The island is nothing more than a spit of rock that reaches out of the thrashing sea like the skeletal finger of an old sea god. Surrounding it is a maze of submerged rocks and coral reefs. Our boat is too cumbersome, too warped by the wind, to navigate the maze, and we wreck it on the outer edge of the maze.

The chains hurt as they are torn out, and blood swirls in the water as I swim to the island. The Ribbon Man trails me, a section of iron chain in his hand to ward off deepdark creatures drawn by the blood. I cut my knees and feet crossing the coral; he leaves ribbons behind, black strips fluttering in the water.

We find a narrow path cut into the rock, and clutching at the rock of the island, we shuffle slowly along. Round and round, we circle the island twice before we reach the peak. There is a narrow rim at the top, and the rest is a depression with narrow grooves that drain water away into the interior of the rock. Near the end of the path, just below the rim, is a small shelter, built from wrecked timber and stained sailcloth. The bottom of the depression is flat, covered with the lines and arcs of a great seal.

The porter is asleep in his shack, curled up beneath a moss-stained blanket that may have been blue once. One of his hands sticks out, and the tattoos on his wrist are so old that they've faded into a slur of letters. On a thick nail, driven into the rock wall, is his chain and medal.

The Ribbon Man steals it, and we peer at the inscription on the back. The script, like the porter's tattoos, has become faint and garbled with age. A-.Na-.-i. On the other side: Tem.—F. "It's enough," the Ribbon Man says, and he unlocks the seal with the shiny magic that still resides in the medal.

We descend into the Inverted Tower.