Page 1 of A Theory of Dreaming
One
How strange it is, to live so long in the company of shadows that, without them, one feels bereft and needful of the dark.
—from the diaries of Angharad Myrddin, 201 AD
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 novelAngharadhas been an elaborate, decades-long fabrication. The students allege thatAngharadwas 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.
Angharadis a highly acclaimed artifact of Llyrian literary heritage, and Myrddin’s recent interment in the Sleeper Museum reflects the magnitude of the novel’s cultural impact. Originally published in 191,Angharadtellsthe story of a young woman seduced and held prisoner by the Fairy King, a beautiful but sinister chthonic deity. The novel boasts what literature professor and Myrddin scholar Cedric Gosse calls “universal appeal,” and is celebrated both critically and commercially.
To bolster their claims aboutAngharad’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 theTimesand are currently under review by our editorial team. They will be vetted by our board, and, if their authenticity can be guaranteed, theTimeshas 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 surroundingAngharad’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.
TheTimesreached 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.”
TheTimescan 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 withoutinterference 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 theLlyrian 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 theTimesour 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 wouldstillarrive 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. Effyknew 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.
