White Sand Page 3

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the voice repeated as Kenton dodged again. “Ask us to bring you out!” It belonged to Elorin. Kenton ignored him, calling his sand to life as he spun away from a claw. He raised his sword, deflecting a second attack. The creature’s strength was such that his parry barely seemed to do much good, but it did allow him to dodge the attack just long enough to strike.

  Even as he turned, Kenton raised his fist, commanding his sand forward. The sand tore out of his palm, streaking toward the sandling’s head. It extended like a spear from Kenton’s hand, leaving a glowing trail behind. The sand moved so quickly it seemed to scream in the air—Kenton might not be able to control dozens of lines at once, but when it came to a single ribbon, he was unmatched. No sand master could move sand with half as much speed or precision.

  The sand snapped against the creatures shell of a head and immediately lost its luster, spraying to the sides like a stream of water hitting a stone wall. Kenton stood in confusion, so stunned that the creature’s next attack took him in the side, throwing him back against the stone wall and ripping a deep gash in his shoulder. Kenton’s sword dropped to the sand, slipping from stunned fingers.

  The sandling was terken. It was impervious to sand mastery.

  Kenton cursed again, feeling blood begin to flow from his shoulder. He had, of course, read of terken creatures, but they were supposed to be extremely rare. Only the most ancient and feared of deep sandlings—creatures said to be protected by the Sand Lord himself—had terken shells. How had one come to live here, in the middle of shallow sands and rock formations?

  Regardless, it was obvious what he was supposed to do. All sandlings, whether from the deep sands or not, had one powerful weakness: water. The liquid could dissolve their carapaces, melting away their shell and skin, leaving behind nothing but sludge.

  It made sense. The final challenge in the Mastrell’s Path would test the most powerful of sand mastery’s skills—the ability to change sand into water. With Slatrification, a sand master could melt away the sandling’s shell with barely a thought. Unfortunately, Kenton couldn’t slatrify. Suddenly Elorin’s suggestion that he escape made a great deal of sense.

  Kenton cast his speculations aside, concentrating on staying alive. He was moving more and more slowly; he could feel himself weakening. Trying to ignore the pain of his shoulder, he stooped as he ran, grabbing another handful of sand. As the next attack came he used the mastered sand to give himself a boost, jumping high into the air and tumbling over the claws.

  Kenton dropped heavily to the sand, then scrambled in the direction of the sandling’s original position. Somewhere in that sand was the sphere. He didn’t really need to kill the sandling; he just needed to find the sphere and get away.

  He released his sand, dropping it to the ground black and stale. Instead, he placed his hand on the ground near where he had last seen the sphere. He called ribbon after ribbon to life, commanding them to jump away and then releasing them. Sand flew from the ground where he knelt; he commanded and released ribbons in such quick succession that it almost seemed like he could control more than one at a time.

  Unfortunately, the sandling did not leave him to his digging. Kenton’s jump had confused it, but it quickly reoriented itself. It came at him, the only sound of its movement that of sand rubbing against sand. Kenton continued to dig until the last moment, then dashed away, running desperately. He could feel the dryness on his skin, and each time he blinked his lids seemed to stick to his eyes. His lungs were beginning to burn, and his breaths came painfully. He was approaching the last of his water reserves—he would probably even be chastised for going this far. For the good of the Diem, one mustn’t even come close to overmastery, the familiar teaching claimed. It was time to give up.

  Just as he made the determination to escape, however, he saw it. Resting beside the far wall of the basin was a speck of red, brighter than the dark drops of his own blood which ran behind him. Crying out, Kenton switched directions, ducking beneath the sandling’s arms and dashing so close to its body that he could smell the sulfurous pungence of its carapace.

  And, as he ran by the creature, feeling the sand slither beneath his feet from the sandling’s motion, he noticed an incredulous sight. There, trapped between two bowl-like chinks in the sandling’s carapace, was another red sphere.

  Kenton continued his dash, his mind confused. He stopped beside the wall, digging in the sand until his fingers found something round and hard. He pulled the sphere free, looking at it with a frown, then turned his eyes back on the sandling. From this angle he could see it distinctly—a red sphere, just like the five he had already found. There weren’t five spheres on the Path, but six.

  Kenton dropped the sphere into the pouch at his side, then turned eyes up to the edge of the cliff. Directly above he could see the faces of twenty mastrells looking down at him. He could escape now; his time was probably all but up anyway. He had won—he had found all five spheres. What was he waiting for?

  For some reason he turned eyes back at the sandling. Its shell and skin were terken, but its insides …

  Kenton knew his father wouldn’t be satisfied with perfection—he never was. Praxton would demand more. Well, Kenton would give him more.

  The mastrells cried out in surprise as Kenton dashed away from the wall, his face resolute.

  “Idiot boy!” Praxton’s voice sounded behind him.

  Kenton brought sand to life, whipping it past the creature and using it to snatch his discarded sword from the sand floor. The blade flashed through the air, carried on fingers of sand. Kenton caught it as he ducked beneath the sandling’s first attack, grabbing a second handful of sand as he came up barely inches from the creature’s chest.

  With a cry of determination, Kenton slammed his sword into the creature’s side. The blade slipped off a segment of carapace and crunched through a less-protected line of skin, digging deeply into the soft area between plates. Kenton jammed the weapon in with all the strength he had left.

  Suddenly, his sword jerked, then ripped free from his hands, blasted backward by a powerful force. A loud hissing sound exploded from the cut. He had pierced the skin. Kenton caught a face-full of acrid gas—what sandlings had instead of blood—just before one of the monster’s legs caught him full in the chest, flinging him into the air.

  Even as he soared away from the creature, Kenton called the sand in his fist to life. He commanded it forward, driving it with all of his skill. Kenton slammed against the rock wall at the same time that his sand hit the creature’s chest, yet he did not release control of his ribbon. He felt his body slump to the ground, but ignored the pain, commanding his sand to find the cut, to wiggle past the terken carapace into the creature’s cavernous insides. He had to fight against air pressure and his own approaching unconsciousness, but he refused to release the sand.

  He felt it break through, the resistance of the air pressure suddenly vanishing. With a final surge of effort, Kenton ordered the ribbon around wildly, slicing it through organs inside the monster’s chest. The sandling began to shake and spasm as Kenton commanded the sand to move vaguely upwards. A second later Kenton found the head, and the sandling grew rigid in a sudden motion, throwing sand in all directions. Then, as silent in death as it had been in life, the creature slumped to the side, its corpse sinking slightly in the sand before coming to a rest.

  Kenton didn’t know where he found the strength to stumble to his feet and cross the sand. He only vaguely remembered retrieving his sword and using it to pry the sixth sphere free from the creature’s carapace.

  One image remained stark in his mind, however—that of looking up at the ridge and seeing his father’s hard, angry face. Just behind the Lord Mastrell, the enormous Mountain KraeDa towered in the distance. As Kenton watched, the silvery edge of the moon began to peek out from behind the mountain.

  Chapter Two

  Khriss woke slowly—a method which was, in her estimation, by far the best way. She yaw
ned in the darkness, stretching lethargically, her mind still clouded with images of dreams that were only just beyond memory. She stumbled off of the bunk, only half-aware of the ship’s rocking motions beneath her, and threw open the shutters to her cabin.

  The world exploded with light.

  Khriss gasped, stumbling back against her bunk. Light surrounded her, drilling through her eyes directly into her brain. She threw an arm in front of her face in an attempt to ward off the burning whiteness. Head turned to the side, eyes watering in agony, she blindly searched around inside the small chest beside her bunk. Finally, she located the thick, darkened spectacles and placed them on her face.

  The burning didn’t stop, of course. The afterimage of what she’d seen remained like a sparkling sheet in front of her, and her mind continued to throb. As she lay on the bunk, however, her teeth clinched against the pain, her vision slowly returned and the torment lessened. Eventually, she risked opening her eyes again, though she didn’t dare look out the window.

  The cabin, her home for the past two months, appeared before her. Even with the darkened spectacles, the light was much brighter than she was accustomed to. They must have finally passed through the Border Ocean’s mists and crossed over to Dayside.

  Shella! She wondered in amazement. I had no idea it would be so powerful!

  A knock came at her door.

  “You may enter,” she mumbled.

  A tall, broad-shouldered figure pushed the door open, his deep brown skin darkened even further by the effects of her spectacles. He wore a simple form-fitting shirt and a pair of canvas trousers.

  “You look horrible,” he commented in a flat voice.

  Khriss gritted her teeth, standing up. Trust Baon to be painfully honest. “We’ve left the fog behind, I presume.”

  Baon nodded. He was also wearing a pair of the darkened spectacles. “Several hours ago. You should make an appearance on the deck—we’ve sighted land, and the men are anxious.”

  “All right,” Khriss said, interest rising in her voice. “Let me put something on first.”

  Baon nodded, backing from the room and pulling the door closed. As soon as he left, Khriss let her excitement show, hurriedly pulling off her nightgown and throwing on the first clothing she found—a colorful blue pair of thick trousers and a knit sweater. Though it felt odd, she didn’t put on a jacket. It was supposed to be warmer here on Dayside.

  She checked her face in the cabin’s small mirror—Baon was right, she did look horrible. Her long, black hair was tangled from sleep, and it was obvious even through the spectacles that her eyes had been watering from the pain.

  She hurriedly pulled a brush through her hair, trying to make herself look at least presentable. People had certain expectations of a duchess, even one who had just awoken. Finally arriving at a compromise between excitement and grooming, she turned from the mirror and, composing herself, pulled open the door and walked out into the light.

  The first thing she noticed was the burning sphere of brilliance in the sky. She found herself staring at it before her pained eyes forced her to look away. She blinked, tears forming in her eyes, but she could still feel it above her, blazing like an enormous eye. She immediately began to sweat—despite her relatively thin clothing. She had read stories of the sun, and even believed some of them, but it was different to personally experience its power.

  She could actually feel it burning. Even across the incredible distance, she could feel its heat on her skin like a hearthfire. So this what a star looks like up close, she thought. Such was the current theory back in Elis. It’s a wonder that anything can survive in its constant heat.

  The deck was busy with men. The sailors, excited to arrive after two months of sailing, were enthusiastically climbing riggings and doing other sailorly things Khriss didn’t understand. The ship had been half-drifting for a month, letting the powerful Border Ocean current pull it from Darkside to Dayside. The ship had been spun through spinning maelstroms of wind, and only the clever sailing—and even more clever ship design—had allowed them to survive.

  The only group of men who weren’t moving stood at the front of the ship, watching land approach. Three men, dressed in nondescript trousers and coats, stood beside Baon. Their skin, like Khriss’s, was dark after the fashion of Elis, but none of them approached Baon’s deep blackness. None could approach his height either, the nearest standing a full six inches shorter than the massive foreigner.

  Khriss crossed the deck carefully, trying to stay out of the sailors’s way. As she reached the others, the three soldiers put one foot forward and bowed. One man, Flennid, stood at their lead. Typical of the Elisian military, all were of noble blood, but they were also all at least third sons.

  Baon didn’t bow. The mercenary simply continued to stare at the dark line in the distance—a line that was quickly resolving into a series of cliffs.

  “I half thought we would fall off the side of the world, like the stories claim,” the tall man mentioned as she joined him, leaning against the ship’s gunnel. Baon’s accent betrayed his nationality as much as his skin color—he was from Iiaria, a Kingdom on the northern end of Darkside, seat of the Dynasty itself. She’d never found a way to tactfully ask him how he had come to be a member of the Elisian military—especially since crossing Dynastic borders was expressly forbidden by law.

  Khriss snorted at his reference to falling off the edge of the world. “At worst our ship would have gotten caught in the wrong border currents and carried us right back to Darkside.”

  “I know,” Baon said quietly, his eyes unreadable beneath the dark spectacles.

  The other thee nobleman soldiers were talking quietly amongst themselves, and Khriss could see the excitement in their eyes. They were young—Flennid, the oldest, had probably seen twenty-two years. Young men were the only kind who volunteered for a mission like this one. They had a spirit of adventure, and were eager to be among the first Darksiders to set foot on Dayside in five hundred years. There was little frontier left on Darkside—even the glacial wastes at the center of the continent were crossed with some frequency.

  Dayside, however, was something new. The only records they had of Dayside were of dubious validity, and most scholars—Khriss included—gave them little credibility. Even if they were accurate, five centuries was a long time. Traveling to Dayside was an adventure few experiences could match. It was daring, exciting, and new—precisely the sort of thing that Khriss usually avoided.

  What in the name of the Divine am I doing? Khriss thought with an inward groan. Just as the approaching continent brought excitement to the soldiers, it carried dread into Khriss’ heart. I’m not a solider or an explorer. I hate travelling. I’ve never even left the capital, let alone left Elis.

  Of course, that was the problem. The prince had always complained that she was far too unwilling to take risks, that she avoided excitement. He was much more free-willed.

  Yes, and where did it get him? She reminded herself, only to realize a moment later that she was now guilty of exactly the same impetuousness. She had, after all, come looking for him.

  Look what you’ve made me do, Gevin. When I find you, I’m going to …

  “You were ordered to keep those hidden.”

  Baon’s sudden comment interrupted Khriss’s musings. The tall mercenary was staring accusingly at Flennid. The younger soldier was leaning against the ships wale, his hand idly cocking and uncocking the flintlock pistol in his hand.

  Flennid looked up at the accusation, his eyes hostile. “What does it mater?” he asked. “They won’t know what it is if they see it.”

  “Put it away, soldier,” Baon said firmly.

  Flennid sighed. “Yes, Captain,” he mumbled, stuffing the pistol back into its place underneath his cloak.

  Baon turned back away from Flennid, his eyes falling on Khriss’s confused face.

  “I thought I ordered you to leave the guns behind,” she said slowly.

  “You did,” Baon r
eplied.

  Khriss waited for more of an explanation. “And?” she finally asked.

  “I ignored you.”

  Khriss stopped, dumbfounded. “But …”

  “Duchess,” Baon said, turning black-spectacled eyes on her. “We’re travelling to an unknown continent, completely blind as to what we’ll find. Did you really expect your soldiers to give up the only advantage we have?”

  “Well …” Khriss admitted. She was accustomed to people doing what she said. “I thought it would be a good idea to keep the technology secret, just in case.”

  Baon shook his head. “The boy is right about one thing. Assuming they haven’t developed gunpowder on their own, then getting hold of one of our pistols will do them little good. They couldn’t replicate it—they don’t have the technology. They couldn’t even make new gunpowder.”

  “True,” Khriss admitted. Then she frowned. “Are you going to ignore all of my orders?”

  “No. Only the stupid ones.”

  Khriss wasn’t certain whether or not to be offended. Finally, she just sighed. If there was one thing this trip was teaching her, it was that life was much different outside of the capital. “Just keep an eye on those three. For some reason, the idea of firearms in Flennid’s hands makes me nervous.”

  “On that we agree,” Baon said with a nod.

  “I doubt we’ll even need the guns.”

  “You’re optimistic. That’s good. You’re paying me to be the opposite, however.”

  “Our mission is purely to gather information,” Khriss said firmly. “We find Prince Gevalden, we learn as much as we can about Dayside, and we go home. Who knows, perhaps the Daysiders will be the ones who end up helping us.”

  Baon snorted. “Duchess, if you’re intending to find something on Dayside to help you stop the Dynasty, then the legends about this place better not just be true—they’d better be gross underestimations.”