Chapter 6
Roy regarded the stranger carefully.
He looked close to Roy’s own age, twenty-four or twenty-five.
He was dressed in a loose-collared tunic, brown trousers, and tattered black boots, the half-done laces sagging across the floorboards.
A pair of square-rimmed spectacles sat upon the bridge of his long nose, and his hazel eyes were as bright with beauty as they were shining with suspicion.
A stray thread of moonlight flickered across his short blond hair.
His defined features possessed an imperious cruelty: brows sharply furrowed, cheeks sharp as a snake’s fangs, his full lips crooked with unconscious judgment.
If men were weapons, this young man was carved from the steel that had been cast aside: too sharp to lay in a warrior’s hands.
“One reason,” he repeated, his cheeks scarlet.
He nodded to his left hand, which was gripping a thick leatherbound book.
“I have quite a lot of work to do—unlike you, it seems—and I do not take kindly to interruptions.” He showed no strain, no sign of exertion, but Roy wasn’t surprised.
He had likely heard Roy screaming, rolled his eyes, and then wandered up from his burrow at a leisurely stroll.
Roy stepped to the side, looking at the space behind the man, but there was no trace of the shadow that had accosted him.
“Time is a precious commodity,” said the man, “so I suggest you stop looking around for the answer and start using your words.”
“It’s not there,” Roy babbled. “It’s . . . It’s not there.”
The man glanced behind him, then turned back to Roy, his nostrils flaring. “Come off it, would you? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Now tell me why I came up here.”
Roy parted his lips to sputter the truth, but doing so would only give the man, a decidedly irritable fellow, incentive to use Roy’s illusions as bait.
No, perhaps he didn’t need to confess what he’d seen.
He could reshape the narrative, distort the truth to improve his image, but when he closed his mouth, then opened it again, what came out was far beyond what he’d planned.
“I fell over,” Roy said.
The man studied him for a long moment, as if he’d heard wrong, then sighed. “You fell over.”
“Yes.”
“And it was then that you chose to scream like demons were tearing through your chest and break my concentration? Do I have that right?”
Roy refrained from telling him he hadn’t been conscious of the man’s whereabouts, and therefore unaware that he’d been absorbed in his research.
He had an inkling he wouldn’t believe Roy.
“Is it so hard to imagine that people scream when they’re in pain?
” he asked, kneading the muscles in his legs, a sore attempt to follow along with his ridiculous story.
He debated the merits of telling the truth, but he knew he was too deep into his contrived narrative to raise his hands in defeat now.
“No,” the man said. “But it stuns me that I walked up three staircases to watch you flail on the ground.”
Roy was taken aback. How long had the man been standing there? He shook the question off. “I appreciate your efforts, but I didn’t need to be saved.”
“And I appreciate not being interrupted.” The man sighed. “We’re going in circles here. Look, would you care to exchange more pleasantries, or can I return to my book and, Above willing, some quiet?”
“Listen,” Roy said with a tone of quiet command.
At this, the man raised his eyebrows. “I apologize if I disturbed your studies. Trust me, I understand the frustration; I’m not so fond of interruptions myself.
Perhaps we ought to reattempt this encounter.
” He lifted his lips into a small smile and extended his hand.
“Roy Dawnseve. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The man blinked, either startled or impressed, then rearranged his expression to its previous frustration.
“Ah, you’re Roy, are you?” he said with theatrical amusement, as if there was supposed to be anyone else in the library.
“Well, it appears that old bastard has a wicked sense of humor.” He clenched his fist around Roy’s fingers, tightened his hold until it felt like iron.
“Percival Atherton. Now”—he let go of Roy’s hand—“are we done here? I have a long night ahead of me.”
Before Roy could think of how to answer, Percival chuckled under his breath, turned to leave, and opened his book.
But something caught Roy’s attention. He stood on his toes and peered over Percival’s shoulder, scarcely making out a black-and-white sketch accompanied by dense lines of text.
The words looked written in a short, hasty hand, as though the author had hurried to jot down the budding spark of an idea before it winked out in their mind.
In some places, the ink had faded into stained parchment, lost to the reader’s imagination.
But despite its state of decay, Roy recognized the book; he had researched this philosopher’s oeuvre for years.
“You’re reading Razkamun,” Roy blurted out.
Percival snapped the book shut and twisted on his feet, facing Roy. “And you’re invading my privacy. For the second time now, too.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve been working through his bibliography since I first read his thesis, in which he introduces his Warfare-Philosophy Principle. Well, I haven’t found all his projects, published and otherwise, but I’m certain the Basilica will help with that.”
Percival laughed, waving a hand in dismissal. “Have a wander about the library, then. You would learn as much from reading the door signs as you would from Razkamun.”
Indignation simmered in Roy’s chest, but he refused to let it get the better of him. “I know I disturbed you, but beyond that, I haven’t a clue what I’ve done to hurt your feelings. You’re being annoyingly excessive.”
“Is that so?” Percival smiled. “A spell of reading might ease your agitation. I hear Razkamun is a delightful source of entertainment. Chaos over Nature will do. A real jester’s handbook, that one.”
Roy sneered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. “You’re only jealous,” he spat.
“Jealous of you?” Percival said, then nodded to the book he was carrying. Upon Attrition, Roy guessed by the moss-green binding. “Or jealous of Razkamun for writing a subject that a chipped spoon could understand?”
Roy spluttered. “I would hardly say that.”
“Yes, you might not,” Percival agreed, “but anyone with at least a morsel of aptitude and self-respect, such as myself, would’ve read up enough on Razkamun to know of his madness and of his desperate dependance on philosophy to preserve his sanity.
Have you even read his last three projects?
” He scoffed. “His brain was so addled with hallucinations, it’s undeniable he had the voices in his head write his texts. ”
“You have no clue what you’re saying,” Roy repeated.
“No, darling, you’re confusing yourself,” Percival said.
Darling. Roy didn’t consider himself a violent man, but regardless, he found himself resisting the urge to punch Percival in the mouth.
“Razkamun hadn’t a clue what he was saying.
Face the facts, Dawnseve: The man was delusional.
A philosopher should never compare war to his own studies.
It’s unforgivable, it’s vile. It’s a gross violation of the entire field of study, and despite knowing this, Razkamun was unrepentant in his teachings. ”
A possessive sense of defensiveness seized Roy.
He felt his cheeks heat up, as if he’d struck a match too close to his face.
“Your conclusions are baseless. I’ve read an analysis of his publications.
Razkamun was a genius who instituted an entire avenue of philosophical research.
Authors in his following generation praised his name. ”
Percival stiffened for a moment, and Roy thought he’d won the argument, only Percival threw up his hands with exasperation.
“For money. For fame. For all benefits save for true recognition of academic theory. Those authors wanted nothing more than to rise into glory, to have their own theories eulogized, because they once respected a scholar of their previous generation.”
“Ah, I see. Did you ask Razkamun personally?”
Percival glared, his right eye twitching. “Well, no, but that’s irrelevant—”
“His influence spanned generations, Percival,” Roy cut in. “That cannot be denied. He quite literally coerced armies to perceive war as its own philosophy. ‘The drawn sword is to the warrior what the written word is to the scholar.’ ”
Percival hardened his jaw. “Here’s another quote for you. ‘The sword is an extension of the warrior’s bloodlust. The written word is encouragement to the scholar.’ ”
Roy combed through his memory but came up empty. Other than Razkamun, he couldn’t think of any philosophers infamous for analyzing the complexities of war. “Who said that?” he asked.
“Me, you idiot!” Percival boomed. “War serves no place of honor—damn, no place at all—in philosophy. Talk to a scholar who believes otherwise and you’ve wasted your chance at success.”
Under other circumstances, Roy would’ve felt scolded by this slight, but he was more intrigued than anything else, especially by one nagging detail. “Why are you reading his work, then? If you believe he was a madman.”
“There’s no theory regarding his lunacy,” Percival countered. “I read the old-world journal of an administrator at the asylum where he died. He leapt from his balcony; his body shattered on impact.”