Covenant's End
Authors: Ari Marmell
Thief's Covenant
False Covenant
Lost Covenant
In Thunder Forged
The Goblin Corps
Published 2015 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books.
Covenant's End
. Copyright © 2015 by Ari Marmell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover illustration © Jason Chan
Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Marmell, Ari.
Covenant's end : a Widdershins adventure / by Ari Marmell.
       p. cm.
ISBN 978â1â61614â986â4 (cloth)
ISBN 978â1â61614â987â1 (ebook)
[1. Fantasy. 2. Robbers and outlawsâFiction. 3. GodsâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M3456Fal 2012
[Fic]âdc23
2015000416
Printed in the United States of America
She lived in a house. Just a normal, everyday house, so far as she knew, though any of Davillon's citizens who lived outside the Rising Bend district would have told her otherwise. Could have told her that the multiple stories and the high eaves, the glass windows and the broad gardens, all were signs of wealth and fancy. None of them
did
tell her, however, and she'd spent all of her eleven years in and around the better neighborhoods. She dwelt with her family, in ignorant comfort; just another willful, entitled child of the aristocracy.
She wouldn't be, for much longer.
Her name was Rosemund. Rosemund Seguin.
She wouldn't be that for much longer, either.
Rosemund wore her best that day. Her tunic of peaches-and-cream, vest of dark velvet, a full skirt very much like a grown woman's. And, of course, her favorite pendant, a gleaming silver swan. Wore her best, but certainly didn't act it.
“It's not
fair
!” It was a shriek, as affronted and accusing as only a child could make it. Through a film of tears that blurred her vision and pasted dark strands of hair to her cheeks, she searched frantically throughout the room, seeking some argument, some evidence, some leverage that would make her parents see reason. She saw only the ponderous old grandfather clock, the shelves of dinnerware and vases, the usual luxury of which, so far as she was concerned, the whole of the world consisted.
Only those, and the disapproving, currently despised faces of her parents.
“You said! You said I could! Weeks ago, you said!”
“That was before you snuck out in the middle of mass,” her mother told her stiffly. “Again.”
“But
everyone
will be there! I
have
to go!”
Her pleading gaze turned on her father, normally the easier touch, but tonight he seemed as merciless as his wife. “Maybe after this,” he said in his gruff, pipe-smoker's voice, “you'll keep your promises.”
“
It's not fair!
” Only the fact that her arm wasn't quite long enough to reach it, from where she stood, saved a fine set of lacquered ceramic tableware from shattering across the floor. “You said! You damn well saidâ!”
“Language, young lady!” the adults barked in unison.
A fourth, softer voice took advantage of the momentary lull. “What about me?”
Rosemund glanced back and down at a head of tousled hair and an outfit rather less well-kempt than her own. Frankly, she'd forgotten he was here.
“I was going to go, too,” Rousel reminded them. “What about me?”
Their father stepped around the fuming daughter to the earnest son, reaching out to further ruffle his hair. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But you're not old enough to go alone.”
“I am, so! Why do
I
have to suffer because
she
â!”
The older sibling drew breath to protest, though whether she would have shouted down her brother for pointing out that she was at fault here, or would have used his disappointment as an argument against her parents, she hadn't yet decided. Nor, as it happened, did it matter.
“This is not open to discussion!” their mother roared. “Rousel, honey, I'm sorry you're caught up in this, but remember whose fault it is. Rosemund, next time you'll think beforeâDon't you walk away when I'm talking to you!”
And technically, she wasn't. It was really more of an awkward flounce than a walk. The young girl pounded up the stairs to her door, which she rather predictably slammed with sufficient force to shake
the shelves below. A moment later, she heard Rousel's door down the hall do much the same.
But Rosemund wasn't
quite
done; she had one more thrust to get in. Hauling the door wide open, she shrieked, at the top of her lungs, “
I hate you!
” Again, Rousel was doing the same, following her lead, when she slammed the portal shut once more, satisfied that her parents must have heard that.
They did, of course, and though it hurt them, they salved themselves with the knowledge that it was just something children said. That she didn't really mean it.
Something else heard her, too. Something that reveled, basking in the knowledge that she meant every word.
She wasn't sure what had awoken her.
Rosemund sat up, rubbing her eyes, to discover she'd dozed off face-down on her comforter, not having even changed for bed. The swan pendant left a faint imprint in her skin where she'd lain on it. Her tunic, vest, and hair were as mussed as she could ever remember seeing them. Not that she could see much, in the room lit only by the puddle of moonlight dribbling in between the drapes.
The house was silent; still. It always was, this time of night, but tonight the hush was heavy, oppressive. Nothing leaked in from outside, no wind or rustling branches, no birds or distant voices. The settling of the foundations, the creaking of old furniture, the mechanical
tick
of the clock's heavy pendulumâall sounds she'd never consciously noticed before, absences she all too keenly noted now.
Call out for her parents? The words jammed in her throat, throttled by fear, yes, but also a lingering wounded pride. Instead she slid to her feet and, after a minute spent fumbling to light the wick, slowly crept into the hallway with candle in hand.
It seemedâ¦longer than usual, that hall. Her brother's room, mere steps away, was a distant blot, dark against light. The stairs were invisible, swathed in shadow. But of course, the hall
couldn't
have changed, that wasn't possible, had to be her imagination.
That or the candle's gleam remained duller than it should have. Was
that
possible? It sounded less preposterous than a growing hallway, anyway.
Bare feet on hard wood, and all in silence. No slap of skin on the floor, no creaking of the occasional loose board. Ghostly step after ghostly step, Rosemund proceeded, breath short, hand trembling. Until, finally, she reached the top of the staircase.
There the silence ended. From there, she could hear, however faintly, a sound from the floor below.
A faint, desperate whimper.
It must have taken a hundred years to descend the stairs.
The chamber below was dimly lit, ruddy embers in the fireplace peeking out from beneath gray coats of ash. Flickers and waves of crimson danced along the walls, casting everything in a nightmarish illumination.
She saw Rousel, huddled beside the old sofa, hands clasped, lips quivering.
She saw her parents, on their knees in the center of the room. Their clothing hung in bloody tatters, from where they had apparently been whipped again and again. Pillowcases covered their heads, and it was from beneath those that the whimpers and panicked gasps sounded. Their hands were bound behind their backs; with what, Rosemund couldn't see from here. And the airâ¦
The air smelled heavily of cinnamon and sweets.
“Mama?” She was a babe again, barely able to speak. It embarrassed her, as only adolescents her age could
be
embarrassed, but she couldn't help it. Couldn't deepen her voice, couldn't steel her nerve. “Papa?”
The whimpers rose to muffled cries, fearful, warning. They must
also have been gagged beneath the pillowcases, she realized, and then wondered why such a thought would even occur to her.
She drew nearer, edging around the room, trying to understand. When she could finally see her mother's hands, however, her confusion only grew.
Licorice. Her parents' wrists were bound, not with rope or chain or twine, but thick and twisted strands of licorice.
“Oh, you're here! Good. I grew bored of waiting.”
Rosemund squeaked at the horrid voice. No, not voice.
Voices.
Two, speaking in perfect unison, perfect clarity. One, that of a growing boy, perhaps a few years older than she; the other, the rough, sandpaper rasp of a decrepit old man.
In the distance, as though responding to those voices, a chorus of children cheered her arrival.
He appeared from nowhere, between two flickers of the candle. Tall, lanky, he looked like a young man not quite past the edges of his maturity, perhaps only half again as old as she. But Rosemund wasn't fooled. She never doubted for one heartbeat that he was older,
far
older, than he appeared.
Dark, greasy hair hung in tangles to his shoulders. His tunic and leggings and vest had once been of finest make, richer even than her own, but now they were crusted with caked-in dirt and bore the rips and stains of careless play.
His right hand, tightly gloved in rabbit fur, clutched an old kitchen knife, nicked and scored. His leftâ¦
Oh, gods!
The thumb of his left hand was mundane enough, but the other digits were no fingers at all. Close to two feet long, each was a switch of freshest birch-wood, perfectly suited for welting and splitting the skin of disobedient children.
And his eyes, his eyes were glass. Perfect mirrors, reflecting the room and Rosemund herself, but
not
the other members of her family.
A single tear rolled down Rosemund's cheek, but she couldn't bring herself to scream.
“You called,” he told her in his twin voices. “I came.”
“Calledâ¦?”
“Yes. Both of you. Quite distinctly. You said you hatedâ¦
them
.” The revulsion in his tone was thick and viscous as he waved those fearsome switches at her parents.
Rousel sobbed from his spot across the room. “But we didn't
mean
it!”
“Of course you did.” So matter-of-fact, now, the creature sounded; almost sympathetic. “All children do. Only for a second, perhaps. Only in the heat of the moment. But you do. You all do. And a moment⦔
The ratty old knife flickered in the crimson light, once, twice. Blood stained the pillowcases from within, and the terrified whimpers ceased in a burbling choke.
“â¦is all it takes.”
The boy shrieked, sobbed, dashed to his mother's side and began shaking her, clutching at her, begging her to rise. But Rosemund?
Rosemund was horrified, of course. Grief-stricken. The tears ran unhindered down her face, now, dripping from her chin. At the same time, though it thrust a blade of shame into her gut, a tiny, hidden part of her offered a chuckle of relief. No more unfair punishments. No more stupid rules.
A tiny, hidden part, but not hidden well enough. That mirrored gaze flashed her way, and the creature smiledâgruesomely, impossibly, inhumanly wide. “Now
that's
what I love to see!” The fingers of birch reached for her, but rather than lash her skin, they wrapped comfortingly around her, guiding her gently to the stranger's side. This close, the scent of candies was almost overwhelming. “Come, child. Come meet your
new
family. You'll like them better. You'll fit in
so
well.”
Another flicker of the light, and then there was only Rousel alone in the room, weeping over the still forms of his parents.
“
Gods damn it!
”
Lisette Suvagne, the new master of Davillon's so-called Finders' Guildâand soon so, so much moreâbolted upright, throwing off the luxurious down quilt under which she'd slept. Shaking not with fear but with rage, she swept her autumn-red hair back from her face and wiped the thin sheen of sweat from her brow. She knew the dream for what it was, just as she had the last time this had happened, and the time before. Knew that their connection allowed her to see, and what she saw was real.