White Sand, Volume 1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “You don’t suppose … ?” she asked, listening closely. She could have sworn to the Divine that the voices were all speaking in Dynastic. “Come on,” she said, removing her dark glasses and waving for the group to step into the darkness.

  The packmen, however, stayed where they were. The four sets of saddlebags remained on the ground.

  “Won’t enter,” the girl explained. “Too dark. We aren’t blind, like you.”

  “Blind?” Khriss asked.

  “Lonsha,” Cynder explained. “Many of the dayside texts use that word for darksiders—it means ‘blind ones.’”

  “That’s silly,” Khriss objected.

  “So are people,” Cynder said with a chuckle. “Therefore, it makes sense that they would use the term.”

  “Won’t enter,” the girl repeated. “I go, but packmen stay.”

  Khriss sighed. “All right,” she said, poking through the coins Kenton had given her and choosing two of the red colored ones she had determined were worth the least. Apparently, these were laks. She must have guessed correctly, for the packmen accepted the coins and, without bowing a proper farewell, turned and left down the alleyway.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Cynder asked.

  “We’ll find out in a moment,” Khriss replied, watching as Baon struggled to pick up all four sets of bags. “Acron, help him,” she ordered.

  “What?” the anthropologist asked, turning to notice Baon’s efforts for the first time. “Oh, of course.” The hefty professor moved to accept one set of bags, slinging them over his shoulders like a scarf.

  They entered the tunnel hesitantly at first, following the ghostly sounds. After a few moments they rounded a corner and entered a short-ceilinged room—or cavern, Khriss still couldn’t tell which it was. It was filled with shops and people, much similar to the market near the docks except for several major differences. All of the signs were written in Dynastic, and all the people had dark skin.

  Khriss stared at the scene with amazement. Darksiders mingled and mixed, travelling from shop to shop, bargaining for familiar foodstuffs and other items she hadn’t seen in months. The walls were hung with colorful lanterns, illuminating the large room with soft hues that were just the right level of brightness, and the air was cool and wet—at least, compared to that outside. She almost felt like she had stepped through a door and magically traveled back to Elis.

  “Amazing,” Cynder mumbled. “A linguistic enclave.”

  “You mean a cultural enclave,” Acron corrected.

  Cynder raised his eyes. “We’re not going to have this discussion again, are we?”

  “They’re maintaining culture first—language is only a by-product,” Acron argued.

  “Yes, well, I’m a linguist,” Cynder countered. “That means I get to name it.”

  “Hush!” Khriss ordered, walking forward into the cavern. The familiar sounds of Dynastic surrounded her. This market wasn’t as congested as the one outside, and its people were less-hurried, after the darksider fashion. As she walked she identified at least a half-dozen different accents—each region of darkside had its own distinct way of speaking Dynastic.

  She didn’t see any Elisians, however. There were quite a few black-skinned Iiarians—the largest and most powerful nation under Dynastic control—and an inordinate number of the light-skinned people of the Tiaoc states, a group of Dynastic protectorates that lay huddled along darkside’s eastern shore. Of course, if anyone wanted to escape darkside, it would be the Tiaoc. Their fertile flatlands held some of the most overworked, most secluded people in the Dynasty.

  “No guns,” Baon whispered from beside her. Acron and Cynder had not stopped their argument at Khriss’s command, but they had quieted, continuing to talk as they followed her. They seemed almost oblivious to the very wonder they were discussing. Baon, however, watched their surroundings with keen interest.

  Khriss scanned the crowd. He was right; there weren’t any guns, at least not in sight. “Most of them are Tiaoc,” she whispered back. “From what I’ve heard, the Dynasty barely lets them have horse-drawn plows, let alone firearms.”

  Baon nodded slowly. “This place should not exist,” he mumbled.

  “The Dynasty wants us to think it doesn’t exist,” Khriss corrected. “They don’t want us to know that there is traffic between the continents.”

  “Shipments come every month,” their guide explained in heavily-accented Dynastic.

  Khriss looked up—she had almost forgotten the girl was there. “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Darksider village,” the girl explained. “Darksiders live here.”

  “I can see that,” Khriss noted. “We need to talk to someone in charge—someone who might keep track of darksiders who pass through the town.”

  The girl paused, thinking for a moment. “Can help,” she decided. “Cost ten Lak.”

  Khriss’s eyes opened in surprise. “You little cheat! We already paid your father.”

  “Not daughter,” girl corrected. “Couldn’t find son; I substitute. Need eat, so you pay.”

  Baon smiled slightly. “She’d make a good mercenary,” he noted as Khriss counted out ten more coins. The girl immediately began to move, dashing through the crowd. At first Khriss thought she was running away with the money, but then the girl paused, turning restlessly and waiting for them to follow.

  “Not prone to extended bouts of patience, is she?” Cynder noted.

  Khriss turned, shaking her head. “No, she isn’t. Did you resolve your discussion?”

  “No,” Cynder replied. “But I did manage to confuse him enough that he thinks I won. Shall we go?”

  Khriss smiled to herself, leading the group through the darkened room toward their guide—whose name she still didn’t know. As soon as they got close the girl scurried away again, but Khriss refused to let herself be hurried. As she moved through the market, the place reminded her more and more of darkside. The room resolved into corridors that almost seemed like streets. The floor was cobbled, even though it probably didn’t need to be, and in some of the larger areas there were even lamp-poles bearing oil lanterns.

  She still couldn’t tell if they were underground or not. Some of the walls were unworked stone, but occasionally the she would see small patches of light above—as if the ceiling were constructed of wood. The place seemed to be a combination of caverns both natural and man-made. Most of the walls were obscured, however. Buildings had been built up against them—the line of houses and shops didn’t even have alleys between them. They kind of reminded Khriss of tenements back in the poorer sections of Elis, though many of these buildings look rich and well-constructed.

  After just a few minutes of travel, Khriss began to wish she had worn one of her gowns, rather than the tan dayside robe. She was a duchess—she should look like one. True, she had spent the last month traveling through a dust-filled desert, but everyone would still expect her to look like a duchess.

  The underground system was even larger than Khriss had assumed. Their guide led them through at least a dozen different chambers and tunnels. Overall, it was probably as big as a couple of city blocks back in Elis, though it was much more spread out because of the tunnels. Eventually they passed through what was probably a residential section, darkside fungal flowers growing in rows outside the front doors. The tunnel eventually narrowed to one last door, sitting solitarily in a rock face. Like some of the buildings, this one actually seemed to be cut into the stone wall.

  “Here,” the girl explained. “Wait.” With that she walked up to the door and, without any kind of knock or sign, opened it and entered.

  Khriss and the others stood waiting as the door closed. “Fascinating,” Cynder was mumbling, looking back at the dark street.

  Acron shrugged. “I didn’t cross the ocean to visit darkside, my dear man,” the anthropologist explained. “The outside is much more interesting.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t darkside,” Cynder corrected. “This is a n
ew culture, one in the process of blending. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a contact language developing—a pidgin between Dynastic and Lossandin.”

  Acron scratched his head absently, jingling the medallion still hanging on his forehead. The things looked odd enough on Kershtians—Khriss thought this one looked completely ridiculous on Acron.

  The door swung open a moment later, revealing a darkside man who waved them inside. Tall and thin, he wore a sword at his side and moved with relaxed motions. As they entered, Khriss noticed Baon immediately placed himself between her and the man.

  The hallway inside was constructed of wood, not stone, and its walls were simple and stark save for a few lanterns. Khriss frowned. She was wrong—the walls weren’t wood. They seemed to be made of carapace. Was everything on this side of the world constructed from the stuff?

  Their guide led them down the hallway to another door at the end—this one much thicker. A darkside swordsman stood on either side of the door.

  “Only you,” the lead man said, pointing at Khriss. “The others wait outside.”

  Baon raised an eyebrow, looking at Khriss.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  He sighed, but stepped aside as she walked through the second door, shooting her a look that said. I can’t protect you if you leave me behind.

  The room inside was nothing like the unfurnished hallway. The walls were hung with paintings—several of which Khriss recognized as being from famous darkside artists—and the floor was covered with a massive rug. At the back of the room there was actually a fireplace with a fire in it, though the room didn’t feel any hotter than those outside.

  In front of the fireplace were several large, plush darkside chairs. In one of these sat a bulbous man, fat enough to make even Acron look thin by comparison. He wore a darkside suit, cut after Iiarian versions with no tails on the coat and a girdle instead of a vest. His skin was the darkest of black, and he was smiling as she entered.

  “Ah, this must be our missing Elisian duchess,” he said with a distinct, aristocratic Iiarian accent. “I am pleased to see you survived the trip unharmed.”

  Khriss froze. “You know me?”

  “Of you, my dear, of you,” the man said. “Though we expected you weeks ago.” His voice was deep, and as Khriss walked forward she could see a circular birthmark on his cheek. She remembered something about a birthmark … .

  “You!” she said suddenly. “You’re Loaten!”

  “So I’m often accused,” the man said. “And, of course, I can’t deny it. Please, Duchess Khrissalla, sit down.” He indicated one of the room’s large chairs with a sweep of an overweight hand.

  Khriss moved forward slowly. The fireplace appeared to have a glass front, keeping at least some of the heat out of the room. Still, it felt remarkably cool. As she approached, she also noticed that her young guide, the daysider girl, squatted in a third chair, sipping on a mug of some steaming drink.

  “You’re quite famous on darkside, you know,” Khriss said seating herself. “Traitor to the Dynasty, executed—or so we’re told—for trying to murder Scythe himself.”

  “Is that what they’re saying?” Loaten replied with a smile. Khriss waited for him to continue, which he did not.

  “How do you know who I am?” she finally asked.

  “Ah, dear Duchess,” Loaten said. “We are not completely isolated from our homeland. Information has a way of finding us.”

  “But my expedition is supposed to be secret,” she said.

  “Little is secret from the Dynasty, dear Duchess, especially the doings of its enemies. But, must we talk politics? I came here to escape such things—that, and to keep my head. Tell me, what do you think of our little darkside village?”

  “It’s incredible,” Khriss said as an unnoticed servant approached, bringing her a steaming cup. She accepted it, the warm scent of cinnamon tea reminding her of Elis. “These are caves beneath the island?”

  “Some of the city is built in caves,” Loaten said, accepting a cup for himself. “Though much of it is above ground as well. We have built coverings between buildings to block out the light. Those of us who have means pay to have ice shipped in from the mountains to the east, which keeps the air at a tolerable temperature.

  “And you rule here?” she asked, then immediately cursed her lack of tact. She had never excelled at court politics, though she was good enough to recognize her comparative weakness.

  Loaten laughed at the comment. “No, dear Duchess, far from it. This place was long established by the time I arrived—my little mistake only happened five years ago, you know. I just tend to keep track of what happens in darksider town—a hobby, a leftover from my old job back home. Little N’Teese tells me you come looking for information?”

  “I do,” Khriss said eagerly.

  “You want news of Gevin, I assume,” Loaten said, taking a sip of his tea.

  “Yes,” Khriss continued. “You know something of the prince?”

  Loaten continued to drink quietly, not answering her question. Finally, he spoke. “You don’t drink your tea, dear Duchess. I thought cinnamon was a favorite in Elis.”

  Khriss frowned at the topic diversion. “It is,” she said slowly. “But, I’ve never liked my tea too hot, even back on darkside.”

  “Wise,” Loaten noted. “You wouldn’t want to burn yourself.”

  Khriss paused. He was telling her something—implying danger. What was his meaning? Suddenly, she wished she had spent more time in the court. “I need to know of the prince, whatever the cost,” Khriss informed slowly. “I will pay, if you like, for the information.”

  Loaten raised his eyebrows as he sipped. “Odd you should offer,” he noted. “Money and information are really quite similar you know. Both are extremely valuable, but neither would be worth anything if everyone had all they desired. Both can also get you killed if you let it be known that you have too much.”

  “Meaning?” Khriss asked.

  “Meaning, dear Duchess,” Loaten said with a sigh, “that there are certain things I am not at liberty to reveal.”

  “You know where the prince is,” Khriss challenged.

  “After a fashion,” Loaten admitted.

  “But why can’t you … ?” Khriss suddenly grew cold. “Oh, Shella! The Dynasty doesn’t have him, does it?”

  Loaten chuckled. “No, though their goals in regard to the young prince have been fulfilled.”

  “He’s dead?” Khriss asked with horror.

  Loaten shrugged. “I told you that there are certain secrets I am required to keep.”

  “Required by whom?” Khriss asked.

  “Myself,” Loaten explained. “Look, dear Duchess, I don’t mean to frustrate you, but I have learned through experience that rash words can prove … inconvenient.”

  Khriss sighed, finally taking a sip of her tea. It was still a bit too hot for her tastes. “What can you tell me then?”

  “Not much. I will let you know, however, that your prince gave up on his goal.”

  “Then he made it to Kezare,” Khriss decided.

  “I didn’t say that,” Loaten said, raising a finger.

  “Yes, but I know the prince,” Khriss informed. “He wouldn’t have given up hope until he saw for himself that the sand mages weren’t real. Besides, you must have met him. You called him Gevin.”

  Loaten frowned. “And?”

  “His name is Prince Gevalden. Gevin is what he tells people to call him, but only in an informal setting, like in a comfortable room, sitting before a fireplace.”

  Loaten smiled. “And I thought you were supposed to be bad at this, dear Duchess.”

  “Who told you that?” Khriss asked with indignation.

  “My dear,” Loaten reminded, “I was Scythe’s chief minister of diplomacy—you’d be surprised the things I had to know. Including prince’s nicknames. But, in this case you happen to be right. Gevin did make it to Kezare, and I have spoken with him, after a fashion. But
that was a long time ago.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “I told you, dear Duchess, I’m not quite certain.”

  Khriss sighed, leaning back in her chair.

  “Do not be so despondent, my dear,” Loaten chided. “I am not a heartless man—seeing that you are relatively inexperienced with dayside, I will assign one of my best people to aid you.”

  Khriss perked up. “Who?”

  Loaten drank the last of his tea, then gestured to the young girl crouching on the chair watching the fires with curious eyes. As soon as Loaten pointed at her, however, the girl’s head snapped back to the conversation. “Me?” she asked. “No. Not have time. Is too—”

  “Oh, N’Teese,” Loaten said with an intolerant sigh, “must you use that accent? It’s incredibly harsh on an old man’s ears.”

  N’Teese clenched her teeth, shooting Loaten a harsh look. “I’m not going to lead these fools all around the city, Loaten. I’m too busy.”

  Khriss’s eyes opened wide with shock. When she had spoken the second time, the little girl’s horrible dayside accent had disappeared completely, to be replaced by a perfect Iiarian accent to match Loaten’s.

  “You’re a Darksider?” Khriss asked incredulously.

  Loaten chuckled. “We’re not sure what N’Teese is. She claims to be half-darksider, half-Kershtian, and half-Lossandin, though she obviously never claims to be good at mathematics. I personally don’t think she has any darkside blood in her at all.”

  N’Teese stuck out her tongue at the fat darksider, then intentionally turned away from him to stare back into the fire, still crouching rather than sitting.

  “Whatever N’Teese’s lineage, duchess,” Loaten continued, “she is an absolute marvel with languages—though she usually uses her gift to con her way into places, or money pouches, she has no right to be in. The amount you paid her today is enough to hire a professional guide’s services for a week. I’ve told her that she may cheat the daysiders all she wishes, but darksiders—especially newcomers—are under my protection.”

  N’Teese sighed. “You’re bad for business, Loaten.”

  “Perhaps,” Khriss added, “but so is deciding to abandon a person who has already shown she is willing to pay for your services. Who knows, maybe you’ll be rewarded.”