Chapter 12 #2
“That stack over there,” Percival said, pointing over his shoulder to a pile of books on one of the tables lining the nearest wall.
He smirked at Roy, whose eyes had gone wide.
“Oh, don’t bother, darling. I’ve already checked; I couldn’t find anything.
They’re purely there for safekeeping, should I discover any other connections that link back to those books.
Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone to misplace my research materials.
” He quickly winked at Roy, then looked around, his expression introspective.
“There are quite a few ancient documents here, though. Here’s hoping this library is willing to be a tad more lenient. ”
Percival took his feet off the ottoman, stood, and walked toward the glass displays surrounding the star-shaped reading benches. Above the benches, the orrery emitted bright bangles of orange light, which radiated from torches mounted on the walls.
Roy stood and followed Percival. “The last time I was here, I . . .”
But he stopped. For some reason, contrary to what he’d just thought, he felt compelled to tell Percival, to blurt out, I saw something I cannot properly explain, something I have not yet fully wrapped my mind around.
Was that impetus because he wanted to ingratiate himself with Percival?
Guilt? Or, perhaps, something else. Something Percival had said, about the library being a tad more lenient . . .
And also insistent?
But then Gabriel’s face sprang into his mind again, his smile as wide as the cuts he’d made in Roy’s skin, and the words died on his tongue.
Instead, Roy said, “One of the first times that I came here, I was drawn to the relics—the abacus, the journal . . . I think this level houses the oldest manuscripts of the library.”
Percival, who was poring over a half-crumbled journal, raised a brow. “Why have you returned to this specific area, then, if you weren’t as successful as you’d hoped? Trying your luck again?”
Roy shrugged. “I’ve been thinking recently about how many books I must’ve walked past, books that I once thought would hold no pertinent information, while wandering about these shelves the first time.
” He deliberated cautiously on the phrasing of his next words, believing there might be some way to state them without sounding irrational, then decided he was overthinking it.
The truth was hard to admit, but there was no other answer.
“Earlier, I thought there weren’t any visible systems of organization in this library, and to a point, I was right: There aren’t any visible systems. It’s unseen.
It’s intangible. And it’s ludicrous, but maybe with each crucial piece of information we uncover, the Basilica guides us, pushes us, toward our intended destination. The place we need to be.”
“Nearly being trampled by that rolling ladder truly convinced you that the library is alive, then?”
“Yes,” Roy said, and in spite of the unshakable confidence with which he’d once claimed otherwise, he felt his answer to be deeply true.
“And I’m not sure if it or the Elder Scribes are responsible for the layout of the building and the placement of the books and the artifacts, but regardless, a design exists and we just have to find it. ”
Percival glanced over his shoulder. “Do you feel the same as you did when you entered the Basilica? Around this level, I mean?”
Roy is running, sprinting. His hair blows and whips about him in the air, so stale, so dry, not because of this antiquated building and its old, yet seemingly pristine, walls but because of the thing gliding after him on its silent shadow-feet.
He senses its nearness like the stench of a corpse in its later processes of decomposition.
His heart is pounding with a feral terror.
He is an animal. He is prey. He sees books and moonlight and other wondrous, holy sights, but the thing advancing toward him spoils it all.
It is his doom, his dark mirror, and once it has its hands on him, he will have no breath with which to scream—
Roy turned away from Percival, wrapped his arms around his waist, and shook his head. “No, I haven’t felt it since.”
Percival did not see through Roy’s lie. He strode toward a display showcasing a book twice the size of his head.
Its pages were stained black. “Neither have I,” he said.
“I’ve been trying to find it, though, to see if those strange whispers say something about the Old Ones. It’s a flimsy idea, but . . .”
“But it’s the only idea you have,” Roy finished.
He looked up at the orrery, at the slow but inevitable rotation of worlds and moons orbiting around one another, and wondered if, on one of those distant civilizations, any of them, they were fighting battles as great as—or even greater than—this. “Any idea is a good idea now.”
“With the exception of the idea that doesn’t work,” Percival said.
“You say you think they had to have had a system, but what? How did the Elder Scribes study in this cesspit? For the sake of progression, let’s say that your theory has a grain of truth to it, that the Basilica is steering us toward our destination like a compass or .
. . or a pathfinder. How did the Scribes know what they were researching would lead them to the same path?
How many years would it have taken them to deduce this, let alone design it?
And once they did, why didn’t they take the time to save us the effort of plumbing for answers?
Why keep up this aggravating treasure hunt?
” He sniffed. “They’re selfish, that’s why. They wanted it all to themselves.”
Roy started forward. “I see where this line of thinking might originate, but . . . the way I see it, the Elder Scribes wanted future scholars to seek the truth on their own, to discover the world through their own experiences, their own lives, to enlighten but not entirely give away all the secrets of academia to students of philosophy like you and me.”
Percival laid a hand against the display in front of him. “Glorification is the nemesis of authenticity. They left us, Dawnseve. If the Scribes were meant to be our leaders, then what does it mean that they left us to fend for ourselves?”
“Did they leave us, or were they eliminated?”
“In my eyes, it’s the same thing.” Percival went silent for a moment. “So far as we know, we are the last scholars standing. The last who give a damn, at least, who believe an overthrow of the Governor and the Iron Citadel is still a viable option.”
Roy stared; he was certain he’d heard Percival wrong. “An overthrow?”
“You might be a little ditzy, darling, but you’re not blind.
Northgard is sitting on the edge, the very fucking precipice, of a revolution.
The city has been quiet for too long, and not without reason.
The Old Ones intervened when the Governor signaled the call to war—not that Northgard had any hope then of insurrection. ”
Roy remembered the sled drive along the winding streets—the families pleading for food, their frostbitten fingers hooked in desperation like gnarled icicles.
He had not seen a single spark of mutiny, however, as any budding ember of insurrection had likely been extinguished by the Radiant Droves watching over all like sharp-eyed shadows, but despite its light, fire could hide.
Embers could lie warm yet dormant, smoldering until the right kindling, the proper breeze, sparked a greater flame.
It could be hidden, indeed, underneath generations of systemic oppression.
But if that pale hope ignited into a full-blown revolution, there were still the Old Ones to contend against. But now, Roy figured that revolution would only mean changing who was in charge of Northgard’s downfall.
Not that any of it mattered—there was no chance of rebellion.
“The Governor wields far too much power,” Roy said, his voice shaking with hatred and denial. “He has the resources to destroy his own people.”
“But not enough to destroy the Old Ones,” Percival countered, reading Roy’s own thoughts.
“And, as history has shown, not enough to destroy the Orphic Basilica. If things had not turned out as they had, we wouldn’t be here, the Edict would serve no purpose.
That damn iron wall would be gone.” His voice was quivering like Roy’s, but there was an undercurrent of personal conviction in it, as though he had some long-held grudge against the Edict.
“If he was unstoppable, unconquerable, the Governor would have completely mastered his control over the Hasdan Isles.”
“He doesn’t have to master the Isles, though. He has mastered us. He’s powerful enough that he can force us here and call it an assignment when we both know it’s a death sentence—need I remind you that if we don’t find anything, we’ll be dragged onto the front lines?”
“That might have been the ultimatum you were given, but I . . .” Percival pursed his lips, which stopped trembling, but then a quiver started in his hands.
“I was punished, Roy. My family knew of my treachery, that I’d harbored contraband and dedicated myself to old-world lore to escape the rules of this society, but I went too far.
I sacrificed too much. That’s why I’m here. ”
Roy stilled at the allusion to Percival’s past. It made him yearn to know more, yet, at the same time, haunted him with memories of his own suffering, of Gabriel, of H-I-S-T-O-R-Y, of the inexorable dreams that, night after night, thinned the barrier between nightmare and reality.
He felt entombed, immobilized by both the weight of his burden and the knowledge of Percival’s.
He wanted to approach the matter with caution, but he couldn’t wrest control of his own emotions, nor put a damper on them.
He wanted to lash out, to scream his fury, to let his fists swing and have them land right where it would satisfy.