His eyes snapped open. He was in his tent—he had just finished fighting the deep sandling. In a moment, Dirin would speak to him, then Traiben would visit. The advancement ceremony, the deaths, the slaughter … a dream.
“I should never have come to Dayside, Cynder,” the voice said—a female voice. The voice he had heard in his darkness. He looked around with confusion as the voice continued. “I’m not a leader of men. I have the title, but that means less and less in Elis these days. I rarely even gave orders to servants—I spent most of my time in the university. Really, all being a duchess did was get me into parties and balls. Or, at least, whenever Gevin could drag me away from my studies long enough for such things.”
Kenton was wrong—this wasn’t his tent. It was similar, but the personal effects weren’t his. The voice, it was speaking in Dynastic—his mother’s language. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn with dehydration. It hadn’t been a dream—it had happened, all of it. Traiben, Elorin, dead. His father … dead.
A groan of despair rose in his throat, though it escaped his desiccated lips as a pitiful croak.
The room fell silent. “Shella!” the voice finally said. There was a sound of chairs being moved, and then a face appeared above his own. Through his despair, Kenton had time for a moment of confusion—his muddled mind hadn’t connected the language with the nationality until he saw her face. What is a darksider doing here?
The girl, in her late teens or perhaps early twenties, had the dark skin and thin, fine features of a Darksider. Her eyes were a soft gray, her hair, which was worn without bun or braids, was long, well past shoulder-length. Her face was concerned, but at the same time excited.
“His eyes are open, Cynder!”
“I can see that, My Lady,” a second voice said.
Kenton turned his head slightly, focusing on a second darksider, a balding man of perhaps sixty. He wore one of the strange, constrictive suits that darksiders were fond of, and he also seemed excited, though his emotions were much harder to read than those of the girl.
The man reached out, taking Kenton’s pulse and inspecting his face with a critical eye.
“He’s probably scared,” the girl said with concern. “Waking up after such a slaughter to find strange, dark-skinned people hovering over him, speaking a strange language.”
“Undoubtedly,” the man agreed. “Either that, or he thinks he died and his god has a very odd sense of humor.”
Kenton frowned. His Dynastic was rusty—since his mother’s death two years ago, he had been given little chance to practice it. Their words, however, were familiar enough. He opened his mouth to speak—to ask one of the hundred questions that were blooming in his mind as his senses returned. He was cut off, however, by a movement from the tent door.
The largest man Kenton had ever seen stood silhouetted by the sunlight. His skin was even darker that of other Darksiders—a black, rather than a soft brown. He wore a Kershtian robe, but left it open at the front, turning into something more like a duster or a jacket. Underneath he wore a tight shirt made of the strange springy cloth Kenton had sometimes seen traders peddling, along with a stiff pair of Darksider leggings. His face was less fine-featured than those of the other two—his nose larger, his chin more pronounced—and his stance, eyes, and expression left little speculation as to his profession. This man was a warrior.
“He’s awake,” the man stated simply.
“You almost sound disappointed, Baon,” the girl countered.
“It’s just, I assumed I had solved one of our problems.” The warrior lifted back the tent flap, revealing a large tonk—female, by the horn-count—grazing on sand outside.
“A tonk!” the girl yelped with amazement. “Baon, how did you manage it?”
“It’s the guide’s,” Baon explained. “I found it chewing on sand a short distance away.”
“Is there any water on it?” the girl asked eagerly, rising to push past Baon to inspect the tonk’s saddlebags. As she did so, the large warrior’s eyes fell on Kenton. They studied him for some reason, searching Kenton’s features with a calculating scrutiny.
“A little,” the warrior said. “Not very much, I’m afraid.”
“By the Divine!” the girl cursed. “What was he thinking? How was he planning to survive out here without water?”
Baon’s eyes continued to study Kenton, though Kenton couldn’t fathom what the man was searching for. The man’s eyes were … suspicious.
He knows, Kenton realized. He can tell that I understand what they’re saying.
“Well?” Baon asked directly at Kenton. “How do you people survive out here without water?”
The girl froze, turning around with confused eyes.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Kenton asked. The words came out slowly—he hadn’t spoken Dynastic in some time. The language still felt fairly natural, however.
“No,” the warrior, Baon, replied.
The girl’s eyes opened wide in disbelief, and the other Darksider, still sitting on a stool beside Kenton, chuckled softly to himself.
“The water?” Baon reminded.
“How can you be out of water?” Kenton asked, shaking his head. “You aren’t in the desert yet.”
Baon raised an eyebrow, lifting the tent flap again and pointing outside. “Sun. Sand. Desert.”
Kenton frowned. Could it be that the word in Dynastic didn’t mean what he thought it meant? “No, I mean, a desert—a place with no water.”
“Wait a minute!” the girl interrupted, stalking back into the tent. “How do you speak Dynastic so well?”
“One topic at a time, duchess,” Baon said, cutting off her question. He looked directly at Kenton. “Daysider, I don’t understand you. If this isn’t a desert, where’s the water?”
“Well, all around us, of course,” Kenton replied. “You mean … . No,” he realized, shaking his head. “Of course no one told you. It’s just, on dayside it’s common knowledge.”
“You were faking!” the girl said, folding her arms indignantly. “You pretended not to speak our language!”
“I did not,” Kenton protested.
“You sat there listening to us, all the time understanding what we were saying!” the girl challenged. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You never gave me an opportunity to speak!” Kenton replied trying to sound sincere, though he couldn’t help smiling slightly at the ridiculousness of his situation. “You have some water left, I assume,” he said, turning to Baon.
The warrior nodded. “Only a little, daysider. Why?”
“Give it to me.”
The warrior frowned slightly, but he reached down to his belt and pulled out a round container with a cap. Kenton accepted the container, then rose from his cot. Instantly, a wave of light-headedness struck, and his vision began to darken.
He felt his arm grabbed by a powerful hand as Baon steadied him. A moment later the wave passed, but he could still feel the weakness in his limbs. He was far from healed.
“Do we need to go far?” Baon asked.
Kenton shook his head, breathing deeply. “No. Just outside. I can walk.”
The warrior released his grip, allowing Kenton to shuffle across the tent floor to the door. He pulled back the flap, stepping into the warm sun. The darksiders followed—though the girl and the old man put strange contraptions over their eyes—something like Kershtian eye-lenses, but much darker.
Kenton’s strength gave out as he walked out onto the sand, but he waved Baon back as he sank to his knees. He shook the water container, judging its contents. It was mostly full. Probably enough, he thought.
With that, he took of the stopper and began to pour the water onto the sand in front of him.
The girl gasped in alarm, moving to stop him, but the warrior grabbed her by the shoulder. “Wait,” he ordered.
Kenton continued to pour, letting the water drain slowly so it soaked down more than it did out. Hopefully, there’s one near
the surface …
A moment later, the ground began to tremble slightly. Kenton thrust his hands into the ground, digging through the sand and grabbing the form he felt beneath. With a heave of his weakened arms, he pulled a thick vine from the sand. It was wider than a man’s arm, a dull brown in color. He could only lift it about a foot out of the sand—both of its ends continued on beneath the surface. What he had pulled free was part of a much, much larger network.
“Knife,” he requested, noting the exhaustion in his voice. He could hardly believe how difficult such simple actions seemed.
Baon produced a knife from a sheath at his calf—a well-crafted blade obviously intended for use as a weapon. Kenton sawed at the vine, slicing through its skin at an angle. “Good,” he said, handing back the knife. “Now, go get something to store this in.” With that, he pulled the two parts of the vine apart, and water began to seep from the hundreds of tiny tubes that ran inside its center.
“Shella!” the girl breathed as Kenton refilled Baon’s water container. The warrior ducked into a tent and returned with several of the water barrels from inside. It took Kenton a few moments to fill all three. Then he pushed the two halves of the vine together, pressing firmly to help them reseal. A second later it was done, and as he let the vine drop to the sand, its cilia quickly wiggled it beneath the surface.
“I don’t understand,” the girl objected, standing with her hands on her hips as she regarded the patch of sand—turned to black from the spill of water—where the vine had vanished. “Why would they carry water like that?”
“Does it mater?” Baon asked, lifting a ladle to his lips and tasting the water.
“Yes,” the girl said mater-of-factly. “It does.”
“It’s for protection,” Kenton explained. “Most …” What was a word for sandling in Dynastic? “Most sand-creatures have hard shells that dissolve when they touch water. The dorim vines keep the water as a defensive mechanism—if sand-creatures try to eat it, their mouths melt.”
“But, where does the water come from?” she continued.
“I don’t know,” Kenton confessed.
“It must be the water table, My Lady,” the older darksider guessed. “Somewhere beneath all this sand, there must be a place where water collects.”
Kenton frowned. He’d called her ‘My Lady.’ He remembered something from what he mother had said about Darkside. “My Lady?” he asked. “Are you a …” he searched for the word, and found he only knew it in Lossandin. “A Kelzi?”
“A what?” the girl asked with a frown.
“A Kelzi,” Kenton repeated, trying to mimic the way his mother had always pronounced the word.
“Oh, a Kelzi,” the girl said. “A … Land-holder. I suppose you could call me that, though it isn’t quite right.”
“A Kli then?” Kenton asked, changing to a Kershtian word for nobleman. “One whose title passes from parents to child?”
“Yes,” the girl said with a nod. “That’s it.”
“Ah,” Kenton said with a nod, motioning for Baon to help him regain his feet. “You must be very religious, then.”
“Religious?” the girl asked with confusion. “Well, I suppose, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Kenton frowned. A Kli that wasn’t religious? But, it was the Kershtian Theocracy that granted the title. This woman was odd—he spoke the words in her own language, but she still didn’t seem to understand.
Baon helped him back into the tent, and he eased back onto the cot. In his hand, unnoticed buy the Darksiders—he hoped—he clutched a small handful of sand. He’d had another reason for wanting to go outside. He rested back, feeling sleep reach for him again, but forced himself to remain awake for a few moments longer. There was something he had to test—putting it off would only worry him further.
Reaching out, he called for the sand to come to life. Nothing happened.
Kenton let the sand dribble from his fingers, his earlier despair returning. It was as he feared—the overmastery had burned away his abilities. He was no longer a sand master.
#
“Well, he did deceive us,” Khriss said defensively, looking down at the daysider as he fell unconscious, a small handful of white sand slipping hourglass-like from between his limp fingers.
Baon raised an eyebrow. “If you say so, duchess,” he said, carrying one of the knee-high barrels of water into the room.
“We didn’t even bother to ask his name,” Cynder mumbled with a chuckle.
Baon set the barrel beside the bed. Then, rising, he looked over at Khriss. “Good job,” he said simply.
Khriss frowned, trying to follow the warrior’s logic. “At what?”
“You made the right decision,” Baon explained, carrying the second barrel into the room. “You decided not to leave him, even when Flennid challenged your authority. You stood behind your decision when we could have fled. Now, it appears as if we will live because of your resolve.”
Khriss blushed. The mercenary spoke with a very matter-of-fact tone of voice, without a hint of flattery, but the compliment held more power than any courtly praise. “It wasn’t an inspired decision, Baon,” she replied. “It was more random than anything else—I could have led us to our deaths just as easily.”
“I didn’t say it was inspired,” Baon corrected, placing the final barrel and rising to look her in the eyes. “It was consistent. You made a difficult decision, the best one you could, then had enough confidence in yourself to remain strong. You’re not a leader, duchess. Someday, however, you may become one.”
He walked by her, pushing aside the tent flap and striding out into the light.
“Well, you were right about something too, Baon.”
“What?” he asked, moving to unlatch the tonk’s saddlebags and rifle through them.
“The guide,” Khriss explained. “He wasn’t mad—he could have found us water at any time. He probably got quite a chuckle from the way we insisted on bringing all our water with us from the port city.”
Baon smiled, locating something in the bags. He stood, holding something in his hands that looked like a large animal’s bladder or wineskin.
“There’s a second thing they don’t teach in your university, duchess,” he said, throwing the large sack-like thing over his shoulder. “The unlearned aren’t as stupid as you think.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said with a half-smile. “What are you doing?”
Baon slipped his knife from its sheath, then nodded toward the bags over his shoulder. “They’re waterbags—the guide probably intended to fill them once we reached ‘the desert,’ wherever that is. If our new daysider friend happens to die within the next few days, I want to be certain I can replicate what he just did.”
#
When Kenton next awoke, some of his strength seemed to have returned. He was, at least, able to sit up without getting light-headed. He was alone in the tent—the darksiders were nowhere to be seen.
He sat for a moment, listening to the powerful Kerla wind blow at the tent’s sides. Time had passed since the attack—he couldn’t be certain how much, but days at least. A week maybe? How long could a person live without food? Thoughts of eating suddenly reminded him how hungry he was.
He stood, walking slowly over to the tent’s door. He paused, however, before leaving. There, sitting on a short table beside the fluttering door, was a bright golden sash. His sash. How many years had he one day dreamed of earning it? How many years had it been since he had given up on such dreams, continuing to struggle because … because why? Because he wanted to spite his father? That was part of it. A great deal of who he was, the sinews that gave strength to his personality, was his rebellious spirit.
But now there was nothing to rebel against. He was a mastrell—but a mastrell of what? Had anyone else survived the massacre? Kenton grabbed the sash, but didn’t tie it on. He had been made a mastrell, true, but he had just as immediately lost the status. A man couldn’t be a m
astrell if he couldn’t master sand.
I’m not a sand master any more. His mind still refused to accept the idea. It was like he was numb; unwilling to face such a possibility. He had been in the Diem for eight years, he had worked and agonized to strengthen his one little ribbon. It couldn’t be gone. It couldn’t.
Kenton shook his head in disbelief, pushing away thoughts of his powers. He realized he was refusing to deal with the issue, but at the same time he didn’t care. He couldn’t face it. Not yet.
With a sigh, he shuffled out of the tent and into the warm sunlight. A short distance away, past the tents, he could see the plain where the advancement ceremonies had taken place. From such a distance the white specs that covered it could have been mistaken for stones, and not corpses.
Kenton stood for a long moment, staring out at the enormous graveyard. Farewell, my friends … my father, he bid. Let us hope the Kershtians aren’t right. Otherwise, the afterlife will be very difficult for you. The Sand God was not known for his love toward sand masters.
What happened here? He thought, shaking his head in confusion. Something had been done to the sand masters—something that dehydrated them at an accelerated rate. They had started to overmaster when they assumed they had plenty of water, and by the time they realized the damage they were doing, it had been too late.
And the Kershtians are behind it somehow. They would never have attacked if they hadn’t known the sand masters were weakened. A single mastrell was worth hundreds of warriors—Praxton’s final effort proved that. Still, to attack the collected Diem … .
We grew too lax, Kenton decided. It was bound to happen eventually. He was just as to blame as the rest of the Diem—he had heard of the new Kershtian high priest and his extreme hatred for sand mastery. He was said to be irrational, even for a Kershtian. Kenton had ignored him, as had the rest of the Diem. The Kershtians had been denouncing sand mastery for centuries—what had suddenly made them decide to act on their hatred?