In Svartiskóli this was considered borderline heresy by any stretch of the imagination. It bordered on treason to bring up such blatantly dangerous ideas. His fellow students nicknamed him Sæmundur óði – Sæmundur the Mad – and soon he heard even his lecturers use it. They flunked every critical essay, every thesis he put forward. Even the most menial assignments were scrutinised and rejected if he drifted ever so slightly from the established canon. They made it clear he was a deranged outcast who had no business in an institution of higher learning.
It had been several months since his expulsion. The first thing he did was demand a hearing, but when the assigned date drew closer he kept on postponing it. As much as he resented himself for it, Sæmundur couldn’t help but be afraid. Afraid of rejection, afraid of feeling powerless and helpless at the mercy of the institution he both despised and loved for being the only venue for his academic ambition. But now he couldn’t run away from it.
He’d finished eating and realised that he was reading through an entirely wrong manuscript. It didn’t matter, it was all there. All the knowledge he’d gathered was clear and organised in his mind, all neatly lined up to back up the false, dishonest argument to reassure the committee and allow him to be readmitted.
Today Sæmundur would disown his previous theories entirely and pay lip service to the stagnant dogma the university had set itself to preaching. He’d play the well-behaved, disciplined student for them, at least for now. Begrudgingly he’d admitted it to himself: he needed them. He needed their facilities, their faculty, their library, for his research to progress further. He had to play the long game here. Convince them now to live to learn another day.
* * *
Sæmundur’s tie was askew and his jacket was stretched tight over his broad shoulders. It turned out that the dress trousers from his Learned School graduation five years ago didn’t fit him. But that didn’t matter. He looked presentable enough. It was about the work, after all. The shirt was relatively unwrinkled, at least. He’d glanced in the mirror before he went out and thought he looked mostly fine. Respectable enough.
The sour glances of the hearing committee immediately smothered any meagre sense of self-worth he’d accrued from wearing his suit as soon as he walked in. The disapproving stares of all eight people in attendance told him in no uncertain terms that yes, he probably should have sent his clothes to be cleaned yesterday. The thought of the cloth-golem invoked a fierce sense of pride in him. No, to hell with them. To hell with what he wore. He was the best galdramaður to be found on Hrímland, and they knew it. No one could chant galdur like he did. This hearing would be over soon enough and he’d be able to continue his work in peace.
They didn’t invite him to sit, even though there was a desk, a chair and a small cabinet nearby, apparently intended for his use. He was surprised at this – it seemed a practical test of some sort was in order. Each of them noted something down. Sæmundur took his place in front of them, trying to look serious.
“This appeal hearing is now in session with the plaintiff, Sæmundur Sigfússon, the plaintiff’s head of department, Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius, and the appeal committee in attendance.”
The chairman of the hearing committee was Doctor Laufey Þórhallsdóttir. Sæmundur didn’t know her personally, but he was glad to see her there. Laufey had a reputation of fair-mindedness and avoiding most of the politicking and power plays of academia. Next to her sat a sour-faced older woman, her jacket decorated with the golden esoteric sigils of high mastery. Professor Almía Dröfn Thorlacius. Sæmundur had butted heads with both her and her department’s faculty dozens of time during his studies. She was the lecturer of galdur at Svartiskóli and was considered the supreme authority on the craft. And, he suspected, the prime reason for his expulsion. The other members were unfamiliar to him, except for Doctor Vésteinn Alrúnarson. Almost everyone in the country knew who Doctor Vésteinn was.
“Sæmundur Sigfússon, you were expelled at the end of last semester from Svartiskóli’s Department of Galdur for the use of illegal thaumaturgical narcotics, disorderly conduct when attending classes, failing to meet the academic standards for your thesis after having received two semesters to rework your thesis statement, as the university’s code dictates, and last but not least, inciting canonical dissent. You filed a request for an appeal on the grounds that your expulsion was not in line with the university’s rules. Please elaborate on the matter and submit any evidence you might have to further your case.”
“Yes, ah, I do have some documents …”
He opened up his suitcase and started rummaging around in it. Even though he was no longer a student himself, he still sold moss to a couple of the students working at the university press. They’d sneaked in a quick print run of a dozen copies for a few grams of moss. He handed each committee member a copy.
“Here you have my expulsion defence and a new dissertation outline, rectifying the misconceptions –” he paused to emphasise the word even further – “of the outline I initially submitted.”
He glanced at Professor Almía. She was leafing through the papers and slightly smirking to herself.
Good.
“We will get to your dissertation should your expulsion be reviewed,” Doctor Laufey said in a flat tone. “What have you submitted in order to back up the appeal against your expulsion?”
“Yes, well.” Sæmundur cleared his throat, straightened his posture a bit. “In my report I’ve gathered a few points which I believe render the expulsion invalid. To begin
