“No, I mustn’t,” he answered Percival. He rummaged through the stack of books he’d deposited beside his desk, found his notebook, tore out several pages, and then wrote the following letter:
Briar,
There is nothing to forgive. I love you and I miss you. More than I can bear.
I’m afraid I have little to say, though I can assure you my sanity is thankfully intact. Prior to my initial meeting with the Governor, he assigned another scholar—Percival Atherton—for the task. We butted heads for a little while, which is understandable considering our clashing methodologies, but we have recently come to appreciate one another’s company. I must admit, it’s rather nice to not work alone for once.
While we have made progress on identifying the Old Ones and their objectives, we still have a great load of work ahead of us. I am as impressed with the number of books here as I am intimidated, though it’s challenging to take in the view when my awe is so often eclipsed by dread.
What we have uncovered can be summarized in no more than a paragraph, but I shall state it here regardless:
We know the Old Ones currently based in Northgard are descendants of a very long bloodline, that they employ upon the battlefield military strategies unfamiliar to us, and that, millennia ago, they encroached onto Northgard but were banished by the Elder Scribes. More, Percival and I have found two swords, both interred in the sarcophagus of a Scribe. Allegedly, the Scribes used swords to banish the Old Ones from Northgard during that long-ago attack, though whether the swords we discovered, in this place of learning, are those in question is as yet unknown—and how to use such swords for this purpose eludes us.
I promised myself to keep this short and to the point, so I’ll stop here, but please notify Tessa that Percival and I are eager to correspond with you whenever possible.
Too, I’m pleased to hear about you and Irene. Make sure to continue writing to her; it sounds like you both need the comfort. And please, if you can, lock your doors and stay as far from Gregori as possible.
Much love,
Roy
He blew out a long, quivering breath. “That will do. We’ll wait for Tessa to return in the next couple days, give her this letter, and then wait again for Briar’s following response.” He sighed. “I’ll admit it already feels irritating, having to wait out the interim periods, even if theyareonly a couple days.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not just going to sit around and wait,” Percival said. “As you said in your letter, there’s more work to be done.”
Roy put his quill into the inkpot on the corner of his desk, picked up the rest of the texts he’d put on the floor, and set them down in front of him. “Yes, there is.”
“Then let us get to it.”
* * *
Four days went by. On the second, they’d handed their response to Tessa, who then vanished into the snow as quickly as she’d appeared, like a wraith. Now, Roy was unfolding Briar’s letter, Percival reading over his shoulder. Her script was erratic, as if she’d tried and failed to still her hand while writing.
Roy,
Gregori has gotten worse.
So much worse.
I have done what you said and rarely leave my room, and when I do, it is only to run into the kitchens and rummage for food. Usually I come up empty-handed, but sometimes I return with a tureen of water and a handful of apples. It’s not much, but it’s all I can stomach.
You may ask why I have to fetch my own food. It’s because he killed Maisie last week. Do you remember her, Roy? That poor old maid. She was supposed to reunite with her brother tonight. He’d been conscripted in the war and was released from service on account of an injury. I wonder where he is now, what he’s thinking. I wonder if he knows that his sister is dead, that her spine was ripped out of her back, her flesh chewed through the wound.
“By the Scribes,” Roy whispered, his stomach dropping. He looked over to Percival, whose face had turned several shades paler, then read on.
The manor smells like a slaughterhouse, and I dream of nothing but blood and Gregori’s eyes. Thosedevileyes. I have tried to ignore them. Him. Sometimes I can, when Tessa or Irene or Farrek (he’s a new friend) leave their letters wedged in my windowsill, but the stench is so thick. What if it’s so ingrained in me that I’ll never escape it? Can that happen? What if the other maids have scrubbed the manor clean of blood, but my mind has not? I don’t think so, though. I think that smell of death is real, and mine is next.
Mine or Northgard’s.
Or both.
I’ll attach what Farrek sent to me. He has been based in Rasileus, acting as our informant, for about a week now. It’s better if you read from the source itself.
Tacked to this introductory section of Briar’s letter was a two-page letter, scrawled in a bolder hand.
The breakdown of modern civilization is upon us, Briar. It was bound to happen, but I cannot imagine even the sagest analyst could have predicted it to happen so soon as this. Now that I’ve collected more intelligence, however, I’m shocked that this city has not yet fallen.
As hard as it might be to believe—and trust me, I have had my own doubts—the Governordoesmake sure that every citizen of his city, on all tiers of the social hierarchy, is well fed. Northgard would almost certainly fall to complete ruin if this simple responsibility was not carried out. All things considered, the snowstorm especially, he has done a satisfactory job of maintaining the distribution of sustenance to the broader populace. All things considered, that is, except for one.
