Split (1)

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soft ringing sound beside him. He frowned in confusion, turning toward the sound. A small, almost forgotten bell hung from the side of the banister—the method by which lesser sand masters could request a mastrell’s attention. The bell was vibrating slightly, rung by a sickly-looking ribbon of sand that extended from below. The sand glowed sporadically, its colors muted, and the ribbon was so thin that it was nearly invisible. Kenton leaned out over the side of the balcony, looking down at the courtyard. He saw the red-haired top of a head, its hand extended, the arm shaking slightly. “Dirin?” Kenton called. The sand immediately fell stale, turning black as it was freed to blow away in the wind. Dirin smiled, looking up with relief. His face was exhausted. Kenton reached over to his barrel of sand, then sent several ribbons of his own down to pick up the young acolent and raise him into the air. Kenton’s ribbons were bright and thick, but to him they had always seemed insufficient when compared to the dozens a mastrell could create. He’d rarely thought about those who were even less fortunate than himself. Kenton deposited the acolent on the balcony beside him. Dirin took one look down at the sands three stories below and grew very pale in the face. He didn’t look down again. “Sometimes I think I’m lucky not to have enough power to lift myself in the air,” he mumbled, moving to stand safely inside the balcony doorway. Kenton chuckled, turning around to lean with his back against the banister. “So, what do you want?” he asked. “I just thought I should tell you that breakfast will be a little late this morning,” Dirin explained somewhat sheepishly. “I probably didn’t need to bother you, but I didn’t want you to wonder…” “There’s going to be breakfast?” Kenton asked with surprise. “Who’s fixing it?” “The cooks,” Dirin said with a shrug. “I thought they left when they heard the Diem was going to be dissolved,” Kenton said with a frown. “They did,” Dirin agreed. “But, well, after yesterday I thought I should find them and tell them that, uh, the Diem isn’t gone yet, so they could come back. So they did. But the acolents messed up the kitchen fixing their own food yesterday, so the cooks are going to be late with breakfast this morning.” Kenton rubbed his chin in thought. “I hadn’t even considered asking the servants back,” he mused. “Good job, Dirin.” “Oh, uh, I just thought that someone should… and you were going to be busy, being Lord Mastrell, so…” The boy trailed off, looking down in embarrassment. As he did, however, he noticed the layer of dust on the cabinets beside the doorway. He frowned in disgust. Then, almost furtively, as if he were doing something wrong, he began to rub at the top of the cabinet, cleaning it with the sleeve of his robe. “Did your friend find you yesterday, Lord Mastrell?” he asked as he began to dust. Kenton looked up distractedly. “What? Oh,
Eric. Yes, though he yelled long enough that people across the lake could probably hear him. I offered to let him sleep in one of the empty mastrell’s quarters.” Dirin paled, stopping his cleaning for a moment. “Up here?” he asked. “But he’s not… I mean…” “I know,” Kenton said with a wave of his hand. “He’s not even a sand master, let alone a mastrell. But the days of mastrell elitism are over. If we don’t start being more flexible, we’re going to find ourselves without a profession. In fact,” Kenton said thoughtfully, turning to look down as the courtyard. “Dirin, I want you to find some ladders.” “Ladders?” Dirin asked with surprise. “Yes,” Kenton continued. “Some means for regular people to reach these upper floors. I’m going to get very tired of lifting everyone up here whenever they want to come.” “All right…” Dirin said speculatively. He turned back to his cleaning. “You know, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but the rest of the students are talking about your friend. They think he’s a little bit… odd.” Kenton snorted. “They’re right,” he admitted. “And no one is more surprised than myself. Eric and I were friends a long time ago; back then, he was about as normal a person as one could find. Of course, when you’re Reegent’s son, you don’t have much choice…” Kenton trailed off as he saw the look on Dirin’s face. “Reegent’s son?” Dirin asked with amazement. “You mean…” Kenton nodded. “The same.” “But, then he’s the Lord General heir!” Dirin said. “Kind of,” Kenton agreed. Unlike the Lord Mastrellship, the Lord Generalship was hereditary. “I’ve heard stories about…” Dirin began. “They’re exaggerations,” a new voice declared, pushing open the door to Kenton’s room with a lazy hand. Dirin jumped with a quiet yelp as Eric entered. Eric, however, only smirked, nodding toward Dirin as he addressed Kenton. “Who’s the kid?” “Someone a whole lot more useful than yourself,” Kenton shot back with a smile. “Did you sleep well? I seem to remember a time when you got up at third hour every morning.” Eric groaned, flopping down in a chair. “Don’t remind me. My dear father always had some incredibly tedious task for me to do at such sands-unholy hours. Inspect troops, exercise, practice killing things… I still wake up some mornings convinced I’ve done something wrong. Did I hear you mention breakfast?” “Maybe,” Kenton said, trying to follow the random topic change. “That depends on how long you spent eavesdropping.” “Pretty much the entire conversation,” Eric admitted frankly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Kenton snorted, but his retort fell silent as he heard a sound from behind him. He turned just in time to see Drile dropping from the third-floor room directly across the courtyard from Kenton’s. The former mastrell’s sand glowed and swirled around him, and he was followed by three sand masters with less-impressive collections of ribbons. None of the four men wore sashes—their robes were tied with black cords instead. It was a statement, obviously. They wore no sashes
because they didn’t accept Kenton’s authority. Kenton sighed—at least his threats had kept Drile from wearing the mastrell’s sash. “You look like you just swallowed a sandling,” Eric observed. “Do you remember Drile?” Kenton asked, turning away from the courtyard. “Tall, arrogant, and annoying?” Eric asked. “That’s him,” Kenton said with a nod. “I seem to remember everyone thought he was the perfect sand master,” Eric said thoughtfully. “He was,” Kenton agreed, walking into the room to take a seat across from Eric. “Now he’s just a traitor.” “Traitor?” Dirin asked with surprise. The boy, almost forgotten, had dusted the top of every piece of furniture in the room, and had begun to open drawers and clean the inside of them as well. Somewhere he had found an old rag to use in his efforts. “Yes, Dirin. Traitor. There is a reason Drile was the only powerful sand master who survived the attack.” “He was lucky,” Dirin admitted, “and he isn’t the nicest person in the Diem, but a traitor…?” “I’ve heard a dozen rumors about this,” Eric cut in. “What really happened out there? Half the people I asked claimed the Sand Lord himself destroyed you—though why he would have waited this many years is beyond me. The other half claimed the mastrells weren’t really dead at all, but just hiding because of some mysterious, mastrellic scheme.” “I wish to the sands I knew what had happened,” Kenton admitted. “It must have been the water.” “Water?” “Before the advancement ceremony begins, we pass around a ceremonial bowl of water,” Kenton explained. “Everyone takes a sip. Then the Lord Mastrell hands out sashes to the oldest year of acolents. Right after he did so, a group of Kershtians attacked. The mastrells should have been able to protect us, but something went wrong.” “It was horrible,” Dirin whispered, his quiet voice carrying through the room. His eyes were unfocused slightly as he spoke—unfocused, and pained. “When the arrows started to fall, everyone scattered. I just stood there—I didn’t know what to do. I looked toward the mastrells; a lot of us did. They were the most powerful, and so they were supposed to save us. I watched old Tendel call up sand around him, a dozen ribbons at once. But, the sand just flashed and fell dead. It happened to all of them—huge explosions of sand, followed by nothing. Then the mastrells began to die, the water sucked from their faces. It happened suddenly, incredibly fast. They didn’t have time to cry out, no time to slatrify water for themselves. They just died.” Dirin fell silent. “It must have been the water,” Kenton repeated after a moment. “The water we drank—it tasted odd. There must have been something in it, something that poisoned the mastrells, and made it so that their mastery used more water than it should have. Most mastrells can master at full power for ten minutes before being in danger of overmastery—yet they died that day after just a few seconds.” “And you think this Drile poisoned the water?” Eric
asked. “He took the bowl first,” Kenton said. “And he didn’t drink any of the water himself. He knew he was going to be on trial that day—my father actually took away his mastrell’s sash. He must have had some deal with the Kershtians. Drile poisoned us, then they could attack and cause the mastrells to kill themselves.” “Wait a minute,” Eric asked with a frown. “How big was this bowl of water? Weren’t there thousands of sand masters?” Kenton nodded. “We refilled it as it moved along.” “Then the poison would have been gone after the first round,” Eric objected. Kenton shrugged. “Maybe he only needed to poison the mastrells. There was enough confusion caused by the deaths of the most powerful that the rest of us weren’t able to defend ourselves.” Yet, even as Kenton spoke, he knew his arguments had holes. Sand masters beyond the mastrells had been affected too—Kenton himself had felt the poison’s dehydration. The bowl had been refilled several times before it reached him. “Anyway, Drile was definitely involved,” Kenton continued. “Not only didn’t he drink, but he survived.” “Ah yes,” Eric said with a nod. “How could he have been so stupid as to live? Horrible mistake.” Kenton frowned—not at Eric’s comment, but at something else he could hear. Voices, coming from down below. “Oh no,” he groaned to himself. “What now?” “We should gather up what food we can,” Drile warned. “Tonks and carts too. We don’t have much time now. The people will be mad now. Angry that our presumed leader has made them wait. There is no telling when they’ll come for us. We have to be ready.” He stood in the entry hall, speaking loudly and dramatically. His voice was different than it had been the day before—he no longer tried to act as if he were in charge. Instead, he spoke with an edge of fright—one that Kenton found ridiculously contrived. Most of the other sand masters, however, didn’t appear to sense its insincerity. They stood in a large group before Drile, mumbling to themselves, their faces growing more anxious with every word Drile spoke—especially the younger ones. Some of the older, more experience sand masters regarded Drile with distrust. Unfortunately, there were men of age and wisdom left. “You!” Drile said, pointing dramatically at Kenton. Kenton frowned—Drile wasn’t about to let him take control of the scene like he had done the day before. “Deny it!” Drile demanded. “Deny that they only gave us two weeks to live. A death sentence!” “Two weeks is right,” Kenton responded. “But it is hardly a death sentence. The Council might dissolve the Diem, that’s all.” “And what will happen after that?” Drile asked, spinning and turning back to the crowd of sand masters. His handsome face was laced with intensity. “You know they hate us,” Drile continued in a low voice. “You’ve all heard the people speak against us, their priests preaching hatred. Without a Profession or a vote to make our voice known, the Law will no longer protect us. How
long do you think it will be before the people decide that those Kershtian murderers weren’t thorough enough in their slaughter? How long before the rest of the Diem joins its unfortunate mastrells?” Even some of the older sand masters seemed to give this objection some thought. Drile shot Kenton a look and a veiled smile. If I can’t control them, the look said, then I’ll make certain you won’t be able to either. Kenton cursed as the crowd grew even more nervous. He began to push his way through, working his way toward Drile. “What are you doing here, Drile?” he demanded. “Why frighten these people with senseless threats and lies?” “We have to be ready,” Drile continued. “Ready for what is to come!” Drile held out a fist. “We are stronger than they are; we always have been. They will learn what it is to defy the sand masters!” “And when no one comes?” Kenton snapped. “Will you persuade us to make a ‘preemptive strike,’ to murder like the A’Kar’s assassins? This talk is foolishness, Drile.” Kenton finally shoved his way out of the front of the crowd, and he approached Drile with a purposeful step. Two of Drile’s sashless followers, Terr and Linai, the two most powerful living sand masters beside Drile himself, moved forward to block him, but Kenton pushed past them with a scowl. “Drile, this is lunacy,” he said in a low voice. “You heard the Council,” Drile shot back, speaking soft enough that the crowd couldn’t hear. “They’ll dissolve us in two weeks, no matter what you do. I’m just preparing everyone.” “By throwing them into a paranoid frenzy?” Kenton asked. “What purpose can that serve? They need order in their lives right now, something familiar.” “You, speaking of order?” Drile said with a snort. “You, who incited the acolents against the mastrells at every opportunity? You, who refused a sash four years in a row, just to spite them?” Drile smiled, nodding down at the cord he wore instead of a sash. “I’m just following your example, Lord Mastrell,” he said. Kenton groaned quietly, closing his eyes. If only he weren’t right. “Look, Drile,” he said quietly. “You don’t like me. That’s all right. But we have to think of the Diem right now—let us put on an air of agreeability just long enough for the Council to rescind their decision. Then, I’ll step down as Lord Mastrell. I promise. We can deal with each other later—let’s save the Diem first.” “What makes you think I want to save the Diem?” Drile asked innocently. Then, in a loud voice, he continued. “Think about what I have said. I have friends in other nations, nations that aren’t Lossand or Kershtian. The Rim Kingdoms will accept us with the respect we deserve, and use us as our talent demands. When the time comes, I will go, and all who wish to survive may come with me.” With that, Drile smiled to Kenton and gave a flippant bow. He left, his three attendants in tow. Kenton watched
him go, then turned to face a crowd of confused, frightened faces. Too many of them were young, younger than Kenton himself. The Kershtians must have shot for more than just sash color—they had targeted age as well, killing off the wise along with the talented. The older ones, those still alive, looked to him with questions in their faces. They were older, but their ranks were low; they were accustomed to being told what to do. Their need was almost too much for him. No one had ever needed him before—Kenton’s worries had always been confined to himself. He wasn’t accustomed to people depending on him, to looking for him for support. They need order in their lives. His own words from before returned to him. Something familiar. “What are you all looking at?” Kenton asked, trying to make his voice as light as possible. “Shouldn’t you students be in classes right now?” “Classes?” one of the acolents asked. “But, the teachers are all dead.” “I see some Diemfens and fens before me,” Kenton replied. “They’ve been through the classes; they can teach as well as an undermastrell.” Kenton searched through the crowd, picking out likely subjects. “Mlaidon and Derr, you take the first year acolents. The students will be able to tell you where in their lessons they were.” The group of sand masters looked at one another with trepidation. However, Kenton continued to talk, calling off names and giving assignments. Slowly, the confused sand masters let themselves be organized back into classes. As they did so, Kenton saw some of the paranoia Drile had fostered begin to dissolve—the Diem had been through so much chaos during the last few weeks, its members were glad for any reminder of the way things had once been. “I never thought I would see you organizing classes… or organizing anything, for that matter,” Eric mumbled, swaggering over as Kenton directed groups of sand masters, sending some to teach, others to clean, and others to help Dirin look for ladders. “People change,” Kenton said with a shrug. “That they do,” Eric admitted, watching sand masters scuttle around. “Dirin’s been filling me in. It looks like you have quite the fight ahead of you.” “Drile’s apocalyptic words were out of place,” Kenton said, turning away from the sand masters for a moment, “but he was right about one thing. These two weeks were given out of spite, not out of patience. The Diem doesn’t have much of a chance.” “Just the kind of odds you like, mastrell,” Eric noted, emphasizing the title. “I thought old Praxton would die before he gave you a sash.” “He just about did,” Kenton noted. Eric paused, then he chuckled lightly. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay around. I have a feeling these next two weeks are going to be very interesting.” Kenton smiled. Eric was different, but the soul of his friend—the earnest boy that always tried to make everything come out all right for everyone—was still there. “There is no one I would rather have
on my side than you, old friend.” Eric smiled ruefully. “You never know. You yourself said that people change. You may realize you find me annoying.” “I already realized that,” Kenton said with a laugh. “Well, if you’re certain, then I’ll have to graciously accept your offer.” Kenton smiled—then he paused. “Wait a minute. You were asking me if you could stay. How did that turn into a ‘gracious acceptance’ on your part?” Eric winked with a smile. Then he turned to Dirin. “Now, where’s this breakfast you mentioned?” Khriss made it all the way to the end of the shadowed alleyway outside of Lonzare before the light grew too much for her. She stepped directly out into the sunlight, getting a brief glimpse of people passing on the street, before she closed her watering, pained eyes. With a sigh she put on the dark glasses. “How do you stand it?” she asked as Baon joined her on the street. “It doesn’t even really bother me anymore,” he replied, scanning the street. “It hurts for the first little while, but your eyes adjust. You could do it if you really tried.” “Maybe next time,” Khriss mumbled/ “You people are strange,” N’Teese said. “So you’ve mentioned,” Khriss replied. The phrase was quickly becoming one of the girl’s favorites. N’Teese shrugged. “All right. Where are we going today, duchess?” Baon asked. Khriss paused, looking over the street. Khriss had chosen to wear one of the dayside robes Acron had purchased for her. She liked it much more than the ones she had bought earlier—it was obviously meant to be tied at the waist, and it wasn’t so thick. Over all, it was much more comfortable. “Well, we tried the three most powerful,” Khriss mused. “I guess we’ll have to visit one of the less-influential Taisha, and hope they know something or can get us into see someone more important.” “You’re not tired of being rejected yet?” N’Teese asked with a sigh. “You just do as your told,” Khriss told the girl. She was beginning to doubt that there was a single person on dayside who understood the concept of respect. N’Teese groaned quietly, but she didn’t object again. “All right, which one this time?” “Who is left?” Khriss asked. “Well, there’s the Lord Admiral. He’d probably see you, but I can guarantee he won’t be sober at the time, so he probably won’t be of much help. The Lord Artisan is kind of powerful, but he’s also really busy. He has dozens of smaller groups in his profession that demand a lot of his time. The Lord Mason doesn’t live in the city—he just appoints an emissary for each Council to vote for him. That only leaves the Lord Farmer. I guess we could go see him.” “Farmer?” Khriss said with a frown. That didn’t sound very impressive. “What about that other group, the one you mentioned yesterday. The Mastrens?” “Mastrells,” N’Teese corrected. “Well, I suppose we could visit them. I don’t know how much help they would be—apparently they’ve got a new Lord
Mastrell, and I don’t think he’s going to be around very long…” Khriss frowned, looking over at Baon. The warrior shrugged. “Sometimes new leaders are more flexible than old ones,” he offered. Khriss nodded. “We’ll go see these mastrells, then.” N’Teese shrugged, and then dashed into the crowd with her characteristic vigor. After a day of using the girl as a guide, Khriss still had a difficult time keeping track of N’Teese. She just had to move in the direction she had seen the daysider go, and hope that N’Teese would reappear often enough to keep them from getting lost. They moved toward the dock area of Kezare, and once again Khriss was glad for Baon’s presence. His deep black skin and powerful build was enough to clear them a path through the crowds. N’Teese found them a boat—apparently these mastrells lived outside of the city—and Khriss gratefully left the press of people behind to climb onto the quiet vessel. As they rowed, Khriss was left wondering what kind of situation she was getting herself into. N’Teese seemed apprehensive for some reason, and she had implied that these mastrells were some sort of religious figures. So far, the only religion she had seen on dayside was that of the Kershtians. Cynder and Acron were still arguing whether their worship of a ‘Sand Lord,’ an incarnation of the sun, was monotheism or animism. If these mastrells were religious figures as well, that probably meant they were opposed to the Kershtians. What kind of people could compete with a group that made up such a large part of dayside’s population? Would she find some kind of cult, clouded in secrecy? N’Teese’s reaction to them seemed to imply something like that—she was frightened of them. Perhaps they would turn out to be some sort of racial supremacists. That would explain why N’Teese disliked them—she obviously had some Kershtian blood in her. Eventually they reached the other side and N’Teese led them down a well-traveled road. Their destination was obvious—a large stone structure that dominated the mostly-flat landscape. It was bigger than any Khriss had seen on dayside, a blockish monstrosity of a building that looked more like a prison or a fortress than a dwelling. Her apprehension grew as they got closer—visiting a farmer was looking more and more appealing. “Here we are,” N’Teese said, pausing on the road. She was uncharacteristically subdued. “I’ve never actually been inside before.” Khriss quite nearly turned back. Her curiosity, however, wouldn’t let her. She knew that if she didn’t go in now, she’d be left wondering about the place so much that she wouldn’t be able to sleep for days. “All right,” she said, striding forward. “Let’s go.” N’Teese followed, as did Baon, who, as usual, wore an open-fronted dayside robe with one of his tight cotton shirts and sturdy trousers underneath. His hand stayed noticeably close to his side, where one of the pistols lay hidden in a trouser pocket. Even Khriss could tell that, despite its imposing air, the building wouldn’t make much of a fortress.
For one thing, it didn’t have any doors. The front had a large gate-like opening, but there was no way to close it off. There weren’t any guards either. They were able to climb up the front steps and enter without seeing a soul. Inside was a lavish-looking hall with tapestries and murals. Oddly, the floor was covered with a few inches of sand. There was too much for it to have blown in—it had been placed intentionally. Though there were numerous footprints in the sand, no one was in the hall either. “There,” Baon whispered, pointing straight ahead. The room’s back wall had a passage in it, and on the other side Khriss could see daylight. Either the building was ridiculously thin, or it had a courtyard in the middle. There were voices echoing through the hallway. Khriss took a deep breath and apprehensively began to walk forward. In the courtyard, a crowd of people stood talking, mostly in small groups. Some rushed toward other parts of the courtyard, where different groups stood, and others seemed to be arguing about something. Khriss frowned. They all wore robes, which was common enough on dayside. The robes, however, weren’t tan or gray like most she had seen—they were bright white. She’d only seen one robe bleached so colorless. “That’s him,” N’Teese said, nodding. Khriss followed the gesture. There, standing in an authoritarian manner as he directed the movement of the different groups, was a man of average dayside height. He had his back to her, but there was something familiar about him. Then, someone moved, and she noticed the golden sash tied around his waist. At that moment, he turned absently, and Khriss got her first look at his face. Khriss nearly fainted in shock. Fortunately, she was too angry to pass out. “You!” she screamed, feeling herself grow red with rage. She sputtered for a moment, unable to force any words out, so she finally just said “You!” again. Kenton looked up with surprise. His eyes widened slightly for a moment, then he smiled. “Hello, Khrissalla,” he said in accented Dynastic. “How have you been?” “I… You… Shella!” she finally snapped. “You lied to me!” “Well, you didn’t ever actually ask me if I was a sand master,” he said with a shrug. Khriss ignored the comment. “How dare you!” she said, stalking forward. A few younger men with white robes wisely moved out of her way as she approached. “After I saved your life! After I let you travel in my presence! You… liar!” Kenton sighed, reaching into his robe for something. “I don’t have time for this,” he mumbled, pulling out what appeared to be nothing more than a handful of sand. Suddenly, the sand flashed brightly—like silent gunpowder. Khriss, who had nearly reached the scoundrel, jumped in surprise, yelping quietly. She froze, amazed, as the sand rose out of Kenton’s hand, moving of its own volition. It bent in the air, snapping down to the ground. Two more snakes of glowing sand rose from the sand below, gathering around
Kenton’s feet. Then suddenly Kenton launched into the air, a trail of brilliant grains streaming below him. Khriss’s jaw drooped as she watched, stupefied. Kenton soared through the air to land on a third-floor balcony. “That’s…” Khriss mumbled “It’s sand mastery,” N’Teese said with a frown. “Why are you so surprised?” Khriss shook her head, still disbelieving. “How did he do that?” she asked. “Wires?” “I don’t think so,” Baon said, apparently still a little tense. “It looks like we found your sand mages, duchess. I guess that is what our friend was hiding from us while we crossed the desert.” Her mind refused to accept such a ridiculous notion. There was, however, one thing she was certain of. Kenton had lied to her. Her earlier anger began to return, and she turned sharply, looking over the courtyard. A couple hundred white-robed forms stared back at her. Khriss ignored them as she found what she was looking for—a couple men were placing some ladders along the closest wall—the one Kenton had chosen to fly up. One of the ladders led to the second floor, and a second hung between a second floor balcony and one on the third floor. “Come on!” she snapped, stalking toward the ladders. Baon followed with a look that almost seemed to be amusement. She moved past the confused workmen, pushing them aside and climbing up their ladders. She got about halfway up before looking down and realizing her stupidity. The dayside wind was blowing through the courtyard, threatening to topple her off the ladder. She began to feel disoriented before she noticed something. The wind was whipping her robe flagrantly, and while Baon stood holding the ladder with respectfully downturned eyes, the two men below were staring directly up at her. Khriss blushed furiously. “Tell them to look away!” she demanded of N’Teese. The indignation was just enough to motivate her to keep moving. She reached the second floor balcony safely, though her heart was fluttering faster than her robe. Baon arrived at the top of the latter a moment later. “The girl says to tell you that you’re crazy, and there is no way she’s climbing that latter.” “Fine,” Khriss snapped, eyeing the second latter. It had been tied directly to the balcony’s banister—it looked stable, but… Baon stepped forward, climbing on the latter to test its weight then hoisting himself up the rungs to the third floor. Well, you can’t back down now, she thought with a sigh. Trying to remember just how angry she was with Kenton, and trying to forget what the wind might show those below, she stepped onto the latter and began to climb. She kept going, rung after rung, not looking down, until Baon reached down and grabbed her under the arms and easily lifted her onto the third floor balcony. Khriss closed her eyes, breathing deeply for a moment. Then, she carefully stoked her fury back up to its former inferno. “How dare he lie to a royal duchess of Elis!” she declared, and stalked into the room beyond.
The door was open, and she entered an inner hallway, counting down three doors—the number of balconies between the one she had taken and the one Kenton had landed on. She needn’t have counted—Kenton stood leaning against the doorway of the third room. “Now, Khrissalla, you really should calm yourself,” he warned. She continued to march froward, staring directly at him. “Um, Khriss?” he said, growing a little bit nervous. She didn’t stop. She even added a slight growl of anger for effect. “We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he mumbled, ducking inside and slamming the door. “Baon!” she ordered. “Break it down!” Baon raised an eyebrow, then reached forward and turned the knob, pushing the door open. Khriss blushed for a moment then stalked into the room. When he heard the door open, Kenton rolled his eyes with a sigh of exasperation. He reached into his sand barrel, preparing to leap off the balcony and retreat to the courtyard below. “Wait!” Khriss demanded. “We need to talk.” Kenton relaxed, lowering his sand. Perhaps she was finally calming down. Khriss stalked through the room until she was standing on the balcony directly in front of him, whereupon she proceeded to slap him soundly. “Ouch!” Kenton said, dropping his sand and reaching up to massage his cheek. “That’s talking?” “You’re a sand mage!” Khriss accused, ignoring his protest. “There’s that word again,” Kenton said, leaning back against the banister. His cheek still hurt. “What is a mage, anyway?” Khriss fumed for a moment, then folded her arms. Kenton couldn’t help noticing that she had found some new clothing. Her deep red robe was cut like a man’s—it was the kind a rich merchant would wear to a formal occasion, a robe meant to be used indoors, rather than withstand the heat. Not only was it scandalously thin, but once again she had pulled it tightly around her waist and tied with a man’s sash. The combination of thin material, form-accentuating sash, and low neckline was very distracting. Finally, Khriss spoke. “A mage is the same thing as a wizard, or a sorcerer,” she informed. “Someone with mystical power.” Kenton frowned. “I’m nothing of the sort,” he replied. “I am a sand master. Wizards and magicians are for the superstitious—charlatans that prey upon the foolish.” Khriss snorted. “I’m not certain what kind of tricks you use, but…” She trailed off as Kenton called his sand to life, sending a ribbon over to fetch his qido, which sat on a cupboard nearby. He brought the qido to himself and squirted some of its water on his hand, then rubbed it on his still-aching cheek. Then he picked the qido back up with his ribbon, and swung it in Khriss’s direction. “Thirsty?” he asked nonchalantly. The darksider stared at the bottle with amazed eyes. She walked around the bottle, studying the glowing ribbon that held it. The ribbon’s front clutched the bottle and its tail extended back to Kenton’s hand. She poked the bottle, bent down to look up at it, and eventually waved her hand
overhead. “Where is the string?” she demanded. “What string?” Kenton asked with amusement. She had apparently forgotten her anger now that her curiosity had been engaged. “The string you’re using to hold it up,” she mumbled without much conviction. She studied the ceiling for a moment, growing increasingly pale in the face. Finally, she turned around and walked to one of the chairs in the center of the room. “I need to sit down,” she mumbled. Kenton shot a look at Baon, who had taken up position at the room’s door, his face unreadable. Kenton could tell from the warrior’s posture, however, that he was very interested in what was happening. Khriss sat down, wiggling in her seat uncomfortably. “Cushions filled with sand?” she asked with a frown. “What is wrong with you people?” “What?” Kenton asked, settling into one of the chairs. He commanded his sand to place the qido on a nearby table, then wound his ribbon back across the room to hover in front of Khriss’s chair. She shied away from the sand slightly, then reached forward to poke at it with an apprehensive finger. Eventually, she realized it wouldn’t hurt her, and instead began to wave her hand through the middle of the ribbon, slapping free grains of sand that immediately fell dead as soon as they left the stream. “Please don’t do that,” Kenton said, struggling to keep control of the ribbon. “It’s very distracting.” “Sorry,” Khriss said, pulling her hand back. Then, mumbling to herself, she continued. “It really exists. Gevin was right—dayside magic is real.” “I keep telling you, Khrissalla,” Kenton interjected. “It isn’t magic—it’s sand mastery.” She stared at the sand thoughtfully for a moment, then turned accusing eyes back on Kenton. “You still lied to us,” she insisted coldly. “You told us you weren’t anyone important—but apparently you’re one of these Taisha.” “I’ve only had the job for a day, now, Khriss,” he replied. “Back when you found me, I wasn’t anyone important.” “One day?” she asked. “Why you?” Kenton sighed. “It’s complicated. Let’s just say I’m the only one left who could take the job. So, I’m Lord Mastrell. For a little while, at least…” Khriss folded her arms, tapping her foot in thought. “You have to help me,” she finally demanded. “I do?” Kenton asked. “Yes,” Khriss continued. “I saved your life. When you save someone’s life in a primitive culture, they are honor-bound to follow you until they save your life in return. I’ve read about it dozens of times.” Kenton chuckled. “I hadn’t heard about that requirement. Besides, I saved your life too. Remember—I found you water when you were all about to die. I also found you to a town where you could get food, then led you all the way to Kezare. I think we’re about even.” Khriss frowned. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the whereabouts of Prince Gevalden?” “Your betrothed?” Kenton asked. “No. I hadn’t heard of him until you mentioned his name.” Khriss sighed, standing up. “I need to think about this,” she
mumbled. She shot Kenton one last look—he couldn’t decide if it was accusatory, angry, or curious—before stalking toward the door. Before she arrived, however, a puffing Eric stumbled into the room. “Kenton,” he said between breaths, “those ladders are definitely not going to work. You’re a good friend, but I really don’t feel like risking my life every time I decide to have lunch with you.” Kenton nodded. “I’ll tell Dirin to work on it.” Eric leaned against the wall, then turned to Khriss and nodded. “Hello again,” he said in Dynastic. “Again?” she asked, examining Eric’s darkside clothing. “He was one of the sailors on the ship that brought us to dayside,” Baon informed. “Are you sure?” she asked. Baon nodded. Khriss sighed. “This is too weird,” she mumbled, walking past Eric and leaving the room. Baon quietly shut the door behind them. Eric watched her go, then shook his head, letting his back slide down the wall until he was seated. “Kenton, I forbid you to leave this room for at least an hour. I about killed myself climbing up here—I want to feel some vindication that my near-suicide was worth the effort.” Kenton smiled, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of what Khriss had said. She hadn’t believed in her ‘sand mages’ but she had come looking for them? Why search for something you think is fakery? And what did her betrothed have to do with it all? Kenton certainly hoped this Prince Gevalden knew what he was getting himself into. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening yet again. A somewhat sheepish, but still annoyed, Khriss stalked back into the room. “The ladder’s broken!” she informed. “Oh, sorry about that,” Eric mumbled. “Well, how do we get down?” Khriss asked. “There have to be some stairs somewhere.” “I’m afraid not,” Kenton replied. “But, how do people get up here?” she asked. Kenton reached over and picked up a handful of sand. “You mean…” Khriss said, suddenly apprehensive. Kenton nodded. “Now, don’t tell me you aren’t curious to experience sand mastery first hand?” “I don’t… I mean, not…” she trailed off as Kenton called his sand to life, her eyes transfixed by the shimmering colors and shifting grains. Kenton rose, stepping toward the balcony hand holding out his hand toward Khriss. “Are you coming?” he asked. Khriss regarded him with suspicious eyes. “Do I have to?” she asked. Kenton shrugged. “No, I suppose we could send food up to you once in a while.” Khriss sighed, stepping forward and taking his hand, watching apprehensively as the sand whirled around his feet. She still had trouble believing that what he was doing wasn’t a trick of some kind. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any possible way he could be faking. She had felt the grains of sand, she knew they were real. Somehow Kenton could make them move. It shouldn’t be possible, of course, but… Kenton walked to the side of the balcony where the banister was cut away, and stepped off
into the air. Still holding Khriss by the hand, he gestured for her to join him. Heart pounding, Khriss did as directed, allowing him to pull her out into his arms. As soon as she left the safety of the balcony, she grabbed Kenton with tense arms, holding close to his body. They slowly began to descend through the air, Khriss holding to him as tightly as she could, trying not to think about the fact that she was trusting her life to a force that shouldn’t exist. They reached the ground with a smooth motion, and Khriss released a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She breathed deeply, thinking about what had just happened. There was no denying it now—the sand mages, or sand masters as Kenton called them, did exist. She had been wrong all this time. Gevin’s mission hadn’t been without purpose—his willingness to dream had proven more valid than her logic. Khriss opened her eyes, and only then did she realize that her arms were still wrapped around Kenton. With a start of surprise, she let go of him, stepping back and straightening her robe. The daysider didn’t pay her much heed—his face was focused and his hand raised in front of him as he guided a floating Baon down off the balcony, holding the warrior in a grip of shimmering sand. The warrior was watching the process with interested eyes. “Wait a minute!” Khriss realized as Kenton set Baon on the ground. “You could have just dropped me by myself—you didn’t need to carry me!” Kenton smiled. “I thought it would be more fun this way.” So Khriss slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. “Ouch!” he complained. “Baon, we’re leaving!” Khriss informed. “This time I mean it.” With that, she stalked away from Kenton and his sand masters, grabbing N’Teese by the collar of her robe as she passed. She checked over her shoulder to make certain Baon was following and proceeded on out the hallway. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “All this time… Kenton!” “We should have been able to figure it out,” Baon noted, catching up to her. “How?” Khriss demanded. “There’s nothing remarkable about him—he didn’t strike me as anyone important.” Baon shook his head. “Someday, duchess, you will need to learn how to judge people, and not faces or titles.” Khriss frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” Baon just shrugged. Khriss sighed—she wasn’t in any mood to deal with him at the moment. “Come on,” she said, stalking from the Diem. Kenton watcher Khriss go, still rubbing his cheek. He didn’t know why he continued to bait her; as if she didn’t hate him enough already. Of course, she deserved it for stalking into his home and calling him a liar, presuming to make demands. What did he owe her? He was the one that had been forced to put up with her non-stop questions during the ride back to Lossand. Compared to that experience, death was almost preferable. “Hey! Hello! Sand boy, you’ve got a
childhood friend trapped on the balcony up here! Aren’t you going to bring me down too?” Kenton turned to look up at Eric, who was making waving motions atop Kenton’s balcony. “Never mind, I’m coming back up!” Kenton called, reaching for his sand pouch. He paused, however. Powerful sand masters didn’t need to be touching sand to call it to life. It was one of the abilities Kenton had always wished he possessed. Reaching out his hand, he focused on the sand on the ground in front of him, commanding it to come to him. He could feel its energy. It wanted to obey, to release its power in a flash of magnificent sand mastery. But it resisted at the same time. There was a barrier—a barrier of power Kenton could not provide. He struggled, feeling it almost come to life, but in the end he still couldn’t make it move. He sighed, lowering his hand. He had improved in strength, but three ribbons was still relatively weak in the hierarchy of sand mastery. Well, I should be thankful for what I have. The sands only know where I even got the ability to control three ribbons, Kenton thought, reaching for his sand pouch to retrieve a handful. He had barely called it to life, however, before several calls of surprise sounded from behind him. She’s back again? he thought with amusement. However, when he turned, he found a form approaching that was definitely not Khriss. He wore the black cape of a senior trackt, and it matched his dark uniform. Why would a trackt come here? Kenton thought with confusion. The only time he had seen trackts in the Diem was when… they wanted to ask the Lord Mastrell’s permission to arrest a sand master. Oh, sands… Kenton thought with despair. What has Drile done this time? Kenton watched with apprehension as the trackt approached. As he did so, Kenton frowned. The man was Kershtian—not only did he have the dark skin and twin braids, but he prominently wore a DaiKeen symbol on his forehead. There was only one person this man could be. “Senior trackt Ais,” Kenton said, nodding as the man stopped in front of him. The trackt bowed formally. “You have heard of me, My Lord?” “I don’t think there is a person in Kezare who hasn’t,” Kenton replied slowly, trying to decide what to do if Ais demanded he let one of the sand masters be arrested. “I have been sent on a mission from the Lady Judge,” Ais said with a hard voice. He was formal and stiff—too much so, even for a trackt. He didn’t want to be here. Of course, Kenton could have guessed as much. Ais had just walked into a place his people considered the most unholy on all of dayside. “She fears for your safety, Lord Mastrell,” Ais informed. “I have been sent to protect you.” Kenton frowned in surprise. “What?” he asked. “Part of a trackt’s duty is to provide protection for those in danger. The other mastrells were recently
assassinated. The same might happen to you.” What was Heelis thinking? Kenton didn’t need protection, especially not from a Kershtian. “Tell the Lady Judge that I appreciate her concern,” Kenton said slowly, “but that I am confident of my ability to take care of myself.” “The Lady Judge insists,” Ais informed with harsh, demanding eyes. Kenton snorted. “You’re a spy, then?” The man did not respond. His eyes, however, did flicker toward the mastered sand glowing in Kenton’s hand, and the edges of his mouth turned down in displeasure. You don’t approve of me, Kenton thought, staring back into the man’s cold irises. Heelis not only sends me a spy, she picks the single most antagonistic trackt she can find. Ais met his gaze; the man’s eyes were strong, arrogant. Authoritative. “Fine,” Kenton snapped, old reflexes kicking in. “Follow me if you wish—or, rather, if you can.” With that, he lifted himself into the air on his sand, leaving the trackt standing behind in the courtyard. Kenton soared over to his balcony—he was growing quite proficient at propelling himself with sand—to land beside Eric. “Who’s that?” Eric asked, nodding toward the trackt, who still stood stiffly below. “No one of importance,” Kenton snapped. Then he paused. Part of him wanted to go stride into his quarters and forget about the intolerant Kershtian. Another piece, however, remembered what had happened just a day before, when Kenton had been talking to Drile. The former mastrell had said something very similar to what Kenton had just said to the trackt, and had jumped into the air, landing on this very balcony. Leaving Kenton behind on the sand, presumably to feel inferior. Kenton sighed, bowing his head. We are the same, Drile and I, he thought, shaking his head. Like he said this morning; he’s only following my example… An example I will no longer give, Kenton thought with determination. He turned around, jumping off the balcony to leave a startled Eric behind. Kenton thumped to the ground beside the trackt, who had turned and was preparing to leave. “I apologize for my rudeness, senior,” Kenton said. “It has been a difficult few days for me.” Ais turned, a flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. “I will lift you up to the balcony, if you wish,” Kenton offered. “I must refuse,” Ais replied. His voice was only lightly accented—he had probably grown up in Lossand. “I would sooner die then let your sand touch my skin.” “I see,” Kenton said. “Then, there are several ladders leaning against the wall over there. You may use them at your discretion. You will forgive me if I have matters that need attention.” Ais nodded stiffly. Kenton sighed, lifting himself into the air once again. He wasn’t certain if he had done any good, but at least he had tried. “Stop it,” Eric ordered. “You’re making me dizzy.” Kenton paused. He had spent the last hour trying to figure out how to solve the Diem’s problems. He had considered the Taisha, their separate motivations, and the history of sand
mastery. He had digested Lossand’s political situation, the influence of the rich kelzi landowners, and the religious power of the Ker’Reen church. And, like it sometimes did, his consternation had manifest itself in pacing—pacing that Eric apparently found distracting. “You don’t have to watch,” Kenton accused. “If I had anything better to do, I wouldn’t,” Eric shot back, lounging in one of the room’s chairs. Kenton ignored him, and resumed his pacing. If only he had more time. Two weeks was hardly time enough to convince himself the Diem could survive, let alone convince its enemies. “You know, walking around your room in a circle probably isn’t going to get much done,” Eric observed. Kenton sighed. “I know,” he said, gesturing with his hand. A hovering ribbon of sand, glowing almost unnoticed at his side, mimicked the movement. “I’m just going to have to visit the Taisha and try and talk them into voting for me.” Eric shrugged. “You always were good at arguments,” he noted. “Good at arguing,” Kenton corrected. “Unfortunately, I’m poor at actually convincing anyone. I rarely won any battles, I just made a lot of noise fighting them.” “True. Last I checked, the Taishin were all the same when I left—um, present company excluded, of course. So, who’s first?” “I’m still deciding,” Kenton explained. “If I can get some of the Taisha on my side, then others will be easier to convince.” “Like the Lady Judge?” Kenton shook his head. “Talking won’t do any good with Heelis. She’s already told me what I need to do to get her vote.” “Which is?” “Pay of the Diem’s debts and unify the sand masters underneath me.” Eric raised an eyebrow. “Debts?” he asked. Kenton nodded, sending a ribbon of sand into the smaller room with the bookshelf. It returned baring a bound ledger. “I found this last night. Open it to the last page.” Eric obliged. He read the figures for a moment, then snorted. “You have to be joking,” he replied. Kenton shook his head. “Those reports came from the Lord Merchant. I think my father kept them as a kind of trophy, proof of the Diem’s ability to ignore conventional law.” “But, this says you owe over seven hundred thousand Lak!” Eric exclaimed. “Kenton, I don’t think that many coins even exist! You’d have to hollow out the entire Talloner mountain range to get that kind of money.” “I know,” Kenton responded sickly. “Okay…” Eric said. “Let’s forget the Lady Judge for now.” “And move on to whom?” Kenton asked. “Vey? He has been the Diem’s political enemy for decades, and on top of that he’s Kershtian. His people would probably assassinate him if he voted in favor of the Diem.” “True,” Eric agreed. “Of course, then there’s my father. He’s always respected the sand masters.” Kenton shook his head. “He respected Praxton, not the sand masters.” Eric frowned, cocking his head to the side. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “He did often refer to you people as a waste of resources.” “He said as much yesterday,”
Kenton said, still pacing. “Plus, I think he blames me for your disappearance.” “Really?” Eric asked with interest. “I didn’t know that.” Kenton snorted. “That’s because you ran away. All Reegent knows is that he once had a dutiful, rule-keeping son with a scoundrel as a best friend. Who else would he blame when you rebelled?” “I guess that makes sense,” Eric admitted. “Well, at least you can always count on old Delious—I assume the old sot is still Lord Admiral.” “The Helm’s greatest embarrassment, as always,” Kenton said with a nod. “Yes, he’ll probably vote for me. However, if he does, it will mean that I’ve lost. Delious always votes the opposite of Vey. Which means, by the way, if by some miracle I do bring the Lord Merchant onto my side, Delious will spoil it by automatically turning against me.” Eric chuckled at that one. “Maybe we should just run off to darkside. I’ve found that avoiding one’s problems isn’t as difficult as the philosophers would have one believe.” “I’m tempted,” Kenton mumbled. Eric snorted. “You would never do that,” he said. “Many things have changed, old friend, but I can tell one thing is still the same. You can’t resist a good fight.” Kenton stopped his pacing, smiling slightly. “I suppose you’re right. Well, like you said, pacing isn’t getting me anywhere.” Eric rose, stretching. “You’ve decided then?” Kenton nodded. “The Lord Admiral has been my ally in the past, even if his vote was only circumstantial. That’s better than I’ve gotten from anyone else.” “Ah, good,” Eric said, following Kenton to the balcony. “I was hoping you would pick him. I could use something to drink.” “Red.” Delious proffered his arm, grabbing the cup lazily. He leaned forward on his mansion’s balcony, looking at the city of Kezare below him as he slurped the wine down with one monstrous gulp, inhaling the liquid like other men breathe. Then, smacking his lips, brought the cup up for inspection. The goblet of sparkling crystal had been sculpted by one of Kezare’s most prominent Kershtian craftsmen. Its etchings depicted a scene of deep sandlings from the Ker’Reen mythologies. The detail was exquisite. Each chink in the carapace was visible and the Sand Lord’s face—shining high in the sky—was so lifelike in its crystalline tinyness that it almost seemed like a living being. The artisan had etched his very soul into this piece. “How disappointing,” Delious mumbled. “It’s just like all the other ones.” He sighed and dropped the priceless wonder over the side of his balcony. It made a satisfyingly delicate crash as it smashed on the stone street below. “It was part of a set, Lord Delious,” his wine steward supplied from behind. “Usually when one buys a set of cups, they come with similar designs on them.” “Well, next time buy a dozen sets and throw away all but one of the cups,” he ordered. “Yes, Lord Taisha.” “White,” Delious ordered, holding out his hand to receive another cup. He sipped at it for a moment, then wrinkled his
nose in annoyance. “Don’t they make wine more expensive than this?” he complained. “No, Lord Delious, this is the best.” Delious sighed again, dropping another cup off the balcony “Well, mix the red and the white this time. Let’s see what that tastes like.” His steward complied, handing Delious yet another crystalline cup. Delious drank the wine, decided it didn’t taste very good, drank the rest anyway, then dropped the cup—this time flicking it out of his hand to send it spinning toward the street below. It refracted the sun’s light beautifully before smashing to its death. “Um, Lord Admiral?” a voice asked from behind. Delious turned inquisitively, reaching out for another cup of wine in the process. Behind him stood several men in fine shalrim robes. Both were Lossandin, and both had looks of barely-veiled loathing on their faces. Technically, they were members of the Helm, Profession of sailors, though Delious doubted they knew the bow of a ship from their own afts. They were kelzin, members of the Shipowner’s Circle. “Are you still here?” Delious asked distractedly. “We haven’t had our audience yet, Lord Admiral,” the taller of the two—Jalees—answered. “We’ve been waiting for you to finish… whatever it was you were doing.” “Oh, right,” Delious mumbled, sipping at his wine. “Well, what did you want?” “I brought you a gift, Lord Taisha, from the Circle,” Jalees said, nodding toward a carapace box at his side. “A case of detha, a drink favored in the south.” Delious frowned. “I’ve had it before. It didn’t seem to have much kick to me.” “It… isn’t alcoholic, Lord Admiral,” Jalees informed. “Ah, that’s probably why I didn’t like it,” Delious replied. “Steward!” “Yes, My Lord,” the small, balding man replied. “Do you like detha?” “It is quite delicious, My Lord,” the wine steward replied. Delious rubbed his chin, then took another sip of wine. “Glad you like it. Take that case home and give it to your family. A gift from your Lord Taisha.” “My thanks, Lord Delious,” the steward replied. Jalees grew red in the face, a color heightened by his bright yellow robes. “Thank you for the gift… what was your name again?” “Jalees, My Lord,” the man said, barely able to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Delious made certain to ask that question at least once every time the man visited. “Good day then, Jeelas,” Delious said, turning to lean back out of his balcony. “Steward, the scenery outside my window is looking rather drab. Do you suppose we could knock down a few buildings to make it more picturesque?” “Perhaps, My Lord.” Jalees cleared his voice from behind. “My Lord,” he began. “You’re still here?” Delious asked with surprise, turning again. “Um, yes My Lord,” Jalees said. “The real purpose of my visit has to do with a request from the Circle.” “I recommend Lraezare’s eldenvel vintage,” Delious said. “My Lord?” Jalees asked in confusion. “Your request,” Delious explained. “Weren’t you going to ask me what vintage to have at your Circle meeting this week?” “Um, no,
My Lord.” “Well why are you bothering me then?” Delious said, shaking his head in exasperation as he turned back to the balcony once again. “We were hoping, My Lord,” Jalees said bravely, “that we could convince you to curb your drinking.” “Curb my drinking?” Delious asked in amazement. “Why, how would I spend my time?” “There are many things you could try, My Lord. Balls, plays, boat races…” “No, I find them all boring,” Delious declared. “I shall face this world drunk, or I shan’t face it at all. Thank you for the suggestion, but since I judge it to be inane, I shall have to ignore it. Good day.” Delious didn’t need to turn around to imagine the look of enraged frustration on Jalees’s bearded face. Finally, he heard the man turn and walk out the door, his footsteps angry. Delious chuckled softly to himself, waving at some people crossing on the street below and then warning them to avoid the broken glass. “What a delightful day,” Delious announced. “The only thing wrong is that I am by no means drunk enough. Steward, open another bottle.” Kenton and Eric passed a pair of angry-looking kelzin as they walked up the steps to the Lord Admiral’s mansion. The two men, both Lossandin and both wearing expensive robes, brushed past Kenton, mumbling quietly to one another. Kenton paused, turning to watch them go. Eric snorted. “You shouldn’t have let them get away with that.” “With what?” Kenton asked. “With treating you that way,” Eric explained. “They should have bowed—you’re not only a mastrell, but a Lord Taisha.” Kenton shrugged. “I don’t even think they realized who I was. They looked… preoccupied.” “You mean infuriated,” Eric corrected. “I suppose they have a right to be angry,” Kenton said. “They were probably members of the Helm. The mere mention of the Lord Admiral is usually enough to embarrass Helm members—I can’t imagine what it must be like to visit him.” Eric shrugged. “I don’t know. I always kind of liked the man.” Kenton turned with a frown. “You always said you found him disgraceful.” “My father found him disgraceful,” Eric corrected. “And so, therefore, did I—or, at least, that is what I said. It isn’t wise to disagree with the Lord General, especially if you happen to be his heir. On the inside, however, I thought Delious delightful. If my father didn’t invite him to a party, the Lord Admiral would act offended, and complain loudly that the Lord General was slighting the Helm. And, when my father gave in and invited him, Delious would drink all of the wine, complain about its vintage, and then collapse on the floor.” “Yes,” Kenton said wryly, “delightful is exactly the word I would have chosen.” “I always found it amusing that the sand’s only true idiot was also the one person my father could never get the best of.” “Well, that idiot is one of the people who stands between the Diem and destruction. Let us hope he refrains from passing out until he’s cast his
vote in my favor.” Kenton turned, looking up at the mansion in front of them. It was large, wide as opposed to tall, and its front had obviously been carved by some of Lossand’s most skilled stonemasons. It actually had reliefs etched into its face, as well as pillars and a few fanciful statues of deep sandlings. Of course, the beautiful home didn’t stand out when it was surrounded by so many like it. Here, on the smaller island that formed the kelzi district of Kezare, the wealthy spent a great deal of resources proving just how rich they were. As soon as one crossed the KelThrain, the bridge that spanned the short distance between Kezare proper and the kelzi district, one stepped into a different world. The clustered buildings and narrow streets gave way to solitary mansions with statue gardens and yards filled with rare, often beautiful, sandlings. Here Vey and his merchants kept careful control of the real estate, making certain that only those rich enough—and prestigious enough—were allowed to purchase land. Of course, they would probably have tried to get rid of the Lord Admiral if they could have found a way. “Come on,” Kenton said, turning to climb the rest of the steps. Then he paused, turning around. “Are you coming?” he asked, not of Eric, but of the other man standing at the bottom of the steps. The black-uniformed trackt looked up with suspicious eyes. “You’re not going to make a very efficient spy if you don’t stay close to me,” Kenton warned. The Kershtian’s look didn’t change, but he did begin to follow, walking with a swift—but stiff—step. Kenton had found the man waiting in the Diem’s courtyard when he came down from his third-floor rooms. Ais hadn’t said a word, but had fallen into step, following Kenton like a very formal shadow. When Ais arrived Kenton continued on, ignoring the frown on Eric’s face. They walked through the cavern-like pillared entryway and rapped the door knocker. A few moments later a short, baling man with slicked-back hair answered the door. “The Lord Mastrell,” Kenton said formally, “to visit his colleague the Lord Admiral.” The man’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I’ll… announce you, My Lord,” he replied. “I can’t guarantee the Lord Admiral will see you, however.” “I appreciate it,” Kenton said, walking in as the man opened the door and gestured them in. The house was, perhaps, the most overdone example of richness Kenton had ever seen. There wasn’t a corner without a statue of some sort, not a wall without a tapestry. Dozens of furniture pieces cluttered the room, most of them three and four times redundant, all of them wood. Works of ceramic or crystalline art crowded every surface—the slightest bump could have caused hundreds of lak worth of damage. Kenton raised an eyebrow, looking back at Eric, who just shook his head. A moment later, the servant returned. “My Lord will see you,” he said, gesturing for them to follow. At first, Kenton had assumed that the entryway was a fluke
of some sort—a place where the Lord Admiral made a display of his wealth. However, as they walked the hallways toward the back rooms, Kenton was forced to revise that assumption. Every room was just as bad as the first, with decorations and pieces of art extreme. “Sell this place, and you could pay of your debts with some left over,” Eric mumbled. It was an exaggeration, of course, but the home was so gaudy that it almost seemed plausible. For his part, the trackt Ais remained silent, taking in the sights of the Lord Admiral’s house with the same lack of emotion with which he appeared to handle everything. At last the servant opened a broad set of doors and led them into what appeared to be the Lord Admiral’s study. It was even worse than the rest of the house. The ceiling was hung with no fewer than ten chandeliers, even though the balcony—a structure that took up the entire back wall—provided more than enough light for the room. The floor was covered with several rugs piled on top of one another, an effect duplicated by the overlapping tapestries on the walls. The Lord Admiral fit with it all perfectly. He was an older man, perhaps forty years old, with flecks of gray in his otherwise dark brown hair. He wore a bright robe of Helm blue, open at the front to reveal a frilly white shirt underneath. Broad white cuffs poked out from the sleeves. Both sleeves and shirt were stained with bright red drops of wine. “Ah, brother Taisha!” Delious said, raising his arms. He was drunk, of course. “Welcome.” “Lord Delious,” Kenton said with a nod. “We appreciate your seeing us.” “Of course,” Delious said, waving dismissively—an action that spilled the rest of his wine on one of the fine rugs. He regarded the mistake with a raised eyebrow, then held out his cup for a refill. “Please, have something to drink.” “No thank you,” Kenton said. “Oh, that’s right,” Delious said with a smile. “Sand master’s don’t drink, do they?” Kenton shook his head. “It does… strange things to us.” “Pity,” Delious said. “Your friends?” “Would be pleased to partake of your hospitality,” Eric said. Of course, he was already pouring himself a drink. Ais made no move to do likewise. “Lord Delious,” Kenton said, stepping forward. “I don’t know how to put this a better way, so I’ll just ask. Are you going to vote for me in two weeks?” Delious smiled. “You don’t waste words, do you, Lord Mastrell?” “I’m new at this,” Kenton said with a shrug. “Besides, I don’t have time for words.” “Oh, I’ve always found one has to make time for words,” Delious countered. “If you don’t have words, then people tend to see through to the really important things. Then they all get depressed.” Delious punctuated the remark by draining his cup. “I’m only interested in two words, My Lord,” Kenton replied. “Let me guess,” Delious interrupted. “For or against.” Kenton nodded. “Well, I guess that depends,” Delious said,
spreading his arms. “You obviously know my policy—as long as Vey is your enemy, I am your friend.” “And if Vey votes for me?” Kenton asked. Delious snorted. “My dear friend, I’m supposed to be the drunken fool, not you. Let us please keep to our roles, lest one of us become confused.” “I know there is little chance, My Lord,” Kenton said. “But what if Vey does vote for me?” “Then I shall have to vote against you,” Delious said, taking a seat in an oversized chair on the balcony. “You see, my young friend, I have very few beliefs in life. One of them is that wine by far the best companion a man could ask for. The other one is that the Lord Merchant represents all that is evil and vile in our world. Both are philosophies that make my life much easier. One keeps me happy, the other makes all of my decisions for me. As long as I’m working against Vey, I know that I’m doing something good—even if I don’t pay much attention to what is actually happening.” “Lord Admiral,” Kenton said with a frown. “My cause is just.” “Honestly, I’d rather not have to think about it. Really, Kenton, I doubt you have much to worry about. It would take more Lak than stone could make to convince Vey to vote for you.” “Hollow support can be worse than no support at all, Delious,” Kenton shot back. The Lord Admiral raised his cup. “You’re tense, young man. It’s probably due to a lifetime without drink. I doubt I am the one you need to be arguing with.” Kenton sighed, turning to Eric, who was playing idly with one of Delious’s many crystalline sculptures. Eric looked up slightly, nodding. There was no more to gain from this conversation. “Thank you for seeing me, My Lord,” Kenton said with a slight bow. “And a good day to you, My Lord,” Delious returned. Kenton left the house in a disappointed mood, barely paying attention to the wonders he passed. He didn’t know why he should be so bothered—he hadn’t really expected anything more from Delious. Why had the man’s responses bothered him so much? It’s because all those years, he thought to himself, I thought, maybe, just one of them agreed with me. I knew he only voted for me to spite Vey but… up until this day I could still hope. “Your task is futile, Ry’Kensha,” Ais, almost forgotten, whispered behind. “Even those who vote for you don’t really support you. It is the Sand Lord’s judgement.” And, for some reason, the comment made Kenton smile. “Futile tasks are the ones I’m best at,” he replied. Delious watched the young Lord Mastrell leave. He had passion and drive; that much would serve him well. “That boy needs to learn to learn that every conversation doesn’t have to be an argument,” he mumbled to his steward. “Yes, My Lord.” Delious sat in his chair, spinning his cup in front of him, watching the red liquid reflect light. “Steward,”
he said thoughtfully. “What opinion would you say the kelzin have of mastrells?” “They hate them, ”the steward replied. “Many kelzin are Kershtian, and those who aren’t are usually Ker’Reen. Besides, it is the nature of the wealthy to hate anyone more influential than themselves.” Delious regarded his cup for a moment longer, then smiled to himself. “I can’t believe that man!” Khriss sputtered. “I saved his life, traveled across half the kerla with him, and still he lied to me! He knew what I was looking for in Lossand, and he deliberately hid what he was from me.” Khriss paused. For the hundredth time in just a few minutes, she was confronted with a single incredible fact. The sand mages were real. She had seen Kenton defy physics, seen him use sand like it was an extension of his own body. The sand had glowed with some inner source of power, shining and radiant, its shifting colors more beautiful than anything else she had experienced on this side of the world. It appeared that some of the stories, at least, were true. There were foolish ones, of course, that were obviously conjurations of the darkside imagination. Kenton was not twelve feet tall, and he didn’t wear deep black robes, or move through shadows. She had seen no hint of him draining the life from those around him to fuel his powers—though, she supposed, she couldn’t completely rule out that possibility. He couldn’t speak and force people to obey him, like Scythe was said to be able to do—if Kenton had possessed that power, she probably wouldn’t have been able to get those slaps in. Still, despite the obvious falsehoods, some of the stories were true. Sand obeyed Kenton’s will, moving as he commanded. He obviously had power in the society, even if he didn’t rule, like the stories claimed. And she had been travelling with him all that time… “Duchess?” Baon asked in a slightly confused voice. Khriss looked up with surprise. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed their boat arrive at Kezare’s docks. Baon and N’Teese stood on the docks, waiting for her to join them. She scrambled up with as much dignity as she could manage as Baon handed the boatman a stone Lak. “Are you all right, duchess?” Baon asked. “I’m fine,” Khriss snapped. “You knew he was hiding something,” Baon reminded. “It is a standard political move to hide one’s true power until necessity reveals it.” “What would you know of politics?” Khriss said. “More than you might expect,” Baon replied, following as she began to stalk through the city. “Are we going anywhere specific?” Khriss paused, an action that caused her to get jostled and pushed by the flowing crowds. With a quiet curse, she pushed her way over to a less-bustling section of the market, standing in the shade beside a store. Why was Kenton’s deception bothering her? She usually considered herself a level-headed person. She didn’t allow herself to get pulled into court politics and gossipings,
had never been one to let others enrage her. She had been content with her studies and her simple, non-intrusive political life as Gevin’s fiancée. Of course, no one had ever had reason to anger her before. The court recognized her as a non-threat. She knew how they saw her. She was an important match for Gevin in more ways than one—not only would she unite a very powerful house to the throne, but she would never be a political threat to Evella, wife to Gevin’s older brother. It was better to marry a younger son to someone politically reclusive, someone who wouldn’t steal the light from the future queen. So, the court had, for the most part, left Khriss alone. They didn’t consider her a factor in their intrigues. They often laughed at her, she knew, but they never did so to her face, and their mockery was never real malice. She was just Gevin’s simple, politically-inert attendant. She wasn’t worth the bother of spiting. Even Gevin, with his occasional teasing, had been very careful not to anger her or go too far. Kenton was different. He didn’t seem to care what her rank or station was; he mocked her with aplomb, completely ignoring decorum. He was absolutely insufferable. What was worse, there was nothing she could do about it. Slowly, as the chaos of the city swirled around her, Khriss felt herself begin to calm. She would worry about the sand masters later, when she could be rational. At least she had found out that they were real—that gave her one important insight. Gevin’s mission had not been doomed. He had been right. And, if he had made it to Lossand, then he must have known that. But why then hadn’t he returned to darkside? She could only come up with one conclusion: he was still trying to get the sand masters to help him. It made sense. Two years was a long time, true, but she knew Gevin. If there was a chance he could complete his goal, he would pay no heed to time. Assuming he had decided that these sand masters could help Elis against the Dynasty, she could see him remaining in Lossand all this time, trying to find a way to persuade some of them to return home with him. If that was the case, however, why didn’t Kenton know who Gevin was? If the Prince really was trying to win favor with the sand masters, then he would have spent a great deal of time in negotiations with their upper officials. Khriss frowned. Kenton had said he was the sand masters’s new leader—that he had only been Lord Mastrell for a day. What had happened? Suddenly, a memory flashed in front of Khriss’s eyes. She was taken away from Kezare’s markets, with their bodies, scents, and motion to a place still and stagnant. A broad basin on the sands, strewn with motionless white forms. Bodies, their white robes stained with blood… “Shella,” she whispered softly to herself. “N’Teese, what… happened to the old leader
of the sand masters?” The girl looked up. She had been quietly inching her way toward the shop beside Khriss, one stacked with some sort of bread cakes that smelt strongly of peppery Kershtian spices. Khriss spoke just as N’Teese’s hand was a few inches away from grabbing a cake. The shopkeeper looked up at the sound, and cursed, swatting at N’Teese. The girl slunk away, grumbling to herself. “N’Teese, pay attention,” Khriss ordered. “He died,” N’Teese grumbled, sitting herself on the ground beside Khriss, resting against a brick wall. “How?” “The Kershtians killed him,” N’Teese explained. “They killed all of the mastrells, except this new one. He survived somehow.” Khriss felt cold. “He’s… alone?” N’Teese shrugged. “There are other sand masters, just none of the really powerful ones. Of course, everyone says the new one is pretending, that he’s not really a mastrell. He’s too weak.” “Why would he pretend?” Khriss asked. It didn’t seem like something Kenton would do. Of course, he had proven himself quite good at lying… “If he doesn’t, the Taisha will destroy the Diem.” “Destroy it?” Khriss asked with surprise. N’Teese nodded. “They’re going to disband it.” “Why would they do that?” Khriss asked with a frown. N’Teese shrugged, playing with a few pebbles on the ground before her. “I don’t know. Because they want to? No one likes the sand masters.” “Why?” N’Teese frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you ask so many questions?” Khriss raised here eyes in exasperation. “Never mind,” she mumbled. So it was possible that Gevin had been talking to the leaders of the sand masters—the ones who were now dead. Perhaps the prince was here, in Kezare somewhere, and simply didn’t know she had arrived. It was a big city, filled with many people. Apparently, new arrivals in darkside town weren’t all that rare. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard she had come looking for him—she had only arrived a day ago, after all. “Baon,” Khriss said, tapping her foot thoughtfully, “how good are you at gathering information?” Baon raised an eyebrow. “Horrible,” he said simply. “Even on darkside, I’m not very unobtrusive.” “I need someone to spend time in darkside town, searching for information about Gevin,” she explained. “Could you…?” “No,” Baon said simply. “But—” “Duchess,” Baon said, folding his arms. “I was hired to protect you until such time as you return to Elis. I can’t do that sitting in a pub.” Khriss sighed. “Send the professors,” Baon recommended. “I considered that,” Khriss confessed. “To be honest, Baon, I don’t know how effective they’ll be.” “Doesn’t matter,” Baon said with a shake of his head. “They’re all you have. Delegation is one of the most difficult parts of leadership, duchess. The simple fact is, most people aren’t going to be as competent as you would like. Some of them will be complete idiots. Your job is to find a place for them to be productive, even if just a little bit. A little bit, plus what you’re doing, will always be more than you working by yourself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Khriss agreed.” I guess we should walk back to darksider town and tell them.” “Why not send a messenger?” N’Teese mumbled, still playing with her pebbles. “One who speaks Dynastic?” Khriss asked. “We need you to take us to visit the Taisha.” “Write a note,” N’Teese suggested with a shrug. “A note…?” Khriss asked. N’Teese pointed to a shop a short distance away. Khriss couldn’t make out the sign, but it prominently displayed a picture of something that resembled a writing pen. Khriss shrugged, and nodded for Baon to lead the way toward the shop. He moved, slicing through the crowd with N’Teese and Khriss behind. The shop was light inside—it had several holes in the ceiling to provide illumination. It was small and the walls were stacked with rolls of paper and books. A short Kershtian man approached with a smile. He moved toward Baon and bowed, gesturing for him to take a seat on a cushion before a small table. Khriss took the seat instead. The Kershtian started in surprise at the move, seating himself with a slight frown. Baon took a seat beside her, and Khriss found his frown more troublesome. “What?” Khriss asked as the warrior caught her eye. “Independence is good, duchess,” he replied softy. “But you are fool to flout their traditions so.” “But their traditions are silly,” Khriss countered. “You know that after just a few weeks on this side of the world?” Khriss paused. “Well, I do know that they are demeaning.” “That may be, duchess. However, your life will be much easier if you don’t immediately make an enemy out of every Kershtian you meet.” Khriss sighed. “Is there any topic you don’t have a lecture prepared for Baon?” “If you ask my opinion, you will get it,” Baon replied simply. “Right,” Khriss mumbled. “N’Teese, tell the merchant I apologize for any offences I may give. Tell him I am still unfamiliar with the customs on this side of the world.” N’Teese shrugged, but she did as asked. At least, Khriss could only assume the girl was doing so. “I told him,” N’Teese. “I also told him you wanted to write a letter.” The Kershtian smiled in the exaggerated way of one whose life centered on pleasing customers and pulled out a dark sheet of paper and a pen tipped with a nib that appeared to be constructed from some sort of chalky substance. “Tell him I’ll write it,” Khriss said, reaching for the paper. The merchant looked surprised, then chuckled uncomfortably. “He thinks you’re joking,” N’Teese explained. “The only people on dayside who know how to write are scholars, scribes, and sand masters. Women never learn.” Khriss frowned. “What about the noblemen?” “The kelzin?” N’Teese asked. “They have scribes.” “Well, kindly tell him where I come from, all noblewomen are expected to know how to write. Especially those who are professors in the Elisian university.” She heard Baon sigh softly beside her at the comment. “Well, at least I tried,” she hissed as the scholar reluctantly handed her
the paper and pen. Khriss’s annoyance was quickly forgotten as she inspected the items. The paper had the same texture as the jerky they had eaten, though it was much thinner and drier. “Made from carapace?” she asked N’Teese. The girl nodded. “Pressed and dried.” “I wonder what keeps it from rotting,” Khriss asked, turning the pen around to inspect its nib. It wasn’t quite like chalk—it was more oily. Experimentally, she made a little scribble at the top of the sheet. The line it left was thin and uniform, but it smudged easily. Surely they didn’t write books in the same way? She paused her ponderings as she heard N’Teese snickering beside her. “What?” she demanded. “The merchant,” N’Teese explained, pointing at the Kershtian. “He thinks you’re slow of mind.” Khriss blushed, realizing what the man must have thought, watching her rub the paper, play with the pen, and make incoherent scribbles. She sniffed in disdain at his amused expression, and began to write. She had intended a quick message, but the merchant’s assumptions incited her to greater things. She wrote a very detailed explanation of what she had discovered at the building known as the Diem, she explained her theories on Gevalden’s whereabouts, and she explained her intentions for the rest of the day. She told Cynder and Acron what she wanted them to do in darksider town, how she wanted them to do it, and what she expected them to discover. And, just to look clever, she switched to formal Kersha at the end. She might not be able to speak the language all that well, but she had a decent written knowledge of it. In the end she took up five full sheets of paper. When she was finished, she looked up to find a properly amazed expression on the Kershtian’s face. He accepted the papers from her hands, looking over them. Then he reached over and picked up a large metal plate of some sort—it had been resting in direct sunlight. He pressed it against each paper in turn. Khriss watched with interest, taking one of the papers from him when he was done. It was warm to the touch, and the oil-like white ink no longer smudged beneath her fingers. “Fascinating,” she mumbled. Then she looked up. “How much do we owe him?” N’Teese handled the negotiations. “Five Lak,” she finally said. “It a little expensive, but he’s going to have to hire a courier who knows Lonzare. I told him where to find the house.” “Good,” Khriss said, nodding to Baon, who picked out a blue-and-white five lak coin and gave it to the Kershtian. “What time is it?” she asked. Baon reached down, checking Cynder’s pocketwatch—which Khriss couldn’t carry, for lack of a pocket in her dayside robes. “Two o’clock,” he said. “First hour,” N’Teese countered, sticking her head out the door. “Same thing,” Khriss said, rising. The merchant did likewise, bowing slightly, his medallion twinkling in the light. “We probably could have walked to the house and back by now,” Khriss said with
a sigh, realizing she shouldn’t have spent so much time on the letter. “Well, let’s get going.” “Where to?” N’Teese asked as Khriss replaced her glasses and walked out into the sun. “Who’s left?” “The Lord Farmer, the Lord Artisan, and the Lord Admiral.” “Admiral,” Khriss mused. “That sounds important.” “It isn’t,” N’Teese replied. “He doesn’t really do anything. Everyone knows that the Helm is really run by the Shipowner’s Circle.” Khriss frowned. “Why is one Taisha a figurehead, while the others aren’t? Is the man just a fool?” N’Teese shrugged. “Well, he is,” she admitted. “But I think the Lord Admirals are always fools.” “All right,” Khriss said. “Then, let’s try the Lord Artisan.” N’Teese nodded, and dashed off through the crowd, leaving Khriss to sigh and try to follow. Two hours later, Khriss was beginning to wonder if this Council of Taisha had collectively decided to drive her mad. The Lord Artisan’s offices were much more comfortable than the Hall had been, but the wait didn’t seem to be going any more quickly. The building sat on the eastern edge of the island, far away from the docks and their hustle. This area was still busy, of course, but not quite so chaotic. The buildings here seemed to be larger, and though they were still pressed close together, they weren’t as narrow. The Lord Artisan’s waiting room was on the ground floor, and it was decorated with two dozen seals that N’Teese explained were representations of the Draft’s sub-Professions. Apparently, the Lord Artisan oversaw varied activities, including everything from carpentry and cobblery to medicine and painting. Khriss sat back on the bench. It was cushioned, though the cushion was, of course, filled with sand. There was a basin filled with drinking water, and even a man playing a stringed instrument quietly in the corner. The large room was filled with a dozen or so people, all waiting, Khriss presumed, for the same thing she was. “I told you he was busy,” N’Teese mumbled. She sat on the floor beside the bench, absently spinning one of the carapace cups from the water basin. Khriss sighed, leaning back. The waiting was frustrating, but she was getting better at it. She was beginning to realize that she wasn’t going to get anywhere on dayside without a long wait first. At least the Artisan’s steward, a younger Lossandin man with large ears, assured her that they were actually waiting to see the Lord Artisan, as opposed to just waiting to make an appointment. The steward sat at a small desk beside the large set of carapace doors that Khriss assumed led to the Taisha’s conference room. So far, during several hours of wait, only three people had been allowed in. She heard talking in the hallway beside her—more people coming to wait in line. N’Teese was right, the Lord Artisan certainly was busy. She was surprised he… Khriss froze. Three forms had just walked into the room. A Kershtian in a dark daysider policeman’s uniform, the familiar curly-haired man who dressed like a darksider,
and… Kenton. He strode confidently, his bright white robe shining in the room’s sunlight. The golden sash at his waist seemed to glow like one of the strings of the sand he could control. Kenton walked directly up to the Artisan’s steward, who immediately stood and began to bow obsequiously. A mumble ran through the room as those waiting noticed Kenton. The steward bowed a few more times, then pulled open the Lord Artisan’s doors and slipped inside. A moment later, the man the Artisan had been meeting with—a Kershtian whose robe bore the symbol of a stonemason—walked out, followed by the steward. The big-eared man bowed one last time to Kenton, gesturing toward the still-open door. Khriss watched with stupefaction. “He is important,” she mumbled. Then, moving before she missed her chance, she jumped off the bench and rushed forward to grab Kenton’s arm. The sand master jumped in surprise—he obviously hadn’t seen her in the corner. Khriss smiled sweetly at the confused steward, and rested her head on Kenton’s shoulder. “Tell him I’m with you,” she ordered under her breath. Kenton looked down in confusion. “Khriss?” “Tell him,” she pled. “Didn’t you slap me twice just earlier today?” Khriss blushed. “You deserved it,” she defended. Kenton chuckled. “You might be right,” he admitted. Then he mumbled something to the steward, who was looking at Khriss suspiciously. “You can come,” Kenton continued in Dynastic, “but only if you promise to be good.” “Good?” she asked. “Yes,” Kenton said. “The Lord Artisan is a busy man—try to restrict yourself to a dozen or two questions.” Khriss snorted, dropping his arm now that her ploy had worked and stalking triumphantly through the open door. Kenton followed with a shake of his head. The Lord Artisan’s meeting room was simply decorated, containing only a rug, a few paintings, and a table—which appeared to be constructed from plates of carapace. The table was stacked neatly with papers and ledgers. The Lord Artisan wore a simple gray robe, loose at the front instead of tied, with a tan underobe on beneath. He was a middle-aged man with a large, oval face and a businesslike attitude. He set a ledger on the desk as Kenton walked in, greeting him in Lossandin. “He says ‘Greetings, Lord Mastrell. You travel with quite a large group. I fear my simple office barely fits them all.’” Khriss looked down, grateful for N’Teese’s translation. The Lord Artisan was right—with Kenton’s group and Khriss’s, the small meeting room was rather full. Baon and the Kershtian trackt quickly moved to opposite corners at the back, however, watching each other carefully. The move freed up a little room in the center, making it seem less crowded. “I apologize for the intrusion, Lord Rite,” N’Teese translated Kenton’s response. “I’ve found that my company has become increasingly popular since we last saw one another.” The Lord Artisan smiled slightly. “You will find that such is the norm for those of our position. How can I help you?” “I believe you know, Lord Artisan,” Kenton replied. “I need
your vote.” Khriss frowned. Kenton’s words were polite, but he obviously didn’t have any experience with politics. His attitude was defiant, even antagonistic. “Yes, I assumed that was what this was for,” the Lord Artisan said with a quiet sigh. He reached over, selecting a ledger from the table. “I appreciate your position, Lord Mastrell. But you know it would be difficult for me to give you any kind of support.” “The only thing I know, My Lord, is that the Diem has been treated unfairly,” Kenton countered. “Instead of confronting its problems when they should have, the Diem’s opponents are taking advantage of its weakness to brush it away. You think this will let you ignore us, but I promise you it will only bring further problems.” Khriss watched the interchange with interested eyes. Her first evaluation had been wrong—Kenton obviously had experience with politics. Or, at least, he had experience with debate. His stance, his inflections—he knew how to argue. However, he obviously wasn’t handling the situation very well. The Lord Artisan had welcomed him amiably at first, but now the man was getting defensive, reacting to Kenton’s attacks. “I care nothing for inter-Profession arguments, Lord Mastrell,” Rite said frankly. “You know that I have tried my entire career to avoid them. My only concern is to care for those who have elected me their leader. It is in their interest that I voted against you, not because of any personal enmity.” “The new A’Kar is calling for blood, Lord Rite,” Kenton responded. “Times are changing. What will the members of your Profession think when this new DaiKeen overruns Lossand? Is it in your interest to destroy your country’s longest, and most fearsome, source of protection?” Rite paused for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re right, Lord Mastrell. Times are changing. I don’t know about the A’Kar or his warrior priests. I do know about one group of thieves even more fearsome, however. One who has been pillaging Lossand for centuries. A group that has been taking what does not belong to them, offering no payment, and leaving good workmen destitute. “The sand masters are without law, Lord Kenton. Their mastrells take without need. They hoard works of art and demand our precious creations more out of spite than of want. Beyond that, they give nothing back to Lossand. Nothing. They offer no goods, they perform no service, and they give no reason we should keep them. I cannot, with good conscience, allow that to continue.” There must be a vote of some sort coming, Khriss guessed. N’Teese said the Taisha wanted to disband the sand masters. However, at this rate, Kenton would never gain any support. He was too argumentative—he would be better at convincing enemies to support him than friends. He needed compromise right now, not hostility. “N’Teese,” Khriss whispered. “I want you to translate exactly what I tell you.” Kenton frowned. His biggest problem was the fact that he agreed with Rite. The Lord Artisan was right to vote against the Diem. Kenton would have done
the same in his position. No amount of arguing would change the fact that over the last few centuries the mastrells had acted more like bandits than protectors. Kenton needed to rethink his strategy—the current one was obviously getting him nowhere. Rite was said to be the most level-headed and honest of the Taishin. If Kenton couldn’t convince him… “You say that the sand masters stole from your people,” Khriss said suddenly. “What kind of recompense would you need to forgive their trespass?” Kenton looked up with a frown. What was she doing? She had no idea what the argument was even about. The little girl at her side—the one who had been with her earlier—translated the words into Lossandin. “Ledgers have been kept of what the Diem owes my Profession,” Rite replied, speaking as if Kenton had said the words. He obviously assumed that Khriss was one of Kenton’s aids, speaking on his authority. “It isn’t what is owed that bothers me,” Rite continued. “The possibility of future thefts is always more worrisome than what has happened in the past.” “And if the thefts stopped?” Khriss asked. “They will not,” the Lord Artisan replied with a shake of his head. “The fact is, the Diem needs what the other Professions produce. It can’t eat without the farmers’ food; it can’t function without the Hall’s scribes; and it can’t survive without my cooks and servants. Even if you agree to stop taking works of art from my craftsmen, the thefts will continue as long as the Diem is in existence.” Kenton watched, uncertain whether to be angry for the intrusion or thankful for the distraction. Perhaps if Khriss continued with her eternal questioning, Kenton could think of a way to bring the Lord Artisan to his side. “Then, is there a way that the Diem could pay for what it takes?” Khriss asked. Rite shrugged. “I don’t see how. The only money the Diem has it receives as gifts from the other Professions.” “Yes, but can you ignore that sand mastery is a wondrous tool?” Khriss asked, walking forward, to stand beside the Lord Artisan’s desk, speaking more friendly. “I do not deny that,” the Lord Artisan replied, seating himself on the side of his desk. “Unfortunately, its practitioners have squandered its potential.” “That can change,” Khriss assured. “You yourself said the future is more important than the past. Is there no way the sand masters could be of use to the members of your Profession?” The Lord Artisan set down his ledger, rubbing at his chin in thought. “If the stories are true—I can never be certain, considering how secretive the mastrells are—then there are many ways they could be useful. I’ve seen a sand master lift more than ten men, heard reports of a mastrell drilling a hole through a foot of stone with his mind. Those sorts of abilities would be extremely useful to the construction-oriented sub-professions. But, such speculation is useless. The sand masters would never lower themselves to such a level.” “And if they would?” Khriss asked.
The Lord Artisan cocked his head slightly to the side, then shrugged. “If an arrangement could be made, then I would be much more amiable toward the Diem. However, I couldn’t allow them to continue taking wantonly. That kind of power is too easily abused.” Kenton lowered his hands to his waist, discarding his planned arguments. Khriss continued to speak through her diminutive translator, her voice encouraging. Slowly, the Lord Artisan’s eyes became less hostile. “They could take a percentage of the projects they help complete,” Khriss continued. “And apply that toward what they need from your members. That way, if you need more help for some reason, there is incentive for them to cooperate.” “Your proposal has merit, Lord Mastrell,” Rite said, standing and looking at Kenton. “You should have put this idea forward sooner. Perhaps if the other Taisha knew you were willing to give sand mastery a practical use, the previous vote would not have gone so strongly against you.” “It is a relatively… new proposal, Lord Artisan,” Kenton replied. “I haven’t even had much time to think it over myself.” Rite nodded. “So is what your associate says an offer or a postulation?” Kenton paused. It completely broke with tradition. Sand masters didn’t sell their powers for money—it was precisely that sort of transgression that had lost Drile his mastrell’s sash. But, if the money went to the Diem instead of individuals… Besides, the Diem had been selling itself for years. It had been funded in exchange for protection from Kershtian threats. “It is an offer, My Lord,” Kenton replied. “Then I accept, My Lord,” Rite said after a moment’s thought. Then he held up a finger. “Provided the Diem can pay back its debts as a sign of good faith.” “How am I supposed—” Kenton cut himself off. He took a deep breath. “All right, My Lord. The Lady Judge has placed a similar restriction on me. You’ll get your seven hundred thousand Lak.” Rite shook his head. “Seven hundred thousand? I don’t know who has been giving you your information, Lord Mastrell. You owe us a hundred and fifty thousand, and the Fields another fifty thousand.” Two hundred thousand? Kenton frowned in confusion. Then to whom did the Diem owe the other five hundred thousand? The Lord Merchant? “You’ll get your Lak, My Lord,” Kenton promised, bowing slightly after the manner of Taisha, an action mimicked by Rite. “I understand you are a busy man, and…” Kenton trailed off, noticing a glaring look from Khriss. “Oh, just one more thing, My Lord,” Kenton said. Rite looked up from his stacks of papers. “Yes?” “My associate here, the Duchess Khrissalla, is searching for a friend of hers. His name is Prince Gevalden of darkside—he is a very important kelzi in her homeland. He would have arrived in Lossand a couple of years ago. Have you ever heard of him?” Rite paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I know little of the workings of darksiders, but I would probably recall if someone of that level of prestige came
to meet me. I do not remember any such meeting.” “Thank you anyway, My Lord,” Kenton said. “And you, Lord Mastrell,” Rite responded. “I have often wondered what our two Professions could accomplish if we worked together. You may not realize this, but I have, over the years, offered the Diem many proposals similar to the very one you just gave me. I was always rejected.” “I hadn’t realized that, Lord Artisan,” Kenton said, blinking slightly in surprise. Rite nodded. “Good day, Lord Mastrell.” Kenton strode out of the room much more optimistic than when he had strode in. It wasn’t a complete victory—he still had to pay of the Diem’s debts. Still, at least one of the Taisha seemed to have come to his side. If he could convince one, then perhaps… Of course, he hadn’t been the one to do the convincing. He turned as he left the room to find Khriss following behind, smiling with a self-satisfied air. “That was… well done,” he complimented thankfully. Khriss snorted. “Don’t mistake me,” she replied. “I’m still angry at you. I just thought I would intervene before the Lord Artisan had us thrown out of the building.” “I’m sorry about your prince,” Kenton said. Khriss frowned. “I don’t really know what I expected,” she confessed. “Why would he know anything about darksiders? You people don’t even know what nobility is. Anyway, where are we going next?” “We?” Kenton asked with raised eyebrows. “I assume you’re visiting the Taisha, trying to get support so they don’t destroy your Profession.” Kenton raised his eyebrows in surprise. She knew a lot for having only been in Kezare for a day. “True,” he admitted. “But I won’t be able to do any more today. Most Taisha close their offices at third hour.” He nodded toward the closed doors before them to prove his point. The waiting room, nearly full when he had arrived, was now completely empty—its occupants would have to return the next day to continue their waiting. Khriss muttered something in Dynastic Kenton didn’t catch. “All right,” she said. “Tomorrow then? Who will you visit tomorrow?” “I was planning on going to see the Lord General,” Kenton explained. “He’s gone,” Khriss replied. “He went on a hunt of some sort.” “A hunt?” Kenton asked with confusion. “To the deep sands? Why would he…” “He’s trying to avoid you,” Eric said, pouring himself a drink from the room’s water basin. “Father always goes on hunts when he thinks a lot of people are going to try and visit him. He does it just to spite them.” “Father?” Khriss asked with surprise. Eric smiled, raising his cup as if in toast, then gulping it down. “Who are you?” Khriss wondered. “Someone of absolutely no import,” Eric replied, “and determined to stay that way, thank you.” “I don’t have time to wait,” Kenton said, frowning. “I assume he’ll head for the closest deep sand.” Eric nodded. “It’s only about a few days away…” Kenton mused. “Less if you have a quick mount.” Eric smiled. “Father won’t take
kindly to having his hunt interrupted.” “I don’t see that he’s left me much choice,” Kenton said. “I’m going with you,” Khriss announced. Kenton sighed. “Khrissalla, I am not going to drag you all the way to the deep sands.” “I can—” “No,” Kenton interrupted. “The deep sands are dangerous enough for those who have lived their entire lives on dayside. I’m sorry, but I can’t bring someone I need to watch over.” “After what I just did for you?” she asked incredulously. “You owe me!” Kenton sighed. “Not again… I appreciate what you did in there. The Lord General is different than Rite, however. He won’t react to negotiating or sweet-talking. I’m still not sure how I’m going to convince him.” Then, to head off her continued objection, Kenton raised a hand. “Look, I’ll ask him about Gevalden for you.” Khriss frowned. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone? None of the Taisha will see me.” “I’ll give you a letter of recommendation,” Kenton replied. “You can use it to get in to speak with them.” Khriss frowned, then shot a look at Baon that Kenton couldn’t quite read. Finally she nodded. “All right. N’Teese, go with him and get the letter. Bring it back to our house.” And, without another word, she pushed open the doors leading outside, and strode out. Kenton looked at the constructions with an interested eye. Between the time he had left to visit the Lord Admiral and his return, the Diem’s courtyard had gone through a transformation. Workers had erected scaffolding and were proceeding to build a broad stairway leading to the upper floors. The men worked efficiently—they couldn’t afford to displease the Lord Mastrell—but quickly—they also knew they probably wouldn’t be paid for their efforts. “Do you like it, sir?” Dirin asked anxiously. “I thought, I mean, since the ladders didn’t work, that…” “It’s a good idea, Dirin,” Kenton replied approvingly. “Exactly what I was looking for. Thank you.” “They’re going to build one in every corner,” Dirin explained. “Then everyone will be able to get to all three floors.” “Perfect,” Kenton said. The steps weren’t ready yet, however, so he called his sand to life. “N’Teese, wait here. I’ll go write your mistress her letter.” The girl shrugged indifferently as Kenton rose into the air. He landed on his balcony and stepped into his quarters, walking directly to the smaller side-room with the desk and bookshelf. Where had Praxton kept his writing materials? He searched in the desk for a moment before finding what he wanted. He leaned down, penning a letter requesting the Taisha agree to see Khriss. He was about halfway done when he heard a zinkall fire behind him. Ais stood in the sand’s most unholy of locations, surrounded by the Ry’Kenshan. He felt an odd, almost morbid interest in the Diem. He had lived in Kezare for all of his thirty-six years, nearly two decades of that as a trackt, and he had never once visited the building. Sand masters surrounded him. The sense of loathing
he felt had almost grown to the point of over-sensitivity—there were so many of them that the disgust was overwhelming. He remained stiff, however. In control. This was just another assignment. He wasn’t associating with the sand masters out of choice; they would not taint him with their blasphemous disregard for the Sand Lord’s powers. He was fulfilling his duty, and nothing else. But, is that all? A voice in his head wondered. Can you really claim to be free from contamination? Regardless of what you say, you were given a choice. You could have refused the Lady Judge. Other Kershtians would see this assignment as a conflict between their religious views and their profession. Such was why they refused to join the Hall. It is not a conflict! Ais told himself forcefully. But, what would he do when he found himself unable to meet the demands of both religion and duty? Ais cast such thoughts from his mind. Eighteen years in the Hall, and he’d never once run into such a paradox. He never would. Being a Kershtian did not make him incapable of being a trackt. He turned to look around the Diem. This Kenton, the new Lord Mastrell, had disappeared onto his balcony in a garish display of power. Ais was left with the little Kershtian girl—or was she Lossandin?—and the one known as Eric. Ais felt another stab of doubt. Eric stood a short distance away, speaking affably with a red-haired sand master. Did the man recognize him? He must. Why then hadn’t he said anything? When Ais had first seen the man, he had nearly been paralyzed with shock. This man, the one who had saved him not a day before, was an apparent friend of the new Lord Mastrell. Ais did his best, struggling to maintain his sense of control and purpose, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t get rid of the anxiety. This man knew what he was—what he became. The shame was nearly more than Ais could bear… Ais took a deep breath, heading off his rage before it became visible. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not here, in front of the sand masters. He had to remain strong. Where was the Lord Mastrell, anyway? Ais paused. He thought he’d seen something. A shadowed form moving past the Lord Mastrell’s balcony. Ais squinted, taking a step forward. What was… A body crashed into Kenton’s balcony, smashing the banister and arcing out into the air above the courtyard. Its form, clothed in Kershtian robes, dropped to the ground with a muffled thump. “Aiesha!” Ais cursed, dashing forward. Kenton spun, waiting for the arrow to rip into his flesh. It never came. As he turned he caught sight of a Kershtian standing in the doorway, his forehead scarred with the square of the A’Kar’s new DaiKeen. The man was shaking his zinkall, an arrow jammed halfway out of its launch tube. Their eyes met and held for an eternal moment, then Kenton dropped to the ground as two arrows shot over the
man’s shoulders, fired from behind. Kenton came up with a handful of sand. The first Kershtian raised his zinkall, abandoning the jammed arrow to fire from one of the other tubes. Kenton didn’t intend to give him the opportunity. His sand burst to life with a flash, then a ribbon screamed directly for the Kershtian’s chest. The arrow fired just before Kenton’s sand arrived, but it went wide, snapping into the wood of Praxton’s desk. The ribbon of sand hit the Kershtian’s chest at a speed impossible of the most powerful of zinkall. The sand turned black and sprayed off the Kershtian’s armor like water splashing against a stone wall. Kenton stood stupefied for a deadly moment, staring disbelievingly at the black sand that lay scattered on the floor before his opponent. They’re… terken! Impervious to sand mastery! He thought with amazement. Jut then the Kershtian’s third arrow fired directly at his chest. The arrow clipped the edge of the jammed one as it left the tube, and the shot went just a bit to the right, glancing off one of Kenton’s ribs instead of taking him in the stomach as intended. Still, the flash of pain was powerful, and it caused Kenton to gasp, bringing him back to the conflict. The Kershtians were terken. As incredible as it sounded, he had to accept it for now. He drew his sword at the same time as the Kershtian did, and rushed forward to engage the man. The assassins had him trapped in the smaller side room—fortunately, that meant that only one could get to him at a time. Unfortunately, the windows were too small for him to escape through. If he didn’t get out quickly, eventually one of the men in the main room would get in a lucky shot. The Kershtian prepared for Kenton’s attack—they had obviously been warned that this sand master was also a swordsman. The man raised his carapace sword, falling into a fighting stance to meet Kenton’s charge. Therefore, he was completely shocked when instead of attacking him, Kenton flipped over his head with a sand-boosted jump. Kenton’s tucked spin barely fit through the space between the Kershtian and the ceiling. As he landed he immediately swung a blow at the Kershtian’s unprotected back, dropping the man with a swipe of the sword. Then he began to dash toward the room’s back door, trying to avoid zinkall shots from the two assassins positioned near the balcony. Arrows snapped against the stone floor and walls of his room, one coming close enough he could feel the wind of its passing. Kenton rushed past the room’s plush chairs and leapt over Praxton’s long carapace conference table, finally arriving at the exit. He threw open the door, and came face-to-face with a fourth assassin, his zinkall lowered to fire. Kenton cursed, dodging backward as the man fired. Kenton’s sand whipped down, trying to grab the arrow. However, as soon as his sand touched the missile, it fell black and stale. The arrows too? Kenton thought incredulously. What on the sands
is happening? Kenton managed to dodge the arrow, but he knew the real danger wasn’t from in front. The two men behind fired their final shots even as Kenton jumped to the side. Kenton allowed himself to fall, throwing himself backward. The two arrows passed over him as he fell, one hitting the Kershtian in the doorway. Just before he hit the ground, Kenton caught himself with his sand, then used it to flip him back to his feet, spinning him in the air to land facing the two assassins by the balcony. The men held their Kershtian shortspears at the ready, their arrows spent, as they inched toward Kenton in attack stances. The two men approached carefully, moving to flank him. They were out of arrows, but Kenton knew that if he tried to run, he would likely get a spear in the back. Kenton backed toward the doorway—and only then did he realize his mistake. He heard a sound behind him—the Kershtian who had been waiting outside wasn’t dead. All four men moved at once. Kenton leapt forward, dropping his sword to control his sand with both hands. Both spearmen moved to strike. The man in the doorway collapsed—his wound proving too much for him. The spearmen drove in for the kill, driving their weapons toward Kenton’s chest. Unfortunately, they hadn’t realized where Kenton’s sand was going. It shot between them, grabbing the room’s long carapace table. Kenton used the large piece of furniture like an enormous club, slamming it into the side of one of his opponents. The man dropped, his bones cracking ominously. The second man looked to the side in surprise, allowing Kenton to sidestep his spear thrust. “You’re terken,” Kenton mumbled in Kershtian, stepping backward. “But you aren’t Ter-table now, are you?” The Kershtian didn’t appreciate the joke. He took a careful step away, standing between Kenton and the balcony. Kenton held his hands before him, the enormous conference table hanging in the air beside him. The Kershtian continued to back away, regarding the table with unreadable eyes. They said you would be impervious to my sand, Kenton thought, taking a step forward. The table followed. They didn’t warn you that sand doesn’t have to touch you to be deadly. The Kershtian leapt forward, his spear raised. Kenton spun in a full circle, swinging the table with all his power. There was a sickening crunch. The Kershtian’s body was hurled limply through the air, flying across the room to smash through balcony’s banister and continue out into the courtyard. Kenton heard it thump to the ground below. Kenton lowered the table with a sigh, letting his sand die as he reached down pick up his sword. It was purely by happenstance that he placed the table where he did, blocking the arrow. Kenton jumped, dodging backward as another Kershtian rushed through the open doorway behind him. How many of them are there? Kenton thought, growiling to himself with anger. He turned and ran. He dashed toward the balcony as the Kershtian behind him lowered his weapon
to fire again. Kenton rolled toward the balcony, barely grabbing a handful of sand from the floor as his momentum carried him off the now banister-less balcony. A moment later Kenton reappeared, launched into the air in a spray of glowing sand. His momentum carried him high into the air. And there, looking down on the Diem, he saw two tan-robed forms. They stood on the other side of the building, preparing to climb down a rope to enter the room on the opposite side of the hallway as Kenton’s own. Sands curse you! Kenton thought with rage. They weren’t satisfied with leaving Diem to die after cutting off all its limbs; they had to deliver the killing blow themselves. Kenton yelled, directing his fall so that he landed beside the surprised Kershtian assassins. The first one barely had time to turn as Kenton angrily whipped his sword free and attacked. As Kenton swung his weapon, three ribbons of sand fell in behind the blade, pushing it forward with supernatural strength. The sand-driven blow sheared completely through the man’s waist, spraying his companion’s face with gore. The second man looked up, dangling from the rope with a surprised expression. Kenton’s sand sliced the rope. The Kershtian fell, bouncing off the side of the balcony below and continuing down three stories. Kenton took a deep breath. When he turned he found two more Kershtians standing on the other side of the roof, near where Kenton’s own balcony would be. They had bows. Kenton gathered his sand, preparing to dodge away. Fear struck him as he did so, however. The men were aiming carefully—this wasn’t like the wild battle below, with the short distance zinkall. Bowmen would easily pick him off. A hand grabbed one of the archers from below, toppling him to the ground. Kenton started in surprise as a dark-clothed form pulled himself up onto the roof. The second bowman dropped his weapon with a cry of surprise, reaching for the carapace hatchet at his waist. Ais’s zinkall took him point-blank in the face. The archer stumbled backward as Ais spun, smashing the armored top of his zinkall into the second man’s face, toppling him off the top of the ceiling in a wide arcing fall. Kenton jumped, guiding the spring into forty-foot long leap that landed him beside the Kershtian trackt. “Quickly, Ry’Kensha, how many have you killed?” Kenton frowned, but mentally counted. Four in the first attack, then the one whose zinkall had hit the table—he was probably one of the archers. Two on the roof, two more Ais had killed. “Eight,” Kenton said. Ais nodded, relaxing. “You are free for one day, then,” he mumbled, kneeling beside the man he had shot in the face. “One day!” Kenton asked incredulously. Ais turned the dead man’s head to the side, inspecting the scarred DaiKeen symbol on the forehead. “One day, at the least,” Ais said flatly. “Look at the DaiKeen.” Still confused by the battle, Kenton knelt. How could this man be so cold after what had just happened? “It’s
the new DaiKeen,” Kenton said with a frown. “The A’Kar’s holy warriors.” “Yes,” Ais agreed. “Now look at the sides, the two smaller scars on either side of the square.” Kenton looked closely. “They’re fresh,” he said with surprise. Ais nodded, standing. “Assassin’s marks. The warrior DaiKeen has used them for centuries—the A’Kar must have adapted them to his new DaiKeen as well.” The trackt moved to climb down the side of the building, dropping down onto Kenton’s broken balcony. “Wait!” Kenton said with annoyance, using his sand to drop him down beside Ais. “Assassin’s marks—what do they mean?” “It means you have been targeted as an enemy of the Kershtian people,” Ais explained. “Or, at least, the enemy of the A’Kar.” “But all sand masters are the Kershtians’ enemies,” Kenton objected. Ais nodded, kneeling beside a second body and checking his forehead as well. “Yes, Ry’Kensha, but this is different. The A’Kar has given a specific family the task of killing you. It is a formal charge—they may send eight warriors at you every other day until they succeed.” “Eight warriors!” Kenton said with surprise. “Correct. Assuming, of course, that they can gather so many. Kershtian family lines are extensive, but tend to be scattered.” “Eight warriors a day…” Kenton said, distractedly taking a gulp of water from his qido. “Oh, sands. When will this end?” “When you kill their leader,” Ais informed, as if the question hadn’t been rhetorical. The trackt continued to inspect bodies, looking over zinkall arrows and armor. “Their leader?” Kenton asked hopefully. “The one the A’Kar formally charged with killing you. Defeat him, and assassins can’t be sent against you for another year.” “But, how do I know who that is?” Kenton protested. “Usually it’s the family head, though not necessarily. A member of one family could be given the charge, but, if his own family has few warriors, he could be assigned a different family to use as his killers.” Ais spoke dispassionately, as if the very man before him wasn’t the subject of said killing. “But, he could be all the way across the sands,” Kenton said, shaking his head. “No,” Ais corrected, rising from his inspections to walk over to Kenton. “He has to personally direct the assassins. He’ll be in Kezare somewhere. Look at this.” Ais proffered his hand, showing Kenton a translucent substance on his fingers. It was thick, like a jelly, but smooth like oil. Kenton recognized it easily. “Dissolved carapace,” he replied. Ais nodded. “The warriors are smeared with it, as are their weapons and their armor.” Kenton frowned in confusion. Then an idea struck him. He brought forward one of his ribbons—he didn’t dare release them, no matter what Ais said—to touch the paste on Ais’s fingers. The trackt hissed, dropping his hand. “Do not touch me with that!” he ordered. Kenton raised his hands. “Sorry,” he said. Instead he sent the sand over to one of the fallen bodies, delicately touching it to the thin layer of paste on the man’s face. The sand immediately turned black,
and dropped from Kenton’s control. “What would happen,” Kenton mumbled, “if you dissolved the carapace of a TerKen deep sandling?” Ais nodded thoughtfully. “A clever idea,” he agreed. Then the Kershtian walked toward the room’s exit. “I am going to go make a report on this. You will be safe for the rest of the day.” “Ais,” Kenton called. The trackt paused. “Thank you. You saved me.” Ais turned slowly, then walked back to Kenton, stopping just in front of him. His eyes were cold and hateful. “Do not be mistaken, Ry’Kensha,” he whispered, “I protect you out of duty, not out of desire. I hate you. I hate your kind. On any other day, I would have applauded these men’s attempts. “You will try to cur my favor,” Ais continued. “You will attempt to become my friend. You will try to laugh with me, prove to me that you aren’t what I assume. You may even save my life. None of this will change my opinion. You are all that is evil on the sands, Lord Mastrell. If the time comes, I want you to realize one thing; I would rather die than live with the shame of being rescued by your vile powers.” Kenton felt cold, his grateful words falling dead on his lips. Ais spun, marching out of the room, leaving Kenton with his thoughts, his insecurities, and room full of corpses. Kenton stood on his balcony, wishing he still had a banister to lean against. Instead he leaned back against the wall, looking out at the courtyard. Dirin’s workmen were done for the day, and they had left a skeleton of scaffolding around their nearly-finished staircase. It would have been done, had Ais’s mad dash up to the third floor not included scrambling up steps that weren’t yet complete, ruining some of the work. The courtyard was quiet—most of the sand masters were getting ready for bed. The Diem followed Taisha standard time, sleeping between eleventh hour and third hour. The mandate wasn’t really necessary—there wasn’t a need for everyone to sleep at the same time. The mastrells, however, hadn’t wanted any noise during their sleeping hours, so they ordered everyone to sleep at the same time as they. Kenton’s near-assassination had caused quite a stir amongst the remaining Diem members; at first, he had assumed that his victory would strengthen his position with the other sand masters. Many were impressed that he had managed to fend them off—fear of the Kershtians had been high in the Diem since the slaughter. Unfortunately, Drile had soon made use of the situation. The former mastrell claimed that the sand masters weren’t safe in Lossand, that the Kershtians and the trackts were working together to kill them all. His words didn’t make sense, but they didn’t have to. Any addition to the confusion and general sense of paranoia in the Diem served Drile’s purpose. Just hours after the attack, almost no one remembered that Kenton had actually defeated six assassins—they all focused on the fact that he had nearly lost. If
the Lord Mastrell wasn’t safe, who was? Drile’s in league with them, Kenton decided. Somehow he poisoned the mastrells at the conference, and now he’s using the assassins to wrestle control from me. Kenton sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. There were too many battles to fight, to many enemies on each side. He spent a day trying to get the Taisha to follow him, but in the meantime Kershtian assassins were sneaking into his rooms. He fought the Kershtians, only to find his success flipped around by Drile’s cunning ploys. There were too many questions. Why had he spontaneously gained the ability master three ribbons? Who was leading the Kershtian assassins? And what about you? He thought, looking down at the ledger in his hands. It was opened to the last page of entries, the one titled ‘money owed’ at the top. The amount at the bottom was very distinct—seven-hundred thousand Lak. To whom did he owe the other five hundred thousand? What if he did find a way to pay off the Lord Artisan? Would some debtor step forward at the last moment and demand payment? “Lord Mastrell, we’re finished in here,” a voice said. Kenton turned, nodding to the group of trackts who had come to clean up the bodies and fill out reports. The man—who had introduced himself as Ais’s second—saluted and nodded for his men to follow him out of the room. A few moments later they appeared on the top of the staircase and worked their way down, several younger trackts carrying the corpse-bags. When they were gone, Kenton was left alone again. I should probably get some sleep, he told himself. Assuming I really do try and find the Lord General tomorrow, then it will probably be a long day. Yet, he didn’t go to his bedroom. He remained where he was, staring out over the courtyard. He wasn’t tired—his mind was too full of questions to be sleepy. As he contemplated, his eyes fell on the conference building in the very center of the courtyard. Its bulbous, mushroom-shaped body seemed dark despite the sunlight. It was empty. Just a few weeks ago, the mastrells had met there every day to discuss the workings of the Diem. Now the building seemed more like a tomb, a cairn dedicated to the bodies of those who were still drying in the sun out on the kerla. No one would hold conference in it for a while. Of course, it hadn’t always been a conference chamber. Perhaps now that the mastrells were dead, it would revert to its original purpose. Few people even remembered what it had once been used for… Kenton looked up, noticing a movement below. An acolent, staying up late? But, no, it wasn’t wearing sand master white. Kenton felt himself tense—what if Ais was wrong? What if he had lied to put Kenton off guard? Maybe the assassins would return tonight. The form stepped out into the light, and Kenton was surprised to realize he recognized it. “Elorin?” he asked with surprise.
“I felt guilty,” the older man explained, accepting a cup of chilled juice from Kenton. “I abandoned the Diem. I… I shouldn’t have done that, no matter my personal pain. I realized that when I heard you had returned.” Kenton sat down in the chair across from Elorin. His room still showed signs of the attack—the toppled table, bloodstains on the sand floor, an arrow sticking from the desk in the other room. Kenton didn’t pay attention to the damage, however. He couldn’t help smiling as he looked at the squat Elorin. Suddenly, life looked a lot brighter. “Where did you go?” “South, to my home village,” Elorin explained. “I didn’t even arrive, though. I couldn’t go back, after all this time, after what I had become… So, I came back.” “We’re glad to have you,” Kenton said warmly. Though the mastrells had ruled the Diem, Elorin had always been the one who ran it. He organized the acolents, assigned duties to the middle ranks, and saw that the mastrells’ will was carried out. Elorin looked down shamefully. “Kenton… Lord Mastrell, you heard that…” “Yes, I heard,” Kenton said quietly. “Your power is gone.” Elorin nodded, pain in his eyes. “That doesn’t matter, Elorin,” Kenton assured. “You’re still a sand master as far as I’m concerned. I would rather have you back than a dozen mastrells.” Elorin blushed. Then he looked up, his wise eyes searching Kenton’s. “You’ve… changed, Kenton. It’s only been a few weeks, but you’ve changed.” Kenton sighed, taking a sip of his juice. “It seems like so much longer, doesn’t it?” “Infinitely longer,” Elorin agreed. Kenton smiled. “So much has happened, but, well, I can’t help thinking we’re bound to succeed now that you’re here. Tell me, you’ll resume your duties in the Diem, won’t you?” “If you command, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said with a bow of his head. “Please, Elorin, you know you don’t need to act that way around me.” “I know, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said quietly. “But, well, that is who I am.” Ah Elorin, Kenton thought, so docile before authority. I wonder how many people realize how truly strong you are on the inside. “I understand Elorin,” Kenton praised. “Please, get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll announce your return—I doubt I will be the only one who is glad to see you.” Elorin nodded, finishing his juice then rising. “Thank you, Lord Mastrell. Please, sleep in safety.” Kenton unlatched the bottom of the pole, releasing the tripod legs. He dug these into the sand, then rotated the box on the top of the pole, lining up the first of its sights with the moon, which hung in about sixth-hour position to the south. Kenton bent down beside the pole, delicately maneuvering the box’s first sight until it exactly overlaid the moon. Then he locked the instrument’s controls and checked the compass on the sunmap’s side. It pointed due north, toward the pole, which lay somewhere in the northern Border Ocean. He measured the exact time of day, then spun the top of the pole, moving
it to compensate for the moon’s position. The second sight raised higher in the air than the first. By crouching down beside the sunmap, one could look past the second sight’s angles pointer up into the sky. When the second sight exactly overlaid the sun, they would be at their destination—the place where Reegent’s aides said he planned to go hunting. Kenton hoped the aides were right—with no landmarks besides the sun and the moon, searching in the kerla was nearly impossible. If Reegent weren’t at the coordinates specified, there would be no point in looking for him. Not only would it be futile, but one could easily wander onto deep sands. “We need to go another two degrees east,” Kenton explained. “And about a half a degree south.” Eric nodded, shading his eyes as he looked toward the sun. “I’ve always wondered if the Kershtians can really find their way without a sun-map.” Kenton began to pack the sun-map, careful not to bend either of the wires holding the sighting hoops. “I doubt the ones who live in Lossand can. Their cousins in the kerla… maybe. Does it matter?” “I suppose not,” Eric said, following Kenton down the side of the dune toward their mounts. Kenton had to admit, despite his arguments against the mastrells’ flagrant use of power, having the golden sash was proving extremely useful. Ais waited at the base of the dune with their three rezalin, the fastest—and most expensive—sandling mounts on dayside. The creatures had two enormous legs in the back, limbs so large that the knees rose high into the air, far above the rest of the creature’s body. The front legs were short and powerful, and the creature stood at a sharp decline, its neckless head nearly touching the sand. As long as maneuverability wasn’t an issue, a man riding a rezal could travel a dozen times faster than one on a tonk. The creatures needed several days to rest to store energy before-hand, but if they were rested they could run non-stop for nearly twelve hours. Kenton had only ridden a rezal one time in his life, and that had been as a child visiting a fair. His mother had paid twenty lak for a ten-minute ride. Now he could commandeer one with barely a whim. Don’t get too used to it, Kenton, he told himself as he stuffed the sun-map into the rezal’s packs. This wastefulness is exactly one of the things you’re trying to change. Of course, this was an emergency. He couldn’t afford the week’s travel it would take to reach deep sands by tonk. He climbed into the rezal’s saddle—a strange sand-padded contraption that sat on the creature’s inclined body. First he put his feet in their places beside the creature’s head, then swung his body up onto the saddle. The position was like a reclining stand. Once he was in, he reached over and very carefully strapped himself in—riding a rezal could be dangerous without support. “Ready?” he asked. “Yes,” Ais said simply. “Sure,” Eric called from behind. “Wake
me when we get there.” Kenton snorted. The comment was facetious—it would be nearly impossible to sleep atop a rezal’s bouncing, rushed gait. Taking a breath, Kenton lightly gave two taps at the side of the rezal’s head with his feet, ordering it to move. The creatures only knew three speeds: stop, walk, and insane gallop. The creature jumped forward, its mighty hind legs throwing up sand as it moved. Kenton’s head slammed back against his headrest, and he gritted his teeth against the jostling. The creature jumped up to the top of a nearby dune in a single leap, then proceeded to move in the direction Kenton had indicated, hopping from the top of one dune to another. Part of a rezal’s incredible speed came from the fact that it often ignored valleys between dunes. Of course, that speed came at a cost—it was difficult to find a more uncomfortable ride. As the creature sped across the sand, Kenton carefully tapped it with his feet, angling toward the southeast. Two degrees travel would take a man walking about four hours to cross—a third of a day. The rezal would make it in about a fourth of an hour. Kenton still wasn’t certain what he would say to Reegent. The Lord General was a harsh, formal man who hid a horrible temper under his disciplined exterior. Unlike most Taishin, Reegent had known what he would become one day. As a child Reegent had been groomed for his eventual position—and, unlike Eric, he had accepted it gladly. He strongly believed that nobility was an inborn trait, that the Sand Lord intentionally sent his chosen to the families of the rich. He was also a strict disciplinarian—a trait that had always put him and Kenton at odds. For the hundredth time, Kenton wondered if it had been a good idea to bring Eric with him. Not only did Reegent blame Kenton for Eric’s disappearance, the Lord General was known to grow livid at the mere mention of his son’s name. What would he do when Eric suddenly appeared after three years without communication? Somehow, he suspected that next to Reegent, even Ais would look friendly. “That’s them, all right,” Eric agreed, looking down at the expansive series of tents and pavilions. “Father likes to travel with plenty of attendants.” He paused, then looked over at Kenton. “Have you ever been on a deep sandling hunt before?” “Me?” Kenton asked, shaking his head. “Never.” Eric snorted. “You’re in for an interesting time.” “Barbarity,” a cool voice said behind them. “What?” Kenton asked, looking toward Ais. The trackt had barely said a single word during the entire trip. “This is the Sand Lord’s holy place, Ry’Kensha,” Ais explained, sitting unstrapped in his saddle. “Men don’t live in the Deep Sand; it is a place for the Sand Lord’s grandest creations. It should not be a place of hunting.” Kenton paused for a moment, looking over the white expanse. It didn’t seem any different from the kerla. The dunes looked a little larger—but that could have been
an optical illusion. In the very far distance he could see a herd of wild tonks grazing. It looked pastoral, not dangerous. Yet this was the most feared place on all of dayside. “Come on,” he mumbled, leading his mound down the side of the dune. The Lord General’s attendants and soldiers took note of them as they approached, calling out in surprise. However, the cries quickly turned to ones of welcome as some of the soldiers recognized him. “You’re popular,” Eric noted with confusion as several of the soldiers called Kenton by name. Kenton shrugged. “I had to have someone to spar with once you left,” he said, gesturing toward the sword at his waist. “A sand master visiting the Hall?” Eric said incredulously. “Sparrings are open to anyone who wants to come,” Kenton replied, nodding to a man he knew. “Yes, but… a sand master?” Eric was still disbelieving. “Kenton!” a voice shouted. Kenton turned with a smile—he recognized that bellow. “Big Head!” he yelled back, waving to a soldier who was jogging out from underneath a canopy. The man was of medium height, but was extremely broad of chest. As wide as his body was, however, it still seemed disproportionate to his one other overwhelming feature—his enormous head. “What did you call me!” the man yelled back. “Nothing, Gremt!” Kenton called back. The large solder hustled forward, a broad smile on his face. “We’ve missed you at sparrings, Kenton,” he said as he got closer. “Well, Gremt, I was kind of indisposed,” Kenton replied with a chuckle. Gremt laughed, slapping Kenton on the shoulder. “I’m glad you made it, lad. You’re the only one in that lot that was worth saving.” Kenton smiled back. Gremt was one of Reegent’s generals—the only man in recent history to rise all the way to the rank from the lowly station of footman. As such, he was the only general in the Tower who wasn’t also a Kelzi. When Kenton had first decided to try sparring at the Tower, Gremt had been the only one willing to fence with him. It took a man who had been forced to deal with prejudice all his life to see past Kenton’s sand master robes and to the man inside. Once Gremt had accepted him, the rest of the Tower—the regular soldiers at least—had been easy. “Now, who’ve you brought…” Gremt trailed off, looking closely at Eric. He rubbed at his clean-shaven face for a moment. “Sands, boy, you look just like…” His eyes opened wide with shock. “Hello, Gremt,” Eric said ruefully. “How’s Mekal?” “Aisha!” Gremt swore, jumping. “It is you!” “Last I checked,” Eric mumbled. “Does…” “The Lord General know?” Kenton asked. “I don’t think so. Is he here?” Gremt nodded toward a pavilion on the far side of the camp’s half-dozen tents. “Over there. But…” Kenton and Eric ignored Gremt’s hesitancy. Eric held Kenton’s eyes for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. This was why he had returned to dayside. Regardless of his desires to help his friend, travelling with Kenton
was only a vehicle—Eric had realized that in Kenton’s attempts to save the Diem, he would eventually have to visit the Lord General. The two nodded to Gremt, then walked toward the Lord General’s pavilion. Ais trailed along behind, a silent observer. The pavilion was without walls—a shaded area where the Lord General could wait while his men searched out sandlings to fight. A few hundred feet in front of the pavilion a bright red line of flags marked the loose beginning of the deep sands—the place were water vines could no longer be found. Reegent himself sat on a carapace and cloth chair, watching men in the distance as they ran a heard of tonks across a flat plain of sand. Bait for the creatures underneath. Kenton wasn’t interested in that hunt, however—his quarry was much closer. The Lord General was tall and distinguished, even when he was sitting down. His Lossandin brown hair was speckled with gray, his jaw outlined with a short beard. Instead of Kelzi robes, Reegent wore his Tower uniform—a tight, long-sleeved tunic with a robe-like skirt underneath. His formal cape, died red, marked him as a member of the Hall, and his wide, gold-trimmed belt proclaimed him the Lord General. Kenton and Eric approached from the side. Reegent took his eyes off the tonk-herders at the sound, then his eyes opened wide with surprise. Kenton held his breath, not knowing what kind of reception to expect. “Lord Mastrell!” Reegent said, a smile on his face. He rose, arms outstretched. “You surprised me!” Kenton paused, words frozen on his lips. Annoyance he had expected, anger projected, but acceptance? He immediately became suspicious. He mouth opened to release a barb, something along the lines of ‘I know you came here to try and avoid me.’ However, he paused again. What was it Khriss said? That I needed to be more diplomatic? Diplomacy had never gotten him anywhere—only flagrant hostility had been useful before the mastrells’ arrogance. But, if the Lord General was prepared to treat him like an ally, perhaps he should try to be more reserved. “I realize you came here to enjoy yourself,” Kenton said instead of a retort. “I apologize for interrupting your vacation time.” “I appreciate the sentiment,” Reegent said with a nod, gesturing toward a chair. “Please, take a seat.” Kenton complied. Eric, however, remained standing—something he obviously intended to do until his father addressed him. Reegent, however, turned away from Eric, looking at Kenton instead. “The deep sand is quite a trip from Lossand, Lord Mastrell,” he said formally. “I am impressed by your dedication in finding me.” “Thank you, Lord General.” “How are things in Kezare?” “Well, My Lord,” Kenton replied. Reegent turned away from Kenton, looking back across the deep sands. “It promises to be a fruitful hunt,” he explained. “Already we’ve made several catches. Have you ever watched a deep sand hunt before?” “No, My Lord,” Kenton said, beginning to feel frustrated. He had little patience for such talk—he had an issue he wanted to pursue with Reegent. The
Lord General obviously knew why Kenton was here, yet, the man spoke of completely irrelevant things. It was just this sort of topic-dodging that annoyed Kenton. Yet, he held himself back. He couldn’t afford to make this man an enemy. So, he chatted with Reegent. They discussed the sandstorm that had been threatening one of the eastern Rim Kingdoms. They talked about Kenton’s favorite flavors of ZaiDon. They even discussed favorites in the Kezare boat races. Kenton suffered it all with barely-controlled exasperation. “I hear you have been sparring with the Tower’s solders, Lord Mastrell,” Reegent said conversationally, motioning for a servant to bring Kenton another cup of juice. “It has been very helpful to me, My Lord,” Kenton replied. “A wise man makes certain he’s never trapped in battle with only a single option of attack.” “A true statement, Lord Kenton,” Reegent agreed. “Additional skills can be of much service to a man, especially when he finds himself in need of changing Professions.” Kenton frowned. That sounded suspiciously like an invitation to begin talking about important issues. “Actually, Lord Reegent,” Kenton began. “That is why I came to find—” He was interrupted by a sudden yell from ahead. Reegent looked up with interest, squinting out across the sands. A man stood atop a dune, waving a red flag. “They’ve found something!” the Lord General said enthusiastically. “My Hammer!” An attendant rushed up, bringing with him a massive steel hammer. Reegent accepted it, then turned to Kenton. “We should continue this discussion, Lord Mastrell. Would you care to accompany me on the hunt?” “Me?” Kenton asked with surprise. “You came all the way out here. You might as well see what a hunt is all about,” Reegent said, nodding for a soldier to bring over a couple of mounts. Only two—he was continuing to ignore Eric. Kenton shot a look at Eric, but his friend had finally turned away, walking toward the back of the tent, his face unreadable. Kenton looked back at Reegent. He wasn’t certain what the Lord General was offering, but he doubted he could afford to miss the opportunity. “All right, My Lord,” Kenton said uncertainly. He caught Ais’s eye as he made the comment. The Kershtian was not pleased—of course, when was he? Regardless, Kenton doubted the trackt would follow him onto the deep sands. “Good,” Reegent said with a nod, climbing atop his mount. Kenton followed hesitantly. He’d never had the chance to ride a terha, the favored sandling of warriors. The creatures were large—a few feet taller than a tonk, with enormous trunk-like legs. The legs were like pillars, the shoulders rising about a handspan above the terha’s squareish body. The head had two spikes extending forward from each side, and the entire body was covered with carapace plates several times thicker than those of a tonk. Of course, the true advantage of a terha was its water resistance. From infancy, the creatures’ bodies were doused monthly with DoKall, making their shell impossible to dissolve. Kenton climbed onto the beast, his movements tentative. The creature
bore him with apparent lack of interest—Kenton’s weight barely seemed to make a difference to it. “You can use the tonk hammer, if you wish,” Reegent said, nodding toward a hammer hanging from Kenton’s saddle. Kenton nodded gratefully. Most soldiers controlled their mounts by means of metal knee-plates, which they tapped against their terha’s sides. Kenton, however, had no experience with such methods of control. The Lord General tapped his terha forward, and Kenton followed with a quick hammer. The beast moved smoothly, its post-like legs rising and falling with an even gait. The terhan moved much more quickly than a tonk, though they weren’t as fast as a rezal—of course, few things were. They left the tent complex, heading toward the red flag in the distance. “Have you ever been to deep sand before, Lord Mastrell?” Reegent asked, positioning his mount beside Kenton’s. “Yes, My Lord,” Kenton replied. His fight with the creature at the end of the mastrell’s path was still vivid in his mind. Reegent raised an eyebrow—he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Then you know what to expect,” he assumed. Kenton chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that, Lord Reegent,” he replied. “My experiences were brief, at best. I’ve been near deep sand several times, but have never actually stood upon it.” Reegent nodded. “Then I shall warn you, it isn’t what you think it is.” “What do you mean?” Kenton asked. “The stories aren’t exactly accurate when it comes to deep sandlings,” Reegent explained. “You mean deep sandlings aren’t as large as people think?” Kenton asked. He had read many books on the deep sand, and all of them agreed that deep sandlings were huge. “Oh, they’re big,” Reegent agreed. “But, well, you’ll see. Let’s just say that with the vines gone, sandlings are allowed to grow—just not always in the way everyone assumes.” Kenton considered the comment with a frown. The great determining factor of the sands—that which ultimately declared what was ‘deep sand’ and what was not—was the vines. Dorim vines, with their lack of predators, dominated the kerla. And, since the vines criss-crossed every ten feet or so, sandlings couldn’t grow very large lest their movements begin snapping vines and release the deadly water inside. So, most sandlings in the kerla couldn’t get much bigger than four or five feet long—unless they were a surface-dwelling race, like the tonks. The deep sand was different. Dorim vines required a few hours of basking in sunlight each day to survive—though, like most dayside plants, they had to retreat beneath the sands for the rest of the day, lest they dry out. However, the vines also had to have a source of water—and that source lay somewhere far beneath the surface. Therefore, the vines had to stretch all the way from the rocks below to the surface above. The vines could not survive in areas where this distance was too great. Such areas were called deep sand, and there the sandlings could grow to unchecked sizes. Kenton watched the marking flag approach, both intrigued and apprehensive. They crested the
hill, following a path marked by hundreds of footprints. Reegent’s soldiers probably ran a herd of tonks over the path frequently to make certain nothing was hiding underneath. As they moved forward, Kenton began to notice something. In the kerla, one rarely saw sandlings larger than tiny bugs. Human populations had domesticated most of the surface-dwelling sandlings, and hunted the underground predators. A few minutes after passing into the deep sands, however, Kenton began to notice life. It wasn’t difficult—signs were plentiful. In fact, he could pick out several places where sandlings must be hiding. He could see areas where the sand churned with motion, often showing flashes of carapace and shiny black legs. Enormous patches would seem to boil, indications of the huge creatures that were hiding below. What appeared still and empty at a distance was actually in near-constant motion, and Kenton found himself looking around with anxious eyes, catching flashes of movement in the corners of his eyes. Reegent chuckled. “I warned you, Lord Mastrell.” “They’re everywhere!” Kenton said apprehensively. Reegent nodded. “Why don’t they… attack?” Reegent laughed, then reached over and grabbed a spear from the sheath on the back of his mount. He took aim, and threw it directly into the middle of a churning spot a short distance away. The pocket of movement broke apart—scattering in all directions. Kenton gasped, finally understanding. “They’re not individuals—they’re groups!” Reegent nodded. “When people visit the deep sands, they see the sand agitate around them, remember the stories, and assume they’re about to get attacked. So they run. They never realize that what they’re seeing isn’t a single monster, but thousands of tiny ones.” Kenton frowned. “But, they can’t all be this small,” he objected. “Oh, they aren’t,” Reegent assured. “There are some big ones to be found—otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. But, they’re far more rare than people assume—especially the dangerous ones. Even schools of sandlings that large can only support a limited number of predators.” Kenton nodded to himself, watching the sandlings regroup around Reegent’s spear. It shook slightly as several unseen bodies took bites at it, to see if it was food. They come to the surface to feed, Kenton realized. That’s why there are so many of them. The sand goes down for hundreds and hundreds of feet, but the food is at the surface—or, at least, the food that isn’t other sandlings. Kenton looked closely, searching for signs of digested sand. Most of the smaller sandlings were herbivores that grazed on sand. Sand that passed through a sandling’s body changed from dusty bone-white to a more crystalline, clear color. The whiteness soon returned as the sand recharged in the sun—Kenton had never understood the difference between a sandling eating sand, which turned it clear, and pouring water on the sand, which turned it black. Here, there were plenty of patches of digested sand—far more than he had ever seen in the kerla. “Now, those are what you have to watch for,” Reegent said, pointing toward what appeared to be an ordinary patch of sand. “What?”
Kenton asked. “I don’t see anything.” “Look closely,” Reegent urged. Kenton did so, leaning forward. Then he noticed it, a small triangular piece of carapace sticking out of the sand. “What is it?” “DelRak Naisha,” Reegent explained. “What!” Kenton said with surprise. DelRakin were among the most feared of deep sandlings. “Don’t worry,” Reegent said with a chuckle. “It won’t attack. DelRakin hide beneath the sand—they aren’t hunters, they just wait for something to step on them, and they snap closed on it. They’re harmless if you know what to look for. Here,” Reegent grabbed another spear, took aim, and let it fly. The spear hit, and immediately the sand burst, three ten-foot long claws snapping closed. The end result was what looked like a warped pyramid sitting on the sand. The carapace claws—or, actually, they were more like legs—fit together almost exactly, closing the spear inside of them. Slowly, however, the legs unfolded, revealing a small square head on a long spindly neck. Apparently, the head rested at the base of the legs, where it could tear at its prey while the arms held it trapped. “It’s mad for missing the meal,” Reegent explained with a chuckle. “It’s fascinating, My Lord,” Kenton replied. Reegent nodded. “That it is. But, I doubt you came here to discuss sandlings.” Kenton perked up. Finally! “You are correct, Lord Reegent. I have more important concerns.” “Well, then, I suppose we should discuss business. What are your demands, Lord Mastrell?” Kenton frowned in confusion. “Demands?” he asked uncertainly. “I don’t believe I’m in a position to make demands.” Reegent laughed. “Don’t play with me, Lord Mastrell. I know what you want. Tell me, what has Reven offered you?” Reven. The name sounded familiar—it was Talloner, which meant… “King of Seevis?” Kenton asked slowly. Seevis was one of the larger rim kingdoms. What was Reegent talking about? “I have to admit, Kenton, your move surprised me—I acknowledge its brilliance.” As Reegent spoke, he dropped his overly-accepting expression. His words didn’t become hostile, by any means, but they were more frank. His friendliness had been an act all along—but why? Why had he been trying to convince Kenton he was an ally? “We hoped to move before any of the other countries knew what we were doing,” Reegent was saying. “We wanted to take care of the mastrells before anyone had a chance to try and influence them. The rest of the city didn’t even know about our plans to dissolve the Diem. But, your two weeks has ruined that, hasn’t it? So, tell me now, Lord Mastrell. How much will it cost me to hire you?” “You want to hire the sand masters?” Kenton asked slowly. “Well, not all of you, of course. That would defeat the purpose of destroying the Diem. Just enough of you so that everyone knows the Tower now has the power of sand mastery. Trust me, I will pay you more than any of the Rim Kingdoms. Besides, you wouldn’t want to betray your homeland, would you?” He must have gotten word
of Drile’s dealing, Kenton realized, and he thinks I’m part of it. Slowly, Kenton began to piece together what Reegent must have been thinking. If the Diem were destroyed, but some of sand masters joined the Tower, then Reegent would add some of the Diem’s historical power, and prestige, to his own Profession. Even with Praxton gone, Reegent still wasn’t the most powerful of the Taisha—Vey and Heelis were just as influential. But, the people of Lossand feared the sand masters almost as much as the Kershtians did. There was a reason that the Diem had been the smallest, yet arguably most influential, of the Professions. If Reegent could capture a bit of that power for himself… Kenton snorted. “You work to destroy us because we’ve grown too powerful, then you seek to seize that power for yourself?” “All politics is founded in hypocrisy, Kenton,” Reegent responded with a frown. “Do not let our personal differences destroy your chances. I have decided to ignore my own feelings regarding you in the interest of mutual benefit. I assumed that you came to the same conclusion. Is that not why you were looking for me today?” “I hate to ruin a theory, Reegent,” Kenton replied—if the man could ignore titles, then so could Kenton. “But I intend to save the Diem.” “Nonsense!” Reegent sputtered. “Surly you’re not such a fool.” “I’m afraid I am,” Kenton said with a rueful smile. “The reports you heard of mastrells dealing with the Rim Kingdoms involved another sand master, not myself.” Reegent frowned, rubbing his beard. “Then this entire conversation has been a waste,” he said. “Not a waste, Reegent,” Kenton said. “It’s proven that we can get along if we want to. We don’t need to be enemies.” “I’ve never tried to hide the fact that I don’t like you, boy,” Reegent said sharply. “You’re too impetuous, too insubordinate. Now you throw away perhaps the best deal your miserable Profession is going to receive. I don’t see any grounds for agreement there.” “Surely we can come to some arrangement,” Kenton assured. “I already offered one to you, boy,” Reegent returned. “The sand masters have outlived their usefulness. Either you join with me, or you loose yourselves completely.” Despite the harsh words, Kenton felt himself smile. This was the argument he’d expected to have. Well, Khriss, so much for diplomacy, he thought ruefully. Now it’s time to try my way. “Reegent, you defeat your own arguments,” Kenton shot back. “You say that sand mastery has outlived its usefulness, but at the same time you scheme to make it your own. You know its power, and you’re afraid of it. You tell me to do what is best for Lossand, yet all you want is what is best for yourself.” Reegent’s face grew red. “How dare you!” he bellowed. “I care nothing for sand mastery’s power. It has none! The Diem’s only influence comes from ignorance—it has convinced the people that it is some source of mystical omnipotence. What would they think if they knew what sand mastery really
was?” “Which is?” Kenton asked. “Practically nothing. What good is the ability to jump a little bit? You can throw sand at people, but what good is that in a battle? Perhaps you could blind a man for a few seconds. The people and their stupid Kershtian priests fear you, but you are really no better than street charlatans.” I’ll show you what good sand mastery is in a battle, Kenton thought angrily. However, he held himself back. Using his abilities against Reegent would be going too far—the Lord General would never support him if he did that. “You say sand mastery is no good, Reegent,” Kenton countered. “But you don’t mean it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so eager to bring me under your control.” “I want your prestige, boy. Your name. Your power might be useless, but your reputation is not. However, I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather see you destroyed than have you anywhere near the Tower.” “But you admit our influence,” Kenton shot back. “Wouldn’t it be of more use to you as a Profession? You try to destroy us instead of helping us. You should be more concerned with the future—an allegiance with the Diem in our time of need wouldn’t be quickly forgotten.” Reegent snorted. “I’ve found that sand masters have incredibly short memories, boy.” “But we could—” “Enough!” Reegent snapped. “I have no more time for this. Good day.” Suddenly, Reegent’s terha began to walk more quickly, its post-like legs pounding into the sand as moved into a gallop. Angrily, Kenton hammered at his own mount, trying to get it to move more quickly. Unfortunately, it appeared as if the creature only responded to some hammer-commands—it refused to move more quickly. Kenton cursed, realizing that most of the terha’s abilities couldn’t be accessed unless one knew the knee commands. Reegent sped on ahead, leaving Kenton behind. Kenton slowed his own beast with a sigh, stopping it atop a dune. The debate had gone about as he could have expected—except for Reegent’s desire for sand mastery’s influence. Kenton was going to have to come up with some better arguments. Well, I guess my way wasn’t any more effective than diplomacy, Kenton though with a sigh. He moved to turn his mount around, to head back to the camp where he could prepare for another conversation. As he glanced ahead, however, he paused. He saw several men standing atop the next dune looking down at something. Curious, Kenton hammered his terha forward. As he crested the final dune, he finally caught sight of the creature Reegent had been summoned to fight. It lay in a wide valley at the base of two gradually sloped dunes, surrounded by a dozen apprehensive soldiers. It was fairly large—perhaps ten feet long—with two massive, flat tails sprouting from its hindquarters. It resembled a large tonk—it had four legs, each one massive as a tree trunk, and a neck equally as wide, but much longer than a tonk’s. Its head looked like two enormous arrowheads placed one on top of the other, the
edges of each razor sharp. Kenton’s stomach churned as he saw it. The creature lay on its side, is carapace cracked and splintered from dozens of war-hammer strikes. Even from a distance, Kenton could hear its blood-gas hissing from its wounds, and its legs were moving feebly as it tried to rise. They left it alive so he could kill it, Kenton realized, seeing Reegent climb off his terha and slide his war hammer from its sheath. The Lord General was getting too old to hunt himself, but he still wanted the prestige of the final blow. As Reegent approached, the creature—Kenton thought it was called a KaRak—tried one final strike, snapping at Reegent with its triangular jaws. The Lord General easily dodged the blow, spinning to gather momentum as he did so, then slammed his hammer into the side of the creature’s head. There was an audible crack, and the KaRak dropped to the sand, motionless. He’ll do the same to Diem, Kenton realized. Our enemies have weakened us to the point of near death, and now Reegent will take the prestige of the final blow. This decision will be a historic one—these seven Taisha will be remembered as those who destroyed sand mastery. Kenton turned his mound, hammering it to follow the path back toward the camp. He hadn’t even thought of the implications before—most Taisha were easily forgotten. Because there were eight of them, none of them dominant, it was difficult for any Taisha to distinguish himself. This entire council, however, would be famous for centuries to come. Kenton shook his head. And all it would cost them was sand mastery. As he rode back, he realized something was bothering him—something other than his conflict with Reegent. It was a totally random topic, but he couldn’t shake it for some reason. Something from one of the books he had studied. He frowned when he realized what it was. Something had been wrong with the KaRak. The creature had been too small. Its shape fit the description he had read—the pair of flat tails were a give-away—but the size was wrong. Far too small. Almost as if it were… a child. From behind him, he heard the sound of men screaming. He snapped his head around in a sudden motion. Even from several dunes away, he could see the dark form rising into the sky. A very angry form with an arrowhead-shaped skull atop its large neck. “N’Teese, what is deep sand?” The girl looked up from the ground, where she had been scribbling on the Hall’s black floor with a piece of chalk. “The sand is deep there, she explained.” Khriss sighed. “Yes, that much is obvious. I mean, why is it so dangerous?” “There are monsters in the deep sand,” N’Teese said, continuing her scribbling. Khriss assumed it was supposed to be a monster of some sort, though it looked more like a circle with lots of teeth. “Monsters? What kind of monsters?” “Big ones,” N’Teese said with an authoritative nod. “Really big ones. Big enough to eat
you in one bite.” Khriss frowned. “But, why would they want to eat you? Doesn’t blood dissolve sandling carapace? Eating a person could be deadly. N’Teese shook her head, turning away from Khriss. “You’re weird,” she declared, resuming her drawing. “Deep sandlings eat people because they do. Everyone knows that.” Khriss sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. She sat in the same room, on the same uncomfortable bench, as she had before. The very same elderly, balding administrator had told her to wait. This time, at least, she had Kenton’s letter—the administrator wasn’t certain if it would be enough to get her in to see the Lady Judge, but he had promised to ask. So far, all Khriss had seen him do was move papers from one pile to another. However, as annoyed as she was at being forced to wait a second time, she knew her true source of aggravation lay somewhere else. Kenton. Why had she let him talk her out of going with him? She had spent the better part of the night wondering just what these ‘deep sands’ were, and N’Teese’s vague answers were only making her more curious. In addition, she wasn’t certain she could trust Kenton to look after her interests—he didn’t appear to think her hunt for Gevin was very important. He would probably forget to even ask the Lord General. At least part of her sleepless night had been caused by sand mastery. Her scientifically trained mind still had trouble accepting what she had seen, and she had so many questions. Could Kenton control other objects, or just sand? And, if just sand, why? All work required energy—where did the power come to lift the sand into the air? How much sand could he lift, and for how long? Unfortunately she knew from experience that she would have trouble finding answers to her questions. N’Teese didn’t know anything about sand mastery, and she claimed few people did. Apparently, the sand masters were very clandestine about their abilities. She could try asking Kenton, but he didn’t have much patience for questions. She doubted he would sit down and perform for her so she could make scientific observations. I should have made him take me with him, she fumed. How had he persuaded her to stay behind? She had seen him talk to the Lord Artisan—he was hopeless as a diplomat. He should never have been able to persuade her of anything. Yet, as she considered, she realized that Kenton wasn’t completely hopeless as a politician; he had one major talent. Arguing. She had made the mistake of getting angry at him, and when it came down to trading barbs, Kenton’s true talent of persuasion manifest itself. That was why she had ended up sitting on the Hall’s bench while he was out on the deep sands—whatever they were. I should try being nicer, she decided. It will completely baffle him. Suddenly, Khriss realized someone was approaching. She looked up with surprise, seeing that the administrator was about to address her. “The Lady Judge
will see you now,” N’Teese translated. Lady Heelis’s meeting room was different from the Lord Artisan’s. While Rite’s chamber had been relatively small, suited for quite business deals, the Lady Judge sat on a raised dais in a large hall. Dressed in deep black robes with a collar that went all the way up to the chin and sitting on a throne-like chair, Heelis looked more like a monarch than anything Khriss had seen on this side of the world. “You only have a few minutes,” the administrator explained through N’Teese. “The Lady Judge is in recess from a very important murder trial right now.” Khriss followed the old man’s nod, noticing a Kershtian man held in chains a short distance away. Several groups of important-looking men were conferring with one another through the room. A trial? Khriss thought with wonder. I wonder was Acron would say about his primitive culture having such an advanced legal system—one with a woman at its head, no less. “I will be brief,” Khriss assumed the minister, then strode forward to approach the Lady Judge’s dais. Heelis was older than Khriss had expected, a woman with wrinkled Lossandin skin. She had a wise face—the kind of face that reminded everyone of their grandmother and the words of wisdom she had once given. Khriss found herself curtseying despite herself—the Lady Judge and she were probably of about the same social rank, there was no need to show deference. “Lady Judge,” Khriss began, N’Teese translating, as usual, “I am the Duchess Khrissalla from the independent Kingdom of Elis.” “I have heard of you,” Heelis replied. “You are the one travelling in the company of our new Lord Mastrell.” Travelling in the company of the Lord Mastrell? Khriss thought. Well, I suppose I can’t avoid the association. He did, after all, write the letter that got me in here. “The Lord Mastrell and I are fairly well acquainted,” Khriss responded. Heelis nodded. “Watch out for that one, child. He has surprised us all.” Tell me about it. “I will, Lady Judge. Since you have heard of me, perhaps you know of my quest.” “Yes,” Heelis said. “Rite mentioned it too me. You’re looking for someone?” “Prince Gevalden of Elis,” Khriss clarified. “The son of our Kingdom’s ruler, and my betrothed.” “Ah,” Heelis said knowingly. “I’m sorry, child.” Khriss continued to ignore the ‘child’ references—a duchess of Elis, no matter what her age, was not a child. However, she was growing increasingly convinced that no one on this side of the world had a sense of proper decorum. “I feel confident I can find him,” Khriss said. “But, any help you could give me would be appreciated. Prince Gevalden came to Lossand to plead for aid. Elis is being threatened by a very powerful monarch, one who many say has supernatural powers. The stories of your sand masters led our prince to this side of the world. Please, tell me, when he arrived did he take the opportunity to introduce himself to you, Lady Judge?” Heelis frowned. “When would this
have been?” “About two years ago, darkside time. Approximately five-hundred revolutions of the moon.” “Our years are similar,” Heelis said, rubbing her chin. “Unfortunately, that is a very long time. I do not recall any meeting, but I may have forgotten. Larmen, do you remember such a meeting?” The balding administrator shook his head. “You have never had an audience with a man by that name, My Lady,” he replied. “Are you certain?” “Yes, My Lady,” he said, shooting Khriss a smile. “I spent the last hour checking through your audience logs.” “Then that is your answer, child,” Heelis replied. “I am sorry, but if there is one thing we of the Hall excel at, it is paperwork. If Larmen can find no record of the meeting, then it did not happen.” Khriss forced herself to remain calm. It didn’t mean anything—perhaps Gevin hadn’t come to the Lady Judge. Maybe he had been forced to wait as Khriss had, and decided the meeting wasn’t worth it. He might have gone straight to the sand masters, ignoring the other Taisha. “I thank you for your time, Lady Judge,” Khriss said, performing a stiff curtsey. “Child,” Heelis said as Khriss turned to go. “Might I warn that you are going about this the wrong way.” “My Lady?” Khriss said with a frown. “Most of the Taishin are very busy people,” Heelis said with a kindly tone. “It is a sad truth that we have little time for individuals, especially those not of our Profession. Darksiders are welcome in Lossand, but because of language barriers and cultural differences, your people often find their way to the fringes of our society. Few Taisha even take notice of them. There is a person, however, who has taken it upon himself to care for the Lossand’s forgotten.” “The Lord Beggar?” Khriss asked, remembering the scarred man she had met at Loaten’s. Heelis nodded. “While not, by Law, a true Taisha, Nilto is arguably as powerful as any of us. If there is a person in this city who has news of your man, it will be him.” “Thank you, My Lady,” Khriss said, curtseying one last time—this time in gratitude, before leaving, Baon and N’Teese following. Outside of the conference chamber, a black-uniformed trackt returned Baon’s sword to him. Khriss shot the mercenary a smile as he strapped the sword back on—the daysiders had taken his blade, but unwittingly left the pistols. “N’Teese,” Khriss asked as they left the hall, “can you get me a meeting with the Lord Beggar?” “I don’t know,” the little girl replied. “Maybe. I could ask Loaten—they’re friends.” “Please, do so,” Khriss requested. “Baon and I will return to the house for now. Come to me when you have an answer.” “My Lady, you are going to have to introduce me to this sand mage,” Acron said as the cook put a plate of food in front of him. “Acron, you already know him,” Khriss said, shaking her head. “It’s just Kenton.” “Yes,” Acron said, “but now he’s a sand mage.” “He was
always a sand mage!” “Personally, I must admit skepticism, my lady,” Cynder confessed, accepting his own plate. They sat in the house’s dining hall. The room had a comfortably small table with a large chandelier, its limbs filled with grundlefish globes. The translucent fish were swimming near the bottoms of their spheres, watching the people below them with curious, animal eyes. The lunch consisted of sandwiches and brothwa soup. “I would have thought you would appreciate the irony,” Khriss said, trying one of the sandwiches. The flavor was… interesting. Instead of beef, which was extremely rare on dayside, the cook had substituted a smooth-textured form of ZaiDon. “True,” Cynder agreed with a chuckle. “We come all the way to Lossand to search for sand mages, only to find we were travelling with one the entire time. It is blessedly ironic. Still, you say they lift things with sand? You realize how… irregular that sounds, My Lady.” “Not irregular, Cynder,” Khriss corrected. “It sounds ridiculous.” “That as well,” Cynder agreed. “I saw it too,” Baon noted, standing against the far wall. He refused to sit with them, even when Khriss invited, but he did accept a sandwich from the cook as she passed. “No offence intended to either of you,” Cynder continued. “But honestly, flying sand? Is there no other explanation?” “If you find one, I’ll eagerly accept it,” Khriss mumbled. “Well, I still want to meet him,” Acron insisted. With each passing day, the hefty anthropologist acquired more and more dayside paraphernalia. Today, he was wearing some sort of carapace medallion around his neck, as well as a full dayside outfit and a DaiKeen medallion that was carved from a shiny piece of stone—he now owned several varieties of all three. Khriss had hoped that sending the two professors to gather information in darkside town would curb Acron’s spending, but so far her ploy had seen little success. “Did you two find anything today?” “Yes,” Acron said eagerly. “This necklace. Isn’t it exquisite? They say the carving is of a deep sandling, whatever that is.” “I meant about the prince,” Khriss noted. “Oh,” Acron said, letting the medallion flop back against his chest. “No, not yet. But don’t give up hope, my lady. I’m certain we’ll find something sooner or later. We’ve only been here three days.” “We have discovered one thing, however,” Cynder said, patting his lips with a handkerchief. “Though it has little to do with the prince.” “What?” Khriss asked, tasting her soup. It, at least, was very similar to the darkside equivalent. Apparently, the very same seaweed used to make it grew on the shores of dayside as well. “Well, I’ve been asking about Dynastic border patrols,” Cynder explained. “And it appears that they don’t exist—at least, not to the extent the Dynasty would have everyone believe. Apparently, all of the darksiders in Kezare passed from one Dynastic province to another without ever noticing a single one of the infamous border guards. The rumor is that the Dynasty is sending so many troops to its war efforts that
it can’t keep its borders patrolled anymore. Most people claim that there aren’t border guards at all—that the Dynasty keeps its provinces segregated more through threat than actual manpower.” Khriss frowned. “That’s nonsense. We ran into a border patrol, after all. If there weren’t any guards, then who killed captain Deral?” “True, My Lady,” Cynder said with a nod. “I am just passing on what I have heard.” Khriss finished her soup in thought. Cynder was right about one thing—most of the Dynasty’s power came from the fear Scythe and his predecessors had managed to instill in those they dominated. Much of the Dynasty had been controlled for so long that the people didn’t even consider travel an option. “Acron, you’re the one who has traveled the most,” Khriss said. His work as an anthropologist required that he visit other cultures, and so when Elis was able to secure Dynastic travel permits, he was one of those who usually got to leave the country. “What did you think of Dynastic border security?” Acron looked up. “My Lady?” he asked. He appeared distracted for some reason, a strange look on his face. “Security, when you traveled in the Dynasty. How strict was it?” Acron shrugged. “All I saw were the formal check stations,” he said. “My travel was legal, so I didn’t have to worry about border patrols.” Khriss shook her head. First they find out that Dynastic blockades are easy to avoid, now she learns that the border patrols are equally lax. Perhaps her escape to dayside hadn’t been such a miracle after all. Of course, there was still the fact that she had lost two soldiers during the escape. If it was supposed to be so easy, why had they been so unfortunate? Pure luck? Khriss sat back as the cook cleared the table. Cynder rose, walking toward the next room, followed by Baon. As Khriss rose to go, however, a pudgy hand pulled her aside. She turned to find Acron looking at her somewhat nervously. “Acron?” she asked. “What is it.” “I… I should tell you something, My Lady,” he said, sweating anxiously. She had never seen the anthropologist so out of sorts. “What is it?” Acron paused, his eyes darting toward the next room. “Um, nothing, My Lady,” he finally decided. “Speak, Acron,” Khriss ordered, somewhat surprised by the authoritarian tone to her own voice. “Um, yes, My Lady,” he said, capitulating. “It’s just that, well… Do you remember the day Captain Deral died?” Khriss nodded. “I remember being awakened by Baon. He had gone off with the captain and lieutenant to scout ahead while the rest of us got some sleep. He rode back into camp in a flurry, and warned us that the border patrol was near.” “Yes, well…” Acron continued. “I couldn’t sleep that day. I don’t know what it was, but when the rest of you set up camp and went to bed, I just sat in my tent thinking. Just before Baon rode into camp, I heard to pistol shots. Only two. They were
in the distance, barely audible, but I did hear them. I swear it, My Lady. I’m not making this up, I heard them.” Khriss frowned. Two shots? What was Acron implying? “There were only two,” Acron continued. “Don’t you see? Baon said the border patrol was chasing them, and shot the captain in the back. Shouldn’t there have been more shots? And why didn’t they shoot at Baon?” “What are you implying, Acron?” Khriss asked. “I don’t know,” the fat man admitted, rubbing his hands nervously. “It’s just that… I’ve never been able to trust that mercenary since. I don’t think he told us the truth that night.” “Baon, lie?” Khriss asked incredulously. “Acron, you’re worried for no reason. Perhaps the captain was shot further away, and the two shots you heard came from the patrol as it chased Baon.” “Yes, of course, My Lady,” Acron agreed. “That must be it.” The overweight man smiled, though she could tell he wasn’t convinced by her explanation. He nodded to her anyway, and waddled toward the other room. Oh, Shella, Khriss thought with frustration. I don’t need this right now. However, now that Acron had planted the seed, she couldn’t help but be a little suspicious herself. There definitely had been something strange about that night. Why had the captain and Baon suddenly decided to scout ahead together? Why hadn’t she noticed any sign of pursuit, despite Baon’s insistence that a border patrol had nearly found them? Once her curiosity had something to dig at, it wouldn’t let her simply ignore such questions. With a sigh, she moved to join the others. “He wants to see you,” N’Teese said. She didn’t bother with formalities or hellos, she just proclaimed her news as soon as she walked through the sitting-room door. “When?” Khriss asked, sitting in one of the plush chairs beside the fire, sipping at her tea. “Right now,” N’Teese informed. “Now?” Khriss asked with surprise. “No waiting?” “Well, you can probably wait if you want,” N’Teese said with a shrug. “If you want to meet him later, I could…” “I’m coming,” Khriss said, nodding for Baon to follow. “You two,” she said to Acron and Cynder, “keep looking for information about the prince.” “You want us to go out again?” Acron asked with a frown of displeasure, one mimicked in a less-exaggerated way by Cynder. The two had just decided to play a game of conquest on the sitting-room’s gameboard. “Yes, again,” Khriss insisted. “We didn’t travel across the world to play games.” She followed N’Teese out of the house and toward the nearest exit from darksider town. Soon they were back in the increasingly-familiar daylight, though Khriss could still only last a few minutes before she had to put on her glasses. She didn’t know how Baon did it. N’Teese led her to what had to be the most run-down, decrepit section of Kezare. It sat next to the market, but had none of its flamboyance or colors. The buildings here seemed to lean against each other, struggling to remain upright. Perhaps
only the closeness of the walls—most of them built right against one another—kept them from collapsing. Of course, that meant that if one of them went, the rest probably would as well. What alleyways there were appeared to be inhabited by slime-covered families, people who made roofs out of garbage and turned the narrow passageways into homes. Normal people passed through the streets with determined steps, trying their best not to look to either side, trying not to notice the lame, the poor, and the unfortunate huddled by the buildings. N’Teese’s path ended in a dirty corner between two tall buildings. Khriss wrinkled her nose at the smell of garbage and sewage. Inside, she could see several forms huddled beside a wall. N’Teese walked into the alley, and Khriss followed reluctantly, trying to step in places that were a little bit cleaner than the rest. The huddled forms turned out to be a man with several hungry-looking children. Their house, if it could be called that, consisted of what looked like the shell of a sandling. A form in a brown robe stood stooped beside the father, mumbling quietly in a comforting tone. Nilto. He patted the father on the shoulder, and handed him a small bag of something, then stood. “Let us go,” he said in his hissing whisper of a voice, motioning for Khriss and N’Teese to follow him out of the alleyway. Khriss did so happily. Nilto stopped when they reached the street outside, and once again Khriss was struck by the cruel deformity that was his face. His very bones seemed twisted and misaligned, his skin scarred and melted. He walked with a very pronounced limp. “I sicken you so, woman of darkside?” He spoke in Lossandin, waiting for N’Teese to translate. Khriss wasn’t certain how to answer. “What makes you think that?” she asked with as much tact as she could manage. “Your face,” he responded, leaning down to take a seat on the rocky ground beside the building. “Sit.” “Here?” Khriss asked incredulously, eyeing the dirty floor. “You requested an audience. Well, this is my office,” Nilto replied, waving a hand toward the streets. “If you want to speak with me, you will have to do it here.” Khriss frowned again, carefully seating herself on the ground, trying not to imagine what she might be sitting on. She cleared her mind, however, remember the prince, she told herself. If this man could help her, then it was worth any injustice to speak with him. As she took her seat, Nilto waved to a small boy waiting in a doorway nearby. The boy, covered with dirt and wearing no shirt, ran over to Nilto. The Lord Beggar whispered in his ear for a moment, then the boy took off, dashing away on some errand. “Now,” Nilto asked, “why are you bothering me?” Well, it appears he has manners to match his face, Khriss thought. “I have been sent to you by the Lady Judge. She seems to think you might be able to help me.” “I doubt
it,” the Lord Beggar hissed. Khriss ground her teeth, trying to remain diplomatic in front of his hostility. “I am looking for someone,” she said. “A man from darkside.” “And why would I care about a darksider?” the Lord Beggar demanded. “I don’t know,” Khriss confessed. “But it appears that you are the one who keeps track of such things. Hs name was Gevalden, and he was a prince on darkside. A son of a very important person.” “A kelzi, then?” Nilto asked. “Something like that,” Khriss agreed. Nilto nodded toward the beggars lining the street. “We have little use for kelzi here, woman of darkside. Besides, perhaps, what we might be able to take from them, should we manage to trap them in an alley somewhere.” “You wouldn’t do that,” Khriss guessed. “And why not?” the Lord Beggar demanded. “Because,” Khriss said. “The people of this city seem to respect you—the Lady Judge spoke favorably of you. They look at you as a savior, not as a murderer.” The Lord Beggar grunted. “I know nothing of your darkside prince, woman.” Khriss’s eyes thinned. The man was lying. She could see it in his eyes—or, at least, in the one that wasn’t scarred shut. “Where is he?” she demanded. The Lord Beggar smiled slightly. “What have you gone through to find this man? Can he really be worth the trouble?” “I promise you, he is,” Khriss shot back. Nilto paused, looking up at the sky. Khriss followed his gaze, but couldn’t find anything at its end. Nothing but the strange blue sky, void of stars. “Gevalden of Elis is dead,” the Lord Beggar finally said. Khriss felt herself grow cold. “He was barely alive when they brought him into the city,” Nilto continued. “Something had happened on the sands, some sort of accident. I’ve been told he refused to die until he actually arrived in Kezare. He kept mumbling about sand wizards or something, and a kingdom on the other side of the world.” “You lie,” Khriss shot back. However, this time she didn’t believe her own words. There was something in Nilto’s eyes—something chilling about the way he spoke. “Loaten was the only one in darksider town who recognized him,” Nilto continued. “He cared for Gevalden during the last days of his life. I don’t know why I even cared. But, there was something about this man—something about the innocence in his face—that made me curious. Who was this man who had come across the world, dressed in his finery with dozens of attendants? Who was this individual who refused to die until he reached his goal? But, in the end, the sands took him like they take everyone.” Khriss blinked against tears that threatened to come. “You lie,” she repeated. The small boy had returned, carrying a cloth-wrapped package. “Here,” Nilto said, handing her the package. “These probably belong to you.” Inside were two things. A ring and a shiny silver pistol, well crafted with designs carved into its wooden hilt. Gevin’s signet ring and his firearm. There were blood-stains
on the hilt of the gun. “Oh, Shella…” Khriss whispered despite herself. “Why should you care so much for this one, woman of darkside,” the Lord Beggar hissed. “Look around you. Dozens of these people die each week, and do you think their families grieve any less for them? Who cares for the ones who aren’t princes, who aren’t important. No one. Your nobility sickens me, woman. Be gone with you. You’ve found your answers, now scurry back to your comfortable home. Hide like the creature of darkness that you are.” Khriss sat up stiffly, clutching the gun and ring to her chest. “I was wrong about you,” she whispered back. “You are a horrible man.” “Oh, I know, duchess. I know.” Nilto smiled. Khriss tried to stand, slipping as tears began to well in her eyes. Baon, however, caught her on the arm and hoisted her to her feet. She stood there for a moment, stunned. She didn’t want to move, she didn’t want to think. Gevin can’t be gone, she insisted. He can’t… Her feet refused to move. Baon took her arm, leading her back toward darksider town. And as they left, the sound of Nilto’s laughter chased them from behind. “You are a fool. What were you thinking he would do? Welcome you back with open arms?” Eric paced in the sun, standing away from his father’s tent. “He ignored you. That’s perfect. Neither of you have to deal with each other. Why are you so worried?” Eric continued to pace. “He disowned you. Your ties are cut. You can go back to darkside guilt-free and never have to even think of him again. What were you even thinking, coming back? You hate it over here. So bright, so hot and sticky… What a fool. You should—” “What are you doing?” Eric looked up with surprise. The Kershtian trackt, Ais, stood a short distance away. “Were you talking to yourself?” Ais asked with a frown. “Of course not,” Eric said briskly, turning to stride away from the trackt. Were was Kenton, anyway? How long would it be before he realized Reegent was just playing with him? Eric knew his father, recognized the duplicity behind the man’s smile. He didn’t know why Reegent was acting kind, but he was fairly certain Kenton would not leave the deep sands with any kind of commitment from the Lord General. Eric squinted, looking across the sands in the direction his friend had gone. “This entire trip was a waste,” he mumbled with a frown. He thought he could hear something. Men screaming…? Kenton dashed over the top of the dune, calling his sand to life with a flash of light. Beyond he saw a sandling so enormous it made the creature at the end of the Mastrell’s Path look tiny. Legs large as buildings, a triangular head that could have swallowed ten men whole, a body that rose like a mountain out of the sand. Each step threw up a ripple of sand, scattering warriors holding tiny hammers. At least a dozen men
lay half-buried by the wave sand that the creature’s emergence must have produced. Reegent was one of those half-buried. Even as Kenton watched, the Lord General tried to pull himself free of the dune that buried his lower half. His motions became more frantic as one of the creature’s feet lifted, moving toward Reegent… Kenton jumped into action, adrenaline and sand boosting his leap off the dune, propelling toward the battle at a horrific rate. He had to get close enough to grab Reegent with his sand. Kenton landed beside a couple of soldiers who were scrambling away, dragging a wounded comrade. Kenton leapt again, spinning through the air toward the creature itself. One of the beast’s tails roared through the air toward him, and Kenton pushed himself higher in the air to flip over the tail. At least fifty feet in the air now, Kenton let himself fall, the KaRak’s second tail whipping over his head, the speed of its motion carrying so much wind in its wake that it created a miniature sand storm. Kenton coughed in the sand, blinking his eyes clear as he plummeted toward the ground. He began to slow his decent, but then he noticed Reegent. The creature’s leg was about to crush him. Kenton shot his sand away from himself, hurling it toward the Lord General at a speed no other mastrell could ever have obtained. The sand flew like a spear, slamming into Reegent and grabbing him in its grip and ripping him free of the dune just as the KaRak’s leg crushed the sand. Kenton slammed into the ground, the impact making his vision flash with pain and he cried out, involuntarily loosing control of his sand. He shook his head, trying to regain his breath. Reegent, no longer held by sand, dropped through the air, crashing to the sand about twenty feet away. The Lord General moved limply, his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. Kenton tried to stand, but collapsed back to the sand. The motion pointed his eyes upward, and he saw a sight terrifying enough that he lost track of everything else around him. The massive sandling was looking at him. Its head lowered slightly, dark black eyespots focused directly on Kenton. Though the carapace was incapable of showing emotion, Kenton almost felt like he saw an expression on its inhuman face. Anger. Intelligent, vengeful, anger. The KaRak lifted its tails, moving to whip them toward Kenton and the Lord General. I can’t lift us both! Kenton thought with alarm, forcing his sand back to life. Suddenly, a black form fell from the sky, crashing to the sand beside Reegent. A black, triangular form with tall, powerful hind legs and small forefeet—a rezal. Eric tumbled from the rezal’s back, grabbing his father and throwing the still-moving form over his shoulder. Though he looked a little plump, Eric moved with the speed and reflexes of one trained for battle, quickly jumping back on the rezal and grabbing hold of its saddle. He shot Kenton a nod before snapping his
foot against the rezal’s head, sending the creature into a wild leap to the side. The rezal’s hind quarters pushed off, shooting Eric and Reegent high into the air, narrowly missing the monstrous tail. Kenton mimicked the rezal’s actions, using his sand to propel himself to the side. The tail nearly crushed him, but he used his sand to push against the creature’s carapace, giving himself extra leverage. Kenton rolled to the side, the tail hitting the sand just a few feet behind him. He regarded it with amazement. He was missing something… something important. His sand had touched the creature’s carapace. It hadn’t fallen stale. Kenton cursed himself, gathering his sand around him. Recently so many things had been terken—the Kershtian assassins, the creature on the Mastrell’s Path—that he had forgotten something important. Terken sandlings were rare. Most of them were as susceptible to sand mastery as humans—more so, because they didn’t have blood to wet the sand and make it stale. Kenton smiled. He launched himself into the air as the KaRak lifted its tail for another swing. Kenton landed on the tail itself, running along its length, his sand steadying him on both sides. The creature turned toward him, it’s arrow-like head focusing on him. Kenton jumped again, putting all of his might behind the leap, hurling himself upwards. He shot through the air, wind rippling his robes, his hands clenched in fists before him. He brought his hands apart, pulling the sand away from his jump, moving it up to his sides instead. A ribbon surrounded each of his hands. As he flew toward the KaRak’s head, he thrust his hands out, commanding the sand forward, driving a brilliant line directly at each of the creature’s eyespots. The monster’s head snapped backward as the sand smashed through its carapace. Violent sprays of gas-blood spewed from the eyespots, like cries of pain from the otherwise silent creature. As Kenton began to fall he let out a yell of his own, gathering all three of his ribbons into one powerful disk beside his right hand. He swept his arm in an arc, spraying his sand out like a massive scythe, slicing through the creature’s exposed neck. Gas-blood ruptured from the wound, exploding outward so violently that it blew the KaRak’s twenty-food wide head completely from its body. Kenton spun as he dropped, landing lightly on the sand. The KaRak crashed to the ground behind him with a sound like a building collapsing. Its head slammed to the ground just to Kenton’s right. Two dozen warriors crouched spread across the sand before him, most of them wounded, some clutching ineffectual spears or hammers. All of them had stunned expressions on their faces. Kenton walked forward, approaching Reegent, who sat beside Eric’s mount. Kenton strode right up to the Lord General, then leaned down, placing his face just a few inches from Reegent’s. “And I’m considered one of the weak ones,” Kenton informed. “Ouch! Be careful you fools!” Reegent swore as the soldiers placed him down in his chair. The right side
of his face was red and quickly showing signs of bruising, and his right leg was broken. He was alive, however, which was more than could be said of about a dozen of his men. Gone was the Lord General’s diplomatic facade—now, more than a distinguished ruler, he seemed more like a grumpy old man. As he sat down, a healer inspecting his leg, Reegent shot a scowl at Eric, who stood at his side. “I should have known this day would go wrong the moment you appeared, boy,” he grumbled. Eric just smiled. Apparently, getting cursed at was better than being ignored. Kenton took a deep breath. He wasn’t quite ready to let the Lord General free yet—their battle wasn’t over. If the other Taishin could take advantage of the Diem because of its weakness, then Kenton could do the same to them. “Stop whining, Reegent,” Kenton snapped. “You’re behaving like a spoiled child.” Reegent turned angry eyes Kenton’s direction. “Happy to see me wounded, boy?” he demanded. “You were just waiting for something like this to happen.” “In a way, yes,” Kenton shot back. “You implied that sand mastery was useless. I think you have ample evidence otherwise. I just wish twelve men hadn’t had to die so I could prove it to you.” “Your help wasn’t requested,” Reegent grumbled. “And if I hadn’t been there today?” Kenton shot back. “You would be dead, Lord General. Don’t even try to deny it. You, and quite possibly every man out there.” “Go ahead, sand master,” Reegent hissed. “Gloat.” “This isn’t gloating,” Kenton informed, slamming his fist against a chair’s armrest. “Sands, man. Your head is as thick as carapace!” Reegent’s face grew red. Then, something odd happened. He suddenly burst into laughter. “By the Sand Lord,” Reegent mumbled, “you’re like your father. He was the only one who ever had the nerve to speak like that to me.” Kenton blinked in surprise, uncertain how to take that remark. So, he just continued his argument. “I can see to it that if something like this happens again, you are prepared.” “How?” Reegent asked. He wasn’t laughing any more, but he wasn’t as angry either. “Two dozen sand masters,” Kenton said. “Delivered to you the moment the Diem is reinstated. They will be yours to do with as you please—take them on hunts, use them to bolster your defenses, sands, you can have them move furniture for all I care. They’ll be yours to command as you see fit.” Reegent rubbed his chin in thought. “You wanted sand mastery’s prestige,” Kenton said. “Well, I’m offering you something far better. This is access to the true power of the Diem. That, plus the vow that sand masters will no longer be allowed to take what doesn’t belong with them, is what I’m promising you in exchange for your vote.” Reegent paused. “What kind of sand masters?” he asked. “I don’t want you just sending me all of your rejects.” “At least one mastrell,” Kenton promised, “with supporting members, at least one from each rank.”
“All right then,” Reegent said. “Done.” Kenton stared forward, a little stunned that the Lord General had agreed. After all this time, he finally had his first firm commitment of support from one of the Taisha. “Thank you,” Kenton said simply. Reegent snorted. “Boy, I just saw you cut the head off of a seventy-foot tall monster. I don’t care what I have to do, that isn’t the kind of power we can afford to cut free. As long as there’s a Diem Profession, there will at least be some rules binding you people. Maybe the Diem wasn’t created to be useful, but to keep sand mastery in check.” Rules, Kenton thought. Yes, I’m growing to understand the same thing, Lord General. “Good day, then, Lord General. I hope your recovery is quick. Ais, Eric, are you coming?” “Wait,” Reegent requested. “Have you boys eaten yet?” he offered, trying not to look toward Eric. “My cooks will be fixing dinner shortly. You are welcome to stay.” Kenton shot Eric a look, then nodded with a smile. “We would appreciate it, Lord General.” Kenton strolled along the sands in front of Reegent’s tents, smiling slightly. Behind him, he could still hear Reegent and Eric arguing. It was a good sign—Eric had lived with the man for fifteen years, never once voicing his frustrations with his father. They would probably never get along very well, but at least they were talking. An opportunity Kenton would never get to have with his own father. If I’m so much like him, then why do I feel like I never knew him? Kenton wondered, absently kicking up sand as he walked. That was the one rule he was absolutely certain he would change—families would be allowed in the Diem. He had already laid the groundwork for destroying the ban by building steps up to the higher floors. He would probably still reserve the upper rooms for the mastrells—as much as his rebellious side hated to admit it, a system of ranks and authority in the Diem did make sense. Without the rules and traditions, the sand masters could easily have become a terror on the sands. He’d never realized that—all he’d been able to see was how the rules restricted him. How they held him back. Him, personally—a selfish view. What kind of man had his father been? He had sent his family away, like was demanded of him, forcing them to live in town. But, at the same time, he had broken tradition by marrying a woman from darkside. Kenton knew what the other sand masters said about that decision—they said it had ruined all of Praxton’s children. Kenton’s mother had loved Praxton, or so he assumed. She had always spoken highly of the Lord Mastrell, had been the dutiful wife during his visits. Of course, Kenton’s mother had been a pragmatist. She knew that there was little chance of her supporting herself on dayside without a wealthy husband. She seemed happy with the arrangement—she had a nice house in Kezare’s kelzi district, as much money
as she could want, and plenty of time to raise her children. Of course, Kenton could remember catching her sometimes, looking out across the lake with a wistful look. Across the lake, toward the Diem. With difficulty, Kenton tried to imagine the romance that must have drawn the two people together—powerful sand master and independent woman from darkside. Kenton paused, looking up. He had wandered far from the camp. If he wasn’t careful he would find himself wandering onto deep sand. The red marker flags were just a few feet in front of him. A sudden stillness seemed to flow across the sand. No sandling rustled in the ground, no wind howled through the dunes. Kenton felt an irrational chill blow over him—even the sun seemed to grow darker for a brief moment. Slowly, he turned. There was a man standing behind him. The Kershtian warrior, bare to the waist, stood quietly. The man carried a carapace spear lightly in his dark olive fingers, his forehead scarred with a stark white square. Two newer scars stood out beside the square. Assassin marks. The two men stood staring at each other for a moment as the wind restarted, ruffling Kenton’s robes and the Kershtian’s skirt. This one was different than the ones the day before. He hadn’t attacked from behind. He was calm, careful. He bowed his head once toward Kenton before snapping into motion. Kenton ducked to the side, dodging the spear as it shot through the air. He knew, somehow, that the spear would be covered with a terken coating. Kenton called his sand to life anyway, then reached down for his sword. The assassin moved quickly after his throw, however, tackling Kenton a second later. Kenton’s sword spun from his unprepared fingers, tumbling down the side of the dune. Kenton kicked free of the Kershtian as the man pulled a carapace knife free from a sheath on his leg. Kenton rose to his feet, his heart pounding. Gathering his sand around himself, he jumped, soaring high into the air. The Kershtian scrambled forward and slapped his hand through Kenton’s stream of sand. Immediately, the sand the man touched turned stale and black, destroying the foundation of Kenton’s jump. Kenton floundered in the air as his support was ruined, toppling back toward the ground. He tried to get his remaining sand to slow him, but the Kershtian once again threw himself into the stream, killing it. Kenton tumbled to the sand on the other side of the dune, rolling away from the camp, down the slope where no one would be able to see him. The Kershtian followed, diving toward Kenton. Kenton barely managed to get his hands up in time to catch the knife hand before it plunged into his chest. This man knows how to fight sand masters! Kenton thought with anger, barely holding the knife at bay. As long as the man grappled Kenton, he could keep control of the battle, and Kenton’s sand mastery would be practically useless. Desperately, Kenton tried to use his sand. He touched
his elbow to the ground, summoning another ribbon and using it to lift both he and his assailant into the air. However, he didn’t have enough strength to lift two people very high, and the Kershtian quickly maneuvered a leg free and kicked at the stream, the gelled carapace on his skin killing the sand and toppling them both back down to the ground. They rolled between the dunes, struggling for control of the knife. However, it was obvious who was more skilled in this form of combat. The Kershtian simply had more raw strength than Kenton. Before Kenton knew it, he was back in the same position as before, his back resting against the sand floor, the Kershtian on top of him, the knife inching toward his face. Kenton turned his head to the side as the tip of the knife touched his nose. Sands, he’s strong! He tried to call up further sand, but he was growing weak. His mouth burned from dehydration—controlling three ribbons was far more difficult than he was used to. The day’s travel, battles, and sand mastery had sapped much of his energy and his water. He barely managed to call sand to life—he wouldn’t have the strength to lift them both into the air again. Then he saw it. A short distance away, a small beak of carapace jutted from the sand. Sand that was still and quiet. With a cry of exertion, Kenton shoved his weight up and to the side, rolling the pair of them to the right. The move let the Kershtian’s knife slip forward, and it sliced the side of Kenton’s cheek. Kenton continued the roll, watching the bit of carapace approach. That had better be what I think it is… he thought desperation. The roll ended with Kenton on top. With a final shove of strength he slammed the Kershtian’s shoulders down on the black speck. The sand began to rise around them, three massive triangular claws bursting out of the sand. Kenton yelled, using his sand to blast himself into the air. The Kershtian held onto his clothing with a desperate grip. The DelRak Naisha’s claws continued to swing closed, rising below Kenton, spraying sand into the air. Kenton caught one look of surprise on the assassin’s face before the claws snapped shut, crushing the Kershtian and catching the lip Kenton’s robes as he spun free. Kenton’s robes tore as flipped backward in an arc, landing on the dune behind him. The DelRak attacked its meal, the Kershtian, still barely alive, screaming inside its grip. A second later, the screaming stopped. The DelRak shuddered suddenly, shaking violently, then it too stopped moving. Its three legs opened limply, a bloodied corpse slipping free. The sandling did not move again—it had been killed by the blood of its intended meal. Kenton turned away from the mess, not daring to look at the mangled corpses behind him. Wearied, sickened, and horribly thirsty, he stumbled back toward Reegent’s camp. “How did he find you out here?” Eric asked. Kenton shook his head, tying
the saddle to his rezal. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “They must have someone watching the Diem. But, to track us across the kerla… Anyway, it looks like Ais was right about the timing—the assassin waited until twelfth hour passed, officially putting us into the next day, to attack me.” Eric nodded in agreement. “How’s your father?” Eric shrugged. “He’ll live, I guess.” “I mean, what does he think of you?” Kenton clarified. Eric looked up, then shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. He’s still angry with me—he probably always will be. He still won’t accept the idea that I’m not going to become Lord General after him. He even tried to give me a sword.” Kenton glanced down. He still hadn’t asked his friend about the conspicuous absence at his side. Eric had never gone unarmed. Never. If Eric noticed the look, he didn’t acknowledge it. “We should go,” he said, climbing into the saddle. “It’s going to be a very long day.” Kenton nodded, climbing into his own saddle. He wanted to get some sleep first, but he could afford the wait. Time was very short—they would sleep when they got back to Kezare. He strapped himself in and kicked the rezal into motion. Kenton stumbled into the Diem, tired and sore from hours of riding. It was just past fifth hour—most of the Diem members would have awakened hours ago. Sure enough, he heard sounds coming from the courtyard. “Ask yourselves, where is he now?” Kenton paused before entering the courtyard itself. It was Drile’s voice. “I’ll tell you where he is,” Drile continued. “He’s out making plans for himself, plans to keep himself safe. We need to do the same. In a little over a week, the Diem will be no more. What will we do then? Where will we go? Who will protect us?” Kenton sighed, leaning against the stone wall. Behind him Eric and Ais waited tiredly. How many more battles will I have to fight today? Kenton thought with exhaustion. “I’ve made plans for us already,” Drile’s voice continued. “I have promises, promises of wealth and protection.” Kenton took a deep breath, gathering what was left of his strength. This has to stop, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t have time to fight battles from within as well as without. There was a way. He had been avoiding it, but there was a way. A way to make Drile stop spreading chaos. Kenton stepped into the light. “Drile! You are in violation of my express orders!” he said, putting more force behind his words than he thought he had left. The former mastrell looked up with surprise. He had probably assumed that Kenton was going to stay away another day, since he hadn’t returned the day before. However, the man’s surprise was soon overwhelmed by contempt. “Lord Mastrell,” Drile said. “Welcome back.” “Enough, Drile,” Kenton returned. “The Diem has suffered enough of your paranoia.” “Oh?” Drile asked innocently. “And, how does the Diem intend to stop it?” “You and I
obviously have a problem,” Kenton informed, walking forward. The crowd parted for him. “Obviously,” Drile agreed. “Then we need to settle it,” Kenton said. “I don’t see how.” “There was a way, once,” Kenton said slowly, nodding toward the conference building standing in the center of the courtyard. Drile’s face grew surprised and he turned, his eyes falling on the building. “Many years ago, it had a different name,” Kenton informed quietly. “The Pit,” Drile answered. The crowd of sand masters suddenly grew very tense. Drile turned back to regard Kenton. “You can’t be serious,” he returned. “I’ve tried everything else,” Kenton said. “You leave me no choice.” “I would cut you apart in a matter of seconds,” Drile returned with a smile. “If you do, then I suppose I don’t deserve to be Lord Mastrell, do I?” “Kenton, what are you doing?” a concerned voice asked a his side. Elorin stood at his side, the older man’s eyes concerned. Kenton ignored him. “Drile of the Diem,” Kenton announced in a loud voice. “I challenge you to combat, one-on-one, in the Dueling Pit.” Drile shook his head. “You are a fool.” “What is your reply?” Kenton demanded. “When do we do it?” Drile asked. “Now?” “No,” Kenton replied. “I’m making the challenge—I pick the time.” “When then?” “Ten days,” Kenton said. “Right after the Council passes judgement on the Diem.” Drile frowned. “Why wait?” “Because, Drile,” Kenton informed. “I am going to save the Diem, no matter what you do to me. Today the Lord General offered his support, yesterday the Lord Artisan. In exchange for the chance to kill me, you will promise to stop spreading lies. You leave me to do my work, stop trying to turn the Diem against me. You won’t need to—if you kill me, then the Diem will be yours anyway. And it might still be a legal profession.” Drile thought for a moment, then smiled, realizing what Kenton was offering. Yes, Kenton thought angrily, I’ll do the work, then you may kill me and take it. You will be Lord Mastrell. “I accept, Lord Mastrell,” Drile said with a slight bow. “On one condition. We fight before the council makes its decision, not after.” Kenton frowned. “What is the difference?” “That way, you’ll never get instated as the real Lord Mastrell,” Drile said with a vengeful smile. “You will be forgotten.” Kenton paused. “That is the only way I’ll agree to fight you,” Drile announced. “Fine,” Kenton said. “All right,” Eric demanded, “what did you just do?” “I challenged Drile to a duel,” Kenton explained, flopping down into his chair. Dirin hurriedly brought him something to drink; there was a look of concern on the boy’s face. Ais stood a short distance away, his face unreadable, as usual. “I heard the challenge,” Eric replied, sitting down. “What does it mean?” “It means that Drile and Lord Kenton will fight to the death in the Pit,” Elorin explained, standing beside the balcony, his aging eyes sad. “It is an old tradition, one almost forgotten. Sand masters
haven’t fought one another for centuries—the Pit has become a conference room for the mastrells. But once, long ago, even sand masters were more barbaric. Back then, the Pit was a place where they were allowed to kill one another.” Eric paused, accepting a cup of juice from Dirin. Ais continued to stand by the door, looking displeased about something. “And,” Eric asked hesitantly looking directly at Kenton, “can you defeat Drile?” Kenton shook his head. “No. He will kill me.” “Great Sand Lord, man!” Eric snapped. “I’m supposed to be the insane one! What were you thinking?” Kenton shook his head. “A Diem with Drile in charge is better than no Diem, Eric. Your father is right—the Diem keeps sand masters in check. If Drile were allowed to run off to the Rim Kingdoms, there is not telling the chaos he would cause. Someone had to stop him.” “By committing suicide?” Eric asked. “Drile will make a horrible Lord Mastrell,” Kenton said, sipping his drink. “But others will follow. Maybe the work I can do in these next few days will last through Drile. If I change the Diem’s Charter so sand masters will have to earn their keep, not even Drile will be able to repeal it. Either way, it’s the only thing I could think of.” Eric sat quietly for a few moments, leaving Kenton to his thoughts. Finally, he spoke. “Kenton, you are the most noble idiot I have ever known.” Kenton smirked ruefully. “I’ve been selfish all my life, Eric. I always claimed I wanted to be a mastrell. Well, maybe it’s time I did something worthy of the title. Besides… who knows, maybe I’ll beat him.” The disbelief must have sounded in his voice, because no one seemed encouraged by the remark. Well, maybe I can beat him, Kenton thought for the hundredth time. He still hadn’t managed to convince himself. Still, he had to keep hoping. There had to be a way. He stood on his balcony, thinking to himself as he watched the workers reinforcing Dirin’s steps below. They toiled in the hot sun, lifting large stones into place at the base of the construction to stabilize it against the wind. Kenton sighed. Unfortunately, it came down to one simple fact: Drile could control twenty-five ribbons of sand. Kenton had intentionally forced himself to stay awake for much of the day before, even though he had been tired, so that his sleep schedule wouldn’t get out of sink with the rest of the Diem. During that time, he had read every book he could find on fighting another sand master. There weren’t very many, but they all agreed on one thing. The sand master who could control the most ribbons had the definite, almost unbeatable, advantage. “I’m ready, sir,” Dirin’s voice said from behind. “All right,” Kenton said, turning back into his rooms. “Let’s try this.” The boy, standing on the other side of Kenton’s rooms, raised his fist uncertainly, a look of concentration on his face. The sand clutched in his hand didn’t
flash to life, like Kenton’s did. Instead, it slowly began to glow, like old coals being stoked to build a new flame. A wavering ribbon lurched out of Dirin’s fist, glowing sickly as it moved through the air toward Kenton. “Good,” Kenton approved. “Now hold it steady.” Dirin nodded, his face already showing signs of fatigue. Kenton called his own sand to life. His glowing ribbon arced in the air for a moment, then snapped towards Dirin’s. As soon as the tip of Kenton’s ribbon touched Dirin’s sand, Dirin’s ribbon fell stale, dropping to the floor. Kenton’s remained glowing. “All right,” Kenton said, pulling his sand back to let it hover in front of him. “Now, you try me.” Dirin reached down to pick up another handful of sand and called it to life. His ribbon didn’t whip forward; instead it meandered. Eventually, it reached Kenton’s ribbon and touched it on the side. Kenton’s sand immediately fell stale. “Now, directly on,” Kenton said. The two raised ribbons and sent them toward one another. They struck head on, and both fell stale. “So the trick is to hit your opponent’s ribbon from the side,” Kenton mused. “Power doesn’t matter. If you touch another sand master’s ribbon with the tip your own, then you can make it fall stale.” Elorin, sitting in one of the plush chairs, nodded. “That is why the Diem has rules against touching another sand master’s ribbons, Lord Mastrell. The tip of a ribbon contains the concentration of its energy; if it touches another ribbon, it interferes with that sand master’s control.” “This is also why having more ribbons is such an advantage in combat,” Kenton said with a sigh. “If you have enough ribbons to neutralize your opponents’, you can deliver the killing blow.” “It appears so, My Lord,” Elorin agreed. “So, it’s obvious what I have to do,” Kenton said. Dirin and Elorin looked at him with confusion. “I just have to learn to master more ribbons.” “A task not easily accomplished, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin said with a shake of his head. “Some might call it impossible.” “But it’s not,” Kenton said. “We know that because I’ve done it once already. The problem is, we don’t know how I did it.” Kenton began to pace along the side of the room. “It doesn’t make any sense, Elorin,” he continued. “Why can I master three ribbons now. What did I do that changed my abilities?” “I don’t know, My Lord,” Elorin confessed. Kenton continued to pace, ignoring Dirin, who had pulled out a small rake and was evening the layer of sand on Kenton’s floor. What did I do? He hadn’t done anything. This one fact continued to bother him—as far as he knew, no sand master had ever gained more ribbons once he hit maturity. What was different about Kenton. He continued to pace, his steps taking him from one side of the room, out onto the balcony, and back again. “What did I do…?” he mumbled. Then he stopped. His eyes fell once again on the workers,
their muscles straining as the lifted the stones. “I only did one thing, Elorin,” Kenton realized. “I overmastered.” “What are you saying, Lord Mastrell?” Elorin said from behind. Kenton smiled with excitement, turning back into the room. “What if overmastering could make a sand master stronger?” “But it doesn’t, My Lord,” Elorin corrected. “Overmastery weakens a sand master, destroying his power and possibly killing him.” “Who told you that?” Kenton asked. “Why, the mastrells,” Elorin replied, frowning at the challenge. “Exactly,” Kenton replied. “Elorin, what if it has all been a lie? Ever since my first day in the Diem I have been warned against overmastery. It was called evil, destructive, selfish—as acolents were we instilled with a powerful compulsion not to overmaster. But, what if it was all a lie?” “A lie by whom?” “The mastrells,” Kenton informed. “You know how they loved to hoard power. If there were a way to increase the number of ribbons a sand master control, I’d swear on the Sand Lord that the mastrells would keep it secret. Haven’t you ever wondered why powerful undermastrells can never control more than nine ribbons, yet even weak mastrells can control eighteen or twenty?” “That is because they are mastrells,” Elorin explained. “Mastrells are special.” “Special because they know how to increase their power,” Kenton said with a nod. “Don’t you see, Elorin? It makes sense. The taboos against overmastery, they are all just to keep anyone else from discovering the secret! I’ve heard guards in the Tower explain to me that the only way to build large muscles is to exercise to the point that you’re sore, and when your strength returns you will be able to lift more next time. What if this is the same thing?” On the other side of the room, Dirin was frowning. “What, Dirin?” Kenton asked. “I’m sorry, but… what about Elorin, sir?” Dirin asked. “He overmastered too.” Kenton paused, looking down at the elderly sand master. “Elorin,” he asked, “how long has it been since you tried to master sand?” “I haven’t tried since I burned myself out,” Elorin said uncomfortably. “Would you try again?” Kenton requested. Elorin sat for a moment, then he nodded slowly. Kenton could see the pain in his eyes as he picked up a handful of sand, feeling it between his fingers for a moment. Then, he stretched the hand forward and closed his eyes. Kenton waited with excitement. Nothing happened. “I’m sorry, My Lord,” Elorin said, shaking his head and dropping the sand. “But I can’t feel anything. The sand won’t do what I tell it.” “Sands!” Kenton cursed, turning back to his pacing. “I thought I had something.” “Sir?” Dirin asked. “What?” Kenton asked absently. “Sir, do you recognize this?” Kenton looked over to where Dirin was standing. The boy was stooped over, pulling something from the sand on the floor. It was dark black, like a folded piece of paper. Kenton walked over, studying the paper with a critical eye. He didn’t recognize it. He unfolded it as Dirin handed it to
him. “It’s in Kershtian,” he sand with confusion. “Can you read it?” Dirin asked. “Yes,” Kenton said, “at least, most of it. ‘To the hunter,’” he translated. “‘the prey grows wearied of the chase. He will act soon. Be warned.’” “What on the sands are you people talking about?” Eric asked, pushing open the door. “I wish I knew,” Kenton said, lowering the piece of paper. “Did you sleep well?” “I slept just fine, thank you, oh condemned one,” Eric replied, walking over and taking the paper from Kenton’s hands. He read it with a confused look on his face. “It’s either the oddest death threat I’ve ever seen, or a secret recipe for Kershtian stew cleverly disguised as utter nonsense.” Kenton snorted, refolding the paper. “Where did you find it?” “Dirin found it,” Kenton said, nodding toward the boy. “It was buried in the sand on my floor.” Eric nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, kid. It’s always nice to start the day with a bit of insane babbling.” “You’re in rare form this morning, Eric,” Kenton noted, leaning back against the wall as Eric poured himself a drink. Eric shrugged. “My best friend is determined to be a martyr, my father has gone from ignoring me to hating me, and I’m hungry. What isn’t there to be pleasant about?” “I’m not determined to be a martyr,” Kenton corrected. “Trust me, I’m doing my best to find a way out of this. But, if that’s what it comes down to, that is what I will need to do.” “That’s the problem with the new you,” Eric said, raising his cup at Kenton. “You’re so concerned with what is expected of you that you’ve forgotten what it is that kept you going all those years. The thing that got you into the Diem in the first place.” Kenton smiled ruefully. “Eric, I can’t be a rebel and an authority figure at the same time.” “Why not?” Eric asked. “Because,” Kenton said with exasperation. “The two are mutually exclusive. I’ve spent the last few days finally realizing how wrong I was all my life. All the fighting, all of the rebellion—I was wrong.” “If you were wrong,” Eric said quietly, “then I should be Lord General. I refuse to accept that. You’ve realized what you did wrong, now you just have to realize what you did right. Somewhere in the middle is who you really are. So, where are we going today?” Kenton shook his head slightly, trying to make sense of Eric’s words. Who I really am? I don’t have time for personal discovery right now, Eric. I’ve got a Profession to save. “Well,” he said out loud, “there is only one Taisha left. I suppose we should at least try and visit him.” “Vey,” Eric replied with a nod. “What about the Lord Mason?” Kenton shrugged. “He hasn’t appointed another emissary yet—in fact, the last one probably just got back to Nor’Tallon. We’ll have to wait for the Lord Mason to appoint another representative before we can do anything.” Eric nodded. “To the Lord
Merchant, then. I’m glad I didn’t have anything for breakfast—Vey will probably make me sick to my stomach.” Ais poured over the documents, memorizing every detail, searching out every hidden clue, squeezing information from the stark words. He couldn’t participate in the investigation—not while he was required to follow the Lord Mastrell—but he could still lead it. His men made careful records of what they observed and what their contacts told them. Every morning, before meeting the Unholy One, he looked over the previous day’s findings. Eventually, the random information formed into a pattern before him. “You will strike here,” he declared. Tain leaned in close. He was doing a fine job of being second, now that Jedan was dead. The tall man had a deceptively-simple face. Tain was much smarter than he appeared, even if his features—a large, flat nose and bushy, unkempt eyebrows—didn’t give any hint to that fact. At least one thing was comforting—if Ais couldn’t lead the band personally, at least his replacement was competent. “The boat races, sir?” Tain asked with confusion. Ais nodded slowly, shuffling a few papers out of the many stacks. “Look,” he said, pointing to a set of figures. “The bookkeepers show a huge influx of money in private accounts over the last month.” He pulled out a second sheet of paper from a completely different stack. “Now here, what do you see?” Tain shrugged. “Winnings lists.” “See any patterns?” Tain studied the paper for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “It looks completely random. The results are in line with the separate odds for the boats.” “No,” Ais corrected. “Maybe in the individual cases, but not on a large scale.” Tain shook his head. “I can’t see it, sir,” he confessed. “The outside lanes win more than the inside ones,” Ais explained. “It doesn’t matter which boats are in those lanes, they tend to beat the odds. Nilto’s too smart to rig the races so that a single boat is favored—that’s too obvious. But, if he can work it so that certain lanes win more than others, he can steadily make money. He just has to tell his people to bet on the outside. Eventually, over time, it will pay off.” Tain nodded slowly. “All right, sir. We’ll set up observation.” “Good,” Ais said, standing and straightening his uniform. “Sir,” Tain said, turning before he left, “your presence is missed.” “In nine days, Tain,” Ais said formally, “this will all be over. Trust me—it will be worth the wait to get rid of the sand masters.” “Yes, sir,” Tain said, saluting and leaving. Ais left a few moments later—he didn’t want to miss the Lord Mastrell. Somehow he knew that despite the man’s overtures of friendship, Kenton would ditch Ais if possible. Ais walked down the hallway, his cloth-wrapped shoes falling quietly on the stone floor. There had been precious little time for his family lately—a problem, since Mellis was growing increasingly worried. Ais felt he was close to Nilto. Lokmlen had been convicted of murder a few days before, and in
exchange for his life, the man had finally agreed to release a few names. None of them were Nilto, of course, but both were very important men in his organization. If Ais could cut off enough of Nilto’s revenue, he would grow desperate. Desperate men made mistakes. Unfortunately, Ais knew that desperate men were also capable of incredible cruelty—especially men like Nilto. Ais had ordered a pair of trackts to keep constant surveillance on Mellis, while silently cursing his inability to head the investigation. He understood the Lady Judge’s need, but her timing couldn’t have been worse. All of the tension had put Ais on edge, and he was finding it more and more difficult to maintain control. On top of it all, he hadn’t been able to visit the Ker’Reen temple recently. His interaction with the Lord Mastrell had sullied him, and he would have to go purification rituals before he would be worthy to return to sacred ground. And so, Ais was left without either of the stabilizing forces in his life—he saw his wife sporadically, and he was unable to take part in Ker’Reen worship services. Nine days and it will all be over, he reminded himself. I am witnessing historic times. The end of the sand masters. He just hoped he would last that long. One would probably presume to find the Lord Merchant’s office somewhere in the marketplace. Such was not the case. Vey’s business office was situated on the northern side of the island, far from the bustle and exchanges of the marketplace. It wasn’t on the small kelzi island—Vey liked to keep his social life and his business dealings separate—but it might as well have been. The office looked more like a mansion. The northern edge of Kezare was a rocky shelf, with a steep cliff bearing the brunt of the river current. Vey’s office sat overlooking the cliff, holding arguably the most scenic point on the entire island. To one side lay the river and horizon, and in the other direction one could look down at the entire city. “What makes you think he will even agree to see you, Ry’Kensha?” Ais asked. The trackt had met them outside the Diem just after Eric and Kenton had started on their way to visit the Lord Merchant. “He has to,” Kenton replied. “It’s professional courtesy.” “From what I’ve heard,” Eric mumbled, “the Lord Merchant is a little bit lacking in courtesy—professional or otherwise.” “He is a businessman,” Kenton said firmly. “He’ll negotiate, as long as I have something he wants.” “And that is?” Eric asked. “I’m still trying to decide,” Kenton admitted, walking up the steps to the building. Four hired Tower guards stood at the doors to the office, and Kenton counted eight more as they made their way to the audience hall. Vey’s waiting room was different than others. For one thing, it wasn’t filled with common people, like the Lady Judge’s or Lord Artisan’s. Instead, the small chamber was packed with men in wealthy robes. They would be seen according to whom
was willing to pay the most for an audience. The room was cramped, but the wide doors at the back were open, allowing all to listen to Vey’s current audience. The Lord Merchant liked people to be able to hear him speak. Eric noted the four additional guards standing in this room. “Paranoid, isn’t he?” “Having a lot of money tends to make someone that way,” Kenton whispered back. The Lord Merchant was, by definition, the richest man in Lossand. Unlike the Lord Mastrellship, which was elected, or even the Lord Generalship, which was inherited, the Lord Merchantship was given in a completely different way. Whomever held the most wealth was offered the title. Technically, if a man gained more riches than the current Lord Merchant, he could steal the Taisha. Of course, that was practically impossible—when a man was made Lord Merchant he inherited all of his predecessor’s wealth, making it difficult indeed for anyone else to match him. Kenton stepped up to the admissions attendant, a young man in flowery red robes. “I need to see the Lord Merchant,” he informed. The boy looked him over. “I’m the Lord Mastrell,” Kenton added, noting the uncertainty in the boy’s eyes. “Just a moment,” the boy said, standing. “Please, take a seat.” Kenton regarded the benches with distaste. However, when he turned back around, the boy had already left. The boy returned a moment later an gestured toward the seats again. “It will only be a few minutes,” the boy assured. Kenton sighed, walking over to one of the benches and taking a seat. “Professional courtesy?” Eric grumbled, taking the seat next to Kenton. “You realize he probably intents to make us wait a few hours before seeing us.” Kenton nodded. “Probably,” he agreed. “Though there is no use complaining about it.” “There isn’t?” Eric asked. “I’ve always found it relaxing to complain.” “Personally, I’ve always found something else more effective.” Eric looked up with interest as Kenton reached toward one of his sand pouches. “You wouldn’t,” Eric said. It sounded almost like a challenge. Kenton called the sand to life. Every other person in the room jumped visibly, several of them pulling back with pale faces. Slowly, Kenton ordered the sand out of his hand, forming a tiny ribbon barely a few grains wide. The ribbon rose toward the center of the room, wiggling slightly in the air, leaving a glowing trail behind it. Kenton leaned his head back, imagining a pattern in his mind. The ribbon continued to move, wrapping around itself, moving like a needle and thread worked by an invisible hand. It twisted, looped, and curled, creating a complex pattern in the air. The result was an expanding, radiant mosaic. It contained no specific picture—it was more a transfixing matrix of shifting lines and colors. The more his sand wove, leaving its trail behind it, the more intricate the pattern became. Kenton had begun creating similar patterns years ago, when he had realized that the Diem’s teachings could no longer help him—his control and precision had outstripped the
abilities of his teachers, yet his ribbon-limitations had kept him from moving on to higher lessons. So, he had taught himself, finding ways to increase the delicacy of his touch. The sand spun and wove. Kenton continued to add sand, depleting three of his four sand pouches in the process. Slowly, the room’s occupants lost some of their fear as they stared up at the shifting mass of sand, following its lines with their eyes. There was a look of awe in their eyes. Almost a look of reverence. “What are you doing!” a shrill voice demanded. Kenton looked over, not releasing his sand. Vey stood in the doorway. His diminutive form was angry as he stared at the sand. “How dare you practice your unholy art in my offices!” “There is no Law against sand mastery, Lord Merchant,” Kenton said, letting the delicate pattern meld back into a glob of sand, which he let drop into a carapace bucket sitting beside the door. “That will soon change, Ry’Kensha,” Vey spat. “Are you going to see me now, Lord Merchant?” Kenton asked. “I suppose I could wait longer—of course, I would have to find some way to entertain myself.” “No,” Vey cursed. “Come in. The sooner we talk, the sooner I can get rid of you.” “That’s very kind of you, Lord Merchant,” Kenton said with a smile, leading the way into Vey’s audience chamber. Vey followed with a snort of disdain. There was a short hallway which turned to the right. At the end was a moderate sized room with a large dais at the front. The dais had a desk on it. Kenton suspected that both dais and desk were efforts on Vey’s part to mask his diminutive height. Vey took his seat with an angry stare. “All right, Ry’Kensha,” Vey demanded. “What do you want?” “Nothing but the graces of your Lordship’s support,” Kenton said. Vey laughed. It was an annoying laugh—one full of both mirth and antagonism. “My Lord,” Kenton said seriously. “I believe I can offer you something worth your support. I am prepared to let you have sand masters to do with as you—” “I already know of your deal with the Lord Artisan,” Vey snapped. “The same cajoling won’t work on me, Ry’Kensha. I can’t make money off of your sand masters—it would be unethical.” “Ethics has never mattered to the Guild before,” Kenton noted. “It does when sand masters are involved,” Vey informed. “Even if I were inclined to support you, do you know what my people would do to me if they heard I had voted for the Diem?” “Surely it wouldn’t be that bad,” Kenton said. “After all, you always paid your tribute, didn’t you?” Vey paused for a brief moment. Then he snorted. “That is completely different—we were legally bound to do so. If I supported you willingly, I would be forever marked. Ask him.” Vey nodded toward Ais, who stood quietly at the back of the room. “Tell me, trackt. Have you ever regretted your betrayal of your people?” Ais
didn’t respond. “Now you travel with a sand master,” Vey continued. “As if your soul weren’t already forfeit, you have to make absolutely certain to earn the Sand Lord’s wrath.” Kenton shot a look back at Ais. Fortunately, the cool-mannered trackt was acting with customary emotionlessness—Kenton blinked in surprise. No, Ais wasn’t displaying customary control—his face was growing red, his eyes wide with anger. The rage Kenton saw rising in the normally cold-hearted trackt’s eyes was a chilling sight. The Lord Merchant continued his baiting. “You are disgrace,” Vey spat. “Your soul will wander the sands, exiled from the Sand Lord. You are no better than they. In fact, you are worse. You are one of us, but a traitor.” “Kenton,” Eric warned quietly. “I think you might want to do something. This could become very ugly very quickly.” Kenton stood indecisively for a moment. However, the rage—and shame—in Ais’s face grew to be too much for him. He took a deep breath, and called his sand to life. Kenton pointed sharply at Vey. The sand flew true, drilling through the Lord Merchant’s table with a crack, shattering its wooden finish, and continuing on to pause just before the Kershtian’s chest. The Lord Merchant fell silent, a line of sand hovering just in front of his chest. “That is enough, Vey,” Kenton warned. “You threaten me in my own chambers?” Vey asked angrily. “You insult the man I bring as a guest?” Kenton returned. “An honored and widely-respected member of the Hall?” “I hate you,” Vey hissed. “Good,” Kenton informed. “You’re true to your religion. Now, be true to your Profession. What will it cost me to buy your vote?” “I would sell my very soul first,” Vey informed, standing on his chair. “Get out!” His voice wavered uncertainly as he made the command. Kenton released his sand, and Vey jumped as it dropped to the ground. “Come on,” Kenton snapped, stalking from the building. “Well, that went about as we had expected,” Eric said lightly as they emerged into the sun. “Unfortunately,” Kenton said, shaking his head. “But, I had to be sure.” “I’ll bet he’s probably still shaking with fear,” Eric said with a vengeful smile. “You’ve grown evil since I last knew you, Eric,” Kenton said with a smirk. Eric shrugged. “I doubt there is a Lossandin on dayside who wouldn’t find the concept of Vey quivering with fear an interesting prospect. Half of them probably owe him money.” Suddenly, a hand fell on Kenton’s shoulder. He spun, only to find Ais standing behind him. The trackt’s face was dark. “Never do that again,” Ais said in a soft, but harsh voice. “Do what?” Kenton asked. “Defend me,” Ais explained. Kenton snorted. “If it’s any consolation, senior, you were only an excuse. I doubt that conversation could have ended any other way.” “Regardless,” Ais said, raising an olive-skinned finger. “No matter what you think, no matter what it looks like, I don’t want your help. Do you understand, Ry’Kensha?” Kenton just shook his head. “I can’t win with you,
can I?” “I thought that was obvious,” Ais said coldly. “Well, what now?” Eric asked, ignoring the trackt. “That’s the last of the Taishin, unless you want to visit the Lord Farmer.” Kenton reached up, rubbing his forehead. “No. He’ll vote with Vey, no matter what I say to him.” “Back to the Diem, then?” Eric asked. Kenton nodded. “For now. I have to think.” They started back toward the docks, Kenton lost in thought. Seven Taisha, and only one firm commitment. It wasn’t going well. Of course, he hadn’t really expected it to. He spent the entire trip trying to decide what to do next. He obviously had to find a way to overcome the Diem’s financial situation—if he could pay the Lord Artisan, then he would probably earn both Rite’s vote and the Lady Judge’s. Those two, plus Delious, would give him four. Perhaps he could even get the Lord Mason’s representative—though, since each emissary was different, it was difficult to judge how they would vote. Still, Vey was going to present the biggest problem. One Kenton had no idea how to overcome. Back in the Diem, they found a messenger waiting to deliver a note to Kenton. The boy stood in the courtyard, waiting nervously. He proffered his message, then moved to dash away. “Wait,” Kenton ordered, unfolding the paper with a frown. If the letter turned out to be like the one Dirin had found, he wanted some way to track down who had written it. The boy waited unhappily as Kenton read the note. “Well?” Eric asked impatiently. “More babblings?” “After a form,” Kenton said uncertainly. “It’s an invitation.” “From whom?” Eric asked with interest. “The Lord Admiral. He’s throwing a ball… one apparently in honor of me.” “Delious?” Eric asked, perking up. “A party? I’d better be invited.” “It doesn’t mention you,” Kenton said, continuing to read. “Though say I should bring my ‘darkside beauty.’ What kind of nonsense is that?” Eric shrugged. “She is kind of pretty. You’re sure it doesn’t mention me?” “Yes, she is pretty. But we’re not…” Kenton sighed. “Oh, sands.” He turned back to the messenger. “Boy, did you bring me another message earlier today?” The messenger frowned. “No, sir.” Kenton removed the message from one of his pouches. “Are you certain? You don’t recognize this?” “No, sir,” the boy promised. “Wait!” Ais said sharply. “Hand that to me.” Kenton raised an eyebrow, but handed the letter to Ais. The trackt read it with intense eyes, then crumpled it in his fist. “What is it?” Kenton asked. “Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Ais replied. “Nothing of my concern?” Kenton asked. “It was found on the floor of my room.” “It is a message for me,” Ais said. “He must have known that it would get to me somehow.” “He?” Kenton pressed. “Who?” Ais didn’t reply. Finally, Kenton gave up, tipping the boy with a half-lak coin and sending him on his way. “I can’t believe he didn’t invite me,” Eric said with a hurt tone. “Delious will probably have quite
the buffet.” Khriss stubbornly ignored the knock at her door. She lay curled in her bed, covers thrown over her, even though she didn’t really need them in dayside’s heat. Gevin’s pistol lay on the bed-stand, its silver handle shining dully in the room’s quiet light. The carving was exquisite—Khriss herself had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday. He had treasured it from that day forward, always wearing it at his side. The knock came again. Khriss said nothing. She wasn’t tired—she had slept for most of the day before, not even rising to eat. Still, she couldn’t force herself out of bed. Instead, she sat playing with Gevin’s signet ring. An etched ruby set in a large gold band. It was too large for any of her fingers but the thumb. Whoever it was at the door—probably Cynder—must have given up, for the knocks ceased. At first they had tried to console her, encouraging her to eat. They had soon realized, however, that she didn’t want to be comforted. Oh, Gevin… What will I do now? She could still get married, of course. She was young, and her title was prestigious. But, it would be a purely political marriage—there were only so many men in Elis that the sole heir to a Duchy could marry. Coraden, maybe. He was forty years old, but his wife had passed away some time ago. It would be a good union. Of course, if she got married, she would have to leave her studies and spend most of her time fulfilling her duties as wife and duchess. Right now her father saw to the running of their land—he was an excellent manager, even if he wasn’t legally capable of inheriting the family title. Khriss’s ignoring of such matters was suffered because of her youth, and because of Gevin’s influence with the court. However, if she did marry, then her husband would certainly expect her to be more compliant. Or maybe she wouldn’t get married. She could go back to her studies, continue the bookish life that had made her such an aberration in the court. It would be a scandal, of course. But, not a large one—no one expected much of her anyway. She might be able to get away with it, especially if she named one of her younger cousins as her ward and heir. She would be able to live her life as she wished. Of course, that would also mean living her life alone, without anyone to share her time… Gevin, how dare you die! She thought bitterly. This was the exact decision she had tried to avoid by coming to look for him. Did she marry a man she didn’t know, abandoning her love for learning? Or did she become an old maid, lonely but independent? It would be difficult to find another man like Prince Gevalden. A man so courteous, so willing to give her freedom to do as she wished. He had always been so respectful of her, unlike that scoundrel Kenton. Gevin had been refined, Kenton
was belligerent. Gevin had been funny, Kenton was downright merciless in his teasing. The sand master was probably the least-likable man she had ever met. That tussled brown hair, capricious smile, teasing eyes with an edge of solemness to them… Why am I even thinking about him? Khriss thought angrily. I’m mourning Gevin right now. She heard footsteps sounding from outside, and sighed. Not again… This time, however, there was no knock. The door simply opened, and Baon strode into the room. Khriss huffed indignantly. “Baon!” she snapped. “How dare you? What if I were…” The rest of her objection was muffled as Baon selected a robe from he closet and tossed it at her, covering her head. “Put it on,” Baon said. “You have guests.” “Tell them I’m sick,” Khriss retorted, pulling the robe off her head. “I’ll tell them you’re moping, if you like,” Baon said, pausing in the doorway. “How dare…” she sputtered. “Baon, I just lost my betrothed husband! Don’t I deserve a period of mourning?” “You lost your betrothed two years ago, duchess,” Baon returned. “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this. You’re mourning the failure of your expedition as much as you are Prince Gevalden’s death.” “I…” Khriss said, trailing off. “Oh, Baon. What do we do now? Just slink back to darkside in failure?” “That is one option,” Baon said with a nod. “But, duchess, let me give you one last lesson on leadership. This is your expedition, you determine its outcome. Failure and success—those are words for historians. Your job is to do the best you can with the resources allotted you. Some of the greatest military victories in history were achieved by men who started their campaigns with completely different goals in mind. Some of the greatest disasters in history were achieved by men who pursued their goals with such single-minded focus that they ignored other opportunities that came along. Flexibility is a leader’s most useful weapon.” Khriss smiled slightly. Those who assumed Baon was a man of few words were wrong—one just had to get him on the right topics. Baon took her smile as a sign of agreement, and left, pulling the door closed behind him. Briefly, a random, almost silly thought popped into her mind. What about Baon? Her mother had married a military man, and after his loyalty on this expedition, Baon would certainly be knighted—foreigner or not. The court would frown on the match, but such things were growing more and more frequent during recent years. But, as soon as the thought occurred, Khriss discarded it. Their relationship just wasn’t like that. He was fond of her—she could sense that much—but it was a familiar fondness, not a romantic one. It was a feeling she returned. Baon was growing to be like the older brother she’d never had, always offering advice, guiding her with his experience and wisdom, doing things he shouldn’t even consider—like walking into a lady’s bedchamber without knocking. With a sigh, she climbed out of bed and tried to do something with her tear-stained, puffy-eyed
face. There was still a feeling of sadness in the back of her heart—regardless of what Baon claimed, Khriss really had been shocked by the news of Gevin’s death. No matter how much she prepared herself, no matter how much she’d assumed she would never see him again, a piece of her had held onto hope. Now even that hope was gone, and it left a space in her soul. But, she could function with the hole there. It was like the hole her mother had left when she died—Khriss doubted that either hole would ever get better. But, she could go on. She really didn’t have much choice. Eventually she managed to get enough makeup on her face, enough of the tangles out of her hair, and enough perfume on to make her less-horrifying. She put on the robe Baon had chosen—a blue one that was bright by dayside standards—along with a pair of her heeled darkside shoes. Gathering herself as she prepared to open the door, Khriss assumed a duchessly posture and walked out into the hallway. Who would be visiting her? Loaten, maybe? Another darkside official who had heard of her loss? She arrived at the spiral staircase with a mind full of questions. They evaporated as soon as she saw who was standing below, chatting with Baon. “You!” she accused. Kenton looked up with a smile. “Hello, Khrissalla. How have you been?” At his side stood the black-uniformed Kershtian she had seen a few days before, but the other man—Eric—wasn’t there. “I spent all that time getting ready, just to see you?” Khriss said, stalking down the staircase. “Yes, and you certainly took your time,” Kenton replied. “What is it about you darksider women? My mother would always spend hours getting ready in the morning.” Khriss ignored the gibe. “How did you find me?” Kenton shrugged. “You’ve been maintaining a fairly high profile here in Lonzare. The people down here were so amazed to find a mastrell walking amongst them that they answered my questions without even thinking.” Khriss reached the bottom of the stairs and marched over to him. Kenton frowned as she arrived, looking her over with a confused eye. “You seem… taller,” he mumbled, bending down to look at her feet. Khriss hopped back with a blush. “What do you think you are—” “What odd shoes,” Kenton said, standing back up. “They’re called heels,” Khriss said, continuing to blush. “Most women wear them on darkside.” “Why?” Kenton asked. “I don’t know,” Khriss said. “To look taller. Why does it matter anyway? Did you ask the Lord General about Gevin for me?” Now it was Kenton’s turn to blush. “Um, sorry…” he mumbled. “Never mind,” Khriss returned. Doesn’t matter now anyway. “Why are you here?” “I have to have a reason to come visit my savior? I’m eternally indebted to you for saving my life, remember?” Khriss shot him a withering look. “All right,” Kenton said with a chuckle, pulling out a sheet of paper. “The Lord Admiral is throwing a ball. He asked me to
attend, and requested I bring you.” “Kenton, are you asking me to a dance?” Khriss accused. “I’m an engaged woman!” Kenton blushed even further. “I know,” he defended. “It wasn’t my idea—apparently your little performance at the Lord Artisan’s has started a few rumors.” “So it’s my fault now?” “Isn’t everything?” Kenton shot back. “One of these days you will learn some manners.” “I thought you wanted to meet the Taishin. Forgive me for trying to do you a favor.” “You could do me a favor by getting your arrogant face out of my house,” Khriss retorted. “So are you coming or not?” “Of course I am. When is it?” “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” Khriss said indignantly. “What kind of forewarning is that?” “Well, I only got the invitation yesterday, and since you neglected to leave me your address, I had to spend most of today trying to find you. I guess you’ll only have twelve hours to paint your face, rather than the usual twenty-four.” Khriss snorted. “Well, you’re here. I might as well feed you. Are you hungry?” Kenton shrugged. “I could eat.” “What about him,” Khriss said, nodding toward the Kershtian. Kenton turned. “Ais? I’m not even sure if he eats. Perhaps if you have a few roasted sand masters, he’d be willing to try them.” Khriss frowned. “He’s Kershtian,” Kenton explained. “He thinks sand mastery is blasphemy against his God.” “So why…?” “He’s a spy from the Lady Judge,” Kenton said amiably. “Spy?” Khriss asked. “In essence.” Khriss shrugged. “Baon, what time is it?” “Two o’clock, darkside time,” he said, checking the pocketwatch. “Is lunch prepared?” “It has been for some time,” the warrior informed. “I believe Idan tried to inform you of that fact a little while ago.” Khriss blushed. “Of course. Where are Acron and Cynder?” “Out looking for information, I believe,” Baon explained. “Still?” Khriss asked with a frown. “Cynder claims he doesn’t trust the words of the beggar,” Baon explained. “He wanted more proof.” Khriss smiled, her mood lightened by their loyalty. It was hopeless—the gun and ring proved that, for neither were items Gevin would ever have let out of his possession. But, the professors’ determination was sweet. “Idan,” Khriss called to the butler, who stood a short unobtrusively a short distance away, “tell the cook we’ll have lunch now.” “Yes, My Lady,” he said with a bow, turning toward the kitchen. “Come on,” Khriss said, leading Kenton away from the doors and down the short steps toward the sitting room. They would have to wait a few moments while the cook set the table. Kenton followed, frowning when he saw the fireplace. “What is that for?” “Atmosphere,” Khriss said, nodding for him to take a seat. “On darkside most rooms have a fireplace or a stove—we need the warmth.” “Warmth?” Kenton said with a frown. “Why would you want that?” Khriss opened her mouth to give a retort to the obviously sarcastic comment, then paused. Kenton’s face was completely honest. “You’ve never been cold before, have you?” she asked with wonder. “Well, darksider town
is a little bit cold,” Kenton mused. “I guess I can see why you’d want a fire down here.” Khriss laughed quietly. “Darksider town is about as cold as a room with four blazing fireplaces back in Elis,” she said. Kenton shrugged. “Then I have no idea what you are talking about.” “Well, I suppose it makes sense,” Khriss mumbled to herself. “If it’s never cold here, and it never rains… but, surely you use fire in cooking?” Kenton frowned, shaking his head. “The sun cooks our food. Why would you use fire? That would burn the food.” “Oh, my,” Khriss mumbled, finally understanding how fundamentally different their societies were. She had seen the outward signs—the cultural differences, such as the role of women or the materials used in construction—but she hadn’t grasped how deep the contrast went. Fire was such a basic building-block of society. Kenton was admiring the room—he seemed especially interested in the grundlefish in their globes on the wall. “This is quite the place,” he noted, shifting in his chair. “Even mastrells don’t live so well.” “Thank you,” Khriss said with a nod. “Is there something wrong with your chair?” “It’s just so…” “Soft?” Khriss asked with a smile. Maybe now he’d understand why she found dayside’s sand-stuffed chairs so inferior. “Uncomfortable,” Kenton corrected. “It doesn’t bear my weight—I feel like I’m going to sink all the way down to the floor.” Khriss snorted. “That feeling is called comfort, daysider,” she informed. “If this is the darkside version of comfort, no wonder you people are always grumpy.” “I’m not grumpy!” Khriss snapped. Kenton smiled, then nodded toward the door. Idan stood waiting to catch her attention. “Lunch is prepared, My Lady,” he informed. “Good,” Khriss said, rising. Kenton followed, trailed, as always, by his Kershtian shadow. Khriss tried to smile at the strange policeman, an apology for speaking the entire conversation in Dynastic. The man’s face remained emotionless and cold, however, and his eyes regard Khriss with a piercing gaze. Khriss turned uncomfortably, feeling a sudden shiver strike her body. The meal was a simple one—bread with a dipping sauce and some steamed vegetables. However, Khriss enjoyed every minute of it. For once Kenton was the one uncertain what to do, trying to mimic her motions as he ate. He held the utensils uncomfortably, ate the vegetables with a strange look on his face, and seemed fascinated by the bread. “Well?” Khriss asked, about half-way through her meal. “It’s… different,” Kenton confessed. “My mother fixed darkside food for me a couple of times for me, but I had forgotten how odd it was. The vegetables—what are they?” Khriss shrugged. “Potatoes, a few carrots, some leeks.” “These are potatoes?” Kenton asked with amazement, poking at a chunk. Khriss nodded. “But they’re so… mushy.” “Well, yes,” Khriss agreed. “That’s what potatoes are like. You don’t mean to tell me you eat them raw?” “We slice them and dry them in the sun,” Kenton explained. “Do you dry everything in the sun?” Khriss asked with a frown. “Pretty much,” Kenton admitted.
“This bread… why is it so fluffy?” “Yeast,” Khriss explained. “Who?” Khriss shook her head. “Never mind. What about the flavor?” Kenton shrugged. “It’s a bit bland,” he confessed. “Bland?” Khriss asked incredulously. “I’m afraid so. If only you had some—Oh, wait! Why didn’t I see that before?” He raised his hand and there was a sudden flash. Khriss jumped in surprise as a line of glowing sand shot through the air in front of her. That is definitely going to take some getting used to, she thought. Kenton used the sand to pluck a small container off the serving table—Khriss had always thought it ornamental. However, as Kenton whipped the container back into his hand and popped of the top, Khriss realized what it must be. The pungent scent of Kershtian ashawen spice floated through the room as Kenton dumped the black powder all over his plate. He took a bite. “Ah,” he said with a nod. “Much better. Even if it is a bit soggy.” Khriss watched with a gaping mouth. Once he was finished with the sand, Kenton gathered it in his hand and it stopped shining. It turned black, Khriss thought with confusion. Why did that happen? Kenton absently tucked the handful of sand in his belt as he continued to eat, apparently enjoying the meal much more now. Khriss sighed, turning back to her own meal, frustrated. How did he manage to put me on the defensive? She though angrily. He’s the one who’s supposed to be uncomfortable! Well, let’s see what he thinks of authentic Elisian wine. However, before she could make the order, a commotion came from the direction of the front door. A few moments later Cynder entered the room, bowing before Khriss. “My Lady,” he said. “I am happy to see you mobile again.” Acron entered right behind the linguist, towing a darkside man with skin light enough that he could have been Elisian. “Who is that?” Khriss asked. “A witness, My Lady,” Cynder informed. “The Divine themselves must have been watching over us, for we finally accomplished our task. This is Dorvorden, one of the guards assigned to the Prince’s expedition.” “Well done, Cynder,” Khriss approved. “Actually, My Lady,” Cynder said somewhat sheepishly. “Acron was the one who found him.” “Acron?” Khriss asked with amazement. The overweight man nodded eagerly. “I had almost given up,” Cynder continued. “But then I walked buy a pub and saw Acron sitting and chatting with this fellow.” “That is nothing short of amazing,” Khriss mumbled to herself. “My lady?” Cynder asked. “Never mind. Kenton, if you would excuse us?” “Oh, go right ahead,” Kenton said with a smile, following Khriss as she rose and walked toward the sitting room. He obviously intended to listen in on the conversation. Shella! Khriss thought with exasperation. He has no concept of tact, does he? However, she didn’t want to bother with Kenton for the moment, so she ignored him, focusing on Acron’s ‘find.’ Dorvorden was dressed in an odd combination of dayside and darkside dress. He had a man’s
open-fronted dayside robe, but underneath he wore the pants from a darkside soldier’s uniform and a dayside shirt. Dorvorden was a quiet-looking man with straight hair, a thin body, and a slight nervous twitch. As Acron led Dorvorden into the room, Baon reached a quick, almost unnoticeable hand toward the man’s belt, pulling free a standard-issue solder’s pistol. He tapped the weapon for a moment, eyeing its mechanisms, then snorted, handing it back to its owner. “No charge,” Baon explained. “It couldn’t fire anyway—the hammer’s bent and the frizzen is completely missing.” Dorvorden regarded his weapon sheepishly. “Please sit down,” Khriss said, gesturing toward one of the seats. The man complied, looking around him very uncomfortably. From the nervous glint in his eyes, she was surprised Acron had managed to convince him to come along at all. “I warn you, My Lady,” Cynder whispered in her ear as she moved to seat herself. “His information isn’t… encouraging.” “I’m all right, Cynder,” she assured. Kenton walked into the room and took a seat without being offered one; his presence didn’t help Dorvorden’s mood. The man regarded Kenton with a look not unlike the one a rabbit would give a wolf. Khriss seated herself lightly. “Idan, bring this man some tea,” she requested. The butler bowed, moving to obey. “Now, Dorvorden, wasn’t it?” “Yes, My Lady,” the man said in a nervous voice. He spoke with a distinctly Elisian accent. “You were one of Prince Gevalden’s guards?” “Yes, My Lady. Dorvorden, fourth son of Earl Teadonin. I was a lieutenant in the Elisian guard.” Khriss nodded. The Elisian army was very small, mostly ornamental. All natives who served in it were made officers—only mercenaries weren’t given ranks. “Tell me exactly what happened once you left Elis, Dorvorden.” The man looked around the room uncomfortably. “Don’t worry about the repercussions, Dorvorden,” Khriss promised. “Tell me the truth, and you will be released. I promise. We’re only here for information, not to punish anyone.” “Um, yes, My Lady,” shooting looks at Baon, Kenton, and Acron. “We left Elis and met our boat without trouble. It was a harrowing ride—we thought we would die, passing through the Border Ocean. We lost one man overboard in the storms, but the Prince ordered the sailors to keep going. Eventually we made it to dayside, and everyone’s mood lightened. “Well, after that the Prince spent a few days in town making arrangements. He wasn’t happy to find out how far away Lossand was, and so he hired a boat to take us along to coast until we got closer. We stopped at one of the Rim Kingdoms—of course, I didn’t know it was a Rim Kingdom then, My Lady. The Prince hired packmen and guides, and we traveled west, passing into Lossand the next day. After that we continued south until we met up with the Nor’Tallon river. We followed that to Kezare.” “And the Prince reached Kezare safely?” Khriss asked with surprise. “Um, no, My Lady,” Dorvorden admitted, looking down at the floor. He ignored the cup Idan brought
him. “You… you won’t tell my family how we failed, will you My Lady? I’d rather they think me dead than know I failed to protect his Highness.” “I understand, Dorvorden,” Khriss promised. “I will make no mention of your name when I return to darkside.” “Thank you, My Lady,” Dorvorden said with a nod. “It happened just outside of town. I… I don’t know why they waited so long. Maybe they wanted to see if they could subvert more of us, I don’t know. Anyway, Lord Trevor was the one behind the betrayal.” “Lord Trevor?” Khriss asked with surprise. “You mean Baron Trevor?” Dorvorden nodded sickly. Shella! Khriss thought. No wonder he wants me to keep his name quiet. Accusing such a high-ranking nobleman of being a traitor with no evidence… “I promise you, My Lady,” Dorvorden continued. “It was the Baron. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was him.” “I believe you,” Khriss said reassuringly. In her mind, however, she questioned. Trevor had been one of Elis’s preeminent generals, not to mention one of Gevin’s trusted friends. He had been the only other nobleman of any rank on the expedition. “Anyway, they attacked us when we were sleeping,” Dorvorden explained. “Trevor had about a third of the guards on his side—I don’t know how he convinced them. No one ever approached me. Maybe they knew I wouldn’t be turned. Anyway, I think they intended to kill us in our sleep. But, one of them must have made a mistake, because I was awakened by a call to arms.” Dorvorden shuddered slightly, finally reaching for the tea, gulping it down in one drink. He coughed quietly for a moment, before continuing in a rough voice. “It was horrible, My Lady,” he whispered. “I didn’t know who to fight and who not to. Men were shooting randomly, attacking anyone who got too near. It was chaos. The scholars were cut down quickly—they were just in the wrong place, and got caught in the gunfire. The prince was yelling for us to get up, to fire at the men surrounding Baron Trevor… and then…” Dorvorden sighed. “The bullet took the prince square in the head, my lady. He dropped immediately. Trevor yelled in triumph and, well…” “You’re the one who killed the baron,” Khriss guessed. Dorvorden nodded, his face pale. Killing a nobleman of such high rank, even in self defense, was a taboo on darkside. “In the end,” the man continued, “only four of us survived. All loyal to the prince, I think. Anyway, with Trevor dead, I don’t think it mattered. Four men, out of almost fifty.” “The Prince,” Khriss prodded. “What did you do with his body?” “By the Divine,” Dorvorden whispered. “When we found him, he wasn’t dead yet. A bullet in the head, and still alive. It was sickening—his head was a mess. We didn’t know what else to do but carry him to Kezare—we were only a few hours away. He moaned the entire way, but his jaw was shattered, so he couldn’t speak. Somehow, we
found our way to darksider town—we’d heard about it ahead of time, you see. We thought that if there were skilled physicians, they would be with the darksiders. “But, well, we were too late. The prince fell unconscious before we even got to darksider town. Loaten—you’ve met him, My Lady?” “Yes,” Khriss said quietly. “Loaten took the prince in and sent for the best physicians, but they couldn’t do anything. The Prince wasted away in a coma, dying slowly. Loaten said that the prince woke up one time just before he died. Then, well, he passed on. In all, I suppose it took him four days to die. After that, we had a quiet funeral for him. “Loaten told us we had to keep everything quiet—he said they found orders from Scythe himself on Trevor’s body. If the Dynasty knew there were witnesses to the killings, then they would come to find us. So, we didn’t tell anyone who we were or why we were here. We couldn’t go back to darkside, because then the Dynasty would know what had happened. Loaten said it had to be left a mystery, otherwise Scythe would hunt us down. I swear, My Lady, if he hadn’t been so commanding, I would have gone back. But I was so confused…” “It’s all right,” Khriss said reassuringly. Strangely, the news brought no further grief to her heart. She already knew the prince was dead—news of exactly how it happened only served to quiet her questions. “Thank you, Dorvorden,” she said. The man nodded, rising and giving Khriss a formal bow. “I’m just glad someone finally knows,” he explained. “One of the other boys, he died of a disease last year, and old Vent went south—I don’t know what happened to him. The last boy, well, he wasn’t right in the head after the attack, if you know what I mean.” Khriss nodded. “I’ll tell your parents you died bravely, Dorvorden,” she promised. The man nodded, following Idan as the butler led him from the room. “Cynder,” she said, “please have Idan give that man something to keep him going for the next few months. A couple hundred lak should do it.” “Of course, My Lady,” Cynder said. Khriss sighed, leaning back in her chair. When she opened her eyes, Kenton was regarding her with a somber expression. “I’m sorry, Khrissalla,” he said sincerely. She shook her head. “It’s all right,” she mumbled. “Nilto prepared me for this a few days ago—I already knew Gevalden was dead.” Kenton smiled slightly. “And you still got mad at me for asking a ‘betrothed woman’ to a ball?” “You didn’t know he was dead,” Khriss said, mimicking his half-smile. “Besides, I couldn’t let you get away with waking me up for no reason.” Kenton wasn’t certain how to take the comment. She smiled, and her words were jovial, but he could see the grief in her eyes. She sat in the odd plush chair, sinking into its depths as if some massive weight were pushing her down. Should I try to
comfort her? He wondered. For some reason he wanted to do so—to reach out and take her in his arms, let her cry as she obviously needed to. You fool, what are you thinking? She finds out that her betrothed is dead, and your first reaction is to try and edge your way in? Besides, she hates you, remember? “Will you be… all right?” he asked instead. Khriss shrugged. “I suppose,” she said. “I knew this would be the result. I don’t know why I bothered to hope. I probably shouldn’t have even come.” “Don’t say that,” Kenton whispered. “Don’t call hope useless. For eight years I tried to become a mastrell. The rest of the sand masters called me a fool for even trying. But, for eight years I hoped. And, well, you can see the result. I have the golden sash, though I might not keep it for long…” “How is that going, by the way?” Khriss asked. It was an obvious attempt to turn the conversation away from the pain of her loss. Kenton shrugged. “Not that well, honestly. I only have eight days left, and only one of the Taisha has promised to vote for me. The rest range from undecided to outright hostile. If only there were a way…” Kenton trailed off. He had spent the better part of the day before looking for kelzi willing to back the Diem with a lone in exchange for a percentage of the profits the sand masters would earn working for the separate Professions. Most of the wealthy, however, were too afraid to even see him. Perhaps when they heard that Reegent was going to vote for him they would change their minds, but Kenton doubted it. The kelzi respected Reegent, but most of them were also professed Ker’reen believers—the Kershtian religion was fashionable right now. Besides, even those who weren’t Ker’reen hated sand masters. The mastrells had ignored their privileged society for decades, holding themselves as too important to deal even with the kelzi. The rich did not like being told they were insignificant. “If only there were a way to do what?” Khriss asked. Kenton looked up from his contemplations. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “No, what is it?” Khriss pressed. Kenton sighed. “You heard the Lord Artisan, Khriss, you were there. Your compromise will be meaningless unless I can find a way to pay him what the Diem owes.” “Well, don’t the sand masters have any money?” “No,” Kenton said with a shake of his head. “That’s the problem.” “No cash at all?” Khriss pressed. “No…” Kenton trailed off. There was the tribute—Heelis had told him that for some reason the Guild still offered the quarterly gift to the Diem. But, the mastrells could demand any good or service free of payment. The tribute only amounted to a couple hundred lak a month—so negligible that Kenton hadn’t even thought of it before. But, if the sand masters never needed to pay for anything, where had the money gone? It was probably just sitting around somewhere, perhaps distributed amongst the
mastrells. Just sitting, piling up, growing over time… “Sands!” Kenton said leaping to his feet. Khriss rose, following Kenton out of the room. “What are you doing?” he asked, pulling open the front door. “Following you,” she informed. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” he complained, stepping out onto the darkened street, followed by the trackt, Ais. “No, actually,” Khriss realized, following them down the steps. “Whatever you just realized, I’m the one who helped you think of it. I deserve to go with you.” He rolled his eyes at the word ‘deserve,’ but he waved for her to join him. Baon appeared at the doorway, cursing slightly to himself as he threw on his open-fronted dayside robe to obscure his weapons. He rushed down to join them. “Well?” Khriss said, walking beside Kenton as he walked toward the darksider town marketplace. “Well what?” Kenton said, lost in thought. “Well, what did I say that made you go rushing from my house, your lunch unfinished? That’s quite an insult, if you didn’t know.” Kenton smiled. “Sand masters don’t get paid, per say. However, the other seven Professions have historically given us tributes—gifts, if you will, in exchange for our protection. The thing is, sand masters don’t need money.” Khriss frowned, thinking back to the conversation between Kenton and the Lord Artisan a few days before. “Because you can take whatever you want anyway.” “Well, with some limitations,” Kenton explained. “We can’t just take from anyone—we’re only open to goods or services offered by a merchant, and the mastrells are the only ones who can actually do the taking. They’re the highest rank of sand masters. So, the question is, if the mastrells can take whatever they want, what did they do with all the tribute money?” “I don’t know,” Khriss said with a shrug. “I don’t either,” Kenton said. “But there is someone who will know.” “Who?” Khriss asked. Kenton shook his head as they entered the marketplace of darksider town. “His name is Elorin. You won’t know him.” “Wait a moment,” Khriss said thoughtfully. “If the sand masters are allowed to take whatever they want, then how can the be in debt? Their thefts are technically legal, aren’t they?” “I there’s a clause in the Law that says the mastrells are supposed to eventually pay for what they take,” Kenton explained, weaving through the jumble of shops and sales-tables. Darksider town’s market wasn’t as busy as the outside, but it still had a fair number of patrons. “The Law just doesn’t specify a time frame for the payment, so the mastrells ignored it.” Khriss frowned. “So, exactly how long has this debt been accruing?” “Longer than I’d like to admit,” Kenton said with a sigh. They continued through the market, Khriss struggling to keep up in her heels. She didn’t know what she would do when they left darksider town and she had to walk on Kezare’s uncobbled streets. Perhaps the heels hadn’t been such a good idea. Kenton didn’t show any signs of slowing down, however, so she did
her best. About half-way through the darksider marketplace she almost fell down, and stumbled into a crowd of surprised shoppers. The men regarded her with angry olive-skinned faces as she righted herself and hurried after Kenton. “Funny,” she mumbled as she caught up. “I’ve never seen Kershtians down here before.” Kenton froze. “What?” he asked sharply. A moment later the arrows began to fly. Kenton cursed, throwing himself toward a nearby stall. This is getting old very quickly, he thought angrily, pulling out two handfuls of sand. To the side he saw Baon pulling Khriss to safety, while Ais stood squarely in the middle of the street, lowering his own weapon to fire, completely ignoring the danger to himself. There is something seriously wrong with that man, Kenton concluded, calling his sand to life. A second later he jumped. Kenton spun in the air above the marketplace, rising dangerously close to its low ceiling. He counted quickly—four zinkall archers in the front, three more approaching from behind. Frightened darksiders ran in every direction, most of them screaming loudly. Where was the eighth assassin? Kenton fell as the archers began to fire at him. He propelled himself down with his sand, dodging the shots. As he landed he saw a nondescript Lossandin man pointing his arm at Baon. Lossandin? “Baon, behind you!” Kenton yelled. The darkside warrior spun, pulling out his pistols. However, instead of firing his zinkall, the Lossandin man decided to tackle Baon, throwing him against the side of a carapace shop. Baon grunted, his pistols dropping to the ground as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. Unfortunately, Kenton had no time to help him. The three warriors behind were almost on them. Kenton gathered his sand into a roughly man-shaped form and ordered it out into the street. Three zinkall arrows smashed into the decoy, making little patches of sand fall dead. Immediately, Kenton ducked out into the street, sending his sand forward. The three Kershtians had taken cover beside shops, and they took aim at Kenton as soon as they saw him. They waited just a second to fire, however, the decoy still fresh in their minds. Kenton picked up a pot from a nearby shop, and as the men fired, he swing the pot at their arrows, knocking them out of the air. At the same time, he commanded his second ribbon to grab a similar weapon, and then swung it at a Kershtian’s head. The man dodged backward, swiping his hand at the stream of sand above him. The sand fell dead, the pot dropped to the ground. Kenton cursed. They were getting smarter—someone must have watched his first fight, noticing how he used random objects as weapons. He backed up, falling in beside Ais, who had finally taken cover beside a shop. Baon was still struggling with his combatant—who, now that his robes had fallen away, reveled himself to be the largest, most muscular Lossandin man Kenton had ever seen. Khriss had dropped to the ground in confusion, but was now reaching for one
of Baon’s fallen pistols. The pistols! Kenton thought. Just before Khriss’s hand found the weapon, Kenton’s sand snatched it and its companion off the ground. Kenton jumped back into the street, surprising the four Kershtians in front, who had been approaching carefully. They looked up as Kenton raised his arms toward them, a ribbon of sand extending from each hand. Each ribbon gripped one of Baon’s pistols. The Kershtians ducked backward, expecting him to swing the pistols at their heads. Instead, Kenton positioned them directly in front of his enemies and used his sand to pull the triggers. Twin explosions, amplified by the enclosed marketplace, rang through the market. People dropped, screaming and holding their ears. Kenton didn’t follow—he turned the weapons toward the two remaining Kershtians and fired again. After four shots, he was pretty much certain he was deaf. His ears rang as he dropped the pistols, jumping back toward cover to avoid shots from behind. Fortunately, Ais had been watching the other three, and he dropped a man with an arrow in the arm as they tried to fire at Kenton. Kenton hit the ground, half expecting to have an arrow somewhere in his body. However, he appeared unharmed. He looked over to Baon, who was still grappling with his opponent. Khriss was repeatedly pounding the Lossandin assassin with a length of carapace as the two men rolled on the ground. None of the blows seemed to be doing any good, except maybe to distract the man. Suddenly, Baon moved, pushing his opponent off him with a surge of strength. Baon reached down toward his leg with a free hand, ignoring Khriss as the girl accidentally smashed him on the head with her board. As the Lossandin assassin fell back down toward Baon, the darkside warrior whipped a very wicked knife out of a sheath at his calf. A second later, his opponent, off balanced by the push, fell back on top of him—landing directly on the knife. Baon rammed the knife up toward the man’s heart, then he ripped the weapon free, jumping up into a defensive crouch and shooting Kenton a look. Ais said something Kenton couldn’t make out with his ringing ears, lowering his zinkall. Kenton peeked out. The remaining Kershtians had taken their wounded comrade and were running off. Kenton rubbed his ears. Some of the ringing had stopped, but his hearing hadn’t completely returned, though Baon assured him it would. Trackts swarmed over the darkside marketplace—only Ais’s presence had saved Kenton from answering a lengthy list of questions. Instead, he had time to kneel next to the man Baon had killed. “Lossandin,” Kenton confirmed, checking the skin. “What does it mean?” Baon asked. “I don’t know,” Kenton confessed. “The Kershtian high priest has a contract on my life, but this is the first Lossandin who has tried to kill me.” Kenton rubbed at the man’s forehead. He wore scars like the others, but his were fresh. “I had heard news of this,” a voice said in Lossandin beside him. Kenton looked up as Ais
studied the body. “The A’Kar has said he would let Lossandins join Kershtian families if they were willing to dedicate themselves only to him,” the trackt explained. “I’d assumed the rumors were false.” Kenton shook his head ruefully. “So, I’m not only being hunted by the most avid A’Kar in recent history, but also the most open-minded one?” “This new A’Kar is different,” Ais explained. “He has strange ideas, and he’s determined to win the Choosing. If he lets Lossandins join, then his DaiKeen will grow faster than any of the others, giving him more power. Of course, right now there’s only one thing keeping him from winning the Choosing.” “What?” Kenton asked. “You,” Ais said, standing. “He told the Kershtian people he had destroyed the mastrells. That was before you came back. Now he looks like a liar and a fool.” No wonder he’s eager to have me dead, Kenton thought. “How come every time I go somewhere with you, I almost get killed?” a new voice demanded, and Kenton had to switch his thinking back to Dynastic. “Trust me, Khrissalla,” he said. “I would avoid this if I could.” Khriss stood with her arms folded, staring him down with a distrustful eye. “All right,” she said. “I want the story. The entire story. No more dodging—who are you, what is going on, and why does everyone want you dead?” Kenton sighed. She does deserve it, he reminded himself. “All right. Let’s go back to the Diem first.” And so, he told her. Khriss listened to fascination as Kenton related his life story. He spoke of his darksider mother and mastrell father, his desire to join the Diem, his childhood filled with pain. He told her how he got into the Diem on a technicality, how he struggled to do what other sand masters found easy. He talked about all the hours he spent practicing, honing his skill, until he could do things no other sand master could. Then he spoke of his frustrations. He explained his desire to impress his father—a desire that twisted until it became a compulsion to spite the man at every possible occasion. Kenton spoke of his frustrations with his fellow sand masters, who respected him on one hand but mocked him at the same time. He told her of his refusal to accept ranks in the Diem until his father recognized the accomplishments he had made. He told her much more than she had expected him to. Kenton released the story like a massive sigh, expelling his inner feelings, talking to her like an old friend despite the horrible way she had treated him. And horrible it had been. She began to feel guilty as he told her the story of his father’s death and the slaughter of the sand masters. She remembered how suspicious of him she had been during their travel back, how demanding she had been of his time when all he wanted to do was get back and find out which of his friends had lived. She vaguely remembered the look
in his eye after the Kershtians had tried to kill them—the despair. She finally understood why he had acted the way he did. He had assumed his powers were gone forever. Kenton continued on, explaining his ability’s mysterious reappearance. Finally, he told her of the last week. He talked about his defense of the Diem at the Hall of Judgement, his two-week deadline, and his insecurities relating to his leadership. He talked optimistically about his task, but it was obvious to Khriss that his job was a nearly impossible one. She hadn’t even been able to get the Taishin to see her, let alone get them to change their minds about such a monumental decision. All this time I’ve been worrying about finding one man, while Kenton’s been trying to save an entire Profession. Then he explained why the Kershtians were trying to kill him. He spoke of Kershtian politics, of their three sub-sects and the way they chose a ruler. He told her of the A’Kar, their high priest, and why the man needed to kill Kenton. He told her that assassins would come after him every two days until he was either dead or he managed to find and kill their leader. Last of all, he explained the challenge he had made to the man Drile. He told her of the duel, explaining with odd frankness that there wasn’t much chance that he would be able to win. Khriss leaned back in her sand-chair, exhausted from the length explanation. It was enough to sate even her curiosity. And I thought my task was difficult… “So, Khrissalla, that is who I am, what is going on, and why those Kershtians are trying to kill me.” He’d said more than he’d intended—for some reason, it had all just come out. It felt good to have said it, however, even if the one he had said it to didn’t really care for him all that much. “I never imagined…” she mumbled. “I mean, I didn’t know…” “Any more questions?” he asked with a smile. She shook her head. “That’s a first.” “So, what about the money?” she asked. “Weren’t we going to try and…” “Sands, I forgot!” Kenton said, standing. He changed to Lossandin, asking a question of his red-haired assistant. The boy nodded, disappearing. A few moments later he returned with an elderly sand master in a yellow sash. Kenton spoke to him for a few moments, then looked back at Khriss. “Elorin says he doesn’t know what happened to the tribute money—the Lord Mastrell accepted it and did something with it.” “Which means it’s probably lying around here somewhere,” Khriss assumed. “Probably,” Kenton agreed, looking excited. At precisely that moment, the door opened and Eric walked in, munching happily on what appeared to be some sort of flat-bread covered with frosting. He took a look at everyone in the room, and frowned slightly. “All right, what did I miss?” “We’re going to ransack the Diem,” Kenton explained. “Want to help?” “Sure,” Eric said, munching on his food. “What are we looking
for?” “Money,” Kenton explained. “The mastrells left behind coins.” “Oh, sure,” Eric said with a nod. “I could have told you that. How do you think I bought this?” He held up the pastry. Kenton froze, looking down at the pastry with stupefied eyes. “You knew the mastrells left behind money?” he asked. “Of course,” Eric explained. “I found it on the first day. You did say I could help myself to one of the rooms, you know. I figured that included whatever I found in the desk drawers…” “Show me,” Kenton ordered. Eric lead them to his room, which turned out very similar to Kenton’s. It had the same sand-covered floor—Khriss assumed that was to facilitate sand mastery—and a similar scattering of furniture, including several of the sand-stuffed chairs. Eric’s main room had a smaller side-room just like Kenton’s, and inside it was a desk. Eric proceeded to open the top drawer with a flowery gesture, then reached under and undid a hidden latch, which unlocked some mechanism that let him remove the entire drawer. He turned it over, turned a switch on the bottom, and opened a secret compartment in the back. “There,” he said dramatically. Kenton knelt beside the drawer, eyeing the pile of coins inside. There were some of the silvery hematite coins that Khriss recognized as 100 lak marks, but most of them were tiger-eye tens or blue marble fives. Kenton did a mental calculation. “How much of it did you spend!” he accused. Eric held up his hands. “Oh, about fifty lak or so.” Kenton rubbed his chin in thought. “There isn’t as much as I expected,” he admitted. “This should have been accruing for years—even divided amongst twenty mastrells, there should be more money here.” Eric shrugged. “Maybe the others have more. I checked a few rooms before I chose this one—most of them had desks like this one.” Kenton stood with a nod. “All right,” he said. “Eric, you work on this side and move right. I’ll go left. Khriss, you take the rooms on the other side of the hallway and move right, Baon you can go left.” “What?” Khriss huffed. “You’re giving me orders now?” “You wanted to be part of what I was doing,” Kenton with a smile. “Well, you can take part. Go remove the desk drawers and bring them back to my rooms.” He winked at her before walking from the room to begin his own search. Khriss watched him go with an indignant snort. “You did tell him you wanted to be part of what he was doing,” Baon noted from the side. “You’re not helping,” she shot back. Finally, however, she complied, trying to ignore the smirk Kenton gave her when he saw her do as he had requested. And just when I thought we were starting to get along! Khriss thought to herself. That man is completely, totally, and utterly insufferable. Their ‘ransack’ of the Diem took considerably less time than Kenton had expected it would. It turned out that desks like the one in Eric’s
rooms were standard issue for mastrells, and each one had a false-bottomed drawer where they had stored their coins. As they searched, Kenton briefly considered how relatively unimaginative the mastrells had been. Each one of them hid their money in exactly the same place. But, that had been one of his big complaints about the Diem’s leadership—their closed-mindedness. It felt odd, pillaging his own home. But, the mastrells didn’t need their money any more, and it was going toward a good cause. In the end they gathered all the coins in the center of Kenton’s room, piling them like a bandit’s illicit hoard. There were fewer of them than Kenton had hoped—far fewer. “About five thousand,” Eric said, counting the last hundred-lak coin. Kenton cursed. “That’s a far cry from two-hundred thousand, isn’t it?” he asked. “You could say that,” Eric said with a smirk. “Two hundred thousand?” Khriss asked with amazement. “Two hundred thousand lak? That’s how much you owe?” Kenton nodded with a sigh. “I warned you it was big.” “The jewels I sold were only worth twenty thousand,” Khriss said. “Two-hundred…” Kenton sighed. “Elorin,” he said in Lossandin, “how does the Diem pay its servants?” “It… doesn’t, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin informed. “The Lord Artisan pays them.” “I thought as much,” Kenton said. “Take this money, and tell the servants that we’ll be paying them from now on. Use it to buy whatever the Diem needs over the next week.” “Yes, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin agreed. Kenton sat down, running his hands through his hair. “Well, thank you for the idea, Khriss, but I’m afraid it didn’t turn out as I had hoped.” Khriss sat in one of his chairs, staring at the pile of coins, tapping her foot in annoyance. “If only we knew where your father’s money went.” Kenton nodded. In every room they had found at least a few coins, with one noted exception. Praxton’s desk had been empty. Kenton had searched through the room, poking at cupboards, rattling chests, searching for false backs on closets, but had found no luck. Praxton’s stash of coins—if he had one—was nowhere to be found. “He probably spent it,” Eric mumbled. “Where?” Kenton asked. “Everything is free.” “Not everything,” Eric said. “Mastrells can’t commandeer boats, for one thing.” Kenton nodded. Kezare’s survival depended on shipping—the population was so large that daily shipments of food were necessary to keep it fed. In addition, boat hulls had to be constructed completely of wood—if they used carapace, the first dent or chip could end up sinking the entire vessel. So valuable were the boats that the Law has a clause excluding them from the mastrell’s ability to demand goods. “True,” Kenton agreed, “but my father never traveled anywhere. Why would he spend money on a boat?” Eric shrugged. “I’ve always thought sand masters were weird. Maybe he just felt like it.” Kenton snorted. “Or…” Eric said thoughtfully. “What?” Eric nodded at the chairs. “What about those?” Kenton regarded the chair he was sitting in. “What do chairs have to do with boats?” “Nothing,” Eric
replied. “I’ve discarded the boat idea. Where do they make chairs like that?” Kenton shrugged. “Denka?” Eric nodded. “Denka,” Kenton said, realizing what he had just said. “One of the Rim Kingdoms.” “Where the sand masters have no legal rite to steal,” Eric said with a nod. “Of course,” Kenton realized. That’s why the mastrells didn’t have as much money as he’d assumed—they might get goods in Kezare for free, but many of the most expensive items were foreign. They would have to use coin to commission those. “I should have thought of that.” “It was a nice idea, though,” Eric said, regarding the pile of coins. Kenton bid Khriss farewell, promising to meet her the next day and escort her to the Lord Admiral’s party. She left, feeling slightly despondent. For a brief time, Kenton had thought one of his problems solved, but in the end nothing had come of it. She kind of felt guilty, as if the failure were her fault because she had made the comment that gave him the idea. She and Baon climbed aboard the boat to Kezare with a subdued tone. Khriss rode in silence, reviewing what she had learned. Kenton wasn’t as powerful as she had assumed—he was just doing the best he could with what he had. Just like her. As she pondered, however, she realized something. Despite his lengthy explanation, Kenton had left out one topic. Sand mastery. He had told her almost nothing about the art itself—why it worked, how much a single person could lift, that sort of thing. He had told her that he wasn’t very powerful, but had given no details about what that meant. The best with what you have… What did she have? Not much—a curious mind and a dead fiancée. But, she was still on dayside, a massive undertaking in itself. She couldn’t just head back to darkside—she felt as if she should do something while she was here. Some greater purpose. And finally, she realized what it was. She had come to find Gevin, but what had he come to dayside to do? His quest had been much more selfless than her own; he had come for the sand mages, something only he believed were real. He had thought they would be able to help Elis against the Dynasty. Well, the sand mages were real, and Khriss was coming to know one of them fairly well. She had seen what Kenton did today—that kind of power could be useful in the coming battle with Scythe. Gevin, you were right! She realized with amazement. The sand mages are the answer. The prince had been killed before he could fulfill his dream, so she would see it fulfilled for him. She would find out how sand mastery worked, and would bring the secret back with her to Elis. When Ais climbed up the short ladder on the side of his house, he left behind the world. He left behind the city; he left behind the markets, the hustle, the yelling, the confusion, the pain, and even
the duty. He entered a realm that to one, insignificant man, was holy. He walked reverently across the roof, wearing only a simple tan Kershtian robe. Here, away from Portside, the buildings were smaller, and his own home rose above those surrounding it. Quietly, he walked over to a battered trunk sitting by the roof’s siderail. Thieves had likely seen the trunk and inspected its contents dozens of times—it bore not lock, and any with the determination could jump from a neighboring rooftop to open it. Those who had done so had undoubtedly been disappointed. Ais lifted the trunk’s lid. It was filled with sand—normal, white sand. At least, to the casual observer that is how it would appear. Reverently, Ais removed the cloth mat that sat across the top of the sand, unrolling it on the ground before him. Then he took a scoop of sand in each hand and sprinkled it across the mat. Though it looked unremarkable, the chest of sand was perhaps the most valuable possession Ais owned. Years ago he himself had made the trek to the deep sands to fill it. This sand had been taken from holy ground. Removing his shoes—a symbol of pagan Lossand—Ais knelt on the sand-strewn mat. Then he turned to face his God. He knew, technically, that the sun was not the Sand Lord—it was only a manifestation of His divine presence. Still, the great orb was a reminder of the Sand Lord’s power. As Ais knelt, his hands spread before him, his eyes closed, he could feel its power. Heat bathed him. It warmed each breath he took, giving life to all of dayside. Its strength was acknowledged by every inch of Ais’s skin. It was striking even through closed eyelids. As Ais knelt before it, the entire world seemed to grow silent and, for a moment, he was alone before the Sand Lord. A’Kar A’Ker A’KerNaisha, he thought, the ritual opening to a prayer. Ir’takasha N’Keemsha Kashaen’Heesth’ Ker’Naisha’Totar. I am unworthy before thee. Kreen’Dakasha Nan’Mashainto. Please grant me strength. K’Klai’Dakasha Lron’Karashaor’Disha Dail’Teeshakar Ishao’Mashainto. Please, oh please, let this experience end quickly. Ais was beginning to wonder at his own closely-held beliefs. Could he really be both a trackt and a Kershtian? Twice now his role as Kenton’s protector had forced him to fight people of his own race. That, in itself, was not a problem—Kershtians frequently fought one another. The problem was, he was forced to fight and kill men whose motivations he secretly applauded. The Lord Mastrell deserved to die. It was cruel to consider, but it was the truth. Recently, the A’Kar had declared that Lossandin people who joined Ker’reen would be allowed to seek adoption into a Kershtian family. Traditionally, non-Kershtians who joined Ker’reen were still regulated to second-class blessings in the Sand Lord’s eternal kingdom on the sun, servants to those of the true blood. For the first time in history, the Sand Lord’s eternal blessings were available to all. The declaration felt right to Ais—he had always believed it would occur. All men were

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