Invincible (21 page)

“Indeed,” the Bailiwick croaked. “I am certain that we all would be more suitably impressed if I were appropriately dressed for the occasion.” He glanced sideways at the Valkyrie. “Did I not give specific enough instructions that I was not to be disturbed?”

“You said no one was to disturb you. I count four.” Filly shrugged. “Besides, she threatened me.”

Graus Claude looked at Joy, impressed. “Indeed?”

“I...came to
request
something of you,” Joy said carefully. “As the Bailiwick of the Twixt.”

Graus Claude measured her expression and the implied meaning of her words. She hadn't
demanded
entrance as she had once before—to dishonor him twice was absolutely out of the question and to do so before strangers was something she knew she'd pay for in more than blood—but he must have realized how serious this was if she needed to go back into the Bailiwick so soon. The gentle whirring of the miniature buffers stopped. His claws had been painted and set with gold leaf.

A gurgling string of nasal syllables bubbled up from his throat, pinging off the walls like brass cymbals. All the humans—the handmaidens and the older men around the room—turned and moved in an unhurried single file through a swinging door set behind the stone friezes. Joy watched them go, unnervingly proper, steady as clockwork. When the door closed, Joy relaxed.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“They are
mine
,” he said, inspecting his nails. “Generations of loyalists from the Old Days, under my auspice and protection, those who know me and my kind for what we are—what we were—and what we have always been.” He sighed. “This is a sanctuary, one of many, but alas, one of few suitable for my purposes within my jurisdiction in your world.”

“And warded to the nines,” Stef muttered, glancing around at the unseen lines of power that permeated the room.

“Yes, that, certainly.” Graus Claude nodded, his chin nearly lost in his pillowy jowls. “And staffed by a bloodline whom I know well and who can recognize those whom I associate with as well as those whom I wish to abjure.”

Dmitri paled. Joy swallowed. “They could See us upstairs?”

The Bailiwick sighed. “Despite your Eurocentric upbringing, Caucasians are not the only ones who possess the Sight.” Graus Claude gazed up at the elaborate ceiling. “This sanctuary was inspired by the Forbidden City as well as the Beibei Wenquan Temple in Chongqing.” He spread his toes, drying the webbing between them. His wounds were all but gone. “One would think that they would be disparate elements, but I find there is a harmony to be found in most things brought together for a common purpose,” he said to Joy and Ink, his eye ridge lifting. “Even you two.”

“And that is why we have come,” Ink said. “For our common purpose.”

“Aniseed,” Joy said quickly. “Aniseed's escaped. She's already tried to kill us and you know she'll stop at nothing to keep the King and Queen from Returning so that she can try to bring about her crazy Golden Age. Bailiwick, once she knows where you are, she'll come after you!”

Graus Claude held up all four of his arms. “Calm yourself, Miss Malone.” He demonstrated taking a deep breath. His slit nostrils dilated. “Now. Please explain what has happened from the beginning.”

She did. But instead of alarming him, the news seemed to seep what strength he had from his limbs. When she finished, he shook his head, his eyes slipping closed with a sigh. “Miss Malone, I must protest. How many times must she die in order for you to believe that she is dead?” he said. “I assure you, while Aniseed was a remarkable villain, she is not conveniently lurking behind every rock and plot.”

“But she
is
!” Joy insisted. “I know she is! It's
her
!”

“It may be that the golem was responding to Aniseed's last instructions before she died, that if something were to happen to the graftling, then the golem should seek revenge upon you—a final, venomous slight, nothing more,” the Bailiwick mused. “More disturbing is the notion that someone has pilfered her last remains, perhaps to use as a call to arms? I'd wager the Tide is involved.” His voice sank in a sigh. “But if it is as you say, then the Grove Elder is correct—the graftling will not survive. It's over.”

“It
isn't
,” Joy said flatly. “That's why we've come seeking the Bailiwick. When the King and Queen and the lost Folk Return,
then
it's over.”

Graus Claude fiddled with his towel. “Can I get you anything before we continue discussing this theory of yours?” he asked.

Joy glanced around at the others. “No, thank you, I—”

“Good,” he said ominously, threading both sets of hands. “Explain.”

Joy sighed.
Fair's fair
. “You once told me that the King and Queen spoke the world of the Twixt into being, so whatever they say becomes law, absolute. They are the Makers. They made the rules,” she said. “But, since they are also Folk, not even
they
can break them. They've locked
themselves
behind the door, and they didn't even need the Council's
signaturae
to bind it shut, because once they had said that they would not Return until it was safe, those became the conditions of their release. Without the courier to tell them, the King and Queen could never know whether it was safe to come home or not. After Aniseed betrayed the Council and you, making everyone forget about the King and Queen, they were doomed to stay in Faeland by their own Decree. They have been waiting for the courier to fulfill their own conditional rules.” Joy shook her head. “But I didn't know that. I erased the locks and opened the door—I broke the rules. That should have been impossible, but I think they
needed
someone who could break the rules. And I think I could do that because I am...what I am,” she said carefully, knowing Graus Claude would understand. If she were part-human or part-Elemental, she was born outside the rules of the Twixt. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the scalpel or the Sight, but she couldn't let the others—especially Filly—know that.

Graus Claude inclined his chin, understanding perfectly. “They have been expecting the courier to open the door and tell them that it was safe to Return, in accordance with their own rules.” He nodded. “Go on.”

Joy nodded. “But it was me.”

The Bailiwick exhaled, long and low. “I see.”

“So, if the Council's and my theory is correct, it's now
my
job to convince them that it is safe to Return, or they'll be bound by their own words to remain on the other side of the door forever.” She checked the Bailiwick's expression, which was still as stone. Joy shrugged helplessly. “Those are the rules.”

“A sound, if unfortunate, theory,” he agreed. “Without their guidance, I fear both our worlds are destined for war and ruin.” He squinted at Stef and Dmitri, his low-slung head regaining some of its palsy quiver. “So what have they to do with this?”

Joy gestured to her brother and the satyr. “I think they might be the proof we need.”

“What makes you think this?” the Bailiwick asked.

“Well,” Joy said, glancing back at Stef and Dmitri. “If I could prove that Folk and humans can live together, not in fear, but in love, then that should satisfy the conditions of the Return.” Why did everything sound dumber when she said it aloud? Joy found her fingers had wrapped themselves in her shirt hem. “Well, I thought it might be worth a try.”

“Indeed...it is quite poetic and satisfies the conditions of their Decree,” Graus Claude said, sitting up with a groan of effort. It was odd to see him swathed in nothing more than fluffy beach towels on a reclining bench and not an immaculate three-piece suit behind his great mahogany desk. So much had changed in such a short time and yet, Joy realized that Graus Claude still held all the poise and the power he'd had when they'd first met. “It is an elegant solution.” The Bailiwick turned to look at Dmitri and Stef. “You are willing to do this? To cross through one world into the next and present yourself as proof to our Majesties, the King and Queen of the Folk?” He sounded doubtful.

Stef paused as if considering. Joy knew that his feelings about the Other Thans were warring with his loyalties and better judgment. The struggle showed on his face. However, Dmitri shrugged his shoulders.

“You're asking us to save the world?” He curled his chin hairs over his knuckle. “Yeah, we can do that,” he said casually. “But the world owes us one.”

Graus Claude's eye ridge twitched. “And that is...?”

“Back off,” Dmitri said, taking Stef's hand. “Let us live together in peace.”

The Bailiwick nodded. “Precisely our aim, should you succeed.” He leaned back on his haunches and lumbered off behind one of the folding screens.
“Hjalmþrimul?”
he called over the edge.

Filly answered, “Yes, old toad?”

“Ensure none pass,” he said gravely. “And this time, heed my words, else risk the lives of these mortals as well as your own.”

The Valkyrie snapped a salute and relaxed her stance. “As you say.” She nodded to Ink and Joy. “Victory!” she said, raising a fist. Joy and Ink returned the gesture as she vaulted back up the stairs. Graus Claude listened to the echo of her footfalls, waiting until the last taps of her boots blurred on the edge of hearing.

Joy whispered into the pause. “I'm sorry for this.” She wished she could erase the indignity of it, reducing him to a thing instead of a person, a title instead of a name.

Graus Claude's head bobbed gently, a nod or a quiver. “Needs must, Miss Malone.” He settled his massive bulk on the stones and rested each of his hands, palm-up, fingers poised. “Needs must.”

Joy raised her voice. “We demand entrance to the Bailiwick of the Twixt.”

Graus Claude stilled, his very breath dissolving like smoke. His mouth yawned wider, the gap growing taller, the hinge of his jaw dislocating with an audible
click.
His eyes misted over, turning milky as cataracts. His mouth grew to the size of a doorway, his tongue curling back to adhere to the top of his mouth, revealing the set of stone steps going down. Joy watched her brother's and the satyr's expressions. There was another soft
click
as the transformation stopped.

The four of them gazed at the end of a long journey. Ink opened his hand to Joy, who took it, threading their fingers together. They stepped over the lower jaw, ducking under the points of sharp teeth.

“This way,” Joy said. She felt her brother hesitate as the flash of fire zipped past, changing from blue to red and red to blue as Stef and Dmitri followed.

Dmitri corkscrewed his head, wide-eyed, and spoke through the twist of a grin.

“Down the hatch!”

EIGHTEEN

“I DON'T BELIEVE IT,”
Stef said as they crossed the meadow, slipping on the sliding horizon.

“A little late for that, don't you think?” Dmitri said. Joy was amazed at how well the satyr was adjusting to the pocket world inside the Bailiwick, and his childish glee made her wonder if he believed any of it, or if he was high. He hopped through the long grass, marveling at the sensation. “It's so like the Grove, but—not!” he said through a smile. “It's like I'm at a theme park. Twixtland! Ha ha ha!” He ran through the flowers and kicked up his hooves. He stopped, sniffing. “But there's no scent,” he said. “No air. No life.” He turned a full circle and looked back at them, bemused. “It's like running through a painting. It's not real.”

“No,” Ink agreed. “But it was as real as she could remember. As real as it gets after hundreds of years of confinement.” He still hadn't forgiven the Folk for forgetting his Maker—his mother, the princess—or her royal family. Perhaps he'd never quite forgiven himself for forgetting, either. He'd had the memories, since the Amanya spell worked only on Folk and not homunculi, like the Scribes or golems, but he hadn't been fully sentient until recently. Inq had waited aeons for her brother to gain the necessary independent thought that would allow him to share half the burden of protecting their creator and hunting down the traitor in secret, which was one of the prime reasons she'd tried forcing him to interact with humans, to learn something about living from mortals who had to live a lifetime in a breath. Joy suspected it was the reason Inq had cooked up the whole
lehman
excuse to cover up Ink's “mistake” back at the Carousel. With Joy having to play the part of Ink's lover, he couldn't help but learn what it was like to have feelings. It was a short skip to learning the meaning of loyalty, passion, betrayal and love.

Ink had learned a lot, knowing Joy. She just wished he hadn't learned quite so much all at once. And there were some things she wished he hadn't learned at all.

“And this is just what's in-between,” Joy said, crossing the grassland while keeping her eyes on the door. “The Bailiwick itself is actually a fold in the world, a pocket universe placed outside the Twixt in order to keep it safe from interference.” She glanced at her brother. “Human interference. They were so afraid of being enslaved by their True Names, the King and Queen decided that it would be safest to escape this world with most of their people.” She pointed ahead and slightly up to where the breach hung in the air. “This is where they placed the door in order to take the Folk out of harm's way and wait until it was safe to return.”

“But the Council never sent word,” Ink said. “The courier betrayed them.”

“Aniseed wanted revenge on the humans but she could not be disloyal to the King and Queen's Edict protecting the humans along with the shared magic, because Folk loyalty is absolute,” Joy said. “So she came up with a plan to erase everyone's memory—including her own—figuring you cannot be loyal to something you don't know exists. And she was right. That's when she stepped up her plans to kill off most of the humans with a promise of some fabled Golden Age when the world would be taken over by the Folk.”

“She was good at propaganda,” Dmitri said. “Lots of Folk sided with her.”

“Until they remembered their lost King and Queen,” Ink said, squeezing Joy's hand. “By smashing the crystals that held everyone's memory of their own Welcome Gala, they were able to remember that which was forgotten. When magics collide, the older spell wins.”

“Unfortunately, the conditions of the Return are like a spell, too,” Joy said. “By saying that they would not come back until it was ‘safe,' they made that a prerequisite of ever coming back and that is based on the courier telling them that it's so.” The doorway gleamed with the promise of Faeland's foreign sun. “So now we have to prove that it's safe to come back.”

“But it
isn't
safe,” Stef said.

“It is,” Joy said. “It is safe for them to come back and not fear being chained to humans by their True Names. That was the purpose of
signaturae.
By binding the magic of True Names to a symbol that could not be spoken, the Folk are safe from human entrapment. That was the whole point!” Joy felt irritated that her brother failed to get how close they were, how much this needed to happen. “It is safe for the Folk to be reunited with their families as well as the King and Queen. The Council may not like it, but they'll respect the rules. The royal family can fulfill the long-awaited Imminent Return and then everything can go back to being...the way it was.”

But even as she said it, Joy knew she didn't quite believe it. That's why she couldn't say the last word,
“normal.”
Even without the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach, there was the slight pain—like an ice cube on a sore tooth—that zinged through her whenever she came close to a lie. She didn't need another reminder that she wasn't quite human because she knew even if the King and Queen granted her wish, nothing would ever be quite the same.

Things changed.

Ink twisted direction, and suddenly they were before the door itself, a circular outline of thin, ghostly light against the hazy backdrop of a perpetual summer.

Stef stiffened in surprise. Dmitri inhaled sharply.

“This is it?” the satyr whispered. “This is the entrance to Faeland?”

“One of them,” Ink said. “Are you ready?”

Dmitri stared at the door, rapturous. A shiver rippled down his arms, raising the thick brown hair. He smiled eagerly. “Do it!”

Ink pressed open the door and the sun burst through in a brilliant stab of golden light. The sky beyond it was a crystal blue and the rolling hills were impossible shades of emerald green. There were the banners and the tents, the twin thrones and the war machines, and, of course, the gathered army milling about the encampments, but the spun-sugar castles were gone, a lake sparkled to the west and it looked like the sun was coming from another direction, over a misty forest. It was the same place, but also not.

The King and Queen sat in their thrones surrounded by their court. It could have been her imagination, but it looked like the Queen smiled. The rest of the Folk looked less friendly; however, no guards barred the doorway and no army came charging at them from over the hill. That had to be an improvement.

A thousand pairs of eyes took in the two new figures crowded inside the door between worlds. Joy stepped back to allow Stef and Dmitri to be seen by the gathered Folk. Stef stood stiffly, frozen by awe. The satyr tugged off his hoodie and bounced nervously on his great goat legs.

“Your Majesties,” Ink spoke across the lengths between them. Light wobbled against the warped bubble film that separated them from the Folk afterworld. Stef inched back when it wavered close to his nose. “We have come at your behest to present that which you requested—proof that it is safe for the Folk to return to the world and rejoin the rest of your people.” It was a pretty, proper speech, implying that they did this only to obey their monarch's command. Joy, as one of the Twixt, was expected to acquiesce, and Ink, the creation of the youngest princess, was incapable of disloyalty. The whole thing was tied as neat as a bow. So why did Joy feel like they were making a mistake?

Behold the Destroyer of Worlds.

Joy swallowed.
Not this time.

She took one of Stef's hands in hers. He was sweating.

“This is your proof?” the King asked. He said it almost disbelievingly, testing them and their resolve. Dmitri reeled back from the voice of his king, shaking and smiling in delicious awe.

“Yes,” Joy said. “These two have loved each other nearly all of their lives, despite everything and everyone that kept them apart.” Joy found her throat unexpectedly tight, the words meaning more because they were true. Stef turned to look her full in the face and tears wet her eyes, surprising them both. “They have spent years searching and waiting, wondering how they could find their way back to one another and now—” she took a deep breath and squeezed Stef's hand. He squeezed hers back “—they are together, as equals. We wanted you to see that the Folk have nothing to fear from humans.” She blinked out at the army and the court of the King and Queen. “This is love. Love is proof.”

The Queen dipped her chin. “Love is proof?” she said, as if confirming that she'd heard Joy correctly. Joy felt the razor's edge of doubt touch her spine.

The King's gaze bored into the satyr. Dmitri sucked in his breath.

“Do you love this mortal man, Grove Keeper?”

Dmitri nodded, his face radiant. “I do.”

“And you, wizard,” he said, not unkindly. “Do you love this buck of the Forest Folk?”

Stef licked his lips. Joy stared at him. Did he love one of the Folk? It seemed obvious, but he'd never said it—never said those words aloud—and Joy was suddenly nervous that he could not truthfully say that he no longer had a hatred of “Other Thans.” The moment stretched on a rack before Stef took Dmitri's rough hand in his.

“I do, Your Majesty.”

There was a low susurrus as a real breeze tousled the leaves and flapped the banners, toying with the great wings of the King's and Queen's hair.

“Love is not proof,” the Queen declared, her voice bitter and biting. “Love is fickle. Transient. Deceitful.” Her lips formed the last word as if a marble rolled off her tongue.
“Mortal.”
A cleft pinched between her brows. She spoke as if to a simple child. “Hearts are weak, ephemeral, and they can change—” she lifted her wrist, fingertips just touching “—like
that.
”

She snapped her fingers. Dmitri dropped Stef's hand and leaped through the doorway. It was over before Joy could process what had happened. She stared at her brother.

Stef's glasses reflected the alien sunlight as his head turned. His face contorted, the sound of his voice echoed impossibly after the word had shaped his lips. His body was a sharp unfolding of muscles and bones and sinew.

“No!”

Stef dived through the doorway. It popped. Joy screamed.

“Stef!”
Joy lurched forward, but Ink's arms held her back. Her feet barely inched toward the barrier, an enticing glow against her shoes. She struggled in his grip, watching Stef fall, landing on the grass and chasing after Dmitri across the hills of Faeland.

She wrenched herself desperately. She screeched. She used nails. “Let me go! Ink! Let me go!”

His voice, crisp and clean, whispered by her ear. “You cannot step into that world,” Ink said. “You know that, Joy. You
know
that. But look—”

Her brother breached the swell of the hill, the grass cleaving before him as he scythed a rough line through the verdant hillside, the stalks bowing, snapping, parting as the sun rained down on the back of his neck. Joy could See the aura around him, the shape of wizard light like an invisible wedge as he plowed ahead, clearing a path. Knowingly or not, Stef was using magic. Wizard's magic. Shaking, Joy stared. The world did not crack beneath him. The earth did not crumble or split. Faeland did not reject him. Her brother ran after his love.

Realization twisted inside her like a pin, the shock snapping her still.
How?
she thought.
Is it because he's a wizard? Because he has no
signatura
? Because he hasn't been marked? Or are we different, somehow?
The next thought swelled to the surface like a boil.
Is it me? Is there something wrong with
me
?

Behold the Destroyer of Worlds.

Dmitri was still bounding and jumping ahead of him, zigging and zagging in rapturous glee. From their high vantage point, Joy and Ink could see Dmitri stop before the court and fall to his knees, sides heaving, head bowed. Stef called out his name, but the satyr didn't respond.

Dmitri prostrated himself before his Queen.

“NO!”

Stef crested the hill, rushing forward, eyes wild. The army broke ranks and rushed him. Joy's insides braced as they charged, an inhuman wall against her brother, an army against one lone man. They met with a crash of bodies and limbs; hands clamped on his arms, claws pushing, paws grabbing, tails lashing, pinning him facedown, screaming.

“No! Please no!”
Joy jerked and strained, her face wet with furious tears.
“Please stop!”
The Queen gazed up at her, unsympathetic. Dmitri's bare shoulders heaved as he lay calmly at her feet. Joy didn't need to see his face to guess at the adoration that shone there. The Queen had cast her spell to make a point, mocking her brother's love as well as Joy's proof. The King turned away, his profile sharp as glass.

“Your task is unfulfilled, your offer rejected,” he said. “Your offering, however, has been accepted.”