Page 13 of A Theory of Dreaming
The first-interred, a bard at the court of Llyr’s earliest king. Aneurin is known for his incomplete and fragmentary epic theNeiriad, tracking the king Neirin’s exploits and adventures, particularly his vanquishment of Argantian invaders. His virtue is power, and when he rises from his slumber, he will rekindle the spirit of victory won in this ancient war.
—from the plaque beside the coffin of Aneurin the Bard, in the Sleeper Museum
The classroom was empty when Preston arrived, but Master Gosse had never been what one would callpunctual. Half the reason he’d taken on Preston as a teaching assistant in the first place was to compensate for his utter lack of organization and his penchant for tardiness. So Preston was not alarmed by his adviser’s absence. In the meantime, he busied himself by placing the papers and monographs on every desk, and occasionally peering out the frost-rimed window, hoping he would see Master Gosse approaching through the courtyard.
Luckily, there was a clock on the wall, which meant that hedidn’t have to look down at his watch. He was trying to convince himself that he had not seen what he saw. His mind was still fuzzy and hallucinatory with sleep. His eyes were still bleary. A dozen more explanations he conjured, yet he could not be moved to believe any of them. And he knew that if he glanced at his watch again, the hands would still be stopped, and the face would be filled with water, and he would have to acknowledge—what? That he was going mad?
It had all started with the damned bells. He wished he had never heard them at all.
Since Master Gosse was still nowhere to be found, Preston picked up a piece of chalk and began writing the day’s assignment on the board.The Early Writings of Aneurin the Bard: A Work in Translation by E. A. Lawes.He opened the book and peeked at the first line, to refamiliarize himself with the text.
Lo! How we have heard the deeds and glory
Of Llyr’s last-and-greatest king;
How he broke the land through the sea
As quick as the spear shafts of his enemies;
How he kept at bay the water
Just as he repelled the savage pillagers
Who spoke the demon Ankou’s tongue.
Students began to filter in. Most smiled solicitously as they took their seats, but others regarded him with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. One particular student, a stocky boy with tightlygelled white-blond hair, gave him a very probing once-over. His gaze caught on the dragon pin on Preston’s lapel, and the smile he gave was not groveling at all. It was smug.
“Are you our new professor?” one of the students asked. “Where’s Master Gosse?”
“You idiot,” another student whispered audibly. “He’s our age.”
“No,” Preston said. “I’m a teaching assistant. Master Gosse should be here at any moment.”
“He’s the legate,” said the platinum-haired student. His tone was indolent, and he leaned back in his chair, cracking his jaw with a yawn. “Didn’t you notice his little pin? We better keep on our best behavior, or he might report us to Dean Fogg for a caning.”
The other students snickered.
“And who are you?” Preston could not hide the irritation in his voice.
“Southey,” he replied. “Domenic Byron Southey the Second. And you’re Preston Héloury.”
At that moment, and with astonishing suddenness, all the snickering subsided. Twelve pairs of eyes trained on him, unblinking in their shock. Preston knew what had stunned them to silence: the sound of his Argantian name, rolling derisively from Southey’s lips.
The silence wore on, the air growing dense with it. Despite the cold outside, the room began to feel overly warm. Preston’s cheeks were hot.
“And you’re teaching us Aneurin?” came one student’s hesitant question, at last.
“I’m assisting Master Gosse in his teaching, yes,” Preston said, his jaw clenched.
Then came more silence. Southey reclined further, his expression resplendent.
Finally another student cleared his throat. “And youdospeak Llyrian fluently—right?”
Preston lifted his gaze slowly, until he met the student’s eyes. They were small and beady, and a washed-out shade of blue. His nose was long but turned up at the tip, a trait Preston associated with Llyr’s nobility, and this impression was further enforced by the gold cuff links he wore, along with a silken pocket square.
Who wears cuff links to class?Preston thought peevishly. Only someone who was desperate to communicate his elite status. Who perhaps worried that his preeminence was being eroded by the influx of lower-class students, of women, ofArgantians.
“I’m the college’s top-ranked literature student and I got a perfect score on my entrance exam,” Preston said. “Yes, I’m fluent in Llyrian. And I can read and write in Old Llyrian, too—which you might consider learning if you want to study Aneurin’s works in their original form.”
