White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kenton continued to pace, kicking up sand in frustration. The party across the courtyard had slowed, and several of Drile’s guests were stumbling down the staircase. Several more had collapsed near the balcony, unconscious on the floor.

  Well, at least one good thing will come from this. That man won’t be Lord Mastrell. However, Kenton knew the thought was a fallacy—true, Drile wouldn’t be Lord Mastrell. He would be something worse: a mercenary lord who used sand mastery to subjugate the people of dayside.

  “Sands!” Kenton hissed out loud, continuing his pacing with a vengeful step. He could have handled loosing to contrary votes, but to loose because of abstained votes? He was impotent—he couldn’t do a single thing to forestall his doom.

  The door slammed open suddenly. “I’ve got it!” Khriss announced to the surprised room. “He’s hiding in Lraezare, wherever that is.”

  “What?” Kenton blinked, staring at her eager face with surprise. “I mean, how?”

  Khriss smiled cryptically. “I have my sources,” she explained. “I am, after all, a master politician.”

  “Lraezare,” Kenton said. Vey had run as far as he possibly could and still be in Lossand.

  “A three day round trip,” Eric mused. “I suppose we could make it. It’d be close, though.”

  “Let’s get moving, then!” Kenton said enthusiastically, rushing from the room.

  #

  The Kezare Dockmaster was a strong Kershtian man of thick build with an expression that said ‘whatever you want, it isn’t worth my time.’ He was a busy man, always running across the docks, yelling orders and organizing his unloaders. However, he was easy to find, because his bellowing voice carried even over the riotous sounds of the crowd. He wore simple robes with the Helm’s symbol, a steering wheel, on its breast.

  Kenton approached the man for the second time in one day. This time, however, he was more confident—he wasn’t looking for information, only a ride. The dockman saw him coming and growled in annoyance. He screamed one last order at a line of men who were carrying carapace boxes up onto a broad-bottomed ship.

  “You again?” the man said with dissatisfaction. “I told you, I don’t know where he is.”

  “That’s all right,” Kenton said with a smile. “Fortunately, I do. I need passage on a ship to Lraezare.”

  “Sorry,” the Dockmaster said immediately. “There aren’t any places available.”

  “What?” Kenton snorted. “Dozens of ships leave this dock every day. You’re telling me none of them are travelling to Lraezare? It’s one of the largest ports south of Kezare!”

  “No,” the man snapped. “I didn’t say there weren’t any ships going to Lraezare. I said there aren’t any that have room for you.”

  “But, don’t you need to check your ledgers to know that?” Kenton challenged.

  “No,” the man said again. “I already did. Earlier, when Vey spoke with me.”

  Kenton paused. The Dockmaster had called a Lord Taisha by his given name, with no title affixed. Surely no one would dare such an affront, especially not a Kershtian. Unless …

  “You wouldn’t be related to the Lord Merchant, would you?” Kenton asked.

  The Dockmaster smiled. “He’s my uncle,” he said with an evil glint in his eye.

  Kenton cursed to himself. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll contact the separate captains and see if any of them can make room for me.”

  “You can’t do that,” the Dockmaster warned. “It’s against the Law—all passengers must be taxed as proper. You have to go through me if you want to ride on anything bigger than a ferry to the shore.”

  “All right,” Kenton shot back, “then I’ll charter a ship.”

  “You’re welcome to do so,” the man said with a shrug, snapping an order at a slacking dockworker. “Assuming you can afford one, of course. As I recall, mastrells can’t commandeer ships.”

  Kenton froze, then cursed again. The Diem barely had a few hundred lak left in its stores—he had spend most of their remaining coin buying food. There was some sort of carapace shortage to the east—apparently, a disease had struck the sandling herds. ZaiDon prices had been going up steadily over the last few weeks.

  The Dockmaster smiled again, then turned away from Kenton, rushing over to yell at a group of dockmen who had accidentally dropped a large box, cracking it and spilling grain onto the ground.

  “Vey covers his tracks well,” Eric noted. “He probably didn’t trust the Lord Farmer to keep quiet. I suppose we could swim there.”

  Kenton ignored him, thinking quickly. They could commandeer some rezalin—the sandlings moved as quickly as a boat. Unfortunately, a lot of their speed was hampered in Lossand, where they didn’t have dunes to jump on. In addition, their feet were curved for pushing against sand—running across rock could cause them permanent damage.

  He could use a smaller boat, a ferry or the like. However, without sails and oars, he doubted they would make the trip in time—especially when they had to come back up stream.

  “Why, hello, Lord Mastrell,” a slurred voice said. “What an odd place to find you.”

  Kenton turned with surprise to find Delious in a bright pink robe moving through the crowd behind him. The same young man that always followed Delious—his wine steward—stood beside him like usual, holding a jug of wine. Behind the steward were packmen holding large trunks.

  “Lord Admiral …” Kenton said, smiling as he got an idea. “What brings you here?”

  “Why, I’m going on a trip,” Delious announced. “To the south. I feel a sudden urge to visit the Shipowner’s Circle. They’re headquartered in Lraezare you know.”

  Delious smiled, catching Kenton’s eye. “Would you like to join me?” he asked. “It seems like it will be a delightful trip.”

  Kenton looked at Delious, cocking his head slightly to the side. There was no way this was a coincidence. But, how had he known … ? Suddenly, he knew that he had seriously underestimated Lord Delious.

  “Yes, it does sound delightful,” Kenton said. “I would love to join you.”

  “Wonderful!” Delious exclaimed. He turned lazily, catching the Dockmaster’s eye. “Oh, NaiMeer!” he said. “Come over here, please!”

  The Dockmaster gritted his teeth, but he did obey. “Yes, Lord Admiral,” he said with a poorly disguised sneer.

  “I shall need a ship for a few days,” Delious said, looking over those in dock. “Say, that one.” He pointed at a ship that had just finished its unloading procedures. “Warn the captain that we shall be leaving for Lraezare within the hour. The Circle will compensate him for any losses, of course.”

  “But—” the Dockmaster began.

  “I know, I know,” Delious said. “It isn’t grand enough for me by far, but I’m in a hurry. Please warn the captain so he doesn’t let his crew get scattered through the city.”

  The Dockmaster shot a hating look at Kenton, then bowed slightly. “Yes, My Lord,” he said.

  “Delightful man,” Delious said, patting him on the head. “Steward, pour him a drink. He looks like he’s been working far too hard.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Lord Mastrell?”

  Kenton looked up to find Elorin regarding him with a confused look. The old sand master looked wearied for some reason, his white robes hanging limply on his body, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep.

  Of course, Kenton thought with a smile, I probably look just as bad. This has been a hard week for all of us.

  “I have to go, Elorin,” he explained.

  “Go?” Elorin asked with surprise. “But, you can’t. The Diem needs you, My Lord.”

  “It needs me to go to the south,” Kenton said, throwing a few of his newly tailored outfits into a carapace trunk. “The Lords Merchant and General have fled to Lraezare. If I don’t get there and persuade them to come up for the next Council, then we’ll lose their votes by default.”

  Kenton closed the trunk, then stood, turning to place his hand on E
lorin’s shoulder. The old sand master had returned to help, but during the last week and a half he had shown little of the efficiency that had made him such an excellent Lord Mastrell’s assistant. The specter of his lost abilities haunted the old man. He barely did anything anymore, floating through the Diem’s halls like windblown sand. He occasionally visited Kenton, but his personality was even more subdued than it had been before. The poor man wasn’t dealing well with his losses.

  “I have a request for you, old friend,” Kenton said.

  Elorin looked up, his tired eyes meeting Kenton’s. “Yes, Lord Mastrell?”

  “Watch the Diem for me while I’m gone. You’re the only one here I trust with such a duty, now that Dirin is gone.”

  “I shall … try, My Lord,” the man said quietly.

  Kenton patted him on the shoulder, then reached out and threw a ribbon of sand at his trunk. The container floated into the air, following Kenton out of the room as he headed toward the docks.

  Elorin watched him go, his eyes looking even more burdened than before.

  #

  When Kenton arrived back at the ship, a disheveled Khriss was supervising the dockmen who were carrying three enormous trunks onto the boat. She had reacted to the trip with anxiety, claiming she would never have enough time to get ready. Such had obviously been an exaggeration—after all, she had beat Kenton back to the ship.

  “Those can’t all be yours,” Kenton chided. “You only had a tonk’s worth two weeks ago.”

  Khriss blushed. “I’ve made some purchases since then,” she defended. “A lady has to be properly outfitted.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re making the local merchants happy,” Kenton said with a shrug, whipping his own sand-born trunk toward the deck. “Come on.”

  He offered her his arm, then the two of them followed the dockmen up the plank and onto deck. There they found Delious lounging in a deck chair waiting for them, his steward standing attentively behind him. The elderly Cynder, wearing one of his customary darkside suits, relaxed in a chair beside the Lord Admiral, a cup of wine in his hands.

  “Are we finally ready?” Delious asked.

  “I suppose. Is everyone here?”

  “The bodyguard and the Lord General’s boy are talking back there,” Delious said, nodding toward the ship’s aft. “In the back part of the ship—I can never remember what it’s called. That impossibly bad tempered trackt is down below, stowing his things. The good professor here has been teaching me to speak darksider. Listen,” Delious proffered his cup, speaking in a loud voice, “have some swine!” he said enthusiastically in Dynastic.

  Cynder shrugged, chuckling. “Close enough, I suppose.”

  Kenton, however, was regarding the glint in the drunken Taisha’s eyes. Delious was smiling slightly as he raised his cup to his lips—he knew exactly what he had said. At that moment Delious shot him a look that was so startlingly lucid that Kenton almost jumped in surprise.

  Sands … he’s drunk, but he’s not. I was wrong about this man. At the Lord Admiral’s party, Kenton had assumed the slight edge of wit he had sensed in the man was only a broken remnant from what he had once been. Now Kenton was beginning to rescind that supposition.

  Is the drunkenness an act? But, no, his cheeks are red, his voice slurred, and he’s definitely drinking that wine. It’s no act.

  Delious ordered for the departure procedures to go forth, and Kenton moved over, taking a seat in one of the chairs that were attached to the deck. Delious gestured a foppish arm, offering Kenton a drink, but Kenton shook his head. He couldn’t make sense of this man.

  Regardless, he had something he had been planning to try. Now that he was on the ship, he was probably relatively safe from assassins. He finally had a chance to do something he had considering for some time. If he didn’t do it now, he would lose the opportunity.

  He reached into his sand pouch, pulling out a handful of sand.

  “What are you doing?” Khriss asked.

  Kenton regarded the sand for a moment, its bright whiteness glowing in the sunlight. It hid a power that had to be unlocked. Was Kenton the same way? Did he have further power inside him, power that he could harness somehow?

  “I’m going to overmaster,” he finally decided.

  “What?” Khriss asked with concern. “What’s that?”

  “It means I’m going to intentionally hold sand longer than I should, draining the water from my body.”

  “Draining the …” Khriss said with a frown. She didn’t push the issue, however. Instead she simply said, “won’t that be dangerous?”

  “Probably,” Kenton admitted. “But it’s the only thing I can think of,” he explained. “When you first found me nearly dead in the kerla, I was sick primarily because I had overmastered. But, before that happened, I could only control one ribbon. After I recovered, I could master three.”

  “But, what if that’s just a parallel syllogism?” Khriss demanded.

  Kenton raised his eyebrows, chuckling slightly. “A what? I thought we were speaking Dynastic.”

  Khriss blushed. “What if the overmastery and your gaining powers happened at the same time, but are completely unrelated?”

  “I have to take that chance,” Kenton decided. “Khriss, I can’t defeat Drile with only three ribbons. He can control twenty-five—he’ll kill me in a matter of seconds. If I don’t find some way to boost my ability, then my bones will be drying in the sun before this week is over.” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “I keep finding more reasons to survive.”

  Khriss looked at him with worried eyes. “But, last time … .” Khriss said, obviously remembering the state he had been in when she found him. “It could be deadly,” she assumed.

  “The mastrells always taught that it was,” Kenton agreed. “According to them, even if you did survive, you were supposed to lose your powers.” Suddenly, he remembered chilling image of Elorin, the old undermastrell’s eyes pained, bearing an incredible torment that Kenton vaguely remembered. Apparently, some of what the mastrells had said was true. It was possible to lose one’s powers through overmastery. Kenton had almost lost his powers once—could he voluntarily do the same thing to himself again?

  Then, however, another image appeared in his mind. Drile, rising into the air, two dozen ribbons of sand whipping around him like writhing souls of the damned. Three ribbons couldn’t possibly stand against such power. He had to do something.

  He held out his fist, and called the sand to life. It flashed with inner power, the individual grains of sand dancing into the air, as if joyous to finally release their stored energy. Two other ribbons followed, and he loaded all three with as much sand as he could manage.

  Khriss, Delious, and Cynder watched him with transfixed eyes. Mastered sand was a captivating sight, its colors shifting and swirling, sometimes forming patterns, sometimes sparkling like a thousand different individual shows. Even with three ribbons it took a while before Kenton began to feel the effects. A mastrell mastering at full power could go as long as ten minutes without overmastering, and Kenton could only control three. Before, with one, he had been able to last over a half hour—assuming he wasn’t doing anything else strenuous to drain his water.

  This time it took about twenty minutes. First his skin began to dry. Without sweat to cool his body, he began to overheat. It was as if the sun itself had crawled in his chest, burning away at his blood. His eyes and mouth were next, his eyes beginning to burn, his mouth growing dry, his tongue feeling like a lifeless lump.

  He began to shake, his body craving water. Yet, he forced himself on, mastering beyond what he had ever dared. The desire to let go became unbearable, and he felt himself compulsively reaching for his qido. Once, his claw like fingers almost got the lid off, but he managed to force himself to put it back down.

  He could barely see now. He had to struggle too direct his water usage, keeping the sand mastery from draining his eyes or his brain. The pain was incredible.

  They need
n’t have warned us about this, he thought, feeling himself begin to slump in his chair. Who would sanely attempt something so painful? All of the mastrells’ reinforcement, all of their care to make certain we don’t overmaster, it must have been to hide the truth of overmastery. It must have been …

  #

  Khriss cried out as she saw Kenton slump out of his chair and fall to the deck. Ignoring decorum, she rushed to his side, grabbing him and yelling for him to stop. His eyes were closed, he was barely breathing, and his lips were parched as if he had spent days laying in the sun. Yet, his sand continued to hover over his head. She held his limp body close. A second later, his sand dropped to the deck.

  At that moment, holding him against her chest, Khriss felt Kenton’s heart stop.

  Khriss grew cold. “His heart isn’t beating!” she cried frantically. She turned around, seeing the confusion in Delious’s eyes, the helplessness in Cynder’s.

  Khriss sat, confused. What was going on? What could they do. “Wake up!” she yelled at Kenton. “Don’t die! You can’t die. Not now. Not after… .” She felt hysteria rising, barely felt herself shaking Kenton’s body, demanding that he rise.

  “My Lady!” Cynder said, leaping to his feet. “What is wrong with you?”

  She ignored him, continuing shake Kenton. She slapped his face, pounded on his chest, and felt the tears on her cheeks. Voices were calling all around her.

  Suddenly, a weak hand grabbed her own. “I’m sorry for frightening you,” Kenton mumbled. “But would you kindly stop hitting me?”

  Khriss blinked, whipping her eyes in surprise. Kenton was coughing quietly, his eyes open slightly. He groaned.

  Khriss reached down, grabbing his water bottle and lifting it to his lips. He drank gratefully.

  “Kenton, that was the most idiotic thing I have ever seen anyone do,” she informed.