The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “What will we do?” asked the prince, standing unsteadily on his feet as Simon helped him into the musty peasant gear. “Who in the castle can we trust?”

  “Nobody at present—not on such short notice. That is why you must make your way to Naglimund. Only there will you be safe.”

  “Naglimund…” Josua seemed bemused. “I have dreamed so often of my home there in these horrible months—but no! I must show the people my brother’s duplicity. I will find strong arms to aid me!”

  “Not here…not now.” Morgenes’ voice was firm, his bright eyes commanding. “You will find yourself back in a dungeon, and this time you will go quickly to a private beheading. Don’t you see? You must get to a strong place where you are safe from treachery before you can press any claim. Many kings have imprisoned and killed their relatives—most got away with it. It takes more than familial infighting to excite the populace.”

  “Well,” said Josua reluctantly, “even if you are correct, how would I escape?” A fit of coughing shook him. “The castle gates…are…are doubtless closed for the night. Should I walk up to the inner gate dressed as a traveling minstrel and try to sing my way out?”

  Morgenes smiled. Simon was impressed by the spirit of the grim prince, who an hour before had been chained in a damp cell with no hope of rescue.

  “As it happens, you have not caught me unprepared with that question,” the doctor said. “Please observe.”

  He walked to the back of the long chamber, to the corner where Simon had once cried against the rough stone wall. He gestured to the star chart whose connected constellations formed a four-winged bird. With a little bow he swept the chart aside. Behind it lay a great square hole cut into the rock, set with a wooden door.

  “As I demonstrated already, Pryrates is not the only one with hidden doors and secret passages.” The doctor chuckled. “Father Red-Cape is a newcomer, and has much yet to learn about the castle that has been my home for longer than you two could guess.”

  Simon was so excited that he could hardly stand still, but Josua’s expression was doubtful. “Where does it go, Morgenes?” he asked. “It will do me scant good to escape Elias’ dungeon and rack only to find myself in the Hayholt’s moat.”

  “Never fear. This castle is built on a warren of caves and tunnels—not to mention the ruins of the older castle beneath us. The whole maze is so vast that even I do not know the half of it—but

  I know it well enough to give you safe-passage out. Come with me.”

  Morgenes led the prince, who went leaning on Simon’s arm, over to the chamber-spanning table; there he spread out a rolled parchment whose edges were gray and feathery with age.

  “You see,” said Morgenes, “I have not been idle while my young friend Simon here was at supper. This is a plan of the catacombs—of necessity only a partial one, but with your route marked. If you follow this carefully, you will find yourself above ground at last in the lich-yard beyond the walls of Erchester. From there I am sure you can find your way to safe haven for the night.”

  After they had studied the map, Morgenes pulled Josua aside and the two of them engaged in whispered conversation. Simon, feeling more than a little left out, stood and examined the doctor’s chart. Morgenes had marked the path with bright red ink; his head swam following the twists and turns.

  When the two men finished their discussion, Josua collected the map. “Well, old friend,” he said, “if I am to go, then I should go quickly. It would be unwise for another hour to find me still here in the Hayholt, I shall think carefully on these other things you have told me.” His gaze swept around the cluttered room. “I only fear what your brave acts might bring down on you.”

  “There is nothing you can do about that, Josua,” Morgenes replied. “And I am not without some defenses of my own, a few feints and tricks I can employ. As soon as Simon told me about finding you, I began to make some preparations. I have long feared that my hand would be forced; it has only been hastened slightly by this. Here, take this torch.”

  So saying, the little doctor removed a brand from the wall and gave it to the prince, next handing him a sack that hung next to it on a hook.

  “I have put some food in here for you, and some more of the curative liquor. It is not much, but you must travel light. Please hurry.” He held the star chart up and away from the doorway.

  “Send word to me soon as you are safe at Naglimund and I will have more things to tell.”

  The prince nodded, limping slowly into the corridor mouth. The torch’s flame pushed his shadow far down the dark shaft as he turned back.

  “I will never forget this, Morgenes,” he said. “And you, young man…you have done a brave thing today. I hope it will be the making of your future, someday.”

  Simon knelt, embarrassed by the emotions he felt. The prince looked so haggard and grim…He felt pride, sorrow, and fear all pulling at him, his thoughts stirred and muddied.

  “Fare you well, Josua,” Morgenes said, resting a hand on Simon’s shoulder. Together they watched the prince’s torch recede down the low passageway until it was swallowed by the murk. The doctor pulled the door shut and dropped the hanging back into place.

  “Come, Simon,” he said then, “we still have much to do. Pryrates is missing his guest this Stoning Night, and I cannot think he will be pleased.”

  An interval crept by in silence. Simon dangled his feet from his perch on the tabletop, frightened but nevertheless savoring the excitement that charged the room—that now hung over all of the staid old castle. Morgenes fluttered back and forth past him, hurrying from one incomprehensible task to another.

  “I did most of this while you were eating, you see, but there are still a few things left, a few unknotted ends.”

  The little man’s explanation enlightened Simon not one whit, but things had been happening fast enough to satisfy even his impatient nature. He nodded and dangled his feet some more.

  “Well, I suppose that’s all I can do tonight,” Morgenes said at last. “You had better wander back and go to bed. Come here early in the morning, perhaps right after you do your chores.”

  “Chores?” gasped Simon. “Chores? Tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” snapped the doctor. “You don’t think anything out of the ordinary is going to happen, do you? Do you suppose that the king is going to announce: ‘Oh, by the way, my brother escaped from the dungeon last night, so we’ll all have a holiday and go look for him,’—you don’t think that, do you?”

  “No, I…”

  “…And you would certainly not say: ‘Rachel, I can’t do my chores because Morgenes and I are plotting treason,’—would you?”

  “Of course not…!”

  “Good. Then you will do your chores and come back as soon as you can, and then we will assess the situation. This is far more dangerous than you realize, Simon, but I am afraid you are now a part of things, for good or for ill, I had hoped to keep you out of all this…”

  “Out of all what? Part of what, Doctor?”

  “Never mind, boy. Isn’t your plate full enough already? I’ll try to explain what I safely can tomorrow, but Stoning Night is not the best occasion to speak of things like…”

  Morgenes’ words were chopped short by a loud pounding at the outer door. For a moment Simon and the doctor stood staring at one another; after a pause the knocking was repeated.

  “Who’s there?” Morgenes called, in a voice so calm Simon had to look again at the fear showing on the little man’s face.

  “Inch,” came the reply. Morgenes visibly relaxed.

  “Go away,” he said. “I told you I didn’t need you tonight.”

  There was a brief silence. “Doctor,” Simon whispered, “I think I saw Inch earlier…”

  The dull voice came again. “I think I left something…left it in your room. Doctor.”

  “Come back and get it another time,” Morgenes called, and this time the irritation was genuine. “I’m far too busy to be disturbed right now.”
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  Simon tried again. “I think I saw him when I was carrying Jos…”

  “Open this door immediately—in the king’s name!”

  Simon felt cold despair grip his stomach: this new voice did not belong to Inch.

  “By the Lesser Crocodile!” Morgenes swore in soft wonderment, “the cow-eyed dullard has sold us out. I didn’t think he had the sense—I will be disturbed no longer!” he shouted then, jumping to the long table and straining to push it in front of the bolted inner door. “I am an old man, and need my rest!” Simon leaped to help, his terror mixed with an inexplicable rush of exhilaration.

  A third voice called from the hallway, a cruel, hoarse voice: “Your rest will be a long one indeed, old man.” Simon stumbled and nearly fell as his knees buckled beneath him. Pryrates was here.

  A hideous crunching noise began to echo through the inner hallway as Simon and the doctor finally slid the heavy table into place. “Axes,” said Morgenes, and sprang along the table in search of something.

  “Doctor!” Simon hissed, bouncing up and down in fright. The sound of splintering wood reverberated outside. “What can we do?” He whirled to find himself confronted with a scene of madness.

  Morgenes was up on his knees on the tabletop, crouching beside an object that Simon recognized after an instant as a birdcage. The doctor had his face pressed close against the slender bars; he was cooing and muttering to the creatures within even as Simon heard the outer door crash down.

  “What are you doing!?” Simon gasped. Morgenes hopped down carrying the cage, and trotted across the room to the window. At Simon’s yelp he turned to look calmly at the terrified youth, then smiled sadly and shook his head.

  “Of course, boy,” he said, “I must make provision for you, too, just as I promised your father. How little time we had!” He set the cage down and scuttled back to the table, where he groped about in the clutter even as the chamber door began to rock with the impact of heavy blows. Harsh voices could be heard, and the clatter of men in armor. Morgenes found what he sought, a wooden box, and upended it, dumping some shining golden thing into his palm. He began to move back to the window, then stopped and retrieved also a sheaf of thin parchments from the chaos of the tabletop.

  “Take this, will you please?” he said, handing the bundle to Simon as he hurried back to the window. “It’s my life of Prester John, and I begrudge Pryrates the pleasure of criticism.” Stupefied, Simon took the papers and tucked them into his waistband beneath his shirt. The doctor reached into the cage and removed one of its small inhabitants, cupping it in his hand. It was a tiny, silver-gray sparrow; as Simon watched in numb astonishment the doctor calmly tied the shiny bauble—a ring?—to the sparrow’s leg with a bit of twine. A tiny scrap of parchment was bound already to its other leg. “Be strong with this heavy burden,” he said quietly, speaking, it seemed, to the little bird.

  The blade of an axe crashed through the heavy door just above the bolt. Morgenes bent over and picked a long stick up off the floor and broke the high window, then lifted the sparrow to the sill and let it go. The bird hopped along the frame for a moment, then took wing and disappeared into the evening sky. One by one, the doctor released five more sparrows that way, until the cage stood empty.

  A large piece had been bitten from the door’s center; Simon could see the angry faces and the flare of torchlight on metal beyond.

  The doctor beckoned. “The tunnel, boy, and quickly!” Behind them another ragged chunk of wood tore loose and clattered to the floor. As they sped across the room the doctor handed Simon something small and round.

  “Rub this and you will have light, Simon,” he said. “It is better than a torch.” He swept the hanging aside and pulled the door open. “Go on, hurry! Look for the Tan’ja Stairs, then climb!” As Simon entered the corridor mouth the great door sagged on its hinges and collapsed. Morgenes turned.

  “But, Doctor!” Simon shouted. “Come with me! We can escape!”

  The doctor looked at him and smiled, shaking his head. The table before the doorway was overturned with a smash of glass, and a group of armed men in green and yellow began to push past the wreckage. In the midst of the Erkynguard, crouched like a toad in a garden of swords and axes, was Breyugar, the Lord Constable. In the littered hallway stood the bulky form of Inch; behind him Pryrates’ cloak flashed scarlet.

  “Stop!” a voice thundered through the room—Simon was still able to marvel, in the midst of all his fear and confusion, that such a sound could come from Morgenes’ frail body. The doctor stood now before the Erkynguard, fingers splayed in a strange gesture. The air began to bend and shimmer between the doctor and the startled soldiers. The very substance of nothingness seemed to grow solid as Morgenes’ hands danced strange patterns. For a moment the torches outlined the scene before Simon’s eyes as if it were frozen on an ancient tapestry.

  “Bless you, boy,” Morgenes hissed. “Go! Now!” Simon retreated another step down the corridor.

  Pryrates pushed past the stunned guards, a blurry red shadow behind the wall of air. One of his hands stabbed forth; a seething, coruscating web of blue sparks marked where it touched the thickening air. Morgenes reeled, and his barrier began to melt like a sheet of ice. The doctor bent and swept up a pair of beakers from a rack on the floor.

  “Stop that youth!” Pryrates shouted, and suddenly Simon could see his eyes above the scarlet cloak…cold black eyes, serpentine eyes that seemed to hold him…transfix him…

  The shimmering pane of air dissolved. “Take them!” spat Count Breguyar, and the soldiers surged forward. Simon watched in sick fascination, wanting to run but unable to, nothing between him and the Erkynguards’ swords but…Morgenes.

  “ENKI ANNUKHAI SHI’IGAO!” The doctor’s voice boomed and tolled like a bell made of stone. A wind shrieked through the chamber, flattening and extinguishing the torches. In the center of the maelstrom Morgenes stood, a flask in each outstretched band. In the brief instant of darkness there was a crash, then a flare of incandescence as the glass beakers shattered into flame. In a heartbeat fiery streams were running down the arms of Morgenes’ cloak, and then his head was haloed in leaping, crackling tongues of fire. Simon was buffeted by terrible heat as the doctor turned to him once more;

  Morgenes’ face seemed already to shift and change behind the blazing mist that enveloped it.

  “Go, my Simon,” he breathed, and he was voiced in flame. “It is too late for me. Go to Josua.”

  As Simon staggered backward in horror, the doctor’s frail form leaped with burning radiance. Morgenes wheeled. Taking a few halting steps, he threw himself with outspread arms onto the screeching, quailing guardsmen, who tore at each other in their desperation to escape back through the broken doorway. Hellish flames billowed upward, blackening the groaning roofbeams. The very walls began to shudder. For a brief moment Simon heard the harsh choking voice of Pryrates intertwined with the sounds of Morgenes’ final agonies…then there was a great crack of light and an earthumping roar. A hot whip of air flung Simon down the passageway, blowing the door shut behind him with a noise like the Hammer of Judgment. Stunned, he heard the grinding, splintering shriek of the roof timbers collapsing. The door shuddered, wedged shut by many thousandweight of scorched oak and stone.

  For a long time he lay wracked with sobs, the tears of his eyes sucked away by the heat. At last he crawled to his feet. He found the warm stone wall with his hand and went stumbling down into darkness.

  13

  Between Worlds

  Voices, many voices—whether birthed in his own head or in the comfortless shadows that surrounded him, Simon could not tell—were his only companions in that first terrible hour.

  Simon mooncalf! Done it again, Simon mooncalf!

  His friend is dead, his only friend, be kind, be kind!

  Where are we?

  In darkness, in darkness forever, to bat-flitter like a lost shrieking soul through the endless tunnels…

  He is Simon Pilgrim n
ow, doomed to wander, to wonder…

  No, Simon shuddered, trying to rein in the clamoring voices, I will remember. I will remember the red line on the old map, and to look for the Tan’ja Stairs—whatever they might be. I will remember the flat black eyes of that murderer Pryrates: I will remember my friend…my friend Doctor Morgenes…

  He sank down onto the gritty tunnel floor, weeping with helpless, strengthless anger, a barely beating heart of life in a universe of black stone. The blackness was a choking thing that pressed down on him, squeezing out his breath.

  Why did he do it? Why didn’t he run?

  He died to save you, idiot boy—and Josua. If he had run, they would have followed; Pryrates had the stronger magic. You would have been caught, and they would have been free to follow the prince, to hunt him down and drag him back to his cell. Morgenes died for that.

  Simon hated the sound of his own crying, the hacking, sniveling sound echoing on and on. He pushed it all up from inside him, sobbing until his voice was a dry rasp—a sound he could live with, not the weepy bleat of a lost mooncalf in the dark.

  Lightheaded and sick, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve, Simon felt the forgotten weight of Morgenes’ crystal sphere in his hand. Light. The doctor had given him light. Along with the papers crimped uncomfortably in the waistband of his breeches, it was the last gift the doctor had given him.

  No, a voice whispered, the second-to-last, Simon Pilgrim.

  Simon shook his head, trying to dispel the licking, murmuring fear. What had Morgenes said as he tied the glinting bauble to the sparrow’s slender leg? To be strong with its heavy burden? Why was he sitting in the pitch dark, mewling and dribbling—wasn’t he Morgenes’ apprentice, after all?

  He clambered to his feet, dizzy and trembling. He felt the glassy surface of the crystal warm beneath his stroking fingers. He stared into the darkness where his hands must be, thinking of the doctor. How could the old man laugh so often, when the world was so full of hidden treachery, of beautiful things with rot inside of them? There was so much shadow, so little…