The Outworlder

by Natalie J. Holden

  I remembered Tayrel Kan’s whites. Initially, I thought they were reddened because of the allergies—after all, most Dahlsi suffered from them, and neither medicine nor magic seemed to relieve the symptoms. Now I wondered if it was because of drugs. From what I’d heard, the heavy stuff—ytanga, as they called it—painted one’s whites pink. Such things were legal in Dahls, a sad necessity when the entire population was perpetually sick and miserable. Still, it was frowned upon in Mespana.

  “Why do you even keep him?” I asked. “In Mespana, I mean. If he’s unstable.”

  He huffed, making his veil flutter. “It’s Myar Mal’s decision. An official version is that we can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t do too much damage. And he is powerful, although not eager to share his powers. Anyway, he likes men and I know you Tarvissi are not… fond of such sentiments. We don’t need any quarrels now, so, for your own good, I’d prefer it if you tried to avoid him.”

  I felt my skin crawl. I didn’t care about others’ personal lives—and I thought the universe would be a better place if more people shared my attitude—but I had no interest in men. And, frankly, I wasn’t sure what I’d do if one ever became interested in me.

  Unwittingly, my gaze drifted towards the wand.

  “Should I give it back?” I asked, feeling uneasy.

  Laik Var hesitated, looking at the weapon, but finally he gave me a wave-shrug. “If you want. But it’s a good wand; it can save your life one day.”

  He didn’t sound convinced, and anyway it wasn’t exactly what bothered me. It was my turn to hesitate, wondering how best to explain it; it seemed so obvious to a Tarvissi, but things were different among the Dahlsi.

  “Isn’t it, like…” I stammered, “a courting gift?”

  For a moment, Laik Var looked at me wordlessly, then he scoffed. “If he was interested in you, he’d tell you. No, this is innocent. I think Kanven tries to mollify him, so they send him a lot of free gear. He throws away most of it. You’ll get more use of it.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced, but giving it back would require me to meet Tayrel Kan again, and I wasn’t looking forward to that. I reached for my old wand and submitted it to Laik Var. The new one was smaller, and I was wondering how it would fit in my holster, but the container shrunk around it. Enchanted.

  Without another word, Laik Var gestured toward the medical tent. He walked with me—to prevent any other accidental encounters? I didn’t ask.

  I was so lost in my thoughts, I only noticed the sorceress waiting for us when we were a couple of steps away. She was an inconspicuous woman with shoulder-long hair and a face obscured by oversized glasses and a fringe. A yellow coat of a healer covered her Mespanian uniform.

  “Amma,” said Laik Var, stopping abruptly. I paused as well, confused. It was considered rude among the Dahlsi to use only one name unless it was done by a close friend or relative. However, there was nothing familiar in the look she sent him.

  “Laik Var,” she replied coldly, before turning to me. “You must be Aldait Han. I’m Amma La-Vaikra, allar of magic.”

  Allar was a title given to anyone who finished the Academy with any degree, whether in magic or science. But it was generally used by the latter—allars of magic were usually just called sorcerers.

  “I’m supposed to lead you through the process. If you please.”

  She moved aside, gesturing me toward the entrance. I sent a questioning look to Laik Var, but he only nodded, and walked off with a stiff, unnatural gait I’ve never seen him walk with.

  I went inside. The tent was large, but Amma La led me to a tiny section separated by folding screens. There were two cots, the one on the right already occupied and covered with a heavy throw.

  “Who is that?” I asked, not able to hide my curiosity.

  “Don’t concern yourself with them,” replied Amma La, making me flinch. There was nothing admonishing in her voice, but I thought I was being unreasonably nosy. So I clenched my teeth, determined not to ask any further questions.

  Following the sorceress’s orders, I unzipped my suit and removed the upper half—with another pang of self-consciousness about the dark hair on my chest—then laid on my stomach. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but after a while, something cold and wet touched my skin, rippling with magic.

  Amma La was drawing spells on my back. Her movements were slow but practiced, and I realized they must’ve come up with this plan some time ago. What would they have done if I refused? I guess they could have forced me through magic or hypnosis; maybe that’s why Tayrel Kan was there? Or they could send someone else. Although, Myar Mal seemed adamant that they needed me specifically—“my language, culture, and mannerisms,” as he put it. What good they’d do me remained to be seen.

  The stress of the day must’ve taken its toll, because at some point I fell asleep. I woke up when the sorceress urged me to roll onto my back. The bowl and brush rested on a table next to my cot, and the woman was now holding a glass bottle with a dropper.

  “It will allow the vessár-ai to see what you see,” she explained, forcing my eye open and letting a few drops fall into it. It was unpleasant, and not only in the physical sense. The sharp burn of magic seemed to reach much deeper than the liquid itself, following the nerves and burrowing into my brain. Amma La repeated the procedure with the other eye and then switched liquids and poured some into my ears. In the end, my head felt like it was filled with thousands of insects ready to start crawling out of my mouth, my nose, my eyes.

  Strangely though, I detected no trace of magic on my back.

  “Are you sure those protective spells are working?” I asked. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “They’re good spells,” she reassured. “You will be dizzy for a while, but the sooner you get up, the sooner you’ll get better.”

  I didn’t exactly believe her, but I complied. Nausea hit me as soon as I shifted, but Amma La was right—it passed. She walked out of the chamber, gesturing for me to follow. I couldn’t help but steal a last curious glance at the motionless mass on the left cot. For a moment I got a strange feeling that things were not as they should be, but then I was struck by a wave of dizziness so strong I had to brace myself up on the cot.

  “Are you coming?” asked the sorceress, sounding impatient. Hurriedly, I pulled my suit back on and rushed to join her.

  Chapter 3

  “You know, he’s not exactly my type.”

  Laik Var’s mental defenses sprung up so fast Tayrel Kan nearly winced. Nevertheless, the vessár didn’t even bother turning around.

  “I thought your type is anyone willing to buy you a fix,” he said instead.

  Tayrel Kan smacked his lips in dismay. “You wound me, Vessár. I have standards, believe it or not.”

  The only answer he got was a snort. Laik Var lifted his foot to resume his walk, but the sorcerer wasn’t finished.

  “You don’t have to worry about the virtue of your golden boy.”

  To that, Laik Var turned instantly, as if struck by a spell.

  “I meant every word I said,” he barked. “You stay away from him, too.”

  The sorcerer’s smirk widened. “You’re not curious about what I found?” he mocked and could clearly see the commander’s larynx moving as he swallowed the curse.

  “Who sent you?” he asked instead.

  Tayrel Kan spread his arms, his smile wide and dripping with insincerity. “A concern for my homeland.”

  This time the Laik Var actually cursed and stepped away, but Tayrel Kan stopped him yet again.

  “He’s loyal.” He paused, awaiting an answer, but the vessár refused to give him satisfaction. “You’re welcome.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why, can’t I just want to do my part in defending Dahls?”

  The vessár barked out a short, mocking laugh. “You’re not that kind of guy.”

  “Oh, now you’re gonna tell me what kind of guy I am? I can’t wait.”

&nbs
p; Laik Var turned around and looked the sorcerer in the eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re suddenly overwhelmed with patriotic feelings. You don’t give a shit if any of us live or die. I’m actually surprised you even bothered coming, instead of rotting in some filthy hole, covered in sperm and vomit, so high you don’t care.”

  For a moment Tayrel Kan was at a loss, his smirk all but disappearing.

  “Wow, Vessár. That was… brutal,” he said finally, crossing his arms again. His smile returned, but it was an ugly, predatory grin that stretched his scars. “And strangely accurate. Almost makes me wonder if you ever went to such places yourself. You should come say hi one of these days; we could get to know each other better.”

  Laik Var frowned in disgust, and the sorcerer barely stopped himself from laughing.

  “You’re a degenerate. You should get your head checked.”

  Tayrel Kan scoffed. “I think I’ve had enough therapy for a lifetime. Maybe if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be who I am now?”

  “You’re the maker of your misery, Tayrel. If you want to drown it in ytanga, that’s your business, I don’t give a shit; but don’t use it to justify everything you did. And if Myar Mal wants to use you, against me or Aldait Han or whoever, then make sure you’re fucking useful, because he’s the only one willing to put up with you.”

  The sorcerer’s eyes widened and after a split second so did his smile.

  “Oh, so that’s what bothers you,” he purred, “my association with him. You should be grateful, really.”

  Laik Var’s face turned red, and his lip curled up in an angry snarl. Tayrel Kan didn’t even have to read his mind to know he was right. But then the vessár realized what many people had before him: he couldn’t win this fight. So, he waved his hand, as if trying to drive off a particularly annoying fly, and growled, “I had enough of you, pest. Get out of my sight!”

  This time Tayrel Kan let him go, but made sure to follow him with his most evil cackle.

  Chapter 4

  Defensive circles surrounded the mansion. Through Vuilsumnaar goggles I could trace their outlines. First, the red lines of simple alarms, but near the Mansion they intertwined with yellow and turquoise defensive spells. I knew their general function, but predicting their real-world effects would require knowledge I didn’t have.

  Sorcery in Tarviss was different than in Dahls. Though the energies it controlled were the same, the methods differed greatly. I wasn’t sure about the details; I was no sorcerer. I wondered how deep Dahlsian understanding was of Tarvissian magic—and specifically if it was deep enough to counter their spells.

  More specifically, if the protection they promised would be enough to keep me alive.

  A few soldiers escorted me as far as they dared, but they stayed behind while I paused at the very edge of the protected area. For the first time, I took a good look at the Mansion.

  It wasn’t a real noble house, merely an imitation. Previously, it most likely served as the community center with offices, granaries, and a big yard used as a marketplace. It was short but sprawling, with whitewashed walls—now darkened by soot—and a gently sloped roof covered in red tiles. A few banners hung from the walls: a checkered, black-and-white background with a green trident, the central prong much thicker than those on the sides. The coat of Tarviss. I realized I’d never seen it displayed before today.

  The outer windows were narrow: a relic of older times when such mansions were often used for defense. And it worked. With thick walls and double gates, the building was almost impenetrable. Thanks to a few wells and full storage, the rebels could stay inside for cycles.

  Provided they didn’t decide to send their troops back to Kooine. With most members of Mespana gathered here, they wouldn’t have much trouble seizing it. Or maybe not. Despite harsh conditions in Kooine, there were large colonies of nonhumans living there, mining for rare metals, tertium salts, and natural glass. I didn’t think they’d give their homes to the Tarvissi without a fight.

  And yet, I hesitated. It’s not that I didn’t trust the Dahlsi…

  Okay, maybe a little. But I couldn’t just turn back. Not now, not after everything.

  I sucked in air. It tasted of smoke.

  Well, now or never, I thought.

  I moved my left foot over the spell.

  The red line rippled, and the magic current ran up my leg. But apart from that, nothing. No trace of resistance. I waited for a few seconds, but nothing else happened. My right foot joined my left on the other side. Still nothing.

  I exhaled.

  Just an alarm, I chided myself. They probably knew I was coming. The real test of Dahlsian protection was yet to come.

  I moved forward, walking carefully but steadily, my eyes fixed on the mansion, looking out for any sign of danger. It was no use, though. They wouldn’t come out for me, and the windows were too narrow for me to peek inside. Still, I watched, thinking that if they decided to shoot me down, at least I might glimpse the incoming arrow. Or spell. Something. Maybe I would spot movement behind one of the windows; catch a gleam in hateful eyes.

  I saw nothing. Beneath my feet, spell after spell faltered before snapping back into place. They were all red. All harmless. Soon, though, I stood before a different line. A yellow one.

  What would that one do? Turn me into stone upon crossing? Set me on fire? A real sorcerer could probably identify it, determine if my protections were strong enough to counteract it, but I was not a sorcerer. I was just a guy with a handful of devices, the inner workings of which I would never understand.

  I took the next step.

  That time, I felt something—the faintest hint of resistance; a numbness crawling up my leg and overwhelming my whole body for a heartbeat.

  Then it vanished. The yellow line disappeared. I let out a long, shaky breath.

  So, the Dahlsian spells were working after all.

  I picked up my trek, but my steps became slower, more calculated. I felt a slight tingling at the back of my neck, and I knew I was being watched. I braced myself for an attack, but none came. Sooner than I would have liked, I found myself standing before the gate. Twice as tall as me, flanked by the white, black, and green banners of Tarviss.

  It opened.

  Did the rebels want to talk to me? Or turn me into an example?

  It was dark inside. There was light in the distance, in the main courtyard. I whispered a spell, and my goggles changed mode: the blackness melted into shades of gray. Ahead of me ran a wide corridor with doors on both sides. I was struck by the realization that if I walked in, I might never come out. But, I guess, despite all logical evidence, my brain rejected that idea, because I felt nothing. No fear, no anxiety. Not yet. Just cold, silent numbness.

  I stepped in.

  The gate closed slowly behind me. I walked straight into the courtyard, and when I emerged from the darkness and took my goggles off, I realized it was crowded, with only a small opening left for me. All around stood burly, bearded men in traditional Tarvissian outfits: black trousers, loose white shirts, and jyats—knee-length, sleeveless coats—in the same shade of green.

  My insides coiled in anxiety.

  Then, following my brain’s tendency to focus on the weirdest thing, I realized something. Being surrounded at all times by people who could fit under my armpit, it was easy to forget, but the Tarvissi were tall. And I wasn’t, by any means, the tallest. In fact, I was closer to the lower end of average.

  And why hadn’t I brought my Tarvissian garb? It hadn’t even occurred to me in Sfal, and now all I had was my Dahlsian uniform, suddenly too tight, too exposing. And why did I shave this morning? No chance I could grow anything to compete with what these guys were sporting, but now I felt like a kid.

  In fact, I felt no less alien here than I had in the vessár-ai tent.

  “Tearshan.”

  Hearing my name spoken properly for the first time in ages came as a shock. My body tensed. I feared it wouldn’t listen to me, but somehow I managed
to turn around, trying to locate the speaker. It wasn’t hard: he was standing one step ahead of everyone else, slightly to my left.

  “Peridion,” I countered, almost barking the name out.

  I knew him, as much as I regretted it. We grew up together—sort of. Despite the fact that my parents let him live, he was never really part of our community. He remained outside, skulking at the edges of the colony, barely talking to anyone, thinking himself far above us solely because of his ancestry.

  Because Karlan Peridion was a noble; the son of the lord who was in charge of my family before my father slit his throat to free himself from aristocratic oppression.

  I was so fucked.

  “Aldeaith Tearshan,” he drawled languidly. His voice was naturally high-pitched, and he always tried to make it sound lower, but the result was grotesque at best. Everything about him was grotesque: strangely disproportionate body with long, frail limbs and a barrel-like chest, wide face with small, sharp features, adorned with thick, brown curls on top, but unable to grow a half-decent beard. Almost as if someone had taken random elements and connected them without an ounce of care about how they fit together.

  “Look at him, thinking himself a real Dahlsi,” he said, turning away from me. He had a knife he was waving around carelessly, and I waited for him to drop it.

  Pain exploded in the back of my shin, and I fell to my knees. Someone twisted my hands behind my back. My thoughts scattered in panic, until I spotted something that grabbed my attention and allowed me to focus for long enough to collect myself. My wand. Some bastard was already handing it to Peridion, having apparently snatched it from my belt. That wand had been with me from the beginning, covered in scratches and slightly chipped at the end from the close call in Sorox. The sight of it made some half-forgotten thought scratch at the back of my mind, but I pushed it away; I had more pressing problems. Peridion didn’t even seem interested in my weapons, putting them aside and studying me with pure, unadulterated hatred.