Chapter 11 #3
Percival held his hand up at Roy’s sigh, a strange expression on his face. “I’ll warn you, though, I’m not sure this will work.”
“But it’s already working,” Roy said, confused.
“For now,” Percival said. “I’ve just seen it fail too many times.” And somehow, Roy knew what Percival was saying—he himself had failed at this too many times. But what could have possibly caused Percival to distrust others and himself so deeply?
“So,” Percival said brusquely, “now that we’re in on this together, here’s my thinking: There are several similarities between the Orphic Basilica and the Old Ones.
Both of their histories are now mostly lost to time.
Thousands of years have slipped by since the foundation of the Basilica and the first of the Old Ones. This must be a sign. A portent.”
Roy had to say, it did strike him as odd. An ancient enemy and an ancient library, their alleged significance resurrected by a new, deadly war. And yet . . .
“I am not accustomed to working with folklore, Percival, or conjecture.”
“Please, darling, try to hear me out,” Percival implored. “I am willing to hear any points of disagreement that you might have, but at least allow me to explain myself. Just . . . Just trust me on this.”
Roy flinched at this last plea, but who else did they have to turn to? Who else could they present their theories, fears, and worries to, if not each other? Roy had wanted this, hadn’t he? At last, he nodded, gesturing for Percival to continue.
“Right,” Percival said, looking significantly more at ease now that he had Roy’s assent.
“So, as you said, everything is connected. The Elder Scribes praised the Basilica, though after they ordered its construction, they worried that it wouldn’t meet Northgard’s approval.
They were scared, but they did it anyway.
However, those against their cause, the supporters of Governorship, did try to accomplish what the Radiant Droves attempted—to destroy the Basilica and burn these legendary books.
None prevailed. What we need to do is compile all we have on the Old Ones into our notebooks and string together as much intelligence as we can—battlecraft, war negotiations, peace treaties, anything that might pertain to the lore of the Old Ones and the Basilica.
Maybe then we can find something concrete that connects the two, and therefore find a way past all”—he waved at the shelves—“this.”
Finally, Roy thought. Finally, they might actually get something done.
And it echoed how this had all started for him in the first place: looking for the Old Ones obliquely, coming at it from different points of view and academies of thought.
Roy had been studying other invasions, and the Old Ones had reared their black visages in those indirect texts when days of just searching straight on had yielded nothing.
In just a half hour, they had already accomplished more by approaching the topic sideways.
And all Roy had to do now was stop his breath from catching and his heart from thrashing whenever Percival did something as simple and mundane as walk into a room.
Maybe then Northgard might survive the war.
Percival looked around the Observatory. “I do think the Basilica will test our patience, though, especially since what we’re looking for would ultimately lead to the library’s own demise.
We might be old crones before we get through half of these books.
It’s a shame the Droves lost their minds before they could thoroughly search this place.
It would’ve been courteous of them to clear the mess. ”
Roy knew Percival was jesting, although it made him contemplate what he had not long ago believed strange: the affliction that the Governor had described, which had come over both the Droves and the Matron.
He had pushed the thought into the dark waters underneath his mind, primarily out of disbelief in, and perhaps an aversion to, superstition.
But now, with the shadow of so many other inexplicable occurrences suspended over his head, was it truly that far-fetched to believe that something—some force beyond his reckoning yet undoubtedly sharing the same space as him—had made the Matron uneasy, had made several Droves kill themselves? He didn’t think so.
But who might have been responsible for this affliction, Roy couldn’t be certain.
The phantom that had accosted him? The library itself?
Some other sinister entity? Indeed, it might be possible, but despite the conclusion of his and Percival’s game, Roy couldn’t yet bring himself to confess what he’d seen.
He was almost there, quite nearly, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how Percival had spoken about Razkamun and his apparent insanity.
“Sure,” Roy said to Percival, “it might have been helpful, but sitting here and complaining about it isn’t going to get us closer to the truth.
Moreover, it won’t stop the madness out there.
” He gestured to the snow-blasted world past the window.
He felt a surge of frustration at Percival’s joke, because it felt like a delaying tactic—a defense against fully collaborating.
Already, Roy thought angrily. “What’s done is done.
What we do, we need to do, now. I don’t know about you, but I want to do something. I want to—”
Percival smiled. “You want to be a hero.”
“Our heroes are dead, if they were ever heroes to begin with. No, I . . . I want to see my sister again.”
Percival’s eyes softened at that, and once again he nodded, a gesture Roy was starting to see was as powerful a confirmation as he was going to get.
Emboldened, Roy said, “Somebody is good at keeping secrets. Whether it’s the Governor, this library, or the Old Ones themselves—it doesn’t matter.
You and I are here, and those secrets are ours to find.
That’s all I know.” Roy jabbed a finger into the grant.
“This report, and The Lost Records, is a good start.”
“It is indeed. So let’s take a look at that artwork you mentioned, then,” Percival said.
“If the scene it’s portraying and the event described in that grant are one and the same, then I’m suspecting it will give us at least a little more insight into these soldiers.
From there, any details we pick up on, we’ll add them to our compiled notes.
” He sounded determined, perhaps somewhat eager, too, but there was a kind of subdued reluctance on his face, like he was halfway to dropping some thought that had been lingering in his mind.
Before he could, Roy said, “What’s the matter?”
“It’s as I said earlier, darling: Don’t read too deeply into this,” Percival said.
“I don’t want you to mistake my cooperation for kindness or an attempt at friendship, because my earlier point still stands.
We will argue. We will disagree. That’s inevitable.
I’m giving you as much collaboration as I will allow, and I mean that solely in the professional sense.
” He looked at Roy, and his expression turned a shade darker, like he was glaring, but it was weak, as though his last few scowls had lost their power.
“There is a line between us, Roy, and crossing that line would not do well for either of us. I can’t let you get in my way. ”
In your way? Roy thought. Or close enough to actually know you?
* * *
After Roy and Percival had reviewed their notes and assembled them into their notebooks, the two of them walked up to the seventh floor in a slightly uneasy silence.
Roy attempted to distract himself with thoughts of their theories and the grant, from which he’d gleaned no further information on Randyll’s prized possession, but nothing worked.
Nothing chased away his conversation with Percival, nor the way he had spoken Roy’s name.
It lingered, clinging to his mind like a nightmare upon awakening—frightening, yes, but enticing all the same.
I can’t let you get in my way.
He massaged his temples, but it gave him neither aid nor succor.
Perhaps this entire time, Percival had been waiting for Roy to openly ask him to finish their game, to rip off all the masks and do away with all the pretenses.
And when Roy had unwittingly exposed his desire, Percival had lunged at the bait, eager to see Roy, to make him feel what Percival felt.
The only problem was Percival’s interest in Roy seemed more personal than he’d first assumed.
He didn’t want to hurt Roy; he wanted to strip him of his armor, lay his heart bare.
Roy would have rather died, taken a knife to his heart and done the deed himself, than allow that to happen.
He had thought of it, too. He’d considered it when he’d sat down at the piano.
He could’ve run from those morbid compulsions, and from Percival, too, and saved himself the mortification of vulnerability.
But for some sadistic reason, Roy couldn’t resist the fight.
Once they reached the seventh floor, Roy tipped his head back, squinted, and inspected the painted bas-reliefs wrapped around the skylight.
The scene closest to him and Percival, above the bookshelf they’d stopped alongside, was the burning ship sailing across a churning black sea.
There was an inscription beneath the piece, as Roy had hoped, but from this vantage point he could not distinguish the words engraved in gilded lettering.
He grunted, frustrated, and rose onto his toes, but it didn’t clarify the text by any measure.
“Of course,” Roy muttered. “Maybe I was a little too hopeful.” Or maybe, he thought, this damn library really is out to get me.
Percival looked at the skylight, his lips pursed. “No, darling, we can’t give up that easily. Some answers could be right there, just within our reach.”
“Poor choice of words,” Roy remarked.