White Sand

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Prologue

  The wind caressed the stark dunes with a whispering touch, catching fine grains of sand between its fingers and bearing them forth like thousands of tiny charioteers. The sand, like the dunes it sculpted, was bone white. It had been bleached by the sun’s harsh stare—a stare that never slackened, for here, in the empire of the white sand, the sun never set. It hung motionless, neither rising or falling, ever watching the dunes like a jealous monarch.

  Praxton could feel the wind-born grains of sand biting into his cheek. He pulled up the hood of his robe, but it seemed to make little difference. He could still feel the particles attacking the side of his face like furious insects. The sand masters would have to hurry—the winds could whip the Kerla sands from stagnace to a whirling typhoon in a matter of minutes.

  A dozen forms stood a short distance away, clothed in brown robes. They had their hoods pulled up against the wind, but it was easy to tell from their small frames that they were children, barely into their second decade of life. The boys stood uncomfortably, shuffling with nervous feet as the winds whipped at their robes. They knew how important this day was. They couldn’t understand as Praxton did; they couldn’t know how many times they would look back on the event, how often the results of the testing would determine the course of their lives. Still, they could sense the significance of what was about to happen.

  At the bidding of a white-robed mastrell, the boys reached into their robes and pulled out small cloth bags. Praxton watched the event with a stern face—the face he usually wore—presiding over the ceremony as Lord Mastrell, leader of the sand masters. He watched with emotionless eyes as each boy pulled a handful of white sand from within his bag. They had to hold tightly to keep the increasingly powerful wind from tearing the sand away and scattering it across the Kerla.

  Praxton frowned, as if his simple displeasure could force the wind to abate. The testing took place close to the mountain KraeDa—one of the few places in the Kerla where stone jutted free from the sand. Here the wind was usually blocked by both mountain and surrounding cliffs.

  He shook his head, taking his mind off the wind as the first boy began the testing. Two mastrells stood before him, instructing him in quiet voices that were lost upon the wind. Praxton saw the results, even if he couldn’t hear the voices—the boy stared at the sand in his hand for a moment, a brief flutter of wind revealing the look of concentration on his face. The sand, cupped protectively in his open palm, began to glow faintly for a moment, then turned a dull black, like the charred remnants of a fire.

  “A good start,” one of the senior mastrells, Tendel, mumbled from behind him. Praxton nodded silently—Tendel was correct; it was a good sign. The boy—Praxton thought he recognized him as Traiben, son of a lower sand master—had been able to make the sand glow bright enough to be seen even from a short distance, which meant he had at least moderate power.

  The testing continued, some of the boys producing glows similar to Traiben’s, some barely managing to turn the sand black. Over all, however, it was an unusually strong batch. They would bring much strength to the Diem.

  There was a sudden flash, one so bright that it produced an explosive crack loud enough to be heard even over the wind. Praxton blinked in surprise, trying to clear the bright after-image from his eyes. The two mastrells performing the test stood stunned before a small child with a shaking hand.

  Tendel whistled beside Praxton. “I haven’t seen one so powerful in years,” the old mastrell mumbled. “Who is that?”

  “Drile,” Praxton mumbled despite himself. “Son of Reenst Rile.”

  “A profitable catch in more than one way, then,” Tendel noted.

  The testing mastrells recovered from their surprise and moved on to the next, and final, boy. Despite his age, his determined calmness, and his stern nature, Praxton felt his heart beat a little more quickly as the final child listened to their instructions.

  Oh please, felt himself mutter in a half-conscious prayer. He was not a religious man, but this was his final opportunity. He had failed so many times before …

  The boy looked at his sand. His hood had fallen to the wind, and his face, round and topped pile of short blonde hair, adopted a look of total concentration. Praxton held his breath, waiting, excited in spite of himself.

  The boy stared at the sand, his teeth clenched. Praxton felt his excitement dribble away as nothing happened. Finally, the sand gave a very weak glimmer—one so dark Praxton couldn’t be certain he hadn’t just imagined it—then faded to a dun black.

  Though he knew he betrayed no look of disappointment, Praxton felt the senior mastrells around him grow stiff with anticipation.

  “I’m … sorry, Lord Mastrell,” Tendel mumbled beside him.

  “It is nothing,” Praxton replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not every boy is meant to be a sand master.”

  “But … this was your last son,” Tendel pointed out—a rather unnecessary acknowledgement, in Praxton’s estimation.

  “Take them away,” Praxton ordered in a loud voice. So, this will be my legacy, he thought to himself. A Lord Mastrell who couldn’t produce a single sand master child. I will remembered as the man who married a woman from darkside, thereby sullying his line.

  He sighed, continuing. “Those who have skill may enter the Diem; the rest will chose another Profession.”

  The sand masters moved quickly, their feet sinking easily into the swirling, fine-grained dunes beneath. They were eager to seek refuge from the furious elements. One form, however, did not follow the white-robed mastrells. Small and slight of frame, the boy stood in the increasingly violent wind. His robe whipped around him, writhing like a beast in the throes of a gruesome death.

  “Kenton,” Praxton mumbled to himself.

  “I will be a sand master!” the young boy informed, his voice barely audible over the wind. A short distance away the line of retreating mastrells and boys paused, several heads turning in surprise.

  “You have no talent for sand mastery, boy!” Praxton spat, waving for the group to continue moving. They made only a perfunctory show of obeying the order. Few people ever challenged the Lord Mastrell, especially not young boys. Such a sight was worth standing in a sandstorm to watch.

  “The Law says I have enough!” Kenton rebutted, his small voice nearly a scream.

  Praxton frowned. “You’ve studied the Law, have you boy?”

  “I have.”

  “Then you know that I am the only one who can grant advancement in the Diem,” Praxton informed, growing more and more furious at the challenge to his authority. It looked bad to be confronted by a child, especially his own son. “The Lord Mastrell must give his approval before any sand master can increase in rank.”

  “Every rank but the first!” Kenton shouted back.

  Praxton paused, feeling his rage build. Everything beat against him—the insufferable wind, the boy’s insolence, the other sand masters’ eyes … . The worst of it was his own knowledge. Knowledge that the boy was right. Anyone who could make the sand glow was technically allowed to join the Diem. Boys with less power than Kenton had become sand masters. Of course, none of them had been children of the Lord Mastrell. If Kenton joined the Diem, his inability would weaken Praxton’s authority by association.

  The boy continued to stand, his posture determined. The wind-blown sand was piling around his legs, burying him up to the knees in a shifting barrow.

  “You will not find it easy in the Diem, boy,” Praxton hissed. “By sands, see reason!”

  Kenton did not move.

  Praxton sighed. “Fine!” he declared. “You may join.”

  Kenton smiled in victory, pulling his legs free from the dune and scrambling over to join the line of students. Praxton wat
ched motionlessly as the boy moved.

  The buffeting wind tore at his robes, sand scraping its way into his eyes and between his lips. Such discomfort would be little compared to the pain Kenton would soon know—the Diem was a place of unforgiving politics, and sheer power was often the means by which a sand master was judged. No, life would not be easy for one so weak, especially since his father was so powerful. No matter what Praxton did, the other students would resent Kenton for supposed codlings or favoritism.

  Oblivious to the trials ahead of him, the young boy made his way to the caves a short distance away. It appeared as if Praxton’s final child would also prove to be his largest embarrassment.

  Chapter One

  It almost seemed to Kenton as if the sands were breathing. Heat from the immobile sun reflected off the grains, distorting the air—making the dunes seem like they were composed of tiny coals, white-hot with energy. In the distance, Kenton could hear wind moaning through crevices in the rock. There was only one place in the enormous dune-covered expanse of the Kerla that such rock protrusions could be found: here, beside Mount KraeDa, in the place sacred to the sand masters. Everywhere else the sands were far too deep.

  Kenton, now a man, once again stood before a group of mastrells. In many ways he was very similar to the boy who had stood in this exact place eight years before. He had the same close-cropped blondish hair, the same roundish face and determined expression, and—most importantly—the same look of rebellious conviction in his eyes. He now wore the white robes of a sand master, but, unlike most others of his kind, he wore no colored sash. His sash was plain white—the sign of a student who hadn’t yet been assigned a rank in the Diem. Tied at his waist was another oddity—a sword. He was the only person in the group of sand masters who was armed.

  “Don’t tell me you intend to go through with this foolishness?” the man in front of Kenton demanded. Praxton, looking older than the sand itself, stood at the head of the Diem’s twenty gold-sashed mastrells. Though he had seen barely sixty years, Praxton’s skin was dry, wrinkled like a fruit that had been left out in the sun. Like most sand masters, he wore no beard.

  Kenton looked back defiantly, something he had grown very good at doing over the last eight years. Praxton regarded his son with a mixture of disgust and embarrassment. Then, with a sigh, the old man did something unexpected. He moved away from the rest of the mastrells, who stood silently on the rock plateau. Kenton watched with confusion as Praxton waved him over, standing far enough away from the others that the two could have a private conversation. For once, Kenton did as commanded, moving over to hear what the Lord Mastrell had to say.

  Praxton looked back at the mastrells, then turned back to Kenton. His eyes only briefly shot down at the sword tied at Kenton’s waist before coming up to stare him in the eyes.

  “Look, boy,” Praxton said, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “I have suffered your insolence and games for eight years. The Sand Lord only knows how much trouble you’ve caused. Why must you constantly defy me?”

  Kenton shrugged. “Because I’m good at it?”

  Praxton scowled.

  “Lord Mastrell,” Kenton continued, more serious but no less defiant. “Once a sand master has accepted a rank, he’s forever frozen in that place.”

  “So?” Praxton demanded.

  Kenton didn’t answer. He had refused advancement four times now, a move that had made him into a fool and a novelty before the rest of the Diem. Inept students were sometimes forced to spend five years as an acolent, but never in the history of sand mastery had anyone remained a student for eight.

  Praxton sighed again, reaching down to take a sip of water from his qido. “All right, boy,” Praxton finally said. “Despite the pain—despite the shame—I will admit that you’ve worked hard. The Sand Lord knows you haven’t any talent to speak of, but at least you did something with the small amount you have. Give up this stupid decision to run the Path, and tomorrow I’ll offer you the rank of fen.”

  Fen. It was the next to lowest of the nine sand master ranks; only underfen—the rank Kenton had been offered the four previous years—was beneath it.

  “No,” Kenton informed. “I think I want to be a mastrell.”

  “Aisha!” Praxton cursed.

  “Don’t swear now, father,” Kenton suggested. “Wait until I run the Path successfully. Then what will you do?”

  Kenton’s defiant words were more optimistic than his heart, however. Even as his father raged, Kenton felt the questions resurfacing.

  What on the sands am I doing? Eight years ago no one thought I could even be a sand master, and now I’ve been offered a respectable rank in the Diem. It isn’t what I wanted, but … .

  “Boy, you’re inept enough to make the Hundred Idiots look brilliant. Running the Mastrell’s Path won’t prove anything. It’s meant for mastrells—not for simple acolents.”

  “The Law doesn’t say a student cannot run it,” Kenton said, thoughts of his inadequacy still strong in his mind.

  “I won’t make you a mastrell,” Praxton warned. “Even if you find all five spheres, I won’t do it. The Path is not a test or a proof. Mastrells run it if they want to, but only after they’ve been advanced. Your success will mean nothing. You’ll never be a mastrell—you aren’t even worthy to be a sand master!”

  Praxton’s words burned away Kenton’s doubts like water in the sun. If there was one person who could fuel Kenton’s sense of defiance, it was Praxton.

  “Then I’ll be an acolent until the day I die, Lord Mastrell,” Kenton replied, folding his arms.

  “You can’t be a mastrell,” Praxton reiterated. “You don’t have the power.”

  “I don’t believe in power, father. I believe in ability. I can do anything a mastrell can; I just have different methods.” It was an old argument, one he had been making for the last eight years.

  “Can you slatrify?”

  Kenton paused. No, that was one thing he couldn’t do. Slatrification, the ability to change sand into water, was the ultimate art of sand mastery. It was wildly different from sand mastery’s other abilities, and none of Kenton’s creativity or ingenuity could replicate it.

  “There have been mastrells who couldn’t slatrify,” Kenton replied weakly.

  “Only two,” Praxton replied. “And both were able to control over two dozen ribbons of sand at once. How many can you control, boy?”

  Kenton ground his teeth. It was a direct question, however, and he couldn’t refuse to respond. “One,” he finally admitted.

  “One,” Praxton repeated. “One ribbon. I’ve never known a mastrell who couldn’t control at least fifteen. You’re telling me you can do as much with one as they can with fifteen? Why can’t you see how preposterous that is?”

  Kenton smiled slightly. Thank you for the encouragement, father. “Well, I’ll just have prove it to you then, Lord Mastrell,” he said with a mocking bow, turning away from his father.

  “The Path was meant for mastrells, boy,” Praxton’s cracking voice repeated behind him. “Most of them don’t even use it—it’s too dangerous.”

  Kenton ignored the old man, instead approaching another sand master who was standing a short distance away. His short frame cast no shadow, for the sun was directly overhead here, in the jagged rocklands south of Mount KraeDa. The sand master was bald and had a slightly fat, oval face. Around his waist was tied the yellow sash of an undermastrell, the rank directly below mastrell. The man smiled as Kenton approached.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Kenton?”

  Kenton nodded. “Yes, Elorin, I do.”

  “Your father’s objections are well-founded,” Elorin cautioned. “The Mastrell’s Path was created by a group of men with inflated egos who wanted very desperately to prove themselves better than their peers. It was designed for those with massive power. Mastrells have died running it before.”

  “I understand,” Kenton said, but inwardly he was curious. No one who had run the Path
was allowed to reveal its secrets, and for all his studying, Kenton hadn’t been able to determine what could be so dangerous about a simple race through the Kerla. Was it the lack of water? Steep cliffs? Neither should have provided much of a challenge to well-trained sand masters.

  Elorin continued. “All right then. The Lord Mastrell has asked me to mediate your run. A group of us will watch as you move through the Path, evaluating your progress and making certain you don’t cheat. We cannot help you unless you ask, and if we do the intervention will end your run where it stands.”

  The shorter man reached into his white sand master’s robes, pulling out a small red sphere. “There are five of these hidden on the Path,” he explained. “Your goal is to find all five. You may start when I say so. You have until the moon passes behind the mountain and reappears on the other side. The test is over the moment you either run out of time or you find the fifth sphere.”

  Kenton looked up. The moon circled the sky once per day, hovering just above the horizon the entire time. Soon it would pass behind Mount KraeDa. He would probably have about an hour, a hundred minutes, to run the path.

  “So don’t have to make it back to the starting point?” Kenton clarified.

  Elorin shook his head. “The moment the moon reappears, your run is over. We will count the spheres you have found, and that is your score.”

  Kenton nodded.

  “You may not take your qido with you,” Elorin informed, reaching out a hand to take Kenton’s water bottle from his side.

  “The sword too,” Praxton called from behind, his lips curled downward in their characteristic look of disapproval.

  “That is not in the rules, old man,” Kenton objected, his hand falling to the hilt.

  “A true sand master has no need of such a clumsy weapon,” Praxton argued.

  “It’s not in the rules,” Kenton repeated.

  “He is right, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin agreed. He was frowning too—as kind as the undermastrell was, even he didn’t agree with Kenton’s insistence on carrying a sword. In the eyes of most sand masters, weapons were crass things, meant for lowly Professions such as soldiers.