White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Elorin?” Khriss said, trying to place a face with the name. “The balding man?”

  Kenton nodded.

  “What about him?” Khriss asked. The man had been so unassuming, she usually hadn’t paid much attention to him.

  “He was the leader of the assassins,” Kenton explained. “He converted to Ker’Reen worship a number of months ago, and has been working against us ever since.”

  “Oh, Kenton,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.” She knew, quite powerfully, how painful a betrayal could be.

  Kenton shook his head. “I should have seen it sooner.”

  Khriss paused. Kenton looked so hurt, but she had something she needed to tell him. “Kenton,” she said slowly. “I … can’t stay here on dayside.”

  Kenton looked up, meeting her eyes. Then he rested back. “I know,” he said with a sigh.

  Wrong answer, Khriss thought with despair. He really didn’t want her. He was like Gevin, pretending. Well, not completely pretending. Gevin had been a liar; Kenton just wanted to protect her feelings. I should have realized that he wouldn’t want me, Khriss though with a quiet shake of her head. In a way, she had realized it. Why would Kenton want her?

  “Elis is in trouble,” she explained. And I would abandon it for you. “I am a duchess; my people need me.” Not as much as I need you. Ask me to stay.

  “I had a feeling you were going to say something like that,” Kenton said with a sigh. “How long before you leave?”

  Khriss barely held back the tears. “Not long,” she said. “I need to leave as soon as possible. Today, perhaps.”

  “So soon?” Kenton asked.

  “Elis needs me,” she repeated. You know that is a lie, Khriss. Why would Elis need you? They’ve probably forgotten who you are.

  #

  It made sense. First Eric, then Elorin, now Khriss. Perhaps on another day, he would have objected more. But after what he had just experienced, Kenton was expecting something horrible to happen—and Khriss’s leaving was just about the most horrible thing he could imagine.

  You should say something, he told himself. Tell her how you feel. Unfortunately, he suspected that he would just embarrass her. Every time she had gotten close to him, she had immediately pulled back for some reason. Kenton suspected he knew what it was. He was an experiment to her—a ‘primitive.’ She couldn’t fall in love with him.

  In his depressed, self-pitying world, it made perfect sense. When he opened his eyes, she was gone.

  #

  Khriss actually waited until the next day to leave. Kenton stood on the docks, watching the packmen load her things. He bid a thankful farewell to Baon and Cynder, gave Khriss a chaste hug, bidding her to return when her country was safe once again, then watched her walk up the plank to board the ship. Behind her, the packmen lugged up three barrels of white sand—she claimed she was going to find a way to make sand mastery work on darkside.

  Kenton stood on the dock for a long time, watching the boat sail away. He watched it long after he lost sight of Khriss’s beautiful, long hair fluttering in the wind. Then he watched the horizon long after the ship had disappeared.

  “Khriss, please stay,” he finally whispered.

  But, of course, it was too late.

  Kenton turned with a sigh, nodding for Dirin to follow him as he hired a dockman to return them to the shore. He had saved the Diem, rescued sand mastery when everyone thought it was lost. But he felt as if he had lost something far more important.

  #

  Ais set aside his trackt’s uniform. He would never wear that again. Instead he packed a few simple robes in his bag. He owned few possessions beyond his clothing, none of any importance.

  “Where will you go?” Mellis asked, standing on the far side of the room.

  Ais bowed his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “The deep sand, I think. I need answers, Mellis. My prayers yield nothing.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she decided.

  “You need to take care of Melly,” he replied. “I need to do this on my own.”

  “No, Ais,” his wife corrected. “That is where you are wrong. You don’t ever need to do anything alone.”

  He looked up, meeting her eyes, then lowered his own in shame. He didn’t deserve her. “All right,” he said. “But I intent to visit Ker Kedasha, the capitol itself. Lossanders are not treated well there.”

  “I don’t care, Ais,” she vowed. “I’m not going to sit here and wait, and neither is Melly. If you’re going to the deep sand, then so are we.”

  “You’ll have to act like a Kershtian woman,” he warned.

  “I can do that,” she said with a defiance that no Kershtian woman would dare show.

  Ais smiled slightly. “All right. Let’s go, then.”

  He would go to the A’Kar himself. Maybe the holiest man on the sands would be able to answer Ais’s questions for him.

  If not, then he would just have to find another place to look.

  Epilogue

  Across the sands from Lossand, on the border of the deep sands, there was a city whose culture made Lossand look primitive, whose politics made the Taishin appear child-like, and whose population made Kezare a tiny village by comparison. The cradle of Kershtian civilization, the grandest center for the arts and sciences on dayside, the largest center of business on the sands, it was Ker Kedasha, the Kershtian capitol.

  Composed entirely of tents—tents that spread for miles—Ker Kedasha looked like a conglomeration of darkside mushrooms. Each tent competed with its neighbors in style, shape, and color. There were massive constructions that could hold thousands of people at once, and there were tiny hovels that barely kept the sand out.

  In one of the largest tents in the city, a meeting was taking place. The masters of Kershtian society, the leaders, the pundits, the Klin, the wealthy, and the important were meeting. The Choosing, it was called. From this meeting, the man who would shape Kershtian society for the next fifty years would be chosen. And, for the first time in centuries, the choice was not certain.

  Men argued. Others rebutted. Each spoke respectfully—this was Kershtian society, not Godless Lossand. Still, there was a sense of tension in the room. The A’Kar’s attempts were well known. He had nearly destroyed the sand masters, an amazing feat. That alone had gained him many supporters.

  Others pointed out, however, that the Diem had not been destroyed. A mastrell lived on—the A’Kar’s assassins had failed. There was a Kershtian proverb, they reminded—a pinch or a dune, it is all sand. It didn’t matter that the A’Kar had killed a lot of the mastrells, as long as one still lived, the blasphemy would continue.

  These arguments were also strong. The A’Kar’s failure to destroy the mastrells was troubling. He had much to complete his goals, but he had failed. Now the Kershtian merchants had to deal with hostility from their Lossandin associates. As advanced as Kershtian culture was, it still needed trade with Lossand to get metals, amongst other things.

  War could also deliver those things, the A’Kar’s supporters whispered. They didn’t do more than hint, however. War was not a thing that merchants found attractive, and many Kershtians were also merchants. Still, the idea was intriguing to some—mostly the younger, less established members of the meeting.

  The vote was cast, and the High Merchant won—though the vote was incredibly close. The members of the meeting congratulated one another. It had been a fine meeting, full of fine discussions. In the end, their choice had been difficult. They had made it, however, and now everyone could go back to their own business.

  They were completely surprised, therefore, when they stepped out of their tent to find that during their deliberations, the A’Kar’s holy warriors had surrounded and taken the city.

  The A’Kar smiled at them, suggesting that they rethink their decision.

  #

  Kenton stood on his balcony, looking down at the courtyard, his face disconsolate. He didn’t know what it was—he had grown increasingly depressed in
the weeks following his victory. He should have been elated, or at least satisfied. Instead, he was morose.

  He looked out over the Diem. It was working smoothly now, much the way it had before the fateful attack. There were major differences, however. The sand masters as a whole were stronger—Kenton had taught them the overmastery trick. He had managed to extend his own powers to six full ribbons, though he had been right, the more one tried the trick the smaller the result one received. Still, Kenton didn’t worry. Sheer power wasn’t always the only factor—Kenton’s own talent lay in a different area.

  Another difference in the Diem could be seen down below. Children playing in the courtyard. Some of the sand masters who survived had families, and Kenton had invited them to bring their wives and children into the Diem. This had easily solved the problem of who got the upper rooms—the third floor rooms were the largest, therefore Kenton gave them to those with families.

  The Diem was a happier place now, he could sense that, even if little of its joy extended to him. He had made good on his promise, and the sand masters were proving extremely useful in Kezare business. Lord Rite’s craftsmen were always inventing new ways to make use of sand mastery, and the returns were greater than any had expected. It would still take decades to pay the Guild back, but all involved were satisfied with the results.

  A month before, Kenton had announced his new plan for giving sashes. They would now be granted for both skill and power. In addition, he made provisions for increasing in rank. Those who showed promise and increased their abilities could move to a higher sash. In fact, under Kenton’s plan, no acolent would be given the golden sash at first. There would be no more fourteen year-old mastrells. Now, the golden sash would take years to earn, even for a powerful sand master.

  It was a good system, and Kenton was pleased with it. He had made a few exceptions at the beginning, giving out two golden sashes to the most promising of the sand masters. He needed mastrells to help him with the Diem’s leadership. For some reason, he was having trouble focusing on his duties. It probably had to do with his depression, he guessed.

  A knock came at his door.

  “Come in,” he said, still leaning against the carapace banister.

  “Progress reports, sir,” Dirin explained, walking into the room. “I think Terr might be deserving of an undermastrell’s sash—he has been working hard, and the Overmastery-empowerment has effected him strongly.”

  Kenton nodded absently, barely giving Dirin’s forms a look. “Do as you think is best,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Dirin said, bowing slightly. He turned, moving toward the door. But then, however, he paused.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  Kenton looked up.

  “I don’t mean to be forward, sir … .” Dirin began.

  “Speak your mind, Dirin,” Kenton said.

  “Sir, you have to get over her,” Dirin said. “It’s been three months now.”

  “Get over her?” Kenton said, turning. “What are you taking about?”

  Dirin blushed slightly. “The duchess, sir. She’s gone—you shouldn’t let your loss affect your ability to lead.”

  Now Kenton blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t you?” Dirin asked.

  Kenton frowned. The boy was growing more brave, lately. That wasn’t a bad thing—except when it came to questioning Kenton’s love life.

  But, confronted with it, Kenton was forced to admit the truth in Dirin’s words. He missed Khriss. He missed her a lot. She dominated his dreams; her face always seemed to be hanging in the back of his mind. He longed to hear her annoying questions, and wished she were around to get angry at him. He hadn’t had a good argument since the Council vote three months before—everyone just did what he said.

  Khrissalla, why did you have to go? But, he knew the answer to that. Responsibility was something he understood all too well now. He respected Khriss for returning to darkside to help her people—that was her duty. Of course, he could respect her for the decision and hate her for it at the same time.

  Kenton sighed. Dirin was right, though. He had to do something—he wasn’t doing his own duty as long as he was focused on Khriss.

  Get over her. He shook his head slowly. I don’t think so.

  “Dirin, charter me a ship.”

  The boy frowned. Of course, he wasn’t really a boy—he never had been. He was only two years younger than Kenton, though everyone assumed he was younger.

  “Where to, sir?” Dirin asked.

  “Darkside,” Kenton announced with a smile.

  “Sir?” Dirin asked with surprise. “But—”

  “You’re in charge until I get back. You’ve been taking care of this place this entire time anyway.”

  Dirin’s eyes grew wide. “But, sir! I couldn’t. I’m not a mastrell, I’m just an acolent.”

  Kenton pulled off his golden sash. “Not any more, you aren’t.”

  “Sir, you can’t give that to me just because you are leaving,” Dirin said with a blush.

  “That’s not the reason, Dirin,” Kenton said truthfully. “I was intending to give one to you anyway. You’re the weakest sand master I know, but you’re also the most competent. The Diem will prosper under your guidance. It’s stable now; everyone knows what to do. You have two new mastrells. They’ll help you—both are older men, who have been in the Diem for a long time. I suspect you three will do a much better job than I could anyway.”

  “I doubt that, sir,” Dirin replied, eyeing the sash indecisively.

  “I’m good for a fight, Dirin,” Kenton said, “but I know my weaknesses. When there’s not a crisis, I’m hardly worth the gold in my sash. Trust me—you deserve this.”

  Dirin accepted the sash with wide, disbelieving eyes. Kenton smiled, patting him on the shoulder. Then he turned, looking out over the Diem and toward the horizon. He felt invigorated for the first time in months.

  Well, Khriss, you came to dayside to find your prince. You’ll have to settle for me instead. I’m coming.