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saw the sailors fall. He saw the Kershtians effectively barricade the door shut, buying their allies just enough time to perform their duty. He saw Kenton get attacked. He saw Khriss’s pleading look. I can’t! he thought with agony. Not this. After so long, not this… Kenton was getting flanked. The two in front were just a distraction—one of the spearmen would get him from behind and it would all be over. You are a fool, Kenton! He thought angrily. It’s your fault for losing your powers! The Kershtians drew closer. Kenton would be dead in a matter of seconds. “It’s your own fault,” Eric whispered. “You should never have come back.” Eric moved. Khriss watched with wide eyes as he sprang forward, leaping up to the aft deck where the single Kershtian was threatening the captain. The assassin didn’t even have time to turn around as Eric slammed his elbow into the man’s back. Khriss heard a crack, and the Kershtian fell with a cry of pain. Eric caught the man’s spear as it fell, reaching over the Kershtian’s shoulder to snatch the weapon out of the air. He spun and jumped, leaping off the upper deck, over the two Kershtians holding the door closed, and engaging the other five from behind. One caught a spear in the neck as he turned. The second barely had time to perform an awkward swing before the but of Eric’s weapon sent him backward, his face a splash of red. Eric spun, hurling the spear at one of the door-holding Kershtians, taking the man in the chest as he raised his zinkall. Behind Eric, one of the other soldiers swung, but Eric was already ducking. The weapon passed over his head. The Kershtian preformed an awkward backswing, but Eric caught the weapon before it gained momentum. Eric twisted his hand in a quick motion, spinning the blade out of the Kershtian’s hand. Eric reached forward, snatching the sword by its hilt in mid-air. The Kershtian fell by his own sword as Eric’s reach for the weapon became a swing in one fluid motion. Kenton regarded the exchange with wide eyes. He finally regained his poise and engaged one of the remaining Kershtians. Eric took the second man as Baon finally burst through the door behind them. The large warrior had his pistols out. All three Kershtians fell at once One taken in the side by Kenton’s wild swing, one with a pistol bullet in his chest, the third nearly decapitated by Eric’s sword. Khriss sat stunned—the entire battle had only taken a few seconds. Eric’s face was twisted horribly with some sort of inner pain. He regarded the weapon in his hand with loathing, as if he wanted to toss it away. He didn’t, however. It was as if the weapon were attached to his hand. Kenton approached him. “Eric, I…” Eric hissed his response, pushing past Kenton and striding below deck, the sword still clutched in his hand. “Oh, sands…” Kenton whispered, looking over the carnage. Eric’s skill was still there. His motions
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had been less fluid than Kenton remembered, his thrusts a little less precise, but even an out-of-practice Eric was an awesome sight to behold. “This isn’t good,” he said as Khriss approached. “What’s wrong with him?” Khriss asked. Kenton shook his head. “I don’t know. I never really understood why he left, but it had something to do with this.” He nodded toward the dead Kershtians. “I think he’s afraid of his own ability, Khriss. He was always a gifted fighter—I’ve never seen a man so good with a sword. He never said anything, but I could see it in his eyes. He scared himself, sometimes…” Baon was inspecting the dead, too far away to hear their conversation. “Who did this?” he demanded, standing. “Not you, sand master?” Kenton shook his head. “Eric,” he replied. “Impossible,” Baon responded, not argumentative, just firm. “It’s true.” Baon frowned. “If he were a warrior, I would have been able to sense it. Men who fight carry themselves in a certain way, sand master. You do so, I do so, whoever did this should definitely do so.” Kenton paused. “Eric is a special case, Baon,” he said. “Apparently,” Baon said, still looking disturbed. After the fight, the captain had immediately begun checking the wounded. Cynder, Delious, and Delious’s son helped him, while Vey sat on a deck chair, looking flustered from the attack. Eventually, the captain turned to Delious. Half of his ten-man crew was dead, three others couldn’t walk. “This is bad, My Lord,” he said. “We’ll have to stop for more men. We can’t continue on with only two.” “My son and I will help,” Delious said. “My Lord!” the captain said. “Surely—” “I know what to do,” Delious said, interrupting the man with a curt gesture. “No matter what else happens, we have to get to Kezare in time. Understand?” “Yes, sir,” the captain said, still troubled. “Tell them I will help, if they need it,” Baon said, watching the conversation and apparently understanding what it was about despite the language barrier. “You know how to sail?” Kenton asked with surprise. Baon smiled slightly. “You’d be surprised what my training includes, sand master.” Kenton nodded. “What about the bodies?” he asked in Lossandin. Delious frowned, looking over the corpses. “Throw them on the assassins’ ship,” he decided, nodding to the vessel which was still connected to their own by a couple of hooked ropes. “Then set it afire.” “No!” Ais objected, appearing from below decks to survey the destruction. “These men must be buried in deep sand.” “We don’t have time to deal with Kershtian foolishness, trackt,” Delious said. “Burning is good enough for these.” “A man who is not buried in deep sand never finds his way to the Sand Lord’s embrace,” Ais said firmly. “Place them on the other boat, if you must, but tow it along with us. I will see to them once we reach the city.” “That’s a little… morbid, don’t you think?” Kenton asked. Ais caught his eyes. “Not as morbid as burning them, Ry’Kensha,” he said.
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Kenton sighed. “We might as well humor him, Delious,” he suggested. “All right,” Delious agreed. Kenton waited apprehensively beside Eric’s door, not certain if he should knock or not. The rest of the day had passed with a muted tone, an amorphous sense of discomfort covering the ship. Eric hadn’t emerged from his quarters since he disappeared down below hours before. Kenton lowered his hand. I’ll let him sleep on it, he decided, turning back toward his own room. As he did so, Khriss and the elderly Cynder clomped down the steps. Cynder chuckled, nodding toward the door. “I think, perhaps, I shall relocate for the time being. Might I make my bed in your room, Lord Mastrell?” “Of course,” Kenton said. “You can have my bunk.” “No need,” Cynder said with a raised hand. “Cynder, I can’t let you sleep on the—” “Why doesn’t he sleep in his own bunk?” a solemn voice asked. Kenton froze, watching Eric’s door creep open. He wasn’t certain what he expected to see, so he wasn’t really surprised when he found Eric dressed in nondescript dayside robes. A sword was tied at his waist, sheathed in a scabbard that seemed familiar for some reason. Eric’s face, however, was chilling. It was calm, nearly expressionless. His eyes seemed dull when compared to the energy they had once held. “Hello, Kenton,” he said, his voice smooth, even, and unhurried. “How long do you think it will be before we arrive?” Kenton’s lips parted slightly in surprise. He recognized that voice. It was Eric—the Eric he knew, from years before. He stood formally, as he had been trained by his father. He spoke evenly, with an almost contrived voice. “Eric…” he said, somewhat at a loss. “It’s all right, you don’t need to do this. It was a fluke. I’m sorry you got pulled in, but, really, you don’t need to go back to what you were before.” “A leader must be prepared to take responsibility for his actions, Kenton,” Eric said smoothly. “Men live or die depending on his ability to make decisions.” Kenton frowned. The statement didn’t make sense in response to what Kenton had said. It was, however, one of Reegent’s favorite topics. Kenton could hear the Lord General in Eric’s voice, could hear a father sternly teaching the rules of life to his son, the heir. 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
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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
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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? 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
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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 hovering 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
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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
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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,
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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, regarding 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
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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. “I mean, not you personally,” Khriss explained. “Why not let the expert do it?” “Expert?” he asked. Then he noticed her nodding to the side and followed the gesture with his eyes. Then he smiled. Ais watched the approaching city, perhaps even more eager than the Lord Mastrell to arrive. He had gone three days without word of Nilto. What would he find when he returned? He feared that the three-day hiatus would turn out to be all the criminal lord needed to finish his preparations and escape. Still, in a way, Ais would be glad to see him go. He would finally be able to bring back his family—this last week without them had been excruciating. Only one more day, and I will be able to go back to my life, he told himself. And, in the end, it will be worth it. The Diem will be gone. I will have done both Lossand and the Sand Lord a service. “How did you sleep, Ais?” a deceptively kind voice asked. Ais turned distrustful eyes to find the Lord Mastrell standing behind him, the darksider woman at his side. “Poorly,” he informed slowly. “What do you want, Ry’Kensha?” “Nothing more than for you to do your job,” Kenton explained. “I have never been one who likes games, Lord Mastrell,” Ais said. “What do you want of me?” “Find the Lord General,” Kenton said. “I’m here to observe you, perhaps protect you,” Ais replied. “I am not here to help you.” “It doesn’t matter what you’re here to do,” Kenton shot back. “You have a missing Taisha on your hands. Isn’t it your duty to find him? He could be in danger.” Ais paused. As infuriating as it was, the Lord Mastrell had a point. If the Lord General wasn’t in the Tower, and if he wasn’t with Vey, then something might be wrong. Kenton smiled, seeing the debate in Ais’s face. “Where do we start?” he asked. Insufferable sand master, Ais thought. We’ll see if your smile lasts through tomorrow. However, out loud he only said two words. “The Tower.” “Kenton!” The bellow was so loud it could only belong to one person. Kenton looked across the Tower courtyard to where Gremt was approaching. There was something wrong with the Tower’s atmosphere. Men still trained in the courtyard, sparring with one another as always. There was a tenseness to their motions, however. They appeared almost formulaic—as if they were putting on a show. The Tower was hiding something, even Kenton could tell that much. Kenton eyed the tower itself, the large stone structure in front of him. It was two stories tall, and unlike many dayside buildings didn’t have many windows. It had been built to be defensible. The two wings on either side
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housed barracks, the long arm-like structures forming the sides of the courtyard. Most of the Tower’s soldiers didn’t reside in Kezare, but in garrisons along the borders of Lossand. Though there was relative peace right now, they occasionally suffered raids from the Rim Kingdoms. Lossand might be a desert, but it at least had the river to provide sustenance—the Rim Kingdoms didn’t even have that. Big Head arrived at a quick jog, puffing slightly to himself. The squat man looked worried, though he was trying—unsuccessfully—to cover the emotion. The Tower’s soldiers didn’t tend to be very good at deceit—perhaps that was why Kenton liked them so much. “Where is Reegent?” Kenton asked simply. Gremt tried to smile. “The Lord General? Why, he went south with Lord Vey.” “I just got back from Lraezare, Gremt,” Kenton said. “I brought Vey back with me—if Reegent went south on Vey’s ship, then he did so as a stowaway, because the Lord Merchant certainly didn’t realize he was there.” Gremt grimaced, sweat trickling down his broad face. “Where is he?” Kenton repeated. “We don’t know,” the general finally admitted. “He left without telling anyone. It’s not like him, Kenton. We’re worried.” “And you didn’t tell anyone?” Kenton asked pointedly. “We didn’t want them involved,” Gremt said, nodding toward Ais. Kenton sighed. The Tower’s soldiers and the Hall’s trackts had always resented one another. “This isn’t the time for Profession rivalry,” Kenton said. “I have to find Reegent before tomorrow or the Diem is lost.” Gremt sighed. “I wish I could help you. None of the Kelzin seem to know anything, though. We can’t think where he could have—” “Show me to his room,” Ais said simply, walking over and breaking into the conversation. Big Head gave the trackt a dark look, but then he sighed, looking back at Kenton. “This way,” he said. He led them toward the Tower proper, walking past groups of soldiers, all of whom gave Ais unflattering looks. The trackt ignored them. One other person, however, also had an effect on them—Eric. As soon as the soldiers realized who he was, they began to mumble with each other in low voices. Kenton followed Gremt into the building, as did the others. Their group had shrunk considerably since their arrival. Khriss had sent Cynder with their things back to darksider town, and both Delious and Vey had gone their separate ways. Baon, as always, followed Khriss, who had insisted on accompanying Kenton to see how well her idea worked. Eric had almost vengefully declared it his ‘duty’ to protect his ‘old friend Kenton’ and had come as well. Kenton was beginning to suspect that part of Eric’s new persona was an act; a twisted way to make Kenton feel guilty for needing to be rescued. And, if guilt was Eric’s intention, then he was being successful. Worry about that later, Kenton told himself. One grain at a time. Gremt led them through a stone hallway to the Lord General’s suite at the back of the Tower. The room was large and expansive, a
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single large chamber rather than three separate ones like Kenton’s own rooms. They were simply decorated—despite his place in society, the Lord General was an austere man. The walls bore several carapace shields and weapons, and there were a few tapestries—remnants from the time Eric’s mother had lived her before her death several years before. Eric had never asked after her, even though he had been on darkside when the event happened. “He was in here,” Gremt explained, “resting from his wounds.” “Wounds?” Kenton asked. Then he immediately remembered. “Ah, yes. The sandling.” Gremt nodded. “He didn’t like being bedridden, and was constantly hobbling around the Tower. The servants couldn’t keep him in his chambers.” Kenton stood back, regarding the room. Nothing looked unordinary to him—there was a sand mattress in the far corner, a few articles of carapace furniture, and a pitcher of wine on a low table beside the mattress. Ais, however, wasn’t interested in the furniture. He was squatting close to the floor, frowning slightly. Ais wasn’t the Hall’s best crime scene investigator, but he had some experience. His own talent lay in organization—he could take a desk-full of information and interpret it, deciphering villains’ plans and motives, then plan an operation to stop them. However, every trackt was conversant in standard investigation procedures, and Ais was more competent than most. Which was why he noticed the sand immediately. Ais bent down, using his fingernail to scrape a bit of sand from the crack between two floor stones. He frowned as he rubbed the sand between his fingers. Sand couldn’t be escaped on dayside—it could generally be found in every crack and every corner of a room. Rarely, however, did one see sand that was black. Kenton leaned down beside him, regarding the sand. “Sand mastery?” he asked with surprise. Ais shook his head. As he rubbed the sand, bits of dark material flecked off of it. Dark red material. “Blood,” he said. “What!” the large-headed general exclaimed. Ais ignored him. Blood, like water or other liquids, would turn sand black. However, the one who had spilt this blood had taken care to clean the floor well. The room didn’t even bear its scent. Ais knew the work of professionals when he saw it—it was likely that the Lord General was in serious trouble. Well, sand master, you were right about one thing, he thought a he stood, looking over the rest of the room. Something else bothered him. “Why is there no sheet on the sand mattress?” he asked. The warrior looked over with surprise. “No sheet?” he asked. “I suppose there isn’t.” “The Lord General used one, I assume,” Ais pressed. “I think so.” “What kind of sheet was it?” Ais asked simply. “Why would that matter?” the warrior huffed. Ais turned, giving him a practiced ‘I know what I’m doing, so kindly stop being an idiot’ look. The warrior blushed. “It was ShalRim, I assume,” he replied. “The Lord General preferred it over darkside materials.” Ais turned eyes over the room, increasingly worried. ShalRim was a
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smooth, soft material, but it was also incredibly strong. “They probably couldn’t have gotten him out of the Tower,” he said. “There were too many guards. He might still be here somewhere.” “Where then?” Kenton asked. Ais frowned, trained instincts leading him along. There was blood on the floor, but not on the mattress. They hadn’t killed him in his sleep, but they had taken him somewhere. They hadn’t made any demands—it wasn’t a kidnapping. Extortion, then? Or, perhaps, interrogation? “Is there a basement to the tower?” he asked. Gremt shook his head. “No, not really.” “Explain,” Ais said. “Well,” the warrior said, “there is the chilling cellar, for the Lord General’s wine. It’s not used very often…” “Take me there,” Ais said, nodding toward the door. The large-headed general obviously didn’t like the idea of taking orders from a trackt, but he did comply, his eyes confused and a little apprehensive. He led them a short distance down another of the Tower’s small hallways. Eventually, he pulled open a small carapace door and nodded toward a set of stairs leading down into darkness. Ais could see why the cellar wasn’t often used—the servants would avoid coming to such a place whenever possible. No daysider, even Ais, could descend into darkness without feeling a touch of claustrophobic fear. Daysiders lived, slept, and worked every day of their lives in direct or near-direct sunlight. Even standing in the well-lit Tower hallway was disconcerting, for there was no window in sight. “Come on,” Ais said simply, years of training and practice allowing him to squish his fears and emotions behind a stoic trackt’s face. However, even as he said the words, pulling a lantern off the wall, he felt his emotions rising. The darkness was like his own threatening madness, the rage of emotions that hovered just beyond the light of his consciousness. That first step into gloom, walking down the stairs, nearly caused him to snap. The following steps were easier, however. The rage was very close—Ais could feel it. It made his hand quiver in fright. He did not let it out. Not this time. As he made his way down the steps, however, the others following with nervous steps, Ais realized his mistake. The lantern he was carrying sputtered weakly. He should have chosen one stronger. The oil was running out. Ais froze on the steps, watching the flame begin to die with horror. The were halfway down the stone staircase now, far from the light and freedom above. As the flame flickered, the darkness approached, bringing with it madness. Ais barely had time to look up as the darkness swept over him. Rage. Pain. Anger. Fear. Madness… The stairway was suddenly bathed in light. Ais blinked in surprise, his mind completely stunned. Where…? He turned around slowly to find Kenton wrapped in a shimmering wave of sand. Ais had assumed that never in his life would he be grateful for sand mastery, but at that moment he felt a glimmer of relief. He had been near to snapping. “I know,”
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Kenton said with a frown, “you hate sand mastery. But honestly, Ais, would you rather stumble around in the dark? Chastise me later.” Ais turned around, giving the Lord Mastrell no sign of just how wrong he had been. They continued down the staircase, which eventually led to a closed carapace door. Ais pushed the door open with an apprehensive hand, worried at what he would find. Unfortunately, this time he was right. Reegent, Lord General of Lossand, hung tied by strips of ShalRim cloth from one of the racks on the far wall. His eyes stared forward blankly, his arms and legs stretched out, his wrists and ankles bloodied from obvious attempts to escape. One leg bore a splint. His face was frozen in a twisted expression of horror. There were several gasps from behind him, then the Tower soldier pushed his way through to rush to the dead Taisha’s side. “My Lord!” he wept, feeling Reegent’s neck for a pulse. The look on the man’s face, however, had been enough to tell Ais what he needed to know. “What’s wrong with his eyes?” Kenton whispered, his voice sickened. Ais stepped forward, gently pushing aside the weeping general. He studied Reegent’s dead face closely. “The eyelids have been cut off,” he said. There also appeared to be some sort of white mucus around Reegent’s cold lips. “He was drugged as well.” “Drugged?” Kenton asked. “Kamo,” Ais said. “A Kershtian herb. It heightens emotions—or, in this case, fears.” “You mean?” Kenton said. Ais nodded. “They tied him up here, in the darkness. Then they drugged him with Kamo, cut off his eyelids so he couldn’t try to hide from the horrors his mind conjured. Then, I suspect, they lit the candles you see in the corners of the room. There is a different sized pile of wax for each—I would suspect that the candles were each of a different length.” Ais paused, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. He could almost imagine what it would be like… He continued in a whisper. “Reegent was forced to watch as the candles burned away one by one, slowly plunging him further into darkness. The larger the shadows became, the more frenzied his mind became, until he was finally left with no light at all. With two doors and such a long staircase, I doubt there was any chance someone would hear him screaming. The Lord General died trapped beneath his own palace. I suspect that if we check the body, we will find that it didn’t die from blood loss or dehydration, but pure terror.” It was a sick, almost demonic thing to do to someone. Ais only knew of one person so evil and demented. But, what reason would Sharezan have to kill the Lord General? Ais’s mind, finding refuge in its analytical side, continued to digest the scene, trying to keep him from focusing on the shadows in his own mind. One thing bothered him. “Why did they break his leg?” he wondered, looking at the splint. “And, when
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they did, why did they bother to set it afterward?” Kenton shook his head, looking a little stunned. “They didn’t do that,” he said absently. “He broke his leg fighting a sandling on the deep sands.” Ais frowned. What was bothering him? What possible reason could Sharezan have to kill Reegent? Usually, Sharezan reserved such horrible punishments for… For those who betrayed him. Ais’s eyes flashed to the leg again. Reegent would have walked with a limp, he realized. What if he was the traitor? What if Reegent was the one who sent me the letter, who tried to meet with me in the old building. I heard the limp, and thought it was Nilto… Reegent must have been a member of Shaerezan’s network. The Lord General himself, a part of Kezare’s criminal underworld. He had probably been an important figure, one extremely dangerous to Sharezan. And, when he had tried to get out, Ais had abandoned him. Ais closed his eyes in pain, shaking his head slightly. He had been so close. If he had been a little less nervous, a little less stupid, he could have not only saved the Lord General’s life, but had a powerful witness against Nilto as well. I am such an idiot! Kenton couldn’t comprehend doing something so terrible to another human being. What kind of person was capable of such an atrocity? It had been difficult enough to walk down the steps, but to leave a man hanging here, in the darkness to die? Kenton turned with apprehension. Eric still stood in the doorway, looking at his father’s corpse with sad eyes. Then, he close his eyes for a short moment, as if trying to clear the sight from his head. Suddenly, Eric turned away and walked back up the staircase. Ais had found another lantern and lit it, and a moment later Kenton was able to let most of his ribbons die. His lessons had been right—controlling five ribbons wasn’t much different than controlling one, as long as he didn’t focus on multiple tasks at once. “It’s so, so…” Khriss’s Dynastic voice rang in the small room, despite the quietude of her words. “I know,” Kenton said. She had pulled up beside him, regarding Reegent’s corpse with sad eyes. “Poor Eric,” she whispered. Kenton nodded. Then, in a twisted way, his determined mind forced him to realize something else. Reegent’s death was more than just a blow to the Tower, it was dire problem for the Diem as well. He turned, using a ribbon of sand to light their way as he gently pulled Khriss from the room and began to walk back up to the main floor. Reegent had been one of his most certain votes. Now that he was dead, the Tower’s support wasn’t so certain. In fact, it looked doubtful. If Kenton remembered correctly, since Reegent left no heir, the other generals would have to vote on a new Lord General. And, unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of the generals of Lossand were kelzin—men who would have much to profit from
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the Diem’s destruction. Their one vote could destroy all of Kenton’s work over the last two weeks. There is another way, his mind whispered. Kenton shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford not to. He had too much responsibility, too many people depending on him, to ignore such a possibility. There was another way—a certain way to get the Tower’s vote. Kenton stepped through the doorway at the staircase’s top. Eric stood a short distance away, hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword. He looked up, and met Kenton’s eyes. There was no legal means of disinheritance in Lossand. No matter what Reegent had said, if Eric wanted to claim the Lord Generalship, he could do so. The Law said he had one day to make his claim, otherwise he would lose the opportunity. Eric and Kenton stared at one another. Eric’s eyes seemed to plead with his friend. Please, they asked, please don’t ask me. Kenton stood uncertainly, the weight of his responsibility constricting his chest. Could he do such a thing? Could he destroy a man who had been his friend, even if his Profession depended on it? Eric’s psyche was unstable—Kenton could see Eric’s body quivering. The events of the last few days—the return to the sword, and now the sudden death of his father—were almost more than Eric could bear. And now, Kenton found he had to lay another incredible burden on his friend. I’m sorry, Eric, he realized. But I have to ask. Too much depends on this vote to pass this opportunity. He wished to the sands he didn’t have to do it. “Eric,” he whispered hoarsely, “will you become Lord General so you can vote for the Diem tomorrow?” Eric shut his eyes in pain, exhaling sharply, as if he had been punched in the stomach. “Yes,” he whispered back. When he opened his eyes, they were cold. He turned stiffly, and walked away. Khriss watched, feeling chilled as Eric left. She hadn’t understood their words, but she had felt the tension between them. For a brief moment she thought for certain that Eric would break down into tears. Instead, he had returned to his statuesque emotionless of the days before. Only this time, it had been worse. There had been a vengeful glint in his eyes. What had Kenton said to him? “Kenton,” she whispered. “What is going on?” Kenton shook his head. “I’ve just done a very, very bad thing.” “What?” “I’ve destroyed a man who was once my friend,” he whispered. His eyes looked stunned, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done. He looked down at her, shaking his head slightly. “Why didn’t anyone ever warn me the price I would have to pay for being Lord Mastrell?” Khriss didn’t know how to respond. So, she simply too his hand in hers, trying to offer what comfort she could without repeating her disgraceful behavior of before. Ais climbed up the steps behind them, accompanied by Baon and the dayside general. The
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trackt said something, and Kenton nodded, replying curtly. “Kenton,” Khriss asked. “What did you say?” “Ais needs to go back to the Hall to report this,” he said. “I told him to go.” “No,” Khriss corrected. “I mean to Eric.” Kenton shook his head. “I asked him to be Lord General. Come on, let’s go back to the Diem. I need to think.” Kenton pounded the side of the small boat in frustration. They crossed the calm lake-waters, heading toward the Diem, but Kenton’s emotions were not so peaceful. He kept wondering what else he could have done. Was there a way he could have saved Eric? Perhaps he could have waited to see who the kelzi chose as a replacement, then tried to make a deal with him. Maybe he could have convinced the Lady Judge that Reegent had supported the Diem, and so his desires should have been a valid vote in Kenton’s favor. Unfortunately, Kenton realized how contrived—or even silly—most of his other options sounded. In the end, he knew he had made the right decision. The right decision for the Diem, at least. What else could he do? His feelings, and even those of his friends, were secondary when it came to protecting those under his charge. He hadn’t asked Eric to do anything inherently wrong or immoral; many would argue that he had done Eric a favor. But, Kenton doubted that was the case. He had watched Eric over these last few weeks, and had come to realize the missasumptions of his childhood. He hadn’t ever really known Eric—he had know the fake Eric, the Eric that Reegent had created. Eric’s true personality had been hidden. And, Kenton realized, he liked the real Eric better. He was a bit more contrary and a lot more irresponsible, but perhaps responsibility wasn’t for everyone. Eric had a kind of unhinged optimism that had been helpful in its own way. Kenton had killed that Eric. He had seen the coldness in the this Eric’s eyes—the despair. It had been the hopeless despair of a man resigned to his course. Kenton feared that he might never see the real Eric again. This had better be worth it, he thought bitterly. I didn’t ask to be Lord Mastrell, but I have done my best. The boat pulled into a shoreside dock, and they began to climb out. As they did so, Baon caught Kenton’s eye. The warrior looked… unsettled. “Is something bothering you, Baon?” Kenton asked with a frown. “The murder,” Baon said. “No one thought to ask why this Lord General was killed.” Kenton shrugged. “That is for the trackts to determine,” he said. “I doubt it has anything to do with us.” “Can you be certain?” Baon asked. “What do you mean?” “It was very convenient for your enemies that one of your strongest supporters was murdered the day before the vote,” Baon explained. Kenton paused. “The Kershtians wouldn’t do that,” he guessed. “Their vendetta is with me. I don’t think it would be morally acceptable for them to randomly
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start killing my supporters.” “Are you certain they think that way?” Baon asked pointedly. “Because, honestly sand master, if I were your enemy, those Taisha would be the first people I went after. Kill enough of them, and they’ll learn not to support the Diem.” “I’m certain Ais has considered that possibility, Baon,” Kenton said. “How certain?” Baon replied. “Even the best men make oversights, sand master.” Kenton frowned. There wasn’t a good possibility of it—even the A’Kar’s assassins would be hesitant to start murdering Taishin. At least, any that weren’t sand masters. But, there was a possibility. Delious, Rite, and the others could be in danger. “You head back to the Diem,” he said to the others, waving for the boatman not to leave. “I’ll go and see what Ais thinks.” Ais opened the door to his chambers with a sigh. The Lady Judge had immediately assigned a team to investigate Reegent’s death—and, just as immediately, she had told Ais that the matter was no longer his concern. He was to head back to the Lord Mastrell as soon as he filled out a report detailing everything he had seen that had led him to find the Lord General’s body. He sat down at the desk, rifling through several stacks of dark paper to find the right form. He had barely started, however, when a frantic knock came at his door. “Yes?” he asked with a frown, standing. Tain pushed open the door. “Ais!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you’re back.” “What is it, Tain?” he asked. “It’s Sharezan, sir!” the man exclaimed. “We found him!” “What?” Ais exclaimed with surprise. “You weren’t here, sir,” Tain explained, “so I organized the raid myself. We’re about ready to move—several teams are already in position. When we heard you were back, we decided to wait and see if you wanted to join the raid. I know you have a personal interest in this one, sir.” Ais looked down at the stacks of paper, then dropped the form and stood. “Let’s go,” he said, feeling eagerness rise in his chest. Tain and he rushed from the Hall, Ais in a stupor of excitement. After all this time! “You did well, Tain. I have always been impressed with your thoroughness. How did you do it?” “It was Lokmlen,” Tain explained. “The man you caught two weeks ago. He finally broke and told us where Shaerezan’s safehouse is. We’ve got him cornered. We kept the entire operation secret, even from the rest of the Hall. We didn’t want Sharezan to hear.” Ais allowed himself a slight smile. The Lady Judge must have known about the operation, but she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want him going on the raid. But, because she hadn’t mentioned it, she also hadn’t ordered him not to go. The Lord Mastrell could do without him for a short time. Tain handed Ais a zinkall, which he strapped on as they made their way into the merchant district of Kezare. Here, there were large buildings used for storage. Tain led him toward
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one of them. “The squad is in here,” he said, motioning furtively toward an open door. Ais followed him through the door and into a large, darkened room. A few insufficient windows shed light down toward the floor, creating spots of illumination on the empty ground. Ais stepped forward hesitantly, searching for signs of occupation. He didn’t seen any trackts. However, at that moment, he heard something. He looked up with surprise, seeing a form moving in the shadows on a second floor catwalk. “Tain, we’ve been betrayed!” Ais hissed turning toward the door. The exit shut suddenly. “Yes,” Tain’s voice sad, “you have.” Ais turned slowly. Tain stood in a spot of light a short distance away. Several armed men were walking out of the shadows to join him. Ais recognized one of their faces—Lokmlen. “You sold yourself to them,” he hissed at Tain. “No, actually,” Tain said conversationally, his arms clasped behind his back. Then Ais noticed something—the other men in the room, they were standing around Tain deferentially. Almost as if… he were in charge. “You?” Ais asked incredulously. Tain smiled, nodding his head slightly. “What better cover for a criminal, Ais, then as a trackt? The identity has served me well over the years.” Ais sat stupefied. All of his plans and operations—Sharezan had been privy to them the entire time. The very man he had been searching for all these years had been a member of his personal band. Of course, it made sense, in a way. He had always thought that Sharezan moved too quickly in response to Ais’s attacks. “Aisha!” Ais cursed. “Indeed,” Tain agreed. “You knew about everything,” Ais said. “I did,” Tain said. “Of course, sometimes you moved too quickly even for me to do anything. You really do have an… energetic mind, Ais.” “And I always thought you would turn out to be Nilto,” Ais mumbled. “Nilto?” Tain asked with surprise. “That is the one you suspected? Amazing—I should have seen it. We all knew that you had your suspicions, but no one could pry them out of you. I tried for years—it would have been very convenient to know. I would have gladly have framed Nilto for you, had I known that he was the one you suspected.” “And the threats on my family…” Ais said, still dumbfounded. Tain had sent them all. In fact, Ais remembered with a curse, Tain had been at the Diem both days notes had been delivered through Kenton. He should have seen, he should have suspected… “I have to say, Ais,” Tain said, walking slowly, his hands still clasped behind his back, “even knowing everything you are going to do, it has been difficult to stay ahead of you. No matter what I did, you slowly chipped away at my empire. And now, I barely have anything left.” “You are a monster,” Ais mumbled. Tain had a gleam in his eye—a dangerous, insane gleam. Ais had seen the same look in his own eyes. “What you did to the Lord General…” “You liked that?” Tain
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asked, looking up with a smile. “It was one of my better projects. Reegent has always had a horrible fear of darkness; he was even worse than the rest of us. Once you know a man’s weakness, well, the rest of the project just sort of builds itself, doesn’t it?” Tain continued to walk. He paused a few feet in front of Ais. “You’ve nearly destroyed me, Ais,” he confessed. “You’ve done so well, in fact, that I’ve decided to accept my losses and take a little time off. Only a few years, of course.” Suddenly his eyes turned hard. “I would rather not have to deal with you when I return.” Ais set his jaw, staring Tain proudly in the eyes. Whatever Tain did, Ais knew he had won. He had driven the criminal overlord of Kezare to bury himself like a frightened tonk. “Kill me then,” he said. Tain smiled. “Oh, no, Ais. I’ve been planning your project for some time now. I was half-afraid I would never get to use it. I considered killing you a dozen different times, but I always knew that was the wrong choice. It was far better to have one trackt chasing me, even a superior one like yourself, than to enrage the entire Hall. You, at least, I could watch.” Tain paused. “Now, however, I have to leave anyway. My cover is ruined. The only blessing in this is that I can finally do to you as I have always dreamed.” Ais began to get nervous. Oh, Ker’Naisha, please just let him kill me. “Every man has at least one line of instability, Ais,” Tain said, continuing to pace. “It has long been a study of mine to look at these flaws. They are what makes us unique, but at the same time they are our greatest weaknesses. Like the cleavage point of a fine gem, even the slightest pressure to one of these faults is enough to make us shatter.” Tain turned chilling, intense eyes on Ais. “I have become quite good at making men shatter, Ais. “With you, it is easy. We all know about your instability—the entire Hall knows. Ais, the man who keeps his emotions wound so tightly, when they come out, they explode. Most of them pity you, in one way or another.” Ais ground his teeth, careful to keep himself in control. This man would not get the better of him. He wouldn’t give Sharezan the satisfaction. “What most of them don’t know, Ais, is what it is that makes you so unstable.” Ais froze. Tain was smiling broadly now. “It’s the conflict, Ais,” Tain explained. “Are you a trackt, or are you a Kershtian? Are you a believer, or a sinner?” Tain paused. “Are you a cold-hearted warrior, or a loving father.” Ais hissed. “No,” he whispered. “I’ve been taking good care of them, Ais, don’t worry,” Tain defended. “But, unfortunately things have to change. You see, Ais, I know exactly where your point of instability is. I’m going to have to tap it ever so
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gently.” “No!” Ais screamed. Tain smiled. Ais shot him. The zinkall, however, only let loose a hiss of pressure. The arrow didn’t fire. “Never accept a weapon from someone you don’t trust, Ais,” Tain warned. “Oh, wait. You did trust me. Never mind, then.” The former trackt turned to Lokmlen, and the man nodded, walking into the darkness. Ais heard a door open and shut off to the side. “Now, as for our project,” Tain said. “Lokmlen has affably agreed to take part in our little experiment. He has set up a firetrap at a local building—an orphanage, I believe. They always make the best targets—everyone gets so emotional, yet none of them are really upset to see the poor children go. You were raised in an orphanage, weren’t you Ais?” Ais didn’t respond. he was feeling his rage begin to build, feeling his control begin to slip. No… this isn’t happening… “Anyway,” Tain continued. “Lokmlen is going to set the firetrap off himself. Dozens will die—perhaps hundreds, if the fire gets out of control. You may follow him, if you wish. I’ll even tell you where he’s going. It is the same orphanage you were raised in—the one on the east side of the market. You can also try and find another trackt, or someone else to try and stop him. But, you know, I doubt you’ll be able to let yourself do that. You always have been so avid about maintaining control; you never let anyone else do anything.” Ais ground his teeth. He could feel his body shaking. “Now,” Tain said, looking Ais straight in the eye. “I am going to go kill your daughter. You may follow me and try to stop me if you wish. That is your decision, Ais—duty or family. Do you save the hundreds you don’t know, or the one that you love? I would choose quickly, if I were you. You may leave in one minute.” Tain turned, and walked toward the back of the room. Ais screamed and threw himself toward the man, but strong hands held him back. “No fair cheating, Ais,” Tain warned. “You have one minute to contemplate your decision.” And he left. Ais struggled against those gripping him, but he couldn’t see them. His vision was growing dark and red, and there was a powerful rushing sound in his ears. The rage of emotions came upon him all at once. He laughed hysterically and sobbed in pain at the same time. Unfortunately, he retained just enough of his consciousness to remember the choice before him. He battled against it, for once welcoming the loss of control. Maybe if the emotions took him, he wouldn’t have to choose. He wouldn’t have to make such a terrible, terrible choice. The hands released him, but he stood frozen in paradox. He slumped to the ground, wailing in torment. But still, he couldn’t avoid it. Duty loomed before him. His daughter or hundreds of others? If he wasted time, all of them would die. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t plan. And so,
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with a cry of dismay, Ais crawled to his feet and stumbled toward the door. The door Lokmlen had taken. Outside, he was confronted by the light. The sun shone down on him with dissatisfaction. Ais could feel the Sand Lord’s vengeful heat pushing down on him, crushing him beneath its power. Still, he struggled on. The area was relatively unpopulated, and passers-by shied away from Ais, frightened by the wild uncontrol they saw in his face. He pushed his way through them, heading east. He had to find another trackt. Somewhere, there was someone who would help him. Then he could turn back and go after Tain. Sand Lord take them! Ais cursed to himself, feeling the tears streaming down his cheeks. Where are all the trackts! They should be patrolling. They should be… He stumbled through an alley and onto a street running to Portside. Here, he caused quite a stir. The crowds began to stare, fear and curiosity in their eyes. Ais pushed through them, his hands like ragged claws. Where were the trackts? “Step aside!” The voice was like a blurred mumble in Ais’s ears, but he turned toward it, some part of his increasingly feral mind recognizing the authority he heard therein. A trackt, tall and Lossandin with a frown on his face, shoved his way to the front of the crowd. He saw Ais, and his face grew amazed. “Senior Ais!” he exclaimed. “Are you wounded?” Ais stumbled toward him, grabbing the front of the man’s uniform in shaking hands. “Go!” he hissed. The man’s eyes opened wide. “Senior Ais?” he asked. “What is going on?” Ais tried to speak, but his mind was too clouded, his words too slurred. His voice came out like a croak. He watched the man with despair, trying to force the words through his mouth. Unfortunately, all he could think of was little Melly. He had abandoned her. He was a horrible person. He was a horrible trackt. How had he deluded himself all these years? How had he dared marry, and pull innocents into the void that was Ais? He groaned. Another trackt had joined the first, and he caught Ais as he began to slip toward the ground. The two men were talking worriedly with one another—Ais had lost the ability to understand what they were saying. What have I done? The trackts began to push their way through the people, towing Ais in the direction of the Hall. He let them tow him, his mind a whirling tempest of pain, humiliation, and guilt. No! A piece of him wailed. Faces stared down at him, their eyes amazed. Was this really senior trackt Ais? The man respected across Kezare, the model of control and strength? No! A man with no sense of duty. A man who failed when the lives of others were in danger. A disgrace of a trackt. No! The sun stared down at him. Powerful, always in control. He stared up at its warmth. Poor, pathetic Ais. Control didn’t matter. Reputation didn’t matter. Lives did
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matter. Rise. “No!” Ais yelled, pushing himself out of the trackts’s grip. He stumbled to his feet and grabbed the nearest one, pulling him close. “The orphanage on east side, the one next to the sandling pens. It’s in danger. Look for a firebomb. Go!” The man stumbled back as Ais released him. He stared at Ais with confused eyes. A second later, however, he saluted and rushed away. The second man stood for a moment beneath Ais’s commanding glare then followed him. Ais turned to the west, feeling his body grow numb. He had to go on. He was too late, he knew. He had wasted too much time, but he had to go on. Instinctively, he knew where Tain would be. Where Melly would be. He had studied Sharezan so long that he understood the man’s mind. With shuffling, barely controlled feet, Ais began to stumble toward his own house. Ais had regained much of his control by the time he reached his home street. The rage and fear were gone—for once, he had actually pushed them back. He knew the victory was a fleeting one, however. The guilt and despair he felt were growing far more powerful than the rage ever had been. He had done his duty, but he had failed his family. It had taken too long. He knew what he would find inside his house, and he was afraid of what it would do to him. He rushed forward, wishing he could run and hide, wishing he wouldn’t have to see what he would find inside his home. The squat building appeared as he rounded a corner. Quiet, dead. The door was slightly open. I don’t want to see! Ais thought with despair. His legs, however, continued to pull him forward. He wandered toward his home, mindless, barely seeing the buildings and people around him. He walked up the steps on stiff legs. He knew what he would see. He pushed open the door anyway. The room was sprayed with blood. It pooled on the floor, droplets of it scattered across the walls. Destruction. And there, in the direct center of the floor, was the body. Tain’s body. A small pile of black sand sat on his chest. “Ais?” a voice asked. Ais turned stunned eyes upward. Kenton strode from the back bedroom, glowing and white, like the sun itself, brilliant cloak flapping behind him. In his arms he held a small form. She was frightened, her eyes wide with fear, but she was alive. Melly cried out when she saw Ais. Kenton carried her forward and put her down. Ais’s legs gave out. He slumped to his knees, wrapping his arms around his daughter and burying his head in her hair, weeping shamelessly. Kenton stood with confusion. “How, sand master,” Ais whispered. “How?” “I came looking for you,” Kenton explained. “You weren’t at the Hall, so I came here; I remembered it from the time we went to meet that man who you thought would betray Sharezan. No one was home, so I left. But,
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as I was leaving, I saw someone coming down the street with a large sack. Something about him made me suspicious—he had a trackt’s uniform on, and the sack looked suspicious. So, I watched. He opened the door to your house and came in, and I followed.” Ais continued to hold the girl—his daughter. That fact alone had stupefied Kenton. Ais had a family? “Who was he, Ais?” Kenton asked. “He attacked me as soon as I entered. I thought he was another assassin, and I killed him with barely a thought—I assumed my sand would just bounce off him, like the others. Then I found the girl in the sack.” Ais didn’t answer the question, he just continued to rock back and forth, holding the girl, crying openly. “Thank you, sand master,” Ais whispered. “Thank you.” Kenton nodded. He wasn’t certain how to react—he felt like he was intruding on something. He didn’t leave, however. Ais had protected him a number of times—he owed it to the trackt to help him if necessary. Kenton returned to the Diem a few hours later, tired from his exertions. He had stayed and talked with Ais for some time. Apparently, the man Kenton had killed had been none other than Sharezan—the one who had killed the Lord General. Once he had assured himself that Ais wasn’t in any more danger, Kenton had gone to visit the Hall and asked them to prepare some legal documents for him to sign. Whatever happened in the day to come, he wanted his promises to the other Taishin to be firm. Because of those documents, the Lord Mastrell—whomever he may be—would be forced to deliver sand master workers to the Draft and the Tower. The Diem was quiet as he walked through the entry hall and into the courtyard. Kenton frowned, checking the moon. He hadn’t realized how late it was—he barely had time to get some sleep before… before the next day. His eyes shot uncomfortably toward the Pit. It sat like a large stone, immovable. No matter how much Kenton pushed, he wouldn’t be able to avoid it. He had almost forgotten about the duel in the day’s excitement. Now, however, his nervousness returned. In a few short hours he would face Drile. In a few short hours it would all be over. The attack that had begun with a single arrow through Praxton’s chest would end with a death by sand. Suddenly, Kenton wished he had been raised a religious man. The Ker’reen would never have accepted him, he knew, but he wished he had something. Some sort of knowledge that there was goodness in the world, a force that would recognize what he had done and bless the contest. He feared that without some supernatural help, he was certainly doomed. Drile’s power was incomprehensible. He turned toward his room, raising himself to the balcony with his sand. He didn’t know if there was something out there more powerful than man, but he said a silent prayer to it anyway. It couldn’t hurt. With that
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he made his way to his sleeping room and lay down on the sand mattress, letting his tired body rest. Tomorrow it will all be over. Khriss had never seen the Diem so busy. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people milled through its halls, pushing toward its courtyard. Most of them wore the bright robes of kelzin. They spoke with one another eagerly, and Khriss could feel their excitement. Khriss watched them distastefully. They had probably never been to the Diem in their lives. They cared little for the sand masters or their leader—they only knew that the duel wasn’t an event to be missed. To them, it was a social occasion. A twisted sport of some kind. They were no better than… well, Elisian nobles. She stood with Cynder, Baon, and N’Teese, uncertain how to even get into the building. It was even busier than the marketplace. Baon, however, took one look at the crowd and began walking to the right. Khriss followed with a frown. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Never use the front door, duchess,” Baon said, pointing to another opening on the right side of the building. There was no crowd there. Through the side entrance they were able to make their way to the courtyard. It soon became evident, however, that reaching the building in the center—the Pit, as Kenton called it—would prove more difficult. People were trying to crowd their way through its small door. A couple of trackts stood at the entrance, keeping them back. Suddenly, the crowd grew quiet. Khriss followed their stares, noting a figure standing on a third floor balcony. It wasn’t Kenton, but a handsome man with firm features and dark brown hair. He called sand around himself, and for the first time Khriss realized what Kenton meant when he said he lacked power. Drile could control so much sand that he looked like a glowing sandstorm. Khriss could barely see his form in the middle of the vortex—sand streaked out like wild bolts of electricity, flipping and spinning around him. He dropped to the bottom floor, and immediately the crowd pulled away tensely. The walking hurricane moved forward, and people scattered before him. The trackts stepped aside, letting him into the Pit. Such power! Khriss though with amazement. Drile’s movement had created its own wind, blowing sand across the entire courtyard and into the eyes of the kelzin. Even from a distance Khriss had felt a sort of electrical energy from the man, and it had made her skin feel chilled, her hair stand on end. Kenton, what were you thinking? She thought incredulously. This is the man you’re going to fight? Kenton watched Drile’s performance with a frown. He waited for some sarcastic comment from Eric, but none came. He almost looked to the side before remembering that Eric wasn’t there any more. He stood alone in his rooms. So lonely, he thought with a shake of his head. He had sent Dirin away and turned Eric against him. How had his father been able to stand it, living
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in these huge rooms by himself? No one to share his life? No friends, no family? Immediately, Kenton’s eyes fell on the crowd below. Had she come? Yes, she had. He saw Baon’s unmistakable black-skinned form standing near the south entrance. Kenton almost wished Khriss had decided not to watch the fight. He didn’t want her to see what would happen to him. Well, there is no use in putting it off, Kenton told himself. His hand was shaking slightly as he reached out for his sand and called it to life. The crowd looked up at him, but they weren’t nearly as awed by his descent as they were by Drile’s. His five ribbons looked weak, almost insignificant, compared to Drile’s sheer power. Still, the crowd pulled back from him, and he sent a ribbon to the side, using it to clear a path for Khriss and the others. The crowd moved back from the sand—they had come to see him die, but they still didn’t trust sand mastery. Khriss followed the line of sand, her eyes mournful as she came within a few steps of Kenton. So, you finally realized, did you? Kenton thought. He tried to smile as she reached him, but it came out as a grimace. “Kenton…” she said. Then she gave him a quiet hug—a desperate hug. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled unconvincingly. A hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to find Baon looking down at him. “It takes a true warrior to fight a battle he knows he cannot win,” the soldier explained. “Sometimes, the good our fighting does is its own victory. You have my respect, sand master.” Kenton nodded, trying to keep that sentiment foremost in his mind. I will not die for nothing, he told himself. My life was traded for stability. If I hadn’t stopped Drile, the Diem would never have had a chance. He turned to regard the Pit. The crowd stood to either side, pulling away to form a path to the building. Well, let’s at least make a good show of it, Kenton thought, turning to stride determinedly toward the Pit. The trackts let him pass, and he walked into the room. The benches were filled with sand masters and kelzin. Apparently, because of Kenton hadn’t responded to the requests for seats, the kelzin had simply decided that those who had seats in the Hall to watch trials also deserved seats to watch the fight. As a result, the hundred or so who had managed to get places in the Pit were among the most powerful, rich, and influential people in Lossand. They clapped sporadically as Kenton entered, as if he were some sort of performer. The rest of the Pit was filled with sand masters. There were perhaps three hundred seats surrounding the sand below, and every one had a body in it—with one small exception. A group of trackts held a line of seats near the front—a place for the Taishin. They would have a very good view of the fight. “I had no idea
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I was so popular,” Kenton mumbled, looking over the crowd. He turned to Khriss. “Are you sure you want to watch this?” he asked. She nodded. “It might be… gruesome,” Kenton warned. “I have to be here, Kenton,” she insisted, looking into his eyes. He nodded slowly. He turned eyes on the crowd again and selected a group of several kelzin who didn’t look too important. He sent a ribbon of sand to tap one of them on the shoulder. The man turned with a start. “You four,” Kenton said. “Out.” “But!” the man argued. “Out!” Kenton snapped, somewhat annoyed at these kelzin who had come to watch his execution. “The Duchess Khrissalla of Elis needs a seat.” The man blushed, but there was little he could do. He rose, shooting Kenton a hateful look, and let his companions from the room. Kenton nodded toward the seats. Khriss gave him one last hug, then led the other three as they made their way down to the seats. Kenton’s own place was in the Pit itself. A six foot high stone wall was all that separated the contestants from the viewers on the benches above, but there really wasn’t any danger to them. Mastered sand was under precise control. That was why it was so deadly. Kenton sighed, trying to clear his mind from such pessimistic thoughts as he made his way down to the pit. Ais knocked respectfully on the Lady Judge’s door. He wore his trackt’s uniform, but he knew he would never be able to look at it, or himself, the same way again. He had disgraced the Hall. He had tried to hide his weakness from the others, but now he knew that the only one he had been fooling was himself. “Come in,” the Lady Judge’s voice came. Ais took a deep breath, then pushed open the door. He bowed, then stood stiffly, waiting to be addressed. Heelis wore her formal black robes. Several attendants were hurriedly preparing for her departure—like the other Taishin, she intended to watch the fight between the two sand masters. “Senior Ais,” she said, looking up. “I had expected you would spend the next few hours with your family.” Ais continued to stand with a stiff posture. “My Lady,” he said. “I have a request.” “Yes, Ais?” “I wish to resign my place as a senior trackt,” he said. “I am leaving the Hall.” Heelis frowned. “That is a disappointment, Ais,” she said. “Can there be no reconciliation?” “I am afraid not, My Lady,” Ais said. The admission hurt, but he had only himself to blame for its necessity. He could not continue as a trackt, not after what he had done… what he had revealed himself to be. “Running won’t help, Ais,” Lady Heelis warned. “You have to face your problems someday.” “I will face them, My Lady. But I must do so in a place where I am not a liability to others.” Heelis regarded him for a moment, then nodded slightly. “I trust your judgement, Ais. You may do as
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you see necessary. However, I must make one request. I need you to remain a trackt for one more day—or, at least, until the Council meeting in a few hours.” Ais nodded. She would probably have him testify during the Diem’s trial. “As you wish, My Lady,” he agreed. Heelis nodded, then motioned for her aids to join her as she began to walk from the room. As she moved, Ais noticed something. There was a stack of folded papers on her desk that looked suspiciously like the reports he had given her each day for the last two weeks—the reports he had prepared about the Lord Mastrell’s activities. They were all still sealed. Why hadn’t she read them? “You should come with me to the battle, Ais,” she suggested. “No thank you, My Lady,” he said, turning away from the reports. “I have little taste for such morbid sport.” “I agree, Ais,” Lady Heelis responded. “However, it is rare that one has an opportunity to see sand masters work. For the good of Lossand, I think it necessary to find out what they are capable of when their lives are in danger.” Ais paused. He had seen Kenton fight several times now, and he understood the Lady Judge’s point. Many in Lossand underestimated the sand masters’s power. “Have you no desire to see how young Kenton fares?” Heelis asked, moving out of the room. Ais followed. “You’ve been travelling with him for two weeks now.” “He is a sand master,” Ais said simply. “I care nothing for him.” Yet, for some reason, he found himself following Heelis. Ais paused once they left the Hall, standing in front of the carriage that had been brought to transport her to the docks. His wife had arrived in the city a few hours before, distraught because of her daughter’s sudden disappearance. She and Melly were now staying with Mellis’s parents, and both had been sleeping when Ais left. He did have an odd curiosity to see what happened to Kenton—for a purely intellectual reason, of course. Heelis raised an eyebrow as Ais decided to join her in the carriage, but she didn’t say anything to him. She simply ordered the driver to take them to the docks. The Taishin were the last ones to arrive. The new Lord Admiral came first, accompanied by Delious. A few moments later Vey and the Lord Farmer made their appearance, both dressed in bright violet robes. The two Kershtians made their way down to their places, speaking quietly with some of the kelzin they passed. Kenton stood at the bottom of the Pit, his bare feet touching the sand as he tried to prepare himself for the battle to come. He watched with discomfort as Eric arrived, wearing the formal red of the Lord General. Kenton had half-feared that his friend would disappear for another three years. His uniform, however, meant that he had actually claimed the Lord Generalship. Eric’s cold, almost lifeless eyes focused on Kenton as he made his way to his seat. Next came the
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Lord Artisan. Rite’s stern, simple face was disturbed as he entered the building. From what Kenton heard, the man had nearly decided not to come to the fight. Social pressures, however, had persuaded him to attend the event. Kenton was almost disappointed—in his opinion, the fewer people who saw him get slaughtered the better. Finally, the Lady Judge arrived, accompanied by a group of dark-clothed trackts and aids. She left the trackts to stand in the shadows above, and swept down the stairs to her place, moving with the grace of a woman half her age. Her aged eyes, however, held every bit of wisdom earned during her seven decades of life. She took her place, regarding Kenton with an unreadable look. That’s all of them. Kenton thought. The saddest part about it all, he decided, would be that he would die before they voted. He would never know if his efforts had managed to save the Diem or not. Kenton took a deep breath, preparing himself as best he could. Drile stood at the other end of the forty-foot wide pit, conferring with several sand masters. He wore his white robes tied with the customary black cord. As the Lady Judge took her place he turned, smiling, and nodded to Elorin, who sat at the front of the sand masters. Elorin looked to Kenton. Kenton nodded as well. He was ready. Elorin stood, looking over the crowd. He looked nervous, but he had a right to be. Sand Masters hadn’t fought one another for centuries. Elorin hadn’t looked too eager when Kenton had asked him to mediate the ceremony. “My Lords and Lady Taishin, people of Lossand. You have come to witness a very serious event. These two sand masters, unable to resolve their difficulties, have come to face one another in single combat. May we—” Elorin paused as a commotion stirred at the back of the room. Kenton turned, and was surprised to see a tall form with bright red hair walk into the room. He wore the dark brown robes of a Talloner. The Lord Mason’s emissary, Kenton realized. So Dirin failed. The realization hurt—Kenton had been intentionally avoiding thinking about of Dirin’s mission. Now he would die knowing he had failed. However, even as the thought occurred to him, Kenton saw another, smaller form push its way into the room. This form also had red hair, and it wore the white robes of a sand master. Dirin smiled encouragingly at Kenton as the Talloner emissary took his place with the Taishin. Dirin’s optimism gave him hope—perhaps the boy had succeeded after all. Of course, Dirin would be optimistic no matter what happened, so perhaps the boy’s smile wasn’t a good way to judge. Regardless, Elorin continued his speech, so Kenton didn’t have time to give the matter further thought. “May we be witnesses to the victor, and mourners for the loser,” Elorin announced. “May we avoid this day in the future. Sand masters, you may begin.” Elorin sat down. Kenton took a deep breath, his body suddenly tense
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as he reached for his sand pouch. His hand never got there. Sand exploded around Drile, rising into the air like a mythical many-armed beast. Twenty-five ribbons screamed toward Kenton. They didn’t cut him; instead, they picked him up and slammed him back against the Pit’s stone wall. Kenton both heard and felt something crack inside his chest. He gasped in pain, dropping to the ground as Drile withdrew his sand. Kenton lay curled on the sandy ground, his body throbbing, his eyes wide with amazement. The pain was more sharp than he could have imagined. He rolled over with a groan, trying to regain control of himself. Drile stood at his end of the pit, smiling, his sand writhing around him like two-dozen whips of glowing smoke. Eventually, Kenton made it to his knees, then back to his feet. In one hand he clutched a handful of sand. He cried out in anger and pain, bringing the sand to life with a flash. Drile didn’t respond as Kenton gathered his sand around him, though he did raise an eyebrow in surprise as he counted Kenton’s ribbons. His teeth gritted against the pain, Kenton launched an attack of his own. Five ribbons crossed the area between the two men. Kenton expanded his mind, moving each ribbon independently as it wove toward Drile. When the ribbons were just a few feet from his enemy, Drile’s ribbons suddenly responded. They snapped forward like predators, no less than three ribbons striking each of Kenton’s. Sand sprayed across the pit as ribbons met. Kenton tried to keep his ribbons free from Drile’s defense, but it was to no avail. There were too many ribbons, and Drile was too practiced. Even Kenton’s superior ability to control barely helped in the face of such odds. Each of Kenton attacks fell dead as Drile’s ribbons touched them. Kenton did manage to reciprocate, touching the tip of his ribbons to two of Drile’s, making them fall dead. Unfortunately, he was quickly overwhelmed. He pulled back, regrowing his ribbons around him. His eyes were already beginning to burn—he had expended an amazing amount of water in the attack. His body was feeling weak as well. Drile, however, was unfazed. None of Kenton’s ribbons had gotten within a few feet of his body. This is hopeless, Kenton thought with pain. Of course, he had always known that it would be. Drile attacked. The ribbons whipped and spun, streaking toward Kenton. Kenton pulled back reflexively before them, pushing against the stone wall. He focused himself, ordering his sand to protect him. His five ribbons rose to his defense, attacking Drile’s ribbons. He managed to intercept several of them, smashing through their centers, dropping the ribbons dead to the floor. Unfortunately, the attempt was laughably insufficient. Fifteen ribbons still made it to him. The sand slicked into his body without mercy. He felt his shirt get ripped from his body, a dozen ribbons cutting into his flesh. Pain erupted through his body, and blood splashed against the wall, dripping down to the sand. Kelzin
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cried out in surprise and horror, but Kenton only groaned, his eyes shutting against the agony. He felt pain from his chest, arms, and legs. However, for some reason he was still alive. Drile hadn’t pierced him with the sand, he had only cut and sliced, lacerating Kenton’s flesh with painful, but not fatal, wounds. Drile was laughing again. He had avoided delivering a death blow on purpose. Kenton opened his eyes, barely able to keep himself conscious. He was on the ground again, white sand sticking to his blood-stained body. There were slices on his chest and arms, like lashes from a whip. I didn’t even hurt him, Kenton thought with shame. I lasted a few brief minutes. He looked across the Pit, his eyes seeking out Khriss in the crowd. She seemed terrified. Her eyes were wide, tears streaming down her cheeks. Poor girl. With a sigh, Kenton pushed himself to his knees again. I won’t let him beat me so easily! “This is horrible!” Khriss said, trying to stand, trying to do something. A firm hand held her down. “Yes,” Baon said quietly, “it is horrible. However, it is not your place to interfere, duchess.” “He’ll die!” Khriss said, her mind finally grasping what that fact meant. Kenton couldn’t die. She needed him. She didn’t know why, but she did. “He can’t die,” she whispered. “He chose his fight,” Baon said. “And he does so with bravery. This sacrifice is for his people. You cannot rob that from him.” Khriss tried to tear her eyes away from the horrible scene before her, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t abandon him. Kenton was struggling to his knees, surrounded by sand that was more red than white. It wasn’t a fight, it was an execution. Suddenly, Kenton cried out, thrusting his hand forward. Sand flashed around him, burning with inner light as it whipped toward Drile. For a moment, hope returned—Kenton’s sand moved more quickly this time, glowing more brightly. Once again, Drile slapped the five ribbons aside with an almost flippant gesture. He was too powerful—he had too much sand. “Oh, Kenton,” Khriss said with fear as Drile raised his sand for another strike. Kenton braced himself. Fortunately, this time he didn’t have far to fall—he was still kneeling in the sand. He barely managed to intercept three of Drile’s ribbons. The other sand master’s laughter was matched with slices of pain across Kenton’s back—no punctures, just cuts. Kenton shuddered in pain. Stop toying with me! he thought with anger. Finish me, and let it be done. He could barely see now. A cut across his brow was pouring blood into his eyes. Somehow, he knew that he still had control of his ribbons, but the five lines of sand hung limply. He was beaten. He had been beaten before the battle began. Kenton tried to struggle to his feet, but slipped, falling back to the sand. Hard grains bit into his cheek. It was over. He lay resigned, waiting for the final strike, his head turned to the side, his
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eyes staring unseeingly at the stone wall. An image seemed to form before him, and image of a young boy in white robes. A boy with a determined expression and light brown hair. A defiant boy—a boy that would be a sand master, no matter what others told him. I was a fool, Kenton thought with despair. I was always a fool. I never belonged in the Diem. The boy stared back at him, his eyes stubborn. I am a sand master! the boy’s expression seemed to say. I am as good as any other. You’re wrong, Kenton thought. You’re not as good as another—Drile just beat you. You didn’t deserve to be a mastrell. The boy shook his head. No. Drile didn’t beat you because he’s better than you. He beat you because you tried to become something you aren’t. Kenton lay numbly, watching the image fade. As a boy learning in the Diem, he had claimed he was as good as any mastrell. When had he stopped believing that? Sometime during his fighting, his arguments had simply become words to him. He had realized he didn’t have the power of a mastrell; he had kept fighting because he didn’t want to give up, not because he believed that he deserved a place. But once, many years before, he had believed. The boy had believed. Kenton groaned again, feeling his wounds, his broken ribs, his lashed skin. He felt like giving up and dying. Instead, he struggled to his feet once more. The Pit wobbled in front of him as he slowly pulled himself up, using the stone wall to steady himself. Drile actually looked surprised to see him rising. The man’s twenty-five ribbons swirled quickly, as if eager to taste Kenton’s blood one last time. Kenton reached down to a sand pouch—the only one that hadn’t been destroyed in Drile’s attacks—and removed a small handful of sand. He held his fist forward, his hand shaking slightly, small trails of white sand dribbling from his fingers. Obey me, he thought simply. The sand flashed to life. And then, he waited. He didn’t sent the sand to the ground, he didn’t gather more sand and split it into five, or even three, ribbons. He just waited, his single, pitiful ribbon hanging in front of him. Drile attacked, his eyes hard. This would be the last time. He intended to finish the battle with this one, final strike. Kenton closed his eyes, still leaning against the bloodied wall, and ordered his sand to move. The single ribbon leapt forward. Tiny, weak, insignificant. One ribbon was nothing. Unless that one ribbon belonged to Kenton. The tiny ribbon shot forward, ripping through the air at a speed impossible for any other sand master’s ribbons. It struck at Drile’s sand with a precision unequaled in the Diem, cutting down lines of sand, dexterous and nimble. Kenton had practiced for years, trying to prove that he could do with one ribbon what others couldn’t do with dozens. Eventually, he had given up on himself. He’d never realized
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that he was right. Stale sand fell to the pit floor as Drile’s ribbons fell dead. Kenton opened his eyes to find Drile staring at him with stupefaction, every one of his ribbons destroyed. Kenton’s one single ribbon hovered in front of him. “Impossible,” Drile mouthed, gathering another storm of sand around himself. He struck again, sending his sand in waves of five this time. Kenton stood a little straighter, concentrating on his single ribbon. The small line of sand spun and whipped, zipping back and forth in the air in front of him as it smashed through ribbon after ribbon, blocking every attack that Drile attempted. Drile had stopped laughing. He was focused solely on his sand now, striking at Kenton with rhythmic waves of ribbons. He watched incredulously as Kenton’s tiny ribbon intercepted his attacks, felling them with precise efficiency. Drile didn’t give up. He continued to master with disbelief, trying to find a hole in Kenton’s defense. Kenton’s little ribbon could cross the length of the Pit in the blink of an eye. It turned and doubled-back on itself neatly. Kenton wove it through the air, slicing through entire groups of ribbons in a single strike. And there was another advantage. Kenton’s eyes were burning, but Drile was obviously suffering more. The more ribbons one had, the faster one’s body lost water. Kenton’s one small ribbon barely cost anything, but he could see the effects of dehydration in Drile’s eyes. Since neither sand master could bring a qido into the Pit, it soon became obvious who would run out of water first. Unfortunately, Drile could still do something Kenton couldn’t. Even as they fought, Drile reached down for a handful of sand and brought it up. He closed his eyes, and his ribbons paused in the air for a moment. His hand began to shine. He was going to slatrify—turn his sand into water. Kenton’s ribbon smashed into Drile’s hand, slicing a hole directly through the back of the palm. Drile cried out, dropping the sand and holding his hand in agony. Then he turned angry eyes on Kenton, and his sand rose for another attack. It moved with power and determination, but Kenton’s ribbon maintained its blurring speed. The ribbons fell dead as soon as Drile could create them. “It’s over, Drile,” Kenton announced. “Concede—I have no desire to kill you.” Drile growled his response, sending a new wave of ribbons. Kenton sliced them down, then drove his ribbon towards Drile’s chest. He pulled up at the last minute, slicing a cut across the man’s shoulder. “You’re beaten, Drile,” he said. “Give up!” Drile’s face burned with undisguised hatred. “I won’t be beaten by you!” he yelled back. “I am a mastrell!” Drile’s eyes grew wide, and he raised his hands, summoning more sand around him. Fully a third of the sand in the Pit was already black. Kenton stepped back bracing himself. Drile’s face was frenzied, and his sand began to grow brighter and brighter. “Drile…” Kenton said warningly. “Drile, watch your water. Don’t overextend yourself.” Drile
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ignored him. His skin was beginning to turn a dun color, but his whirling torrent of sand was glowing even brighter. Kenton cursed softly. He had seen a look like the one in Drile’s eyes once before—in the eyes of his father, right before he died. Drile commanded his sand forward. Khriss cried out, the brightness of Drile’s sand causing her eyes to water. She had actually begun to think that Kenton might win, but Drile’s sudden outpouring of power frightened her. It was like a tornado of brightly shining sand had been called up in the center of the room. Drile screamed, and entire waves of sand began to blast toward Kenton. Khriss heard herself cry out as Kenton disappeared in a cyclone of light. All around the room, kelzin were crying out in alarm, and many stumbled out of their seats and began to push toward the door. Grains of sand flew through the room, biting into Khriss’s skin and getting in her eyes. It didn’t do any real damage, however, for it wasn’t focused on the audience, but on a single point. A point that was no longer visible in the storm. Drile was still screaming. Though Kenton, the source of his attack, was obscured, Drile himself was visible. His hands were raised high over his head, and he was moaning in a high pitched voice. His face was beginning to dry out. Khriss watched with horror as the skin on Drile’s face pulled in, stretching over his skull skeletally. His cheeks sucked inward with a sudden motion, as if someone had stuck a needle into them and drained out all the water. The skin of his lips curled backward, flaking and drying, revealing the teeth underneath. Drile’s tongue shriveled in his mouth, and his wide eyes suddenly deflated, leaving behind a skull that stared ahead vacantly. Still Drile screamed in rage. His entire body grew desiccate, his robes enveloping his skeletal arms and neck. His voice choked off as the raging storm of sand before him hit a crescendo. Then all was silent. The dried corpse that had been Drile fell forward onto its knees. Then there was a cracking sound as Drile’s waist split, and his top half broke free of his bottom half, falling forward onto the black sand, the knees and legs remaining upright. As soon as his skull hit the ground it shattered, turning to dust. There wasn’t a single drop of blood. Khriss sat stunned, looking at Drile’s remains. Only a tiny layer of black sand remained on his side of the Pit—which, now that most of the sand was gone, revealed itself to be much deeper than Khriss had realized. The rest of the sand lay piled where Kenton had been standing—a seven foot dune of black sand slumped against the stone wall, spilling over onto the benches behind it. “Kenton!” Khriss cried out, jumping out of her seat and stumbling down toward the Pit, walking over seats both empty and occupied. She reached the side of the Pit, lowering herself over
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the wall and down to the floor. She rushed past Drile’s desiccated corpse and began to dig in the sand mound. “You’d better not be dead,” she whispered, digging furiously, looking for a sign of Kenton. “Shella, Kenton, don’t be dead.” Her hand bumped something soft. She moved anxiously, uncovering a hand. Tears streaming down her face, she continued to dig, pushing away swaths of sand, trying to uncover the man underneath. Suddenly, there was a form beside her—a large, dark form. Baon reached down, grabbing Kenton’s body around the waist and, with straining muscles, pulled the sand master free from the dune’s grip. Khriss exclaimed in fright as she saw Kenton’s body. Sand stuck to his bloodied body, and his form was limp. However, as Baon pulled the sand master out, his eyes fluttered open and he began to cough. “Ugh,” he mumbled, looking at Khriss. “Sand tastes horrible.” Khriss cried out, hugging him, an action that provoked a grunt of pain. “Sorry,” she said, immediately, pulling back. “It’s all right,” Kenton mumbled, wiping his eyes as he regarded Drile’s corpse. Finally, he shook his head. “Poor fool,” he mumbled. “Kenton,” Khriss said, checking him over. There wasn’t a part of his body that wasn’t covered with blood, but most of the cuts weren’t deep. “Kenton, you won!” “Surprising, isn’t it?” he asked, reaching over to lift himself to his knees. “That last attack was powerful, but it lacked focus. I don’t think Drile even remembered what he was trying to do—I protected myself from his sand with my own. Of course, when he died, it all just kind of fell on me. Here, help me up.” “You need to rest,” she chided. “Not yet,” Kenton said, pulling himself to his feet. “I have one task left.” As soon as Kenton got to his feet, a wave of dizziness struck him. He would have collapsed to the ground if Khriss hadn’t been there supporting him. I’m in bad shape, he thought. However, he couldn’t let himself rest yet. He looked up at the crowd. Half of the seats were empty, but some of the kelzin were returning now that the danger appeared to be over. All seven Taishin still sat in their places. “Well?” Kenton demanded of them, leaning heavily on Khriss. “Well what, Lord Mastrell?” Heelis asked, looking him over with a dissatisfied eye. “You have slain your enemy.” “Drile slew himself,” Kenton announced. “All I have done is prove to the Diem, and myself, that I am worthy of this golden sash. I doubt any of the sand masters will question my right to lead after this.” “True,” Heelis admitted. “Assuming, of course, that there’s a Diem after the Council meeting a few hours from now.” “Why wait?” Kenton demanded. “You are all here now. Why not vote?” “It wouldn’t be proper, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis replied. “Someone might decide to quibble over technicalities in the Law.” Kenton smiled slightly at the jibe. His dried lips cracked painfully at the motion. “I promise you, it won’t be me, Lady Judge,”
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he said. “Cast your vote, and I will accept the result.” “You vow this, Kenton of the Diem?” Heelis asked. “I do.” Heelis turned to look at the other Taishin. None of them shook their heads, so finally she nodded. “It will be as you say, Kenton. We will vote. I warn you, however, I will hold you to your vow. This time, our decision is final.” “I understand,” Kenton said. “Then let us proceed. Lord General, how vote you?” Eric found Kenton’s eyes, his face so cold it was almost hateful. For a moment, Kenton feared what his former friend might say. “I vote in favor of the Diem,” Eric finally said. “Lord Merchant, how vote you?” Heelis asked. “I vote for the Diem, Heelis,” Vey announced in his high-pitched Kershtian voice. Heelis raised an eyebrow. Then she turned to Gennel. “Lord Farmer.” Gennel looked nervous. He shot Vey a look. “Um, I guess I vote in favor of the Diem, Lady Heelis,” he replied. “Lord Artisan, how vote you?” Rite turned calm eyes on Lady Heelis. “My terms have been met, Lady Judge. As long as the Lord Mastrell keeps his promises, I vote in favor of the Diem.” “I see,” Heelis said slowly. “Lord Mason?” “We vote for the Diem, Lady Heelis,” the tall Talloner responded. Kenton caught Dirin smiling triumphantly from the top row of benches. “And you, Lord Admiral.” Lokkall shot a nervous look at Delious. Then he turned to the Lady Judge. “I vote in favor of the Diem,” he said with an unenthusiastic voice. Kenton smiled triumphantly despite his complaining body. I almost don’t believe it, he thought with amazement. He turned eyes on Heelis. “It appears the Council is unanimous, Lady Judge,” he said. “Not yet, Lord Mastrell,” Heelis said slowly. “We still have one vote to count. My own.” “Surely I have met your requirements, Lady Heelis,” Kenton objected. Heelis frowned. “Have you? What about the Diem’s debts.” Vey cleared his throat nervously. “Um, Lady Judge.” Heelis turned eyes toward the Lord Merchant. “Yes?” she said tolerantly. “In the spirit of friendship, the Guild has decided to take the Diem’s debts on itself,” Vey explained. “The spirit of friendship?” Heelis asked disbelievingly. “Well, that and a promise of generous compensation later on,” Vey replied with a shrug. “It is, however, all quite legal.” Heelis thinned her eyes. “I’m certain,” she said. “The Diem’s debts are no more,” Kenton announced with as much strength as he could manage. “And the sand masters have a firm leader. Your conditions are met, Lady Judge.” “No,” Heelis corrected. “Two of them are met. I had three requirements.” Kenton frowned. Three requirements? What had the third one been? “I said that you were required to win the support of the people of Lossand,” Heelis reminded. “Surely I have done that,” Kenton said somewhat uncertainly. Khriss wiggled closer to him, placing herself underneath the crook of his arm, supporting his weight as his body grew weaker and weaker. He wouldn’t last much longer. “I don’t know, young Kenton,” Heelis
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said. “I really don’t know. A leader must have the support of his people—we of the Council do not rule by domination, but by consent of those below us. If the Diem does not have the favor of the people of Lossand, then it doesn’t matter what deals you have made with the Taishin.” “The people don’t know us yet, Lady Heelis,” Kenton explained. “Two weeks isn’t enough time to educate a nation. However, if we are given time, then I am certain we can bring them to our side. Such has already begun in Kezare—surely you’ve heard the rumors.” “I have,” Heelis admitted. Suddenly, she looked very, very tired. She sighed to herself. And I thought my burden was large, Kenton suddenly realized. Heelis represents all of Lossand. Hers is the only profession whose focus is on the rest of the nation, rather than just the Profession’s members. She must feel an incredible weight of responsibility. “The problem is, Kenton, I am not impartial in this matter. I admit it freely—I have always liked the sand masters. Therefore, I cannot vote.” “Then we are at an impasse,” Kenton said with a frown. “No,” Heelis said. “I have prepared for this eventuality. I decided that if this possibility arose, I would give my vote to another. And, since I am biased in favor of the Diem, I decided that the one who voted for me would have to be biased against you. You see, Lord Mastrell, this way I can be certain. I chose the person most opposed to the Diem that I knew. That way, if you convinced him, I would know that you could convince anyone. You really would be favored by all of Lossand—sand master, common worker… and Kershtian.” Oh, no… Kenton thought with horror. He had a suspicion he knew who she was talking about. “Senior trackt Ais, step forward,” Heelis ordered. Ais, unnoticed in the shadows at the back of the room, emerged into the light. Well, I just lost, Kenton thought with a shake of his head. At least I gave it a good fight. Ais stood stunned. What did she just say? He thought incredulously. “Step forward, Ais,” Lady Heelis said. Ais moved into the light. “Well, Ais,” Heelis announced. “I give my vote to you. The Diem’s fate will be decided by your decision. How say you? Does the Hall vote in favor of the Diem or against it?” Ais looked down at Kenton, trying to stir righteous hatred in his heart. This was the man whose very existence defiled the Sand Lord. This was the man whose blasphemies were greater than any other on the sands. This was the man who had saved his daughter’s life. If Ais hadn’t snapped the day before, he certainly would have at this moment. However, he was drained. He could barely think, let alone lose control. After all this time, the Kershtians finally had a chance to destroy sand mastery forever. I have to do it, Ais told himself. I have to remain true to the Sand
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Lord. Ais opened his mouth to speak. However, as he did so, his daughter’s face appeared in his mind. You will attempt to become my friend, Ais’s own words, spoken coldly to Kenton, resurfaced in his mind. You will try to laugh with me, prove to me that you aren’t what I assume. You may even save my life. None of this will change my opinion. Kenton hadn’t saved Ais’s life. He had saved something far more important. To deny the Diem would be to wish his daughter dead, and Ais could not do that. “I vote in favor of the Diem,” Ais whispered. The entire room looked at him for a moment, stunned. Then Kenton let out a sigh of surprised joy, hugging the darksider woman at his side. The room filled with sound as people began to talk. Ais slunk back into the darkness. Yesterday I betrayed my family, now I have betrayed my God. What is left for me now? Ais bowed his head and left the room a broken man, leaving the sounds of joy behind him. The Diem would probably never know the full cost of its survival. As Kenton cried out in joy, his body finally decided to give out on him. He began to slip out of Khriss’s arms. Fortunately Baon caught him, lifting him up again. “It appears I have no choice but to reinstate the Diem,” Heelis said. “I ratify you as Lord Mastrell, Kenton. Congratulations.” Kenton smiled one last time. Then he fell unconscious. “He’s my cousin,” Dirin explained, bringing Kenton a cup of chilled juice. “The Lord Mason wasn’t willing to listen to me, but he was willing to listen to Serin. I got back as soon as I could.” “Good job,” Kenton approved, reaching for the cup. His body was covered in bandages—he had cuts in places he hadn’t realized he had skin. He had spent most of the day under the ministrations of Draft healers, letting them wrap him in bandages—a process supervised, of course, by Khriss, who had wanted to make certain they didn’t use any ‘primitive’ doctoring techniques. Kenton was weak, but on the whole he felt good, considering what he had just been through. “Um,” Dirin said nervously. “I did have to promise him ten sand masters to help in the mines.” Kenton smiled. “Don’t worry about it. That’s fewer than I had to promise to Reegent.” Dirin shrugged, moving to clean off a table of cut bandages. “Have you talked to the rest of the sand masters like I asked?” Kenton asked. Dirin nodded as he worked. “They accept you, sir, even the ones who used to follow Drile. Some of them are actually beginning to believe that one ribbon can be as powerful as dozens. Either way, you shouldn’t have any trouble from them—except for a few, who think you tried to have Drile killed.” “What?” Kenton asked, leaning back in his chair. It was nice to know that his rooms were actually his rooms—that he wouldn’t lose them sometime in the next few
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weeks. “It’s really strange, sir,” Dirin admitted, turning with a frown on his face. “There’s one of Drile’s old followers—Terr—who claims you hired Kershtian warriors to try and kill Drile. Apparently, he thinks you sent those Kershtian assassins that have been trying to kill Drile.” Kenton froze. “Kershtian assassins tried to kill Drile?” he asked. Dirin nodded. “Sure, just like they tried to kill you. Didn’t you know that?” Kenton sat stupefied. “No,” he said. “I guess I haven’t been paying enough attention to the Diem—I had other things on my mind. But, why would the Kershtians try to kill Drile? He’s was working with them.” “Maybe he betrayed them,” Dirin suggested. “Maybe,” Kenton said, unconvinced. He leaned back thoughtfully. He stared at the stone walls, wondering about the attacks. It was possible, he supposed, that Drile hadn’t been behind the fall of the Diem. But, if not him, then.… “Sands!” Kenton exclaimed, leaping out of his chair and limping toward the door. Kenton found him in a small living chamber on the second floor. He sat in a stiff carapace chair, watching the door as Kenton entered. The room was stark and unadorned—a contrast to the lavish Mastrell’s quarters a flight above. “Hello, Elorin,” Kenton said quietly, entering the room. “Hello, Lord Mastrell,” the old sand master replied. His eyes were sorrowful. Just like they had been ever since the Kershtian attack a month ago. Kenton had assumed it was just his loss of sand mastery. “Elorin,” Kenton said slowly. “I want to know how you survived the attack a month ago.” Elorin didn’t answer immediately. “I survived because the Kershtians didn’t want to kill me,” he finally answered. Kenton closed his eyes in pain. All this time, he had thought it was Drile. “You poisoned the water, didn’t you?” he asked. As always, it had been Elorin’s duty as the Lord Mastrell’s assistant to prepare the water for the ceremony. “No,” Elorin said in an almost distracted way. “It was the bowl. That way, every time new water was poured in, it received the taint as well. It’s called KaDo, a rare Kershtian spice that accelerates dehydration. Even I didn’t expect it to work as well as it did.” “All this time, you’ve been watching me and directed the assassins meant to kill me,” Kenton said, opening his eyes and looking down at the balding older sand master. Elorin nodded. “Why, Elorin?” Kenton demanded. “Why betray the Diem?” Elorin looked up, meeting Kenton’s eyes with a sorrowful look. “When your God commands, Lord Mastrell, you listen.” “Your… God?” Kenton asked with amazement. “Sands! When did you convert?” “Six months ago,” Elorin explained. “Ker’reen is true, Kenton. I know it is.” Six months—the same time that Elorin had resigned his position as Head of Acolents. “At first, I wanted to quit the Diem,” Elorin explained. “But the A’Kar himself sent me a letter, commanding me to continue on as before. But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t use my powers when I knew they were evil. So, I just stopped. No one really
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noticed. I always have kept to myself.” “And then he ordered you to betray us,” Kenton said flatly. “It would have been better for you in the end,” Elorin said with despair. “Better that several should die now so that souls will not be lost in the future. Of course, I wouldn’t have done it, except.…” “Except?” Kenton asked, feeling numb. “The Sand Lord appeared to me,” Elorin said, his eyes completely honest. Haunted, but honest. “Oh, Elorin,” Kenton said, shaking his head. “You’ve made things very difficult for me.” “Well, then,” Elorin said. “I shall make them easy for you, Lord Mastrell. You see, two days have passed. I am allowed to try again today.” Kenton frowned, noticing for the first time the dark object beside Elorin’s chair. The man removed a cloth from its top, revealing a shiny zinkall underneath. “Elorin,” Kenton said warningly. The man ignored him, putting the zinkall on his arm and proceeding to pump one of its chambers. “Don’t do this, Elorin,” Kenton warned. “You had better kill me, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin responded, looking down at his weapon. “This arrow is coated with terken carapace. Your sand won’t be able to stop it.” “Elorin, I…” Kenton said, pained, calling a handful of sand to life. Elorin raised the zinkall. “Kill me,” he whispered. “I am ready to go.” Kenton paused. Elorin fired the weapon, and Kenton dodged reflexively, sending forth his sand. His body gave out at the stress, toppling him to the ground. Fortunately, Elorin was a horrible shot. The arrow went wide, striking Kenton in the arm. Kenton’s sand, however, flew truly. It took Elorin in the chest, slicing a neat hole through his heart. The undermastrell toppled backward into his chair. He took a few pained breaths, then fell still. Oh, sands, Kenton thought, pulling himself to his feet with difficulty, holding his arm. When will this stop? He stumbled from the room, leaving the corpse behind. Outside he found Dirin leading a line of sand masters. “I brought them,” Dirin explained. “Don’t worry,” Kenton said. “He was alone.” Dirin paused. “And…” “I was right,” Kenton said sorrowfully. Khriss watched with dissatisfaction as Kenton landed on the balcony and walked into his room. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she reminded. Kenton shook his head. There was a look of sorrow on his face. There was a new bandage on his arm, one stained with blood. Khriss felt a stab of fear. What now? “Elorin,” Kenton explained in response to the question on her face. He took a seat in the center of the room, sighing as he relaxed. His chest was also bandaged, where the healers had pronounced him the owner of three cracked ribs. “Elorin?” Khriss said, trying to place a face with the name. “The balding man?” Kenton nodded. “What about him?” Khriss asked. The man had been so unassuming, she usually hadn’t paid much attention to him. “He was the leader of the assassins,” Kenton explained. “He converted to Ker’Reen worship a number of months ago, and has been working
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against us ever since.” “Oh, Kenton,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.” She knew, quite powerfully, how painful a betrayal could be. Kenton shook his head. “I should have seen it sooner.” Khriss paused. Kenton looked so hurt, but she had something she needed to tell him. “Kenton,” she said slowly. “I… can’t stay here on dayside.” Kenton looked up, meeting her eyes. Then he rested back. “I know,” he said with a sigh. Wrong answer, Khriss thought with despair. He really didn’t want her. He was like Gevin, pretending. Well, not completely pretending. Gevin had been a liar; Kenton just wanted to protect her feelings. I should have realized that he wouldn’t want me, Khriss though with a quiet shake of her head. In a way, she had realized it. Why would Kenton want her? “Elis is in trouble,” she explained. And I would abandon it for you. “I am a duchess; my people need me.” Not as much as I need you. Ask me to stay. “I had a feeling you were going to say something like that,” Kenton said with a sigh. “How long before you leave?” Khriss barely held back the tears. “Not long,” she said. “I need to leave as soon as possible. Today, perhaps.” “So soon?” Kenton asked. “Elis needs me,” she repeated. You know that is a lie, Khriss. Why would Elis need you? They’ve probably forgotten who you are. It made sense. First Eric, then Elorin, now Khriss. Perhaps on another day, he would have objected more. But after what he had just experienced, Kenton was expecting something horrible to happen—and Khriss’s leaving was just about the most horrible thing he could imagine. You should say something, he told himself. Tell her how you feel. Unfortunately, he suspected that he would just embarrass her. Every time she had gotten close to him, she had immediately pulled back for some reason. Kenton suspected he knew what it was. He was an experiment to her—a ‘primitive.’ She couldn’t fall in love with him. In his depressed, self-pitying world, it made perfect sense. When he opened his eyes, she was gone. Khriss actually waited until the next day to leave. Kenton stood on the docks, watching the packmen load her things. He bid a thankful farewell to Baon and Cynder, gave Khriss a chaste hug, bidding her to return when her country was safe once again, then watched her walk up the plank to board the ship. Behind her, the packmen lugged up three barrels of white sand—she claimed she was going to find a way to make sand mastery work on darkside. Kenton stood on the dock for a long time, watching the boat sail away. He watched it long after he lost sight of Khriss’s beautiful, long hair fluttering in the wind. Then he watched the horizon long after the ship had disappeared. “Khriss, please stay,” he finally whispered. But, of course, it was too late. Kenton turned with a sigh, nodding for Dirin to follow him as he hired a dockman to return them to the
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shore. He had saved the Diem, rescued sand mastery when everyone thought it was lost. But he felt as if he had lost something far more important. Ais set aside his trackt’s uniform. He would never wear that again. Instead he packed a few simple robes in his bag. He owned few possessions beyond his clothing, none of any importance. “Where will you go?” Mellis asked, standing on the far side of the room. Ais bowed his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “The deep sand, I think. I need answers, Mellis. My prayers yield nothing.” “I’m coming with you,” she decided. “You need to take care of Melly,” he replied. “I need to do this on my own.” “No, Ais,” his wife corrected. “That is where you are wrong. You don’t ever need to do anything alone.” He looked up, meeting her eyes, then lowered his own in shame. He didn’t deserve her. “All right,” he said. “But I intent to visit Ker Kedasha, the capitol itself. Lossanders are not treated well there.” “I don’t care, Ais,” she vowed. “I’m not going to sit here and wait, and neither is Melly. If you’re going to the deep sand, then so are we.” “You’ll have to act like a Kershtian woman,” he warned. “I can do that,” she said with a defiance that no Kershtian woman would dare show. Ais smiled slightly. “All right. Let’s go, then.” He would go to the A’Kar himself. Maybe the holiest man on the sands would be able to answer Ais’s questions for him. If not, then he would just have to find another place to look. Across the sands from Lossand, on the border of the deep sands, there was a city whose culture made Lossand look primitive, whose politics made the Taishin appear child-like, and whose population made Kezare a tiny village by comparison. The cradle of Kershtian civilization, the grandest center for the arts and sciences on dayside, the largest center of business on the sands, it was Ker Kedasha, the Kershtian capitol. Composed entirely of tents—tents that spread for miles—Ker Kedasha looked like a conglomeration of darkside mushrooms. Each tent competed with its neighbors in style, shape, and color. There were massive constructions that could hold thousands of people at once, and there were tiny hovels that barely kept the sand out. In one of the largest tents in the city, a meeting was taking place. The masters of Kershtian society, the leaders, the pundits, the Klin, the wealthy, and the important were meeting. The Choosing, it was called. From this meeting, the man who would shape Kershtian society for the next fifty years would be chosen. And, for the first time in centuries, the choice was not certain. Men argued. Others rebutted. Each spoke respectfully—this was Kershtian society, not Godless Lossand. Still, there was a sense of tension in the room. The A’Kar’s attempts were well known. He had nearly destroyed the sand masters, an amazing feat. That alone had gained him many supporters. Others pointed out, however, that the Diem
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had not been destroyed. A mastrell lived on—the A’Kar’s assassins had failed. There was a Kershtian proverb, they reminded—a pinch or a dune, it is all sand. It didn’t matter that the A’Kar had killed a lot of the mastrells, as long as one still lived, the blasphemy would continue. These arguments were also strong. The A’Kar’s failure to destroy the mastrells was troubling. He had much to complete his goals, but he had failed. Now the Kershtian merchants had to deal with hostility from their Lossandin associates. As advanced as Kershtian culture was, it still needed trade with Lossand to get metals, amongst other things. War could also deliver those things, the A’Kar’s supporters whispered. They didn’t do more than hint, however. War was not a thing that merchants found attractive, and many Kershtians were also merchants. Still, the idea was intriguing to some—mostly the younger, less established members of the meeting. The vote was cast, and the High Merchant won—though the vote was incredibly close. The members of the meeting congratulated one another. It had been a fine meeting, full of fine discussions. In the end, their choice had been difficult. They had made it, however, and now everyone could go back to their own business. They were completely surprised, therefore, when they stepped out of their tent to find that during their deliberations, the A’Kar’s holy warriors had surrounded and taken the city. The A’Kar smiled at them, suggesting that they rethink their decision. Kenton stood on his balcony, looking down at the courtyard, his face disconsolate. He didn’t know what it was—he had grown increasingly depressed in the weeks following his victory. He should have been elated, or at least satisfied. Instead, he was morose. He looked out over the Diem. It was working smoothly now, much the way it had before the fateful attack. There were major differences, however. The sand masters as a whole were stronger—Kenton had taught them the overmastery trick. He had managed to extend his own powers to six full ribbons, though he had been right, the more one tried the trick the smaller the result one received. Still, Kenton didn’t worry. Sheer power wasn’t always the only factor—Kenton’s own talent lay in a different area. Another difference in the Diem could be seen down below. Children playing in the courtyard. Some of the sand masters who survived had families, and Kenton had invited them to bring their wives and children into the Diem. This had easily solved the problem of who got the upper rooms—the third floor rooms were the largest, therefore Kenton gave them to those with families. The Diem was a happier place now, he could sense that, even if little of its joy extended to him. He had made good on his promise, and the sand masters were proving extremely useful in Kezare business. Lord Rite’s craftsmen were always inventing new ways to make use of sand mastery, and the returns were greater than any had expected. It would still take decades to pay the Guild back, but all
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involved were satisfied with the results. A month before, Kenton had announced his new plan for giving sashes. They would now be granted for both skill and power. In addition, he made provisions for increasing in rank. Those who showed promise and increased their abilities could move to a higher sash. In fact, under Kenton’s plan, no acolent would be given the golden sash at first. There would be no more fourteen year-old mastrells. Now, the golden sash would take years to earn, even for a powerful sand master. It was a good system, and Kenton was pleased with it. He had made a few exceptions at the beginning, giving out two golden sashes to the most promising of the sand masters. He needed mastrells to help him with the Diem’s leadership. For some reason, he was having trouble focusing on his duties. It probably had to do with his depression, he guessed. A knock came at his door. “Come in,” he said, still leaning against the carapace banister. “Progress reports, sir,” Dirin explained, walking into the room. “I think Terr might be deserving of an undermastrell’s sash—he has been working hard, and the Overmastery-empowerment has effected him strongly.” Kenton nodded absently, barely giving Dirin’s forms a look. “Do as you think is best,” he said. “Yes, sir,” Dirin said, bowing slightly. He turned, moving toward the door. But then, however, he paused. “Sir?” he asked. Kenton looked up. “I don’t mean to be forward, sir…” Dirin began. “Speak your mind, Dirin,” Kenton said. “Sir, you have to get over her,” Dirin said. “It’s been three months now.” “Get over her?” Kenton said, turning. “What are you taking about?” Dirin blushed slightly. “The duchess, sir. She’s gone—you shouldn’t let your loss affect your ability to lead.” Now Kenton blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “Don’t you?” Dirin asked. Kenton frowned. The boy was growing more brave, lately. That wasn’t a bad thing—except when it came to questioning Kenton’s love life. But, confronted with it, Kenton was forced to admit the truth in Dirin’s words. He missed Khriss. He missed her a lot. She dominated his dreams; her face always seemed to be hanging in the back of his mind. He longed to hear her annoying questions, and wished she were around to get angry at him. He hadn’t had a good argument since the Council vote three months before—everyone just did what he said. Khrissalla, why did you have to go? But, he knew the answer to that. Responsibility was something he understood all too well now. He respected Khriss for returning to darkside to help her people—that was her duty. Of course, he could respect her for the decision and hate her for it at the same time. Kenton sighed. Dirin was right, though. He had to do something—he wasn’t doing his own duty as long as he was focused on Khriss. Get over her. He shook his head slowly. I don’t think so. “Dirin, charter me a ship.” The boy frowned. Of course, he wasn’t really
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a boy—he never had been. He was only two years younger than Kenton, though everyone assumed he was younger. “Where to, sir?” Dirin asked. “Darkside,” Kenton announced with a smile. “Sir?” Dirin asked with surprise. “But—” “You’re in charge until I get back. You’ve been taking care of this place this entire time anyway.” Dirin’s eyes grew wide. “But, sir! I couldn’t. I’m not a mastrell, I’m just an acolent.” Kenton pulled off his golden sash. “Not any more, you aren’t.” “Sir, you can’t give that to me just because you are leaving,” Dirin said with a blush. “That’s not the reason, Dirin,” Kenton said truthfully. “I was intending to give one to you anyway. You’re the weakest sand master I know, but you’re also the most competent. The Diem will prosper under your guidance. It’s stable now; everyone knows what to do. You have two new mastrells. They’ll help you—both are older men, who have been in the Diem for a long time. I suspect you three will do a much better job than I could anyway.” “I doubt that, sir,” Dirin replied, eyeing the sash indecisively. “I’m good for a fight, Dirin,” Kenton said, “but I know my weaknesses. When there’s not a crisis, I’m hardly worth the gold in my sash. Trust me—you deserve this.” Dirin accepted the sash with wide, disbelieving eyes. Kenton smiled, patting him on the shoulder. Then he turned, looking out over the Diem and toward the horizon. He felt invigorated for the first time in months. Well, Khriss, you came to dayside to find your prince. You’ll have to settle for me instead. I’m coming. THE END Brandon Sanderson, 2016 Taldain symbol: Isaac Stewart Cover art: Fritz Casas Cover design: Titivillus Digital editor: Titivillus ePub base r2.1 [1] Refers to Arcanum Unbounded, from which the Postscript is taken. That collection includes an excerpt from White Sand’s first graphic novel, and an excerpt from the prose version. (Editor’s Note) << I was thinking that Mistborn: Secret History was the story in this collection[1] that had the longest time between original idea and final publication, but then I remembered that this is in here. What to say about White Sand? I’m thrilled to, at long last, be publishing this graphic novel. (And I’m very thankful to Dynamite, the publisher, for letting us include this excerpt in the collection.) White Sand started very long ago as a simple image: finding a body buried in the sand. The novel was the first I ever wrote—and also the eighth, as I started it over from scratch to try again once I’d learned more about writing. The excerpt you have here is from the 1999 version, not the 1995 version. It’s been a long, long road to publication for this story. I’m still very enamored of the world, and consider it a major part of the Cosmere. (The fact that Khriss is an important figure in the unfolding of these things should indicate that.) However, it was getting hard to plan when I’d be able to squeeze the novel in.
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I still have to finish so many books, I had no idea where to slot this trilogy in. Then Dynamite came to us and suggested the graphic novel. I was up for this from the get-go, as it was a way to get a canonical version of the story on shelves for readers faster than my schedule would otherwise allow. As for the scene in question—well, you can see from it that my writing style starting with my very first book was focused on magic systems. At that point, I was reading a lot of The Wheel of Time and other similar books. I loved how powerful the characters were, but I wanted to create something that showed off someone who wasn’t particularly powerful in the magic. Kenton was born out of me trying to figure out a magic where finesse would be as valuable as raw strength, and sand mastery grew completely out of that. The idea of a test he had to complete (one many believed he wouldn’t be able to pass) using the magic seemed the perfect way to show this off. Indeed, it worked out great—and boy does it pop off the page in graphic novel form. Of all my magic systems, this one seems the best for this medium, because it’s so visual. BRANDON SANDERSON 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
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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
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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 windblown 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 the sands, see reason!”
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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 watched 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 coddlings 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. The planet Taldain is split into two halves: on one side are the Daysiders, and on the other the Darksiders. Some Daysiders have a unique ability to control and manipulate sand, bending it to their will to attack, or protect, as they wish. Darksiders have their own unique abilities and culture, and must wear thick dark lenses while on the Dayside. Generally speaking, Daysiders and Darksiders do not get along… and White Sand follows the adventures of one particular Daysider, a boy named Kenton. But when that Sand Masters are slaughtered in a sinister conspiracy, Kenton believes himself to be the only survivor. With enemies closing in on all sides, Kenton forges an unlikely partnership with Khriss—a mysterious Darksider who hides secrets of her own. Brandon Sanderson White Sand - 0 ePub r1.3 Titivillus 05.01.2022
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