Page 61 of A Theory of Dreaming (A Study in Drowning #2)
Let no one say that I am weak. I am fearful, and therefore brave. I am wounded, yet all the stronger for it.
PEACE TREATY SIGNED, ENDING TWELVE YEARS OF WAR BETWEEN LLYR AND ARGANT
This treaty comes after unexpected and heavy losses to the Llyrian side in a recent skirmish, during which the Llyrian army was forced into a temporary surrender.
Prior to this battle at Four Crosses (in Argantian, Quatre-Croix), Llyr’s military leaders projected confidence, leading many to believe that victory was assured and would be definitive, perhaps even ending the war in Llyr’s favor.
The crushing defeat—and subsequent armistice—has left the nation reeling.
It has long been accepted that Llyr’s army is superior, with greater stores of wealth upon which to draw and state-of-the-art military technology that outclasses that of Argant.
By contrast, Argant has often relied on irregular tactics, such as ambushes and surreptitious attacks on supply lines.
None of these tactics were on display in the Battle of Four Crosses, however.
The Argantian and Llyrian armies met in open battle.
Thus far there has been no official statement on the cause of Llyr’s hasty and conclusive defeat; however, morose speculation hangs in the air.
The timing is all too convenient to ignore: the Battle of Four Crosses took place a mere day after the sudden, devastating destruction of Llyr’s Sleeper Museum.
The more superstitious citizens of Llyr will say that our nation has lost something far more essential than the war.
Indeed, while tanks can be refurbished and army ranks replenished, there is no easy remedy for the ruination of faith.
The Llyr that emerges from this war will be unquestionably changed.
It remains to be seen how, exactly, our nation restores its sense of self.
What will be the new foundation of our country’s character? Who will be our heroes now?
The sun was shining and Effy was standing on the steps of the university’s administrative building, before a large and jittery crowd.
Reporters, their notepads out and their pens poised above the page, made up the first row.
She glimpsed Finisterre among them, his dark eyes shining apprehensively out of his gaunt face.
But her gaze didn’t linger there. Instead, she looked out over the rest of the crowd—the bobbing heads of students, professors, bureaucrats, ministers—and found familiar faces. Rhia. Lotto. Maisie. Preston. They stood slightly off to the side, and when Effy met each of their stares, they smiled.
She held Preston’s stare for the longest. It was steady, gentle, and full of love. Almost unconsciously, Effy raised a hand and grasped the ring, which hung from the silver chain around her throat.
Just to her left was a podium with a microphone, and that was where Dean Fogg stood, looking—admittedly—slightly mutinous.
A bit of nervousness stirred in Effy’s stomach.
But all she had to do in order to dispel it was to look past Dean Fogg, to the other side of the lectern, and catch Angharad’s eyes.
They gleamed emerald green in the sharp midday winter sun.
Dean Fogg leaned into the microphone and cleared his throat, causing the crowd to grow silent.
“Thank you all for being here,” he said. “The matter of this address is to inform the university—and representatives from the press—about upcoming changes that will be made to the literature college. Here to herald these changes is Angharad Myrddin.”
His introduction was terse, but Effy had not really expected anything less. It had been no easy task to convince him to make a public statement at all. Yet, as always, money was what greased the wheels in Dean Fogg’s mind.
“Thank you,” Angharad said as she took Dean Fogg’s place at the lectern. “And thank you all for being here. My name is Angharad Myrddin, and my late husband was Emrys Myrddin. I am the true author of the celebrated novel Angharad .”
A ripple of shocked gasps went through the crowd.
Effy felt her breath catch in her throat.
Angharad had not shared her speech ahead of time, and Effy had to confess that she, too, was surprised at its boldness.
Yet at the same time, a shiver of pride went through her.
Angharad’s gaze did not falter. Her voice did not shake.
“I have chosen today to make my first public appearance because, tomorrow, the Llyrian Times will publish the thesis statement of two university students, Effy Sayre and Preston Héloury, which proves definitively my claims of authorship.”
Angharad paused there, to allow for more noises of disturbance from the crowd. The reporters’ pens raced across their pages. There was the flicker and flash of cameras, which made Effy’s vision blur for a moment. When her eyesight returned, Angharad was pressing on.
“My deepest and most sincere gratitude goes to Ms. Sayre and Mr. Héloury,” she said.
“They are brilliant, innovative scholars and courageous individuals. They have given me a voice, after all these years of isolation and silence. And I will continue to speak, to tell my story, and to make sure my name is not forgotten.”
The crowd stirred again, feathering the air with whispers and sharp breaths.
Nervousness twitched in Effy’s stomach. But Angharad’s expression was placid, almost serene.
She shifted her gaze very slightly, to meet Effy’s eye.
And Effy, though her heart beat fast and unevenly, gave her a nod in return.
“The trouble is,” Angharad continued, “that I am far from the only woman whose work has been stolen and whose voice has been silenced.
It is not enough that I alone am compensated for what I have lost. There are so many others, whose memories have been suppressed, whose graves are untended, whose legacies are left to rot and ruin.
And it will happen again and again, unless we do something about it.
“And so I leave my inheritance to the university.” Angharad held her chin aloft.
“This grant will establish a program within the literature college dedicated to studying the writings of female authors and producing academic work on the subject. This grant will heretofore be known as the Antonia Ardor Memorial Endowment, and the first work it will produce is a paper by Effy Sayre, entitled ‘The Ethics of Amanuensis.’”
The crowd was abuzz—cameras flashing, pens scratching—but Effy seemed to soar above the sights and sounds.
They were held at a distance as she looked at Angharad, so strong, so assured, so proud.
With her cropped hair and her stylish clothes, she was so different from the woman Effy had first met at Hiraeth all those months ago—her untamed mane of silver, her bare feet, her tangled white nightgown, her wild, slightly unreal beauty.
She had been a creature straight from a fairy tale, out of place, out of time.
And yet... even now, there was something more than mortal about her. She seemed to emit a strange and subtle glow. Like a tylwyth ynys , she might just shimmer and fade out of sight. Nothing worldly could quite touch her; she was more powerful than that. More eternal.
“The people of Llyr are afraid,” Angharad said.
“Our army has fallen and our Sleepers have been put to their watery graves. Just this morning, the Llyrian Times published an article which asked how we will define ourselves, now that we have lost so much of what we believe makes us who we are. It asked who our new heroes will be. I say, these are our new heroes. The young students who are clever enough to ask questions, who are brave enough to venture into the dark corners of the world for answers, and who are strong enough to survive when the foundation of everything they know crumbles from beneath them. To Effy Sayre and Preston Héloury. To all who came before, and all who will come after.”
That night, the air was so clear and crisp that the sky seemed almost riotous with stars.
They laid a silver cast over Caer-Isel, limning every surface in an ethereal, unworldly light.
And yet within the back room of one of the city’s oldest and most well-loved pubs, the air was warm and close, and the light from the oil lamps was a gleaming, languid gold.
Angharad sat at the head of the table, and the rest of the seats were occupied by Effy, Preston, Rhia, Maisie, and Lotto.
Plates lay mostly cleared, glasses half-empty.
A pleasant sort of weariness had settled over them all, making the voices that had once been raucous grow low, the laughter to turn soft, and making Effy lean over, resting her head on Preston’s shoulder.
“Are you tired?” Preston asked. “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” she replied. “Not now. Not yet.”
Rhia, meanwhile, was examining Effy’s ring with equal parts awe and outrage. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me immediately ,” she said. “What, was I supposed to find out when you sent the wedding invitations? Oh, and there better be a proper wedding.”
“Well, these past few days have been rather busy,” Effy said.
“No excuses.” Rhia gave her head a prim shake. “And no protests when it comes to dresses and flower arrangements and sampling cake. You deserve all of the extravagance.”
“If you say so,” Effy replied, but she smiled. Rhia handed her the necklace and Effy looped the delicate silver chain back around her throat. The ring settled against her breastbone, a welcome and familiar weight. Just inches above her heart.
“And no protests from you when it comes to the stag night,” spoke up Lotto, who had probably had too many drinks. He pointed accusingly at Preston. “The least I can do is show you a good time.”
“Let’s save that topic for later,” Preston said hurriedly, and Maisie rolled her eyes, but Effy saw Rhia stifle a giggle.