“Except?”
“Except I just can’t force myself to let Praxton win,” Kenton admitted with a wry smile. He had argued with his father for eight years now, always claiming he deserved to be a mastrell. Kenton had stopped believing his own assertions years ago—now that he knew more about sand mastery, now that he had lost his child’s innocence, he had learned to accept that he just didn’t have as much power as others. His one ribbon, no matter how cleverly used, couldn’t match a mastrell’s two dozen.
But, he still kept fighting. Even though he didn’t really think he deserved to be a mastrell, he claimed he did. “I guess I’m too much like him,” Kenton mumbled. “It isn’t the rank that bothers me; it’s his acknowledgement of what I’ve done. Of what I am.”
Elorin laid a comforting hand on Kenton’s shoulder. “You should rest now, acolent. Be assured, we will wake you in time for the ceremonies.”
Kenton nodded, laying back on the cot. He did not, however, let them place the damp cloth on his forehead again. Instead, he let himself drift to sleep in the comforting warmth of daylight.
#
“Is it true, what they say about Drile?” Dirin asked with a hushed, excited tone.
“I don’t know,” Kenton admitted, walking through the camp of tents toward the place for the advancement ceremonies. True to his word, Elorin had sent Dirin to wake Kenton at the proper time. The moon hung just to the southeast, marking the approach of tenth hour.
“They say Drile was caught making plans to sell his powers,” Dirin continued. “They say he was gathering a group of sand masters to hire out as mercenaries.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Kenton mumbled. Drile. It was rare enough for a group of students to produce one mastrell, but Kenton’s had produced two. Drile was even more powerful than Traiben—in fact, there were those who whispered he was stronger than Praxton himself. And the worst thing was, Drile knew exactly how good he was.
“Do you think … do you think they’ll kick him out of the Diem?” Dirin asked with a hushed tone.
“Maybe,” Kenton said. It had happened before, but not in centuries, and never to one so powerful. “That will be up to the Lord Mastrell, won’t it?”
“I suppose so,” Dirin agreed, falling to his own contemplations.
The ceremonies were always held in the same place, a flat plain of sand. There were cliffs visible in the distance—they surrounded wide plain, like the lip of a crater. Kenton and Dirin left the campsite behind, walking out onto the edge of the plain, where a group of white-robed forms was already gathering.
The sand masters milled together, for the most part remaining self-segregated by the colors of their sashes. The gold Mastrells were at the front, with a group of yellow undermastrells to the side. Lestrells in black, underlestrells in gray, Diemfens in brown, fens in tan, and underfens in cream. And, of course, the acolents, who stood in smaller groups, staying with those their same year. There were about two thousand of them all together.
Kenton approached the back of the crowd, letting Dirin drift off to join the other acolents. Of them all, only Kenton had no place. Every member of his acolent group had been advanced four years previously, leaving Kenton to attend increasingly redundant classes with acolents who seemed to get younger every year.
He got numerous looks as he walked amongst them, most encouraging, but none accepting. Kenton was alone in the Diem. He knew some of the others, especially the lower ranks, respected him. He also knew that many sand masters—regardless of rank—disliked him. Even as he passed a group of acolents, he heard muffled snickers and comments. The students generally mocked their odd, over-aged companion. Young as they were, that hadn’t yet been forced to deal with advancement, and the limit on their potential it would proclaim.
This day, however, more of the faces seemed comraderous than normal. More than one bid him traid’ka, a Kershtian word to suggest good fortune. Kenton walked through them, smiling at those he knew, generally impressed by the level of support he felt. Well, he determined, I may not have managed to convince the only one who matters, but at least the rest of them agree with me.
The cliffs in the distance were to far away to provide cover, and so the ever-prevalent wind couldn’t be excluded from the gathering. It blew softly this day, whipping through the crowd like an unpleasant guest, tugging at robes and swirling small cones of sand. Kenton’s optimism faded as he worked his way through a group of lestrells to stand at the front of the crowd. Lord Mastrell Praxton, his eyes hard enough to subdue even the wind, sat, surrounded by a half-circle of mastrells.
The chair, crafted completely of wood, was really more like a throne, though kings hadn’t been seen in Lossand since the beginning of the Taishin era several centuries before. Praxton huddled in the massive chair like a sandling, his thin, spindly arms more like feelers than arms. His face displayed as much emotion as a chitenous shell.
Kenton walked to the side of the crowd, standing off by himself. Despite their overtures of friendship, none of the sand masters invited him to join them. In many ways, the lower ranks were just as exclusive as the higher ones. Perhaps Elorin or Traiben would have done otherwise, but they were required to stand with the Lord Mastrell. The undermastrells were already taking their places, forming a larger semi-circle behind the mastrells. The rest of the groups began to quiet, standing in their separate ranks as they waited for the ceremony to begin.
Kenton frowned as he watched. There was something wrong. Silently, Kenton searched for what was bothering him. The hushed sound of whispers ran through the crowd of sand masters—they had noticed it too. There were only seventeen mastrells standing behind Praxton—three were missing.
Where’s Drile? Kenton realized. Kenton shook his head in amazement—despite his words, he hadn’t really believed Drile capable of something so revolting. Sand masters were one cohesive whole, regulated by the Diem. If smaller groups began selling their services like common tradesmen, chaos would soon be the result. For all of Kenton’s grievances with the Diem—and there were many—he had never once thought of selling his powers elsewhere.
The mumbling grew louder near the back of the crowd, and Kenton turned. A pair of mastrells were leading a tall, brown-haired man through the group. Firm-featured with thin, knowing lips and a lean build, Drile represented all that a sand master was supposed to be: powerful, controlling, and arrogant. He walked indifferently through the ranks, as if he were striding before a group of subjects, not being taken under guard to his own trial.
At the front of the crowd he paused briefly, turning eyes on the gathered sand masters. The mastrells behind him froze, uncertain what to do. Drile was more powerful than any other living sand master, save maybe for Praxton himself. If Drile decided to run, then the struggle to restrain him could potentially turn dangerous. Fortunately, Kenton was certain there was one law even Drile would not break. No sand master was allowed to use his skills to hurt another of their kind—it was an injunction as old as the sands themselves.
Drile regarded the Diem for a moment, still smiling. Don’t feign horror before me, his look said. I know you. You created me. The Diem—its arrogance, its wastefulness—is what had led Drile to become what he was. Drile might have been the one to take the conceit one step further, but that was only because the rest of them assumed they couldn’t get away with it.
Drile spun and approached the mastrells, his guards following like retainers. The crowd hushed once again as Praxton spoke.
“Drile, what have you done?” he asked with a tired voice. Despite his age, Praxton’s words still carried, loud enough to be heard by those at the front of the crowd.
Drile did not answer.
Praxton sighed. “You may go,” he said to the guards. The two mastrells bowed and took their places with the rest of their rank.
“Take your place, Drile,” Praxton ordered. “You’re still a mastrell.”
Drile complied with a curt bow, walking over to stand at the head of the mastrells
.
“Let us begin,” Praxton said, nodding to Elorin.
The undermastrell, foremost of his rank, bowed in reply. He knelt and freed his qido from his belt, pouring its contents into an earthen bowl. This he handed to Praxton, who drank a sip and handed it back. Elorin accepted the bowl, then stood uncertainly for a moment, his eyes apprehensive for some reason. Then, apparently deciding that tradition held even in the face of irregularity, he carried the bowl over and handed it to Drile.
Drile snorted to himself, taking the bowl. He held it for just a second, his eyes meeting those of Praxton. Then, without taking a drink, he handed it to the sand master beside him. Kalmeer accepted the bowl hesitantly, but eventually regained his poise and took a sip before handing it to the next in line. The bowl moved through the mastrells, then back to the undermastrells, before Elorin accepted it once more and carried it back to Praxton. With one final sip, Praxton officially initiated the advancement ceremonies.
Elorin walked over, refilling the bowl and handing it to the first line of watching sand masters. They began to drink, each one taking a sip and handing it to his neighbor, refilling it from their qidoin when necessary.
The ceremony, however, didn’t need to wait for everyone to drink. As soon as Elorin had given away the bowl, he picked up a sack from beside Praxton’s chair and removed several colored sashes from within. Kenton squinted, counting. There were seven—none of them gold. There would be no new mastrells this day. Elorin accepted a thin scroll from the Lord Mastrell and took a few steps forward. He unrolled the scroll and read with a loud voice.
“Reendel, son of Craftsman Keshdel,” Elorin announced. A white-sashed youth stepped forward from the back of the crowd, approaching Praxton’s chair on nervous legs.
“You have been offered the rank of underlesstrell,” Elorin informed. “Take the sash and be advanced.”
Reendel reached forward a trembling hand and accepted the gray sash from the Lord Mastrell. “Congratulations,” Praxton said in a flat, unconcerned voice.
Elorin proceeded, reading the names of Reendel’s acolent group. Kenton took a sip from the bowl as it reached him, frowning at the salty taste. Whoever had refilled the bowl last hadn’t been carrying very good water.
Each boy stepped forward as his name was called, accepting a different sash from Praxton. Only one placed higher than the first—a scrawny boy who was given the black of a lesstrell. It was an average group—undermastrells and mastrells were rare.
Finally, only one sash remained in Praxton’s hand: a brown one. Kenton regarded it with trepidation. Brown. The rank of Diemfen. It was about midway through the Diem’s hierarchy, with three ranks below it and four above.
The sash was obviously meant for Kenton—there had only been six acolents in this year’s group. A Diemfen was no mastrell, but it was higher than Kenton had ever realistically thought he would be offered. Despite himself, Kenton found his mood begin to brighten. Part of his heart warned that he was giving up, that he was settling for less than he deserved. The rest, however—the logical, realistic side—realized that he had made his statement, and had succeeded. There would be no more to be gained from pointless resistance.
Surprisingly, the next name Elorin called was not Kenton’s. “Drile, mastrell of the Diem,” Elorin announced.
Drile stepped out of line. His eyes were calm—he had been expecting this.
Elorin looked back at Praxton with a question on his face.
“Read it,” Praxton croaked.
“Drile, you have been offered the rank of Diemfen,” Elorin all but whispered. “Take the sash, and be unadvanced.”
Kenton blinked in surprise, and the crowd immediately began to buzz with conversation. Never, in all the history of the Diem, had a sand master been unadvanced. It was unheard of.
Drile looked down at the sash in Praxton’s hand with stunned eyes. He had probably expected a reprimand of some sort, perhaps even formal expulsion from the Diem. But to be forced into a lower rank … that was a humiliation greater even than being kicked out.
“I don’t trust you, Drile,” Praxton informed. “If I expelled you, I doubt you would obey the Law and refrain from using your powers. This way I can still keep an eye on you.”
Drile continued to stare at the sash, his handsome face confused. “I …” To stay in the Diem would mean humiliation, but he would still be able to use his powers. Drile reached out, but then lowered his hand without accepting the sash. He looked up with determination, meeting Praxton’s eyes.
From his place at the head of the crowd, Kenton could see the look that passed between them. A contest of power, no less great than that of crashing waves or battling swordsmen. Drile stood, his lips slightly parted, as if prepared to denounce Praxton’s offer and take expulsion instead of humiliation.
The Lord Mastrell’s stare quelled him. Slowly, Drile’s face seemed to grow wan before Praxton’s harsh eyes. His determination faltered, his rebelliousness weakened, as Praxton made use of the talent that had gained him the position of Lord Mastrell—a talent that had nothing to do with mastering sand. Drile was defeated by a force that wasn’t mystical or arcane, but one that had been used by humankind since its birth. More than his ability as a sand master, more than his haughty air, it was Praxton’s sheer willpower that made him such a great leader.
With a limp hand, Drile took the sash from Praxton’s outstretched hand. As the former mastrell stood looking at the sign of his defeat, Praxton reached out, whipping the gold mastrell’s sash off Drile’s waist and dropping it to the ground.
“Go join your rank, Diemfen,” Praxton ordered.
Head bowed, Drile turned, shuffling across the sand in a stunned daze, as if unable to believe what he had just done.
Kenton frowned. If the brown sash had been for Drile … . Even as he watched, Kenton watched his father retrieve something from the pouch at his side. A sash. A cream-colored sash.
No! Kenton thought with sharp disappointment.
“Kenton, son of Praxton, step forward,” Elorin said, reading from the scroll. The undermastrell’s voice shook with sympathy.
Kenton stepped forward, trying to control his emotions. For some reason, this blow took him harder than any before. He had been ready to give in, prepared to accept the compromise of Diemfen. He approached the Lord Mastrell’s seat with a slow step, resting a comforting hand on Elorin’s shoulder as he passed.
“You thought it was for you, didn’t you?” Praxton asked with a slight smile as Kenton bowed.
Feeling sick, Kenton did not reply.
“I told you yesterday, I would offer you fen if you agreed not to run the Path. Why would I reward you for disobeying me?”
“I …” Kenton mumbled. “I was fooling myself, I guess.”
“You slew the Marken,” Praxton continued. “Because you disobeyed me, the Path has been ruined. For the rest of time, the Diem will remember you as the one who deprived others from running the Path.”
Kenton sighed, looking down at the sash in Praxton’s hand.
“You don’t even deserve this,” the Lord Mastrell informed, his voice growing quiet. “But I offer it to you this one last time. Accept your place as underfen. Reject it, and I will expel you from the Diem. I will not continue to allow you to make a mockery of this ceremony.”
Praxton thrust the sash toward him. You don’t even deserve this … . The words were true; Kenton had never belonged in the Diem. He had forced them to accept him when they didn’t want to, had demanded that they give him attention he didn’t deserve, and cried injustice when he was offered the ranks he had earned.
I’m tired of fighting, he realized with weariness. Tired of the hostility, the awkwardness, and the laughter.
Resigned, he looked up, reaching out to take the sash. And then he met Praxton’s eyes. Praxton’s demanding, intolerant eyes. The eyes of his father, a man who had lived apart from his family, like all sand masters. A man Kenton had never known. If there had been a leak of c
oncern in that wall of a face, Kenton would have taken the sash.
“No,” he felt himself whisper, his hand falling back to his side. “I won’t be beaten down, father. I’ve proven myself worthy of more.”
“You are certain you want to do this?” Praxton asked flatly.
“Yes,” Kenton said with growing resolve.
“Then I have no other choice left,” Praxton said with a sigh. “Kenton, son of Praxton, I grant you the rank of mastrell.”
Kenton froze, stupefied. The Lord Mastrell nodded down to the sand at the base of his chair where a fluttering piece of gold was half-buried in the wind-blown sand. Drile’s sash.
“Take it,” Praxton ordered.
“But, why?” Kenton asked with amazement.
“Take it,” Praxton commanded again.
Dumbfounded, Kenton complied, reaching down to pull the length of cloth from the sand.
“Turn around,” Praxton commanded.
Kenton did so, his mind still stunned by what had just happened. What he was about to see confused him even further. He stared into the eyes of two thousand faces, and instead of joy or congratulations, he felt a single, overpowering emotion. Jealousy.
The sand masters looked as confused as he, but their emotion had an edge of hostility—of hatred. Even as Kenton watched, the wind-whipped golden sash writhing in his hands, the faces grew increasingly dark.
“Have you learned nothing of the Diem during your years here, boy?” Praxton hissed behind him “Yes, they supported you when you were the victim, but that was when they thought you were below them. No one ever thought you would actually succeed.”
Kenton turned, shielding his eyes from the mass of animosity behind him. His shocked eyes fell back on his father, who was shaking his aged head in sorrow.
“You think I hated you, boy? I was trying to protect you. Right now every single one of them is thinking to himself, ‘why was Kenton made a mastrell when I was not?’ And they are all coming to the same conclusion.”
White Sand, Volume 1 Page 6