Covenant's End (14 page)

And finally, if someone was tending to her back…

Oh, monkeys! I'm not wearing a shirt, am I?

Through sheer force of will, Shins broke through the last remaining layers of fluff and cobweb draped across her mind, pried her eyes open, and took stock. Her face was all but buried in an airy pillow, so she still couldn't see much. She
was
still covered by the sheet, she realized, now that she was paying attention. She could still feel it; from her hips down. From there up, she could only give thanks that Igraine—she assumed it was the priestess cleaning her wounds and changing her bandages—was working on her back, not her stomach.

Not that it would have mattered, had Igraine been the only one present. But in the babble of voices—at
least
four—Shins could clearly make out Evrard d'Arras, complaining almost petulantly about the number of people who had invited themselves into his home.

And, too, the voice of Renard Lambert, arguing with him.

Only when Igraine snapped, “All of you, be
quiet
! She's awake,” did Widdershins realize that she herself had been the source of that sudden, mortified squeak.

“Is she going to be okay?” Another voice, familiar, quivering with concern.

Robin. Robin's here, too?

Then that probably made the speaker she
hadn't
been able to identify, that she had only barely recognized at all…. What was her name? F-something…

Faustine.

Robin's lover.

Igraine was in the midst of telling Robin that if she wanted to know how Shins was doing, she could very well ask her directly,
now that everyone's lack of consideration had woken her up, but the priestess didn't get to finish. For it was then that Shins finally rediscovered her
own
voice.

“
Renard!
”

She actually heard the impact of his skin on the inside of his clothing as he jumped. “What?!”

“If you've taken one tiny peek at anything you shouldn't have,” she said, trying to squish herself more tightly against the mattress, “you're going to lose your eyeballs. And you'll be lucky if it's
just
the eye-kind!”

“My dear Widdershins!” The foppish thief sounded truly aghast, and perhaps just a bit defensive. “I would never even
think
of—”

“—admitting to such a thing,” she finished for him.

“And why is it,” he sniffed, “that I receive such suspicion and ill-treatment, and Monsieur d'Arras does not?”

“You leave me—!” Evrard began.

“Because I'm not yelling at
him
,” she said, “until I either feel a lot better, or I know there are no sharp objects within reach.”

“—out of this,” he finished with a sigh.

“I think
everyone
needs to leave,” Shins grumped. “I am too tired, too sore, and apparently too naked for this much company.”

“All right, everyone,” Robin announced firmly. “You heard her.
Out
.”

“This is
my
home—!” Evrard once more began without finishing.

Shins swore she could
hear
the scowl on Robin's face. “Then you should be quite well acquainted with the location of the doors.”

Carrying a varied array of whispers, comments, and mutters with them, the ad hoc assembly trooped out into the next room. Robin whispered something to Igraine—Shins couldn't make out what, but even at so low a volume, she knew the younger woman's voice—and then the bed shifted as the priestess, who had been sitting at the edge of the mattress, stood up.

“All right,” she said, in response to whatever Robin has asked. “But just cleaning them. Come get me for anything after that.”

Steps sounded, the door shut, and the bed shifted again as someone took Igraine's spot. Shins suddenly found herself grateful that she lay on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, so she wouldn't have to meet her friend's gaze.

Although she still felt him tending her injuries, inspiring her flesh to knit far faster and more neatly than it ever should have, Olgun began to fade. Not completely, not ever, but enough so he remained only the slightest presence, a stray thought, all but forgotten.

It was, she knew, his way of offering Shins her privacy for what they both knew were the awkward moments to come. She loved him for it.

I should probably tell him that more often.

I should probably tell a
lot
of people that more often.

The soft slosh of heavy fabric, dipped in water; a renewed whiff of the herbal concoction; and then, once more, a gentle, cooling touch, feather-light across the worst of the welts and slashes.

And beyond that, and the muted susurrus of conversation leaking through the far wall, only silence. Only silence, until Shins couldn't stand it any longer.

“I can't believe Igraine let everyone in here with me like this,” she observed, her tone so brittle a mistimed sneeze could shatter it.

“Well, there were some important things being discussed, and she
did
have you face-down….”

“Hmph.” Another pause, then, “Guess it's just like old times. I've been back two days, and I'm already a bloody mess, and you're in danger and hiding again.”

Robin's chuckle was faint, but it sounded genuine. “I'm surprised it took
that
long, really.”

“Well, I
am
out of practice.”

Another soft laugh, from both this time. The atmosphere in the
chamber remained thick as gruel, but Shins found herself breathing just a bit easier.

“So,” Shins said again, a brief eternity later. “Faustine?”

“Yeah.” Robin's ministrations halted for perhaps a second, then resumed. “Does that bother you?”

“I…no. No, Robs, it doesn't bother me. I just…never noticed some things, I guess.”

“No.” A tinge of bitterness, now, subtle enough that Shins would have missed it coming from anyone else. “You wouldn't have.”

What the hopping hens is
that
about?

As this didn't seem quite the right time to ask for clarification, however, she chose a different tack. “Is she taking care of you?”

As Shins had practically heard her friend's scowl earlier, so she swore she heard the broad smile now. “When I need it. And the other way around. She's good for me, Shins, if that's what you're asking.”

“I'm glad. You need good people in your life.”

In the distant corner of her deepest thoughts, Olgun slapped a nonexistent hand to a nonexistent forehead. That had been, Shins realized when Robin's hands tensed,
exactly
the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, figs. Robin…”

“Faustine's been with me every second I needed her,” Robin replied in a near monotone. “Renard's been by the Witch pretty regularly. Always somehow manages a free mug of something out of the deal, but it's nice to have him around. Also that guard, once or twice. Julien's friend; what was his name? Paschal, right?”

“Uh…”

“Never for very long, just sort of poking his head in. Even Evrard's been in a few times.”

“Ev—he—what?”

Robin's shrug shifted the mattress a hair. “Well, he has.”

“That's probably guilt, you know. From the whole ‘kidnapping you' thing.”

“Probably. But at least he was
here
.”

“Robin, come on! I told you, I had to…had…”

Had to get away. Couldn't face losing Julien on top of everything else that'd happened, everyone else who's been taken from me.

She'd said it before, aloud. She'd said it a thousand times in her head. She'd believed it, wholeheartedly, when she left.

She had
not
believed it since Aubier, not since she'd nearly died in Castle Pauvril. Not really. She'd admitted as much at the time, to herself, even to Olgun. So why cling to it so stubbornly now?

And once she'd asked herself the question, the answer came as clearly as if Olgun had spelled it out for her in the stars.

She'd been wrong, selfish; and it meant she could no longer justify, even to herself, any of the hurt she'd caused.

Widdershins wasn't sure precisely when she'd begun weeping into the pillow. She knew only, now, that she couldn't stop. Her sobs were gasping, ugly, leaving splotches of tears all over the fabric. Her shoulders heaved, tugging, if only lightly, on wounds and bandages.

When she felt Robin's hands on those shoulders—gentle again, comforting, no trace of their earlier rigidity, no hint of anger—it only drove her into further, more copious tears.

“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 every 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.