So why does this sound like a bad thing…?
“I believe, too, that—your status and profession notwithstanding—you truly do seek to do right by Davillon.”
“Your Grace, if the forthcoming ‘but’ gets any larger, we're going to need to move to a bigger room.”
Another polite quirk of the lips. “Indeed. But… you are asking us to believe in a conspiracy amongst multiple noble Houses. And their priests. And the guard. And the criminal underground.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And unless I'm very much mistaken, your plan to deal with this conspiracy, when you finally deign to reveal it to us, will involve our own Houses, and the city government proper, moving against these forces? Why else bring this to us, when you must have known even getting us to believe was an uphill battle?”
When Shins just sort of scuffed her feet, oddly reluctant to answer, it was Evrard who jumped in. “More or less correct, Your Grace.”
“So. I cannot make such decisions—none of us can—based on ‘believe’ and ‘fairly certain.’ We must know, Widdershins. We—I—must know that you can be trusted.”
Had the snow-sculpted chamber pot returned at that moment, Shins would have been too numb to feel it. “What do you mean?” she asked, despite knowing full well, too well, what answer she'd receive.
“How do you do what you do, Widdershins? How do you know what you know? Who are you?”
Years. That was it, the one question that for years she had never, ever answered. It remained fresh in her gut, more recent than the wound left by Lisette's blade, more recent than yesterday; the hot stench of blood, the mutilated bodies of friends and brethren.
The world-ending realization, horror, despair, that everyone thought her responsible.
No amount of travel, no god-granted speed or agility, had ever allowed her to outrun that.
And yet…it never even occurred to her to refuse to answer. Not with so much at stake.
Not with so much at stake, and…maybe it was just time. For good or ill, right or wrong, life or death, maybe it was just time to lay that burden down.
“You won't remember.”
Her voice, hoarse, feather-soft, still sliced through the rising tide of conflict throughout the chamber. Her friends had been arguing with the duchess; not a one of them knew the truth, and yet each of them had struggled to protect her, to allow her to keep her secrets. She wouldn't forget it, no matter what.
But yes. It was time.
“You won't remember,” she said again, more firmly, “but I've actually met most of you before. When I was younger.”
“Where, child?” Luchene asked, not unkindly.
One last deep breath, one intense image of kissing Olgun affectionately on a cheek he didn't actually have. “Mostly, Your Grace, at the fetes and affairs of House Delacroix.”
“Oh, my gods…” The duchess got it, then and there. The others? They others didn't yet understand.
“My name,” Widdershins acknowledged for the first time in what felt like a dozen distinct lives, “was Adrienne Satti.”
I should tell her.
Ignoring the conversational cacophony rumbling about him, Renard Lambert leaned back to peer over one nobleman's shoulder and gaze intently at the thief he'd always known—and still thought of, no matter what other names he'd now heard—as Widdershins. She lounged in the farthest pew, ankles propped on the next bench over, idly staring at the ceiling. Either she truly wasn't bothered by the fact that one of the topics under consideration was her potential trial and execution, or she was putting on a damn good show of pretending. Either way, the attitude was just one of the many things he loved about her. And had, for quite some time, now.
I should tell her. With the kind of power Lisette has, plus the Guild…. Even if the plan goes off without a hitch, there's no guarantee she and I will both still be here when this is all over. I should tell her…
Except…to what end? What good would it do? She didn't think of him in that manner, never had; this he knew, without doubt. Was that suddenly going to change? Did he expect her to just throw herself into his arms?
Right. And then we'll appoint Bishop Sicard as the new Shrouded Lord.
It would just be one more thing for her to carry, one more complication to deal with. And for what? So he'd feel better? Because he couldn't live with it if she died without knowing?
She'd be dead. How much worse than that could it be?
No, it was selfish. Better to leave it. He'd decided long ago not to tell her, and nothing had changed. Maybe, if they both made it….
Renard halted, glanced around, and wondered when he'd risen from his seat, walked halfway toward the rear of the chamber. Gods dammit, no! I'm not going to—
But what if I'm wrong? What if there's even a chance?
He'd already come so very close to losing his last opportunity. He still felt hollow, heart in his throat and stomach sinking, any time he thought back to how she'd looked days earlier. How the sight of her, bloodied and broken, had nearly sent him screaming. How, once she'd begun to recover, he would have suggested the group split up for a time, if she hadn't done so for him—for fear of what he might say to her, otherwise…
Even now, just at the memory, Renard had to blink hard, set his jaw, to keep from weeping.
Shouldn't I find out? For both our sakes? Shouldn't—
“Your pardon, Monsieur Lambert.”
“Oh.” Renard stepped aside and bowed extravagantly, clearing the aisle between the pews and allowing the bishop to pass him by. “Of course, Your Eminence.”
Sicard smiled his thanks and continued on his way—straight toward the spot where Widdershins sat.
Well, that was a sign, wasn't it? With a soft sigh, Renard returned to the front and reclaimed his seat.
Later. If we both make it through all of this, maybe I'll tell her later….
Gods only knew how long it had been—no, really, they probably did, but she hadn't bothered to ask the one she knew personally—since Widdershins had concluded her recitation.
Since she'd spilled her life story, in its entirety, for the first time ever. Not to a mentor, not to a lover, not to a trusted companion, but to an audience of bloody hopping aristocrats!
Even in my own little corner of the world, blue bloods just can't help but claim special privileges, can they?
She had tried, at first, to make herself part of the conversation that followed—the conversation, the debate, the argument, the demands, the threats—but swiftly tired of it. That was when she'd retreated to this distant corner of the chapel, pretending not to notice that any number of mistrusting eyes now followed her every move, to let the others sort it all out.
Judging by the constant ebb and flow of speech, echoing just around the edges in the vaulted chamber, they still had a ways to go.
The wood creaked as it shifted beneath her, taking on someone else's weight. Shins continued to stare upward, not bothering to look.
“It's quite a different perspective than I'm accustomed to,” the bishop told her, “looking up at the Eternal Eye from the congregation. I ought to remember to do this more often.”
“You should see how it looks from the chandelier,” she said. “So, have they decided who has to buy the rope to hang me with?”
Sicard snorted. “I'm fairly certain a few of them would be happy to use whatever belts or cords might happen to be handy.” Then, more seriously, “Her Grace has decided that, for the duration of the current crisis, your guilt or innocence is a moot point. Assuming their House priests confirm what I've told them regarding the current threat, she and many of the others have chosen to take you at your word for the time being.”
“That,” Shins observed, vaguely pointing the toe of one boot toward the assembly, “doesn't sound a lot like agreement. Unless I've been doing it wrong all this time.”
“No, you're hearing the malcontents raising the same objections they've been spouting. You can't be trusted, and y
our story of a demon slaughtering Olgun's old worshippers is ludicrous. This despite the fact that you didn't have to admit to being Adrienne Satti at all, if you were lying. I believe that's part of what convinced the duchess.”
“So this is still all about me? They haven't even gotten to—”
“Oh, no, I've filled them in on the rest of the plan, as well. More or less the same, ahem, nobles who object to you are objecting to it. Not proper. Not legal. Bad precedent. Need more time. And so on and so forth.
“But it's all over save the prideful lingerers. With Her Grace and many of the others convinced, plus my own support behind you, it's largely a done deal.”
Shins uncrossed and recrossed her ankles, one over the other. “They're not necessarily wrong,” she pointed out. “You said even you didn't know for sure that this is legal.”
“There's some uncertainty, yes. My authority as bishop is substantial—and I was granted more leeway than I otherwise might, given the circumstances between Davillon and the Mother Church when I was initially assigned here—but this sort of thing, to my knowledge, has never been attempted. Still, once the other priests have arrived and I've a full quorum, it should be…ah, legal enough.”
“Heh. Now you sound like one of us, Your Eminence.”
“Oh, dear. I'll have to do penance.”
Shins finally dropped her feet to the floor and turned, facing her companion for the first time since he'd joined her. “Was that sarcasm, Sicard? I didn't think you had that in you.”
“I don't. It must be a miracle.”
She couldn't help but giggle, even as her suspicions grew. And grew further still, when she observed that the clergyman, despite the banter—or what passed for it, with him—stared straight ahead, seemingly unwilling to look her way. His fingers even plucked idly at the fabric of his frock. “All right, spill it.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You didn't come over here to fill me in on the status of a conversation that's not even finished yet.”
“Ah. No, in truth, I did not.”
“And you're fretting like a nervous schoolboy. Or a cat in a lightning storm.”
“I—”
“Maybe like a nervous schoolboy who's fretting like a cat in a lightning storm.”
“Widdershins—”
“A cat with a copper tail, even.”
Now Sicard was willing to look directly at her. “Did you want me to actually answer your question? Or were you just going to keep talking?”
“You know me. These aren't mutually exclusive.”
“I want you to consider allowing the Church to formally incorporate Olgun into the Hallowed Pact.”
Only the fact that, in their panic, neither Shins nor her god could figure out which way to run, or where to go, kept her in her seat at all. “Wh-what?”
“My dear, we both know that it's only by sheer luck and the grace of the gods that you've survived this long. If you should die as his only worshipper—”
“I know!” The pew was tugging at her with its own gravity; she found herself curling up tight in the corner of the bench, knees pressed to her chest and arms wrapped around them. The sanctuary, which had seemed so vast, closed in on her, a clenching fist of stone and terror.
She'd known for years they'd have to deal with this eventually, had talked about it more than once, but it had always been so easy to put it off. Of course she should go along with it; that she was Olgun's only worshipper left him vulnerable, meant if she died, so did he.
It was also the only reason they had the bond, the relationship, they did.
Sicard saw her turmoil and reached a comforting hand toward her. She stared at it, unrecognizing, and otherwise made no acknowledgment at all.
“I understand,” he said gently, “what I'm asking you to give up.”
“Understand? Understand?!” She only realized she was screaming when the conversation elsewhere in the chamber ceased, and even then, she couldn't find it in her to care. “You have no idea! We can't—I can't…No!”
“It's the right thing to do. I believe you know that.”
“No!”
Sicard finally withdrew his hand, perhaps realizing how foolish it appeared just hanging there. “I will, of course, respect your decision.” His old shoulders stiffened as he began to stand, then stopped. “But Widdershins, it may not always be up to me.”
She was rocking, now, staring at the toes of her boots. “What do you mean?”
“I didn't know what it was at the time,” he said gently, “but I do, now, after having heard your story. When you were…. When Suvagne was…”
“Torturing me.”
“Yes. That. You see, I felt it. In my dreams. As though it were a sign, an omen.”
“No. No, that's not possible!”
“Over the past few years, more than a few people—including some, like me, in positions of influence—have become aware of Olgun. You know that.”
“Yes, but…” She was crying; when had she started crying again? It seemed to be happening a lot, and she was royally sick of it. Almost angrily, she wiped a cheek dry with the back of her hand.
“But knowledge isn't the same as worship,” he finished for her. “No, you're right, it's not. Not to begin with.
“You must realize, though, that when people know of Olgun, and when they begin to realize how much he has watched over them, as he did when he assisted you in freeing the city of Iruoch…well, this whole situation is unprecedented, but one has to assume that their knowledge is going to mature into reverence. Perhaps not to the point of genuine worship, but then again…”
Shaking her head, still rocking, it was a wonder Shins hadn't grown dizzy enough to fall off the pew. “I can't. No. Sicard, I can't deal with this now. There's too much. Maybe…Maybe talk to me after, if we're all still here to discuss it.” Or better yet, don't. Ever. “Not now. Not right now.”
“Of course. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.”
She was up before he'd gotten more than four steps away. Hands clenched tight—and toes, too, inside her boots—to keep herself from trembling, she stalked at an almost predatory pace toward the gathering at the far end of the sanctuary. Like it or not, they were going to let her in on the conversation, in on the planning. Anyone who objected was more than welcome to try to make her leave. In that moment, she and Olgun both greatly preferred the idea of hurling themselves headlong into danger, of planning to fight and kill and perhaps even die, to any further contemplation of the bishop's words.
In part because, deep down where they could never admit it to themselves or each other, Shins and Olgun both knew that Sicard was right.
The heavy mists and constant drizzle had finally made good on their threats. Rooftops and cobblestones reverberated with what seemed a million tiny hoofbeats; the rain was thick, drenching, a blanket of wetness trying to stifle the whole world within its folds.
Standing at the roof's edge, water running from the edges of her hood, Widdershins could barely even see the building across the street; it was little more than a darker shape, etched in falling droplets. Between the dark of night and the inclement weather, it might as well have been miles away.
She stared anyway.
How many times am I going to have to do this, anyway? How many—?
“You realize,” Major Paschal Sorelle said from behind her, “that I'm going to need that sword back.”
“Of course. That was the understanding when you lent me one of your Guard-issued blades for the duration of this operation, wasn't it?”
The peculiar sound he made in response to that might have been a stifled laugh or simply an accidental mouthful of rainwater. “Something like that.”
“I mean, it's not as though someone could just take a weapon from under a trained guardsman's nose.”
“Don't push it.”
She finally turned his way, then struggled to repress a laugh of her own. “You're wilting.”
Paschal glared at her from beneath
the brim of his hat, which was now heavy enough with rain to fold down around his ears. The normally erect plume dangled and wobbled, a sad, wet rodent's tail.
“I hope you guys are better at keeping your powder dry,” she noted.
“We have dealt with weather in the past, believe it or not.”
“Paschal,” she said, suddenly serious, “I can't stress this enough. The idol—”
“I know, I know. You told us. The priestess told us. Over and over.”
“You need to take it seriously. All your people do. It's easy to scoff at the idea of a curse, but—”
“You mean it. I know. You and the others just get us there, let us worry about keeping ourselves alive and, um, un-cursed. If the place is as much of a maze as you've described it—”
“More. And thank you for giving me my turn to interrupt; you went twice in a row.”
“How unchivalrous of me. Widdershins, I'm more concerned about you. Are you up to this? Are Lambert and Vernadoe? There are those who would call what you're doing traitorous.”
“Lisette's the traitor. Lisette and anyone who's loyal to her. They can all rot, the seams of breeches.”
“‘Seams of…’?”
Thump-splash-squish announced the approach of a Guard messenger, sprinting across the rooftop. He skidded to a halt at Paschal's side, spit out a mouthful of rain, then said, “Last team's in position, sir.”
Shins smirked, wondering idly if the rain made her teeth glisten, said, “Try to keep up,” and stepped off the edge.
Nearly blinding, nearly deafening, but even the downpour could not wash away the reek of the alley. Old garbage had soaked into the earth; its stench was baked into the bricks. Burning down the entire block might, might have been enough to cleanse the odor.