When her parents announced that they would travel to Niswan just a few weeks ahead of her 11th birthday, Kali could hardly contain her excitement. It had been over five years since she had last seen her grandparents or the city where her father was born, and she could recall very little of her time in Jalmarey with any clarity. Some of that was simply the nature of a young child’s memory, but in the years since then the Nassim family had also been to the foreign ports of Kalsgard, Azir and Merab, numerous smaller settlements in Cheliax, and even briefly—very briefly—to the docks of Promise in Hermea (speculating about why Mengakare wanted those items would be a family pastime for many years). After the move to Sandpoint and the settling in at her new and now permanent home, those memories of what she saw as a young girl of six in Niswan were competing with others more recent and far more vivid.
She read a great deal about her father’s homeland in preparation for the journey and the more she read the more obsessed she seemed to become. At first, Akmal was concerned that the Kingdom would not live up to her expectations, but Denea quickly pointed out how unlikely that was: Niswan was a city that was formed, and still shaped by, the elementals and genies weaving magic in service to the Vudrani rajahs. Jalmeray was the west-most Impossible Kingdom and in this case it’s name was no exaggeration: the Kingdom itself would not and could not exist if not for the outsiders that were instrumental in its creation. One evening, Kali had asked if it was true that there were palaces “where the fountains flowed with wine instead of water”. Her father replied, nodding, “I have seen it”. How was it possible to be disappointed with such a place, when the reality was so much more fantastic than any story could convey?
And Denea was proved right in the end, as she often was when it came to her daughter. The almost eleven-year-old Kali was in awe of Niswan’s wonders. She walked on streets of red stone, between ornate pagodas several tiers high, silken streamers on their roof tops flowing in the wind. And the marble was everywhere: buildings, statues, fountains…some of them a pure white that gleamed int he sunlight. Niswan was a delight for the eyes, and there were many delights for the other senses as well. Now that she was old enough to appreciate it all she found the city to be nothing short of majestic.
Young as she was, though, she was also very keen and it did not take more than a few days for her to suspect that, aside from the culture, something about Niswan was very different from the other cities she had seen. It nagged at her. There were some obvious contrasts. The streets of Niswan were not just clean, but immaculate. The city itself was busy and bustling, yet also quiet and distinguished. It even seemed to have an effect on her mother: normally outspoken and rarely hesitant to offer her opinion on matters, Denea was reserved and deferential here (some might even call her behavior “polite”, though perhaps not within earshot). Yes, those things were obvious, but there was something else. Something much more subtle.
It was a couple of days before it came to her. Every city had its social and economic divides and Kali was under no illusions as to where she and her family fell on these scales. While the developed world might consider Sandpoint to be little more than a backwater settlement, her family’s life there belied its means. Children her age, or of any age for that matter, did not as a general rule travel the world, much less with her frequency. Most people did not leave their own country except to flee for their lives or as (unwilling) property of another. She knew, even at this age, the privilege under which she lived and a large part of that understanding came, surprisingly, from her mother. Denea not only didn’t shelter Kali from the harsh realities of poverty, at times she deliberately exposed her daughter to it. “Your father’s influence,” she would tell Kali many years later. “I wanted to raise you better than I was.”
What Kali saw in Niswan was a city like any other, except…there were no impoverished. There were poor, for sure, but she had yet to see what had been a common sight in every city of any size: the desperately poor, with no money and no prospects, surviving only at the generosity of others. There were no beggars, no homeless, no squatters and no squalor. When she broached the subject with her mother that evening, just as she was going to bed, Denea kissed her forehead and said, “You are an observant and clever young lady. And it is too late to talk about this tonight.”
Her father woke her very early the next morning, before dawn. “There is something I need to show you,” he said.
Two white horses were tied at the post in front of her grandparents’ home with reigns and saddles for riding, and Akmal helped her up onto the smaller one before untying them and mounting his. Once he was satisfied that Kali was ready, he said only, “Follow me,” and trotted off.
Akmal led her through the city as day broke. Whatever questions she had he was not ready to answer, and she eventually gave up on asking them and rode behind her father in silence. After nearly three quarters of an hour they had left the city proper, traveling along a small road on a grassy hillside overlooking the water. Down below, a rough path emerged from the brush and trees just above the shore, which it followed to austere wooden docks.
Akmal stopped, dismounted, and motioned for Kali to do the same. She eyed two baqaara, ornately decorated as she had come to expect from Niswan (and in stark contrast to the docks where they were moored), sitting in the perfectly still water. Two men—a boat captain and a dockhand, Kali presumed—were preparing one of them for launch.
“Now, we sit and wait.”
In time, four hooded, cloaked figures emerged from the trees below, following the path to the docks. They approached the readied boat, greeted its captain, shed their cloaks and stepped aboard.
Kali gasped audibly.
“What happened to them?”
“This Kingdom was born from elemental magic 4,000 years ago, shaped by the will of the Maharajah Khiben-Sald. The magic of the genies still serves the rajahs today, alongside that of powerful sorcerors. This magic is responsible for the wonders around us, including the unnatural order you have seen in Niswan where even the lowest caste is provided for. But all these things…they come at a cost.”
The four figures took their seats, two choosing oar positions along with the captain.
Akmal continued, “All of this magic from hundreds of spells flows around us like the wind, and like the wind it is harmless…except on rare occasions when it is not, and causes these afflictions. This is the toll levied on a city created by, sustained by, and bathed in powerful magic from both our world and beyond.”
Kali watched in silence as the dockhand untied the baqaara’s mooring lines.
“If you are wealthy, or well connected, or simply have a large family of even modest means, you can pay to be cured. If you have none of these things…” He paused before continuing. “A lucky few are not severely stricken and may even recover in time. Most, however, are like this. They eventually become burdens on their families. When they have nowhere left to turn, they turn to the island of Gho Vella.”
The baqaara shoved off and its captain steered it away from the shore as the oars were lowered into the water.
“These men who ferry them. They do not ask for payment. No one knows why they choose to do this; if you ask them they will not say. We call them ‘The Curse Shepherds’.”
The boat picked up speed now, the captain and oarsmen rowing unsteadily at first but eventually smoothly and in concert. It was several minutes before Kali spoke.
“Why Gho Vella? What’s there?”
“I don’t know. Very few people do; I imagine that even fewer care.”
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