Page 60 of A Theory of Dreaming
“Which means, unfortunately, that I must relieve you of your position as legate,” Gosse said. “Just temporarily. Just until this matter is sorted.” Gosse paused expectantly. “So, if you would turn over your pin...” He held out his hand, palm open. There was yet another small silence.
“I don’t have it with me,” Preston said. And then, before Gossecould speak, he wheeled around and shoved his way through the door.
Preston was aware of how chill the air was on this bleak gray morning, but he couldn’t feel the cold. His coat was unbuttoned and flapped open as he walked, at a brisk pace, along the sidewalk that ran parallel to Lake Bala. The ice had cracked open in places, and enormous chunks of it were floating like buoys, the dark water suspended and still in the crevices.
He paused there, on the pier, and looked out over the lake. In the distance, the charcoal-colored mountains of Argant smudged the skyline. He could see—just barely—the snow that ringed their peaks, making them appear like dark figures with beards of white. He was astonished by just how well he could make them out, even from so far away. Even without his glasses. In fact, the world seemed sharper now than it did with his glasses, somehow.
Without taking his eyes off the mountains of Argant, Preston reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around that piece of cold metal and he drew it out. The dragon pin stared up at him, its emerald eye glinting with an impossible canniness.
He clutched it in his fist for a moment, squeezing until the metal dug into his skin. Then he pulled back his arm and flung it, as hard as he could. It skittered against one of the ice floes and then plunged into the water, sinking irretrievably within the depths of the lake.
Preston did not return to his dorm, where Lotto would be waiting with either a keep-your-chin-up chorus of encouragement or morerighteously angry rants on his behalf. Preston couldn’t stomach either. His other option was Effy’s dorm—it was where heshouldgo, really, to comfort her. Southey’s words rang in his head, exacting more fury from him with each repetition.I’ll show you what it’s like to lie with a baron’s son.
He looked down at his hands, at his bruised knuckles, which really ought to have hurt more than they did. He couldn’t trust himself. If he had done this, what else could he do?
So Preston walked on, smelling the brine that lifted from the lake. He wasn’t walking anywhere in particular because, he realized, there was nowhere in this world he wanted to be. Not anymore. There was only one place he belonged. One place where the terms likeLlyrianandArgantianhad no meaning, where nothing changed except by his hand.
He smoked a cigarette with shaking fingers while standing at the very end of the pier. It calmed his nerves just enough that he could construct some sort of half plan.
With this new course in mind, he stamped out his cigarette and turned back toward the university. He kept his head down as he walked, though he didn’t suppose most people would recognize him without his glasses. The morning was misty, making even acquaintances strangers to each other when they passed on the street. He climbed the steps of the library and pushed through the door.
Preston wasn’t sure if his suspension would ban him from the library or other campus buildings, but the security guard said nothing as he entered. Nor did the librarian, when he passed by the circulation desk and stepped into the cramped, juddery elevator.
He found the most isolated, half-lit corner that he could and slid down to the floor. He had only a few scraps of paper with him, and a nearly dry pen, but it would have to do. His eidetic memory helped as he began to scratch out words.
The Neiriad—written by Aneurin the Bard, approx. 101 BD (?). The Old King, Neirin, repels the “silver-clad” Enemy who speaks Ankou’s tongue (Argantians). His Daughter (nameless) is seduced by the Enemy into betraying the King, which causes his city to fall beneath the waves.
Les Contes de Fées d’Argant—contains a similar story, only the daughter is given a name and portrayed in a more sympathetic light. The sins of the king are instead blamed for the fall of the city of Ys—Ker-Is—Caer-Isel—
He is fitted with a hand of silver
Of silver
Of silver
Preston scarcely realized he was etching the same words over and over again until he blinked the fuzzy exhaustion from his eyes. He recalled a line, then, from an entirely different work—“The Garden in Stone,” by Laurence Ardor.
The trail ofSILVERlight
Confounds the errant-knight.
The maiden seeks to follow
But in her bed she wallows.
It was simple word association, at best. What did it mean? What did it prove? Preston folded the paper up and crammed it into his pocket. He was missing something essential. He just didn’t know what.
Twenty-One
Upon her bed of flowers and vines,
The maiden slept, an idol in its shrine.
The errant-knight cut through the thorns,
And knelt, as if to mourn.
Both aHERETICand a supplicant,
