By the Scribes, he couldn’t bear the thought of facing the Matron after this, nor could he envision her reaction if or when she stumbled upon the truth. Roy could hardly process that it had happened to him, and yet the memory of that night four years ago rushed back to him with undeniable, perfect lucidity. Gabriel had straddled him, a knife gripped in his fist, his lips stretched wide into a maniacal smile. Time had congealed, and then frozen, suspending the two of them in a bright shaft of silver moonlight. Roy had been too numb to move, to shift his muscles and retaliate.
He always had been.
Gabriel, he’d pleaded.I’ve never judged you for what you do, for who you are.The knife came closer.Why can’t you accept that this world needs scholars like me? Why can’t you accept that I must rewrite history?
A look of morbid curiosity overtook Gabriel’s features.You’ll be history, little brother. And everyone will forget the weak, weeping pig you are. When you’re lying cold and alone on the battlefield, you will forget who you truly are. Besides, it’s better, and more satisfying, to beat sense into you than see you burn.His grin widened.So let me remind you. Let this be the one word you can run back to.
Then the knife descended, and Gabriel scrawled the word into Roy’s chest—H-I-S-T-O-R-Y. Blood poured down his chest. Black stars flickered across his vision. Gabriel had pressed his hand over Roy’s mouth—
Pulling himself out of the memory, Roy studied Briar, but he couldn’t parse the thoughts no doubt cycling through her head.What do you know?Roy wanted desperately to ask her, but there was no use, nor time. Instead, he placed a hand on Briar’s back and guided her along the hallway.
As if sensing his proximity, a rapid succession of three booming knocks sounded from the front door, briefly drowning out the wailing of storm winds. A heavy silence descended, and as it settled, Roy and Briar halted at the top of the forked staircase. She let go of her carving with one hand and gripped his forearm with the other. Then they went down, silent, together.
The foyer was a small room, the smallest of Dawnseve Manor. Gilt-framed portraits of the Matron’s predecessors, her long-departed husband—and Roy’s father, whom neither Roy nor his siblings could recall meeting—among them, were hung from the walls on either side at the foot of the staircase. A chandelier was suspended from the domed ceiling, casting a dim golden glow upon the plush crimson carpet and the entryway towering before Roy now. The iron-studded rosewood door was engraved with the centuries-old emblem of the Dawnseves: a bloodshot eye, glaring with scathing accusation, set inside a rising sun.
There was also, haphazardly stacked beside the door, a pile of bookbags and satchels. One of the butlers, an overweight, doughy-faced man whose name eluded Roy’s memory, added one last satchel and then stood aside, his hands clasped behind his back.
Unease coiled around Roy’s gut, tightening with every breath he took.
Perhaps it was the sight of the bags, which he presumed contained his clothes and other necessities, but suddenly his circumstances became all too real. He knew that he had little to provide to Northgard’s warmongering population beyond half-hearted prayers; this emblem, with its evocation of austerity, condemnation, and vigilance, was a testament to that. He couldn’t conceivably fool himself into thinking otherwise. The intellectual contributions of a scholar meantnothing in a city engineered by military power.
Meanwhile, Gabriel had broughtworthto the city. After being recruited into the Radiant Droves—the soldiers sworn to protect Northgard—three years ago, his interest in battlecraft and guerrilla warfare no doubt bolstered the city’s reputation. He’d ranked far beyond the standards the Droves demanded of its soldiers; his mind had been a powerhouse attuned to, and filled with, the principles of historic generals and commanders; and his passion for denouncing and punishing old-world enthusiasts had been equal to that of the Governor. He’d been perfect, exemplary.
Now he was gone. And while the letter had noted Gabriel’s disappearance, Roy couldn’t fathom his brother running away from the battlefront, so he was most likely dead.
Roy wasn’t as comforted by this as he imagined he ought to be. After all, if Gabriel hadn’t been enough to ward off the Old Ones, how was Roy, a measly scholar, supposed to uphold the Governor’s expectations?
Briar sniffled, swiped the heel of her palm across the tear-wetted bags under her eyes, then wrapped her arms around Roy again. She squeezed tight. “Goodbye, Roy,” she said. He almost went into hysterics at the hitch in her voice, the trembling of her chin. How could he justleaveher like this, lost and wandering through this big, old, rambling house, with nothing but shadows and memories—and no one but the occasionally present maid or butler—to keep her company? He was worse than Dimestra and no better than Gabriel.
They had a choice, though, Roy rationalized.
It was enough, at least, for him to lean down and kiss her forehead without being plagued with guilt.
“I’ll miss you,” Briar whispered.
“And I you, Briar.” He brushed back a stray strand of her hair, his fingers quivering across her face. “You...” He winced, then tried again. “You mustn’t let her get to you. Don’t allow it, Briar. Not for one second. Once she has you, there is little you can do to get yourself out.”
A shadow crossed Briar’s face. “I won’t.”
Roy shook his head, his eyes on hers as he grasped her shoulders. “Promise me, Briar.Please.Swear to me you won’t bend to her will. I don’t know what’s going to happen in these coming days, but with Gabriel...” He sighed, lowered his voice. “With Gabriel missing, and me gone, I need to know you won’t—”
“I won’t,” Briar said, straightening her posture. He marveled at the swiftness with which she gathered her composure. “I won’t give in. Besides, Mother spends most of her days at the Citadel. I’m on my own here.”
These words did little to assure him.
Seeming to sense this, Briar squeezed him for what Roy knew would be the last time in a long while, then pulled away.
Roy inhaled deeply, turned toward the large brass knob affixed to the door, and tugged it open.
On the left, directly in front of him, stood a tall, burly man, his upper lip obscured by a thick gray moustache and his hair covered by a slanted green felt cap. He was dressed in a neat, stark white military-style coat, his eyes a startlingly deep shade of blue. The lapels of his coat were decorated with an impressive, if inordinate, number of silver and gold badges.
But it was clearly the woman on the right, standing rigidly in front of Briar, who wielded the upper hand here. She wore a pair of black gloves and had pulled back her raven-black hair into a tight chignon. Her gunmetal-gray eyes were cold and unfeeling. Her hands were clasped at her waist. Time had dug deep grooves into her skin, though she wore them, and her white coat, with pride.
“Mother,” Briar whispered.
Dimestra ignored her daughter. Hard-faced, she pinned Roy with a sharp, disapproving glare, then thrust the spare coat and pair of boots she was carrying, identical to her own, into his arms. “Put these on.”
Roy glanced down at the stark white clothes he was holding, grimacing, then pushed them back at Dimestra. “I would much rather wear my own.”
