The Outworlder

our job.
There was only one thing I struggled with, and now I had to do exactly that.
“Besides, you are Tarvissi—in blood and upbringing,” he continued, and I dropped my head again to avoid his gaze. “You share the language, culture, and mannerisms. Hopefully they’ll be more eager to listen to one of their own.”
“And if they won’t?”
A snort sounded from the other side of the tent. I snapped my head up, only now realizing there was another man with us.
“That’s in the job description, kid.”
He was leaning on the wall, arms crossed and lips twisted into a sardonic smirk. Something else drew my attention, though, making it impossible to tear my gaze from his face. Four puckered, parallel scars ran across it, deep and red against his chalky white skin. He caught the horror in my eyes, and his smile widened and turned ugly.
I shuddered involuntarily. I bet they all noticed.
“Even if you only manage to talk to them, you will help us gather important intel,” explained Myar Mal, completely ignoring the other man. “We will provide you with all the protection we can, the strongest spells at our disposal. There’s also a small ritual which will allow us, all vessár-ai, to see with your eyes and hear with your ears, so that we know everything that happens to you. All we need is your agreement.”
I guess he meant it as a reassurance, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that they were preparing themselves in case I never made it back. I didn’t blame them. At the same time, a strange suspicion squirmed in the back of my head. The speech about my supposed kinship with the rebels was charming, but the truth was I was expendable. More than any true Dahlsi, anyway.
Then again, refusing a direct order–or “request”–probably wouldn’t reflect well on my blindly declared loyalty.
I did this to myself, didn’t I?
“All right then.” I nodded. “When do we start?”
Myar Mal stood up abruptly. “As soon as you’re ready.”
* * *
Somehow, he was ahead of me, his scarred face looking even more horrible in the light of day. I tried to recall the moment he left the vessár-ai tent, but in vain. It seemed like he was there until the end, and yet now he was waiting for me.
“Here,” he said, extending his hand. I looked down; he was holding a wand. A brand new one judging from the look: sleek and elegant, the shaft covered in black plastic with a rubber grip. I wasn’t an expert, but even I could tell it wasn’t the crap we were usually issued.
I raised my gaze to meet his. Beneath the heavy lids, his eyes were strikingly bright with almost mirror-like irises and pinkish whites. Close up he looked even more unhealthy than most Dahlsi; his cheeks were sunken and skin waxy. The fact that he hadn’t seemed to have used a razor since, at least, yesterday didn’t exactly improve his image. And yet, he stood straight; his movements were energetic, if somehow erratic, and his eyes gave such an immense impression of focus I could almost feel them boring into my skull.
“What’s that?” I asked stupidly.
He only grinned, stretching his scars grotesquely. “The newest model, courtesy of Kanven Sandeyron,” he said with a strange mockery in his voice. “Three cores of tertium, nubithium, and khabun. Double lenses of pure dallite. Eighty-one saved spells. I think you’ll have more use for it than me.” Still, I hesitated, so he waved it at me. “Come on, take it.”
I did. New spells flooded my mind, and it took me a while to regain enough control to push them back. I’d have to go through them later, provided I’d get the chance.
I looked into his eyes again. “Thanks. But… why?”
He waved his hand, with the palm up, in a Dahlsian gesture that meant something like, “don’t know, don’t care.” I liked to compare it to the Tarvissian shrug. “I have no use for it.”
“Are you a sorcerer?” I asked, and immediately cursed myself. Very few people had enough potential and focus to use magic to any significant degree without the aid of wands. They were all sorcerers.
His smile faltered, but when he answered, his voice lost nothing of its mocking tone. “Unfortunately, yes.”
That was surprising. I’d met many people who would have done anything to be sorcerers, but lacked the disposition, and none who could be one but didn’t want to.
I wondered if I knew this guy. He made no effort to introduce himself and acted with familiarity, as if we were already acquainted. He definitely knew me, from the meeting if nowhere else. And though my memory was exceedingly poor when it came to faces, I was pretty sure I would remember scars like his. Also, his uniform bore no insignia; no cohort number, not even the logo of Mespana. Still, at this point, I thought asking for his name would be awkward, so I didn’t.
Instead, I waved my new wand and tried to steer the conversation to lighter topics. “Are you not worried it may fall into the enemy’s hands?”
He laughed, a short, mocking jeer. “Those idiots wouldn’t know what to do with it. Besides, you’re coming back. Myar Mal doesn’t like losing people.”
I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll let them know.”
Provided I manage to say a full sentence when I’m there. And by Vhalfr, with that damned spell, all the vessár-ai would witness my ineptitude. Why did I agree to this?
“Courage doesn’t always mean a lack of fear,” he said, suddenly serious, “More often it’s just acting despite it.”
“That’s what they say,” I replied too sharply. I’d gotten similar advice for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t worth shit.
And who was this guy to give me advice, anyway? My anxiety was probably obvious to everyone with working eyes, but it was my problem. His opinion, well-meaning or not, was nothing but an intrusion.
I was going to say something about it when his lips curled in lopsided smile that didn’t