Tamping down his frustration at the Governor’s austerity, Roy said, “This does lift some of the weight off my shoulders. Although...” He hated that he had to admit this, knowing the Governor might see it as testament that he wasn’t up to the task, but he added, “There has been close to no word discovered on the Old Ones. I’m sure that you need as many Droves at hand as possible, but would it inconvenience you to assign some of your soldiers, or the Matron’s, to the task as well? I won’t speak on behalf of Atherton and his reading fluency, but there must be a million books stored here. Even I could only dream of getting through a fraction of these.”
What Roy really wanted was to request the aid of more scholars, of whom the Governor was certainly aware. But that he hadn’t recruited more than just the two had given Roy pause.Hadthe Governor asked the same of others? Had they declined? Were these the scholars Roy had seen bookmarked?
No, Roy wouldn’t do anything to contribute to another scholar’s danger. It had been his lifelong dream to come to the Basilica, to study among like-minded academics, to produce writings that revolutionized the world.
He resolved, then, to be content with one other man... and the soldiers the Governor would hopefully provide.
However, the Governor only gave a deep sigh. It sounded rehearsed, like he’d prepared for this, and all of Roy’s other questions. “I’ve led numerous investigations of this building over the past fifteen years, since I ordered for the immolation of all bookshops, libraries, and old-world research institutions.” Roy had been only ten then, but he remembered it well. All of those priceless archives, all within reach, suddenly gone up in flames. If the Governor saw even a glint of the pain those memories induced in Roy, he didn’t let on; he only continued, “Every time, the guards who accompanied me swore to have heard voices and seen faces long gone. And some... some did not fare nearly as well with their hallucinations. Twenty-seven Droves, if my count is correct, have taken their own lives by firearm. The last to do so—a young fellow, mind, not much older than you—claimed to have seen his deceased mother in the Basilica. On the carriage ride back to the Citadel, he took out a chunk of his skull with his musket. His sister, also a Drove, could not cope with the grief of losing her last living relative, and so she ripped out her own throat with her bare hands.”
Roy sucked in a sharp breath.
He considered the Citadel emissary’s skittishness and the Matron’s headache. How could all these seemingly superficial anxieties, which the Droves had apparently experienced themselves, have resulted in such hysteria and madness? How hadn’t the Governor yet succumbed? Wasn’t his downward spiral into insanity inevitable, too?
The Governor leaned back in his armchair. “So, no, aside from yourself and Percival, I have not given my offer to another member of nobility. Most nobles are forced into armor, but you and Percival have the potential to bring an end to this war. Hell, you can restore hope in Northgard.”
Percival hails from a noble house, then,Roy thought, his eagerness bubbling back in his chest. He folded his hands in his lap, no longer overcome with the urge to scratch them. He would be meeting not only another academic, but anothernoble-bornacademic. He couldn’t believe his luck, nor how quickly his emotions seemed to vary with each new piece of information the Governor was presenting.He wasjusttalking about Droves killing themselves, and now I’m excited that my new playmate is also a noble? What is wrong with me?
Roy tried to keep his voice even. “That’s good to know. Yet I can’t help but notice that you kept those deaths out of your letter too?”
The Governor scowled. “Of course I did.” He spoke brusquely, as if incensed by the idea that he owed Roy anything. “This isn’t information I share withyoulightly. I am only doing so just so you see the extent of what you’re dealing with. And now that that’s done, I’ll tell you this is no longer a matter of agreement, Roy. Youwilldo this.”
It annoyed Roy that he was surprised, both by this obfuscation and by the implication that this assignment had ever been something he had the ability to agree to or not.
He knew there had never been a choice.
Again, the Governor appeared unmoved by the vexation almost certainly plain on Roy’s face. Then he lowered his brows and shocked Roy by saying, all ferocity gone from his voice, “I must ask... You haven’t heard any voices since you arrived, have you? Anything that might have steered your mind toward violence? Or even suicide?”
Roy recoiled at the Governor’s chilling forthrightness, but he shook his head. Hehaddetected some voices, and hehadbeen scratching his hand incessantly while in the Governor’s company, but neither of these were so disconcerting as what the Governor was describing.
“I see,” the Governor replied, a tinge of curiosity to his voice. “Neither did Percival. Listen, Roy, I want to be very clear: I was opposed to calling on the help of any scholars, but this library clearly shuns those who have no interest in academia, confirming something I’ve long suspected—”
He cut himself off, his lips pinched, and before Roy could parse what that meant, the Governor went on, “You and Percival will use this building to ferret out the Old Ones’ origins and, more importantly, their objectives. Prior to my arrival, my guards deposited a portion of rations—bread, cheese, and waterskins—on the sixth floor. The first chamber on the left. These shall last you through the next month, at which point I shall return every three or four weeks, both to deliver your additional supplies and to observe your progress... provided the Old Ones haven’t made a charnel house of Northgard by then. It’s clear this task won’t be simple, but I’m beyond caring. Our city is poised on a knife’s edge. If it falls into ruin, that is on you two.”
Red curled in at the corners of Roy’s vision. His heart pounded erratically. His earlier feeling of uncertainty, of being perched on the crumbling border of a cliff, returned.
Six months, he thought.Six months to find answers on an enemy whose identity has eluded Northgard for three years.It had already sunk in how little time they had, but coupled with the check-ins every four weeks or so, he realized just how ludicrously short that was. And for once, the idea of being surrounded by books inspired no enthusiasm within him.
Roy could not deny how daunting his prospects were. At the same time, though, he couldn’t deny that therewasa chance here. If nothing else, the chance of the outcome the Governor wanted was simply too alluring. He saw that well and clear enough: A final chance to halt the war before it spanned across Northgard and cast surrounding islands in its pall. A chance to save lives before the Old Ones could reach foreign shores and their great obsidian boots could darken more snow-glazed earth.
A chance to make sure Briar was safe.
Questions still took up space in the back of Roy’s mind, though. For starters, how could he and Percival use their specific educations to identify the enemy? But the longer that he contemplated it, the clearer the answer became. Philosophy subscribed to the arcane, the subtle, the forgotten fragments of the world’s secret past. Roy didn’t believe in magic, but there was an unmistakable mysticism in ancient transcripts and ciphered messages. For thousands of years, scholars had undertaken projects to solve conspiracies. What was this task but another such project? What was the difference between the Elder Scribes’ scholastic expeditions and what Roy was tempted to undergo?
A conquered island, Roy thought.That’s the difference.
He hadn’t seen the Old Ones, nor did he wish to, and he couldn’t fathom what atrocities they were capable of, but the thought of the Orphic Basilica, a mystical sanctum, shattered to ruins; of shelves of literary relics destroyed... it almost broke him. It almost shattered his soul. Because maybe the Old Ones would accomplish what the Radiant Droves had not.
“I’ll do it,” Roy said. “I... I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will,” the Governor said. “But it’s wonderful to hear you say it anyway.” And then, with a magnanimous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the Governor spread his hands out before him. “Who could ever say no to a good book?”
5
Once their discussion had come to its end, theGovernor informed Roy that he could choose one of the rooms on the sixth floor as his personal chamber, then left the reading room and, soon after, the Orphic Basilica. The door boomed shut on his way out.
Roy wrung his hands, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information that had been brought before him in the past hour. Though it had been the Governor who had imposed this monumental task upon him, all Roy could think of was the Matron—her stoic expression, her complete disregard of his interest in the old world.
Dimestra had always hated him, though. She had always criticized his lifestyle and ambitions, so abnormal had they seemed to her, and this assignment was just adding fuel to the fire. For as much as it was a punishment for Roy, he imagined the Matron must’ve been infuriated by the abrupt loss of the control she wielded over her son. But Roy cared little for her opinion; he was much too entangled in what it might mean for him if he and Percival failed. Their lives would be forfeit, forgotten only months after they’d been given a purpose, and they would be—
