Chapter 8 #2
Yet Roy was happy with any window of opportunity, and so he took advantage of Percival’s lowered shield, not caring whether he caught Roy out on it.
“Drop these pretenses, then, Percival,” he said.
“We must face the facts. You and I are the principal players in a game far larger than we anticipated. We were put on the game board and now we must make our move. The Old Ones have the answers, not us, but we have a lead. We have the library.”
Roy truly believed this. There was no doubt the Orphic Basilica harbored thousands of years’ worth of knowledge and that somewhere in here must be a way to at least understand the Old Ones, if not outright defeat them.
The trouble was that Roy was at a loss as to where he should start.
Even the library’s reputation confounded him.
As he had seen when he wandered along its shelves yesterday, before he’d been chased by the ghost, there seemed to be no categorization system, no placards or labels to guide him around the maze of randomly assorted genres and topics.
Every time he started to think he was close to discovery, something held him back; whether external or internal, he didn’t know for sure.
Maybe both. Maybe, in the deepest corners of his mind, he hadn’t yet fully submerged himself in his research beyond perusing the bookshelves because he’d been waiting for Percival to concede, to give up his baffling moral code and unfathomable disinclination to assist Roy and instead help him sort through the mess.
But either way, this was not going to be an easy task, and the feeling that the library was actively working to make it a difficult task wasn’t lost on him.
He didn’t need Percival adding to the obstacles and thus preventing him from finding an answer.
“Maybe I’m hoping for too much,” Roy said, “but we would be foolish not to capitalize on this opportunity.”
“I am capitalizing on this opportunity.”
“But only for yourself!” Roy bit back.
“I’m not working with you; I thought I made that clear,” Percival said, his expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
Roy’s heart plummeted into his stomach. “Don’t you see, darling?
We would only fight. We would only get in each other’s way.
Now be a dear and get out of mine.” With that, he gathered his books, pushed the inkwell to the middle of the desk, stood up, and then stalked away.
Like a storm dousing a torch, Percival had snuffed out Roy’s hopes.
Roy had become so enraptured by the idea that he might actually convince Percival that he hadn’t prepared for his rejection.
He understood Percival’s reluctance, but if they could only talk through their differences and see where, or if, their ideas might intersect, maybe they could be compatible.
Even if it was not meant to be, it would have been worth a try.
That dream, though, was rapidly becoming a diminishing figure as Percival walked away.
Fear closed in over Roy’s head like an oncoming tide. Faces flashed before his eyes: the Governor, the Matron, Briar . . . and the confined, winter-stricken city of Northgard.
Just then, Percival twirled about and marched toward him in a purposeful stride, hurling Roy back into reality.
His deafening footsteps clanged through Roy’s head.
As Percival drew closer, his face glowing in the golden lamplight, he threw his books to the side, where they dropped to the ground with a booming thud.
Even as Percival clutched the front of his tailcoat, Roy stood firm.
A gasp fled his lips, loud amidst the uncanny quiet.
He closed his eyes. A long breath whispered across his parted lips.
Warmth fluttered through the length of his body.
He leaned into the heat, unable to draw himself away from the temptation.
He could feel Percival’s fingers brushing across his tunic and, as he took in a deep, uneven breath, Percival’s heart beating frantically against his own.
Roy might have been in a dream, back in the dream he’d had last night of Percival’s veiled hazel eyes, were it not for the clear and rational topography of the waking world.
A hand shifted Roy’s face to the side, and as a coil of warm breath skittered along his flushed cheeks, Percival whispered into his ear, “You should’ve paid better attention to me. ”
Roy opened his eyes.
Percival was standing right before him, his left boot pressing against the toe of Roy’s right.
Silver moonlight shone upon his high cheekbones, bathing the crown of his head in a glowing nimbus.
He was gorgeous, a perfect graven image of timeless beauty.
Roy didn’t try to extract himself from Percival’s grip.
He knew it would be but a useless endeavor.
And besides, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
“This is the game,” Percival said, nodding to his white-knuckled clasp on Roy’s tailcoat. “This is the battle.” His voice quickened. “I don’t care for the war raging outside these walls. This island is going to fall, whether its people fight or surrender. The history of the enemy is insignificant.”
“Then why are you here?” Roy spat, unable to keep his voice from trembling. “What the Hell are you fighting for?”
“Did you know you’re one of the few scholars I’ve met?
” Percival said. “And if you’re here, then that means either you were ratted out or the Governor found out your treachery by himself.
There’s no in-between. But unlike you, Dawnseve, I’m unconcerned with being a principal player.
And frankly, the fact that you think you’re as important as that is downright laughable.
What I want is to beat you, to root out the truth before you do, and if you’re wise, you’ll let me.
” He released his hold on Roy, though only to smooth the wrinkles rumpling his coat. “But something tells me you won’t.”
When he stepped back, Roy had half a mind to pull him back in—to do what, though, he did not permit himself to imagine. “You’re mad,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” Percival said with a grin, shrugging. “But as I said, this is a game. And, darling, there is nothing I love more than winning.”