Chapter 3

As I lay motionless in the room where I was imprisoned, I imagined the view of Villämara from the keep's balcony. I could barely see the starry sky through the small barred window.  It sat atop the wall, out of my reach.

How much has the palace changed since my exile, I wondered. Is the king really dead? Will my younger brother be on the throne?

Something flew in through the little window, piercing the air across the room with a flashing shimmer. It hit the lamp that held the candle in the corner, diagonal from the window. There was a sharp metal clack, and they both fell to the foot of the bed. The room went dark. Smoke rose as the golden ember of the wick died. As my eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight, I caught a glimpse of an object shining on the ground. It was a curved blade. But as I mustered the strength to reach for it, I fainted again.

The next day, I woke up at dawn, finally able to move. The lamp and the blade were in the same place. Luck or someone outside had given me a hand, or rather a dagger, to help me escape. I grabbed it.

I was free from the ropes that tied my feet to the beam. I wore my underpants and a necklace of iridescent shells that Muki had given me, and couldn't find the rest of my clothes. I had to get out quietly as soon as possible. If I had to face those warrior rabbits on the other side, there was little I could do with a dagger.

The door didn't have a lock, but it made a rusty squeak when I opened it. Outside, I found a larger room, also illuminated by slots atop the walls, at the level of the exterior floor. This was a basement. There were plenty of stocked shelves, but no one was there. I assumed my captors were upstairs. With luck, at least one would have gone for the bread.

Halfway up the stairs, I heard something hiss from below.

“Pssst,” I heard again. “Pssst,” and then a “tick, tick, tick.”

Two little eyes shone in the dark at the foot of the stairs. A metal wand tapped on the railing. “Tick, tick, tick,” the tiniest mouse I had ever seen was holding a huge pin with a red sphere on the tip.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Did I catch you at a bad time?” The mouse came out of the shadows using the pin as a walking stick. He took off his bowler hat and spoke quickly and courteously: “My name is Verminand, Verminand Scribbleton. I know what you're thinking: the last name… it doesn't suit me. I was adopted, you see. Twice!” He celebrated.

Could it be a human surname? Is he crazy? Could he have sunstroke or be drunk? He wore a nice but tattered brocade vest.

“If it isn't too much to ask,” he continued, “could you find within your heart a mere beat of your time to devote to me? A human heartbeat, that is—not Rodentian. Actually… Perhaps two lungbeats—yes, two long deep breaths should be enough. I have a big favor to ask. Well, big for me, that is, but considerably small from where you stand.”

I hesitated to answer, but the possibility of obtaining some information prompted me to whisper:

“What is it?”

Verminand Scribbleton ran up the railing to meet my face.

“You see, kind sir, I took refuge in this outpost last night, aware of the rules that must be followed. You know, so as not to ruin my fate as a wayfarer.” He paused, waiting for a sign of comprehension.

Wayfarers have outposts throughout the Sea of ​​Isles, at least in the most frequented ones. These do not belong to anyone and anyone can enter them. The only rules are to never lock the doors or take anything without replacing it with something of equal or greater value. And they follow them to the letter. They believe that the sea and winds will turn against them otherwise. This may seem queer to someone from Terräfirma, but southerners find mainland customs strange as well.

“I am in a bit of a pickle,” The mouse chuckled. “Let me rephrase that. I would like a bit of a pickle in me, but I don't have anything to replace it with.” He raised his pin and pointed to my left side. “That pickle in particular.”

Indeed. There, on a shelf, was a jar containing a surprisingly large pickle.

“If you're ready to part ways, is it wise to assume you won't be needing anything else?” He said.

I shook my head.

“Marvelous!” he rejoiced. “This is a shameful proposition, but I simply must ask: do you happen to have in your possession anything of equal or greater value that perhaps you no longer need to take on your journey? I'm very hungry, sir, no shame in admitting to it any longer.”

I shrugged and shook my head again.

“Oh, poor me!” He cried. “So small and hungry! So begotten! All I want is a pickle to dull my pain.” He dangled miserably from the railing, then stood right back up. “You, sir! You are as indifferent as the tawdry monk lurking outside. No, you are worse! So heartless. So displeasing. Large wayfarers are the worst: so much you have and so little you share.” He sounded almost like a Sïleni aristocrat. He waved his pin at me and turned his head, spitting out his last word: “Typical!”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Scribbleton, I have nothing to offer you. I am down to my underpants,” I whispered, trying to get him to lower his squeaky voice.

“How can you say that, sir, when you hold a table knife in your hands?” he accused, pointing his pin at my dagger.

“Well, what about your pin?”

“What about it? Are you suggesting that this trifle is of equal or greater value than that enormous pickle? Disgraceful! This pick is missing two whole letters to even be a pickle.” He looked at me defiantly. “You are so wretched! At least the monk outside hides his heartless disdain in a vow of silence. But you, sir, you speak and leave no doubt of your dishonour. Oh, go on! Leave me to starve. I'm just a wayfarer… and a tiny one at that. Why should you care? Hack, hack,” he coughed. “Aaah!” He cried.

I got closer, in an attempt to silence him.

“Aaah!” He cried louder.

“Alright. Alright. I'll trade off the dagger, but on one condition.”

“Thank you. Thank you, kind sir. I shall do anything for you. Anything, as long as it's of equal value, of course.”

“How about of equal or greater value?” He eyed me, fearing a deception. “This dagger sure is worth more than that pickle.” I showed it to him in detail: it was made of dark, shiny steel, deftly curved like a crescent moon.

His eyes lit up.

“As long as your request is within my abilities, I’m much obliged.”

I brought the jar with the pickle closer to the mouse and put the dagger on the shelf, right in its place. I asked Verminand to tell me all he knew about the cloaked warriors. He told me he had only seen one.

“He's camped outside, completely covered and vigilant. Then he went to look for the Blubbery Baker—another shameless one; wouldn’t take my acorns,” he added. “I ate those raw.” He stuck out his tongue with a grimace. 

It became clear then. I knew where I was: the main isle of The Corallines, five leagues northwest of The Wailing Whales.

I asked if he could distract the hooded warrior. I didn't want to risk running into him. He accepted. I hid underneath the stairs; meanwhile, the mouse practiced his balance by rolling the jar, pin in hand. He was surprisingly skilled at this.

We heard the door open upstairs and the cloaked shadow came down carrying a tray, a fine sword concealed beneath the robe. Verminand came out of a dark corner, balancing on the jar.

“Oh, dear sir! You won't guess what happened. Yes, it's me! Verminand Scribbleton.”

The warrior reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Look at me! Isn't it wonderful?” Verminand did a somersault and landed with his hands on the rolling jar.

I sneaked behind the warrior and shoved him into a corner. He fell, knocking down a shelf with heavy sacks on top of himself. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. Verminand gasped: “Holy shells!”, and rolled away with the jar.

I closed the door behind me. All outposts are similar: an old wooden shack with barrels of fresh water, coconut cups on a table, and sometimes a cellar. I barricaded the door with a heavy barrel.

As I rushed out, I heard some banging. No wayfarer would dare break one of those barrels and spill its contents. They would have to replace it with something of equal or greater value, and few things are as valuable in the Isles as freshwater. I left my captor and the mouse in quite a pickle then.

I had mapped the Corallines for the Magisterium. They are, in essence, three small islands so close together that only a forked ravine divides them. I was on the largest one, which had a tiny village of rickety huts and ports of crabbers and shellfishers. The neighboring isle consisted of mounds with huts of wildlife folk. I won't describe wildlife yonder south because I would have to talk about walruses. I can't stand them, and I don't care how bad that sounds. Their intolerant callousness is the reason I try to ignore them. Documenting their customs once was enough. The third little island had only a hut or two, a shallow cave or two, a giant sandbox tree, maybe two, and a surprisingly beautiful temple covered in shells.

I crossed the village, towards the safest spot: the Siren's Ravine. But before, I went looking for something that would be useful: children of the Corallines kept the half-shells of giant clams in their yards. I found one, grabbed it, and kept running. Two human kids chased after me, surprised and excited. One yelled, “He's going too fast!” And a third naked kid joined them. On the slope that led to the ravine, I did what the kids expected: jump on the huge shell and slid down the slope. They screamed with excitement. I was an excellent shell slider; I practiced for a while, despite our captain's complaints.

As I descended, I looked back and waved at my little admirers. On the hill, upriver, the two hooded warriors appeared and began their descent upon catching sight of me.

I leaned forward, trying to speed up. The shell hit the water with a great splash. Holding on to it, I jumped. And we sank.

I raised the shell. The rabbits took off their hoods. They had reached the shore thanks to their amazing agility. Their arrows flew, but this time I had a shield to protect myself with.

I didn't need to swim because the current carried me away. My pursuers gave up shooting arrows and ran towards a boat resting up the slope. They cut its ties, and as they pushed it down, a large bellowing walrus came out of a small hut nearby, followed by a tiny human holding a stick. They got to the rabbits before the boat hit the water, and the four of them scrambled over it. The brawl gave me time to reach the other shore. But the gorge there was too steep to climb.

The warrior rabbits were skilled, but walruses are strong, fierce, and thick-skinned. The little man hit them with the stick and everything he managed to grab. The kids who had cheered me on earlier reached the top of the hill and threw stones and mud at the rabbits—who dodged what they could and parried the rest with their swords. 

The little man was already unconscious, and the walrus was beginning to tire. At that moment, the Rodentian capybara came out of the water and helped them to take over the boat. The rabbits jumped in. I panicked and was about to swim when I heard a human female voice:

“Do you need a boat?”

She approached me in a canoe made of light-colored wood, polished and reinforced with metal. She was wearing a dark violet headscarf, had pale skin and grayish, lanceolate eyes. I got on, grabbed an oar, and helped push the canoe down the river. It was faster than shellfishers' boats. We headed for the fork in the ravine, cutting through the water like a knife, pursued by the boat with the Rodentians.

“Duck!” she yelled in warning.

Instinctively, I looked up. That would seem irrational, but the sighting of a duck, Muki, had been my daily task during many moonths in the Ailanthus. In any case, it wasn't Muki flying over the ravine, but an arrow coming straight at me.

The human spun her oar in the air, and the arrow bounced off it with a thud. My heart stopped for a beat.

“It was dull,” she said, surprised.

“I have an idea.” I paddled to starboard to bring the canoe closer to the village's isle.

The young woman helped me. The boat also veered in that direction. As we got closer to where the water met the reef, I called out:

“Now to the left!”

We paddled to the fork. We could take the creek on that side, and the pursuers were forced to stay on the right, which was wider. Shellfishing boats are rounder, designed to stay put and contain the cargo.  They couldn't execute such a sharp turn. The current swept them away as they spun out of control.

The human looked at me, relieved, and gave me the faintest smile.

“I don't think they'll reach us,” I said. “And they'll have to face the walruses in the port.”

We continued paddling through the gorge until we reached the open sea.

The girl with lanceolate eyes looked slightly older than me, and was about the same height.

“Thank you very much,” I said. “My name is…“

“M'Nuel,” she finished my sentence and reached for something in the canoe.

“Only Nuel,” I corrected her. “You're not from the Isles, right?”

She shook her head.

“I am a nun.”

“From the North?” This had been my immediate assumption given her headscarf and pale skin, but it was surprising nonetheless.

She nodded and handed me a spyglass.

“Make sure they don't follow.” Her accent, with its stabbing quality, made it clear—she was from the Spadian Range.

I looked towards the Corallines and the ravine that divided them.

“They're not going to catch us,” I said, and she stopped rowing.

“Forgive my manners. I am a sister of the Temple of Lilies.” She bowed.

“I am familiar. How did you know who I am?”

“Your mothe… the queen. You look like her. There has been a portrait of her hanging in the temple ever since her funeral…” She stopped herself.

I wasn't used to talking about Mother. I retreated into a dark cloud inside my mind for several heartbeats. Then I tried to resume the conversation:

“I have her cinnamon eyes and reddish hair. But you don't need to bow when you greet me.”

I didn't bear the name of royalty, wasn't part of any honorable house, and my only title was that of a magister. And as rare as red hair is on a human, that's something the Cardians would pause over—surely not the Spadians.

“I'm just a wayfarer from yonder south,” I said.

She nodded and excused herself, explaining that sisters bow when greeting any human, especially males.

“How did you manage to hit that arrow?” I changed the subject. “It's not something they teach the lily sisters, is it?”

She shrugged and smiled.

“The Celestial Light must have guided my hand.” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead in gratitude for divine intervention.

Normally, a magister would not accept that explanation. Maybe it was luck. In any case, I wasn't going to contradict someone who had just saved me. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. We fell silent again. She looked away. I thought she was shy, but then I realized that I was still in my underpants.

“I am so sorry.” I curled up in embarrassment.

“There are sheets behind you.”

“You must be horrified. In the south, we are not as formal as in the north.”

“Do you usually walk through the villages in your underwear?”

“Oh no no,” I blushed. “Though no one would be surprised. Some individuals go without pants… depending on the age and the species, of course.”

I told her that I had lost my clothes in what—I warned her—was a long story.

“Does it involve those rabbits?”

I nodded, realizing there wasn’t more to tell—at least not in my mind.

She told me that she was going back to Terräfirma, where I could not go. I asked her to take me a little further south—back to the Whaling Whales.

She hesitated at the name. Something in it tugged at her—curiosity, maybe, or wonder. But her expression hardened just as quickly.

“I can't go any yonder,” she complained. “I never intended to come this far, but the Corallines could soon be absorbed into the kingdom.”

Could it be that I shouldn't be here either? I thought. It seems that the yonder south is not so yonder anymore. I smiled, disguising my dismay.

“If you know your course, you'll be safe,” I said. “The Sea of ​​Isles is peaceful. The residents are not exactly known for their friendliness, but for the most part, they just want to go on their way in peace. And no one would dare to interfere with a lily sister.” That would be a death sentence at the hands of the men of the Spadian army. “Nothing will happen. Just hit two rocks under the water… Wait.”

She looked at me, intrigued.

I grabbed an oar and a rusty cup and jumped into the water. She flinched and reached out to stop me—I’d forgotten the aversion that Spadians have for the sea.

I submerged myself and struck the oar and the cup together to indicate the direction we wanted to go in.

“Once, then twice, then two more, it's the southeast.”

“What are you doing that for?”

“You'll see.”

She watched from the edge of the raft, as if the water repelled her. This wasn't the heavenly rain and snow that the Light sends to bless, wash and quench—this was the farthest from it.

I repeated the sequence several times. And in less than a leaguebeat, a group of young sea turtles appeared.

“Good'n'glorious morn'!” They greeted us. “Whither d'ye go?”

She shivered, surprised. It took several beats of the interaction for her to process the cordiality with which I spoke to these Reptilians and the familiarity with which they responded to me in the water.

These weren’t tortoises, but their relatives who prefer to live in the lowest place on the surface for a Spadian—where our impurities go. Yet for the southerners, the sea is a womb, not a cesspool.  They may be less modest, but smell better. They don't wait for rain to bathe or wash their clothes—which was unfortunate for my savior.

I gave the turtles our destination and offered to pay with the iridescent shells that hung around my neck. But, in a very human reflex, the nun offered them coins.

Although it is illegal on Terräfirma to trade in anything other than the Crown’s gold, on the Isles, food or clothing is preferred—or simply owing a favor. Sea turtles, however, are generally happy to take any payment—except for acorns; they wouldn’t know how to eat them.

I was glad to hold on to something—rarely did I carry anything of value beyond my magisterial tools. It might help me on my way back, I thought. The Ailanthus must be with Muki already—for at least half a moonth,  I figured, noting the full circle peering over the horizon. I hoped they weren’t too worried, and assumed they were as eager to depart as I was.

I smiled politely at the nun, but my thoughts had already ventured ahead.