Page 15 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
What is significant is not that the king sleeps but that he dreams.
With Effy safe—relatively speaking—in Tinmew’s lecture hall, Preston took the elevator to the third floor of the literature college.
Just as the doors were about to close, another student boarded with him.
A first- or second-year, by the looks of it, and he stared at Preston shamelessly for the entirety of the ride—first at his face, then at the dragon pin, then back at his face again.
Preston’s skin prickled; he felt he could almost hear the student’s thoughts.
Saboteur. Traitor. Argantian.
By the time Preston exited the elevator, his hands were shaking. He walked to the end of the hallway and then, with only a bracing inhale, pushed open the door to Master Gosse’s office. He figured he had earned the right to barge in unannounced.
To his surprise and relief, Gosse was there: leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigarette with his feet propped up on his desk.
It had to be his third or fourth or even fifth because the room was so suffused with smoke that Preston had to wave his hand in front of his face to clear the air and keep from coughing.
When Master Gosse saw him, he swung around in his seat and looked up at him with eager, shining eyes.
“Héloury,” he said breathlessly. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“We have class this afternoon,” Preston said in a stiff voice. “In case you forgot. Again.”
Gosse chuckled. “Surely you aren’t here to plan a lesson on Aneurin’s early writings. Come. Sit down. There’s so much— so much —we have to discuss.”
With no small amount of reluctance, Preston took a seat in the armchair in front of Gosse’s desk. Gosse bent over, reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of scotch. He poured himself a generous glass and then looked over at Preston. “Drink?”
“No thank you.” It was ten fifteen.
“Suit yourself.” Gosse took a hearty sip. “I had to down half a bottle just so I could sleep last night. My heart was racing, and my mind was racing twice as fast. I’ve done it, Héloury. We’ve done it.”
After they had both risen—after they had both woken —Gosse had swiftly collected the pages of Angharad’s diary and hurried out of the Sleeper Museum through a side door, Preston following groggily behind. He could not believe what he had seen. What he had dreamed .
“What is it you think we’ve done?” Preston asked.
“Accessed the unreal world, of course!” Gosse boomed.
“The realm of magic and myth, where stories are birthed by sea nymphs and then floated up to the surface, given over to the real world like changeling children, to be found by believers and washed up ashore.” He lowered his voice then, and went on, “Surely now you are a believer, aren’t you? ”
Preston thinned his lips. He did not blink as he met Gosse’s eager eyes, but he did not reply, either.
He expected his adviser to look exasperated, yet instead, Gosse regarded him with a sort of sheepish affection.
“Ah, Héloury,” he said, shaking his head.
“You could be struck through the heart with a sword and debate with its steel as you bled out on the floor. You’re so young to be such an ardent unbeliever. Has anyone told you that before?”
“No,” Preston said. “I can’t say they have.” His mother often bemoaned his lack of faith, but she would never express her grievances so poetically.
“Well, my ritual must have been quite potent, then, to overcome the hurdle of your skepticism.” Gosse drained his glass.
“The power of the Sleepers—even I was skeptical before, but this is incontrovertible proof. Hmm... this does make your denunciation of Myrddin a bit more problematic than I anticipated.”
“ You sent me to Hiraeth.” Preston could not help but edge his voice with bitterness. “It was your theory to begin with, your scholarly ambitions—”
Gosse waved his hand. “Let’s not get bogged down in the details. What matters is that we focus all of our efforts on this new line of inquiry. On this... this unreal world. This place of mysticism and fascination. This... what would you call it, Héloury?”
“It’s a palace,” Preston said. The response was automatic; it was as though the words had snuck into his mouth before they even occurred in his mind. When Gosse merely regarded him with a raised brow, he hedged, “Isn’t it?”
“Hmm” was all Gosse said in reply. “Well, we clearly need to embark upon a concentrated campaign of knowledge gathering! We were only permitted a few minutes of exploration before we were rudely forced awake.” He steepled his hands and rested his chin on them.
“We must devise a way to stay longer. A way to bend this unreal world to our whims.”
Preston’s stomach pitted with dread. “You want to return to the museum.”
“Perhaps,” Gosse replied. “Or perhaps not. It may be possible to access this world without the aid and nearness of Sleeper magic. It’s worth an attempt, anyway.
It would be rather more convenient to not have to shut down the city’s most popular exhibit every time we want to take a trip to unreality. ”
He couldn’t exactly disagree with that. And it would only be a matter of time before the curator recognized him.
This was only one of a thousand reasons why Gosse’s plan was terribly ill-conceived.
Surely he could not have picked a worse ally in this quest to prove the existence of Llyrian magic.
He was not just an unbeliever but Preston Héloury : saboteur, traitor, and Argantian.
But... in the underwater world, he was none of those things. There were no passports, no border walls, no sneering students. No such burdens, no such turmoil. He was just a boy—a man?
And he was a son. He could have tried to fool himself into believing that he agreed to follow Master Gosse because he was afraid of his adviser’s anger if he did not. Gosse was his only ally at the university with any influence at all. That was the wise, sensible part of his mind.
But it was the rash, desperate, dreaming part of his mind that took over. The part that just wanted his father again. Even if it was just a fantasy. Even if it defied all the logic and reason that ordered his world.
“All right.” Preston swallowed hard. “I’ll do it. But—shouldn’t we still perform our duties as usual? We don’t want to arouse any suspicion by, for example, failing to show up to teach class.”
The accusation blitzed right past Gosse.
He only sighed. “I suppose you’re right.
Dean Fogg has his ears pricked for any insubordination.
I don’t want to be seen as stepping out of line.
Especially when I’ve already stuck out my neck for you.
” He gave a pointed glance to the dragon pin on Preston’s blazer.
“Well, then! I’ll fulfill my rote obligations, and after today’s class, we will once again journey beneath the waves! ”
The period had already begun and all the students were gathered by the time Preston herded Master Gosse into the classroom.
Being late to one’s own class was embarrassing, but it was better, he figured, than not showing up at all.
The students instantly straightened in their seats when they saw Master Gosse enter the room.
When they saw Preston enter behind him, their expressions became an amalgam of distaste and suspicion. All except for Southey, who smirked.
“Right, then,” Master Gosse said listlessly, striding up to the chalkboard.
“This is a class on Aneurin the Bard—Llyr’s very first Sleeper—and his early writings, which include the fragmentary parts of his epic poem, the Neiriad .
We will be reading these works in translation, though of course those of you who have supplemented your coursework with the study of Old Llyrian may get more out of it than others.
” It seemed he was not planning to acknowledge his absence yesterday. “Are there any questions?”
To Preston’s great dismay, Southey raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Southey?”
“Thank you, Professor.” Southey’s voice had all the grease of a dirty kitchen pot. “I was merely wondering if you would introduce us to your teaching assistant.”
Oh, piss off. The thought occurred to Preston so suddenly that he had to bite his tongue to keep from speaking it aloud. The quick-tempered vulgarity was unlike him. The words didn’t even feel like his own.
“Yes, of course,” Master Gosse said. “This is Preston Héloury, one of my brilliant students. He is also the legate of the literature college, so I hope you’ll all remain on your best behavior.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully, and Preston drew in a breath.
“Thank you, Professor,” Southey said again. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Héloury.”
Preston couldn’t risk opening his mouth to reply, so he merely gave a stiff nod. Another award-worthy performance of restraint , he thought.
“Now, if that’s all, please open your copies of Lawes to page seven. I believe you’ve read the introduction on your own time”—there was a shuffling of papers as the students found their place—“but if one of you would like to summarize, that would be much appreciated.”
The overdressed student in cuff links raised his hand, and Gosse nodded at him.
“The Neiriad is the oldest piece of extant writing from Llyr,” he said.
“It was authored by Aneurin the Bard, who was the court musician for Llyr’s first king, Neirin.
It tells the story of how the king built the great city of Caer-Isel and fought off the Argantian invaders, as well as the eventual tragedy of the city’s destruction.
The fragmentary epic was recovered alongside the king’s entombed body, and its original resides in the Sleeper Museum, under lock and key.
Lawes’s translation is considered the foremost rendering of his work into modern Llyrian, as it makes a great effort to retain the lyricism of Aneurin’s verse. ”