Page 86 of A Theory of Dreaming
Preston looked up, through the glass ceiling and through the shuddering blue-green water. He saw the inner chamber of the Sleeper Museum, just as he had before, and Master Gosse’s body lying prone on the floor next to Aneurin the Bard’s shattered coffin.
“Well?” Master Gosse prompted. “Aren’t you going to ask how I managed to get here on my own?”
“No,” Preston said. “All this time you’ve been telling me it’s about belief. In fairy tales. In magic. But that’s not true. It’s about desire. If anyone wants it badly enough, they can make it here, too.”
“Perhaps so. But not everyone can mold this world so immaculately to their will. Were thismydream”—Master Gosse gestured about the chamber—“I would have decorated a bit differently.” At that, he laughed, a high, thin sound that made Preston’s skin prickle.
“It doesn’t matter.” Preston drew Effy closer to his chest. “You’re leaving. And so am I.”
Master Gosse cocked his head. “And why on earth would you want to do that?”
Overhead, the bells groaned, as if at last their ancient quality was showing. There was a layer of rust that Preston hadn’t noticedbefore. And the glass ceiling seemed to warp and strain, the water pressing in on it, fighting to be let in.
“Because this is a dream,” said Preston, “and you can’t live in dreams forever.”
“Surely by now you understand that this is no ordinary dream.” Master Gosse turned, and with a flourish he indicated the statue of the king. His silver hand glinted in the rheumy beams of light. “This place has a power that can touch the real world. We have barely tapped its potential. There isso muchleft for us to do—”
“No,” Preston bit out. “It’s not just touching the real world—it’s tainting it. It’s tainting both of us. You’re speaking madness.”
“Perhaps it is madness alone that allows the full truth to be seen.”
Preston just shook his head. The ceiling creaked, small cracks spidering through the glass. The sea rushed and rushed against it, foaming like surf break.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “There’s notruthhere. Only the comfort of fantasy. The comfort of believing in stories.” With his chin, he indicated the statue of the king. “All of this has been built on a lie. There was no Aneurin the Bard.”
Master Gosse looked unperturbed. “Well, no, not in a literal sense. There was no singular man who penned the epic poem. He is a composite of many different authors; more likely than not, a school of poets. It was embellished over the centuries by other writers. But thecharacterof Aneurin the Bard is real—as real as Angharad’s Fairy King. As real, and as necessary. The people of Llyr need him. He is the soul of the nation.”
“If the soul of a nation requires an enemy, then it has no right to exist at all.” Preston’s stomach was churning now, all the anger he had bottled for so long rising in him. “Neirin was king of all the island. We’re supposed to believe that the war between Llyr and Argant is some ancient blood feud. That every Llyrian and Argantian should feel their enmity for the other deep in their bones. But the truth is more mundane than that. It’s about wealth and territory and all the other ordinary, worldly things that don’t fit neatly into a fairy tale. The island was united once. There’s nothing natural or inevitable about its division. Just the lowly work of men.”
“Yes,” Master Gosse said. “Human caprice and greed lie beneath what is supposed to be a just and noble war.” He shook his head in a vaguely revolted way. “All the more reason to seek your refuge here, no? Son of Argant. Son of Llyr. This is the only world where you will ever truly belong. In this world, you might very well beking.”
Something thickened in Preston’s throat. He had to swallow hard before he could manage to reply, “I don’t want to rule. I just want...”
He was cut off by a deafeningly loudcrack. One of the bells had broken, right down the center, and it now ceased its ringing.
Master Gosse let out an exasperated breath. “It’s her, isn’t it? You would give this all up for her?”
Preston looked down at Effy in his arms. Her body had gone very still again, and her grip on his shirt had slackened. She felt limp, and a thrill of fear went through him. Her eyes had fluttered shut.
“Yes,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Gosse’s. “I’d give it all up. I’d give everything.”
“Everything,” Gosse echoed. “Everything?”
His eyes flickered somewhere over Preston’s left shoulder. Preston turned. Standing behind him, in a pool of bleary light, was his father.
Preston’s heart stuttered. “Tadig...”
His father did not reply. He did not move toward him; he only smiled in that familiar way, his cheeks dimpling. It was the same smile that Preston had seen grace his face when he won a game of chess, when he glimpsed a rabbit on the lawn, when he kissed the top of his mother’s head before retiring to bed.
“So?” Gosse asked. “Surely you don’t want to give upeverythingthis world has to offer.”
Tears blurred Preston’s vision as he stared at his father, mere steps away. The instinct to reach out to him was great. He wanted to be taken into his father’s arms, to be held again, to be loved by someone who knew him to be more than anArgantian saboteurand a stodgy literature student and a man who would not allow himself to weep. He wanted to be held like a little boy again, a little boy who lived half in dreams.
But that boy was gone and so was his father. This was a story that had reached its final page.
“I’m sorry,” Preston whispered. “I’m sorry. I love you.Da garout a ran.”
His father didn’t answer. He just kept smiling, but love emanated from him, in a warmth that was almost visible, like a pulsing of light.
