Gael

by Suri Parmar

in Issue 120, January 2022

“We’re low on barley. We’ll have to visit the market today.”

Gael nodded. He sat with his two brothers in their snug stone hut as he ate his favorite breakfast stew, dumplings and peppers and goat meat, being mindful of not spattering his homespun shirt. His mother rummaged through cupboards with a dour look on her fleshy face. She hadn’t addressed Gael or looked at him, but they all knew “we” meant him.

“Come now, Maer,” said Haesel, his eldest brother. “The market is a half-league away. It’s not safe for any of us to wander about. Not when the world is at war. Besides, the village stocks will be filled in a few days. We can live without barley until then.”

Their mother favored Yaerel, Gael’s next-oldest brother, but Haesel had a way with her. Gael smiled at him gratefully. Today though, Maer didn’t yield. “Dorcsia is at war,” she corrected. “Not us folk in Khis. Dorcsia is a piddling kingdom all the way on the other side of the Ieryens.” She gestured at the view of purple-black mountains and dark, dense forest outside the window. “Their squabbles don’t concern us. And fresh air will be good for the boy.” It isn’t as though he’s good for anything else, the look on her face seemed to say. Gael couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him by his name.

“I’ve heard tales of Dorcsian brigands crossing the mountains and hiding in forests,” Haesel insisted. “They raid villages and rob travelers. Perhaps Gael could keep Yaerel and me company at the mason’s shop today?”

Yaerel snorted at the suggestion. Their mother remained unsmiling. “What use will he be there?” 

“I can fetch water and sweep floors,” said Gael, ashamed of the desperation in his voice. He adored the mason’s workshop, which was loud and bustling and jolly. He was so tired of staying home and helping Maer with housework. “Say you’ll let me go?” 

He picked that moment to jostle his bowl of stew. Spice-flecked gravy streamed onto the polished granite tabletop. Yaerel grunted with irritation and backed away. Even Haesel couldn’t help laughing. “You oaf!” he said. Gael flushed. He snatched up a rag and dabbed at the mess.

“Leave it,” Maer snapped. She dropped a few silver crests on the table. “Go now, before the rain catches you. Be sure to buy salt and sweet cane if they aren’t too costly. And take a half-loaf of onion bread in case you get hungry.”

Gael walked with Haesel and Yaerel to the mason’s shop. Their village was small, a sprinkling of grey brick huts on the side of a mountain. Along with Gael’s mother, many had decorated their doors with green and orange ribbons to mark the five-hundredth spring since Raenam, the ancient warrior king, had conquered the world. As they walked, the huts thinned, giving way to village storehouses and the smith’s forge amidst sweet-smelling evergreens and song trees. Gael panted and struggled to keep up with the others as he dragged the handle of Maer’s woven cart. 

“Stop lagging.” Yaerel said. He walked a few yards ahead as though ashamed to be seen with him. “And stand up straight. You look like a beggar.”

Gael winced. Most beggars in Khis were scrawny and sickly looking like him. Haesel crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue behind Yaesel’s back. Gael laughed and felt a little better. Yaerel tended to be bossy. After their father died four years ago, he’d retreated into himself entirely. But at fifteen, he could carve just about anything from marble and quartz and brought home most of the family’s income. 

Like his brothers, Gael had once trained to become a mason until he came down with an unknown fever that killed many in the village. Gael survived, though he hadn’t fully regained his strength, and he remained wan and weedy. Come summertime, Maer would send him to the temple to join the Sons of Raenam, a brotherhood that worshipped the warrior king’s spirit. A boy who couldn’t earn a proper keep had no place in her home, Gael’s mother said. After all, Raenam had answered her prayers and saved Gael from dying. At least one of her sons should be given to his service. 

Gael hated the idea. Home wasn’t fun, but it was better than the temple, where the Sons wore sackcloth and spent their days chanting and fasting and planting trees. He hoped that Maer might change her mind, but he had just turned eleven and grew slower and clumsier by the day. She had little use for him. 

They reached the mason’s shop. Gael bid his brothers farewell and continued trudging north into the forest towards the market. It was a chilly day. The sky looked white and cloudy, and a sharp wind blew. As he walked, the roads zigzagged and grew steeper and narrower. The forest had many giant trees: ancient, friendly-looking trees with massive trunks and curling roots. Soon, his shirt dampened with sweat. He stopped to rest at a fork in the road. In the shade of an evergreen, he ate some of Maer’s bread and quenched his thirst with handfuls of rainwater pooled in a grassy hollow.

He didn’t look forward to his journey. In other kingdoms, markets were dirty, noisy places. Marvelous places, Gael imagined, where people bargained in shrill voices, and bandits accosted them and cut their throats. But in Khis, markets were strict, their booths set up in neat rows. People purchased goods quickly and quietly, and never, ever haggled. When vendors saw Gael’s large eyes and thin face, they sold him wares far below their asking prices despite his protests. Gael could stand the orderliness of Khisal markets. And he certainly didn’t want to be robbed, or have his throat cut. But just once, it would be nice if a vendor didn’t treat him like a baby.  

He rose and brushed himself off. After travelling a few steps, he noticed that the fork in the road looked new—its dirt surface seemed freshly trodden. A shortcut, perhaps. Indeed, it headed straight to the market where the main road wound through another village. He knew he shouldn’t explore unknown roads—he remembered Haesel’s murmurings about Dorcsian brigands. But he wanted to finish his errand quickly. 

Grabbing the handle of Maer’s cart, he walked along the shortcut. It led through trees that were younger than those of the main road, with slim branches and papery leaves. He also spotted peculiar plants: shiny purple bulbs sprouting from bamboo-like reeds. He snapped a bulb from its stem and ate it, savoring its sharp, lemony taste. For some reason, he walked faster. His heart beat quickly. 

He nearly collided with a rocky mass blocking the path. A high pile of boulders, pale grey and marked with red-brown stone.

Odd. He dropped the cart handle and walked around the outcropping, past more funny plants, and new trees. He took a few more steps and saw an opening, a door-shaped hole a few heads taller than him camouflaged with brush and branches. An animal den, maybe. Bending to take a closer look, he moved the tangle of brush aside and peeked into the mouth of the cave. The sounds of the forest instantly faded. When he withdrew his head, he heard wind blowing and squirrels scampering once more. 

Gael felt queasy. Maer expected him by midday and would be angry if he dawdled. But he felt a curious urge to explore the cave. Maybe he’d find the remains of a brigand’s old hideout, or stolen coins and jewels stashed away for safekeeping. His village would hail him as a hero. *Gael the treasure-finder*. And Maer might think twice about sending him away. He quelled his trepidation with a deep breath and climbed into the hole. 

Once inside, he found himself in a hallway the same size as the opening, warm and inviting and radiating a bluish glow. He stretched out his left arm and stroked a smooth wall with a blunt fingertip, leaving a glittering trail on its polished surface.

Magic, Gael thought with a shiver. He’d never seen such stone in his life. The tunnel must have been crafted by a mage. Normally, sorcery didn’t interest Gael. In Khis and most other kingdoms, only royal wizards were allowed to cast spells. He’d be in big trouble for meddling in some mage’s affairs. But the call to adventure persisted. Surely, there was no harm in seeing where the tunnel led for a little while, and then he could hurry back to the main road and the market. Nobody would know. It would be his secret to cherish in the long days ahead at the Sons of Raenam temple. 

He walked the length of the tunnel. Its bluish light dimmed into darkness. A horrible cesspool smell filled his nostrils. Water dripped from overhead and plastered his hair to his scalp. Groping around, he felt uneven stone on his left side and nothing to the right. A light appeared in the distance, and he saw that he trod along a raised, paved pathway built into the side of an outsize tunnel made of the same red-brown rock as the boulder patches. Below him, a slow, sludgy river flowed. He heard noises. Faint music, chattering and laughing. He looked up and saw an opening cut into the tunnel roof with a rusty metal grating, through which dusty light streamed. 

A city. I’m under a city. Below the opening, metal rungs had been hammered into the tunnel wall. Gael began climbing. Halfway to the top, he slowed. He hadn’t so much as scaled a tree in years and the muscles of his thin legs burned. But he kept at it until he reached the top. Lifting the grating with one shoulder, he scrambled out, breathing heavily.

Gael blinked. He stood in a cobblestoned alleyway with tall reddish-brown buildings. The sun was high overhead, dreadfully hot in a metallic blue sky and so bright it made his eyes water. A hot wind smelling of rubbish stung his face. He pulled off his cloak and slung it over his shoulder. 

He looked beyond the alleyway and his eyes widened. Beastly statues towered in the sky. Witches and demons and ghouls hewn from rock – with many arms and legs and dangling tongues. They must be creatures that roamed the world in Raenam’s time—wicked creatures that the warrior king’s armies had captured and slain. And yet, no likenesses of Raenam. The buildings weren’t even decorated with ribbons to honor him. Gael’s skin prickled. What sort of place was this?

I need to go home. What had gotten into him? Wandering through a magical tunnel and exploring a foreign, ungodly city? But he had come too far. And ungodly or not, this city must have a market. By now, it would be too late to visit the one near his village and get back on time. He’d buy what Maer needed and go straight home.

He meandered through the alleyway until he reached a wide street. And what a street it was! Crowded with people from many kingdoms shouting in different accents. Hawkers sat beneath colorful shades and spread their wares on bright muslins. They sold all sorts of things: bolts of patterned cloth, carafes of wine and bundles of spices, live goats and crabs and preserved meats, hunks of scrap metal. And, Gael noted with relief, barley. But before he could buy anything, soldiers appeared—many of them women, to his surprise. They shouted at the hawkers and slapped at them with the flats of long knives. The vendors packed up their wares and folded their awnings. As soon as the soldiers went on their way, the vendors set up shop again. Gael giggled at the sight. 

He approached a man selling many kinds of grain packed into rough sacks. An older man with Khisal features like his own, golden-brown skin and a small, sharp nose beneath straight brown hair. “How much for a half-sack of barley?” Gael asked, standing straight. He hoped he didn’t look like a beggar.

“Four crests,” the vendor said.

Gael’s face fell. “But that’s all I have.”

“Take it or leave it.” The vendor scratched his ear. “Though I’m willing to give a fellow countryman a boon. You hail from the Teir province of Khis?”

“I do!” Gael piped up. “From a village near the Ieryens.”

“Ah,” the man said. His face creased into a smile. “I knew by your face. I was born in Teir. How I long to breathe its fragrant forest air and not the Raenam-forsaken dust of this city.” He thought for a moment. “I can give you a half-sack at cost, for two crests. But you should know that you are robbing me blind.”

Gael nodded. A price much higher than the market near his village, he giddily acknowledged. At long last, he could buy wares at cost. He reached into his pocket.

A thin hand with a death grip clamped on his wrist. Gael shrieked and tried to squirm free. Something keen and cold bit into his neck.

The vendor grinned. “Gently. He’s just a puny thing,” he said to Gael’s captor behind him. He flicked at Gael’s nose with a dirty finger. “As I said, two crests for the barley. For your other two, I’ll let you walk away without a mark. And don’t try to run, there’s a smart boy.”

To Gael’s shame, tears sprang to his eyes. Why, oh why, hadn’t he stuck to the main road that morning and gone straight to the regular market? Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out his purse. 

A shadow fell across the vendor. He yelped, and the hand on Gael’s arm loosened. Gael yanked himself free and rubbed his aching skin. “You’d stoop this low, Aefy?” a voice said. “Robbing children?”

“This is my business, Lhoralene of Hheram,” said the vendor, sullen but subdued.

Gael turned to look at his rescuer. A woman next to a man, both in their late teens or early twenties, tall and with long faces and dark skin. Both wore short pants belted with twine and sleeveless shirts and ragged sandals. They’d strapped knives to their waist – the same long, flat knives that the soldiers wore. They looked tough, though the woman had a regal air. She’d dyed her long hair brilliant indigo and plaited it in dangling coils woven with ribbons. Her strong fingers held the ear of Gael’s captor, a wiry, shifty-eyed Khisal girl of about nine waving a paring knife. How silly to be so frightened! “Step off, that hurts,” the girl whined.

“Good.” The woman twisted her fingers and the girl cried out once more. She stuck her tongue out at Gael, not unlike the face Haesel had made at Yaerel that morning, which seemed like a lifetime ago. “Next time I catch you and your miserable father scheming again, you’ll lose both ears,” the woman promised.

“What would your wife say about your ‘business’?” the woman’s companion asked the vendor, smirking. 

Panic flitted across the vendor’s face. “Peace, Nhial. The boy can have the grain free of charge. Here.” He shoved a half-sack at Gael, who staggered. Nhial smoothly picked it up and tucked it beneath his arm. “Whatever else you want—any of my wares—with my humblest apologies. But I beg you, don’t tell my wife! She’ll arrest me!”

“Don’t let me catch you again,” the woman warned. She released the girl, who scowled and scurried away.

“Kids.” Nhial shook his head in disgust. 

Gael attempted a clumsy bow. “I can’t thank you enough, Lora…” He tried to remember the woman’s name.

“Call me Lorry. And for goodness sake, stop bowing. I’m not a Prior.” The woman paused. “We have much to discuss. How you arrived at the city, for one. It’s very clear you’re not from here.”

“I…” The events of the day caught up to Gael and he wobbled, feeling faint. 

Nhial caught him with his free arm. “Careful!”

“Water,” Lorry said and Nhial nodded. The two led Gael down the street, Nhial propping up Gael the whole way. “He has no magical powers that I can detect,” Gael heard her say in a low voice. 

“Maybe he’s a king’s agent,” Nhial said. “He looks like he stays inside. And his hands haven’t seen a day’s rough work.” Gael flushed and thrust his hands in his pockets. They were embarrassingly free of the calluses his brothers had from masonry and often flaunted. “Do you think Gyrath sent him?”

Lorry’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past him. That snake.”

Who’s Gyrath, Gael wanted to ask. They stopped at a terraced rock garden built in the shade of a hideous sculpture of a witch with a jackal’s head. A few women on the steps smoked clay pipes as they fanned themselves. Stray dogs played at their feet. When the women spotted Lorry and Nhial, they cleared the garden and shooed the dogs into the road, and saluted Lorry as they rushed off. She acknowledged the gesture with a tilt of her head. Gael stared at her. Who could she be? A princess, or a queen?  

Gael sat on the bottom-most step, Nhial next to him, still holding his barley. Lorry bounded to a pump in the middle of the garden. With an effort, she pushed its rusty crank. Water flowed to the ground in a noisy stream and pooled in the dust at her feet. She muttered a few words under her breath. To Gael’s astonishment, two tin cups appeared in her hands. She filled them and returned, handing one to him. He looked at it for a long time before taking a sip. It looked crude and misshapen and pitted with small flaws. All the same, Gael was impressed. Lorry wasn’t. “Not my best materialization,” she lamented to Nhial as they both drank from hers. 

“How did you make those cups come out of nowhere?” Gael asked with awe. “Are you a king’s mage?”

Nhial snickered. “Certainly not. No,” Lorry said emphatically while glaring at Nhial. “Finish drinking and I’ll tell you.”

“Yes, please do, Lady King’s Mage,” Nhial jeered. “Oho, you won’t hear the end of this.”

“Shut up, will you?” 

After Gael quenched his thirst and felt less woozy, Lorry took back the cup and stacked it with hers. To his disappointment, she made them disappear with a wave of her hand. He had wanted his as a keepsake. “Do you even know where you are?” she asked. He shook his head. “This is Caliyal, a city-state in the heart of the Ieryen desert thousands of miles south of Khis. You are from Khis, are you not?” Gael nodded. “How did you come here?” 

Gael faltered. As nice as Lorry and Nhial seemed, they were strangers. The knives at their waists were long and cruel. He had no wish to cross them – especially if Lorry had magical powers. What if they followed him back to Khis and caused trouble in his village? 

Lorry sensed his fear. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m a wi…,” she hesitated, noting Gael’s round eyes as he gaped at the monstrous statues surrounding them. “I’m a…spellcaster of sorts, and a guardian of Caliyal. I was trained by an Old-World master who died not long ago.” She twirled one finger and it went up in flame, its orange and blue depths dancing in the air. “Our—I mean my—magic is deeper and more powerful than the silly, toadying trifles and party tricks that king’s mages perform.” She blew out the fire, smoke rising from her hand.

“Are you a spellcaster, too?” Gael asked Nhial.

“No,” Nhial said. “I help Lorry protect the city.”

“It’s important that we keep its borders safe. Particularly now, with the trouble going on in Dorcsia. We can’t have war spread to Caliyal.” Gael didn’t think the city was safe at all, but he didn’t contradict her. Lorry looked into his eyes. “How did you arrive here? You must tell us everything.”    

It’s not like I have a choice. Gael eyed Lorry and Nhial’s knives once more. In a halting voice, he told them about Maer making him go to the market that morning and the odd detour in the mountain road and the cave and tunnel he’d found. As he spoke, the other two exchanged an indecipherable look. Lorry had him repeat parts of his story and asked many questions. Where in Khis was his village? When did his father die? Did he get on with his mother and brothers? 

“It’s like Parsis always said before he passed, the fates rest his soul,” Nhial mused to Lorry when Gael paused for breath. “It’s not happy children with loving parents who poke around strange places and magically travel to far-off lands.”

“Hush, Nhial,” she said irritably. “This isn’t good. In fact, it’s the worst situation imaginable. Guarding the one portal that we know of is enough of a headache. And now, finding out that another one leading to Khis exists?” As she spoke, she grew more agitated. Gael didn’t know what “portal” meant, but he assumed she meant the magical tunnel he’d discovered.

“Parsis warned us that this city had many hidden shortcuts to other kingdoms,” Nhial remarked to her, “and that we should find them. I mean, it makes sense. The sewers are one giant demon graveyard. They’re crawling with sorcery.”

“There are more magical tunnels under the city?” Gael asked, perking up. “Who made them? And where do they go?”

Lorry ignored him. “We’ll have to return the boy to Khis and wipe his memory. That way nobody else can come here as well.”

Gael went cold. “Must you?” he asked. The city still frightened him, but whatever Lorry meant by “wiping” his memory didn’t sound good. And now, knowing that other magical tunnels existed, he didn’t want to leave so soon. He needed to hear more. Maybe I can find one of those tunnels and travel to a place where I needn’t be a Son of Raenam…

Nhial laughed, though in a friendly way. “Haven’t you had enough adventures already?”

“I’m not used to them, that’s sure,” Gael admitted. He squared his shoulders, trying to look older and more capable. “Please let me stay, at least for a little bit. I don’t want to go home just yet. Besides, nobody will miss me.” Nobody but Haesel. He felt a twinge of guilt.

Nhial gave him a sympathetic look. “You wouldn’t last a half-day here.”

“There’s too much at stake. We can’t afford any half-measures,” Lorry agreed. She stood and dusted off her clothing. “We’ll take you back to the sewers. You can show us the portal that brought you here.”

Gael hung his head but didn’t protest. They escorted him back to the market, Nhial carrying Gael’s half-sack of barley and Lorry’s hand firmly on his shoulder. Gael’s stomach heaved. Her threat of half-measures hung in his mind. Suppose she didn’t “wipe” his memory after all and killed him? Like the women at the fountain, people on the road hurriedly parted when they saw Lorry and Nhial—even soldiers. Gael’s dread grew. Still, he wished Maer and his brothers could see the hushed looks of respect as he strode down the street, though they weren’t meant for him.

They approached a long line of booths mounted beneath a demon statue with three heads. Nhial stopped. “We’re going the wrong way, or I’m a sinner,” he said to Lorry. “The sewer opening the boy crawled from is probably in the middle of the Rhodan Quarter.”

“It isn’t,” she said. “It’s around here. See, there’s Aefy and his daughter selling grain. Why don’t you trust my navigating skills?”

“You’re both wrong,” Gael lied, for perhaps the first time in his life. A wild impulse had popped into his head. They turned and he pointed north. “There!” As they looked, he wriggled free of Lorry’s grasp and ran into the crowd. 

“Hey! Come back!” Gael kept running as fast as he could. He dashed behind a public house where men and women reeking of malt water had gathered around a ring of fighting cocks. The crowd raucously cheered as blood sprayed and feathers fluttered, chicken squawks filling the air. The sight made Gael sick. He would find the magical tunnels that Nhial spoke of and whisk himself to a quieter, nicer kingdom. Dalmuth, maybe, across the ocean at the other end of the world. The soldiers in his village often claimed it was a splendid country and their favorite place to be stationed, full of water meadows and fruit trees and peaceable folk. Maybe he could run errands for a kindly merchant or a farmer. A better future than Khis had to offer. 

Gael slithered into a gap between the public house and a teashop. He spotted a grate in the ground covering an opening. He pushed it aside, straining his arms, and climbed into the hole and down metal rungs embedded in rough stone. 

His feet hit the ground, and he found himself back in the city’s foul underground network. The footpath was narrower here, uneven and eroding, and the filthy river below lapped at its edges. Quickly and carefully, he approached a corner, turning left into a smaller artery, and pivoted into another pathway. The tunnels were silent but for the sound of flowing water, the city sounds above Gael fading as he kept walking. The light seeping from the overhead gratings grew stronger and brighter. Heat thickened the air so he could barely breathe. Keep moving, he ordered himself and stifled a cough. 

As the day wore on, he ignored his aching feet and stomach rumblings. He wished he’d eaten more of Maer’s bread that morning. His legs were all but worn out. But he couldn’t turn back. If Lorry and Nhial found him, they would surely kill him for the trick he’d played. Gael shuddered at the thought. He continued onwards and spotted a crevice-like opening to his left. Guided by instinct, he darted inside and found himself in a passageway that disappeared into eerie, foggy blackness.  

Gael’s head spun. Could he have stumbled upon another magical tunnel? He crept through the passageway until he faced a black square that seemed to swim in the air. Edging closer, he reached into its depths. His hand vanished. The square shook ever so slightly and made a thrumming noise. 

This must be it, he thought excitedly. He started forward and then halted. It occurred to him that he didn’t know where this tunnel went. For all he knew, it led back to Khis, or even another part of Caliyal. Maybe he should tell it where he wished to travel, just in case. 

“Please, magical tunnel, I want to see the kingdom of Dalmuth,” he said aloud in an earnest prayer. “Won’t you take me there?”

Silence, aside from water dripping from the tunnel roofs. The black square quieted and stilled. It hung in the air invitingly. Here I go, Gael thought. He closed his eyes and stepped into the square.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a tight walkway with the same glowing, silky walls as the magical tunnel to Khis. Relieved, he stroked the blue stone like an old friend. Had his prayer worked? Gael walked the tunnel’s length until it widened into a rugged space that felt considerably cooler and muggier than the weather in Caliyal and Khis. Had he indeed traveled to Dalmuth? Perhaps mastering magic wasn’t so difficult after all, for all that Lorry spoke of sorcery being deep and powerful.

His good feeling faded when he stumbled and barked his shin on sharp rock. Blood trickled down his leg. Limping, he started forward and outstretched his arms, the air so dark that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He inhaled the smell of salt and dankness and hastily yanked his cloak over his shoulders. He kept creeping forward and squeezed past jagged boulders that led to a long, close cave that grew more and more cramped as he pressed on. Soon he saw a light. He headed towards it and stepped outside. 

Gael gasped as he found his bearings. He stood on a skinny, rocky ledge on the side of a cliff. Rain spattered his clothing, and the stones beneath his feet felt treacherous and slippery as vertigo slammed into him like a fist. Hundreds of yards below, inky sea crashed into a wall of rock. To the west—and with growing foreboding—he saw nothing but overcast sky and more ocean. The cliff wound many miles northeast, its sharp rocks barely covered with spiky winter brush and spindling trees. Had the soldiers in his village been wrong? Could Dalmuth truly be this ugly and grey? 

The gravel beneath his feet gave way. His cloak blew away from his shoulders and twisted and turned in the icy wind. Gael flailed at the cliffside and struggled to find his balance. His hands clawed at the air in vain. He shut his eyes and prepared for the worst. Please, Raenam, if I fall into the ocean, don’t let the water be too cold. Let me drown quickly…

A hand grabbed his shirt collar. It yanked him onto solid rock and back into the cave. Lorry.

Dizzy and shaking, Gael leaned against the cave opening and breathed in painful gulps. Through his shock, he felt Lorry’s silent fury as she quietly waited for him to catch his breath. A grim presence. He knew that she was far too angry to rebuke him. Without a word, she marched him though the cliff’s winding caves and back through the magical tunnel to Caliyal’s underground network. 

Nhial waited at the entrance of the tunnel. A torch in his hand cast a spidery light on his face. “You should be glad that we followed you here,” he said to Gael with a rueful grin. “I don’t know what you were trying to do, but you just visited Dorcsia. Believe me, you don’t want to be there. Even in better times, it’s an awful kingdom.”  

Dorcsia. Gael cringed, trying to steady his still-shaking legs. “But I told the tunnel to take me to Dalmuth,” he said in a weak voice, aware of how ridiculous he sounded.

“Magic doesn’t work that way, friend. Just like Lorry’s old master used to say, you shouldn’t mess with the dark arts until you know what you’re dealing with.”

Lorry finally broke her silence. “You could have died on that cliff! And even if you didn’t, the king’s soldiers would have found you soon enough! Believe me, the king of Dorcsia would be very interested to learn what a boy like you knows about magical routes to Caliyal and other kingdoms. His methods are not pleasant. I would know.”

 “What will you do with me?” Gael wearily asked, preparing for the worst. 

Lorry rolled her eyes. “Relax, you goose. We won’t kill you. At the very least, your silliness proved you are no spy of Khis or Dorcsia or anywhere else. But we must make sure you never come back.”

Gael sighed. She must mean the “memory wiping” she spoke of before. “Will I see you two again?”

“Not likely.” Lorry said with a regretful smile. “As I said, we can’t afford any half-measures.” She pressed her fingers to his temple. A wave of blackness rushed over him. 




He came to at dawn soaked with dew. He rose and stretched. He felt groggy and ached all over. His shin stung with what felt like the ghost of a wound, but when he pulled up his pantleg, his skin had no marks.  

Gael looked around. He stood on the side of a road near his village. Maer’s cart lay on the grass nearby, its wheels perched in the air. He shook away his stiffness. The sun hung low and pale in the sky—it must be early morning. How did he get here? 

Had the road once been forked? He remembered walking to the market. But the cart was empty. Nor had he been robbed. His purse in his pocket still had Maer’s money.

A vision entered his head. Of exploring a branch in the road and finding…something he couldn’t quite picture. But the road didn’t divide. It bore through the forest, straight and true, crowded on both sides with boulders and old trees. In a daze, Gael picked up the cart handle and walked home. 

Maer sat at the kitchen table. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night and her shoulders drooped. Before her lay the remnants of a meal that hadn’t been tidied, pots and dishes covered with smears and crumbs. The air smelled oily and stale. 

She looked up as he entered. “Where in the name of Raenam did you go?” she spat. “Your brothers are searching for you—they’ve been out since sundown!”

Gael set down the cart. How could he tell her that he didn’t remember a blessed thing since yesterday? She’d call him a liar. Nor would she believe that he’d lost his way home. 

“Did you hear me? I asked where you went? And where is your cloak?”

He must have left it by the road. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Eventually, he responded in a colorless voice, “I tried to run away.” It was the best excuse he could think of.

“Gael.” Maer rose. He thought she would slap him, but she looked at him for a long time, her face wrinkling as she absorbed his words. “Why would you do such a foolish thing? You’ve brought shame to our family.”

“You know why,” he blurted in a fit of daring, surprising himself. He added, “You won’t be sending me to the Sons of Raenam temple this summer. Or I’ll run away again. And next time, I won’t come back.”

He’d never spoken to her that way before. He didn’t like how she stared at him, as though he were a stranger. To his surprise, he saw fear in the depths of her eyes, and a hint of sadness. “I wanted you at the temple for your own good, to give your life purpose. Your sickness took your spirit.”

“It didn’t!” Gael fiercely retorted. “You never let me show it.”

She was quiet for a moment. She began to say something and shook her head. “All right. I suppose I should let you find your own way in the world. For now, and so long as you don’t disappoint me.” She exhaled and grew stern. “We won’t speak of you running off again. Now eat your breakfast and get on with your chores. The steps need sweeping.” 

Gael grabbed himself a hunk of bread and went outside. He still felt dazed, but a new energy entered his bones. He wanted to rejoice. He needn’t be a Son of Raenam if he could help it. He could stay in the village with Haesel—and Yaerel, who must not be so bad if he’d spent the night looking for him. Tomorrow, he’d perhaps go with them to the mason’s shop like the other children in his village.

But for some reason, he felt like crying. He kept looking west at the misty Ieryens that led to the kingdom of Dorcsia and whatever lay beyond. He couldn’t shake a queer hunch that during his mysterious trip to the market, those lands had been within his reach.

©January 2022, Suri Parmar

Suri Parmar is a  writer and filmmaker. Her work has been published by Air and Nothingness Press. This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.