Percival wanted retribution for the freedom and independence which he’d been denied. If he thought magic was the answer, then so be it—let him travel down that strange road by himself. Roy wanted acknowledgement of his value to society, something Northgard would forever despise him for pursuing, something with which his memories of Gabriel would forever taunt him. He was now more and more certain he could find that sense of value on his own by doing what he’d always done: digging deep into the texts until the truth emerged.
“I accept,” Roy said before he could change his mind. “We’ll each go about this investigation in our own way. The first to discover the Old Ones’ identity and plans, along with incontrovertible evidence to support their findings, will be awarded complete academic credit for the breakthrough.” Before Percival could interrupt, likely to reiterate the triviality of credit in a city bent on eradicating scholarship, Roy added, “Someoneis bound to read what we’ve discovered. Years ahead of us, yes, but that slim hope is what I’m banking on. And I know some small piece of you wants that, too. Don’t we all?”
Percival regarded Roy for a moment, then nodded with resignation. “And as for the losing participant?”
“Their fate shall be decided by the Governor upon his return to the Basilica,” Roy said. Where this ambiguous penalty had come from, he was not sure.
“Well, then”—Percival disentangled their fingers, turned his hand around, and then locked his fingers around Roy’s slim wrist, pressing his hand to his hammering heart—“let the game begin.”
10
Regardless of his failed attempt to coercePercival into a partnership, and then his consenting to Percival’s game—an incident which Roy wasn’t particularly proud of—he was still hopeful about the investigation. He might be without assistance, but it wasn’t as though he was some novice. He had dedicated his life to uncovering truths, and the Orphic Basilica would be no different.
He hoped.
Roy’s first solitary exploration of the library, this time as an active participant in an academic trial, began with the hallway outside his bedchamber. An assortment of framed pieces lined the walls, illuminated by the torches regularly placed in brass sconces. These artworks were predominantly paintings—family portraits, garden landscapes, and abstract pieces.
He walked farther down the hallway, though nothing of interest leapt out at him. Nothing indicated a history of the library or its secrets. While his focusshouldremain exclusively on the Old Ones, it seemed ever more important—perhaps, in part, because of Percival’s increasingly adamant superstitions—that Roy should understand this arcane relic. He would study thebuilding, not the books.
As he approached the end of the hallway and came to three rows full of bookshelves, however, he couldn’t resist his greedy impulses. He felt nowhere near as foggy as he had the other day. His thoughts were no longer fuzzy from sleep. And as the wind let out a muffled howl, like the growl of a muzzled hound, Roy strode on, anticipation curling down his spine. He didn’t know where to begin, nor which author to start his aimless adventure with.
Roy was about to continue his exploration when he was struck by an epiphany. What if he started with what he knew best? He thought back to when Percival had scolded him for reading Razkamun, for appreciating and idolizing the philosopher’s views.A philosopher should never compare war to his own studies, Percival had said to Roy.It’s unforgivable, it’s vile. It’s a gross violation of the entire field of study...
Be that as it may, Percival had mentioned that he had begun the investigation by concentrating on philosophy, which was also Roy’s own area of interest. He wasn’t planning to revert to philosophy to chip away at the mystery of the Old Ones, however; he simply needed to locate a point of access. He wouldn’t force himself through a wall of research; he would instead climb his way over, using the knowledge he’d acquired. Contrary to popular belief—that being of his brother and mother—years of ravenously absorbing information hadn’t taught him nothing.
As if confirming his mission, Roy quickened his pace until he came upon a sprawl of bookshelves stretching much farther than his naked eye could see. They stretched on for days’ worth of exploration. The Governor hadn’t lied; without Percival’s assistance, Roy could easily picture himself getting lost in the stacks. The redwood bookshelves looked about fifteen feet tall, the upper heights backlit by an unseen source of illumination.
The shelves were crammed end to end with every manner of literature, some titles even wedged horizontally atop the vertical volumes. There were parchment scrolls, vellum tomes, bundles of loose-leaf documents bound with twine then bound together again in a larger bundle, and glass cabinets, stored within which were loose sheets of paper propped on gold and brass pedestals. Several handwritten declarations of academic accomplishments were pinned to the ends of each shelf. One read,The Protectorate of the Elder Scribes, and of the Orphic Basilica,proudly grants MAUDE CHASILE, student and apprentice of ATTICUS WALESTONE, a fully sponsored scholarship to study at a college of her choosing.On another shelf was a monstrously large book, its pages clasped with a black lock shaped like a pair of huge teeth.
Roy rounded a corner and started forward into the next aisle of bookshelves, his eyes scanning each spine. After a few minutes, he grinned and sweptNexus, an enormous brown leather-bound book just short of a thousand pages, from its placement and into his hands.
Penned by Tarnan Eldreave, one of the Elder Scribes,Nexusdetailed the objectives of human connection and the reasons behind mental conflict, alongside ways to find harmony in such bleak and dismal times of distress. A crucial manifesto for any aspiring scholar,Nexushad made a noteworthy impact on the academic community, serving as the muse for hundreds of scholars who had longed to work for or with Eldreave—which, Roy knew, included Razkamun, who had based much of his Warfare-Philosophy Principle on the ideas within.
The trouble was, even as Roy flipped throughNexus, his thoughts went back to Percival and his distaste for Razkamun. He wondered if Percival’s true appreciation for philosophy, and academia as a whole, stemmed from the widely beloved writings of the Elder Scribes. If so, that would clarify his contempt toward Razkamun, whom the Elder Scribes had regarded as a disreputable outsider, desperate to blend in with his peers.
Of course, the Elder Scribes had received their fair share of scathing criticism, both from within the Orphic Basilica and from Northgard’s general populace. The city’s outraged citizens had vehemently disagreed with certain unjust allegories within the Scribes’ texts, particularly the notion that academia deserved more recognition and served a proper function in society. Whatever fueled this antagonism to intellectualism, as the years went by—and as Northgard resorted to riots and, gradually, the threat of civil war—the Elder Scribes scrambled for a resolution that could temporarily thwart the city’s belligerence. Then, before swords could be drawn, the Scribes hastily drafted and released a short publication in which they denied the supposed allegories of which they had been accused.
It had not mattered.
If only, Roy pondered now, the Elder Scribes had lived long enough to witness what the world had become. Society had changed so much within those two thousand years, forced to fit the calloused hands of callous soldiers.
Which was all to say how, once more, he had taken the wrong approach. He putNexusback on the shelf, realizing the colossal mistake he’d made, and the true implications of his blunder struck him hard: that it was one thing to use an academic approach that had always served him well, but quite another to regress into who he had once been; that, again, he was just a desolate boy, reading by firelight to avoid the horrors on the other side of his bedroom door.
Roy stood, stepping away from the bookshelf. He couldn’t keep loitering like this, couldn’t keep dancing back and forth across the line between duty and desire. But there was something always there, always at the fore of his mind, and he hated that he couldn’t shake it. Particularly, a memory.
You’re remarkably brave, darling. Our first encounter, and you’ve already gotten on my nerves.
Roy was intrigued by the plan quickly taking shape in his mind. It was dangerous, of that much he was sure, and could possibly take on a snowball effect, leading to choices he might not have ever imagined himself undertaking. But it could be worth all the trouble.
As methodically as he could, he went over the facts. What Percival had been looking for inUpon Attrition, Razkamun’s novel, was intelligence on the Old Ones. Had it been, then, his failure to find anything that enraged him? Or had Roy somehow been at fault, too?
This brought him to another train of thought—one he found he was contemplating more and more often in the past few days: Percival Atherton. Or, rather, what did he reallyknowabout Percival? Aside from the fact that he was a nobleman, he was still a mystery. He had sharp wits, but Roy suspected they were exclusively utilized in academic debates.
As he evaluated his musings, Roy came to this conclusion: Percival did not want to raise his fists and fight. In fact, he had spoken at length about separating philosophy from war, his passion for knowledge appeared almost religious, and, when he’d had his head buried in his books, he hadn’t even noticed Roy until Roy had addressed him.
He despised the unexpectedness of their dynamic, how he never knew what spiteful things Percival might say next. He’d only known Percival for a few days, and he was already treading on a thin pane of glass, wondering when he would next get cut. But he wouldn’t let it get under his skin. He wouldn’t let a few failed attempts at conversation spell his ruin. Maybe Percivalwasexhausted from stress and overwhelm. If so, Roy sympathized, but he refused to be belittled. He would sooner debase, harm, and end himself before giving anyone else the privilege—Gabriel was the last person he would let do that.
Roy wrote his own destiny. He made his own misery.
