While the Governor oversaw the administrative duties of Northgard from his manor, the Radiant Droves operated separately from him. Some war commanders chose to form alliances with the Governor to win promotions or other privileges, caring more for power and influence rather than directly dissenting scholarship, while others opposed academiaandwanted to curry favor with the Governor. But Matron Dimestra had only ever remained in league with her soldiers, not with Northgard’s ruler, which, to Roy, raised the question of why she wanted so badly to sit in on his meeting with the Governor. Maybe she believed that she ought to be further compensated for expanding the Governor’s military force.
But why? He had already guaranteed the safety of the aristocracy.
“He is safe in my hands, Matron,” the Governor assured her, an edge creeping into his voice, like a blade under silk. “Besides, this business is well beyond your area of expertise. I’m as upset about the scholastic nature of Roy’s involvement in the war as you are. However, what I have planned for your son”—your son; the words so casual, as though Roy and Dimestra weren’t on separate planes of existence—“will push the Old Ones back. Of that, I have no doubt. So, yes, Roy’s safety is guaranteed.”
Roy didn’t think that his safety was where Dimestra’s concerns lay, though. Regardless, with nary a thought, Roy’s silent hope—that the Governor might not be of the same mold as the figures he had tried his hardest to avoid—had been extinguished. Generals, soldiers, Matrons, and Masters; they beat the world black and red and then pitted one against another until loyalties became unclear, impossible to tell apart. And yet the Governor had the audacity to place a sure bet on Roy’s survival.
Dimestra’s cheeks went red. “Yes, Governor.” She left the alcove, the echo of her muffled bootsteps like a phantom’s fist thudding on a door. Evan followed behind her at a jog, digging his fingers into the side of his head. Roy was still not sure what was wrong with the man.
“Now, then,” the Governor said to Roy, gesturing to the armchair opposite him, “why don’t you take a seat?”
4
Upon further inspection, Roy couldn’t helpbut notice the Governor had a most peculiar face, his features conspicuous, giving Roy the same feeling one might get from staring into a pitch-dark room: It took some time to find the eccentricities, but once you did, they were almost impossible to forget. The moment Dimestra and Evan left the room, the Governor’s thin smile broadened, and his expression shifted into one of keen readiness... and avarice. Roy didn’t like that look; it reminded him of his brother.
“Well, Roy,” the Governor said, “does it live up to your standards? Is your imagination sated?”
Roy considered the question. If he were in a mood for honesty, he would tell the Governor that his imagination had never ventured farther than the doors of Dawnseve Manor, that the few books lining the shelves in his home, rescued from the wreckage of immolated bookshops, were just enough to escape the clouds of gunpowder and the cries of children. But admittedly, Roy was still so awestruck by the magnitude of the Orphic Basilica and its surreal possessions that he confessed, “It’s outstanding. I’ve never seen, nor even thought to imagine that there could be, so many books contained in one space.”
“The prospect isn’t quite as plausible as it might have been in the Age of Scribes,” the Governor agreed, a slight tinge of amusement to his voice. He pursed his lips, musing. “You must have quite the collection, given the intensity of your... enthusiasm.”
Roy shifted in his seat, discomforted by the reminder of the Governor’s awareness of his crime. “I’ve read them all six times or so,” he said. “There wasn’t anything of much import except a few anthologies and journals. Some were... bland, though.”
“Oh?” the Governor said. He steepled his fingers together beneath his chin, then insisted, “Tell me more.”
Frowning, Roy scratched his wrist, nonplussed by the Governor’s inquiry. “Why? What could you gain from that information?”
The Governor straightened, giving Roy a puzzled look. “Ah well, I’m not exactly an adept reader, you see. I thought it might help me better sympathize with your situation if you could impart upon me the good and the bad of philosophy, its workings and its flaws.”
Roy was assaulted by a thousand thoughts, none of them particularly reassuring.It’s impossible to teach within minutes what scholars have been trying to discover for millennia. In fact, if you could teach me, Governor, that would be wonderful, because sometimes I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m doing.But it was this that baffled Roy:Why are you, someone who has single-mindedly fought for decades to erase knowledge, suddenly interested in it? What sort of trap is this?
What do you truly want from me? From all this?
These thoughts continued to revolve through Roy’s mind until he stumbled upon a goal. If the Governor’s interests were somehow entangled with his own, then maybe by expressing his exclusive devotion to philosophy, Roy could persuade the Governor to withdraw his proposition, thereby preventing Roy from being embroiled in the war.
After a silent moment, during which he hoped his convictions were strong enough to coax the Governor, Roy said, “Think of philosophy as a quest, an exploration for suitability. A philosopher tests their limits, guides their mind into subjects both daring and trivial. One way of thinking may enable one scholar to access a plethora of information, while on the other hand, their colleague might find the same work drab and uninspiring. You aren’t asking the wrong question, as it is undeniable there are good and badapproachesto philosophy, but as far as choosing what is most appropriate for oneself, the question becomes a matter of the senses, of human instincts.”
“And what have your instincts told you over the course of your studies?” the Governor asked.
“Many things,” Roy said, “though I doubt these have all been correct. I would hope they weren’t, anyway. A great amount of exploration is involved, isnecessary, before a revelation can be yielded. Some philosophers have gone their entire lives without such a revelation. Of course, that isn’t to suggest their efforts should go unmentioned by future scholars. After all, unlike most circles of influence, the academic community has a unique, indomitable sense of universal acceptance.” He belatedly added, “The community as it once was, of course,” and hoped that the Governor didn’t notice his slipup.
The Governor, however, simply smiled.
By the Scribes, he knows about the scholars in hiding, Roy thought, adopting an impassive expression.But of course he knows. How else could those scholars I saw on the way here have been bookmarked? How else could I have been exposed? Neither the Matron nor Gabriel would have said anything; harboring a criminal is as much a crime as anything I’ve done.He wondered who among his few correspondents had been colluding with the Governor all along, who had decided that Roy’s fascination with literature had gone too far, that enough was enough, and turned him in.
“And where among thiscommunitydo your interests lie?” the Governor asked, still smiling. “Surely not all philosophers fight the same battles.”
“Sometimes, we may come to similar conclusions,” Roy said. “And sometimes, our findings may intersect with one another, like threads overlapping, becoming a string and, if you’re fortunate, a pattern of congruencies and theories. But usually, the exploratory process of philosophical discovery is a personal affair. I’ve made it my own goal to understand the psychological framework of human existence, behavior, and thought within a philosophical context.”
He stopped himself there. The explanation was broad, but it was also as detailed as he would allow. He could not afford to go on, to articulate the true depth of his love for philosophy, how its abstract concepts had imbued his life with purpose, if only momentarily, before the reality of his torment and sorrow crept back in. He could not expose his deepest wounds to the Governor, who was already capitalizing on Roy’s bibliomania to drive out the Old Ones and turn them from Northgard’s shores. All, no doubt, to further his own ambitions, which had nothing to do with Roy’s... let alone the city’s.
And so Roy hated himself when the words came pouring out of his mouth, but he could not hold them back. “Some philosophers may even go so far as to demonstrate their theories on a colleague. I haven’t conducted such experiments yet, though.”
The Governor leaned forward, raising a brow. “If given the chance to collaborate with a partner, would you prefer them to have a similar mindset?”
“Oh yes, certainly,” Roy said, nodding. He blamed the promptness of his replies on his excitement; discussing the possibility of a collaborative research project was gratifying beyond measure. Such a thing would mean he wasn’t alone. Somewhere in this city, in the streets he’d looked out over in Dawnseve Manor only hours before, there were still people like him, their heads bent over stolen books, their hands stained with ink. “It would be useful for my exploration of human thought, too, to work with a colleague.”
The Governor nodded, then pressed a hand against his brow with a wince that drew lines across his forehead. “Do you think you would benefit more from having a partner, as opposed to working alone?”
