Chapter 1

Ever since the first Cardian monarchs, each member of the royal court has had their own messenger—nimble of foot and loyal to a fault. Mine wasn't the fastest runner, nor was he the strongest carrier; yet he was unrivaled in delivering information to the farthest reaches of the realm. Even during my exile, Tricks kept me abreast of all significant events in Terräfirma—except for one: the death of the king. Dare I say, Father.

At the time, Tricks was delayed at the Magisterium with the Ailanthus and the rest of the crew, preparing for our most ambitious journey yet. This was the big one—the trip we had dreamed of since our maiden voyage across the open sea. I could barely conjure the number of lands, species, tribes, and civilizations we might encounter. And then there were the inevitable—often unnecessary—paradoxes that Tricks would point out, leaving me to puzzle over them. I was cradled by the breeze of the islands, yonder south of Terräfirma—embracing the mellow rhythm of its wayfarers, yet teeming with anticipation.

I waited for them at one of my favorite spots in the Sea of Isles, where I used to collect mollusk ink. The red ink from almond drupes made my journal resemble the scene of a bloody accident. Bird feathers proved just as effective for writing as bamboo styluses, and I knew someone there who could supply them handily. The place was a large sandy shack located at what is now known as the Wailing Whales. Sturdy guava trunks supported a roof of woven palm leaves over an improvised hall. The branches on the upper floor held hammocks for its visitors. The air was fragrant with both fresh and aged spices for drinking and smoking.

That dawn, as I daydreamed about our upcoming journey, I overheard two wayfarers arguing somewhere behind me. One drank in memory of the king, the other toasted to his death.

“Who cares what he did. You can't be a good king if you're not the right one. He wasn’t chosen—he came from nothing,” declared a shrill voice in an archaic Gälish dialect, which was hard to decipher. “He was a merchant from the desert… and purchased his nobility with gold”—the last word was drawled with disgust, as if wiping off a stain of manure.

The voice, high-pitched yet harsh, intrigued me more than the subject matter. It had a distinctive bird-like vibrato.

“Bah!” another voice retorted with a guttural growl and a wet laugh. “Midas married an honorous lady.” The words felt heavy with drool.

“He took that wife from the previous king, the last sangreal sun,” the first voice shrieked.

“Hogwash!” spat the other. “Even a child of chance can have royal blood. Gold requires work; it's more honorous.”

“You call gold honorous? You blabbering blob!” replied the alarming screech. “Only those imbued with the divine Light can bestow honor.”

“Like his queen,” mocked the other as he blew wet and flatulent raspberries. “Pfft!”

“Wretched foulness!”

“And you… you, lanky ragamuffin!”

They shouted cryptic obscenities in some foreign tongue. But it was the sloshing of water that made me turn. One of them—fat and naked—was laughing in a wooden tub, while the other flailed for composure, as if hoping to perch on a hanging chair. However eccentric and foreign they were, I mostly found them fastidious at the time.

They'll get asked to leave soon, I mused, setting my feather down to sip the infusion my favorite waiter had surprised me with. Mmm, warm coconut milk with fermented ginger and nutmeg. Is that a dash of mango juice? Splendid.

I'm not digressing; that was my demeanor at the moment. The mention of my parents could dredge up the sadness and anger that I had long buried, emotions I avoided as a prince and a magister, and due to my aloof nature.

I had woken up, unwillingly separated from my crew, and was just reminded why. It was one thing to hear about Father’s kingdom when we were far away from it. But waiting just outside its borders for Tricks and the Ailanthus—unable to present my cartography or explain my findings to the Magisterium—was always a new stab on a long-cauterized wound.

The cozy beverage was splendid indeed.

Three unusual figures entered the hall and sat to my right, at the far end of the room. Most patrons were ordinary wayfarers, the typical individuals who roam the realm with nowhere to call home.  But these resembled messengers—or rather, rabbits, although it wasn't immediately apparent: they were hooded, armed, and wore chainmail.

Every adult rabbit I'd known had been a messenger, and every royal messenger was invariably a rabbit. They were the only non-human Mammalians commonly seen in court—aside from horses, of course: armored steeds, diplomatic stallions, and the occasional mare maid. Yet these three individuals did not announce whom they served upon entering the establishment. They stood about three and a half feet tall, typical for individuals from Rodentia, but with no visible ears, and dressed in battle garb, I wasn’t sure what to make of them. The third was taller and stockier, but his face, framed by brown hair and prominent incisors, was undeniably Rodentian.

Have I seen them before? I pondered. I recalled encountering rabbits that consumed fish flesh. My stomach churned. Such habits were common among the savages yonder south, but not among the peaceful Rodentians in their merry villages of mossy earth domes surrounded by sweetgrass and flowers.

“More hot water, Nuel?”

Muki, my waiter, approached me. He was the kindly duck whose wing had provided the iridescent blue feather I was using for writing. Most of his plumage was beige, but his neck and unfolded wings were a shining green and blue spectacle that made him feel self-conscious. So, he wore a straw hat and a neckerchief, and avoided flapping at all costs.

“Yes, please,” I replied while keeping my eyes on the newcomers. “These three don't belong here.”

“Ooey! Are they looking for trouble?” he shrunk back and frowned.

“The isles are no place for disputes,” I assured him, trying to also convince myself.

He relaxed, nodding in mellow agreement like a proper southerner. His grasp of Gälish had improved after a sun cycle of living there, even pronouncing my name correctly as “Nu-el” instead of “Ñųl,” with the inadvertent whistle of his perforated beak.

Muki had journeyed with us on the Ailanthus from beyond the open sea, seeking a new start. He had escaped forced labor under the yoke of a tribe of marine folk—the penguins, who used to clamp his beak shut with a padlock. The Magisterium feared the human kingdom wasn't prepared to host a bird, so we brought him to the Sea of Isles. Besides, his timid nature wouldn’t appreciate the chaos.

To most humans, the idea of meeting a bird seems like a drunken Southerner's tall tale. They believe in celestial lords with wings, dwelling among the stars. But the birds we've encountered on our discovery voyages are simply unusual wayfarers, not mystical beings made of light—a truth known to few humans at the time, and even then, mostly to us: the overlooked clover brothers of the Magisterium. Muki, destined to be the only feathered inhabitant of the isles, never served a celestial lord. He only served the harsh penguins, and now the drunken seals from yonder south.

“Ooey, tell me about the latest trip,” he quacked as he sat excitedly at my table.

“Well, we completed the cartography of Marsupalia. And we discovered a mountainous region beyond the southern ridges. We're calling it Southern Ursidia, for now.”

“Ursidia? Is that bear land?”

“Exactly. But these bears have large black spots. And they lack a king and a queen, even a penguin parliament.”

The memory of the rowdy assemblies of his former captors caused his brow to furrow again in fear. The penguins, like these bears, are starkly black and white.

“They're peaceful,” I reassured him. “Everything centers around what they call ‘inert peace.’” I breathed in deeply, with my eyes closed and a tranquil smile to illustrate the concept.

“Inert piece? Piece of what? Rock?” His concern was palpable. “Ooey! Walruses do that, they spin in a moño... moñolisp... a big rock! Round and round.”

“Monolith,” I corrected him gently. “No, they're nothing like walruses.” I chuckled at his frantic speech. “Such an elegant word, Muki. I see you're still reading the rock atlas we gave you.”

“I read every night. I don't understand it, but it helps me sleep.”

We both laughed.

“Please, stay away from the walruses,” I urged him.

“Ooey, no, no, no. I saw that from the air... They went round, and round, and round.”

The large tortoise owner of the place summoned him, and Muki scurried off to the bar.

I attempted to return to my journal, but the argument among the wayfarers behind me intensified.

The rabbits to my right were fiddling with something underneath their clothing, and a primitive fear surged from within. Are they spying on me? I wondered as I clutched at my feather. Are they waiting for the right moment to strike? These cannot be the king's lackeys. He didn't know where I was—the royal guard would have been there already if he did.

I heard a chair scrape behind me, then clatter to the floor, followed by the splish-splash of spilled water. I turned to see the eccentric wayfarers, now shouting in each other’s faces in an escalating outburst of rage.

It now seemed inappropriate to call them wayfarers. The term suggests that they travel by land and on foot, and neither was true in this case. When I saw this fish out of water, I considered: He won't win a fight against the stork. Storks eat fish. On the other hand, some fish also eat fish, so who could tell the outcome?

The first slap was for the stork, who wanted to keep a civilized conversation going, but hurled nasty insults after seeing a flurry of small feathers fly above her head.

It didn't matter that the assailant was confined to a wooden tub and could hardly move; his aim was impeccable. Every coconut cup struck the stork's head, some even filled with hot liquids. And he had a strong arm; this was a big fish, perhaps a tuna, I speculated. Then I imagined our speciesist magister clarifying—gracefully, as always: No fish has ever been observed with the mental capacity for conversation or the physical skill to walk out of water, which suggests this individual is Mammalian, possibly related to whales, he’d say with an endearing sense of humble thoroughness I rely on more than I care to admit.

To retain my inert peace and avoid getting splattered, I gathered my journal, my cup of infusion, and quietly retreated to the nearest wall.

His spectacles flew off and his plumage got soaked—the stork became furious.

“Ignominious nincompoop!” she bellowed as if casting a spell, and her eyes turned scarlet red.

She began to scream and scratch at everything in sight. Birds have very unpleasant claws, even the smallest ones do. And their beaks pierce and clamp down like sharp iron blades.

Others joined the fray, some thinking the stork was attacking the incapacitated marine folk, others that the fishy individual in the tub had started the brawl. Except for Muki, the fat tortoise, and me hiding behind the bar. The duck trembled beside me. The old tortoise widened her eyes.

“I've never seen anything like this,” she said with a lagging sort of excitement.

“No one cares about anything enough to justify a fight here,” I agreed.

I regarded the tall, bellicose bird with curiosity. While migratory birds do visit the Isles, I had never seen one with knowledge of Terräfirma. And the speech had been the clearest I’d ever heard from either species. However perplexing it was, no flow of the Light pooled in my mind.

A need for vigilance became critical once the hooded Rodentians confronted the drunken wayfarers. They were adept warriors, wielding their swords with precision and speed. The largest one threw tables and used them as a barricade. The other two somersaulted and clung onto the guava trunks and rustic walls. They landed on straw chairs, which wobbled precariously on the dirt floor. They spun in the air, throwing darts and kicking cups, bottles, and clay vessels at clumsy turtles, belligerent seals, screeching rat sailors, the flapping fish and stork, a band of lashing iguanas, and a handful of scrawny humans. No human, not even a muscular Spadian, could maneuver like this, much less if they were a knight of the guard in heavy armor.

The Ailanthus has not returned. What if something had happened to them? How much longer would I be left on my own? A wave of panic surged through me. The rising din of clacking pots worsened my condition. I had to get out of there before the chaos could reach us. Muki might fly up to the roof branches, and the tortoise could tuck her head into her protective shell. But I lacked weapons and combat skills. My only talents were deciphering maps, illustrating nature, and arguing in search of wisdom. Magisters concede and celebrate when reason is shown to us; and violence impedes this process.

A scarlet mass splattered on a wall nearby, and I turned away. Let’s pretend it was almond pulp; I would have scrunched my face up just the same because it's terribly bitter. I slipped towards the door, and the hooded figures moved there as well, as if sensing my retreat. I  jumped out of a window instead.

The Rodentians immediately emerged, scanning their surroundings. I ran as fast as I could, but they saw me.

I had nowhere to run to. To my right was the beach. To my left was an obstacle course of sleeping seals in their makeshift camps. And beyond that, I thought I glimpsed a yellow road; I needed to stay away from it.

“I need a boat. I need a boat,” I repeated to myself, as I quickened my pace. I need help, I thought of shouting as my heart pounded fiercely.

They noticed my fear and that I had noticed their noticing. They removed their hoods and headed straight for me. Two were definitely rabbits, and the third was a stout capybara from the south of Rodentia.

I made it to the beach, and plunged desperately into the water. I didn't remember if rabbits feared it, but I knew Tricks hated bathing. It seemed like these two didn’t like it either. Only the capybara swam after me, albeit very slowly.

I am an excellent swimmer, I thought as I ventured deeper into the sea. I am safe.

But then arrows soared into the air from the sand.

I am dead. I cannot dodge them in time. They are going to hit me. And they did.