The morning before they departed, Mother finished packing their things—and then unpacked them again. She had Sinir’s saddlebags with her. They bulged with rations and equipment, some old and some acquired from the Boyar’s stores, from ropes to tinderboxes and all other manner of survival essentials.

For normal humans. But for a magician, such accoutrements were usually unnecessary.

“What’s this?” Corvo said, picking up flint and pyrite.

“That is for striking sparks,” Mother said. “So we may create fires easily. I will show you how to use it soon.”

He cocked his head. Then he said to her, as if she might have forgotten, “But you can make fire on your fingers.”

“I can. But my magic is not infallible. It may be detected, or dispelled, and if I am hurt, I may not be able to use it. Indeed there was a time, before you were born, when I lost the power to cast spells altogether for many months. Such a thing could happen again. And—even if it did not—it is possible something could happen to me, or to Aunt Aletheia, and we would not be there for you. You would be forced to travel with Dorian, alone.”

Her tone was somber and serious. The sudden image of Mother being hurt, or worse, terrified him. She was strict, but he trusted her utterly. He loved his mother in the unwavering way that only pets and young children can. Her absence always frightened him, and especially so since the Shadow Man’s arrival.

But she smiled. Her voice regained a hint of playfulness, like she did not expect such a thing to ever come to pass, as she said, “Thus we always keep a backup. For emergencies.”

Yet the idea had been planted. Corvo hugged her.

“Don’t leave,” he said. “I love you.”

She said nothing. Instead she hugged him back, until finally her chest quivered.

“I love you, Corvo. More than you know.” When he pulled away to look her in the eyes, she smiled, and added, “And I have a present for you.”

She reached into one of the saddle’s bags and withdrew a small black jacket. It had been folded precisely, but now she let it unfurl.

“I had intended to save this until your birthday. But it is better to give it to you now, I think,” she said.

He took it eagerly. But although he had expected soft and comfortable fabric, he instead found it coarse and cold beneath his fingers, like something hard was hidden between layers of cloth. It was heavy and clinked when moved.

“There is armor hidden beneath this fabric,” she explained. “The jade ward I gave you shall keep you safe, but even it may sometimes fail. While we travel, I would like you to wear this jacket.”

“It’s too heavy,” he said.

“Not so. Wearing it will make you strong. Do you not want to be strong, like Dorian?”

He considered this, and decided that he did want to be strong. He tried the jacket on. It wasn’t so uncomfortable hanging from his shoulders, although it was oversized for him. He would have to grow into it. Indeed, after a moment, he felt like his glass rider, or his wooden warrior. He was a knight of Katharos now, like his father. A warrior. All he needed was a sword.

Except he did not want to be like his father. He wanted to be a magician.

“You never wear armor,” he said. Aletheia and Trito did, and Dorian had a gambeson, but Mother barely wore anything, except furs when it was cold. “Why do I have to?”

“The risk before has not be so great,” she said. “Yet from now-on—I shall.”

She tapped on his shoulder so he would make room for her to stand and returned to the saddlebags. At the very bottom of their largest container she retrieved a satchel. It appeared empty, but she set it down on the bed and reached into it.

Her hands returned with a long hauberk of silver chain that sparkled in the magelight. It was slender and feminine in cut, but long and large; it wouldn’t have fit anyone except Mother.

She set it down. From the same satchel she drew a gauntlet and a small box. She surveyed them once they were arrayed before her.

“These are my most powerful artifacts,” she said. “I had thought to wait, until things were more serious, before taking them from their place of rest. Yet—we should make use of them all now, I think. Turn while I change.”

Corvo obeyed. He faced the far wall while Mother undressed and put on a new raiment. While he waited for her, he pulled the things on the bed to his side, glancing at them one at a time. The gauntlet was of leather and had a single strap of bronze across its wrist. It wouldn’t have fit him. The box interested him more. Made from some kind of steel, it was solid, and more objects rattled within when he picked it up.

It had no lock. He could not pry it open.

He had nearly set it down, when he brushed his hand across the flat of its top half. Then he heard a small click.

The box came open. It had no lock, but two small magnets that kept it shut.

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He looked within.

The largest object, at its bottom, was an ornate hand mirror. Gold glinted around a reflective surface as he maneuvered it in the light. Sitting atop it were two rings, a bowl, and a scrap of vellum. The rings and the mirror did not interest him, but he picked up the bowl and stared into it.

It wasn’t a bowl. It was a half-sphere made of bronze. Carved into it, in intricate detail, were flying murders of crows. At its bottom crouched a cat. A circular band floated freely across its rim when he moved it, like the support of a globe, and at the band’s center was a small notch. An arrow.

No matter where he held it, the arrow pointed at him. From one side to another, left to right: the band compensated for the motion and kept its arrow steadily upon him.

An enchanted bauble. One of many that his mother had. He put it back into the box, then reached for the vellum.

Mother grabbed his hand and tore it away.

“Corvo!” she said. “These things are not toys! Put the box aside!”

He did exactly as told. Then he looked back at her.

She wore men’s clothes now. He almost did not recognize her. Trousers of gray, a tunic of red and black, and the suit of white chainmail draped over her. Cinched around her waist was a belt, and hanging from it was the sword with a crow for a pommel—his father’s sword. A long cloak hung from her shoulders. She didn’t show an inch of her bare skin, except at her head and hands. She almost did not look like his mother.

“Mama?” he said, frowning.

She looked serious and severe as she clutched the vellum to her chest. But she couldn’t help but smile at his response, and she softened.

“Yes. It is me, regardless of my clothes,” she said. She sat down and pulled him into her lap. “And I think you are old enough, Corvo. It is time you called me ‘mother’. A duke should be formal.”

She had told him this before, yet he found it hard to remember. He knew she was his mother, but her name was mama. Or actually Eris. But he nodded.

…and reached for the vellum.

“What is it?” he said.

“Nothing for you to see. I will show you when you are older, perhaps.”

“You always says that! I want to see!”

They played a game of keep away briefly, Corvo’s hands following after his mother’s, but she sighed after a moment, and she hugged him.

It was not so comfortable with her in armor. Aletheia was rough and coarse to hug; Mother had always been soft, warm, and loving. Yet now Mother was not soft. Their armor clinked together when they touched.

She did not seem to mind.

“Very well.” She sighed. “It is a poem. I will read it to you.”

Corvo loved it when his mother read him poetry, and she almost never did, and so he looked up at her with eager anticipation. Her voice could lull him instantly to sleep. Even at the advanced age of five, which he knew was much too old for lullabies, he craved for her to soothe him late at night.

She gazed at the vellum. But she put it aside and back into its box, then recited it from memory:

“The golden eyes like yellow coals left in the furnace flame;

Beneath a white unmelting breast burns passion just the same:

An open blaze so bright and hot, so comforting, so warm;

Belies the marble skin: the curves draw men like moths in swarms;

And for the patron of all fire, the Sun which hangs above,

For all he does for us on Earth, it pales before my love;

For granting life to plants and trees and bringing spring anew

Is small indeed contrasted to the flame inside of you:

Which shines through wit and barbèd tongue and temper to behold;

But spreads too far with fire loose and burns us uncontrolled.

And after so much time so near you’d think I might have learned

But now and for forevermore, I like it getting burned;

And every kiss that swells the risk we’ve taken love too far

Reminds us still that love is how we forget who we are.”

When finished, Mother took hold of Corvo’s head and brought it back against her breast. She snorted once as though she would cry. Corvo considered the lyrics in silence; they meant little to him, but he said, finally, after much serious thought, “You have golden eyes.”

“Indeed I do.”

“And Aunt Aletheia does, too!”

“And so she does. Yet this poem—is about me.” She let him go. “Your father wrote it, when we were not certain that we could be together any longer. I was uncertain, at least. He was always rhyming and composing verse. It was most tedious. But he did, at times, compose something of value.” She sighed. “This is all that survives, beyond my memories.”

He gave this more thought. He wished he could meet his father. The image of a man that he had in his head did not make much sense, and was even more confusing now.

“Why did he like getting burned?” he asked. “Didn’t he know that getting burned hurts?”

Mother laughed. She tried to contain herself but could not for long.

“That I cannot explain,” she said. “You are very insightful, Corvo. Adults often say and do strange things that do not make sense. Why we often harm ourselves and those we love is a mystery I cannot answer. But sometimes what is painful may also be the most rewarding, in the end.”

She looked at the other things in the open box.

“He also bought me this mirror, as a gift. I did not deserve it.” She picked up the strange bowl. “The compass—it is a compass, from the Manaforge at Thermopos. It was his, and led him always in my direction, so that we might never be apart. Yet since his death, it now points toward you.” She considered the rings. One was a simple gold band. “Here. You shall find this most amusing.”

She put the golden ring on and took hold of it with two fingers, then spun it slowly. A distant roar sounded from the walls of the room—echoing, like the sound made by a lion at a menagerie. When she spun it more quickly, the noise became much loader, and Corvo covered his ears.

But when the echo had faded, he cheered.

“I want it!” he said. “I’ll scare the Shadow Man away!”

“And with it you would keep your mother up all night. No, I think it shall remain mine, for now.” But she grabbed the other and offered it to him. “This, however, would look well upon you.”

It was a simple band, like the other, but seemed to be made of bronze. It was too large for most of his fingers, but fit at the base of his middle finger. It did not seem to belong alongside the other things in this box.

He put it on cautiously. The moment it was in place, the faded bronze turned purple. He gasped and grabbed it, staring in amazement.

“I am not entirely certain what its purpose is,” Mother explained. “I believe it once belonged to a powerful ruler, an Archon of the Old Kingdom. It changes color to reflect the wearer’s mood. When he is angry, it is red. When he is content, blue. And so on.”

“What’s purple?”

She smiled. “Purple is the color of affection. And love.” She kissed his forehead. “I think that is enough nostalgizing for one day, my sweet. Aletheia and the others are waiting for us.”

He nodded and climbed from her lap. But there was one final thing she had not explained: the gauntlet.

“What does that do?” he asked.

She grabbed it and slid it on over her right hand. “It is a spellward. It can be used to protect against magic.” She stood and made for the door. “We are both just like little soldiers now, are we not? Rook would have found us very cute, arrayed so.”

Corvo shook his head. “A real soldier would have a real sword.”

“Soon. But not quite yet. For now, be content that you do not need one, for your mother shall keep you safe.”