White Sand

by Sanderson, Brandon

  “What do you mean?” Kenton asked with a frown.

  “The Diem’s financial situation, for one thing,” Heelis explained.

  “Financial situation?”

  “The Diem has no money, Kenton,” Heelis said.

  Kenton blinked in surprise. “No money?” he asked.

  “Actually, it has great debts.”

  “But the tributes … .”

  “Most Professions stopped paying tribute to the Diem a long time ago, child,” Heelis explained. “They got tired of paying the sand masters, then having the Mastrells take whatever they wanted in addition to the tribute.”

  “But, the Law … .”

  Heelis shook her head. “The tribute wasn’t part of the Law, child. It was given out of respect and thankfulness—things that the Professions stopped feeling long ago. I might have been able to do something if the mastrells had objected, but none of them did. They actually seemed to enjoy spiting the other Professions—you see, the cessation of the tributes only gave the mastrells more reason to misuse their powers. You know that the golden sash you wear gives you the power to demand any good or service from a merchant free of charge? Technically you are supposed to pay the money back, but there is no time limit set on when you must do so.”

  Kenton nodded. Such was part of the Diem’s Charter.

  “Well, the less tribute the other Professions paid, the more the mastrells demanded from the Profession members, walking into their shops and procuring crafts or expensive pieces of art. There is a reason why the other Professions hate the sand masters so.”

  “I didn’t know,” Kenton admitted.

  “Yes,” Heelis continued. “The only Profession that has continued to pay the tribute all this time is the Guild.”

  “The Guild?” Kenton asked with surprise. “The merchants? That doesn’t make any sense—Lord Vey is one of the most outspoken enemies of the Diem!”

  “I know,” Heelis said. “It is very odd of him. Regardless, I cannot, with good conscience, vote in favor of the Diem as long as it retains such large debts. You can probably request ledgers from the separate Professions to find out exactly how much they claim you owe them, but expect to see some very large figures. This has been going on for some time.”

  Kenton took a breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That isn’t all, young Kenton,” Heelis warned. “There is also the leadership factor. If what I saw today is any indication, you are going to have a difficult time convincing the rest of your sand masters to follow you. A Profession that cannot agree on its own leader is not stable enough to maintain its status and Taisha.”

  “I’ll find a way to bring the other sand masters to my side,” Kenton informed.

  “Not just sand masters, child,” Heelis warned. “I must lay one more task upon you. The Professions represent the people of Lossand. We govern by their sufferance. If the people are morally opposed to sand mastery, then I would not be able to continue to support you. First you must convince the Diem to accept you, but then you must convince Lossand to accept the Diem.”

  Kenton sighed. He had assumed his task impossible, but now … he not only had to persuade all seven Taisha to rescind their votes to destroy his profession, but he needed to pay off the Diem’s debts and convince the nation to accept him. How would he manage such a task in two weeks?

  “I warned you, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said, opening the door to her rooms and stepping in. “May the Sand Lord watch over you.”

  “I’m certain He will,” Kenton mumbled as she shut the door. “He’s probably eagerly awaiting my failure.”

  #

  Kenton found Dirin waiting patiently beside the Hall’s outer steps, contentedly buffing a carapace statue’s head. “Dirin,” Kenton mumbled as he approached, “you’re too sands-cursed good for your own good.”

  “What?” Dirin asked as Kenton strode down the steps.

  “Never mind,” Kenton replied, looking across the small courtyard before the Hall. The crowd had mostly dispersed, leaving a few scattered groups. None of them, however, wore sand master white. “Where is everyone?”

  Dirin grimaced slightly. “They … went with Drile.”

  “Aiesha,” Kenton cursed. “Come on, back to the Diem.”

  #

  They found the sand masters gathered in the Diem’s inner courtyard. The courtyard, filled with sand, of course, was large—much wider than any of the Diem’s four sides. Lines of small, separate balconies ran along the second and third floors—entrances to the private chambers of mastrells and other high-ranking sand masters. In the direct center of the courtyard was a free-standing mushroom-shaped structure, the building where the sand masters had met.

  In front of this meeting-house stood Drile, speaking authoritatively to the collected remnants of the Diem. His firm-featured square face was calm as he looked at different sand masters in turn, demanding something Kenton couldn’t hear. Around his waist he wore a golden sash.

  “Drile!” Kenton demanded as he approached. “What are you doing?”

  Drile ignored Kenton, speaking to a Diemfen in a brown sash. “You swear?” he asked the man.

  “I do,” the Diemfen—Terr was his name—affirmed.

  “All right, then you may count yourself in,” Drile promised.

  Kenton pushed his way through the group of sand masters. “Drile, what on the sands are you doing!” he repeated.

  Drile raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward Kenton. “Why, I’m distributing rooms on the top floor, Lord Mastrell. The mastrells no longer need them.”

  Kenton snorted. “And tell me, Drile, what criteria are you using to judge who gets to live on the top floor and who doesn’t?”

  Drile shrugged slightly. “I choose those who seem most likely to be loyal to … the mastrells.”

  “Or most likely to you, I suspect,” Kenton shot back.

  Drile turned away from Kenton then, nodding to the next Diemfen in line. “So tell me, why do you think I should let you have a place in the mastrells quarters?”

  “Drile,” Kenton ordered, “stop this foolishness.”

  Drile didn’t turn. “Why should I?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Because it’s ridiculous,” Kenton said. “If we’re going to give away rooms, we’ll do it in an orderly fashion, by rank.”

  Drile turned with a raised eyebrow. “But Kenton,” he said with mock consternation on his face, “weren’t you always the one who said that rank shouldn’t matter? That power was a poor means of judging a sand master?”

  “I …” Kenton said, stunned.

  Drile snorted, turning back to his task.

  Kenton closed his mouth, still stupefied by Drile’s rebuttal. By the sands, he’s arrogant! Kenton thought with amazement. He’s acting like … like I used to. Oh sands … .

  “Look, Drile,” Kenton said, gathering his thoughts. “We can discuss this later, find a fair means of distributing the rooms. Let me think about it for a little while first.”

  Drile sighed, shaking his head, but he did turn to face Kenton once again. “And why should I listen to you? You have no authority over me.”

  Kenton felt himself growing angry. “I was appointed Lord Ma—”

  “Let us move this meeting somewhere else!” Drile announced in a loud voice, interrupting Kenton as he spun to face the collected sand masters. “Say … in the very rooms we are discussing? Yes, let us move to the third floor. All of those who are able, that is.”

  Drile turned with a smile, shooting Kenton a victorious look as the sand around his feet exploded with light. The sand rose around Drile like a vortex of light, lifting him into the air, ribbons of sand whipping lightning-like around him. He landed on the third-floor balcony of what had once been the Lord Mastrell’s chambers, and casually walked inside.

  Around Kenton sand masters regarded him with embarrassment or amusement. Then the fourteen Diemfens and several of the more powerful fens gathered their sand ar
ound themselves and began to rise into the air. None of them were as showy as Drile, of course, and several were barely strong enough to lift themselves so high. Kenton was left standing red-faced, surrounded by a small crowd of fens, underfens, and acolents.

  Very clever, Drile, Kenton thought. A short time ago, that little move would have ended the argument.

  Slowly, Kenton reached into his sand pouch and pulled out a handful of sand. Hesitantly, irrationally fearing that his experience before entering the Hall had been a fluke, he called the sand to life. It pulsed and shifted warmly in his hand, shining with the familiar glow of sand mastery. He sent it in a ribbon to the courtyard floor, where he gathered sand into it. Then he split the one ribbon into three.

  The sand flashed, rising like three trails of smoke to surround him. Immediately a wave of surprised whispers ran through the crowd around him. Kenton raised his head, looking up at the third floor with trepidation. Historically, three ribbons was the minimum amount required to lift a sand master more than a few feet in the air. Many sand masters who could control three, or even four, ribbons still couldn’t lift themselves to such a height. What if he still wasn’t powerful enough?

  Taking a deep breath, he gathered his ribbons beneath him, one underneath his feet and one underneath each of his arms. Then, he pushed.

  Air rushed around him, battering his face and his clothing as he shot into the air like a zinkall arrow. He cried out, surprised at the force of his jump, as he passed the balcony and continued into the air.

  Kenton floundered in the maladroit leap, finally reaching his apex a full twenty feet above the Diem’s roof. He ordered his sand ribbons to him, realizing with horror the drop that awaited him. Fortunately, he was good at falling—even the weakest sand master could slow a fall enough to keep himself from being seriously hurt. He sent the ribbons forward as began to plummet, using them to guide him towards the balcony and slow him to a reasonable speed.

  His feet slapped against the carapace balcony, leaving him disoriented, his heart racing. The jump became worth it, however, the moment he saw Drile’s face. The former mastrell stood at the back of the room’s inner chamber. He stood with his mouth open, his voice swept away by complete amazement. His arm, which had been raised, dropped lethargically to his side as he leaned forward. Kenton could almost hear Drile’s mind counting Kenton’s ribbons over and over again.

  Kenton stepped forward, letting his ribbons swirl predominately around him. “I thought I told you to stop this foolishness, Drile,” he said in a quiet, but firm, voice.

  “I …” Drile trailed off, counting again. “Three?” he asked with confusion.

  Kenton stopped right in front of Drile, then raised his hand and pointed at the door. “Get out of my father’s room!” he ordered.

  “And why should I obey an obvious traitor like yourself?” Drile demanded.

  Kenton paused. “Traitor?” he asked incredulously.

  “Tell us why you came back so late, Kenton,” Drile whispered. “Tell us where you have been? Did the Kershtians treat you nicely while you received your payment from them? Or, did they turn you away like the filth you are?”

  “What are you taking about?” Kenton demanded. Surely Drile wasn’t insinuating …

  “We all know someone betrayed the Diem, Kenton,” Drile informed. “We’ve all figured it out. Isn’t it convenient that you disappeared in the middle of the battle, then arrive here safely, travelling alone across the kerla?”

  “There’s only one traitor here, Drile,” Kenton hissed. “And it isn’t me. There is only one man bitter enough at the Diem for taking away his rank, one man with a streak of vengefulness strong enough to commit such an atrocity.”

  Drile’s eyes grew wide with anger. “You accuse me?” he demanded. “You, traitor, dare to accuse your better?”

  Kenton felt his face grow hot with rage. This was the man who had cost him his father and friends. This was the man who had nearly destroyed the Diem. And now he was trying to blame Kenton. He was a coward. Unfortunately, Kenton had no real proof that the man was a traitor—he couldn’t get him thrown out of the Diem with simple accusations.

  “Get out of my father’s rooms,” Kenton said quietly, surprised at the tense anger in his eyes.

  Drile looked back defiantly.

  Kenton stared Drile right in the eyes, just as he had seen Praxton do on that infamous day of advancement that seemed so long ago. He forced his will, his anger, and his rage against Drile. As he did so, Drile’s eyes flickered uncertainly toward Kenton’s ribbons—three instead of one.

  A second later Drile turned away, nodding for his followers to join him as he stalked out of the room into the hallway beyond.

  “And take off the sash,” Kenton ordered. “Otherwise I’ll report you to the Taisha for violating the Diem’s charter.”

  Drile shot one look back at him—an angry, defiant look. Then he disappeared.

  The other sand masters watched Drile leave, their faces muted. Once he was gone they slowly slipped from the room, some following the former mastrell, others leaving off the balcony.

  When he was alone, Kenton sighed, slumping to the floor and resting his back against the room’s stone wall, trying to calm his tense nerves.

  #

  Kenton sat that way for a long while, the massive aftermath of the last few days’ events finally catching up to him. He had watched thousands of sand masters slaughtered, his father and friends killed. He had spent an excruciating week believing he had lost the ability to master sand. Then, when he had finally gotten it back, he had immediately been forced to take upon himself responsibilities he had never sought, and only barely understood.

  His time traveling with Khriss had finally made him see what he really was, a man who fought authority because of what it was, not because of what it stood for. Now, irony had its way, and he had to deal with the very rebellious arrogance he had once projected. Except that Drile was both more powerful and more vicious than Kenton had ever been.

  I’m worse than the Hundred Fools, Kenton thought with a shake of his head. I should never have let Dirin talk me into this. What do I know of leadership? I’ve tried all my life to throw down authority.

  Someone was yelling down below—Kenton couldn’t make out what they were saying, and he was too engrossed in his thoughts to bother walking to the window. It wasn’t an angry voice—not Drile’s voice—but he still had a suspicion that he didn’t want to know what the person was saying.

  His mind drifted back to the argument. Drile had already begun turning the other sand masters against him. If Kenton hadn’t, for some still-unknown reason, spontaneously developed the ability to master multiple ribbons, then his rule of the Diem would have ended moments after it began. He had defeated Drile this time, but he doubted that the former-mastrell would remain cowed for long.

  Even as an acolent, Drile had been trouble. He had lorded over Kenton’s group of students like a Kershtian monarch, often demanding that others do the research for his classes for him, other times sneaking into town to perform secret deeds with his abilities in exchange for money. He never did anything overt—he would lift heavy objects, or drill holes in stone for merchants, any small act that a sand master could do easier than other men. The frightening thing about Drile had been the way he swore the other acolents to secrecy, using his power to frighten them to the point of capitulation.

  Kenton sighed, memories of the past rising fresh to his mind. The fool down below was still yelling, but Kenton retreated into his thoughts.

  During the time of Drile’s rampaging, the mastrells had ignored—and even encouraged—him. Kenton doubted Praxton had ever found out about Drile’s prostitution of his sand mastery; that was too large a sin to be ignored. The domination of the other acolents, however, and the use of power and threats to keep them in line—all this had been suffered. It was the way of the Diem—the sooner students learned to obey those with more power than they, the sooner they would understand wh
at it was to be a sand master.

  Only two students had stood up to Drile. Traiben and, of course, Kenton himself. Traiben had been powerful enough to ignore Drile’s threats, and Kenton had simply been stubborn enough not to care. Their friendship, odd because of their differences in power, had come mostly because of a common enemy.

  Except, Traiben was dead now, and Kenton was left to resist the enemy on his own. Kenton could defy Drile, could mock him, but experience had shown that such would never actually accomplish anything. Why couldn’t someone else have survived? Traiben, Elorin, anyone. I can’t do this by myself. I can’t … why is that idiot still screaming?

  Sighing, Kenton rose to his feet, shuffling across the room toward the balcony. “Will you kindly be—” he began to yell. Then he stopped.

  Down below, a strangely familiar form stood in the courtyard’s sands, hands on his hips. Kenton frowned. The man weighed a little more than Kenton remembered, but there was no mistaking that curly hair.

  “Eric?” Kenton asked incredulously. “What on the sands are you doing here?”

  “Yelling myself raw, it appears,” the other man called back. “They told me you were up there—they didn’t tell me you’d gone deaf.”

  Kenton smiled slightly, then frowned again in confusion. “Eric?” he repeated.

  “By the Divine, all that’s sand’s affected your brain. Yes, it’s me, Eric! Now that we’ve established that, is there any way I can get up there? I’m growing a little tired of yelling.”

  Still amazed, Kenton reached over and placed his hand in the barrel of sand every mastrell kept on his balcony. Immediately, three ribbons of sand flashed to life, spiraling over the railing and down toward the courtyard below. Eric yelped in surprise as the ribbons grabbed him, lifting him into the air and placing him on the balcony.

  Eric dusted himself off—he was dressed in darksider clothing, a vest over a bright red shirt and a pair of loose tan leggings.

  “I’d forgotten how useful that was,” he mumbled, strolling into the room.

  Kenton turned, shaking his head in amazement. “Eric, you’ve … changed,” he admitted.