Lost Ones-Veil 3

by Christopher Golden

  Only when he walked hurriedly past the small militia that Ovid Tsing was trying to recruit did anyone pay attention to him. Ovid himself cast a wary, mistrustful glance his way. Coyote sneered at the intense young man. Arrogance ill-befitted a human in a world of legends.

  Outside the door of the café, Virginia cleared teacups and plates from a table, piling them onto a tray. As he strode up, she pretended not to see him. Some of his kin seemed to have been able to shake the general mistrust that so many had for tricksters. Blue Jay had practically become respectable, and Kitsune had earned herself a part of the new legends being formed around the Bascombes.

  Of course, that was only because the Lost Ones didn’t know she’d run off and left them to die in the king’s chambers in Palenque.

  Coyote grinned. So much for respectability.

  “Hello, Miss Tsing,” he said.

  The woman might be old, but still she was beautiful; a creature of the Orient. Asian, they would have said in the ordinary world. There were other cultures in her bloodline, but Coyote didn’t care enough to discover what they were.

  “Coyote,” she replied, inclining her head in the curt approximation of a bow.

  “Your son will have all the Lost Ones of Euphrasia marching for the border soon,” the trickster said, his grin widening.

  Virginia smiled, in spite of herself. “I doubt that. Ovid means well, and some will answer his call to arms. But it will take more than his voice to make the people rise up.”

  “Legend-Born, for instance,” Coyote said merrily.

  Another woman might have thought herself mocked, but Virgina only nodded. The past few weeks, her debates with her son had spilled onto the promenade, playing out for patrons of their café and anyone passing by. Virginia Tsing had assured her son a hundred times that the only way the Lost Ones who were not already part of the army would rise up would be if the invaders were marching toward their homes, or if the Legend-Born had truly come.

  “If the Bascombes reveal themselves as Legend-Born,” the old woman said, “the Lost will stand with them against the treachery of Yucatazca or Atlantis. Men and women will rise up by the thousands to fight in their name, but not in the name of any king.”

  Coyote figured she was right, but since the Bascombes were in the dungeons at Palenque, the old woman was out of luck, and so was Hunyadi.

  On the other hand, Coyote had a feeling that perhaps Virginia knew more than she was letting on.

  “You had a guest a few moments ago,” Coyote said.

  Virginia gestured to the people dining at the café’s patio tables. “I have many guests.”

  Coyote tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, but this one had a scent I recognized. A unique scent. And I caught sight of him inside. You can’t trick a trickster, old mother.”

  A smile touched her lips. “Your nose is keen.”

  “What did the Wayfarer come to say? When he visits, he usually brings new refugees to the Gorge. This time, he came in secret and whispered to you.”

  The old woman bumped open the door to the café with her hip. She paused, halfway inside, to glance back at him.

  “A squirrel perched on my shoulder this morning, Coyote. It told me that perhaps soon a story would become reality. It might be that my son will soon have far more men and women to lead into battle than he could ever imagine.”

  “You’re saying the Bascombes are alive? That the Wayfarer means to free them?”

  Miss Tsing raised an eyebrow. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Coyote nodded once out of respect. “My thanks, but not just now.”

  The door swung shut behind her. Coyote turned and left the patio. On the promenade he passed Ovid and his growing militia as they began a series of exercises. But he had no interest in causing mischief for Ovid Tsing at the moment.

  Swiftly, he scrambled back up the ladder to the trolls’ balcony and then climbed a rope, swinging himself up onto the suspension bridge. He raced across, fleet as ever. On the other side, he moved from ladder to catwalk to the wooden struts holding up a little house that jutted out from the sheer cliff face of the western wall of the gorge.

  Coyote slipped through an open window. The place had been his since shortly after he’d arrived in Twillig’s Gorge, won in a card game from an aging demigod and his satyr mate. They’d left the Gorge not long after. The blustering demigod had been an arrogant prick, and few seemed to miss him.

  There were only four small rooms, including the kitchen, but at the rear of the little hanging house, Coyote had found a door, and beyond the door was a tunnel that led to a cavernous hollow that must have been excavated at the time the Gorge had first been settled. If the candles and blood spatters were any indication, it had once been used for worship. Black soot from burnt sacrifices painted the rock walls.

  But that had been long ago. Now it was a den. There were new candles back there. As Coyote slipped through the door into the tunnel, he could see the flickering of yellow light on the walls. Inside the cavern, there were far more shadows than the candle flames could dispel. Darkness shimmered with the dancing light. He smelled food—the fish he’d brought the night before, most of it uneaten—and sighed.

  On the floor of the cavern lay a huddled figure, sprawled on blankets and reading by candlelight. Reading was all she seemed to want to do these days. He understood that. Coyote rarely felt guilt, but on those few occasions it had been easier to slip into other worlds than to live in his own.

  “You’ve got to eat,” he told her.

  In the candlelight, Kitsune’s jade eyes gleamed brightly and her coppery fur flickered like fire. Her silken black hair framed her face and he caught his breath. They had never been lovers, always more like squabbling siblings. And tricksters could never trust one another when lust entered the picture. But her beauty was enough to make even his deceitful heart ache.

  “I ate,” she replied without looking up.

  “More than that.”

  She sniffed and ignored him.

  Coyote sat beside her and reached out to push the book down, forcing her to look at him. “I’ll be the last one, cousin, who ever calls you to task for hiding from things you don’t want to face. But it isn’t like you.”

  Anger flared in those jade eyes. Her jaw clenched and unclenched and then she softened. Fury—at herself, at Oliver Bascombe, and at the world—smoldered until it became sorrow. “You know what I did. I betrayed them. I betrayed him.”

  “You’re a trickster.”

  “It’s different. I’d made a vow. A bond.”

  “If you’d stayed behind, you’d have been killed, or Ty’Lis would have you in his dungeon, too,” Coyote reminded her.

  Kitsune lifted her book and began to read again—or at least make a show of it.

  “Is that why you’re hiding here?”

  The fox woman ignored him.

  Coyote stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants.

  “Wayland Smith visited Virginia Tsing today.”

  Kitsune flinched, then looked at him over the top of the book. “Only Virginia Tsing?”

  “So it seems. But if you wanted to make promises about the future of the Legend-Born, there’s no one better to talk to than that old woman. All of the faithful will listen to her.”

  Jade eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, cousin?”

  Coyote grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? Uncle has a plan to free the Bascombes. Your friend Oliver may survive this war, Legend-Born or not. I wonder if you’ll be happy to see him, should you come face-to-face. Even better, I wonder if he’ll be happy to see you.”

  Kitsune set the book down and slowly rose to her feet. “You never know when to be quiet, do you?”

  “Gets me in all sorts of trouble,” he agreed. “So, what now, cousin?”

  Her anguish lay revealed for a moment, and then she composed herself, her expression turning grim.

  “I don’t know. But if Oliver’s going to be free, then it’s time I freed mys
elf as well. It’s time I did something to burn away my regrets. But we’ll stay away from him, cousin. It gnaws at me, but I don’t ever want to have to see my reflection in his eyes.”

  Coyote nodded appreciatively. “The truth. It’s usually so unbecoming in a trickster, but it works for you.”

  Kitsune strode toward him. “It’s our nature to be selfish. But this is too much. I’ve used your weakness to shield me, but the Atlanteans have slain too many of us, and they mean to murder the rest. They won’t stop until all the Borderkind are dead. It’s time to fight or die, Coyote.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? I was hoping to put it off for a while.”

  “I’m sure. But we have another task before we can go to war.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “There are others like you, hiding, or simply trying to stay neutral. They’re fooling themselves, thinking the war isn’t theirs to fight. The time has come to disabuse them of that notion.”

  Coyote sighed.

  It had been a perfectly lovely, lazy day. Now Kitsune wanted him to play hero—a role never designed for a trickster.

  “Shit,” Coyote said. “Couldn’t you have simmered in your self-loathing for a few more days?”

  Kitsune smiled and slid a hand behind his head. She pulled him toward her and their foreheads touched.

  “Good dog,” she said.

  He cursed at her, and she laughed as she preceded him from the cave. Despite his pique, he was elated to hear that sound. Kitsune had been her own prisoner for too long. Now she would run free, and wild.

  Wayland Smith walked between worlds. He had always done so and hoped that he always would. This was his power and his legend. The Borderkind thought him one of their kin, and he never argued the point, but he was not like them. They could walk in two worlds, while he could travel in many.

  Yet over the ages, it had become more and more difficult for him to cross those borders. What the sorcerers had done in creating the Veil was unnatural, and it had begun to erode his ability to pass from one world to the other. This alone might not have alarmed him, but he feared that it would only be the beginning.

  There were myriad other realities and worlds layered one upon the other—a great many of which he had yet to explore. If the magic used to create the Veil could wear away at his magic, he worried that he might one day find himself trapped in one of them, unable to journey beyond. Perhaps those unaware of the existence of the worlds beyond could be content with such restriction, but he was the Wayfarer, and it would be his death.

  The Veil had become his bane, and long years ago, Smith had made up his mind to bring it down.

  Now the Atlanteans and their damned ambitions were interfering. Whichever members of the High Council were behind the actions of Ty’Lis, they wanted to seal off the legendary world from the ordinary forever, to exterminate the Borderkind and destroy the Doors. Wayland Smith simply could not allow that.

  Whatever it required, he had to see that King Hunyadi was victorious and that the Bascombes survived to fulfill their destiny. One of the Bascombes, he thought, correcting himself. Not that he wished harm to befall either one of them, but as long as one lived, his plans could still bear fruit. He had spent long years laying the foundations. He would not be thwarted now.

  Smith strode along a mist-shrouded path, one of the Gray Corridors that wound in and out of the worlds, allowing him to move not only between parallel realities but between locations in a single world.

  The Wayfarer paused. Mist clouded his vision. He raised his cane and, like a dowsing rod, it tugged him forward and to the left, and he could feel that he was close to his destination.

  After a dozen steps, the mist cleared and he found himself standing in a copse of trees whose branches kept off the worst of the southern heat. The battalion led by Captain Beck was on the march, dust rising as they moved northward. For a moment he just watched them go past.

  Then Smith emerged from the trees, the brim of his hat providing his only shade, and set off toward the troops. Soon, a small group of soldiers broke away from the battalion and started toward him. Several archers nocked arrows and drew back their bows, prepared to fire.

  The Wayfarer kept moving.

  One of the archers loosed an arrow—by dint of nerves rather than purpose, he surmised—and Smith knocked it from the air before it struck. A shout came from amongst the troops, and then he saw the tall, lithe form of Damia Beck emerge. She waved the defenders back into the ranks, then stood waiting as Smith approached.

  A moment later, Blue Jay extricated himself from the marchers. One by one he was joined by others of his kin—first Li, the Guardian of Fire, and then the odd pairing of Cheval Bayard and Leicester Grindylow. Cheval wore her human face and shape, and her silken gown clung deliciously to her figure as the breeze caressed her.

  Smith did not pick up his pace. The four Borderkind and Captain Beck waited patiently for him. He stopped perhaps eight feet away and let several moments pass as the rear flank of the battalion marched past.

  “You’re ready, then?” Smith asked Blue Jay.

  The trickster nodded, his features grim. The feathers in his hair twirled in the breeze.

  “You’re certain this is necessary?” Captain Beck asked. “My battalion is marching to intercept an invasion force headed for the Oldwood. We need every advantage we have against the invaders, especially if the rumors are true and Ty’Lis is adding more Atlanteans to their ranks.”

  Smith stroked his beard, studying her. “The enemy will find the Oldwood nearly impossible to take. As for the Atlanteans, you’ll find that in a few days whoever they’ve put in to rule as regent for the young prince Tzajin will announce an alliance with Atlantis. Then the flood of reinforcements will arrive and the real invasion will begin.”

  “You’re sure of this?” Captain Beck asked, horror etched upon her features.

  The Wayfarer cocked his head to one side. “I’ve just learned of it,” he lied. How else to explain that she and the other commanders ought to have seen the development coming themselves?

  “Suffice it to say, Captain, that if Blue Jay and his companions are swift in their efforts, they may return when you will truly need them, having performed a service far greater than any they could provide in a single battle.”

  Blue Jay shook his head, crossing his arms and staring at Smith. “Do you ever come right out and say something, or does it all have to be a fucking mystery?”

  Smith smiled. “Espionage is usually best conducted in secret, don’t you think? Details now could cost your lives later, and the Bascombes’. And then, perhaps, cost John Hunyadi his kingdom.”

  The trickster glanced at the other Borderkind he had recruited for their task. It was Cheval who met Smith’s gaze. Her silver hair seemed to glow almost white in the sun.

  “We are at your service, monsieur.”

  Smith nodded. “Excellent. We ought to depart, then. Good luck, Captain Beck.”

  The old wanderer began to turn away, but then paused and looked back at Li. His legend called him the Guardian of Fire, but he had lost much of his control over the flames. Every inch of his skin had become black, burning embers. He had no hair, no clothes, no features at all to speak of save for his nose and mouth and the dark orange blazing pits where his eyes had once been.

  “Not him, though. You others will blend in, but Li will be far too conspicuous.”

  The grindylow stood up straight, speaking before Blue Jay or Cheval could summon the words.

  “We’re mates, aye? That means we stick together, or we don’t go at all. You let us worry about keeping our secrets. We’ve done all right so far. The four of us, we left our friends behind in Palenque. Always figured we’d go back for ’em, and now the time’s come, so we’ll go. The four of us. You got that?”

  The Wayfarer studied the water bogie more closely. “All right, young Master Grindylow. Just so you know it’s a problem you will have to solve.”

  Blue
Jay lifted his chin. “You’re not the only clever one, Smith. We’ll see to it.”

  Smith nodded and took a final look at Li. The Guardian of Fire only stared back at him with those burning pits and said nothing.

  “Say your good-byes, then,” the Wayfarer told them.

  Cheval Bayard fixed him with a venomous stare, but said nothing. The grindylow stood close by. Li held himself apart. None of them had anyone whom they ought to bid farewell, but Blue Jay turned to Captain Beck and they exchanged smiles only lovers could share. Smith approved. He had spent generations persuading Borderkind that there was no sin in loving ordinary people. Of course, Damia Beck was the descendant of Lost Ones, and so even if they were to have children, their offspring would not be Legend-Born. Such children had to be the product of love between a Borderkind and a human from the other side of the Veil.

  Still, it touched him to see the way they looked at one another. Wayland Smith had lived through eons almost entirely alone. Most of the time he felt as though he had nothing but callus where his heart ought to be. Once in a while, however, he felt a small twinge that reminded him that he still could feel.

  “You know,” Captain Beck said to Blue Jay, “if you succeed, you might well hasten the end of the war.”

  “One way or another,” he said, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

  “In our favor, of course,” the captain said, ebony skin shining in the sun. Then she kissed him, letting her lips linger a moment, not caring that the others saw. Blue Jay returned her kiss tenderly, and when Damia stepped back from him, she was breathless.

  “I wish you better luck than on your first journey to Palenque,” Captain Beck said, glancing around at the gathered Borderkind.

  The grindylow snorted. “Well, we could hardly do worse.”

  But Blue Jay and Captain Beck were not listening. Their fingers touched in a final lingering farewell, and then the trickster moved toward his kin and nodded to Smith.