False Covenant

the deep bruises or other aches, but the gash on the bishop's head, the wound in Julien's side (thankfully shallower than it had first appeared), and the torn skin on Widdershins's arms had all been cleansed (with only a modicum of screaming and threats) and tightly wrapped.

The common room now smelled fiercely of alcohol, sweat, and greasy smoke; it was lit only by a handful of lanterns, as all the shutters were tightly latched, and was already growing uncomfortably warm. Widdershins and Robin sat side by side on one of the longer benches; Julien on the “operating table”; Renard on the bar, where he'd helped himself to a jug of something or other; and the others in the tavern's various chairs. The Finders who'd accompanied Renard on his rescue mission (for which Widdershins had already tearfully thanked him about a thousand times) loitered on the streets outside, where they could shout a warning if danger approached.

And, not coincidentally, where they couldn't overhear any of the private discussion within.

Sicard studied one of the dancing flames and mumbled to himself, while most of the others waited with greater or lesser displays of patience for Widdershins and Robin to wrap up their reunion. Robin had, by this point, pretty much narrated the entire experience, but Widdershins-in addition to constantly apologizing for catching Robin in her mess, however unintentionally-was having real trouble grasping some of the finer details.

“He was just letting you go?”

Robin couldn't help but laugh. “Yes, Shins. Same as the last eighteen times you asked.”

“But…he was just letting you go?”

“Which,” Renard interjected from atop the bar, “doesn't in any way diminish the extent of my own accomplishment in rescuing her.”

Both women did him the courtesy of a quick smile.

“Seriously,” Robin continued. “I really got the impression that he was in over his head, and he knew it. I'm not defending the man,” she added quickly at Widdershins's abrupt scowl. “Just trying to understand him.”

“Well, after I murder him horribly,” Widdershins said, “you can understand him all you want.”

“Could you please see your way to saving the death threats for a time when Paschal and I aren't around to hear them?” Julien asked plaintively.

“Which reminds me,” Renard said, hopping down from his perch, “I have something for you.” He reached back behind the bar and presented a gleaming blade to Widdershins with a dramatic flourish. “I believe you're short a rapier, mademoiselle. I hope you'll find this a satisfactory replacement.”

Widdershins's eyes gleamed as she recognized the weapon as Evrard's own. “You're a treasure.”

“So good of you to notice.”

“I…” She took the weapon from him, then stopped. “Renard, this sword had a ruby in the pommel.”

“Did it? Oh, my. I can't imagine what might have happened to it.”

Widdershins gawped at him, and then laughed. “Well, I'm sure it cuts just as well without it.”

“I was almost certain it would.”

“If we're all through catching up,” Igraine snapped at them, “perhaps we'd be willing to spend a minute or two discussing what to do about the unkillable monster?”

Widdershins bent over and kissed the top of Robin's head-utterly missing the incongruous flicker of sorrow that crossed the younger girl's face as she did so-and with a whispered, “I'm really glad you're safe,” rose from the bench. She carefully lay Evrard's rapier aside until she could recover her old sheath, and moved to stand in the center of the group.

“All right,” she said aloud. “Let's discuss. I'd say, first and foremost, that His Eminence has some explaining to do, yes?”

Sicard slowly, even sleepily, dragged his attention away from the lantern. “Yes,” he said softly. “He does.”

“Your Eminence,” Ferrand said, “you don't have to-”

“I think I do, Ferrand. I think explanations are the very least of the debt that I owe.” He smiled, an expression with no joy or humor in it whatsoever. “I know that it's a bit cliche to begin one's confessions with ‘I never meant for anyone to get hurt,’ but it's the gods' honest truth. I really didn't.”

He paused, perhaps to allow for any questions or interjections of disbelief. When he got none, he went on. “You must understand, my position here was…awkward, at best. Some might even call it untenable. The first bishop assigned to Davillon in years, and how did my tenure begin? In the shadow of the murder of Archbishop William de Laurent, and the Church's retaliation against your city.

“I don't…” He coughed once, shook his head. “I don't pretend that what the Church did was right. We're supposed to be above such pettiness, but we're human. I know that their-our-efforts at directing trade to other cities, at discouraging travel here, caused nothing but suffering to a population that largely didn't deserve it. I may have been a newcomer to Davillon, but I couldn't stand seeing what was happening.

“Of course the people turned away from the Church and from the gods in their anger, and who could blame them? But I knew they were only harming themselves spiritually. And I knew that I could never convince my brothers in the clergy to lift the interdiction so long as Davillon's citizens were so openly hostile to the Church, no matter how justified that hostility might have been. So I…” Again he stopped, his voice choked.

It was Julien who first put it together, or at least first enunciated his understanding. “So you decided to give the people a reason to turn back to prayer. Back to the gods.”

Sicard nodded miserably. “It seemed so simple, really. Make the citizens think they had some sort of unholy terror stalking their city, something the Guard was helpless to confront-no offense, constables-and what else would they do? It would take some time, of course, and it would hardly change everyone's mind, but it would get people back into the pews. And once that was done, I had hoped I could use their return to the flock as an argument for the Church to cease interfering in Davillon's economy.”

Widdershins knew her entire face was incredulous, and saw clearly that hers wasn't the only one. “How by all the happy hopping horses did you think you could make that work?!” she demanded.

The bishop shrugged. “It honestly wasn't that hard. Obviously, a mortal adversary wouldn't do the trick, but it doesn't require much sorcery to make something appear far less natural than it actually is. And it was working! During the first few weeks, nobody had been seriously hurt-I know there were a few minor injuries, but that was unavoidable-and the rumors were spreading! Church attendance was higher than it had been in months! Until…”

“Iruoch,” Robin said with a shudder.

“Until Iruoch,” Sicard agreed. “My friends, hate me if you must-perhaps I deserve it-but I swear to you, I swear by every god of the Hallowed Pact, I did not summon him! I didn't even believe he existed! I truly don't know why-”

“I think I do,” Widdershins said softly.

Well, she certainly had everyone's attention now, Sicard's included. She cleared her throat. “I'm only speculating, you understand…”

“Speculation's more than the rest of us have,” Julien encouraged. “So by all means…”

“Uh, right. Well…” She exhaled softly. “Most of you won't know this, but the gods are shaped, in part, by our beliefs. What we think of them, how we worship them, that sort of thing.”

A number of puzzled looks and startled breaths met that pronouncement, but none so dramatic as Sicard's violent gasp. “That…How could you know that? That's a philosophy debated at only the highest levels of the clergy!”

“I told you,” Widdershins said, and she couldn't keep just the tiniest trace of gloating from her tone, “that William de Laurent trusted me more than you believed.”

“So I see,” the bishop whispered.

“Anyway,” she continued, “so our own thoughts and beliefs and feelings influence the gods, and lots of creatures in myths and fairy tales are attracted to human emotions, yes? Fear, or love, or whatever? So I think…” She looked at Sicard, and this time there was no gloating, only sympathy. “I think, indirectly, maybe you did summon Iruoch, Your Eminence. I think the fear you created, everyone's belief that there was something very much like him stalking our streets already…”

Sicard paled. “He felt it. That fear, that belief, made us susceptible to him. Called to him. And he answered.”

Widdershins nodded. “I think it drew him to us. I'm sorry.”

The bishop lowered his head and began to weep. Ferrand rose and limped to his side, placing a comforting