The Outworlder

all skirmishes, man against man. But the clash of two armies? Hundreds, thousands, of people standing against each other? That was something else. Something I read about but never imagined I would take part in. And it terrified me.
So no, I couldn’t blame the Dahlsi for fearing it, too, and doing anything in their power to avoid it.
I shook my head, resignation welling in my chest. “What do I have to do with it?”
“You are here. I convinced some people you can be trusted. As a member of Mespana, as my subordinate. As a Dahlsi. If you can uphold this trust, maybe in time… people will see that Tarvissi doesn’t have to mean a traitor. Maybe that will make them more amenable to letting your family and other Tarvissi back to Dahls.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Laik Var.”
“None of this will happen if you leave now.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay. I know it’s going to be hard, and I know it’s not fair. But nothing worth fighting for ever is.”

Chapter 8
So I stayed. In Mespana, I mean. I actually left the camp to wander the hills alone; I didn’t feel like witnessing Myar Mal’s attempts to find the culprit.
Mostly, I thought about Laik Var’s words.
Dahlsian society differed from the Tarvissian. It was egalitarian, so all citizens, including those of foreign descent, held equal power; but since it was spread among so many, how much could be carried by one person?
Or not strictly power, but influence? I knew myself; I wasn’t charismatic. Even at the best of times, surrounded by people I was familiar—and comfortable—with, I was not cut out to be a leader. But now Laik Var wanted me to be more—an example. The walking representation of a perfect Dahlsi-Tarvissi. Could I be that?
Could anyone be that?
Our people were different, no doubt. But at the same time, I thought we had more in common than we wanted to admit. Our ancestors all came from old Karir, right after it was destroyed by dark elves ten thousand cycles ago. We both had the same straight, black hair and bright, upturned eyes. The same wide faces with pronounced features. Even our languages were similar—as long as one ignored the pronunciation—with identical grammatical structures and comparable words. But while we grew tall and tanned under the sun, Dahlsi became pale and frail in their sheltered city. Still, we were much closer to each other than any of us were to the pale, ethereal Tayani or yellow-eyed Xzsim.
So, what made it so hard to live together?
Arbitrary bullshit, I concluded.
“You’re right.”
I jerked in surprise and turned to see Tayrel Kan. I was so lost in my contemplation that I hadn’t even noticed him before.
“Were you reading my thoughts?” I asked. He gave me his shrug-wave.
“I wouldn’t if you weren’t screaming them around.”
I started wondering if he was always doing it. It was considered rude, but he didn’t seem like a person who’d care. I felt sorry for everything I’d thought about him when we first met.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry, Aldait Han; I’m used to people thinking shit about me.”
His words did nothing to diminish my embarrassment, but with him reading my mind there was no point dragging out this conversation. I just put up the mental defenses I’d been taught when joining Mespana.
Tayrel Kan paused next to me. From somewhere, probably outside of the three-dimensional space, he procured two pieces of reed stuffed with dried herbs and handed me one. Tchalka, as they called it (or tsalka, if you’re Dahlsi). I rarely indulged in such things, but then, following some strange impulse, I took the reed and let the sorcerer light it with a flicker of his fingers. The smoke scratched unpleasantly at the back of my throat. I coughed, trying to clear it, and before I knew what was happening, I went into a fit, almost throwing up in the process.
“Careful there. It’s strong stuff,” he warned too late, with obvious amusement.
My fit soon passed, and I felt at ease; my worries melted away in a cloud of narcotic smoke.
“So, did my screamed thoughts get you out of your hole?” I asked. My head was spinning, and I was trying my hardest not to sway. He hadn’t been kidding with his warning.
“I just wanted to show you something.”
Holding the tchalka in his left hand, he rolled up his right sleeve and presented it to me. Inside, I noticed a curious mark: a triangle divided into four smaller ones, the one inside red and the others white; the whole things encircled encircled by Dahlsian letters. “Kanven Sandeyron,” he said, not giving me the chance to read it. Sandeyron meant “company”, but the name meant nothing to me, although I thought I’d heard it before. He was quick to elaborate, “The bastards that adopted me.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
The companies weren’t driven by compassion while adopting unwanted children. They needed to test their inventions somehow, and if things went wrong, well, there would be no one left to complain. I only had a very vague idea of what happened inside—I guessed only those who’d been there knew the truth—but that was enough to make my skin crawl at the very mention.
“What I was about to say,” he picked up, face blank, almost like he wasn’t talking about his own past—like it was someone else who had to go through this, “is that sometimes it doesn’t matter whose symbol you wear. Sometimes you don’t fight for someone. You just happen to find yourself on the same side.”
“And then you can ignore your associates?” I asked.
“As long as they don’t stand in your way. I mean, look around.”
I did as he said. We were some distance from the camp, but on the outskirts, a few people busied themselves preparing meals, repairing equipment or just chatting. Mostly non-Dahlsi and nonhumans, which made it painfully clear how few of us were there.
“You think any of them give a shit about