“You offering to follow me around, Renard?”
“Well, if mademoiselle wishes…”
“Never you mind.”
Renard chuckled. “Honestly, though, I think it should blow over fairly quickly. Even most of the Finders who believe you capable of murder don't really believe you'd use witchcraft to do it, so-”
“Stop. Stop right there. In fact, go back a few steps. What are you talking about?”
“The bodies. Our people you supposedly killed. They certainly weren't natural deaths.”
That fist in Widdershins's chest began to clench again. “Dry?” she asked. “Like old leather or parchment?”
She'd already had the attention of everyone in the room, yet somehow it felt as though her audience had grown. “You know about it?” Renard demanded.
“How many?”
“Widdershins…”
“Renard, please! How many?”
The older thief sighed. “Four.”
Widdershins shook her head. The hair Robin had so carefully brushed away fell right back into her face, though she scarcely noticed. “I only knew about two. Robin, help me sit up, please.”
During the few moments it took for her to get settled again, the pillows propped behind her so as to avoid putting any pressure on her wounds, Widdershins's mind was furiously chasing itself in half a dozen different directions. How much could she say here? Who would she have to keep secrets from? Gods, but this had been easier when she didn't mind lying to Julien, but now…
She blinked. When had she decided she didn't want to lie to Julien anymore?
Oh, this is bad….
“I ran into-well, into something-on the street last night,” she began. Better not mention that two of the Finders were actually masquerading as our local “phantom,” not in front of Jul-in front of a Guardsman. “I don't know what it was, but it…” She shuddered, and not just for dramatic effect. She found herself clutching at her shoulder with her right hand, though she didn't remember moving. “It did this to me, and…Well, you know what it did to them.”
“Something?” Julien asked, crouching down beside her. “Not someone?”
“Trust me, Julien, I can tell the difference.”
He nodded, and if he doubted her words at all, no such qualms appeared in his expression or his voice. “Can you describe it?”
“It, he-whichever-was kind of human-looking. Frighteningly gaunt, like a scarecrow, with really long limbs. Even longer fingers, like spider's legs or-”
Robin, with something somewhere between a gasp and an abortive shriek, actually lurched back from Widdershins's bedside. Her voice, when it emerged from between quivering lips, was a gravelly whisper. “Spider hands and webs for hair…”
“What?” Widdershins, stunned at the reaction and frightened by the sudden pallor in her friend's face, ignored her own pain and reached out to put a hand on Robin's arm. “Sweetie, what is it?”
“Don't you remember, Widdershins? You must have heard it when you were young. I'm sure everyone who grew up in Galice must have!”
The thief frowned, troubled once again by the strange sense of familiarity she'd felt when she'd first gotten a good look at the creature. “I'm not sure what…”
Robin took a deep breath, and began.
“Beneath the sun, the roads are man's,
His work, his home, his town, his plans.
But 'ware the ticking of the clock:
The night belongs to Iruoch.”
Widdershins's breath caught, and she felt the tingle of a thousand tiny legs across her back and neck. She did remember!
“In shadowed wood, in distant vale,
In summer rain or winter hail,
If you alone should choose to walk,
You may just meet with Iruoch.”
It was a children's rhyme, nothing but a silly, scary story; one of scores they told each other in the dark, long after they were supposed to have gone to sleep. Just one of many Galician bogeymen.
But he wasn't real!
“With spider hands and webs for hair,
A black and never-blinking stare,
A scarecrow's form, a dancer's walk,
There's no mistaking Iruoch.”
It didn't seem that Robin could have stopped, now, even if she'd wanted to. With every word, her cadence grew ever more singsong; her voice grew higher, as though she were physically reverting back to the girl she'd been when first she'd heard the words. She shook beneath the weight of a childhood nightmare made very, very real, and Widdershins could do nothing but try to hold her.
“No means to fight, nowhere to run,
Your dreams are ash, your days are done.
No point to scream, to cry, to talk;
Your words mean naught to Iruoch.”
Even Julien and Renard were captivated, reaching out to Robin as though to comfort her, even as they clearly had trouble believing that she could possibly need comfort, not from something as simple, as silly, as a rhyme. And Widdershins-Widdershins, who now remembered it as clearly as when she herself was a little girl, could only recite the last stanza along with her friend.
“No mortals, magics, blades, or flames,
He only fears the Sacred Names.
Only a faith as stout as rock
Might save your hide from Iruoch.”
Robin inhaled once, deeply, as though only now able to breathe, buried her head in Widdershins's chest, and sobbed. Unsure of what else she should do, Widdershins held her tight, casting a worried glance over Robin's head-a glance returned by the other occupants of the room.
“Uh…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Robin, that's not, well, not exactly how he looked. His hair wasn't…” She tried to shrug, and succeeded only in jostling the other girl's head. “I don't think we've got enough reason to believe that-”
“It's him,” Robin insisted, sniffling, and raised her head. “Iruoch's come to Davillon.”
“It's nonsense,” Julien insisted. “It's just a folktale. A child's rhyme.”
“Pure silliness, dear girl,” Renard agreed.
Widdershins nodded. “See, Robin? Besides, there haven't been any fairies in Galice in hundreds of years.”
“Like there haven't been any demons, Shins?”
The thief actually felt herself wilt. “Olgun?” she asked, scarcely vocalizing. “It's not Iruoch, right?”
Olgun's silence was worse than any confirmation he might have offered.
“Oh.” Then, somewhat more loudly, “Uh, guys? I don't know if Robin's right about who or what this thing is, but we know it's real, and it's magic, and it's really, really not friendly. Does it honestly matter what his name is?”
When nobody offered her any reply more intelligible than a grunt of agreement, she continued. “Jul-uh, Bouniard, can you increase the patrols?”
Julien grinned. “Widdershins asking for a greater Guard presence on the street? Are we certain the world's not ending?”
“Keep talking, Bouniard, and you'll wish it was.”
The major's grin only widened, and Widdershins had to bite her lip to keep from matching the expression. Trying to force herself to remain on topic, she said, “I don't actually think any of your people could take on Iruoch-or whoever he is-but maybe he won't attack groups.”