Eric turned to Khriss, performing a stiff-backed half bow. “Lady Khrissalla,” he said. “I apologize for any impropriety I have engaged in. No offence was intended.”
Khriss shot Kenton a worried look. She didn’t know what to make of the change. Cynder, however, simply shrugged, moving into the room and sitting on his bunk.
Eric nodded to Kenton and Khriss. “Sleep well, Kenton, My Lady.”
He closed the door. Khriss watched for a moment, then turned, nodding toward her own room. Kenton followed, and she shut the door behind them.
“What happened to him?” she demanded.
“I don’t know …” Kenton said slowly, leaning back against the door. “That is the way he used to be, Khriss, before he went to darkside.”
“You mean, he’s serious?” Khriss asked. “I almost thought he was playing a joke on us.”
Kenton shook his head. “I think he’s … given up on himself, in a way. Eric grew up in a very strict home, Khriss. There was always a glint of wildness in him, and I exploited it to its fullest. However, he was always the cautious one in our friendship. You have no idea how many crazy schemes he talked me out of.”
“I’m worried about him,” she confessed. “He used to be so … happy. A bit irresponsible, but happy.”
“And now he’ll be the opposite,” Kenton said thoughtfully. Was there anything he could do? “I guess we can just wait,” he finally said. “Maybe he’ll get over it.”
“You really think so?” Khriss asked.
Kenton shrugged. “Where Eric is concerned, I really have no idea. Maybe he’ll switch back once this is all over, and he can go back to darkside.”
Khriss didn’t look convinced. She sat on her bunk, a concerned expression on her face. Kenton lay an encouraging hand on her shoulder. Then, not knowing what else to do, he returned to his own room and went to bed.
#
The voice tried to force its way past Eric’s lips, but he refused to let it out. Normal men did not talk to themselves. Besides, he knew it would only call him a fool.
It’s better this way, he told himself, climbing onto his bunk. This is what I was meant to be. This is what I was raised to become. I will be the person everyone wants me to be.
He barely noticed that he still had the sword in his hand when he lay back to sleep. He held it protectively in front of him, cradling it like a child. He had kept it away from him for so long—it felt good in his hand again. It was part of him, who he was. Who he had always been told he had to be . . . .
#
Ais frowned as he studied his Kershtian scripture. His mind refused to focus on the holy words before him. He ignored the Lord Mastrell as he entered the room and prepared for bed. Ais had been at his desk reading when the others had confronted Eric, but he had heard the exchange. He wasn’t certain to make of the situation.
The man is obviously unstable, Ais thought. I can’t believe he was hiding such ability all that time. Yet, even as the thought occurred to him, he remembered the time, weeks ago, when Eric had saved him in the alleyway. Neither man had ever spoken of the event—and now Ais realized why. Ais hadn’t been the only one revealing secrets that day. Just as Ais had lost control, so had Eric, though their problems manifest themselves in different ways. Neither man wanted to admit what they had become for a short time.
But now he’s given in. He has become what he was trying to hide. Will the same thing happen to me?
It was a horrifying thought. However, Ais knew it was a possibility. These last few days had been wearying. There was a reason he spent so much of his free time seeking solace in the words of the KerKor. Now that he didn’t have his family to comfort him, it was growing increasingly difficult to control his emotions. Back in the city, when Kenton had been speaking with Vey, Ais had nearly lost control. At first, it had been anger—he had thought the Lord Mastrell was going to attempt blackmail right in front of him. However, Ais’s emotions had soon switched to ones of confusion. He didn’t understand what the Lord Mastrell had done—it had almost seemed merciful.
Confusion was bad for Ais. Before, when the assassins had attacked, he hadn’t been able to make himself go up on deck. No one knew of it, thankfully, but suddenly a horrible, shameful fear had gripped him. He had heard the screaming above, the yells of pain, and had lost control, hiding himself beneath his desk. By the time he had regained control of himself, it had been to late.
The Lord Mastrell had nearly died, and Ais hadn’t been there to perform his duty. It was growing worse and worse—never before had he run from a battle. Shame rose to thickly in his chest that he nearly started sobbing. Fortunately, he kept it inside. This time.
What was happening to him? He was falling apart. Always before, the overwhelming emotions had come in the form of anger. This time, they had come as fear, and that worried Ais. What was next? All of his control, his years of learning to keep himself cold and indifferent, seemed useless now. He, a senior trackt, had hidden under a desk during a battle. He wasn’t worthy of the position he held, wasn’t worthy to bear the Hall’s symbol on his uniform.
With an inward groan of agony, Ais forced himself to read the Sand Lord’s words. They would bring him peace. They would bring him harmony. The Sand Lord was justice. The sand lord was control.
#
Kenton frowned, staring up at the cabin’s ceiling. Had he just heard a whimper from Ais?
Of course not, you fool, he thought with a chuckle. The day Ais starts showing emotion …
Kenton was just on edge. Now he was hearing things—it was going to be difficult to get to sleep. However, he desperately needed the rest. His body still felt a little weak from overmastery, and he had a lot to do when they got to Kezare.
Ais whimper? Really, Kenton, what were you thinking?
Chapter Thirty-Five
The next day, Kenton woke with the same questions still fresh in his mind. It was as if he had spent the entirety of his dreams brooding over his problems, and as a result was left numb instead of refreshed. He sighed, rolling off the bunk and absently grabbing a handful of sand. He commanded it to life. Nothing happen—
The sand flashed to life. Kenton sat, staring at the sand before him, almost disbelieving. His powers had returned after just three days of waiting. He was a sand master again.
He almost dropped the sand pouch in his eagerness to retrieve another handful of sand. The mastrells had been wrong—he had now proven that fact twice. Overmastery did not burn away one’s powers. But, did it really make him stronger? He began to master ribbons, ordering them into the air. When the fourth handful of sand responded to his coaxings, he smiled broadly. After all of his setbacks, his mistakes, and his guessings, he had finally done something right. The fifth ribbon rose into the air as well, though only barely. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to get six.
Still, he was engulfed in a flurry of sand. Five ribbons spun according to his will, wrapping around him, filling his vision. He had heard other sand masters speak of the raw power they felt, the heightening of senses, the expansion of the mind, that came from controlling so many ribbons. With one, two, or even three ribbons his mind had always been dominant. He had used the sand like limbs, moving it like extensions of his arms. Now, however, there was more sand than he should be able to comprehend. He knew, somehow, that he shouldn’t be able to command the sand in five different directions at once. Yet he could.
It was as if the sand had its own consciousness—a consciousness that had no form until he gave it direction. However, with the slightest command from him, it moved, seeming to understand his orders without his needing to complete the thought. Holding the sand somehow expanded his mind. The sand itself became his mind—not in a sense of ability to think or reason, but more in the way it processed sensual information. It divided his concentration, allowing his mind to focus on several different tasks at once.
Up until that moment, Kenton had never understood the true potential of sand mastery. With so many ribbons ho
vering around him, sand mastery became less focused on control or domination. He didn’t master the sand so much as he became part of it. One being.
With a groan, Kenton released the sand, falling back on his bunk. The sand showered down against the wooden floor, black and stale. Kenton took a deep breath, suddenly feeling incredibly drained. Dividing his attention in such a way was exhausting. He finally understood why the more powerful sand masters sometimes ran out of energy before they ran out of water. Years of lessons flooded into his mind—lessons he had been forced to sit through year after year while he refused to take a sash.
If he divided his attention too much, he would quickly run out of strength. Instead, he should use his ribbons together, combining them into one or two larger streams. As long as he did this, his sand would function as it had before, just with more power.
Kenton shook his head in amazement. He hadn’t listened very well during such lessons, as he had assumed they would never apply to him. Most sand masters never got beyond two or three ribbons—once one hit five or six, he was approaching undermastrell or mastrell level.
Except, Kenton reminded himself, the mastrells must have all known the truth behind overmastery. That is why they could control two dozen ribbons, while the undermastrells could only control six.
Kenton could see how it must have happened. As soon as a student showed the rare ability to master seven or eight ribbons, the mastrells would give him the golden sash. Only then would they reveal the secret, the method of boosting a sand master’s power by two or three times. They kept the true strength of sand mastery for themselves. It had been a means of maintaining control over the Diem, and it had worked.
I have to share this, Kenton realized. The Diem might have lost its mastrells, but with this knowledge I can make even fens powerful.
Then, however, he paused. He couldn’t tell the Diem—not yet. If he failed to protect their Profession, then the sand masters could very well end up mercenaries under Drile’s control. Kenton couldn’t afford to give them any more power than they already had. Besides, he would have to be very careful how he handled overmastery. One thing the masters had said was true—the process was very dangerous. It had nearly killed Kenton twice now. When he did tell the others about it, he would have to be careful to do it in a very controlled setting.
Still, the success was encouraging. Kenton smiled to himself as he dressed—or, at least, he smiled until he realized something. It wasn’t enough. Drile could control twenty-four ribbons—compared to such power, an increase from three to five was negligible. He had increased his power, but he was still ridiculously weak compared to Drile. The realization sliced away much of the euphoria surrounding his success.
Kenton sighed. What had he been expecting? An increase of even two ribbons was supposed to be impossible; had he really thought that he could make himself into a match for Drile in just three days? Yes, Kenton could now control five ribbons, but what good would it do him? Drile had years of experience splitting his consciousness to control multiple ribbons. There was little doubt who would win their contest.
Well, it will just have to be enough, Kenton decided. With five, he might last a little longer. If he had time, he could try overmastering again, but he doubted even that would bring much success. The first time it had happened he had jumped from one relatively weak ribbon to nearly being able to control four. This overmastery had provided less of an increase—he could barely control that fifth ribbon. He suspected that the amount he gained from overmastery would decrease each time he tried it—otherwise, the mastrells would never have been satisfied with just two dozen.
#
Khriss drifted on the wisps of her dreams, trying to avoid the inevitability of consciousness. Something was tickling her foot, drawing her out of her peaceful land of restfulness, pulling her toward the real world. She kicked at the annoyance, trying to ignore it. Unfortunately, the more she did so, the more awake she became. Eventually she realized that if someone was tickling her, then someone must have snuck into her room.
She cried out at the indecency of the thought, immediately snapping awake and turning angry eyes at the invader. It turned out to be a shimmering line of sand. Khriss scooted back, pulling the flimsy sheet around her—the pitiful dayside excuse for a bed cover. Her curiosity, however, was more powerful than her indignation, and she refrained from snapping at Kenton. Instead, she watched the sand.
The glowing line, shedding light on the room she had darkened with a cloth over the porthole, came from underneath the door. As she watched, the tip of the snake-like construction moved forward. It almost seemed to feel its way across her bunk, as if it could convey some sense of touch back to its master. Perhaps it could—she’d never considered the possibility before.
The sand drew closer and closer, and Khriss frowned. Finally, she picked up a shoe and threw it against the door. To her satisfaction, she heard Kenton cry out in shock from the other side—he had probably been standing with his ear against the door. As he yelped, the sand fell dead, scattering her bunk and floor with dark sand.
“That hurt!” Kenton’s muffled voice exclaimed.
“You deserve it,” Khriss snapped back. “You should know better than to violate a lady’s privacy!”
She thought she heard a snort from the other side. “You want to see me invade?” he warned. Suddenly, the doorknob began to turn.
Khriss yelped in surprise. He wouldn’t dare … yes he would. She hopped out of bed, holding the sheet around her barely-clothed body as she searched in the now-complete darkness for something to wear. “You’d better not open that door!” she yelled. “I’ve got another shoe!”
She heard chuckling from the other side. The door, however, did not open. I knew he wouldn’t do it, Khriss thought with relief.
“Hurry up,” Kenton’s voice chided. “We’re almost to Kezare.”
Khriss didn’t respond. She finally located the porthole, and pulled the cover free. Light assaulted the room, burning into her face. She blinked against it, letting her eyes adjust. Eventually, the light seemed to recede, its raging power subduing slightly when it realized it couldn’t cow her. She was finally getting used to its brightness—it had only taken her a month.
With a sigh, Khriss pulled off her shift and began to wipe herself down with water from the covered basin at the foot of her bed. It was a crude method of washing, but it had to do until she could order herself a proper bath. Afterward she dressed in a light-colored robe with a slight yellow tinge to it, tying it at the waist. She realized that all of the robes she favored were actually men’s robes, but she just couldn’t force herself to wear the atrocities that were women’s clothing on dayside. The baggy, formless robes seemed designed to hide a woman’s form instead of accentuate it—as if being female were somehow shameful.
In a way, she liked how the men’s robes fit her. She could pull them tight at the waist and leave the top open just enough to reveal a hint of bosom. She could see them catching on in Elis, though she would need to add a little more color to them.
She washed her hair as best she could in the basin of water, then combed it straight. The arid dayside heat would soon dry it, though she would have to go up top to make use of the sun. She smiled to herself—perhaps the sun was useful for something after all. Back on darkside, it often took hours to dry her hair. Here she could accomplish the same thing in a few short minutes.
Apparently, she was the last one up. She climbed the steps to find the deck already crowded. Kenton stood conferring with Delious by the bow, Cynder standing a short distance away, looking slightly forlorn. As much as he had complained about Acron, he obviously missed the man’s company.
Eric was on deck as well. He seemed to be competing with Ais to see who could stand with the stiffest back and flattest expression. Eric’s hand rested tensely on the pommel of the sword he now wore at his side—almost like he was worried that someone would try and take it from him. Baon was leaning against the starboard wale, r
egarding Eric with an interested eye. The large warrior nodded to Khriss as she achieved the deck.
Khriss immediately noticed that Kenton had been wrong—they weren’t close to Kezare, they had already arrived. The island city sat right in front of them, and their ship was obviously preparing to dock.
“What happened?” Kenton asked, approaching. “Did you fall into the washing basin.”
Khriss snorted, running a hand through her still-wet hair. “You have your sand back?”
Kenton nodded, raising a hand and calling a ribbon to life. He regarded his sand with a look of awe, almost worship. It was the kind of look Khriss had always longed to have a man give to her.
Silly girl, she told herself. Look at him—he’ll never feel that way about you. If Gevin found you annoying, then Kenton certainly must. Shella—he’s told you as much a dozen times over!
“So, how are you going to find the Lord General?” she said, trying to mask her pain and confusion—when had she begun to feel that way about Kenton?
“I don’t know,” Kenton confessed, letting the sand die as he turned contemplative eyes at the city.
Khriss watched him, wanting to help somehow. What good was she? She didn’t speak Lossandin, she didn’t know his culture—all she had done was pester him.
Stop it, she told herself. You’ve done nothing but feel sorry for yourself since you found the prince. If Kenton gets annoyed with anything, it will be your self-pity. You want to help him. Well, think of something.
In the end, it was one of Baon’s lessons that came to her aid once again. “Kenton,” she said slowly, frowning to herself.
“Hum?” he asked, still staring at the city.
“I don’t think you have to find the Lord General.”
He turned at this, a question on his face.
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