“What is it?” Corvo asked, moving to his daughter’s side.
Emily sighed. “It was just a trick of the light.”
It was, wasn’t it?
“What?”
“For a moment I thought I saw Zhukov’s face, over my shoulder.”
Just a trick of the light.
“I’m not sure anyone could survive that,” Corvo said, pointing to the pile of shattered glass.
A trick of the light.
Emily opened her mouth to answer, to tell Corvo about Zhukov’s powers, about what he had told her of his plans, when there was a sound from the middle of the room—crystalline, bell-like, the sound of a wind chime floating out across the city on a hot summer evening.
Emily and Corvo turned around together. The rubble in the center of the room was moving, like there was something underneath, pushing up. As they watched, the shards began sliding apart, the largest pieces lifting up onto their ends, supported by some invisible force.
In the center, Zhukov raised himself up to his feet. He wore the tattered remains of the greatcoat, hanging in folds and loops of heavy cloth. His red goggles were gone, and in the flickering light of the factory it looked as though he had his eyes screwed tightly shut.
Emily took a step back. She couldn’t help herself. Not when Zhukov raised his arms and the shattered remains of the mirror began to lift themselves off the floor, slowly, uncertainly, as if each piece was hanging on an invisible thread.
Corvo tensed beside her, his face a mask of concern, bewilderment, and amazement, his fists clenched by his sides.
In front of them, the mirror fragments, chiming like bells, slid up into the air. They didn’t reassemble into the single, magical mirror, but instead formed a cylinder, no piece touching the other but each remaining in a fixed position in the air. The mosaic of fragments that began to turn around Zhukov, who stood at the center, his arms still outstretched, his eyes firmly shut.
The fragments flashed with light that wasn’t there, but was shining from within them—the stars, the sun, the moon, all shining from the images in the shards, each piece showing something different to the next. Most of them were small, offering scant glimpses or flashes of light—but some were big enough to show clearly what was within.
She saw,
Smoke rising from Dunwall Tower. She saw the city burning. She saw the rats swarming.
She saw the gazebo in the morning sun, her mother sitting at the breakfast table. Emily herself running in the white trouser suit of an Imperial Princess. Hiding from Corvo as they played down by the old stone steps near the river.
She saw her mother cowering in fear as the assassins dressed as Whalers appeared and killed her. Corvo led away on the orders of Hiram Burrows.
She saw herself on a broken throne that crawled with rats as Corvo slaughtered Wyman for her enjoyment.
A wind whipped up. A wind from nowhere, howling from the moments trapped behind the floating mosaic of mirrors. Mirrors, Emily knew, that were really doorways, corridors leading to the past, to the present, to a thousand futures. The images were so real, so vivid, she felt certain she could just reach into them, plucking an apple from the breakfast table, a rat from the gutter, a stone from the crumbling walls of Dunwall Tower.
One shard caught her eye in particular. Something flashed inside it as it whipped past. Something brilliant, something golden—and then it was gone as the shard turned to complete another orbit. Emily kept her eyes on it, trying to track it among the countless other pieces that filled the air in the slaughterhouse.
Zhukov turned to face the two of them. He was the central point, the nexus of the tornado. The tattered remains of his coat caught fire, engulfing him in a blaze of blue flames that were pulled toward the fragments, connecting them all, the last remains of the corroded, unstable bonecharms burning to fuel this, his final act.
He opened his eyes. They were blackened hollows. At the center of each burned a star the color of blood, the color of a fire that burned a long time ago.
He gestured, and one of the largest fragments of mirror spun out of the mosaic and floated into position behind him. In it, a frozen slice of time—the gazebo, the message from Corvo, the final moment before her mother, Jessamine, was killed.
“So,” Zhukov said, his croaky, wet voice somehow amplified, echoing above the sound of the unholy wind. “This was what you saw, my child. The end of the history you remember.” He laughed. “But the beginning of a new one, of my making.”
He turned and reached into the mirror. The surface rippled at his touch, and he plunged his hand into it.
The other fragment Emily had been watching drifted within touching distance, the blue energy from Zhukov spiraling into it like luminous smoke. She reached out for it herself. Corvo shouted something, but she couldn’t hear over the wind. She reached out with her cut hand, plunging it into the mirror, meeting no resistance.
Her mind exploded with pain. It was all-encompassing, a thing that enveloped her body like a heavy blanket, a thousand hands pushing her down to the ground. She felt a heat grow within her, until she thought her heart was on fire, her whole body was on fire.
Her hand closed on something. Cold. Hard. The surface intricately engraved, the thing molded for a perfect grip.
Cold. Hard. Metal.
She pulled her hand back, falling backward.
She held the golden knife, Zhukov’s twin blades. The knife—she knew, somehow, just upon holding it—that had spilled the blood of someone both important and unremarkable, thousands of years ago.
And she heard it whisper and sing, the blaze of agony in her mind flooded by the light of flames and the heat of an inferno and the forgotten song of another age.
She screamed. She fell, Corvo caught her, and as the world spun into fiery nothing she felt him take the knife from her, saw him run past her, saw him grab Zhukov around the neck as the cadaverous evil stepped into the mirror beyond.
Saw Corvo plunge the golden knife into his blackened carcass.
Saw Zhukov’s body go stiff, the Hero of Tyvia frozen, just inches away from his escape.
And then she saw nothing at all.
31
DUNWALL TOWER
19th Day, Month of Darkness, 1851
“Sometimes when I sleep I dream, and in those dreams I am many things. I am an adventurer, a traveler. I am a hero and I am a tyrant, a beggar on the street, the ruler of the world. And sometimes in those dreams I see a light, bright and shining, red and golden white, the light of a fire that burned so very long ago, when one world ended and another began. And when I wake the dream is gone but the feeling remains, the echo of song ringing in my ears, the warmth of a winter hearth and the shine of light on a distant, unknown horizon.”
— THE ASHEN VEIL
Extract from a private journal
Emily flinched at the light, then jerked awake. She gasped, and fell back.
Back into something soft and cool. She lifted her head. It was a pillow. Her pillow.
She frowned, and turned her head, the room coming into focus as she blinked into the daylight streaming through the window. Beside it stood a woman in a long white robe, with stiff, high collar and a white skullcap on her head. She thought she should recognize the uniform, but the effort was too much and she let her head fall back.
There were voices nearby, murmuring by the window. She opened her eyes again. The woman in white was talking to a man in a black leather tunic. He looked familiar, somehow. Short hair, gray at the temples, darker on top, his face peppered with a light stubble. He had his arms folded and she saw his biceps bulge under the sleeves of his tunic.
She remembered. The woman in white was a court physician—the royal physician, Doctor Toksvig, who had apprenticed under Sokolov. The soft pillow was hers, as was the room. And the man was…
“Corvo?” she asked, surprised at how quiet and weak her own voice was.
Her father turned to her and smiled. Then he unfolded his arms and
moved to the bed.
“Emily,” the Royal Protector said. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
She frowned. How was she feeling? About what, exactly? She shifted in the bed. She felt tired, her head heavy. She moved again. She’d had a dream, a dream about a fire—
She jerked up, then winced as a bolt of pain shot up her neck.
“Ouch!”
Corvo stood back and chuckled softly. “Yeah, you’ll be sore for a while.”
The factory. Zhukov. The mirror.
It all came back to her.
“I feel like a building fell on me,” she said, her voice louder, the strength coming back with every passing second, albeit slowly.
“Funny you should say that,” Corvo said, laughing, “because you had a building fall on you. Well, part of a building, anyway.”
Beside him, Doctor Toksvig loitered, clearly wanting access to her royal patient. Corvo stepped back to allow the court physician some room as Toksvig wrapped the arms of a pair of small circular glasses around her ears and leaned in. She asked a series of questions, some about how she felt, others about what year it was, what month, who she was, where she was. She frowned at these, but behind the woman’s back she saw Corvo grin and give her a slight nod, so she answered the questions dutifully and without complaint.
The physician seemed happy enough, and she stood back and took her glasses off. The big wire loops got stuck behind her ears and she struggled to free them as she spoke.
“She’ll be fine in a day or two, but I think rest is the best remedy,” she said. “Perhaps a week at Heronshaw Lake would be in order. I think the Empire can survive without its Empress for just a little while.” She paused, finally having got her glasses off, only to turn to Emily and put them back in place.
“But I must say, she’s in good health,” the doctor continued. “No bones broken, just some minor contusions. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside, of course, from Her Majesty’s noteworthy physical condition. It never ceases to amaze me what garden walks, ballroom dances, and the occasional horseback jaunt have done for Lady Emily’s health. More muscle than the average officer of the City Watch, I’d say.”
With that, the physician stuck her tongue in her cheek and glanced sideways at Corvo, then gave Emily a deep bow and moved away.
Corvo sat on the bed as Emily shuffled to sit up. She swiped her hair out of her face with both hands, then dropped them to her lap, staring at the palms. Her hands were fine. Both of them. She lifted her left one, turning it over and flexing the fingers. There was no sign of the deep cuts she had given herself with Corvo’s blade.
“The doctor says you can get up now, Your Majesty,” Corvo said with a smile. Emily just frowned at him.
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days.”
Emily blinked. Then she held up her hand again. Had she dreamed what had happened?
“Your hand is fine,” he said. “Somehow it healed when you reached into the mirror and grabbed the knife.”
“Right. Of course.” Emily nodded slowly. “That makes as much sense as anything else.”
Corvo just shrugged.
“What happened in there?” Emily asked.
Corvo tugged on his bottom lip. “After you passed me the knife, I knew I had to stop Zhukov—I don’t know what he was doing, but he was stepping through the mirror fragment, somehow. I pulled him back and used the knife.” He cleared his throat and for a moment Emily’s eyes flicked down. She knew what Corvo was, what he was capable of doing, but it wasn’t something she wanted to dwell on.
“And then what?” she asked.
“Well, we struggled a bit, he tried to get the knife out. The mirror fragments came crashing down, so I had to run. I grabbed him and pushed, and he fell into the vat.”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”
Corvo smiled. “No, you wouldn’t, you were out cold. There was an explosion—the whole factory went up, then collapsed into the river.”
Emily’s breath caught in her throat.
“Don’t worry!” Corvo laughed. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“How did we get out?”
Corvo shrugged. “I ducked and ran, carrying you. I guess we were lucky, right?”
Emily sank back into the bed, shaking her head. It was over. Wasn’t it?
“What about Zhukov?”
Corvo shook his head. “If there was anything left of him after he fell into his soup, we haven’t found it. I have the Wrenhaven River Patrol trawling the riverbed. There’s a lot of rubble to dig through, but there’s no sign of his remains. Or of any of the mirror fragments.”
“What about the knife?”
Corvo shook his head.
Emily sighed.
The two of them chatted for a while. She wanted to tell him about what Zhukov had told her, about his plan and his powers, but her father steered the conversation away, saying there would be plenty of time to go through all of that. They talked about the last three days, about court life, ordinary things.
According to Corvo, the initial shock of what had happened at the Boyle Masquerade had faded, replaced with a strange, whispered excitement about the drama so much of Dunwall society had experienced firsthand. Lady Esma Boyle was recovering, but seemed withdrawn now, and her nephew, Ichabod, was handling the family affairs.
There was a knock at the door.
Corvo stood to open it, and let Wyman in. The young noble nodded at the Royal Protector, then grinned at the Empress. Emily let out a breath.
“I’m bruised and unbathed, but you may approach.” Then she gave Wyman a wry smile. Wyman bowed, and the pair laughed, then Corvo clapped the noble on the back.
“Young Wyman, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Emily’s eyes widened, and she bit her tongue. Her father was grinning, and Wyman nodded.
“Thank you, sir. I feel much better. I really don’t know what happened.” Wyman turned to Emily. “I’m glad you’re okay, Emily. I feel awful—I had promised the Royal Protector to keep you in my sight, and then…” The words faltered, and Wyman shrugged. “Next thing I know I’m in one of the guest apartments, being tended to by Doctor Toksvig. Last thing I remember, we were together in the Great Hall, talking about… well, I don’t know what.”
Corvo put his arm around Wyman’s shoulders. “Never mind, I’m glad you’ve recovered.” He turned his smile on Emily. “Must have been something you drank.”
She didn’t say a thing.
32
SOMEWHERE IN THE CITY OF DUNWALL
2nd Day, Month of High Cold, 1851
“Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave Dunwall. No, Sir, when a man is tired of Dunwall, he is tired of life; for there is in Dunwall all that life can afford.”
— CONVERSATIONS OF A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER
Extract from a popular pamphlet
The night was cool and the gentle breeze was pleasant. Emily enjoyed the fresh air. Crouched on the rooftop, she pulled down the collar of her jacket and found herself smiling.
It was good to be out again. Heronshaw Lake had been nice, and she certainly had needed the rest, but she was glad to be back in Dunwall.
It was when she’d unpacked that she had found the black sparrow costume—part of it, anyway—in the closet in her apartment. She’d been wearing it when Corvo carried her back to the Tower. The mask was missing, abandoned somewhere in the Boyle Mansion, although Emily’s memory of the events of that night was a little fuzzy still, and her full recollection of the struggle against Zhukov seemed to be fading, as if something about it wasn’t quite real enough to leave solid memories.
But it had given her a good idea. She’d been at the masquerade for hours, leaving no one any the wiser that their Empress had walked among them.
So, that night, when the Tower was quiet and sleeping, she’d stolen out of bed, and padded over to the closet. Dragging the black sparrow costume out, she ca
rried it into her safe room and laid it out on the table. Then, taking a dagger, she began to cut, stripping the feathers off, making adjustments here and there. Then she folded the collar up and buttoned it. It covered her nose and mouth, leaving her plenty of room to see, but providing an excellent disguise.
It would do, for now. When she had time, she would have a quiet word with her royal tailor to come up with something a little more… customized. In her mind, she could see a smart jacket with asymmetric tails and embroideries in gold thread, and a high collar that could be raised, to cover the face…
But now she enjoyed the night, Dunwall spread out in front of her, sparkling like a jewel. Over on her left, farther down the river, the lights of the Wrenhaven River Patrol blazed as they continued their search of the Greaves slaughterhouse ruins. At least the river hadn’t been blocked by its collapse, and some prime industrial real estate had become available. In fact, she was due to meet representatives of the Greaves Lighting Oil Company in the morning to talk about the building collapse and what it meant for—
Emily stood and sighed. That was for tomorrow, when she would return to her job as Empress. A job that was dull and boring.
Not like tonight. Not like this.
She flexed her muscles. She felt good. No, she felt great. Alive. Electric, and all around her the city slept, no one realizing what had happened, the fate that had almost befallen the Empire, in a future that might have been.
With a grin, Emily judged the distance to the next rooftop. She backed up, pulled the collar of her makeshift disguise up over her nose and mouth.
She ran, and she jumped, the city of Dunwall her playground, her home.
* * *
On another rooftop, another figure crouched, watching her leap, run, leap, roll, disappearing over the rooftops as silent as a shadow.
She had done well. Very well. She was ready.
After all this time, she was more than ready.
Corvo felt a swell of pride inside him. He stood, judging the best spot to which he would blink, to keep her in his sight.
And then he stopped himself. He thought for a moment, watching the Empress vanish into the shadowed eaves of a building, and then he lifted his hand. On the back, the Mark of the Outsider flared blue for a moment, and then was quiet.
Dishonored--The Corroded Man Page 28