“N’Teese, wait here. I’ll go write your mistress her letter.”
The girl shrugged indifferently as Kenton rose into the air. He landed on his balcony and stepped into his quarters, walking directly to the smaller side-room with the desk and bookshelf. Where had Praxton kept his writing materials?
He searched in the desk for a moment before finding what he wanted. He leaned down, penning a letter requesting the Taisha agree to see Khriss.
He was about halfway done when he heard a zinkall fire behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Ais stood in the sand’s most unholy of locations, surrounded by the Ry’Kenshan. He felt an odd, almost morbid interest in the Diem. He had lived in Kezare for all of his thirty-six years, nearly two decades of that as a trackt, and he had never once visited the building.
Sand masters surrounded him. The sense of loathing he felt had almost grown to the point of over-sensitivity—there were so many of them that the disgust was overwhelming. He remained stiff, however. In control. This was just another assignment. He wasn’t associating with the sand masters out of choice; they would not taint him with their blasphemous disregard for the Sand Lord’s powers. He was fulfilling his duty, and nothing else.
But, is that all? A voice in his head wondered. Can you really claim to be free from contamination? Regardless of what you say, you were given a choice. You could have refused the Lady Judge.
Other Kershtians would see this assignment as a conflict between their religious views and their profession. Such was why they refused to join the Hall.
It is not a conflict! Ais told himself forcefully. But, what would he do when he found himself unable to meet the demands of both religion and duty?
Ais cast such thoughts from his mind. Eighteen years in the Hall, and he’d never once run into such a paradox. He never would. Being a Kershtian did not make him incapable of being a trackt.
He turned to look around the Diem. This Kenton, the new Lord Mastrell, had disappeared onto his balcony in a garish display of power. Ais was left with the little Kershtian girl—or was she Lossandin?—and the one known as Eric.
Ais felt another stab of doubt. Eric stood a short distance away, speaking affably with a red-haired sand master. Did the man recognize him? He must. Why then hadn’t he said anything?
When Ais had first seen the man, he had nearly been paralyzed with shock. This man, the one who had saved him not a day before, was an apparent friend of the new Lord Mastrell. Ais did his best, struggling to maintain his sense of control and purpose, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t get rid of the anxiety. This man knew what he was—what he became. The shame was nearly more than Ais could bear … .
Ais took a deep breath, heading off his rage before it became visible. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not here, in front of the sand masters. He had to remain strong. Where was the Lord Mastrell, anyway?
Ais paused. He thought he’d seen something. A shadowed form moving past the Lord Mastrell’s balcony. Ais squinted, taking a step forward. What was …
A body crashed into Kenton’s balcony, smashing the banister and arcing out into the air above the courtyard. Its form, clothed in Kershtian robes, dropped to the ground with a muffled thump.
“Aiesha!” Ais cursed, dashing forward.
#
Kenton spun, waiting for the arrow to rip into his flesh. It never came. As he turned he caught sight of a Kershtian standing in the doorway, his forehead scarred with the square of the A’Kar’s new DaiKeen. The man was shaking his zinkall, an arrow jammed halfway out of its launch tube.
Their eyes met and held for an eternal moment, then Kenton dropped to the ground as two arrows shot over the man’s shoulders, fired from behind.
Kenton came up with a handful of sand. The first Kershtian raised his zinkall, abandoning the jammed arrow to fire from one of the other tubes. Kenton didn’t intend to give him the opportunity. His sand burst to life with a flash, then a ribbon screamed directly for the Kershtian’s chest.
The arrow fired just before Kenton’s sand arrived, but it went wide, snapping into the wood of Praxton’s desk. The ribbon of sand hit the Kershtian’s chest at a speed impossible of the most powerful of zinkall.
The sand turned black and sprayed off the Kershtian’s armor like water splashing against a stone wall.
Kenton stood stupefied for a deadly moment, staring disbelievingly at the black sand that lay scattered on the floor before his opponent. They’re … terken! Impervious to sand mastery! He thought with amazement.
Jut then the Kershtian’s third arrow fired directly at his chest. The arrow clipped the edge of the jammed one as it left the tube, and the shot went just a bit to the right, glancing off one of Kenton’s ribs instead of taking him in the stomach as intended. Still, the flash of pain was powerful, and it caused Kenton to gasp, bringing him back to the conflict.
The Kershtians were terken. As incredible as it sounded, he had to accept it for now.
He drew his sword at the same time as the Kershtian did, and rushed forward to engage the man. The assassins had him trapped in the smaller side room—fortunately, that meant that only one could get to him at a time. Unfortunately, the windows were too small for him to escape through. If he didn’t get out quickly, eventually one of the men in the main room would get in a lucky shot.
The Kershtian prepared for Kenton’s attack—they had obviously been warned that this sand master was also a swordsman. The man raised his carapace sword, falling into a fighting stance to meet Kenton’s charge. Therefore, he was completely shocked when instead of attacking him, Kenton flipped over his head with a sand-boosted jump.
Kenton’s tucked spin barely fit through the space between the Kershtian and the ceiling. As he landed he immediately swung a blow at the Kershtian’s unprotected back, dropping the man with a swipe of the sword. Then he began to dash toward the room’s back door, trying to avoid zinkall shots from the two assassins positioned near the balcony.
Arrows snapped against the stone floor and walls of his room, one coming close enough he could feel the wind of its passing. Kenton rushed past the room’s plush chairs and leapt over Praxton’s long carapace conference table, finally arriving at the exit. He threw open the door, and came face-to-face with a fourth assassin, his zinkall lowered to fire.
Kenton cursed, dodging backward as the man fired. Kenton’s sand whipped down, trying to grab the arrow. However, as soon as his sand touched the missile, it fell black and stale.
The arrows too? Kenton thought incredulously. What on the sands is happening?
Kenton managed to dodge the arrow, but he knew the real danger wasn’t from in front. The two men behind fired their final shots even as Kenton jumped to the side. Kenton allowed himself to fall, throwing himself backward. The two arrows passed over him as he fell, one hitting the Kershtian in the doorway.
Just before he hit the ground, Kenton caught himself with his sand, then used it to flip him back to his feet, spinning him in the air to land facing the two assassins by the balcony. The men held their Kershtian shortspears at the ready, their arrows spent, as they inched toward Kenton in attack stances.
The two men approached carefully, moving to flank him. They were out of arrows, but Kenton knew that if he tried to run, he would likely get a spear in the back. Kenton backed toward the doorway—and only then did he realize his mistake. He heard a sound behind him—the Kershtian who had been waiting outside wasn’t dead.
All four men moved at once. Kenton leapt forward, dropping his sword to control his sand with both hands. Both spearmen moved to strike. The man in the doorway collapsed—his wound proving too much for him.
The spearmen drove in for the kill, driving their weapons toward Kenton’s chest. Unfortunately, they hadn’t realized where Kenton’s sand was going. It shot between them, grabbing the room’s long carapace table. Kenton used the large piece of furniture like an enormous club, slamming it into the side of one of his opponents. Th
e man dropped, his bones cracking ominously. The second man looked to the side in surprise, allowing Kenton to sidestep his spear thrust.
“You’re terken,” Kenton mumbled in Kershtian, stepping backward. “But you aren’t Ter-table now, are you?”
The Kershtian didn’t appreciate the joke. He took a careful step away, standing between Kenton and the balcony. Kenton held his hands before him, the enormous conference table hanging in the air beside him.
The Kershtian continued to back away, regarding the table with unreadable eyes. They said you would be impervious to my sand, Kenton thought, taking a step forward. The table followed. They didn’t warn you that sand doesn’t have to touch you to be deadly.
The Kershtian leapt forward, his spear raised. Kenton spun in a full circle, swinging the table with all his power. There was a sickening crunch. The Kershtian’s body was hurled limply through the air, flying across the room to smash through balcony’s banister and continue out into the courtyard. Kenton heard it thump to the ground below.
Kenton lowered the table with a sigh, letting his sand die as he reached down pick up his sword. It was purely by happenstance that he placed the table where he did, blocking the arrow.
Kenton jumped, dodging backward as another Kershtian rushed through the open doorway behind him.
How many of them are there? Kenton thought, growiling to himself with anger.
He turned and ran. He dashed toward the balcony as the Kershtian behind him lowered his weapon to fire again. Kenton rolled toward the balcony, barely grabbing a handful of sand from the floor as his momentum carried him off the now banister-less balcony.
A moment later Kenton reappeared, launched into the air in a spray of glowing sand. His momentum carried him high into the air. And there, looking down on the Diem, he saw two tan-robed forms. They stood on the other side of the building, preparing to climb down a rope to enter the room on the opposite side of the hallway as Kenton’s own.
Sands curse you! Kenton thought with rage. They weren’t satisfied with leaving Diem to die after cutting off all its limbs; they had to deliver the killing blow themselves.
Kenton yelled, directing his fall so that he landed beside the surprised Kershtian assassins. The first one barely had time to turn as Kenton angrily whipped his sword free and attacked.
As Kenton swung his weapon, three ribbons of sand fell in behind the blade, pushing it forward with supernatural strength. The sand-driven blow sheared completely through the man’s waist, spraying his companion’s face with gore. The second man looked up, dangling from the rope with a surprised expression. Kenton’s sand sliced the rope. The Kershtian fell, bouncing off the side of the balcony below and continuing down three stories.
Kenton took a deep breath. When he turned he found two more Kershtians standing on the other side of the roof, near where Kenton’s own balcony would be. They had bows.
Kenton gathered his sand, preparing to dodge away. Fear struck him as he did so, however. The men were aiming carefully—this wasn’t like the wild battle below, with the short distance zinkall. Bowmen would easily pick him off.
A hand grabbed one of the archers from below, toppling him to the ground. Kenton started in surprise as a dark-clothed form pulled himself up onto the roof. The second bowman dropped his weapon with a cry of surprise, reaching for the carapace hatchet at his waist. Ais’s zinkall took him point-blank in the face.
The archer stumbled backward as Ais spun, smashing the armored top of his zinkall into the second man’s face, toppling him off the top of the ceiling in a wide arcing fall.
Kenton jumped, guiding the spring into forty-foot long leap that landed him beside the Kershtian trackt.
“Quickly, Ry’Kensha, how many have you killed?”
Kenton frowned, but mentally counted. Four in the first attack, then the one whose zinkall had hit the table—he was probably one of the archers. Two on the roof, two more Ais had killed.
“Eight,” Kenton said.
Ais nodded, relaxing. “You are free for one day, then,” he mumbled, kneeling beside the man he had shot in the face.
“One day!” Kenton asked incredulously.
Ais turned the dead man’s head to the side, inspecting the scarred DaiKeen symbol on the forehead. “One day, at the least,” Ais said flatly. “Look at the DaiKeen.”
Still confused by the battle, Kenton knelt. How could this man be so cold after what had just happened? “It’s the new DaiKeen,” Kenton said with a frown. “The A’Kar’s holy warriors.”
“Yes,” Ais agreed. “Now look at the sides, the two smaller scars on either side of the square.”
Kenton looked closely. “They’re fresh,” he said with surprise.
Ais nodded, standing. “Assassin’s marks. The warrior DaiKeen has used them for centuries—the A’Kar must have adapted them to his new DaiKeen as well.” The trackt moved to climb down the side of the building, dropping down onto Kenton’s broken balcony.
“Wait!” Kenton said with annoyance, using his sand to drop him down beside Ais. “Assassin’s marks—what do they mean?”
“It means you have been targeted as an enemy of the Kershtian people,” Ais explained. “Or, at least, the enemy of the A’Kar.”
“But all sand masters are the Kershtians’ enemies,” Kenton objected.
Ais nodded, kneeling beside a second body and checking his forehead as well. “Yes, Ry’Kensha, but this is different. The A’Kar has given a specific family the task of killing you. It is a formal charge—they may send eight warriors at you every other day until they succeed.”
“Eight warriors!” Kenton said with surprise.
“Correct. Assuming, of course, that they can gather so many. Kershtian family lines are extensive, but tend to be scattered.”
“Eight warriors a day …” Kenton said, distractedly taking a gulp of water from his qido. “Oh, sands. When will this end?”
“When you kill their leader,” Ais informed, as if the question hadn’t been rhetorical. The trackt continued to inspect bodies, looking over zinkall arrows and armor.
“Their leader?” Kenton asked hopefully.
“The one the A’Kar formally charged with killing you. Defeat him, and assassins can’t be sent against you for another year.”
“But, how do I know who that is?” Kenton protested.
“Usually it’s the family head, though not necessarily. A member of one family could be given the charge, but, if his own family has few warriors, he could be assigned a different family to use as his killers.” Ais spoke dispassionately, as if the very man before him wasn’t the subject of said killing.
“But, he could be all the way across the sands,” Kenton said, shaking his head.
“No,” Ais corrected, rising from his inspections to walk over to Kenton. “He has to personally direct the assassins. He’ll be in Kezare somewhere. Look at this.”
Ais proffered his hand, showing Kenton a translucent substance on his fingers. It was thick, like a jelly, but smooth like oil. Kenton recognized it easily. “Dissolved carapace,” he replied.
Ais nodded. “The warriors are smeared with it, as are their weapons and their armor.”
Kenton frowned in confusion. Then an idea struck him. He brought forward one of his ribbons—he didn’t dare release them, no matter what Ais said—to touch the paste on Ais’s fingers.
The trackt hissed, dropping his hand. “Do not touch me with that!” he ordered.
Kenton raised his hands. “Sorry,” he said. Instead he sent the sand over to one of the fallen bodies, delicately touching it to the thin layer of paste on the man’s face. The sand immediately turned black, and dropped from Kenton’s control.
“What would happen,” Kenton mumbled, “if you dissolved the carapace of a TerKen deep sandling?”
Ais nodded thoughtfully. “A clever idea,” he agreed. Then the Kershtian walked toward the room’s exit. “I am going to go make a report on this. You will be safe for the rest of the day.”<
br />
“Ais,” Kenton called.
The trackt paused.
“Thank you. You saved me.”
Ais turned slowly, then walked back to Kenton, stopping just in front of him. His eyes were cold and hateful. “Do not be mistaken, Ry’Kensha,” he whispered, “I protect you out of duty, not out of desire. I hate you. I hate your kind. On any other day, I would have applauded these men’s attempts.
“You will try to cur my favor,” Ais continued. “You will attempt to become my friend. 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. You are all that is evil on the sands, Lord Mastrell. If the time comes, I want you to realize one thing; I would rather die than live with the shame of being rescued by your vile powers.”
Kenton felt cold, his grateful words falling dead on his lips.
Ais spun, marching out of the room, leaving Kenton with his thoughts, his insecurities, and room full of corpses.
#
Kenton stood on his balcony, wishing he still had a banister to lean against. Instead he leaned back against the wall, looking out at the courtyard. Dirin’s workmen were done for the day, and they had left a skeleton of scaffolding around their nearly-finished staircase. It would have been done, had Ais’s mad dash up to the third floor not included scrambling up steps that weren’t yet complete, ruining some of the work.
The courtyard was quiet—most of the sand masters were getting ready for bed. The Diem followed Taisha standard time, sleeping between eleventh hour and third hour. The mandate wasn’t really necessary—there wasn’t a need for everyone to sleep at the same time. The mastrells, however, hadn’t wanted any noise during their sleeping hours, so they ordered everyone to sleep at the same time as they.
Kenton’s near-assassination had caused quite a stir amongst the remaining Diem members; at first, he had assumed that his victory would strengthen his position with the other sand masters. Many were impressed that he had managed to fend them off—fear of the Kershtians had been high in the Diem since the slaughter.