White Sand

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kenton walked forward, approaching Reegent, who sat beside Eric’s mount. Kenton strode right up to the Lord General, then leaned down, placing his face just a few inches from Reegent’s.

  “And I’m considered one of the weak ones,” Kenton informed.

  #

  “Ouch! Be careful you fools!” Reegent swore as the soldiers placed him down in his chair. The right side of his face was red and quickly showing signs of bruising, and his right leg was broken. He was alive, however, which was more than could be said of about a dozen of his men.

  Gone was the Lord General’s diplomatic facade—now, more than a distinguished ruler, he seemed more like a grumpy old man. As he sat down, a healer inspecting his leg, Reegent shot a scowl at Eric, who stood at his side.

  “I should have known this day would go wrong the moment you appeared, boy,” he grumbled.

  Eric just smiled. Apparently, getting cursed at was better than being ignored.

  Kenton took a deep breath. He wasn’t quite ready to let the Lord General free yet—their battle wasn’t over. If the other Taishin could take advantage of the Diem because of its weakness, then Kenton could do the same to them.

  “Stop whining, Reegent,” Kenton snapped. “You’re behaving like a spoiled child.”

  Reegent turned angry eyes Kenton’s direction. “Happy to see me wounded, boy?” he demanded. “You were just waiting for something like this to happen.”

  “In a way, yes,” Kenton shot back. “You implied that sand mastery was useless. I think you have ample evidence otherwise. I just wish twelve men hadn’t had to die so I could prove it to you.”

  “Your help wasn’t requested,” Reegent grumbled.

  “And if I hadn’t been there today?” Kenton shot back. “You would be dead, Lord General. Don’t even try to deny it. You, and quite possibly every man out there.”

  “Go ahead, sand master,” Reegent hissed. “Gloat.”

  “This isn’t gloating,” Kenton informed, slamming his fist against a chair’s armrest. “Sands, man. Your head is as thick as carapace!”

  Reegent’s face grew red. Then, something odd happened. He suddenly burst into laughter. “By the Sand Lord,” Reegent mumbled, “you’re like your father. He was the only one who ever had the nerve to speak like that to me.”

  Kenton blinked in surprise, uncertain how to take that remark. So, he just continued his argument. “I can see to it that if something like this happens again, you are prepared.”

  “How?” Reegent asked. He wasn’t laughing any more, but he wasn’t as angry either.

  “Two dozen sand masters,” Kenton said. “Delivered to you the moment the Diem is reinstated. They will be yours to do with as you please—take them on hunts, use them to bolster your defenses, sands, you can have them move furniture for all I care. They’ll be yours to command as you see fit.”

  Reegent rubbed his chin in thought.

  “You wanted sand mastery’s prestige,” Kenton said. “Well, I’m offering you something far better. This is access to the true power of the Diem. That, plus the vow that sand masters will no longer be allowed to take what doesn’t belong with them, is what I’m promising you in exchange for your vote.”

  Reegent paused. “What kind of sand masters?” he asked. “I don’t want you just sending me all of your rejects.”

  “At least one mastrell,” Kenton promised, “with supporting members, at least one from each rank.”

  “All right then,” Reegent said. “Done.”

  Kenton stared forward, a little stunned that the Lord General had agreed. After all this time, he finally had his first firm commitment of support from one of the Taisha.

  “Thank you,” Kenton said simply.

  Reegent snorted. “Boy, I just saw you cut the head off of a seventy-foot tall monster. I don’t care what I have to do, that isn’t the kind of power we can afford to cut free. As long as there’s a Diem Profession, there will at least be some rules binding you people. Maybe the Diem wasn’t created to be useful, but to keep sand mastery in check.”

  Rules, Kenton thought. Yes, I’m growing to understand the same thing, Lord General.

  “Good day, then, Lord General. I hope your recovery is quick. Ais, Eric, are you coming?”

  “Wait,” Reegent requested. “Have you boys eaten yet?” he offered, trying not to look toward Eric. “My cooks will be fixing dinner shortly. You are welcome to stay.”

  Kenton shot Eric a look, then nodded with a smile. “We would appreciate it, Lord General.”

  #

  Kenton strolled along the sands in front of Reegent’s tents, smiling slightly. Behind him, he could still hear Reegent and Eric arguing. It was a good sign—Eric had lived with the man for fifteen years, never once voicing his frustrations with his father. They would probably never get along very well, but at least they were talking. An opportunity Kenton would never get to have with his own father.

  If I’m so much like him, then why do I feel like I never knew him? Kenton wondered, absently kicking up sand as he walked.

  That was the one rule he was absolutely certain he would change—families would be allowed in the Diem. He had already laid the groundwork for destroying the ban by building steps up to the higher floors. He would probably still reserve the upper rooms for the mastrells—as much as his rebellious side hated to admit it, a system of ranks and authority in the Diem did make sense. Without the rules and traditions, the sand masters could easily have become a terror on the sands. He’d never realized that—all he’d been able to see was how the rules restricted him. How they held him back. Him, personally—a selfish view.

  What kind of man had his father been? He had sent his family away, like was demanded of him, forcing them to live in town. But, at the same time, he had broken tradition by marrying a woman from darkside. Kenton knew what the other sand masters said about that decision—they said it had ruined all of Praxton’s children.

  Kenton’s mother had loved Praxton, or so he assumed. She had always spoken highly of the Lord Mastrell, had been the dutiful wife during his visits. Of course, Kenton’s mother had been a pragmatist. She knew that there was little chance of her supporting herself on dayside without a wealthy husband. She seemed happy with the arrangement—she had a nice house in Kezare’s kelzi district, as much money as she could want, and plenty of time to raise her children. Of course, Kenton could remember catching her sometimes, looking out across the lake with a wistful look. Across the lake, toward the Diem. With difficulty, Kenton tried to imagine the romance that must have drawn the two people together—powerful sand master and independent woman from darkside.

  Kenton paused, looking up. He had wandered far from the camp. If he wasn’t careful he would find himself wandering onto deep sand. The red marker flags were just a few feet in front of him.

  A sudden stillness seemed to flow across the sand. No sandling rustled in the ground, no wind howled through the dunes. Kenton felt an irrational chill blow over him—even the sun seemed to grow darker for a brief moment. Slowly, he turned. There was a man standing behind him.

  The Kershtian warrior, bare to the waist, stood quietly. The man carried a carapace spear lightly in his dark olive fingers, his forehead scarred with a stark white square. Two newer scars stood out beside the square. Assassin marks.

  The two men stood staring at each other for a moment as the wind restarted, ruffling Kenton’s robes and the Kershtian’s skirt. This one was different than the ones the day before. He hadn’t attacked from behind. He was calm, careful. He bowed his head once toward Kenton before snapping into motion.

  Kenton ducked to the side, dodging the spear as it shot through the air. He knew, somehow, that the spear would be covered with a terken coating. Kenton called his sand to life anyway, then reached down for his sword.

  The assassin moved quickly after his throw, however, tackling Kenton a second later. Kenton’s sword spun from his unprepared fingers, tumbling down the side of the dune.

&n
bsp; Kenton kicked free of the Kershtian as the man pulled a carapace knife free from a sheath on his leg. Kenton rose to his feet, his heart pounding. Gathering his sand around himself, he jumped, soaring high into the air.

  The Kershtian scrambled forward and slapped his hand through Kenton’s stream of sand. Immediately, the sand the man touched turned stale and black, destroying the foundation of Kenton’s jump.

  Kenton floundered in the air as his support was ruined, toppling back toward the ground. He tried to get his remaining sand to slow him, but the Kershtian once again threw himself into the stream, killing it. Kenton tumbled to the sand on the other side of the dune, rolling away from the camp, down the slope where no one would be able to see him.

  The Kershtian followed, diving toward Kenton. Kenton barely managed to get his hands up in time to catch the knife hand before it plunged into his chest.

  This man knows how to fight sand masters! Kenton thought with anger, barely holding the knife at bay. As long as the man grappled Kenton, he could keep control of the battle, and Kenton’s sand mastery would be practically useless.

  Desperately, Kenton tried to use his sand. He touched his elbow to the ground, summoning another ribbon and using it to lift both he and his assailant into the air. However, he didn’t have enough strength to lift two people very high, and the Kershtian quickly maneuvered a leg free and kicked at the stream, the gelled carapace on his skin killing the sand and toppling them both back down to the ground.

  They rolled between the dunes, struggling for control of the knife. However, it was obvious who was more skilled in this form of combat. The Kershtian simply had more raw strength than Kenton. Before Kenton knew it, he was back in the same position as before, his back resting against the sand floor, the Kershtian on top of him, the knife inching toward his face.

  Kenton turned his head to the side as the tip of the knife touched his nose. Sands, he’s strong! He tried to call up further sand, but he was growing weak. His mouth burned from dehydration—controlling three ribbons was far more difficult than he was used to. The day’s travel, battles, and sand mastery had sapped much of his energy and his water. He barely managed to call sand to life—he wouldn’t have the strength to lift them both into the air again.

  Then he saw it. A short distance away, a small beak of carapace jutted from the sand. Sand that was still and quiet.

  With a cry of exertion, Kenton shoved his weight up and to the side, rolling the pair of them to the right. The move let the Kershtian’s knife slip forward, and it sliced the side of Kenton’s cheek.

  Kenton continued the roll, watching the bit of carapace approach. That had better be what I think it is … he thought desperation.

  The roll ended with Kenton on top. With a final shove of strength he slammed the Kershtian’s shoulders down on the black speck.

  The sand began to rise around them, three massive triangular claws bursting out of the sand. Kenton yelled, using his sand to blast himself into the air. The Kershtian held onto his clothing with a desperate grip. The DelRak Naisha’s claws continued to swing closed, rising below Kenton, spraying sand into the air. Kenton caught one look of surprise on the assassin’s face before the claws snapped shut, crushing the Kershtian and catching the lip Kenton’s robes as he spun free.

  Kenton’s robes tore as flipped backward in an arc, landing on the dune behind him. The DelRak attacked its meal, the Kershtian, still barely alive, screaming inside its grip. A second later, the screaming stopped. The DelRak shuddered suddenly, shaking violently, then it too stopped moving. Its three legs opened limply, a bloodied corpse slipping free. The sandling did not move again—it had been killed by the blood of its intended meal.

  Kenton turned away from the mess, not daring to look at the mangled corpses behind him. Wearied, sickened, and horribly thirsty, he stumbled back toward Reegent’s camp.

  #

  “How did he find you out here?” Eric asked.

  Kenton shook his head, tying the saddle to his rezal. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “They must have someone watching the Diem. But, to track us across the kerla … . Anyway, it looks like Ais was right about the timing—the assassin waited until twelfth hour passed, officially putting us into the next day, to attack me.”

  Eric nodded in agreement.

  “How’s your father?”

  Eric shrugged. “He’ll live, I guess.”

  “I mean, what does he think of you?” Kenton clarified.

  Eric looked up, then shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. He’s still angry with me—he probably always will be. He still won’t accept the idea that I’m not going to become Lord General after him. He even tried to give me a sword.”

  Kenton glanced down. He still hadn’t asked his friend about the conspicuous absence at his side. Eric had never gone unarmed. Never.

  If Eric noticed the look, he didn’t acknowledge it. “We should go,” he said, climbing into the saddle. “It’s going to be a very long day.”

  Kenton nodded, climbing into his own saddle. He wanted to get some sleep first, but he could afford the wait. Time was very short—they would sleep when they got back to Kezare.

  He strapped himself in and kicked the rezal into motion.

  #

  Kenton stumbled into the Diem, tired and sore from hours of riding. It was just past fifth hour—most of the Diem members would have awakened hours ago. Sure enough, he heard sounds coming from the courtyard.

  “Ask yourselves, where is he now?” Kenton paused before entering the courtyard itself. It was Drile’s voice.

  “I’ll tell you where he is,” Drile continued. “He’s out making plans for himself, plans to keep himself safe. We need to do the same. In a little over a week, the Diem will be no more. What will we do then? Where will we go? Who will protect us?”

  Kenton sighed, leaning against the stone wall. Behind him Eric and Ais waited tiredly.

  How many more battles will I have to fight today? Kenton thought with exhaustion.

  “I’ve made plans for us already,” Drile’s voice continued. “I have promises, promises of wealth and protection.”

  Kenton took a deep breath, gathering what was left of his strength. This has to stop, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t have time to fight battles from within as well as without.

  There was a way. He had been avoiding it, but there was a way. A way to make Drile stop spreading chaos. Kenton stepped into the light.

  “Drile! You are in violation of my express orders!” he said, putting more force behind his words than he thought he had left.

  The former mastrell looked up with surprise. He had probably assumed that Kenton was going to stay away another day, since he hadn’t returned the day before. However, the man’s surprise was soon overwhelmed by contempt.

  “Lord Mastrell,” Drile said. “Welcome back.”

  “Enough, Drile,” Kenton returned. “The Diem has suffered enough of your paranoia.”

  “Oh?” Drile asked innocently. “And, how does the Diem intend to stop it?”

  “You and I obviously have a problem,” Kenton informed, walking forward. The crowd parted for him.

  “Obviously,” Drile agreed.

  “Then we need to settle it,” Kenton said.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “There was a way, once,” Kenton said slowly, nodding toward the conference building standing in the center of the courtyard.

  Drile’s face grew surprised and he turned, his eyes falling on the building.

  “Many years ago, it had a different name,” Kenton informed quietly.

  “The Pit,” Drile answered. The crowd of sand masters suddenly grew very tense. Drile turned back to regard Kenton. “You can’t be serious,” he returned.

  “I’ve tried everything else,” Kenton said. “You leave me no choice.”

  “I would cut you apart in a matter of seconds,” Drile returned with a smile.

  “If you do, then I suppose I don�
�t deserve to be Lord Mastrell, do I?”

  “Kenton, what are you doing?” a concerned voice asked a his side. Elorin stood at his side, the older man’s eyes concerned. Kenton ignored him.

  “Drile of the Diem,” Kenton announced in a loud voice. “I challenge you to combat, one-on-one, in the Dueling Pit.”

  Drile shook his head. “You are a fool.”

  “What is your reply?” Kenton demanded.

  “When do we do it?” Drile asked. “Now?”

  “No,” Kenton replied. “I’m making the challenge—I pick the time.”

  “When then?”

  “Ten days,” Kenton said. “Right after the Council passes judgement on the Diem.”

  Drile frowned. “Why wait?”

  “Because, Drile,” Kenton informed. “I am going to save the Diem, no matter what you do to me. Today the Lord General offered his support, yesterday the Lord Artisan. In exchange for the chance to kill me, you will promise to stop spreading lies. You leave me to do my work, stop trying to turn the Diem against me. You won’t need to—if you kill me, then the Diem will be yours anyway. And it might still be a legal profession.”

  Drile thought for a moment, then smiled, realizing what Kenton was offering.

  Yes, Kenton thought angrily, I’ll do the work, then you may kill me and take it. You will be Lord Mastrell.

  “I accept, Lord Mastrell,” Drile said with a slight bow. “On one condition. We fight before the council makes its decision, not after.”

  Kenton frowned. “What is the difference?”

  “That way, you’ll never get instated as the real Lord Mastrell,” Drile said with a vengeful smile. “You will be forgotten.”

  Kenton paused.

  “That is the only way I’ll agree to fight you,” Drile announced.

  “Fine,” Kenton said.

  #

  “All right,” Eric demanded, “what did you just do?”

  “I challenged Drile to a duel,” Kenton explained, flopping down into his chair. Dirin hurriedly brought him something to drink; there was a look of concern on the boy’s face. Ais stood a short distance away, his face unreadable, as usual.

  “I heard the challenge,” Eric replied, sitting down. “What does it mean?”