Covenant's End (28 page)

“Why?” he whispered.

The messenger looked up, seemed to regain control of herself in an instant. “She thinks she's about to die.” Then, more softly, “If she hasn't already, I think she's right.”

He reeled, struggling to comprehend, overwhelmed even as seconds ticked by that he knew he couldn't spare. His eyes, somehow empty, cast about every which way, perhaps seeking help. Though what form help could even take at this point was a question he couldn't answer.

He couldn't do this.
Couldn't
. People thought excommunicating the Finders' Guild had been tricky? That was
nothing
! This situation wasn't just unprecedented, it was unimagined; nobody had ever seriously even considered it. The Church had no systems, procedures, even casual recommendations in place. Sicard didn't believe he had the authority to make a decision such as this, in part because he didn't believe
anyone
did!

When he'd made the offer, he'd known he was getting into a massive hornet's nest of liturgical law and debate that would have taken years to resolve!

His wildly flailing gaze turned rightward, settled on the congregation—and stopped.

A couple hundred people watched him—rapt, intent, awaiting his explanation of what had just occurred. Shifting, worried, curious, but calm. They trusted him to tell them what was happening, and how best to handle it.

He, who had been Bishop of Davillon less than two full years, who'd been assigned this charge in a dark period, when city and Church were nearly engaged in open, bitter conflict.

They trusted him now, and many of them had been given reason to trust—many of their lives saved, for all they didn't know it—by a deity not even their own.

And maybe that would be enough. Legalities, formalities, official decisions could wait. The belief of one congregation, the will of a single quorum of priests, might just be enough.

Sicard stepped back to the pulpit, clutching it with both fists.

“My friends, we have given thanks to Vercoule, to Demas, Banin, Tevelaire, Khuriel…All the great, all the blessed gods who have watched over us for so very long. Since before Galice was born, since we were nothing but savage tribes in the wilds, we have known the deities of the Hallowed Pact, and offered them thanks and glory.

“Now I am going to speak to you of another, a god of whom none of you have ever heard.”

A cresting wave of shocked whispers and bewildered questions nearly swept him from the dais. He pressed on, raising his voice to be heard over the throng.

“A deity of the northern lands who was never one of ours, a deity with no reason to love Davillon, or Galice.

“Yet a deity who has, to the best of his ability, watched over every one of you!”

The sanctuary fell deathly silent.

Sicard felt his voice about to break. He wished he could move faster, worried that every second might be too late—yet he had to build them up to it. He
had
to make them believe!

A surge of contentment welled within him, despite those concerns, washing away the pain and fear yet lingering. This was the right thing to do; he knew it was.

Thank you, Widdershins. I wish I could have done something for you, too.

“Let me tell you, my friends, of a young woman some of you have heard of and
think
you know. A young woman named Adrienne Satti. And of Olgun, a god from so very far away, a god nearly lost to the world. Of how he saved her, and she him, and how they both risked all—yes, all, even the god!—to save
you
.

“And of all Olgun has done, I believe, from the depths of my heart and soul, to earn himself a place as the very first newcomer, the 148th god, of the Hallowed Pact.”

No longer did the clash sound anything like the impact of steel on steel. So swiftly and furiously did the two women strike, parry, and riposte, it now seemed a single, continuous tone. Shins's rapier flew, murdering raindrops in its travels. The blade moved faster, her wrist flexed in more directions than were humanly possible. Sweat poured down her body; she felt it, in a layer somehow distinct from the rain.

If Lisette had tired at all, she did a masterful job of hiding it.

She stood almost at ground level, now, the shadowy limbs holding her perhaps a foot or so above the street. Night oozed down her face in ever thickening torrents; the phantom children laughed until they shouldn't have been able to breathe, then laughed longer; her sword and dagger never slowed, kept from Widdershins's innards by only the greatest efforts of thief and god.

And then even those efforts weren't enough.

Shins staggered and fell to one knee, crying out in agony as the tip of one blade ripped through her left arm. It was a shallow wound, a long gash across the bicep, hardly crippling in and of itself. It
hurt
, though, and was doubtless only the first of—

Something deep inside Widdershins tore. Not physically; this was nothing so simple, so benign, as a wounded body, no. Something mental. Emotional.

Spiritual.

She felt hollow, as if she'd been scooped out with a spoon. The dark of night was suddenly crushing, oppressive; each drop of rain a tiny thorn. She felt
alone
, alone as she could scarcely remember. Not since she'd lost her parents as a girl had she ever felt so alone.

It was a hurt that made her arm insignificant. It might almost have been the end of the world.

“Olgun?”

Impossible as it was, she could have sworn she heard her words echo in the newly emptied recesses of her mind.

“
Olgun?!
”

Nothing. Silence.

Widdershins sobbed once, a primal sound, wracking, despairing. Then, though her legs threatened to collapse at any instant, she placed a hand on the nearest wall and dragged herself to her feet.

Turning, she saw Lisette watching her, her grin so inhumanly wide that trickles of blood mixed with the black sludge at the corners of her lips.

Of course.
Iruoch had been able to sense Olgun. The others probably could, too. Which meant they knew…

But he would live. And so would she, if only in his memories.

Remembered forever, literally. Not that bad, all things considered.

Sicard, Faustine…thank you.

Though her fist shook, her grip on the drenched hilt seemed terribly slick and unstable, Widdershins raised her rapier. Olgun or no, if she was going to fall at Lisette's hands, then by all the gods she'd go down fighting!

And celebrating, through her grief, the fact that she fell alone.

Nearly blinded by rain and tears, Shins dropped back into her most natural defensive stance and waited for the end to come.

It all happened so very fast.

In a matter of instants, he had been yanked away from, so far as he was concerned, the most important mortal since the beginning of time. The one, above all others, he had and would always love.

When he'd first felt the tug of new souls, new worshippers, he'd been stunned. Whole seconds were lost to his shock, his disbelief. The call of the
others
—no words, not even song, just a divine
sharing
, a bond such as he hadn't known since long before he'd come to Davillon—overwhelmed him. He couldn't think, couldn't act.

It was everything, everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd missed, everything he'd been terrified he would never have again.

In that moment, he'd have chosen to die, to give it all up, if it meant another minute with her—but some things even the gods cannot have.

Other mortals believed—more than believed, had begun to revere. The gods of the Hallowed Pact, whatever the Church might or might not “formally” prefer, accepted him with open arms, aware of everything he and Adrienne had done for their people. Between his newly divided attentions and the laws of the Hallowed Pact itself, Olgun had no choice.

No matter how he fought, how he wished, how he even
prayed
, he couldn't stay. He had only one more second with her, no more.

A deity can do a lot, though, with one second.

For that one sliver of an instant of overlap, he had a foot in both worlds. A connection to Adrienne like no god had with any other mortal,
and
his first access to the power and the authority of the
Hallowed Pact. Not all of it, not enough to whisk her away or strike dead the creatures who threatened her. Not enough to alter the physical world.

But the fae weren't creatures of the physical world, not entirely. At their core, no matter how they manifested, they were creatures of spirit. And
spirit
…

That was an area where the gods had tricks—and, in Olgun's and Adrienne's case,
allies
—of their own.

Just before the last of his conscious essence vanished from Widdershins's presence, Olgun drew on his new powers, his new knowledge. Between the worlds, he yanked open a door that normally swung only one way, and with everything he had, he called out his need.

He called, and they answered. Not for him.

All four of them, for love of her.

She couldn't begin to tell, at first, just what she was seeing. She assumed it to be some optical illusion, some combination of the dark and the storm, the pain and the tears. Some random lights and movement, blurred into the illusion of something more.

Until it occurred to her that she wasn't dead. That Lisette hadn't moved in for the kill, was…

Was backing away.

Utterly confused, Shins wiped the back of her hand over her eyes—wincing at the pain as she used her injured arm but unwilling to relinquish the rapier—until she was able to see.

And she saw, but had her unnatural enemy not been retreating before them, she would never,
ever
have believed.

They were scarcely visible, merely shimmering forms in the glow of the lamps and the lightning. Rain and wind passed through
them, rippling slightly but otherwise unaffected. First two, then a third, and a fourth appeared in the road between the two combatants. Somewhere, from no direction she could name, Widdershins heard the slamming of a distant gate.

Lisette was screaming something, her voice still coiled and slithering around those of her unnatural allies, but Shins didn't catch a word of it. She was too busy staring, trying to make out some sense of detail among the nebulous figures. And though she should have been able to see no such thing, she did.

Widdershins choked, having literally forgotten to breathe. Her rapier clattered on the cobblestones, and it might only have been the wind that still held her upright.

The first of the phantoms looked her way, raised a hand to tip his broad-brimmed hat in a friendly, informal salute. He drew his own rapier from beneath a dark tabard, which flapped about him without the slightest relation to the gusting winds. A tabard on which Shins could spot the faintest hint of the fleur-de-lis, ensign of Davillon's City Guard.

He
couldn't
be here. But she'd have recognized him anywhere.

“Julien…?”

He didn't seem to move, took no obvious steps. Yet suddenly he was elsewhere, no longer standing before Shins but beside Lisette. With a high-pitched, buzzing keen, a thick slab of shadow detached itself from the swirling darkness around her, briefly assuming a humanoid form with misshapen, frog-like legs. The shriek ended; the two figures clashed, slamming together in absolute silence. They were still dueling, ghostly blade against inhuman hands and tongue, as they faded again from sight.

And if that had truly been Julien, the others must be…
Oh, gods…

She felt it, then; Widdershins knew that smile, even if she couldn't make it out. A second apparition, its long transparent hair
tinged with gold, raised a hand in greeting, her invisible smile widening further still. She stood at the slightest angle, as though one leg supported her weight less well than the other. Then, like the first, she flickered and was gone, stripping the leaf-and-thorn-clad fae from Lisette as she passed.

Widdershins, Lisette, the entire street began to glow, bathed in a wave of haunting light. It emanated from a heavy staff, shaped like a shepherd's crook, held in the hands of someone clad in heavy—perhaps ecclesiastical—robes of office. He didn't even approach Lisette, this one. He laid a gentle hand on Shins's shoulder; she knew, somehow, that it was gentle, even though she couldn't feel a thing. A single step, and he raised his staff on high, until the light grew blinding. He was gone when it faded, but so were the bulk of shadows around Lisette, all the many lesser fae who had served her along with the most terrible three.

That left only one. Shins cried openly, now, reaching out for him no matter how futile she knew the gesture to be. He reached out, too, his fingers passing through her own. He straightened, then, tugging the hem of a nigh invisible vest, smoothing out the unseen wrinkles. The rapier he drew was familiar, oh so familiar; Shins had carried it—or the “real” version of it—for a very long time.

Then he, too, was gone—as was the last of Lisette's power, the Prince of Orphan's Tears wrenched from her body and soul by the man who, however briefly, had replaced the parents Widdershins had lost.

Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. And Shins, after wiping her eyes clear once more, bent down to retrieve her fallen weapon. Her steps slow but steady, she followed in the path of the now departed ghosts, until she stood beside the only other soul, living or dead, who had also been left behind.

Whatever the fae had done to Lisette, however they had wound themselves through her, it had reduced her to something that
couldn't last on its own. Her skin hung in folds around her bones, like newly emptied burlap sacks. Hair fell from her head in clumps; nails slid from her fingertips, leaving glistening trails behind. With every breath she gurgled and choked, struggling to breathe through the inky sludge that, only now, had begun to melt away in the rain.

Her eyes, though yellowed and sunken, had reappeared in their sockets, glaring up at Shins. And in them, still, the young woman saw absolutely nothing but hate.

When Lisette spoke, it was with such a crumpled-paper rasp as to be nigh incomprehensible. “It's not…fair…”

Shins could only shrug. “I don't think it was ever meant to be.”

The single thrust of her rapier was an act of pity as much as anger. Then, leaving the blade in the corpse, Widdershins stumbled to the nearest stoop and sat down, hard. There she stayed, curled tight around the gaping hollow in her soul, and wept until long after the rain had finally,
finally
stopped.

“Is that safe?” Igraine asked doubtfully as she strode across a rooftop still speckled with puddles and scattered leaves left behind by the storm.

At least most of the dried bird guano had been scoured away.

“Not really.” Shins watched her approach or rather watched her legs and hips approach. She didn't have much of a view of the rest of the priestess, given that she was currently balanced in a precarious handstand at the building's edge. “I can still do it, though. Surprisingly easy, actually. Not sure what to make of that.”

“A really big, goopy mess, if you're not careful.”

Widdershins chuckled softly (secretly pleased that she
could
laugh, a little) and allowed herself to slowly topple. One foot kicked out, toes striking rooftop, and she rolled herself upright.

Her head swam, just a bit. She tried to ignore it. It had never done that, before she was…alone.

“Pretty sure it's safer than where
you've
been, yes?” She knelt sideways, one knee tucked in tight, letting the other leg stretch. “How's it going?”

Igraine's answer began with a very unpriestly snort. “Same as yesterday: It isn't. Far as we can tell, there's not a single member of the Luchene bloodline left. The duchess hadn't returned power to the Houses before she died, so nobody's entirely sure who should be in charge.”

“It'll all go back to status quo. I mean, the Houses'll be doing better working together than scrabbling for power that
nobody
had a week ago.”

“Oh, sure. They just need to trudge through a bit more ambition and pride before they'll admit it.” She drew breath to say more, but Widdershins beat her to it.

Mostly because she wasn't yet ready to tackle what she suspected Igraine's next topic of choice would be.

“How's the Guild?”

The priestess blinked, then glanced around the roof. Perhaps realizing she'd find no clean place to sit, she leaned against the chimney with a faint grumble. “It's going to take some getting used to the new order. The Finders have to learn to be a little more subtle. The priesthood of the Shrouded God is going to be a separate organization now, albeit with shared leadership, so the Guild won't have that protection any longer.”

“I'm sure the new Shrouded Lord is just thrilled at the extra bureaucracy,” Shins snickered.

“Lady,” Igraine corrected.

“What?”

“The new leader of the Finders' Guild and the priesthood. The Shrouded Lady. Our first one, actually.”

“Is that so?” Shins shifted sides, stretching the other leg. “I wonder who she might be,” she said, without any question in her voice at all.

Igraine shrugged, but Shins was quite certain she spotted a glint in the priestess's eyes. “I'm sure I couldn't tell you.”

“No, of course not.” A sudden doubt clouded her face. “Renard?”

“Didn't want the post back, not that we'd have let him take it. Actually, he's debating whether he wants to remain in the Guild. I was actually hoping you might speak to him.”

“Oh.” Shins pondered a moment. “Sure, I guess.”

“And maybe about a few other things, while you're at it.” Then, at Shins's bewildered look, Igraine couldn't quite keep from grinning. “You're really blind sometimes, Widdershins.”