The Outworlder

They are released upon shattering.”
“So, at least they’re single-use items,” remarked Tayrel Kan. “The next question is: do they have a sorcerer among them who prepares those spheres on-site, or did they get them earlier, from outside?”
“We had an answer from Veyn Ay,” said the half-tanned guy. “There was no major transport of goods from Tarviss in the last cycle.”
“They could move them in small batches,” I suggested, and the half-tanned guy sent me a condescending smile.
Heat rose in my cheeks again. Of course, they had thought about it.
Trying to save face, I asked, “But wouldn’t they need a sorcerer’s help, anyway, to close the merge?”
There was no point in asking about the defensive spells, they were sold in every self-respecting magic shop, and they came in all flavors: Dahlsian, Tarvissian, Tayani, Csivelinian, Chaarite, and so on.
Tayrel Kan studied my face for a moment. “What do you know about merges?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Not much. Only that they let us move between the worlds.”
He hummed, then raised his left hand—he was left-handed, like most sorcerers—and curled his fingers in a peculiar gesture, conjuring an image: a large, semitransparent sphere, peppered with lights, with a smaller and brighter ball in the center. A rough model of the universe.
“The Great Sphere spins around Vhalfr,” he started as if trying to narrate a story, but still unable to shake off his usual mocking tone, “but on its surface, each of the Nine Circles, and even each of the worlds, moves at its own pace.”
The outer sphere divided into nine rings moving individually.
“That’s an exaggeration, by the way; the differences are minuscule. A few seconds here and there. Anyway, as the worlds move, they get closer to or farther away from each other. Sometimes parts of two worlds may occupy the same spot on the four-dimensional Sphere, that’s where merges form. Now, some of them are pretty stable, remaining intact for centuries. But others change, shift locations, swap worlds. Some just close or fluctuate. And what do you know—the one on Maurir is fluctuating. It remains open most of the time, but twice a cycle, it closes altogether. When it happens, it’s so weak that a slight push is enough to close it. Anyone with two working brain cells and some familiarity with cosmography could do it.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I said, “with the merge fluctuating, they won’t be able to keep it closed forever. And when it opens, we’ll be able to send our troops right in the middle of their fortress.”
“The merge can only accommodate one man at a time,” replied the elder woman. “Two sentries would be enough to defend it.”
Tayrel Kan shook his head. “I think they just wanted to show us they can do it. It doesn’t seem like they planned ahead.”
“Besides, if someone inside the mansion knew a thing or two about cosmography, shouldn’t they know opening the merge between Maurir and Tarviss is impossible?”
Tayrel Kan’s smile vanished as he sized me up, strangely thoughtful.
“That’s a good question. Maybe they knew… but didn’t bother telling anyone else.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Could that mean the whole rebellion was a ruse? A vain attempt to draw our attention while…
What?
“Did you scan the mansion?” I asked and immediately chided myself; it was probably the first thing they did.
“See, here’s the problem. I did… and didn’t find anything. Sorcerers are usually easy to sense, even if they shield themselves. But here, there’s nothing. So either the bastard is insanely powerful and can somehow protect himself from detection, or he’s using some form of indirect magic we can’t track.”
“Did you try sifting through the minds of the rebels?” asked the half-tanned man.
Tayrel Kan sneered. “Yes, but it’s like sifting through raw sewage. Even if there are pearls somewhere, pretty soon you start questioning your life choices.”
“Nevertheless, I have to ask you to put aside your delicate feelings and keep doing it,” ordered Myar Mal, fixing the sorcerer with a pointed gaze. “After all, you’re no stranger to questionable life choices.”
“We can’t all be perfect, Kar-vessár,” the sorcerer purred, putting his hand on the leader’s arm.
Myar Mal huffed and shook it off.
The familiarity in this gesture made me uncomfortable. Who exactly was Tayrel Kan? What was his role in Mespana? And what was his relationship with Myar Mal?
Well, the last one was none of my business, I scolded myself.
I noticed Tayrel Kan giving me a quizzical look and felt heat rising to my face. If he was still reading my thoughts, he’d have a great laugh at my expense.
“There’s one more issue we should address,” suggested Laik Var. He’d remained silent until now, but at this point, everything about him—his posture, his tone, his turned gaze—screamed disapproval. I’m not sure whether of me, Myar Mal, Tayrel Kan, or the situation. “The involvement of Tarviss.”
“We haven’t received any answer from them,” said the half-tan almost immediately.
“Of course we haven’t,” scoffed Tayrel Kan. No one seemed eager to reply, though, so he continued, “what? Didn’t we just agree the whole rebellion was a cover? And who would benefit from it more than Tarviss?”
“So, we shouldn’t expect their answer?” asked the older guy.
“I think they’re going to wait and see, then do whatever fits them best. If we yield, they’re gonna come out with their demands. If we lose, they’re gonna join the rebels and tear Meon apart. If we win, they’re gonna blame us for killing their people and attack anyway. Whatever we do, we’re fucked.”
“Provided Tarviss has anything to do with that,” observed Laik Var.
“Who else?”
“They may just be a bunch of kids with no idea of what they’re doing,” suggested the dark-eyed woman. “Maybe their plans sounded better on paper, and they’ve yet to realize they’ve made a mistake.”
“They are a bunch of kids, but someone stands behind them, pulling their strings,” insisted Tayrel Kan. “They wouldn’t come up with this on their own; it doesn’t make any sense! What outcome do they hope for? That we’ll just give them our