“Because I’m your son,” Kenton whispered with growing horror.
Praxton nodded slowly. “You will find no peace in this rank, child, only hatred. The mastrells will think you unworthy of them, the lower ranks will be envious of your favored position. You could have had purpose and fellowship in one of the lower ranks—you, more than anyone else, should have known how pointless a title is. What would it have mattered if people called you underfen instead of mastrell? Would that have altered your power, made you any less capable?”
“No,” Kenton whispered, the word more of a cry of despair than an answer. Despite all of his accusations, his appeals for reform, Kenton had caught the same disease as every other sand master.
“You wanted it, boy,” Praxton hissed, a twisted delight shining in his eyes. “Well, you can have it. Learn what happens to those who defy me.”
Kenton bowed his head, sash fluttering in his hands. He could hear the whispers beginning behind him—whispers of outrage. He had thought being an acolent had been hard. He hadn’t understood . . . .
He looked up, his eyes seeking for some sort of sympathy from his father. Praxton stared back flatly, his eyes dull. Almost like they weren’t looking at him at all.
Only then did Kenton notice the arrow sticking out of his father’s side.
Screams flew into the air behind him and Kenton spun in concern. Tan-clothed forms poured over the short cliffs behind the sand masters—they must have snuck up through the camp. Arrows were falling from bowmen in the back ranks. The crowd of sand masters, confused and frightened, stood in mass as the arrows descended on them.
“Kershtians!” one of the mastrells screamed, calling sand to life.
Kenton cursed, dropping to the ground and grabbing a handful of sand. He rolled to his feet, whipping his sword out with the other hand. All around him sand masters were mastering sand, dashing about in a chaotic mixture of bodies and glowing sand. Some darted into the air, though where they were jumping, Kenton didn’t know. Others called up massive walls in front of themselves to block the arrows. Still others didn’t seem to know what to do, standing uncertainly with ribbons of sand hovering around them.
It doesn’t make sense! Kenton thought to himself with confusion. Lossand hadn’t had a war with the Kershtians for centuries. True, they hated the Diem, but they were also supposed to fear sand mastery to the point of irrationality. What could have convinced them to attack such a large group?
Kenton pushed speculation aside, dashing forward. Regardless of their motives, the Kershtians were doing surprisingly well in the battle. Sand mastery was the most dangerous weapon on the sands, but its practitioners hadn’t needed to defend themselves in hundreds of years. The sand masters fought as individuals, sending their ribbons against random Kershtians. The olive-skinned warriors were taking heavy losses, but they were advancing as their superior numbers allowed them to take down the sand masters one at a time.
Unfortunately, most of the sand masters had decided to call up walls of sand to protect themselves—a method that also prevented them from seeing their enemies. The Kershtians easily ducked around the sides of the sand walls, attacking the unprepared sand masters with their bolts. Those who were powerful enough had made rings of sand around themselves instead, but that left them totally cut off from the battle—leaving the less powerful to fend for themselves.
Kenton ran into the affray, whipping his sand to life. A Kershtian took sight of him, raising the tube-like zinkall on his arm. With a flick of his wrist, the warrior released the zinkall’s air pressure, launching an arrow at Kenton’s heart.
Kenton waved his hand, and his sand obeyed, slapping the arrow out of the air. Then he snapped his finger forward with a sharp motion, drilling the ribbon of sand directly through the Kershtian’s forehead. The sand fell dead a moment after it touched blood, but a moment was all that was necessary.
Another Kershtian was on him a moment later, wielding a spear whose tip was fashioned from sandling carapace. Kenton brushed the attack aside with his sword, and the Kershtian looked down with surprise, as if noticing the weapon for the first time. Kenton’s blade took him in the chest before he realized that this sand master, at least, had more than one weapon at his disposal.
Kenton paused. Something was wrong—wrong with the warriors. Their foreheads all bore ‘X’-shaped scars. That’s not right, Kenton thought. Some Kershtians wore scars on their foreheads, but … .
He dropped the line of reasoning, however, as he saw several sand masters a short distance away. “Not like that!” Kenton yelled at the group of lestrells who were trying to defend themselves with walls of sand. Kenton reached forward, using his sand to grab an arrow out of the air just before it hit one of the lestrells in the chest.
The young man, barely sixteen years old, looked down at the bolt with a pale face.
“Use ribbons,” Kenton urged, “not walls. Don’t leave yourself vulnerable.”
“I …” the boy mumbled. “I couldn’t catch one like that!”
Kenton cursed, blocking another arrow. “You two,” he said, pointing at two of the lestrells. “Watch for Kershtians that are aiming at us, and throw up a wall in front of them not us. You two, attack. Understand?”
The four lestrells, three of them far older than Kenton, obeyed without a question, fear in their eyes. Kershtians began to fall as Kenton gathered other sand masters, adding them to the four lestrells and creating a ring of organized sand masters.
As he worked, however, he thought on the impossibility of what was happening. Even surprised, even unorganized, the sand masters should easily have defeated their foes. Something was wrong. Kenton scanned the battlefield, which was scattered with bodies, blood, and blackened sand. All of the rings of protective sand had fallen for some reason, and the sand masters in sight—especially the mastrells and undermastrells—seemed to be in pain for some reason, even the ones who were unharmed.
Then Kenton realized what it was. His throat was sharply dry, his breath starting to come painfully. He was running out of water. But, I’ve only been mastering for a few minutes! He thought incredulously. He could go a half-hour without a drink, longer if he didn’t do anything strenuous. He couldn’t argue with his body, however, which was warning him he had wasted too much water.
A short distance away he saw Traiben holding his face in agony. “Traiben!” Kenton yelled, rushing to his friend’s side. Traiben stumbled as Kenton arrived, looking up as he dropped to the sand. Kenton froze in horror. Where Traiben’s eyes had been there were now two dry, empty sockets. Overmastery had set in—Traiben had sucked the water out of his own eyes.
“No!” Kenton yelled lifting Traiben’s head to stare into the sightless sockets. Even the newest sand master knew how to control himself well enough not to do such a thing. Traiben’s skin flaked beneath Kenton’s hands, cracking and splitting.
This is impossible! Kenton thought, clutching his friend’s body. This isn’t just overmastery, this is insanity! Why would they go so far?
Traiben tried to speak, but his tongue was a limp, dried strip in his mouth. Kenton quickly pulled out his qido, pouring its contents into the fallen mastrell’s mouth. Then, uncertain what else to do, he pulled Traiben back to the ring of sand masters he had formed, setting the wounded man in their center. Then he looked up with concern at the sand masters around him.
When he had left them moments ago, the group had been doing well. That was changing quickly, however. Men were falling to the ground, doubled over in unseen agony, others holding their faces or their chests.
They’re all overmastering! Kenton thought with alarm. He cast aside his amazement, forcing his confused, frightened mind to focus in their predicament. They needed water. There were stores of it back in the camp a short distance away.
“Wait here!” Kenton yelled to the group. “Master as little as possible to defend yourselves; I’ll return with water.”
Those that could hear him nodded, their eyes wild with pani
c. Kenton raced through the line of men, attacking a Kershtian with his sword, his movements desperate. Realistically, he knew their chances were slim. He couldn’t see a single mastrell or undermastrell still standing—in fact, a good half of the white-robed forms on the plain were immobile.
Still, he fought, slaying the Kershtian with a scream of anger. He whipped his sand forward, slicing it through the chests of three archers in a row before letting it die, lest it drain him of water. Even as he did so, three more Kershtians moved in to surround him, their short-hafted spears long enough to keep him from getting close enough to strike with his sword. He took a breath, preparing to reach for another handful of sand, when he heard a bellow of rage.
The scream surged across the plain, drawing attention of both sand master and Kershtian. Back where the battle had begun, beside the fallen throne, stood a form in a golden sash, an arrow sticking from his side. Praxton. Not dead after all.
The ancient mastrell’s eyes were wild with anger as he roared, raising his hands above his head. The sand at his feet rumbled, then exploded with light, shining like a second sun. A column of sand fully thirty-feet in diameter rose up around him, swirling and pulsing like one of the horrible storms that sometimes struck the coast.
Suddenly, the column shot outward, thinning into a wide disk, spreading like a ripple on a pond. The slammed into Kershtians, spraying gore as it sliced them in half. It moved blindingly quick, sheering bodies, hitting most of them before they realized they were in danger. It split where it encountered white robes, however, leaving sand masters unharmed.
Dozens of Kershtians fell to the sands before the wave of sand. Praxton continued to scream, ribbons of sand to dancing and twisting twist around him. There was an edge to his screams now, however, an edge of pain. The Kershtians around Kenton dashed away as the wave approached. Then, however, it faltered, its glow dimming. Finally it pulsed one last time, and fell to the ground as a wide ring of black.
The plain was quiet for a calm moment. Then Kershtians began to call to one another, and their force regrouped, reloading their zinkallin and organizing for a final assault. There were only a few hundred of them left, but the sand masters they faced were tired and overmastered. White-robbed forms slumped across the sand, waiting in a daze as the Kershtians began to advance once again.
“Get up!” Kenton encouraged, his voice frantic. The Kershtian archers, noting him as one of the few standing, took aim and Kenton froze, staring down no less than a dozen bowmen. Even he couldn’t block that many arrows.
Praxton’s wail had turned high pitched. The sound floated across the plain like an inhuman, ghostly thing. Dozens of archers took aim at the Lord Mastrell, letting loose their arrows. At the very same time, the archers aiming at Kenton released their missiles.
Kenton jumped, intent on rolling to the ground, but he knew he was too late. Some arrows would miss, but too many would fly true. He ducked his head, turning away from the oncoming arrows.
His eyes fell on Praxton. The mighty sand master stood as if oblivious to the death approaching him. Instead, he ordered his sand forward. Toward Kenton. Every last grain under the Lord Mastrell’s control burst forth, racing the arrows. A dozen shafts pierced Praxton’s body, but still he held onto his sand.
Praxton’s sand enveloped Kenton, blocking the arrows that would have claimed his life. As Kenton watched, blinking against the sand, Praxton’s form fell limp. As it did so, his sand stopped shining—and fell directly on top of Kenton.
He tried to call out, but rough sand choked him, buried him, pressed against him. The darkness claimed Kenton for the second time that day. There, in total blackness, Kenton fell unconscious.
Chapter Four
“I think that merchant over-charged us,” Khriss informed, making a final notation on her ledger. The beetle-like riding beast—called a tonk—swayed beneath her, moving in its unhurried, rhythmic way. She had been scared to climb on one at first, but they were really quite docile. She had even gotten used to the faint sulfurous smell they gave off.
“Really?” Cynder asked in an unconcerned voice, his tonk walking beside her own. “What makes you think so?”
“I used some of the change he gave us to buy a loaf of bread in that last town,” she explained. “You can tell a lot about a society’s economic system from how much a loaf of bread costs.” Closing the ledger, she reached over and stuffed it in her tonk’s saddlebags, pulling out a small pouch instead. From inside she removed several stone discs, shaped like thick coins.
“This gray one seems to be worth the least,” she explained, leaning over to hand Cynder the coin. The dark spectacles made his expression difficult to read, so she couldn’t tell if he was actually interested, or just playing along. Of course, even without the glasses, it was hard to tell if Cynder were serious or not.
“Fascinating,” the balding professor said, turning the smooth stone coin over in his fingers.
“I think the marble ones are next in line,” Khriss continued, “then the white ones, the gold ones, then the metallic silver ones.”
“You figured this all out by buying a loaf of bread?” Cynder asked, tossing the coin back to her.
“That, and how much the merchant charged us for the supplies,” Khriss said, repacking the coins.
“Who would have thought a loaf of bread could be so useful?” Cynder mumbled, chuckling softly to himself.
Khriss frowned, trying to decide if he’d made a joke or not, then simply shook her head. Cynder’s sense of humor was beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
“I could have told you he over-charged us,” Baon said, moving his tonk up next to hers. The large, dark warrior was adapting very quickly to the strange Dayside beetle-horses. Somehow, he could get his tonk to obey commands, while Khriss’s own creature—which she had dubbed ‘Stump’ because the largest of his horns was broken halfway down—seemed incapable of doing anything besides following the rest of the group.
Khriss shot Baon a questioning look. “You know the monetary system?”
Baon shook his head, snorting softly to himself. “Really, duchess. Did you expect him not to cheat us? He’s the only one who spoke our language—I expect he made quite a profit off of those gems we traded him. And rightly so. It must have taken quite a bit of effort on his part to learn Dynastic.”
“That’s one way to look at it, I supposed,” Khriss said without conviction.
Over the last week of riding, Khriss had almost convinced herself that she was getting used to the heat. She wore a wide-brimmed hat she had purchased in one of the towns, along with a white dayside dress that was surprisingly thick—she would have thought dayside clothing would be thinner than darkside varieties. However, the thick clothing actually felt cooler than the thin darkside dress she had worn in the town.
Despite the clothing and hat, she could feel the sun burning above her, its heat baking her skin. It had risen slowly in the sky as they moved to the southwest, and seemed to grow increasingly powerful the more lofty it became. She hadn’t realized how much she was capable of sweating.
The others were doing little better. Acron had abandoned his darkside clothing at the first opportunity, and draped in white robes like he now was, he resembled a bale of cloth. Baon had bought himself a white robe as well, though he had made a few alterations, and wore it more like a coat, providing easy access to his sword and pistols underneath. Other than that, he wore a pair of nondescript trousers and a tight white shirt. Only Cynder insisted on maintaining his traditional dress—for some reason, the heat didn’t seem to affect him. He still wore his three-piece suit with the long tails and stiff vest.
Fortunately, there seemed to be a constant wind here on Dayside, and it helped alleviate some of the heat. However, the wind carried with it problems of its own—thousands of them, in the form of tiny sand grains.
The sand seemed to get into everything. It wiggled between her lips, blew into her eyes, and worked its way underneath her clothing. I
t was so fine it was almost like powder, but it still had the gritty roughness of sand. Since the day they had left that first town a week ago, Khriss hadn’t seen a single bit of stone or dirt—nothing but endless dunes of white sand.
“Town up ahead,” Baon informed, lowering the spyglass from his eye. Of their group, he was the only one who no longer wore the darkened spectacles.
“Doesn’t the light hurt your eyes?” Khriss asked curiously as he leaned over to hand her the spyglass. She gripped the reins of her tonk tightly and leaned over to accept it.
“Yes,” Baon said simply.
“Well, why not wear the spectacles?”
“They are a disadvantage I’d distance myself from as soon as possible,” he informed. Then, nodding ahead, he continued, “Do you want to stop?”
Khriss scanned the town through the glass. It looked much like the other towns they had passed, though it was on the small side.
“Not unless you can think of a way to refill our water,” she finally replied.
Baon shrugged. “I can try,” he said, moving his tonk forward until he was riding next to their guide—a young boy of perhaps fourteen years named Indan. He was one of the olive-skinned natives that formed the predominant part of the population in the towns they had passed. The merchant had promised that Idan would be able to lead them to the nation of Lossand—despite the fact that he didn’t speak a word of Dynastic.
Khriss reached into her saddlebags, pulling free a folded sheet of paper. The map had been copied from a Darkside book, and hardly seemed accurate. However, using the enormous mountain visible in the distance as a guide, she guessed they had only crossed about a third of the distance to their destination. Their water was already halfway gone.
Their inability to communicate with Indan was proving to be a major difficulty in this one important area: water. Khriss had assumed that the Daysider would provide a way for them to fill their water containers when they passed native towns, but so far that had not been the case. In fact, the young boy didn’t seemed concerned at all about water—he used it with a level of wastefulness that amazed Khriss. She had read of desert-like areas on Darkside and the people who lived in them. She would have assumed that water would be a precious, almost sacred commodity to these Daysiders.
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