The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  As they walked back across the misty commons, after Simon had picked ineffectually at a plate of bread and sausages thumped down before him by a stern kitchen woman, Strangyeard did his best to make conversation.

  “Perhaps you’re just… just tired, lad. Yes, that’s what it will be. Appetite should be back in no time. Young people always have an appetite ”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Father,” Simon said. He was tired, and it was easier sometimes to agree with people than to explain Besides, he was not entirely sure himself what was making him feel so limp, so washed-out.

  They walked on a while through the twilit inner ward “Oh,” the priest said at last, “I was meaning to ask you… I hope you don’t think it’s grasping of me…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Binbines…Binabik, that is, he told me… told me of a certain manuscript A manuscript penned by Doctor Morgenes of Erchester? Such a great man, such a tragic loss to the community of learning…” Strangyeard shook his head sorrowfully, then seemed to forget what he had been asking, for he walked several more steps in gloomy contemplation Simon at last felt compelled to break the silence.

  “Doctor Morgenes’ book?” he prompted.

  “Oh! Oh, yes…well, what I wished to ask was—and I’m sure it is too great a favor—Binbines said it was saved, the manuscript, that it came with you in your pack.”

  Simon hid a smile. The man took forever! “I don’t know where the pack is.”

  “Oh, it’s under my bed—your bed, that is, for now. As long as you want, actually. I saw the prince’s man put it there. I haven’t touched it, I assure you!” he hastened to add.

  “Do you want to read it?” Simon was touched by the old man’s earnestness. “By all means. I am too tired to look at it. Besides, I am sure the doctor would prefer it to be examined by a man of learning—which is certainly not me.”

  “Truly?” Strangyeard seemed dazzled, fidgeting nervously with his eye patch. He looked as though he might pull it off and throw it into the air with a whoop of glee. “Oh,” the priest breathed, composing himself, “that would be splendid.”

  Simon felt uncomfortable: the archivist had, after all, moved out of his own room so that Simon, a stranger, could use it. It was embarrassing that he should be so grateful.

  Ah, he decided, but it’s not me he’s grateful to, I don’t think, so much as it is the chance to read Morgenes’ work on King John. This is a man who loves books the way Rachel loves soap and water.

  They had almost reached the low block of rooms along the southern wall when a shape appeared—a man, unrecognizable in the fog and fast-diminishing light. He made a faint clinking noise as he stepped in front of them.

  “I’m searching for the priest Strangyeard,” the man said, his voice more than a little slurred. He seemed to waver, and the clinking noise came again.

  “He is I,” Strangyeard said, a little more highly-pitched than usual, “umm…that is, I am he. What is your business?”

  “I seek a certain young man,” the other said, and took a few steps closer. “Is this him?”

  Simon tensed his muscles, but could not help noticing that the approaching figure was not very big. Also, there was something about his walk…

  “Yes.” Simon and Strangyeard spoke together, then the priest fell silent, plucking distractedly at his headstrap as Simon continued. “I’m the one. What do you want?”

  “The prince wants to speak with you,” the small figure said, closing to within a few feet, peering up at Simon. He jingled faintly.

  “Towser!” Simon said happily. “Towser! What are you doing here!?” He reached out and clamped his hands on the old man’s shoulders.

  “Who are you, then?” the jester said, startled. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t know—I’m Simon! Doctor Morgenes’ apprentice! From the Hayholt!”

  “Hmmm,” the jester said doubtfully. Up close he smelled of wine. “I suppose so…it’s dim to me, lad, dim. Towser is getting old, like old King Tethtain: ‘head snow-capped and weathered like distant Minari-mount,’ ” he squinted, “and I’m not so sharp with faces as once I was. Are you the one I’m to take to Prince Josua?”

  “I suppose.” Simon’s mood had lifted. “Sangfugol must have spoken to him.” He turned to Father Strangyeard. “I must go with him. I haven’t moved that pack—didn’t even know it was there.”

  The archivist mumbled an acknowledgment and scuttled off in quest of his prize. Simon took the elbow of the old jester as they turned back across the commons yard.

  “Whoosh!” said Towser, shivering; the bells on his jacket tinkled again. “Sun was high today, but the wind is bitter tonight. Bad weather for old bones—can’t think why Josua sent me.” He staggered a bit, leaning for a moment on Simon’s arm. ‘That’s not true, really,” he continued. “He likes to give me things to do. He’s not much for my jesting and tricks, you see, but I don’t think he likes to see me idle.”

  They walked on for a while without speaking.

  “How did you get to Naglimund?” Simon asked at last.

  “Last wagon caravan up the Wealdhelm Road

  . Elias has closed it now, the dog. Rough traveling it was, too—had to fight off bandits north of Flett. Everything’s falling apart, boy. Everything’s going sour.”

  The guards at the front of the residence hall scrutinized them carefully in the flickering torchlight, then knocked for the door to be unbolted. Simon and the jester padded down the cold, flagstoned corridor until they reached another heavy-beamed door and another pair of guards.

  “Here you are, boy,” Towser said. “I’m off to bed, had a late night last night. It’s good to see a familiar face. Come by soon and have a noggin with me, tell me what you’re been up to—yes?” He turned and shuffled off down the hallway, the patchwork of his motley glimmering faintly until he was swallowed by shadows.

  Simon stepped up between the impassive guards and rapped on the door.

  “Who goes there?” a boy’s voice asked.

  “Simon of Hayholt, to see the prince.”

  The door swung silently in to reveal a solemn-faced child of about ten years dressed in the costume of a page. When he stepped out of the way, Simon moved past him into a curtained antechamber. “Come through,” a muffled voice called. After some searching he found the entrance, hidden by a curtain.

  It was an austere room, scarcely better furnished than Father Strangyeard’s. Prince Josua, in gown and nightcap, sat at a table holding a scroll open with his elbow. He did not look up as Simon entered, but waved toward another chair.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, arresting Simon halfway into a deep bow. “I will be a moment, only.”

  As Simon sat in the hard, unpadded chair, he saw a movement at the back of the room. A hand pulled the curtain there aside, revealing a sliver of lamplight beyond. A face appeared, dark-eyed, framed in thick black hair—the woman he had seen in the courtyard, watching the burning. She was looking intently at the prince, but when she looked up her stare met Simon’s and held it, angry eyes like a cornered cat. The curtain dropped back into place.

  Worried, for a moment he considered saying something to Josua. A spy? An assassin? Then he realized why this woman was in the prince’s bedchamber, and he felt very foolish.

  Josua looked up to the blushing Simon, allowing the scroll to curl on the table before him. “Now, forgive me.” He rose, and pulled his chair nearer. “I have been thoughtless. I hope you will understand that I meant no slight to one who helped me escape my imprisonment.”

  “No…no need to apologize, your Highness,” Simon stammered.

  Josua spread the fingers of his left hand, a pained expression on his face. Simon remembered what Sangfugol had said, and wondered what it must be like to lose a hand.

  “Please. ‘Josua’ in this room—Prince Josua if you must. When I studied with the Usirean brothers in Nabban they called me ‘acolyte,’ or ‘boy.’ I do not think I have come so far since then.�
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  “Yes, sir.”

  Josua’s eyes nicked away, back to his writing table; in the moment of silence Simon looked him over carefully. In truth, he did not look a great deal more princely than when Simon had seen him in his shackles in Morgenes’ chambers. He looked tired, worn by care as surely as a rock is worn by weather. In his nightclothes, high pale brow furrowed in thought, he looked more like a companion archivist to Father Strangyeard than a prince of Erkynland or a son of Prester John.

  Josua got up and walked back to his scroll.

  “The writings of old Dendinis,” he tapped it against his leathercapped right wrist, “Aeswides’ military architect. Do you know, Naglimund has never been broken by siege? When Fingil of Rimmersgard rolled down from the north, he had to detach two thousand men to keep this castle bottled up, to protect his flank.” He tapped again. “Dendinis built well.”

  There was a pause. At length Simon awkwardly filled it. “It is a mighty keep. Prince Josua.”

  The prince tossed the scroll back onto the table, pursing his Ups like a miser counting out his taxes. “Yes…but even a mighty keep can be starved out. Our supply lines are almost impossibly long, and where can we expect to find help?” Josua looked at Simon as if he expected some answer, but the youth could only goggle, without a thought of what to say. “Perhaps Isgrimnur will bring back cheering news…” the prince continued, “and perhaps not. Word is spreading up from the south that my brother is assembling a great force of troops.” Josua stared at the floor, then looked up suddenly, eyes bright and intent. “Again, forgive me. I find I am awash in dark thoughts lately, and my words run ahead of my good sense. It is one thing to read of great battles, you know, it is another to try and plan them. Do you know how many things there are to think of? Mustering the local troops, bringing the people and their stock into the castle, foraging, shoring up the walls…and all these things useless if no one will fight at Elias’ back. If we stand alone, we will stand a long time…but we will fall at last.”

  Simon was disconcerted. It was nattering to have Josua speak so openly with him, but there was also something frightening about a prince so full of foreboding, a prince who was willing to speak to a boy as though to his war council. “Well,” Simon said at last, “well…surely everything will turn out as God wills it.” He hated himself for such stupidity even as the words were out of his mouth.

  Josua only laughed, a sour chuckle. “Ah, caught up by a mere lad, like Usires on the famous thornbush. You are right, Simon. While we breathe there’s hope, and I have you to thank for that.”

  “Only in part, Prince Josua.” Did that sound ungrateful, he wondered?

  The wintry look returned to the prince’s stern face. “I heard about the doctor. A cruel blow to us all, but even crueler to you, I’m sure. We will miss his wisdom—his goodness, too, but his wisdom more. I hope that others can take up some of the slack.” Josua pulled up the chair again and leaned forward. “There will be a council, and I think it must be soon. Gwythinn, Lluth of Hernystir’s son, will be here tonight. There are already others who have been waiting several days. Many plans hinge on what we decide here, many lives.” Josua nodded his head slowly, musing.

  “Is…is Duke Isgrimnur alive, Prince?” Simon asked. “I…I spent a night with his men on the journey here, but…but I left them.”

  “He and his men were here days ago, stopping before continuing toward Elvritshalla. That is why I cannot wait—they might be weeks.” He looked away again.

  “Can you wield a sword, Simon?” he asked suddenly. “Have you been trained?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “Then go to the captain of the guards and have him find someone to work with you. We will need every arm, I think, especially strong young ones.”

  “Of course. Prince Josua,” Simon said. The prince stood up and walked to his table, turning his back as though the audience was over. Simon sat frozen in his chair, wanting to ask another question, not sure of the propriety. At last he stood up, too, and backed slowly toward the curtained doorway. Josua continued to stare at Dendinis’ scroll. Simon was a step from going out when he stopped, squared his shoulders, and asked the question he had been balancing.

  “Prince Josua, sire,” he began, and the tall man looked back over his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “Did…did the girl Marya…the girl who brought you the message from your niece Miriamele…” He took a breath. “Do you know where she is?”

  Josua raised an eyebrow. “Even in our darkest days, we cannot keep our minds from them, can we?” The prince shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot help you there, young man. Good night.”

  Simon bobbed his head and backed out through the curtain.

  As he walked back from his unsettling audience with the prince, Simon wondered what would become of them all. It had seemed such a victory to reach Naglimund. For weeks he had thought of no other goal, followed no other star. Torn away from his home, it had been something to pursue to keep the larger questions at bay. Now what had seemed a paradise of safety compared to the wild journey was suddenly yet another trap. Josua had as much as said it: if they were not overrun, they would be starved.

  As soon as he reached Strangyeard’s tiny room he crawled into bed, but he heard the sentries call out the hour twice more before he fell asleep.

  A groggy Simon answered the rap at the door, opening it to discover a gray morning, a large wolf, and a troll.

  “I am startled to be finding you abed!” Binabik grinned wickedly. “A few days out of the wilderness only and civilization has sunk its claws of laziness into you!”

  “I am not,” Simon frowned, “in bed. Not any longer. But why aren’t you?”

  “In bed?” Binabik asked, stumping slowly into the room and nudging the door closed with his hip. “I am better—or better enough. Things there are to do.” He squinted around the room as Simon sank back onto the edge of the pallet and contemplated his own unshod feet. “Do you know where is the pack we saved?” the troll asked at last.

  “Urrrh,” Simon grunted, then waved his hand at the floor. “It was under the bed, but I think Father Strangyeard took it to get Morgenes’ book.”

  “Likely it is still there,” Binabik said, lowering himself gingerly to his hands and knees. “The priest seems to me a man forgetful of people, but who is putting things back in their place when he is finished with them.” He scrabbled under the bed. “Aha! Here I have found it!”

  “Isn’t that bad, with your wound?” Simon asked, feeling guilty he had not offered to do it himself. Binabik backed out and stood up, very carefully, Simon noticed.

  “Trolls have fast healing,” he said, and smiled broadly, but Simon was still worried.

  “I don’t think you should be up and around yet,” he said as Binabik rifled through the pack. “That’s no way to get better.”

  “A fine trollmother you would make,” Binabik said without looking up. “Will you be chewing my meat for me, too? Qinkipa! Where are those bones!?”

  Simon got down on his knees to try and find his boots, but it was difficult with the wolf padding up and down in the narrow chamber.

  “Can’t Qantaqa wait outside?” he asked as her broad flank bumped him again.

  “Both of your friends will be happy to leave if we are bringing you inconvenience, Simon,” the troll said primly. “Aia! Here they have been hiding!”

  Outdone, the boy stared at the troll. Binabik was brave, clever, kind, had been wounded at Simon’s side—and even without these things was anyway too little to hit. Simon made a noise of disgust and frustration and crawled over.

  “What do you need those bones for?” He peered over Binabik’s shoulder. “Is my arrow still there?”

  “The arrow, yes,” his friend replied. “The bones? Because these are days of decision, and I would be a fool to avoid any wise advising.”

  “The prince summoned me last night.”

  “I know.” Binabik shook the bones out
of their sack and weighed them in his hand. “I was speaking with him this morning. The Hernystiri have arrived. There will be council tonight.”

  “He told you that?” Simon was more than a little disappointed to find that he had not been Josua’s only confidante, but a little relieved as well to find the responsibility shared. “Are you going to go there?”

  “As the only man of my people ever to enter the walls of Naglimund? As the apprentice of Ookequk, Singing Man of the Mintahoq trolls? Of course I will go. So also will you.”

  “Me?!” He felt caught off balance. “Why me? What in the name of the good God would I do at a…military council? I’m no soldier. I’m not even a grown man!”

  “Certain it is you are not hurrying to be one.” Binabik made a mocking face. “But even you cannot fight maturity away forever. Besides, your years have no meaning in this. You have seen and heard things that may be important, and Prince Josua would want you there.”

  “Would want? Did he ask for me?”

  The troll blew the hanging hair off his forehead impatiently. “Not with exactness…but he asked me, and I will take you. Josua does not know all you have seen.”

  “God’s Blood, Binabik!”

  “Please do not be swearing Aedonite oaths at me. Just because you are having a beard…almost…does not make you a man to be cursing. Now please let me have some silence to throw the bones, then I have more news to tell.”

  Simon sat back, worried and upset. What if they asked him questions? Was he going to be called to speak in front of barons and dukes and generals and all? He, a runaway scullion?

  Binabik was crooning softly to himself, gently shaking the bones like a trooper dicing in a tavern. They clicked and then tumbled free onto the slate floor. He examined their position, then scooped them up and tossed them twice more. He pursed his lips and stared intently at the last roll for some time.

  “Clouds in the Pass…” he said at last, musing, “Wingless Bird…Black Crevice.” He rubbed his lips with the back of his sleeve, then thumped the heel of his hand once on his chest. “What am I to be making from such a tale?”