The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “Seoman.” Her words came as down a long corridor, faint and hollow. “Why have you not come to me, my son? The wind is drear and chill, and I have been such a long time waiting.”

  “Mother?” Simon felt a terrible coldness. The soft rush of the water seemed everywhere. She spoke again.

  “We have not met for so long, my beautiful child. Why do you not come to me? Why do you not come and dry a mother’s tears? The wind is cold, but the river is warm and gentle. Come…will you not cross over to me?” She held her arms outstretched, her mouth below her black eyes opened in a smile. Simon moved toward her, his lost mother who called to him, walking down the soft riverbank toward the laughing black river. Her arms were open for him, for her son.

  And then Simon saw that what she had cradled, that which now dangled from an outflung hand, was a doll… a doll made from reeds and leaves and twining stems of grass But the doll was blackened, the shriveled leaves curling back from their stems, and Simon knew suddenly that nothing alive crossed that river into the twilight country. He stopped at the water’s edge and looked down.

  Down in the inky water there was a faint gleam of light; as he watched, it rose toward the surface, becoming three slender, shining shapes. The sound of the river changed, became a kind of prickling, unearthly music. The water leaped and boiled, obscuring the objects’ true forms, but it seemed that if he desired to, he could reach down and touch them…

  “Seoman…!” his mother called again. He looked up to see her farther away, receding swiftly, as though her gray land were a torrent rushing away from him. Her arms were held wide, and her voice was a thing of vibrant loneliness, of the cold’s lust for the warm, and the darkness’ hopeless desire for the light.

  “Simon…Simon…!” It was a wail of despair.

  He sat stock-upright on the grass, in the lap of the ancient cairn. The moon still hung high, but the night had gone cold. Tendrils of mist caressed the broken stones around him as he sat, heart working madly.

  “…Simon…” The cry came whispering up from the blackness beyond. It was a gray figure, surely, and a woman’s voice calling faintly to him from the misty lich-yard he had crossed—only a tiny, wiggling gray shape, a faraway flicker in the ground-clutching fog that wound through the barrows, but seeing it Simon felt his heart would burst in his chest. He began to run across the downs, running as though the very Devil chased him with grasping hands. The dark bulk of Thisterborg rose on the shrouded horizon, and the downs were all around him, and Simon ran and ran, and ran…

  A thousand speeding heartbeats later he slowed at last to a ragged walk. He could not have run farther even if he had been the archdemon’s quarry: he was exhausted, limping, and hungry beyond belief. His fear and confusion hung on him like a mantle of chains; the dream had frightened him so that he felt even weaker than before his sleep.

  Plodding forward, always with the castle at his back, he felt the memories of better times raveling away, leaving him with nothing but the thinnest of strands still tied to the world of sunlight and order and safety.

  What did it feel like when I used to lie in the hayloft, in the quiet? There’s nothing in my head now, only words. Did I like to be there in the castle? Did I sleep there, run there, eat and talk and…?

  I don’t think so. I think I have always walked these downs beneath the moon—that white face—walked and walked like the pitiful, lonely ghost of a mooncalf, walked and walked…

  A sudden shiver of flame on the hilltop halted his gloomy imaginings. For some time the ground had been sloping steadily upward, and he had nearly reached the base of shadowy Thisterborg; its mantle of tall trees was a solid, impenetrable darkness against the obscurity of the hill itself. Now a fire bloomed along the hill’s crest, a sign of life amidst the downs and damp and centuries of death. He broke into a slow trot, the most he could manage in his present condition. Perhaps it was a shepherd’s campfire, a merry blaze to keep the night at bay.

  Perhaps they have food! A shank of mutton…a knob of bread

  He had to lean forward. His innards twitched and cramped at the thought of eating. How long had it been? Only supper last…? It was astonishing to consider.

  Even if they have no food. how wonderful it will be just to hear voices, to warm myself before a fire…a fire…

  A memory of hungry flames leaped before his mind’s eye, bringing a different kind of hollowness.

  He climbed upward through the trees and tangled brush. The base of Thisterborg was ringed all around by mist, as if the hill was an island upthrust from a cobweb-gray sea. As he approached the summit he saw the blunt shapes of the Anger Stones crowning the final rise, etched in red relief against the sky.

  More stones. Stones and more stones. What did Morgenes say this was, this night—if it was still the same moon, the same darkness cradling the same dim stars—what did he call it?

  Stoning Night. As though the very stones celebrated. As if while Erchester lay sleeping behind shuttered window and latched door the stones made holiday. In his weary thoughts Simon could see them ponderously a-step, the merrymaking stones bowing and wheeling…slowly turning…

  Stupid! he thought. Your mind is wandering—and no surprise. You need food and sleep: otherwise, you’ll go truly mad—whatever going mad meant…angry all the time? Frightened of nothing? He had seen a mad woman in Battle Square

  , but she had merely clutched a bundle of rags and rocked herself to and fro, keening like a gull.

  Mad beneath the moon. A mad mooncalf.

  He had reached the last stand of trees that surrounded the hillcrown. The air was still, as though expectant; Simon felt his hairs go all a-prickle. It suddenly seemed a good idea to walk quietly, to have a cautious look at these night-shepherds instead of crashing suddenly from the underbrush like an angry boar. He worked his way closer to the light, ducking beneath the twisted limbs of a windwracked oak. Just above him jutted the Anger Stones, concentric rings of tall, storm-sculpted pillars.

  Now he saw a cluster of man-shapes huddled about the leaping fire at the center of the stone rings, cloaks hunched up at their shoulders. Something about them seemed stiff and uneasy, as though they waited on something expected but not necessarily desired. To the northeast, past the stones, the cap of Thisterborg narrowed. The windswept grass and heather there clung closely to the downsloping ground, which stretched away from the stones to sink at last out of the firelight at the hill’s northern edge.

  Staring at the statue-still figures around the fire, Simon again felt the weight of his fear drag at him. Why did they stand so unmoving? Were they living men at all, or some eerie carvings of hill-demons?

  One of the shapes moved to the fire and poked it with a stick. As the flames jumped, Simon saw that this one at least was a mortal man. He crawled stealthily forward, stopping just beyond the outer circle of stones. The firelight caught and reddened a momentary glimpse of metal beneath the cloak of the nearest figure—this shepherd wore a mail shin.

  The vast night sky seemed to shrink down, a prisoning blanket. All the half-a-score of shrouded men were armored: it was the Erkynguard—he was sure of it. He cursed himself bitterly: he had come straight to their fire, like a moth flinging itself into the candleflame.

  Why am I always such a damnable, damnable fool?!

  A thin night-wind sprang up, setting the high flames whipping like a burning pennant. The cloaked and hooded guardsmen turned their heads in unison, slowly and almost reluctantly, gazing out into the darkness at the hill’s northern rim.

  Then Simon heard it, too. Above the hissing wind that rimed the grass and gently shook the trees there came a faint sound, growing ever so gradually louder: the aching creak of wooden cart wheels. A bulky shape was climbing upward out of the obscurity of the north edge. The guardsmen moved away from the approach, circling the fire to cluster together on the side nearest Simon; no word had yet been uttered by any of them.

  Dim, pale shapes that slowly became horses appeared at the fringe of
the fireglow; following behind, growing distinct from the night, was a great black wagon. Black-hooded figures walked on either side, four in all, matching the wagon’s stately, funeral pace. The flickering light revealed a fifth atop the wagon, hunched over the team of ice-white stallions. This last figure was somehow larger than the others, and darker, as if it wore some cloak of obscurity; its very stillness seemed to speak of a hidden, brooding power.

  The guards still did not move, but stood rigidly watching. Only the thin mewing of the wagon wheels punctured the silence. Simon, transfixed, felt cold pressure in his head, a gnawing clutch in his vitals.

  A dream, a bad dream…Why can’t I move?!

  The black cart and its attendants drew to a halt just within the circle of firelight. One of the four standing figures raised an arm, the black sleeve falling away to reveal a wrist and hand as thin and white as bone.

  It spoke, voice silvery-cold, toneless as ice cracking.

  “We are here to fulfill the covenant.”

  There was a stir among those who had been waiting. One of them stepped forward.

  “As are we.”

  Watching helplessly as this mad fancy progressed, Simon was not at all surprised to recognize the voice of Pryrates. The priest pulled back his hood; firelight traced the high arc of his forehead and emphasized the skeletal depths of his eyes. “We are here…as agreed,” he continued. Was there a faint quaver in his voice? “Have you brought that which was promised?”

  The bone-white arm swept back, gesturing to the looming wagon. “We have. Have you?”

  Pryrates nodded his head. Two of the guardsmen bent and wrestled some burden up from the grass where it lay, dragging it forward to be dropped ungently at the alchemist’s booted feet. “It lies here,” he said. “Bring forth your master’s gift.”

  Two of the robed figures moved to the wagon, carefully lifting down a long, dark object. As they brought it forward, one holding either end, a biting wind sprang up and whistled over the hilltop. The black robes billowed, and the hood on the nearest blew back, spilling a flurry of gleaming white hair. The face revealed in the brief moment was delicate as a mask of the thinnest, most exquisite ivory An instant later the hood napped back.

  Who are these creatures? Witches? Ghosts? Behind the shielding rocks Simon brought a trembling hand up to make the sign of the Tree.

  The white foxes…Morgenes said “white foxes”…

  Pryrates, these demons—or whatever they might be—it was all too much. He must still be dreaming in the graveyard. He prayed it was so, and closed his eyes to block out the unholy imaginings…but the ground beneath him was pungent with the unmistakable smell of wet earth, and the fire crackled in his ears. Opening his eyes he found the nightmare unchanged.

  What is happening?

  The two shadowy figures reached the edge of the fire-circle; as the soldiers edged even farther away they set their burden down and stepped back. It was a coffin, or at least coffin-shaped, but only three hands high. A ghastly bluish light smoldered along its edge.

  “Bring forth that which you have promised,” said the first darkrobed creature. Pryrates gestured and the bundle at his feet was dragged forward. When the soldiers stepped back, the alchemist pushed the object over with the toe of his boot. It was a man, gagged and bound at the wrists. Simon only slowly recognized the round, pale face of Count Breyugar, the Lord Constable.

  The robed figure regarded Breyugar’s bruised features for a long interval. Its expression was hidden in the hood’s shadowed folds, but when it spoke there was a twist of anger in the clear, unearthly tones.

  “This does not seem to be what was promised.”

  Pryrates tilted his body a little to the side, as if narrowing his exposure to the hooded thing. “This one allowed the promised one to escape,” he said, seeming to betray some apprehension. “He will take the promised one’s place.”

  Another figure shouldered its way out from between a pair of guardsmen, moving forward to loom at Pryrates’ side.

  “Promised? What is this ‘promised’? Who was promised?”

  The priest raised his hands placatingly, but his expression was stern. “Please, my king, I think you know. Please.”

  Elias snapped his head around to stare at his counselor. “Do I know, priest? What did you promise on my behalf?”

  Pryrates leaned toward his master; his harsh voice slipped into wounded tone. “Lord, you bade me do what I must for this meeting I did it…or would have, had not this—cenit,” he dug a toe into bound Breyugar, “failed in his duty to his sovereign.” The alchemist looked over to the dark-robed figure, whose impassivity carried nonetheless a hint of impatience. Pryrates frowned. “Please, my king, the one we speak of is gone; the point is moot. Please.” He laid a light hand on Elias’ cloaked shoulder. The king shook it off, staring out of the shadows of his hood at the priest, but saying nothing. Pryrates turned to the black-robed figure once more.

  “This one we offer you…his blood, too, is noble. His lineage is high.”

  “Of high lineage?” the dark thing asked, and then its shoulders shook as though it laughed. “Oh, yes, that is very important. Does its family go back many generations of men?” The dark hood turned and met the shrouded gaze of its fellows.

  “Certainly,” said Pryrates, seemingly disconcerted. “Hundreds of years.”

  “Well, our master will certainly be pleased.” And then it did laugh, a blade-edged trill of merriment that made Pryrates take step backward. “Proceed.”

  The priest looked to Elias, who pulled back his hood. Simon felt the looming sky crouch still closer. The king’s face, pale even in the ruddy firelight, seemed to float in midair. The night swirled, and the king’s impassive gaze drew light like a mirror in a torchlit hallway. Finally, Elias nodded.

  Pryrates stepped forward and grasped Breyugar by the collar, dragging him to the coffin-box where he let him slump to the earth. The priest then unclasped his cloak, revealing a dull flare of red robe, and reached into the inner folds to withdraw a long, curve blade like a sickle. He raised it before his eyes as he faced the northernmost point of the rings of stones, then began to chant, his voice rising in volume and authority:

  “To the Dark One, who is master of this world:

  Who bestrides the Northern Sky:

  Vasir Sombris, feata concordin!

  To the Black Huntsman,

  Possessor of the icy Hand:

  Vasir Sombris, feata concordin!

  To the Storm King, the Outreaching

  The Dweller in the Stony Mountain,

  The Frozen and Burning,

  The Sleeping but Awakened:

  Vasir Sombris, feata concordin!”

  The black-robed figures swayed—all but the one atop the wagon, who sat as still as the Anger Stones—and a hiss went up from their midst, mingling with the new-risen wind.

  “Hear now Your supplicant!”

  Pryrates cried,

  “The beetle beneath Your black heel;

  The fly between Your cold fingers;

  The whispering dust in Your endless shadow –

  Oveiz mei! Hear me!

  Timior cuelos exaltat mei!

  Shadow-Father—let the bargain be struck!”

  The alchemist’s hand snaked down and grasped Breyugar’s head. The count, who had been lying limp at his feet, suddenly lurched forward and away, leaving the startled Pryrates holding nothing but a hank of bloodied hair.

  Simon watched helplessly as the pop-eyed Lord Constable stumbled directly toward his hiding place; he dimly heard Pryrates’ angry shouting. The close-leaning night tightened around him, choking his breath and blackening his vision as a pair of guards leaped after Breyugar.

  The count was only a few paces away, running awkwardly because of his tied hands, when he tripped and fell. His legs kicked, and his breath sawed noisily behind the gag as the guardsmen bore down on him. Simon had risen to a half-crouch behind the concealing stone, and his weary heart was hammering
as though it was in rupture. He tried desperately to still his trembling legs. The guards was close enough to touch, when they yanked Breyugar to his feet with fierce curses. One of them raised a sword and struck the count with flat of his blade. Simon could see Pryrates staring out from the cup of light, and the king’s ashen, fascinated face beside him. Even as Breyugar’s limp form was wrestled back toward the fire, Pryrates continued to squint at the place where the count had fallen.

  Who is there?

  The voice seemed to fly on the back of the wind straight into Simon’s head. Pryrates was staring right at him! He must see him!

  Come out, whoever you are. I command you to come forward.

  The black-robed figures began a strange, ominous humming, and Simon struggled against the alchemist’s will. He remembered what had almost happened to him in the storeroom, and braced himself against the compelling force, but he was weakened, wrung dry like piece of cloth.

  Come out, the voice repeated, and a questing something reached out to touch his mind. He fought, trying to hold shut the doors to his soul, but the probing thing was stronger than he by far. It had only to find him, to grasp him…

  “If the covenant no longer suits you,” a thin voice said, “then let it be broken off now. It is dangerous to leave the ritual half-spoken—very dangerous.”

  It was the hooded figure speaking, and Simon could feel the red priest’s questing thoughts shaken.

  “Wh…What?” Pryrates spoke like a man new-wakened.

  “Perhaps you do not understand what you are doing here,” the black shape hissed. “Perhaps you do not comprehend who and what is involved.”

  “No…yes, I do…” the priest stammered; Simon could somehow sense his nervousness, as if it were an odor. “Quickly,” he turned to the guardsmen, “bring that sack of offal here before me.” The guards dragged their burden back to lie again at his feet.