The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “What ‘things’?” Simon asked. “What did Morgenes tell him?”

  “If you are not yet knowing,” Binabik said serious, “then perhaps there are still truths you can do without. On that I must think, but for now let me say what I can—what I must.”

  Simon nodded stiffly, rebuked.

  “I will not either burden you with all the long story of our southward trip. I was realizing quite early on that my master had not given me all the truth, either. He was worried, much worried, and when he cast the bones or read certain signs in the sky and wind he became even more so. Also, some of our experiences were very bad. I have traveled by myself, as you know, much of it before becoming a servant of my master Ookequk, yet never have I seen times so bad for travelers. An experience much like yours of last night we were having just below the lake Drorshullvenn, on the Frostmarch.”

  “You mean those…Bukken?” Simon asked. Even with daylight around them, the thought of the clasping hands was terrifyingly vivid.

  “Indeed,” Binabik nodded, “and that was…is…being a bad sign, that they should attack so. It is not in the memory of my people that the Boghanik, which is our name for them, should assault a group of armed men. Bold it is, and frighteningly so. Their usual way is to be preying on animals and solitary travelers.”

  “What are they?”

  “Later, Simon, there is much that you will learn if you have patience with me. My master did not tell me all, either—which is not saying, please notice, that I am your master—but he was very much upset. In our whole journeying down the Frostmarch I did not see him sleeping. When I would sleep, still he would be awake, and the morning would find him up before me. He was not young, either: he was old before I came to him, and several years I was by him studying.

  “One night, when first we had crossed down into the northern parts of Erkynland, he asked me to be standing watch so that he could walk the Road of Dreams. We were in a place much like this,” Binabik gestured around at the bleak plain below the hills, “spring arrived, but not yet broken through. This would have been, oh, perhaps around the time of your All Fool’s Day or the day before.”

  All Fools Eve…Simon tried to think back, to remember. The night that terrible noise awakened the whole castle. The night before…the rains came…

  “Qantaqa was off hunting, and the old ram One-eye—a great, fat, patient thing he was to carry Ookequk!—was sleeping by the fire. We were alone with just the sky. My master ate of the dream-bark that came to him from the marshy Wran in the south. He crossed over into a kind of sleeping. He had not told me why he was doing this, but I could guess he was searching for answers that he could find no other way. The Boghanik had frightened him, because there was wrongness in their actions.

  “Soon he was mumbling, as he was usually doing as his heart walked the Road of Dreams. Much was not understandable, but one or two things that he said were also said more lately by Brother Dochais, which is why you may have seen me show surprise.”

  Simon had to restrain a sour smile. And he had thought that it had been his own fear which was so obvious, sparked by the Hernystirman’s delirious words!

  “Suddenly,” the troll continued, still poking fixedly with his stick at the spongy turf, “it seemed to me that something had caught at him—again, with likeness to Brother Dochais. But my master was strong, stronger in his heart, I think, than nearly anyone, man or troll, and he fought. Struggled and struggled, he did, all the afternoon long and into the evening, as I was standing beside him with no help to give but to wet his brow.” Binabik pulled a handful of grass, tossing it into the air to bat at it with his staff. “Then, a little past the middle of the night, he said some words to me—quite calmly, as if he were at drinking with the others elders in the Clan cave—and died.

  “It was for me, I am thinking, worse than my parents, because they were lost—just vanished in a snowslide, gone with no trace. I buried Ookequk there on a hillside. None of the proper rituals were correctly done, and that is a shame for me. One-eye would not leave without his master; for all I can know, he may be there still. I am hoping so.”

  The troll was quiet for a while, staring fiercely at the scuffed hide on the knees of his breeches. His pain was so close to Simon’s own sorrow that the boy could think of no words to say that would make sense to anyone but himself.

  After a while Binabik silently opened his bag and proffered a handful of nuts. Simon took them, along with the waterskin.

  “Then,” Binabik began again, almost as if he had not stopped, “a strange thing happened.”

  Simon huddled in his cloak and watched the troll’s face as he talked.

  “Two days I had spent beside my master’s burial place. A nice enough place it was, lying beneath unblocked sky, but my heart was sore because I knew he would be more happy up high in the mountains. I was thinking of what I should be doing, whether to continue on to Morgenes in Erchester, or return to my people and tell them the Singing Man Ookequk was dead.

  “I decided on the afternoon of the second day that I should return to Qanuc. I had no understanding of the importance of my master’s talk with Doctor Morgenes—I am still not understanding much, sadly to say—and I had other…responsibilities.

  “As I was calling Qantaqa, and scratching a last time between the horns of faithful One-eye, a small gray bird fluttered down, landing on Ookequk’s mound. I recognized it as one of my master’s messenger birds; it was very tired from carrying a heavy burden, a message and…and another thing. As I approached to capture it, Qantaqa came crashing up along the underbrush. The bird, it is not surprising, was frightened and leaped into the air. I barely caught it. It was a nearness, Simon, but I caught it.

  “It was written by Morgenes, and the subject of the note was you, my friend. It told to the reader—who should have been my master—that you would be in danger, and traveling alone from the Hayholt toward Naglimund. It asked my master to be helping you—without your knowing, if such was possible. It said a few things more.”

  Simon was riveted; this was a missing part of his own story. “What other things?” he asked.

  “Things only for my master’s eyes.” Binabik’s tone was kindly, but firm. “Now, it needs no saying that here was a difference. My master was asked a favor by his old friend…but only I could do that favor. This was also difficult, but from the moment I read Morgenes’ note, I knew I must fulfill his request. I set out that day before evening toward Erchester.”

  The note said I would be traveling alone. Morgenes never thought he would escape. Simon felt tears coming, and covered the effort of suppressing them with a question.

  “How were you supposed to find me?”

  Binabik smiled. “By the use of Qanuc hard work, friend Simon. I had to pick up your trail—the signs of passing of a young man, no set destination, things of this kind. Qanuc hard work and a largeness of luck led me to you.”

  A memory flared in Simon’s heart, gray and fearful even in distant retrospect. “Did you follow me across the lich-yard? The one outside the city walls?” It had not all been dream, he knew. Something had called his name.

  The troll’s round face, however, was unreassuringly blank. “No, Simon,” he said carefully, thinking. “I was not discovering your track until, I think, upon the Old Forest Road

  . Why?”

  “It’s not important.” Simon rose and stretched, looking around the damp flatland. He sat again, and reached for the waterskin. “Well, I guess I understand, now…but I have much to think about. It seems we should continue to Naglimund, I suppose. What do you think?”

  Binabik looked troubled. “I am not sure, Simon. If the Bukken are active in the Frostmarch, the road to Naglimund-keep will be too dangerous for a pair of travelers alone. I must admit I am much worried about what to do now. I am wishing we had your Doctor Morgenes here to advise us. Are you in so much peril, Simon, that we could not risk even a message to him somehow? I am not thinking he wants me to take you through such terr
ible dangers.”

  It took a moment for Simon to realize that the “he” Binabik was talking about was still Morgenes. A second later the astonishing realization struck: the troll did not know what had happened.

  “Binabik,” he began, and even as he spoke he felt he was inflicting a kind of wound, “he’s dead. Doctor Morgenes is dead.”

  The little man’s eyes flared wide for a moment, the white around the brown visible for the first time. An instant later Binabik’s expression froze in a dispassionate mask.

  “Dead?” he said at last, his voice so cold that Simon felt a strange defensiveness, as though it was somehow his fault—he, who had cried so many tears over the doctor!

  “Yes.” Simon considered for a moment, then took a calculated risk. “He died getting Prince Josua and me out of the castle. King Elias killed him—well, he had his man Pryrates do it, anyway.”

  Binabik stared into Simon’s eyes, then looked down. “I had knowledge of Josua’s captivity. In the letter it was mentioned. The rest is…tidings that are very bad.” He stood, and the wind plucked at his straight black hair. “Let me walk now, Simon. I must think what these things are meaning…I must think…”

  His face still emotionless, the little man stepped away from the clutch of rocks. Qantaqa immediately leaped up to follow, and Binabik started to shoo her off, then shrugged. She circled him in wide, lazy arcs as he moved slowly away, head bowed and small hands hidden in his sleeves. Simon thought he looked far too small for the burdens that he carried.

  Simon was half-hoping that when the troll returned he might be carrying a fat wood pigeon or something similar. In this he was disappointed.

  “I am sorry, Simon,” the little man said, “but it would have been of small use anyway. We cannot have a smokeless fire with nothing around but wet brush, and a smoke-beacon I do not think is good at the moment. Have some dried fish.”

  The fish, itself in short supply, was neither filling nor tasty, but Simon chewed morosely at his piece: who knew when he would next get a meal on this miserable adventure?

  “I have been thinking, Simon. Your news, with no fault of yours, is hurtful. So soon after my master’s death, to hear of the ending of the doctor, that good old man…” Binabik trailed on, then bent and began shoving things back into his pack, after first separating out several articles.

  “These are your things—see, I was saving them for you.” He handed Simon the two familiar cylindrical bundles.

  “This other…” Simon said, accepting the packages, “…not the arrow, but this…” He handed it back to Binabik. “It’s writing by Doctor Morgenes.”

  “Truthfully?” Binabik skinned back a comer of the rag wrappings. “Things that will help us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Simon said. “It’s his life of Prester John. I read some of it—it’s mostly about battles and things.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Binabik passed it back over to Simon, who pushed it through his belt. “Too bad, that is. We could use his more specific words at this moment.” The troll bent and continued pushing objects into his pack. “Morgenes and Ookequk my master, they were belonging together to a very special group.” He scooped something out of his belongings and held it up for Simon to see. It glearned faintly in the overcast afternoon light, a pendant of a scroll and quill pen.

  “Morgenes had one of those!” Simon said, leaning close to look.

  “Indeed,” Binabik nodded. “This was my master’s. It is a sigil belonging to those who join the League of the Scroll. There are, I was told by him, never more than seven members. Your and my masters are dead—there can be no more than five left, now.” He snapped his small hand shut on the pendant and dropped it into the sack.

  “League of the Scroll?” Simon wondered. “What is it?”

  “A group of learned people who share knowledge, I have heard my master saying. Perhaps something more, but he would never tell me.” He finished the last of his packing and straightened up. “I am sorry to be saying this, Simon, but I am afraid we must walk again.”

  “Again?” Aches he had forgotten suddenly flared in Simon’s muscles.

  “I am afraid it is needed. As I was telling, I have been much in thought. I have thought these things…” He tightened his walking stick at the join and whistled for Qantaqa.

  “Firstly, I am bound for getting you to Naglimund. This has not been changed, it was unhappily only my resolution that was slipping. The problem is: I do not trust the Frostmarch. You saw the Bukken—it is likely you would prefer not to see them again. But it is northward we must travel. I am thinking, then, that we must go back to Aldheorte.”

  “But Binabik, how will we be any safer there? What’s to keep those digger-things from coming after us in the forest, where we probably can’t even run?”

  “A good question to ask. I spoke to you once of the Oldheart—of its age and…and…I cannot think of a word in your language, Simon, but ‘soul’ and ‘spirit’ may be giving you an idea.

  “The Bukken can pass beneath the old forest, but not easily. There is power in the Aldheorte’s roots, power that is not to be lightly broached by…such creatures. Also, there is someone there I must see, someone who must hear the telling of what happened to my master and yours.”

  Simon was already tired of hearing his own questions, but asked anyway. “Who is that?”

  “Her name is Geloë. A wise woman she is, one known as a valada—a Rimmersgard word, that. Also, she can perhaps help us to reach Naglimund, since we will have to be crossing from the forest side on the east over the Wealdhelm, a route that is not known to me.”

  Simon pulled his cloak on, hooking the worn clasp beneath his chin. “Must we leave today?” he asked. “It’s so late in the afternoon.”

  “Simon,” Binabik said as Qantaqa jogged up, tongue lolling, “please believe me. Even though there are things that I cannot yet tell to you, we must be true companions. I need your trust. It is not only the business of Elias’ kingship that is at stake. We have lost, both of us, people who we were holding dearly—an old man and an old troll who knew much more than we are knowing. They were both afraid. Brother Dochais, I am thinking, died of fright. Something evil is waking, and we are foolish if we spend more time in open ground.”

  “What is waking, Binabik? What evil? Dochais said a name—I heard him. Just before he died he said…”

  “You need not…‘” Binabik tried to interrupt, but Simon paid him no heed. He was growing tired of hints and suggestions.

  “…Storm King,” he finished resolutely.

  Binabik looked quickly around, as though he expected something terrible to appear. “I know,” he hissed. “I heard, too, but I do not know much.” Thunder tolled beyond the distant horizon; the little man looked grim, “The Storm King is a name of dread in the dark north. Simon, a name out of legends to frighten with, to conjure with. All I have are small words my master was giving me sometimes, but it is enough to make me sick with worry.” He shouldered his bag and started off across the muddy plain, toward the blunt, crouching line of hills.

  “That name,” he said, his voice incongruously hushed in the midst of such flat emptiness, “is of itself a thing to wither crops, to bring fevers and bad dreaming…”

  “…Rain and bad weather…?” Simon asked, looking up at the ugly, lowering sky.

  “And other things,” Binabik replied, and touched his palm to his jacket, just above his heart.

  24

  The Hounds of Erkynland

  Simon dreamed that he was walking in the Pine Garden of the Hayholt, just outside the Dining Hall. Above the gently swaying trees hung the stone bridge that connected hall and chapel. Although he felt no sensation of cold—indeed, he was not aware of his body at all except as something to move him from one place to another—gentle flakes of snow were filtering down around him. The fine, needled edges of the trees were beginning to blur beneath blankets of white and all was quiet: the wind, the snow, Simon himself, all moved in a world seemingly wit
hout sound or swift motion.

  The unfelt wind blew more fiercely now, and the trees of the sheltered garden began to bend before Simon’s passage, parting like ocean waves around a submerged stone. The snow flurried, and he moved forward into the opening, into a tree-lined hallway of swirling white. On he went, the trees leaning back before him like respectful soldiers.

  The garden was never this long, was it?

  Suddenly Simon felt his eyes drawn upward. At the end of the snowy path stood a great white pillar, looming far over his head into the dark skies.

  Of course, he thought to himself in dreamy half-logic, it’s Green Angel Tower. He could never walk directly from the garden to the base of the tower before, but things had changed since he’d been gone…things had changed.

  But if it’s the tower, he thought, staring upward at the immense shape, why does it have branches? It’s not the tower…or at least it isn’t any more…it’s a tree—a great white tree…

  Simon sat upright, staring.

  “What is a tree?” asked Binabik, who sat close by, restitching Simon’s shirt with a bird-bone needle. He finished a moment later, and handed it back to the youth, who extended a freckled arm from beneath his sheltering cloak to claim it. “What is a tree, and was your sleeping good?”

  “A dream, that’s all,” Simon said, muffled for a moment as he pulled the shirt over his head. “I dreamed that Green Angel Tower turned into a tree.” He looked at Binabik quizzically, but the troll only shrugged.

  “A dream,” Binabik agreed.

  Simon yawned and stretched. It had not been particularly comfortable, sleeping in a protected crevice on the side of a hill, but it was eminently preferable to spending a night unprotected on the plain. He had seen the logic of that quickly enough, once they had gotten moving.