White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kenton looked away from Drile in disgust. Unfortunately, the turn made his eyes fall on the solitary conference chamber in the middle of the courtyard—the Pit, as the sand masters had resumed calling it. The other sand masters, acolent and elder alike, now walked with a careful step around Kenton—like they would before a condemned man.

  The conference chamber stared up at him. From his vantage he could see through its open top, catching sight of the circular stone benches that ran coliseum-like around a central patch of sand, perhaps forty-feet across. It looked like a pit, not unlike the sandling fighting arenas that were popular in the Rim Kingdoms. He remembered playing in it as a child, sneaking in with Eric to a place they shouldn’t have been. They had been caught, of course. He hadn’t gotten in trouble—his father had ignored him when possible. Eric hadn’t been so lucky. Reegent didn’t like to be embarrassed.

  For some reason, the memory from long ago sparked something Kenton. He remembered what it was like to be a child in the Diem. Eight years ago he had stood in the dust-blown kerla, insisting that his father let him become a sand master. Back then, his reasons hadn’t been spiteful. He really had believed he deserved to be a sand master—at first, he had even believed he deserved to be a mastrell.

  Kenton smiled, leaning against the carapace banister. He remembered the laughter of the other acolents—Drile at their head. But, for some reason, the memory brought him no pain. He hadn’t been humiliated by the other’s scorn, he had only worked harder. Pressing himself to learn more, to become a better sand master. By age thirteen he had been able to do more with one ribbon than any sand master in history. It hadn’t been until after his first advancement ceremony, where he had been offered the lowest of ranks, that he had started to grow bitter.

  That was who he wanted to be. The boy, the optimistic child who had sincerely believed himself worthy of the Diem’s highest honor. That boy who had stood on the sands, defying his father not because of hatred or desire for attention, but because of his convictions—naïve though they had been.

  Kenton wanted to be that child, a child who had enjoyed being different instead of cursing his weakness. He had amplified his unique traits—not because he wanted others to notice him, but because he simply liked mastering sand.

  He was a mastrell, and he did deserve to be one. He might not be like any other mastrell who had ever lived, but he would prove himself a good one nonetheless. Kenton stood, smiling to himself.

  Where do I start? He wondered. How do I return to what I was? The answer came immediately, though it was a very odd one. It was a memory from his childhood, something he had once sworn to do when he became a mastrell. He had always hated sand master robes. As a child, his mother had dressed him in darksider clothing. He hadn’t liked that either—they had been too constrictive. He wanted something different, something new.

  Walking over to his desk, Kenton removed a couple hundred-lak coins he had kept from the pile they had discovered the day before. It was time to go shopping.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Khriss hurried to get ready. She had spent too much time on her studies, inspecting the different sandlings her young helpers had recovered, and now she was late. Kenton had said he would arrive at ninth hour, which meant she barely had thirty darkside minutes to get ready.

  She mulled over her choices, considering the different items hanging in her closet. Idan was an absolute marvel—he had managed to press all of her darkside dresses, removing the horrible wrinkles caused by four months of travel. But, dared she wear any of them? They were modest by darkside standards, but she had yet to see a woman on dayside whose robes weren’t bulky and form-hiding.

  Of course, she had her own robes. Perhaps she should wear one of them instead. The more she considered it, however, the more she leaned toward one of the darkside dresses. So far, her reception on dayside had been less than encouraging—why was she worried about reputation? Besides, for some reason she was feeling daring. Gevin had always been forced to pry her away from her studies to attend balls, but the truth was she had enjoyed them. Or, at least, she had enjoyed being at them with him.

  Nodding to herself decisively, she pulled out her most flamboyant, bold outfit, a sleek form-fitting, bright red dress. It was completely different from everything she had seen on dayside. Not only was the neckline dangerously low, but it also had a slit up one side. She blushed when she thought of what the dayside men would think, but at the same time she found herself smiling evilly. The outfit wasn’t too risqué by Elisian standards, and she was a duchess of Elis. Why should she pretend to be what she was not?

  She put the dress on, then moved over the mirror to do something with her hair. The dayside women always kept the hoods of their robes up—they obviously didn’t know what they could accomplish with a little stiff-cream and creative braiding. Khriss went to work, silently cursing the fact that she didn’t have a ladyservant to help her.

  Eventually, she chose a hairstyle that looked more difficult to produce than it actually was, with half of her hair braided around the top of her head, the other half spilling out like a dark waterfall over her left shoulder.

  Too bad I can’t use my Skycolor here, she thought absently, choosing a few pieces of jewelry. She didn’t normally wear much, but this was a special occasion. A matching gold necklace and bracelet set with small rubies eventually won. It was part of what she had brought to sell if necessary, but with what gemstones were worth on this side of the world, she probably wouldn’t have to.

  As she worked, she noticed something hanging forgotten in her closet. The current fashion in darkside was to wear matching shawl-waistribbon combinations with dresses. The waistribbons looked kind of like translucent version of sand master sashes, and she did have a golden one … .

  With a smile, Khriss tied on the golden waistribbon and threw the shawl over her bare shoulders. She wouldn’t need it in this heat, but the gold did make a nice compliment to the red dress.

  A knock came at the door, followed by Idan’s voice. “He has arrived, My Lady.”

  Khriss took a deep breath and, after hurriedly giving her makeup a final look-over, left her room She walked down the hallway, oddly excited.

  It’s only Kenton, she reminded herself. It isn’t like he asked you to go with him. He was told to bring you. Still, despite that knowledge, she felt her heart fluttering nervously as she approached the top of the staircase.

  All of her life, it had been assumed that if she had somewhere to go, she would go there with Gevin. Now, suddenly, that expectation was gone, and she wasn’t certain what she should think anymore. However, the more time that passed, the more she realized that Baon had been right. She had known all along that she would find Gevin dead. She had made the expedition as much for herself as for him, to free herself from the wondering. In a way, she had spent the last two years grieving, and now that weight had suddenly been lifted.

  Kenton stood below, along with his Kershtian guard. Khriss smiled with satisfaction as they saw her—the dress had the desired effect. The Kershtian, of course, looked away immediately, muttering something Khriss couldn’t hear. Kenton, however, just stared at her, his eyes opening slightly wider. His gaze followed her all the way down the staircase.

  “I trust you’re not going to get me killed today,” she asked as she reached the bottom.

  Kenton started slightly, as if realizing for the first time what he had been doing. “Um, no,” he said, regaining his composure. “They can only attack me every other day—or, at least, that is what Ais claims.”

  Khriss nodded, regarding the man who would be her escort for the event and noticing for the first time that she wasn’t the only one who had paid special attention to attire this day.

  “You’re not wearing robes!” Khriss said with surprise.

  Kenton looked down. “No, I never really like them. I decided that if I’m Lord Mastrell, then I should at least be able to choose what I wear.”

  The outfit was loose-fitti
ng enough that it could have been robes, which was why Khriss hadn’t noticed it at first. Kenton wore a pair of white trousers, cut after darkside fashion but broader through the legs. The pants ran all the way down to his cloth-wrapped shoes, pulling in at the ankle and then tucking underneath upon itself—probably to keep the sand out. His shirt was a little-bit tighter, but still loose by darkside standards. Its wide sleeves went all the way to his wrists where they too tucked in upon themselves. Over it all was a long white cloak and, of course, he wore the golden sash around his waist.

  “What do you think?” he asked. She detected a hint of nervousness in his voice.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Khriss confessed. “Where did you get it?”

  “I went into town and had it made today,” Kenton explained. “I’ll tell you, the poor Kershtian seamstress must have thought I was daft. Of course, I’m a sand master, so she would have thought that no matter what I did.”

  “It fits,” Khriss decided. He certainly cut a more imposing figure in the outfit—it was more sleek than the average robes, and would stand out. One thing, however, was wrong. His hair. Like always, it simply lay where it would, sticking out at awkward angles. It was the standard style for Lossandin men, who kept their hair short rather than in twin Kershtian braids. As a whole, the men on dayside seemed to take little care for how their hair looked.

  “Follow me,” Khriss ordered, turning to walk back up the stairs.

  “Excuse me?” Kenton asked. When she didn’t respond he sighed and followed.

  She led him to her room, where she pointed at the chair before her vanity. “Sit,” she said, turning to rifle through some of her beauty products.

  Kenton paused in the doorway, eyeing the grundlefish with interest. “I’m not certain if I should trust you or not,” he informed.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Khriss replied, pulling out a jar of stiff-cream. “Sit down.”

  Kenton complied, watching her with curious eyes as she unscrewed the lid and dipped her fingers in, removing a generous scoop of stiff-cream and rubbing it into his hair. “If you’re going to accompany me,” she informed, “then you’re going to have to look respectable.”

  “Respectable by whose standards?” Kenton asked shaking his head slightly as he smirked.

  “Stop that,” Khriss ordered, working with his hair. What kind of look did she want? Not too formal, because he was still young. She needed a style that was … dashing. Like she imagined a sand mage would wear. She fiddled for a few minutes, eventually molding the hair into a style that was more structured than what most Lossand men wore, but at the same time a little bit wild, the hair pulling forward into hundreds of spike-like strands that jutted out from his forehead then eventually curved down like curling waves.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit overly-dramatic?” Kenton asked as she finished.

  “You’re the one who is wearing a cape,” Khriss informed.

  “It’s not a cape,” Kenton said, blushing slightly. “It’s a sand cloak. Lots of people wear them to keep their clothing from getting too dirty.”

  “Yes,” Khriss agreed. “And do they wear them open at the front?”

  “Well, no,” Kenton admitted.

  “Then it’s a cape,” Khriss said, wiping off her hands. “It’s all right—you’re a sand master. You should stand out from a crowd—you can get away with more extreme styles.”

  “If you say so,” Kenton mumbled, studying himself in the mirror. “All right,” he finally decided. “Let’s go—the invitation said the ball was in my honor, whatever that means. I should probably try to avoid being too late.”

  #

  As they left the house, Khriss paused.

  What now? Kenton wondered. Has she decided that I need a manicure too?

  “Where’s N’Teese?” Khriss asked.

  Baon shrugged. “I haven’t seen her today.”

  “I told her to be here,” Khriss said indignantly.

  “Don’t worry,” Kenton assured, pushing open the door. “I’ll translate for you.”

  Khriss paused, eyeing him speculatively.

  “We’re going to be late,” Kenton reminded. It was only a slight untruth—he had noticed that Khriss and the other darksiders paid a lot more attention to time than most people on dayside. When the Lord Admiral’s invitation said ‘tenth hour’, it really meant sometime around tenth hour.

  Khriss, however, preferred exactness, and so his comment had the desired effect. She sighed, walking out of the house, leading Baon and Ais behind her. The Kershtian trackt still refused to look directly at Khriss, and Kenton had to chuckle as he noticed the man staring at the ground as he walked out directly behind her. Of course, at the same time he empathized with the Kershtian.

  It wasn’t that Khriss’s dress showed that much more skin than dayside equivalents—though no dayside woman would have gone about with her arms uncovered all the way up the shoulder. More distracting than what the dress revealed, however, was what it hinted at. It was a great deal … tighter than anything a woman would wear on dayside. That, combined with her exotic dark skin and long, unbound hair, produced a truly captivating sight.

  “Are you coming, Lord Mastrell?” Khriss said, standing in the street with a slight smile on her lips.

  Kenton started, realizing he was still holding the open door. Silly fool, he thought, shutting the door and walking toward her. It’s just Khriss—why are you acting so simple-minded?

  “I’ll get you for this,” he muttered as he joined her.

  “Oh, you like the dress?” she asked with a sly look on her face.

  Kenton snorted. “Let’s just say its … different. Interesting choice of sashes, by the way.”

  Khriss’s eyes flashed toward her waist, and the wide lace ribbon tied around it. “I thought we should match,” she replied.

  “Well, one thing is for certain,” Kenton said with a chuckle. “Between the two of us, we’ll probably cause quite a stir at Delious’s party.”

  Khriss frowned slightly. “What kind of man is this Lord Admiral? He is a military figure, I assume?”

  Kenton shook his head. “The term ‘admiral’ is probably a poor translation in your language. The Helm, Profession of sailors, is more mercantile than anything else. Of course, a lot of Lossand is like that. Assuming Lord Delious invites the customary people to his party, you’ll meet quite a few ‘generals’ who have never seen a day of battle. High ranks in most of the professions—especially the Helm, Tower, and the Field—comes from doing well financially.”

  “But, if they are all merchants, who is the Lord Merchant?”

  “Lord Moneychanger would probably be a better title,” Kenton explained as they arrived at one of the exits from darkside town. “The Guild is a Profession for moneychangers and lenders. They fund most of the other Profession’s undertakings, but they rarely do any trading themselves—except maybe dealing in real estate.”

  Khriss nodded, slipping on her dark spectacles as she stepped into the light. She stood there, as if expecting something, as Kenton began to walk in the direction of the kelzi district.

  “We’re walking there?” Khriss asked incredulously.

  Kenton paused. “Of course. Why not?”

  “I just thought …” she trailed off, sighing as she regarded the street. She began to move forward, the back of her foot sinking into the first patch of sand she crossed, nearly making her trip.

  “You’re wearing those shoes again, aren’t you,” Kenton said, putting his hands on his hips.

  “They go with the dress,” Khriss snapped, trying to walk again, only to nearly twist her ankle as she hit a crack in the stone.

  “Why would anyone wear something that silly?” Kenton wondered aloud, walking over to help her free her heel from the crack. Already people were stopping around them, men openly gawking at Khriss, others noticing Kenton and growing white-faced as they recognized the Lord Mastrell.

  Maybe she has a point, Kento
n decided. “Wait here,” he said, ordering his sand to life and jumping into the air.

  He soared up, landing himself on the top of a nearby building and scanning the streets below. Many kelzin preferred to use carriages rather than walking—Kenton, like most Lossanders, considered them a waste of time. Kezare was busy enough that walking was usually faster. Now, however, he was beginning to realize why such things might be necessary.

  He spotted a carriage a few streets away, and its open-topped back was empty, so Kenton decided to give it a try. He dropped himself three stories to land inside the back of the moving carriage—startling the poor driver.

  “My Lord!” exclaimed the driver, a Lossandin man with what appeared to be a lame leg.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be free for hire, would you?” Kenton asked hopefully.

  The man lowered his eyes nervously. “Yes, My Lord. Um, where should I take you?”

  “Excellent,” Kenton said with a nod. “First we need to pick up my friends. How much do you charge for a day?”

  “Charge, My Lord?” the man asked. “But, you’re …”

  “I’d still rather pay,” Kenton said amiably. “If that’s all right with you.”

  “Um, certainly, My Lord. Three lak then.” The man frowned as Kenton counted out the coins and handed them to him. He acted as if it were one of the strangest things he had seen.

  #

  At first, Khriss thought the approaching object was one massive sandling. As it approached, however, she realized it was just one of the carriages. She had seen them occasionally in town; they were fashioned completely from carapace plates, uniformly black except for the rims of the wheels, which were made of steel. Two very large tonks pulled the contraption—more like a cart than a carriage—and Kenton lounged in the back.