White Sand, Volume 1

by Brandon Sanderson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What is it?” Khriss asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Air-powered crossbows,” Baon mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The Sand Mages?” Baon finished.

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

  “We’ll find him,” Baon repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Baon chuckled to himself.

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

  �
��Try the hammer,” Baon suggested.

  “Hammer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  #

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

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

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

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

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

  #

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  #

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

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

  Baon lowered the spyglass, giving her a flat look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I know,” Khriss said.

  “You’re encouraging dissention.”

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

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

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

  #

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