Authors: Christopher Golden
The road was quiet.
“It’s peaceful here,” Oliver said, as the breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, whose shade kept most of the day’s heat from them.
“Most of this world is peaceful,” Kitsune replied. “It’s only those few fools who are desperate to draw blood that ruin it for the rest of us.”
Oliver glanced at her, no trace of humor on his face. His brow furrowed. “Yeah. It’s pretty much the same way in my world.”
“I know. Legends mirror the human world far more than anyone here wishes to admit.”
The hush of the wind accompanied them. Dust devils eddied up on the road. Deep in the woods, creatures skittered through the underbrush. A bird began to sing, and others replied.
Ahead there was a bend in the road, but Kitsune could hear the trickling of a brook. As they approached, she saw a stone bridge that spanned the little brook, and beyond that there was a weathered old house that looked as though it had been uninhabited for years.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Kitsune to catch Oliver’s hand in her own, twining fingers together like any couple out for a stroll in the country. For a moment, he left his hand there, warm in hers, and it was pure contentment.
Then Kitsune’s ears pricked forward. She frowned, breathed in the scents on the air, and turned back the way they’d come.
“What is it?” Oliver asked, breaking away from her.
“Hoofbeats. One rider, coming fast.”
“What do we do?”
Kitsune glanced around. “The bridge.”
They ran. The sound of the brook grew louder, but it was a gentle burble quickly lost in the thunder of approaching hooves.
Kitsune and Oliver reached the little bridge but did not cross. They ran beside it and down a small incline to where a swift, shallow brook rolled over gray and black stones that glistened wetly. There were far too many people, legendary and Lost, hunting them now. Better to just let the rider pass than risk being identified and having their position given away.
Her hood was back and her cloak floated behind her as she ran. Oliver thumped down into the brook, water splashing his heavy boots, and they ducked into the damp, shady hideaway underneath. Oliver’s breath came fast and his exhilaration was contagious. Kitsune looked at him and felt desire overcoming her. The rugged stubble on his face and the flush of his skin made him seem wild, for a human, and his blue eyes were alight.
Hooves hammered the road, not far off now.
“You there!” a voice boomed across the brook. “Identify yourselves!”
Oliver flinched and Kitsune spun, dropping into a lower crouch, fingers hooked into claws.
On the other side of the brook, in amongst the trees, several Euphrasian soldiers moved toward them. Kitsune counted five, then a sixth appeared from the woods, hitching up his pants as though he’d just relieved himself. Four of them hung back a bit, studying them with curious bemusement, but the two at the front, both officers from the insignia on their chest plates, were gravely serious. Some kind of patrol, she presumed, though what they were doing out here in the middle of nowhere, and on foot, she could not imagine.
Kitsune glanced back to the west and saw the rider approaching. The horse galloped toward the bridge, perhaps a hundred yards away. He had no chest plate, nor a helm, but he wore a band tied around his right arm that fluttered in the wind: green and yellow, the colors of King Hunyadi.
“Come out of there! Show yourselves, now, and answer the question,” snapped the nearest of the officers. He stepped into the brook and the metal sang as he drew his sword.
“What are you, Clegg, a fool? You can see it’s him,” snapped the other officer, older and more stout than the first. His beard was gray, but his eyes were bright with vigor.
Kitsune stood and stepped, rigid as a queen, from beneath the bridge. “Captain Clegg, is it?” she said, and her tone gave both men pause. “Are you in the habit of waylaying travelers like highwaymen and brigands?”
Clegg took a step nearer. The sun gleamed on his silver helm and on his blade. “Your name, miss. And that of your companion.”
“Damn it, Clegg—” began the other officer.
“Shut your gob, Sergeant Matthias!” Clegg snapped, but he did not turn his attention away from the travelers. He was wary, this one, though not as canny as the sergeant.
“I am Kitsune,” she said, and then she stepped aside, giving them their first full view of Oliver. He came out from under the bridge and stood to his full height, and they could see the scabbard that hung from his belt, and the insignia upon it that matched the one on their chest plates.
“As for my companion, as you can see, he bears the Sword of Hunyadi himself. Now you shall sheathe your blade, or his will be drawn.”
The rider was twenty-five yards from the bridge.
Clegg stepped nearer still, the water washing over his boots. He raised the tip of his sword and pointed it at Oliver. “Your name, sir!”
“Captain, you’ve seen the sketch. It’s him,” Sergeant Matthias shouted. “It’s the Intruder!”
With a roar of frustration, Clegg rounded on the sergeant. “That’s enough of you. There are protocols to be—”
Kitsune glanced at Oliver, the thrill of mischief rising up in her, no different from the arousal that burned in her. The situation was dire, but danger was delicious.
“Fight,” she whispered.
Then she lunged at Clegg, copper fur cloak floating behind her on the air as she practically flew across the space that separated them. Even as he turned, she grabbed his wrist, turned the point of his sword toward him and plunged the blade into his chest with such ferocity that his arm broke in several places.
He fell onto his knees in the brook, and blood pooled in the water.
Kitsune kept moving. With less than a thought, she transformed into a fox, splashing across the brook and barking. The soldiers beyond Matthias were shouting to one another in a panic, drawing swords, one of them rushing back into the trees.
“Come, then, myth!” Matthias called. “Traitor!”
She darted forward, his sword came down, and the fox leaped aside. The blade thudded into the dirt, and Kitsune snapped her jaws down on his wrist, fangs sinking into flesh. Matthias cried out and released his weapon, and then Kitsune was past him, running for the others.
The horse and rider reached the bridge, the clop of hooves on stone echoing off the woods and the water. But the horse neighed loudly as the rider—a messenger for Hunyadi, if his armband was genuine—drew back on the reins.
The messenger began to shout at the soldiers.
Kitsune glanced back. Sergeant Matthias was reaching for his sword, scrabbling on the bank of the brook. Oliver wielded the Sword of Hunyadi, pointing it at him as he approached.
“Stand and surrender,” Oliver said loudly.
The fox growled as two of the soldiers rushed toward her. One carried a sword and the other a pike. He wielded it with the expertise of a master, and she hesitated a moment, then raced around the swordsman, putting him between herself and the man with the pike.
The swordsman swung.
Kitsune leaped at him, jaws closing on his crotch. Blood spurted from his soft parts into her mouth and he screamed shrilly. The other soldiers all shouted furiously, and that brought them running. There was no longer any hesitation. If confusion or wariness had held them back before, it was gone now.
The man with the pike kicked the screaming man out of the way, and he fell to the ground, hands clutched over his bleeding, mutilated groin. The pike waved before Kitsune, the blade feinting toward her again and again, and she realized he was only buying time for his fellow soldiers to reach her.
She transformed again, becoming human in the space between heartbeats. Her cloak blossomed around her, black hair falling across her face in a curtain as she moved.
Kitsune grabbed the pike even as he thrust it at her. With the strength of her kin, she snatched it from his hands. The soldier backed up quickly, stumbling and nearly falling.
Behind her she heard a shout, and turned to see Matthias splashing mud and water at Oliver’s face. Oliver took a step back, and twisted so that it spattered only his left cheek. And as Matthias roared and jumped at him, Oliver sidestepped and drove the blade right through the sergeant’s exposed throat. Metal covered the soldiers’ upper torsos and heads, but their throats were bare.
Matthias could not even scream.
The horse neighed again and reared up, front hooves waving in the air. But the messenger was clearly an expert horseman and held on easily.
“Murderous bastard!” the messenger shouted. “You’ll face the gallows for that.”
Kitsune heard Oliver laugh.
Then a chorus of shouts was raised and she turned to see the other soldiers running toward her. But instead of the few she expected, there were more. They began to stream from the woods, where they had been encamped. She had thought it a small foot patrol, but this was an entire detachment of soldiers, several dozen at least.
She swore in ancient Japanese.
“Kitsune!” Oliver called. “This way!”
Breathless, she turned to see him charging at the messenger and his mount. The man snapped the reins and the horse snorted and turned, began to run eastward on the road. But Oliver was faster. He grabbed the horse’s bridle with his left hand, sword still brandished in his right.
The animal slowed, chuffing, shaking its head, but Oliver held on. The messenger shouted at him, tried to kick him, and drew his own sword. That was his downfall. He ought to have just tried to spur the horse on. He was a messenger, not a soldier.
Oliver parried the blow and jabbed him in the arm.
The sword fell to the ground. Oliver let go of the bridle and took hold of the messenger, hauling him from the saddle.
Kitsune fled, the soldiers charging after her. As she ran toward him, Oliver mounted the horse. The messenger began to rise, shouting in protest. Kitsune grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him to the ground. He tried to fight, but she struck him in the kidneys and all the fight drained from him. She untied the king’s colors from his arm and took the standard with her as she raced to the horse and leaped up behind Oliver.
“You’re getting quite good at this,” she said.
“At what, staying alive?”
There was no humor in his face as he kicked the beast’s flanks. The horse began to gallop away from the bridge and the soldiers. Some of the men tried to pursue them on foot, but fell back after only seconds, realizing they had no chance to catch the fugitives.
Two miles further along the road, with no sign of pursuit and without encountering any more troops, Oliver let the horse slow to a canter. Kitsune held on, arms wrapped around him from behind, and enjoyed the closeness.
“That was interesting,” he said dryly.
“My life has been nothing but since I first encountered you.”
“Funny. I could say the same.”
Kitsune laughed softly, but only for a moment. As they swayed on horseback, she became aware of the heavy leather saddlebags that hung on either side of the beast. She reached over and undid the buckle on the left one, plunging her fingers in and withdrawing a small packet of letters, bound with red string, each with a seal of green wax and stamped with the insignia of the king of Euphrasia.
Her heart fluttered. Quickly she untied the string and, clutching the letters against her chest, opened the first one. The greeting alone was all that she had to read.
“Oliver,” she said, her voice a rasp.
“Are you all right?” She had let go of him and now he turned slightly in the saddle.
“Quite a bit more than all right. That messenger was in service to King Hunyadi.”
“Hold on, Kit. I want to put more distance between us and those soldiers. It’s their service to the king that concerns me most at the moment.”
“You’re not thinking. Don’t you want to know what a messenger for the king was doing all the way out here, three days’ ride northwest of Perinthia?”
Oliver pulled on the reins. Now he turned round in the saddle as far as he could and studied her face. “What are you saying?”
“These letters are addressed to His Majesty John Hunyadi, King of Euphrasia, at his Summer Residence at Otranto.”
“So he’s on vacation. So what?”
Kitsune purred low in her chest and grinned. “So, foolish man, Otranto is less than a day’s ride from here. We could be there by morning.”
“But Collette—”
“Get a pardon from the king, and our journey to the Sandman’s eastern castle will be far swifter, far easier. The Hunters still will pursue me, but you will be free to do what must be done to rescue your sister, and halfway to eliminating the death warrant that’s been sworn against you besides.”
Oliver took a deep breath, contemplating. “But what about the Dustman? And how will I get in to see the king?”
“Far easier here than in Perinthia, I would wager. You cannot pass up this opportunity, Oliver. The Sandman will not kill Collette as long as you’re alive; we have established that. We must go to Otranto.”
“And if the king just orders me captured and executed?”
“You will have to convince him otherwise.”
Oliver shook his head, but then looked at her. “All right, which way?”
“Stay on the Orient Road. I’ll guide you,” she said, and as she did, she tied Hunyadi’s standard around his bicep. Oliver was not dressed like a messenger, but they carried letters to the king.
She put them back in the saddlebag and buckled it. Perhaps they might survive another day after all.
Kitsune did not like to think further ahead than that. In particular, she did not want to think overmuch about what would happen when they faced the Sandman.
“Ride, Oliver,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face against his back. “Ride.”
CHAPTER
8
I
t’s true, then? We’re stuck here? We can never go home?”
Julianna studied Virginia Tsing’s face, watched the lines crinkling around her eyes, and tried to tell herself that the woman was wrong. She had to be. But Virginia was kind and intelligent and obviously wise, which was why all of the other humans in Twillig’s Gorge deferred to her as their de facto leader. There was little structure to the community, but the Lost Ones had Virginia to speak for them whenever anything came up.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, reaching out to lay her hand upon Julianna’s atop the table. She glanced at Halliwell and then back to Julianna. “Truly, I am. No one ever takes the news well. But it is inescapable. The Veil is constructed imperfectly enough that sometimes people get lost, slip through to this side. But no one can ever go back—not until the Meshing, when a Legend-Born child will guide us home.”
Halliwell narrowed his eyes and studied her with the scrutiny he might have given to some suspect he was interrogating. He could not conceal the desperate hope that rose in him.
“So, you’re saying there
is
someone who can get us past the Veil?” he asked.
At this, the woman’s expression became guarded. “Not only you. All of the Lost Ones.” She shrugged, glancing away as though embarrassed. “My son would tell you it is only a story, and perhaps he is right. Even here there are legends.” She tapped her left temple. “These eyes have never seen a Legend-Born child, but still I believe the tale.”
With a sigh, Julianna sat back in her chair, her hand slipping away from Virginia’s. Halliwell had one hand to his forehead but was otherwise nearly catatonic. From the time the Naga sentry had brought them down into the Gorge and introduced them to Miss Tsing, and through the two hours Julianna had conversed with the woman, learning about the Two Kingdoms, their rulers, and their history, Halliwell had said very little. Several times he had asked a question, mostly to clarify something Miss Tsing had told them. Otherwise he only sat in shock and stared.
Miss Tsing owned a bakery in Twillig’s Gorge. The best, she claimed. Her father had been descended from a battalion of soldiers who had been swept through the Veil from Nanking, in China, many decades before, and her mother had descended from members of the Roanoke colony who had mysteriously disappeared from an island off the Virginia coast. She had never seen the world her ancestors came from. All she knew was the life and lore of this side of the Veil, and the stories of the human world that were passed down from them, or shared by Lost Ones who had come through in subsequent years.
The bakery had been started by her father in one of the storefront buildings along the Sorrowful River, right in the Gorge. There was a small stretch of the riverfront that was almost like an old European town, with florist shops and restaurants and markets, abuzz with life. A wide cobblestoned walkway passed in front of the shops, beside the river. The bakery had a patio in the front where people could sit and have tea or coffee and watch the life of the Gorge, the fishermen at work, the merchants selling their wares.
It would have been peaceful if it was not so entirely surreal. Julianna and Halliwell sipped coffee and ate pastries at a table with a rose in a vase and a white tablecloth while goblins and fairies and beast-men went about their business as though it was perfectly ordinary. And to them, it was.
Throughout the entire conversation, Julianna had learned so much that was nearly impossible to believe, and yet she had no choice but to believe it. After all, the proof was all around her. Miss Tsing told them of the legendary and the Lost, the Two Kingdoms, the Veil, and the Borderkind. She shared what she knew of a crisis that was spreading throughout the Two Kingdoms, with Hunters in pursuit of the Borderkind in a secret effort to eradicate them. A secret that was no longer quite as secret. Even as Julianna attempted to wrap her mind around that, Miss Tsing explained that Oliver was different from the Lost Ones, that he was an Intruder.
“All right,” she said now, sipping at the coffee, which had a hint of exotic spice. “So Oliver was not touched by the magic of the Veil…Jesus, I can’t believe I’m saying this…which means he can go back. And that’s why this whole crazy world wants him dead?”
As Julianna spoke, a handsome young man came from within the bakery. He wore an apron that was covered in flour and smeared with something dark. From his complexion and his countenance, it was clear he was some relation. The man stopped at another table to speak quietly to a group of humans—Lost Ones—of varying races.
A very pale, thin man glanced over at Halliwell and Julianna and laughed softly, rolling his eyes in derision. The baker said something quiet but sharp, and the pale man fell silent.
“Just as you say,” Miss Tsing told her.
“Virginia,” Halliwell said, and it had been so long since he spoke that both women were startled by his voice. “If one of these Borderkind can take Oliver back, then why not us? So we went through once, and now this…roadblock…is going to stop us?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Halliwell shook his head, jaw set grimly. “There has to be a way.”
Even as he spoke, the baker came toward them. He put a hand on Miss Tsing’s shoulder.
“There are always stories. But if there
is
a way,” the baker said, “no one has ever found it in all the years since the Veil was created. Otherwise, the Lost would never have remained.”
Julianna smiled at the newcomer, who seemed friendly enough. But Halliwell knitted his brows and grimaced at the man. It was obvious the detective did not want anyone dousing whatever spark of hope he could still retain. Julianna didn’t blame him.
“My friends,” Miss Tsing said, “this is my son, Ovid. Ovid, Mr. Halliwell and Miss Whitney.”
Ovid Tsing nodded once to them politely, then glanced at the Lost who sat around the table he had just come from. There were others out on the bakery’s patio as well, some of whom had been making little attempt to disguise their eavesdropping.
“I have spent my whole life on this question, Mr. Halliwell,” Ovid said. He squeezed his mother’s shoulder and she smiled up at him indulgently, patting his hand. “If there were a way for the Lost to return, I would know. One day you will have to accept that, but it often takes time.”
“Your mother said something about a child…what was it?”
The pale man across the patio shook his head wearily.
“The Legend-Born?” Ovid asked, favoring his mother with an indulgent smile. “Stories. Mother’s generation is very superstitious.”
A dreadful silence fell upon them then. Julianna could not look at these gentle, hospitable people. She looked out across the cobblestoned riverwalk and at the river rolling by. Her parents and friends would be frantic by now, believing the worst. It must be nearly Christmas, and she thought of the antique radio she had bought her father, who loved such things, and the Christmas Eve dinner she was supposed to cook with her mother. Work was not such a terrible thing to leave behind. It was all of the little things, the sweet minutiae that made up the best of life.
Halliwell stood up, chair scraping on the patio, and went to the railing to look up and down the length of the Gorge, as if searching for an exit.
“What will you do?” Miss Tsing asked, leaning in toward Julianna.
“Find Oliver. Whether I’m trapped here or not, the only thing left for me to do is to find him, to see his face and hear his voice, and from there we’ll figure out what’s next.”
“And you, Mr. Halliwell?” Miss Tsing asked.
Julianna studied him. The detective leaned on the rail with his shoulders hunched, his muscles taut, as though he might at any moment fly into a rage. But when he turned, his expression was calm and his words measured and even. It was the eyes that gave him away. Halliwell’s eyes were far away, perhaps as far away as a little corner of Maine, or an apartment in Atlanta, Georgia, where his daughter remained, never knowing what was in her father’s heart.
“Julianna’s right. We find Oliver,” he said. “There are questions I want to ask him. Things I need to understand. And if you’re wrong, and there is a way home, then I’m betting his friends will know about it.”
Ovid gazed at him, only a hint of sympathy on his face. “And if I’m right, and there is no way home?”
Halliwell looked at him for a moment as though contemplating the question, then walked back to the table. He did not answer. Instead he sat down again and looked at Miss Tsing.
“All we know is that Oliver’s gone east. He’s got almost half a day on us. But he’s going to have to stop at some point. Do you have any idea where he might go?”
The woman’s forehead creased in thought. She glanced around at the other people sipping coffee and tea and eating scones and muffins and pastries at the patio tables, as though some of them might make a suggestion.
Then she shrugged. “I cannot help you. The Orient Road is to the east. If they are truly going that direction, they will travel upon that road. But your friend has a warrant sworn out for him. He will be cautious. That might slow him down. But it will also mean he is trying not to be found, unaware that some of those who seek him are his friends. There are small towns and villages along the way, but nothing of great consequence. I cannot guess at his destination.”
Julianna shivered, and became aware of a chill that went all through her. It was as though she had been cold all along and only now realized it. A sip from her coffee cup did nothing to warm her. Only then did she understand that the chill was despair.
“So, what, then?” she asked, turning toward Halliwell. “How do we even begin to look for him?”
Halliwell stood up again, edgy with nervous energy. “We go, now. We’ll find this Orient Road and we’ll follow. If we ask enough questions, we might find someone who saw him, or even better, someone who will be able to tell us where he’s headed. He’s wanted, Julianna. Wanted men have only one thing on their minds, and that’s how to stay alive. If we can figure out how he plans to do that, we can find him.”
Julianna stood, and so did Miss Tsing. She hugged the old woman. “Thank you, so much.”
Ovid shook Halliwell’s hand, then Julianna’s. “I wish you luck. Please, though, wait here just another minute. I will put a bag together for you, some food and water to carry on the road.”
“That’s very kind,” Julianna said.
Halliwell looked at him and the tension between them seemed to dissolve into understanding. The detective nodded, and Ovid the baker nodded in return, then turned and went back into the bakery to fetch them food for their journey.
Virginia Tsing stepped close to Julianna. “If you do not find him, or if you should find him and return this way, come and see me.”
Touched by her generosity, Julianna embraced her again, whispering her thanks.
“You’ll never find him,” said a small voice behind her.
Julianna turned, angry at the callousness of the words and the intrusion. She saw the fury that flashed in Halliwell’s eyes and worried that he would one day lose control of himself.
But not today. The voice had come from a little girl, perhaps ten years old, who had been sitting for the past half an hour or so with two others, slightly older than she. The girl was pretty, eyes wide and precocious, skin a dark chocolate brown.
“Excuse me?” Julianna said.
“Kara, still your tongue. This business is none of your concern,” Miss Tsing said.
The girl scuffed one shoe on the patio. “All right, but it’s true. They don’t stand a chance of finding their friend. Not without a guide. Not without a tracker.”
Halliwell took a step toward her and the girl flinched.
“You know someone like that?” the detective asked, crouching down beside her.
The girl executed an elegant bow. “I am Ngworekara, sir, though I’m called Kara by most. And if you wish, I would guide you myself.”
Julianna laughed softly, but not unkindly. “That’s sweet, Kara. And we appreciate it. But you can’t be…what I mean is, you’re only—”
“A child?” Kara asked, those wide eyes narrowing. “You’re Lost, miss, and so I can understand your doubt. But you’ll learn soon enough that many of the people here are more than they seem.”
Halliwell had not laughed, only studied her more closely. Now he turned to Miss Tsing. “Can she really do that? Track Oliver?”
The woman arched one eyebrow. “Who is to say? Kara has no parents. She has been here for several years and yet she seems no older. She often seems to know things others do not. If she believes she can guide you, there seems no harm in letting her try.”
Julianna looked closely at the girl’s face. The idea was insane. How could she and Halliwell, who knew nothing of this place, take care of a little girl while they were searching for Oliver? And yet if what Miss Tsing said was true, perhaps Kara wouldn’t need much looking after.
“Are you sure?” she asked the girl. “You can do that?”
Ngworekara nodded gravely. “Oh, yes. If he can be found, I will find him.”
“All right,” Halliwell said. “Let’s go.”
Staring into the girl’s eyes, Julianna felt cold again, but did not know why.
Many cities in the human world had neighborhoods that lingered from the earliest days of settlement. Often they had quaint names, but with equal frequency, the locals referred to these sections with the simplest of appellations. The Old City. The North End. The Latin Quarter.
There was a Latin Quarter in Perinthia, but it was not preserved as such neighborhoods in the human world were. At the northwest corner of the city, the Quarter consisted of buildings that had been old when Rome and Greece were young, and that had been shifted from the mundane world to the realm of the legendary when the Veil was raised. Parts of the Quarter were little more than ruins, but even the structures that were still inhabited were crumbling.
Blue Jay strode through the Latin Quarter that afternoon with Cheval Bayard and Chorti flanking him. The kelpy woman glanced around nervously as they skirted a long column that had collapsed into the street. She glanced at Chorti every few seconds, and seemed to draw courage from him, but Cheval was skittish. Blue Jay could not blame her. A gray caul of cloud cover hung over Perinthia, and a light rain fell. Even without the sunshine marking out their every movement, however, striding down the street in the middle of the day when all the Hunters were searching for Borderkind—and the authorities seemed disinterested in intervening—was about the most foolish thing Blue Jay could have imagined.