White Sand, Volume 1

by Brandon Sanderson

  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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “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.”

  Kh
riss 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.