“I’m going to ask you my question now, unless you haven’t finished talking to yourself,” Roy said. “What was your field of study before the Basilica?”
Percival was well prepared for this question, or perhaps he had done so much work in his field of study that the answer came naturally. “Many years of my education were devoted to understanding philosophers’ stances on the connection between human emotion and art. What draws sadness from literature? How might the ideas of the past sour the soul or brighten the mind? I was around thirteen when I began unraveling these questions to try to contribute myownunderstanding.”
Roy examined Percival’s state of drunkenness. Although Percival was clearly finding it difficult to perfectly depict his thoughts, Roy couldn’t identify what had cleared his mind so suddenly. “Drink,” he said.
As Percival bent forward to retrieve the decanter, his cheeks daubed with fever-red splotches, a portion of his tunic fell free from his chest. Roy stole a glimpse of the shadowed cut of Percival’s abdominal muscles and the hollows of his collarbones, accentuated by firelight, then glanced quickly away.
Percival sat back, seemingly oblivious to Roy’s observation of his physique, and swallowed two inches of whiskey. A drop slithered down his chin. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb, his eyes fixed on Roy. “Why are you so fascinated with Razkamun? I’ve gotten the notion there must be some deeper level of reasoning, but it escapes me.”
“Because the Warfare-Philosophy Principle insinuates that the everyday soldier is capable of philosophical thought,” Roy answered, “and conversely, that philosophers are as capable of defending themselves as the everyday soldier.”
Percival nodded with grim understanding, the wrinkled lines between his brow smoothing out.
Roy wrung his hands. “I know that the greats, particularly the Elder Scribes, have looked down on—and in some cases, disparaged—Razkamun for peddling this notion, but the broad opinion of the public will never immediately, or perhaps ever, overturn the relatability which the minority feel toward such philosophies. But on that point, itastoundsme how few of our people embraced and sympathized with Razkamun’s principle. Shouldn’t the idea that we, the undermined, be worthy of protecting ourselves from harm circulate through our community? It rings true to who we are.”
“Perhaps truer to some than to others,” Percival said. He sounded solemn, introspective. Somehow, Roy sensed he was thinking of the sword they’d found, and where they had found it.
Roy nodded. “That aside, there’s just something about his style, and his approach to academia, that pulls at me. Thatinsistshe’s not a—what would you call him?—acrank.”
“That’s all well and good, but it still doesn’t answer my question, not quite. Why areyou, specifically, drawn to Razkamun’s beliefs?”
“Because pretending I’m brave,” Roy said, “is as close to the real thing I’m ever going to get.”
Percival crossed one leg over the other, tipped back his head, and rolled it slowly from side to side. “You don’t mean that,” he said. He was still slurring his words but was at least trying to articulate his thoughts more coherently.
“You asked, I answered,” Roy said. He took the decanter from Percival’s hand, poured, and swallowed, wincing at the burn that slid down and spread outward into his chest. “Why didn’t you move when I moved my notebooks and texts to the sixth floor?”
Percival spoke as soon as Roy had finished asking his question. “Because I don’t mind the view,” he said, regarding Roy with intense ardor, “nor the distraction.” He reached for the decanter, which Roy had put between his feet. Then he paused, his fingers curled about its neck, and looked up at Roy. “And I like the way your cheeks and your ears go pink when you come across something you don’t understand, something you desperatelywantto understand. And I kept thinking that, if I stood up and walked away, the image would never leave me be. So I stayed.” He hung his head, his own cheeks pink now, and settled back in his chair with the decanter between his legs. “I... I’m sorry.” It was barely a whisper.
Roy gaped, every perfectly constructed thought washed clean out of his head. The whiskey had done its part, but the rest of it—the most of it—was Percival.
A fog creeping into his eyes, Percival sagged back, looked from the decanter to his glass, and, with a drunken, indolent shrug, took a long swig, imbibing far more than they had decided upon. Roy leaned forward, though by the time their boots were nearly touching, Percival had pulled himself away from the decanter, smacking his lips. He blinked, staring at the remaining mouthfuls of whiskey in the decanter, which refilled itself after a moment. Percival chuckled. “‘The night unfurls ever on!’ the Phantom-Laird cried. ‘Drinks for the youths, I say! Drink till we are again young!’”
“Your question?” Roy asked.
Percival became suddenly serious, the dimple at the corner of his mouth gone. “What did Gabriel do to you?”
The question was so unexpected, and asked with such haste, that Roy almost lost his grip on his glass. He fumbled with it for what felt like a long while, then seized the wrist of his shaking hand with his spare one. A haze descended over his head and eyes like a red veil, and it took him a moment to realize his skull was pounding with a rage such as he had never felt before. It was oddly invigorating. Through the thumping in his head, Roy heard himself ask, “What did you say?”
Percival shook his head as if to clear it, then tried at a smile. It was not at all convincing. “Another question, I hear! Perhaps you should drink to compensate for—”
“I don’t care how many times I must drink, Percival.Whatdid you say?”
“What did—” Percival went quiet, then choked out, “What did Gabriel do to you? Whoishe, as a matter of fact? You called out his name when I found you on that first night. You told him to stop, something about ‘not tonight.’ ”
All at once, Roy was reminded of who Percival truly was, the man underneath the mask of feigned civility and elegance. He had planned his proposed academic competition, and so he had doubtlessly laid out the pieces in plain sight for this drinking game, too, arranging the rehearsed lines and responses. And Roy was left with only two choices, then: Answer and submit, handing Percival the knowledge of the torture he had suffered at the hands of his brother, or refuse and drink and slip back into the skin of the drunk who’d been slumped against his bed, his mouth dry and his skull throbbing.
Roy drew in a trembling breath. “I’m not answering your question. Ican’t.”
Percival observed Roy, some softer emotion rising to the surface of his features, and then said quietly, “One drink for declining to answer. I’ll ask another question.”
Nodding, Roy took the decanter from Percival and acquiescently poured a knuckle’s length of whiskey. This time, though, he relished the drink, savoring its smoky tones and how smoothly the liquor traveled from his tongue down to his throat. Once finished, he clumsily handed the decanter back to Percival.
“Careful,” Percival murmured. He sat back, poured, and drank, studying Roy all the while with cold and critical observation. If not for the bleary cast of his eyes, Roy might have thought he had sobered up entirely. “On the night we met, I was interrupted from my reading by your screams. When I confronted you about it, your first instinct was to tell me that you’d fallen over. But the grief in your voice, darling... Thehorror.” He looked troubled, as if he’d been woken from a night terror. “What happened? Whatactuallyhappened?”
“I thought I’d seen something,” Roy explained, the thoughts, thememory, that he’d kept at bay since that night now streaming freely from his lips. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or the Basilica tampering with my senses, but it felt simultaneously the realest thing to, and the farthest thing from, reality. There was a shadow, Percival.” He laughed at the absurdity of the recollection, but a shudder passed through him nonetheless. “A shadow with glowing red eyes. It was chasing me, hovering like that coffin in the burial vault.”
Percival sat forward, clutching the neck of the decanter with both hands.
