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she’d come to T’Telir, determined to prove the problem wasn’t with her. It’d been with someone else. Anyone else. As long as Vivenna wasn’t ﬂawed. But Hallandren had repeatedly proved that she was ﬂawed. And now that she’d tried and failed so often, she found it hard to act. By choosing to act, she might fail—and that was so daunting that doing nothing seemed preferable. It was the crowning arrogance in Vivenna’s life. She bowed her head. One last bit of feathered hypocrisy to adorn her royal hair. You want to be competent? she thought. You want to learn to be in control of what goes on around you, rather than just being pushed around? Then you’ll have to learn to deal with failure. It was frightening, but she knew it was true. She stood up and walked over to Vasher’s pack. She pulled out a wrinkled overshirt and a pair of leggings. Both had tassels hanging from the cuffs. Vivenna put them on. Vasher’s spare cloak followed. It smelled like him, and was cut—like his other one—into the vague shape of a man. She understood, at least, one of the reasons his clothing looked so tattered. She pulled out a couple of colorful handkerchiefs. “Protect me,” she Commanded the cloak, imagining it grabbing people who tried to attack her. She placed a hand on the sleeve of the shirt. “Upon call,” she Commanded, “become my fingers and grip that which I must.” She’d only heard Vasher give the Command a couple of times, and she still wasn’t quite sure how to visualize what she wanted the shirt to do. She imagined the tassels closing around her hands as she had seen them do for Vasher. She Awakened the leggings, commanding them to strengthen her legs. The leg tassels began to twist, and she raised each foot in turn, letting the tassels wrap around the bottoms. Her stance felt firmer, the leggings pulled tight against her skin. Finally, she tied on the sword Vasher had given her. She still didn’t know how to use it, though she could hold it properly. It felt right to bring it. Then she left. ~ Lightsong had rarely seen a goddess cry. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” Blushweaver said, heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had things under control.” The dungeon beneath the God King’s palace was a cramped room. Cages— like the kind that might be used for animals—lined both walls. They were large enough to hold a god. Lightsong couldn’t decide if that was just a coincidence. Blushweaver snifﬂed. “I thought I had the God King’s priesthood on my side. We were working together.” Something’s wrong about this, Lightsong thought, glancing at the group of priests chatting anxiously at the side of the room. Llarimar sat in his own cage—the one next to Lightsong’s—head bowed. Lightsong looked back at Blushweaver. “How long?” he asked. “How long were you working with them?” “From the beginning,” Blushweaver said. “I was supposed to get the Command phrases. We came up with the
plan together!” “Why did they turn on you?” She shook her head, glancing down. “They claimed I didn’t do my part. That I was withholding things from them.” “Were you?” She looked away, eyes tearstained. She looked very odd, sitting in her cell. A beautiful woman of deific proportions, wearing a delicate silk gown, sitting on the ground, surrounded by bars. Crying. We have to get out of here, Lightsong thought. He crawled over to the bars separating his cage from Llarimar’s ignoring the pain of his thigh. “Scoot,” he hissed. “Scoot!” Llarimar glanced up. He looked haggard. “What does one use to pick a lock?” Lightsong asked. Llarimar blinked. “What?” “Pick a lock,” Lightsong said, pointing. “Maybe I’ll discover that I know how to do it, if I get my hands into the right position. I still haven’t figured out why my swordsmanship skills were so poor. But surely I can do this. If I can only remember what to use.” Llarimar stared at him. “Maybe I—” Lightsong began. “What is wrong with you?” Llarimar whispered. Lightsong paused. “What is wrong with you!” Llarimar bellowed, standing. “You were a scribe, Lightsong. A Colors-cursed scribe. Not a soldier. Not a detective. Not a thief. You were an accountant for a local moneylender!” What? Lightsong thought. “You were as much an idiot then as you are now!” Llarimar shouted. “Don’t you ever think about what you’re going to do before you just saunter off and do it! Why can’t you just stop, occasionally, and ask yourself if you’re being a complete fool or not? I’ll give you a hint! The answer is usually yes!” Lightsong stumbled back from the bars, shocked. Llarimar. Llarimar was yelling. “And every time,” Llarimar said, turning away, “I get in trouble with you. Nothing has changed. You become a god, and I still end up in prison!” The heavy priest slumped down, breathing in deep gasps, shaking his head in obvious frustration. Blushweaver was staring at them. And so were the priests. What is it I find odd about them? Lightsong thought, trying to sort out his thoughts and emotions as the group of priests approached. “Lightsong,” one of them said, stooping down beside his cage. “We need your Command phrases.” He snorted. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve forgotten them. You probably know my reputation for being weak-minded. I mean, what kind of fool would come charging in here and get himself captured so easily?” He smiled at them. The priest by his cage sighed, then waved a hand at the others. They unlocked Blushweaver’s cage and pulled her out. She yelled and fought, and Lightsong smiled at the trouble she gave them. Yet there were six priests, and they finally managed to get her out. Then one got out a knife and slit her throat. The shock of the moment hit Lightsong like a physical force. He froze, eyes wide, watching in horror as the red blood spilled out the front of Blushweaver’s throat, staining her beautiful nightgown. Far more disturbing was the look of panicked
terror in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes. “No!” Lightsong screamed, slamming against the bars, reaching helplessly toward her. He strained his godly muscles, pressing himself against the steel as he felt his body begin to shake. It was useless. Even a perfect body couldn’t push its way through steel. “You bastards!” he yelled. “You Colors-cursed bastards!” He struggled, pounding the bars with one hand as Blushweaver’s eyes began to dim. And then her BioChroma faded. Like a blazing bonfire dimming down to a single candle. It puffed out. “No...” Lightsong said, sliding down to his knees, numb. The priest regarded him. “So you did care for her,” he said. “I’m sorry that we had to do that.” He knelt down, solemn. “However, Lightsong, we decided that we had to kill her so that you would understand that we’re serious. I do know your reputation, and I know that you usually take things lightheartedly. That is a fine attribute to have in many situations. Right now, you must realize how dangerous things are. We have shown you that we will kill. If you don’t do as we ask, others will die.” “Bastard...” Lightsong whispered. “I need your Command phrases,” the priest said. “This is important. More important than you can understand.” “You can beat them out of me,” Lightsong growled, feeling rage slowly overwhelm his shock. “No,” the priest said, shaking his head. “We’re actually new to all of this. We don’t know how to torture very well, and it would take too much time to force you to talk that way. Those who are skilled at torture aren’t being very cooperative right now. Never pay a mercenary before the job is done.” The priest waved, and the others left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground. Then they moved to Llarimar’s cage. “No!” Lightsong screamed. “We are serious, Lightsong,” the man said. “Very, very, serious. We know how much you care for your high priest. You now know that we will kill him if you don’t do as we say.” “Why?” Lightsong said. “What is this even about? The God King you serve could order us to move the armies if he wanted to! We’d listen to him. Why do you care so much about those Command phrases?” The priests forced Llarimar from his cage, then pushed him to his knees. One put a knife to his throat. “Red panther!” Lightsong yelled, weeping. “That’s the Command phrase. Please. Leave him be.” The priest nodded to the others, and they put Llarimar back in his cell. They left Blushweaver’s corpse on the ground, facedown in the blood. “I hope that you haven’t lied to us, Lightsong,” the main priest said. “We’re not playing games. It would be unfortunate if we discovered that you still are.” He shook his head. “We are not cruel men. But we are working for something very important. Do not test us.” With that, he left. Lightsong barely noticed. He was still staring at Blushweaver, trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating, or that she was faking, or that something
would change to make him realize that it was all just an elaborate scam. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, no....” Annotations for Chapter 53 Fifty-Four Annotations for Chapter 54 “What’s the word on the street, Tuft?” Vivenna asked, sidling up to a beggar. He snorted, holding out his cup to those few who passed in the early light. Tuft was always one of the first to arrive in the mornings. “Why do I care?” he said. “Come on,” Vivenna said. “You kicked me out of this spot on three different occasions. I figure you owe me something.” “I don’t owe nobody nothing,” he said, squinting at the passers by with his one eye. The other eye was simply an empty hole. He didn’t wear a patch. “Particularly don’t owe you nothing,” he said. “You were a plant all the time. Not a real beggar.” “I...” Vivenna paused. “I wasn’t a plant, Tuft. I just thought I should know what it was like.” “Huh?” “Living among you,” she said. “I figured your life couldn’t be easy. But I couldn’t know—not really know—until I tried it for myself. So I came to the streets. Determined to live here for a time.” “Foolish thing to do.” “No,” she said. “The fools are those who pass, without even thinking about what it must be like to live like you. Maybe if they knew, they’d give you something.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out one of the bright handkerchiefs. She placed one in the cup. “I don’t have any coins, but I know you can sell that.” He grunted, eyeing it. “What do you mean by word on the street?” “Disturbances,” Vivenna said. “Ones that are out of the ordinary. Perhaps involving Awakeners.” “Go to the Third Dock slums,” Tuft said. “Look around the buildings near the wharf. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for there.” ~ Light peeked through the window. Morning already? Vasher thought, head down, still hanging by his wrists. He knew what to expect from torture. He was not new to it. He knew how to scream, how to give the torturer what he wanted. He knew how to not expend his strength in resisting too much. He also knew that none of that was likely to do any good. How would he be after a week of torture? Blood dripped down his chest, staining his undershorts. A dozen small pains nagged at his skin, cuts that had been drenched in lemon juice. Denth stood with his back facing Vasher, bloodied knives on the ground around him. Vasher looked up, forcing a smile. “Not as much fun as you thought it would be, is it, Denth?” Denth didn’t turn. There’s still a good man in there, Vasher thought. Even after all these years. He’s just been beaten down. Bloodied. Cut up worse than I have been. “Torturing me won’t bring her back,” Vasher said. Denth turned, eyes dark. “No. It won’t.” He picked up another knife. ~ The priests pushed Siri through the passageways of the palace. They occasionally passed corpses in the
dark black hallways, and she could still hear fighting in places. What is going on? Someone was attacking the palace. But who? For a moment, she hoped it was her people—her father’s soldiers, coming to save her. She discarded that immediately. The men opposing the priests were using Lifeless soldiers; that ruled out Idris. It was someone else. A third force. And they wanted to free her from the grip of the priests. Hopefully, her calls for help would not go unheeded. Treledees and his men led her quickly through the palace, passing through the colorful inner rooms in their rush to get to wherever they were going. The white cuffs of Siri’s dress suddenly began to bend with color. She looked up with hope as they entered a last room. The God King stood inside the room, surrounded by a group of priests and soldiers. “Susebron!” she said, straining against her captives. He took a step toward her, but a guard held his arm, pulling him back. They’re touching him, Siri thought. All semblance of respect is gone. No need to pretend now. The God King looked down at his arm, frowning. He tried to tug it free, but another soldier stepped up to help hold him. Susebron glanced at this man, then at Siri, confused. “I don’t understand either,” she said. Treledees entered the room. “Bless the Colors,” he said. “You’ve arrived. Quickly, we must go. This place is not safe.” “Treledees,” Siri said, turning to glare at him. “What is going on?” He ignored her. “I am your queen,” Siri said. “You will answer my question!” He actually stopped, surprising her. He turned with an annoyed look. “A group of Lifeless has attacked the palace, Vessel. They are trying to get to the God King.” “I figured out that much, priest,” Siri snapped. “Who are they?” “We don’t know,” Treledees said, turning from her. As he did, a distant scream came from outside the room. It was followed by the sound of fighting. Treledees glanced toward the sounds. “We have to move,” he said to one of the other priests. There were, perhaps, a dozen of them in the room, as well as a half-dozen soldiers. “The palace has too many doorways and passages. It would be too easy to surround us.” “The back exit?” the other priest said. “If we can get to it,” Treledees responded. “Where is that squadron of reinforcements I demanded?” “They’re not coming, Your Grace,” a new voice said. Siri turned to see Bluefingers, looking haggard, enter through the far door with a couple of wounded soldiers. “The enemy has taken the east wing and is pushing this way.” Treledees cursed. “We have to get His Majesty to safety!” Bluefingers said. “I’m well aware of that,” Treledees snapped. “If the east wing has fallen,” the other priest said, “we won’t be able to get out that way.” Siri watched, helpless, trying to get Bluefingers’s attention. He met her eyes, then nodded covertly, smiling. “Your Grace,” Bluefingers said. “We can escape through the tunnels.” The
sounds of fighting were growing closer. It seemed to Siri that their room was virtually surrounded by combat. “Perhaps,” Treledees said as one of his priests rushed to the door to peek out. The soldiers who had come with Bluefingers were resting by the wall, bleeding. One of them seemed to have stopped breathing. “We should go,” Bluefingers said urgently. Treledees was quiet. Then he walked over to one of the fallen soldiers and picked up the man’s sword. “Very well,” he said. “Gendren, take half of the soldiers and go with Bluefingers. Take His Majesty to safety.” He looked at Bluefingers. “Seek the docks, if you can.” “Yes, Your Grace,” Bluefingers said, looking relieved. The priests released the God King, and he rushed to Siri, taking her in his arms. She held him, tense, trying to sort through her emotions. Bluefingers. Going with him made sense—the look in his eyes indicated that he had a plan to save her and the God King, get them away from the priests. And yet...something felt wrong to her. One of the priests gathered three of the soldiers and then moved to the far side of the room, peeking out. They waved to Siri and the God King. The other priests joined Treledees, taking weapons from the dead guards, their expressions grim. Bluefingers pulled on Siri’s arm. “Come, my queen,” he whispered. “I made you a promise before. Let’s get you out of this mess.” “What about the priests?” she asked. Treledees glanced at her. “Foolish girl. Go! The attackers are moving in this direction. We will let them see us, then we will lead them in another direction. They will assume we know where the God King is.” The priests with him did not look hopeful. If—when—they were caught, they would be slaughtered. “Come on!” Bluefingers hissed. Susebron looked at her, frightened. She slowly let Bluefingers tug her and the God King to the side, to where the solitary priest and three soldiers had been joined by a group of servants in brown. Something whispered in her mind. Something...Lightsong had told her. Don’t make too many waves until you’re ready to strike, he had said. Sudden and surprising, that’s how you want to do things. You don’t want to appear nonthreatening—people are always suspicious of the innocent. The trick is to appear average. Average. It was good advice. Advice that, likely, others knew. And understood. She glanced at Bluefingers, walking beside her, urging her forward. nervous, as always. The fighting, she thought. Several groups have been contending back and forth, seizing control of my room. One force belongs to the priests. The second force—the one with the Lifeless—belongs to someone else. This mysterious third party. Someone in T’Telir had been pushing the kingdom toward war. But who would have anything at all to gain from such a disaster? Hallandren, which would expend huge resources to quell rebels, fighting a battle that they would win—but likely at great cost? It didn’t make sense. Who would gain the most if Hallandren and Idris went to war?
“Wait!” Siri said, stopping. Things were suddenly falling into place. “Vessel?” Bluefingers asked. Susebron laid a hand on her shoulder, looking at her with confusion. Why would the priests sacrifice themselves if they were planning to kill Susebron? Why would they simply let us go, allow us to ﬂee, if the God King’s safety were not their prime concern? She looked into Bluefingers’s eyes, and saw him grow more nervous. His face paled, and she knew. “How does it feel, Bluefingers?” she asked. “You’re from Pahn Kahl, yet everyone always just assumes that your people are Hallandren. The Pahn Kahl people were here first, in this land, but it was taken from you. Now you’re just another province, part of the kingdom of your conquerors. “You want to be free, but your people have no military of their own. And so here you are. Unable to fight. Unable to free yourselves. Considered second-class. And yet, if your oppressors were to get into a war, it might give you an opening. A chance to break away...” He met her eyes, then took off in a dash, ﬂeeing from the room. “What in the name of the colors?” Treledees said. Siri ignored him, looking up into the God King’s face. “You were right all along,” she said. “We should have trusted your priests.” “Vessel?” Treledees said, stalking over. “We can’t go that way,” Siri said. “Bluefingers was leading us into a trap.” The high priest opened his mouth to respond, but she met his eyes sternly and turned her hair the deep red of anger. Bluefingers had betrayed her. The one person she’d thought she could trust to help them. “We go for the front gates, then,” Treledees said, looking over their motley collection of priests and wounded soldiers. “And try to fight our way out.” ~ It was easy for Vivenna to find the location the beggar had mentioned. The building—a slum tenement—was surrounded by gawkers, despite the morning hour. People whispered, talking about spirits and death and ghosts from the sea. Vivenna stopped at the perimeter, trying to see what had drawn their attention. The docks were to her left, the sea brine pungent. The dock slums, where many of the dockhands lived and drank, were a small section of buildings clustered between warehouses and shipyards. Why would Vasher have come here? He had been planning to visit the Court of Gods. From what she could gather, there had been a murder in the building where the crowd had formed. People whispered of ghosts and of Kalad’s Phantoms, but Vivenna simply shook her head. This wasn’t what she was looking for. She’d have to— Vivenna? The voice was faint, but she could just barely make it out. And recognize it. “Nightblood?” she whispered. Vivenna. Come get me. She shivered. She wanted to turn and run—even thinking about the sword was nauseating. Yet Vasher had taken Nightblood with him. She was in the right place after all. The gawkers spoke of a murder. Was Vasher the person who had been killed? Suddenly concerned,
she shoved her way through the crowd, ignoring yells that she should stay back. She climbed up the stairs, passing door after door. In her haste, she almost missed the one with black smoke creeping out under it. She froze. Then, taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was poorly kept, the ﬂoor littered with trash, the furniture rickety and worn. Four dead bodies lay on the ﬂoor. Nightblood was stuck in the chest of the fourth, an old man with a leathery face who lay on his side, dead eyes wide. Vivenna! Nightblood said happily. You found me. I’m so excited. I tried to get them to take me to the Court of Gods, but it didn’t turn out well. He did draw me a little bit. That’s good, right? She fell to her knees, feeling sick. Vivenna? Nightblood asked. I did well, right? VaraTreledees threw me into the ocean, but I got back out. I’m quite satisfied. You should tell me that I did well. She didn’t respond. Oh, Nightblood said. And Vasher is hurt, I think. We should go find him. She looked up. “Where?” she asked, uncertain if the sword would even be able to hear her. The God King’s palace, Nightblood said. He went to get your sister out. I think he likes you, even though he says he doesn’t. He says you’re annoying. Vivenna blinked. “Siri? You went after Siri?” Yes, but VaraTreledees stopped us. “Who is that?” She asked, frowning. You call him Denth. He’s Shashara’s brother. I wonder if she’s here too. I’m not sure why he threw me in the water. I thought he liked me. “Vasher...” she said, climbing back to her feet, feeling woozy from the sword’s inﬂuence. Vasher had been taken by Denth. She shivered, remembering the anger in Denth’s voice when he’d spoken of Vasher. She gritted her teeth and grabbed a dirty blanket off the crude bed and wrapped it around Nightblood so that she wouldn’t have to touch him. Ah, Nightblood said. You don’t really need to do that. I had the old man clean me off after he got me out of the water. She ignored the sword, managing to lift the bundle with only slight nausea. Then she left, heading for the Court of Gods. ~ Lightsong sat, staring at the stones in front of him. A trickle of Blushweaver’s blood was making its way down a crack in the rock. “Your Grace?” Llarimar asked quietly. He stood up against the bars between their cages. Lightsong didn’t respond. “Your Grace, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” “What good is godhood?” Lightsong whispered. Silence. Lanterns ﬂickered on either side of the small chamber. Nobody had cleaned up Blushweaver’s body, though they had left a couple of priests and Lifeless behind to watch Lightsong. They still needed him, should it turn out that he’d lied about the Command phrases. He hadn’t. “What?” Llarimar finally asked. “What good is it?” Lightsong said. “We aren’t gods. Gods don’t die like
that. A little cut. Not even as wide as my palm.” “I’m sorry,” Llarimar said. “She was a good woman, even among gods.” “She wasn’t a god,” Lightsong said. “None of us are. Those dreams are lies, if they led me to this. I’ve always known the truth, but nobody pays attention to what I say. Shouldn’t they listen to the one they worship? Particularly if he’s telling you not to worship him?” “I...” Llarimar seemed at a loss for words. “They should have seen,” Lightsong hissed. “They should have seen the truth about me! An idiot. Not a god, but a scribe. A silly little scribe who was allowed to play god for a few years! A coward.” “You’re no coward,” Llarimar said. “I couldn’t save her,” Lightsong said. “I couldn’t do anything. I just sat there and screamed. Maybe if I’d been more brave, I’d have joined with her and taken control of the armies. But I hesitated. And now she’s dead.” Silence. “You were a scribe,” Llarimar said quietly to the damp air. “And you were one of the best men I’d ever known. You were my brother.” Lightsong looked up. Llarimar stared out through the bars, staring at one of the ﬂickering lanterns hanging from the stark stone wall. “I was a priest, even then. I worked in the palace of Kindwinds the Honest. I saw how he lied to play political games. The longer I stayed in that palace, the more my faith waned.” He fell silent for a moment, then he looked up. “And then you died. Died rescuing my daughter. That’s the girl you see in your visions, Lightsong. The description is perfect. She was your favorite niece. Still would be, I assume. If you hadn’t...” He shook his head. “When we found you dead, I lost hope. I was going to resign my position. I knelt above your body, weeping. And then, the Colors started to glow. You lifted your head, body changing, getting larger, muscles growing stronger. “I knew it at that moment. I knew that if a man like you were chosen to Return—a man who had died to save another—then the Iridescent Tones were real. The visions were real. And the gods were real. You gave me back my faith, Stennimar.” He met Lightsong’s eyes. “You are a god. To me, at least. It doesn’t matter how easily you can be killed, how much Breath you have, or how you look. It has to do with who you are and what you mean.” Annotations for Chapter 54 Fifty-Five Annotations for Chapter 55 “There is fighting at the front gates, Your Excellency,” the bloodied soldier said. “The insurgents are fighting each other there. We...we might be able to get out.” Siri felt a stab of relief. finally, something going right. Treledees turned toward her. “If we can get into the city, the people will rally around their God King. We should be safe there.” “Where did they get so many Lifeless?” Siri asked. Treledees shook his head. They had paused in a
room near the front of the palace, desperate, yet unsure. Breaking through the Pahn Kahl fortification of the Court of Gods was bound to be difficult. She looked up at Susebron. His priests treated him like a child—they gave him respect, but they obviously gave no thought to ask his opinion. For his part, he stood, hand on her shoulder. She saw thoughts and ideas working behind those eyes of his, but there was nothing for him to write on to tell her. “Vessel,” Treledees said, drawing her attention. “You need to know something.” She looked at him. “I hesitate to mention this,” Treledees said, “as you are not a priest. But...if you survive and we do not...” “Speak it,” she commanded. “You cannot bear the God King a child,” he said. “Like all Returned, he is unable to sire children. We have not yet learned how the first Returned managed to have a child all those years ago. In fact...” “You don’t even think he did,” she said. “You think the royal line is a fabrication.” Of course the priests dispute the record of the royal line coming from the first Returned, she thought. They wouldn’t want to give credibility to Idris’s claim to the throne. He ﬂushed. “It’s what people believe that matters. Regardless, we...have a child...” “Yes,” Siri said. “A Returned child you are going to make the next God King.” He looked at her, shocked. “You know?” “You’re planning to kill him, aren’t you?” she hissed. “Take Susebron’s Breath and leave him dead!” “Colors, no!” Treledees said, shocked. “How—how could you think? No, we’d never do such a thing! Vessel, the God King needs only give away the treasure of Breaths he holds, investing them into the next God King, and then he can live the rest of his life—so long as he should desire—in peace. We change God Kings whenever an infant Returns. It is our sign that the previous God King has done his duty, and should be allowed to live the rest of his life without bearing his terrible burdens.” Siri looked at him skeptically. “That’s foolish, Treledees. If the God King gives away his Breath, he will die.” “No, there is a way,” the priest said. “That is supposed to be impossible.” “Not at all. Think about it. The God King has two sources of Breath. One is his innate, divine Breath—that which makes him Returned. The other is the Breath given to him as the Treasure of Peacegiver, fifty thousand Breaths strong. That he could use as any Awakener could, as long as he is careful about the Commands he uses. He could also survive quite easily as a Returned without it. Any of the other gods could do the same, should they gain Breath beyond the one a week which sustains them. They’d consume them at a rate of one a week, of course, but they could stockpile them and use the extras in the meantime.” “You keep them from realizing that, though,” Siri said. “Not keep specifically,” the priest said, looking
away. “It does not arise. Why would the Returned care about Awakening? They have everything they need.” “Except knowledge,” Siri said. “You keep them in ignorance. I’m surprised you didn’t cut out all their tongues to hide your precious secrets.” Treledees looked back at her, expression hardening. “You judge us still. We do what we do because it is what we must, Vessel. The power he holds in that Treasure—fifty thousand Breaths—could destroy kingdoms. It is too great a weapon; we were charged as our sole, divine mission to keep it safe and not let it be used. If Kalad’s army ever returns from where it was exiled, we—” A sound came from a nearby room. Treledees looked, concerned, and Susebron’s grip on Siri’s shoulder tightened. She looked up, concerned. “Treledees,” she said. “I need to know. How? How can Susebron give away his Breath? He can speak no Command!” “I—” Treledees was interrupted by a group of Lifeless bursting through the doorway to their left. Treledees yelled for her to ﬂee, but another group of the creatures came through the other way. Siri cursed, grabbing Susebron’s hand, pulling him toward yet another doorway. She pulled it open. Bluefingers stood on the other side. He looked into her eyes, face grim. Lifeless stood behind him. Siri felt a stab of terror, backing away. Sounds of fighting came from behind her, but she was too focused on the Lifeless stepping around Bluefingers toward her and Susebron. The God King cried out, a tongueless, wordless groan of anger. And then the priests were there. They threw themselves in front of the Lifeless, trying to beat them back, trying desperately to protect their God King. Siri clung to her husband in the ruddy room, watching as the priests were slaughtered by emotionless warriors with grey faces. Priest after priest jumped in the way, some with weapons, others simply waving their arms in a hopeless attack. She saw Treledees grit his teeth, terror showing in his eyes as he ran forward, trying to attack a Lifeless. He died like the others. His secrets died with him. The Lifeless stepped over the corpses. Susebron pushed Siri behind him, arms shaking as he backed them toward a wall, facing down the bloodied monsters. The Lifeless finally stopped, and Bluefingers walked around them, looking past Susebron toward her. “And now, Vessel, I believe we were going somewhere.” ~ “I’m sorry, miss,” the guard said, holding up a hand. “All access to the Court of Gods is forbidden.” Vivenna ground her teeth. “This is unacceptable,” she said. “I’m to report to the goddess Allmother at once! Can’t you see how many Breaths I hold? I’m not someone you can just turn away!” The guards remained firm. There were a good two dozen of them at the gates, stopping anyone who tried to enter. Vivenna turned away. Whatever Vasher had done inside the night before, he’d apparently caused quite a stir. People clustered around the gateway to the court, demanding answers, asking if something was wrong. Vivenna made her way back
through them, leaving the gates behind. Go to the side, Nightblood said. Vasher never asks if he can enter. He just goes in. Vivenna glanced at the side of the plateau. There was a short rocky ledge running around the outside of the wall. With the guards so distracted by the people wanting in... She slipped to the side. It was early in the morning yet, the sun not having crested the eastern mountains. There were guards on the wall above—she could feel them with her life sense—but she was below their angle of view as long as they looked outward. She might be able to sneak by them. She waited until one patrol had passed, then Awakened one of the tapestries. “Lift me,” she said, dropping a drained handkerchief. The tapestry twisted into the air, wrapping around her, the top end still attached to the wall. Like a muscular arm, it lifted her up, twisting and depositing her atop the wall. She glanced around, recovering her breath. To the side, some distance away, a group of guards was pointing at her. You’re not any better at this than Vasher is, Nightblood noted. You people can’t sneak at all! Yesteel would be so disappointed in you. She cursed, Awakened the tapestry again and had it lower her into the court. She recovered her breath, then took off running across the grassy lawn. Few people were about, but that only made her stand out even more. The palace, Nightblood said. Go there. That was where she was going. However, the longer she held the sword, the more she understood that it said whatever came to its steely mind, whether or not its comments were relevant. It was like a child, speaking or asking questions without inhibition. The front of the palace was very well guarded by a group of men who weren’t wearing uniforms. He’s in there, Nightblood said. I can feel him. Third ﬂoor. Where he and I were before. Vivenna got an image of the room shoved into her head. She frowned. Remarkably useful, she thought, for an evil weapon of destruction. I’m not evil, Nightblood said, voice not defensive, simply informative. As if reminding her of something she’d forgotten. I destroy evil. I think maybe we should destroy those men up ahead. They look evil. You should pull me out. For some reason, she doubted that would be a good idea. Come on, Nightblood said. The soldiers were pointing at her. She glanced behind, and saw others rushing across the lawn. Austre, forgive me, she thought. Then, gritting her teeth, she threw Nightblood—blanket and all—toward the guards in front of the building. They halted. To a man, they looked down at the sword as it rolled free of the blanket, silver sheath glistening on the lawn. Well, I guess this works too, Nightblood noted, voice feeling distant now. One of the soldiers picked up the sword. Vivenna dashed past them, ignored by the soldiers. They started to fight. Can’t go that way, she thought, eyeing the front entrance, not wanting
to risk pushing her way through fighting men. So instead she ran to the side of the massive palace. The lower levels were made of the steplike black blocks that gave the palace its pyramidlike quality. Above these, it grew into a more traditional fortress, with steep walls. There were windows, if she could reach them. She twitched her fingers, making the tassels on her sleeves clench and unclench. Then she jumped, her Awakened leggings tossing her up a few extra feet. She reached up and made the tassels grab the edge of the large, black block. The tassels just barely held, gripping the stone like footlong fingers. With difficulty, Vivenna pulled herself up onto the block. Men yelled and screamed below, and she spared them a glance. The guard who had grabbed Nightblood was fighting off the others, a small trail of black smoke swirling around him. As she watched, he backed into the palace itself, the other men following him. So much evil, Nightblood said, like a woman tisking as she cleaned cobwebs from her ceiling. Vivenna turned away, feeling slightly guilty for giving the sword to the men. She jumped up and pulled herself onto the next block, continuing as the soldiers who had seen her from the walls arrived. They wore the colors of the city guard, and while a couple of them got caught up in the Nightblood fight, most of them ignored it. Vivenna continued up. To the right, Nightblood said distantly. That window on the third ﬂoor. Two over. He’s in there... As his voice faded, Vivenna looked up at the window indicated. She still had to climb up a number of blocks, then somehow reach a window that was an entire story up a sheer wall. There did appear to be some decorative stonework that could serve as handholds, but she grew dizzy even thinking about climbing them. An arrow snapped against the stone beside her, making her jump. Several guards below had bows. Colors! she thought, pulling herself up to the next block. She heard a whoosh behind her, and cringed, feeling as if she should have been struck, but nothing happened. She pulled herself up onto the block, then twisted around. She could just barely see a corner of her cloak holding an arrow. She started, grateful that she had Awakened it. It dropped the arrow, then returned to normal. Handy, that, she thought, climbing up the last block. By the time she got on top of it, her arms were sore. Fortunately, her Awakened fingers were still gripping as well as ever. She took a deep breath, then began to climb straight up the upper wall of the black fortress, using the carvings as handholds. And decided, for her own sanity, that she’d better avoid looking down. ~ Lightsong stared ahead. Too much information. Too much was happening. Blushweaver’s murder, then Llarimar’s revelation, the betrayal of the God King’s priests all in such quick succession. He sat in his cell, arms wrapped around himself, gold and red robes dirtied from crawling
through the tunnel, then sitting in his cage. His thigh ached from where it had been struck with the sword, though the wound had not been bad, and it was barely bleeding anymore. He ignored the pain. It was insignificant compared to the pain inside. The priests talked quietly on the far side of the room. Oddly, as he glanced at them, something caught his eye. He let his mind be diverted by the realization—he finally grasped what was bothering him about them. He should have seen it earlier. It had to do with color—not the color of their clothing, but the color of their faces. It was just slightly off. The deviation in one man would have been easy to ignore. But all of them together was a pattern. No regular person could have noticed it. To a man with his Heightenings, it was obvious, once he knew what to look for. These men were not from Hallandren. Anyone can wear a set of robes, he realized. That doesn’t mean that they’re priests. In fact, judging by the faces, he realized the men must be from Pahn Kahl. And then it all made sense to him, that quickly. They’d all been played for fools. ~ “Bluefingers,” Siri demanded. “Talk to me. What are you going to do with us?” The labyrinth of the God King’s palace was complex, and it was sometimes difficult even now for her to find her way around. They’d traveled down a stairwell but now were going up another one. Bluefingers didn’t answer. He walked with his customary nervousness, wringing his hands. The fighting in the hallways seemed to be decreasing. In fact, once they left the stairwell, this newest hallway was dreadfully quiet. Siri walked with Susebron’s nervous arm around her waist. She didn’t know what he was thinking—they hadn’t been able to pause long enough for him to write anything. He gave her a comforting smile, but she knew that this all must be just as terrifying for him as it was for her. Probably more so. “You can’t do this, Bluefingers,” Siri said, snapping at the little balding man. “It is the only way we’d ever be able to break free,” Bluefingers said, not turning, but finally responding to her. “But you can’t!” Siri said. “The Idrians are innocent!” Bluefingers shook his head. “How many of my people would you sacrifice, if it would mean freedom for yours?” “None!” she said. “I should like to see you say that if our positions were reversed,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “I’m...sorry for your pain. But your people are not innocent. They’re just like the Hallandren. In the Manywar, you rolled over us, made us your workers and slaves. Only at the end, when the royal family ﬂed, did Idris and Hallandren split.” “Please,” Siri said. Susebron suddenly punched a Lifeless. The God King growled, struggling as he kicked at another. There were dozens of them. He looked at her, waving a hand, motioning for her to ﬂee. She didn’t intend to leave him.
Instead, she tried to grab Bluefingers, but a Lifeless was too quick. It took her arm, holding her firm, even when she batted at it. A couple of men wearing the robes of Susebron’s priesthood came out of a stairwell ahead of them, carrying lanterns. Siri, looking closely, immediately recognized them as being from Pahn Kahl. They were too short and their skin color was just slightly off. I’ve been a fool, she thought. Bluefingers had played the game so well. He’d driven a wedge between her and the priests from the start. Most of her fears and worries, she’d gotten from him—and it had been reinforced by the priest’s arrogance. All part of the scribe’s plan to someday use her to gain freedom for his people. “We have Lightsong’s security phrase,” one of the new men said to Bluefingers. “We have checked it, and it works. We changed it to the new one. The rest of the Lifeless are ours.” Siri glanced to the side. The Lifeless had pulled Susebron to the ground. He yelled—though it came out as more a moan. Siri yanked, trying to escape her Lifeless and help him. She began to cry. To the side, Bluefingers nodded to his accomplices, looking fatigued. “Very well. Give the Command. Order the Lifeless to march on Idris.” “It will be done,” the man said, laying a hand on Bluefingers’s shoulder. Bluefingers nodded, looking morose as the others withdrew. “What do you have to be sad about?” she spat. Bluefingers turned toward her. “My friends now are the only ones who know the Command phrases for Hallandren’s Lifeless army. Once those Lifeless leave for Idris—with orders to destroy everything they find there— my friends will kill themselves with poison. There won’t be anyone who can stop the creatures.” Austre...Siri thought, feeling numb. Lord of Colors... “Take the God King below,” Bluefingers said, waving to several Lifeless. “Hold him until it is time.” They were joined by a Pahn Kahl scribe wearing fake priest’s robes as they towed Susebron toward the stairwell. Siri reached for him. He continued to struggle, reaching back, but the Lifeless were too strong. She listened to his inarticulate yells echoing down the stairwell. “What will you do with him?” Siri asked, tears cold on her cheeks. Bluefingers glanced at her, but once again, would not meet her eyes. “There will be many in the Hallandren government who see the Lifeless attack as a political mistake, and they may seek to stop the war. Unless Hallandren actually commits itself to this fight, our sacrifice will be useless.” “I don’t understand.” “We will take the bodies of Lightsong and Blushweaver—the two gods with the Command phrases—and leave them in the Lifeless barracks, surrounded by dead Idrians we took from the city. Then we will leave the corpse of the God King to be discovered in the palace dungeons. Those who investigate will assume that Idrian assassins attacked and killed him—we’ve hired enough mercenaries from the Idrian slums that it shouldn’t be too difficult to believe. Those of my scribes
who survive the night will confirm the story.” Siri blinked out tears. Everyone will assume that Blushweaver and Lightsong sent the armies as retribution for the death of the God King. And with the king dead, the people will be furious. “I wish you hadn’t gotten involved in all of this,” Bluefingers said, motioning for her Lifeless captors to pull her along. “It would have been easier for me if you’d been able to keep yourself from getting pregnant.” “I’m not!” she said. “The people think you are,” he said with a sigh as they walked toward the stairwell. “And that’s enough. We have to break this government and we have to make the Idrians angry enough to want to destroy the Hallandren. I think your people will do better in this war than everyone says, especially if the Lifeless march without leadership. Your people will ambush them, making sure this is not an easy war for either side.” He glanced at her. “But for this war to work right, the Idrians have to want to fight. Otherwise, they’ll ﬂee and vanish into those highlands. No, both sides have to hate each other, pull as many allies into the battle as possible so that everyone is too distracted...” And what better way to make Idris willing to fight, she thought with horror, than to kill me? Both sides will see the death of my supposed child as an act of war. This won’t simply be a fight for domination. It will be a drawn-out war of hatred. The fighting could last for decades. And nobody will ever realize that our real enemy—the one who started it all—is the peaceful, quiet province to the south of Hallandren. Annotations for Chapter 55 Fifty-Six Annotations for Chapter 56 Vivenna hung outside the window, breathing deeply, sweating heavily. She’d peeked inside. Denth was in there, as was Tonk Fah. Vasher was hanging from a hook on the ceiling. He was bloodied, and he held no Breath, but he seemed to be alive. Can I stop both Denth and Tonk Fah? she thought. Her arms were tired. She had a couple of lengths of rope in her pocket she could Awaken. What if she threw and missed? She had seen Denth fight. He was faster than she’d thought possible. She would have to surprise him. And if she missed, she would die. What am I doing? she thought. Hanging from a wall, about to challenge two professional soldiers? Her recent past gave her the strength to push down her fear. They might kill her, but that would be a quick end. She’d survived betrayals, the death of a dear friend, and a time going mad from the illness, hunger, and terror of living on the streets. She’d been pushed down, forced to admit that she’d betrayed her people. There wasn’t really any more they could do to her. For some reason, those thoughts gave her power. Surprised at her own determination, she quietly recovered the Breath from her cloak and her leggings. She Awakened a pair of
rope pieces, telling them to grab when thrown. She said a quiet prayer to Austre, then pulled herself up through the window and into the room. Vasher was groaning. Tonk Fah was dozing in the corner. Denth, holding a bloody knife, looked up immediately as she landed. The look of utter shock on his face was, in itself, almost worth everything she’d been through. She tossed the rope at him, threw the other at Tonk Fah, then dashed into the room. Denth reacted immediately, cutting the rope out of the air with his dagger. The pieces of it twisted and wriggled, but weren’t long enough to grab anything. The one she threw at Tonk Fah, however, hit. He cried out, waking as it wrapped around his face and neck. Vivenna pulled to a halt beside Vasher’s swinging body. Denth had his sword out; he’d pulled it free more quickly than she could track. She gulped, then pulled out her own sword, holding it forward as Vasher had taught her. Denth paused just brieﬂy in surprise. That was enough. She swung—not for Denth, but for the rope holding Vasher to the ceiling. He fell with a grunt, and Denth struck, slamming the point of his dueling blade through her shoulder. She fell, gasping in pain. Denth stepped back. “Well, Princess,” he said, warily holding his blade. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Tonk Fah made a gagging sound as the rope twisted around his neck, choking him. He struggled to pull it free with little success. Once, the pain in her shoulder might have been debilitating. But after the beatings she’d taken on the street, it seemed somewhat familiar to her. She looked up, and met Denth’s eyes. “Was this supposed to be a rescue?” Denth asked. “Because honestly, I’m not very impressed.” Tonk Fah knocked over his stool in his thrashing. Denth glanced at him, then back at Vivenna. There was a moment of silence, save for Tonk Fah’s weakening struggles. finally, Denth cursed and jumped over to cut at the rope on his friend’s neck. “You all right?” Vasher asked from beside her. She was shocked by how solid his voice sounded, despite his bloodied body. She nodded. “They’re going to send Lifeless marching on your homeland,” he said. “We’ve been wrong about this all along. I don’t know who’s behind it, but I think they’re winning the fight for the palace.” Denth finally got the rope cut free. “You need to run,” Vasher said, wiggling his hands free from their rope bonds. “Get back to your people, tell them not to fight the Lifeless. They need to ﬂee through the northern passes, hide in the highlands. Do not fight or bring other kingdoms into the war.” Vivenna glanced back at Denth, who was smacking Tonk Fah back to consciousness. Then she closed her eyes. “Your Breath to mine,” she said, drawing back the Breath from her hand tassels, adding it to the large amount she still held from before. She reached out, placing her hand on Vasher. “Vivenna...” he
said. “My life to yours,” she said. “My Breath become yours.” Her world became a thing of dullness. Beside her, Vasher gasped, then began to convulse at the bestowal of Breath. Denth stood up, spinning. “You do it, Vasher,” Vivenna whispered. “You’ll be far better at it than I will be.” “Stubborn woman,” Vasher said as he overcame the convulsions. He reached out, as if to restore her Breath to her, but noticed Denth. Denth smiled, raising his blade. Vivenna put a hand to her shoulder, stopping the blood ﬂow, and she began to push herself back toward the window—though, without Breath, she wasn’t certain what she intended to do there. Vasher stood up, taking her sword in his hand. He wore only the bloody, knee-length underbreeches, but his stance was firm. He slowly wrapped the rope he’d been hanging from around his waist, forming his characteristic belt. How does he do it? she thought. Where does his strength come from? “I should have hurt you more,” Denth said. “I took my time. Savoring it too much.” Vasher snorted, tying off the belt. Denth seemed to be waiting, anticipating something. “I’ve always found it funny that we bleed, just like ordinary men,” Denth said. “We might be stronger, might live much longer, but we die just the same.” “Not the same,” Vasher said, raising Vivenna’s blade. “Other men die with far more honor than we, Denth.” Denth smiled. Vivenna could see excitement in his eyes. He always claimed that there was no way Vasher could have beat his friend, Arsteel, in a duel, she thought. He wants to fight Vasher. He wants to prove to himself that Vasher isn’t as good as he is. Blades whipped into motion. And after just a quick exchange, Vivenna could see that there was no contest. Denth was clearly the better. Perhaps it was Vasher’s wounds. Perhaps it was the growing anger she saw in Vasher’s eyes as he fought, marring his ability to be calm and collected during the fight. Maybe he just really wasn’t as good as Denth. However, as Vivenna watched, she realized that Vasher was going to lose. I didn’t do all this so you could just die! she thought, rising to try to help. A hand fell on her shoulder, pushing her back down. “I don’t think so,” Tonk Fah said, looming over her. “Nice trick with the rope, by the way. Very clever. I know a few tricks with ropes myself. Did you know, for instance, that a rope can be used to burn a person’s ﬂesh?” He smiled, then leaned down. “Mercenary humor, you see.” His cloak slid slightly off his shoulder, falling against her cheek. It can’t be, she thought. I escaped from him. I tried to Awaken his cloak, but used a bad Command. Could he have been stupid enough to keep wearing it? She smiled, glancing over her shoulder. Vasher had backed against the far wall, to the window, and he was sweating profusely, bloody drops falling to the ground. Denth forced him back again, and
Vasher stepped up on the table by the far wall, seeking high ground. She looked back at Tonk Fah, his cloak still touching her cheek. “Your Breath to mine,” she said. She felt a sudden, welcoming burst of Breath. “Huh?” Tonk Fah said. “Nothing,” she said. “Just...Attack and grab Denth!” Command made, visualization made, the cloak began to quiver. Tonk Fah’s shirt drained of color, and his eyes widened with surprise. The cloak suddenly whipped into the air, yanking Tonk Fah to the side and causing him to stumble away from her. That’s why I’m the princess, and you’re just a mercenary, she thought with satisfaction, rolling over. Tonk Fah cried out. Denth spun at the sound, yelling as the very large, very uncoordinated Pahn Kahl man crashed into him, cloak whipping about. Denth slammed backward, catching Vasher by surprise as they rammed together. Tonk Fah grunted. Denth cursed. And Vasher was shoved backward out the window. Vivenna blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what she’d been intending. Denth cut away the cloak, pushing Tonk Fah back. All was silent in the room for a moment. “Go grab our squad of Lifeless!” Denth said. “Now!” “You think he’ll live?” Tonk Fah asked. “He just fell out the third-story window, plummeting toward certain doom,” Denth said. “Of course he’ll live! Send the squad to the front doors to slow him!” Denth glanced at Vivenna. “You, Princess, are far more trouble than you’re worth.” “So people are fond of telling me,” she said with a sigh, raising her bloodied hand to her shoulder again, too exhausted to be as scared as she probably should be. ~ Vasher fell toward the hard stone blocks below. He watched the window retreat above him. Almost, he thought with frustration. I just about had him! Wind whistled. He screamed in frustration, pulling free the rope at his waist, Vivenna’s Breath a lively strength within him. “Grab things,” he Commanded, whipping the rope out, drawing color from his bloodstained shorts. They bled to grey, and the rope wrapped around an outcropping of stone on the palace wall. It pulled taut, and he ran sideways along the ebony blocks, slowing his fall. “Your Breath to mine,” he yelled as his momentum slowed. The rope dropped free and he landed on the first block. “Become as my leg and give it strength!” he Commanded, drawing color from the blood on his chest. The rope twisted down, wrapping around his leg and foot as he leaped off. He landed on the next block, one foot down, the coiled rope—and its strange, inhuman muscles—bearing the brunt of the shock. Four hops and he hit the ground. A group of soldiers stood amidst some bodies at the front gates, looking confused. Vasher barreled toward them, colorless translucent blood dropping from his skin as he drew his Breath back from the rope. He scooped a sword from a fallen soldier. The men before the gates turned and readied their weapons. He didn’t have the time, or the patience, for pleasantries. He struck, cutting men down with
quick efficiency. He wasn’t as good as Denth, but he had practiced for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, there were a lot of men. Maybe too many to fight. Vasher cursed, spinning between them, dropping another one. He bent down, slapping his hand against the waist of a fallen soldier, touching both shirt and pants, looping his finger around the colored inner undershirt. “Fight for me, as if you were me,” he Commanded, draining the man’s undershirt completely grey. Vasher spun, blocking a sword strike. Another came from the side, and another. He couldn’t block them all. A sword ﬂashed in the air, blocking a weapon that would have hit Vasher. The dead man’s shirt and trousers, having pulled themselves free, stood holding a blade. They struck, as if controlled by an invisible person inside, blocking and attacking with skill. Vasher put his back to the Awakened construct. When he had a chance, he made another one, draining away his remaining Breath. They fought in a trio, Vasher and his two sets of Awakened clothing. The guards cursed, much more wary now. Vasher eyed them, planning an attack. At that moment, a troop of some fifty Lifeless barreled around the corner, charging toward him. Colors! Vasher thought. He growled in rage, striking and taking down another soldier. Colors, Colors, Colors! You shouldn’t swear, a voice said in his head. Shashara told me that was evil. Vasher spun toward the sound. A little line of black smoke was trailing out from beneath the closed front doors of the palace. Aren’t you going to thank me? Nightblood said. I came to save you. One of his sets of clothing fell, the leg cut off by a soldier’s clever strike. Vasher reached back, drawing the Breath back from the second set of clothing, then stepped with an unclothed toe on the fallen set, recovering the Breath from it as well. The soldiers backed away, wary, more than happy to let the Lifeless take him. And in that moment of peace, Vasher charged for the gates to the palace. He threw his shoulder against them, slamming them open, skidding into the entryway. A large group of men lay dead on the ground. Nightblood sprouted from one man’s chest, as usual, hilt pointing toward the sky. Vasher hesitated only brieﬂy. He could hear Lifeless charging up behind him. He ran forward and grabbed Nightblood’s hilt and pulled the sword free, leaving the sheath behind in the body. The blade sprayed a wave of black liquid as he swung it. The liquid dissolved into smoke before touching walls or ﬂoor, like water in an oven. Smoke twisted, some rising from the blade, some falling in a stream to the ﬂoor, dripping like black blood. Destroy! Nightblood’s voice boomed in his head. The evil must be destroyed! Pain shot up Vasher’s arm, and he felt his Breath being leached away, sucked into the blade, fueling its hunger. Drawing the weapon had a terrible cost. At that moment, he didn’t really care. He spun toward the charging Lifeless and—enraged—attacked.
Each creature he struck with the blade immediately ﬂashed and became smoke. A single scratch and the bodies dissolved like paper being consumed by an invisible fire, leaving behind only a large stain of blackness in the air. Vasher spun among them, striking with wrath, killing Lifeless after Lifeless. Black smoke churned around him, and his arm twisted with pain as veinlike tendrils climbed up the hilt and around his forearm—like black blood vessels that latched on to his skin, feeding off his Breath. In a matter of minutes, the Breath Vivenna had given him had been reduced by half. Yet in those moments, he destroyed all fifty Lifeless. The soldiers outside pulled to a halt, watching the display. Vasher stood amidst a churning mass of deep ebony smoke. It slowly rose into the air, the only remnants of the fifty creatures he had destroyed. The soldiers ran away. Vasher screamed, charging toward the side of the room. He slammed Nightblood through a wall. The stone dissolved just as easily as ﬂesh had, evaporating away before him. He burst through the dissipating black smoke, entering the next room. He didn’t bother with a stairwell. He simply jumped onto a table and rammed Nightblood into the ceiling. A circle ten feet wide vanished. Dark, mistlike smoke fell around him like streaks of paint. He Awakened his rope again then tossed it up, using it to pull himself up onto the next ﬂoor. A moment later, he did it again, climbing onto the third ﬂoor. He spun, slashing through walls, bellowing as he ran back toward Denth. The pain in his arm was incredible, and his Breath was draining away at an alarming rate. Once it was gone, Nightblood would kill him. Everything was growing fuzzy. He slashed through a final wall, finding the room where he had been tortured. It was empty. He cried out, arm shaking. Destroy...evil...Nightblood said in his mind, all lightness gone from the tone, all familiarity. It boomed like a command. An awful, inhuman thing. The longer Vasher held the sword, the faster it drained his Breath. Gasping, he threw the sword aside and fell to his knees. It skidded, tearing a rip in the ﬂoor that puffed away into smoke, but hit a wall with a pling and fell still. Smoke rose from the blade. Vasher knelt, arm twitching. The black veins on his skin slowly evaporated. He was left with just barely enough Breath to reach the first Heightening. Another few seconds, and Nightblood would have sucked the rest away. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Something fell to the tiled ﬂoor in front of him. A dueling blade. Vasher looked up. “Stand up,” Denth said, eyes hard. “We’re going to finish what we started.” Annotations for Chapter 56 Fifty-Seven Annotations for Chapter 57 Bluefingers led Siri—held by several Lifeless—up to the fourth ﬂoor of the palace. The top ﬂoor. They entered a room lavishly decorated with rich colors, even for Hallandren. Lifeless guards there let them pass, bowing their heads to Bluefingers. All
the Lifeless in the city are controlled by Bluefingers and his scribes, she thought. But even before that, the scribes had great power over the bureaucracy and workings of the kingdom. Did the Hallandren realize that they were dooming themselves by relegating the Pahn Kahl people to such lowly—yet important—positions? “My people will not fall for this,” Siri found herself saying as she was pulled to the front of the room. “They won’t fight Hallandren. They’ll retreat through the passes. Take refuge in the highland valleys or one of the outer kingdoms.” The front of the room held a black block of stone, shaped like an altar. Siri frowned. From behind, a group of Lifeless entered the room, carrying the corpses of several priests. She saw Treledees’s body among them. What? Siri thought. Bluefingers turned toward her. “We’ll make certain they’re angry,” he said. “Trust me. When this is through, Princess, Idris will fight until either it or Hallandren is destroyed.” ~ They tossed someone into the cell next to Lightsong. He looked up with weary eyes, uncaring. It was another Returned. Which of the gods had they taken captive now? The God King, he thought. Interesting. He looked down again. What did it matter? He’d failed Blushweaver. He’d failed everyone. The Lifeless armies were probably already marching on Idris. Hallandren and Idris would fight and the Pahn Kahl would have their revenge. It had been three hundred years coming. ~ Vasher stood up with difficulty. He held the dueling sword in a weak hand, looking at Denth, still shaken by his use of Nightblood. The empty black hallway was now open around them. Vasher had destroyed several of the walls. It was amazing the roof hadn’t fallen in. Corpses littered the ﬂoor, the result of the fights when Denth’s men had taken over the palace. “I’ll let you die easily,” Denth said, raising his blade. “Just tell me the truth. You never beat Arsteel in a duel, did you?” Vasher raised his own blade. The cuts, the pain in his arm, the exhaustion of being awake so long...it was all wearing on him. Adrenaline could only get him so far, and even his body could only take so much. He didn’t reply. “Have it your way,” Denth said, attacking. Vasher backed away, forced to the defensive. Denth had always been better at swordplay. Vasher had been better at research, but what had that earned him? Discoveries that had caused the Manywar, an army of monsters that had killed so many. He fought. He fought well, he knew, considering how tired he was. But it did little good. Denth drove his blade through Vasher’s left shoulder—Denth’s favorite place for a first strike. It allowed his opponent to keep fighting, wounded, and drew out the fight for Denth’s enjoyment. “You never beat Arsteel,” Denth whispered. ~ “You’re going to kill me on an altar,” Siri said, standing in the strange room, held by Lifeless. Around her, other Lifeless placed bodies on the ﬂoor. Priests. “It doesn’t make sense, Bluefingers. You don’t follow their
religion. Why do this?” Bluefingers stood to the side, holding a knife. She could see the shame in his eyes. “Bluefingers,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even, her hair to stay black. “Bluefingers, you don’t have to do this.” Bluefingers finally looked at her. “After all I’ve already done, do you think one more death means anything to me?” “After all you’ve done,” she said, “do you really think one more death will matter for your cause?” He glanced at the altar. “Yes,” he said. “You know how the Idrians whisper of the things that go on in the Court of Gods. Your people hate and distrust the Hallandren priests; they speak of murders done on dark altars in the backs of the palaces. Well, we are going to let a group of those Idrian mercenaries see this, once you are dead. We’ll show them that we were too late to save you, that the twisted priests had already killed you on one of their profane altars. We’ll show them the dead priests we killed trying to save you. “The Idrians will riot in the city. They’re strained to snapping anyway—we have you to thank for that. The city will be in chaos, and there will be a slaughter the like of which hasn’t been seen since the Manywar as the Hallandren kill Idrian peasants to maintain order. Those Idrians that live will return to their homeland to tell the tale. They’ll let everyone know that the Hallandren only wanted a princess of the royal blood so that they could sacrifice her to their God King. It is exaggerated and foolish to think that the Hallandren would really do such a thing, but sometimes the wildest tales are the ones best believed, and the Idrians will accept this one. You know they will.” And she did. She’d heard similar stories since her childhood. Hallandren was remote to her people: frightening, bizarre. Siri struggled, feeling even more worried. Bluefingers glanced back at her. “I truly am sorry.” ~ I am nothing, Lightsong thought. Why couldn’t I save her? Why couldn’t I protect her? He was crying again. Oddly, someone else was too. The man in the cell next to him. The God King. Susebron moaned with frustration, pounding against the bars of his cage. He didn’t speak, though, or denounce his captors. I wonder why that is, Lightsong thought. Men approached the God King’s cell. Pahn Kahl men, with weapons. Their expressions were grim. Lightsong found it hard to care. You are a god. Llarimar’s words still challenged him. The high priest lay in his own cell, to Lightsong’s left, eyes closed against the terrors around them. You are a god. To me at least. Lightsong shook his head. No. I’m nothing! No god. Not even a good man. You are...to me... Water splashed against him. Lightsong shook his head, shocked. Thunder sounded, distant, in his head. Nobody else seemed to notice. It was growing dark. What? He was on a ship. Tossing, pitching, on a dark sea. Lightsong stood on
the deck, trying to stay upright on the slick boards. Part of him knew it was simply a hallucination, that he was still back in the prison cell, but it felt real. Very real. The waves churned, black sky ripped by lightning ahead, and the ship’s motion slammed his face against the wall of the ship’s cabin. Light from a pole-mounted lantern ﬂickered uncertainly. It seemed weak compared with the lightning, which was so violent and angry. Lightsong blinked. His face was pressed up against something painted on the wood. A red panther, glistening in the lanternlight and the rain. The name of the ship, he remembered, the Red Panther. He wasn’t Lightsong. Or he was, but he was a much smaller, pudgier version of himself. A man accustomed to being a scribe. To working long hours counting coins. Checking ledgers. Seeking for lost money. That’s what he’d done. People hired him to discover where they’d been cheated or if a contract hadn’t been paid properly. His job was to look through the books, searching out hidden or confusing twists of arithmetic. A detective. Just not the sort he had imagined. Waves crashed against the boat. Llarimar, looking a few years younger, yelled for help from the prow. Deckhands rushed to his aid. It wasn’t Llarimar’s ship, or even Lightsong’s. They had borrowed it for a simple pleasure trip. Sailing was a hobby of Llarimar’s. The storm had come on suddenly. Lightsong lurched back to his feet, barely managing to stay up as he made his way forward, clutching the railing. Waves surged across the deck, and sailors struggled to keep the boat from capsizing. The sails were gone, only tattered shreds remaining. Wood creaked and cracked around him. Dark, black water churned in the ocean just to his right. Llarimar yelled to Lightsong, asking him to lash down the barrels. Lightsong nodded, grabbing a rope and tying one end to a davit. A wave hit, and he skidded, almost falling over the rail into the water. He froze, gripping the rope, looking into the sea’s mad, terrifying depths. He shook himself free, then tied the rope in a wide slipknot. It came naturally to him. Llarimar had taken him on enough sailing trips now. Llarimar called for help again. And, suddenly, a young woman left the cabin and ran across the deck, grabbing ropes as if to lend assistance. “Tatara!” a woman called from the cabin. There was terror in her voice. Lightsong looked up. He recognized the girl. He reached out, rope looped in his hands. He shouted for her to go back below, but his voice was lost in the thunder. She turned to look at him. The next wave tossed her into the ocean. Llarimar cried out in despair. Lightsong watched, shocked. The deep blackness claimed his niece. Engulfed her. Swallowed her. Such great, horrible chaos. The sea in a storm at night. He felt useless, his heart thumping with fright as he watched the young woman get swept into the churning current. He saw ﬂashes of her
golden hair twisting in the water. A weak splash of color passing his side of the ship. It would soon be gone. Men cursed. Llarimar screamed. A woman wept. Lightsong just stared into the bubbling deep, with its alternating froth and blackness. The terrible, terrible blackness. He still held the rope in his hand. Without thinking, he leaped up onto the railing and threw himself into the darkness. Icy water took him, but he reached out, thrashing and churning in the tempest. He barely knew how to swim. Something passed him. He grabbed it. Her foot. He threw the loop around her ankle, somehow managing to get the knot tight despite the water and the waves. As soon as he did, a surge in the undulating water yanked him away. Sucking him down. He reached upward, toward where lightning lit the surface. That light grew distant as he sank. Down. Into the black deep. Claimed by the void. He blinked, waves and thunder fading. He sat on the cool stones of his cell. The void had taken him, but something had sent him back. He’d Returned. Because he’d seen war and destruction. The God King was yelling in fear. Lightsong looked over as the fake priests grabbed Susebron, and Lightsong could see into the God King’s mouth. No tongue, Lightsong thought. Of course. To keep him from using all that BioChroma. It makes sense. He turned to the side. Blushweaver’s body lay red and bloodied. He’d seen that in a vision. In the vague shadows of morning memory, he’d thought that the image had been of her blushing, but now he remembered. He looked to the side. Llarimar, eyes closed as if asleep—that image had been in his dream as well. Lightsong realized the man had them shut as he wept. The God King in prison. Lightsong had seen that too. But above it all, he remembered standing on the other side of a brilliant, colorful wave of light, looking down at the world from the other side. And seeing everything he loved dissolve into the destruction of war. A war greater than any the world had known, a war more deadly—even—than the Manywar. He remembered the other side. And he remembered a voice, calm and comforting, offering him an opportunity. To Return. By the Colors...Lightsong thought, standing up as the priests forced the God King to his knees. I am a god. Lightsong stepped forward, moving up to the bars of his cage. He saw pain and tears in the God King’s face and somehow understood them. The man did love Siri. Lightsong had seen the same thing in the queen’s eyes. She had somehow come to care for the man who was to oppress her. “You are my king,” Lightsong whispered. “And lord of the gods.” The Pahn Kahl men forced the God King facedown on the stones. One of the priests raised a sword. The God King’s arm jutted out, his hand toward Lightsong. I have seen the void, he thought. And I came back. And then Lightsong reached
through the bars and grasped the God King’s hand. A fake priest looked up with alarm. Lightsong met the man’s eyes, then smiled broadly, looking down at the God King. “My life to yours,” Lightsong said. “My Breath become yours.” ~ Denth slashed, wounding Vasher in the leg. Vasher stumbled, going down on one knee. Denth struck again, and Vasher barely managed to keep the sword away. Denth backed off, shaking his head. “You are pathetic, Vasher. There you kneel, about to die. And you still think you’re better than the rest of us. You judge me for becoming a mercenary? What else was I to do? Take over kingdoms? Rule them and start wars, as you did?” Vasher bowed his head. Denth growled and ran forward, lashing out with his sword. Vasher tried to defend himself, but he was just too weak. Denth knocked Vasher’s weapon aside, then kicked him in the stomach, sending Vasher backward against the wall. Vasher slumped down, sword lost. He reached for a knife on the belt of a fallen soldier, but Denth stepped up and put his booted foot on Vasher’s hand. “You think I should just go back to the way I was before?” Denth spat. “The happy, friendly man everyone loved?” “You were a good person,” Vasher whispered. “That man saw and did terrible things,” Denth said. “I’ve tried, Vasher. I’ve tried going back. But the darkness...it’s inside. I can’t escape it. My laughter has an edge to it. I can’t forget.” “I can make you,” Vasher said. “I know the Commands.” Denth froze. “I promise,” Vasher said. “I will take it all from you, if you wish.” Denth stood for a long moment, foot on Vasher’s arm, sword lowered. Then, finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t deserve that. Neither of us do. Goodbye, Vasher.” He raised his blade to strike. And Vasher moved his arm up, touching Denth’s leg. “My life to yours, my Breath become yours.” Denth froze, then stumbled. fifty Breaths ﬂed from Vasher’s chest and surged into Denth’s body. They would be unwelcome, but he couldn’t turn them away. fifty Breaths. Not many. But enough. Enough to make Denth shake with pleasure. Enough to make him lose control for just a second, falling to his knees. And, in that second, Vasher stood—ripping the dagger free from the corpse beside him—then slashed it through Denth’s throat. The mercenary fell back, eyes wide, neck bleeding. He shook amidst the pleasure of gaining new Breaths even as his life ﬂowed from him. “Nobody ever expects it,” Vasher whispered, stepping forward. “Breath is worth a fortune. To put it into someone, then kill them, is to lose more wealth than most men will ever know. They never expect it.” Denth shook, bleeding, and lost control. His hair suddenly bled to deep black, then blond, then an angry red. Finally, the hair turned white with terror and stayed there. He stopped moving, life fading away, new Breaths and old both vanishing. “You wanted to know how I killed Arsteel,” Vasher said, spitting
blood to the side. “Well, now you do.” ~ Bluefingers picked up a knife. “The least I can do,” he decided, “is to kill you myself, rather than letting the Lifeless do it. I promise it will be quick. We will make it look like a pagan ritual afterward, sparing you the need to die in a painful way.” He turned to her Lifeless captors. “Tie her to the altar.” Siri struggled against the Lifeless holding her by the shoulders, but it was useless. They were terribly strong, and her hands were tied together. “Bluefingers!” she snapped, holding his eyes. “I will not die tied to some rock like a useless maid from one of the stories. You want me dead, then have the decency to let me die standing up.” Bluefingers hesitated, but the authority in her voice actually seemed to make him cringe. He raised a hand, stopping the Lifeless as they pulled her to the altar. “Very well,” he said. “Hold her tightly.” “You realize the wonderful opportunity you waste by killing me,” she said as he approached. “The wife of the God King would make a wonderful hostage. You are a fool to kill me, and...” He ignored her this time, taking the knife, placing it against her chest, picking his spot. She started to feel numb. She was going to die. She was actually going to die. And the war would start. “Please,” she whispered. He looked at her, hesitated, then grew grim and drew back the dagger. The building began to shake. Bluefingers looked to the side in alarm, glancing toward several of his scribes. They shook their heads in confusion. “Earthquake?” one asked. The ﬂoor began to turn white. The color moved like a wave of sunlight crossing the land as the sun rose above the mountains. The walls, the ceiling, the ﬂoor—all of the black stone faded. The priests stepped away from it, looking frightened, one hopping onto a rug to keep from touching the strange white stones. Bluefingers looked at her, confused. The ground continued to tremble, but he raised his blade anyway, held in fingers that had been stained repeatedly by ink. And, strangely, Siri saw the whites of his eyes bend and release a rainbow of colors. The entire room burst with color, the white stones fuzzing and splitting, like light through a prism. The doors to the room exploded. A twisting mass of colorful cloths shot through it, like the countless tentacles of an enraged sea leviathan. They churned and curled, and Siri recognized tapestries, carpets, and long lengths of silk from the palace decorations. Awakened cloth slapped aside Lifeless, curling around them, tossing them into the air. Priests cried out as they were snatched up, and a long, thin length of violet cloth snapped forward and wrapped around Bluefingers’s arm. The surging mass undulated, churning, and Siri could finally see a figure walking in the middle of it. A man of epic proportions. Black of hair, pale of face, youthful in appearance, but of great age. Bluefingers struggled to
ram his knife into Siri’s chest, but the God King raised a hand. “You will stop!” Susebron said in a clear voice. Bluefingers froze, looking toward the God King in amazement. The dagger slipped from his stunned fingers as an Awakened carpet twisted around him, pulling him away from Siri. Siri stood, dumbfounded. Susebron’s cloths lifted him up and over beside her, and a pair of small silken handkerchiefs reached forward, sliding around the ropes binding her hands, untying them with ease. Freed, she grabbed him and let him lift her into his arms, weeping. Annotations for Chapter 57 Fifty-Eight Annotations for Chapter 58 The closet door opened, letting in lanternlight. Vivenna looked up, gagged and bound, at Vasher’s silhouette. He dragged Nightblood behind him, covered—as usual—by his silver sheath. Looking very tired, Vasher knelt and undid her gag. “About time,” she noted. He smiled wanly. “I don’t have any Breath remaining,” he said quietly. “It was very hard to locate you.” “Where did it all go?” she asked as he undid the ropes on her hands. “Nightblood devoured most of it.” I don’t believe him, Nightblood said happily. I...can’t really remember what happened. But we did slay a lot of evil! “You drew him?” Vivenna asked as Vasher untied her feet. Vasher nodded. Vivenna rubbed her hands. “Denth?” “Dead,” Vasher said. “No sign of Tonk Fah or the woman, Jewels. I think they took their money and ﬂed.” “So it’s over.” Vasher nodded, sliding down to seat himself, resting his head against the wall. “And we lost.” She frowned, grimacing at the pain of her wounded shoulder. “What do you mean?” “Denth was being employed by some of the Pahn Kahl scribes in the palace,” Vasher said. “They wanted to start a war between Idris and Hallandren in the hope that it would weaken both kingdoms and let Pahn Kahl gain independence.” “So? Denth is dead now.” “So are the scribes who had the Command phrases for the Lifeless armies,” Vasher said. “And they already dispatched the troops. The Lifeless left the city over an hour ago, charging for Idris.” Vivenna fell silent. “All of this fighting, everything with Denth, that was secondary,” Vasher said, knocking his head back against the wall. “It distracted us. I couldn’t get to the Lifeless in time. The war has begun. There’s no way to stop it.” ~ Susebron led Siri down into the depths of the palace. Siri walked beside him, carefully cradled in his arm, a hundred twisting lengths of cloth spinning around them. Even with that many things Awakened, he still had enough Breath to make every color they passed glow brightly. Of course, that didn’t work for many of the stones they passed. Though large chunks of the building were still black, at least half of it had been turned white. Not just the grey of normal Awakening. They had been made bone white. And, becoming that white, they now reacted to his incredible BioChroma, splitting back into colors. Like a circle, somehow, she thought. Colorful, then white, then back to
color. He led her into a particular chamber, and she saw what he’d told her to expect. Scribes crushed by the carpets that he’d awakened, bars ripped from their mountings, walls broken down. A ribbon shot from Susebron, turning over a body so that she wouldn’t have to see its wound. She wasn’t paying much attention. In the midst of the rubble were a pair of corpses. One was Blushweaver, bloody and red, facedown. The other was Lightsong, his entire body drained of color. As if he were a Lifeless. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to sleep, as if at peace. A man sat next to him—Lightsong’s high priest, holding the god’s head in his lap. The priest looked up. He smiled, though she could see tears in his eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said, looking at Susebron. “Lightsong gave his life to heal me,” the God King said. “He somehow knew that my tongue had been removed.” “The Returned can heal one person,” the priest said, looking down at his god. “It’s their duty to decide who and when. They come back for this purpose, some say. To give life to one person who needs it.” “I never knew him,” Susebron said. “He was a very good person,” Siri said. “I realize that. Though I never spoke to him, somehow he was noble enough to die so that I might live.” The priest smiled down. “The amazing thing is,” he said, “Lightsong did that twice.” He told me that I couldn’t depend on him in the end, Siri thought, smiling slightly, though sorrowful at the same time. I guess he lied about that. How very like him. “Come,” Susebron said. “We must gather what is left of my priests. We have to find a way to stop our armies from destroying your people.” ~ “There has to be a way, Vasher,” Vivenna said. She knelt next to him. He tried to push down his rage, his anger at himself. He’d come to the city to stop a war. Once again, he’d been too late. “Forty thousand Lifeless,” he said, pounding his fist against the ﬂoor. “I can’t stop that many. Not even with Nightblood and the Breaths of every person in the city. Even if I could somehow keep up with their marching, one would eventually get in a lucky strike and kill me.” “There has to be a way,” Vivenna said. Has to be a way. “I thought the same thing before,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I wanted to stop it. But by the time I realized what was happening, it had gone too far. It had taken on a life of its own.” “What are you talking about?” “The Manywar,” Vasher whispered. Silence. “Who are you?” He kept his eyes closed. They used to call him Talaxin, Nightblood said. “Talaxin,” Vivenna said, amused. “Nightblood, that’s one of the five Scholars. He...” She trailed off. “...he lived over three hundred years ago,” she finally said. “BioChroma can keep a man alive a long time,”
Vasher said, sighing and opening his eyes. She didn’t argue. They used to call him other things, too, Nightblood said. “If you’re really one of them,” Vivenna said, “then you’ll know how to stop the Lifeless.” “Sure,” Vasher said wryly. “With other Lifeless.” “That’s it?” “The easiest. Barring that, we can chase them down and grab them one at a time, then break them and replace their Command phrases. But even if you had the Eighth Heightening to let you break Commands instinctively, changing so many would take weeks.” He shook his head. “We could have an army fight them, but they are our army. The Hallandren forces aren’t large enough to fight the Lifeless on their own, and they wouldn’t be able to get to Idris with any semblance of speed. The Lifeless will beat them by days. Lifeless don’t sleep, don’t eat, and can march tirelessly.” “Ichor-alcohol,” Vivenna said. “They’ll run out.” “It’s not like food, Vivenna. It’s like blood. They need a new supply if they get cut and drained or if it gets corrupted. A few will probably stop working without maintenance, but only a small number.” She fell silent. “Well then, we Awaken an army of our own to fight them.” He smiled wanly. He felt so light-headed. He’d bound his wounds—the bad ones, anyway—but he wouldn’t be doing more fighting anytime soon. Vivenna didn’t look much better, with that bloody stain on her shoulder. “Awaken an army of our own?” he said. “first, where would we get the Breath? I used all of yours. Even if we find my clothing, which still has some in it, we’ll only have a couple hundred. It takes one per Lifeless. We’re severely overmatched.” “The God King,” she said. “Can’t use his Breath,” Vasher said. “The man’s tongue was removed when he was a child.” “And you can’t get it out of him somehow?” Vasher shrugged. “The Tenth Heightening allows a man to Command mentally, without speaking, but it can take months of training to learn how to do that—even if you have someone to teach you. I think his priests must know how, so they can transfer that wealth of Breath from one king to another, but I doubt they’ve trained him yet. One of their duties is to keep him from using his Breaths in the first place.” “He’s still our best option,” Vivenna said. “Oh? And you’ll use his power how? Make Lifeless? Are you forgetting that we’ll need to find forty thousand bodies?” She sighed, resting back against the wall. Vasher? Nightblood asked in his mind. Didn’t you leave an army behind here last time? He didn’t reply. Vivenna opened her eyes, however. Apparently Nightblood had decided to include her in all of his thoughts now. “What is this?” she asked. “Nothing,” Vasher said. No, no it’s not, Nightblood said. I remember. You talked to that priest, told him to take care of your Breath for you, should you need it again. And you gave him your army. It stopped moving. You called it a gift
for the city. Don’t you remember? It was just yesterday. “Yesterday?” Vivenna asked. When the Manywar stopped, Nightblood said. When was that? “He doesn’t understand time,” Vasher said. “Don’t listen to him.” “No,” Vivenna said, studying him. “He knows something.” She thought for a moment, then her eyes opened wide. “Kalad’s army,” she said, pointing at him. “His phantoms. You know where they are!” He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Where?” “Here, in the city.” “We have to use them!” He eyed her. “You’re asking me to give Hallandren a tool, Vivenna. A terrible tool. Something worse than what they have now.” “And if that army of theirs slaughters my people?” Vivenna asked. “Could what you’re talking about give them more power than that?” “Yes.” She fell silent. “Do it anyway,” she said. He glanced at her. “Please, Vasher.” He closed his eyes again, remembering the destruction he had caused. The wars that had started. All because of the things he’d learned to create. “You would give your enemies such power?” “They’re not my enemies,” she said. “Even if I hate them.” He regarded her for a moment, then finally stood. “Let’s find the God King. If he even still lives, then we shall see.” ~ “My lord and lady,” said the priest, bowing with his face down before them. “We heard rumors of a plot to attack the palace. That’s why we locked you away. We wanted to protect you!” Siri looked at the man, then glanced at Susebron. The God King rubbed his chin in thought. They both recognized this man as one of his actual priests, rather than an impostor. They’d only been able to determine that with certainty for a handful of them. They imprisoned the others, sending for the city guard to come in and start cleaning up the wreckage of the palace. The breeze blew Siri’s hair—red, to show her displeasure—as they stood atop the palace. “There, my lord!” a guard said, pointing. Susebron turned, walking over to the edge of the palace. Most of his entourage of twisting cloths were no longer streaming about him, but they waited on his will in a pile on the rooftop. Siri joined him at the side of the palace, and in the distance, she could make out a smudge and what looked like smoke. “The Lifeless army,” the guard said. “Our scouts have confirmed that it’s marching toward Idris. Almost everyone in the city saw it pass out through the gates.” “That smoke?” Siri asked. “Dust of its passing, my lady,” the guard said. “That’s a lot of soldiers.” She looked up at Susebron. He frowned. “I could stop them.” His voice was stronger than she had expected it to be. Deeper. “My lord?” the guard asked. “With this much Breath,” Susebron said. “I could charge them, use these cloths to tie them up.” “My lord,” the guard said hesitantly. “There are forty thousand of them. They would cut at the cloth, overwhelm you.” Susebron seemed resolute. “I have to try.” “No,” Siri said, laying a hand on his
chest. “Your people...” “We’ll send messengers,” she said, “explaining our regret. My people can withdraw, ambush the Lifeless. We can send troops to help.” “We don’t have many,” he said. “And they won’t get there very quickly. Could your people really get away?” No, she thought, heart wrenching. You don’t know that, though, and you’re innocent enough to believe they can escape. Her people might survive as a whole, but many would die. Susebron getting himself killed fighting the creatures wouldn’t be of much use, however. He had amazing power, but fighting so many Lifeless was well beyond the scope of whatever he could do. He saw the look in her face, and surprisingly, he read it well. “You don’t believe that they can get away,” he said. “You’re just trying to protect me.” Surprising how well he understands me already. “My lord!” a voice said from behind. Susebron turned, looking across the top of the palace. They’d come to the top partially to get a look at the Lifeless, but also because both Siri and Susebron were tired of being closed in tight quarters. They wanted to be in the open, where it would be harder to sneak up on them. A guard came out of the stairwell, then walked over, hand on sword. He bowed. “My lord. There’s someone here to see you.” “I don’t want to see anyone,” Susebron said. “Who are they?” Amazing how well he can speak, she thought. Never having had a tongue. What did Lightsong’s Breath do? It healed more than his body. It gave him the capacity to use the regrown tongue. “My lord,” the guard said. “The visitor—she has the Royal Locks!” “What?” Siri asked with surprise. The guard turned, and—shockingly—Vivenna stepped up onto the roof of the palace. Or Siri thought it was Vivenna. She wore trousers and a tunic, with a sword tied at her waist, and she appeared to have a bloody wound on one shoulder. She saw Siri, and smiled, her hair turning yellow with joy. Vivenna’s hair changing? Siri thought. It can’t be her. But it was. The woman laughed, dashing across the top of the roof. Some guards stopped her, but Siri waved for them to let the woman pass. She ran over, embracing Siri. “Vivenna?” The woman smiled ruefully. “Yes, mostly,” she said. She glanced at Susebron. “I’m sorry,” Vivenna said quietly. “I came to the city to try rescuing you.” “That was very kind of you,” Siri said. “But I don’t need rescuing.” Vivenna frowned more deeply. “And who is this, Siri?” Susebron asked. “My eldest sister.” “Ah,” Susebron said, bowing his head cordially. “Siri has told me much about you, Princess Vivenna. I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” Vivenna stared at the man with shock. “He’s not really as bad as they say,” Siri said, smiling. “Most of the time.” “That is sarcasm,” Susebron said. “She is quite fond of it.” Vivenna turned from the God King. “Our homeland is under attack.” “I know,” Siri said. “We’re working on that. I’m
preparing messengers to send to Father.” “I have a better way,” Vivenna said. “But you’ll have to trust me.” “Of course,” Siri said. “I have a friend who needs to speak with the God King,” Vivenna said. “Where he can’t be overheard by guards.” Siri hesitated. Silly, she thought. This is Vivenna. I can trust her. She’d thought she could trust Bluefingers too. Vivenna regarded her with a curious expression. “If this can help save Idris,” Susebron said, “then I will do it. Who is this person?” ~ Moments later, Vivenna stood quietly on the roof of the palace with the God King of Hallandren. Siri stood a short walk away, watching the Lifeless churn dust in the distance. All of them waited while the soldiers searched Vasher for weapons; he stood with arms upraised on the other side of the rooftop, surrounded by suspicious guards. He had wisely left Nightblood below and didn’t have any other weapons on him. He didn’t even have any Breath. “Your sister is an amazing woman,” the God King said. Vivenna glanced at him. This was the man she was to have married. The terrible creature that she was supposed to have given herself to. She’d never expected to end up like this, pleasantly chatting with him. She’d also never expected that she’d like him. It was a quick judgment. She’d gotten over chastising herself for making those, though she had learned to leave them open for revision. She saw kindness in his fondness for Siri. How had a man like this ended up as God King of terrible Hallandren? “Yes,” she said. “She is.” “I love her,” Susebron said. “I would have you know this.” Slowly, Vivenna nodded, glancing over at Siri. She’s changed so much, Vivenna thought. When did she become so regal, with that commanding bearing and ability to keep her hair black? Her little sister, no longer quite as little, seemed to wear the expensive dress well. It fit her. Odd. On the other end of the rooftop, the guards took Vasher behind a screen to change. They obviously wanted to be certain none of his clothing was Awakened. He left a few moments later, wearing a wrap around his waist, but nothing else. His chest was cut and bruised, and Vivenna thought it shameful that he should be forced to undergo such humiliation. He suffered it, walking across the rooftop with an escort. As he did, Siri walked back, eyes watching him keenly. Vivenna had spoken with her sister brieﬂy, but could already tell that Siri no longer took pride in being unimportant. Changed indeed. Vasher arrived, and Susebron dismissed the guards. Behind him, the jungles extended to the north, toward Idris. Vasher glanced at Vivenna, and she thought he might tell her to go. However, he finally just turned away from her, looking resigned. “Who are you?” Susebron asked. “The one responsible for you getting your tongue cut out,” Vasher said. Susebron raised an eyebrow. Vasher closed his eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t use his Breath or make a Command.
Yet suddenly, he started to glow. Not as a lantern would glow, not as the sun glowed, but with an aura that made colors brighter. Vivenna started as Vasher increased in size. He opened his eyes and adjusted the wrap at his waist, making room for his growth. His chest became more firm, the muscles bulging, and the scruffy beard on his face retreated, leaving him clean-shaven. His hair turned golden. He still bore the cuts on his body, but they seemed inconsequential. He seemed...divine. The God King watched with interest. He was now faced by a fellow god, a man of his own stature. “I don’t care if you believe me or not,” Vasher said, his voice sounding more noble. “But I will have you know that I left something here, long ago. A wealth of power that I promised to one day recover. I gave instructions for its care, and a charge that it should not be used. The priests, apparently, took this to heart.” Susebron, surprisingly, dropped to one knee. “My lord. Where have you been?” “Paying for what I’ve done,” Vasher said. “Or trying to. That is unimportant. Stand.” What is going on? Vivenna thought. Siri looked equally confused, and the sisters shared a look. Susebron stood, though he kept his posture reverent. “You have a group of rogue Lifeless,” Vasher said. “You’ve lost control of them.” “I’m sorry, my lord,” the God King said. Vasher regarded him. Then he glanced at Vivenna. She nodded her head. “I trust him.” “It’s not about trust,” Vasher said, turning back to Susebron. “Either way, I am going to give you something.” “What?” “My army,” Vasher said. Susebron frowned. “But, my lord. Our Lifeless just marched away, to attack Idris.” “No,” Vasher said. “Not that army. I’m going to give you the one I left behind three hundred years ago. The people call them Kalad’s Phantoms. They are the force by which I made Hallandren stop its war.” “Stop the Manywar, my lord?” Susebron said. “You did that by negotiation.” Vasher snorted. “You don’t know much about war, do you?” The God King paused, then shook his head. “No.” “Well, learn,” Vasher said. “Because I charge you with command of my army. Use it to protect, not attack. Only use it in an emergency.” The God King nodded dumbly. Vasher glanced at him, then sighed. “My sin be hidden.” “What?” Susebron asked. “It’s a Command phrase,” Vasher said. “The one you can use to give new orders to the D’Denir statues I left in your city.” “But my lord!” Susebron said. “Stone cannot be awakened.” “The stone hasn’t been Awakened,” Vasher said. “There are human bones in those statues. They are Lifeless.” Human bones. Vivenna felt a chill. He’d told her that bones were usually a bad choice to awaken because it was hard to keep them in the shape of a man during the Awakening process. But what if those bones were encased in stone? Stone that held its shape, stone that would protect them from harm, make them nearly
impossible to hurt or break? Awakened objects could be so much stronger than human muscles. If a Lifeless could be created from bones, made strong enough to move a rock body around it...You’d have soldiers unlike any that had ever existed. Colors! she thought. “There are some thousand original D’Denir in the city,” Vasher said, “and most of them should still function, even still. I created them to last.” “But they have no ichor-alcohol,” Vivenna said. “They don’t even have veins!” Vasher looked at her. It was him. The same look to the face, the same expressions. He hadn’t changed shape to look like someone else. He just looked like a Returned version of himself. What was going on? “We didn’t always have ichor-alcohol,” Vasher said. “It makes the Awakening easier and cheaper, but it isn’t the only way. And, in the minds of many, I believe it has become a crutch.” He glanced at the God King again. “You should be able to imprint them quickly with a new security phrase, then order them out to stop the other army. I think you’ll find those phantoms of mine to be...very effective. Weapons are virtually useless against the stone.” Susebron nodded again. “They are your responsibility now,” Vasher said, turning away. “Do better with them than I did.” Annotations for Chapter 58 Contents Map Annotations for the Map Acknowledgements Annotations for the Acknowledgements Prologue Annotations for the Prologue Warbreaker Chapter One Annotations for Chapter One Chapter Two Annotations for Chapter Two Chapter Three Annotations for Chapter Three Chapter Four Annotations for Chapter Four Chapter Five Annotations for Chapter Five Chapter Six Annotations for Chapter Six Chapter Seven Annotations for Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Annotations for Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Annotations for Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Annotations for Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Annotations for Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Annotations for Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Annotations for Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Annotations for Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Annotations for Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Annotations for Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Annotations for Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Annotations for Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Annotations for Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Annotations for Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Annotations for Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Annotations for Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Annotations for Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Annotations for Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Annotations for Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Annotations for Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Annotations for Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Annotations for Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Annotations for Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Annotations
for Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Annotations for Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Annotations for Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Annotations for Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Annotations for Chapter Fifty-Eight Epilogue Annotations for the Epilogue Ars Arcanum 1. Table of the Heightenings 2. Heightening Powers Annotations Wrap-Up For Emily, who said yes Annotations for the Dedication Epilogue Annotations for the Epilogue The next day, an army of a thousand stone soldiers charged from the gates of the city, running down the highway after the Lifeless who had left the day before. Vivenna stood outside the city, leaning against the wall, watching them go. How often did I stand under the gaze of those D’Denir, she thought. Never knowing they were alive, just waiting to be Commanded again? Everyone said that Peacegiver had left the statues behind as a gift to the people, a symbol to remind them not to go to war. She’d always found it strange. A bunch of statues of soldiers, a gift to remind the people that war was terrible? And yet, they were a gift. The gift that had ended the Manywar. She turned toward Vasher. He, too, leaned against the city wall, Nightblood in one hand. His body had reverted to its mortal form, scraggly hair and all. “What was that first thing you taught me about Awakening?” she asked. “That we don’t know much?” he asked. “That there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Commands that we haven’t discovered yet?” “That’s the one,” she said, turning to watch the Awakened statues charge into the distance. “I think you were right.” “You think?” She smiled. “Will they really be able to stop the other army?” “Probably,” Vasher said, shrugging. “They’ll be fast enough to catch up—the ﬂesh Lifeless won’t be able to march as quickly as ones with stone feet. I’ve seen those things fight before. They’re really tough to beat.” She nodded. “So my people will be safe.” “Unless that God King decides to use the Lifeless statues to conquer them.” She snorted. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a grump, Vasher?” Finally, Nightblood said. Someone agrees with me! Vasher scowled. “I’m not a grump,” he said. “I’m just bad with words.” She smiled. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said, picking up his pack. “See you around.” With that, he began to walk along the path away from the city. Vivenna walked up next to him. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Going with you,” she said. “You’re a princess,” he said. “Stay with that girl who rules Hallandren or go back to Idris and be proclaimed as the heroine who saved them. Either way will give you a happy life.” “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. Even if my father did take me back, I doubt that I’ll ever
be able to live a happy life in either a plush palace or a quiet town.” “You’ll think differently, after a little time on the road. It’s a difficult life.” “I know,” she said. “But...well, everything I’ve been—everything I was trained to do—has been a lie wrapped in hatred. I don’t want to go back to it. I’m not that person. I don’t want to be.” “Who are you, then?” “I don’t know,” she said, nodding toward the horizon. “But I think I’ll find the answer out there.” They walked for another short time. “Your family will worry about you,” Vasher finally said. “They’ll get over it,” she replied. Finally, he just shrugged. “All right. I don’t really care.” She smiled. It’s true, she thought. I don’t want to go back. Princess Vivenna was dead. She’d died on the streets of T’Telir. Vivenna the Awakener had no desire to bring her back. “So,” she asked as they walked along the jungle road, “I can’t figure it out. Which one are you? Kalad, who started the war, or Peacegiver, who ended it?” He didn’t answer immediately. “It’s odd,” he finally said, “what history does to a man. I guess people couldn’t understand why I suddenly changed. Why I stopped fighting, and why I brought the Phantoms back to seize control of my own kingdom. So they decided I must have been two people. A man can get confused about his identity when things like that happen.” She grunted in assent. “You’re still Returned, though.” “Of course I am,” he said. “Where did you get the Breath?” she asked. “The one a week you need to survive?” “I carried them with me, on top of the one that makes me Returned. In a lot of ways, Returned aren’t quite what people think they are. They don’t automatically have hundreds or thousands of Breath.” “But—” “They’re of the fifth Heightening,” Vasher said, interrupting her. “But they don’t get there by the number of Breaths, but by the quality. Returned have a single, powerful Breath. One that takes them all the way to the fifth Heightening. It’s a divine Breath, you might say. But their body feeds on Breath, like...” “The sword.” Vasher nodded. “Nightblood only needs it when he’s drawn. Returned feed off their Breath once a week. So if you don’t give them one, they essentially eat themselves—devouring their one, single Breath. Killing them. However, if you give them extra Breath, on top of their single divine one, they’ll feed off those each week.” “So the Hallandren gods could be fed more than one,” Vivenna said. “They could have a stock of Breaths, a buffer to keep them alive if one couldn’t be provided.” Vasher nodded. “Wouldn’t make them as dependent on their religion to care for them, though.” “That’s a cynical way of looking at it.” He shrugged. “So you’re going to burn up a Breath every week,” she said. “Reducing our stock?” He nodded. “I used to have thousands of Breath. I ate all of those.” “Thousands? But it would take you
years and years to...” She trailed off. He’d been alive for over three hundred years. If he absorbed fifty Breaths a year, that was thousands of Breaths. “You’re an expensive guy to keep around,” she noted. “How do you keep yourself from looking like a Returned? And why don’t you die when you give away your Breaths?” “Those are my secrets,” he said, not looking at her. “Though you should have figured out that Returned can change their forms.” She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got Returned blood in you,” he said. “The royal line. Where do you think that ability to change your hair color comes from?” “Does that mean I can change more than just my hair?” “Maybe,” he said. “Takes time to learn. Go stroll around the Hallandren Court of Gods sometime, though. You’ll find that the gods look exactly as they think they should. The old ones look old, the heroic ones become strong, the ones who think a beautiful goddess should be well endowed become unnaturally voluptuous. It’s all about how they perceive themselves.” And this is how you perceive yourself, Vasher? she thought, curious. As the scraggly man, rough and unkempt? She said nothing of that; she just walked on, her life sense letting her feel the jungle around them. They’d recovered Vasher’s cloak, shirt, and trousers—the ones that Denth had originally taken from him. There had been enough Breath in those to split between the two of them and get them each to the Second Heightening. It wasn’t as much as she was used to, but it was a fair bit better than nothing. “So where are we going, anyway?” “Ever heard of Kuth and Huth?” he asked. “Sure,” she said. “They were your main rivals in the Manywar.” “Somebody’s trying to restore them,” he said. “A tyrant of some kind. He’s apparently recruited an old friend of mine.” “Another one?” she asked. He shrugged. “There were five of us. Me, Denth, Shashara, Arsteel, and Yesteel. It looks like Yesteel has resurfaced, finally.” “He’s related to Arsteel?” Vivenna guessed. “Brothers.” “Great.” “I know. He’s the one who originally figured out how to make ichor-alcohol. I hear rumors that he’s got a new form of it. More potent.” “Even better.” They walked in silence for a time longer. I’m bored, Nightblood said. Pay attention to me. Why doesn’t anyone ever talk to me? “Because you’re annoying,” Vasher snapped. The sword huffed. “What’s your real name?” Vivenna finally asked. “My real name?” Vasher asked. “Yes,” she said. “Everyone calls you things. Peacegiver. Kalad. Vasher. Talaxin. Is that last one your real name, the name of the scholar?” He shook his head. “No.” “Well, what is it, then?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember the time before I Returned.” “Oh,” she said. “When I came back, however, I did get a name,” he finally said. “The Cult of Returned—those who eventually founded the Hallandren Iridescent Tones—found me and kept me alive with Breaths. They gave me a name. I didn’t like it much. Didn’t seem to fit
me.” “Well?” she asked. “What was it?” “Warbreaker the Peaceful,” he finally admitted. She raised an eyebrow. “What I can’t figure out,” he said, “is whether that was truly prophetic, or if I’m just trying to live up to it.” “Does it matter?” she asked. He walked for a time in silence. “No,” he finally said. “No, I guess it doesn’t. I just wish I knew if there is really something spiritual about the Returns, or if it’s all just cosmic happenstance.” “Probably not for us to know.” “Probably,” he agreed. Silence. “Should have called you Wartlover the Ugly,” she finally said. “Very mature,” he replied. “You really think those sorts of comments are proper for a princess?” She smiled broadly. “I don’t care,” she said. “And I never have to again.” Annotations for the Epilogue This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. WARBREAKER Copyright © 2009 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Edited by Moshe Feder Electronic composition by Violet Lucca for Tor.com Map by Shawn Boyles A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor–forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data Sanderson, Brandon. Warbreaker / Brandon Sanderson.—1st ed. p. cm. “A Tom Doherty Associates book.” ISBN–13: 978–0–7653–2030–8 ISBN–10: 0–7653–2030–4 1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Princesses—Fiction. 3. Gods—Fiction. I. Title. PS3619.A533W37 2009 813'.6—dc22 2009001665 First Electronic Edition: September 2009 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Annotations for the Map The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Prologue Annotations to the Prologue It’s funny, Vasher thought, how many things begin with my getting thrown into prison. The guards laughed to one another, slamming the cell door shut with a clang. Vasher stood and dusted himself off, rolling his shoulder and wincing. While the bottom half of his cell door was solid wood, the top half was barred, and he could see the three guards open his large duffel and riﬂe through his possessions. One of them noticed him watching. The guard was an oversized beast of a man with a shaved head and a dirty uniform that barely retained the bright yellow and blue coloring of the T’Telir city guard. Bright colors, Vasher thought. I’ll have to get used to those again. In any other nation, the vibrant blues and yellows would have been ridiculous on soldiers. This, however, was Hallandren: land of Returned gods, Lifeless servants, BioChromatic research, and—of course—color. The large guard sauntered up to the cell door, leaving his friends to amuse
themselves with Vasher’s belongings. “They say you’re pretty tough,” the man said, sizing up Vasher. Vasher did not respond. “The bartender says you beat down some twenty men in the brawl.” The guard rubbed his chin. “You don’t look that tough to me. Either way, you should have known better than to strike a priest. The others, they’ll spend a night locked up. You, though...you’ll hang. Colorless fool.” Vasher turned away. His cell was functional, if unoriginal. A thin slit at the top of one wall let in light, the stone walls dripped with water and moss, and a pile of dirty straw decomposed in the corner. “You ignoring me?” the guard asked, stepping closer to the door. The colors of his uniform brightened, as if he’d stepped into a stronger light. The change was slight. Vasher didn’t have much Breath remaining, and so his aura didn’t do much to the colors around him. The guard didn’t notice the change in color—just as he hadn’t noticed back in the bar, when he and his buddies had picked Vasher up off the ﬂoor and thrown him in their cart. Of course, the change was so slight to the unaided eye that it would have been nearly impossible to pick out. “Here, now,” said one of the men looking through Vasher’s duffel. “What’s this?” Vasher had always found it interesting that the men who watched dungeons tended to be as bad as, or worse than, the men they guarded. Perhaps that was deliberate. Society didn’t seem to care if such men were outside the cells or in them, so long as they were kept away from more honest men. Assuming that such a thing existed. From Vasher’s bag, a guard pulled free a long object wrapped in white linen. The man whistled as he unwrapped the cloth, revealing a long, thin-bladed sword in a silver sheath. The hilt was pure black. “Who do you suppose he stole this from?” The lead guard eyed Vasher, likely wondering if Vasher was some kind of nobleman. Though Hallandren had no aristocracy, many neighboring kingdoms had their lords and ladies. Yet what lord would wear a drab brown cloak, ripped in several places? What lord would sport bruises from a bar fight, a half-grown beard, and boots worn from years of walking? The guard turned away, apparently convinced that Vasher was no lord. He was right. And he was wrong. “Let me see that,” the lead guard said, taking the sword. He grunted, obviously surprised by its weight. He turned it about, noting the clasp that tied sheath to hilt, keeping the blade from being drawn. He undid the clasp. The colors in the room deepened. They didn’t grow brighter—not the way the guard’s vest had when he approached Vasher. Instead, they grew stronger. Darker. Reds became maroon. Yellows hardened to gold. Blues approached navy. “Be careful, friend,” Vasher said softly, “that sword can be dangerous.” The guard looked up. All was still. Then the guard snorted and walked away from Vasher’s cell, still carrying the sword. The
other two followed, bearing Vasher’s duffel, entering the guard room at the end of the hallway. The door thumped shut. Vasher immediately knelt beside the patch of straw, selecting a handful of sturdy lengths. He pulled threads from his cloak—it was beginning to fray at the bottom—and tied the straw into the shape of a small person, perhaps three inches high, with bushy arms and legs. He plucked a hair from one of his eyebrows, set it against the straw figure’s head, then reached into his boot and pulled out a brilliant red scarf. Then Vasher Breathed. It ﬂowed out of him, puffing into the air, translucent yet radiant, like the color of oil on water in the sun. Vasher felt it leave: BioChromatic Breath, scholars called it. Most people just called it Breath. Each person had one. Or, at least, that was how it usually went. One person, one Breath. Vasher had around fifty Breaths, just enough to reach the first Heightening. Having so few made him feel poor compared with what he’d once held, but many would consider fifty Breaths to be a great treasure. Unfortunately, even Awakening a small figure made from organic material—using a piece of his own body as a focus—drained away some half of his Breaths. The little straw figure jerked, sucking in the Breath. In Vasher’s hand, half of the brilliant red scarf faded to grey. Vasher leaned down—imagining what he wanted the figure to do—and completed the final step of the process as he gave the Command. “Fetch keys,” he said. The straw figure stood and raised its single eyebrow toward Vasher. Vasher pointed toward the guard room. From it, he heard sudden shouts of surprise. Not much time, he thought. The straw person ran along the ﬂoor, then jumped up, vaulting between the bars. Vasher pulled off his cloak and set it on the ﬂoor. It was the perfect shape of a person—marked with rips that matched the scars on Vasher’s body, its hood cut with holes to match Vasher’s eyes. The closer an object was to human shape and form, the fewer Breaths it took to Awaken. Vasher leaned down, trying not to think of the days when he’d had enough Breaths to Awaken without regard for shape or focus. That had been a different time. Wincing, he pulled a tuft of hair from his head, then sprinkled it across the hood of the cloak. Once again, he Breathed. It took the rest of his Breath. With it gone—the cloak trembling, the scarf losing the rest of its color—Vasher felt...dimmer. Losing one’s Breath was not fatal. Indeed, the extra Breaths Vasher used had once belonged to other people. Vasher didn’t know who they were; he hadn’t gathered these Breaths himself. They had been given to him. But, of course, that was the way it was always supposed to work. One could not take Breath by force. Being void of Breath did change him. Colors didn’t seem as bright. He couldn’t feel the bustling people moving about in the city above, a connection
he normally took for granted. It was the awareness all men had for others—that thing which whispered a warning, in the drowsiness of sleep, when someone entered the room. In Vasher, that sense had been magnified fifty times. And now it was gone. Sucked into the cloak and the straw person, giving them power. The cloak jerked. Vasher leaned down. “Protect me,” he Commanded, and the cloak grew still. He stood, throwing it back on. The straw figure returned to his window. It carried a large ring of keys. The figure’s straw feet were stained red. The crimson blood seemed so dull to Vasher now. He took the keys. “Thank you,” he said. He always thanked them. He didn’t know why, particularly considering what he did next. “Your Breath to mine,” he commanded, touching the straw person’s chest. The straw person immediately fell backward off the door—life draining from it—and Vasher got his Breath back. The familiar sense of awareness returned, the knowledge of connectedness, of fitting. He could only take the Breath back because he’d Awakened this creature himself—indeed, Awakenings of this sort were rarely permanent. He used his Breath like a reserve, doling it out, then recovering it. Compared with what he had once held, twenty-five Breaths was a laughably small number. However, compared with nothing, it seemed infinite. He shivered in satisfaction. The yells from the guard room died out. The dungeon fell still. He had to keep moving. Vasher reached through the bars, using the keys to unlock his cell. He pushed the thick door open, rushing out into the hallway, leaving the straw figure discarded on the ground. He didn’t walk to the guard room—and the exit beyond it—but instead turned south, penetrating deeper into the dungeon. This was the most uncertain part of his plan. finding a tavern that was frequented by priests of the Iridescent Tones had been easy enough. Getting into a bar fight—then striking one of those same priests—had been equally simple. Hallandren took their religious figures very seriously, and Vasher had earned himself not the usual imprisonment in a local jail, but a trip to the God King’s dungeons. Knowing the kind of men who tended to guard such dungeons, he’d had a pretty good idea that they would try to draw Nightblood. That had given him the diversion he’d needed to get the keys. But now came the unpredictable part. Vasher stopped, Awakened cloak rustling. It was easy to locate the cell he wanted, for around it a large patch of stone had been drained of color, leaving both walls and doors a dull grey. It was a place to imprison an Awakener, for no color meant no Awakening. Vasher stepped up to the door, looking through the bars. A man hung by his arms from the ceiling, naked and chained. His color was vibrant to Vasher’s eyes, his skin a pure tan, his bruises brilliant splashes of blue and violet. The man was gagged. Another precaution. In order to Awaken, the man would need three things: Breath, color, and a
Command. The harmonics and the hues, some called it. The Iridescent Tones, the relationship between color and sound. A Command had to be spoken clearly and firmly in the Awakener’s native language—any stuttering, any mispronunciation, would invalidate the Awakening. The Breath would be drawn out, but the object would be unable to act. Vasher used the prison keys to unlock the cell door, then stepped inside. This man’s aura made colors grow brighter by sharp measure when they got close to him. Anyone would be able to notice an aura that strong, though it was much easier for someone who had reached the first Heightening. It wasn’t the strongest BioChromatic aura Vasher had ever seen—those belonged to the Returned, known as gods here in Hallandren. Still, the prisoner’s BioChroma was very impressive and much, much stronger than Vasher’s own. The prisoner held a lot of Breaths. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The man swung in his bonds, studying Vasher, gagged lips bleeding from lack of water. Vasher hesitated only brieﬂy, then reached up and pulled the gag free. “You,” the prisoner whispered, coughing slightly. “Are you here to free me?” “No, Vahr,” Vasher said quietly. “I’m here to kill you.” Vahr snorted. Captivity hadn’t been easy on him. When Vasher had last seen Vahr, he’d been plump. Judging by his emaciated body, he’d been without food for some time now. The cuts, bruises, and burn marks on his ﬂesh were fresh. Both the torture and the haunted look in Vahr’s bag-rimmed eyes bespoke a solemn truth. Breath could only be transferred by willing, intentional Command. That Command could, however, be encouraged. “So,” Vahr croaked, “you judge me, just like everyone else.” “Your failed rebellion is not my concern. I just want your Breath.” “You and the entire Hallandren court.” “Yes. But you’re not going to give it to one of the Returned. You’re going to give it to me. In exchange for killing you.” “Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.” There was a hardness—a void of emotion—in Vahr that Vasher had not seen the last time they had parted, years before. Odd, Vasher thought, that I should finally, after all of this time, find something in the man that I can identify with. Vasher kept a wary distance from Vahr. Now that the man’s voice was free, he could Command. However, he was touching nothing except for the metal chains, and metal was very difficult to Awaken. It had never been alive, and it was far from the form of a man. Even during the height of his power, Vasher himself had only managed to Awaken metal on a few, select occasions. Of course, some extremely powerful Awakeners could bring objects to life that they weren’t touching, but that were in the sound of their voice. That, however, required the Ninth Heightening. Even Vahr didn’t have that much Breath. In fact, Vasher knew of only one living person who did: the God King himself. That meant Vasher was probably safe. Vahr contained a great wealth of Breath, but had nothing to
Awaken. Vasher walked around the chained man, finding it very difficult to offer any sympathy. Vahr had earned his fate. Yet the priests would not let him die while he held so much Breath; if he died, it would be wasted. Gone. Irretrievable. Not even the government of Hallandren—which had such strict laws about the buying and passing of Breath—could let such a treasure slip away. They wanted it badly enough to forestall the execution of even a high-profile criminal like Vahr. In retrospect, they would curse themselves for not leaving him better guarded. But, then, Vasher had been waiting two years for an opportunity like this one. “Well?” Vahr asked. “Give me the Breath, Vahr,” Vasher said, stepping forward. Vahr snorted. “I doubt you have the skill of the God King’s torturers, Vasher—and I’ve withstood them for two weeks now.” “You’d be surprised. But that doesn’t matter. You are going to give me your Breath. You know you have only two choices. Give it to me, or give it to them.” Vahr hung by his wrists, rotating slowly. Silent. “You don’t have much time to consider,” Vasher said. “Any moment now, someone is going to discover the dead guards outside. The alarm will be raised. I’ll leave you, you will be tortured again, and you will eventually break. Then all the power you’ve gathered will go to the very people you vowed to destroy.” Vahr stared at the ﬂoor. Vasher let him hang for a few moments, and could see that the reality of the situation was clear to him. finally, Vahr looked up at Vasher. “That...thing you bear. It’s here, in the city?” Vasher nodded. “The screams I heard earlier? It caused them?” Vasher nodded again. “How long will you be in T’Telir?” “For a time. A year, perhaps.” “Will you use it against them?” “My goals are my own to know, Vahr. Will you take my deal or not? Quick death in exchange for those Breaths. I promise you this. Your enemies will not have them.” Vahr grew quiet. “It’s yours,” he finally whispered. Vasher reached over, resting his hand on Vahr’s forehead—careful not to let any part of his clothing touch the man’s skin, lest Vahr draw forth color for Awakening. Vahr didn’t move. He looked numb. Then, just as Vasher began to worry that the prisoner had changed his mind, Vahr Breathed. The color drained from him. The beautiful Iridescence, the aura that had made him look majestic despite his wounds and chains. It ﬂowed from his mouth, hanging in the air, shimmering like mist. Vasher drew it in, closing his eyes. “My life to yours,” Vahr Commanded, a hint of despair in his voice. “My Breath become yours.” The Breath ﬂooded into Vasher, and everything became vibrant. His brown cloak now seemed deep and rich in color. The blood on the ﬂoor was intensely red, as if aﬂame. Even Vahr’s skin seemed a masterpiece of color, the surface marked by deep black hairs, blue bruises, and sharp red cuts. It had been years since Vasher had
felt such...life. He gasped, falling to his knees as it overwhelmed him, and he had to drop a hand to the stone ﬂoor to keep himself from toppling over. How did I live without this? He knew that his senses hadn’t actually improved, yet he felt so much more alert. More aware of the beauty of sensation. When he touched the stone ﬂoor, he marveled at its roughness. And the sound of wind passing through the thin dungeon window up above. Had it always been that melodic? How could he not have noticed? “Keep your part of the bargain,” Vahr said. Vasher noted the tones in his voice, the beauty of each one, how close they were to harmonics. Vasher had gained perfect pitch. A gift for anyone who reached the Second Heightening. It would be good to have that again. Vasher could, of course, have up to the fifth Heightening at any time, if he wished. That would require certain sacrifices he wasn’t willing to make. And so he forced himself to do it the old-fashioned way, by gathering Breaths from people like Vahr. Vasher stood, then pulled out the colorless scarf he had used earlier. He tossed it over Vahr’s shoulder, then Breathed. He didn’t bother making the scarf have human shape, didn’t need to use a bit of his hair or skin for a focus—though he did have to draw the color from his shirt. Vasher met Vahr’s resigned eyes. “Strangle things,” Vasher commanded, fingers touching the quivering scarf. It twisted immediately, pulling away a large—yet now inconsequential—amount of Breath. The scarf quickly wrapped around Vahr’s neck, tightening, choking him. Vahr didn’t struggle or gasp, he simply watched Vasher with hatred until his eyes bulged and he died. Hatred. Vasher had known enough of that in his time. He quietly reached up and recovered his Breath from the scarf, then left Vahr dangling in his cell. Vasher passed quietly through the prison, marveling at the color of the woods and the stones. After a few moments of walking, he noticed a new color in the hallway. Red. He stepped around the pool of blood—which was seeping down the inclined dungeon ﬂoor—and moved into the guard room. The three guards lay dead. One of them sat in a chair. Nightblood, still mostly sheathed, had been rammed through the man’s chest. About an inch of a dark black blade was visible beneath the silver sheath. Vasher carefully slid the weapon fully back into its sheath. He did up the clasp. I did very well today, a voice said in his mind. Vasher didn’t respond to the sword. I killed them all, Nightblood continued. Aren’t you proud of me? Vasher picked up the weapon, accustomed to its unusual weight, and carried it in one hand. He recovered his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. I knew you’d be impressed, Nightblood said, sounding satisfied. Annotations to the Prologue The Annotated Warbreaker: an Enhanced Electronic Book Brandon Sanderson A Tom Doherty Associates Book New York BRANDON SANDERSON (Lincoln, Nebraska, December 19, 1975) is
an American fantasy and science fiction writer. He lives in Utah with his wife and children and teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University. In addition to completing Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time, he is the author of such bestsellers as the Mistborn saga, Warbreaker, The Stormlight Archive series beginning with The Way of Kings, The Rithmatist, the Skyward series, Legion, The Reckoners series beginning with Steelheart, and the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series. He won the 2013 Hugo Award for The Emperor’s Soul, a novella set in the world of his acclaimed first novel, Elantris. For behind-the-scenes information on all his books, visit brandonsanderson.com. 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. 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.” 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. “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. 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

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