White Sand, Volume 1

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kenton turned, shaking his head in amazement. “Eric, you’ve … changed,” he admitted.

  “Yes, well, everyone has their problems. You, for instance, are supposed to be dead.”

  Kenton looked at Eric, surprised at the joke. Could this really be the straight-faced, formal boy he had known as a child?

  “Here I decide to visit dayside again after a three-year absence,” Eric said, leisurely walking around the large, well-furnished mastrell’s chamber, examining the tapestries, “intending to visit my old childhood comrade. Then, a few weeks out of town, I find out he’s dead! I’m forced to wail and moan at the short life of my very best friend, continuing my travels to visit his funeral. Only I get into town and find out my recently-deceased friend is running around quite life-like, consorting with Taisha and taking over Professions.” Eric paused, turning to look Kenton directly in the eye. “I really wish you’d make up your mind.”

  “I apologize,” Kenton replied, still a little confused at Eric’s shift in personalities. He smiled anyway. “Next time I decide to come back from the dead, I’ll consult you first.”

  “Yes, please do,” Eric said, poking through several cabinets on the far side of the room. “But I’m warning you, next time you die, I’m not going to mourn you. You can just count these last two weeks as your requisite grief.”

  Kenton continued to regard Eric with wonder. The last time he had seen his friend, they had both been fifteen, and Eric had been boarding a boat heading south down the Ali. Several months later Kenton had gotten word that Eric had somehow made it to darkside, but other than that he had received no news of his friend for three years.

  And, it appeared three years could produce quite a change in a man. Eric had always been so polite, so stiff. There were remnants of the boy in this man, of course—he smiled the same, a contented, ineffable smile. Eric had always been able to take abuse without growing angry. However, such hints were distorted—the man before him seemed more new than he was familiar. He was informal, spoke easily, and, of course, he wasn’t wearing a sword.

  “Eric,” Kenton asked with bafflement, “why are you here?”

  “I told you,” Eric replied, continuing to search through cupboards, “I came to visit my childhood friend. How’re you doing?”

  “You did not cross the Boarder Ocean just to see me,” Kenton said flatly. “What about your father?”

  “Reegent?” Eric asked, poking his head all the way inside a cupboard so that his voice echoed. “I thought he disowned me.”

  “He did,” Kenton admitted.

  “Well, I guess he’s not my father then, is he?”

  “I suppose not,” Kenton said. “Eric, what are you looking for?”

  “Something to eat,” Eric explained. “I’m starving—I saved some trackt’s life today, and that’s hungry work. Aren’t you mastrells supposed to have hoards of food and money and things heaped around your chambers?”

  “I don’t know,” Kenton replied, “I’m kind of new to this.”

  “Aha!” Eric suddenly said, pulling a thin strip of dried ZaiDon from the back of one of the cabinets. It looked brittle and old, facts confirmed by the dust that flew off it as Eric shook it in the air.

  “You are not going to eat that, are you?” Kenton asked with a disbelieving tone.

  Eric smiled, then bit of the end of the ZaiDon, chewing happily. He sauntered over to one of the room’s plush chairs and flopped down, continuing to chew on his jerky.

  “So?” Eric asked.

  Kenton frowned. “So what?”

  “So, now that you’re rich and powerful, are you going to take me in? We loafers need wealthy patrons to support our continued laziness.”

  Kenton took a seat of his own. “I suppose you can stay, if you want, Eric,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to provide you with a home for long, though.”

  “I heard,” Eric said with a nod. “Two weeks, eh?”

  “You know?”

  “It’s all over Kezare,” Eric explained. “How do you think I found out you weren’t dead?”

  Kenton nodded. “Two weeks,” he repeated. “Two weeks to convince all seven Taisha to vote for me, show that the Diem can be financially stable, and solidify the sand masters behind one leader.”

  Eric took another bite of ZaiDon. “That’s it?” he asked. “Sounds easy.”

  Kenton snorted, rubbing the sides of his head.

  “You know, you’ve changed too,” Eric noted, pointing at Kenton with the chewed end of his jerky.

  “Oh?” Kenton asked.

  “Yes. You’ve grown … somber.”

  “Let me assure you, it’s mostly a recent acquisition.”

  Eric nodded knowingly. “I understand. You shouldn’t have let yourself get into this position. Eric’s first rule of life—avoid responsibility like deep sand.”

  “It’s a little bit late,” Kenton said.

  “That it is,” Eric agreed. “I guess there’s nothing we can do but make the best of it.” He lounged back in the well-cushioned chair. “Even if you fail, at least we’ll spend the next two weeks in comfort.”

  Despite the change in Eric, despite everything that had happened, Kenton couldn’t help smiling. In a weird sort of way, the comment seemed to put everything back in proportion for him. He leaned back. “I suppose we will, won’t we?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What now, duchess?” Baon asked.

  Khriss looked up at the comment. They stood just outside Loaten’s house, on the darkened underground street. “Gevin’s here, somewhere,” she said, almost to herself.

  “Loaten said that?” Cynder asked with interest.

  “Well, no,” Khriss admitted. “But he did admit that the prince made it to Lossand. Prince Gevalden had to have left some sort of trace. I know the Prince—he likes to be the center of attention. Someone’s got to remember him. Someone willing to talk to me.” She stood for a moment, her arms folded as she tapped her foot in thought. The others stood around, watching her expectantly.

  What now? she thought, a little uncomfortable underneath their scrutiny. She caught Baon’s eye, trying to delve some clue as to what he thought she should do, but his glassy black eyes were unresponsive.

  “I guess we go to the top,” Khriss decided. “If the Prince really did come to Lossand, then he wouldn’t have been able to resist introducing himself to the local nobility—or, at least, the dayside equivalent.”

  “Which is?” Cynder asked.

  “Something called a Tyshoo …”

  “Taisha,” N’Teese corrected. The small, dark-haired girl stood reclining against the street wall, obviously still resentful of her forced role as Khriss’s guide. “There are eight of them, leaders of the dayside Professions.”

  “Eight?” Acron asked curiously. “But, who’s in charge?”

  N’Teese shrugged. “They all are.”

  “Oh, come now,” Acron continued. “Surely one of the eight has to rule over the others, otherwise there would be chaos.”

  “Some of them are said to be more powerful than others,” N’Teese said. “The Lord General is respected by the others, and so is the Lady Judge.”

  “General,” Acron said knowingly. “It appears to be some sort of feudal system, My Lady,” he explained to Khriss, as if she hadn’t been listening to the entire conversation.

  Khriss ignored the anthropologist, instead speaking to N’Teese. “So, the Lord General is the most powerful?” she asked.

  “Well,” N’Teese said thoughtfully. “The Lord Mastrell used to be the most powerful, but I don’t think that’s the case any more …”

  “What’s a mastrell?” Khriss asked, forming the unfamiliar word with confusion.

  “I …” N’Teese said, pursing her lips as she thought. “It’s hard to explain in Dynastic. I don’t think you have them on darkside. They’re really powerful, though, and everyone’s afraid of them.”

  “Are they warriors?” Baon asked.
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br />   “Not really,” N’Teese replied. “More like holy men, except not holy.”

  “Ah. I see,” Cynder said with a slight chuckle.

  N’Teese blushed. “Anyway,” she continued. “The rumors say all the mastrells are dead now. So I guess either the Lord General or the Lord Merchant would be the most powerful. Of course, everyone respects the Lady Judge the most.”

  “Lady?” Acron asked. The fat man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, not sweating for the first time since they had arrived on dayside. “A female ruler?”

  “And what is wrong with that?” Khriss asked.

  “Nothing, My Lady,” Acron apologized. “I just wasn’t expecting it. Like most primitive societies, this one is obviously male-dominated. I find it odd that they would have a woman ruler.”

  “Primitive?” N’Teese asked with a frown. Acron ignored her, instead jotting down a few notes on his pocket-ledger.

  “Well, then, N’Teese,” Khriss decided, “please take us to see this Lady Judge.” Khriss looked over toward Baon as she made the decision.

  The warrior shrugged indifferently. He did, however, nod toward Acron and Cynder, who had started into an argument about primitive cultures and matriarchal societies. Khriss frowned in confusion at Baon’s gesture, but the warrior followed it by nodding toward a row of houses.

  “Cynder, Acron,” Khriss said, finally understanding. “Why don’t you two secure us lodgings here in darksider town? I assume you would rather stay here than out in the sun?”

  “Well …” Acron said, his sense of comfort apparently debating with his desire to be among the dayside people. Comfort won. “Yes, that does sound like a good idea.”

  “Cynder, may I borrow one of your watches?” Khriss asked.

  “Of course, my lady,” Cynder said, fiddling in his packs for a moment to retrieve his spare pocketwatch.

  “Then we’ll meet back here in four hours,” Khriss said.

  #

  Khriss waited impatiently, frowning as she shifted uncomfortably on the dayside bench. It was made of stone, of course—everything inside the black-walled pyramid was stark, as if intentionally crafted to be uncomfortable and foreboding.

  N’Teese had called it the Hall of Judgement, but Khriss thought the Hall of Bureaucracy seemed a more appropriate name. Khriss had requested an audience with the Lady Judge, and had immediately been asked to sit down for a short wait. So far that ‘short wait’ had lasted nearly two darkside hours, and it didn’t appear as if it was going to end any time soon.

  A room full of scribes and bureaucrats shuffled around in front of her, making notes, stacking papers, and looking through ledgers. The man Khriss had talked to, a balding elderly man who was supposed to be the administrator in charge of appointments, sat speaking quietly with a group of three Lossandin men. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry to follow Khriss’s request.

  “N’Teese,” Khriss said impatiently. “Go ask him how much longer it will be.”

  The small girl, who sat on the floor beside Khriss’s bench, rolled her eyes. “I just did that.”

  “The more you bother these sort of people, the faster they work,” Khriss said testily. “Now go.”

  N’Teese sighed, but did as commanded, climbing to her feet and walking over to the man. A few seconds later she returned. “He says it will be a short wait,” N’Teese explained.

  “This is insufferable!” Khriss groaned, leaning back on her bench. “Did you tell him I’m a duchess?”

  “Yes, several times. I don’t think he knows what it means.”

  “By the Divine!” Khriss said. “I’m the betrothed-daughter of the King himself!”

  “I don’t think he knows what a King is either,” N’Teese said unhelpfully.

  “When this Lady Judge agrees to see me, she had better explain herself,” Khriss mumbled. “These dayside officials certainly do have an inflated opinion of their own importance.”

  She heard a quiet snort, and turned accusing eyes to the side, where Baon leaned against the wall. The warrior had waited the entire time without sitting, maintaining a loose posture, looking completely relaxed. There was a slight twinkle in his eye, as if he found their situation amusing.

  “You’d better not be laughing at me,” Khriss threatened.

  “I wouldn’t think of it, duchess,” Baon replied with a straight face.

  “How can you stand it?” she asked, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. “This waiting is driving me mad.”

  “When you’re a soldier, you learn how to wait,” Baon explained. “I doubt that is a lesson the court ever taught.”

  Khriss shook her head—Baon was right. She had always been a very important person. Ever since her mother had died when Khriss was very young, Khriss had been the sole heir to the family line. Her father, a lesser nobleman, had been Duke only by marriage, and the true title had passed immediately to his daughter. There was only one Elisian house that was more important than Khriss’s own, and she had been engaged at an early age to one of its principle members.

  Her marriage to Prince Gevalden was to have finally brought together two of Elis’s most notoriously rivalrous houses. Waiting just wasn’t something one did when one was that important. She hadn’t ever consciously thought about it before, but when she asked for something, it was immediately sent for. When she wanted to see someone, they ignored all other appointments to meet with her.

  And now it appeared as if she were being ignored. Every time she looked at Baon, she couldn’t help getting the feeling that he thought the wait good for her for some reason. She didn’t see what good it could do—all it was doing was making her grumpy.

  Taking a deep breath, Khriss attempted to calm herself. She was capable of spending long hours pouring through books, why should waiting be any different? All she had to do was occupy her mind.

  She looked around the room, searching for something of interest. The paper had fascinated her the first few moments of her wait—it was black, instead of white, and the bureaucrats scribbled on it with white-tipped pens. But the irregularity was only of passing interest. She assumed the paper was constructed from melted sandling carapace of some sort—they certainly didn’t have enough wood in Lossand to waste on endless filings.

  “N’Teese, tell me about these Professions,” she finally requested.

  The girl looked up with surprise. She had spent the two hours distractedly, occasionally disappearing for long stretches of time, leaving Khriss paranoid that the Lady Judge would finally invite them in when their translator was gone.

  “What about them?” N’Teese asked.

  “Well, what are they? Can anyone join any one of them? Or are they family oriented, descendants following the path of their fathers?”

  N’Teese shrugged, playing absently with a pile of round pebbles on the floor. “They’re all different,” she explained. “A lot of the craftsmen do what their fathers did, as do the farmers, but they don’t have to. The children of Mastrells almost always stay in the Diem, but if they don’t have any ability, they go somewhere else. A lot of men who join the Hall’s trackts or the Tower’s soldiers are the first ones in their family to do so. Unless, of course, they’re Kelzin.”

  Khriss frowned. Diem? Kelzin? So many words were unfamiliar. N’Teese spoke without bothering to explain, as if she assumed Khriss would immediately know what she was talking about.

  “Wait,” Khriss said interrupting. “What is a Kelzin?”

  “Kelzin are kind of like noblemen,” N’Teese explained. “They own lots of land, and keep it in the family. Most of them are in the Guild or the Tower.”

  “Guild? Tower?”

  N’Teese sighed. “The Guild is merchants, the Tower soldiers. Kelzin in the Tower pass their rank from father to son, so most of them don’t leave. Normal men can’t pass ranks—not unless they can pay the Lord General the inheritance tithe. Since it takes longer than a lifetime to get to the highest ranks, most regular people have to stay in the lower ones.”


  All right, Guild is merchants, Tower is soldiers, Khriss thought to herself. “So, what is a track?”

  “Trackt,” N’Teese corrected. “They’re those people with swords,” she said, nodding to a tall man speaking with a scribe. The taller man wore a single piece uniform that was very sharp and militaristic at the top, but at the waist turned into a very loose skirt that went all the way down to his ankles.

  “Soldiers?” Khriss asked.

  “No,” N’Teese said with a suffering look, “they’re trackts. Soldiers are in the Tower, remember?”

  Khriss blushed despite herself. “Of course I remember; I’m not a fool. But, they do wear swords.”

  “Trackts wear swords too,” N’Teese said, explaining as if she were talking to a child. “They are the ones who make certain everyone follows the Law.”

  “Ah,” Khriss said nodding. “Police.”

  N’Teese shrugged. “I guess.

  “Okay, then what is this ‘Diem’ you mentioned?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions,” N’Teese said with a frown.

  “Now you sound like him,” Khriss huffed. “Don’t people ask questions on this side of the world?”

  “Not stupid ones,” N’Teese mumbled to herself.

  A caustic retort rose to Khriss’s lips, but she didn’t have an opportunity to scold the girl. Just as she was about to speak, she noticed that the balding administrator was approaching. He stopped in front of Khriss, speaking in Lossandin to N’Teese.

  “The Lady Judge will see you—” N’Teese translated.

  “Finally!” Khriss exclaimed, rising to her feet indignantly.

  “In three weeks,” N’Teese finished.

  Khriss froze. “What?” she asked sharply.

  “He says he finally spoke with the Lady Judge’s secretary, who was out for lunch,” N’Teese said, continuing to translate. “The first open space to meet with the Lady Judge is in three weeks.”

  “I … I …” Khriss stammered, completely stunned. Never in her life had she been treated in such a way. Two hours of waiting, just to find out she couldn’t have an appointment for weeks.

  “Tell him I don’t want the appointment,” she snapped, feeling her face grow red with anger. She turned to stalk from the room, trying to look as dignified as possible. “If the Lady Judge wants to meet me, then she can just come looking for me herself!”