Chapter 11
Another week passed, and while Roy’s wish for death didn’t come true, it somehow inveigled itself into his routine.
Everything, from the books he read to the food he ate to the dreams he had, acquired a dreary and lifeless quality.
The barbaric war stories he’d researched days ago, teeming with sickeningly vivid imagery and hyperrealistic interpretations of historical events, no longer affected him as they once had.
He was utterly unfazed by the details. He even tried to locate some volumes on hoplology and metallurgy, the studies of armor and metal respectively, but once he realized this was getting him nowhere, offering him no insights into the black armor he’d spotted in the grant, his depression only deepened.
Amidst these long intervals of monotony, he remembered events from his past that he thought he’d shoved down, deep in some mental cavern where they couldn’t haunt him any longer.
These memories were mostly of Gabriel: his knives; his horrid grin; his blue eyes shining in the moonlight, cold as frost. The memories struck without warning, though Roy found he could endure them best when he was working.
He never gave himself the chance to disassociate, either.
He would simply let the memory do its work and drain the momentum and enthusiasm with which he’d come to his studies, and then, when it was over, he dove back in.
He didn’t notice the effect this coping mechanism was having on him until later.
It was astounding how one discouraging day could unravel your composure, how a single moment of emotional collapse could cause a change in the week to come.
The change was subtle, almost leisurely, and so Roy didn’t recognize it at first. He just started eating less, declining the meals that still mysteriously materialized at his doorstep, but chalked it up to being a symptom of overwork.
He slowly lost interest in spying on Percival and sneaking glimpses at the books he had left in various study halls.
It all seemed so pointless, so draining.
His dreams of Gabriel grew increasingly convincing, too.
He could distinguish between reality and nightmare, but only because he reassured himself, day and night—and in the strange hours between them—that the Governor’s letter had confirmed Gabriel’s absence, that he was missing.
But Roy’s mind only took this to mean that, out of all places in Northgard, he was here, in the Orphic Basilica.
He saw Gabriel in its darkest shadows, setting fire to book after book, his eyes peering out at Roy from behind a shelf.
Roy would stop, his hands trembling, and then as Gabriel broke into a sprint and dashed around the corner, a silver knife gripped in his fist, Roy would jerk awake, panting, a hand clutched against the grooves of the scars on his chest. Sometimes, he wondered if Gabriel was the ghost he had first seen all those days ago, if he was chasing Roy in death, as he had in life.
Percival appeared unaware of Roy’s worsening state of mind, or if he was aware, then he did not show it.
Curiously, nothing really changed in their interactions.
They didn’t converse. They didn’t bid each other a good morning or a good night.
They occasionally crossed paths, because while the Basilica was seven stories tall and as wide as three manors, it was still only one building.
Moreover, their chambers were on the same floor, the sixth, whose books Percival seemed to have taken a liking to.
And despite his incident with the piano, Roy hadn’t stopped frequenting the Observatory, located on the fifth floor, so there were days, sometimes, when he would pass by Percival after a long day of studying and steal a furtive glance.
Not at Percival, of course, or so Roy continued telling himself as he slowly crawled out of the fugue state he’d fallen into.
No, he was more interested in the books Percival was reading. He read fast, Roy noticed, faster than Roy. One day he was huddled over a half-crumpled manuscript. The next, he was scribbling annotations in his notebook about a leather-bound manifesto concerning etymology.
Percival looked perpetually focused, brows drawn, concentration unwavering, even when there were lines of unease inscribed deep into his forehead.
His casual posture, his feet crossed atop one another or one arm flung out over the back of his seat, indicated affability.
His straight back, however, denoted stern contemplation.
But whenever he got so close to his book that it was like it had caught him by the hand and pulled him into its pages, that was when Roy tended to back away and find another spot to study.
Because somehow, he knew that if he was to walk in on Percival in this state, he would get distracted by his deep blond hair, his irksome witticisms, his beauty.
He had never met someone so deeply affected by academia. Then again, he hadn’t ever met anyone in academia, only corresponded with them, so perhaps this was natural. But he couldn’t help but think this was specific to Percival, and Roy just wished he had the strength to ask.
* * *
The days and nights blurred past, abstract and bleary, like a watercolor painting.
On one such night, Roy was only a short walk from his bedchamber, fatigued from hunching over his workspace for fifteen hours or so, when he spotted Percival sitting at a lamplit table propped against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes wide and disbelieving behind his glasses.
On the cover of the massive book he was making his way through was the title: The Lost Records of Old Wynair.
Excitement and recognition crashed over Roy. His heart was palpitating, beating triple-time, and his hands had grown clammy. Instinct took over, and he walked forward but then, just as quickly, ground himself to a halt.
What are you doing, you fool? Roy chastised himself. You’re so tired, you can barely walk to your bed; how in the pits of Hell are you planning to convince Percival to discuss a text with you? That certainly worked out splendidly the last time, didn’t it?
After a moment, Roy conceded, withdrawing from the alcove and stealing toward his bedchamber, his footfalls whisper-soft. Yet as he settled beneath his silken sheets that night, he resolved to speak to Percival in the morning . . . but it wasn’t until the next night that Roy mustered the courage.
He was working in the Observatory. A chill permeated the room, and though a lamp was resting atop Roy’s desk, its heat did little to warm his bones.
He wrapped his coat tighter about his shoulders, then retrieved a book from the stack in front of him and caught a quick glimpse of Percival, sitting on the other side of the desk.
He had entered the Observatory without ceremony or greeting, deposited a stack of manuscripts on Roy’s desk and proceeded to prompt Roy with a question regarding the power imbalance embedded in Northgard.
Percival clicked his fingers in front of Roy’s face. “Darling? A response would suffice.”
Roy drew in a tight breath and dipped his head, glancing down at the book on metallurgy he’d been revisiting. “Sorry, I was thinking,” he said. “What was your question?”
Impatient, Percival sighed. “I’ve attempted to determine Northgard’s stance on power so that we might separate them from the Old Ones, but I think I’m missing something.”
Roy met Percival’s eyes. “And you were hoping I might fill you in on the rest? Doesn’t this violate your game?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But that’s part of the game, too, darling.”
Roy almost got up and left at that, but instead said loftily, “I figured it was rather obvious. The lower class is condemned by the upper class for their existence, and the upper class remains ignorant of their own cruelty, as they’re too busy trying to obtain more power.”
“It’s not even ignorance; it’s just frank, unguarded dehumanization. The bodies of government who lay their affections onto communities, like the aristocrats of Northgard, have no respect for their peoples. All their fancy meetings and delegations and whatnot are a statement of autocracy.”
“Northgard isn’t autocratic, though. Despite the Governor’s total authority, he still relies on his advisers, most notably the Masters and Matrons, to do his dirty work.”
“And yet none of his advisers are academics,” Percival said.
“We can deny it until the day when our kind is truly no more, but conflict is still a historically integral component of the academic world. For years, Northgard has changed their system to please their people—those who attack our community specifically—as has been the Governor’s intention, but as this author states”—Percival pointed to a passage in the book he was holding—“‘Power is a gift. Power is a curse. But the damned can weaken the blessed.’ ”
“Scholars have no hope of weakening the Iron Citadel. We cannot speak our mind. We cannot say no. We have no chance at rebellion.”
“You’re misinterpreting the text. This book was written from an academic perspective, and so in this case, we are ‘the blessed,’ blessed with knowledge, history, and love.
We love fiercely, boldly. We love with a strength hate could never dream of.
Those who condemn us, who deprive us of this love, are the damned.
But this book portrays power as inherently bad, an ideal whose nature, no matter its wielder, does not change. ”
The notion of like-mindedness went against Percival’s conditions for their game—although so did this entire conversation, so Roy didn’t bring it up. Rather, he said, “Good people survive. Evil people suffer.”