White Sand, Volume 1

by Brandon Sanderson

“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 gu
est?” 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  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, te
asing 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.