False Covenant

greatest folk heroes, but specifically of how the gods protected and guided him through his most troubled days.

But it was not this to which everyone in the audience reacted, no. For Widdershins (who was largely dressed as herself, not guised as Madeleine, though she'd thrown a less conspicuous green tunic over her leathers), the bishop's choice of stories was more interesting for other reasons. While he was not a primary character in the tale, d'Ouelette also made a brief appearance in “The Princess on the Road of Beasts”- perhaps the most popular of the fairy tales in which Iruoch himself played a part.

It was, most probably, coincidental-d'Ouelette popped up in a lot of Galice's stories-but she found it apt, if not actually ominous.

“You know,” she whispered, leaning so that her nose was just about inside Igraine's ear, “Iruoch doesn't actually behave much as the stories portray him. He's…wilder.”

The priestess glared and raised a finger to her lips.

“Oh, like you haven't heard this story before,” Widdershins huffed. But when that brought nothing but a second glare-as well as several irritated murmurs from the others seated nearby-she sunk into her seat, crossed her arms, and contented herself with an impatient, but silent, sulk.

It was a sulk that continued unbroken, save for the occasional subvocal snide comment to Olgun, until the sermon and the final benedictions were completed. At that point, Widdershins and Igraine stood with the rest of the human tide rising around them and let the milling worshippers slowly filter by them.

“Anything?” Widdershins asked, once more directly into her reluctant companion's ear.

“No. No, nothing. If he's consorting with any sort of unnatural entities, they haven't left a mark on his soul.”

Igraine might not have said Unlike yours, but Widdershins heard it clear as the cathedral's bell.

“All right,” the thief said. “Go join the others outside. I'll try to follow him, but if he slips by me, one of you needs to keep him in sight until I can catch up.”

“Yes, Widdershins. I was present when we went over the plan the first time.”

“So go be present when we execute it.”

Igraine snorted something and joined the departing worshippers. Widdershins returned to her seat. Several other parishioners were also lingering, offering their own prayers or perhaps waiting for an audience with Sicard, so she didn't look particularly conspicuous. All she had to do now was wait and…

“Your pardon, mademoiselle.”

Widdershins craned her head around, looking over her shoulder. Behind her stood one of the ceremonial Church guards, normally assigned only to the protection of eminent clergymen such as Sicard himself. His uniform was almost clownish, replete with baggy pantaloons, steel breastplate and helm, and an old-fashioned halberd that was probably too big to even function as a genuine weapon in any room more confined than the sanctuary itself.

The pistol and dueling sword at his waist were another story entirely, however, and his expression suggested that he clearly meant business.

“Uh, yes?” Widdershins asked with a shy smile.

“His Eminence wishes to see you. Now.”

“Umm…” Oh, figs! “Of course. Up on the dais, or-”

“He'll await you in his office.”

Widdershins forced herself not to frown. How could he possibly-?

She felt a brief flash from Olgun. Of course. Igraine sensed me. Archbishop de Laurent sensed me. I just never thought he could pick me out of a crowd, from so far…

“Mademoiselle, I really must insist.”

Run? Fight? Not without drawing a lot of attention-and probably losing their only chance at learning what Sicard was up to. She sighed once and rose to her feet. “Of course. Lead the way.”

As they started across the room, the rapidly diminishing crowd thinning out before them, she saw Igraine watching from the doorway. Widdershins tried to shrug without being obvious about it, but the guard bustled her around behind the raised platform before she could see if the priestess understood.

They proceeded into a curving hallway half-hidden behind the dais. The sea-green carpeting here was thin enough that their footsteps echoed, albeit only faintly, between the narrow walls. They could hear voices from up ahead and from various rooms they passed, but never clearly enough to make out more than the occasional syllable.

Finally, they approached a door somewhat larger than the others, with the Eternal Eye symbol of the entire Hallowed Pact embossed in silver at-appropriately enough-eye-level. Just as the guard raised his fist to knock, Widdershins said, “Please tell the bishop I'll see him now.”

The fellow's clean-shaven face twisted her way. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“I'm not trying one bit,” she answered cheerfully. “It all comes naturally.”

The guard grumbled something, knocked, and pushed the door open at the response from within.

Framed beyond the portal stood Sicard himself, still clad in the silver-trimmed ceremonial robes he wore for his sermons. Very little of the chamber was visible behind them, but Widdershins had the faint impression of a third person present. Probably the monk, Ferrand, if she'd had to guess.

“Well,” Sicard said, “I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced, but I imagine you would be Widdershins?”

Widdershins blinked. How much does the bishop already know about me? Even Olgun felt more than a little startled. “Uh…” She gave some thought to denying it, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. “You imagine correctly, Your Eminence.

Sicard stepped back, gesturing for Widdershins to enter. “Martin, please ensure that our guest is unarmed, and then see that we're not disturbed.”

She might still have time to run. Gods alone knew what Sicard was capable of, what his schemes were, how much of the recent bloodshed was, indirectly or otherwise, his doing. Being trapped with him in his own chambers, unarmed, didn't precisely seem to be the pathway to a long and prosperous life.

Bah! I can take care of myself! And there was so much she needed to learn…

Widdershins smiled once more at the guard-Martin, apparently-and held out her arms. The guard's efforts were professional, but thorough. He located and confiscated not only Widdershins's main gauche, but a few smaller blades she had secreted on her person. “Well,” she said to Olgun in her not-even-a-breath voice, flinching as the office door slammed behind her, “that could have gone a little better, yes?”

Struggling to keep the doubt from her face, Widdershins smiled, nodded in response to Sicard's gesture, and moved to take a seat. The office was large and well furnished without crossing the line into opulent. Several chairs with thick cushions stood around a marble-topped table, upon which sat several glass carafes and a number of narrow goblets. Bookcases lined one wall, a few tasteful portraits (presumably of saints or other holy figures) the opposite. Across from the door, a large window allowed the early-morning sun to illuminate the room. Before that window stood a desk with a chair, but it seemed rarely used, suggesting that the bishop preferred to sit at the table.

Sicard lit a chandelier hanging above that table and waved. Ferrand-for it was, indeed, he who Widdershins had noticed-drew the heavy curtains, so that the newly kindled flame became the room's only light.

“We don't have many passersby in the courtyard,” the bishop explained, “but nonetheless, I'd hate for anyone to spot us talking and get the wrong idea.”

“No, of course,” Widdershins muttered. “Couldn't have that.”

Sicard took a seat across from her, with Ferrand hovering behind him. “Wine? Juice?”

“Uh, no, thank you.”

He nodded and poured himself a goblet of a rich, sweet-smelling vintage. “So, tell me, young lady…What, precisely, did you hope to accomplish here?”

“I beg your-”

“Please, let's not insult one another's intelligence, hmm? Your last visit here was about studying me, so that's not why you came back. It certainly wasn't to hear my sermon. Were you hoping to