Page 71 of A Theory of Dreaming
TheNeiriadforces us to accept what might be considered facile reasoning: that if a king is good, the land will prosper; that acts of bravery are always rewarded and acts of treachery punished; that there never lived a hero who shirked his duties or who faltered in battle. Why is this so? Because it has always been. Why must it be true? Because we, who read, desire it to be. Our belief in a world that is just and perfect gives us strength to survive in a world that is anything but.
—from the introduction toThe Early Writings of Aneurin the Bard: A Work in Translationby E. A. Lawes, 96 AD
Daylight died early in the winter, so by the time they reached the museum at closing hours, the sun was setting, the shadows lengthening, the light filmy and inconstant. The wind swept day-old snow from the sidewalk into the air, where it danced and swirled, white flecks against the darkness. The cobblestones were slick and black enough that Preston could see his reflection in them, though it looked bleary and strange.
All around them, crowds of commuters milled, older men in top hats, women in fox-fur stoles, students in their uniforms, their faces stony and silent and their breath pale in the cold. The people of Caer-Isel seemed like entirely different creatures to Preston. He felt, for a moment, that he was not an interloper in their world, but rather they were foreign entities in his.
The seam between the real and the unknown was pulling apart.
Lotto didn’t let him linger in these thoughts for long. “Is there a side entrance?” he asked as they approached the Sleeper Museum. “Or are we just marching through the front doors like conquerors?”
“No, there’s a side entrance.” Preston felt for the key in his pocket, and as they approached the small door, his heartbeat quickened.
We’re not doing anything illegal, he reminded himself.Technically.The curator had given the key willingly to Master Gosse. And for all he—or the police—knew, it had then been passed willingly to Preston. It was just as much a matter of Master Gosse owing him as it was that he knew his adviser would not want to be embarrassed by the fact that one of his students had stolen the key from him so easily. If Preston was sure of nothing else about Master Gosse, he knew that he was a man of enormous ego.
And—well. Preston finally had a trump card. He was Master Gosse’s only way into the underwater world. He would not want to compromise that.
Preston slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed. The door swung open without a sound.
The corridor, long and half-lit, was just how he had rememberedon his previous visit with Master Gosse. He forged ahead, Lotto following him with uncharacteristic hesitation.
“I’m assuming you have a plan if we encounter a night security guard,” Lotto said in a low voice.
“Of course,” Preston said, with more certainty than he felt. “All we need to do is explain that we’re here on behalf of Master Gosse. I’ve met the curator, Somervell, so...”
Lotto gave a slight grimace. “Not that I doubt your poise and diplomacy, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Poise indeed.Preston’s hands were shaking so hard that he had to return the key to his pocket so he wouldn’t risk dropping it.
They walked on for several moments in silence, until they came upon the door on the left. Through the small window, Preston glimpsed the lectern upon which the original copy of theNeiriadsat.
“Wait,” Preston said suddenly. “Let’s just see...”
He had meant to go directly to the Sleepers’ chamber, but there was some force within him—something greater than mere opportunistic curiosity—that made him pause. The manuscript seemed to emit an energy of its own, a low humming sound, like electrical wires. It called to him, a wordless siren song.
And so, with Lotto at his back, he opened the door.
There was nothing else in the room aside from the lectern, though it stood rather ignominiously on a dusty linoleum floor. Preston approached, his heart hammering in his throat.This isn’t for me, he thought, suddenly and with great bitterness.I don’t belong here.
But didn’t he? The blood that sang in response to theNeiriadwas just as much Llyrian as it was Argantian. He was his mother’s child as well as his father’s son. And so he did not pause or slow his pace until he was standing just before the lectern, staring down at the book through its protective case of glass.
The book was lying open, its pages yellowed and water-stained, the ink faded and nearly illegible in some places. Preston squinted. He could read Old Llyrian, but the lines were crammed together, little space between the words, and with its baroque flourishes, the text was almost impenetrable. Perhaps he could have used his glasses after all.
Over his shoulder, Lotto was squinting, too. “I should have paid more attention in my language classes. I can’t make out anything.”
So Preston leaned closer, until his nose was practically pressed against the glass. The manuscript was open to its very first page; he could, at least, recognize theNeiriad’s famous opening lines.
Lo! How we have heard the deeds and glory
Of the 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 pillagers
