Page 35 of A Theory of Dreaming
Or—perhaps he could. Here, in this palace beneath the sea. In his dream.
“She sounds like a girl you ought to marry,” his father said teasingly.
“Maybe.” Preston looked back at his father, or rather, at the space between them. The salt-suffused air. “I wish you could have known her.”
“I do know her a bit now,” his father said. He reached out his hand. “Shall we go on?”
Measuredly, his father led him toward the threshold of the second room, beneath its stone archway. Preston had never ventured thisfar on his own. The sound of the bells grew louder, until it was a thrumming beneath his feet, a reverberation through the gray floor.
So close now.
This third chamber was the largest so far, stretching vast in all directions. There were more niches, and more statues set within them, more torches of green flame, yet Preston could not stop to examine them. His gaze was drawn upward, to the ceiling. It was made entirely of glass, so transparent that it seemed nothing at all was holding the water back, as if it might pour down and drown him at any moment.
The sea shifted and rippled. A school of pale-bellied fish quivered past, momentarily obscuring his view. And then, when they departed, Preston saw straight through the glass, and through the shuddery green water, into the inner chamber of the Sleeper Museum.
In shock he stumbled backward, furiously blinking his eyes. “How—”
Like so many things it seemed impossible, and yet itwas. He saw through the floor of the museum and to his own resting body. He saw Master Gosse splayed beside him, the papers of Angharad’s diary strewn about. For so many slow, dragging moments, he watched himself sleep there, beside the greatest authors of Llyr, and felt a thudding in his chest that was louder than the sound of the bells.
The bells.
Preston turned, and looked upon them at last. They rose up,through the glass roof of the chamber, in a crumbling gray tower. Though they were unprotected, their ringing was not slowed at all by the torpid water, and their sound was not at all diminished. They rang and rang, and the sea pulsed out from around them. Their noise could be perceived not only by his ears but by his eyes as well.
Until now, their tolling had seemed staggered and inconsonant. Now he heard the rhythm and the music. It sang in his bones.
“You can hear them, too, can’t you?” Preston asked his father desperately.
“To hear them in their own palace is one thing,” his father replied. “To hear them from above the water is another.”
He did not elaborate, and Preston could think of no way to reply. Instead, he took a hesitant step forward, farther into the chamber. The bells were not the only thing of note within. In the distance, past every niche, every green-smoking torch, was the largest statue he had yet seen.
As if in a trance, Preston approached it. Its plinth alone was taller than Preston. His gaze followed the statue up, from its slippered feet, along the line of its robes, to its coiled beard, to the crown it wore upon its head.A king.
What was curious about the king was his stance. He did not have his sword drawn out; he did not look over the room with an unperturbed expression, wise and preeminent. Instead, his face was turned to the side, his lips pulled back in revulsion and horror. His legs were set apart and his robes billowed out, as if he were fleeing from something. As if he were being chased.
A fearful king. It made Preston’s skin prickle with cold.
The statue had one arm drawn to his chest, clutching something there that Preston could not make out. An amulet? A coin? His other arm trailed behind him, the sleeve of his robe rucked up to reveal the length of his forearm. Only unlike the rest of the statue, it was not made of marble. His hand and arm were made of pure silver, which gathered the light and gleamed.
“What is this?” Preston whispered, turning to look at his father. “Who is this?”
His father gave him a gentle smile. “You already know.”
He didn’t. There was indeed something familiar about the king, but he couldn’t place it. His mind seemed to clench emptily. Preston’s gaze drew back to the statue. He had not noticed before that there was a wooden chair set beneath it. It was carved intricately with waves and its back was inlaid in pearl. Not an ordinary chair, no—a throne.
The sight of the empty throne was somehow terrifying to him. And perhaps it was that terror that made Preston begin to feel unsteady on his feet, his knees quivering, his skin growing slick, as if overtaken with the chill sweat of a fever. He was fading.
“No,” he said, his voice cracking, “I don’t want to go.”
His father gave his shoulder a squeeze, his hand warm and heavy. “You’ll be back.”
He awoke to being shaken rather violently, with the stench of alcohol wafting over his face. Preston’s eyes fluttered open, and he was met with Master Gosse’s wild, wheeling stare. His adviser’s hand gripped the collar of his shirt.
“Well?” he rasped. “What did you see, Héloury? What did you see?”
Preston tried to extricate himself as decorously as possible, but it was difficult, given that Gosse was holding on to his shirt as if it were his lifeline in a storm. He had also shoved him up against one of the coffins, his shoulder blades digging painfully into the marble that supported the sleeping body of Aneurin the Bard.
“N-nothing,” Preston stammered out. “Just... just darkness.”
