It was a crypt, a royal burial place. In the alcoves were more tombs, the effigies of their occupants in tranquil repose on the thick slab tops. The entire chamber was lit, not by electric lighting, but by old-fashioned whale oil lamps set at intervals along the two parades of arches. The lamps smoldered with a sickly moving yellow light, and the immaculate stone of the arches was smudged with soot where the thick flames danced lazily against them.
But that wasn’t the only light in the crypt. Far from it, for the yellow light of the lamps was bleached out by the dazzling electric blue of the rift that floated at the far end of the chamber.
Billie approached it with care, all the while aware of the growing pressure inside her skull, of the deep, aching pain that was growing within her as the Sliver of the Eye of the Dead God reacted to the presence of the Void. The rift itself was relatively large—far bigger than the swirling crack in the world that Dribner had set his equipment around back in Dunwall, but still apparently self-contained within the crypt, its ragged fiery edges licking the air a safe distance from the floor, ceiling, and walls. It was taller than it was wide, a rough ellipse, the body of which was a swimming miasma of blue and red. Unlike the other rifts Billie had seen first-hand—even the vast walls of light that cut right across the tundra of Tyvia and divided the great construction crater in Alba—this one looked… different. More active, almost alive.
Alive… and dangerous.
Billie reached the last royal tomb, which stood in the center of the chamber, the flickering portal of the Void rift just a few feet from it. Although her attention was focused on the rift itself, as Billie moved around the tomb, she noticed that the stonework was newer, and while the thick slab top was in place, it was devoid of any effigies. Tracing her fingers around the edge of the tomb’s lid, she read the names inscribed upon it, the letters decorated in cobalt and gilt, and knew why.
QUEEN EITHNE, LADY OF THE THIRD AND
FOURTH CHAIRS OF MORLEY.
KING BRIAM, FOURTH LORD OF THE FIRST CHAIR
AND LORD OF THE SECOND CHAIR OF MORLEY.
The tomb was new—and it was also empty. The Queen and King had prepared for their own demise. Billie snorted. It was probably a requirement, another of their precious protocols, written as law somewhere that they had to plan their own funerals.
Billie paused. Was this the blueprint the King was studying in the Great Hall? That didn’t make any sense—his hobby was natural philosophy, not monumental masonry. And besides, the new tomb was similar—but not the same—as the object, the plans of which the King had been examining.
A movement caught Billie’s eye. She turned around, following the flickering shadow as it vanished from her vision. There was nothing there but the rift.
That was when she saw it. Another person, nothing but a shadowed, featureless silhouette, running. Billie jumped back, knocking into the empty tomb, the knife held firmly in her outstretched hand. But while the figure seemed to be running toward her, it was as though it was on the other side of the chamber, running into the rift from the other side, and no sooner did it loom within apparent touching distance that it seemed to dissolve, vanishing in the blink of an eye.
Billie caught her breath and, keeping her distance, moved to the side of the rift to look around it. Beyond, the royal crypt ended in a flat stone wall, adorned with a richly decorated heraldic motif nearly as tall as she was, depicting the symbol of the raven clutching the jewel in its claws, the crest of the current Queen and King.
Billie moved back to the other side of the rift, skirting it with her back to the crypt, watching the swirling vista for any sight of the other person.
It was the intruder—the person who had been following her through the palace. But who were they? Were they an agent of the Leviathan Company, as she had at first thought?
Billie shook her head. Whoever it was, they were using the rift, somehow.
And then the pain struck, a bolt of white-hot agony that seared across her skull. She toppled against the empty tomb, clutching her head, her breath forced from her lungs by the unexpected assault. She could feel the Sliver like a burning coal embedded in her face. But as she looked at the floor, fighting to stop herself from blacking out, the Sliver pulled her head around, forcing her to lift her chin, to look into the Void.
She was powerless to resist. Grinding her teeth, the muscles at the back of her jaw aching, the tendons standing out like cables in her neck, she looked up.
The swirling nexus of the Void had cleared, the fiery edges of the rift now framing a red-blue vista that stretched out impossibly before her, as if she was not in an underground crypt but instead looking out from the top of a tall tower. It was a similar experience to that which she had in Dribner’s laboratory, but here it was far more intense, the sensation of looking through the Void infinitely clearer. If this was another Void hollow, it was incredibly clear.
She was looking at a city from on high, the steepled roofs clustered along the banks of a wide, sluggish river instantly recognizable even without the tall clocktower, the formidable square fortress, and the tall box-like warehouses and factories.
Dunwall.
Billie slid down the side of the tomb, her gaze transfixed by the sight before her. The vision was closing in on the city, blocks becoming individual houses, buildings, streets. Then she was overlooking a square. A man was waiting, his back to her, his sword ready. And above, crouched on the lip of a nearby rooftop, another man, hooded, his face concealed by a peculiar mask, watching, tensed, ready to pounce.
Daud!
Billie pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the pulsating pain in her head. She knew what she was looking at—she recognized the scene. It was one of her own memories, that first night she met Daud, watched him strike down his enemies. The night she had followed him back to the Whaler’s lair, the night he had offered her a new life. The night she had dreamed about not very long ago.
But something was different. There was a shadow on the rooftop behind Daud, peeling out of the darkness, its form indistinct, its claw-like arms stretching out, impossibly long, reaching for Daud.
That wasn’t what had happened. Daud had killed the men in the street then escaped, and the young Billie had followed.
Billie watched in horror as the shadowed form unfurled its blade-like fingers, ready to strike Daud before he could launch himself down onto his targets.
Billie yelled out, and without a second thought, she dived into the rift.
23
DUNWALL
Dates unknown
Billie hit the rooftop hard, the impact knocking the breath out of her but also clearing her head. The sudden easing of the pressure inside her skull made her dizzy, and she rolled on her back, her eye staring up into the cloudy night sky above the city of…
Dunwall. She was back in Dunwall.
She heard a scuffling, a cry of surprise or pain muffled behind the thick rubber and respirator of the Whaler’s mask.
She rolled onto her side then scrambled up.
Daud was fighting for his life.
And she had to help him. Because this wasn’t how it happened.
Even as she ran toward him, she saw someone else—a girl, lanky, thin, her face hidden behind a hood—recoil from the rooftop opposite as she watched the struggle between Daud and the shadow creature. The girl fell backward, then pushed herself along with her hands and feet, kicking out as she desperately tried to get away.
That was her. Her. The teenage Billie Lurk, witnessing what was supposed to be the Knife of Dunwall at his finest as he dispatched the pigs in the street. Instead, she was witnessing the leader of the Whalers struggle against the black, shifting shadow creature from the Void.
Something that had never happened.
There was no point in stealth now. Billie yelled out and raced toward Daud and the Shadow, the pair wrestling on the very edge of the rooftop. Daud was beneath the creature, which had him by the neck, pushing his torso out over the rooftop as it
struggled to bring its wickedly sharp talons to his neck. Daud was so far managing to keep the claws at bay, but it was a losing battle. Billie could see the immense strength of the Shadow, and even as she watched, it reconfigured itself, shifting mass across its body as it fought against Daud’s supernaturally enhanced strength.
Strength that was about to give out.
Billie launched herself at the Shadow’s back, her hands sinking an inch through an opaque, smoke-like form before contacting something solid. The creature roared, the sound like waves crashing on a beach, and pushed back against her.
But Billie had done enough. Daud kicked out, knocking the creature to one side. Billie rolled with the movement, ending up on her back with the Shadow swarming over her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Daud fall backward off the roof, the sudden release from the Shadow’s grip too quick to allow him to compensate and prevent his loss of balance. But even as he fell, he vanished in the blink of an eye, reappearing on his feet in the street below. Of the three men he had been stalking, there was no sign.
Daud waited a minute, watching the rooftop, then he turned and ran. A moment later, he was gone.
Billie returned her attention to the Shadow, but the creature seemed to dissipate in her grasp. She sat up, clutching at nothing, then looked up and saw the thing coalesce in a miniature tornado of dust and darkness in the middle of the roof. Behind it, the Void rift blazed open, flooding the roof with blue electric light, and the Shadow stepped into it.
Billie scrambled for purchase on the roof, aware that nothing made sense, aware that she was in the past and yet the events she had just taken part in had not happened, not according to her memory.
Aware that the rift was shimmering, pulsating, like it was about to close.
She pushed off from the slate tiles with the heels of her hands, and ran for the wound in the world. As she got closer, she saw through it, back to the crypt… but, once again, something was different. The empty tomb was gone, replaced by a jagged, black monolith, like a fallen tor of glassy stone that had been cracked in half and toppled, and on it, the shadow creature, clinging like some perverse, twisted insect made of swirling dust.
Grunting with the effort, Billie surged forward, arcs of pain singing inside her head, the Sliver alive with a power it hadn’t wielded for years. She felt the cool touch of the rift on her skin, and then everything went black.
***
Billie awoke with a start, and whooped a deep breath. The day was bright, and she was lying on something spongy and fragrant. She lifted herself into a sitting position, her hands sinking into the soft earth beneath her. When she looked up, she saw she was in a private garden, hidden away behind a low curved wall. She could hear the lapping of water, and turning, she looked over the wall behind her. The river churned far below, the water salted with diamond shards of light as the rising sun began to beat down upon its softly undulating surface.
It was the Wrenhaven River—she was still in Dunwall. How much time had passed, Billie didn’t know; she felt groggy, the Sliver a pulsing ache in her head that beat in time with her heart. She stood up and moved to the low wall in front of her, one hand massaging her temple.
Then she stopped, and ducked down behind the wall. She counted a few beats, then risked a look over it.
Ahead of her was a large gazebo with a dome roof. Standing there was a woman dressed in a black trouser suit, her hair pinned high on her head. She paced, her arms folded, a piece of parchment clutched between the fingers of one hand. She was not alone. A tall man in traveling leathers stood by her. He was gesticulating, his hands animated, his head bobbing as he spoke at length.
Billie realized she couldn’t hear him. The whole world was silent, save for the lapping of the river several hundred yards behind and below her.
The woman—it was the Empress. But not Emily. No. Her… mother? Jessamine. And the man, that was Corvo Attano, Royal Protector.
Billie’s heart raced. She knew what was about to happen. She knew every moment, every beat of what was to come next.
And she watched it happen. They appeared suddenly, the air swirling in inky black swatches behind them. Whalers, faces hidden behind the respirator masks, knives raised, ready for the kill.
Billie hesitated. Was this just a dream? Or a nightmare? Was the Void showing her the past… or was it placing her in it, somehow? She thought back to the rooftop, Daud waiting, crouched, ready for action.
And then she remembered the Shadow. No, that was no dream. Her heart kicked, adrenaline flooding her system, as she lifted herself up onto her haunches, scanning around for any sign of the creature. She had no idea what the thing was, but one thing was clear—it was interfering with history. Billie had managed to save Daud, but even so, that action had changed history. Had the young Billie still followed Daud to his hideout? Had Daud still made his offer?
And here, now, at the assassination of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin. What was different about it? What was going to happen next? Was it going to be as it was in history? Her history, Billie realized with a start.
What if there was more than one history? Which one was the right one?
There was no sign of the Shadow, and Billie could only watch as the Whalers did their job. The black-clad Empress was felled by Daud’s blade, while Corvo was held fast by the other members of the gang. Then the young Emily Kaldwin, clad in white, tiny compared to the bulky, muscular gangsters around her, appeared from behind one of the gazebo columns and was grabbed by a Whaler.
This was it. They would take her, keep her hostage while Corvo was framed for the murder of her mother. Billie knew her history—and she felt this moment perhaps more than others. This was a pivot point, on which the course of history turned—not just of the world, but of her own life.
She sensed, rather than saw, movement near her, and turned as the Shadow poured itself over the wall behind her, the air in front of it already sparking blue as the rift began to open.
And history was changed once more.
The Empress was dead. But so was Emily, her thin frame lying crumpled beside her mother’s body, her white trouser suit stained heavily with bright, arterial blood. Daud turned to Corvo, who was still on his knees, each arm held by a Whaler. If Daud said something, Billie couldn’t hear it, and his mouth was hidden behind the respirator. A moment later, Daud slit the throat of the Royal Protector, and, with a gesture to his men, they released him. Corvo’s body toppled sideways under the gazebo, and a moment later the Whalers were gone.
This wasn’t what happened. This couldn’t be what happened. Daud had never killed Emily or Corvo. Emily was leverage, Corvo a pawn.
Billie spun around, the rift looming ahead of her, the Shadow disappearing into it. She gritted her teeth and dived headlong across its horizon.
***
To say the house was grand was an understatement; while it wasn’t a patch on the House of the Fourth Chair, it was impressive in other ways. The palace was cold, almost clinical, too big and too empty. This house was, in contrast, equally grand but warm and inviting. Cluttered was the word that sprang to Billie’s mind as she crept along the passageway that led from the foot of the stairs, heading toward a large arched doorway, through which came the sounds of music and conversation.
She’d woken up in a musty bedroom, the door locked, the clammy, stifling atmosphere clouding her mind until she remembered what had happened.
Daud. Corvo. Emily. Jessamine.
The Shadow.
The Void rift had, once again, not returned her to the royal crypt. Billie wondered if it ever would.
Perhaps… if the Shadow returned there. It was clear now that she was just following behind it, being dragged along in its wake as it moved through time.
Changing things. Changing history.
And now it had come to this… house? Well, house was the wrong word. It was a mansion, one of the grandest. Billie had no idea where or when she was, except that the place reeked of money. The decor was vaguely
familiar in the way that all aristocratic fashions and styles were—the hallway was lined with overstuffed chairs that looked like the last thing they were designed for was comfort, and the walls were papered over with embossed floral prints. The warm air suggested… summer? The Month of Harvest, perhaps, when the sun reached its highest.
The perfect season for a sophisticated soiree.
Billie emerged from the passageway onto a large minstrel’s gallery; she hid quickly behind a rich velvet curtain, given that the minstrels in question were hard at work—a string quintet, providing some pleasant, if somewhat soporific, ambience to the gathering in the large hall beneath them.
Billie stood and watched a while. The minstrels were dressed in simple red and white outfits, clearly their theme, but the crowd gathered below—what she could see of them—were in velvets, men and women alike with great puffed sleeves, and flat, circular caps, most of which were adorned with a long feather, the more exotic the better. The clothing was strange, but Billie couldn’t quite put a finger on why.
Of the Shadow, there was no sign. The Sliver was quiet in Billie’s head, and there was no characteristic red-and-blue trail leading back to the Void rift.
She had to get a closer look. If she was indeed merely following the Shadow through time, then it had come here for a reason. She didn’t know where or when she was, or whose house she was in, but it was important. It had to be.
Billie took a step back into the passageway, and smoothed down her clothing. With her red jacket and high boots she cut a formal figure.
Would it be formal enough?
Straightening, she stepped back through the doors and to the left of the musicians. Two of them glanced up at her as they played, but she nodded, holding a hand up.
“Guard detail,” she mouthed. The two musicians glanced at each other, but kept on playing, returning their attention to the sheet music on the stands in front of them.
So far, so good. She moved around the group, and headed over to the far end of the gallery, where the rail met the wall. It was less conspicuous than standing in front of the quintet, after all.
Dishonored--The Veiled Terror Page 18