Chapter 4 #3
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 another noble-born academic.
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 was just talking 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 with you lightly.
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. You will do 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. He had detected some voices, and he had been 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 there was a 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?”