One more. Kenton took a deep breath and started to move again. He was running out of time—not only would the moon soon reappear, but he was beginning to feel the effects of his sand mastery. His mouth was parched, refusing to salivate, and his eyes were beginning to burn. His brow, which had been slick with sweat during the beginning of the run, was now crusted with salty residue. The price a sand master had to pay, the fuel that his art burned, was the water from his own body.

The dry mouth and eyes were the first signs that he was getting close to doing permanent damage to himself. The first thing a sand master learned was to keep track of his water, to pace himself so he didn’t overmaster. Students who even approached the point of overmastery were severely punished.

If only I could slatrify, he thought, not for the first time. There was a reason the ability to change sand into water was the most valuable of sand mastery’s skills.

Casting such thoughts aside, Kenton continued to jog. The rock walls were rising high around him again. Even as he began to think the area looked familiar, he rounded a corner and stopped. Up ahead he could just barely make out the rock plateau where he had begun the Path. The mastrells stood atop it, waiting for him to approach.

Kenton paused with a groan, leaning against the smooth rock wall. His breath was beginning to come with more and more difficulty; both running and sand mastery sapped strength, and his dry throat made each breath painful. The mastrells held his qido and its water—he anticipated that first drink with such ferocity that he almost didn’t care that he had failed.

And he had failed. Somewhere, back on the Path, he had missed one of the spheres. He had done well—four out of five was a respectable number. Some of the mastrells he knew had only found three. Unfortunately, Kenton couldn’t afford anything less than perfection. Praxton wouldn’t see the four spheres his son had found, but the one he had missed.

Kenton rested the back of his head against the rock for a moment. He briefly considered turning back to try to find the sphere, but he probably only had ten minutes left. That was barely enough time to make it back to the rock wall where he had found the last sphere. He opened his eyes and stood upright. He knew he had done better than anyone could have assumed.

Kenton kicked away the windblown sand that had gathered at his feet, striding out into the middle of the basin. Realistically, he knew that even a successful run of the Path wouldn’t have changed Praxton’s mind. The Lord Mastrell was as harsh as the sands themselves; few things impressed him.