The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  Curses, thought Simon, caught like a rat.

  “So you…heard, did you?” he asked at last. The doctor nodded, retaining his tight, angry smile.

  Usires save me, but he has such eyes! Simon thought. Like needles. He has a stare worse than Rachel’s dragon-voice.

  The doctor continued to watch him. Simon’s gaze dropped to the floor. At last, in a sullen voice that sounded years younger than he would have preferred, Simon said it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Now the doctor, as if a restraining cord had been cut, began to pace. “If I’d had any idea of what you were going to use that letter for…” he fumed. “What were you thinking of? And why, why did you feel you had to lie to me!?”

  Somewhere deep inside, a part of Simon was pleased to see the doctor upset—a part that enjoyed the attention. Another part, however, felt ashamed. Somewhere else inside him—how many Simons were there?—was a calm, interested observer who waited to see which part would speak for all.

  Morgenes’ pacing was beginning to make him nervous. “Besides,” he called to the old man, “why should you care? It’s my life, isn’t it? A kitchen boy’s stupid life! They didn’t want me, anyway…” he finished in a mutter.

  “And you should be grateful!” Morgenes said sharply. “Grateful that they don’t want you. What kind of life is it? Sitting around the barracks playing dice with know-nothing louts during time of peace; getting hacked, arrow-pierced and stallion-stamped in time of war. You don’t know, you stupid boy—to be a simple kern while all of these high-living, peasant-cudgeling knights are on the battlefield is no better than being a shuttlecock at the Lady’s Day games.” He whirled to face Simon. “Do you know what Fengbald and his knights did at Falshire?”

  The youth did not answer.

  “They put the entire wool district to the torch, that’s what they did. Burned women and children along with the rest—just because they didn’t want to give up their sheep. Fengbald had the sheepdipping vats filled with hot oil and scalded the leaders of the wool merchants’ guild to death. Six hundred of Earl Fengbald’s own subjects slaughtered, and he and his men marched back to the castle singing! And this is the company you wish to join!?”

  Simon was truly angry, now. He felt his face getting hot, and was terrified that he might burst into tears. The dispassionate observer Simon had disappeared entirely. “So?” he shouted. “What does it matter to anyone!?” Morgenes’ apparent surprise at this unusual outburst made him feel worse. “What is to become of me?” he asked, and slapped at his thighs in frustration. “There is no glory in the scullery, no glory among the chambermaids…and no glory here in a dark room filled with stupid…books!”

  The hurt look on the old man’s face burst the straining dikes at last; Simon fled in tears to the far part of the doctor’s chamber to huddle sobbing on the sea-chest, his face pressed against the cold stone wall. Outside, somewhere, the three young priests were singing hymns in distracted, drunken harmony.

  The little doctor was at his side in a moment, patting with an awkward hand at the youth’s shoulder.

  “Now, boy, now…” he said bewilderedly, “what is all this talk of glory? Have you caught the sickness, too? Curse me for a blind beggar, I should have seen. This fever has cankered even your simple heart, hasn’t it, Simon? I’m sorry. It takes a strong will or practiced eye to see through the glitter to the rotten core.” He patted Simon’s arm again.

  Simon had no idea what the doctor was talking about, but the tone of Morgenes’ voice was soothing. Despite himself, he felt his anger begin to slip away—but the feeling of what seemed like weakness that followed made him sit up and shake off” the doctor’s hand. He wiped his wet face roughly with his jerkin sleeve.

  “I don’t know why you’re sorry. Doctor,” he began, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I am sorry…for acting like a child.” He stood up, and the little man’s eyes followed him as he crossed the room to the long table, where he stood drawing a finger across a scatter of open books. “I have lied to you, and I have made a fool of myself,” he said, not looking up. “Please forgive the stupidity of a kitchen boy, Doctor…a kitchen boy who thought he could be more than that.”

  In the silence that followed this brave speech, Simon heard Morgenes make a strange sound—was he actually crying? But a moment later it became all too clear; Morgenes was chuckling—no, laughing, trying to muffle it behind his billowing sleeve.

  Simon whirled, ears burning like coals. Morgenes caught his eye for a moment, then looked away, shoulders heaving.

  “Oh, lad…oh, lad,” he wheezed at last, putting a restraining hand out toward the outraged Simon, “don’t go! Don’t be angry. You would be wasted on the field of battle! You should be a great lord, and win the victories at treaty-table that always outweigh victories of the field—or an escritor of the Church, and wheedle the eternal souls of the rich and dissolute.” Morgenes snickered again, and chewed on his beard until the fit passed. Simon stood stone-still, face a-frown, unsure if he was being paid compliment or insult. Finally the doctor regained his composure; he vaulted to his feet and made his way to the ale butt. A long swallow completed the calming procedure, and he turned to the youth with a smile.

  “Ah, Simon, bless you! Don’t let the clanking and boasting of King Elias’ goodfellows and bravos impress you so much. You have a keen wit—well, sometimes, anyway—and you have gifts you know nothing about yet. Learn what you can from me, young hawk, and those others you find who can also teach you. Who knows what your fate will be? There are many kinds of glory.” He upended the butt for another frothy mouthful.

  After a moment’s careful inspection of Morgenes, to make sure that the last speech was not just another tease, Simon at last permitted himself a shy grin. He liked being called “young hawk.”

  “Very well, then. And I am sorry that I told you a lie. But if I have keen wit, why will you not show me anything important?”

  “Like what?” Morgenes asked, his smile fading.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Magic…or something.”

  “Magic!” Morgenes hissed. “Is that all you think about, boy? Do you think I am some hedge-wizard, some cheap-cloth court conjuror, that I should show you tricks?” Simon said nothing. “I am still angry with you for lying to me,” the doctor added. “Why should I reward you?”

  “I will do any chores you want, at any hour,” Simon said. “I’ll even wash the ceiling.”

  “Here now,” Morgenes responded, “I will not be bullied. I tell you what, boy: leave off this endless fascination with magic and I will answer all your other questions for a month entire, and you shall not have to write down a one! How’s that, hey?”

  Simon squinted, but said nothing.

  “Well then, I shall let you read my manuscript on the life of Prester John!” the doctor offered. “I remember you asked about that once or twice.”

  Simon squinted harder. “If you’ll teach me magic,” he suggested, “I’ll bring you one of Judith’s pies every week, and a barrel of Stanshire Dark from the larder.”

  “There now!” Morgenes barked triumphantly. “See?! Do you see, boy? So convinced are you that magical tricks will bring you power and good luck that you are quite willing to steal to bribe me into teaching you! No, Simon, I cannot make bargains with you over this.”

  Simon was angry again, but took a deep breath and pinched his arm. “Why are you so set against it, Doctor?” he asked when he felt calmer. “Because I am a scullion?”

  Morgenes smiled. “Even if you still labor in the scullery, Simon lad, you are no scullion. You are my apprentice. No, there is no deficiency in you—except for your age and immaturity. You simply do not comprehend what you are asking.”

  Simon slumped onto a stool. “I don’t understand,” he murmured.

  “Exactly.” Morgenes downed another gulp of ale. “What you call ‘magic’ is really only the action of things of nature, elemental forces much like fire and wind. They respond to natural la
ws—but those laws are very hard to learn and understand. Many may never be understood.”

  “But why don’t you teach me the laws’?”

  “For the same reason I wouldn’t give a burning torch to an infant sitting on a pile of straw. The infant—and no insult is meant, Simon—is not prepared for the responsibility. Only those who have studied many years in many other subjects and disciplines can begin to master the Art that fascinates you so. Even then they are not necessarily fit to wield any power.” The old man drank again, wiped his lips and smiled. “By the time most of us are capable of using the Art, we are old enough to know better. It is too dangerous for the young, Simon.”

  “But…”

  “If you say: ‘But Pryrates…’ I shall kick you,” Morgenes said. “I told you once, he is a madman—or as good as. He sees only the power to be gained from wielding the Art, and ignores the consequences. Ask me about the consequences, Simon.”

  He asked dully: “What about the con…”

  “You cannot exert force without paying for it, Simon. If you steal a pie, someone else goes hungry. If you ride a horse too fast, the horse dies. If you use the Art to open doors, Simon, you have little choice of houseguests.”

  Simon, disappointed, glared around the dusty room. “Why do you have those signs painted over your door, Doctor?” he asked at last.

  “So no one else’s houseguests come a-visiting me.” Morgenes stooped to put his flagon down, and as he did so something gold and shining fell out of the collar of his gray robe, tumbling down to dangle swinging on its chain. The doctor seemed not to notice. “I should send you back, now. But remember this lesson, Simon, one fit for kings…or the sons of kings. Nothing is without cost. There is a price to all power, and it is not always obvious. Promise me you will remember that.”

  “I promise, Doctor.” Simon, feeling the effects of the earlier crying and shouting, was as lightheaded as if he had run a race. “What is that thing?” he asked, bending forward to watch the golden object pendulum back and forth. Morgenes held it out on his palm, giving Simon a brief look.

  “It’s a feather,” the doctor said shortly. As he dropped the gleaming thing back into his robe, Simon saw that the quill end of the golden feather was attached to a writing scroll carved of pearly white stone.

  “No, ifs a pen,” he said wonderingly, “—a quill pen, isn’t it?”

  “Very well, it’s a pen.” Morgenes growled. “Now if you have nothing better to do than interrogate me about my personal ornaments, be off with you! And don’t forget your promise! Remember!”

  Wandering back to the servants’ quarters across the hedged courtyard gardens, Simon wondered at the events of a strange morning. The doctor had found out about the letter, but didn’t punish him, or throw him out, never to return. However, he had also refused to teach Simon anything about magic. And why had his assertion about the quill-pendant irritated the old man so?

  Pondering, plucking absently at the dry, unbudded rosebushes, Simon pricked his finger on a hidden thorn. Cursing, he held up his hand. The bright blood was a red bead on his fingertip, a single crimson pearl. He stuck his finger in his mouth and tasted salt.

  In the darkest part of the night, on the very cusp of All Fools’ Day, a tremendous crash reverberated through the Hayholt. It rattled sleepers awake in their beds and drew a long, sympathetic hum from the dark bell clusters in Green Angel Tower.

  Some of the young priests, gleefully ignoring midnight prayers on this, their once-yearly night of freedom, were struck from their stools as they sat swilling wine and insulting Bishop Domitis; the concussive force of the blow was so great that even the drunkest felt a wave of terror run through them, as though in a deep-sunken part of themselves they had known all along that God would eventually make his displeasure felt.

  But when the ragged, startled crew milled out to the courtyard to see what had happened, shaven acolyte heads like so many pale mushrooms in the silky moonlight, there was no shape of the universal cataclysm they had all expected. Except for a few faces of other recently-wakened castle-dwellers peering curiously from the windows, the night was untroubled and clear.

  Simon was dreaming in his spare, curtained bed, nested among the treasures he had so carefully collected; in his dream he climbed a pillar of black ice, every straining inch upward eroded by a nearly identical slip backward. He clutched a parchment in his teeth, a message of some sort. At the topmost point of the cold-burning pillar was a door; in the doorway a dark presence crouched, waiting for him…waiting for the message.

  As he finally reached the threshold a hand snaked out, grasping the parchment in an inky, vaporous fist. Simon tried to slide back, to fall away, but another dark claw jabbed out from the doorway and caught his wrist. He was drawn upward toward a pair of eyes, redbright as paired crimson holes in the belly of an infernal black oven…

  As he woke gasping from sleep he heard the sullen voices of the bells, moaning their displeasure as they descended back into cold, brooding sleep.

  Only one person in all the great castle claimed to have seen anything. Caleb the horse­boy, Shem’s slow-witted assistant, had been terribly excited and unable to sleep all night. The next morning he was to be crowned King of Fools, and carried on the shoulders of the young priests as they marched through the castle singing bawdy songs and tossing oats and flower petals. They would take him to the refectory hall where he would preside over the All Fools’ banquet from his mock throne built of Gleniwent river reeds.

  Caleb had heard the great roar, he told any who would listen, but he had also heard words, a booming voice speaking a language that the stable boy could only say was “bad.” He also seemed to think he had seen a great snake of fire leap from the window of Hjeldin’s Tower, looping itself around the spire in flaming coils and then splintering into a shower of sparks.

  No one paid Caleb’s story much heed—there was a reason the simpleminded boy had been chosen King of Fools. Also, the dawn brought something to the Hayholt that eclipsed any thunder in the night, and even the prospects of Fools’ Day.

  Daylight revealed a line of clouds—rain clouds—crouching on the northern horizon like a flock of fat, gray sheep.

  “By Dror’s becrimsoned mallet, Udun’s one dread eye, and…and…and our Lord Usires! Something must be done!”

  Duke Isgrimnur, nearly forgetting his Aedonite piety in his wrath, brought his scarred, fur-knuckled fist down on the Great Table hard enough to make the crockery jump six feet away. His broad body swayed like an over-cargoed ship in a squall as he cast his eyes from one end of the table to the other, then brought his fist down again. A goblet teetered briefly, then surrendered to gravity.

  “Steps must be taken, sire!” he roared, and tugged angrily at his belt-length whiskers. “The Frostmarch is in a state of bedamned anarchy! While I sit here with my men like so many knots on a log, the Frostmarch Road

  has become a byway for bandits! And I have had no word from Elvritshalla for two months or more!” The duke blew out a great gust of air that made his mustache flutter. “My son is in dread need, and I can do nothing! Where is the High King’s ward of safety, my Lord?”

  Reddening like a beet the Rimmersman dropped back into his chair, Elias raised a languid eyebrow and surveyed the other knights scattered about the circumference of the table, far outnumbered by the empty chairs between them. The torches in the wall sconces threw long wavering shadows onto the high tapestries.

  “Well, now that the aged but honorable Duke has made himself known, would anyone else like to join his suit?” Elias toyed with his own gold goblet, scuffing it along the crescent-shaped scars in the oak. “Is there anyone else who feels that the High King of Osten Ard had deserted his subjects?” At the king’s right hand Guthwulf smirked.

  Isgrimnur, smarting, began to climb back to his feet, but Eolair of Nad Mullach laid a restraining hand on the old duke’s arm.

  “Sire,” Eolair said, “neither Isgrimnur nor anyone else who has spoken is
accusing you of anything.” The Hernystirman placed his palms flat on the table. “What we are all saying then, is that we are asking—entreating, my lord—that you pay more heed to the problems of those of your subjects who live outside your view here at the Hayholt.” Perhaps thinking his words too harsh, Eolair summoned a smile onto his mobile face. “The problems, they are there,” he continued. “Outlawry is everywhere in the north and west. Starving men have few scruples, and the drought just ended has brought out the worst…in everyone.”

  Elias, unspeaking, continued to stare at Eolair after the westerner had finished. Isgrimnur couldn’t help noticing how pale the king looked. It reminded the older man of the time in the southern islands that he had nursed Elias’ father John through a bout of fever.

  That bright eye, he thought, that nose like a hunting bird. Odd how these bits, these brief expressions and reminders, go on generation after generation—long after the man and his works are dead.

  Isgrimnur thought of Miriamele, Elias’ pretty, melancholy child. He wondered what baggage of her father’s she would carry on, what disparate images of her beautiful haunted mother, dead ten years now—or was it twelve?

  Across the table Elias shook his head slowly, as if waking from a dream or trying to dispel the wine fumes from his head. Isgrimnur saw Pryrates, seated at the king’s left side, quickly withdraw his pale hand from Elias’ sleeve. There was something abhorrent about the priest, Isgrimnur thought, not for the first time, something far deeper than merely his hairlessness and scratchy voice.

  “Well, Count Eolair,” the king said, an elusive smile briefly twitching on his lips, “as long as we are speaking of obligations’ and such, what does your kinsman King Lluth have to say about the message I sent him?” He leaned forward with apparent interest, his powerful hands folded on the table.