Covenant's End

by Ari Marmell

  “I'm sorry.” Less than a whisper, less than a rasp, ground out between hiccoughs, gasping, and sobs. “Gods, Robin, I'm sorry.”

  “I know.” Her voice, too, had grown unsteady. “I know you are, Shins. And I know you didn't mean to abandon me—any of your friends. That you weren't thinking clearly.

  “I understand, but do you? Do you get why ‘sorry’ isn't enough? Why I can't forgive you yet?”

  Something inside Widdershins crumpled into a tight mass at those last words. She wanted, literally, to pull the covers over her head, to break into a crying jag that would make the previous look downright celebratory.

  She managed not to. Barely.

  “Tell me. I want to make things right.”

  “Other than Genevieve, you were the only person I can even remember trusting—until Faustine, anyway. You were the one I counted on. Even when things were at their worst, when you were hurt and crying…I knew that, no matter what, you would be there when I needed you, and there was nothing you couldn't handle.”

  Shins felt something trying to reopen the wound in her gut, from the inside. “And then I left.”

  “And then you left.”

  “Robin, nobody could be what—”

  “I know. I've figured that out. I'm not angry at you for being human, Shins. But that's where I was. That's who you were to me. And when I learned you could let me down…”

  Shins nodded awkwardly into the cushion. “You felt betrayed,” she hazarded.

  The other woman's hair swished faintly, signaling her own nod. “By the person I trusted most, loved most, in the world.”

  Loved most…

  Such an innocent turn of phrase, but the click as everything came together in Widdershins's head was so deafening, she was stunned it didn't bring the others running back into the room.

  It explained so very, very much.

  With infinite care—not only of her own physical wounds, but her friend's emotional ones—Shins turned and sat up, so she could meet Robin's eyes. She drew up the blanket, clutching it to her chest. Not out of any sense of modesty, not with Robin, but because doing otherwise would have felt as though she were making light of what she should have known years ago, but only just figured out.

  “How long?” she asked softly.

  Robin, to her credit, didn't even pretend not to understand. “The cliché would be to say since the day I met you. And I think that's partly true. But…for real, for certain? Since after Genevieve died.”

  One hand still holding the sheet to her, Shins reached out with the other to cup her friend's cheek. Robin's sigh was almost a sob as she leaned into the touch, her eyes shut.

  “I do love you, Robin. You know I do. It's just, I don't…it's not…”

  “Not like that.” The younger woman's eyelids fluttered open, exposing brimming tears that she refused to shed. Taking Widdershins's hand in her own, she slowly removed it from her face. “I know.”

  Widdershins was crying again, this time—since Robin would or could not—for both of them. “But you are my family, Robin. Is that…is that enough?”

  She took the other woman's fierce embrace—one that threatened to knock her back off the bed and would probably have been a lot more pleasant without the many wounds—as a yes.

  They stayed there for a while, Shins gazing absently at the room beyond Robin's shoulder. Guest chamber, probably. Heavy oak furniture, polished to an almost golden gleam; basin of shining silver; heavy-framed mirror on the wall. She found herself idly planning different ways of sneaking said basin and mirror from the room—not because she actually planned to steal anything, but as an exercise to calm her racing mind, make her emotions lie placid again.

  “Besides,” Robin said mischievously, pulling back from the hug and rather shamefacedly wiping her nose on one sleeve, “I've drilled peepholes into all the bedrooms at the Witch, so wherever you end up staying will do for me.”

  Something in the way Widdershins's jaw so limply dropped, nearly bouncing off the mattress and quite possibly wobbling around the room, sent the girl into absolute hysterics. Shins herself joined her a moment later, the both of them laughing until even the uninjured one began to hurt.

  She'd been to one of her flats; she'd been to the Flippant Witch; she'd been to the Guild. Here, now, for the first time since she'd returned to Davillon, Widdershins felt like she might be home.

  Several more hours of sleep, a few more treatments of Igraine's balm, a large helping of Olgun's magic, and the emotional weight of almost losing her best friend finally lifted from her shoulders, Widdershins felt like a new woman.

  A new woman who had been built with some defective parts, perhaps, but new nonetheless.

  The fact that she was freshly bathed, no longer caked with dried sweat and blood, and once more dressed in clothes neither stiff nor well on their way to becoming confetti didn't hurt her mood any, either. Robin had brought along a portion of the wardrobe Shins had left behind, so long ago. They weren't her “working leathers,” but the black trousers, forest-green vest, and deep-burgundy tunic were all dark enough, loose enough, and sturdy enough to make do.

  Even if they did make her smell like the inside of a dusty drawer.

  She stood, idly examining the portrait hanging above the (currently unused) fireplace, while the others drifted into the room behind her. Framed in gold filigree, it portrayed a somber, darkly dressed noblewoman in somber, darkly hued oils. She looked just similar enough to Evrard that she could have been of d'Arras blood—or she might have been an utter stranger, the painting provided as decoration by the Golden Sable itself. Who the steaming purple pits knew what sorts of luxuries the patrons of this place would expect? Even during the brief period of her life she'd spent with Alexandre Delacroix, when she'd truly been wealthy, she'd have avoided this sort of place like…well, if not like the plague, then at least a rash with open sores.

  The mutter of conversation and the soft flops of people seating themselves on decadently overstuffed couch cushions or chairs grudgingly gave way to the clink of crystal and a faint sloshing. Evrard appeared beside her, a glass goblet in each hand. “A distant aunt,” he said, indicating the portrait with one of the drinks before handing it over to her. “Sister of my great, great…” He stopped and thought a moment. “Great, great grandmother,” he concluded.

  “I figured something like that,” she told him, nodding a brief thanks as she accepted the goblet. “She appears to have your sense of humor.”

  Evrard smiled at that, but it was a hollow expression at best—proving her point, in essence. “Why are you here, Widdershins?”

  “Uh, did you not notice all the blood and desperation pooling on the floor when we first—”

  “I know why you came here,” he interrupted, his exasperation growing ever more evident by the syllable. “And I wasn't about to throw an injured woman out onto the street. You are, however, remarkably improved. I did not invite your entire social circle to join you. And I do believe I have exhausted even the most liberal definition of chivalrous obligation.

  “So please, by all means, enjoy the brandy. Gather your belongings. And be so kind as to lead an exodus from my home.”

  “Why?”

  Evrard, taking a dramatic sip after his pronouncement, nearly choked. “Why?!”

  “I mean, we're not going to find a lot of other safe places where we can all sit and discuss this. And I figured you'd certainly be more comfortable here. But if there's someplace you'd rather be, lead the way.”

  The way he blinked at her, Shins had to wonder if he was trying to propel himself away by creating a strong enough gust. It took him a moment to stop, to fully comprehend precisely what she was implying.

  “I am not a part of your little conspiracy!” he snapped at her.

  Her smile was genuine, her tone sympathetic. “Of course you are, Evrard.”

  Shins had battled beside the man against a blatantly inhuman foe. She'd appeared unnoticed in his home once, when he had ev
ery reason to believe she wished him as dead as he'd wished her. She had even, on one occasion, sent him crumpling to the floor in a very crowded party with a very hard kick to a very sensitive spot.

  She had still never seen him as boggled and speechless as he appeared now.

  “You stayed,” she said, placing her goblet carefully on the mantel. “From what I'm told, the city's been a mess for months. You have no family holdings here, no relatives. Nothing obvious to keep you. But you stayed.

  “I don't know if you've just come to care for the city, or you have friends here now, or what. But for whatever reason, what happens here matters to you.”

  “Even if I were to grant all this,” the aristocrat snarled, “not wanting to abandon colleagues isn't the same thing as volunteering to wage war against every last misfortune that afflicts Davillon. We have a Guard for that!”

  “The Guard's as up to their necks as everyone else. You have actually left this place in the last few weeks, yes? There're more House soldiers on the street than guards.”

  “That doesn't—”

  “You stood against Iruoch, Evrard. Because you realized you'd gone too far in your stupid vendetta with me, and because it was the honorable thing to do. For you and your family name.”

  “Still not the same—”

  “It's partly our fault.”

  This time, his question wasn't a challenge but genuine wonder. And genuine worry. “What are you talking about?”

  “The horrible witch of a woman responsible for these troubles? Lisette Suvagne? She has powers. Allies. They're not human. They're the ones that did…” She stuck a hand over her shoulder, pointing down with her thumb. “This to me. They're here because we killed him. Their—brother or cousin or creepy uncle or whatever he was.”

  “The Gloaming Court…” Evrard breathed.

  Not a term she herself would have come up with, but hearing it spoken aloud, yes. From fairy tale and legend, the noble House of the worst the fae had to offer. Only a very few of the tales of Iruoch associated him with the Court, but a few was enough.

  The nobleman made one last try, even if it was—transparently, almost ludicrously—for pride's sake. “And what makes you so sure you know me as well as you think you do?” he demanded. “We've spent a grand total of several hours in each other's company, in our lives. What makes you so certain I'm going to feel bound to help finish this?”

  “You checked in on Robin while I was away.”

  Evrard snapped off a few words he definitely didn't learn from any of his proper tutors, shattered his goblet against the stone of the fireplace, and dropped into the nearest chair in a magnificent sulk.

  Shins turned away until she could bring her expression under control and she was certain she wasn't about to burst out laughing at the sudden sensation of Olgun sticking out his (metaphorical) tongue and making various rude bodily sounds with his (metaphorical) lips.

  Everyone else was already gathered—and, Shins realized, had probably heard every word of her conversation with their host. Not my problem, she decided. I didn't say anything I'm ashamed of. Renard and Igraine had taken a pair of matching chairs, on either side of a tiny, circular table. She couldn't say for sure, but Shins guessed that whatever whispers were passing between them, both leaning in toward the other, had something to do with the Guild. Frankly, she wasn't sure what secrets they'd be talking about that were worth keeping at this point, but old habits—and, if they were careful, old thieves—died hard.

  The remaining pair had chosen the smaller of the room's two sofas, pressed tightly together, Faustine's arm protectively around Robin's shoulder, as though daring anyone to say anything. Robin twisted and fidgeted a bit, and Shins realized her leg must be bothering her. The young thief felt a sharp pang of guilt over her friend's injury, wondered how long it might be before that stopped happening.

  And wondered if she deserved for it to ever stop happening.

  Maybe there's one thing I can do…. Shins watched, waiting until Faustine happened to meet her gaze, and then inclined her head toward the table with the decanter of brandy. The courier's brow wrinkled in confusion, but she whispered a word in Robin's ear and stood. Shins met her, reaching out to refill her goblet while she was at it.

  “Robin told me more or less everything,” she began.

  Faustine's expression didn't so much as twitch. “I know.”

  “Including how she feels about me…”

  Definitely a twitch, this time. “I know.”

  “…and how she feels about you. She's my best friend, Faustine. My sister. I want you two to be happy. I'm won't get in your way; I'm not competing with you.”

  The twitch became an avalanche, a score of different emotions, some fire and some ice, washing across the other woman's face faster than Shins could identify them. Faustine finally settled—though it appeared to take some effort—on a sad smile.

  “Of course you are,” she said softly. “You always will be. It's kind of amusing that you think it's even up to you. You have no say in the matter, Widdershins. Neither do I.”

  “Oh. I…oh.”

  Faustine's jaw marginally unclenched, her smile appearing more natural, if only slightly. “I do appreciate the sentiment, though. Thank you for trying.”

  As Shins couldn't for the life of her think of anything more to say to that, she simply watched as Faustine returned to the sofa, and her arm to Robin's shoulders. She felt strangely embarrassed, as though she'd just intruded into something in which she had no business.

  “I meant for that to help,” she sighed to Olgun. The surge of understanding, of sympathy she received in return only made her feel a little better. But even a little was good.

  “All right, then,” she said, abruptly pivoting to face the room at large. “We all know what sort of truly bizarre, horrible poop has happened in this city in the past.”

  “‘Poop’?” Faustine and Evrard asked in unison. Shins ignored them.

  “And we all know that some pretty bizarre, horrible…stuff is going on now. But does anyone know what the feathered, steaming horses is actually happening?”

  Everyone glanced sidelong at everyone else, everyone shifted in his or her seat, and nobody said a thing.

  “Yeah. Kind of what I thought. Time to compare heads and put our notes together, then.”

  Once more, a deafening array of no responses. They all agreed in theory—she could see that much on their faces—but nobody knew precisely where to start.

  Evrard cleared his throat, and Shins pretended she hadn't nearly jumped from her skin. “What? Uh, that is, yes?”

  “I'm not looking to reopen old wounds,” the aristocrat said, and indeed, he sounded truly reluctant, even sympathetic. “Or new ones, I suppose. But…Widdershins, you seem to be near the center of this, if not actually at it…”

  “As always,” Igraine mumbled.

  “…and I'm still not entirely clear on just what happened to you.”

  “You didn't see those wounds!” Robin shouted, standing up despite the obvious discomfort. “Not up close! You can't ask her to relive—”

  “It's okay, Robin.” Shins could have hugged her about then, but …“Everyone needs to know everything, if we're going to figure this out. It's okay. I—”

  Except it wasn't. It wasn't okay. The thief's throat seemed to squeeze itself shut, a vise of fear and flesh. She tried to think back to that room, that pain, that thing that had caused her so much agony. Tried, and failed. Her mind fled, screaming, from the images; she felt her breath coming fast and weak, her heart pounding like a thousand hoofbeats.

  Then…Olgun. Of course. Always Olgun, no matter what. As sure as sunrise.

  It flowed from her heart, first, not her head. A cloud of peace and calm, ink spreading in clear water. He held her, took her arm as she turned to face those memories. Lay a veil across the images, so the finer details blurred. Whispered assurances in her ear.

  Reminded her—promised her—she was safe.

>   Her breathing slowed, enough for her to murmur under it. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

  One deliberately deep, languid breath, to steady herself; one deep gulp of brandy for a bit of extra steadiness. And it was time.

  “What happened,” she said to her tiny but rapt audience, “is I got cocky.”

  She paused, briefly, to allow for any of the expected gasps or comments of sarcastic surprise, but for a change, there were none.

  “It's been a while since many people—human people—have been much of a threat to me, one on one. Not with the…help I have. And I'd already beaten Lisette once before. She knew exactly which nerves to strike to get me good and pissed and not remotely thinking. I…The things she did, before I was even back here…”

  Again she'd have to omit Alexandre's name, much as it felt disrespectful to do so; most of the others didn't know Shins's history. But at least, once they'd learned the fae were involved (and had recovered from the various wounds they earned making that discovery), Olgun had been able to explain to her how Lisette knew. Creatures of spirit and passion, they'd probably managed to sniff out any number of people and places important to her; Lisette wouldn't have learned why the last patron of House Delacroix mattered to Widdershins, but she'd have easily learned that he did.

  Digging her nails into her palms until she swore she was about to hit bone, Widdershins explained her gruesome discovery upon returning to her bolthole—and what she'd later discovered upon visiting the other graves, as well.

  Robin wept openly by the time she was through, over this last indignity done to Genevieve, whom she'd loved as much as Shins had. Faustine held her, whispering, gently rocking her back and forth. Renard and Igraine had both paled, then adapted some new hues; he came over vaguely greenish-gray, as though struggling not be sick, while the priestess had flushed red with righteous indignation. And Evrard…

  Well, one look at the twisted fury in his expression and the sheen of ice in his eyes, and Shins remembered why, even without a god or the fae at his side, he'd been a genuine threat when that wrath had been aimed her way.