The Key: Book 2 The Rose Tree Chronicles

Chapter Two: The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Rein wasted no time preparing for another adventure outside the Maja Forest. She rode a blackbird to her little alcove in a tree, the small hole where she’d studied and slept for the past three centuries. Leaves which bore her desperate notes were scattered about her floor, mixed with piles of clothes as disheveled as the blankets on her walnut capsule bed. She dashed across her flat to her wardrobe where she snatched up her satchel, and packed only the bare necessities with haste.

Rein had never fully recovered from the day when the infamous Emperor Mentir tore her wings from her back. The memory clung to her like a scar that refused to fade, one cruel moment which stretched across lifetimes. Since then, she had survived only by consuming the delicate petals of the burdania flower, a rare bloom known to keep wingless pixies tethered to life. But the burdania grew only in the Maja Forest, and fate, with its usual irony, had rooted her survival in the very place she once fled in bitterness. She packed many of these petals to take with her.

Before long, Rein was flying a seagull across the Whispering Sea toward Mayline Port, the wind tugging at her as the bird dipped toward the Kingdom of Belle, an island once annexed by the Bonn Empire. Her first departure from the Maja Forest had not been graceful. She’d burned bridges with actions she couldn’t undo, and now returning wingless, fragile, and diminished, she’d been forced to swallow shards of her own pride. Even after three hundred years spent beneath the forest’s canopy, the air still carried fragments of old resentments. The Fairy Circle had even commanded some residents to keep their distance. Still, whispers followed her like drifting pollen, soft but persistent. Rein had learned to endure it, but she had longed for another escape.

Throughout these years, Rein had thrown herself into sharpening her body, hunting through dense underbrush, scaling trees with quiet precision, sprinting across uneven terrain until her lungs burned and her limbs ached. She honed her muscles like weapons, as though sheer strength could compensate for what had been taken from her. By now, she looked scarcely older than twenty, and a black design had begun to curl around her left eye—an inky flourish that grew slowly over the years, just as other pixies had noticed new markings blooming along their necks and faces. No one questioned the change; they simply called it aging.

Rein landed lightly on the windowsill of a modest printing press, then whispered a word of thanks as she freed the seagull into the salt-kissed sky. Below her, Belle lay pristine in its restraint. The cobblestone streets gleamed, scrubbed to a near polish, and the air smelled faintly of chimney smoke and citrus. Here, etiquette wasn’t just practiced, it was revered and observed with the solemnity of faith. Disputes were rare, and tempers rarer still. It was the sort of place where everyone nodded, smiled, and stayed in their lanes. Rein felt no need to glance over her shoulder.

Her thoughts were fixed on Arcor.

When Rein wasn’t training her physical endurance, she chased distractions that might dull the ache of her missing wings. Her relentless search for a true remedy gave her purpose. It had taken nearly two hundred years of dead ends and half-truths before she uncovered a truth worth chasing: it was possible to regain her wings. Another hundred years passed before the name of the Mystery Miracle Worker surfaced like a light in deep water. By then, Rein was nearly trembling with anticipation. After centuries of surviving, she was finally close to becoming whole again. And for the first time in far too long, her hope felt heavier than her sorrow.

Rein climbed down from the rooftop and leapt from a windowsill, landing softly in the narrow alley between the press and a port operator’s office. Perfect. Rats. Though the island’s relentless cleanliness meant they were few and far between. Still, she didn’t need many. She needed the right ones. Sticking to the center of the alley, she moved quickly, keeping away from the walls so to avoid the rats which couldn’t talk. She darted toward a broken crate and climbed to the top where she crouched low, scanning the dim space where the small colony rustled.

“Do any of you talk?” Rein called out.

“I do,” answered two rats to her left.

“Do you know if any of these ships are leaving for Arcor?”

“Lucky you,” one rat replied. “There happens to be one at the west end of the port.”

“More like unlucky,” the second rat objected. “What business do you have in going there?”

“My business,” Rein replied. Then she turned to the first one and gave him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered. “The ship is called The Pelican. There’s a large bird on both sides of the bow so you can’t miss her.”

“Thanks again.”

Rein leapt down from the crate and fixed her eyes on the alley’s edge where sunlight spilled onto the bustling street beyond. Carts rattled past. Hooves clattered against stone. People moved in a steady stream, their strides heavy, their attentions high above her head. She hesitated, calculating. Crossing that road as a creature barely six inches tall meant risking her life with every step. After a long moment of study and a quiet prayer under her breath, she settled on the only plan available: wait for the right gap, sprint, and hope.

The moment came. She darted forward, her tiny feet pounding the cobblestones. A horse’s hoof crashed down a breath behind her, followed by the rumble of a coach wheel that grazed her peripheral vision. Heart hammering, she reached the far side and dove behind a stack of shipping crates, panting, limbs trembling. She pressed a hand to her chest, whispered a brief prayer of thanks, and peered out cautiously. The docks stretched ahead with sleek ships bobbing in the water, sails furled, rigging swaying gently in the salt-heavy breeze. She scanned each hull carefully, eyes squinting at the faded symbols painted near their bows. No birds. Just maidens, serpents, and a sword or two. The Pelican wasn’t among them.

Keeping low, Rein moved west along the waterfront, slipping behind barrels and coiled ropes, crates stamped with merchant crests, sacks of grain and squash, and dangling fishing nets. Though Belle was a gentler land than most, she knew better than to tempt fate. All it took was one curious longshoreman or suspicious sailor to ruin everything. She counted seven ships. On the eighth, she saw it: a white bird, wings wide mid-dive, painted on the hull in deliberate strokes. The Pelican. She exhaled and crouched lower, a small smile creeping across her face. Now the real journey could begin.

“Get those crates over there!”

Rein watched from the shadows as a group of shirtless, broad-shouldered men heaved crates and barrels up the gangplank, their sun-browned skin slick with sweat, their movements practiced and rhythmic. They laughed and grunted commands between loads, unaware of the tiny observer crouched nearby. The cargo was her best chance of boarding unnoticed. She squeezed herself through a narrow gap between the two wooden slats of the crate beside her, and tumbled into a heap of grapefruit. Nestled between the smooth, cool skins of the fruit, she held her breath and waited. Moments later, the crate jolted upward and tilted. Carried by rough, calloused hands, it began its steady journey up the gangplank. Rein kept low as the creak of the ship’s hull and the voices of sailors grew nearer. Then the crate thudded down inside the cargo hold. She was aboard The Pelican.

ξ

Rein remained among the cargo throughout the voyage to Arcor. It took her little time to adjust to the exaggerated swaying of the ship and the nauseating stench of fish mixed with stale ocean water. Still, the journey was largely uneventful, with long stretches of silence broken only by the groan of the hull and the occasional thud of boots overhead. To keep herself from slipping into boredom, she roamed the area in careful doses, and ate some of the food along with the burdania petals she kept in her satchel. Once or twice, she considered playing a harmless prank on whoever came below, but each time, she smothered the urge. Now wasn’t the time for foolishness.

On the fourth day, that calm broke. Voices erupted on deck, loud and frantic. Shouts cracked the air like whips, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel and the chaos of running feet. Rein stiffened. The sound had a rhythm she recognized. Battle. She whispered a silent prayer, heart fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Then came the pounding of feet on the stairs. Several sets, fast, heavy, and urgent. Rein pressed herself against the confines of the crate of grapefruit.

 “What be this madness??” exclaimed a rough voice. “Fifteen kegs of ale and thirty crates of mash! Are ya addled?”

“You gotta understand, Captain,” pleaded another, smaller voice. “They wouldn’t allow me to load any more than that!”

“Then ya sneak more on, fool!”

“Understood, I’ll do just that next time—with extra!”

“Do ya realize how many times I’ve heard similar vows and never witnessed them be fulfilled?”

“Please, don’t be mad!”

“Ya pathetic waste of life!” Rein heard a long, drawn-out gargle, and she flinched at the following thud. “Feed this one here to the fish and get these crates on board.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” replied a couple of new voices.

Rein listened in panicked silence to the struggle which ensued beyond the sanctuary of her crate. Then the din retreated. Footsteps faded. The cargo hold emptied. She exhaled, shaky and slow, her breath catching halfway out.

Silence settled like dust, but her mind spun wildly. What now? Could she run? Find a bird and flee into the skies? Maybe, but only if she was near Arcor, and there was no way to know how close they had come. During the voyage, she had scouted every corner of the hold and found no rodent tunnels to squeeze into. And venturing out onto a ship now crawling with unfamiliar sailors, likely pirates? Unthinkable. No, her best hope was to stay hidden, stay silent, and let herself be carried onto the victor’s vessel like every other piece of stolen cargo. It was a gamble. She had no idea where the new ship might be headed. But her options were vanishing fast. Rein tugged at her black choppy hair in a futile effort to think harder.

Fifteen long minutes passed before the crate lurched upward. Rough hands hauled it across the deck. With every jolt, grapefruit slammed into her ribs, her shoulder, her knees. By the time she was unceremoniously dropped onto the floor of the new ship’s cargo hold, bruises bloomed beneath her skin and her head throbbed. She bit back a curse, swallowing her pain in the dark. Then came the sounds: the eerie whirling of giant flames, the groaning collapse of timber, distant cheers rising from above like a storm passing through. Rein closed her eyes. She assumed The Pelican was now on its way to the bottom of the ocean, and she was on her way to … well she hadn’t a clue.

Moments later, footsteps echoed down the stairs. Two sailors entered before she could even think to move. Heart hammering, she shrank deeper into the cover of the fruit as they continued their conversation, listening for any useful information.

“I really don’t care,” said one sailor. “I have only enemies on Arcor.”

“Viroe thinks they’ll come after us.”

“They don’t even know we sunk it, how could they come after us? Anyway, what did the cook say he wanted again? Apples, carrots, grapefruit, squash, and what else?”

“I think he said something about pears or peaches.”

Grapefruit. That was the crate in which Rein hid. No longer was she concerned about what she could learn through their conversation. She had to find a new place to hide. She managed to escape her crate just as one of the sailors opened the lid. Rein hoped and prayed he didn’t see her light as she dove into the next crate.

“What was that?” the sailor asked.

“What was what?”

“That. Look! It just disappeared!”

“What did?”

“There was a light! Help me find where it went!”

Rein slipped through the slats of the new crate, and dove behind a sack of potatoes. She still didn’t feel safe here, so she continued to move about the cargo before she took refuge in a crate of radishes far away from the two sailors.

“What do ya mean there was a light?”

“I saw a light move! Help me find it, I’ll show ya.”

The two sailors searched around the crates and boxes as Rein prayed hard and constant. Lids creaked open. Crates were shuffled. Rough hands rummaged through boxes just feet away as the men swore and coached each other, moving ever closer to where she hid. Then, the lid above her opened. Rein couldn’t breathe.

“I found it!”

Rein burst through the gap in the crate like a spark in the wind. Shouts erupted behind her as the two sailors gave chase, boots pounding against the cargo floor. She darted about the crates and sacks, and the men barreled after her, toppling boxes and flinging bags aside in their scramble to grab her. She scanned the walls in a panic, desperately searching for a crack, a rodent hole, anything small enough to slip through. Nothing. Her frustration mounted with every frantic glance. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. Still, she ran.

Until suddenly, there was nowhere left to go. A wall of boxes and sacks loomed ahead, and the sailors closed in behind her. Rein skidded to a halt, chest heaving. She was cornered. She turned slowly, eyes wide, watching as the sailors spread out with grim satisfaction.

“What is it?” the second sailor asked.

It was now clear to Rein that she was a on a pirate ship, not that she had much doubt about it before she was carried on. The sailors wore baggy pants and shirts, musty from having never been washed, and they used colorful sashes to hold their swords at their sides.

“I can’t tell,” said the pirate who found her.

“Can ya talk?” asked the other. Rein nodded. “What ya be then?”

“I’m a pixie,” Rein answered. “My wings were torn off.”

“Ouch,” said the first pirate. “That’s no good. Come here.”

His hands started to close in on Rein and she tried to back away from them, but she only pressed herself harder into the wall of the ship.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Rein cried. “Please! Wait! What do you want?”

“We want to show ya to the cap’n,” he said.

“W-w-what’s he going to do with me?”

“Can’t tell,” he shrugged.

“Do you know if he’ll kill me?”

“Chances are, no. He ain’t got reason to. Now come here.”

“I found a jar!” the second pirate called out.

“No! No jars!” Rein pleaded.

“Ya won’t be in there long.”

“No! I’ll cooperate!”

“Ye will cooperate.” The first pirate took the jar and set it in front of Rein. “By gettin’ in the jar.”

Rein gazed at the glass prison and trembled. She searched her mind for other options, areas to run off to, places to hide. Curses, if only she had wings!

“Just … don’t put the lid on it?” she asked. “You know I can’t fly out.”

“I won’t put the lid on,” he swore.

Rein held on to the hope that she could reason with the captain in some way, and reluctantly entered the jar as instructed. The pirate lifted her off the floor with a force causing her to fall the rest of the way to the bottom.

“Don’t put the lid on it!” she reminded, but the pirate brought the lid up.

“No! Don’t put the lid on it!”

He screwed it on.

“No! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe with the lid on! Take the lid off! Please! Please take the lid off!”

The pirate carried her to the captain’s cabin, paying no mind to Rein’s shouts and pleas. She pounded her fists against the curved walls, screaming through the glass, her voice little more than a buzz to his indifferent ears. When they entered the captain’s quarters, he crossed the richly appointed room and set the jar down with a solid thud on a wide mahogany desk. Rein stumbled slightly from the shift in momentum but caught herself, resuming her pleas for them to remove the lid with renewed urgency. But the pirates turned and left, the door closing behind them with a definitive click.

Rein sagged against the glass wall, breath shallow. Her frightened gaze darted about the jar, then to the desk, and the room beyond. There had to be a way out. She shoved at the lid with both hands, teeth clenched, but it didn’t budge. Frustration began to mingle with her growing panic. She searched the jar’s rim, its sides, anything she could use for leverage. Nothing. Three hundred years had changed more than she thought; this glass was far thicker than the kind she’d once shattered. Too heavy to break, too smooth to climb. If she knocked it over, she might not even crack it, only tumble off the edge of the desk with the next sway of the ship, and end her life in a fall. All she could do was wait for the captain.

But Rein couldn’t sit and wait. Not while the captain wandered freely beyond the cabin walls without a thought to the imprisoned pixie on his desk. Every moment stretched taut inside the jar, and the silence pressed in on her like a vice. She positioned her hands and feet on either side of the slick interior, and braced her back. With a grunt of effort, she began inching her way up, muscles trembling as she climbed toward the lid. Sweat slicked her palms. Her breath echoed in shallow bursts against the glass.

Finally, she reached the top and pressed both hands against the underside of the lid, pushing, twisting, straining. Her tiny fingers slipped over the smooth surface, but she could feel it giving just a little. She kept at it, burning through what little oxygen remained in the jar. Her limbs grew heavy, her vision blurred. The air was too warm, too thin. Her strength ebbed fast, and her knees buckled beneath her. She slipped. With a dull thud, she crashed back to the bottom, stumbling into the glass wall and tipping the jar slightly. The ship rocked, and the jar rocked with it. It tilted and wobbled, and fell onto its side with a soft clink against the polished desk. Rein barely had time to process what was happening before the jar began to roll … straight toward the edge of the desk.