Page 1 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
UNIVERSITY STUDENTS TAKE AIM AT MYRDDIN’S LEGACY
Two undergraduate students from the University of Llyr have produced documents that, they claim, prove the authorship of Emrys Myrddin’s beloved novel Angharad has been an elaborate, decades-long fabrication.
The students allege that Angharad was really penned by Angharad Myrddin (née Blackmar), the late Myrddin’s wife, and that Myrddin and others in his circle conspired to publish it under his name and pass it off as his own original work.
To bolster their claims about Angharad ’s authorship, the undergraduate students have proffered a diary and a collection of letters, both purported to belong to Angharad Myrddin, and which, they state, conclusively prove that Myrddin was not the novel’s true author.
Copies of the diary and these letters have been exclusively obtained by the Times and are currently under review by our editorial team.
They will be vetted by our board, and, if their authenticity can be guaranteed, the Times has been given permission to release the documents publicly.
“The significance of these materials cannot be overstated,” said Gosse, who leads the literature program at the University of Llyr in Caer-Isel.
“For the better part of a century Emrys Myrddin has been cloaked in a veil of secrecy and enigma. These letters not only provide insight into the circumstances surrounding Angharad ’s writing and publication but into the life and character of the man himself.
I must say, I am awash with anticipation.
This is the most exciting moment in my scholarly career. ”
Thomas Wetherell, the barrister for Myrddin’s estate, declined to comment on the investigation. Angharad Myrddin herself also refused contact.
The Times reached out to her father, Colin Blackmar, author of “The Dreams of a Sleeping King” and one of Emrys Myrddin’s close associates. He stated that these documents are “without a doubt forgeries” and that he would not hesitate to take legal action against the paper if they were published.
Kitteridge Marlowe, editor in chief of Greenebough Publishing, Myrddin’s longtime publisher, echoed this sentiment.
“These claims are libelous and fraudulent,” said Marlowe, in an incensed phone call, “and these students are nothing but opportunistic rabble-rousers. One of them is a woman, for Saints’ sakes, and the other is an Argantian.”
The Times can confirm that one of these students is a woman—the first to be admitted to the university’s prestigious literature college—and the other is an Argantian national.
As the twelve-year-long war with Argant continues with no end in sight, Myrddin’s posthumously granted status as national author is seen by many to be essential in maintaining the potency of Llyr’s army and the morale of its soldiers.
In response to concerns about how these revelations might affect the war effort, Llyr’s Ministry of Defense released a short missive:
“We trust that our colleagues at the Ministry of Culture are investigating these claims with rigorous scrutiny. In order to carry out such an investigation, however, the Ministry must be allowed to work discreetly and without interference and agitation from the public. When the truth behind these claims has been conclusively determined, the Ministry will decide upon a course of action.”
The two students, Euphemia Sayre and Preston Héloury, could not be reached for comment.
—article from the Llyrian Times, on the twenty-third day of winter, 238 AD
Effy had never felt so petrified at the sight of her own name. Printed there in stark black ink, it looked like an admonishment. A warning.
“Fogg promised.” Preston’s fingers curled around the edge of the paper, obscuring the article’s title. “He promised he wouldn’t give the Times our names.”
“At least no one has hung up any wanted posters,” Effy said bleakly. Yet.
Preston let out a breath and folded the paper into his satchel. Then he nudged her back under the newsstand’s awning. It was starting to rain.
Rain could never be deferred for long in Caer-Isel, but Effy wished the clouds had stifled themselves for just a few moments more.
As it was, she was going to have to sprint across the courtyard and would still arrive late for class, damp-haired and breathless and not at all making the brilliant first impression she’d hoped for.
Preston pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and held them there—a nervous habit that made little pink indentations form in his skin, which looked painful and lasted for days. Effy knew if they had more space under the awning, he would be pacing.
Gently, she grasped him by the wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. As she did, she peeked at his watch. Three minutes.
Preston blinked, suddenly animated—as if roused from slumber—and said, “You have to go. I don’t want you to be late.”
“I know.” Effy bit her lip and looked out at the courtyard. The statue of Sion Billows, the university’s founder, was coated in a layer of frost, but the rain fell like a volley of bullets and was beginning to erode the crust of snow. “Any advice for me?”
“You have Professor Tinmew, right? He’s a formalist, so don’t expect much in the way of dialogue.
It’s a straightforward lecture. He takes two questions each class.
” Preston’s eyes flickered with faint amusement.
“He once gave an assignment of mine an F for style but an A for content—and averaged it to a C. Because my penmanship was sloppy.”
“He doesn’t sound like the sort of professor who appreciates tardiness.”
“No,” Preston agreed, “but he smokes his pipe under the eaves before every class. You’ll be fine—if you hurry.”
Effy felt her heart swell with fondness for him. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said. Then she tightened the black ribbon that she used to tie back her hair, took a breath to steel herself, and dashed across the courtyard through the sleety winter rain.
The main building of the literature college, being the most prestigious of the University of Llyr’s five colleges, was as sumptuous as the palace of a king.
Though Effy had left the architecture program behind without any wistfulness, she could still appreciate the building’s elaborate and opulent architectural features.
The cornices were sculpted in great detail, with patterns of winding vines, flowers, and the faces of green men blossoming from beds of leaves.
Some of the corbels had been eroded—understandable, as the college had stood against weather and war for over a hundred years—but they could still be mostly distinguished.
Seven stone dragons, their long, scaly bodies curled in on themselves like mollusks, supported the lintel upon which the Sleepers’ names were etched.
Aneurin the Bard. Perceval ab-Owain. Tristram Marlais. Gelert Bedwyn-Lawes. Robin Crother. Laurence Ardor, Lord of Landevale. Emrys Myrddin.
At seeing that final name, Effy stopped cold upon the steps.
A sense of wrongness pervaded her, something that seemed to twist and snarl her soul itself.
The anger came first, and that was easy, a braid of heat climbing her spine.
What came next, the grief, hollowed her.
She felt scraped empty, a shell tossed again and again by the tide and worn to translucence.
She was, quite suddenly, very tired.
Effy shook her head. Droplets of water came loose from her damp blond hair.
She could not think of Myrddin, not right now, not even as she entered the building upon which his name was carved.
She could not allow herself to be distracted, to be cowed.
This was her first day as a literature student, and she had decided (with a confidence and resolve she could not seem to summon up at the moment) to be brilliant.
Competent was not enough. She had to be exceptional . She had to prove that she belonged, that she was not too flighty, too vacuous, too vain. For herself, for Angharad, and for all the women who the literature college would admit starting next year. Dean Fogg had promised.
Effy tried not to think of the fact that Dean Fogg had already broken one of his promises. The two students, Euphemia Sayre and Preston Héloury—
Doggedly, she shoved these thoughts from her mind. Then she pushed open the door and stepped foot, for the first time, into the literature college.
The warmth of the lobby was an instant and welcome relief, though Effy was surprised and somewhat horrified to find it empty.
She glanced up at the clock. It was two fifteen, which meant that all the other literature students must already be in their seats.
Her stomach flipped over on itself. She opened her satchel, checked the syllabus one more time, and then hurried down the corridor to her classroom, the first on the left.
LL101 Introduction to Literature: Theater 113
Effy was certain that she was late, that she would be humiliated on her very first day, but she should have given Preston more credit. Though the seats in the lecture hall were nearly full, there was no one at the lectern. She let out a low breath, relieved.
She made her way briskly up the aisle, chin held aloft, eyes scanning the room for an open seat.
She had replayed this precise moment in her mind over and over again, imagining how she would walk in dignified silence, without flushing, without cringing.
Even as dozens of heads rose and their leery, hostile gazes fixed on her, Effy had promised herself: do not shrink for them.
They would all know her, whether it was for the scandal with Master Corbenic, or for Dean Fogg’s short and dispassionate missive about a new student—a woman —joining the literature college, or for the article on the front page of the Llyrian Times , now passing through the hands of hundreds of students.
She had prepared for the whispers, for the hissed slurs.