Covenant's End

  ALSO BY 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

  Inquiries should be addressed to Pyr

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  Amherst, New York 14228

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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 978–1–61614–986–4 (cloth)

  ISBN 978–1–61614–987–1 (ebook)

  [1. Fantasy. 2. Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. 3. Gods—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M3456Fal 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015000416

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  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 said—!”

  “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—!”

  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 before—Don'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 pendulum—all 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 seemed…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 w
asn'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 air…

  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 left…

  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.”

  “Called…?”

  “Yes. Both of you. Quite distinctly. You said you hated…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.

  “…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 smiled—gruesomely, 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’ Guild—and soon so, so much more—bolted 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.

  Again. They'd done it again. It had been Embruchel this time; who knew which of them would slip the leash tomorrow?

  She needed them, reveled in the power they granted, but this wouldn't do. They would kill, spread terror, everything she'd promised them and more, but not this much, not yet! Not everyone, everything, was quite in place.

  “Gods damn it,” she growled again, far more softly. “You bastards are immortal. Why the hell do you find it so hard to wait?!”

  With a sigh, Lisette rose and began casting around the opulent chamber for her clothes. She needed to compose herself, grab something to eat.

  And then to try, yet again, to explain the importance of “patience” to creatures of pure and unchecked whim.

  Ah, well. It'd be worth all the aggravation when Davillon—all of Davillon—was hers.

  Lisette was not the only one in Davillon to wake in that moment.

  Some distance across the city, in his dwelling chambers within the Basilica of the Sacred Choir, his Eminence Ancel Sicard, Bishop of Davillon, also sat upright out of a horrid dream. Groaning, he ran a few fingers through his pillow-matted beard before laying his head in his hands.

  Confusing, unclear; a sequence of images, dark, disturbing, bloody. More a sensation than a sight, a cold and sick certainty that something was wrong, very wrong, in his city.

  Not that he needed the dreams to tell him that. The Houses were squabbling, the Guard were dithering, and the rumors making the rounds were as horrid as they'd been last year, when the creature Iruoch had stalked the streets. Plus, Igraine was telling him of ever greater troubles in the criminal underworld as well…. It was no wonder his dreams were unsettling.

  Except Sicard had been a priest long enough to know that sometimes the dreams of the clergy were no dreams at all. And if these were omens, signs, then something truly, impossibly, inhumanly awful was at hand.

  It had been nothing shy of a miracle that Davillon came out of the last year so relatively unscathed. It seemed almost ungrateful to pray for another one so soon, but that was what his city required: another miracle.

  Or maybe, he pondered, as the image of a chestnut-haired and darkly clad young woman floated to the surface of his sleep-addled memories, just the return of a prior
one.

  Unbelievable that he'd ever entertain that hope. She was rude, insolent, exasperating, unpredictable, and just talking to her was like trying to scoop up a squirming armful of puppies and eels. He'd shed no tears when he learned she'd left.

  Still…if she's coming back, I do rather hope it's soon.

  The days were oddly chilly, given that the calendar insisted mid-spring wasn't terribly far off. Not ludicrously so, not wrapped in snow as if winter had utterly missed its cue to depart, stage north. Just chilly. The breeze carried a subtle bite, the sort offered when the neighbor's dog was tired of your crap but hadn't yet reached the point of going for your throat. The rain, less frequent, fell in fat, cold drops when it came, liquid spiders scurrying down inside collars and boots.

  The woodland creatures were confused, popping out of winter burrows one day and hunkering back down the next. Grasses grew, foliage sprouted, only to be uprooted or torn from branches by the wind and the rain. Along this particular length of highway, one of southern Galice's major thoroughfares, the road was more muck than dirt, and the leaves that had tried to grow on nearby trees lay scattered willy-nilly like a bunch of bleeding, groaning bandits.

  A metaphor that would have made no sense whatsoever, had the road and surrounding woods not also been strewn with a bunch of bleeding, groaning bandits.

  One solitary figure strode casually away from the human detritus, her boots crunching lightly in the cold muck. A dark hood, matching the rest of her traveling leathers, kept chestnut hair from roiling and coiling around her head in the breeze. For a time, other than those gusts and her own footsteps, the only sound to be heard was the faint jingling of the ratty pouch she weighed and juggled in one hand.

  “I don't know, Olgun,” she lamented to, apparently, nobody in particular. “This is barely more than the last group had on them. We really need to get ourselves accosted by a better class of highwayman. What?” She cocked her head to one side, listening to a response nobody else could hear. “Oh, come on! I didn't hurt any of them that badly!”

  Another pause. “Well, yeah,” she admitted, “that probably hurt pretty bad. But he has another one that should still work just fine.”