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
It’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.