Roy drew in a tight breath and dipped his head, glancing down at the book on metallurgy he’d been revisiting. “Sorry, I was thinking,” he said. “What was your question?”
Impatient, Percival sighed. “I’ve attempted to determine Northgard’s stance on power so that we might separate them from the Old Ones, but I think I’m missing something.”
Roy met Percival’s eyes. “And you were hopingImight fill you in on the rest? Doesn’t this violate your game?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But that’s part of the game, too, darling.”
Roy almost got up and left at that, but instead said loftily, “I figured it was rather obvious. The lower class is condemned by the upper class for their existence, and the upper class remains ignorant of their own cruelty, as they’re too busy trying to obtain more power.”
“It’s not even ignorance; it’s just frank, unguarded dehumanization.The bodies of government who lay their affections onto communities, like the aristocrats of Northgard, have no respect for their peoples. All their fancy meetings and delegations and whatnot are a statement of autocracy.”
“Northgard isn’t autocratic, though. Despite the Governor’s total authority, he still relies on his advisers, most notably the Masters and Matrons, to do his dirty work.”
“And yet none of his advisers are academics,” Percival said. “We can deny it until the day when our kind is truly no more, but conflict is still a historically integral component of the academic world. For years, Northgard has changed their system to please their people—those who attack our community specifically—as has been the Governor’s intention, but as this author states”—Percival pointed to a passage in the book he was holding—“‘Power is a gift. Power is a curse. But the damned can weaken the blessed.’ ”
“Scholars have no hope of weakening the Iron Citadel. We cannot speak our mind. We cannot say no. We have no chance at rebellion.”
“You’re misinterpreting the text. This book was written from an academic perspective, and so in this case,weare ‘the blessed,’ blessed with knowledge, history, and love. We love fiercely, boldly. We love with a strength hate could never dream of. Those who condemn us, who deprive us of this love, are the damned. But this book portrays power as inherently bad, an ideal whose nature, no matter its wielder, does not change.”
The notion of like-mindedness went against Percival’s conditions for their game—although so did this entire conversation, so Roy didn’t bring it up. Rather, he said, “Good people survive. Evil people suffer.”
“Look at the world around us, darling,” Percival whispered. He sounded haunted, distressed. “Has the Governor suffered for his crimes? Have the Droves? Everything, good and evil and right and wrong, died beside the Age of Scribes. ‘Now we are but shades, this world our haunt, these nights hereafter our long rest.’ ” Roy knew the quote. It was the epigraph of the twenty-eighth chapter of Meha Torazkeer’sIn Night’s Arms.
Percival cocked his head, his jaw tight, and looked out the window beside the desk, his features gone soft and tender yet pensive. There was also a sort of restless energy to him, as if a million rushing thoughts were trapped within his stiff body. Roy wondered if Percival preferred patching his wounds up to exposing them... or perhaps he was waiting on the right person to show them to.
Percival didn’t want assistance, though; he wanted to avenge the near-death of academia by his own devices, to disassemble the violent society the Governor had established over years of oppression. Roy was tired of being afraid, however. Tired of seeing Percival in a hall or a reading room and recoiling. Not everyone wanted him dead. Not everyone was a new fear to conquer. Besides, there was a world at war, and Roy couldn’t help wanting to assist those who needed it most. After weeks of little to no progress, he was once again sure heneededPercival to make that happen.
And that, perhaps, Percival needed him as well.
He rose to his feet, resolute, then searched through the piles of books and scrolls lying about the desk.
“I’m afraid it’ll take some time to find your wits, darling,” Percival said.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Roy muttered, then found a sheet of parchment. It was the grant he’d discovered a few days ago.
He felt a moment of apprehension, but he couldn’t turn back now. What if this was the turning point? What if this game could coexist alongside his desire to share information with Percival? Maybe it contradicted the proposition, but the relationship betweenThe OrdnanceandThe Lost Recordswas too auspicious to ignore.
Roy placed the grant atopThe Ordnance of Old Wynair, sat back at the desk, and recounted to Percival what he’d unearthed: the grant, the difference between the Tussyki weapons and the black chest plate, and the history of Wynair and Urswaelia.
Percival lifted his head from the grant. He looked to be in utter disbelief, his mouth parted.This isn’t how the game works, his perplexed expression seemed to say.These aren’t the rules I made.
“I know you don’t want me to do this,” Roy said, “but I had to say something, Percival. This must meansomething.”
Percival picked up the grant carefully, as though applying any additional force might disintegrate the document. He whispered, “‘Black chest plate, country of origin unknown.’ ”
“It might not be referring to the Old Ones, but—”
“But it sounds like a damn good possibility.” Percival gulped, sighed, tapped his fingers on the desk. Roy had never seen him so frazzled. “Where did you find this?”
“Here. This room. I didn’t notice it at first; I didn’t think it would yield any valuable information, but I...” He debated explaining what had compelled him to share this discovery, then decided that if he had come this far and shown Percival this much, then what was one more truth? “I saw you reading something likeThe Ordnancelast night.The Lost Records of Old Wynair, was it?”
Percival nodded, not at all upset at Roy’s surreptitious observations. “Yes, that was it. There were a few accounts written by geographers who’d researched Wynair. I didn’t come across anything terribly significant, but therewasthis sketch of a shipwreck that stuck with me. A black chest plate was found in the wreckage, though whether the piece was salvaged wasn’t recorded—”
Roy stilled, ignoring Percival’s annoyed expression as he cut in, “Wait. A shipwreck? Was there any mention of its sails catching fire?”
Percival blinked. “Well, yes, but I didn’t think it was important...” He straightened, recognition sparking in his eyes. “Why? Did you find something?”
“The mural around the skylight,” Roy said, unable to hold back his smile. “One of the bas-reliefs depicts a ship sailing toward a land. A small island, maybe. Perhaps it contained the black armor and somehow crashed ashore.” His heart was racing.
