The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “Hah!” Isgrimnur growled. “A touch, man, a touch! Admit it!”

  “The barest whisper across my vest,” Josua said, raising an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “I’m sorry to see that infirmity has driven you to such desperate devices…” In mid-sentence, without altering tone, he lunged forward. Isgrimnur caught the wooden blade on his own hilt with a clack, and skewed the thrust aside.

  “Infirmity?” the older man hissed through bared teeth. “I’ll give you an infirmity that will send you crying back to your wet nurse!”

  Still swift for all his years and bulk, the Duke of Elvritshalla pressed forward, his two-handed grip enabling him to keep good control as he swung the wooden sword in wide arcs. Josua leaped backward, parrying, thin hair hanging in sweat-dampened points across his forehead. At last he saw an opening. As Isgrimnur brought the practice sword around in another whistling sweep, the prince ducked down, using his own blade to help angle the duke’s cut past his head, then hooked a foot behind Isgrimnur’s heel and pulled. The duke crashed backward onto the ground like an old tree. A moment later Josua, too, had slumped to the grass at Isgrimnur’s side. With his single hand he nimbly unlaced his thick, padded vest and rolled onto his back.

  Isgrimnur, puffing like a bellows, said nothing for several long moments. His eyes were closed; sweat-beads in his beard gleamed in the strong sunlight. Josua leaned over to stare. Then, a look of worry crossing his face, he reached over to undo Isgrimnur’s vest. As he got his fingers under the knot the duke’s great pink hand came up and buffeted him on the side of the head, rolling him again onto his back. The prince lifted a hand to his ear and winced.

  “Hah!” Isgrimnur wheezed. “That’ll learn you…Young pup…”

  Another stretch of silence followed as the two men lay gasping, staring up into the cloudless sky.

  “You cheat, little man,” Isgrimnur said at last, levering himself into a sitting position. “The next time you wander back here to the Hayholt I will have some revenge. Besides, had it not been so gods-cursed hot, and me so damnably fat, I would have staved in your ribs an hour ago.”

  Josua sat up, shading his eyes. Two figures were approaching across the yellow grass of the tourney field. One was draped in a long robe. “It is hot,” Josua said.

  “And in Novander!” Isgrimnur grunted, pulling off the dueling vest. “The Days of the Hound are long behind us, and still this bythe-Mother heat! Where is the rain?”

  “Frightened away, perhaps.” He squinted at the two figures as they drew nearer.

  “Ho, my young brother!” one of the two figures called. “And old Nuncle Isgrimnur! It looks like you have worn yourselves out at your play!”

  “Josua and the heat have damn near killed me, Your Majesty,” Isgrimnur called out as the king approached. Elias was garbed in a rich tunic of sea green. Dark-eyed Pryrates walked at his side in flapping red robe, a comradely scarlet bat.

  Josua stood, extending his hand to Isgrimnur as the older man clambered to his feet. “Duke Isgrimnur, as usual, exaggerates,” the prince said softly. “I was forced to knock him to the ground and sit on him to save my own life.”

  “Yes, yes, we were watching your horseplaying from Hjeldin’s Tower,” Elias said, waving a careless hand back to where the tower’s bulk loomed over the Hayholt’s outwall, “—weren’t we, Pryrates?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Pryrates’ smile was thin as thread, his voice a dry rasp. “Your brother and the duke are mighty men indeed.”

  “By the way. Your Majesty,” Isgrimnur said, “may I ask you about something? I hate to trouble you with state business at such a time.”

  Elias, who had been staring out across the field, turned to the old duke with a look of mild annoyance. “I am, as it happens, discussing some important matters with Pryrates. Why do you not come to see me when I am holding court on such things?” He turned back again. Across the tourney field Guthwulf and Count Eolair of Nad Mullach—a kinsman of Hernystir’s King Lluth—were chasing a fractious stallion that had broken its traces. Elias laughed at the sight and elbowed Pryrates, who favored him with another perfunctory smile.

  “Urn, your pardon. Majesty,” Isgrimnur resumed, “but I have been trying to take this matter up with you for a fortnight. Your chancellor Helfcene keeps telling me that you’re too busy –”

  “—At Hjeldin’s Tower,” Josua added curtly. For a moment the brothers locked eyes, then Elias turned to the duke.

  “Oh, very well, then. What is it?”

  “It’s the royal garrison at Vestvennby. They have been gone for well over a month now, and remain unreplaced. The Frostmarch is still a wild place, and I do not have enough men to keep the northern Wealdhelm Road

  open without the Vestvennby garrison. Will you not send another troop?”

  Elias had returned his gaze to Guthwulf and Eolair, two small figures shimmering in the heat as they chased the diminishing stallion. He answered without turning. “Skali of Kaldskryke says that you have more than enough men, old Uncle. He says you are hoarding your soldiers at Elvritshalla and Naarved. Why is that?” His voice was deceptively light.

  Before the startled Isgrimnur could reply, Josua spoke up. “Skali Sharp-nose is a liar if he says that. You are a fool if you believe him.”

  Elias whirled, his lip curling. “Is that right, brother Josua? Skali is a liar? And I should take your word for that, you who have never tried to hide your hatred of me?”

  “Now then, now then…” Isgrimnur interrupted, flustered and more than a little frightened. “Elias…Your Majesty, you know my loyalty—I was the firmest friend your father ever had!”

  “Oh, yes, my father!” Elias snorted.

  “…And please do not take your displeasure over these scandalous rumors—for that is all they are—out on Josua. He does not hate you! He is as loyal as I am!”

  “Of that,” said the king, “I have no doubt. I shall garrison Vestvennby when I am ready to, and not before!” For a moment Elias stared at them both, eyes wide. Pryrates, long-silent, reached up a white hand to tug at Elias’ tunic sleeve.

  “Please, my lord,” he said, “this is not the time or place for such things…” he flicked an impudent, heavy-lidded glance at Josua, “…or so I humbly submit.”

  The king stared at his minion, and then nodded once. “You are right. I have allowed myself to become angered over nothing. Forgive me, Uncle,” he said to Isgrimnur, “for as you said, it is a hot day. Forgive my temper.” He smiled.

  Isgrimnur bobbed his head. “Of course. Sire. It is easy to let illhumors get the best of us in such stifling weather. It is strange, this late in the year, is it not?”

  “That it is.” Elias turned and grinned broadly at the red-cloaked priest. “Pryrates, here, for all his holy standing in the Church, cannot seem to convince God to give us the rain we are praying for—can you, counselor?”

  Pryrates looked at the king strangely, ducking his head back into the collar of his robe like an albino tortoise. “Please, my Lord…” he said, “let us resume our talk and leave these gentlemen to their swordplay.”

  “Yes.” The king nodded. “I suppose so.” As the pair began to move off, Elias stopped. He wheeled slowly around to face Josua, who was picking the wooden practice swords up from the dry grass.

  “You know, brother,” the king said, “it has been a long time since the two of us crossed staves. Watching you has put me in mind of those old times. What do you say we make a few passes, as long as we are all here upon the field?”

  A quiet moment passed. “As you wish, Elias,” Josua replied at last, and tossed one of the wooden blades to the king, who caught the hilt deftly in his right hand.

  “…As a matter of fact,” Elias said, a half-smile playing across his lips, “I don’t believe we have engaged since your…accident.” He put on a look of greater solemnity. “Lucky for you it was not your sword-wielding hand that was lost.”

  “Lucky, indeed.” Josua measured himself a pace and a half, then turned to
face Elias.

  “On the other hand,” Elias began, “—ah, that was a poor choice of words, wasn’t it? My apologies. Alternately, it is unlucky that we must fence with these poor wooden oars.” He waggled the practice sword. “I do so enjoy watching you use—what do you call that thin blade of yours?—ah, Naidel. It is a pity you do not have it here.” Without warning Elias leaped forward, swinging a hard backhand toward Josua’s head. The prince caught the blow, allowing it to slide by, then thrust forward. Elias trapped the oncoming lunge and deftly turned it aside. The two brothers backed apart, circling.

  “Yes.” Josua leveled his sword before him, his thin face slick with sweat. “It is too bad that Naidel is not with me. It is also too bad that you do not have Bright-Nail.” The prince made a swift downward cut, and slid into another looping thrust. The king backpedaled swiftly, then counter-attacked.

  “Bright-Nail?” said Elias, breathing a little heavily. “What do you mean by that? You know that it is buried with our father.” He ducked an arching backhand and pushed Josua back.

  “Oh, I know,” said Josua, parrying, “but a king’s sword—just like his kingdom—should be wisely,”—a thrust—“and proudly,”—a counter-thrust—“…should be wisely and carefully used…by his heir.”

  The two wooden blades slid together with a noise like an axe cleaving timber. The pressure moved down until the hilts locked together, and Elias’ and Josua’s faces were merely inches apart. Muscles bunched beneath the brothers’ shirts; for a moment they were nearly still, the only movement a slight trembling as they strained against each other. Finally Josua, who could not grip his hilt with two hands as the king could, felt his blade begin to slide. With a supple shrug he disengaged and sprang backward, lowering the blade before him again.

  As they faced each other across the expanse of grass, chests heaving, a loud, deep tolling rang out across the tourney field: the bells of Green Angel Tower marking the noontide.

  “There you are, gentlemen!” cried Isgrimnur, a sickly smile on his face. There had been no mistaking the naked hatred that flowed between the two. “There’re the bells, and that means dinnertime. Shall we call it a draw? If I don’t get out of the sun and find a flagon of wine, I’m afraid I won’t make it to Aedonmansa this year. These old northern bones weren’t meant to stand such cruel heat.”

  “The duke is right, my lord,” Pryrates rasped, laying his hand on Elias’ wrist, which still held the upraised sword. A reptilian smile tightened the priest’s lips. “You and I can finish our business as we walk back.”

  “Very well,” Elias grunted, and tossed the sword over his shoulder where it struck the ground and cartwheeled once, then fell flat. “Thank you for the exercise, brother.” He turned and offered his arm to Pryrates. They moved away, scarlet and green.

  “What do you say, Josua?” Isgrimnur asked, taking the wooden sword from the prince’s hand, “Shall we go and have some wine?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Josua replied, bending to pick up the vests as Isgrimnur retrieved the sword the king had flung away. He straightened, staring into the distance. “Do the dead always stand between the living, Uncle?” he asked quietly, then drew his hand across his face. “Never mind you. Let us go and find someplace cool.”

  “Really, Judith, it’s all right. Rachel won’t mind…”

  Simon’s questing hand was captured mere inches away from the mixing bowl. Judith’s grip, for all her pinkness and plumpness, was quite strong.

  “Get on with you. ‘Rachel wouldn’t mind,’ indeed! Rachel would break every bone in this frail old body of mine.” Pushing Simon’s hand back into his lap, Judith blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and wiped her fingers on her stained apron. “I should have known that the merest whiff of the Aedontide bread a-baking would bring you ’round like an Inniscrich camp-dog.”

  Simon traced sad patterns in the flour-strewn counter.

  “But Judith, you’ve got mounds and mounds of dough—why can’t I have a taste from the bowl?”

  Judith levered herself up from the stool and moved gracefully to one of the kitchen’s hundreds of shelves, like a barge on a placid river. Two young scullions scattered before her like startled seagulls. “Now, where…” she mused, “…where is that crock of sweet butter?” As she stood, finger to mouth in a thoughtful pose, Simon edged nearer to the mixer bow!.

  “Don’t you dare, laddie.” Judith cast the words over her shoulder without even turning to look at him. Did she have eyes on all sides? “It’s not that there’s not dough to spare, Simon. Rachel doesn’t want you spoiling your supper.” She continued her perusal of the orderly shelves stacked with goods as Simon sat back and glowered.

  Despite the occasional frustrations, the kitchen was a fine place. Longer even than Morgenes’ chambers, it seemed nevertheless small and intimate, full of the pulsing warmth of the ovens and the scents of good things. Lamb stew seethed in iron pots, Aedontide breads were rising in the oven, and papery brown onions hung like copper bells in the fogged window. The air was thick with the smells of spices, tangy ginger and cinnamon, saffron, cloves, and scratchy pepper. Scullions rolled barrels of flour and pickled fish through the door, or pulled loaves from the baking ovens with flat wooden paddles. One of the chief apprentices was boiling rice paste over the fire in a pot of almond milk, making a blanchesweet for the king’s dessert. And Judith herself, a huge, gentle woman who made the giant kitchen seem as intimate as a farmer’s cot, directed all without once raising her voice, a kingly but sharp-eyed sovereign in her kingdom of bricks and pots and firelight.

  She returned with the missing crock, and as Simon regretfully watched she took a long-handled brush and dabbed the butter over the braided Aedontide loaves.

  “Judith,” Simon asked at last, “if it’s almost Aedonmansa, why is there no snow? Morgenes said he’s never seen it wait this late in the year.”

  “That I don’t know, I’m sure,” Judith said briskly. “We had no rain in Novander, either. I expect it’s just a dry year.” She frowned, and brushed again at the nearest loaf.

  “They have been watering the sheep and cows from the town in the Hayholt’s moat,” Simon said.

  “Have they, then?”

  “Yes. You can see the brown rings around the edges where the water’s gone down. There are places you can stand where the water doesn’t even reach your knees!”

  “And you’ve found them all, I don’t doubt.”

  “I think so,” Simon replied proudly. “And last year this time it was all frozen. Think of it!”

  Judith looked up from her loaf-glazing to fix Simon with her pale, kind blue eyes. “I know it’s exciting when things like this happen,” she said, “but just remember, laddie, we need that water. There’ll be no more fine meals if we get neither rain nor snow. You can’t drink the Kynslagh, you know.” The Kynslagh, like the Gleniwent that fed it, was as salty as the sea.

  “I know that,” Simon said. “I’m sure it will snow soon—or rain, since it’s so warm. It’s just that it will be a very strange midwinter.”

  Judith was about to say something else when she stopped, looking over Simon’s shoulder at the doorway.

  “Yes, girl, what is it?” she asked. Simon turned to see a familiar curly-haired serving girl standing a few feet away—Hepzibah.

  “Rachel sent me to find Simon, mum,” she replied, giving a lazy half-curtsy. “She needs him to get something down from a high shelf.”

  “Well, dearie, you don’t need to ask me. He’s just sitting here mooning over my baking, not being any help or anything.” She made a shooing gesture at Simon. He did not see it, as he was admiring Hepzibah’s tight-cinched apron, and the wavy hair which her cap could neither control nor contain. “’Lysia’s mercy, boy, get on with you.” Judith leaned over and poked him with the handle of the brush.

  Hepzibah had already turned and was nearly out the door. As Simon scrambled down off his stool to follow, the kitchen-mistress laid a warm hand on his arm.


  “Here,” she said, t
  ’Thank you!” he said, tearing off a piece and pushing it into his mouth as he hurried to the door. “It’s good!”

  “Of course it is!” Judith called after him. “If you tell Rachel, I’ll skin you!” By the time she had finished, she was shouting at an empty doorway.

  It only took a few paces before Simon caught up with Hepzibah, who was not walking very quickly.

  Was she waiting for me? he wondered, feeling oddly breathless, then decided it was more likely that anyone given an errand which took them out of Rachel’s clutches would dawdle all they could.

  “Would you…would you like some of this?” he asked, gasping slightly. The serving-girl took a piece of the sweet bread and sniffed it, then popped it into her mouth.

  “Oh, that’s good, that is,” she said, then gifted Simon with a dazzling smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Give me another, won’t you?” He did.

  They passed out of the hall and into the courtyard. Hepzibah crossed her arms as if to hug herself. “Ooh, it’s cold,” she said. It was actually fairly warm—blazing hot, considering it was Decandermonth—but now that Hepzibah had mentioned it, Simon was sure that he could detect a breeze.

  “Yes, it is cold, isn’t it?” he said, and fell silent again.

  As they walked past the corner of the inner keep that housed the royal residences, Hepzibah pointed up to a small window just below the upper turret. “See there?” she asked. “Just the other day I saw the princess standing there, combing her hair…oh, my, but hasn’t she got nice hair?”