Chapter 23 #2
The Governor beamed; his flabby cheeks indented by dimples. “Ah, have you? Well, do tell me, then! I would be delighted to hear what you’ve planned.”
Roy suppressed a grimace at the mockery in his tone.
And although this had been his idea, it dawned on him just how grievously this discussion could go wrong.
The Governor could sic his guards on the two of them and have their heads removed from their shoulders.
He could drag them out of the library by their ears and send them to be tried, tortured, and then publicly executed.
The possibilities unfurled in Roy’s mind in a dark, ghastly exhibition, not unlike Valusvar’s visions.
The Governor raised a brow. “Well?”
Roy cleared his throat, then declared, “In return for the answers you seek, you would promise us the collective safety of Northgard, not excluding the remaining survivors of our community.”
“Oh, is that all? What, pray tell, would I get in return for upending years of established policy?”
With another calming breath—and a nod from Percival—Roy said, “We would burn the Basilica to the ground upon the completion of our assignment.”
The Governor uttered a croaky laugh. “Well, boys. I’ll admit that this was not what I expected. Too, I admire your tenacity. But I have dispatched my men many a time to immolate these ancient grounds. What makes you believe you’re capable of accomplishing what we could not?”
Roy battled the temptation to place his hand on Percival’s leg, which had begun bouncing in agitation, then said, “While Northgard is generally unsympathetic toward, and disbelieving of, old-world mysticism, the Orphic Basilica is an unmistakably arcane landmark. I was once skeptical myself, but on multiple occasions, I have encountered the uncanny.”
The Governor cocked his head, awaiting an explanation.
“This library has openly communicated with us,” Roy said. “It has provided us food and beverages, sometimes upon request. I realize you’ve tried your hand at leveling the Basilica, but neither of us has been rejected by the library, like you and your Droves were.”
The Drove standing rigidly on the left of the Governor swiveled his head and assessed Roy, his crimson eyes shimmering with unnerving intelligence.
Roy attempted to make out, beneath that infernal glow, the light of vitality.
But the red light seemed flat and lifeless, as though some unholy sorcery had excised the soul.
Was this what Briar had seen in Gregori? Roy shuddered to think of it.
Something else struck him, too. Neither of the Droves seemed at all affected by the library now.
He had no sound theories at this moment for why that may be, but this ephemeral idea—that it was as if the Orphic Basilica was anxious to see the fallout of the impending interrogation and so had somehow immunized the two men—was one he could not shake.
Roy lowered his voice and continued, “We should be the ones to wield the torch against the library, however it can be done. We’ll secure further rapport with the Basilica—”
“Something we’ve already been establishing,” Percival interjected.
“—and then burn it all down, but”—Roy raised a hand—“we will not spark a single ember without being ensured of our dying community’s well-being.”
Almost as soon as Roy had finished speaking, the Governor slapped the desk. “Done! A fine deal, Roy Dawnseve.”
Percival’s jaw dropped.
“A . . . A fine deal?” Roy asked.
The Governor laughed. “Why, by all means! The library is as beautiful as it is a large, unwieldy nuisance. Without it lingering near our city like an unwanted pimple, our industries could expand their resources and hubs of power over this valuable land. Once the Old Ones are finally bested, revenue will soar and Northgard’s military influence will reach the southern islands of the Hasdan Isles.
Imagine the solidarity. What a beautiful prospect! Oh yes, burn this library down!”
It wasn’t so much the Governor’s words but his enthusiasm that almost destroyed Roy.
He felt trapped inside himself, confined in his own skin, unable to look away from the egregious mistake he’d made.
Because the Governor had been manipulating the deprived citizens of Northgard for longer than Roy could fathom.
So how could Roy have convinced himself the Governor wouldn’t pluck some permanent advantage from their offer? And yet . . .
Yes, his tyrannical government would persist, but so would Briar, Percival, Roy, and the rest of the scholars. Furthermore, if he was being honest, there would certainly be some economic benefit to the whole city if the Governor’s dream came to fruition.
But even as he tried to feel relieved—he had mostly concocted this deal to save the academic community—Roy knew that he had also somehow consolidated even more power into the hands of the Governor, and that Northgard would be held captive in its own walls, just with a less visible threat.
Not to mention what he’d said about the southern islands.
“Solidarity?” Percival echoed, homing in on that latter point. “You’re talking about unification.”
“Long ago, the islands were united,” the Governor said.
“They lived under one name, Northgard, since the landmass first rose from the sea. As time passed, though, rifting tectonic plates broke the supercontinent and fractured the southern tip of Northgard into several islands. The rift valley, that little slip of sea between Northgard and our southern neighbors, divided us.” He smiled.
“Now, I may not be able to shove two lands together, but I at least want to do my part and join our forces once again.”
“Is that unification . . . or subjugation?” Percival asked, and Roy felt a slight catch in his breath.
The Governor only smiled. “If it is ultimately to their benefit, which word seems more appropriate?”
They all sat there with that lingering in the air before the Governor cleared his throat.
“But first we must rid ourselves of the Old Ones,” he said.
“It’s clear their story is steeped in evil, and like most fanciful stories, they must be stamped out.
I want them banished, never to walk this land or any other again.
” The Governor tugged on his collar, and Roy caught a small glimpse of the necklace encircling his throat.
His eyes had happened upon it during their first meeting, and he could’ve sworn it had been onyx, but perhaps the dim light had muddled his vision, confusing him.
Because now it almost certainly looked duller, muted, not quite as lustrous as before.
The Governor drew it out and fiddled with it unconsciously.
“Have you always had that necklace?” Roy asked.
“Only since my wife passed,” the Governor said, a slight flush on his cheeks. He tucked the necklace back beneath his collar. “She gifted it to me before she . . . she left us. I wear it to honor her vision of unity.”
Dimestra had told Roy something of the Governor’s late wife. Again, he cast his mind back to the ride to the Orphic Basilica. The Governor has been . . . absent since his wife passed some few years ago. Her death has taken a mercilessly heavy toll on his health.
“You’re doing this for her,” Percival said suddenly, “even beyond her death.”
If the Governor seemed shocked by this conclusion, he didn’t let it show.
“We shared our sentiments about Northgard. She . . . She . . .” The Governor shook his head, his lips curved into a brittle, trembling smile.
“She would want me to do what’s best for Northgard.
You know, I should really thank you both.
You’ve arranged the perfect groundwork for a swift political reconfiguration.
This has been long in coming.” He rose to his feet with a groan.
“And with that in mind, I have duties to attend. I apologize for the brief meeting.”
Roy and Percival followed behind him and his guards on their descent to the first floor.
During the walk there, the two Droves—whom Roy had previously believed insusceptible to the migraines and skittishness to which the Matron and the Governor’s first entourage of Droves had fallen prey to—were pestered by ghosts.
They swirled over their heads and around their arms and through their legs, screeching.
They shrieked in various degrees of agony, from promises to what sounded like profanities.
One ghost made a sly grab for the baton of the guard on the Governor’s left, but he managed to bat it aside before he could be divested of his weapon.
Amazed, the Governor looked around, marveling at the spectacle that his appearance had produced. A small smile touched his lips.
Roy did not want to wonder what was on his mind, but the thought came to him of its own volition: The Orphic Basilica, engulfed in flames.
The ghosts, entombed in a perpetually burning graveyard.
He wondered if they would die with the library, or if they would be stuck in purgatory, some excruciating state of limbo from which they would witness the goings-on of the world beyond but never again roam it.
Once they were on the first floor, the five of them gathered near the entryway in a loose semicircle, the Governor slowly turned, his blank-faced guards doing the same.
“You know, I’m rather glad you’re still here,” he said.
“There’s one last thing which I would like for us to tackle before my departure tonight.
” He brusquely plunged a hand into a pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pile of soggy papers, which he threw at Roy’s feet.
They made a wet slap, splattering water across Roy’s boots.
“My guards spotted a dead horse and its rider, a young woman—both fallen to frostbite and hypothermia—on the side of the road on our journey here. These papers were in her pocket. I assume she’d been on her way to the library. ”