Rise of the Isle of the Lost (Descendants 3)

The burst of magic that shot through the entire kingdom of Auradon was so strong and so unexpected that no one on the Isle of the Lost even noticed when the invisible barrier disappeared for a moment. (Well, it was invisible, of course.) It frizzed out of existence, and for that glorious minute, everyone who was trapped on that island could have escaped from it. Except no one knew, and so no one escaped, because no one noticed.

Except for the fish down below, who found it odd that something that had previously been on the other side of the barrier had now floated over to the Isle side. The side where the villains lived, the side where evil ruled, the side where, if anyone had any idea that this certain something was now within grasp, the entire ocean would soon fill with scoundrels of all sorts trying to get their hands on it.

And that is exactly what came to pass….

Because someone or something…did notice….

Someone with a big mouth.

“A pint of pond scum, two brine balls, a bucket of chum, and a side of rot,” the old pirate said, perusing the menu with his one good eye.

“Rot: Dry or wet?” asked Uma, all business, pencil poised above her notepad.

The pirate thought about it. “Wet.”

“Terrible choice,” Uma growled. “Order in!” she called, placing the ticket on the revolving machine by the kitchen window.

“Order up!” the cook growled back. She was a surly woman in a white chef’s hat and red apron who slammed every order on the table with a bang so that half its contents spilled on the floor. The shop’s menu was posted on wooden planks over the counter, listing items such as sea slime, spleen, and grit, as well as their specials, shell smell and fish guts.

Uma picked up the tray, tucked the pencil behind her ear, and saw to the other patrons in the drafty, perpetually damp tavern that always smelled like fried fish. Long wooden tables and benches were filled with pirates and louts. A seashell throne stood in the far corner; it had been made for her mother and was now Uma’s favorite place to sit. She’d been working at the restaurant for as long as she could remember, watching her mother broil offal and roll out the dogfish dumplings. But while Ursula’s name was on the sign at the door, she was hardly ever there anymore. These days Uma’s mother spent most of her time at home watching Auradon soap operas on their rusty television and mourning her glorious past when she lived in King Triton’s palace. Ursula had been exiled from Atlantica before being exiled again to the Isle of the Lost, a double banishment that she swore to avenge.

Uma was glad to have the place to herself. If Ursula were around, she would only be raging and complaining about why she had been saddled with such an ungrateful and useless daughter. Ursula never ceased to remind Uma how often she’d lost to Mal. When she’d learned Mal had been chosen to go to Auradon, Ursula flipped her tentacles. Uma never heard the end of it.

Uma cleared a few tables and kicked out some pirates for dueling, pointing to the sign on the wall that said NO DUELING. A few minutes later, she returned to the old pirate’s table laden with his meal. “Pint of scum, brine balls, boiled chum, and a side of wet rot,” she said, banging it all down on the table.

The old guy sniffed at the plate of brine. “This smells a week old,” he said suspiciously.

“It is a week old,” said Uma, her arms crossed.

“Excellent!” he said, and dug into his rather disgusting-looking meal. Uma had no idea how people could eat at Ursula’s. You’ll take it how I make it was the house slogan, and so far, no one had the courage to complain. Many on the Isle remembered the power the sea witch used to wield.

Uma continued to “serve”—more like yelling and dumping food in front of a few more patrons—a couple of hungry Huns sharing a plate of moray soufflé and a few rowdy Stabbington cousins fighting over the tastiest pieces of splat. When Uma returned to the pirate’s table, his plates were empty and the old sea rat was rubbing his belly in appreciation. “Hey, you heard the news?” he asked, seeming to be in a talkative mood.

“What news?”

“Goblins have some hot info,” he said, leaning in to whisper.

Uma rolled her eyes. “Goblins are terrible gossips.” She kept clearing the table, stacking everything on her tray.

“Yeah, that may be, but they sure have an interesting tale to spin this time,” said the pirate. “Rumor going around the docks is that it’s got something to do with the merfolk.”

“Oh yeah?” Uma couldn’t help being intrigued. For all intents and purposes, she herself had merfolk blood. Queens of the seas, Ursula would lament. We would be queens of the seas if not for that awful Triton and that terrible Beast.

The pirate raised his eyebrow and grinned. “You know that storm we had yesterday? The big one that almost tore down the mast of the Jolly Roger?” Uma nodded. “Something weird about that storm; it came out of nowhere, ripped through all of Auradon and the Isle of the Lost. Goblins say a couple of eels over by Seaside saw a fool mermaid playing around with King Triton’s trident and accidentally created that downpour—and lost the trident in the process.”

She pursed her lips. “Lost trident, huh? I call fish tale,” she said, putting away the tray of dirty dishes and crossing her arms. “Everyone knows all the magical artifacts in the kingdom are kept in the Museum of Cultural History. Triton doesn’t even use his trident anymore. The golden age of magic is over in Auradon.”

The old pirate scratched his silver beard. “Doesn’t he take it out for every mer-festival?”

“He does,” Uma had to agree. She’d seen the sea king on TV, holding up his trident at the opening ceremony.

“And when was the festival?”

“Yesterday,” Uma allowed, recalling the incessant coverage on the Auradon News Network. They’d even pulled that stupid crab out of retirement so he could sing that song one more time.

“Ended with that big storm,” said the pirate.

“But if Triton’s lost his trident, why doesn’t he just call it back up?” she asked. “Can’t he do that?”