“So I don’t have to make it back to the starting point?” Kenton clarified.

Elorin shook his head. “The moment the moon reappears, your run is over. We will count the spheres you have found, and that is your score.”

Kenton nodded.

“You may not take your qido with you,” Elorin informed him, reaching out a hand to take Kenton’s water bottle from his side.

“The sword too,” Praxton called from behind, his lips curled downward in their characteristic look of disapproval.

“That is not in the rules, old man,” Kenton objected, his hand falling to the hilt.

“A true sand master has no need of such a clumsy weapon,” Praxton argued.

“It’s not in the rules,” Kenton repeated.

“He is right, Lord Mastrell,” Elorin agreed. He was frowning too—as kind as the undermastrell was, even he didn’t agree with Kenton’s insistence on carrying a sword. In the eyes of most sand masters, weapons were crass things, meant for lowly Professions such as soldiers.

Praxton rolled his eyes in a look of frustration, but made no further objections. A few minutes later the last bit of the moon’s sphere disappeared behind the mountain.

“May the Sand Lord protect you, young Kenton,” Elorin offered.

*   *   *

The Path started simply enough, and Kenton quickly found the first two spheres. The red sandstone globes had been so easy to locate, in fact, that he began to worry that he had missed something. Unfortunately, Kenton knew that he didn’t have time to go back and recheck his steps. Either he found them all on the first try, or he failed.

That determination drove Kenton forward as he ran across the top of a rock ledge. Around him the strange formations of stone jutted from the sand floor, some rising hundreds of feet into the air, others barely breaking the surface. The scenery was familiar to him—the sand masters came to this place every year to choose new members and award merits to old ones. It was almost a sacred place, though sand masters tended to be irreligious. None of the Kerla’s Kerztian inhabitants came to this place—its sand was far too shallow to sustain a town. In fact, few even knew of its existence. It was a place of the sand masters.

And, for four years, it had been a place of embarrassment—to Kenton at least. Four years of standing before the entire population of the Diem, presenting himself for an advancement that would not be granted. He knew that most of the others considered him a fool—an arrogant fool. At times, he wondered if they might be right. Why did he keep pushing for a rank he did not deserve? Why not be satisfied with what Praxton was willing to give him?