Tendel whistled beside Praxton. “I haven’t seen one so powerful in years,” the old mastrell said. “Who is that?”

“Drile,” Praxton said 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, he 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 with a pile of short blond 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 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 said 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 acknowledgment, 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 be 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 choose 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 said under his breath.

“I will be a sand master!” the young boy said, 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.