside. “My Lady?” he asked. “Are you a . . .” he searched for the word, and found he only knew it in Lossandin. “A Kelzi?”

“A what?” the girl asked with a frown.

“A Kelzi,” Kenton repeated, trying to mimic the way his mother had always pronounced the word.

“Oh, a Kelzi,” the girl said. “A . . . Land-holder. I suppose you could call me that, though it isn’t quite right.”

“A Kli then?” Kenton asked, changing to a Kershtian word for nobleman. “One whose title passes from parents to child?”

“Yes,” the girl said with a nod. “That’s it.”

“Ah,” Kenton said with a nod, motioning for Baon to help him regain his feet. “You must be very religious, then.”

“Religious?” the girl asked with confusion. “Well, I suppose, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Kenton frowned. A Kli that wasn’t religious? But, it was the Kershtian Theocracy that granted the title. This woman was odd--he spoke the words in her own language, but she still didn’t seem to understand.

Baon helped him back into the tent, and he eased back onto the cot. In his hand, unnoticed buy the Darksiders--he hoped--he clutched a small handful of sand. He’d had another reason for wanting to go outside. He rested back, feeling sleep reach for him again, but forced himself to remain awake for a few moments longer. There was something he had to test--putting it off would only worry him further.

Reaching out, he called for the sand to come to life. Nothing happened.

Kenton let the sand dribble from his fingers, his earlier despair returning. It was as he feared--the overmastery had burned away his abilities. He was no longer a sand master.

#

“Well, he did deceive us,” Khriss said defensively, looking down at the daysider as he fell unconscious, a small handful of white sand slipping hourglass-like from between his limp fingers.

Baon raised an eyebrow. “If you say so, duchess,” he said, carrying one of the knee-high barrels of water into the room.

“We didn’t even bother to ask his name,” Cynder mumbled with a chuckle.

Baon set the barrel beside the bed. Then, rising, he looked over at Khriss. “Good job,” he said simply.

Khriss frowned, trying to follow the warrior’s logic. “At what?”

“You made the right decision,” Baon explained, carrying the second barrel into the room. “You decided not to leave him, even when Flennid challenged your authority. You stood behind your decision when we could have fled. Now, it appears as if we will live because of your resolve.”

Khriss blushed. The mercenary spoke with a very matter-of-fact tone of voice, without a hint of flattery, but the compliment held more power than any courtly praise. “It wasn’t an inspired decision, Baon,” she replied. “It was more random than anything else--I could have led us to our deaths just as easily.”

“I didn’t say it was inspired,” Baon corrected, placing the final barrel and rising to look her in the eyes. “It was consistent. You made a difficult decision, the best one you could, then had enough confidence in yourself to remain strong. You’re not a leader, duchess. Someday, however, you may become one.”

He walked by her, pushing aside the tent flap and striding out into the light.

“Well, you were right about something too, Baon.”

“What?” he asked, moving to unlatch the tonk’s saddlebags and rifle through them.

“The guide,” Khriss explained. “He wasn’t mad--he could have found us water at any time. He probably got quite a chuckle from the way we insisted on bringing all our water with us from the port city.”

Baon smiled, locating something in the bags. He stood, holding something in his hands that looked like a large animal’s bladder or wineskin.

“There’s a second thing they don’t teach in your university, duchess,” he said, throwing the large sack-like thing over his shoulder. “The unlearned aren’t as stupid as you think.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said with a half-smile. “What are you doing?”

Baon slipped his knife from its sheath, then nodded toward the bags over his shoulder. “They’re waterbags--the guide probably intended to fill them once we reached ‘the desert,’ wherever that is. If our new daysider friend happens to die within the next few days, I want to be certain I can replicate what he just did.”

#

When Kenton next awoke, some of his strength seemed to have returned. He was, at least, able to sit up without getting light-headed. He was alone in the tent--the darksiders were nowhere to be seen.

He sat for a moment, listening to the powerful Kerla wind blow at the tent’s sides. Time had passed since the attack--he couldn’t be certain how much, but days at least. A week maybe? How long could a person live without food? Thoughts of eating suddenly reminded him how hungry he was.

He stood, walking slowly over to the tent’s door. He paused, however, before leaving. There, sitting on a short table beside the fluttering door, was a bright golden sash. His sash. How many years had he one day dreamed of earning it? How many years had it been since he had given up on such dreams, continuing to struggle because . . . because why? Because he wanted to spite his father? That was part of it. A great deal of who he was, the sinews that gave strength to his personality, was his rebellious spirit.

But now there was nothing to rebel against. He was a mastrell--but a mastrell of what? Had anyone else survived the massacre? Kenton grabbed the sash, but didn’t tie it on. He had been made a mastrell, true, but he had just as immediately lost the status. A man couldn’t be a mastrell if he couldn’t master sand.

I’m not a sand master any more. His mind still refused to accept the idea. It was like he was numb; unwilling to face such a possibility. He had been in the Diem for eight years, he had worked and agonized to strengthen his one little ribbon. It couldn’t be gone. It couldn’t.

Kenton shook his head in disbelief, pushing away thoughts of his powers. He realized he was refusing to deal with the issue, but at the same time he didn’t care. He couldn’t face it. Not yet.

With a sigh, he shuffled out of the tent and into the warm sunlight. A short distance away, past the tents, he could see the plain where the advancement ceremonies had taken place. From such a distance the white specs that covered it could have been mistaken for stones, and not corpses.

Kenton stood for a long moment, staring out at the enormous graveyard. Farewell, my friends . . . my father, he bid. Let us hope the Kershtians aren’t right. Otherwise, the afterlife will be very difficult for you. The Sand God was not known for his love toward sand masters.

What happened here? He thought, shaking his head in confusion. Something had been done to the sand masters--something that dehydrated them at an accelerated rate. They had started to overmaster when they assumed they had plenty of water, and by the time they realized the damage they were doing, it had been too late.

And the Kershtians are behind it somehow. They would never have attacked if they hadn’t known the sand masters were weakened. A single mastrell was worth hundreds of warriors--Praxton’s final effort proved that. Still, to attack the collected Diem . . . .

We grew too lax, Kenton decided. It was bound to happen eventually. He was just as to blame as the rest of the Diem--he had heard of the new Kershtian high priest and his extreme hatred for sand mastery. He was said to be irrational, even for a Kershtian. Kenton had ignored him, as had the rest of the Diem. The Kershtians had been denouncing sand mastery for centuries--what had suddenly made them decide to act on their hatred?

And suddenly, Kenton knew what it must have been. They found an accomplice--someone with the Diem to help them. Someone to poison the mastrells, to leave us defenseless. It didn’t take Kenton long to realize who the traitor was.

Drile.

#

When Kenton next awoke, he found himself strapped to the back of the darksiders’ tonk. He groaned, rising from the uncomfortable position to seat himself properly. He only vaguely remembered stumbling half-asleep to the beast’s back, Baon explaining that the duchess--whatever a duchess was--wanted to get moving as soon as possible.

Kenton blinked against the light, reorienting himself. They were nearing the pillar-like rocks that rimmed the sand masters’s meeting place. Kenton frowned. The plain was large, but it didn’t take very long to cross. How long had they been moving?

Only then did he notice the group that trudged across the sand beside his tonk. The darksiders walked on the sand awkwardly, kicking up sand with each step and sometimes slipping. That, coupled with the fact that the party was made up of an old man, a girl, and an overweight man Kenton hadn’t seen before, was enough to tell him that the trip would probably take a very, very long time.

“Look! The savage is awake!” the fat man said, his mood brightening slightly as he looked up and saw Kenton regarding them.

The others looked up. Their faces were wearied and taxed, though they probably hadn’t been traveling for more than a few hours. Already, sand dust streaked their dark skin, sticking to the dried sweat they had long since stopped wiping away.

They will never last like this, he thought to himself with a shake of his head. No matter how much water one has, the Kerla is not something to travel on foot.

“We’ll take a break when we reach the rim,” the girl decided. She was obviously in charge, despite the fact that she was a woman, not to mention younger than the others. However, Kenton knew that things were different on darkside--he remembered with fondness how often his mother would clash with dayside authorities. Lossand was much more relaxed than Kershtian society, but she had claimed to find even that restrictive.

They crossed the remaining distance to the rock wall in silence, though Kenton did catch the girl shooting him the occasional suspicious look. He could only smile to himself, shaking his head. For some reason she had decided to distrust him; she was obviously convinced he was hiding something--which was perfectly all right, considering the fact that he was.

Such thoughts brought back the pain--not only of his fallen comrades, but of his own inability. Every sand master, no matter how weak, was schooled from his first day in the Diem not to overmaster. Overmastery killed, overmastery weakened, and overmastery burned out power. It appeared that Kenton was first-hand proof of that last possibility.

“Here,” the warrior Baon said, finally leading tonk and party into the relative coolness of the rock’s shade. The fat man sighed in relief, collapsing to the sand, and the others didn’t fare much better. Only Baon remained on his feet--the walk didn’t seem to have bothered him at all.

Kenton shared a look with the darkside warrior, who nodded in understanding. He realized it too.

“How on the sands did you get trapped with only one tonk?” Kenton asked.

“We were--” the girl paused. “Wait, I should be asking you questions.”

Kenton sighed, looking over at Baon. “Well?” he asked.

“Betrayal,” the warrior said simply, taking a sip from his water bottle.

The girl huffed indignantly at the slight.

“Is she always this bad?” Kenton asked, nodding toward the girl.

“Only in the mornings,” the warrior informed. “Or,” he added, “after she’s been forced to hike for two hours in dayside heat.”

Kenton nodded, immediately feeling guilty for his insolence. The simple fact was that he was just too good at defying authority. He’d been rebelling against the Diem’s leadership for so long, he immediately reacted impertinently to anyone in a position of command.

Too late now, Kenton decided, looking at the Darkside girl’s face with a sigh.

#

Khriss started, taken aback by the Daysider’s rudeness. Never, in her entire life, had she been treated in such a way. Baon was blunt, true, but not rude. Even Flennid, who had obviously resented her, had made his opinion known with an air of court-bred subtlety.

Khriss didn’t know how to react. All her life, people had treated her with the respect that her title demanded. True, she had never been a large part of court politics, and therefore was often the subject of jokes or rumors, but such were to be expected, and at least they were never expressed before her face. This Daysider’s speech, his entire air, was intentionally disrespectful.

She almost backed down and left him alone. However, Baon’s words from before stood defiantly in the back of her mind--the warrior had inferred that that she was too quick to let others ignore her station. So it was that she found herself staring defiantly back at the Daysider.

“Children,” Cynder interrupted, “I hate to break such a beautifully tense moment, but aren’t either of you bothered by the fact that our mercenary just drew his weapon?”

Khriss looked over with surprise, noticing for the first time that Baon was holding one of his silver, double-barreled pistols at the ready, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something. He held up a hand to forestall questions, and crept across the shaded sand, sticking close to the rock wall. He rounded the lip of the rock opening that led out of the enclosed crater, stepping softly on the sand, his pistol cocked. Then, suddenly, he spun the rest of the way around the corner, his weapon held at the ready.

He stood for a moment, a look that could only be surprise on his face, then lowered his weapon. “By the Divine,” he mumbled.

“What?” Khriss demanded, hoisting herself to her feet and peeking around the corner.

There, tied to a rock outcropping, were four familiar tonks, one bearing Stump’s distinctive broken horn.

“I’d wondered how even Flennid could be so cruel to take all the mounts,” Cynder mumbled, joining the two.

Khriss nodded. “Apparently he isn’t as evil as we assumed.”

Baon snorted, tucking his pistol back into his belt. “Taking these mounts is probably the only smart thing that boy did this entire expedition,” he informed, walking over to inspect the animals. “He probably guessed what I would do to him if I’d been able to chase him down.”

“By the Divine!” Acron said with relief. “Oh, blessed be Shella and Ridos! Flennid has a heart after all.”

“Don’t give him too much credit,” Baon warned, checking through the saddlebags. “They didn’t leave us any water. Of course, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Sense? Killing us makes sense?” Khriss asked.

Baon shrugged. “We had enough water to last seven of us for three days. The nearest town is seven days away--that means three could make it if they took all the water. Those three might have been fools, but physically they were probably the most likely to survive.”

“That’s heartless reasoning, Baon,” Khriss said, feeling chilled despite the Dayside heat.

“I didn’t say I agree with its morals, duchess,” Baon said, strapping the final saddlebag closed. “I just said it makes logical sense. Come on, it’s looking like we might actually survive this trip.”

White Sand

Chapter Six

Kenton looked up at the sun, his old friend, the first and strongest companion of every Daysider. Ker’reen philosophy--religion of the Kershtians--called the sun a manifestation of the Sand Lord, but even daysiders that didn’t worship the sun felt some spiritual bond with it. Despite the Diem’s historical atheism, Kenton had met few sand masters who didn’t at least feel reverence for the great orb. In the very least it was the force that made sand mastery possible, for once sand was mastered it was left black and stale, and only four hours of charging in the sun would restore it.

But, this day the sun felt different. Not the sun itself, put its position in the sky. It was in the wrong place.

“We go that way,” Kenton said, pointing to the southwest.

“How can you tell?” the duchess, Khrissalla, demanded.

Kenton smiled. He didn’t think the girl realized how impatient her voice sounded. She was simply the type who was accustomed to getting quick answers to her questions. Of course, understanding her arrogance didn’t make him any more accepting--he did, after all, have his pride.

“Magic,” Kenton informed, hammering his tonk into motion. The darksiders joined in, moving their own beasts forward as well.

Khrissalla snorted at his answer, maladroitly moving her tonk up next to his own--she still hadn’t quite mastered the art of controlling the beasts. “You’re guessing,” she accused. “You saw my map, and now you’re just making it seem like you know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I did see your map, Khrissalla,” Kenton said, being certain to use her name, if only because he knew it bothered her. She should have just introduced herself as ‘the duchess’ rather than ‘the duchess Khrissalla.’ “Or, at least,” he continued, “I saw enough of it to know it was out of date and rather inaccurate. I know four year-old children who could produce a better depiction of dayside.”

“All right then, how do you know which way to go?”

Kenton sighed--he had to concede the duchess one point: she was nothing if not persistent. They had been traveling for about two days now, and he was coming to understand that no amount of subject dodging, ignoring, or even straight rejecting would dissuade Khrisalla’s curiosity. It was becoming more and more obvious that if he wanted her to stop pestering him, he was going to have to give her some answers.

“When the sun hangs in the exact same spot for your entire life, you become very sensitive to its changes,” he explained. “The sun feels . . . out of place to me. It should be lower in the sky, and a little bit to the east.”

Khrissalla blinked in surprise--she obviously hadn’t expected an answer from him. He had, after all, spent the last two days doing his best to be as annoyingly close-mouthed as possible.

“You can really feel it?” she asked, turning her black-glassed eyes back towards the sun.

Kenton nodded. “On dayside, you never need a map to guide you home. You only need the sun.”

The girl frowned. “But, how can you tell east and west? Other than the mountain, there aren’t any landmarks.”

Kenton shrugged. “You just can. You know when the sun is in the right place.”

Khrissalla frowned--she didn’t like it when his explanations had to with ‘feeling’ or ‘sensing.’ Kenton found her confusion odd; the comments always made sense to him. The duchess, however, kept asking ‘why’ and ‘how.’ She wanted parameters for everything, measurements she could scribble in the ledger she always seemed to have in her lap.

However, she probably decided that ambiguous answers were better than no answers at all, for she decided to continue. “You said magic, at first. Do you believe in magic?”

Kenton raised an eyebrow--this was a new one. Did he believe in magic? Well, his father had actually granted him mastrellship. That was about as magical an event as Kenton could imagine. “Sure,” he said.

“Sure?” Khrissalla repeated. “That doesn’t sound very certain.” She turned toward him, obviously intending to give him a prompting stare, but the expression was ruined by the black contraptions on her eyes--the things she called spectacles. On her head was a wide floppy hat that no self-respecting Kerla traveler would wear, and, as normal, her long hair blew free in the wind. She wore her Kershtian robe pulled tight around her body, accentuating her form in a scandalous way.

“There could be magic,” Kenton explained. “I’ve never seen any, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. The Kershtians talk about many things happening during worship services.”

“What about the Sand Mages?” she asked.

“The who?” Kenton asked, frowning. Mage? He was unfamiliar with the word.

“The Sand Mages,” Khrissalla repeated. “They rule Lossand.”

Kenton snorted. “I’ve never heard of them. If they rule Lossand, then they are very good at making certain no one realizes it.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“You’re certain?” she asked.

Kenton frowned. “Of course I am. I’ve lived in Lossand all my life. It’s ruled by the Profession heads, not these mages, whatever they are.”

Khriss turned away from him, an odd expression in her face. Sorrow? “Oh, Gevin,” she all but whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, looking melancholy.

First she gets mad at me for refusing to answer, he thought with a shake of his head. Then, when I do answer, she gets sad for no reason. “Woman, you are completely incomprehensible,” he declared, hammering his tonk forward.

#

For once, the Daysider’s rudeness didn’t affect her. She barely noticed as he rode away. Gevin had been wrong, and she had been right. Why, then, did she feel so horrible?

It wasn’t my dream, Gevin, it was yours. But that was enough for me to want to believe in it. If the stories had somehow been true, they would have disproven Khriss’s logic--the same logic that told her there was no way she was going to find the prince alive after such a long absence.

“Duchess.” Baon’s voice drew her away from unpleasant speculations.

“Yes, Baon?” she asked, turning as his tonk pulled alongside hers.

Baon paused, seeing her face. Despite the spectacles, Baon had an almost supernatural ability to sense someone’s mood. “Kenton being close-mouthed again?” he assumed.

“No,” she replied. “He actually decided to answer today.”

“But you didn’t like what you heard.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Khriss said dismissively. “He still refuses to speak about the important things. He claims to be nothing more than a servant, but he won’t explain what the group was doing out in the desert--or, rather, the Kerla.” It was going to take a long time for her to stop thinking as the endless dunes of sand as a desert. “Personally, I think he’s lying,” Khriss added, seeking out the Daysider in his white robe.

“He’s certainly hiding something,” Baon agreed.

“How do you know?”

“I asked him,” Baon said simply.

“Asked him what?” Khriss said with a frown.

“I asked him if he was hiding something,” Baon explained. “He said he was.”

“And you didn’t go any further?”

Baon shrugged. “If he wanted to tell me what it was, then he wouldn’t be hiding it, would he?”

Khriss sighed.

“Of course, it probably has something to do with the sword.”

Khriss perked up. “What sword?” she asked.

“The one he’s not wearing,” Baon informed. “He checks for it occasionally, like a warrior. When he walks, his hand often falls to his side, as if to steady a sheath. The exercises he does after he wakes, the ones he claims to recover his strength--those are the actions of a warrior.”

“A warrior . . .” Khriss mumbled. “But, that doesn’t mean anything, Baon. This is a primitive society--for all we know, everyone’s trained as a warrior.”

“I’ve done a lot of travelling, duchess,” Baon said. “You would be surprised--even in the most violent of countries, servants are still the same. They don’t have time to fight; and if they did, their masters wouldn’t let them. Trained warriors make dangerous peasants.”

Khriss let his ‘lot of travelling’ comment pass--Baon had already established that he would not speak about his past. While this Kenton was difficult to get information from, Baon was impossible.

“However, duchess,” Baon continued, “speaking about the daysider’s profession was not the reason I approached you.”

“Oh?”

“We’re out of food.”

Khriss’s stomach groaned in agreement. “I noticed,” she informed. “I thought we decided there was nothing we could do about it.”

“There isn’t anything we can do about it,” Baon agreed. “There might, however, be something he can do.”

“But, he says we’ll be reaching Lossand within a day or two. We can probably survive that long.”

“Not if we listen to your anthropologist,” Baon said, nodding his head backward.

Khriss turned, catching a glimpse of Acron’s bulk settled despondently on his tonk’s back. The anthropologist had been complaining quite profusely about the lack of supplies.

“He’ll live,” Khriss decided.

“True,” Baon agreed with a rare smile. “But it might be worth asking anyway. I don’t like travelling without provisions. Any number of things could happen in two days. If he can pull water out of the sand, then perhaps he can perform a similar miracle for food.”

“All right,” Khriss said. “I suppose you want me to do it.”

“You are in charge, duchess.”

“But he likes you better,” she protested.

Baon just looked at her, and eventually Khriss sighed. She grabbed her hammer and gave Stump a tap, and he responded in his usual disorganized way, shambling vaguely in Kenton’s direction. The Daysider looked over as she approached, a wry smirk on his face.

“Another question?” he asked. “You waited almost five minutes this time--you must have held yourself back.”

“We need food, daysider,” she said, gritting her teeth against his insulting tone.

Kenton frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? There’s plenty of sand.”

Khriss sat, stunned by the words, her eyes focusing on the vast dunes around them. “You don’t actually eat . . . .” She trailed off as she looked back at Kenton, noticing the mirth on his face.

“I hope your entire race isn’t as gullible as you are, Khrissalla,” he said. “Otherwise, your people are going to be in some serious trouble if Kershtian merchants ever make it over there.”

Shella, Khriss thought, forcing herself to remain calm. No man had ever treated her in such a disrespectful way.

“I’ll get you some food, Khrissalla,” Kenton said, nodding toward the horizon. “We’ll be reaching the desert soon; there are a lot of Kershtian towns built along the border--trading stations between the Kershtian nation and Lossand.”

“Nation?” Khriss asked. “So far all we’ve seen are tiny tent cities. Is there more than that?”

Kenton raised his eyebrows at the question, but he chose to answer. “Yes--there are massive tent cities as well.”

“But only tents?” Khriss said with a frown. “Are they all nomads?”

“No, none of them are,” Kenton explained. “Tents are the only practical buildings to use in the Kerla. The winds blow so much that the sand level fluctuates enormously. Even the Kershtian capital of Ker Kedasha is composed entirely of tents--and its population is over fifty thousand.”

“So, at these border towns,” Khriss continued, “we’ll be able to get food?”

“That depends,” Kenton said with a shrug. “What are you willing to trade?”

#

Kenton placed the bag full of metal onto the merchant’s trading table. The low table, constructed of cloth stretched across a flat construction of sandling carapace, sat in the center of a gaudy tent with embroidered walls and numerous cushions.

The Kershtian, a man with a broad face but thin limbs, opened the bag, picking at its contents with spindly fingers. “Not much, friend,” he said. Two gold strings wrapped around his head just above the ears, holding a golden coin pressed against his forehead--the symbol of his DaiKeen allegiance.

“I know,” Kenton said with a nod. They sat on cushions, as per the Kershtian way. Khrissalla had insisted on accompanying him, and sat on a cushion next to his own. Kenton turned back to the merchant, who was still appraising the scraps--whatever bits of metal Khrissalla and her group had been willing to part with.

The Kershtian nodded. “I’ll give you much deal,” he informed. “Best deal on sand! You want Kershtian coin’n, you want Lossandin coin’n?” He spoke with a heavy Kershtian accent, habitually adding soft ‘ha’ sounds to the end of all his ‘s’s.

“Either coinage is fine,” Kenton said with a shrug. “I’m just going to spend it on supplies.”

“Spend them here, yes friend?” the Kershtian said, perking up. “Well, I give you sands good deal! My cousin, he sells supplies’n? You want food’n? Qidoin?”

“Food.”

“Ah. Yes, friend.”

“What’s he saying?” Khrissalla interrupted from beside Kenton. She was watching the interchange with intense eyes--apparently she spoke a little Kershtian, or at least enough to pick out the occasional word.

“Not now, Khrissalla,” Kenton hissed back.

The girl shot him an angry look. “I deserve to know what’s going on. Those instruments are mine, after all.”

“I’ll write you a transcript later.”

Khriss’s eyes--she removed the spectacles inside--grew thin. “I don’t trust you, Daysider. For all I know you’re arranging to sell me into slavery.”

“I’d be lucky to get a three-legged tonk out of that deal,” he mumbled.

“What!”

“Hush,” Kenton insisted, shooting a look back at the Kershtian. The trader had watched the exchange with wide eyes, an offended look on his face. The expression couldn’t compare to the one he’d given earlier, however. When they had entered, the man had arranged cushions for them both to sit upon--and, according to custom, he had placed Khrissalla’s a few inches behind Kenton’s. The duchess had immediately scooted her cushion up, placing it equal with Kenton’s and the Kershtian’s.

“She is . . . .quite beautiful, friend,” the Kershtian said, regaining his composure. Merchants who worked this close to Lossand were usually capable of dealing with more than their associates further into the Kerla.

“I suppose,” Kenton said with a wry smile.

The Kershtian shared his smile. “I have found, friend, Lonsha women are rarely worth the trouble’n of their arrogance.”

“Wise words, friend. Now, for the trade?”

The Kershtian smiled, eyeing the scraps eagerly. Metal and stone were valuable commodities in the Kerla, where the ground lay buried by a hundred feet of sand. Both materials were much less rare now than they had been before, mostly because of trading between Kershtians and Lossandins, but a small sack of steel such as the one he was offering could still turn a healthy profit.

The Kershtian quickly masked his interest, however, as he scooped the pieces back into the bag.

“How much?” Kenton asked.

The Kershtian shrugged. “Oh, friend, maybe forty lak? Much not useful, in scraps like this. Must be melted down, yes?”

Kenton snorted. “Put the bag back on the table, friend. I’m not a merchant, but I know that metal’s worth more than forty.”

The Kershtian placed the bag back on the trading table. “I don’t know, friend,” he said with a slight shrug. “Perhaps it is worth more, but . . . you lucky I trade with you. Others in town . . . maybe not so open-minded.”

Kenton frowned, focusing on the Kershtian’s innocent-looking face. The man was doing his best not to meet Kenton’s eyes--the Kershtian way of indicating he was making a threat.

Aiesha! Kenton thought with a frown. The man knew what he was. But how? The gold sash was hidden in one of his pouches, and he had replaced his sand master’s robes with nondescript ones before entering the town.

“Not many Lossandin travelling in the Kerla right now, especially not ones coming in that direction, friend,” the Kershtian explained, nodding toward the open sands. “Most come from there,” he explained, nodding toward Lossand.

Kenton frowned. It wasn’t a guess--somehow this merchant had seen through him. “You’ve never refused to trade with my kind before,” Kenton said, deciding there was no use in hiding. “What does who I am have to do with making a deal?”

“Nothing friend, that is why I make deal, eh?” The Kershtian still refused to meet his eyes. “But, times . . . times change. It is not a good now to be friends with Ry’kensha.”

“I’ll take forty,” Kenton decided, and the Kershtian smiled. “But,” Kenton added. “I want something else as well. Information.”

“What information, friend?”

“I want to know what has changed. I want to know why Kershtian warriors suddenly decided they could attack a group of sand masters.”

“Aiesha!” the Kershtian hissed. “Not those words’n. Be careful, eedsha.” Then he eyed the bag of metal. Forty lak was an incredibly good deal for so much steel. Finally, the man looked up, meeting Kenton’s eyes. The deal was done.

“Come,” the merchant said, nodding toward the door. He rose, picking up his cushion. Kenton followed, as did a confused Khriss.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Later,” Kenton insisted as the merchant placed his cushion near the door of the tent. The street outside was small, but busy--these border towns were prime places for trading.

Kenton sat back down, watching as the Kershtian nodded out the door. “You see that, friend.”

Kenton followed the look. Standing across the small sand street were a couple of men, obviously warriors. They had zinkallin on their arms, and judging by the scowls on their faces, the weapons were probably pumped and ready to fire. Swords were strapped to their sides, and they wore shiny, well-made carapace armor.

“Soldiers,” Kenton noted. “From the warrior DaiKeen.”

“Soldiers, yes,” the merchant agreed. “Warrior DaiKeen . . . well . . . .”

Kenton squinted, focusing on the men’s foreheads. Every Kershtian man wore a symbol to mark his DaiKeen--his profession, though a DaiKeen was more than just a job. DaiKeenin were more like clans, family groups that one could choose. The merchant symbol was a circle, and most of the merchant DaiKeen tied their marks to their foreheads. The warrior symbol was an ‘X’ tattooed on the forehead.

As one of the men turned, Kenton saw what the merchant was referring to. There was an ‘X’ on the warrior’s head, but it wasn’t tattooed on--it was a scar.

“But, scarring is the way of the . . . .”

“Priest DaiKeen,” the merchant finished, leaning back into his tent. “Yes, friend. I know. Warrior symbol, priest marking-form. Very odd, yes?”

“A new DaiKeen?”

“Yes, friend,” the merchant said with a nod. “The new A’Kar, he created it’n.”

The new high priest, Kenton thought. This isn’t good. He’d seen that ‘X’ scar before--on the foreheads of the men who had slaughtered the sand masters.

“We of the merchants, we are worried,” the Kershtian confessed, his voice growing hushed. “The A’Kar, he has much popularity’n. He says he destroyed the Ry’Kenshan, that the Sand Lord is very pleased with him. And the time of choosing comes very soon . . . .”

“The merchant DaiKeen hasn’t lost a choosing in centuries,” Kenton objected. “The High Merchant is King in Ker KeDasha.”

“Yes, friend,” the merchant said, a worried look on his face. “Perhaps, no problem. Perhaps . . . .”

“I understand.”

The Kershtian shrugged. “The A’Kar, he was wrong in one thing. The Ry’Kensha, you are still live. A few, at least.”

“Others?” Kenton asked with concern. “You saw others returning through here?”

“A few.”

“When?” Kenton demanded.

“A week ago, perhaps,” the Kershtian said. “A dozen men.”

A dozen. It wasn’t a large number, but at least Kenton wasn’t the only one to have survived.

“One thing I say, friend,” the Kershtian said. “Not all of us want the A’Kar to be king, yes? So, I trade. You buy food’n, and you go back to Lossand. The Sand Lord may take my soul’n, but I would not see the A’Kar’s words be true.”

#

“Politics?” Khrissalla demanded. “That’s what you were talking about?”

Kenton sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Yes, politics. Kershtian politics.”

“What does that have to do with us getting food?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Then why bother with it?”

Baon fell into step behind them, leaving the shade in front of the merchant’s doorway, where he had been guarding. He wore a slight smile that seemed to say ‘she saved you, Daysider, now you have to put up with her.’

“Two hundred years ago, the Kershtians and Lossandin stopped fighting,” Kenton explained.

“Why fight in the first place?” Khriss asked. “Did they want your land?”

“Hardly,” Kenton said with a snort, leading them through the small city toward the place where the merchant had said his cousin ran a supply store. “The Kershtians call Lossand the Ry’Kel, the ‘cursed land.’ It’s the desert, remember? No water vines.”

“So, why fight?”

“We’re infidels,” Kenton explained. “Non-believers. The historical Kershtian viewpoint was that we had to be slain for our own good so we didn’t reproduce and raise up more infidels.”

“Sounds logical,” Baon noted with a snort.

“Two hundred years ago, the A’Kar--that’s Kershtian for High Priest--lost the Kingship for the first time in recorded history, and the High Merchant was crowned instead.”

Khrissalla frowned, completely oblivious to the looks her unbound hair and tight robe were drawing. “How does one lose a Kingship?”

“The Klin--the nobility, as you would call it--voted against him.”

“But, I thought you said being a nobleman was a religious position amongst the Kershtians,” she put in.

Kenton raised an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn’t thought she would remember that. “That’s right, it is, which is why the A’Kar hadn’t ever lost the choosing before. The title of Kli is granted by the A’Kar; it is the highest honor a Kershtian can hold. Once a Kli is chosen, however, the title is passed from father to son, as long as one maintains certain holy requirements. Eventually, the lines grew to the point that the families had been noble for so long, they barely remembered that the A’Kar had originally given them the title. Most of the Klin were merchants by profession. So, when the choosing came, there were enough that cast their vote for the High Merchant instead.”

“They let a simple majority choose their King?” Khrissalla asked with downturned lips. “How primitive.”

“If you say so, Khrissalla,” Kenton said with a shrug. “For dayside, the change was the best thing that could have happened. The wars stopped, and trading began. There are still battles, of course--but those are mostly between Kershtian families. On the whole, the last two centuries have been very good for Lossand.”

“But that could change soon?” the duchess asked as they arrived at the supply tent.

Kenton smiled to the proprietor--a man who looked almost identical to the one they had left behind, though the DaiKeen symbol tied to his forehead was wood instead of gold. The man smiled and began to negotiate the trade.

“Yes,” Kenton said back to Khriss as the merchant went to get the requested supplies. “The fifty-years between choosings is up this year, and it is starting to look like the A’Kar might win this time. That would be . . . bad.”

He made the deal with the merchant, trading for a week’s provisions for five people. They wouldn’t need so much, but it was always good to be prepared. Besides, Kenton hadn’t eaten much since his recovery a few days back. He was beginning to feel like he could devour the entire bundle of food himself--even if the Kershtians had covered it with their strong spices.

“So, what did your battle--the one that left you wounded--have to do with this A’Kar?” Khriss asked innocently as they turned back out into the crowded market street.

Kenton paused. She’s guessing, he decided. Just grasping for connections. It was a good guess, though. “Look, Khriss,” he said, “I’m not going to tell you anything more about that. I--” he paused. She was giving him an odd look. “What?” he asked.

“What did you call me?”

“Khriss,” he said with a shrug. “Khrissalla is too long--especially if I’m going to keep using it to annoy you.”

“That’s what Gevin used to call me,” she said quietly, her eyes somewhat dazed.

“Who’s--” Kenton paused as he felt an almost unnoticeable tug at his money pouch. A pickpocket. Fortunately, he didn’t have any money. Unfortunately, he had chosen to store something infinitely more precious in his money pouch.

He spun, reaching for the thief’s hand. The pickpocket was a small Kershtian boy of perhaps twelve. Kenton was too slow--the boy had already started to pull back when Kenton reached for him. And, as the boy moved away, his hand tugged something bright from Kenton’s pouch.

The end of his golden mastrell’s sash.

The boy yelped in alarm, dropping the sash as if it were a deadly sandling. The marketplace froze around them, hundreds of eyes turning to focus on the sash, which Kenton furiously tried to stuff back into its pouch. As he worked, his eyes fell on a pair of faces that stood out from the crowd--faces with cold eyes and scarred ‘X’s on their foreheads.

“I think we’d better go,” Kenton said, motioning for Khriss and Baon to follow.

#

“How far is it to Lossand?”

Kenton sighed at the question, but Khriss ignored the sound. She would have her answers no matter how rude he decided to be. She still couldn’t understand why her questions bothered him so much--they were only logical. She was new to Dayside; it made sense that she would have a lot of things to ask. The only way she was going to learn was if someone told her.

“I’ll answer, but only if you promise to answer one for me.”

Khriss frowned. They had entered what Kenton called ‘the desert’ just after leaving the town a few hours before, but the landscape seemed the same to Khriss. There was nothing around them to be seen but the same white dunes, some barely a few feet in height, others taller than a man astride a horse.

“Well?” Kenton prompted.

“All right,” Khriss decided. What could he ask that she wasn’t willing to share, anyway?

“We’re already in Lossand,” Kenton explained. “Technically, it starts where the desert does--though the sand won’t start to recede until tomorrow. Now, my question. Who is Gevin?”

Khriss froze, feeling her chest grow tight. Oh, Shella, not this . . .

“I heard you mention his name earlier,” Kenton explained.

Khriss paused, trying to think of a way around the question. Kenton’s stare was demanding, however, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell an outright lie, no matter how little she wanted to discuss the subject.

“He . . . he is my betrothed,” Khriss said quietly.

“Betrothed?” Kenton asked with a smirk. “Someone actually asked you to marry him?”

Khriss inhaled sharply at the barb, bowing her head as she felt her cheeks blush.

“I’m sorry,” Kenton said a moment later, his voice reserved. “I went too far that time.”

Khriss nodded feebly. “He didn’t ask me, really,” she explained softly. “It was more of an . . . understood betrothal.”

“Arranged marriage?”

“No, but it would have been, had we not taken the initiative ourselves. Gevin--or, his full name is Gevalden--is a prince of Elis. He’s the second son, but an important match nonetheless. There are only so many unmarried women of the proper rank and age.”

“I see. And you left this prince of yours to come to Dayside?” Kenton asked.

Khriss shook her head, keeping her pain inside, hidden behind a courtly mask. She raised her eyes, looking back at him with composure. “I didn’t leave him, I came to find him.”

“He’s on Dayside?” Kenton asked incredulously.

Khriss nodded.

“And, so your expedition isn’t just one of scientific exploration, like you told me,” he pointed out. “Now who’s lying?”

“I didn’t lie,” Khriss defended. “This is a scientific expedition, just as Gevin’s was.”

Kenton shook his head with a smile. “I’m sorry, Khriss, but I have difficulty understanding why you all came over here. From what I understand, these ‘nobles’ of yours are fairly important people. What does Dayside have that’s so intriguing?”

“A dream,” Khriss whispered. “A foolish man’s dream.”

Kenton gave her a questioning look.

“Sand mages,” Khriss explained with a sigh. “They’re legends on Darkside. There are dozens of stories told of them--supposed powerful beings that live on dayside, controlling the elements with their magics. The stories are told to children, mostly. No one believes them . . . or, not seriously at least. No one but Gevin.”

“They’re supposed to be able to . . . control the elements?” Kenton asked slowly, a strange tone in his voice.

“Yes,” Khriss confessed, suddenly feeling embarrassed at having brought up the topic. What must he think of her? “The stories are foolish things,” she said quickly,

“completely unrealistic. Men always make up tales of the unknown--and in Elis, dayside is the ultimate unknown.”

As they spoke, Khriss noticed Baon hammering his tonk to a slower speed, so he dropped back closer to her own. The warrior waited at a respectful distance, not breaking into the conversation.

“What exactly were these sand mages supposed to be able to do?” Kenton asked.

Khriss frowned. She didn’t know what to make of the odd solemnity to the Daysider’s voice. Was he mocking her again? “Silly things, mostly. Fly trough the air, call up enormous storms of sand. They often grant wishes to travelers lost in the wilderness. Most of the stories agree that they’re impervious to normal weapons, and that they can make objects float with their minds.”

“I see,” Kenton said. “The stories must be fascinating.”

Khriss shrugged. “If you’re a child, I suppose.” Then she turned toward Baon. “What is it, Baon?”

“A question for the daysider,” he explained, bringing his tonk in closer.

“Yes?” Kenton asked curiously.

“You’ve stopped looking over your shoulder,” Baon pointed out.

“What?” Kenton asked with surprise.

“Ever since we left that town, you’ve been nervous. Like you thought someone might follow us.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Kenton said. “I was wrong. They aren’t--”

He was interrupted as a massive man-shaped form exploded from the side of the dune next to Baon, spraying sand into the air as it tackled the warrior and tore him off his tonk.

White Sand

Chapter Seven

Baon thumped to the sand. His assailant, a bare-chested Kershtian, fell with him. Tonks shuffled nervously, kicking up sand as the two men rolled on the ground. The Kershtian clutched Baon’s robes with one hand and raised a carapace hatchet in the other. A second later, the sand exploded all around them, spewing forth a half-dozen warriors.

Kenton cursed, immediately jumping off his tonk. The move was well-placed, for a moment later he heard the distinctive air-rushings of zinkallin being fired. Three small arrows hissed through the air above him and a fourth snapped off his tonk’s carapace. There was little doubt who the Kershtians were after.

Kenton pressed against the side of his mount, keeping it between himself and the majority of the Kershtians. Only one was on his side--unfortunately, one was more than enough. The warrior, clothed in black carapace armor, was already lowering his zinkall to fire again. Years of training with the Tower’s warriors finally became kinetic as Kenton dropped instinctively, rolling to the ground, dodging a virtually point-blank shot. His tonk bellowed--the arrow must have hit one of the chinks in its carapace--but Kenton ignored the beast as he rolled to his feet only a short distance from his opponent. In his hand he clutched a handful of sand.

The warrior flinched instinctively, spitting out a curse against the Ry’Kensha as Kenton raised his sand. The A’Kar might have found a way to convince them to fight sand masters, but he couldn’t remove millennia-old cultural phobias. Kenton thrust the sand forward, his command for it to obey him as instinctual as the Kershtian’s fear.

Nothing happened.

Kenton cursed, throwing the ineffectual sand at his opponent. The Kershtian, still expecting the sand to kill him, threw up his arms--his face horrified. When the unmastered grains sprayed across his armor, the man barely had a chance to lower his arms in confusion before Kenton’s punch took him in the face. The Kershtian grunted in pain, stumbling backwards. Kenton followed him, reaching down to slide the man’s carapace-sword free from the sheath at his side.

A moment later, pain sliced through Kenton’s arm, and he felt an arrow tear at his robes. It only nicked his skin, but it was enough to remind him that this was not a one-on-one battle. He cried out, thrusting the carapace sword at his opponent’s face. The warrior, who had recovered from the punch, easily blocked the blow with his armored forearm. The attack had not been intended to hit, however.

Kenton spun around the warrior, putting the man’s body between himself and the rest of the battle. The archer who had wounded him still had one arrow left, and as Kenton turned, he was able to pick the man out. He had rounded Kenton’s tonk, and knelt on the sand, his face calm as he aimed his gauntleted forearm for another shot--a shot that was now blocked, however, by his comrade.

Kenton reached out for his human shield--intending to grapple with the man and hold him close in an attempt to keep the others from firing their zinkallin. Unfortunately, the Kershtian realized what was happening, and instead of spinning to face Kenton he simply started running in the opposite direction--leaving Kenton standing stupidly on the sand with no cover. Two other warriors moved around the tonk and prepared to take shots at him.

Kenton looked around wildly, realizing he was trapped. His back was to a dune, and he had opponents on all sides. He barely had time to reach down for a handful of sand and hold it out threateningly as his intended shield moved out of the way.

Kenton froze. He intended to scream out warnings in broken Kershtian, but his voice caught in his throat. Fear choked his words. All he had was the sand clutched in his sweating fist.

Come to life! his mind ordered the sand. In all his life, he had never needed sand mastery so urgently. Please!

A deafening explosion sounded, causing Kenton to cry out in shock and pain. One of the warriors’s heads exploded.

Gore splattered across the white sands, and the already spooked tonks dropped to the sand in fright, burrowing down until only the tips of their shells were visible.

What . . .? Kenton thought in confusion, his ears ringing. At first, he thought it had been his sand--but the handful still sat in his fist, unmastered. Then he saw Baon.

The black-skinned warrior stood tall, some sort of steel tube held in his hand. Smoke rose in the air before him. The Kershtian that had attacked Baon lay face down in the sand, his neck twisted at a gruesome angle.

Calmly, the darksider turned his weapon on another one of the archers, and a second later there was an explosive crack. Carapace armor shattered like glass, and the warrior was thrown backwards several feet. When the man fell to the ground, Kenton could see a hole in his back a handspan wide.

The hard-faced darksider turned his weapon on a third man. The Kershtian stared at his opponent for a moment, his eyes wide with horror, before breaking into a terrified run. The other three joined him, screaming in frightened Kershtian as they disappeared around a dune. The sound of galloping sandlings sounded a few moments later.

#

Khriss sat stunned on her tonk’s back. Her legs were buried up to the knees in sand--as was most of her mount. Only the tonk’s back and the stump of his broken horn were visible. She would have joined him beneath the sand, had she been able to get her paralyzed muscles to move.

“Oh Shella, oh Shella, oh Shella . . . .” she heard herself mumbling as she stared dumbly at the remains of the men who had attacked them.

Fortunately, the warriors had ignored her during the attack, instead focusing their attention on Baon and Kenton. The battle had happened almost as if she and the professors weren’t there, churning around them as if they were barriers rather than targets. And then the pistol fire . . . .

Khriss had never seen a man shot before. A few months earlier, while running the Dynastic barricade, they had lost Captain Deral--but that had happened while the warriors were out scouting. She had never seen the bodies--Baon had rushed them away from the site quickly, warning that they had been discovered.

Now she had seen a man die. The scientist in her noted that it was much messier than she had expected. She had assumed the musket balls entered the body like an arrow, piercing the skin and leaving a small hole. That was not the case. The balls smashed more than they pierced, tearing wide holes or, in the case of the man who had been hit in the head, completely destroying.

The logical side of her mind soon gave way before the disturbed side, however, and the scientist was forced to retreat before a far more awesome force--trauma. She closed her eyes to the death, breathing deeply and shaking before the horrible scene.

#

Kenton was shaken, but once again his training came to his aid. He discarded the unused carapace sword, instead pulling a complete sheath, weapon, and belt from one of the fallen men--trying his best not to look at the man’s stump of a neck. Then he turned to Baon.

“We should go,” he informed, his voice more calm than he felt. “Kershtians never abandon the bodies of their fallen--they believe a man must be buried in deep sand lest his soul be lost to wander the kerla.”

Baon nodded, replacing his strange weapon in a sheath at his side. Kenton regarded it for a moment, remembering its incredible power. He had seen the weapons at Baon’s sides, but had assumed them to be instruments of some sort. Who could have imagined a weapon so small, yet so destructive?

Kenton shook his head, moving over to begin raising the tonks. Ask later. Right now, we need to move.

“My first battle!” a voice suddenly exclaimed. Kenton turned to find Acron, his eyes strangely excited, sitting astride his mostly-buried mount. “I say, Kenton--does this sort of thing happen often?” He looked . . . eager. As if he had been treated to a performance of some kind.

“Acron, for once, please shut up,” a pained voice came from a short distance away.

The elderly Cynder still sat atop his own mount as well, but he was obviously less-enthused about the experience than Acron. Kenton noted with concern that the older man was clutching his left arm, the end of a zinkall arrow sticking from between his bloodied fingers.

Kenton cursed, rushing over to Cynder.

“It’s nothing,” the linguist said with a slight gasp of pain as Kenton examined the wound.

With a simple tug, Kenton pulled the arrow out of Cynder’s arm. It slid out easily--it no longer had a head.

“What . . . ?” Cynder asked with confusion, regarding the tip of the arrow.

“The arrowhead wasn’t treated,” Kenton explained, pulling out his qido. “The carapace dissolved. Grit your teeth, this is going to hurt.”

Cynder barely had time to inhale in preparation as Kenton cleaned the wound. The linguist finally broke down and cried out in agony as Kenton forced as much as the dissolved arrowhead out of the wound as possible, then bound it with a strip of cloth.

“What are you doing to him?” Baon demanded.

“Carapace can cause a wound to fester,” Kenton explained, stepping back and reaching down to rap Cynder’s tonk on the horn with the tip of his sword sheath. The creature immediately began to unbury itself, shaking and wiggling as it climbed out of the sand.

Baon watched the process with calculating eyes, then began to move opposite Kenton, rapping horns and bringing tonks out of the sand. Kenton paused beside Khriss’s tonk. The girl had obviously been disquieted by the battle--her eyes were closed, and she was mumbling softly to herself as she rocked back and forth. Kenton waited hesitantly for a moment, then reached out to shake her on the shoulder.

“Khrissalla?” he asked softly.

The girl exhaled deeply, then opened her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said weakly.

Kenton nodded slowly, then reached over to tap his sword against the tonk’s stump. The creature began to move, raising itself from the sand.

Khriss frowned, watching the process. “Why . . .?” she began, focusing on the tonks and, as far as Kenton could tell, intentionally keeping her eyes off the three bodies. “Why would they develop such odd behavior? Surely hiding beneath the sand doesn’t protect them from predators.”

Kenton smiled. If she could ask questions, then she was probably all right. “It isn’t to protect them from predators,” he explained. “This is what they do in a sandstorm. Tonks have very weak minds--whenever they get confused, they assume they’re in a sandstorm and bury themselves beneath the ground.”

Kenton tapped the tonk, sending it to wander over and join the rest of the beasts, then he turned to find Baon. The dark warrior was squatting on the sand beside the first warrior that had attacked--the strange unarmored one. Kenton joined him, watching as Baon rolled the body over, revealing a face crusted with sand.

“Will the linguist be all right?” Baon asked quietly.

“He should be,” Kenton replied. “Melted carapace rots easily unless it is dried properly. I think I got the wound clean enough, however.”

Baon nodded quietly, then gestured toward the dead man on the ground before him. “Recognize him?” Baon asked.

Kenton shook his head. “Not only don’t I know him, Baon, but I’ve never seen anything like him before,” he confessed. “Kershtians never fight unarmored, yet this man attacks wearing little more than a loin cloth. He also shaved his head--and I’ve never seen a Kershtian do that.”

Baon grunted, reaching out to wipe the sand from the man’s forehead. A pale scar stood out against his pale skin. An ‘X’ surrounded by a square. “What do you make of that?” Baon asked.

“The square is a symbol for priests,” Kenton explained. “But the ‘X’ inside it is the marking of a warrior. I’ve never seen both together before.”

“Whoever he is, he saved our lives,” Baon said.

Kenton gave him a questioning look.

“He leapt out before the rest of them,” Baon explained. “He ruined the ambush. If this man hadn’t been so eager to attack, then we wouldn’t be standing here right now.” Baon rose, dusting the sand from his knee. “Or, at least, you wouldn’t be. Why did they want to kill you, daysider?” he asked bluntly.

“For something I used to be,” Kenton answered, rising as well.

Baon searched Kenton’s eyes, obviously unsatisfied with the answer. He asked no further questions, however. He stooped briefly, removing the zinkall from the priest’s arm by cutting its straps, then walked back to his tonk.

#

“It’s called a pistol,” Khriss said.

Kenton looked up slowly. There was a haunted expression on his face--one of sorrow. He had grown quiet after the attack, almost unresponsive. During the past few hours, he had ignored Khriss’s every attempt to draw him into conversation--an attitude that she found increasingly frustrating. She wanted to know why they had been attacked, who those men had been, and if they would attack again. Unfortunately, Kenton wasn’t talking. So, Khriss had decided to try a new approach. Instead of asking questions, she tried to fuel Kenton sense of curiosity. It would have worked for her, after all.

“The weapon,” Khriss continued, her tonk riding along beside her own. “It’s called a pistol. You were probably wondering about it.”

Kenton shrugged, the same sense of melancholy in his eyes. Khriss pulled out the spare pistol, the one Flennid had dropped, and inspected it as she talked.

“They’re relatively new to darkside,” Khriss explained. “Less than a century old. Only a few of the nations have them--the Dynasty is very proficient at keeping new technology from spreading through its provinces. Scythe--the current monarch of the Dynasty, something like a king or an emperor, though he is much more powerful than either word implies--knows how dangerous knowledge can be.”

Kenton eyed the weapon for a moment, and Khriss caught a glimmer of interest therein. “So, it doesn’t use air pressure at all?” Kenton finally asked.

“No, it uses gunpowder,” Khriss replied, smiling slightly to herself.

“Gunpowder?” he asked with confusion.

“A type of explosive powder,” Khriss explained, handing the unloaded weapon toward him.

Kenton frowned, accepting the pistol and turning it over in his hands. “Gunpowder,” he mumbled, looking down the gun’s barrel then playing with its hammer experimentally. “It must be powerful, whatever it is. The sandling carapace Kershtians use for armor is nearly as hard as steel, but Baon’s attack shot through it with ease.”

Khriss nodded.

“How many times can this thing fire?” the daysider asked, cocking the hammer and pulling the trigger a few times.

“Just once,” Khriss explained.

“But--”

“Baon’s pistols have two barrels,” Khriss said. “They’re officer’s weapons, very well-crafted.”

Kenton smiled slightly, handing the pistol back to Khriss. “So he was bluffing,” he said. “He couldn’t have killed that third Kershtian.”

Khriss shrugged. “Not unless he pulled out his other pistol.”

Kenton looked up, looking a little less saddened than before. After the attack, they had continued to ride south, at first nervously--fearing that the strange warriors would return with reinforcements.

In fact, Khriss thought the group strangely calm, considering how close they had come to death just hours before. Up ahead, the overweight Acron chatted jollily with Cynder--or, more accurately, Acron chatted while Cynder rode in relative silence. The linguist was recovering well from his wound--there appeared to be no signs of an infection.

“So,” Khriss said experimentally, “do you think those warriors will attack again?”

A small smile crept onto Kenton’s lips. “I wondered when you would get to that,” he mumbled.

“Well, we deserve an explanation of some sort,” Khriss huffed.

“I suppose you do,” Kenton agreed, still staring off into the distance. “No, I don’ think they’ll attack again. We’re too close to Lossandin civilization now.”

“But, why did they try to kill us in the first place.”

“Not us,” Kenton corrected. “Me. They have nothing against darksiders. They are opposed to Lossand on religious principles, however.”

“I thought you said that the wars were over,” Khriss challenged.

“I thought they were,” Kenton said with a shake of his head. “Besides, just because most Kershtians are willing to forgive our heathen nature doesn’t mean they all have. Those men we saw, they belonged to some new Kershtian religious group. That’s why they tried to kill me. I’m a non-believer.”

Khriss frowned. There was more he wasn’t telling her, but she could sense the reservation within him. After travelling with him for just a few days, she knew that if she tried to press the issue, he would only grow more withdrawn.

In front of them, Baon suddenly hammered his mount to a halt. His head frozen in a posture of listening. Khriss grew cold, her hands suddenly gripping the unloaded pistol with tense anxiety. What had the warrior heard? Had the Kershtians finally returned?

Baon frowned, then turned his mount, hammering it forward and to the west. Khriss followed anxiously, but he didn’t go far. The mercenary led his tonk up the side of a shallow dune, cresting the top and pulling to a halt. Khriss stopped beside him, and only then did she hear what he had noticed. Water.

Before her, the sand fell away, revealing a dun flat plain of smooth rocks marked with occasional piles of white sand. A cavern opened from the rock floor a short distance away, and bubbling from its depths was a massive river.

“The Ry’Do Ali,” Kenton explained behind them. “The Vein of Cursed Waters, as the Kershtians have dubbed it. Lifeblood of Lossand.”

“It’s amazing . . .” Khriss said in awe. Just moments before they had been in a stark desert, not a patch of water to be seen. But here, suddenly, they were confronted by a roaring river at least fifty feet wide.

“We must have finally dropped beneath the water table,” Cynder mused, rubbing his chin with his good arm.

“But where does it come from?” Khriss demanded.

“The mountain, perhaps?” Cynder guessed. “It melts at the mountain’s top, but gets trapped in caverns and clefts, traveling down through the rock until it stops far beneath those sands.”

Khriss nodded--the logic made sense, in a twisted dayside sort of way. Regardless of its geological roots, Khriss found the river intoxicating. For weeks now she had seen nothing but the repetitive dunes of white sand; she was happy to see anything different, even if it was relatively wan by darkside standards. The land surrounding the river was by no means lush, but compared to the desert, it was fertile. Sickly green bushes burrowed their roots into the rocky brown soil around the river, and there were even a few squat trees--though nothing grew on the pale white patches of sand.

“Lossand refers to the Ali for nearly all of its water,” Kenton explained. “Our society can’t stray far from its banks--there aren’t any vines, and wells are unreliable at best. Welcome to the desert.”

#

It was true. Kenton was no longer a sand master. He had finally realized that fact during the fight, when he had held up his sand and ordered it to obey him. It had failed him in his moment of desperation. It was really gone.

The realization had rested heavily upon him during the last few hours of riding. He had avoided it before, forced himself not to confront it, believing that for some reason he might regain his powers. Now, however, he had finally admitted the truth. He was no longer a sand master.

Kenton sighed, trying his best to deal with the incredible sense of loss he now felt. The realization seemed to bring with it a renewal of his feelings of loneliness. Once again, he was forced to face the reality of his father’s death. He felt empty. Powerless. Sand mastery had been who he was--what was he now that it was gone? A shell, like the carapace of a dead sandling?

Kenton shook his head. He didn’t know what he was now. All this time, he had used sand mastery almost more like a means to spite his father than an end itself. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so callus with its use . . . . Regardless, he certainly wasn’t of much use now. He hadn’t even taken out a single Kershtian in the most recent attack. Baon had done all the work.

The large dark-skinned warrior stood a short distance away, playing with the zinkall he had taken off one of the dead men. They had decided to take a break beside the river; Khriss and the two professors sat beneath the shade of a river-side tree while Baon practiced with his new weapon.

Kenton sighed, finishing his inspection of the tonks. One had to be certain tonk saddles lay properly--if one’s skin was ever allowed to touch the beast’s carapace, then sweat could begin dissolving their carapace. Eventually he finished, then turned to walk toward the darksiders. As he approached, Baon finished pumping and raised his arm to fire the zinkall.

The sound was not unlike that of a person exhaling quickly. The arrow, propelled by a burst of compressed air, flew straight, snapping into a nearby stump’s crusty bark. Its shiny carapace head sunk about a half inch into the wood, sticking soundly.

Baon nodded appreciatively. The zinkall, designed for the much smaller dayside build, fit awkwardly on his bulging forearm. Its repaired straps were stretched to their limits, and the tip of the gauntlet, which was supposed to extend over the knuckles, only reached to his wrist.

Baon raised his arm again, careful to keep his wrist downturned, lest he shoot himself in the hand. He flipped one of the triggers on the bottom of the palm, and another arrow shot out, digging into the wood beside its brother.

“Not bad,” Kenton approved as he approached.

“Thank you,” Baon said, launching the final arrow. He was an excellent shot, considering he’d never used the weapon before.

Kenton stopped beside Baon, watching the man reload, eager for any distraction that took his mind off of his loss. As the warrior pumped, Kenton turned slightly, his eyes looking to where Khriss and the professors were lounging beneath the tree’s shade a short distance away.

For some irrational feeling, he wanted someone to explain his pains to. He knew the desire was foolish--talking about the loss would make it no less real. Besides, he had only known her for a short time--and had treated her so poorly during that time.

Khriss caught his eye, and he immediately turned away, watching Baon fire a new series of arrows into the tree.

#

Khriss frowned as Kenton turned away. He still had the depressed look in his eyes, though it was more muted now.

Perhaps I’m mistaking it, she thought suddenly. Maybe he’s not sad--maybe he’s just annoyed. He was probably getting tired of her presence--he probably had better things to do than lead around a bunch of darksiders.

Well, I don’t feel sorry for him, Khriss decided. I did save his life, after all. He owes me his life--he should be grateful to have the opportunity to help us to Lossand.

With a nod of defiance, Khriss intentionally put Kenton out of her mind. She sighed in contentment, leaning happily against the tree, whose shade she shared with Acron and Cynder. While she wasn’t exactly comfortable--it was still far too hot for that--the combination of the shade and river breeze was perhaps the most luxurious thing she had felt since arriving on the arid continent.

Still, despite the river, she was still relatively disappointed with Lossand. It wasn’t nearly as lush as she had assumed it would be. The trees along the river were stumpy and twisted, and the land was more rock than it was earth. And, of course, there was still a great deal of sand.

“It isn’t much different from firing a pistol,” she heard Baon explain to Kenton. Khriss opened her eyes, watching as he turned his arm to the side, inspecting the weapon. Khriss knew from her own studies earlier in the day what he would see.

Though the top of the weapon was protected by an oblong, convex piece of carapace that ran from wrist to elbow. The shell ran around a group of wooden tubes and strange black chambers. The three chambers--shaped something like a pear--each fed into a thin carapace pipe, perhaps an inch in diameter. The arrows fit snugly in the tubes, the plug just behind the arrowhead forming a seal and holding the missile in place.

Baon released the pumping mechanism--a long rod that folded out of the underside of the weapon--and began to repressurize the chambers. The pump worked easily, working at an angle, like a bellows, rather than up and down. After just five or six pumps, Baon was able to reload one of the small arrows and fire again.

“Very efficient,” Baon approved. “Not much power though. This wouldn’t go through armor.”

“Not carapace armor,” Kenton agreed. “But zinkallin aren’t meant to be used like bows. They’re for short range combat, to wound your opponent before you engage him with your sword. The best Kershtian warriors, however, are good enough shots to incapacitate or kill with a single arrow.”

Beside her, Acron watched the conversation with confused eyes. The large anthropologist had spent the better part of the morning inspecting the zinkall, and now he sat with Kenton’s carapace blade lying across his lap. The blade was long and smooth--almost like it was constructed of some sort of black metal.

“What’s bothering you, professor?” Khriss asked, taking a sip of water from her canteen. The river-water tasted different from vine-water--it had a more pure flavor.

Acron wiped his brow, shaking his head. “I’m having some trouble with this sword, My lady,” he confessed.

“Trouble?”

“Well, we saw men in that first town carrying bows, and they apparently know how to work steel, so they appear to be in the sword-age. But, those arm weapons are almost more like crossbows, which would put them in the knight-age. Then I study this sword, which is made of carapace--which is the dayside equivalent of bone. Bone weapons are definitely from the spear-age! So, what level of technology are these daysiders? It’s all terribly confusing.”

Khriss frowned. “Why can’t they be from all three ages?” she asked.

“My dear duchess,” the fat man replied with a chuckle, “that just doesn’t happen. Populations follow standard means of societal evolution. This is obviously a primitive society--it must be somewhere in the sword-age, or perhaps early knight-age. If we can determine their level of technology, then we will be able to understand their temperaments, their taboos, and their mores. Not to be effrontery, but perhaps you should have spent more time in the social sciences.”

“There’s one thing I never understood about that theory, dear Acron,” Cynder’s slow voice said from the other side of the tree. The lanky professor was laying back on the riverside grass, resting leisurely. He still wore one of his suits, though even with the number of out-fit changes he had, the clothing was beginning to look a bit dusty and dirty from their travels, not to mention the bloody tear in one of his finest jackets.

“Oh, what’s that?” Acron asked.

“Well, if a society’s technology evolves with its culture, then its language should do so as well. True?”

“Of course,” Acron agreed.

“Have you ever tried to learn Daysider--this Holy Kershtian, as Kenton calls it?” Cynder continued.

“I took a few courses,” Acron replied, a little more cautious.

“Well, dear man, how did you do?”

“I didn’t have much time to spend on the effort,” Acron replied with a shrug of his ample shoulders.

“Ah, then you probably didn’t have time to notice how delightfully insane the language is,” Cynder continued. “Its inflections are quite random, its order is completely backward, and many of its infixes are so complex that it takes years to even be able to read. Now, Dynastic, on the other hand, is very simple and straightforward. There are no irregularities, its order is uniform, and compared to daysider it is almost . . . well . . . primitive.”

Acron frowned, and Khriss could barely contain a snicker. One of Cynder’s favorite activities was pointing out inconsistency--though his intent was never malicious, the trait had earned him enemies amongst Elisian faculty and students alike. Few could understand that his arguments were made for the pure delight of irony, rather than intent to ridicule.

Acron, fortunately, was not one so easily offended. He simply laughed at Cynder’s remark, shrugging to himself. Acron was not a stupid man, but Cynder’s level of satire was usually lost on him--which was probably the main reason the two were able to remain friends. The anthropologist just took Cynder’s comments as being odd and incomprehensible, and laughed them away as personality quirks rather than trying to understand them.

Acron was still laughing when a massive form bent over him, picking up the carapace sword. “I can answer one question for you,” Baon informed, holding up the sword. “I don’t care what it’s made from--this is not a primitive weapon.”

“I say, dear man,” Acron chuckled, “and by what learning do you make that judgement?”

Baon swiped the sword a few times. “I may not have much university learning, but I know weapons. Do you see how the sword is wider where blade meets hilt, tapering as it length increases? That is an advanced sword design; it balances the weapon for thrusting and backhands, creating a far superior weapon. I’ve traveled amongst primitive peoples of darkside--their blades, when they have them, are always perpendicular to the hilts. They use swords like axes, ignoring most of the blade’s potential in favor of simple hacking ability. This sword is a weapon of finesse and versatility, capable of swings in all directions.”

“I’m more interested in how it was made,” Khriss said, regarding the weapon. It had a keen edge, almost like it were molten-forged, like bronze. There were no signs of chipping, and the blade appeared to be one solid piece.

Kenton ducked into the tree’s shade, grabbing himself a drink. “It’s easy,” he explained with a shrug. “The Kershtian weaponsmiths use a damp cloth, carefully forming the blade from a large chunk of carapace. They can make an extremely keen edge that way.”

“But, what if your opponent throws water on you?” Baon asked with a frown.

“It wouldn’t work,” Kenton said with a laugh. “The swords and armor are treated after they’re made, dipped in DoKall, which forms a sort of film on them that makes them water-resistant.”

“A good thing too,” Cynder noted. “It would be convenient if one’s weapon melted every time it drew blood from an opponent.

Kenton chuckled. “A very good point. Though, honestly, you’ll find more Kershtians with spears than swords--its a traditional Kershtian weapon. Swords are weapons for the shoed ones.”

“Shoed ones?” Khriss asked.

“That’s what they call Lossanders,” Kenton explained. “Kershtians don’t wear shoes--at least, not the ones who live on the kerla. They don’t need them--the sand is soft, and their calluses protect them from the heat. Shoes are actually a hindrance when moving across sand--you can run much faster without them.”

Kenton reached over, accepting the sword and sliding it back into place on his belt. Khriss watched him with a frown. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was sad for some reason. In pain. But, he hadn’t been hurt in the attack--what could be hurting him so much that even she could see it in his eyes?

She was growing increasingly distrustful of this daysider. He seemed nice enough, but she didn’t trust his answer as to why the Kershtians had tried to kill him. Trade between Lossand and the Kershtians wouldn’t go on for very long if zealots ambushed ever Lossander that tried to visit the trading towns

Baon thought the attack had something to do with the golden sash Kenton kept concealed in his belt pouch. Baon assumed that the sash marked him as an elite soldier or a nobleman. His words made sense--it was after the sash had been seen that Kenton had grown worried. However, she didn’t believe that Kenton was a nobleman.

Khriss was not a master politician--she had spent too much time in her studies and away from the court. However, growing up as sole heir of one of Elis’ largest estates had necessitated training in diplomacy. Kenton was no diplomat.

True, he knew how to talk his way around topics and manipulate conversations. He acted like one who was used to debate. But, as deft as he was, Kenton would never have survived in court. He was too flagrant--too intentionally rude. He was witty and capable, but far too openly arrogant. The strangest thing about him was, however, how contrived that arrogance seemed--as if he challenged authority out of habit rather than intention.

However, Khriss was certain about one thing--habit or intention, it was annoying.

“Come on,” Kenton said. “We should get moving.”

“But, we haven’t even had lunch yet!” Acron protested. “I thought that’s why we stopped.”

“Not your lunch, their lunch,” Kenton said, nodding toward the tonks. The beasts had been hobbled together beside a broad patch of sand. “Sand isn’t by any means rare in Lossand, but a spot has to be a couple of inches deep for the tonks to graze. It’s always a good idea to give them a chance to eat when the opportunity arises.”

The weighty anthropologist groaned, casting longing eyes on the saddlebags beside him.

“You can eat on the way, Acron,” Kenton said. “We’re almost to Kezare--if we hurry, we could be there within a couple of days.”

White Sand

Chapter Eight

“Well, at least the food’s good,” Acron mumbled, tearing at a large piece of jerky--an item that made up the majority of their stores.

“You like it?” Khriss asked incredulously. The meat was heavily spiced with a strong black powder--something Kenton called ashawen. Apparently, it was the favored Kershtian spice, but Khriss found it nearly inedible.

“Why yes, of course,” the anthropologist replied, munching happily.

“Personally,” Cynder added, “I’m a little bothered by the fact that I don’t know what kind of animal it comes from.”

The three rode together, as usual, following Kenton, who rode in the front, with Baon alternately riding in the back, the side, or, when occasion suited him, scouting ahead. The warrior appeared relaxed, even lax, upon his mount, but his constant position shuffling proved otherwise. He was worried about the possibility of another attack, and was determined not to be surprised again. He hadn’t said anything, at least not while Khriss was present, but she knew he was displeased about Kenton’s closed-mouthedness.

The river beside them had broadened slightly as they moved, and it now stretched at least a hundred feet across. They had been riding along it for two days now, and it was growing steadily larger. It didn’t appear to be very deep, but the current was swift in places. Earlier in the day they had seen the first signs of human habitation here in Lossand. The villages were small and compact, settled between the river and occasional patches of sandy soil. The crops they grew looked more like what would be found on darkside, as opposed to the strange under-sand vegetables that came from the kerla.

However, she was quickly coming to understand why Lossand was considered the desert. The crops were stumpy and short, and there was little livestock. The Kershtian villages they had passed had been both larger and better protected, and the people had looked richer. It had been hard for Khriss to see at the time--she was used to darkside colors and flamboyancy--but now that she had something to compare, she realized that the Kershtians were very well off, despite their lack of extravagance. The Kershtian tents had been well-maintained and their insides plush. The people had been clean and well-fed, and many of them had appeared to have at least some leisure time.

It wasn’t that the Lossandin people were poor--they just weren’t as wealthy. The buildings--often stone or mud--didn’t appear as comfortable as Kershtian tents, and the people were always busy working beneath the hot sun, caring for their sickly plants.

The more she watched, the more she became certain that her darkside learning wouldn’t apply on dayside. Acron had been wrong when he’d assumed Khriss didn’t know the social sciences. Khriss had taken quite a number of anthropology classes--she liked all kinds of science, though the physical disciplines had always been her strongest area of study. Darkside logic said that a culture who lived in tents and used bone weapons couldn’t possibly be advanced as one that lived in homes and had access to iron. Yet, the exact opposite appeared to be true here on dayside.

“Well, I don’t care what it is,” Acron was mumbling as he reached for another piece of jerky. “It’s good. That’s all that matters.”

Khriss frowned, watching him chew. The jerky was different from what she had eaten on darkside. It was much softer, for one thing. It was stringy and dull brown, kind of like darkside jerky, but it didn’t come in cut strips but flat round discs, almost like loafs.

Cynder chuckled beside her. “Shall I warn our poor dayside friend that he’s about to suffer another interrogation?”

Khriss blushed. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to play innocent.

“Oh, come now, duchess,” Cynder chided. “I had you in far too many classes to mistake that look. What are you curious about this time?”

“The jerky . . . or whatever it is,” Khriss said. “You’re right--we don’t know where it comes from. It must be from a sandling of some sort, but what part? Certainly not the shell. But that means there must be soft flesh underneath, and soft flesh requires water--which I thought was poisonous to sandlings. In fact, I still can’t accept that they’re all hydrophobic. What kind of creature could exist without water? Do they not have blood?”

Cynder smiled, his aged eyes twinkling with mirth. “Well, those are good questions, I suppose. And, the Divine be thanked, for once I’m not on the receiving end. Go and ask--but, on second thought, don’t tell me what you find out. I have a feeling I’d rather not know where that jerky comes from--at least, not until we get to a place where there are other options to choose from.”

Khriss ignored his jibes--mostly because they were so well-placed. She tried to hold herself back, but now that the curiosity had gotten hold of her, she found it impossible to ignore. Eventually, beneath the elderly linguist’s knowing eyes, she hammered her tonk forward to confront Kenton.

The daysider rode alone, his expression thoughtful, even regretful. The dark sense of despair that had seemed to hover behind his eyes since the attack a few days ago was still there. In his hand was a bit of sand that he absently rubbed against his palm--a nervous habit of his. She had seen him do it before when he was deep in thought.

Kenton looked up as she approached, then groaned audibly.

“Oh, stop it,” she huffed. “You’ll be rid of us soon enough.”

“The sands willing . . . .” Kenton mumbled. “What is it this time?”

“The jerky,” Khriss said. “I want to know where it comes from.”

“Jerky?” Kenton asked.

Khriss pulled a piece out of her saddlebags. The floppy piece of meat was flexible and soft to the touch--and, unfortunately, she could smell the pungent ashawen that coated it.

“Oh, the ZaiDon,” Kenton said. “It comes from sandlings, of course.”

“Yes,” Khriss said, “but what part? Do they have flesh underneath?”

“No, it comes from the entire thing. The entire sandling.”

Khriss frowned. “How?”

“Like this,” Kenton said, pulling out his canteen. He waited for a few moments, watching the ground. Eventually, he saw one of the ever-present tiny bug-like sandlings scuttle from one patch of sand toward another. Kenton poured, dumping a shower of water on the creature. It immediately began to shake, jerking and squirming in the deadly rain. Khriss turned, watching the little creature as they passed. It bubbled and boiled, and a few seconds later it was nothing more than a greenish-brown puddle on the ground.

Kenton replaced his canteen, taking another pinch of sand from the pouch at his side and absently rubbing it between his fingers.

“See?”

Khriss sat on her tonk, looking behind her at the receding puddle of goo. Suddenly she felt very sick. “You mean . . . ?”

“You take sandling pus, churn it in a tub for a few hours, then let it dry in the sun. ZaiDon is a staple food, Khriss. We eat it with every meal. Of course, some forms of ZaiDon are so tasteless that we usually spice it as it’s drying. What’s wrong?”

Khriss barely kept her stomach under control. “I . . . On darkside we aren’t accustomed to eating squished bugs.”

“Bugs?” he said, obviously translating the word in his mind. “But, when they actually make ZaiDon, they use large sandlings--creatures like tonks. Of course, tonks don’t taste very good--other sandlings make better ZaiDon. Either way they aren’t ‘bugs.’ They’re far too big.”

Khriss shook her head. “The word doesn’t necessarily just refer to size,” she informed. “Regardless, I . . . .” she trailed off, frowning. Something was wrong. It took her a moment to pick it out, and when she did she wondered why she it had seemed so odd to her. The sand in Kenton’s palm had turned black. He must have gotten some water on his hands when he opened the canteen.

“What?” Kenton asked.

“Nothing,” Khriss said.

Kenton frowned, still rubbing the sand as if he had forgotten it was there. “No, really. What?”

“The sand in your fingers,” Khriss said with a blush. “It was white just a few moments ago. You must have--”

Kenton yelped in surprise, nearly dropping the sand as if it had suddenly bitten him.

“What!” Baon demanded, hammering his tonk forward, a pistol in one hand, sword in the other.

“Oh, uh, nothing,” Kenton sand nervously, still staring down at his hands. “I . . . thought I saw something.”

Baon didn’t look convinced. He did, however, let the matter drop as he put away his pistol and pulled out the spyglass instead. “Here,” the warrior said, handing the glass to Kenton. “I saw this right before you screamed. Look downriver.”

Kenton raised the glass hesitantly to his eye--he had used the glass before, but obviously didn’t know what to make of its ability to see great distances.

“I assume that’s where we’re going?” Baon asked.

Kenton nodded, lowering the glass, intentionally handing it past Khriss’ waiting hand to Cynder, who had ridden up beside her. The linguist smiled, but refrained from taking a look, handing it to Khriss instead.

With a growl at Kenton, she raised the glass to her eyes. There, barely visible on the horizon, was what looked like a large island rising out of the middle of the river.

#

Kenton hammered his tonk forward, moving ahead of the others. The darksiders probably assumed the move came from his excitement to get home. In actuality, sighting Kezare meant little to him. Home it was, but he had actually begun to loath returning--coming back to Kezare would mean revealing his loss of power to the remaining sand masters.

But, maybe not . . . . Kenton clutched the bit of black sand in his fist, hesitantly allowing himself to hope once again. After the last battle he had surrendered hope, for hope had become to painful. It appeared, however, that the emotion was too resilient to destroy, even intentionally.

It was probably the water, he told himself as he moved away from Khriss and the others. You’re just going to disappoint yourself again. But, hope moved him forward anyway. Hope led him to reach down and pull a fistful of sand from his sand pouch--worn now out of habit, rather than necessity. It was hope that shone believingly in his eyes as he hesitantly commanded the sand to obey.

And it did.

He nearly leapt from his saddle--half in joy, half in shock--when the sand suddenly burst into radiance. It sat in his hand, warm and familiar, glowing with its shifting mother-of-pearl light. His ability was not gone, it had only lain dormant for a time--a supposed impossibility.

Kenton sat stunned for a long moment, staring at the sand. He had always cursed his small talent, but these last few days without had been excruciating. One ribbon may not be very much compared to other sand masters, but it was infinitely better than no ribbons at all.

In a daze of contentment, Kenton began to move the sand out of his hand, spinning it in a very small pattern before him. Then he frowned--something was wrong. No, not wrong . . . just different. During his years as a sand master, he had grown accustomed to the draining effects of sand mastery--it could be as taxing on a man’s body as physical labor. Perhaps it was just because he had gone so long without mastering, but it seemed like the sand was . . . .

“Kenton?” a feminine voice asked.

He jumped, hurriedly letting the ribbon fall stale.

Khriss’s tonk caught up to his own a few moments later. The darksider’s face was suspicious. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Kenton said, letting the black sand slide from his fingers.

She watched the action with thin eyes, then turned up to stare at his face, searching for answers. “All right, daysider. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Kenton asked innocently.

“Those Kershtians attacked us just to get to you. For some reason, they thought you were so dangerous they only sent one of their men against Baon, but they sent six against you. Now, you seem mystified by bits of sand. What are you hiding?”

Kenton almost told her. There was really no reason to keep it hidden--she would find out about the sand masters soon enough. As he looked up to speak, however, his eyes fell on her face. Her authoritative, demanding face. So much like Praxton and the mastrells. As his mouth opened, he found himself hesitating.

“What am I hiding?” he finally said, his reflexes taking over. “Well, certainly not the fact that you annoy me, dear Khrissalla of darkside. In fact, how do you know it was me they were trying to kill? I seem to remember warning someone, back in that village, that she should pay more attention to Kershtian customs, lest she offend the ‘savages.’ Retribution comes swiftly among us primitive people--I wouldn’t be surprised if those men were hired to come after us by the merchant whose home you offended by breaking tradition.”

“I--” Khriss said, shocked, her face growing red. She obviously didn’t believe him, but there was enough possibility to his words that she couldn’t be certain. She stuttered for a moment, then hammered her tonk to the side, fleeing back to her darkside companions.

By the sands, how could I be so cruel?, Kenton thought in amazement. What have I become?

His fight against the Diem had made him strong, but the constant effort had produced side-effects. Since he had become a sand master every moment of his life had been a struggle. Nearly every other Diem member had been an enemy--or, at least, someone to whom he needed to justify his continued defiance of the mastrells. Kenton had worked hard to gain what support he had. Instead of just responding to his accusers, Kenton had needed to make them seem like fools, for the entire Diem had been watching. But, somewhere during the struggle, the cynicism had become a part of him. He was a rebel--not necessarily because he needed to be, but because he had been one for so long.

#

“He seems to get endless joy from infuriating me,” Khriss fumed. Only years of dealing with courtly back-stabbing kept the tears from showing on her face. “He attacked me for no reason. What did I do to deserve this? Save him from dehydration? Perhaps the Divine intended for him to die, and now they’re punishing me for interfering. And why am I talking to you anyway? You don’t care.”

Baon raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t care,” he agreed. “That’s probably why you’re talking to me.”

Khriss looked back toward Kenton, who was riding a good distance in front of the rest of them. They should have left him days ago--the darksiders could have followed the river on their own. They didn’t need a guide any more.

“I must have said something truthful--something that made him uncomfortable,” she decided.

“Or, maybe you just asked something he couldn’t answer,” Baon said with a shrug.

“What?”

“People get annoyed when you ask questions they don’t know the answers to. It makes them feel insufficient. And, duchess, with the number of questions you ask, the odds are definitely against the daysider.”

Khriss snorted at the comment, falling silent. The truth was, however, that she couldn’t remain annoyed for long--not when they were so close to their destination. Kezare was a city of legends on darkside, a mystical place where the sand mages ruled.

She was encouraged to see that it really was on an island, like the stories said. The river split directly in the middle, birthing a massive rock of an island that was bulging with tents and buildings. The land on the banks to either side of Kezare was obviously more fertile than what they had passed so far--it was covered with farms, though the crops were still poor compared to darkside standards.

In addition, the river got even bigger here. As they approached, Khriss could see a second, smaller river merging with the Ry’Do Ali. If her map were to be believed, its origin could be found in the mountains to the east, the only of their kind on the continent other than the single peak at the center of the kerla. Here, in the pseudo-lake surrounding Kezare, she saw ships on the water for the first time. Most of the riverboats were small, but a couple were more massive, probably cargo vessels.

Kenton allowed them to catch up as they approached the city. Smaller towns lined the banks of the river, most of them little more than a dock and a few clay structures. It was to one of these that Kenton led them. He rode straight up to the river bank, then told them to wait beside their animals as he negotiated with one of the sailors--a man with lighter Lossandin skin, as opposed to Kershtian olive.

A moment later he returned, handing Khriss a small pouch of coins. “I’ve traded him your tonks for this,” he explained.

“What?” Khriss demanded. “I didn’t tell you to do that!”

“And?” Kenton said with a chuckle. “Were you intending to take them with you?”

“Why not?” Khriss asked.

“Across water?” Kenton asked with a raised eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be a very good idea. Tonks go wild whenever they’re put onto a ship--I don’t know how they can tell they’re near water, but they can. Even if they couldn’t, all it would take would be one leak or splash to drive the whole lot of them into a stampede. And, if you did get them across, there wouldn’t be anything for them to eat. There’s not much sand in Kezare.”

“But, how do we travel around the city?” Khriss asked.

“You walk,” Kenton said. “Or, I suppose, you can hire a carriage if you must. Either way, the tonks stay here. A ferry ride across the river was also part of the deal. From there, the man’s son will lead you to Lonzare.”

“Lonzare?” Khriss asked.

“The darksider section of Kezare. You’ll probably want to find rooms there.”

“But, what about you?”

Kenton smiled. “I thought you wanted to get rid of me.”

“I do,” Khriss informed. “I just . . . oh, never mind.”

“Then this is farewell, Khrissalla,” Kenton said with a nod. “I have . . . things I need to attend to.”

With that, he nodded his farewells to Baon, Acron, and Cynder, then left them standing on the docks, the Lossandin sailor gesturing for them to board his boat.

#

Kenton rushed along the riverbank, the darksiders forgotten for the time being. Now that he was so close, his eagerness was taking control of him--he needed to know who among his comrades had survived.

The Diem itself wasn’t in Kezare, but on the lake shore a short distance away from where he had dropped off the darksiders. He made the trip quickly, barely letting himself wonder who would be dead and who would be alive.

Soon, he topped a small hill, and his eyes fell on the Diem itself. He paused for a moment, despite his anxiety, to stare at the building that he had called home for the last eight years. Large and fortress-like, the building that was the Diem seemed to be part of sand surrounding it. And, in reality, such wasn’t far from the truth.

The building was an enigma--it was older than the sand masters, or, at least, their formal organization. It had been formed from a single, enormous block of white sandstone. Yet, unlike normal sandstone, the Diem’s walls and floors could not be chipped or worn away. It was permanent, eternal.

Kenton stood, the ever-present wind ruffled his robes, bringing with it the familiar scents of Kershtian cooking and lakewater. The sun sat about twenty degrees down from the apex, resting in its familiar place, the place that felt right. The sand masters’s power, like the building before him, had seemed eternal. They had been broken, betrayed and destroyed through the warping of their own powers. It was possible that not a single one of them had . . . .

Kenton stopped, forcing himself not to think of such a possibility. Others had survived. The thought firmly in his mind, he descended toward the block-like Diem. He walked straight up the road toward its front, striding up its sandstone steps and through the doorless gate.

As soon as he entered, his resolve wavered slightly. The Diem was silent. He stood in the entry hall, a massive, open room that stretched up for two stories. The room was bright--besides the inner hallways, there wasn’t a place in the Diem that didn’t have windows. But, for some reason, it felt dark.

Rich tapestries swung on the walls, giving way before the wind. The room’s only sound was that of the long pieces of cloth slapping against the stone walls. Paintings watched him. The murals on the back wall, depictions of Lossand’s eight Professions, seemed faded and subdued. The ground, like all of the Diem’s floors, was covered with a few inches of white sand.

Kenton shivered. The entry chamber was the Diem’s main entryway; it had always been busy. Whether it had been acolents running toward their rooms, or undermastrells yelling for them to act properly, the entry chamber was a place for meeting and socializing. With thousands of Diem members, there was always at least someone there.

And now it was empty. Kenton took a step forward, walking tentatively, as if he were on deep sand. Then he moved more quickly, more urgently, if only to make more noise himself. Beyond the entry chamber he entered the dark inner hallway. Unlit lamps lined the walls, but several open chamber doors provided some light.

The inner hallway extended tunnel-like in either direction, the occasional open door lending it a ghostly, quiet light. The hallway circled the rectangular perimeter of the Diem. From it, one could reach every room on the ground floor--the Diem’s center was a large open courtyard.

The hallway should have been lit. It was the main area of traffic in the building. Now alarmed, Kenton chose a direction and began to stride down the hallway, throwing open doors as he moved. He passed the large conference room that sat behind the entry chamber and moved on to the smaller rooms that lined the hallway on both sides. He exposed living chambers and classrooms alike, each one empty.

Kenton searched frantically, calling out as he worked. Eventually, he found himself back where he had begun--he had traveled the entire perimeter of the Diem.

Stupefied, he wandered back into the entry hall. It was true--the Diem was empty. He couldn’t know for certain, of course, for he couldn’t check the two upper stories. The Diem had no stairs--those who didn’t have sand mastering ability couldn’t visit the chambers of the mastrells and other high-ranking sand masters.

Still, Kenton knew that even if he could get up to those floors, he would find the rooms empty. His yell-accompanied searching had been loud; they would have heard him. He had even stuck his head into the inner courtyard and called out for an answer. There had been none.

He was the last sand master. The possibility that he had forced himself not to consider had occurred. What would he do? Could the Diem continue with one member?

Kenton slumped against a sandstone wall, letting himself slide down to the floor. He stared forward sightlessly, disbelievingly. How many times had he wished that he didn’t have to deal with the mastrells? How many times had he speculated about how much could be done for the Diem if the old leadership were gone? He had fought them for eight years, but now there was no one left to fight.

No one to tell him he wasn’t good enough. No one to snicker behind his back as he passed. No one to impress with how much he could do with a single ribbon. No one to meet for lunch, to talk about how far they had come. No one to be his friend, despite their difference in ranks. No brothers left, spiteful or encouraging.

Kenton’s head fell to his hands. What would he do now?

“Kenton?” a hesitant voice asked.

Kenton looked up with shock, bumping his head against the wall behind him. Standing in the large gateway was a familiar form.

“Dirin?” Kenton asked with amazement.

The flame-haired boy rushed into the room. He wore his sand master’s robes and the white sash of an acolent.

“Kenton, you’re alive!” the boy exclaimed. “We thought for certain that--”

“We?” Kenton interrupted. “There are others?”

Dirin paused. “Well, yes. Of course. Oh, but you wouldn’t know, would you?”

Kenton leapt to his feet. “Where, Dirin? Where is everyone?”

“At the Hall,” Dirin explained, examining Kenton’s face with a frown. “Are you all right?”

“The Hall of Judgement?” Kenton asked. “Why?”

“The Taishin have met, Kenton,” Dirin explained. “They need to ratify a new Lord Mastrell.”

“A new Lord Mastrell . . .” Kenton said, his eyes opening wide. “Who?”

But somehow he already knew the answer.

“Drile,” Dirin replied.

Kenton cursed. “Come on,” he said, moving to rush out of the Diem.

“Wait,” Dirin requested. The boy rushed away, then returned a few moments later, a golden sash from the supply room in his hands. “Terr sent me to get this,” he explained sheepishly. “We’re going to give it to Drile when he leaves the Hall. It wouldn’t be right for the Lord Mastrell not to have one.”

Kenton frowned. “You won’t need it,” he informed.

#

“None of the mastrells survived,” Dirin explained, speaking with the excitement of a youth with news to tell. “Except maybe Drile, who isn’t quite a mastrell anymore.”

Kenton nodded, hurrying through the small riverside town. They needed to get a boat to Kezare as quickly as possible. “How did you survive?” he asked.

Dirin shrugged. “I don’t know, really. After the Lord Mastrell’s final attack, the Kershtians only fired a few more arrows, then retreated. Most of them ignored the acolents--over half of us survived. The higher, ranks, though . . . .”

“They must have known which sash colors to aim for,” Kenton assumed as they walked onto the docks. “Wait here.”

A boatman, a Lossandin man with dark enough hair that he might have had some Kershtian blood in him, approached as Kenton strode forward. “We need passage,” Kenton explained. “As quickly as possible.”

“Two lak,” the man said, “and I’ll have you there in less than five degrees.”

Kenton froze. He had given all of the money to Khriss and the others, assuming he wouldn’t need it once he returned to the Diem.

“I . . .” Kenton trailed off.

“No money?” the man assumed with a snort, turning.

Kenton watched him go. Always before, he had been able to request money from the Diem for whatever expenses he had. What did he do if there was no one to distribute money?

Then, reaching down to his belt, Kenton realized something. “Wait!” he exclaimed.

The man turned, and Kenton pulled out the golden mastrell’s sash. The man’s eyes opened wide, then immediately turned down toward the ground, and he fell to one knee. “KeemTo!” he said, the Kershtian word for ‘master.’ “I did not know . . . I mean, I thought you were all . . .”

Murmurs came from all around him as other dock patrons and workers saw the golden sash. Everywhere Kenton looked, people averted their eyes, some bowing, others scurrying away, and more than a few making Kershtian wardings against evil with their hands. Kenton watched it all with a measure of shock--people had been suspicious of him when he was an acolent, but he had never received a reaction such as this. Mastrells rarely left the Diem, and when they did they traveled by carriage--Kenton hadn’t realized what an effect the golden sash would have on those around him.

The dockman remained kneeling before him, sweat on his brow, his arms shaking slightly.

“I still need passage,” Kenton said slowly.

“Yes, KeemTo. Immediately.” The man hopped up, running over to a small boat.

Kenton followed more slowly, allowing Dirin to catch up. There was surprise on the boy’s face. “Kenton, you . . . . I mean, why?”

“Why what?” Kenton asked, climbing on the boat.

Dirin regarded the dockman with careful eyes, then continued in a low voice. “Why imitate a mastrell? You know the punishment for that? I mean, I know you want to get to Kezare . . .” the boy trailed of with a blush, as if he had gone too far in his accusation.

“Imitating . . . ?” Kenton asked as the dockman moved them out onto the lake and began to row for Kezare. “Dirin, the Lord Mastrell himself gave me this sash right before the attack. Weren’t you paying attention?”

Dirin lowered his eyes sheepishly. “Of course I was, Kenton, but . . . well, you wouldn’t know, because you always walk right up to the front. The rest of us can’t do that. It’s very hard to hear in the back--the lower ranks never know what’s happening up front. Most of us are short enough that we can’t even see. I heard that you’d . . . picked up Drile’s sash and taken it for yourself, but no one actually thought, I mean, the Lord Mastrell said he would never . . .”

Kenton sat dumbfounded on the boat’s wooden plank, thinking back to the events right before the Kershtian attack. The last days had been so chaotic that it was hard to remember--he knew that Praxton had told him to pick up the sash, but had he ever announced Kenton’s advancement to the rest of the Diem?

“Dirin, who besides students survived the attack?”

“Some underfens, a couple dozen fens, and fourteen Diemfens.”

Too low, Kenton realized. All of them would be so far back that they wouldn’t have been able to see or hear. I was advanced, but there’s no one alive who can prove it.

“Oh,” Dirin added. “I almost forgot--Elorin survived too, but . . .”

“Elorin?” Kenton asked with excitement. “He was there, up at the front!”

“Yes,” Dirin agreed. “But, well . . . he isn’t here.”

“Why not?” Kenton demanded. “He should be leading the Diem! He’s the highest ranking sand master left.”

“He’s not a sand master anymore,” Dirin said softly. “He overmastered like everyone who died, but his powers were burned away. He can’t even master a single ribbon.”

Kenton grew cold. “Elorin, burned out?”

Dirin nodded. “He was the one who organized the refugees and led us back to Kezare, but once he got here, he left. He said the sight of the Diem was too much for him, now that he . . .”

Kenton closed his eyes, shaking his head. Only a few hours before he had assumed such would be his own fate--he knew well the despair that came from losing one’s ability to master sand. He probably would have done what Elorin did, had things remained unchanged. Except, for some reason his powers had returned. Why?

The boat pulled into dock, and the dockman hopped out, quickly tying the moorings. He then bowed subserviently as Kenton and Dirin climbed out. He demanded no payment, but instead boarded his vessel in silence. Kenton noticed a look of relief on his face as he rowed away from the city. Relief, and something else, something carefully hidden. Resentment.

“Come on,” Kenton said, watching the dockman with distracted eyes. “We need to get to the Hall of Judgement.”

#

The Hall of Judgement was a massive pyramidal structure. Cut from dark black marble, it was the organizational center for Lossand’s trackts and judges, much in the same way that the Diem headquartered the sand masters. There was a massive crowd around its front steps, many of them wearing the white robes of sand mastery. The people spoke with hushed voices, and even from a distance Kenton could feel their anxiety. The selection of a new Taisha--leader of one of Lossand’s eight Professions--was a very important event, especially when that Taisha was the Lord Mastrell.

Kenton hung back from the crowd, waiting in the half-shadows beside an earthen building. He leaned against the hardened clay, feeling oddly hesitant after his rush to arrive. The crowd was packed so thickly that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to push his way through. Of course, there was one easy way to force them apart--few people would stand in the way of a mastrell.

He had put the golden sash away after leaving the docks. The people’s reactions had made him uncomfortable--in all his years of seeking the golden sash, he had never associated it with the power that most sand masters probably coveted. He had wanted to be a mastrell primarily to prove his father wrong. Now that he had it, he was seriously considering throwing it away.

He could do it. No one alive had heard Praxton advance him. Others might call him a fool for doing so, but Kenton had seen the faces of the sand masters who had been at the front of the crowd. He had felt their envy, and their indignation. He didn’t deserve the sash, and they all knew it.

“Kenton?” Dirin asked, his voice confused. The young acolent stood beside him in the alley. “Are we going to go forward?”

“I . . .” Kenton paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“But, you have to stop him!”

“Who?” Kenton asked.

“Drile!” Dirin explained. “They’re going to make him Lord Mastrell. He’s in there now--he’s the only one the Taishin let in.”

“Maybe Drile should be Lord Mastrell,” Kenton mumbled. “He is the most powerful, after all.”

“But--”

Kenton held up a hand to cut the boy off. “I didn’t mean it,” he said with a shake of his head. “Trust me, I know Drile far better than you. We were acolents together. He’ll make a despot of a Lord Mastrell--I couldn’t think of a worse choice, no matter how powerful he is. The problem is, I don’t see what we can do about it.”

“But, Kenton,” Dirin began, “you’re a mastrell. You should be Lord Mastrell.”

Kenton frowned. “I thought you didn’t believe me,” he said.

Dirin looked up, his eyes wide and honest, like always. “I didn’t hear Lord Praxton advance you, but I believe you. If you said he gave you the sash, then he did. Besides, anyone would be better than Drile.”

Kenton looked down at the acolent’s encouraging eyes. Sometimes the boy was so optimistic it was sickening. Kenton shook his head, looking back at the mass of people before the Hall. Most of them weren’t as ingenuous as Dirin--would they believe him? Probably not. Kenton had too much of a history of being a rebel to have any credibility. Besides, did he really want them all to treat him like the Lord Mastrell? They would fear him, and hate him, him even more than if he were just a simple mastrell.

“No,” he said quietly. “Dirin, I don’t deserve this sash. Praxton gave it to me out of spite, not because he thought I should be a mastrell.”

“You deserve it,” Dirin countered. “Kenton, you always said you worked harder, did more with what you had, than any other sand master. You said that should measure who became a mastrell and who didn’t.”

Kenton shook his head. “I lied, Dirin,” he said frankly. “I didn’t fight to be a mastrell because I thought I deserved it, I did so to spite my father. I knew it would embarrass him. That’s why I kept turning down his advancement offers, not because of any moral belief.”

Dirin fell silent. Kenton turned away from the Hall, stepping quietly down the alleyway, walking away. He had fought and won, but only now did he realize that he had been fighting the wrong battle.

“I almost left the Diem, you know,” Dirin said. He spoke quietly, as if speaking to himself. “I was so weak, and everyone else so strong. I could barely make sand glow--let alone move it around. I always thought, what good will I be? I’m useless.”

Kenton paused in the shadows, brick walls on either side of him. He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t keep going either.

“I’m still an acolent,” Dirin continued, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m sixteen. Do you know that, Kenton? Do you know how old I am? I know I don’t look like it--Talloners are short. I guess that makes it easier for everyone to ignore the fact that I should have been offered a sash two years ago.”

Kenton closed his eyes. He had wondered, on occasion, why Dirin was still an acolent, but he hadn’t ever asked. The boy had never been called up for advancement.

“I don’t think Praxton was ever planning on giving me a sash,” Dirin explained. “He tried to forget about me. I can barely make sand glow. Even after all these years, I can barely do anything. I’m the weakest sand master who ever lived. At times, I got so depressed that a nearly gave up. I nearly left the Diem on a dozen separate occasions.”

Dirin paused. In a moment, he finally continued. “But, every time I thought that, I would see you. Here was a sand master barely more powerful than I, but somehow he has managed to become the focus of everyone’s attention. He does things even mastrells can’t do, and he speaks back to the upper ranks with pride, despite his apparent lack of strength. Everyone in the Diem respects you, even those who hate you. I would see you, struggling on despite everything and everyone, and I would feel that, perhaps, I could keep going too.”

Kenton lowered his head, raising one hand to feel the sand and clay brick beside him. “I’m not what you think I am, Dirin,” he said, memories of his harshness to Khriss fresh in his memory.

“Can you really let him be Lord Mastrell?” Dirin asked. His voice was pleading now. “Ever since Elorin left, Drile has been lording over us like a King from the rimlands. He’s been talking about hiring us out as mercenaries to fight for private armies or to defend kelzin. We’ve been afraid, but there was nothing we could do. Even with his demotion, Drile is still the highest-raking sand master alive. Except you.”

Except me. He’d spend all his life struggling against the mastrells and their leader. Could he really become one of them? He wavered, part of his mind warning him that Drile couldn’t be allowed to take control of the Diem, an equally strong part whispering that as bad as Drile was, Kenton might prove worse.

Absently, he reached into his sand pouch and pulled out a handful, rubbing the sand between his fingers and his palm. The thin grains were almost soft to the touch. With barely a thought, he called them to life.

The light of mastered sand instantly banished the alley’s shadows. His fist glowed red as he clutched the sand, letting it seep between the cracks in his fingers to form a ribbon that wove a simple pattern in the air. The feeling he had noticed earlier, before Khriss had interrupted him, was still there. The sand felt . . . weak. Still, despite the odd feeling, the experience of mastering sand was the same as it had always been.

Eight years now he had worked with the sand, coaxing every ounce of power from its grains, driving it faster, controlling it with more delicacy. All because he had wanted to prove those above him wrong, and never because of the sand itself. It was beautiful, shimmering with radiance, twisting and spinning in the air.

Perhaps it was time he actually became a sand master.

Kenton raised his head. His sand surged around him as he turned, moving in rhythm with his determination. He whipped the golden sash out of its pouch and tied it around his waist.

“All right, Dirin,” he said. “I’ll do it, but only to stop Drile. As soon as someone more competent can be found, I will give the Lord Mastrellship to him.”

Instead of beaming in joy, however, Dirin regarded Kenton with amazement.

“What?” Kenton asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “You’re that surprised that I didn’t abandon you?”

“Kenton . . .look at your sand,” the boy said, raising a finger.

Kenton looked up. The ribbon looked normal to him.

“The other side.”

Kenton turned his head. That ribbon looked normal too--

He froze. Looking back and forth between the ribbons. There were two of them, hanging separately in the air. His eyes grew wide with shock--that must have been the feeling he had experienced, the feeling of weakness from the sand.

“But, it shouldn’t be possible!” he whispered.

All his life, he had only been able to master one ribbon. Sand masters didn’t spontaneously gain the ability to master more--or, at least, not after they passed into maturity. All acolents started out with one ribbon, but most quickly added more--at a rate of about one every few months--until they hit their limit.

Then, they stopped, never gaining more. For most sand masters, this happened long before their advancement, though mastrells continued to grow on after being granted their sash. All hit an upper limit, however, even mastrells. Through practice a sand master could increase the amount of sand his ribbons could hold, but never how many ribbons he could control.

Yet, Kenton had done just that. Experimentally, he moved the ribbons around. They obeyed, moving separately when he commanded. The movements were awkward--like tying to control two arms doing separate tasks--but they did obey. Between the time of the battle and the time he regained his powers, his abilities had changed somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be possible--but, of course, the books also said that once a sand master burned away his power, it never came back.

“How . . . ?” Dirin asked.

“I don’t know,” Kenton confessed. He reached out a tentative hand, commanding one of the ribbons to split. And it did.

“Three?” Dirin whispered in disbelief.

Kenton commanded again, but the ribbon resisted. He struggled to make it split, but he ran up against a familiar wall--he had tried unsuccessfully for eight years to control two ribbons at once. He strained, trying to bend the sand to his will, and finally succeeded in splitting the ribbon in two--but as he did one of the other ribbons immediately fell stale, dropping to the ground.

“It looks like three is the limit,” Kenton said with bafflement. Controlling all three at once was difficult, but no more so than one had been for him just a short time before.

“It is a sign,” Dirin said quietly.

“A sign from whom?” Kenton said with a snort. “Have you suddenly converted to Ker’Reen?”

Dirin blushed sheepishly, but his eyes continued to glimmer as he looked at Kenton’s ribbons.

Kenton turned, looking out of the alley at the collection of sand masters and townspeople waiting for the inevitable announcement of Drile’s ascension to the Taisha.

The Council isn’t going to like this, Kenton thought as he prepared to step out of the alleyway. Of course, they were used to dealing with him. He had petitioned them on four separate occasions, attempting to use the Law against his father. He had lost all four petitions to nearly unanimous votes.

Hopefully, this time would break the trend. He would hate to have motivated himself so heroically only to fail.

“Well, Dirin,” he mumbled. “If you’ve suddenly decided to become religious, you might want to say a prayer for me. This is going to take some serious divine intervention.”

And with that he stepped forward, his three ribbons of sand whirling around his body.

White Sand

Chapter Nine

Khriss watched Kenton walk away, disappearing around a corner without giving the darksiders a second look. She stared distractedly for a moment, allowing the boatman to herd her onto his tiny vessel, before snorting and seating herself.

“I knew he would abandon us,” she informed to no one in particular.

“You sound disappointed,” Cynder replied, seating himself beside her with a chuckle. “Weren’t you complaining just a short while ago about his continued presence in our company?”

“I’m happy to see him go,” Khriss defended. “I just thought it rather abrupt of him to leave us here, after all we’ve done for him.”

Cynder just silently raised his eyes to the heavens as the daysider boatman began to row them across the lake.

Khriss turned from the insufferable linguist, intent on forgetting about Kenton and turning her attention back to her task. She had crossed the desert--which apparently wasn’t a desert at all--and found her way to Kezare, capital of Lossand. The city was to have been Gevin’s final destination. She had to find out what had happened to him after he got to the city--assuming, of course, that he had even made it this far. He could have very easily died crossing the sands; Khriss and her group nearly had.

Khriss shook her head. She had to assume that Gevin had arrived at Kezare. There was something about the prince--something about his obstanance--that told her he would have made it to his destination. Even if inquiries had told him the Sand Mages weren’t real, he would have pressed on to Kezare. He would have had to prove his failure to himself.

But how was she going to discover anything? Her only means of communication had just run off, leaving her party once again to the mercies of its own linguistic ability. Cynder had spent a number of hours during their trip interrogating Kenton about dayside languages, but the elderly linguist still had only a passing grasp on daysider. In addition, the tongue Cynder and Khriss had learned was what Kenton called Formal Kersha, language of Kershtian religious services. Khriss’s group had absolutely no experience with the tongue Kenton called ‘Lossandin.’

Khriss made little progress with her doubts as they crossed the lake--though Acron nearly succeeded in capsizing them on two separate occasions when he tried to stand and get a better view of the approaching city. The small dayside boat was not designed to deal with someone of the anthropologist’s girth. They arrived without misfortune, however. Khriss took Acron’s hand as he offered it to help her from the boat, and Baon quietly gathered up their baggage--making no complaints at having become the de facto packman.

Kezare was not as she had pictured it. True, it was on an island, like the books said, but it was far from what she would have called grand. The buildings were mostly clay or stone, and tended to be blockish. Many of them were multi-storied, and their size combined with the narrow streets to give the island an overloaded feeling, like a bag that was packed so full it was about to burst. The buildings almost seemed to be pushing one another into the lake, some running right up to the water’s edge. Over all it looked less grand than it did crowded, dirty, and loud.

Acron, apparently, disagreed with her.

“It’s amazing,” the hefty anthropologist breathed, rubbing his short beard. “It is like we’ve traveled back in history! Not a single building made from wood. And look, none of the roofs are peaked--though, I suppose that makes sense, what with the lack of snow. I wonder how they deal with sanitation? And transportation--the roads are so packed with bodies. Do you suppose everybody really walks?”

Acron continued to babble as the boatman tied their boat, then began calling in Lossandin toward a stone cottage just beyond the wooden docks. When there was no reply, he grumbled to himself, bowed to the darksiders, then went jogging toward the building.

“Should we follow?” Khriss asked.

“Not unless you want to help me carry all of this,” Baon replied, setting the last of their saddlebags in a pile on the docks. “I suspect he will return--Kenton did say he had arranged to have us transported somewhere.”

“Lonzare,” Khriss said with a nod. “Though he didn’t bother to explain what it was. That man is insufferable.”

“We will find out soon enough, I suspect,” Baon replied, shrugging.

“Aren’t you even curious?” Khriss asked. “He could be sending us anywhere.”

“Wondering won’t get us there any more quickly.”

“Yes, but . . . .” Khriss trailed off, realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Baon. The mercenary simply refused to be properly curious. So, to alleviate her own frustration, she turned to another topic. “What do you think of the city?” she asked, nodding toward Kezare.

Baon replied by pulling a small piece of carapace from one of his pockets--one of the fragments he had retrieved from the fallen Kershtians’ armor. He dropped it off the side of the dock, letting it fall to the water with a solitary plunk. Khriss watch as it began to bubble, melting away before it could sink more than a few inches.

“The city is very well placed,” Baon said. “Hard to attack, easy to defend.”

“But very congested,” Khriss noted.

“True,” Baon agreed. “That could be good or bad, depending on how it were used. The sheer number of streets and houses would slow an enemy army--both because of confusion and because of temptation to plunder. But, the population also makes protecting the people a virtual impossibility. This would make a difficult battlefield for both sides.”

“Other than the martial applications, what do you think?” Khriss asked, looking back over the busy streets.

Baon shrugged again. “It’s a city.”

“That’s it?” Khriss asked. “That’s all you have to say?”

“For now,” Baon said.

True to Baon’s prediction the boatman returned a few moments later. Following him were a couple of burly Lossandin men and a young, dark-haired girl. Khriss frowned, trying to determine the girl’s race--she could have been either Lossandin or Kershtian. The dark hair seemed to imply Kershtian, but her skin didn’t have the olive cast to it. Of course, it was smudged with enough dirt that it was hard to tell.

The boatman smiled, pointing at the two men, then held up two fingers. “Za lak,” he said.

“Two coins,” Cynder translated. “How surprising--I actually understood him.”

“Not two coins,” the little girl corrected, speaking Dynastic with a horrible, almost indecipherable accent. “Two Lak. Can give them other coins if want, but will be paying them more than they have ever been worth.”

Cynder blinked in surprise, looking down at the little girl. Then he turned back to Khriss with a chuckle. “By the Divine--I’m wondering why I even bothered to learn this language. Everybody seems to speak Dynastic.”

“Not everyone,” the girl said. “Just me. Come.” The girl barely waited for the two packmen to pick up their baggage before darting off into the crowd.

“I guess she’s to be our guide,” Cynder observed.

“I thought Kenton said the boatman’s son would be guiding us,” Khriss said with a frown.

Cynder shrugged. “All I know is that if we don’t hurry, our possessions are likely to arrive at our destination without us.” He nodded toward the packmen, who had already started to follow the girl.

“Let’s go,” Khriss said, nodding a grateful farewell to the boatman.

#

Her estimation of Kezare proved correct in one area, at least. It was crowded. Khriss and the others practically had to fight to move through the mass of people. The first few minutes were horrible; Khriss was accustomed to people giving her a great deal of room. She was, after all, of noble blood. The daysiders didn’t seem to care about her personal space--they jostled, shoved, and bumped into her. The smell of their dirty, unwashed bodies was nearly enough to knock her unconscious.

Fortunately, she had Baon. Whether he noticed the look on her face or whether he simply guessed she would need room, Baon suddenly began to make space where there had previously been none. People shoved, he shoved harder. People pushed, but he was much taller--and more massive--than anything Lossand could produce. People began to notice for the first time that the body they were shoving was much larger than what they were accustomed to, and their eyes opened wide with amazement as they turned up to stare at the massive black-skinned giant that stood in their midst.

Within a few moments the crowd had pulled back, flowing around Baon like raging waters before an enormous stone. Khriss and Cynder crouched in Baon’s wake--Khriss breathing deeply, Cynder humming quietly to himself.

“Thank you,” she mumbled to Baon.

“Come on,” the warrior simply replied, pushing his way through the crowd--which alacritously parted before him. “We’ll lose our guide.”

“Where’s Acron?” Khriss asked, suddenly realizing she had lost track of the anthropologist.

“There,” Cynder said, nodding to the edge of the crowd. Acron’s large head could be seen bobbing happily underneath a colorful canopy.

Khriss considered calling out to him, but the noise of the crowd would obviously render her voice ineffectual. Fortunately, Acron began to push his bulk their direction a moment later. When he met up with them, he wore one of the Kershtian forehead medallions around his head.

“You should never have given him any money, My Lady,” Cynder said with a soft groan.

“Move. Now,” Baon ordered, walking forward.

The crowd thinned as they left the docks, and eventually Khriss was able to relax. She still felt nervous--there were far more people on the streets than she found comfortable--but at least they weren’t jostling into her. Her diminutive guide waited impatiently just beyond a line of tall shops with colored canopies. She didn’t give Khriss a chance to ask any questions, instead turning to scamper away, leading them further into the city.

Even without the press of bodies from the market place, the city still felt cramped to Khriss. The tall buildings looked like prisoners waiting to be executed--crammed into long lines with their walls pressed close together, their postures stooped and top-heavy with balconies and canopies. Of course, the thin streets and tall buildings meant plenty of shade as relief from the sun, but Khriss wondered how anyone could survive in a city so crowded.

The streets weren’t cobbled--they didn’t need to be, the ground appeared to be solid rock, though there were patches and drifts of sand hiding in corners and alleys. The canopies and drapings were more colorful than what she had seen in the Kershtian towns of the kerla. Of course, the colors were still far from as vibrant as those of darkside, but only so much could be done with the bright sun dulling everything.

Their urchin of a guide led them gradually toward the center of the island. The land sloped upward as they walked, but before they could reach a point where Khriss could overlook the city, their guide stopped and turned down a particularly narrow alleyway.

Baon regarded the alley with a dubious look. It was small enough that his shoulders would almost touch either side. “Good place for an ambush,” he noted.

Khriss snorted. “Who would want to ambush us?” she asked.

“I’m just making an observation,” the warrior said before walking into the alleyway, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Khriss followed, as did the others. A few feet down the alleyway, their guide turned and walked through what must have been an open doorway in one of the walls. When Khriss arrived, however, she discovered that the doorway looked something more like a tunnel--a vaguely squareish opening cut in the stone wall. It was large, wide and tall enough to accommodate even Baon and Acron without trouble.

Their guide stood beside the opening. “Have arrived,” she informed. “Lonzare, like promised. Two Lak for packmen.”

“Wait,” Khriss said. “Where are we?”

“Lonzare” the girl repeated.

“Yes, but what is Lonzare?”

“Place you were going,” the girl said testily. “Pay packmen.”

Khriss frowned, peering through the dark opening. There appeared to be shadowed forms moving deep within the tunnel--perhaps Baon was right, maybe it was an ambush. Then she realized something--or, rather, she heard something. A few words, echoing through the stone tunnel. Words in Dynastic.

“You don’t suppose . . . ?” she asked, listening closely. She could have sworn to the Divine that the voices were all speaking in Dynastic. “Come on,” she said, removing her dark glasses and waving for the group to step into the darkness.

The packmen, however, stayed where they were. The four sets of saddlebags remained on the ground.

“Won’t enter,” the girl explained. “Too dark. We aren’t blind, like you.”

“Blind?” Khriss asked.

“Lonsha,” Cynder explained. “Many of the dayside texts use that word for darksiders--it means ‘blind ones.’”

“That’s silly,” Khriss objected.

“So are people,” Cynder said with a chuckle. “Therefore, it makes sense that they would use the term.”

“Won’t enter,” the girl repeated. “I go, but packmen stay.”

Khriss sighed. “All right,” she said, poking through the coins Kenton had given her and choosing two of the red colored ones she had determined were worth the least. Apparently, these were laks. She must have guessed correctly, for the packmen accepted the coins and, without bowing a proper farewell, turned and left down the alleyway.

“Is this what I think it is?” Cynder asked.

“We’ll find out in a moment,” Khriss replied, watching as Baon struggled to pick up all four sets of bags. “Acron, help him,” she ordered.

“What?” the anthropologist asked, turning to notice Baon’s efforts for the first time. “Oh, of course.” The hefty professor moved to accept one set of bags, slinging them over his shoulders like a scarf.

They entered the tunnel hesitantly at first, following the ghostly sounds. After a few moments they rounded a corner and entered a short-ceilinged room--or cavern, Khriss still couldn’t tell which it was. It was filled with shops and people, much similar to the market near the docks except for several major differences. All of the signs were written in Dynastic, and all the people had dark skin.

Khriss stared at the scene with amazement. Darksiders mingled and mixed, travelling from shop to shop, bargaining for familiar foodstuffs and other items she hadn’t seen in months. The walls were hung with colorful lanterns, illuminating the large room with soft hues that were just the right level of brightness, and the air was cool and wet--at least, compared to that outside. She almost felt like she had stepped through a door and magically traveled back to Elis.

“Amazing,” Cynder mumbled. “A linguistic enclave.”

“You mean a cultural enclave,” Acron corrected.

Cynder raised his eyes. “We’re not going to have this discussion again, are we?”

“They’re maintaining culture first--language is only a by-product,” Acron argued.

“Yes, well, I’m a linguist,” Cynder countered. “That means I get to name it.”

“Hush!” Khriss ordered, walking forward into the cavern. The familiar sounds of Dynastic surrounded her. This market wasn’t as congested as the one outside, and its people were less-hurried, after the darksider fashion. As she walked she identified at least a half-dozen different accents--each region of darkside had its own distinct way of speaking Dynastic.

She didn’t see any Elisians, however. There were quite a few black-skinned Iiarians--the largest and most powerful nation under Dynastic control--and an inordinate number of the light-skinned people of the Tiaoc states, a group of Dynastic protectorates that lay huddled along darkside’s eastern shore. Of course, if anyone wanted to escape darkside, it would be the Tiaoc. Their fertile flatlands held some of the most overworked, most secluded people in the Dynasty.

“No guns,” Baon whispered from beside her. Acron and Cynder had not stopped their argument at Khriss’s command, but they had quieted, continuing to talk as they followed her. They seemed almost oblivious to the very wonder they were discussing. Baon, however, watched their surroundings with keen interest.

Khriss scanned the crowd. He was right; there weren’t any guns, at least not in sight. “Most of them are Tiaoc,” she whispered back. “From what I’ve heard, the Dynasty barely lets them have horse-drawn plows, let alone firearms.”

Baon nodded slowly. “This place should not exist,” he mumbled.

“The Dynasty wants us to think it doesn’t exist,” Khriss corrected. “They don’t want us to know that there is traffic between the continents.”

“Shipments come every month,” their guide explained in heavily-accented Dynastic.

Khriss looked up--she had almost forgotten the girl was there. “What is this place?” she asked.

“Darksider village,” the girl explained. “Darksiders live here.”

“I can see that,” Khriss noted. “We need to talk to someone in charge--someone who might keep track of darksiders who pass through the town.”

The girl paused, thinking for a moment. “Can help,” she decided. “Cost ten Lak.”

Khriss’s eyes opened in surprise. “You little cheat! We already paid your father.”

“Not daughter,” girl corrected. “Couldn’t find son; I substitute. Need eat, so you pay.”

Baon smiled slightly. “She’d make a good mercenary,” he noted as Khriss counted out ten more coins. The girl immediately began to move, dashing through the crowd. At first Khriss thought she was running away with the money, but then the girl paused, turning restlessly and waiting for them to follow.

“Not prone to extended bouts of patience, is she?” Cynder noted.

Khriss turned, shaking her head. “No, she isn’t. Did you resolve your discussion?”

“No,” Cynder replied. “But I did manage to confuse him enough that he thinks I won. Shall we go?”

Khriss smiled to herself, leading the group through the darkened room toward their guide--whose name she still didn’t know. As soon as they got close the girl scurried away again, but Khriss refused to let herself be hurried. As she moved through the market, the place reminded her more and more of darkside. The room resolved into corridors that almost seemed like streets. The floor was cobbled, even though it probably didn’t need to be, and in some of the larger areas there were even lamp-poles bearing oil lanterns.

She still couldn’t tell if they were underground or not. Some of the walls were unworked stone, but occasionally the she would see small patches of light above--as if the ceiling were constructed of wood. The place seemed to be a combination of caverns both natural and man-made. Most of the walls were obscured, however. Buildings had been built up against them--the line of houses and shops didn’t even have alleys between them. They kind of reminded Khriss of tenements back in the poorer sections of Elis, though many of these buildings look rich and well-constructed.

After just a few minutes of travel, Khriss began to wish she had worn one of her gowns, rather than the tan dayside robe. She was a duchess--she should look like one. True, she had spent the last month traveling through a dust-filled desert, but everyone would still expect her to look like a duchess.

The underground system was even larger than Khriss had assumed. Their guide led them through at least a dozen different chambers and tunnels. Overall, it was probably as big as a couple of city blocks back in Elis, though it was much more spread out because of the tunnels. Eventually they passed through what was probably a residential section, darkside fungal flowers growing in rows outside the front doors. The tunnel eventually narrowed to one last door, sitting solitarily in a rock face. Like some of the buildings, this one actually seemed to be cut into the stone wall.

“Here,” the girl explained. “Wait.” With that she walked up to the door and, without any kind of knock or sign, opened it and entered.

Khriss and the others stood waiting as the door closed. “Fascinating,” Cynder was mumbling, looking back at the dark street.

Acron shrugged. “I didn’t cross the ocean to visit darkside, my dear man,” the anthropologist explained. “The outside is much more interesting.”

“Yes, but it isn’t darkside,” Cynder corrected. “This is a new culture, one in the process of blending. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a contact language developing--a pidgin between Dynastic and Lossandin.”

Acron scratched his head absently, jingling the medallion still hanging on his forehead. The things looked odd enough on Kershtians--Khriss thought this one looked completely ridiculous on Acron.

The door swung open a moment later, revealing a darkside man who waved them inside. Tall and thin, he wore a sword at his side and moved with relaxed motions. As they entered, Khriss noticed Baon immediately placed himself between her and the man.

The hallway inside was constructed of wood, not stone, and its walls were simple and stark save for a few lanterns. Khriss frowned. She was wrong--the walls weren’t wood. They seemed to be made of carapace. Was everything on this side of the world constructed from the stuff?

Their guide led them down the hallway to another door at the end--this one much thicker. A darkside swordsman stood on either side of the door.

“Only you,” the lead man said, pointing at Khriss. “The others wait outside.”

Baon raised an eyebrow, looking at Khriss.

“It’s all right,” she said.

He sighed, but stepped aside as she walked through the second door, shooting her a look that said. I can’t protect you if you leave me behind.

The room inside was nothing like the unfurnished hallway. The walls were hung with paintings--several of which Khriss recognized as being from famous darkside artists--and the floor was covered with a massive rug. At the back of the room there was actually a fireplace with a fire in it, though the room didn’t feel any hotter than those outside.

In front of the fireplace were several large, plush darkside chairs. In one of these sat a bulbous man, fat enough to make even Acron look thin by comparison. He wore a darkside suit, cut after Iiarian versions with no tails on the coat and a girdle instead of a vest. His skin was the darkest of black, and he was smiling as she entered.

“Ah, this must be our missing Elisian duchess,” he said with a distinct, aristocratic Iiarian accent. “I am pleased to see you survived the trip unharmed.”

Khriss froze. “You know me?”

“Of you, my dear, of you,” the man said. “Though we expected you weeks ago.” His voice was deep, and as Khriss walked forward she could see a circular birthmark on his cheek. She remembered something about a birthmark . . . .

“You!” she said suddenly. “You’re Loaten!”

“So I’m often accused,” the man said. “And, of course, I can’t deny it. Please, Duchess Khrissalla, sit down.” He indicated one of the room’s large chairs with a sweep of an overweight hand.

Khriss moved forward slowly. The fireplace appeared to have a glass front, keeping at least some of the heat out of the room. Still, it felt remarkably cool. As she approached, she also noticed that her young guide, the daysider girl, squatted in a third chair, sipping on a mug of some steaming drink.

“You’re quite famous on darkside, you know,” Khriss said seating herself. “Traitor to the Dynasty, executed--or so we’re told--for trying to murder Scythe himself.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Loaten replied with a smile. Khriss waited for him to continue, which he did not.

“How do you know who I am?” she finally asked.

“Ah, dear Duchess,” Loaten said. “We are not completely isolated from our homeland. Information has a way of finding us.”

“But my expedition is supposed to be secret,” she said.

“Little is secret from the Dynasty, dear Duchess, especially the doings of its enemies. But, must we talk politics? I came here to escape such things--that, and to keep my head. Tell me, what do you think of our little darkside village?”

“It’s incredible,” Khriss said as an unnoticed servant approached, bringing her a steaming cup. She accepted it, the warm scent of cinnamon tea reminding her of Elis. “These are caves beneath the island?”

“Some of the city is built in caves,” Loaten said, accepting a cup for himself. “Though much of it is above ground as well. We have built coverings between buildings to block out the light. Those of us who have means pay to have ice shipped in from the mountains to the east, which keeps the air at a tolerable temperature.

“And you rule here?” she asked, then immediately cursed her lack of tact. She had never excelled at court politics, though she was good enough to recognize her comparative weakness.

Loaten laughed at the comment. “No, dear Duchess, far from it. This place was long established by the time I arrived--my little mistake only happened five years ago, you know. I just tend to keep track of what happens in darksider town--a hobby, a leftover from my old job back home. Little N’Teese tells me you come looking for information?”

“I do,” Khriss said eagerly.

“You want news of Gevin, I assume,” Loaten said, taking a sip of his tea.

“Yes,” Khriss continued. “You know something of the prince?”

Loaten continued to drink quietly, not answering her question. Finally, he spoke. “You don’t drink your tea, dear Duchess. I thought cinnamon was a favorite in Elis.”

Khriss frowned at the topic diversion. “It is,” she said slowly. “But, I’ve never liked my tea too hot, even back on darkside.”

“Wise,” Loaten noted. “You wouldn’t want to burn yourself.”

Khriss paused. He was telling her something--implying danger. What was his meaning? Suddenly, she wished she had spent more time in the court. “I need to know of the prince, whatever the cost,” Khriss informed slowly. “I will pay, if you like, for the information.”

Loaten raised his eyebrows as he sipped. “Odd you should offer,” he noted. “Money and information are really quite similar you know. Both are extremely valuable, but neither would be worth anything if everyone had all they desired. Both can also get you killed if you let it be known that you have too much.”

“Meaning?” Khriss asked.

“Meaning, dear Duchess,” Loaten said with a sigh, “that there are certain things I am not at liberty to reveal.”

“You know where the prince is,” Khriss challenged.

“After a fashion,” Loaten admitted.

“But why can’t you . . . ?” Khriss suddenly grew cold. “Oh, Shella! The Dynasty doesn’t have him, does it?”

Loaten chuckled. “No, though their goals in regard to the young prince have been fulfilled.”

“He’s dead?” Khriss asked with horror.

Loaten shrugged. “I told you that there are certain secrets I am required to keep.”

“Required by whom?” Khriss asked.

“Myself,” Loaten explained. “Look, dear Duchess, I don’t mean to frustrate you, but I have learned through experience that rash words can prove . . . inconvenient.”

Khriss sighed, finally taking a sip of her tea. It was still a bit too hot for her tastes. “What can you tell me then?”

“Not much. I will let you know, however, that your prince gave up on his goal.”

“Then he made it to Kezare,” Khriss decided.

“I didn’t say that,” Loaten said, raising a finger.

“Yes, but I know the prince,” Khriss informed. “He wouldn’t have given up hope until he saw for himself that the sand mages weren’t real. Besides, you must have met him. You called him Gevin.”

Loaten frowned. “And?”

“His name is Prince Gevalden. Gevin is what he tells people to call him, but only in an informal setting, like in a comfortable room, sitting before a fireplace.”

Loaten smiled. “And I thought you were supposed to be bad at this, dear Duchess.”

“Who told you that?” Khriss asked with indignation.

“My dear,” Loaten reminded, “I was Scythe’s chief minister of diplomacy--you’d be surprised the things I had to know. Including prince’s nicknames. But, in this case you happen to be right. Gevin did make it to Kezare, and I have spoken with him, after a fashion. But that was a long time ago.”

“And where is he now?”

“I told you, dear Duchess, I’m not quite certain.”

Khriss sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Do not be so despondent, my dear,” Loaten chided. “I am not a heartless man--seeing that you are relatively inexperienced with dayside, I will assign one of my best people to aid you.”

Khriss perked up. “Who?”

Loaten drank the last of his tea, then gestured to the young girl crouching on the chair watching the fires with curious eyes. As soon as Loaten pointed at her, however, the girl’s head snapped back to the conversation. “Me?” she asked. “No. Not have time. Is too--”

“Oh, N’Teese,” Loaten said with an intolerant sigh, “must you use that accent? It’s incredibly harsh on an old man’s ears.”

N’Teese clenched her teeth, shooting Loaten a harsh look. “I’m not going to lead these fools all around the city, Loaten. I’m too busy.”

Khriss’s eyes opened wide with shock. When she had spoken the second time, the little girl’s horrible dayside accent had disappeared completely, to be replaced by a perfect Iiarian accent to match Loaten’s.

“You’re a Darksider?” Khriss asked incredulously.

Loaten chuckled. “We’re not sure what N’Teese is. She claims to be half-darksider, half-Kershtian, and half-Lossandin, though she obviously never claims to be good at mathematics. I personally don’t think she has any darkside blood in her at all.”

N’Teese stuck out her tongue at the fat darksider, then intentionally turned away from him to stare back into the fire, still crouching rather than sitting.

“Whatever N’Teese’s lineage, duchess,” Loaten continued, “she is an absolute marvel with languages--though she usually uses her gift to con her way into places, or money pouches, she has no right to be in. The amount you paid her today is enough to hire a professional guide’s services for a week. I’ve told her that she may cheat the daysiders all she wishes, but darksiders--especially newcomers--are under my protection.”

N’Teese sighed. “You’re bad for business, Loaten.”

“Perhaps,” Khriss added, “but so is deciding to abandon a person who has already shown she is willing to pay for your services. Who knows, maybe you’ll be rewarded.”

N’Teese’s eyes thinned, but she did smile slightly in contemplation.

Loaten chuckled. “Yes, duchess, my sources were certainly . . . inaccurate concerning you. Of course, I knew that much the moment you announced you were organizing an expedition to dayside. I understand you caused quite a commotion back in the Elisian court with that little declaration.”

Khriss smiled. “It was . . . unexpected,” she admitted.

Loaten rubbed one of his chins in thought. “What could cause a politically inactive, socially reclusive scholar of a noblewoman to cross the border oceans with minimal protection and almost no knowledge of dayside? It’s hard enough for those of us who know about the smuggling ships.”

Khriss felt herself begin to blush. “Surely your sources can explain my motivations, My Lord,” she said.

“Actually, it appears they were wrong again,” Loaten said cryptically. However, before Khriss could question further, the sound of a door opening came from behind.

When she turned she saw a man with a revolting mass of flesh where his face should have been. One eye was completely lost in scar tissue, and the other was bulging and red. He walked with a limp, and wore one of the medallions on his head that Kenton said identified him as a member of the Kershtian merchant class. It was difficult to tell his skin color because of the scar tissue, but it looked Kershtian.

“Who is the woman?” the man croaked with a harsh voice that was almost a whisper.

“A visitor from darkside, Nilto,” Loaten said. “A rather important person. A ruler, on her side of the world.”

Nilto snorted. “Get rid of her,” he ordered.

“You’ll forgive Nilto’s lack of tact, dear Duchess,” Loaten apologized. “He is a rather impatient man, though many people suffer him. Probably because he is a Taisha.”

“Taisha?” Khriss asked. She had heard Kenton use the word.

“The Taishin are the rulers of Lossand, my dear,” Loaten explained. “There is one at the head of each Profession, and it is their council that governs the country.”

“Him?” Khriss asked incredulously.

“Beauty isn’t required for the job,” Nilto croaked, flopping down in a chair. He eyed her for a long moment with a look Khriss couldn’t read--and didn’t want to, considering how revolting his twisted face was.

“Well?” Nilto demanded. “Get rid of her.”

“I’m afraid the Lord Beggar is a difficult man to refuse, dear Duchess,” Loaten apologized. “But, I believe our conversation was at an end anyway, wasn’t it?”

“It was, and I thank you,” Khriss said, rising and curtseying to Loaten--intentionally ignoring this Lord Beggar. “N’Teese, are you coming?”

The little girl sighed, but climbed off her chair to scamper out of the room. Khriss followed more gracefully. As the door opened, she saw Baon and the others waiting outside. Baon, however, didn’t see her--he was focused on Loaten’s bloated form.

“Is that who I think it is?” he asked with a harsh sound in his voice.

Khriss frowned as she approached. “Loaten?” she asked. “He--”

She stopped as Baon cursed, his hand reaching for the pistol at his belt.

“Baon!” Khriss cried.

The mercenary froze, as did the two men in the room. The soldiers guarding the door, however, immediately reached for their swords.

Baon slowly let his hand slip from the pistol holster. Khriss sighed in relief, looking back into the room. Loaten had seen Baon as well, and the old Dynastic official’s eyes were wide--but not with fear. They looked more . . . confused than anything else.

“That man is a traitor,” Baon hissed.

“I know,” Khriss said. She had never seen Baon so emotional before.

“Let’s go,” the mercenary finally decided. “Before I decide to kill him.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Cynder agreed.

Khriss passed through the doorway, and Loaten’s guards relaxed, falling back into their regular stances. But, something was wrong with the way they had been standing. Almost as if they hadn’t been reaching for their swords at all--but something else.

Before, Khriss would have let the discrepancy drop. Baon’s training, however, urged her to look closer. As she did she could see a distinctive, though well hidden, knob of pistol hilts hidden in holsters underneath the men’s coats.

So they do have guns, Khriss realized. Or, at least, Loaten’s men do. They keep them hidden, though--they don’t want the rest of the darksiders to know about them.

Baon caught her eye and nodded, and they began to move away from Loaten’s room. As they did, however, Khriss heard Loaten asking Nilto a question while the door closed.

“So?” the darksider asked. “Has the Diem been dissolved?”

“Actually, no,” Nilto replied. “Something very interesting happened . . . .”

White Sand

Chapter Ten

Kenton’s appearance had an immediate effect on the crowd outside the Hall. He hadn’t changed into traditional sand master robes--he was still wearing a simple Kershtian tan--his ribbons, however, were enough to declare what he was. Even still, there were enough sand masters in the crowd that simple mastered sand wouldn’t have been too surprising. The golden sash, however, was a different matter.

The stunned bodies were lethargic to move, and Kenton had to slow his step to keep from arriving at the crowd too quickly. Eventually, however, the people realized who he was and where he was going. They parted before him, watching in silence. Then one voice, exclaiming in surprise, started as a catalyst to the rest, and sound returned in a massive wave.

“What are you doing?”

“Kenton? You’re alive?”

“I thought the mastrells were dead!”

Years as the Diem’s favored topic of rumors had prepared Kenton to be the center of attention, and he ignored the people as he climbed the steps to the black-stone Hall of Judgement, Dirin trailing somewhat less confidently in his wake. Two trackts, dressed in formal black Hall uniforms, crossed their spears before him, blocking his path to the doors.

“The Council is in session,” said one of them--a broad-faced Lossandin man. “The Hall is closed.”

Kenton paused, letting his three ribbons of sand continue to twist and spin in the air around him. He was amazed at how little thought it took to keep them moving in their simple pattern.

“Not to a mastrell,” Kenton informed.

“There aren’t any mastrells left,” the guard replied.

“You’re certain of that?” Kenton asked, allowing one of his glowing ribbons to flip at his sash.

The guard paused, shooting a look at his companion. Then he sighed, pulling his spear back.

Kenton stood, half-stunned by the exchange. He had been expecting to argue his way into the Hall--all his life, he had needed belligerence and stubbornness to gain even the slightest concession. Yet, two simple statements had won this conversation. Perhaps there was something to be said for authority after all.

Still a little unsure at his victory, Kenton reached forward and pushed open the sub-door in the massive gate, stepping inside. He held it for Dirin, the allowed it to slam closed.

His eyes immediately began to adjust to the darker interior, and he let his sands fall stale to the ground--it would be inappropriate to keep them going within the Hall.

Like all dayside buildings, the Hall had been constructed with numerous openings in its pyramidal walls to provide light. Kenton stood in the antechamber. Directly before him was another set of doors, these ones open, with another pair of trackts guarding them. Beyond those doors was the Judgement room, which took up the bulk of the Hall’s space. Inside that room he would find the Taishin, leaders of the eight Professions--well, seven since there was no Lord Mastrell.

“Come on,” he said to Dirin. “I’ve done this before.” Each year, when Praxton had refused to grant Kenton mastrellship, Kenton had appealed the decision to the Council. He was very familiar with the Taishin and their ways.

Dirin nodded quietly, staring up in wonder at the insides of the Hall. The buildings, sources of law and justice in Lossand, were regarded with nearly as much reverence as Kershtian temples.

“This place is huge,” Dirin whispered back.

Kenton shrugged. “About as big as it looks on the outside.”

Kenton strode forward, trying to gather his optimism. Just because he was familiar with the process didn’t mean that he would be successful--in fact, he was probably going to have a difficult time convincing the Taishin to listen to him. All four times he had appealed to the Council they had denied him with seven-one decisions. He suspected that after four years of useless appeals--made only to spite Praxton--the Taishin were growing tired of him.

The two trackts at the door didn’t attempt to stop him--if he had come through the gates, then he was valid. They stood quietly as Kenton walked through the open doors and entered the judgement chamber. Shaped like an inverted pyramid, the chamber had a central platform for testimonies, surrounded by three sloping walls filled with seats. Nearly every chair had a body in it--Hall seats, especially in Kezare, were expensive commodities. It was more than the privilege of watching judgements--a seat in the Hall was a sign of prestige and importance, even if they were purely spectatorial in nature. Kelzin, influential Profession members, and public officials vied for the places ferociously.

Of course, the only people in the room who really mattered were the Taishin. Eight raised chairs stood on the far wall directly in front of the testimony platform. Seven were filled, one was empty. Kenton’s eyes sought a place on the second wall, about midway up, where the mastrells usually sat. The chairs sat empty, like an open sore in the otherwise packed wall of people.

Taking a deep breath, Kenton approached the proceedings judge on the side of the corridor. Kenton stood in the open-topped tunnel that sloped up to the testimony platform. He could make out a familiar form standing on the platform--the man’s ugliness could be recognized even from a great distance. Nilto, so called Lord Beggar, leader of the unofficial ninth Profession. What reason would he have to make testimony during proceedings held to ratify a new Lord Mastrell?

Nilto had obviously finished his arguments, for he was stepping off the platform to return to his seat.

“Who gives the next testimony?” Kenton asked the proceedings judge, a squat old man who sat at a desk at the side of the corridor. The man looked down at his open book of proceedings, where he had been making notes of what each speaker said.

“No one,” the judge said. “Nilto was the final speaker. The judgement should be coming soon, now.”

“It cannot--I have testimony to add to these proceedings.”

The judge looked up with surprise, looking Kenton over for the first time. “A . . . Mastrell?” the man said skeptically.

“That is right,” Kenton informed. “Mastrell Kenton. I was advanced during the ceremonies a few weeks before. By Law, I am entitled to speak on this matter.”

The judge raised his eyebrows, but shrugged slightly, scribbling Kenton’s name at the bottom of the list. Then he spoke a few words to the courier dressed in Hall black beside him.

“The man will announce you, My Lord,” the judge informed. “Be warned, however, the Council may find this . . . irregular.”

Kenton smiled. “I suspect they will.” Then he nodded to Dirin, who smiled encouragingly, even though he was looking more and more overwhelmed the further they got into the Hall.

“May the Sands guide, Kenton,” Dirin offered.

Up above, the courier announced Mastrell Kenton. Kenton heard his name reverberate through the chamber, the unfamiliar title of ‘mastrell’ sounding quite odd to him. As the courier finished, Kenton strode up the slope and onto the platform, wishing he had taken the time to change into formal robes.

Kenton would try for the rest of his life to find an experience that matched that first look around the judgement chambers. Three walls of shocked faces stared at him, their confusion almost a palatable thing. It was as if the Sand Lord himself had decided to appear to them.

“Ah, our dear Kenton of the Diem,” a sudden voice said, as if completely oblivious to the surprised tension in the rest of the room, “back to bother the Council again. I always knew that something as paltry as death would never be enough to keep you from annoying us.”

Kenton smiled. At the far end of the line of Taishin, in the least-respected and often-ignored Council seat, lounged a man in ridiculous violet robes with a frilly white shirt underneath. The cuffs of the shirt were undone, and were stained with droplets of wine. He was an older man, perhaps in his late forties. His face could have been a respected face, it had strong features and almost a venerable quality. The face, however, betrayed the rosy cheeks and red nose of drunkenness. Delious, the Lord Admiral, the embarrassment of Lossand.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Lords and Lady Taishin,” Kenton announced, smiling slightly at Delious’ comment. He rested his hands on the front of the platform’s podium, looking across at the six men and one woman who would decide the Diem’s face. Hopefully, he wasn’t too late.

“Kenton, this is most irregular,” the woman in the direct center of the group announced.

Kenton smiled a her choice of words. Heelis, Lady Judge and Taisha of the Halls of Judgement, Profession for trackts, judges, and scribes, represented her Profession with exactness. Cool, calm, and decisive, the elderly Lady Judge--oldest of the Taishin by at least two decades--was the very embodiment of justice.

“I apologize again, Lady Judge,” Kenton said. “I only ask that you hear me. As the Council has undoubtedly noticed, I come wearing a recent acquisition that may have bearing on your decision.”

“I can see that, Kenton. I assume you wear it to make a claim, and not just a fashion statement?”

“Indeed, Lady Judge.” Kenton smiled as Heelis inspected him. Despite her unquestioned impartiality, Kenton had always felt a kind of kinship to the Lady Judge. She knew what it was to fight authority--she was the first female Taisha in the history of Lossand. In fact, she was the first female member of the Hall in the history of Lossand. Very few of the Professions admitted women, and Lossand society was heavily influenced by Kershtian ideals. Heelis, however, had used the Law as her shield--for a neuter pronoun in Formal Kersha had been used in the Law’s writing. After years of struggle, she had come to hold what was debatably the most powerful position in all of Lossand.

“This is ridiculous!” a new voice announced. Kenton looked down, cringing slightly. He hadn’t seen Drile earlier--the slope of the entrance corridor had prevented it. The sand master sat in a low seat a short distance from the Council. He wore white robes, but no sash.

“Sand master Drile,” Heelis warned, “you are not in a position to address this Council. We have already heard your arguments this day.”

“My apologies, Lady Judge,” Drile said, forcing himself to be civil. “However, this is outrageous! This man makes mockery of the Law by taking for himself what must be given!”

“No more!” Heelis ordered, her voice firm despite her sixty-plus years. “If you wish to speak, add your name to the list. Until then, this Council requires your silence!”

Drile’s jaw snapped shut, and Kenton couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He winked at Drile’s hateful stare, then nodded to the side, where the proceedings judge was scribbling.

“Drile has a point, if not the right of address, Lady Judge,” a new voice--this one deep and hard--added. “This boy goes too far in his presumptions.”

The Lord General, Reegent, was a tall man with a rectangular face that was accented by a short, square beard. More than a warrior, Reegent was a politician and a statesman, the unofficial leader of Lossand’s wealthy landowners, the kelzin. He was not a man who dealt well with what he considered ‘nonsense.’

“Lord Reegent, Lady Judge, other members of the Council,” Kenton said before Reegent could continue. “Let be begin by assuring you that I do not take this sash unto myself. It was given to be by the Lord Mastrell, my father, in a legal advancement ceremony.”

“Lies!” Drile called from beside the proceedings booth, where he was ordering the judge to add his name in after Kenton’s.

Heelis shot Drile a harsh look, but then looked back at Kenton. “We had not heard of this, Kenton,” she said. “As far as we were told, the Lord Mastrell died in the middle of the ceremony. Are you implying he was going to advance you, and only didn’t because he was killed?”

“No, Lady Judge,” Kenton continued. “I imply nothing--it is as I said. The Lord Mastrell gave me this sash, and declared me a mastrell. It was the very last thing he did before the Kershtian arrow took him.”

“The other sand masters said nothing of this!” Reegent snapped, folding his arms and frowning at Kenton. There was no hatred in his eyes, only intolerance. Reegent liked things quick and simple--the last-minute addition of a testimony did not fit with his neat view of how a judgement should proceed.

“The other sand masters didn’t know about it, Lord Reegent,” Kenton said. “They didn’t hear the Lord Mastrell advance me--those who survived the attack were standing too far back to hear much of anything. If you bring them in for testimony, they won’t be able to say either way on this matter.”

“I can’t believe we’re even listening to this,” Vey, the Lord Merchant, snapped. Short and very Kershtian, Vey would hate Kenton for religious reasons no matter what proof he brought or arguments he made.

“Who’s listening?” Delious mumbled from his end of the table, taking a long drink from his cup.

“I agree with the Lord Merchant,” Gennel, the Lord Farmer, said.

“There’s a surprise,” Delious noted, pouring himself another drink. The Lord Farmer tended to agree with whatever Vey said. Gennel was not only the council’s other Kershtian, but he also belonged to the same DaiKeen as Vey. The younger man would do whatever his elder commanded.

“My Lords and Lady,” Kenton said, breaking back into the conversation. His first appeal, four years ago, had been poorly prepared and pathetically executed. Since that time, he had spent a great deal of time teaching himself to do better. He’d needed some way to spend his time--all of his lessons in the Diem had been repetitious the first year around, let alone the eighth.

“I understand this is difficult to believe,” he continued, “but I do have a witness who can prove my point.”

“Who?” the Lord General demanded.

“Undermastrell Elorin,” Kenton explained. “He was near the front of the proceedings, and would have been able to hear Lord Praxton give me the mastrellship. Unfortunately, Elorin was left powerless from overmastery, and has since disappeared.”

“Not much of a witness,” Vey said with a snort.

“Agreed,” Heelis said. “A man who can give no testimony is not a witness, young Kenton.”

“Yes, but is not the possibility of my true-spoken words enough for you to hear my plea? All I ask is justice be done.”

“Justice?” Reegent asked. “What right do you have to demand justice? You, who have used this Council as your personal tool of defiance. Your history of insubordination is well known, Kenton. You spite all that governs and creates order, and now you want us to give you the authority to rule over others?”

“I have said nothing of requesting authority, Lord General,” Kenton said.

“Are you saying your purpose here is not to name yourself as Lord Mastrell?” Heelis asked pointedly.

“No, Lady Judge,” Kenton said truthfully. “I will admit that such could very well be a side-effect of what I have to say. However, I will be honest with you when I say I do not seek to be Lord Mastrell. In all frankness, I’d make a horrible Lord Mastrell. What Lord Reegent said about me is true--I have little patience for authority.”

“Then what do you want, young Kenton?”

“I come only to plead on the Diem’s behalf. Do not make Drile the Lord Mastrell. It doesn’t matter who else you choose--acolent or fen. Just don’t choose Drile. The man is a tyrant and a criminal. The Diem would suffer beneath his rule.”

Heelis smiled slightly. “Young Kenton, we weren’t going to make him Lord Mastrell.”

Kenton froze, blinking in surprise. “Excuse me, Lady Judge?” he asked.

“Perhaps you should check to see what trial you’re attending before you stick your face into it, Ry’Kensha,” Vey said with a snicker.

“These proceedings are not to ratify a new Lord Mastrell,” Heelis continued. “Though that may be what everyone assumes. The Council’s purpose is not to choose who will lead the Diem in the future, but to determined if there is even going to be a Diem in the future.”

“What?” Kenton asked with shock. “You would . . . disband the Diem?”

“Yes,” Heelis said simply.

“But, you can’t destroy one of the Professions,” Kenton said with confusion. “What good would that do?”

“Whining will get you nowhere, Ry’Kensha,” Vey snapped. “This Council may do as we please. There are provisions for it in the Law.”

“Did someone say wine?” Delious interrupted, looking up from the place where he had been resting his head on the table. Everyone ignored him.

“The Lord Merchant is correct, young Kenton,” Heelis said. “The Law says that if a Profession is left without leadership, irrevocably decayed or destroyed, that it can be removed--assuming that the function it provides is not vital.”

“But, the sand masters are vital,” Kenton said. He knew the statement was weak, but he was trying to keep them talking while he reoriented himself. Dissolve the Diem? He had come intending to denounce Drile, not try and save an entire Profession.

“Vital?” Reegent asked. “Boy, you sand masters are the most redundant, overpaid group on the sands. What do you do? You sit in your castle and look down at the rest of Lossand, sucking away its resources and giving nothing in return.”

“We offer protection from the Kershtians,” Kenton rebutted.

“We haven’t been at war with the Kershtians for centuries,” the Lord General said. “Not since the merchants took the power from the priests. Besides, can you really claim you could protect us? How well did you do in protecting yourselves?”

He has a point, Kenton admitted to himself.

“The fact is, young Kenton,” Heelis said softly, “that the other Professions are tired of supporting the Diem. You cost nearly as much in the people’s taxes as the Tower’s soldiers, yet you give nothing in return. The Mastrells are allowed to take anything they want from a merchant without offering recompense; they presume to rule over Lossand, always careful to maintain an air of mysticism and control. Sand masters are almost more famous for their arrogance than their powers.”

“And now you do something?” Kenton demanded. “You strike when the Diem is weak and cannot defend itself? Why not speak out earlier, try to change the Diem before its arrogance led to its destruction?”

Surprisingly, Kenton actually managed to create a tiny flash of guilt in Heelis’s even-tempered eyes. “Perhaps we should have,” she admitted. “But that time is gone now, and this is our chance to act.”

“And what will the sand masters do?” Kenton shot back. “Dissolving the Diem will not get rid of us.”

“We were going to decide that during the next Council,” Heelis explained.

“Personally, I think exile is the best choice,” Vey announced, a thin smile on his lips.

Kenton snorted. “What would you do, Lord Vey? Create a state where sand masters are hunted like sandlings? Turn this nation into a place of fear and prejudice?”

“Sand mastery must be taught, young Kenton,” Heelis reminded. “I have studied your ways--I know how new sand masters are made. It is not spontaneous; it takes you weeks to even decide if a person has ability or not. Sand masters never just appear in the population.”

“So you would exterminate the power entirely?” Kenton asked, suddenly feeling chilled. Heelis knew a lot--probably more than she should. It would be possible, if they made an effort, to get rid of sand mastery completely.

“If a skill gives this people no benefit, then is it worth the trouble of its upkeep?” Heelis asked quietly.

“To say nothing of its danger,” Reegent added.

That’s what it is, Kenton realized, nodding silently to himself in understanding. They claim its the money, they say its our arrogance, but in the end its our power. Power they can’t control. The sand masters could have taken over Lossand at any time, and they all know it.

“My Lords and Lady, you make many accusations.” Kenton said, searching for anything that would help him. He had memorized large chunks of the Law in his attempts to foil his father, but most of what he had studied dealt directly with the Diem. He hadn’t the background for an argument with more general application.

“I won’t say that your claims are not true,” Kenton continued. “I fact, I will back many of them. As Lord Reegent pointed out, I have spent much of my life fighting against the Diem’s leadership. I know well their arrogance and selfishness. But, the Law was not created for the purpose of destruction. It exists to help Lossand. Should we throw away a tool simply because it has been misused in the past? The Law says ‘Let the Professions serve in their proscribed duties, for the benefit of the people and the nation as a whole.’

“Well, that is what I ask of you. Let the sand masters serve. Now, when we are weakened, is the time to change us for the better, not the time to bury us in the sands. For who knows the day when you might need to dig us back out, only to find that we’ve were lost to the kerla’s winds long ago?”

“You argue well, young Kenton,” Heelis acknowledged, her aged eyes searching Kenton’s face. “But, I fear your words come too late. We have waited for centuries as the sand masters grew in power and dominance. This tool is not just one that hasn’t been used, but one that has been broken and warped to the point that its original potential has been lost. Perhaps it is better that we cast it to the sands so we can become accustomed to working without it. But, I speak only for myself, not this entire Council. I believe, unless one of the other Taisha has something to add, that it is time for vote.”

Heelis checked the faces of the other Taishin, who, except for Delious, who appeared to be asleep, nodded. She looked to the proceedings judge, who shook his head--Drile must have removed his name when he realized that Kenton’s arguments weren’t going to do any good.

“Then we vote. Lord General?”

“I vote to dissolve,” Reegent announced firmly.

“Lord Merchant?”

“I as well, Lady Judge,” Vey said, trying to look distinguished despite the fact that he sat at least a foot shorter than everyone else at the table.

“Lord Farmer?”

“Dissolve,” Gennel announced.

“Lord Mason?”

The red-headed emissary of Selcomb, Lord Mason--head of Lossand’s diggers and miners--nodded. “In behalf of my Lord Selcomb, I also vote against, Lady Heelis.”

“Lord Artisan?”

Rite, spokesman for Lossand’s craftsmen, nodded his solemn head. “It is for the best, I believe. Dissolve.”

“And Lord Admiral.”

Rite nudged Delious, who looked up disorientedly. “What’s that? Time to vote? What did Vey say?”

“The Lord Merchant voted to dissolve the Diem,” Heelis said, her voice barely tolerant.

“Well, I vote the opposite then,” Delious said with a yawn, smiling at the Kershtian Lord Merchant, who scowled back. In all four of Kenton’s appeals, only Delious had voted for him--and each time he only did so because Vey had voted against Kenton.

“And I vote to dissolve as well,” Heelis said. “I am afraid, Kenton, that even if we made you Lord Mastrell, your reign would be brief. This Council has decided that henceforth there will be only seven Professions in Lossand. The Diem is to be dissolved. We will decide what to do with you in our next Council meeting tomorrow.”

“Forbid them to practice their unholy art,” Vey encouraged, looking at Kenton with loathing eyes.

“That will be decided on the morrow,” Heelis informed.

Kenton felt his hand slide from the podium, stunned. Yet, at the same time, part of him was not surprised. He had come in to this argument half-expecting to fail. The last four times he had stood on the testimony platform, he had received similar responses. All his struggles had conditioned him to accept the fact that victories were rare. Very rare.

He turned, stepping down from the podium as conversations erupted around the room. No more Diem. He had failed.

And, for some reason, this failure felt different than the ones before. Kenton frowned, not quite able to understand the pained despair in his chest, the sickness, the feeling of utter frustration. He was used to failure--it had been a long time since he had let losing an argument bother him. Why was he so hurt this time?

And slowly, as he thought about it, he came to understand. Every time before, his losses had only affected him. He had been fighting for himself, and he hadn’t really feared losing. He had been fighting just to fight--the outcome was immaterial. No one had been counting on him.

He looked up, seeking out Dirin, who sat slumped beside a wall a short distance away. The young boy’s head was bowed, and Kenton could see him shaking from the sobs. How would the rest of the Diem feel, those whose entire lives had been spent learning sand mastery and serving in their places? They too were victims of the mastrells, but they were to be cast aside like a shattered weapon.

That sickness you feel, the pain, he said to himself, for some reason forming the words with his father’s voice. That is responsibility. That is what you fought to receive all this time--it was the unnoticed reward of your struggle.

The members of the Diem had been counting on Kenton, even if they didn’t know it. He had been representing them; it had been his duty to save them. This time, his arguments hadn’t just been for himself. This time, the decision actually mattered. And he had failed.

“No!” Kenton yelled. He turned, stepping back up onto the podium and slammed his fist against its carapace. The front of the room began to quiet around him, people who had been standing to leave instead turning to look at the source of the sudden noise.

“Kenton, step down,” Heelis counseled. Half of the Taishin were already out of their seats.

“No!” Kenton repeated. “I demand this proceedings be declared void.”

“On what grounds?” Heelis snapped.

“On the grounds that I wasn’t informed that it would occur,” Kenton informed firmly. Passages of Law seemed to flood into his mind, forming connections and conclusions almost without effort. For the first time in his life, he had a purpose to go with his arguments.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Vey said with a snort.

Kenton looked Vey directly in the eyes. “By the Law, as expressly stated in the Diem’s Charter, section the fourth, as soon as a Lord Mastrell dies from either natural or external causes, the mastrell who has served in his position for the greatest number of years becomes the acting head of the Diem. If he is unable to serve in this capacity, the title passes to the next senior mastrell and so forth. It is the acting head of the Diem’s duty to mediate the council of mastrells, who will choose the next Lord Mastrell, a choice that is then formally ratified by the Council of Taishin.”

“Yes,” Heelis said. “And so?”

“And,” Kenton said, punctuating the word with a snap of his voice. He spoke with determination, his voice authoritative, “in the general Law Charter, section the fifteenth, subsection the first, the laws for governing the removal of a Taisha, either formal or acting, from his place are set forth. He must be given two weeks notice to prepare for the Council meeting that will remove his title for any reason.

“At the deaths of the other mastrells, I immediately became acting head of the Diem. This Council this day, in attempting to dissolve the Diem, has by tangential effect removed me from my place. That cannot have happened unless you gave me warning of this meeting two weeks before this day.”

“But the Diem hadn’t even been attacked two weeks ago!” Reegent protested.

“The Law is explicit,” Kenton said.

Reegent snorted. “I thought you didn’t want to be Lord Mastrell.”

“That is not what this is about, Lord General,” Kenton shot back.

“Heelis,” Reegent said, “tell this boy he is a fool, and let us be going.”

The Lady Judge, however, had slowly settled herself back into her chair, her face deep in thought, a slight frown on her lips.

“Heelis?” Reegent asked again.

“He is right,” she finally whispered.

“What!” Reegent demanded.

“This judgement is void, Lord General,” Heelis informed. “The boy is right--the Law is very specific. No Taisha can be removed unless there is at least two-weeks warning given. Actually, the announcement is supposed to be made to the entire Profession, not just its leader. We acted too hastily.”

The other Taishin had stopped, and the room had now fallen nearly silent.

“As Lady Judge,” Heelis said in a firm, if resentful, voice, “I must declare the proceedings of this Council void. The Diem is not to be dissolved.”

Vey hissed in surprised, but Reegent only shook his head in anger. Kenton, however, felt as if a massive weight had slipped free from his back.

“But,” Heelis continued sharply, “I am hereby formally giving you notice, Kenton. In two weeks this Council will meet again, and there we will decide whether or not to dissolve the Diem. I suspect the votes will not magically change during the wait.”

“You give me notice,” Kenton said in response. “Does that mean this council accepts and ratifies me as Lord Mastrell?”

Heelis paused.

“There is only one mastrell left, my Lords and Lady,” Kenton said. “If you don’t ratify me, then you will have to ratify someone. You have to make the formal announcement of the trial directly to the Lord Mastrell.”

Heelis caught the eyes of the other Council members, who shrugged.

“No,” Heelis finally decided. “You are not Lord Mastrell--but you are acting Lord Mastrell. I can deliver the announcement to you anyway.”

“What difference does it make?” Kenton asked.

“You are the one who is so strict about the Law, young Kenton,” Heelis informed. “Well, the Law says that the Council cannot ratify a new Taisha until it is satisfied that the person has actually been chosen. Since your mastrellship is still in doubt, we cannot ratify you. That also means that you do not get a vote on this Council.”

“All right,” Kenton said slowly.

“In addition,” Heelis continued, “under the Law I am going to consider the votes of this Council today the decision of a preliminary hearing.”

Kenton frowned. She was getting into the parts of the Law he hadn’t studied. He was no lawyer, even though he had done some research.

“In case you don’t know what that means,” Heelis continued, sensing his confusion, “a preliminary hearing is one held before a preset date--such as the two week rule you spoke of. Its decisions are binding unless its members decide unanimously to throw it out.”

“Unanimously?” Kenton asked.

“That is right, acting Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said, standing and taking Reegent’s offered arm. “In two weeks this Council will meet again. And, unless you can convince every member of its body to vote in favor of the Diem, your Profession will be dissolved. Good day.”

White Sand

Chapter Eleven

Ais stood beneath the sun’s divine power, feeling its heat surround him. His formal trackt’s uniform amplified the warmth, its black colors sucking in heat and holding it close. Many new trackts complained about the dark color, though they soon became accustomed to it. Ais had never complained. Black was the color of justice--it was straightforward, unmistakable, and impossible to adulterate by adding other colors. In addition, the color was avoided by most other people, and so trackts always stood out in a crowd. When there was danger or a problem, people knew that they would find aid where they saw the distinctive blackness of a trackt uniform.

Ais moved through such a crowd now. He was walking through Portside, the largest and most hectic of Kezare’s marketplaces. However, despite the press of people, Ais had no trouble moving. People gave trackts a wide berth. As was often the case, the source of justice in Lossand’s society was also somewhat feared by its people. Everyone had their tiny secrets they irrationally feared the trackts would expose. They should have known better. Ais had much larger prey to deal with.

Secrets, Ais thought to himself. We all have secrets. Even trackts.

He pushed such thoughts from his mind, continuing forward, moving with the distinctive formal posture and emotionless face that had made him one of Kezare’s most recognizable trackts. Of course, his heritage had a lot to do with that as well. Even as he passed through he crowd, Ais caught glimpses of his Kershtian brothers eyeing him with looks of distaste, and even hate. Lossand had a large Kershtian population--some of whom had been living away from the kerla for a half-dozen generations. Kershtians were Kershtians, however, and they owed their first allegiance to their DaiKeen. It was an unwritten law that no Kershtian would serve Lossand’s heathen government by joining the Hall’s trackts, the Tower’s soldiers, or, of course, the Diem’s sand masters.

Ais didn’t return the harsh looks--he simply continued to march through the crowd, ignoring the dark Kershtian faces. He had grown accustomed to the resentment long ago. Yet, almost unconsciously, he felt the warm metal of his DaiKeen symbol slapping against his forehead--like many Lossandin Kershtians, Ais chose to wear one of the medallions instead of tattooing or scaring his skin. He claimed the affiliation of DaiKeenKar, what Lossandin people would call the priest’s DaiKeen. Such allegiance made his choice of Professions seem all that much more odd--at least, to others. To Ais it made perfect sense.

Justice belonged to the Sand Lord. Right and wrong were decided by His divine judgement. Ais served that justice--it was his passion. He brought order to the chaos around him. Since he lived in Lossand, the only way to maintain order was to join the trackts, so that was what Ais had done. He saw no hypocrisy in serving Lossand Law, as long as that Law was fair to both Lossandin and Kershtian.

Besides, there were other reasons for joining the Hall. Other reasons for seeking the justice, the order, and the stability it brought . . . .

Ais caught sight of two trackts approaching from a short distance away, their black uniforms doing their job. The approaching men were Lossandin, of course, and they wore clothing identical to Ais’s own. The trackt uniform was constructed of a single piece of black cloth. Its long sleeves reached all the way to the wrists, and ended in stiff cuffs. The top half of the uniform pulled tight across the chest and waist, fastened by silver buckles. From the waist down, the uniform became a loose robe-like skirt, however, providing freedom of movement in battle. On the head was a simple, straight-topped cap and, like Ais, the approaching men were armed with a sword at his waist and a polished zinkall on his left forearm. The only thing that these men lacked was black cape like the one Ais wore--the sign that Ais was a senior trackt, leader of his own band.

The men, Ais’s Second and Third in command, saluted as they approached. Jedan had served in Ais’s personal band of trackts for over three years now, and had proven himself a competent and effective subordinate. The other man, Tain, was a little newer to the band--two years. He was a pleasant man, and one Ais had been grooming for leadership for some time. He would make a fine Senior Trackt.

“What is happening in the Hall?” Ais asked.

“They’re hearing testimony about the Diem, sir,” Jedan explained, falling into step beside Ais

“Perfect,” Ais said, careful to keep any hint of emotion out of his voice. Nilto would be there, listening to the testimonies, like always. Now was the time to act. “Tain, you’re with me. Jedan, take command of the second squad.”

“Yes, sir.” Jedan split off, moving down a side-street as Ais continued forward.

Of course, it would have been better to catch Nilto--the so called Lord Beggar--in the raid that was about to take place. The Lord Beggar, or Lord Thief as Ais liked to think of him, was too clever for to be caught so easily, however. Ais had tried for years to implicate the man as leader of Kezare’s criminal underground, but so far had found little success. Nilto covered his tracks well. In all of his illegal dealings, he was known as Sharezan. Yet, in all his years of investigation, Ais had never found a person who could describe what Sharezan was supposed to look like. No one had seen him--he was a non-existent cover.

Up ahead Ais could see the object of the day’s raid approaching--a tall, run-down market building that appeared little different from those surrounding it. Months of investigation, however, had told him that the building’s top floor hid a meeting-place far different from the building’s ordinary appearance. Ais had long ago given up trying to get directly at Sharezan. Instead, he worked indirectly, toppling what thieves and bandits he could, trying to inch closer and closer to their leader. The process had worked--he was getting closer to Sharezan himself. Soon Ais would catch someone high enough in the organization to implicate Nilto.

Today was a perfect opportunity. Ais had been following the movements of a Kershtian named Lokmlen, one of Shaerezan’s chief assassins. Over the last six months, Lokmlen had murdered three trackts. Fortunately, he had been spotted completing the last of the killings, and had been forced to go into hiding. If Ais’s sources were right, then the nondescript building just above was also Lokmlen’s safehouse.

Ais felt anticipation welling inside him as he and Tain left the main street, then ducked into a shop out of the safehouse’s line of sight. Inside the shop waited ten trackts, all members of Ais’s personal band. A short distance away, Jedan’s team--dressed in plain clothes--would be working their way up the building beside the safe house. They would take out the watchmen on the safehouse roof while Ais’s team attacked from below. Hopefully, the look-out’s gone, Ais would be able to get to the third floor before Lokmlen even knew he was in the building.

It had taken months to find Lokmlen, then weeks to plan a proper raid. But, the couldn’t have a more perfect opportunity than this day. Nilto was giving testimony at the Hall--which meant his organization was temporarily left without leadership. If Ais struck quickly, then Lokmlen would be in his custody before Nilto even finished his speech.

#

“I’m telling you, it’s empty,” Merris urged. “All of the Diem’s riches are completely unguarded, left to be plundered. And, the best part is, we know no one’s going to come looking for them. They’re all dead!”

“I don’t know,” Reen said playing absently with the stone coin in his hand. “They aren’t all dead.”

“Enough of them are,” Merris shot back. He eyed the other two men at the table, neither of which had much to say. Namot’s Kershtian face had grown pale at the mere mention of sand masters, and he was now mumbling something in his people’s incomprehensible language. Tarn was trying his best to ignore the conversation--he was just mad that the card game had stopped. Of course, Tarn had always been more soft than courageous; he would rather gamble for months, barely cheating enough people to get by, than take one chance that would set him for life.

Reen flipped his coin into the air and caught it again--it was an heirloom of sorts, the first coin he had ever stolen some fifteen years before. Merris found the flipping annoying--he always had. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t do this job alone. The Diem didn’t have stairs, and all the valuables were on the second or third floors. Merris would need man-power to make a decent run of it in one attempt.

Theirs wasn’t the only such conversation happening in the room. The room was a favored meeting-place, and was filled with tables, plush chairs, and cushions on the floor. The room was well-lighted by the windows--even thieves on dayside shunned darkness--but was on the building’s third floor, which offered a measure of protection against being seen. At least a half-dozen conversations just like Merris’s were happening around the room--each of them potentially discussing the same plan. That was why he needed to move quickly.

“Look,” Merris cajoled. “I know it sounds dangerous, but are we going to let a few sandies--dead sandies--keep us from the haul of a lifetime? I’m telling you, we don’t have long. As soon as people realize that the mastrells really aren’t coming back, the Diem is going to be crawling with job-men.”

“What about the ones that are still alive?” Reen said, flipping the coin again.

“Most of them aren’t even powerful enough to get to the upper floors--they’ll never know we’re there. Besides, I have it on good authority that after today, we won’t have much to worry about.”

“What do you mean?” Reen asked carefully.

Merris smiled. Reen was interested. “Let’s just say that the Diem as a Profession is about to go the way of its mastrells.”

Reen thought for a moment, rotating the coin across his knuckles. “All right, I’m in,” he decided, sending the coin into the air with a particularly strong flip.

As soon as the coin left his fingers, the room plunged into blackness.

Cries of startlement sounded through the room--startlement that quickly turned to panic. Merris felt it himself--terror from the lightless void surrounding him. His yell of fright joined the others as he stumbled away from the table, tripping on his chair, disoriented and confused.

Then, the darkness parted slightly. A door opened on the far side of the room, light from the hallway outside spilling into the room. However, Merris’s horror didn’t go away. Silhouetted in the doorway stood a form distinctified by its flowing bottom and wide cape. Merris reached for his sword as zinkallin began to fire.

The coin fell forgotten, cracking against the table.

#

Ais strode through the room, sword in one hand, zinkall raised to fire. Few of the thieves offered resistance, however. They were too confused by the sudden darkness and subsequent attack to do much but stumble around in confusion. The thick cloth window-coverings--rolled down by Jedan’s men on the roof--were removed just after Ais’s squad entered the room, and Jedan’s squad began coming down ropes just outside. However, it appeared if such cautions were unnecessary.

“He isn’t here,” Tain noted, approaching Ais as the rest of the trackts gathered up the thieves.

Ais nodded. “No,” he agreed, double-checking faces. Most of the thieves were nameless ruffians or unimportant thieves. Lokmlen was nowhere to be seen.

Jedan sighed, approaching from the other side. “Good experience for the men, I guess,” he mumbled. Most of Jedan’s squad was made up of younger trackts, recent additions to Ais’s band.

Ais didn’t acknowledge the comment. He stood, arms folded, as he watched the criminals being led from the room. The trackts probably wouldn’t be able to hold most of them--they had no evidence. Ais ground his teeth in frustration--months of planning had been wasted. He was no closer to catching Nilto than he had been before. He had failed. He could almost hear the Lord Beggar laughing when he heard about Ais’s mistake, his raid on a den of pickpockets and petty burglars. Laughing . . . .

A sharp pain brought Ais back to the room. His hands were clenched to tightly that his fingernails were biting into the skin of his palm, drawing blood. Ais quickly refocused, pushing back the anger and rage before it took him over. His breathing slowed, and his muscles relaxed. Deftly, he moved his fingers, pressing them against his palm to staunch the blood flow, then he looked around with concern. Had his lapse been noticed?

Jedan was supervising the removal of the last few thieves, and Tain was standing outside, speaking with a few other trackts. They hadn’t seen him. They must never see him, must never know the rage that threatened their leader. Trackts had to be focused, bastions of order and control. Justice required such--there could be no chaos in the ranks of Lossand’s civil protectors. If it were known that Ais, most famous of trackts, could not control his own emotions . . . .

“Looks like we’re done here, sir,” Jedan said, saluting.

“Good,” Ais said curtly, clasping his hands behind his back.

Jedan nodded, turning to the few remaining members of his squad in preparation to go. Ais frowned, watching his Second cross the room. Something was wrong. Ais followed Jedan, stepping off the distance from one wall to the other. The room was too small--it didn’t match the careful plans Ais had drawn for the building. That meant . . . .

He looked up just as several small sections of the far wall opened, revealing the ends of zinkallin.

“Trap!” Ais yelled. The call came too late as the sound of zinkallin air reports sounded through the room. A wave of arrows began to cut down both trackts and criminals. One missile took a surprised Jedan in the neck, dropping him soundlessly to the floor. Other trackts screamed in pain, falling with arrows sticking from their chests or limbs.

Ais dashed forward, heedless of the archers. He ignored the death, the threat on his own life, as he ran toward the wall. A dozen arrows snapped past him, the archers finding it difficult to aim for single targets in such an enclosed space. One arrow passed within inches of Ais’s leg, tearing a hole in his cape as it hissed by. The trackts offered a pathetic resistance, many of them wounded or dead, the others unable to fire effectively against such a massive assault.

Ais reached the wall with a yell, reaching through an arrow hole to snatch the end of one man’s zinkall. The surprised archer fired his weapon into the floor as Ais grabbed hold of his arm with both hands and yanked it forward. The man’s unseen body slammed against the inside of the wall, shaking the structure. Ais yanked again, smashing the body repeatedly against the wall. He heard the cracking of bone, felt the man’s arm spasming in agony. With one final pull, a large section of the flimsy false wall broke free, and Ais pulled an unconscious body through the rubble.

Ais jumped through the hole, surprising the archers on the other side. The small room was much plusher than the one outside, decorated with tapestries and cushions. There was an open window on the far side, and he briefly caught a glimpse of Lokmlen’s Kershtian face slipping out of the room and down a rope ladder.

Ais didn’t have time for an extended look, however, as the archers around him reacted, pulling their arms out of the arrow holes to point at him. His own weapon was already raised, however, and he fired an arrow point-blank into the nearest archer’s eye. He ducked as the man screamed, hearing zinkallin releases sound from either side as the archers foolishly shot at one another.

Ais rolled to the side, whipping his sword from its sheath. The shiny black carapace blade found its place in a second archer’s chest as the man realized his zinkall’s three shots had already been expended.

Ais fought two battles as he attacked--one against the archers, and one against himself. The rage barely surfaced, however. He had learned to control it well, especially in battle.

A moment later, the fight was over. His insane assault had forced to archers to stop firing at his trackts, and seconds afterwards Ais’s well-trained men had regrouped and followed him through the hole. The archers, horribly out-numbered, quickly began to surrender. Even as they did so, Ais was leaping through the window and swinging recklessly down the ladder in pursuit of his real quarry.

#

“You know, you’re a fool for coming back.”

Iador the boatman looked up a his passenger’s comment, confused. The passenger, however, wasn’t looking at Iador. The man stood at the front of the small rowboat, heedless of its rockings, as he stared at the approaching city of Kezare. Eventually, Iador decided he wasn’t being addressed, and tried to ignore his strange passenger.

“It’s so hot on this side,” the passenger continued, speaking conversationally. “You hate heat. And all that sand getting into your shoes and your lungs . . . it’s horrible.”

Iador continued to row. His passenger was definitely an odd one. His skin marked him as Lossandin, but he spoke as if he’d been out of the country for some time. He had curly brown hair that sat like a disheveled mop on his head, and was a bit overweight. His clothing was very irregular--it resembled the things that Iador had seen darksiders wearing in the marketplace. The clothing was constructed of may layers of cloth, and the bottom piece was divided like leggings, but not as tight. There were strange clasps and buckles everywhere. Darksider clothing had always confused Iador--why wear something with so many pieces when a robe worked just as well?

“Of course,” the man continued, “you did have a noble purpose in coming. You haven’t seen Kenton in three years, and he was once your best friend.” The man paused for a moment. “Too bad he’s dead,” he added. “Of course, you always said becoming a sand master was a bad decision.”

Iador raised his head. Sand master? Quietly, Iador made a Ker’Reen warding against evil. He wasn’t Kershtian, but he was a God-fearing man. More than half the Lossandin people he knew worshiped the Sand Lord now. The Kershtian religion made so much more sense than the old Lossandin gods, who had practically been forgotten over the last century.

Slowly, Iador shook his head. He knew he should have refused to ferry this stranger, this man who looked like a daysider but dressed like a darksider. Now it looked like the man was a sand master--or, at least, was familiar with them. Not good at all. The Sand Lord frowned on those who fraternized with the demon Ry’Kensha.

“Well,” the man said with a sigh, “I suppose you can still pay your respects at his funeral. Maybe there’ll be food.”

Iador pulled the boat into the docks, moving as quickly as he could, for he was eager to release his passenger. The man didn’t comply with Iador’s sense of urgency, stretching leisurely, then reaching behind to pull out a strange darkside cloth bag he hung by a strap from his shoulder. Then he stepped up onto the dock, pulling out a couple of lak and handing them to Iador.

“Thanks for the conversation,” the man said absently, wandering away from the docks.

#

Ais dashed through the crowd, pushing his way through the confused people. Those ahead him tried their best to get out of his way, but the crowd made it difficult. The press grew worse the closer they neared the docks, slowing his progress even further. Fortunately, Lokmlen wasn’t moving any more quickly, despite his cursings and shovings. Eventually, the man ducked to the side, running into an alley. Ais reached the same spot a few seconds later, leaving behind the crowd and its cries of anger and surprise as he entered the alley.

Immediately, a zinkall arrow whizzed past his head. Ais cursed, firing a shot of his own blindly into the alley as he ducked to the side, pressing up against the building’s wall, using a pile of chipped clay bricks as cover. A second later he heard footsteps retreating down the alley, and he hissed quietly, leaping over the pile of rubble to follow. After just a second of running, however, he heard a noise to the side of him, and caught movement in his peripheral. He ducked just in time to avoid the sword strike that followed.

Lokmlen leapt at him from behind another pile of rubble, attacking deftly with a thin-bladed Lossandin sword. Ais parried, blocking with his own Kershtian weapon, whose carapace material lent itself better to thicker, wider blades. The two traded blows, fighting in the unique manner of dayside fencing. The swords were almost secondary to the battle--the zinkallin were what mattered. Both Kershtians fought carefully, their left arms kept outstretched to the side, using their zinkallin like bucklers when necessary, but mostly holding them in reserve, searching for an opportunity to fire. zinkallin made decent medium-ranged weapons, but their true deadliness was at short, man-to-man ranges. A point-blank shot from a zinkall could easily be deadly--and, even if it wasn’t, a man fought very poorly with an arrow sticking from his chest.

Lokmlen fought well, better than Ais had expected. Of course, the man had managed to murder three trackts, which said something for his skills. After just a few seconds of fighting, it was obvious who was the better fighter. Ais was an exemplary trackt, but his true talents were in investigation and leadership. He was only moderate when it came to sword-play. If he was going to win the battle, he would need to get in a good shot with his final arrow.

And, fortunately, one came quickly. Lokmlen ducked to the side, leaving himself open to fire as he turned back to the battle. Ais moved instinctually as he swung his left arm around, drawing aim on his opponent’s chest. Too late he realized Lokmlen’s feint. The thief had lowered his arm in what Ais assumed was a balancing move, but was really putting himself in to position to fire. Not at Ais’s chest, which would have been too obvious, but at his leg.

Lokmlen fired first, and Ais felt a searing pain in his leg. His own shot, thrown off Lokmlen’s attack, went wild, and his final arrow snapped uselessly against the alley wall.

Ais stumbled back against the side of the alley, gritting his teeth against the pain, holding his sword defensively. Lokmlen raised his arm. He had fired twice already--he might still have an arrow left.

“Surrender, zensha,” Lokmlen ordered. Zensha. Traitor.

Ais smiled, then launched himself at Lokmlen. If the man had another arrow, he would have fired it.

Sure enough, Lokmlen lowered his arm, blocking Ais’s attack with a curse. Now the swordfight truly became intense, both men using their zinkallin as shields, blocking with the thick carapace shells. Ais, however, was wounded, and his mobility was severely hampered. In addition, Lokmlen was a much better swordsman. There was only one way this battle could end.

“The Sand Lord has left you weak, traitor” Lokmlen whispered in Kershtian. “I’ve met children with more skill. This is what you betrayed your people to become?”

Ais continued to fight, throwing himself into the battle with zeal. Lokmlen blocked deftly, waiting for Ais’s strength to run out. Ais stepped forward, then slipped on his own blood, which poured from his wound. Lokmlen’s blade immediately struck, biting into Ais’s arm.

And, deep within, Ais began to feel his control slip.

His swings became more wild, his vision began to blur. As it had happened so many times before, Ais’s secret revealed itself. He began to beat at Lokmlen, using his sword almost like a club. He heard the growls coming from his throat. He felt the spittle running down his chin. His body began to grow numb.

Lokmlen deftly, almost leisurely, dodged Ais’s blows. Ais continued to attack, but the quiet side of his mind, the side that remained conscious even during moments of rage, knew the battle was over. Rage didn’t impart power, it didn’t give strength like the stories said. All it did was make him lose control. An unseen strike from Lokmlen took him on the arm, and Ais spun. He could barely feel the pain. He used his spin to build momentum, screaming in anger, striking at his opponent.

His hand, empty, passed in front of Lokmlen’s face, carrying no weapon.

Stupefied, Ais looked at his bloodied hand, then noticed his sword on the ground. It had slipped from his numb fingers following Lokmlen’s last strike.

Ais felt himself slide to the ground in despair. You always knew this day would come. The day when your secret finally killed you. All those years of struggling, all your time in the Hall, forcing yourself to become a model of control. Wasted.

Lokmlen raised his blade, using it to snap Ais’s DaiKeen symbol off his forehead. “You are a disgrace, trackt,” Lokmlen hissed. “I give you now to the Sand Lord’s judgement.” Then moved to strike.

“Um, excuse me?”

Lokmlen looked up at the sound, confused. Ais did as well, his vision clearing slightly as the rage backed away. A figure stood in the alley, a shorter man of husky build with dark curly hair and an oblong bag slung over his shoulder.

“Now, I realize it’s probably none of my business,” the newcomer said, leaning against the side of the alley. “But, don’t you think the poor man has had enough for one day? I mean, I’m a strong proponent of humiliating trackts, but killing them is a bit extreme.”

Lokmlen bent down, picking up Ais’s sword and tossing it to the newcomer. The man caught it with a deft movement of the hand. Ais watched the exchange with a measure of returning sentience.

“If you wish to fight me, stranger, then I accept your challenge,” Lokmlen said, raising his blade.

The newcomer eyed the sword with a distasteful look, tossing it aside as if it were some kind of venomous sandling. “Thank you, but no,” the man said. “Swords and I don’t get along very well together.”

Lokmlen snorted. “I don’t think you have much choice,” he said, and attacked with a quick, precise thrust.

Which the stranger dodged.

Ais watched, struggling to regain control of his rebellious body. The stranger didn’t look like a warrior--he didn’t act like one or move like one, not to mention his obviously out-of-shape body. But, when Lokmlen struck, that all changed for a brief second. The stranger altered his stance, dropping his bag and suddenly moving with a fighter’s fluidity. He easily dodged out of the weapon’s way, then immediately fell back into his relaxed, pedestrian stance.

Lokmlen frowned, pulling his weapon up to regard the stranger, who now stood leaning leisurely against the alley’s other wall. The assassin struck again, obviously with a more determined thrust, but again the stranger somehow wiggled past his blade.

Ais didn’t know who the stranger was, but as his sentience returned, he thanked the Sand Lord for the man’s arrival. Slowly, Ais slipped a small zinkall arrow from the quiver tied to the back of his belt and loaded it into the front of his weapon.

Lokmlen was attacking continuously now, fencing with the stranger like one would an armed opponent. Yet, the stranger continued to keep just barely out of the sword’s path. The weapon wove and sliced, sometimes coming close enough to the stranger that Ais could hear its tip tear at the soft darkside cloth. He never drew blood, however.

Finally, the stranger pulled an odd feint, jumping forward instead of backward and catching Lokmlen’s weapon in one hand. The move put the two men face-to-face, one confused, the other smiling happily. Then, the stranger released the weapon and proceeded to slam the heel of his boot into his opponent’s foot.

Lokmlen cried out, dropping his sword in pain. The stranger nodded cheerfully to Ais, who had just finished pumping his zinkall. Ais raised the weapon, pointing it threateningly at the disarmed assassin.

“Eric’s first rule of combat,” the stranger said, picking up his pack and waving farewell to Ais as he strolled back toward the street. “Always go for the toes.”

#

Ais handed Lokmlen off to a couple of trackts guarding the front of the thieves hideout. He ignored their suggestions that he let a healer see to his wounds--none of them were very bad, and had stopped bleeding now that he had them bound.

He quietly strode up the steps to the top floor. In the back room he found members of his band cleaning up and searching through potential evidence.

“Sir, you’ll want to see this,” one of them said, nodding toward the side of the room.

Ais followed the gesture, noticing a man sitting against the wall, a healer at his side. The man wasn’t a trackt or a thief--he wore the colorful robes of a rich man, though those robes were stained with filth and blood. The man held his face in his hands, shaking with quiet sobs. Though his features were obscured, the man’s scraggly beard and emaciated body bespoke a lengthy imprisonment.

“Who?” Ais asked quietly.

“Torkel,” the trackt replied.

Ais frowned, trying not to let his surprise show on his face. Torkel was a wealthy landowner, advisor to the Lord Merchant himself. The man and his family had disappeared during a trip down the river over half a year ago. It had looked like a boating accident.

“We found him in a chamber hidden in the closet,” the trackt said in a hushed voice. “Along with . . . the corpses.”

“Corpses?” Ais asked.

“His wife and children,” the trackt explained solemnly. “Apparently, Torkel used to be one of Sharezan’s informants. When he tried to back out, Sharezan wasn’t pleased. They locked him in the closet, killed one of his family members every month, and tossed the bodies in with him.”

It was nearly enough to make the rage return. This time, however, Ais fought it down, keeping his face under control.

I will find you, Sharezan. Nilto. By the Sand Lord, I will catch you.

This was why he chased the man. This was what drove him to work at this case as he had no other. Sharezan wasn’t just a criminal, wasn’t just a murderer, he was a maniac. Torkel wasn’t the first one he had tortured to the point of insanity. Not by far.

“See that this man’s involvement in Sharezan’s operations is kept quiet,” Ais ordered. “He has suffered enough.”

The trackt nodded.

Ais turned and looked back into the main room, where zinkall arrows lay scattered around the floor, tables and chairs toppled by the battle. Ais held his mask of emotionless in front of him like a barrier as he surveyed the scene. He counted black-dressed bodies with cold eyes. Six dead, one of them Jedan. Stiffly, he stepped through the hole between the rooms, ignoring the bloodied body laying in the amongst the rubble.

“Tain, you’re now Second,” he said flatly as he passed his Third, who knelt beside Jedan’s corpse.

Several trackts stood, watching Ais as he walked toward the exit. The new members of Jedan’s band. “Great Sand Lord!” one of them whispered, barely audible as Ais left the room, “doesn’t he have any feelings at all?”

Ais bowed his head as soon as he was out of view, sighing to himself an shuddering slightly. Then he looked up, forcing his face to be flat, to be strong. Control. It is all about control . . . .

White Sand

Chapter Twelve

“Young Kenton, would you mind helping an old woman to her quarters?”

Kenton turned with surprise. Heelis, the Lady Judge herself, was standing behind him. People were flowing from the judgement chamber, most of them eagerly discussing the day’s events. Many had paused to congratulate him on his arguments, though Kenton didn’t see what they found so impressive. A two-week forestallment of the Diem’s destruction was hardly a stunning victory. Still, he had accepted their praise graciously, though his first reaction was to spurn them. He was quickly coming to understand that he couldn’t afford to make enemies amongst Lossand’s elite. He already regretted his treatment of the Council in years past.

Which was why he hadn’t expected to see any of the Taisha approach him. The elderly Heelis, however, appeared to have lost all of her earlier hostility. She now stood before him with an unreadable expression, her wrinkled eyes studying him.

“I’ll help her, if you want,” Dirin offered.

“No, Dirin,” Kenton said slowly. “Wait for me outside the Hall. I will escort the Lady Judge.”

“Quite kind of you, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said, extending her arm for him to take. She wore a long gown of Hall black, loose at the waist, and the only jewelry she wore was a silver necklace.

Kenton let the Lady Judge lead as they strolled away from the judgement chamber and its chattering crowds, walking around the periphery of the hall. Most of the pyramidal building’s space was taken up by the central chamber, and, as Kenton recalled, the rest was filled with offices. Heelis moved leisurely, not speaking at first, leaving Kenton to ponder on what it was she wanted to tell him.

“You are much like your father, young Kenton,” she finally said.

“I don’t know, My Lady. I am stubborn like he was, perhaps,” Kenton said with a slight frown.

“Stubborn,” Heelis agreed, “and contradictory.”

Kenton blushed slightly.

Heelis laughed to herself. “Don’t be too ashamed of your nature, child. There is a vague line between being contradictory and being discerning. Just learn when to object, and when to allow authority to do as it is intended.”

Kenton walked in silence for a moment, his Lossandin boots--tightly wrapped to keep the sand out--falling softly on the Hall’s stone floor. “I must confess I’m confused, My Lady,” he finally admitted. “Aren’t you angry with me?”

“Yes,” Heelis admitted. “You arrived at a very inopportune time, young Kenton. No one likes to be surprised at the last moment.”

“But you were going to destroy the Diem!” Kenton objected.

“After a manner, yes,” Heelis admitted.

“I couldn’t let that happen.”

Heelis sighed quietly. “Do you understand the responsibility you have taken upon yourself, young Kenton?”

Kenton smiled. “Now you sound like my father.”

“He did enjoy laying responsibility, didn’t he?” Heelis said, a fond look on her face. “I will miss Praxton.”

“I thought you didn’t like the sand masters,” Kenton said.

“Nonsense, child,” Heelis returned. “I had great respect for the Diem, and especially for your father. Both grew too powerful, however, and too arrogant--those are things that breed enemies. The Diem built itself up so high that when it fell, even I couldn’t rescue it.”

“You would have tried?” Kenton asked with a frown. Was this the same woman who had pronounced such harsh judgement just a few minutes before?

Heelis sighed. “I did try, young Kenton. That was what I was doing today. You said yourself that the purpose of the Law was to protect, not to destroy.”

“I must admit confusion, Lady Judge. Perhaps we were attending different trials.”

“Yes,” Heelis mumbled. “Very much like your father.” Then, in a stronger tone, she continued. “The Lord Merchant and Lord General are very powerful men, Kenton--as powerful as your father was. The three of them have been vying for leadership in this nation for decades now. Once the Diem stumbled, there was no chance that the other two would let it survive. There was no way I could have saved the Diem--I could, however, allow its enemies a complete victory at first, then convince them to go easy on the remnants of your kind. The sand masters could have continued practicing, probably as a sub-Profession in the Draft.”

“We wouldn’t have had a voice in the Council, then,” Kenton objected.

“True. But you would have been able to keep your identity as a group.”

Kenton frowned. “But,” he continued, “if you are so intent on helping the Diem, why did you push such harsh limitations on its continuance? There is virtually no chance that I will be able to convince all seven Taisha to vote for me. I could have perhaps gained a majority, but a unanimous decision . . . .”

“Ah, young Kenton,” Heelis said, staring down the corridor with slightly unfocused eyes. “You must not mistake Heelis the person and Heelis the Lady Judge. The Lady Judge must remain impartial, no matter what her personal biases. The Diem is wounded, perhaps mortally. A simple majority decision wouldn’t be enough to heal it. Now that the doubt of a practically unanimous decision has been cast against the Diem, only a complete reverse of that decision will be enough to restore the nation’s faith in sand mastery. Any less would be a disservice to the Diem--such a decision would leave it irreparably weakened. My decision was not made out of vengeance, but out of pity.”

The Lady Judge drew to a halt beside a large door marked with the Hall’s seal. “You have a chance, young Kenton. But, I will admit that it isn’t a very good one. I do not envy you.”

“Can I at least count on your vote?” Kenton asked.

Heelis shook her head. “I am afraid not.”

“But you said you don’t want to see the Diem destroyed!”

“I don’t,” Heelis agreed. “But, if destruction is in the best interest of Lossand, then that is what I must support.”

“The Diem’s arrogance is broken,” Kenton said. “There is nothing to fear from us now.”

“Arrogance will return. Wherever there is power, there is pride. Besides, it is more than the Diem’s power that I am worried about.”

“What do you mean?” Kenton asked with a frown.

“The Diem’s financial situation, for one thing,” Heelis explained.

“Financial situation?”

“The Diem has no money, Kenton,” Heelis said.

Kenton blinked in surprise. “No money?” he asked.

“Actually, it has great debts.”

“But the tributes . . . .”

“Most Professions stopped paying tribute to the Diem a long time ago, child,” Heelis explained. “They got tired of paying the sand masters, then having the Mastrells take whatever they wanted in addition to the tribute.”

“But, the Law . . . .”

Heelis shook her head. “The tribute wasn’t part of the Law, child. It was given out of respect and thankfulness--things that the Professions stopped feeling long ago. I might have been able to do something if the mastrells had objected, but none of them did. They actually seemed to enjoy spiting the other Professions--you see, the cessation of the tributes only gave the mastrells more reason to misuse their powers. You know that the golden sash you wear gives you the power to demand any good or service from a merchant free of charge? Technically you are supposed to pay the money back, but there is no time limit set on when you must do so.”

Kenton nodded. Such was part of the Diem’s Charter.

“Well, the less tribute the other Professions paid, the more the mastrells demanded from the Profession members, walking into their shops and procuring crafts or expensive pieces of art. There is a reason why the other Professions hate the sand masters so.”

“I didn’t know,” Kenton admitted.

“Yes,” Heelis continued. “The only Profession that has continued to pay the tribute all this time is the Guild.”

“The Guild?” Kenton asked with surprise. “The merchants? That doesn’t make any sense--Lord Vey is one of the most outspoken enemies of the Diem!”

“I know,” Heelis said. “It is very odd of him. Regardless, I cannot, with good conscience, vote in favor of the Diem as long as it retains such large debts. You can probably request ledgers from the separate Professions to find out exactly how much they claim you owe them, but expect to see some very large figures. This has been going on for some time.”

Kenton took a breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That isn’t all, young Kenton,” Heelis warned. “There is also the leadership factor. If what I saw today is any indication, you are going to have a difficult time convincing the rest of your sand masters to follow you. A Profession that cannot agree on its own leader is not stable enough to maintain its status and Taisha.”

“I’ll find a way to bring the other sand masters to my side,” Kenton informed.

“Not just sand masters, child,” Heelis warned. “I must lay one more task upon you. The Professions represent the people of Lossand. We govern by their sufferance. If the people are morally opposed to sand mastery, then I would not be able to continue to support you. First you must convince the Diem to accept you, but then you must convince Lossand to accept the Diem.”

Kenton sighed. He had assumed his task impossible, but now . . . he not only had to persuade all seven Taisha to rescind their votes to destroy his profession, but he needed to pay off the Diem’s debts and convince the nation to accept him. How would he manage such a task in two weeks?

“I warned you, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said, opening the door to her rooms and stepping in. “May the Sand Lord watch over you.”

“I’m certain He will,” Kenton mumbled as she shut the door. “He’s probably eagerly awaiting my failure.”

#

Kenton found Dirin waiting patiently beside the Hall’s outer steps, contentedly buffing a carapace statue’s head. “Dirin,” Kenton mumbled as he approached, “you’re too sands-cursed good for your own good.”

“What?” Dirin asked as Kenton strode down the steps.

“Never mind,” Kenton replied, looking across the small courtyard before the Hall. The crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving a few scattered groups. None of them, however, wore sand master white. “Where is everyone?”

Dirin grimaced slightly. “They . . . went with Drile.”

“Aiesha,” Kenton cursed. “Come on, back to the Diem.”

#

They found the sand masters gathered in the Diem’s inner courtyard. The courtyard, filled with sand, of course, was large--much wider than any of the Diem’s four sides. Lines of small, separate balconies ran along the second and third floors--entrances to the private chambers of mastrells and other high-ranking sand masters. In the direct center of the courtyard was a free-standing mushroom-shaped structure, the building where the sand masters had met.

In front of this meeting-house stood Drile, speaking authoritatively to the collected remnants of the Diem. His firm-featured square face was calm as he looked at different sand masters in turn, demanding something Kenton couldn’t hear. Around his waist he wore a golden sash.

“Drile!” Kenton demanded as he approached. “What are you doing?”

Drile ignored Kenton, speaking to a Diemfen in a brown sash. “You swear?” he asked the man.

“I do,” the Diemfen--Terr was his name--affirmed.

“All right, then you may count yourself in,” Drile promised.

Kenton pushed his way through the group of sand masters. “Drile, what on the sands are you doing!” he repeated.

Drile raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward Kenton. “Why, I’m distributing rooms on the top floor, Lord Mastrell. The mastrells no longer need them.”

Kenton snorted. “And tell me, Drile, what criteria are you using to judge who gets to live on the top floor and who doesn’t?”

Drile shrugged slightly. “I choose those who seem most likely to be loyal to . . . the mastrells.”

“Or most likely to you, I suspect,” Kenton shot back.

Drile turned away from Kenton then, nodding to the next Diemfen in line. “So tell me, why do you think I should let you have a place in the mastrells quarters?”

“Drile,” Kenton ordered, “stop this foolishness.”

Drile didn’t turn. “Why should I?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Because it’s ridiculous,” Kenton said. “If we’re going to give away rooms, we’ll do it in an orderly fashion, by rank.”

Drile turned with a raised eyebrow. “But Kenton,” he said with mock consternation on his face, “weren’t you always the one who said that rank shouldn’t matter? That power was a poor means of judging a sand master?”

“I . . .” Kenton said, stunned.

Drile snorted, turning back to his task.

Kenton closed his mouth, still stupefied by Drile’s rebuttal. By the sands, he’s arrogant! Kenton thought with amazement. He’s acting like . . . like I used to. Oh sands . . . .

“Look, Drile,” Kenton said, gathering his thoughts. “We can discuss this later, find a fair means of distributing the rooms. Let me think about it for a little while first.”

Drile sighed, shaking his head, but he did turn to face Kenton once again. “And why should I listen to you? You have no authority over me.”

Kenton felt himself growing angry. “I was appointed Lord Ma--”

“Let us move this meeting somewhere else!” Drile announced in a loud voice, interrupting Kenton as he spun to face the collected sand masters. “Say . . . in the very rooms we are discussing? Yes, let us move to the third floor. All of those who are able, that is.”

Drile turned with a smile, shooting Kenton a victorious look as the sand around his feet exploded with light. The sand rose around Drile like a vortex of light, lifting him into the air, ribbons of sand whipping lightning-like around him. He landed on the third-floor balcony of what had once been the Lord Mastrell’s chambers, and casually walked inside.

Around Kenton sand masters regarded him with embarrassment or amusement. Then the fourteen Diemfens and several of the more powerful fens gathered their sand around themselves and began to rise into the air. None of them were as showy as Drile, of course, and several were barely strong enough to lift themselves so high. Kenton was left standing red-faced, surrounded by a small crowd of fens, underfens, and acolents.

Very clever, Drile, Kenton thought. A short time ago, that little move would have ended the argument.

Slowly, Kenton reached into his sand pouch and pulled out a handful of sand. Hesitantly, irrationally fearing that his experience before entering the Hall had been a fluke, he called the sand to life. It pulsed and shifted warmly in his hand, shining with the familiar glow of sand mastery. He sent it in a ribbon to the courtyard floor, where he gathered sand into it. Then he split the one ribbon into three.

The sand flashed, rising like three trails of smoke to surround him. Immediately a wave of surprised whispers ran through the crowd around him. Kenton raised his head, looking up at the third floor with trepidation. Historically, three ribbons was the minimum amount required to lift a sand master more than a few feet in the air. Many sand masters who could control three, or even four, ribbons still couldn’t lift themselves to such a height. What if he still wasn’t powerful enough?

Taking a deep breath, he gathered his ribbons beneath him, one underneath his feet and one underneath each of his arms. Then, he pushed.

Air rushed around him, battering his face and his clothing as he shot into the air like a zinkall arrow. He cried out, surprised at the force of his jump, as he passed the balcony and continued into the air.

Kenton floundered in the maladroit leap, finally reaching his apex a full twenty feet above the Diem’s roof. He ordered his sand ribbons to him, realizing with horror the drop that awaited him. Fortunately, he was good at falling--even the weakest sand master could slow a fall enough to keep himself from being seriously hurt. He sent the ribbons forward as began to plummet, using them to guide him towards the balcony and slow him to a reasonable speed.

His feet slapped against the carapace balcony, leaving him disoriented, his heart racing. The jump became worth it, however, the moment he saw Drile’s face. The former mastrell stood at the back of the room’s inner chamber. He stood with his mouth open, his voice swept away by complete amazement. His arm, which had been raised, dropped lethargically to his side as he leaned forward. Kenton could almost hear Drile’s mind counting Kenton’s ribbons over and over again.

Kenton stepped forward, letting his ribbons swirl predominately around him. “I thought I told you to stop this foolishness, Drile,” he said in a quiet, but firm, voice.

“I . . .” Drile trailed off, counting again. “Three?” he asked with confusion.

Kenton stopped right in front of Drile, then raised his hand and pointed at the door. “Get out of my father’s room!” he ordered.

“And why should I obey an obvious traitor like yourself?” Drile demanded.

Kenton paused. “Traitor?” he asked incredulously.

“Tell us why you came back so late, Kenton,” Drile whispered. “Tell us where you have been? Did the Kershtians treat you nicely while you received your payment from them? Or, did they turn you away like the filth you are?”

“What are you taking about?” Kenton demanded. Surely Drile wasn’t insinuating . . .

“We all know someone betrayed the Diem, Kenton,” Drile informed. “We’ve all figured it out. Isn’t it convenient that you disappeared in the middle of the battle, then arrive here safely, travelling alone across the kerla?”

“There’s only one traitor here, Drile,” Kenton hissed. “And it isn’t me. There is only one man bitter enough at the Diem for taking away his rank, one man with a streak of vengefulness strong enough to commit such an atrocity.”

Drile’s eyes grew wide with anger. “You accuse me?” he demanded. “You, traitor, dare to accuse your better?”

Kenton felt his face grow hot with rage. This was the man who had cost him his father and friends. This was the man who had nearly destroyed the Diem. And now he was trying to blame Kenton. He was a coward. Unfortunately, Kenton had no real proof that the man was a traitor--he couldn’t get him thrown out of the Diem with simple accusations.

“Get out of my father’s rooms,” Kenton said quietly, surprised at the tense anger in his eyes.

Drile looked back defiantly.

Kenton stared Drile right in the eyes, just as he had seen Praxton do on that infamous day of advancement that seemed so long ago. He forced his will, his anger, and his rage against Drile. As he did so, Drile’s eyes flickered uncertainly toward Kenton’s ribbons--three instead of one.

A second later Drile turned away, nodding for his followers to join him as he stalked out of the room into the hallway beyond.

“And take off the sash,” Kenton ordered. “Otherwise I’ll report you to the Taisha for violating the Diem’s charter.”

Drile shot one look back at him--an angry, defiant look. Then he disappeared.

The other sand masters watched Drile leave, their faces muted. Once he was gone they slowly slipped from the room, some following the former mastrell, others leaving off the balcony.

When he was alone, Kenton sighed, slumping to the floor and resting his back against the room’s stone wall, trying to calm his tense nerves.

#

Kenton sat that way for a long while, the massive aftermath of the last few days’ events finally catching up to him. He had watched thousands of sand masters slaughtered, his father and friends killed. He had spent an excruciating week believing he had lost the ability to master sand. Then, when he had finally gotten it back, he had immediately been forced to take upon himself responsibilities he had never sought, and only barely understood.

His time traveling with Khriss had finally made him see what he really was, a man who fought authority because of what it was, not because of what it stood for. Now, irony had its way, and he had to deal with the very rebellious arrogance he had once projected. Except that Drile was both more powerful and more vicious than Kenton had ever been.

I’m worse than the Hundred Fools, Kenton thought with a shake of his head. I should never have let Dirin talk me into this. What do I know of leadership? I’ve tried all my life to throw down authority.

Someone was yelling down below--Kenton couldn’t make out what they were saying, and he was too engrossed in his thoughts to bother walking to the window. It wasn’t an angry voice--not Drile’s voice--but he still had a suspicion that he didn’t want to know what the person was saying.

His mind drifted back to the argument. Drile had already begun turning the other sand masters against him. If Kenton hadn’t, for some still-unknown reason, spontaneously developed the ability to master multiple ribbons, then his rule of the Diem would have ended moments after it began. He had defeated Drile this time, but he doubted that the former-mastrell would remain cowed for long.

Even as an acolent, Drile had been trouble. He had lorded over Kenton’s group of students like a Kershtian monarch, often demanding that others do the research for his classes for him, other times sneaking into town to perform secret deeds with his abilities in exchange for money. He never did anything overt--he would lift heavy objects, or drill holes in stone for merchants, any small act that a sand master could do easier than other men. The frightening thing about Drile had been the way he swore the other acolents to secrecy, using his power to frighten them to the point of capitulation.

Kenton sighed, memories of the past rising fresh to his mind. The fool down below was still yelling, but Kenton retreated into his thoughts.

During the time of Drile’s rampaging, the mastrells had ignored--and even encouraged--him. Kenton doubted Praxton had ever found out about Drile’s prostitution of his sand mastery; that was too large a sin to be ignored. The domination of the other acolents, however, and the use of power and threats to keep them in line--all this had been suffered. It was the way of the Diem--the sooner students learned to obey those with more power than they, the sooner they would understand what it was to be a sand master.

Only two students had stood up to Drile. Traiben and, of course, Kenton himself. Traiben had been powerful enough to ignore Drile’s threats, and Kenton had simply been stubborn enough not to care. Their friendship, odd because of their differences in power, had come mostly because of a common enemy.

Except, Traiben was dead now, and Kenton was left to resist the enemy on his own. Kenton could defy Drile, could mock him, but experience had shown that such would never actually accomplish anything. Why couldn’t someone else have survived? Traiben, Elorin, anyone. I can’t do this by myself. I can’t . . . why is that idiot still screaming?

Sighing, Kenton rose to his feet, shuffling across the room toward the balcony. “Will you kindly be--” he began to yell. Then he stopped.

Down below, a strangely familiar form stood in the courtyard’s sands, hands on his hips. Kenton frowned. The man weighed a little more than Kenton remembered, but there was no mistaking that curly hair.

“Eric?” Kenton asked incredulously. “What on the sands are you doing here?”

“Yelling myself raw, it appears,” the other man called back. “They told me you were up there--they didn’t tell me you’d gone deaf.”

Kenton smiled slightly, then frowned again in confusion. “Eric?” he repeated.

“By the Divine, all that’s sand’s affected your brain. Yes, it’s me, Eric! Now that we’ve established that, is there any way I can get up there? I’m growing a little tired of yelling.”

Still amazed, Kenton reached over and placed his hand in the barrel of sand every mastrell kept on his balcony. Immediately, three ribbons of sand flashed to life, spiraling over the railing and down toward the courtyard below. Eric yelped in surprise as the ribbons grabbed him, lifting him into the air and placing him on the balcony.

Eric dusted himself off--he was dressed in darksider clothing, a vest over a bright red shirt and a pair of loose tan leggings.

“I’d forgotten how useful that was,” he mumbled, strolling into the room.

Kenton turned, shaking his head in amazement. “Eric, you’ve . . . changed,” he admitted.

“Yes, well, everyone has their problems. You, for instance, are supposed to be dead.”

Kenton looked at Eric, surprised at the joke. Could this really be the straight-faced, formal boy he had known as a child?

“Here I decide to visit dayside again after a three-year absence,” Eric said, leisurely walking around the large, well-furnished mastrell’s chamber, examining the tapestries, “intending to visit my old childhood comrade. Then, a few weeks out of town, I find out he’s dead! I’m forced to wail and moan at the short life of my very best friend, continuing my travels to visit his funeral. Only I get into town and find out my recently-deceased friend is running around quite life-like, consorting with Taisha and taking over Professions.” Eric paused, turning to look Kenton directly in the eye. “I really wish you’d make up your mind.”

“I apologize,” Kenton replied, still a little confused at Eric’s shift in personalities. He smiled anyway. “Next time I decide to come back from the dead, I’ll consult you first.”

“Yes, please do,” Eric said, poking through several cabinets on the far side of the room. “But I’m warning you, next time you die, I’m not going to mourn you. You can just count these last two weeks as your requisite grief.”

Kenton continued to regard Eric with wonder. The last time he had seen his friend, they had both been fifteen, and Eric had been boarding a boat heading south down the Ali. Several months later Kenton had gotten word that Eric had somehow made it to darkside, but other than that he had received no news of his friend for three years.

And, it appeared three years could produce quite a change in a man. Eric had always been so polite, so stiff. There were remnants of the boy in this man, of course--he smiled the same, a contented, ineffable smile. Eric had always been able to take abuse without growing angry. However, such hints were distorted--the man before him seemed more new than he was familiar. He was informal, spoke easily, and, of course, he wasn’t wearing a sword.

“Eric,” Kenton asked with bafflement, “why are you here?”

“I told you,” Eric replied, continuing to search through cupboards, “I came to visit my childhood friend. How’re you doing?”

“You did not cross the Boarder Ocean just to see me,” Kenton said flatly. “What about your father?”

“Reegent?” Eric asked, poking his head all the way inside a cupboard so that his voice echoed. “I thought he disowned me.”

“He did,” Kenton admitted.

“Well, I guess he’s not my father then, is he?”

“I suppose not,” Kenton said. “Eric, what are you looking for?”

“Something to eat,” Eric explained. “I’m starving--I saved some trackt’s life today, and that’s hungry work. Aren’t you mastrells supposed to have hoards of food and money and things heaped around your chambers?”

“I don’t know,” Kenton replied, “I’m kind of new to this.”

“Aha!” Eric suddenly said, pulling a thin strip of dried ZaiDon from the back of one of the cabinets. It looked brittle and old, facts confirmed by the dust that flew off it as Eric shook it in the air.

“You are not going to eat that, are you?” Kenton asked with a disbelieving tone.

Eric smiled, then bit of the end of the ZaiDon, chewing happily. He sauntered over to one of the room’s plush chairs and flopped down, continuing to chew on his jerky.

“So?” Eric asked.

Kenton frowned. “So what?”

“So, now that you’re rich and powerful, are you going to take me in? We loafers need wealthy patrons to support our continued laziness.”

Kenton took a seat of his own. “I suppose you can stay, if you want, Eric,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to provide you with a home for long, though.”

“I heard,” Eric said with a nod. “Two weeks, eh?”

“You know?”

“It’s all over Kezare,” Eric explained. “How do you think I found out you weren’t dead?”

Kenton nodded. “Two weeks,” he repeated. “Two weeks to convince all seven Taisha to vote for me, show that the Diem can be financially stable, and solidify the sand masters behind one leader.”

Eric took another bite of ZaiDon. “That’s it?” he asked. “Sounds easy.”

Kenton snorted, rubbing the sides of his head.

“You know, you’ve changed too,” Eric noted, pointing at Kenton with the chewed end of his jerky.

“Oh?” Kenton asked.

“Yes. You’ve grown . . . somber.”

“Let me assure you, it’s mostly a recent acquisition.”

Eric nodded knowingly. “I understand. You shouldn’t have let yourself get into this position. Eric’s first rule of life--avoid responsibility like deep sand.”

“It’s a little bit late,” Kenton said.

“That it is,” Eric agreed. “I guess there’s nothing we can do but make the best of it.” He lounged back in the well-cushioned chair. “Even if you fail, at least we’ll spend the next two weeks in comfort.”

Despite the change in Eric, despite everything that had happened, Kenton couldn’t help smiling. In a weird sort of way, the comment seemed to put everything back in proportion for him. He leaned back. “I suppose we will, won’t we?”

White Sand

Chapter Thirteen

“What now, duchess?” Baon asked.

Khriss looked up at the comment. They stood just outside Loaten’s house, on the darkened underground street. “Gevin’s here, somewhere,” she said, almost to herself.

“Loaten said that?” Cynder asked with interest.

“Well, no,” Khriss admitted. “But he did admit that the prince made it to Lossand. Prince Gevalden had to have left some sort of trace. I know the Prince--he likes to be the center of attention. Someone’s got to remember him. Someone willing to talk to me.” She stood for a moment, her arms folded as she tapped her foot in thought. The others stood around, watching her expectantly.

What now? she thought, a little uncomfortable underneath their scrutiny. She caught Baon’s eye, trying to delve some clue as to what he thought she should do, but his glassy black eyes were unresponsive.

“I guess we go to the top,” Khriss decided. “If the Prince really did come to Lossand, then he wouldn’t have been able to resist introducing himself to the local nobility--or, at least, the dayside equivalent.”

“Which is?” Cynder asked.

“Something called a Tyshoo . . .”

“Taisha,” N’Teese corrected. The small, dark-haired girl stood reclining against the street wall, obviously still resentful of her forced role as Khriss’s guide. “There are eight of them, leaders of the dayside Professions.”

“Eight?” Acron asked curiously. “But, who’s in charge?”

N’Teese shrugged. “They all are.”

“Oh, come now,” Acron continued. “Surely one of the eight has to rule over the others, otherwise there would be chaos.”

“Some of them are said to be more powerful than others,” N’Teese said. “The Lord General is respected by the others, and so is the Lady Judge.”

“General,” Acron said knowingly. “It appears to be some sort of feudal system, My Lady,” he explained to Khriss, as if she hadn’t been listening to the entire conversation.

Khriss ignored the anthropologist, instead speaking to N’Teese. “So, the Lord General is the most powerful?” she asked.

“Well,” N’Teese said thoughtfully. “The Lord Mastrell used to be the most powerful, but I don’t think that’s the case any more . . .”

“What’s a mastrell?” Khriss asked, forming the unfamiliar word with confusion.

“I . . .” N’Teese said, pursing her lips as she thought. “It’s hard to explain in Dynastic. I don’t think you have them on darkside. They’re really powerful, though, and everyone’s afraid of them.”

“Are they warriors?” Baon asked.

“Not really,” N’Teese replied. “More like holy men, except not holy.”

“Ah. I see,” Cynder said with a slight chuckle.

N’Teese blushed. “Anyway,” she continued. “The rumors say all the mastrells are dead now. So I guess either the Lord General or the Lord Merchant would be the most powerful. Of course, everyone respects the Lady Judge the most.”

“Lady?” Acron asked. The fat man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, not sweating for the first time since they had arrived on dayside. “A female ruler?”

“And what is wrong with that?” Khriss asked.

“Nothing, My Lady,” Acron apologized. “I just wasn’t expecting it. Like most primitive societies, this one is obviously male-dominated. I find it odd that they would have a woman ruler.”

“Primitive?” N’Teese asked with a frown. Acron ignored her, instead jotting down a few notes on his pocket-ledger.

“Well, then, N’Teese,” Khriss decided, “please take us to see this Lady Judge.” Khriss looked over toward Baon as she made the decision.

The warrior shrugged indifferently. He did, however, nod toward Acron and Cynder, who had started into an argument about primitive cultures and matriarchal societies. Khriss frowned in confusion at Baon’s gesture, but the warrior followed it by nodding toward a row of houses.

“Cynder, Acron,” Khriss said, finally understanding. “Why don’t you two secure us lodgings here in darksider town? I assume you would rather stay here than out in the sun?”

“Well . . .” Acron said, his sense of comfort apparently debating with his desire to be among the dayside people. Comfort won. “Yes, that does sound like a good idea.”

“Cynder, may I borrow one of your watches?” Khriss asked.

“Of course, my lady,” Cynder said, fiddling in his packs for a moment to retrieve his spare pocketwatch.

“Then we’ll meet back here in four hours,” Khriss said.

#

Khriss waited impatiently, frowning as she shifted uncomfortably on the dayside bench. It was made of stone, of course--everything inside the black-walled pyramid was stark, as if intentionally crafted to be uncomfortable and foreboding.

N’Teese had called it the Hall of Judgement, but Khriss thought the Hall of Bureaucracy seemed a more appropriate name. Khriss had requested an audience with the Lady Judge, and had immediately been asked to sit down for a short wait. So far that ‘short wait’ had lasted nearly two darkside hours, and it didn’t appear as if it was going to end any time soon.

A room full of scribes and bureaucrats shuffled around in front of her, making notes, stacking papers, and looking through ledgers. The man Khriss had talked to, a balding elderly man who was supposed to be the administrator in charge of appointments, sat speaking quietly with a group of three Lossandin men. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry to follow Khriss’s request.

“N’Teese,” Khriss said impatiently. “Go ask him how much longer it will be.”

The small girl, who sat on the floor beside Khriss’s bench, rolled her eyes. “I just did that.”

“The more you bother these sort of people, the faster they work,” Khriss said testily. “Now go.”

N’Teese sighed, but did as commanded, climbing to her feet and walking over to the man. A few seconds later she returned. “He says it will be a short wait,” N’Teese explained.

“This is insufferable!” Khriss groaned, leaning back on her bench. “Did you tell him I’m a duchess?”

“Yes, several times. I don’t think he knows what it means.”

“By the Divine!” Khriss said. “I’m the betrothed-daughter of the King himself!”

“I don’t think he knows what a King is either,” N’Teese said unhelpfully.

“When this Lady Judge agrees to see me, she had better explain herself,” Khriss mumbled. “These dayside officials certainly do have an inflated opinion of their own importance.”

She heard a quiet snort, and turned accusing eyes to the side, where Baon leaned against the wall. The warrior had waited the entire time without sitting, maintaining a loose posture, looking completely relaxed. There was a slight twinkle in his eye, as if he found their situation amusing.

“You’d better not be laughing at me,” Khriss threatened.

“I wouldn’t think of it, duchess,” Baon replied with a straight face.

“How can you stand it?” she asked, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. “This waiting is driving me mad.”

“When you’re a soldier, you learn how to wait,” Baon explained. “I doubt that is a lesson the court ever taught.”

Khriss shook her head--Baon was right. She had always been a very important person. Ever since her mother had died when Khriss was very young, Khriss had been the sole heir to the family line. Her father, a lesser nobleman, had been Duke only by marriage, and the true title had passed immediately to his daughter. There was only one Elisian house that was more important than Khriss’s own, and she had been engaged at an early age to one of its principle members.

Her marriage to Prince Gevalden was to have finally brought together two of Elis’s most notoriously rivalrous houses. Waiting just wasn’t something one did when one was that important. She hadn’t ever consciously thought about it before, but when she asked for something, it was immediately sent for. When she wanted to see someone, they ignored all other appointments to meet with her.

And now it appeared as if she were being ignored. Every time she looked at Baon, she couldn’t help getting the feeling that he thought the wait good for her for some reason. She didn’t see what good it could do--all it was doing was making her grumpy.

Taking a deep breath, Khriss attempted to calm herself. She was capable of spending long hours pouring through books, why should waiting be any different? All she had to do was occupy her mind.

She looked around the room, searching for something of interest. The paper had fascinated her the first few moments of her wait--it was black, instead of white, and the bureaucrats scribbled on it with white-tipped pens. But the irregularity was only of passing interest. She assumed the paper was constructed from melted sandling carapace of some sort--they certainly didn’t have enough wood in Lossand to waste on endless filings.

“N’Teese, tell me about these Professions,” she finally requested.

The girl looked up with surprise. She had spent the two hours distractedly, occasionally disappearing for long stretches of time, leaving Khriss paranoid that the Lady Judge would finally invite them in when their translator was gone.

“What about them?” N’Teese asked.

“Well, what are they? Can anyone join any one of them? Or are they family oriented, descendants following the path of their fathers?”

N’Teese shrugged, playing absently with a pile of round pebbles on the floor. “They’re all different,” she explained. “A lot of the craftsmen do what their fathers did, as do the farmers, but they don’t have to. The children of Mastrells almost always stay in the Diem, but if they don’t have any ability, they go somewhere else. A lot of men who join the Hall’s trackts or the Tower’s soldiers are the first ones in their family to do so. Unless, of course, they’re Kelzin.”

Khriss frowned. Diem? Kelzin? So many words were unfamiliar. N’Teese spoke without bothering to explain, as if she assumed Khriss would immediately know what she was talking about.

“Wait,” Khriss said interrupting. “What is a Kelzin?”

“Kelzin are kind of like noblemen,” N’Teese explained. “They own lots of land, and keep it in the family. Most of them are in the Guild or the Tower.”

“Guild? Tower?”

N’Teese sighed. “The Guild is merchants, the Tower soldiers. Kelzin in the Tower pass their rank from father to son, so most of them don’t leave. Normal men can’t pass ranks--not unless they can pay the Lord General the inheritance tithe. Since it takes longer than a lifetime to get to the highest ranks, most regular people have to stay in the lower ones.”

All right, Guild is merchants, Tower is soldiers, Khriss thought to herself. “So, what is a track?”

“Trackt,” N’Teese corrected. “They’re those people with swords,” she said, nodding to a tall man speaking with a scribe. The taller man wore a single piece uniform that was very sharp and militaristic at the top, but at the waist turned into a very loose skirt that went all the way down to his ankles.

“Soldiers?” Khriss asked.

“No,” N’Teese said with a suffering look, “they’re trackts. Soldiers are in the Tower, remember?”

Khriss blushed despite herself. “Of course I remember; I’m not a fool. But, they do wear swords.”

“Trackts wear swords too,” N’Teese said, explaining as if she were talking to a child. “They are the ones who make certain everyone follows the Law.”

“Ah,” Khriss said nodding. “Police.”

N’Teese shrugged. “I guess.

“Okay, then what is this ‘Diem’ you mentioned?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions,” N’Teese said with a frown.

“Now you sound like him,” Khriss huffed. “Don’t people ask questions on this side of the world?”

“Not stupid ones,” N’Teese mumbled to herself.

A caustic retort rose to Khriss’s lips, but she didn’t have an opportunity to scold the girl. Just as she was about to speak, she noticed that the balding administrator was approaching. He stopped in front of Khriss, speaking in Lossandin to N’Teese.

“The Lady Judge will see you--” N’Teese translated.

“Finally!” Khriss exclaimed, rising to her feet indignantly.

“In three weeks,” N’Teese finished.

Khriss froze. “What?” she asked sharply.

“He says he finally spoke with the Lady Judge’s secretary, who was out for lunch,” N’Teese said, continuing to translate. “The first open space to meet with the Lady Judge is in three weeks.”

“I . . . I . . .” Khriss stammered, completely stunned. Never in her life had she been treated in such a way. Two hours of waiting, just to find out she couldn’t have an appointment for weeks.

“Tell him I don’t want the appointment,” she snapped, feeling her face grow red with anger. She turned to stalk from the room, trying to look as dignified as possible. “If the Lady Judge wants to meet me, then she can just come looking for me herself!”

Khriss marched from the room and down the hallway toward the building’s exit, Baon and N’Teese following behind.

“That last comment didn’t make any sense, you know,” Baon noted as they left through the pyramid’s broad front gates, Khriss pausing only briefly to pull out her dark glasses.

“I’m a duchess!” Khriss fumed, shoving the glasses over her eyes. “I don’t have to make sense!”

“All right . . .” Baon said, shaking his head. He followed behind as Khriss began walking away from the Hall down a moderately busy street. “Are we wandering somewhere specific, or did you simply pick a random direction?”

Khriss continued to march, ignoring the comment--especially since she had, in fact, picked a random direction. Finally she slowed, forcing herself to grow calm. Obviously this Lady Judge wasn’t going to be of any help.

“N’Teese,” she ordered. “Who else did you say was important in this town? The Lord General? Well, if he’s one of these Kelzin, like you say, then maybe he’ll have more respect for someone with a proper title.”

“Maybe . . .” N’Teese said without much conviction.

“Take me to him,” Khriss demanded.

#

Unfortunately, N’Teese’s pessimism proved well-founded.

The Tower turned out to be a tall stone structure that lived up to its name. It sat like a low-walled castle, with its own gate and squareish perimeter. Soldiers sparred and trained across its inner courtyard. The keep at the back was constructed almost like a darkside castle, though it wasn’t as high and it had a lot more windows, not to mention a domed roof.

Inside, Khriss was forced to endure a somewhat shorter--but equally infuriating--wait before being told that the Lord General wouldn’t be able to see her. Apparently, he was planning some sort of hunting trip, and would be leaving in just a few hours. The soonest he would be able to see her was when he returned, just under two weeks hence. He did send a very flowery apology, however.

Khriss’s anger lasted as they traipsed away from the Tower to walk halfway across the city to the Guild headquarters, a large mansion-like building with a rich interior. Here she found that didn’t have to wait at all--she was promptly informed that she could see the Lord Merchant immediately. If, that was, she were willing to pay a 2,000 lak processing fee.

She returned to darksider town frustrated, angry, and several hours late.

#

Eventually, a very tired Khriss arrived back at the meeting place in front of Loaten’s house. However, neither Acron nor Cynder were there to meet her. Instead, a distinguished-looking darksider in a simple white suit approached them and bowed. He was perhaps forty years old, and had close-cropped hair and long sideburns.

“Duchess Khrissalla?” the man asked with a Vetoian accent.

“Yes?” Khriss responded.

“I have been sent to fetch you. Please come with me.”

They followed the man for a short distance to a brick-fronted house along one of the town’s darkened streets. He opened the door with a white-gloved hand, standing aside to let Khriss, Baon, and a somewhat confused N’Teese in.

The room inside was comfortably darksiderish, and even appeared to have been constructed after Elisian architecture. There was a long staircase twirling up the right side of the entry hall and several doors leading off to the left. Khriss nodded approvingly, stepping forward and down a short decline to enter what should be, assuming the house followed standard format, the study. Inside she found Cynder sitting contentedly in a houserobe, chewing on the end of a pipe and sitting in front of a glass-fronted fireplace.

“Ah, duchess,” he said, rising as she entered.

Khriss waved him to sit back down as she took a seat for herself. The room was tastefully decorated with plenty of wood to give it a darksider feel--there were even several books in one of the cases. The only light in the room came from the fireplace, but it was more than enough illumination by darkside standards.

“I hope dinner is already cooking,” Khriss said, leaning back in a chair so plush it had probably been imported from darkside.

“Of course,” Cynder said. “The cook says it will be finished within an hour. I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t return in time, my lady.”

“I was beginning to fear I wouldn’t ever return,” Khriss mumbled, taking off her shoes and rubbing her sore feet. She had never walked so much in her entire life.

“Idan, fetch the duchess some slippers, if you would,” Cynder requested.

The man who had led Khriss to the house bowed and moved out of the room to perform the errand. As he did so, he passed an amazed N’Teese who still stood in the den’s doorway.

“You hired servants?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course they did,” Khriss said with a frown. “I told them to find us a place to stay, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes . . .” N’Teese said.

“Well, houses come with servants, don’t they?” Khriss asked.

“Actually, not on this side of the world, apparently,” Cynder informed. “We had to hire them separately. Of course, they were very happy to find work. Apparently there is a dearth of nobility here on dayside--most of the people who flee the Dynasty tend to be of the lower classes for some reason.” Cynder chuckled at his own comment as Idan returned with a pair of slippers for Khriss.

“You people are amazing,” N’Teese mumbled.

Khriss frowned, still not certain what was bothering the girl. “I don’t understand, N’Teese. Why wouldn’t we hire servants? How would we eat if we didn’t?”

“I don’t know. Fix it yourself?”

Cynder snorted quietly. “You’ve obviously never tasted a noblewoman’s cooking,” he mumbled.

Khriss ignored the gibe. “Where is Acron?”

“Shopping,” Cynder explained. “It appears that our gemstones are worth even more than you thought--much more than our gold or silver. We got several thousand lak for each one we sold; we could probably live here for the rest of our lives on what we earned.”

“Then that merchant back in the first town did cheat us!” Khriss growled.

Cynder smiled, his aged eyes twinkling. “My Lady appears to be in a rare humor this hour.”

Khriss sighed as Idan brought her a cup of warm tea. “You have no idea,” she said, sipping at the liquid--it was the perfect temperature, considering the relative heat on dayside.

“The rulers didn’t know of the Prince’s whereabouts?” Cynder guessed.

“Worse. None of them even agreed to see me!”

“Really?” Cynder asked, genuinely surprised. “I guess we are far from where our titles mean anything, aren’t we?”

Khriss just shook her head, sipping her tea. “Perhaps one of the others will let me in. I only tried three of the eight.”

Suddenly, they heard the sound of the front door opening. A moment later Acron’s bulk appeared in the doorway, followed by three darksider packmen bearing bundled packages.

“That was the most enjoyable day I have ever spent!” Acron announced to the room. He was wearing a bright red dayside robe and three different medallions on his forehead. He also, Khriss noticed with a sigh, was wearing a black zinkall on each arm.

“The cultural experience of shopping in a market where no one speaks your language!” Acron explained, seating himself and taking a cup of tea from Idan. “Even when I traveled the Dynasty, everyone spoke the same language. Never have I been immersed so completely in a different culture. It was exhilarating--oh, you can set those over here.”

The packmen obliged, placing the packages on the floor beside Acron’s chair, then went to Idan for payment. The butler dutifully counted out a lak for them each, and they left.

“You wouldn’t believe the things I found!” Acron said, still excited. He began to unwrap packages, pulling out bowls, rugs, utensils, and other random articles. “Works of art carved by primitive fingers, exotic clothing . . . even an intricate hourglass like none I’ve ever seen. Oh, and I purchased some clothing for you, duchess. I assumed you were growing tired wearing the same things every day.”

Khriss perked up slightly as he pulled out a package and handed it to her. Inside she found several dayside robes of different styles, all of them colored slightly--none as bright as darksider clothing, but much better than the standard dayside grays and tans.

“Thank you, Acron,” she acknowledged. “This is the first pleasant thing that has happened to me all day.”

“Oh?” Acron asked, happily turning a massive hourglass--actually, five hourglasses in a row, each one smaller than the one before--and watching it with intrigued eyes.

“The duchess had a less-than-successful day of information gathering,” Cynder explained, still puffing on his pipe.

“Be cheered, My Lady,” Acron said dismissively. “It’s only the first day. We’ll find the prince.” He didn’t, however, seem half as interested in Gevin as he was in the dribbling sand. Eventually, he put the glass aside and sighed. “It was quite the taxing day, however,” he admitted. “If you don’t mind, My Lady, I think I’ll have the man there draw me a bath before we eat.”

“Oh, do we have running water?” Khriss asked with surprise.

“Unfortunately, no,” Cynder replied. “But we do have a well right outside, and I ordered a couple of houseboys to being warming water for our evening baths.”

“Baths?” N’Teese asked, almost forgotten near the doorway.

Khriss smiled. “Yes, baths,” she said, imagining the luxury.

“In water?” N’Teese asked.

“Now who’s asking stupid questions?” Khriss returned.

“Daysiders have an aversion to water, My Lady,” Idan explained in his deep voice. “They are afraid of swimming, and find the idea of immersing oneself in water extremely discomforting.”

“The probably assume they’ll melt,” Cynder mumbled.

“How odd,” Khriss said. “I guess it makes sense. They don’t take baths at all, then?”

“It is customary to wipe oneself down with a damp cloth before one dresses after waking,” Idan explained.

“How sad,” Khriss said. “They’ll never know the luxury of floating, surrounded by warm water.”

N’Teese was growing increasingly pale as the conversation continued. “You people are too strange,” she finally decided, standing. “I’m leaving--you don’t need me any more today.”

“If you wish,” Khriss agreed. “Of course, you’ll miss dinner.”

N’Teese paused. Then, resentfully, she sat back down. “I’ll leave after dinner,” she mumbled.

#

Ais checked the moon with a distracted look, noting the time. It was approaching twelfth hour but, of course, the city was still active. Though most of the important officials followed Taisha standard time, working from fourth hour to ninth hour, Kezare itself never slept. The streets were slightly less busy during off hours, but the change was barely noticeable.

For Ais, it was time to sleep. He kept Taisha standard, and twelfth hour put him well past his normal bedtime. His tired eyes and fatigued body agreed with the supposition. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sate them. He had too much work to do.

With a quiet sigh, he walked up the Hall’s steps. He ignored the larger entry doors, which had been shut hours ago, and instead opened a smaller door at the side. It was unlocked, of course--trackts patrolled Kezare’s streets all hours of the day.

Ais closed the door, closing out the sun’s light and the city it watched. He nodded to the trackts just inside the front door, and they saluted back, standing rigidly as he passed. Temmin and Len were their names. Temmin had already applied for one of the empty positions in Ais’s investigation band. Ais had his file, and two dozen like it, stacked on his desk awaiting his decision.

I make a mistake, killing a fourth of my band, and still they line up to get in, he thought with amazement, turning right and following the hallway toward his chambers.

This time there were far too many open positions. It had taken Ais the better part of the day to visit all of the widows his mistake had caused, to inform his men’s parents, wives, and children of their loss. A few of them had blamed him, as they had a right to do, but most hadn’t said anything, taking the news with sickened looks that warned that they had expected such an event to happen some day.

Oh, Ker’Naisha, Ais thought as he unlocked and opened the door to his chambers, your eternal workings brought much grief this day.

His personal chambers were neat and unadorned--many accused Ais of lacking imagination. They were right. Ais had little use for imaginative decorating, frills or pictures to distract the mind. The Hall was a place of work and efficiency.

On his desk sat two piles of black paper. One contained the files on all who had applied for his band, the other the paperwork for each of the men he had captured in the safehouse. The judges wanted to know which of them Ais intended to charge, and with what crimes.

Ais shook his head, rounding the desk, constructed of two stone pillars and a carapace top, to sit down and begin to sift through the papers. It was looking as if he would be going home late once again--of course, the day had been a disaster so far, why not let the unpleasantness continue? Not only had Ais lost a good number of men, but Lokmlen refused to implicate Nilto as the motivation behind his killings. Ais’s men had lost their lives for nothing--he was no closer to proving that Nilto and Sharezan were the same person than he had been weeks ago.

And then, on top of it all, Ais had found out that the Diem continued to exist. As a senior trackt, Ais was privy to information that others did not have. He had known about the Lady Judge’s plan to shut down the Diem, and had approved of it. The sand masters were blasphemy poorly masked as people, their mere existence an affront to the Sand Lord. Ais may have chosen to disobey tradition and join the Hall, but he was still Kershtian. He followed the Priest’s DaiKeen. He often found it ironic that he, as a representative of the Law, was forced to protect the very beings that he accepted as his God’s eternal adversaries.

In addition, Ais had other reasons for hating the sand masters. The mastrells, with their golden sashes, often made mockery of the Law. When the Law had been written, and Lossand formed from a group of smaller warring countries, the only way to persuade the sand masters to join with the new federation had been to give their mastrells near-immunity from the Law. Mastrells could take from merchants without fear of retribution. Mastrells were not required to follow the commands of a trackt, even in the case of an emergency. Mastrells could not be brought to trial, or even arrested, without the permission of the Lord Mastrell.

The sand masters were Lossand’s deepest and ugliest stain. It was because of them that the A’Kar named Lossand a nation of heathens, even though a large percentage of its people now believed in the Sand Lord. If it weren’t for the sand masters, then it would have been all right for Ais to join the Hall. It was because of the sand masters that Ais was rejected by his own people, called traitor even by murderers like Lokmlen . . . .

Ais took a sharp breath, calming himself. Slowly, he forced his fingers to relax, letting them slide free from the tabletop, where his fingernails had been threatening to crack against the hard carapace. Ais shook his head. One thing, at least, he couldn’t blame on the sand masters. There was only one person behind his lack of self-mastery.

He had done it again. He had lost control, turning from careful trackt into witless fool. Fortunately, none of his men had been there to see his shame, the secret their leader--assumed greatest of trackts--hid. Quietly, Ais closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Sand Lord for the stranger who had saved him. If the odd man in darkside clothing hadn’t arrived, Ais would have joined the day’s casualties.

With a quiet sigh, Ais picked up his long wooden pen and fitted a new tip of white ashink into its end. If he didn’t get to work, then he would probably still be doing paperwork when it came time to begin his shift the next day.

He started with the second stack of papers, looking over names of criminals and deciding whom he could hold and whom he could not. Regrettably, most of the names were unfamiliar--petty thieves with small histories of crime. Ais couldn’t send them to trial, for he had nothing more than assumptions. He scribbled ‘No Charge, Please Release,’ at the bottom of a paper, then reached over to grab the metal stamp heating over a small brazier beside his desk. He absently pressed the stamp against the sheet, letting its heat bind the ashink to the paper so it wouldn’t rub away, then returned the stamp to its place and moved on to the next document.

A sudden knock at his door drew his attention away from the paper. Ais frowned. Who would be bothering him at this time of the day? He began to order them in, but the door opened before he spoke. Ais reacted immediately, standing at attention. There was only one person who opened his door without waiting for a reply.

“My Lady Judge,” Ais said formally, saluting as the elderly woman walked into the room.

“Please, be seated, senior,” Lady Heelis encouraged.

Ais responded--though he did wait for the Lady Judge to seat herself in the room’s other chair before doing so. Then he sat patiently, waiting for the Lady Judge to address him. It wasn’t odd for her to be in the Hall so late--the Lady Judge was said to need very little sleep.

Lady Heelis studied him for a moment, her aged eyes shining with the wisdom that had gained her the most prestigious of Lossand’s titles. Many years before, a young and foolish Ais had resented Heelis because of her sex. That young man had grown into a man who respected Lady Heelis more than any living person, save perhaps for the holy A’Kar himself.

“Oh, Ais, must you always be so formal?” Lady Heelis finally asked, smiling slightly. “How many years have we worked together now?”

“Eighteen, my lady,” Ais said, a little surprised as he realized how many years it had been. He did not, however, soften his posture. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.

Lady Heelis sighed slightly. “Always the perfect trackt, Ais,” she mumbled.

If only you knew, My Lady.

“I understand that your operation today was a success,” Lady Heelis offered.

“I lost six men,” Ais responded. “And five more have injures that will keep them from duty for months.”

“Yes,” Heelis admitted. “But you captured a known murderer--you realize that Lokmlen has admitted to over a dozen assassinations besides the three trackts he killed.”

Ais nodded.

“Beyond that, the archers you captured were more than simple thugs. Several of them were wanted killers as well.”

Ais betrayed no hint of surprise, but he hadn’t known about the archers. He had left to visit families before their interrogations.

“A sound operation, Ais,” Heelis praised. “You couldn’t have known about the trap, and the casualties would have been much greater had you not broken the archers’s attack.”

Ais nodded slowly. “Thank you, My Lady.”

Lady Heelis leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful look on her face. “And this is just one of many such operations, Ais. You have quite a reputation in Kezare.”

Ais eyed the stack of applicants to his band. “I only do my duty, My Lady,” he replied formally.

“Oh Ais,” Lady Heelis said with a sigh. “When are you going to let me reward you as you deserve?”

I deserve to be cast out, to be humiliated, Ais thought mournfully. If only you knew . . . “If you mean a promotion, Lady Taisha, I must decline,” he stated simply.

Lady Heelis regarded him with calculating eyes. It was a piercing look, a look that saw everything, that climbed in his eyes and ran rampant through his brain. It threw open every hidden door and searched every secluded secret, leaving his thoughts in a confused jumble. Did she know?

“Why?” the Lady Judge pried.

No. No, she doesn’t know. She could not. “My reasons have been stated, Lady Judge.”

Lady Heelis sighed. “I know you enjoy your work as a trackt, but I need you to do more. I want you at the head of a Hall, somewhere where you can teach others to do what you do.”

A slight, uncharacteristic smile crept to Ais’s lips as he replied. “Trust me, Lady Heelis, the last thing you need is a Hall full of Aises running around.”

“Trust me,” Heelis countered. “We could do much worse.”

Ais considered the proposal for a minute in respect for her position. Then he shook his head. “I have some things I need to work through before I take any more steps, Lady Judge.”

“And if you cannot work through them?”

“I will die first.”

Seeing his resolve, Heelis nodded in quiet agreement. “And that you just might.” She regarded him with those piercing eyes again, eyes that had led her to become Lady Judge. “I could command you,” she pointed out.

“And I would follow your commands, Lady Judge,” Ais assured.

“I know,” Heelis said with a sigh. “But I do not work that way.”

“I know.”

Heelis shook her head. “All right, Ais. But, if you refuse to rise to the rank of judge, then I have another job for you. I am taking you off of the Sharezan case.”

Ais froze. Off of the case . . . ? He had worked for the last three years trying to implicate Nilto.

“I see that you object,” Heelis noted.

“I would never--”

“Yes, I know,” Heelis interrupted. “You would never go against orders. I realize how much this case means to you Ais, but I have something more important for you to do. Besides, Ais. I worry about you. Perhaps it’s time for you to take a short break from Sharezan. My assignment will only take two weeks of your time, then you may return to chasing him.”

Ais sat stiffly, waiting for her to continue.

“You know of the judgement today?” she asked.

“I do,” Ais replied. She could only mean one judgement.

“This new Lord Mastrell is an enormous random factor. I still can’t decide if he will benefit Lossand or destroy it.”

I have no such difficulty deciding, My Lady, Ais thought to himself.

“I want you to go to him,” Lady Heelis explained. “Tell him that I fear for his safety, and want a trackt protecting him.”

“He won’t believe that, Lady Judge,” Ais said. “Sand masters have little need of a trackt’s protection.”

“He doesn’t need to believe it,” Lady Heelis explained. “He just needs to let you follow him--which, I suspect, he will do. Kenton is in little position to deny my requests--even one to put a spy in his midst.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Ais agreed.

“Watch him, Ais,” Lady Heelis continued. “Follow him and see what kind of person he is. All I know of young Kenton is his impetuousness and his hostility toward authority, and neither are things I would find attractive in a Taisha. Report back to me on what you observe and tell me your opinion.”

“You realize what my opinion of him will be, My Lady,” Ais noted.

“I know, Ais. Your hatred of sand masters is well known--but so is your impartiality when it comes to the Law. Your job is to observe him as a trackt, not as a Kershtian. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Heelis nodded, rising. “I trust you, Ais. Perhaps more than anyone else in the Hall. Keep an eye on this boy of a Lord Mastrell for me.” Heelis paused on her way to the door. “Oh, and Ais,” she said. “Go home and go to sleep.”

“But my paperwork--” Ais objected.

“Can be done another time, Ais. It is possible, despite what you think, to work too hard. If you still feel guilty, then consider my request an order.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Ais replied, standing formally as she left.

#

Ais strode through the streets of Kezare, his senior trackt’s cape fluttering behind him. Occasionally he would see a trackt in the crowds and they would nod to each other respectfully. The crowds were smaller this time of day, and many shops sat closed, their frontings and signs taken down, their doors shut while their owners slept. Still, the city was busy. Unlike a smaller village, where people tended to sleep at the same time, Kezare’s huge population pushed its occupants toward sleeping in shifts.

Ais’s thoughts were fretful as he walked. He had just lost his second, and now his band would have to continue their hunt for Sharezan without their leader--for a few weeks at least. It wasn’t a large setback, but Ais resented it nonetheless. Once again, justice was hampered because of the sand masters.

Lady Heelis’s assignment officially made this day one of the worst in Ais’s life. Not that he disagreed with her logic, or even her assignment of Ais to the duty. The Lady Judge was wise--she had her reasons for what she did. Still, however, Ais couldn’t help looking at the next two weeks with a feeling of sickness. He avoided sand masters whenever possible, but now he would have to spend nearly all of his time with one.

And, of course, this assignment would do little to help his reputation amongst Kezare’s Kershtian population. Maybe Lokmlen was right, he thought to himself. Maybe I am a traitor. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself all this time, justifying my violation of the Sand Lord’s laws.

It was a debate he’d wondered about many times. He had yet to come to a valid conclusion.

With such dark thoughts on his mind, Ais approached his house. The building he called home lay far away from Kezare’s business district, in a place where land prices were more reasonable. Here the buildings were pressed just as closely together, but few of them were taller than a single story. In such an area, even a trackt could afford a house of his own--assuming he had been saving for two decades, as Ais had.

He walked quietly up the steps. It was dark inside. Empty. He pushed open the door.

“Papa!” a tiny voice exclaimed.

Ais looked down with surprise as a small form shot out of a side room and ran toward him.

“Melly,” he said sternly. “You should be in bed.”

“She waited up for you,” his wife’s voice explained. He looked up as Mellis followed her daughter into the room. Tall and thin, Mellis had the lighter hair of a Lossandin. Her face was rectangular, and her features what other men might have called plain. To Ais, however, there was no face as beautiful.

“She finally fell asleep,” Mellis explained, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “But she is such a light sleeper . . . even the sound of the door closing woke her up.”

“Did you stay up late?” Ais asked his daughter with an iron face.

“But daddy,” the little girl protested softly, standing before him sheepishly, “I was scared you wouldn’t come home.”

Ais looked down at his young daughter, trying to retain his scolding expression. He failed.

The iron in his face melted every time he gazed upon little Melloni. Ais’s scowl slowly melted into a big smile, and he scooped the little girl up into his arms and walked toward her bedroom. There were only two people on the continent who had ever seen that smile, and both of them were with him now.

He leaned to kiss his wife as he passed, and placed Melly onto her soft, sand-filled mattress. “Little KanLisht,” he whispered, using Melly’s Kershtian name. “I am home now, so stop worrying. Go to sleep. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m okay, daddy,” the girl protested, but a stern look from her father convinced her to pull the sheet over herself and lie down. Ais kissed her on the forehead and walked out, closing the door.

“She insisted I let her stay up,” Mellis said with a sigh. “Every time I put her in bed she would sneak out and watch at the window.”

“She doesn’t seem to be the only one who refuses to go to bed at a decent time,” Ais said, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist, noticing her tired eyes. She looked fatigued, tired beyond the late hour. Something was bothering her.

“How did it go?” Mellis asked, speaking before he could.

Ais simply shook his head, opening the door to their room and walking in. “We got him,” he finally replied.

Mellis smiled.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, sitting on their own sand mattress, feeling the fine grains give beneath his weight, “there were complications.”

Mellis looked at him questioningly, and Ais turned tired eyes to her concerned face. “Jedan,” he finally said.

“Oh, Ais!” Melloni caught her breath. “What happened?”

“A trap,” he said as she joined him on the mattress. “They had archers sealed off behind a false wall. They caught us by surprise--wounded nearly half of my men.”

“Are you all right?” she asked with anxiety, fingering the hole in his cape.

“A cut in my palm, a wound on the side of my leg,” he replied, knowing full well she wasn’t asking about bodily wounds alone. “Nothing important.”

“And Jedan . . .”

“It is a hard job, Mellis. People die.”

She frowned, obviously disbelieving his cold-hearted facade. For some reason, Mellis was the one person from whom he could never hide his feelings.

Ais unbuckled his uniform and slid it off. “I’ll be fine,” he said, undoing his twin Kershtian braids then pulling on a loose robe and sitting back down with a sigh

“You’re tense,” Melloni noticed, rubbing his back.

“I’m always tense,” Ais said, lying down on his stomach to enjoy his wife’s ministrations.

“That’s the truth. You need rest, Ais.”

He didn’t respond. His eyes had fallen on the floor beside the mattress. A dark piece of paper, folded in thirds. Mellis must have felt him grow tense, because she looked over with a sharp intake of breath.

“You read it,” he accused, reaching for the piece of paper as he realized the reason he had sensed fatigue in his wife’s face earlier. She must have been crying.

“I . . .” Mellis said quietly. “Oh, Ais. I couldn’t help it.”

Ais glanced down at the note. It was just like the rest. I enjoy our game, Ais, it read. You gamble your family--I fear I have little to bet in return. It was signed with Shaerezan’s symbol.

Ais gritted his teeth, crumpling the paper, feeling the anger rise within him. There was another reason he needed to catch Sharezan--a reason more powerful even than the Law.

“Melly isn’t the only one who is scared, Ais,” his wife whispered in a quiet voice.

Ais sat up, wrapping his arms around her. “He is only trying to scare me,” Ais explained. “The underground maintains a measure of civility--it kills trackts, not their families.”

“Are you sure?” Mellis asked, shooting a look toward Melly’s room.

No, Ais admitted to himself.

“What if she’s right, Ais? What if you don’t come home one day? Jedan didn’t.” Melloni spoke the words softly--not accusingly, just fearfully. She had never asked him to leave the Hall--both of them had been older when they married, and both were set in their ways. She knew he wouldn’t leave the Hall, just as he knew she would never act as unassuming as a Kershtian wife.

Ais didn’t answer. He just continued to hold his wife, feeling her silent tears drop on his arm.

White Sand

Chapter Fourteen

Thump, thump, thump, thump, bang. Thump, thump, thump, thump, bang. Thump, thump, thump, thump, bang. Thump, thump, thump, thump, bang.

Khriss groaned, trying to shut out the noise. Baon was exercising again. Unfortunately, it was more of a reverberation than a sound, and it continued to annoy her no matter what she stuffed in her ears. With a groan, she rolled off her bed and stumbled to her feet, groping for the door in the darkness. She stumbled out into an equally dark hallway and walked over to the door beside her own, which she proceeded to bang upon with a vindictive fist.

The thumping stopped. A moment later a sweat-covered Baon opened the door. “Duchess?” he asked. “You’re up early.”

“I know,” she said angrily, blinking drowsily at his room’s light. “What are you doing in there? Blasting off gunpowder charges?”

Baon snorted, smiling slightly. “I was exercising,” he responded, wiping his brow with a cloth.

“Well stop it,” Khriss snapped, slamming the door in his perky face. She stumbled back toward her room and flopped back down on her bed--a move that proved to be rather unintelligent. Though the bed looked like one from darkside, raised high off the ground and with posts surrounding it, there was one major difference. The mattress wasn’t filled with soft down--it was filled with sand.

At first, she’d assumed she was wrong. Who would fill mattresses with sand? It was ridiculous. Unfortunately, she had made no mistake. The mattress was only filled about half way, so the sand had room to move and fit to one’s body. Still, it was incredibly uncomfortable--even if Acron did think the entire concept was ‘delightful.’

At least the second layer of cloth that wrapped around the mattress was soft. I never did find out what the daysiders use to make cloth, her sleepy mind thought. I’ll have to ask Kenton. Oh wait, he abandoned me. I’ll have to ask N’Teese.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to fall back asleep, her body refused to comply. She heard Baon’s door open, followed by retreating footsteps. Eventually the thumping began again, further away this time.

Khriss sighed, rolling onto her back and trying to avoid getting up. In her opinion, mornings were best treated by sleeping through them. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get herself to fall back asleep, and so grouchily forced herself out of bed a second time.

Yawning, she wandered over to the wall and pulled the cover off the water-globe hanging on it. The room was immediately bathed in a very soft light. The luminescent grundlefish inside rose to the top, assuming she was going to feed them. Khriss found a small can of fish pellets on the side of the wall and sprinkled a few inside, watching the two fish--about four inches across each--nip at the food. Their translucent skin glowed bright yellow, and she could see their diminutive skeletons inside. At the bottom of the globe there were a few plants with long, thin leaves which waved in the current created by the swimming fish.

Khriss shook her head, moving to the room’s other three water-globes, removing their coverings as well. She didn’t know how someone had managed to get living grundlefish across the Border Ocean. Their water had to be changed every day to keep them from dying, and they couldn’t live in salty seawater. Still, they were here, and she was thankful. On this side of the world, the heat of torches or even lamps would have been unwelcome.

The grundlefish light was soft even by darkside standards, but she was used to it. The nobility favored the fish, probably because of their expense. She sat down beside her vanity and regarded the monster that was her hair, then began to brush.

Her room felt odd. It was almost Elisian--pieces of it felt very familiar. The bed, for instance, with its long posts and drapings was nearly the same as her own back on darkside. Yet, like most things in the house, it was slightly amalgamated with pieces of dayside. It could be seen in the mattress, the room’s lack of windows, and even the brush in her hand, which had a carapace handle.

No, she couldn’t forget where she was, no matter how much this room resembled darkside. Her home was an entire world away--all she had to help her were two professors, a spiteful guide, and a bodyguard who seemed annoyingly prone to thumping lately. It wasn’t very encouraging.

Of course, she did have reason for optimism. Gevin was probably still alive--at least, he had arrived in Kezare alive. But, that had happened years ago. Why hadn’t he returned to Elis? What could possibly be holding him to dayside?

Her hand froze. What if he’d found a girl? Some Kershtian beauty that had captured his heart? He could easily have forgotten about the shy, bookish girl that had been his betrothed . . . .

Khriss cast such speculations aside, brushing her hair with renewed vigor. Gevin was a flirt, true, but he wouldn’t so easily abandon his commitments. He had come to dayside with a purpose, and he knew that the Dynasty squatted drooling on Elis’s borders. His brother Barden might be Elis’s heir, but Gevin was its heart. The people loved him, and relied on his leadership. It would have taken a monumentous event to keep him from returning to them in a time of such need.

#

Kenton had never seen his father’s rooms. Eighteen years of life, eight of them in the Diem, and he had never once visited his father’s quarters. Kenton had often wondered what they would look like. And, in the end, he was disappointed.

The rooms were very bland, if one could call their gross richness bland. They held little that could be called personal--no hints that the man who had lived in them was the father of four children. There were no carpets, of course, just the thick layer of sand. The furnishings were expensive--colorful, with lots of wood. Deep, plush chairs stuffed loosely with sand. Carapace cabinets and tables trimmed with wood. The most personal object in the three-room group was a bookshelf.

Kenton left the main room, the one that held a conference table and a group of chairs, and walked into a smaller side room. Inside was Praxton’s desk, neat and orderly, a few sheets of black paper stacked on its wooden top. On the far side was the bookshelf.

Kenton read off the titles. Most were in Kershtian, of course. Even Lossandin scholars often wrote in Kershtian as a means of boosting their authority. There were some common volumes: The book of Krae--a famous work of Kershtian poetry--several volumes on the history of Lossand, a few books of Kershtian legends. Several of the volumes were unlabeled.

And that was it. The rest of the room seemed stark despite its tapestries, brocades, and blackwood-rimmed windows. Kenton sighed, strolling out of the room, kicking up sand as he went. He had hoped to find some clue as to who his father had really been. Praxton had only been dead for two weeks now, yet Kenton was having trouble remembering the man. Every time he thought about his father, him mind immediately focused on the force that was the Lord Mastrell, and not the man that was Praxton.

Kenton strolled over the balcony, overlooking the courtyard. The large hut-like conference chamber sat in the courtyard’s direct center, and from his vantage Kenton could see through the large hole in the building’s ceiling. The rows of benches inside were empty.

Kenton felt a loss, but he wasn’t certain what to make of it. It was the same loss he had felt all his life, the void that had driven him to become a sand master. The void that had led a young boy to reject his first advancement for a still-uncertain reason. Had he really expected that simple defiance would make his father accept him? Make Praxton, who had such little use for a family that he only visited it monthly, welcome into his heart a son who had brought him nothing but disappointment?

As he pondered, however, his thoughts were interrupted by a soft ringing sound beside him. He frowned in confusion, turning toward the sound. A small, almost forgotten bell hung from the side of the banister--the method by which lesser sand masters could request a mastrell’s attention. The bell was vibrating slightly, rung by a sickly-looking ribbon of sand that extended from below. The sand glowed sporadically, its colors muted, and the ribbon was so thin that it was nearly invisible.

Kenton leaned out over the side of the balcony, looking down at the courtyard. He saw the red-haired top of a head, its hand extended, the arm shaking slightly.

“Dirin?” Kenton called.

The sand immediately fell stale, turning black as it was freed to blow away in the wind. Dirin smiled, looking up with relief. His face was exhausted.

Kenton reached over to his barrel of sand, then sent several ribbons of his own down to pick up the young acolent and raise him into the air. Kenton’s ribbons were bright and thick, but to him they had always seemed insufficient when compared to the dozens a mastrell could create. He’d rarely thought about those who were even less fortunate than himself.

Kenton deposited the acolent on the balcony beside him. Dirin took one look down at the sands three stories below and grew very pale in the face. He didn’t look down again. “Sometimes I think I’m lucky not to have enough power to lift myself in the air,” he mumbled, moving to stand safely inside the balcony doorway.

Kenton chuckled, turning around to lean with his back against the banister. “So, what do you want?” he asked.

“I just thought I should tell you that breakfast will be a little late this morning,” Dirin explained somewhat sheepishly. “I probably didn’t need to bother you, but I didn’t want you to wonder . . . .”

“There’s going to be breakfast?” Kenton asked with surprise. “Who’s fixing it?”

“The cooks,” Dirin said with a shrug.

“I thought they left when they heard the Diem was going to be dissolved,” Kenton said with a frown.

“They did,” Dirin agreed. “But, well, after yesterday I thought I should find them and tell them that, uh, the Diem isn’t gone yet, so they could come back. So they did. But the acolents messed up the kitchen fixing their own food yesterday, so the cooks are going to be late with breakfast this morning.”

Kenton rubbed his chin in thought. “I hadn’t even considered asking the servants back,” he mused. “Good job, Dirin.”

“Oh, uh, I just thought that someone should . . . and you were going to be busy, being Lord Mastrell, so . . . .” The boy trailed off, looking down in embarrassment. As he did, however, he noticed the layer of dust on the cabinets beside the doorway. He frowned in disgust. Then, almost furtively, as if he were doing something wrong, he began to rub at the top of the cabinet, cleaning it with the sleeve of his robe.

“Did your friend find you yesterday, Lord Mastrell?” he asked as he began to dust.

Kenton looked up distractedly. “What? Oh, Eric. Yes, though he yelled long enough that people across the lake could probably hear him. I offered to let him sleep in one of the empty mastrell’s quarters.”

Dirin paled, stopping his cleaning for a moment. “Up here?” he asked. “But he’s not . . . I mean . . .”

“I know,” Kenton said with a wave of his hand. “He’s not even a sand master, let alone a mastrell. But the days of mastrell elitism are over. If we don’t start being more flexible, we’re going to find ourselves without a profession. In fact,” Kenton said thoughtfully, turning to look down as the courtyard. “Dirin, I want you to find some ladders.”

“Ladders?” Dirin asked with surprise.

“Yes,” Kenton continued. “Some means for regular people to reach these upper floors. I’m going to get very tired of lifting everyone up here whenever they want to come.”

“All right . . . .” Dirin said speculatively. He turned back to his cleaning. “You know, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but the rest of the students are talking about your friend. They think he’s a little bit . . . odd.”

Kenton snorted. “They’re right,” he admitted. “And no one is more surprised than myself. Eric and I were friends a long time ago; back then, he was about as normal a person as one could find. Of course, when you’re Reegent’s son, you don’t have much choice . . . .” Kenton trailed off as he saw the look on Dirin’s face.

“Reegent’s son?” Dirin asked with amazement. “You mean . . . .”

Kenton nodded. “The same.”

“But, then he’s the Lord General heir!” Dirin said.

“Kind of,” Kenton agreed. Unlike the Lord Mastrellship, the Lord Generalship was hereditary.

“I’ve heard stories about . . .” Dirin began.

“They’re exaggerations,” a new voice declared, pushing open the door to Kenton’s room with a lazy hand.

Dirin jumped with a quiet yelp as Eric entered. Eric, however, only smirked, nodding toward Dirin as he addressed Kenton. “Who’s the kid?”

“Someone a whole lot more useful than yourself,” Kenton shot back with a smile. “Did you sleep well? I seem to remember a time when you got up at third hour every morning.”

Eric groaned, flopping down in a chair. “Don’t remind me. My dear father always had some incredibly tedious task for me to do at such sands-unholy hours. Inspect troops, exercise, practice killing things . . . . I still wake up some mornings convinced I’ve done something wrong. Did I hear you mention breakfast?”

“Maybe,” Kenton said, trying to follow the random topic change. “That depends on how long you spent eavesdropping.”

“Pretty much the entire conversation,” Eric admitted frankly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Kenton snorted, but his retort fell silent as he heard a sound from behind him. He turned just in time to see Drile dropping from the third-floor room directly across the courtyard from Kenton’s. The former mastrell’s sand glowed and swirled around him, and he was followed by three sand masters with less-impressive collections of ribbons. None of the four men wore sashes--their robes were tied with black cords instead.

It was a statement, obviously. They wore no sashes because they didn’t accept Kenton’s authority. Kenton sighed--at least his threats had kept Drile from wearing the mastrell’s sash.

“You look like you just swallowed a sandling,” Eric observed.

“Do you remember Drile?” Kenton asked, turning away from the courtyard.

“Tall, arrogant, and annoying?” Eric asked.

“That’s him,” Kenton said with a nod.

“I seem to remember everyone thought he was the perfect sand master,” Eric said thoughtfully.

“He was,” Kenton agreed, walking into the room to take a seat across from Eric. “Now he’s just a traitor.”

“Traitor?” Dirin asked with surprise. The boy, almost forgotten, had dusted the top of every piece of furniture in the room, and had begun to open drawers and clean the inside of them as well. Somewhere he had found an old rag to use in his efforts.

“Yes, Dirin. Traitor. There is a reason Drile was the only powerful sand master who survived the attack.”

“He was lucky,” Dirin admitted, “and he isn’t the nicest person in the Diem, but a traitor . . . ?”

“I’ve heard a dozen rumors about this,” Eric cut in. “What really happened out there? Half the people I asked claimed the Sand Lord himself destroyed you--though why he would have waited this many years is beyond me. The other half claimed the mastrells weren’t really dead at all, but just hiding because of some mysterious, mastrellic scheme.”

“I wish to the sands I knew what had happened,” Kenton admitted. “It must have been the water.”

“Water?”

“Before the advancement ceremony begins, we pass around a ceremonial bowl of water,” Kenton explained. “Everyone takes a sip. Then the Lord Mastrell hands out sashes to the oldest year of acolents. Right after he did so, a group of Kershtians attacked. The mastrells should have been able to protect us, but something went wrong.”

“It was horrible,” Dirin whispered, his quiet voice carrying through the room. His eyes were unfocused slightly as he spoke--unfocused, and pained. “When the arrows started to fall, everyone scattered. I just stood there--I didn’t know what to do. I looked toward the mastrells; a lot of us did. They were the most powerful, and so they were supposed to save us. I watched old Tendel call up sand around him, a dozen ribbons at once. But, the sand just flashed and fell dead. It happened to all of them--huge explosions of sand, followed by nothing. Then the mastrells began to die, the water sucked from their faces. It happened suddenly, incredibly fast. They didn’t have time to cry out, no time to slatrify water for themselves. They just died.”

Dirin fell silent.

“It must have been the water,” Kenton repeated after a moment. “The water we drank--it tasted odd. There must have been something in it, something that poisoned the mastrells, and made it so that their mastery used more water than it should have. Most mastrells can master at full power for ten minutes before being in danger of overmastery--yet they died that day after just a few seconds.”

“And you think this Drile poisoned the water?” Eric asked.

“He took the bowl first,” Kenton said. “And he didn’t drink any of the water himself. He knew he was going to be on trial that day--my father actually took away his mastrell’s sash. He must have had some deal with the Kershtians. Drile poisoned us, then they could attack and cause the mastrells to kill themselves.”

“Wait a minute,” Eric asked with a frown. “How big was this bowl of water? Weren’t there thousands of sand masters?”

Kenton nodded. “We refilled it as it moved along.”

“Then the poison would have been gone after the first round,” Eric objected.

Kenton shrugged. “Maybe he only needed to poison the mastrells. There was enough confusion caused by the deaths of the most powerful that the rest of us weren’t able to defend ourselves.” Yet, even as Kenton spoke, he knew his arguments had holes. Sand masters beyond the mastrells had been affected too--Kenton himself had felt the poison’s dehydration. The bowl had been refilled several times before it reached him.

“Anyway, Drile was definitely involved,” Kenton continued. “Not only didn’t he drink, but he survived.”

“Ah yes,” Eric said with a nod. “How could he have been so stupid as to live? Horrible mistake.”

Kenton frowned--not at Eric’s comment, but at something else he could hear. Voices, coming from down below. “Oh no,” he groaned to himself. “What now?”

#

“We should gather up what food we can,” Drile warned. “Tonks and carts too. We don’t have much time now. The people will be mad now. Angry that our presumed leader has made them wait. There is no telling when they’ll come for us. We have to be ready.”

He stood in the entry hall, speaking loudly and dramatically. His voice was different than it had been the day before--he no longer tried to act as if he were in charge. Instead, he spoke with an edge of fright--one that Kenton found ridiculously contrived. Most of the other sand masters, however, didn’t appear to sense its insincerity. They stood in a large group before Drile, mumbling to themselves, their faces growing more anxious with every word Drile spoke--especially the younger ones. Some of the older, more experience sand masters regarded Drile with distrust. Unfortunately, there were men of age and wisdom left.

“You!” Drile said, pointing dramatically at Kenton.

Kenton frowned--Drile wasn’t about to let him take control of the scene like he had done the day before.

“Deny it!” Drile demanded. “Deny that they only gave us two weeks to live. A death sentence!”

“Two weeks is right,” Kenton responded. “But it is hardly a death sentence. The Council might dissolve the Diem, that’s all.”

“And what will happen after that?” Drile asked, spinning and turning back to the crowd of sand masters. His handsome face was laced with intensity. “You know they hate us,” Drile continued in a low voice. “You’ve all heard the people speak against us, their priests preaching hatred. Without a Profession or a vote to make our voice known, the Law will no longer protect us. How long do you think it will be before the people decide that those Kershtian murderers weren’t thorough enough in their slaughter? How long before the rest of the Diem joins its unfortunate mastrells?”

Even some of the older sand masters seemed to give this objection some thought.

Drile shot Kenton a look and a veiled smile. If I can’t control them, the look said, then I’ll make certain you won’t be able to either.

Kenton cursed as the crowd grew even more nervous. He began to push his way through, working his way toward Drile. “What are you doing here, Drile?” he demanded. “Why frighten these people with senseless threats and lies?”

“We have to be ready,” Drile continued. “Ready for what is to come!” Drile held out a fist. “We are stronger than they are; we always have been. They will learn what it is to defy the sand masters!”

“And when no one comes?” Kenton snapped. “Will you persuade us to make a ‘preemptive strike,’ to murder like the A’Kar’s assassins? This talk is foolishness, Drile.” Kenton finally shoved his way out of the front of the crowd, and he approached Drile with a purposeful step. Two of Drile’s sashless followers, Terr and Linai, the two most powerful living sand masters beside Drile himself, moved forward to block him, but Kenton pushed past them with a scowl.

“Drile, this is lunacy,” he said in a low voice.

“You heard the Council,” Drile shot back, speaking soft enough that the crowd couldn’t hear. “They’ll dissolve us in two weeks, no matter what you do. I’m just preparing everyone.”

“By throwing them into a paranoid frenzy?” Kenton asked. “What purpose can that serve? They need order in their lives right now, something familiar.”

“You, speaking of order?” Drile said with a snort. “You, who incited the acolents against the mastrells at every opportunity? You, who refused a sash four years in a row, just to spite them?” Drile smiled, nodding down at the cord he wore instead of a sash. “I’m just following your example, Lord Mastrell,” he said.

Kenton groaned quietly, closing his eyes. If only he weren’t right.

“Look, Drile,” he said quietly. “You don’t like me. That’s all right. But we have to think of the Diem right now--let us put on an air of agreeability just long enough for the Council to rescind their decision. Then, I’ll step down as Lord Mastrell. I promise. We can deal with each other later--let’s save the Diem first.”

“What makes you think I want to save the Diem?” Drile asked innocently. Then, in a loud voice, he continued. “Think about what I have said. I have friends in other nations, nations that aren’t Lossand or Kershtian. The Rim Kingdoms will accept us with the respect we deserve, and use us as our talent demands. When the time comes, I will go, and all who wish to survive may come with me.”

With that, Drile smiled to Kenton and gave a flippant bow. He left, his three attendants in tow.

Kenton watched him go, then turned to face a crowd of confused, frightened faces. Too many of them were young, younger than Kenton himself. The Kershtians must have shot for more than just sash color--they had targeted age as well, killing off the wise along with the talented. The older ones, those still alive, looked to him with questions in their faces. They were older, but their ranks were low; they were accustomed to being told what to do.

Their need was almost too much for him. No one had ever needed him before--Kenton’s worries had always been confined to himself. He wasn’t accustomed to people depending on him, to looking for him for support.

They need order in their lives. His own words from before returned to him. Something familiar.

“What are you all looking at?” Kenton asked, trying to make his voice as light as possible. “Shouldn’t you students be in classes right now?”

“Classes?” one of the acolents asked. “But, the teachers are all dead.”

“I see some Diemfens and fens before me,” Kenton replied. “They’ve been through the classes; they can teach as well as an undermastrell.” Kenton searched through the crowd, picking out likely subjects. “Mlaidon and Derr, you take the first year acolents. The students will be able to tell you where in their lessons they were.”

The group of sand masters looked at one another with trepidation. However, Kenton continued to talk, calling off names and giving assignments. Slowly, the confused sand masters let themselves be organized back into classes. As they did so, Kenton saw some of the paranoia Drile had fostered begin to dissolve--the Diem had been through so much chaos during the last few weeks, its members were glad for any reminder of the way things had once been.

“I never thought I would see you organizing classes . . . or organizing anything, for that matter,” Eric mumbled, swaggering over as Kenton directed groups of sand masters, sending some to teach, others to clean, and others to help Dirin look for ladders.

“People change,” Kenton said with a shrug.

“That they do,” Eric admitted, watching sand masters scuttle around. “Dirin’s been filling me in. It looks like you have quite the fight ahead of you.”

“Drile’s apocalyptic words were out of place,” Kenton said, turning away from the sand masters for a moment, “but he was right about one thing. These two weeks were given out of spite, not out of patience. The Diem doesn’t have much of a chance.”

“Just the kind of odds you like, mastrell,” Eric noted, emphasizing the title. “I thought old Praxton would die before he gave you a sash.”

“He just about did,” Kenton noted.

Eric paused, then he chuckled lightly. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay around. I have a feeling these next two weeks are going to be very interesting.”

Kenton smiled. Eric was different, but the soul of his friend--the earnest boy that always tried to make everything come out all right for everyone--was still there. “There is no one I would rather have on my side than you, old friend.”

Eric smiled ruefully. “You never know. You yourself said that people change. You may realize you find me annoying.”

“I already realized that,” Kenton said with a laugh.

“Well, if you’re certain, then I’ll have to graciously accept your offer.”

Kenton smiled--then he paused. “Wait a minute. You were asking me if you could stay. How did that turn into a ‘gracious acceptance’ on your part?”

Eric winked with a smile. Then he turned to Dirin. “Now, where’s this breakfast you mentioned?”

#

Khriss made it all the way to the end of the shadowed alleyway outside of Lonzare before the light grew too much for her. She stepped directly out into the sunlight, getting a brief glimpse of people passing on the street, before she closed her watering, pained eyes. With a sigh she put on the dark glasses.

“How do you stand it?” she asked as Baon joined her on the street.

“It doesn’t even really bother me anymore,” he replied, scanning the street. “It hurts for the first little while, but your eyes adjust. You could do it if you really tried.”

“Maybe next time,” Khriss mumbled/

“You people are strange,” N’Teese said.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Khriss replied. The phrase was quickly becoming one of the girl’s favorites.

N’Teese shrugged.

“All right. Where are we going today, duchess?” Baon asked.

Khriss paused, looking over the street. Khriss had chosen to wear one of the dayside robes Acron had purchased for her. She liked it much more than the ones she had bought earlier--it was obviously meant to be tied at the waist, and it wasn’t so thick. Over all, it was much more comfortable.

“Well, we tried the three most powerful,” Khriss mused. “I guess we’ll have to visit one of the less-influential Taisha, and hope they know something or can get us into see someone more important.”

“You’re not tired of being rejected yet?” N’Teese asked with a sigh.

“You just do as your told,” Khriss told the girl. She was beginning to doubt that there was a single person on dayside who understood the concept of respect.

N’Teese groaned quietly, but she didn’t object again. “All right, which one this time?”

“Who is left?” Khriss asked.

“Well, there’s the Lord Admiral. He’d probably see you, but I can guarantee he won’t be sober at the time, so he probably won’t be of much help. The Lord Artisan is kind of powerful, but he’s also really busy. He has dozens of smaller groups in his profession that demand a lot of his time. The Lord Mason doesn’t live in the city--he just appoints an emissary for each Council to vote for him. That only leaves the Lord Farmer. I guess we could go see him.”

“Farmer?” Khriss said with a frown. That didn’t sound very impressive. “What about that other group, the one you mentioned yesterday. The Mastrens?”

“Mastrells,” N’Teese corrected. “Well, I suppose we could visit them. I don’t know how much help they would be--apparently they’ve got a new Lord Mastrell, and I don’t think he’s going to be around very long . . . .”

Khriss frowned, looking over at Baon.

The warrior shrugged. “Sometimes new leaders are more flexible than old ones,” he offered.

Khriss nodded. “We’ll go see these mastrells, then.”

N’Teese shrugged, and then dashed into the crowd with her characteristic vigor. After a day of using the girl as a guide, Khriss still had a difficult time keeping track of N’Teese. She just had to move in the direction she had seen the daysider go, and hope that N’Teese would reappear often enough to keep them from getting lost.

They moved toward the dock area of Kezare, and once again Khriss was glad for Baon’s presence. His deep black skin and powerful build was enough to clear them a path through the crowds. N’Teese found them a boat--apparently these mastrells lived outside of the city--and Khriss gratefully left the press of people behind to climb onto the quiet vessel.

As they rowed, Khriss was left wondering what kind of situation she was getting herself into. N’Teese seemed apprehensive for some reason, and she had implied that these mastrells were some sort of religious figures. So far, the only religion she had seen on dayside was that of the Kershtians. Cynder and Acron were still arguing whether their worship of a ‘Sand Lord,’ an incarnation of the sun, was monotheism or animism. If these mastrells were religious figures as well, that probably meant they were opposed to the Kershtians. What kind of people could compete with a group that made up such a large part of dayside’s population? Would she find some kind of cult, clouded in secrecy? N’Teese’s reaction to them seemed to imply something like that--she was frightened of them. Perhaps they would turn out to be some sort of racial supremacists. That would explain why N’Teese disliked them--she obviously had some Kershtian blood in her.

Eventually they reached the other side and N’Teese led them down a well-traveled road. Their destination was obvious--a large stone structure that dominated the mostly-flat landscape. It was bigger than any Khriss had seen on dayside, a blockish monstrosity of a building that looked more like a prison or a fortress than a dwelling. Her apprehension grew as they got closer--visiting a farmer was looking more and more appealing.

“Here we are,” N’Teese said, pausing on the road. She was uncharacteristically subdued. “I’ve never actually been inside before.”

Khriss quite nearly turned back. Her curiosity, however, wouldn’t let her. She knew that if she didn’t go in now, she’d be left wondering about the place so much that she wouldn’t be able to sleep for days.

“All right,” she said, striding forward. “Let’s go.”

N’Teese followed, as did Baon, who, as usual, wore an open-fronted dayside robe with one of his tight cotton shirts and sturdy trousers underneath. His hand stayed noticeably close to his side, where one of the pistols lay hidden in a trouser pocket.

Even Khriss could tell that, despite its imposing air, the building wouldn’t make much of a fortress. For one thing, it didn’t have any doors. The front had a large gate-like opening, but there was no way to close it off. There weren’t any guards either. They were able to climb up the front steps and enter without seeing a soul.

Inside was a lavish-looking hall with tapestries and murals. Oddly, the floor was covered with a few inches of sand. There was too much for it to have blown in--it had been placed intentionally. Though there were numerous footprints in the sand, no one was in the hall either.

“There,” Baon whispered, pointing straight ahead. The room’s back wall had a passage in it, and on the other side Khriss could see daylight. Either the building was ridiculously thin, or it had a courtyard in the middle. There were voices echoing through the hallway.

Khriss took a deep breath and apprehensively began to walk forward. In the courtyard, a crowd of people stood talking, mostly in small groups. Some rushed toward other parts of the courtyard, where different groups stood, and others seemed to be arguing about something. Khriss frowned. They all wore robes, which was common enough on dayside. The robes, however, weren’t tan or gray like most she had seen--they were bright white. She’d only seen one robe bleached so colorless.

“That’s him,” N’Teese said, nodding.

Khriss followed the gesture. There, standing in an authoritarian manner as he directed the movement of the different groups, was a man of average dayside height. He had his back to her, but there was something familiar about him. Then, someone moved, and she noticed the golden sash tied around his waist. At that moment, he turned absently, and Khriss got her first look at his face.

Khriss nearly fainted in shock. Fortunately, she was too angry to pass out.

“You!” she screamed, feeling herself grow red with rage. She sputtered for a moment, unable to force any words out, so she finally just said “You!” again.

Kenton looked up with surprise. His eyes widened slightly for a moment, then he smiled. “Hello, Khrissalla,” he said in accented Dynastic. “How have you been?”

“I . . . You . . . Shella!” she finally snapped. “You lied to me!”

“Well, you didn’t ever actually ask me if I was a sand master,” he said with a shrug.

Khriss ignored the comment. “How dare you!” she said, stalking forward. A few younger men with white robes wisely moved out of her way as she approached. “After I saved your life! After I let you travel in my presence! You . . . liar!”

Kenton sighed, reaching into his robe for something. “I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled, pulling out what appeared to be nothing more than a handful of sand.

Suddenly, the sand flashed brightly--like silent gunpowder. Khriss, who had nearly reached the scoundrel, jumped in surprise, yelping quietly. She froze, amazed, as the sand rose out of Kenton’s hand, moving of its own volition. It bent in the air, snapping down to the ground. Two more snakes of glowing sand rose from the sand below, gathering around Kenton’s feet. Then suddenly Kenton launched into the air, a trail of brilliant grains streaming below him.

Khriss’s jaw drooped as she watched, stupefied. Kenton soared through the air to land on a third-floor balcony.

“That’s . . . .” Khriss mumbled

“It’s sand mastery,” N’Teese said with a frown. “Why are you so surprised?”

Khriss shook her head, still disbelieving. “How did he do that?” she asked. “Wires?”

“I don’t think so,” Baon said, apparently still a little tense. “It looks like we found your sand mages, duchess. I guess that is what our friend was hiding from us while we crossed the desert.”

Her mind refused to accept such a ridiculous notion. There was, however, one thing she was certain of. Kenton had lied to her. Her earlier anger began to return, and she turned sharply, looking over the courtyard. A couple hundred white-robed forms stared back at her. Khriss ignored them as she found what she was looking for--a couple men were placing some ladders along the closest wall--the one Kenton had chosen to fly up. One of the ladders led to the second floor, and a second hung between a second floor balcony and one on the third floor.

“Come on!” she snapped, stalking toward the ladders. Baon followed with a look that almost seemed to be amusement.

She moved past the confused workmen, pushing them aside and climbing up their ladders. She got about halfway up before looking down and realizing her stupidity. The dayside wind was blowing through the courtyard, threatening to topple her off the ladder. She began to feel disoriented before she noticed something. The wind was whipping her robe flagrantly, and while Baon stood holding the ladder with respectfully downturned eyes, the two men below were staring directly up at her.

Khriss blushed furiously. “Tell them to look away!” she demanded of N’Teese. The indignation was just enough to motivate her to keep moving. She reached the second floor balcony safely, though her heart was fluttering faster than her robe. Baon arrived at the top of the latter a moment later.

“The girl says to tell you that you’re crazy, and there is no way she’s climbing that latter.”

“Fine,” Khriss snapped, eyeing the second latter. It had been tied directly to the balcony’s banister--it looked stable, but . . .

Baon stepped forward, climbing on the latter to test its weight then hoisting himself up the rungs to the third floor. Well, you can’t back down now, she thought with a sigh. Trying to remember just how angry she was with Kenton, and trying to forget what the wind might show those below, she stepped onto the latter and began to climb. She kept going, rung after rung, not looking down, until Baon reached down and grabbed her under the arms and easily lifted her onto the third floor balcony.

Khriss closed her eyes, breathing deeply for a moment. Then, she carefully stoked her fury back up to its former inferno. “How dare he lie to a royal duchess of Elis!” she declared, and stalked into the room beyond. The door was open, and she entered an inner hallway, counting down three doors--the number of balconies between the one she had taken and the one Kenton had landed on. She needn’t have counted--Kenton stood leaning against the doorway of the third room.

“Now, Khrissalla, you really should calm yourself,” he warned.

She continued to march froward, staring directly at him.

“Um, Khriss?” he said, growing a little bit nervous.

She didn’t stop. She even added a slight growl of anger for effect.

“We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he mumbled, ducking inside and slamming the door.

“Baon!” she ordered. “Break it down!”

Baon raised an eyebrow, then reached forward and turned the knob, pushing the door open.

Khriss blushed for a moment then stalked into the room.

White Sand

Chapter Fifteen

When he heard the door open, Kenton rolled his eyes with a sigh of exasperation. He reached into his sand barrel, preparing to leap off the balcony and retreat to the courtyard below.

“Wait!” Khriss demanded. “We need to talk.”

Kenton relaxed, lowering his sand. Perhaps she was finally calming down.

Khriss stalked through the room until she was standing on the balcony directly in front of him, whereupon she proceeded to slap him soundly.

“Ouch!” Kenton said, dropping his sand and reaching up to massage his cheek. “That’s talking?”

“You’re a sand mage!” Khriss accused, ignoring his protest.

“There’s that word again,” Kenton said, leaning back against the banister. His cheek still hurt. “What is a mage, anyway?”

Khriss fumed for a moment, then folded her arms. Kenton couldn’t help noticing that she had found some new clothing. Her deep red robe was cut like a man’s--it was the kind a rich merchant would wear to a formal occasion, a robe meant to be used indoors, rather than withstand the heat. Not only was it scandalously thin, but once again she had pulled it tightly around her waist and tied with a man’s sash. The combination of thin material, form-accentuating sash, and low neckline was very distracting.

Finally, Khriss spoke. “A mage is the same thing as a wizard, or a sorcerer,” she informed. “Someone with mystical power.”

Kenton frowned. “I’m nothing of the sort,” he replied. “I am a sand master. Wizards and magicians are for the superstitious--charlatans that prey upon the foolish.”

Khriss snorted. “I’m not certain what kind of tricks you use, but . . . .”

She trailed off as Kenton called his sand to life, sending a ribbon over to fetch his qido, which sat on a cupboard nearby. He brought the qido to himself and squirted some of its water on his hand, then rubbed it on his still-aching cheek. Then he picked the qido back up with his ribbon, and swung it in Khriss’s direction.

“Thirsty?” he asked nonchalantly.

The darksider stared at the bottle with amazed eyes. She walked around the bottle, studying the glowing ribbon that held it. The ribbon’s front clutched the bottle and its tail extended back to Kenton’s hand. She poked the bottle, bent down to look up at it, and eventually waved her hand overhead.

“Where is the string?” she demanded.

“What string?” Kenton asked with amusement. She had apparently forgotten her anger now that her curiosity had been engaged.

“The string you’re using to hold it up,” she mumbled without much conviction. She studied the ceiling for a moment, growing increasingly pale in the face. Finally, she turned around and walked to one of the chairs in the center of the room. “I need to sit down,” she mumbled.

Kenton shot a look at Baon, who had taken up position at the room’s door, his face unreadable. Kenton could tell from the warrior’s posture, however, that he was very interested in what was happening.

Khriss sat down, wiggling in her seat uncomfortably. “Cushions filled with sand?” she asked with a frown. “What is wrong with you people?”

“What?” Kenton asked, settling into one of the chairs. He commanded his sand to place the qido on a nearby table, then wound his ribbon back across the room to hover in front of Khriss’s chair. She shied away from the sand slightly, then reached forward to poke at it with an apprehensive finger. Eventually, she realized it wouldn’t hurt her, and instead began to wave her hand through the middle of the ribbon, slapping free grains of sand that immediately fell dead as soon as they left the stream.

“Please don’t do that,” Kenton said, struggling to keep control of the ribbon. “It’s very distracting.”

“Sorry,” Khriss said, pulling her hand back. Then, mumbling to herself, she continued. “It really exists. Gevin was right--dayside magic is real.”

“I keep telling you, Khrissalla,” Kenton interjected. “It isn’t magic--it’s sand mastery.”

She stared at the sand thoughtfully for a moment, then turned accusing eyes back on Kenton. “You still lied to us,” she insisted coldly. “You told us you weren’t anyone important--but apparently you’re one of these Taisha.”

“I’ve only had the job for a day, now, Khriss,” he replied. “Back when you found me, I wasn’t anyone important.”

“One day?” she asked. “Why you?”

Kenton sighed. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say I’m the only one left who could take the job. So, I’m Lord Mastrell. For a little while, at least . . . .”

Khriss folded her arms, tapping her foot in thought. “You have to help me,” she finally demanded.

“I do?” Kenton asked.

“Yes,” Khriss continued. “I saved your life. When you save someone’s life in a primitive culture, they are honor-bound to follow you until they save your life in return. I’ve read about it dozens of times.”

Kenton chuckled. “I hadn’t heard about that requirement. Besides, I saved your life too. Remember--I found you water when you were all about to die. I also found you to a town where you could get food, then led you all the way to Kezare. I think we’re about even.”

Khriss frowned. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the whereabouts of Prince Gevalden?”

“Your betrothed?” Kenton asked. “No. I hadn’t heard of him until you mentioned his name.”

Khriss sighed, standing up. “I need to think about this,” she mumbled. She shot Kenton one last look--he couldn’t decide if it was accusatory, angry, or curious--before stalking toward the door.

Before she arrived, however, a puffing Eric stumbled into the room. “Kenton,” he said between breaths, “those ladders are definitely not going to work. You’re a good friend, but I really don’t feel like risking my life every time I decide to have lunch with you.”

Kenton nodded. “I’ll tell Dirin to work on it.”

Eric leaned against the wall, then turned to Khriss and nodded. “Hello again,” he said in Dynastic.

“Again?” she asked, examining Eric’s darkside clothing.

“He was one of the sailors on the ship that brought us to dayside,” Baon informed.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Baon nodded.

Khriss sighed. “This is too weird,” she mumbled, walking past Eric and leaving the room. Baon quietly shut the door behind them.

Eric watched her go, then shook his head, letting his back slide down the wall until he was seated. “Kenton, I forbid you to leave this room for at least an hour. I about killed myself climbing up here--I want to feel some vindication that my near-suicide was worth the effort.”

Kenton smiled, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of what Khriss had said. She hadn’t believed in her ‘sand mages’ but she had come looking for them? Why search for something you think is fakery? And what did her betrothed have to do with it all? Kenton certainly hoped this Prince Gevalden knew what he was getting himself into.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening yet again. A somewhat sheepish, but still annoyed, Khriss stalked back into the room. “The ladder’s broken!” she informed.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Eric mumbled.

“Well, how do we get down?” Khriss asked. “There have to be some stairs somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not,” Kenton replied.

“But, how do people get up here?” she asked.

Kenton reached over and picked up a handful of sand.

“You mean . . . .” Khriss said, suddenly apprehensive.

Kenton nodded. “Now, don’t tell me you aren’t curious to experience sand mastery first hand?”

“I don’t . . . I mean, not . . .” she trailed off as Kenton called his sand to life, her eyes transfixed by the shimmering colors and shifting grains.

Kenton rose, stepping toward the balcony hand holding out his hand toward Khriss. “Are you coming?” he asked.

Khriss regarded him with suspicious eyes. “Do I have to?” she asked.

Kenton shrugged. “No, I suppose we could send food up to you once in a while.”

#

Khriss sighed, stepping forward and taking his hand, watching apprehensively as the sand whirled around his feet. She still had trouble believing that what he was doing wasn’t a trick of some kind. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any possible way he could be faking. She had felt the grains of sand, she knew they were real. Somehow Kenton could make them move. It shouldn’t be possible, of course, but . . . .

Kenton walked to the side of the balcony where the banister was cut away, and stepped off into the air. Still holding Khriss by the hand, he gestured for her to join him. Heart pounding, Khriss did as directed, allowing him to pull her out into his arms. As soon as she left the safety of the balcony, she grabbed Kenton with tense arms, holding close to his body. They slowly began to descend through the air, Khriss holding to him as tightly as she could, trying not to think about the fact that she was trusting her life to a force that shouldn’t exist.

They reached the ground with a smooth motion, and Khriss released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She breathed deeply, thinking about what had just happened. There was no denying it now--the sand mages, or sand masters as Kenton called them, did exist. She had been wrong all this time. Gevin’s mission hadn’t been without purpose--his willingness to dream had proven more valid than her logic.

Khriss opened her eyes, and only then did she realize that her arms were still wrapped around Kenton. With a start of surprise, she let go of him, stepping back and straightening her robe. The daysider didn’t pay her much heed--his face was focused and his hand raised in front of him as he guided a floating Baon down off the balcony, holding the warrior in a grip of shimmering sand. The warrior was watching the process with interested eyes.

“Wait a minute!” Khriss realized as Kenton set Baon on the ground. “You could have just dropped me by myself--you didn’t need to carry me!”

Kenton smiled. “I thought it would be more fun this way.”

So Khriss slapped him again, this time on the other cheek.

“Ouch!” he complained.

“Baon, we’re leaving!” Khriss informed. “This time I mean it.” With that, she stalked away from Kenton and his sand masters, grabbing N’Teese by the collar of her robe as she passed. She checked over her shoulder to make certain Baon was following and proceeded on out the hallway.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “All this time . . . Kenton!”

“We should have been able to figure it out,” Baon noted, catching up to her.

“How?” Khriss demanded. “There’s nothing remarkable about him--he didn’t strike me as anyone important.”

Baon shook his head. “Someday, duchess, you will need to learn how to judge people, and not faces or titles.”

Khriss frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Baon just shrugged.

Khriss sighed--she wasn’t in any mood to deal with him at the moment. “Come on,” she said, stalking from the Diem.

#

Kenton watcher Khriss go, still rubbing his cheek. He didn’t know why he continued to bait her; as if she didn’t hate him enough already. Of course, she deserved it for stalking into his home and calling him a liar, presuming to make demands. What did he owe her? He was the one that had been forced to put up with her non-stop questions during the ride back to Lossand. Compared to that experience, death was almost preferable.

“Hey! Hello! Sand boy, you’ve got a childhood friend trapped on the balcony up here! Aren’t you going to bring me down too?”

Kenton turned to look up at Eric, who was making waving motions atop Kenton’s balcony.

“Never mind, I’m coming back up!” Kenton called, reaching for his sand pouch. He paused, however. Powerful sand masters didn’t need to be touching sand to call it to life. It was one of the abilities Kenton had always wished he possessed.

Reaching out his hand, he focused on the sand on the ground in front of him, commanding it to come to him. He could feel its energy. It wanted to obey, to release its power in a flash of magnificent sand mastery. But it resisted at the same time. There was a barrier--a barrier of power Kenton could not provide. He struggled, feeling it almost come to life, but in the end he still couldn’t make it move. He sighed, lowering his hand. He had improved in strength, but three ribbons was still relatively weak in the hierarchy of sand mastery.

Well, I should be thankful for what I have. The sands only know where I even got the ability to control three ribbons, Kenton thought, reaching for his sand pouch to retrieve a handful. He had barely called it to life, however, before several calls of surprise sounded from behind him. She’s back again? he thought with amusement. However, when he turned, he found a form approaching that was definitely not Khriss.

He wore the black cape of a senior trackt, and it matched his dark uniform. Why would a trackt come here? Kenton thought with confusion. The only time he had seen trackts in the Diem was when . . . they wanted to ask the Lord Mastrell’s permission to arrest a sand master. Oh, sands . . . Kenton thought with despair. What has Drile done this time?

Kenton watched with apprehension as the trackt approached. As he did so, Kenton frowned. The man was Kershtian--not only did he have the dark skin and twin braids, but he prominently wore a DaiKeen symbol on his forehead. There was only one person this man could be.

“Senior trackt Ais,” Kenton said, nodding as the man stopped in front of him.

The trackt bowed formally. “You have heard of me, My Lord?”

“I don’t think there is a person in Kezare who hasn’t,” Kenton replied slowly, trying to decide what to do if Ais demanded he let one of the sand masters be arrested.

“I have been sent on a mission from the Lady Judge,” Ais said with a hard voice. He was formal and stiff--too much so, even for a trackt. He didn’t want to be here. Of course, Kenton could have guessed as much. Ais had just walked into a place his people considered the most unholy on all of dayside.

“She fears for your safety, Lord Mastrell,” Ais informed. “I have been sent to protect you.”

Kenton frowned in surprise. “What?” he asked.

“Part of a trackt’s duty is to provide protection for those in danger. The other mastrells were recently assassinated. The same might happen to you.”

What was Heelis thinking? Kenton didn’t need protection, especially not from a Kershtian. “Tell the Lady Judge that I appreciate her concern,” Kenton said slowly, “but that I am confident of my ability to take care of myself.”

“The Lady Judge insists,” Ais informed with harsh, demanding eyes.

Kenton snorted. “You’re a spy, then?”

The man did not respond. His eyes, however, did flicker toward the mastered sand glowing in Kenton’s hand, and the edges of his mouth turned down in displeasure.

You don’t approve of me, Kenton thought, staring back into the man’s cold irises. Heelis not only sends me a spy, she picks the single most antagonistic trackt she can find. Ais met his gaze; the man’s eyes were strong, arrogant. Authoritative.

“Fine,” Kenton snapped, old reflexes kicking in. “Follow me if you wish--or, rather, if you can.” With that, he lifted himself into the air on his sand, leaving the trackt standing behind in the courtyard. Kenton soared over to his balcony--he was growing quite proficient at propelling himself with sand--to land beside Eric.

“Who’s that?” Eric asked, nodding toward the trackt, who still stood stiffly below.

“No one of importance,” Kenton snapped. Then he paused. Part of him wanted to go stride into his quarters and forget about the intolerant Kershtian. Another piece, however, remembered what had happened just a day before, when Kenton had been talking to Drile. The former mastrell had said something very similar to what Kenton had just said to the trackt, and had jumped into the air, landing on this very balcony. Leaving Kenton behind on the sand, presumably to feel inferior.

Kenton sighed, bowing his head. We are the same, Drile and I, he thought, shaking his head. Like he said this morning; he’s only following my example . . . .

An example I will no longer give, Kenton thought with determination. He turned around, jumping off the balcony to leave a startled Eric behind.

Kenton thumped to the ground beside the trackt, who had turned and was preparing to leave.

“I apologize for my rudeness, senior,” Kenton said. “It has been a difficult few days for me.”

Ais turned, a flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes.

“I will lift you up to the balcony, if you wish,” Kenton offered.

“I must refuse,” Ais replied. His voice was only lightly accented--he had probably grown up in Lossand. “I would sooner die then let your sand touch my skin.”

“I see,” Kenton said. “Then, there are several ladders leaning against the wall over there. You may use them at your discretion. You will forgive me if I have matters that need attention.”

Ais nodded stiffly.

Kenton sighed, lifting himself into the air once again. He wasn’t certain if he had done any good, but at least he had tried.

#

“Stop it,” Eric ordered. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Kenton paused. He had spent the last hour trying to figure out how to solve the Diem’s problems. He had considered the Taisha, their separate motivations, and the history of sand mastery. He had digested Lossand’s political situation, the influence of the rich kelzi landowners, and the religious power of the Ker’Reen church. And, like it sometimes did, his consternation had manifest itself in pacing--pacing that Eric apparently found distracting.

“You don’t have to watch,” Kenton accused.

“If I had anything better to do, I wouldn’t,” Eric shot back, lounging in one of the room’s chairs.

Kenton ignored him, and resumed his pacing. If only he had more time. Two weeks was hardly time enough to convince himself the Diem could survive, let alone convince its enemies.

“You know, walking around your room in a circle probably isn’t going to get much done,” Eric observed.

Kenton sighed. “I know,” he said, gesturing with his hand. A hovering ribbon of sand, glowing almost unnoticed at his side, mimicked the movement. “I’m just going to have to visit the Taisha and try and talk them into voting for me.”

Eric shrugged. “You always were good at arguments,” he noted.

“Good at arguing,” Kenton corrected. “Unfortunately, I’m poor at actually convincing anyone. I rarely won any battles, I just made a lot of noise fighting them.”

“True. Last I checked, the Taishin were all the same when I left--um, present company excluded, of course. So, who’s first?”

“I’m still deciding,” Kenton explained. “If I can get some of the Taisha on my side, then others will be easier to convince.”

“Like the Lady Judge?”

Kenton shook his head. “Talking won’t do any good with Heelis. She’s already told me what I need to do to get her vote.”

“Which is?”

“Pay of the Diem’s debts and unify the sand masters underneath me.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Debts?” he asked.

Kenton nodded, sending a ribbon of sand into the smaller room with the bookshelf. It returned baring a bound ledger. “I found this last night. Open it to the last page.”

Eric obliged. He read the figures for a moment, then snorted. “You have to be joking,” he replied.

Kenton shook his head. “Those reports came from the Lord Merchant. I think my father kept them as a kind of trophy, proof of the Diem’s ability to ignore conventional law.”

“But, this says you owe over seven hundred thousand Lak!” Eric exclaimed. “Kenton, I don’t think that many coins even exist! You’d have to hollow out the entire Talloner mountain range to get that kind of money.”

“I know,” Kenton responded sickly.

“Okay . . .” Eric said. “Let’s forget the Lady Judge for now.”

“And move on to whom?” Kenton asked. “Vey? He has been the Diem’s political enemy for decades, and on top of that he’s Kershtian. His people would probably assassinate him if he voted in favor of the Diem.”

“True,” Eric agreed. “Of course, then there’s my father. He’s always respected the sand masters.”

Kenton shook his head. “He respected Praxton, not the sand masters.”

Eric frowned, cocking his head to the side. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “He did often refer to you people as a waste of resources.”

“He said as much yesterday,” Kenton said, still pacing. “Plus, I think he blames me for your disappearance.”

“Really?” Eric asked with interest. “I didn’t know that.”

Kenton snorted. “That’s because you ran away. All Reegent knows is that he once had a dutiful, rule-keeping son with a scoundrel as a best friend. Who else would he blame when you rebelled?”

“I guess that makes sense,” Eric admitted. “Well, at least you can always count on old Delious--I assume the old sot is still Lord Admiral.”

“The Helm’s greatest embarrassment, as always,” Kenton said with a nod. “Yes, he’ll probably vote for me. However, if he does, it will mean that I’ve lost. Delious always votes the opposite of Vey. Which means, by the way, if by some miracle I do bring the Lord Merchant onto my side, Delious will spoil it by automatically turning against me.”

Eric chuckled at that one. “Maybe we should just run off to darkside. I’ve found that avoiding one’s problems isn’t as difficult as the philosophers would have one believe.”

“I’m tempted,” Kenton mumbled.

Eric snorted. “You would never do that,” he said. “Many things have changed, old friend, but I can tell one thing is still the same. You can’t resist a good fight.”

Kenton stopped his pacing, smiling slightly. “I suppose you’re right. Well, like you said, pacing isn’t getting me anywhere.”

Eric rose, stretching. “You’ve decided then?”

Kenton nodded. “The Lord Admiral has been my ally in the past, even if his vote was only circumstantial. That’s better than I’ve gotten from anyone else.”

“Ah, good,” Eric said, following Kenton to the balcony. “I was hoping you would pick him. I could use something to drink.”

#

“Red.”

Delious proffered his arm, grabbing the cup lazily. He leaned forward on his mansion’s balcony, looking at the city of Kezare below him as he slurped the wine down with one monstrous gulp, inhaling the liquid like other men breathe. Then, smacking his lips, brought the cup up for inspection.

The goblet of sparkling crystal had been sculpted by one of Kezare’s most prominent Kershtian craftsmen. Its etchings depicted a scene of deep sandlings from the Ker’Reen mythologies. The detail was exquisite. Each chink in the carapace was visible and the Sand Lord’s face--shining high in the sky--was so lifelike in its crystalline tinyness that it almost seemed like a living being. The artisan had etched his very soul into this piece.

“How disappointing,” Delious mumbled. “It’s just like all the other ones.” He sighed and dropped the priceless wonder over the side of his balcony. It made a satisfyingly delicate crash as it smashed on the stone street below.

“It was part of a set, Lord Delious,” his wine steward supplied from behind. “Usually when one buys a set of cups, they come with similar designs on them.”

“Well, next time buy a dozen sets and throw away all but one of the cups,” he ordered.

“Yes, Lord Taisha.”

“White,” Delious ordered, holding out his hand to receive another cup. He sipped at it for a moment, then wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “Don’t they make wine more expensive than this?” he complained.

“No, Lord Delious, this is the best.”

Delious sighed again, dropping another cup off the balcony “Well, mix the red and the white this time. Let’s see what that tastes like.”

His steward complied, handing Delious yet another crystalline cup. Delious drank the wine, decided it didn’t taste very good, drank the rest anyway, then dropped the cup--this time flicking it out of his hand to send it spinning toward the street below. It refracted the sun’s light beautifully before smashing to its death.

“Um, Lord Admiral?” a voice asked from behind.

Delious turned inquisitively, reaching out for another cup of wine in the process. Behind him stood several men in fine shalrim robes. Both were Lossandin, and both had looks of barely-veiled loathing on their faces. Technically, they were members of the Helm, Profession of sailors, though Delious doubted they knew the bow of a ship from their own afts. They were kelzin, members of the Shipowner’s Circle.

“Are you still here?” Delious asked distractedly.

“We haven’t had our audience yet, Lord Admiral,” the taller of the two--Jalees--answered. “We’ve been waiting for you to finish . . . whatever it was you were doing.”

“Oh, right,” Delious mumbled, sipping at his wine. “Well, what did you want?”

“I brought you a gift, Lord Taisha, from the Circle,” Jalees said, nodding toward a carapace box at his side. “A case of detha, a drink favored in the south.”

Delious frowned. “I’ve had it before. It didn’t seem to have much kick to me.”

“It . . .isn’t alcoholic, Lord Admiral,” Jalees informed.

“Ah, that’s probably why I didn’t like it,” Delious replied. “Steward!”

“Yes, My Lord,” the small, balding man replied.

“Do you like detha?”

“It is quite delicious, My Lord,” the wine steward replied.

Delious rubbed his chin, then took another sip of wine. “Glad you like it. Take that case home and give it to your family. A gift from your Lord Taisha.”

“My thanks, Lord Delious,” the steward replied.

Jalees grew red in the face, a color heightened by his bright yellow robes.

“Thank you for the gift . . . what was your name again?”

“Jalees, My Lord,” the man said, barely able to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Delious made certain to ask that question at least once every time the man visited.

“Good day then, Jeelas,” Delious said, turning to lean back out of his balcony. “Steward, the scenery outside my window is looking rather drab. Do you suppose we could knock down a few buildings to make it more picturesque?”

“Perhaps, My Lord.”

Jalees cleared his voice from behind. “My Lord,” he began.

“You’re still here?” Delious asked with surprise, turning again.

“Um, yes My Lord,” Jalees said. “The real purpose of my visit has to do with a request from the Circle.”

“I recommend Lraezare’s eldenvel vintage,” Delious said.

“My Lord?” Jalees asked in confusion.

“Your request,” Delious explained. “Weren’t you going to ask me what vintage to have at your Circle meeting this week?”

“Um, no, My Lord.”

“Well why are you bothering me then?” Delious said, shaking his head in exasperation as he turned back to the balcony once again.

“We were hoping, My Lord,” Jalees said bravely, “that we could convince you to curb your drinking.”

“Curb my drinking?” Delious asked in amazement. “Why, how would I spend my time?”

“There are many things you could try, My Lord. Balls, plays, boat races . . .”

“No, I find them all boring,” Delious declared. “I shall face this world drunk, or I shan’t face it at all. Thank you for the suggestion, but since I judge it to be inane, I shall have to ignore it. Good day.”

Delious didn’t need to turn around to imagine the look of enraged frustration on Jalees’s bearded face. Finally, he heard the man turn and walk out the door, his footsteps angry. Delious chuckled softly to himself, waving at some people crossing on the street below and then warning them to avoid the broken glass.

“What a delightful day,” Delious announced. “The only thing wrong is that I am by no means drunk enough. Steward, open another bottle.”

#

Kenton and Eric passed a pair of angry-looking kelzin as they walked up the steps to the Lord Admiral’s mansion. The two men, both Lossandin and both wearing expensive robes, brushed past Kenton, mumbling quietly to one another.

Kenton paused, turning to watch them go.

Eric snorted. “You shouldn’t have let them get away with that.”

“With what?” Kenton asked.

“With treating you that way,” Eric explained. “They should have bowed--you’re not only a mastrell, but a Lord Taisha.”

Kenton shrugged. “I don’t even think they realized who I was. They looked . . . preoccupied.”

“You mean infuriated,” Eric corrected.

“I suppose they have a right to be angry,” Kenton said. “They were probably members of the Helm. The mere mention of the Lord Admiral is usually enough to embarrass Helm members--I can’t imagine what it must be like to visit him.”

Eric shrugged. “I don’t know. I always kind of liked the man.”

Kenton turned with a frown. “You always said you found him disgraceful.”

“My father found him disgraceful,” Eric corrected. “And so, therefore, did I--or, at least, that is what I said. It isn’t wise to disagree with the Lord General, especially if you happen to be his heir. On the inside, however, I thought Delious delightful. If my father didn’t invite him to a party, the Lord Admiral would act offended, and complain loudly that the Lord General was slighting the Helm. And, when my father gave in and invited him, Delious would drink all of the wine, complain about its vintage, and then collapse on the floor.”

“Yes,” Kenton said wryly, “delightful is exactly the word I would have chosen.”

“I always found it amusing that the sand’s only true idiot was also the one person my father could never get the best of.”

“Well, that idiot is one of the people who stands between the Diem and destruction. Let us hope he refrains from passing out until he’s cast his vote in my favor.” Kenton turned, looking up at the mansion in front of them. It was large, wide as opposed to tall, and its front had obviously been carved by some of Lossand’s most skilled stonemasons. It actually had reliefs etched into its face, as well as pillars and a few fanciful statues of deep sandlings.

Of course, the beautiful home didn’t stand out when it was surrounded by so many like it. Here, on the smaller island that formed the kelzi district of Kezare, the wealthy spent a great deal of resources proving just how rich they were. As soon as one crossed the KelThrain, the bridge that spanned the short distance between Kezare proper and the kelzi district, one stepped into a different world. The clustered buildings and narrow streets gave way to solitary mansions with statue gardens and yards filled with rare, often beautiful, sandlings. Here Vey and his merchants kept careful control of the real estate, making certain that only those rich enough--and prestigious enough--were allowed to purchase land.

Of course, they would probably have tried to get rid of the Lord Admiral if they could have found a way.

“Come on,” Kenton said, turning to climb the rest of the steps. Then he paused, turning around. “Are you coming?” he asked, not of Eric, but of the other man standing at the bottom of the steps.

The black-uniformed trackt looked up with suspicious eyes.

“You’re not going to make a very efficient spy if you don’t stay close to me,” Kenton warned.

The Kershtian’s look didn’t change, but he did begin to follow, walking with a swift--but stiff--step. Kenton had found the man waiting in the Diem’s courtyard when he came down from his third-floor rooms. Ais hadn’t said a word, but had fallen into step, following Kenton like a very formal shadow.

When Ais arrived Kenton continued on, ignoring the frown on Eric’s face. They walked through the cavern-like pillared entryway and rapped the door knocker. A few moments later a short, baling man with slicked-back hair answered the door.

“The Lord Mastrell,” Kenton said formally, “to visit his colleague the Lord Admiral.”

The man’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I’ll . . . announce you, My Lord,” he replied. “I can’t guarantee the Lord Admiral will see you, however.”

“I appreciate it,” Kenton said, walking in as the man opened the door and gestured them in.

The house was, perhaps, the most overdone example of richness Kenton had ever seen. There wasn’t a corner without a statue of some sort, not a wall without a tapestry. Dozens of furniture pieces cluttered the room, most of them three and four times redundant, all of them wood. Works of ceramic or crystalline art crowded every surface--the slightest bump could have caused hundreds of lak worth of damage.

Kenton raised an eyebrow, looking back at Eric, who just shook his head. A moment later, the servant returned. “My Lord will see you,” he said, gesturing for them to follow.

At first, Kenton had assumed that the entryway was a fluke of some sort--a place where the Lord Admiral made a display of his wealth. However, as they walked the hallways toward the back rooms, Kenton was forced to revise that assumption. Every room was just as bad as the first, with decorations and pieces of art extreme.

“Sell this place, and you could pay of your debts with some left over,” Eric mumbled. It was an exaggeration, of course, but the home was so gaudy that it almost seemed plausible.

For his part, the trackt Ais remained silent, taking in the sights of the Lord Admiral’s house with the same lack of emotion with which he appeared to handle everything.

At last the servant opened a broad set of doors and led them into what appeared to be the Lord Admiral’s study. It was even worse than the rest of the house. The ceiling was hung with no fewer than ten chandeliers, even though the balcony--a structure that took up the entire back wall--provided more than enough light for the room. The floor was covered with several rugs piled on top of one another, an effect duplicated by the overlapping tapestries on the walls.

The Lord Admiral fit with it all perfectly. He was an older man, perhaps forty years old, with flecks of gray in his otherwise dark brown hair. He wore a bright robe of Helm blue, open at the front to reveal a frilly white shirt underneath. Broad white cuffs poked out from the sleeves. Both sleeves and shirt were stained with bright red drops of wine.

“Ah, brother Taisha!” Delious said, raising his arms. He was drunk, of course. “Welcome.”

“Lord Delious,” Kenton said with a nod. “We appreciate your seeing us.”

“Of course,” Delious said, waving dismissively--an action that spilled the rest of his wine on one of the fine rugs. He regarded the mistake with a raised eyebrow, then held out his cup for a refill. “Please, have something to drink.”

“No thank you,” Kenton said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Delious said with a smile. “Sand master’s don’t drink, do they?”

Kenton shook his head. “It does . . . strange things to us.”

“Pity,” Delious said. “Your friends?”

“Would be pleased to partake of your hospitality,” Eric said. Of course, he was already pouring himself a drink. Ais made no move to do likewise.

“Lord Delious,” Kenton said, stepping forward. “I don’t know how to put this a better way, so I’ll just ask. Are you going to vote for me in two weeks?”

Delious smiled. “You don’t waste words, do you, Lord Mastrell?”

“I’m new at this,” Kenton said with a shrug. “Besides, I don’t have time for words.”

“Oh, I’ve always found one has to make time for words,” Delious countered. “If you don’t have words, then people tend to see through to the really important things. Then they all get depressed.” Delious punctuated the remark by draining his cup.

“I’m only interested in two words, My Lord,” Kenton replied.

“Let me guess,” Delious interrupted. “For or against.”

Kenton nodded.

“Well, I guess that depends,” Delious said, spreading his arms. “You obviously know my policy--as long as Vey is your enemy, I am your friend.”

“And if Vey votes for me?” Kenton asked.

Delious snorted. “My dear friend, I’m supposed to be the drunken fool, not you. Let us please keep to our roles, lest one of us become confused.”

“I know there is little chance, My Lord,” Kenton said. “But what if Vey does vote for me?”

“Then I shall have to vote against you,” Delious said, taking a seat in an oversized chair on the balcony. “You see, my young friend, I have very few beliefs in life. One of them is that wine by far the best companion a man could ask for. The other one is that the Lord Merchant represents all that is evil and vile in our world. Both are philosophies that make my life much easier. One keeps me happy, the other makes all of my decisions for me. As long as I’m working against Vey, I know that I’m doing something good--even if I don’t pay much attention to what is actually happening.”

“Lord Admiral,” Kenton said with a frown. “My cause is just.”

“Honestly, I’d rather not have to think about it. Really, Kenton, I doubt you have much to worry about. It would take more Lak than stone could make to convince Vey to vote for you.”

“Hollow support can be worse than no support at all, Delious,” Kenton shot back.

The Lord Admiral raised his cup. “You’re tense, young man. It’s probably due to a lifetime without drink. I doubt I am the one you need to be arguing with.”

Kenton sighed, turning to Eric, who was playing idly with one of Delious’s many crystalline sculptures. Eric looked up slightly, nodding. There was no more to gain from this conversation.

“Thank you for seeing me, My Lord,” Kenton said with a slight bow.

“And a good day to you, My Lord,” Delious returned.

Kenton left the house in a disappointed mood, barely paying attention to the wonders he passed. He didn’t know why he should be so bothered--he hadn’t really expected anything more from Delious. Why had the man’s responses bothered him so much?

It’s because all those years, he thought to himself, I thought, maybe, just one of them agreed with me. I knew he only voted for me to spite Vey but . . . up until this day I could still hope.

“Your task is futile, Ry’Kensha,” Ais, almost forgotten, whispered behind. “Even those who vote for you don’t really support you. It is the Sand Lord’s judgement.”

And, for some reason, the comment made Kenton smile. “Futile tasks are the ones I’m best at,” he replied.

#

Delious watched the young Lord Mastrell leave. He had passion and drive; that much would serve him well. “That boy needs to learn to learn that every conversation doesn’t have to be an argument,” he mumbled to his steward.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Delious sat in his chair, spinning his cup in front of him, watching the red liquid reflect light. “Steward,” he said thoughtfully. “What opinion would you say the kelzin have of mastrells?”

“They hate them, ”the steward replied. “Many kelzin are Kershtian, and those who aren’t are usually Ker’Reen. Besides, it is the nature of the wealthy to hate anyone more influential than themselves.”

Delious regarded his cup for a moment longer, then smiled to himself.

White Sand

Chapter Sixteen

“I can’t believe that man!” Khriss sputtered. “I saved his life, traveled across half the kerla with him, and still he lied to me! He knew what I was looking for in Lossand, and he deliberately hid what he was from me.” Khriss paused. For the hundredth time in just a few minutes, she was confronted with a single incredible fact. The sand mages were real.

She had seen Kenton defy physics, seen him use sand like it was an extension of his own body. The sand had glowed with some inner source of power, shining and radiant, its shifting colors more beautiful than anything else she had experienced on this side of the world.

It appeared that some of the stories, at least, were true. There were foolish ones, of course, that were obviously conjurations of the darkside imagination. Kenton was not twelve feet tall, and he didn’t wear deep black robes, or move through shadows. She had seen no hint of him draining the life from those around him to fuel his powers--though, she supposed, she couldn’t completely rule out that possibility. He couldn’t speak and force people to obey him, like Scythe was said to be able to do--if Kenton had possessed that power, she probably wouldn’t have been able to get those slaps in.

Still, despite the obvious falsehoods, some of the stories were true. Sand obeyed Kenton’s will, moving as he commanded. He obviously had power in the society, even if he didn’t rule, like the stories claimed. And she had been travelling with him all that time . . . .

“Duchess?” Baon asked in a slightly confused voice.

Khriss looked up with surprise. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed their boat arrive at Kezare’s docks. Baon and N’Teese stood on the docks, waiting for her to join them. She scrambled up with as much dignity as she could manage as Baon handed the boatman a stone Lak.

“Are you all right, duchess?” Baon asked.

“I’m fine,” Khriss snapped.

“You knew he was hiding something,” Baon reminded. “It is a standard political move to hide one’s true power until necessity reveals it.”

“What would you know of politics?” Khriss said.

“More than you might expect,” Baon replied, following as she began to stalk through the city. “Are we going anywhere specific?”

Khriss paused, an action that caused her to get jostled and pushed by the flowing crowds. With a quiet curse, she pushed her way over to a less-bustling section of the market, standing in the shade beside a store.

Why was Kenton’s deception bothering her? She usually considered herself a level-headed person. She didn’t allow herself to get pulled into court politics and gossipings, had never been one to let others enrage her. She had been content with her studies and her simple, non-intrusive political life as Gevin’s fiancée.

Of course, no one had ever had reason to anger her before. The court recognized her as a non-threat. She knew how they saw her. She was an important match for Gevin in more ways than one--not only would she unite a very powerful house to the throne, but she would never be a political threat to Evella, wife to Gevin’s older brother. It was better to marry a younger son to someone politically reclusive, someone who wouldn’t steal the light from the future queen.

So, the court had, for the most part, left Khriss alone. They didn’t consider her a factor in their intrigues. They often laughed at her, she knew, but they never did so to her face, and their mockery was never real malice. She was just Gevin’s simple, politically-inert attendant. She wasn’t worth the bother of spiting. Even Gevin, with his occasional teasing, had been very careful not to anger her or go too far.

Kenton was different. He didn’t seem to care what her rank or station was; he mocked her with aplomb, completely ignoring decorum. He was absolutely insufferable. What was worse, there was nothing she could do about it.

Slowly, as the chaos of the city swirled around her, Khriss felt herself begin to calm. She would worry about the sand masters later, when she could be rational. At least she had found out that they were real--that gave her one important insight. Gevin’s mission had not been doomed. He had been right. And, if he had made it to Lossand, then he must have known that.

But why then hadn’t he returned to darkside? She could only come up with one conclusion: he was still trying to get the sand masters to help him.

It made sense. Two years was a long time, true, but she knew Gevin. If there was a chance he could complete his goal, he would pay no heed to time. Assuming he had decided that these sand masters could help Elis against the Dynasty, she could see him remaining in Lossand all this time, trying to find a way to persuade some of them to return home with him.

If that was the case, however, why didn’t Kenton know who Gevin was? If the Prince really was trying to win favor with the sand masters, then he would have spent a great deal of time in negotiations with their upper officials.

Khriss frowned. Kenton had said he was the sand masters’s new leader--that he had only been Lord Mastrell for a day. What had happened?

Suddenly, a memory flashed in front of Khriss’s eyes. She was taken away from Kezare’s markets, with their bodies, scents, and motion to a place still and stagnant. A broad basin on the sands, strewn with motionless white forms. Bodies, their white robes stained with blood . . .

“Shella,” she whispered softly to herself. “N’Teese, what . . . happened to the old leader of the sand masters?”

The girl looked up. She had been quietly inching her way toward the shop beside Khriss, one stacked with some sort of bread cakes that smelt strongly of peppery Kershtian spices. Khriss spoke just as N’Teese’s hand was a few inches away from grabbing a cake.

The shopkeeper looked up at the sound, and cursed, swatting at N’Teese. The girl slunk away, grumbling to herself.

“N’Teese, pay attention,” Khriss ordered.

“He died,” N’Teese grumbled, sitting herself on the ground beside Khriss, resting against a brick wall.

“How?”

“The Kershtians killed him,” N’Teese explained. “They killed all of the mastrells, except this new one. He survived somehow.”

Khriss felt cold. “He’s . . . alone?”

N’Teese shrugged. “There are other sand masters, just none of the really powerful ones. Of course, everyone says the new one is pretending, that he’s not really a mastrell. He’s too weak.”

“Why would he pretend?” Khriss asked. It didn’t seem like something Kenton would do. Of course, he had proven himself quite good at lying . . . .

“If he doesn’t, the Taisha will destroy the Diem.”

“Destroy it?” Khriss asked with surprise.

N’Teese nodded. “They’re going to disband it.”

“Why would they do that?” Khriss asked with a frown.

N’Teese shrugged, playing with a few pebbles on the ground before her. “I don’t know. Because they want to? No one likes the sand masters.”

“Why?”

N’Teese frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you ask so many questions?”

Khriss raised here eyes in exasperation. “Never mind,” she mumbled.

So it was possible that Gevin had been talking to the leaders of the sand masters--the ones who were now dead. Perhaps the prince was here, in Kezare somewhere, and simply didn’t know she had arrived. It was a big city, filled with many people. Apparently, new arrivals in darkside town weren’t all that rare. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard she had come looking for him--she had only arrived a day ago, after all.

“Baon,” Khriss said, tapping her foot thoughtfully, “how good are you at gathering information?”

Baon raised an eyebrow. “Horrible,” he said simply. “Even on darkside, I’m not very unobtrusive.”

“I need someone to spend time in darkside town, searching for information about Gevin,” she explained. “Could you . . . ?”

“No,” Baon said simply.

“But--”

“Duchess,” Baon said, folding his arms. “I was hired to protect you until such time as you return to Elis. I can’t do that sitting in a pub.”

Khriss sighed.

“Send the professors,” Baon recommended.

“I considered that,” Khriss confessed. “To be honest, Baon, I don’t know how effective they’ll be.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Baon said with a shake of his head. “They’re all you have. Delegation is one of the most difficult parts of leadership, duchess. The simple fact is, most people aren’t going to be as competent as you would like. Some of them will be complete idiots. Your job is to find a place for them to be productive, even if just a little bit. A little bit, plus what you’re doing, will always be more than you working by yourself.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Khriss agreed.” I guess we should walk back to darksider town and tell them.”

“Why not send a messenger?” N’Teese mumbled, still playing with her pebbles.

“One who speaks Dynastic?” Khriss asked. “We need you to take us to visit the Taisha.”

“Write a note,” N’Teese suggested with a shrug.

“A note . . . ?” Khriss asked.

N’Teese pointed to a shop a short distance away. Khriss couldn’t make out the sign, but it prominently displayed a picture of something that resembled a writing pen.

Khriss shrugged, and nodded for Baon to lead the way toward the shop. He moved, slicing through the crowd with N’Teese and Khriss behind.

The shop was light inside--it had several holes in the ceiling to provide illumination. It was small and the walls were stacked with rolls of paper and books. A short Kershtian man approached with a smile. He moved toward Baon and bowed, gesturing for him to take a seat on a cushion before a small table.

Khriss took the seat instead. The Kershtian started in surprise at the move, seating himself with a slight frown. Baon took a seat beside her, and Khriss found his frown more troublesome.

“What?” Khriss asked as the warrior caught her eye.

“Independence is good, duchess,” he replied softy. “But you are fool to flout their traditions so.”

“But their traditions are silly,” Khriss countered.

“You know that after just a few weeks on this side of the world?”

Khriss paused. “Well, I do know that they are demeaning.”

“That may be, duchess. However, your life will be much easier if you don’t immediately make an enemy out of every Kershtian you meet.”

Khriss sighed. “Is there any topic you don’t have a lecture prepared for Baon?”

“If you ask my opinion, you will get it,” Baon replied simply.

“Right,” Khriss mumbled. “N’Teese, tell the merchant I apologize for any offences I may give. Tell him I am still unfamiliar with the customs on this side of the world.”

N’Teese shrugged, but she did as asked. At least, Khriss could only assume the girl was doing so.

“I told him,” N’Teese. “I also told him you wanted to write a letter.”

The Kershtian smiled in the exaggerated way of one whose life centered on pleasing customers and pulled out a dark sheet of paper and a pen tipped with a nib that appeared to be constructed from some sort of chalky substance.

“Tell him I’ll write it,” Khriss said, reaching for the paper.

The merchant looked surprised, then chuckled uncomfortably.

“He thinks you’re joking,” N’Teese explained. “The only people on dayside who know how to write are scholars, scribes, and sand masters. Women never learn.”

Khriss frowned. “What about the noblemen?”

“The kelzin?” N’Teese asked. “They have scribes.”

“Well, kindly tell him where I come from, all noblewomen are expected to know how to write. Especially those who are professors in the Elisian university.”

She heard Baon sigh softly beside her at the comment.

“Well, at least I tried,” she hissed as the scholar reluctantly handed her the paper and pen. Khriss’s annoyance was quickly forgotten as she inspected the items. The paper had the same texture as the jerky they had eaten, though it was much thinner and drier.

“Made from carapace?” she asked N’Teese.

The girl nodded. “Pressed and dried.”

“I wonder what keeps it from rotting,” Khriss asked, turning the pen around to inspect its nib. It wasn’t quite like chalk--it was more oily. Experimentally, she made a little scribble at the top of the sheet. The line it left was thin and uniform, but it smudged easily. Surely they didn’t write books in the same way?

She paused her ponderings as she heard N’Teese snickering beside her.

“What?” she demanded.

“The merchant,” N’Teese explained, pointing at the Kershtian. “He thinks you’re slow of mind.”

Khriss blushed, realizing what the man must have thought, watching her rub the paper, play with the pen, and make incoherent scribbles. She sniffed in disdain at his amused expression, and began to write.

She had intended a quick message, but the merchant’s assumptions incited her to greater things. She wrote a very detailed explanation of what she had discovered at the building known as the Diem, she explained her theories on Gevalden’s whereabouts, and she explained her intentions for the rest of the day. She told Cynder and Acron what she wanted them to do in darksider town, how she wanted them to do it, and what she expected them to discover. And, just to look clever, she switched to formal Kersha at the end. She might not be able to speak the language all that well, but she had a decent written knowledge of it.

In the end she took up five full sheets of paper. When she was finished, she looked up to find a properly amazed expression on the Kershtian’s face. He accepted the papers from her hands, looking over them. Then he reached over and picked up a large metal plate of some sort--it had been resting in direct sunlight. He pressed it against each paper in turn.

Khriss watched with interest, taking one of the papers from him when he was done. It was warm to the touch, and the oil-like white ink no longer smudged beneath her fingers. “Fascinating,” she mumbled. Then she looked up. “How much do we owe him?”

N’Teese handled the negotiations. “Five Lak,” she finally said. “It a little expensive, but he’s going to have to hire a courier who knows Lonzare. I told him where to find the house.”

“Good,” Khriss said, nodding to Baon, who picked out a blue-and-white five lak coin and gave it to the Kershtian. “What time is it?” she asked.

Baon reached down, checking Cynder’s pocketwatch--which Khriss couldn’t carry, for lack of a pocket in her dayside robes.

“Two o’clock,” he said.

“First hour,” N’Teese countered, sticking her head out the door.

“Same thing,” Khriss said, rising.

The merchant did likewise, bowing slightly, his medallion twinkling in the light.

“We probably could have walked to the house and back by now,” Khriss said with a sigh, realizing she shouldn’t have spent so much time on the letter. “Well, let’s get going.”

“Where to?” N’Teese asked as Khriss replaced her glasses and walked out into the sun.

“Who’s left?”

“The Lord Farmer, the Lord Artisan, and the Lord Admiral.”

“Admiral,” Khriss mused. “That sounds important.”

“It isn’t,” N’Teese replied. “He doesn’t really do anything. Everyone knows that the Helm is really run by the Shipowner’s Circle.”

Khriss frowned. “Why is one Taisha a figurehead, while the others aren’t? Is the man just a fool?”

N’Teese shrugged. “Well, he is,” she admitted. “But I think the Lord Admirals are always fools.”

“All right,” Khriss said. “Then, let’s try the Lord Artisan.”

N’Teese nodded, and dashed off through the crowd, leaving Khriss to sigh and try to follow.

#

Two hours later, Khriss was beginning to wonder if this Council of Taisha had collectively decided to drive her mad.

The Lord Artisan’s offices were much more comfortable than the Hall had been, but the wait didn’t seem to be going any more quickly. The building sat on the eastern edge of the island, far away from the docks and their hustle. This area was still busy, of course, but not quite so chaotic. The buildings here seemed to be larger, and though they were still pressed close together, they weren’t as narrow.

The Lord Artisan’s waiting room was on the ground floor, and it was decorated with two dozen seals that N’Teese explained were representations of the Draft’s sub-Professions. Apparently, the Lord Artisan oversaw varied activities, including everything from carpentry and cobblery to medicine and painting.

Khriss sat back on the bench. It was cushioned, though the cushion was, of course, filled with sand. There was a basin filled with drinking water, and even a man playing a stringed instrument quietly in the corner. The large room was filled with a dozen or so people, all waiting, Khriss presumed, for the same thing she was.

“I told you he was busy,” N’Teese mumbled. She sat on the floor beside the bench, absently spinning one of the carapace cups from the water basin.

Khriss sighed, leaning back. The waiting was frustrating, but she was getting better at it. She was beginning to realize that she wasn’t going to get anywhere on dayside without a long wait first. At least the Artisan’s steward, a younger Lossandin man with large ears, assured her that they were actually waiting to see the Lord Artisan, as opposed to just waiting to make an appointment. The steward sat at a small desk beside the large set of carapace doors that Khriss assumed led to the Taisha’s conference room. So far, during several hours of wait, only three people had been allowed in.

She heard talking in the hallway beside her--more people coming to wait in line. N’Teese was right, the Lord Artisan certainly was busy. She was surprised he . . . .

Khriss froze. Three forms had just walked into the room. A Kershtian in a dark daysider policeman’s uniform, the familiar curly-haired man who dressed like a darksider, and . . . Kenton.

He strode confidently, his bright white robe shining in the room’s sunlight. The golden sash at his waist seemed to glow like one of the strings of the sand he could control. Kenton walked directly up to the Artisan’s steward, who immediately stood and began to bow obsequiously. A mumble ran through the room as those waiting noticed Kenton.

The steward bowed a few more times, then pulled open the Lord Artisan’s doors and slipped inside. A moment later, the man the Artisan had been meeting with--a Kershtian whose robe bore the symbol of a stonemason--walked out, followed by the steward. The big-eared man bowed one last time to Kenton, gesturing toward the still-open door.

Khriss watched with stupefaction. “He is important,” she mumbled. Then, moving before she missed her chance, she jumped off the bench and rushed forward to grab Kenton’s arm.

The sand master jumped in surprise--he obviously hadn’t seen her in the corner.

Khriss smiled sweetly at the confused steward, and rested her head on Kenton’s shoulder. “Tell him I’m with you,” she ordered under her breath.

Kenton looked down in confusion. “Khriss?”

“Tell him,” she pled.

“Didn’t you slap me twice just earlier today?”

Khriss blushed. “You deserved it,” she defended.

Kenton chuckled. “You might be right,” he admitted. Then he mumbled something to the steward, who was looking at Khriss suspiciously. “You can come,” Kenton continued in Dynastic, “but only if you promise to be good.”

“Good?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kenton said. “The Lord Artisan is a busy man--try to restrict yourself to a dozen or two questions.”

Khriss snorted, dropping his arm now that her ploy had worked and stalking triumphantly through the open door. Kenton followed with a shake of his head.

The Lord Artisan’s meeting room was simply decorated, containing only a rug, a few paintings, and a table--which appeared to be constructed from plates of carapace. The table was stacked neatly with papers and ledgers. The Lord Artisan wore a simple gray robe, loose at the front instead of tied, with a tan underobe on beneath. He was a middle-aged man with a large, oval face and a businesslike attitude.

He set a ledger on the desk as Kenton walked in, greeting him in Lossandin.

“He says ‘Greetings, Lord Mastrell. You travel with quite a large group. I fear my simple office barely fits them all.’”

Khriss looked down, grateful for N’Teese’s translation. The Lord Artisan was right--with Kenton’s group and Khriss’s, the small meeting room was rather full. Baon and the Kershtian trackt quickly moved to opposite corners at the back, however, watching each other carefully. The move freed up a little room in the center, making it seem less crowded.

“I apologize for the intrusion, Lord Rite,” N’Teese translated Kenton’s response. “I’ve found that my company has become increasingly popular since we last saw one another.”

The Lord Artisan smiled slightly. “You will find that such is the norm for those of our position. How can I help you?”

“I believe you know, Lord Artisan,” Kenton replied. “I need your vote.”

Khriss frowned. Kenton’s words were polite, but he obviously didn’t have any experience with politics. His attitude was defiant, even antagonistic.

“Yes, I assumed that was what this was for,” the Lord Artisan said with a quiet sigh. He reached over, selecting a ledger from the table. “I appreciate your position, Lord Mastrell. But you know it would be difficult for me to give you any kind of support.”

“The only thing I know, My Lord, is that the Diem has been treated unfairly,” Kenton countered. “Instead of confronting its problems when they should have, the Diem’s opponents are taking advantage of its weakness to brush it away. You think this will let you ignore us, but I promise you it will only bring further problems.”

Khriss watched the interchange with interested eyes. Her first evaluation had been wrong--Kenton obviously had experience with politics. Or, at least, he had experience with debate. His stance, his inflections--he knew how to argue. However, he obviously wasn’t handling the situation very well. The Lord Artisan had welcomed him amiably at first, but now the man was getting defensive, reacting to Kenton’s attacks.

“I care nothing for inter-Profession arguments, Lord Mastrell,” Rite said frankly. “You know that I have tried my entire career to avoid them. My only concern is to care for those who have elected me their leader. It is in their interest that I voted against you, not because of any personal enmity.”

“The new A’Kar is calling for blood, Lord Rite,” Kenton responded. “Times are changing. What will the members of your Profession think when this new DaiKeen overruns Lossand? Is it in your interest to destroy your country’s longest, and most fearsome, source of protection?”

Rite paused for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re right, Lord Mastrell. Times are changing. I don’t know about the A’Kar or his warrior priests. I do know about one group of thieves even more fearsome, however. One who has been pillaging Lossand for centuries. A group that has been taking what does not belong to them, offering no payment, and leaving good workmen destitute.

“The sand masters are without law, Lord Kenton. Their mastrells take without need. They hoard works of art and demand our precious creations more out of spite than of want. Beyond that, they give nothing back to Lossand. Nothing. They offer no goods, they perform no service, and they give no reason we should keep them. I cannot, with good conscience, allow that to continue.”

There must be a vote of some sort coming, Khriss guessed. N’Teese said the Taisha wanted to disband the sand masters.

However, at this rate, Kenton would never gain any support. He was too argumentative--he would be better at convincing enemies to support him than friends. He needed compromise right now, not hostility.

“N’Teese,” Khriss whispered. “I want you to translate exactly what I tell you.”

#

Kenton frowned. His biggest problem was the fact that he agreed with Rite. The Lord Artisan was right to vote against the Diem. Kenton would have done the same in his position. No amount of arguing would change the fact that over the last few centuries the mastrells had acted more like bandits than protectors.

Kenton needed to rethink his strategy--the current one was obviously getting him nowhere. Rite was said to be the most level-headed and honest of the Taishin. If Kenton couldn’t convince him . . .

“You say that the sand masters stole from your people,” Khriss said suddenly. “What kind of recompense would you need to forgive their trespass?”

Kenton looked up with a frown. What was she doing? She had no idea what the argument was even about. The little girl at her side--the one who had been with her earlier--translated the words into Lossandin.

“Ledgers have been kept of what the Diem owes my Profession,” Rite replied, speaking as if Kenton had said the words. He obviously assumed that Khriss was one of Kenton’s aids, speaking on his authority. “It isn’t what is owed that bothers me,” Rite continued. “The possibility of future thefts is always more worrisome than what has happened in the past.”

“And if the thefts stopped?” Khriss asked.

“They will not,” the Lord Artisan replied with a shake of his head. “The fact is, the Diem needs what the other Professions produce. It can’t eat without the farmers’ food; it can’t function without the Hall’s scribes; and it can’t survive without my cooks and servants. Even if you agree to stop taking works of art from my craftsmen, the thefts will continue as long as the Diem is in existence.”

Kenton watched, uncertain whether to be angry for the intrusion or thankful for the distraction. Perhaps if Khriss continued with her eternal questioning, Kenton could think of a way to bring the Lord Artisan to his side.

“Then, is there a way that the Diem could pay for what it takes?” Khriss asked.

Rite shrugged. “I don’t see how. The only money the Diem has it receives as gifts from the other Professions.”

“Yes, but can you ignore that sand mastery is a wondrous tool?” Khriss asked, walking forward, to stand beside the Lord Artisan’s desk, speaking more friendly.

“I do not deny that,” the Lord Artisan replied, seating himself on the side of his desk. “Unfortunately, its practitioners have squandered its potential.”

“That can change,” Khriss assured. “You yourself said the future is more important than the past. Is there no way the sand masters could be of use to the members of your Profession?”

The Lord Artisan set down his ledger, rubbing at his chin in thought. “If the stories are true--I can never be certain, considering how secretive the mastrells are--then there are many ways they could be useful. I’ve seen a sand master lift more than ten men, heard reports of a mastrell drilling a hole through a foot of stone with his mind. Those sorts of abilities would be extremely useful to the construction-oriented sub-professions. But, such speculation is useless. The sand masters would never lower themselves to such a level.”

“And if they would?” Khriss asked.

The Lord Artisan cocked his head slightly to the side, then shrugged. “If an arrangement could be made, then I would be much more amiable toward the Diem. However, I couldn’t allow them to continue taking wantonly. That kind of power is too easily abused.”

Kenton lowered his hands to his waist, discarding his planned arguments. Khriss continued to speak through her diminutive translator, her voice encouraging. Slowly, the Lord Artisan’s eyes became less hostile.

“They could take a percentage of the projects they help complete,” Khriss continued. “And apply that toward what they need from your members. That way, if you need more help for some reason, there is incentive for them to cooperate.”

“Your proposal has merit, Lord Mastrell,” Rite said, standing and looking at Kenton. “You should have put this idea forward sooner. Perhaps if the other Taisha knew you were willing to give sand mastery a practical use, the previous vote would not have gone so strongly against you.”

“It is a relatively . . . new proposal, Lord Artisan,” Kenton replied. “I haven’t even had much time to think it over myself.”

Rite nodded. “So is what your associate says an offer or a postulation?”

Kenton paused. It completely broke with tradition. Sand masters didn’t sell their powers for money--it was precisely that sort of transgression that had lost Drile his mastrell’s sash. But, if the money went to the Diem instead of individuals . . . . Besides, the Diem had been selling itself for years. It had been funded in exchange for protection from Kershtian threats.

“It is an offer, My Lord,” Kenton replied.

“Then I accept, My Lord,” Rite said after a moment’s thought. Then he held up a finger. “Provided the Diem can pay back its debts as a sign of good faith.”

“How am I supposed--” Kenton cut himself off. He took a deep breath. “All right, My Lord. The Lady Judge has placed a similar restriction on me. You’ll get your seven hundred thousand Lak.”

Rite shook his head. “Seven hundred thousand? I don’t know who has been giving you your information, Lord Mastrell. You owe us a hundred and fifty thousand, and the Fields another fifty thousand.”

Two hundred thousand? Kenton frowned in confusion. Then to whom did the Diem owe the other five hundred thousand? The Lord Merchant?

“You’ll get your Lak, My Lord,” Kenton promised, bowing slightly after the manner of Taisha, an action mimicked by Rite. “I understand you are a busy man, and . . .”

Kenton trailed off, noticing a glaring look from Khriss.

“Oh, just one more thing, My Lord,” Kenton said.

Rite looked up from his stacks of papers. “Yes?”

“My associate here, the Duchess Khrissalla, is searching for a friend of hers. His name is Prince Gevalden of darkside--he is a very important kelzi in her homeland. He would have arrived in Lossand a couple of years ago. Have you ever heard of him?”

Rite paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I know little of the workings of darksiders, but I would probably recall if someone of that level of prestige came to meet me. I do not remember any such meeting.”

“Thank you anyway, My Lord,” Kenton said.

“And you, Lord Mastrell,” Rite responded. “I have often wondered what our two Professions could accomplish if we worked together. You may not realize this, but I have, over the years, offered the Diem many proposals similar to the very one you just gave me. I was always rejected.”

“I hadn’t realized that, Lord Artisan,” Kenton said, blinking slightly in surprise.

Rite nodded. “Good day, Lord Mastrell.”

#

Kenton strode out of the room much more optimistic than when he had strode in. It wasn’t a complete victory--he still had to pay of the Diem’s debts. Still, at least one of the Taisha seemed to have come to his side. If he could convince one, then perhaps . . .

Of course, he hadn’t been the one to do the convincing. He turned as he left the room to find Khriss following behind, smiling with a self-satisfied air.

“That was . . . well done,” he complimented thankfully.

Khriss snorted. “Don’t mistake me,” she replied. “I’m still angry at you. I just thought I would intervene before the Lord Artisan had us thrown out of the building.”

“I’m sorry about your prince,” Kenton said.

Khriss frowned. “I don’t really know what I expected,” she confessed. “Why would he know anything about darksiders? You people don’t even know what nobility is. Anyway, where are we going next?”

“We?” Kenton asked with raised eyebrows.

“I assume you’re visiting the Taisha, trying to get support so they don’t destroy your Profession.”

Kenton raised his eyebrows in surprise. She knew a lot for having only been in Kezare for a day. “True,” he admitted. “But I won’t be able to do any more today. Most Taisha close their offices at third hour.” He nodded toward the closed doors before them to prove his point. The waiting room, nearly full when he had arrived, was now completely empty--its occupants would have to return the next day to continue their waiting.

Khriss muttered something in Dynastic Kenton didn’t catch. “All right,” she said. “Tomorrow then? Who will you visit tomorrow?”

“I was planning on going to see the Lord General,” Kenton explained.

“He’s gone,” Khriss replied. “He went on a hunt of some sort.”

“A hunt?” Kenton asked with confusion. “To the deep sands? Why would he . . . .”

“He’s trying to avoid you,” Eric said, pouring himself a drink from the room’s water basin. “Father always goes on hunts when he thinks a lot of people are going to try and visit him. He does it just to spite them.”

“Father?” Khriss asked with surprise.

Eric smiled, raising his cup as if in toast, then gulping it down.

“Who are you?” Khriss wondered.

“Someone of absolutely no import,” Eric replied, “and determined to stay that way, thank you.”

“I don’t have time to wait,” Kenton said, frowning. “I assume he’ll head for the closest deep sand.”

Eric nodded.

“It’s only about a few days away . . .” Kenton mused. “Less if you have a quick mount.”

Eric smiled. “Father won’t take kindly to having his hunt interrupted.”

“I don’t see that he’s left me much choice,” Kenton said.

“I’m going with you,” Khriss announced.

Kenton sighed. “Khrissalla, I am not going to drag you all the way to the deep sands.”

“I can--”

“No,” Kenton interrupted. “The deep sands are dangerous enough for those who have lived their entire lives on dayside. I’m sorry, but I can’t bring someone I need to watch over.”

“After what I just did for you?” she asked incredulously. “You owe me!”

Kenton sighed. “Not again . . . I appreciate what you did in there. The Lord General is different than Rite, however. He won’t react to negotiating or sweet-talking. I’m still not sure how I’m going to convince him.” Then, to head off her continued objection, Kenton raised a hand. “Look, I’ll ask him about Gevalden for you.”

Khriss frowned. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone? None of the Taisha will see me.”

“I’ll give you a letter of recommendation,” Kenton replied. “You can use it to get in to speak with them.”

Khriss frowned, then shot a look at Baon that Kenton couldn’t quite read. Finally she nodded. “All right. N’Teese, go with him and get the letter. Bring it back to our house.”

And, without another word, she pushed open the doors leading outside, and strode out.

#

Kenton looked at the constructions with an interested eye. Between the time he had left to visit the Lord Admiral and his return, the Diem’s courtyard had gone through a transformation.

Workers had erected scaffolding and were proceeding to build a broad stairway leading to the upper floors. The men worked efficiently--they couldn’t afford to displease the Lord Mastrell--but quickly--they also knew they probably wouldn’t be paid for their efforts.

“Do you like it, sir?” Dirin asked anxiously. “I thought, I mean, since the ladders didn’t work, that . . .”

“It’s a good idea, Dirin,” Kenton replied approvingly. “Exactly what I was looking for. Thank you.”

“They’re going to build one in every corner,” Dirin explained. “Then everyone will be able to get to all three floors.”

“Perfect,” Kenton said. The steps weren’t ready yet, however, so he called his sand to life.

“N’Teese, wait here. I’ll go write your mistress her letter.”

The girl shrugged indifferently as Kenton rose into the air. He landed on his balcony and stepped into his quarters, walking directly to the smaller side-room with the desk and bookshelf. Where had Praxton kept his writing materials?

He searched in the desk for a moment before finding what he wanted. He leaned down, penning a letter requesting the Taisha agree to see Khriss.

He was about halfway done when he heard a zinkall fire behind him.

White Sand

Chapter Seventeen

Ais stood in the sand’s most unholy of locations, surrounded by the Ry’Kenshan. He felt an odd, almost morbid interest in the Diem. He had lived in Kezare for all of his thirty-six years, nearly two decades of that as a trackt, and he had never once visited the building.

Sand masters surrounded him. The sense of loathing he felt had almost grown to the point of over-sensitivity--there were so many of them that the disgust was overwhelming. He remained stiff, however. In control. This was just another assignment. He wasn’t associating with the sand masters out of choice; they would not taint him with their blasphemous disregard for the Sand Lord’s powers. He was fulfilling his duty, and nothing else.

But, is that all? A voice in his head wondered. Can you really claim to be free from contamination? Regardless of what you say, you were given a choice. You could have refused the Lady Judge.

Other Kershtians would see this assignment as a conflict between their religious views and their profession. Such was why they refused to join the Hall.

It is not a conflict! Ais told himself forcefully. But, what would he do when he found himself unable to meet the demands of both religion and duty?

Ais cast such thoughts from his mind. Eighteen years in the Hall, and he’d never once run into such a paradox. He never would. Being a Kershtian did not make him incapable of being a trackt.

He turned to look around the Diem. This Kenton, the new Lord Mastrell, had disappeared onto his balcony in a garish display of power. Ais was left with the little Kershtian girl--or was she Lossandin?--and the one known as Eric.

Ais felt another stab of doubt. Eric stood a short distance away, speaking affably with a red-haired sand master. Did the man recognize him? He must. Why then hadn’t he said anything?

When Ais had first seen the man, he had nearly been paralyzed with shock. This man, the one who had saved him not a day before, was an apparent friend of the new Lord Mastrell. Ais did his best, struggling to maintain his sense of control and purpose, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t get rid of the anxiety. This man knew what he was--what he became. The shame was nearly more than Ais could bear . . . .

Ais took a deep breath, heading off his rage before it became visible. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not here, in front of the sand masters. He had to remain strong. Where was the Lord Mastrell, anyway?

Ais paused. He thought he’d seen something. A shadowed form moving past the Lord Mastrell’s balcony. Ais squinted, taking a step forward. What was . . .

A body crashed into Kenton’s balcony, smashing the banister and arcing out into the air above the courtyard. Its form, clothed in Kershtian robes, dropped to the ground with a muffled thump.

“Aiesha!” Ais cursed, dashing forward.

#

Kenton spun, waiting for the arrow to rip into his flesh. It never came. As he turned he caught sight of a Kershtian standing in the doorway, his forehead scarred with the square of the A’Kar’s new DaiKeen. The man was shaking his zinkall, an arrow jammed halfway out of its launch tube.

Their eyes met and held for an eternal moment, then Kenton dropped to the ground as two arrows shot over the man’s shoulders, fired from behind.

Kenton came up with a handful of sand. The first Kershtian raised his zinkall, abandoning the jammed arrow to fire from one of the other tubes. Kenton didn’t intend to give him the opportunity. His sand burst to life with a flash, then a ribbon screamed directly for the Kershtian’s chest.

The arrow fired just before Kenton’s sand arrived, but it went wide, snapping into the wood of Praxton’s desk. The ribbon of sand hit the Kershtian’s chest at a speed impossible of the most powerful of zinkall.

The sand turned black and sprayed off the Kershtian’s armor like water splashing against a stone wall.

Kenton stood stupefied for a deadly moment, staring disbelievingly at the black sand that lay scattered on the floor before his opponent. They’re . . . terken! Impervious to sand mastery! He thought with amazement.

Jut then the Kershtian’s third arrow fired directly at his chest. The arrow clipped the edge of the jammed one as it left the tube, and the shot went just a bit to the right, glancing off one of Kenton’s ribs instead of taking him in the stomach as intended. Still, the flash of pain was powerful, and it caused Kenton to gasp, bringing him back to the conflict.

The Kershtians were terken. As incredible as it sounded, he had to accept it for now.

He drew his sword at the same time as the Kershtian did, and rushed forward to engage the man. The assassins had him trapped in the smaller side room--fortunately, that meant that only one could get to him at a time. Unfortunately, the windows were too small for him to escape through. If he didn’t get out quickly, eventually one of the men in the main room would get in a lucky shot.

The Kershtian prepared for Kenton’s attack--they had obviously been warned that this sand master was also a swordsman. The man raised his carapace sword, falling into a fighting stance to meet Kenton’s charge. Therefore, he was completely shocked when instead of attacking him, Kenton flipped over his head with a sand-boosted jump.

Kenton’s tucked spin barely fit through the space between the Kershtian and the ceiling. As he landed he immediately swung a blow at the Kershtian’s unprotected back, dropping the man with a swipe of the sword. Then he began to dash toward the room’s back door, trying to avoid zinkall shots from the two assassins positioned near the balcony.

Arrows snapped against the stone floor and walls of his room, one coming close enough he could feel the wind of its passing. Kenton rushed past the room’s plush chairs and leapt over Praxton’s long carapace conference table, finally arriving at the exit. He threw open the door, and came face-to-face with a fourth assassin, his zinkall lowered to fire.

Kenton cursed, dodging backward as the man fired. Kenton’s sand whipped down, trying to grab the arrow. However, as soon as his sand touched the missile, it fell black and stale.

The arrows too? Kenton thought incredulously. What on the sands is happening?

Kenton managed to dodge the arrow, but he knew the real danger wasn’t from in front. The two men behind fired their final shots even as Kenton jumped to the side. Kenton allowed himself to fall, throwing himself backward. The two arrows passed over him as he fell, one hitting the Kershtian in the doorway.

Just before he hit the ground, Kenton caught himself with his sand, then used it to flip him back to his feet, spinning him in the air to land facing the two assassins by the balcony. The men held their Kershtian shortspears at the ready, their arrows spent, as they inched toward Kenton in attack stances.

The two men approached carefully, moving to flank him. They were out of arrows, but Kenton knew that if he tried to run, he would likely get a spear in the back. Kenton backed toward the doorway--and only then did he realize his mistake. He heard a sound behind him--the Kershtian who had been waiting outside wasn’t dead.

All four men moved at once. Kenton leapt forward, dropping his sword to control his sand with both hands. Both spearmen moved to strike. The man in the doorway collapsed--his wound proving too much for him.

The spearmen drove in for the kill, driving their weapons toward Kenton’s chest. Unfortunately, they hadn’t realized where Kenton’s sand was going. It shot between them, grabbing the room’s long carapace table. Kenton used the large piece of furniture like an enormous club, slamming it into the side of one of his opponents. The man dropped, his bones cracking ominously. The second man looked to the side in surprise, allowing Kenton to sidestep his spear thrust.

“You’re terken,” Kenton mumbled in Kershtian, stepping backward. “But you aren’t Ter-table now, are you?”

The Kershtian didn’t appreciate the joke. He took a careful step away, standing between Kenton and the balcony. Kenton held his hands before him, the enormous conference table hanging in the air beside him.

The Kershtian continued to back away, regarding the table with unreadable eyes. They said you would be impervious to my sand, Kenton thought, taking a step forward. The table followed. They didn’t warn you that sand doesn’t have to touch you to be deadly.

The Kershtian leapt forward, his spear raised. Kenton spun in a full circle, swinging the table with all his power. There was a sickening crunch. The Kershtian’s body was hurled limply through the air, flying across the room to smash through balcony’s banister and continue out into the courtyard. Kenton heard it thump to the ground below.

Kenton lowered the table with a sigh, letting his sand die as he reached down pick up his sword. It was purely by happenstance that he placed the table where he did, blocking the arrow.

Kenton jumped, dodging backward as another Kershtian rushed through the open doorway behind him.

How many of them are there? Kenton thought, growiling to himself with anger.

He turned and ran. He dashed toward the balcony as the Kershtian behind him lowered his weapon to fire again. Kenton rolled toward the balcony, barely grabbing a handful of sand from the floor as his momentum carried him off the now banister-less balcony.

A moment later Kenton reappeared, launched into the air in a spray of glowing sand. His momentum carried him high into the air. And there, looking down on the Diem, he saw two tan-robed forms. They stood on the other side of the building, preparing to climb down a rope to enter the room on the opposite side of the hallway as Kenton’s own.

Sands curse you! Kenton thought with rage. They weren’t satisfied with leaving Diem to die after cutting off all its limbs; they had to deliver the killing blow themselves.

Kenton yelled, directing his fall so that he landed beside the surprised Kershtian assassins. The first one barely had time to turn as Kenton angrily whipped his sword free and attacked.

As Kenton swung his weapon, three ribbons of sand fell in behind the blade, pushing it forward with supernatural strength. The sand-driven blow sheared completely through the man’s waist, spraying his companion’s face with gore. The second man looked up, dangling from the rope with a surprised expression. Kenton’s sand sliced the rope. The Kershtian fell, bouncing off the side of the balcony below and continuing down three stories.

Kenton took a deep breath. When he turned he found two more Kershtians standing on the other side of the roof, near where Kenton’s own balcony would be. They had bows.

Kenton gathered his sand, preparing to dodge away. Fear struck him as he did so, however. The men were aiming carefully--this wasn’t like the wild battle below, with the short distance zinkall. Bowmen would easily pick him off.

A hand grabbed one of the archers from below, toppling him to the ground. Kenton started in surprise as a dark-clothed form pulled himself up onto the roof. The second bowman dropped his weapon with a cry of surprise, reaching for the carapace hatchet at his waist. Ais’s zinkall took him point-blank in the face.