They ambushed him in the courtyard.
The Warfares had hidden behind the high rows of hedges blooming with spicy-scented fire roses, a scent he'd stopped to appreciate on his way to the Abbey's main gates. After the stench of that torture chamber, the fragrant clash of apple and pepper cleared his head, and for a moment, the world and his dark deeds faded away.
Then a rustle of leaves, and a creak of something metal. He recoiled from the hedge, but not fast enough. The first wave of music hit him full force.
He pulled out his crossbow and staggered as his magic fled. A second wave of wailing noise joined the first and his shot went wide. And then another device began to play. And another. And another. A legion of Warfares and their boxes of torment.
The cacophonous roar of their music sent him screaming to the ground.
Then nothing. No sensation. No sound. He sank into a darkness even the Void and its master could not penetrate. Fathomless and empty and eternal. A descent without end, falling out of himself, out of —
Someone slapped him.
White light speared his eyes and straight into his skull. A high-pitched whine went on and on, deafening all else. He groaned and the darkness beckoned again. Not a yawning pit of despair this time, but solace and escape from the —
Another blow knocked the thought right out of his head. Then a rough shake rattled his teeth. Distorted words pierced through the whine, and seemed spoken from the end of a long tunnel: "Wake up, witch."
He slivered his eyes open. Rows of golden masks blurred around him. Uniforms formed a gray wall that moved and shifted, sunlight stabbing between the gaps. Something cold and wet soaked the knees of his trousers, the air sweetly spiced with apples and warming grass. Still in the courtyard, and kneeling. Hands bound behind him by scratchy rope. The tension around his neck increased, and then slackened. Someone had a hold of his hood, keeping him upright. Coat pockets felt lighter, probably empty —
The fog in his mind dissipated in an instant. The Heart…the Overseers were ignorant of what, and who she was. All they would see is a tool of the Outsider. They would lock her away in some vault or try to destroy her. He had to find her — and the rest of his gear, his weapons. None of this attack made sense. How had so many Warfares escaped the Grand Guard?
"Corvo Attano, look at me."
The hand on his hood yanked, forcing his head up. The gray wall shifted to allow a tall, crimson splotch of color through. Dawn haloed the newcomer's face, obscuring his features. His apparel marked him as higher rank, but who besides the High Overseer could command the Warfares? The newcomer came closer, broad shoulders blocking the sun — and on one of those shoulders, the insignia of the man he'd strung up no more than an hour ago. No, impossible…
"Did I miss the Feast of Painted Kettles?" His voice cracked on the word kettles. As if affronted, the hand on his hood yanked again. He coughed against the constriction around his throat, the world going misty.
"Enough of that, Brother Matthew. He's not your hound." Aristocratic in speech, but with a touch of Morley rasp, a suggestion of lesser pedigree. The newcomer's face matched his voice: angular jaw darkened by a shadow of a beard, and a slightly heavier thatch of hair on his upper lip. A pensive drawn mouth above a sharp chin, and faint worry lines across his forehead. Thin wire spectacles gave the newcomer a scholarly air, and lessened the harsher features of his face. Gray streaked the dark sable of his hair and gathered in full force at his temples, the hair there not long enough for a comb or oil, but the crown long enough for the wind to toss.
Behind his spectacles, the newcomer's tawny eyes scrutinized, and not with Fairchild's maddened glint, but with a focused, keen intelligence. "The Ascending Circle chose me a week before The Fugue Feast," The newcomer said with a smile that managed to be both apologetic and predatory. "And sadly, no Dance of Investiture. It was all very hush hush and hasty — a formality, really. Even in subterfuge the elders keep with tradition. It's one of their more endearing qualities."
"I doubt Fairchild would agree," he said, sounding as dazed as he felt. Another High Overseer? And chosen before the Fugue Feast. The timing was too coincidental to be an internal power struggle. The Palace was only a few miles from the Abbey. By motor carriage it was a mere hour away. An entire clergy lay dead by his hand alone. If the Warfares had caught the Grand Guard by surprise, it would have been a blood bath. By the Void, he better be wrong.
"Fairchild never knew," said the High Overseer with a rueful sigh. "His temperament was as volatile as whale oil and just as caustic. He didn't have friends in the Order. He didn't have friends in the Empire. The public detested him and half of his personal guard wanted to kill him. The elders threatened the Heretic's Brand if he didn't follow their every whim — if he didn't tour a certain country of an openly discontented Duke. If he didn't remain there during the Fugue Feast with but a handful of Warfares to protect him. Such a tragedy, what happened on the eve of the New Year. Assassinated by the Shadow of Armas. Poor Fairchild. So unlucky."
Fairchild wasn't the only unlucky one. "What's the point of the Heretic's Brand if you people don't use it?" He tested his bindings. Subtle turns of his wrists: first left, then right. Let's see how closely Brother Matthew was paying attention back there.
"Yes, I supposed it would have been easier," the High Overseer admitted with a wry laugh, and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. "But would a brand stop a man who sees black eyes and pale skin in every child, who uses his idle, filthy hands to cleanse these innocent souls?" Those eyes snared his again and didn't let go. "I think not. Your blade ended his depravity, Corvo, and I cannot express my gratitude enough."
In his mind, the Oracle's face shone soft and lambent. Then her radiant smile: I forgive you. His conscience squirmed under that phantom smile. "And the others I killed here, do you thank me for them?"
That fierce stare released him and softened over the chapel walls, over the flowering ivy of yellow and white blossoms, and over the long red banners bearing the moon and trident symbols of their Order. The High Overseer spoke, somber and reflective, the Morley rasp less pronounced: "The Cosmos calls home both young and old. Sometimes without warning, sometimes without cause. This is a mystery that has confounded us since the First Age, and will continue confound us until the Void claims all."
"Save your sermon, High Overseer, it's wasted on me."
"Is it?" the High Overseer said in that same solemn tone. "When I searched your quarters in the Palace, and all your hiding places and secret rooms, I found no shrine to that creature."
His wrists jerked so hard that one of the ropes drew blood. The warm flow of it trickled over his fingers. He waited for more information, some gloating barb or boast that would reveal the fate of the House of Armas, but nothing came. The High Overseer plucked a fire rose from a nearby hedge — his gloves giving protection from its stinging thorns — and circled it under his nose, breathing deeply. He waited, the magic in his blood yearning for release and tension knotting his shoulders. Clustered in five groups of four around the courtyard, the Warfares shifted like a herd of nervous horses — and under their gloves, a white-knuckled grip on every Holger Device. The fire rose continued to twirl with deliberate slowness.
So they were going to play this game.
"I don't worship what I don't love," he said. He'd never tried unleashing the magic with his hands bound before. This wasn't the best time to experiment, but he had to try something.
"Did he anger you in some way? Find favor in another?"
"He doesn't play favorites, so he says." He berated himself for that last part and said, "I know what you're doing, High Overseer, and it won't work."
"I'm merely indulging my curiosity. I've never caught a witch like you before."
"Who says you caught me?"
The rose stopped twirling and the unblinking scrutiny returned. "Then fly away, little crow. Or summon vermin. Or possess one of my men. Go on, I'll allow you one chance to escape. It's only fair as I have so many, and you are but one, defenseless heretic."
If he had his blade, he would have plunged it into the High Overseer's forehead. But he plastered a tight, sporting smile on his face and said: "If you want to see magic so badly, why not play in the Echoing Catacombs? Daud loves surprise visits from the Abbey."
"Yes, we know all about Daud and his barbaric cult. They may have changed their name and their attire, but they are the same scourge from Old Dunwall. What we don't know is the specifics of his connection to you. Where you met and when, and your relationship to him."
"Estranged acquaintances. And that's being generous."
"Good to know, yes, a relief actually." The High Overseer resumed his appraisal of the rose and said, "Because I'd hate to think the Duke's assassination would come between close friends."
His hands stilled, fingertips dripping. He didn't move. Or speak. The shadow of Brother Matthew fell over him, but he didn't acknowledge it. "You lie," he whispered when the blood in his ears stopped pounding.
The pitying look he got in return confirmed otherwise. "But why?" he said, unable to reconcile the possibility of the Duke being dead, or of Daud's supposed involvement. "Why would Daud even bother?" His mind reeled at the possibilities — each one more improbable than the last. Daud cared for two things: himself and his people. He hadn't agreed with the rebellion, but he hadn't condemned it either, saying: "if it stayed out of his caves" then Armas and his "Shadow" could do as they pleased. The Duke had never invaded the catacombs, preferring to give "the strangeness that dwelt there" its well-deserved space. And true to his word, Daud hadn't killed for coin since his self-imposed exile — though over the past year, planning for the coup had taken precedence over babysitting an ex-assassin. But in all fairness, he had no right to judge — and had no reason to believe this High Overseer's pile of oxshit.
"So…Daud left the comfort of his lair to assassinate the Duke for no apparent reason. And then what? He decided to take out the entire Grand Guard all by himself?" He went to work on the ropes again, clenching his jaw against the renewed pain. But no cries of alarm rose from the shadow over him, and no jerks of his hooded chain - which meant Brother Matthew's attention lay elsewhere, likely on his new leader's lazy, strolling approach, rose still in hand, spectacles reflecting the pastel morning sky.
"Daud's Wraiths disposed of most the Grand Guard," said the High Overseer, sounding grave and saddened by what he had supposedly witnessed. "Quite the slaughter. Blood all over those exquisite marbled floors. They never stood a chance — and how could they? Wraith Crust armor and painted skin. Even my travels to Pandyssia hadn't prepared me for the savagery of their attack. Like chameleons they were, disappearing in plain sight with naught but a shimmer and a corpse in their stead."
"Yet…you and your Warfares survived. How convenient. All your twinkling lights in heaven must have aligned just right. Or, your men were the ones doing the slaughtering." Steel in his voice, in his eyes, and around his wrists, a sodden gap. Almost free. The magic pressed under his skin, more than ready.
The fire rose dropped to the ground, and the High Overseer knelt in front of him as if swearing fealty: one knee up, and his right arm thrown over the top. Again that gaze pinned him in place, dulled by glass and wire, but no less unnerving in its intensity. If his eyes were truly windows to his soul, the High Overseer seemed intent on flinging them wide and pillaging what he found inside. No secrets here, no lies. Only one other could unravel him like this, and he was somewhere in the Void, watching Forever with his black empty stare.
"Armas was many things. Hot-headed, belligerent, hostile in Parliament, and he blamed the Empire and Abbey for letting his eldest son bleed out in Old Dunwall's streets. But he didn't deserve to be gutted like a hagfish in front of his lovely wife as she wept and begged for Daud not to kill her beloved. And then their son, that poor child —"
"What about Roberto?" He tensed, bracing himself, vowing not to lose control of his already bristling temper. The Duke's remaining heir, age the same as Emily five years ago, and intelligent like her, always with a question on his lips, always smiling, and always finding things to laugh at. He had kept his distance from the boy for fear of spreading whatever taint he carried, the dark aura that had eroded Emily's innocence and led to her corruption…and death.
The High Overseer paused as if deciding which lie would be the most tragic, but when he spoke, the halting gentleness to his voice swept away any doubt of his sincerity. "The boy is dead, Corvo. By accident, as I believe they never meant to harm the child. He ran from them, slipped…and the balcony had been damaged. It…was very high."
The air left his lungs, his eyes prickling with sudden heat. The magic responded without his call, welling up and flowing through him like a wild, rushing current. The Mark flared so bright the grass on that side shone gold. Brother Matthew shouted and his shadow leapt away. The singing rasp of many drawn blades sent a flock of nesting kingsparrows into panicked flight.
But it was Overseer music that dealt the killing blow to his magic and his fury. He doubled over, the world awash in red and torment until the High Overseer barked a command, and the boxes went silent.
Wet grass stuck to his face as he panted into the ground, the sweet pungent scent of dirt giving him some measure of comfort. Then his hood once again jerked up and his head went lolling along. But it wasn't Brother Matthew's fingers knotting in his hair, or twisting his face toward an equal expression of disgust and ire.
"You see now what chaos that creature creates?" The Morley accent thickened the High Overseer's voice, each word seeming to scrape its way out. "What his followers will do in his name? Doubt my intentions, and doubt the Abbey's desire for peace, but never doubt the Empire's strength to resist the darkness that besieges her now. The Outsider will not have Serkonos; he will not divide us further. The Duchess still lives, but for how long? How can the Abbey insure her safety when heretics rule this city? When the demon that murdered her husband roams the streets, free to do as he wishes — "
"No, I believe about the boy, but the Duke…no, not Daud — it was you. The Abbey somehow found out, someone told — "
"Yes, we have spies everywhere, and in the least likely of places. It's how we found you. And remember what I said about friends, little crow? Daud is not one of them. Nor am I — My orders come with the Duchess's blessing. And as you can imagine, she isn't in a forgiving mood."
By some unspoken command, the knots around his wrists fell away, cut by the same blade that now pressed under his chin, keeping him motionless while someone else — Brother Matthew perhaps — grasped the hand that bore the Mark by the bloody wrist.
"He was almost free," Brother Matthew said, accusing, and gripped him tighter as if imagining he could somehow still flee.
The dagger at his throat tilted slightly, stinging as it drew blood. "What should I do with you, little crow?" the High Overseer mused. "By right I should execute you for the murders of countless innocents — not only here, but for every soul you've sent into the Void since that creature claimed you. Blood for blood. Your head on a spike or your body burned at the stake. I wonder though, would it be justice, or a wasted opportunity? You have no love for that creature, no devotion. Why he chose you is a puzzle most intriguing, and what intrigues me…stays alive." To the Warfares he said, "Play."
And then the blade at his throat plunged into the center of the Mark.
He cried out in surprise more than pain, already half-swooning from the siphoning pull of the music. The flash of steel meeting enchanted flesh seared his vision in gold. He fell to his side, cradling his wounded hand against his chest. A terrible throbbing beneath the Mark, veins and bone squirming, pulsating, and seething with the wet-stone grinding song of the Outsider's runes. No one else seemed to hear it because the Warfares kept playing on and on. In mercy, the whispers of the Void drowned the music out, a susurrus he had heard only once before when he'd misjudged a ledge during a Transversal back in Old Dunwall. In that rocky niche between John Clavering Boulevard and Bottle Street, he had laid on the rain-soaked pavement, paralyzed, wind knocked out of him, and his head full of the same admonishing choir of whispers.
The music stopped. But the ringing didn't. And his hand and his head kept hurting. As if being courteous, the whispers faded enough for the High Overseer to say: "Don't worry, Corvo, your benefactor may not be present in the flesh — if he indeed has flesh — but he aids you regardless. Look at your hand."
He didn't have to look. Sometime between the last warbling note of the music boxes and the final sigh of the Void, the flesh on his hand had healed itself, the Mark whole again, and glowing as if anticipating further harm. Magic gathered like mud in his veins, crawling rather than surging. A realization then, of what this clever bastard had done — and must have done before to some other Marked one. How else could he have known the wound had sucked his mana reserves dry?
He retreated into himself, took stock. Wait, not all the mana was gone. One benefit of relying on his own mana regeneration was a deeper well to draw from. Some remained, a shallow pool barely enough to Transverse over to the opened hedge gate several feet beyond the closest Warfare.
Brother Matthew nudged him to his knees, hood once again pulled taut. If he had the strength enough to Transverse, Brother Matthew was coming along for the ride.
"You see? Completely healed." The High Overseer cleaned his dagger with a brown-stained rag and returned the blade to its sheath. Then in an oddly civil gesture, offered the rag to him and said, "By your expression, I assume you've never tried to cut the Mark away, or damage it. No, I expect not. The lure of power is too great - even if you didn't ask for it."
"I never told you I didn't ask for it." He took the rag without gratitude, adding fresh stains to old ones, then tossed it away. It landed on the High Overseer's boot where it stayed until a skinny Warfare unattached to a Holger device snatched it up and folded it into a neat, tiny square before stuffing it into his coat pocket, and resuming his rigid position.
"You never told me otherwise," the High Overseer said and strolled three paces forward, planting himself in front of the hedge gate, right smack in the middle of his line of sight. The bastard.
"Another assumption then? Careful, High Overseer, the dangers of assuming are vast." The beige whale fountain against a short masonry wall, trickling a steady stream of water from the hairline crack running under its basin, hid the pathway he had taken when entering this part of the courtyard. Two groups of five Warfares stood on either side. Not an option. A Transversal there and he'd have to run back to the Abbey, and toward more Warfares that may or may not be inside. And he bet there were plenty inside.
"A little red dove tells me your secrets."
That got his attention. It was obvious baiting, but impossible to ignore. Duchess Katrina Armas had never worn red. She called it "vulgar" and favored the lighter shades like creams and sage. And no female of the Duke's court even knew his real name, let alone his encounter with the Outsider. Then for some absurd reason, Esma Boyle to mind, and her snug, red velvet petticoat over the pants that accented her "finest posterior in all of Dunwall" — an attribute Sokolov had not exaggerated. He'd shared the brief privilege of its company only once, the soft swell of it bouncing in his peripheral vision as he'd carried her unconscious form to the cellar, and into the embrace of Lord Brisby. But Esma Boyle had known nothing of her mysterious party guest, aside from him being dashing and beguiling enough to fall for his deception.
No, this red dove was not Lady Boyle — who was Void knows where now in The Isles.
"Outsider have your tongue, Corvo?" said the High Overseer, sounding amused, though his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.
He suppressed a sigh, thinking of a young life lying broken on a blood-spattered floor. "Does this dove have a name?" The rest of the Warfares were scattered among the larger groups, spaced so he couldn't get past without one snagging him or getting in the way. For one Transversal and then running until his mana regenerated, and somehow gaining enough distance before the music boxes of doom began their symphony — required precision. Transversing over a hedge might work. Then again, if he landed in the middle of a patch of fire roses, the burning thorns would do the Warfares job for them.
"I'll give her the honor of introducing herself. She's quite eager to meet you."
"Are we waiting for her?"
"No, we're waiting for Fairchild's head. I trust you left it attached?"
He stared at the High Overseer, once again stunned into silence. Who was this bastard?
He is Tarquin Hawk. Gifted, clever. At age seven they chose him. He still dreams of his father 's screams. And the stench of burning flesh lingers long after he wakes.
His breath caught at the sound of her voice. The Heart, speaking from…somewhere. He scanned the courtyard and the Warfares for a hint of her location while the High Overseer (Tarquin Hawk?) pontificated with an airy gesture toward the fluttering banners of the Abbey:
"I don't doubt your abilities, Corvo. But one has to be certain. Can't have two of us running about, can we?"
In Pandyssia, Tarquin saw all manner of creatures. Birds with tail feathers the length of his arm. Insects the size of his palm. And giant winged serpents flying in the distance. How he marveled at them!
She sounded breathier than normal, as if winded. Still couldn't pinpoint her location, but the whistling wind of her mechanical gears tuned out whatever Hawk said next.
But none he loved more than the great cat, coat all the colors of autumn and night. Teeth the length of a blood ox tusk. Its eyes, feral and wise and so bright! The color of new gold.
"Corvo? Are you well? You've gone an interesting shade of sallow."
"Shut up. Where is she?"
A small frown in response to his rudeness, and pressed lips, canted head. "I told you, you'll meet her soon."
"Not your fucking dove. The Heart, what was in my belt pouch. Where did you put her?"
Understanding now, the little "ah hah" light shining in Tarquin Hawk's eyes. He smiled, but not with pleasure. "That abomination we found, yes. It is safe."
"Give her back. She's not a weapon, and she better be whole, damn you, or I will — "
"What? Kill me? Torture me? Little crow, you're in no position to threaten." And as if to emphasize his leader's point, Brother Matthew tugged his hood hard enough to cut off his air again. He jerked forward, unbalancing his irritating guard and sending him stumbling against his back. A jangling began from the nearest box, but Hawk raised his hand. "No, don't bother. I want to know how he knows we haven't destroyed it."
"A little clockwork dove told me," he said. "Better go find her before she tells me all your secrets."
Hawk didn't seem to care for being the victim of his own baiting game. And by his stiffening posture and rather cagey glance toward the stone pathway that sloped down the hill past the hedge gate, it seemed Hawk had also forgotten how to play. So that's where he needed to go. Thank you, Mr. High Overseer sir, for being predictable.
He sees the cat in you. Wild. Powerful. And a weapon. He longs to break your spirit. To turn you against …no…Let me be! Please, Corvo…her hands…"
She never had addressed him by name before. And he had never heard that frightened trill in her voice, not even when she had been dying in his arms.
He stood up, knocking Brother Matthew back and creating a wave of reactions that ranged from shouts to swords and pistols aiming at various parts of his anatomy. Boxes seemed hesitant, their owners looking to the High Overseer for guidance, but Hawk stared ahead, a statue in the face of an oncoming storm, the rippling flap of his long military coat the only movement.
"So you're taking my offer after all. Remember, Corvo. One chance. Make it count."
"You'd be dead before your men blinked. Don't you care about that?" It was either Hawk or the hedge gate. Jessamine needed him, but this High Overseer needed to die. Did this idiot really think he could control him? One leash, however slack, was enough. He would not be a slave to the Overseers.
"You won't kill me."
"You sound so damn confident. And why is that? You have a bone charm against death?"
"I have better. I have…her."
Up the stone path, multiple footsteps clicking and clacking in their military march. Everyone in the courtyard turned, and when the new arrivals entered his line of sight, the Warfares, High Overseer and the panicking Brother Matthew behind him ceased to exist.
Dressed in the same dark gray as their brothers, but wearing golden masks more suited for feminine faces, two Oracles brushed aside the fire roses and pivoted to allow a third Oracle, clad in crimson and black, passage into the courtyard. A dainty figure, and no taller than the hedges around her. This third wore a black mask instead of gold, and instead of a blank facade, a saddened one with closed eyes and the mouth frozen in the act of sobbing. Tears of gold on each cheek, and outlining the symbols on her forehead. Her wimple flowed as the rest of her, overskirt swaying as she came forward. She held his eyes not with her own, but with what she carried in her hands.
So much light. I cannot bear it. I am blind. I am …burning! No more, please…Corvo, help me!
The Heart.
He Transversed and grabbed the bitch by the throat, expecting her to drop Jessamine in reflex, but her fingers laced even tighter around her prize — and though the mask hid her face, he knew she was smiling.
Something stuck the back of his knees, sending a shot of hot agony up his thigh. He buckled and rolled, but the same weapon slammed into his back. Muscles spasmed and tore. The music added another level of misery, piercing his mind and emptying him of thought. The weapon thunked in front of his face. Multiple gleaming points and smooth black metal. A mace. Its sleek form turned in place as if displaying itself to him, then lifted again.
He closed his eyes and sighed. So it would be like this, then. If the Cosmos was real, and if it accepted him, he would find them again. Jessamine and Emily, they would have an eternity to forgive him.
"Cease. He stays alive." An emotionless, soft command.
"High Oracle, the witch should be executed!" The Oracle sounded quite dismayed she couldn't bash in his skull.
"No…he should be revered."
No one said a word. Tension chilled the heated air, the confusion almost physical enough to touch.
Arella Agar, High Oracle. She saw herself smothered by her father's hand, and drowned by her mother's. She poisoned them both. The Abbey found her after.
Small hands pushed him onto his ruined back, and a black mask peered down at him. Then she removed it, handing it to the Oracle by her side. Young, no more than twenty. Round fair face and fairer skin. Eyebrows, elegant and arched, and the color of ripened strawberries. Her hair would be the same color. All that red…
"A little red dove tells me your secrets."
The High Oracle bent low, a chain bearing the Abbey's trident swinging inches above his lips. She ran her fingers through his hair, consoling him as if he were a child, her eyes staring at something in the distance. "I've been waiting for you. We all have. Waiting for the stars to speak your name…Corvo Attano. You will end the darkness." Her eyes, colorless, but not blind, drifted from whatever dream she gazed upon and found his own.
Looking into them was like looking into glass, and beyond the glass, all manner of horrors.
"You will destroy the Outsider."
