Lost Ones-Veil 3 (23 page)

“You feeling any better?”

Kitsune nodded, scanning the bank of the river and the wide expanse of the Truce Road, which rose up the hill to the west.

“He could have killed me,” she said without looking at Coyote.

“I thought you told me he was dead?”

“He was. I saw him die. Him and the Dustman and a human called Halliwell.”

Coyote pushed his hands into his pockets, glancing back at the gods as the last of them marched to the riverbank. “Then what did we just fight? What did this to me?” He pointed to his missing eye. “And what made him pause like that? He could have broken you apart before any of us could help.”

She shivered. A sick grin touched her lips. “Thanks for the image.”

Coyote shrugged. “It’s just the truth.”

“I know. But I don’t have any answers.”

The gods surrounded her, then. Assurances were exchanged and the march began again. They kept to the middle of the Truce Road and did not encounter a soul along the way, neither Lost One nor legend. In the trees on the roadside, animals foraged and capered, and a trio of hawks circled in the sky perhaps a mile off.

At the top of the hill, Kitsune stopped again.

Below them, the road turned slightly southward. Thick groves of apple and pear trees lay on either side, and other fruits grew there as well. Past the orchards was a broad expanse of crops—corn and wheat and barley and a hundred other things.

“What is it?” Bellona asked, impatience in her voice.

Kitsune turned to look into the dark eyes of the goddess of war. Behind her, Hesperos and Salacia seemed troubled, gazing down across the orchards and crops.

“You’ve never traveled this way before?”

Bellona shook her head. “But I feel something—a powerful presence here.”

“The gods of the Harvest,” Kitsune explained. “They linger, gathered together from a hundred cultures. They travel afar, but they have made a kind of home here.”

Bellona flinched. She glanced back at Hesperos and Salacia, the closest of her companions, and Kitsune saw anxiety in their eyes. It could not have been called fear—not for beings of their power and history—but their hesitation was plain.

“What is it?” the fox-woman asked.

The goddess of war did not reply, so Kitsune glanced at the others.

“If this is the sanctuary of other gods,” Salacia said, “we should not enter without being given leave.”

Most of the other gods kept to themselves. Ares, in particular, made no move to approach the conversation the Borderkind were having with his kin. Coyote reached into his pocket and produced a hand-rolled cigarette and then a match with a flourish that drew all eyes to him. He lit the cigarette and drew a lungful, then shook out the match. It vanished in his hand like some parlor trick. Smoke plumed from his nostrils.

“Kitsune and I will go. If there’s a concern about going into their territory without permission, it’s best you all stay here. Tricksters are expected to break the rules.”

Slowly, Bellona nodded. Kitsune thought she might be reluctant to admit Coyote was right, but she had no choice.

“All right,” the fox-woman said, glancing at her cousin. “With me, then.”

She started down the hill.

“You’re the boss,” Coyote said, following.

Kitsune wondered when that had happened. Once she’d been nothing but mischief, a little trickster in copper fur, capering in the forests and dallying with men and legends. Now the last of the bitter old gods followed her lead, and the never-reliable Coyote watched her back.

Together the tricksters followed the Truce Road, accompanied only by the sound of the breeze rustling the trees on either side and their own soft footfalls on the hard earth. A loud bark came from behind them. Only when Kitsune turned did she realize it had been the voice of Cronus. He made as if to follow them, perhaps taking her safety as his mission, but Bellona and Ares had halted him.

Kitsune smiled softly. It could not hurt to have a Titan watching over her.

The air filled with the sweet smell of apples and pears at their fullest ripeness. Orange nectar drifted on the breeze. Kitsune shivered with the heady pleasure of those and a dozen other scents all in impossible simultaneous bloom. Her mouth watered.

Coyote began to stray toward a peach tree.

“No,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Not without an invitation. Stay to the road.”

He nodded, still smoking his cigarette. Its herbal smell mixed with the aromas of fruit, and she realized this was his way of offering peace to the gods of the Harvest even before they had encountered those earth deities. Silently, she approved.

Long minutes passed.

When they at last reached the end of the orchards and the sides of the road turned to field upon field of crops that rippled and swayed in the breeze, they saw the first of the gods moving in amongst the corn. Stalks danced aside as it passed.

On the road ahead, figures began to emerge. Some of them she recognized. There were lovely, ethereal females and animals whose bodies were made entirely of stalks and husks and branches. Twice while traveling with Oliver she had encountered a group of these gods—once upon this very spot—and now she saw the Kornbocke step from the rows, its head high despite the heavy rack of antlers upon its head. The Appletree Man ought to have been back in the orchards, but he was there as well, and shuffled upon thick, knotted roots to the edge of the road.

The hard-packed dirt of that ancient road—once the symbol of truce between the Two Kingdoms—trembled.

“This can’t be normal,” Coyote whispered. “They don’t come out like this every time a traveler passes by.”

Kitsune agreed. Something transpired here that she did not understand.

Even as the thought touched her mind, the road ahead erupted with thick cornstalks, rustling against one another.

“What the hell?” Coyote asked, stub of a cigarette dangling in his hand. When he dropped it, roots thrust from it down into the soil of the road, and a tiny garden of herbs grew up on the spot. The ravaged socket of his missing eye had changed his face so that his expression was difficult to read.

Kitsune stared at the herbs, then looked at the corn that grew wild right before their eyes. A trickle of fear ran down her back. Once she had feared very little, but the Sandman had unsettled her.

Determined, she stepped forward.

The cornstalks twined around one another, twisting and layering and building themselves into a tall, humanoid figure.

“Ahren Konigen,” she whispered as the features became clear.

Coyote shot a glance at her. “The harvest king?”

Kitsune nodded.

Konigen stood watching them, though he had only blank, shadowed pits where the corn husks that comprised his face were indented to imply the presence of eyes.

The gods of the Harvest gathered round them. Coyote shifted nervously.

“You are welcome here, Kitsune,” Ahren Konigen said, his voice a rustle.

The wind rippled the crops. The gods of the Harvest seemed to sigh.

“You have our thanks,” Kitsune replied.

Konigen did not seem to hear her. “We have been awaiting your arrival. You travel slowly, for legends and gods.”

Kitsune blinked. She frowned and glanced back up the hill to where the old gods of Greece and Rome waited in the road.

“We met with difficulty across the bridge,” Coyote replied for her, reaching up to touch the raw flesh at the edge of his empty eye socket.

She turned and saw the knotted brows of the harvest king draw more tightly together, stalks twisting. “The roots have carried the news. We might have come to your aid, but your trouble ended quickly.”

“It’s kind of you, Konigen,” Kitsune said. “And you are right. We do not travel swiftly enough. We journey toward the border to help King Hunyadi repel an invasion—”

The king raised his hands to take in all of the other gods of the Harvest, and the two tricksters as well.

“Do you think word has not reached us?” he asked in that rustling voice. The husks of his face rearranged themselves into what might have been a smile. “Word travels fast along the roots underground, and sometimes on the breeze from tree to tree. We have been waiting for you, Kitsune, because a vote has been taken.”

Confused and a bit worried, Kitsune studied him. She glanced at Coyote, trying to form the question that needed to be asked. Konigen did not wait.

“You have been our ally in the past. You and Oliver Bascombe, who revealed the crimes of Aerico and returned Appleseed to us. The schemes of Atlantis threaten us all. When we learned that you traveled this way, in league with the gods of Europe, the Harvest voted. We will join you in this journey. The Harvest will stand or fall with Hunyadi. With Euphrasia. For if Atlantis should win, surely they will burn us to the ground.”

Kitsune drew back her hood, staring at Konigen with wide eyes. Her copper fur glistened in the sunlight as the wind billowed it around her.

“Your Highness, I cannot find the words to thank you.”

The king of the harvest inclined his head, almost courtly. “There is no need. You have proven your mettle, trickster. We call you friend. And this matter concerns us all.

“Now, call down the gods from across the river and we will all be as one, allied in this cause, with destruction or victory the only possible outcomes.”

Kitsune felt the shadow of the night’s terror dispelled at last. A vibrant energy surged up through her. She wished, in that moment, that the next turn in the road would bring them to the enemy, so that they could join in the battle that very moment.

“It would be our honor,” she said.

Coyote glanced around at the Harvest gods gathered there. Further into the fields, other things moved through the crops. Kitsune wondered how many there were, guessing at least two hundred. Most would not have the power that Konigen or the Kornbocke had, but they were all very difficult to kill and could be cunning and cruel when the need arose.

“Let’s be off, then,” Konigen said. “I have sent word ahead to Oliver that we would join his band by midday, and the sun is already overhead.”

Kitsune froze. The words hardly seemed real. Knots formed in her stomach and her skin flushed as all of her guilt and shame returned.

“What do you mean? Oliver’s in Yucatazca. Ty’Lis has him in the king’s dungeon in Palenque.”

Corn husks twined together on Konigen’s face. “The roots bring the truth. Oliver escaped. He travels with his lover and a coterie of Borderkind. They came through the sandcastle that had stood for centuries just south of here, but once they left the place, the castle fell.”

Kitsune stared at him. “It fell?”

“Collapsed,” Konigen replied. “It is nothing but sand, now. And the roots bring whispers that the same thing has happened to all of the monster’s other castles—at least within the Two Kingdoms. They wait for us in the ruin of the Sandman’s castle, and from there we shall all march to war.”

“And he knows we’re coming?” Kitsune asked, mystified that Oliver would be waiting for her, but wondering, as well, if after all of the intervening months he could have forgiven her.

Konigen nodded. “He waits.”

Kitsune felt numb. She did not know how Oliver would greet her, what bitterness might have stayed with him during his time in Palenque’s dungeon. But how could she hesitate?

“Coyote,” she said, “hurry back to Bellona and the others. Tell the gods they have found allies amongst the Harvest.”

But even as he ran up the hill, five words echoed in her mind.

He travels with his lover.

CHAPTER
15

O
liver sat on a huge stone on the side of the Truce Road and gazed southward at the trees that lined that road. When they broke camp and set off, they would pass the trees where he, Frost, and Kitsune had found a little Red Cap murdered and hung for display. It had been the first time he had seen a victim of the Sandman. Only four months had passed since then, and yet he found it difficult to recall the horror he knew he had felt in those moments. Since then, the awful things had piled upon one another until he could barely summon horror anymore. Disgust and fury, certainly. But horror had become almost a constant now, part of the fabric of his life, and he hardly recognized it within him.

The breeze carried a chill and he shuddered. He preferred this weather to the heat of Yucatazca, but a sweatshirt would have been welcome.

“Where are you drifting?”

Oliver turned to find Julianna walking toward him. He smiled at the question and slid over to give her room beside him on the rock.

“Forward and backward,” he said. “Wondering what the future holds, and remembering how we got to this point. Still hard to take it all in, even though we’ve lived it.”

Julianna slid her arm through his and leaned on his shoulder, her body forming perfectly to his as it always did. He loved the smell of her hair.

“That’s you, babe. Escaping in your brain.”

“Escaping?”

Julianna gave a soft laugh. “What else would you call it? I wish I could go into my head the way you do yours. Maybe I wouldn’t be so impatient.”

Oliver kissed her on the forehead and Julianna looked up at him. Instead of being lost in his own mind, he became lost in the space between them—and then he made it vanish, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. He kissed her again, more fully, and then they pressed their foreheads together.

“I’m not quite so impatient,” he said. “I’m not in any rush to make tomorrow come faster. Not when you’re here with me right now.”

She started to smile, but then a frown creased her brow. “Wait, tomorrow? We’re not breaking camp until—”

He laughed. “Just a figure of speech, Impatient Girl. As soon as the Harvest gods arrive, we’ll be heading south.”

She hung her head, her hair a curtain across her face. “So weird how you can just say that. ‘Harvest gods.’ Like it’s totally ordinary, everyday stuff. Even after what I’ve seen, it’s still hard for me to picture.”

Oliver did not reply. The comment did not require a response. No matter how much time he spent here, he knew he would always be adjusting to the amazements the world presented. Julianna was no different.

They sat for several minutes just listening to the breeze through the trees, watching the Truce Road to the south. He had told her the story of what had happened here and was glad she did not want to discuss it any further. Nightmares were best forgotten. Sometimes—too often—the task proved impossible.

With Julianna beside him, out in the world and away from the dungeon of Palenque, Oliver felt himself relax in a way that he had not managed since the night when Frost first intruded upon his life. He felt content and lucky. His sister, Collette, was off with the winter man in the ordinary world somewhere, and no matter how much he resented Frost, Oliver knew she would be safe with him. The two people in any world that he loved were out of harm’s way. He only wished they could go home now and leave the Two Kingdoms behind. But the war concerned them all. If this moment was all he could hope for—at least in the near future—it felt all the more precious to him.

He stiffened at the sound of a voice on the wind.

“What’s wrong?” Julianna asked.

But when it came a second time, she heard it as well. The two of them turned, twisting around on the rock, and saw the powerful, apelike figure of Leicester Grindylow barreling toward them.

“Grin?” Oliver ventured, still getting used to the water boggart’s nickname. “What’s going on?”

But even as he asked the question, he saw the dust rising from the Truce Road to the north, and he had his answer. Oliver slipped from the rock and stood. Julianna did the same, reaching for his hand. Their fingers twined and they started toward Grin.

“Right, you’ve seen ’em, then,” the boggart said. “Figured you’d want to know that the Harvest gods have arrived.”

“Thanks. We’re on our way.”

Grin nodded and turned around, hurrying back the way he’d come. Oliver had thought the boggart might fall into step beside them, but found himself relieved that Grin was in such a hurry to rejoin the others.

Blue Jay, Li, and Cheval stood at the edge of the road several hundred yards to the north, where the wind blew grains up from the ruins of the sandcastle, but all he could focus on was the bizarre parade of legends coming down the slope toward them. He recognized many of the gods of the Harvest, but others were unfamiliar to him. In addition to the men and women and beasts made of wood and leaves and wheat and cornstalks, several thick roots burst from the soil on the roadside and then plunged into the dirt again, moving like worms. Thick as fallen logs, they emerged and then burrowed down again.

Beyond the Harvest gods were legends he did not recognize. In his time on this side of the Veil, Oliver had seen many warriors, but none like these. Many legends were larger than ordinary humans, but this small cadre was somehow also grander. They were formidable and they strode along the Truce Road as though they were some royal family, gathering for the funeral of one of their own. Last of all came an ugly, lumbering giant who seemed at once ancient and childlike. His hands were so large Oliver thought he could probably crush a man’s bones to powder with one squeeze.

Yet even with that extraordinary sight, he only glanced at the approaching legends. His focus had begun with—and now returned to—the two figures at the front of that strange parade, a skulking trickster in a denim jacket with a cigarette clenched between his teeth and the familiar, petite form of Kitsune. The sunlight made her copper fur gleam red and orange, as though tiny pinpoints of fire burned on her cloak and hood.

“Did you know she was going to be with them?” Julianna asked.

Oliver turned and saw the hurt in her eyes.

“I had no idea.”

“And she just expects us to behave like nothing happened, like she didn’t run away and leave us to die?”

Oliver watched as the bizarre foot soldiers arrived at the ruin of the sandcastle. The roots that had been burrowing through the ground thrust up from the sand and became tree-creatures. One of them was the Appletree Man, whom Oliver knew. Cheval Bayard, Grin, and Li moved to meet them. Blue Jay slid past the first of the Harvest gods and went to his cousins—the tricksters. With a nod to Coyote, he took Kitsune in his arms in a tight embrace. From behind, all Oliver could see were the feathers in Blue Jay’s hair, dancing in the breeze.

“I guess she does,” he said. “The war’s on. She’s bringing a bunch of warrior legends to fight alongside Hunyadi’s soldiers. We’re all on the same side.”

Julianna stood rooted to the spot, the two of them halfway between the rock they’d been sitting on and the ruins of the sandcastle. “Maybe she doesn’t care if we’re here or not. Maybe she doesn’t think she did anything wrong.”

Oliver shook his head. He remembered all of the times Kitsune had looked at him with those jade eyes, the intimacy of her nearness, her lips brushing his own. Even though at the time he hadn’t known if he and Julianna would ever be together again, he had not followed through on those temptations. But he had wanted to. He and Kitsune had grown close in so many ways. Their friendship had been intense and passionate, even without the sexual tension that had developed. He would never have imagined her abandoning them to the dungeons of Palenque to save herself.

But that had been willful blindness. Had he given it any thought, he would have been able to predict it. Oliver wouldn’t flatter himself by believing that Kitsune truly had fallen in love with him, but the journey they’d gone through together had created a bond between them that Kitsune—a trickster, normally caring for no one but herself—would not willingly surrender or even share. Oliver should have seen her jealousy coming. At the very least, he should have understood it at the time.

Now he did. Not that he forgave Kitsune, but he knew that what happened was nothing more than her nature. Instinct.

“Oliver,” Julianna said.

Ahead, at the ruins, the three tricksters were talking even as the other Borderkind and legends began to gather on the road. The time for rest had passed. They were off to war.

Kitsune pulled back from Blue Jay, looking around. Her gaze fell upon Oliver and Julianna and even from a distance he could see the sadness etched upon her face.

“War’s like politics,” Oliver said. “It makes strange bedfellows.”

Julianna cupped one hand behind his head to get his attention and moved closer, locking eyes with him, tearing his focus away from Kitsune.

“It better not,” she said.

All along, she must have had her suspicions about what had gone on between him and Kitsune through that long journey. But she had said nothing until now. Oliver smiled softly, reminded how extraordinary a woman this was. Julianna had gauged the situation and put it aside as unimportant, particularly with Kitsune out of the picture. Now, as strong as she was, she wanted reassurance.

“We got very close. But never
that
close.”

“And now?”

He shook his head, reached out and touched her cheek. “All I want is to be with you. As for friendship with Kitsune, I could have forgiven her leaving us high and dry. I really could have. But she hurt you, Jules. Whatever bond we had before, she broke it.”

Julianna took a deep breath and some of the fire left her gaze. “War makes strange bedfellows.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“But I’m not going to play nice.”

Oliver had no reply to that. Julianna Whitney had never put on a false face in her entire life, except with some of the law firm’s clients, and then only under duress from the partners.

In silent agreement, they strode toward the ruins of the castle, which had spilled sand for hundreds of feet all around it as it collapsed. As if on cue, Kitsune extricated herself from Blue Jay and Coyote and walked out to meet them. Blue Jay watched with concern until Coyote said something to distract him, and then the two tricksters studiously attempted to mind their own business. The rest of the gods and legends were making introductions. How strange that in the midst of such wonders Oliver and Julianna should be focused on the personal and intangible.

The breeze blew Kitsune’s silken black hair across her face. She brushed it aside and then reached back, as if to raise her hood. As her fingers touched the copper fur, she hesitated and changed her mind, leaving it where it was. She would not hide in the shadows of her cloak, or in the fur of the fox that she was in her heart.

He saw no trace of mischief in her eyes, today. Only regret.

“Oliver,” the fox-woman said. Her gaze shifted. “Julianna.” She bowed her head in some combination of greeting and penitence and then looked up at them again, finally searching Oliver’s eyes. “You know that if I could take those moments back, I would. For a trickster, trust is a gift, whether given or received. I knew…I
know
that I ruined that trust. And I am deeply sorry.”

Slowly, Oliver nodded. “You did, Kit. And it means a lot to hear you say that. But you know it can’t be that simple.”

So much remained unsaid between them but to try to discuss it now would serve no purpose except to hurt Julianna.

Kitsune glanced at Julianna. “I could not have taken you through the Veil. You know that. But I should not have struck you.”

Julianna let out a breath that was almost a sigh. In her eyes, Oliver saw a sadness that reflected Kitsune’s, full of sympathy and frustration.

“I’d like to punch your lights out,” she said, as though the words surprised her. “But I don’t know how to be that kind of person. We’re going to travel together, I guess, but allies don’t have to be friends.”

The fox-woman glanced at Oliver and then back at Julianna, bristling at her words. Whatever sadness and shame she felt, it couldn’t be easy for her not to react. But instead she pulled her cloak around her like the day had suddenly turned cold.

“We go to war,” Kitsune said, her voice low and aching. “In case one or all of us should die, I wanted you to have my apology. Nothing more needs be said. If fate is kind, once we reach King Hunyadi, we will never encounter each other again.”

Night fell over Atlantis.

On the spiral dome of the kingdom’s great library, the Walker Between Worlds perched precariously and stared out across the city that comprised the entire island. In one hand he clutched the fox-headed walking stick that had become like a totem to him, and with the other he held onto the spire. His dark cloak floated out behind him.

Wayland Smith narrowed his eyes to study the troops that massed in the circular plaza below, then gazed out to the water’s edge, where strange ships awaited the soldiers they would take to war. The ships were like spiral palaces set atop Moorish castles, but all made of many-hued glass whose surface billowed as though alive. They floated upon the water like jellyfish, but each had a dozen small masts strung with sails that reflected back the world like silver mirrors.

King Hunyadi would not be pleased.

There had never been any question that Atlantis would attack. But it had been some years since Smith had been to these shores, and he would never have imagined them capable of mustering such an attack. Each separate detachment of troops in the plaza had several sorcerers garbed in black and gold, and at least one Atlantean giant. To the west lay a mountainous, volcanic island shrouded in dark smoke that issued from vents and craters and hid the city of the giants from view. Smith had no idea how many of these ancient monstrosities still lived on that shifting, volcanic rock, but he counted twenty-seven on the main island of Atlantis, right there in the plaza. He hoped none remained behind the shroud of smoke as reinforcements.