The Dragonbone Chair

by Tad Williams

  “Does it mean something?” Simon asked. “What are the words you just said?”

  “They are the names for certain fallings—certain patterns. Three times we throw, and each throw means different.”

  “I don’t…I…can you explain?” Simon said, then almost fell forward as Qantaqa bulled past him to put her head on Binabik’s squat thigh.

  “Here,” the troll said, “first: Clouds in the Pass. Meaning where we stand now it is hard to see far, but beyond is something very different than what is behind.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Silence, trolling. Do you wish to remain foolish forever? Now, the one that is second was Wingless Bird. The second is something of advantage, but here it seems our helplessness might be itself useful, or so I am reading the bones today. Last, what thing it is we should be aware of…”

  “Or fear?”

  “Or fear,” Binabik agreed calmly. “Black Crevice—that is a strange one, one I never have gotten for myself. It could mean treachery.”

  Simon took a breath, remembering. “Like ‘false messenger’?”

  “True. But it is having other meanings, unusual meanings. My master taught me that it could also be things coming from other places, breaking through from other sides…thus, perhaps something about the mysteries we have found…the Norns, your dreams…do you see?”

  “A little.” He stood up and stretched, then began looking for his shirt. “What about the other news?”

  It took the troll, who was meditatively stroking Qantaqa’s back, a moment to look up.

  “Ah,” he said at last, and reached into his jacket. “I have something for your reading.” He pulled out a flattened roll of parchment and handed it up. Simon felt his bare skin tingle.

  It was written in crisp but delicate script, a smattering of words in the midst of the unrolled sheet.

  For Simon

  Here are thanks for your bravery on our journey. May the Good Lord always give you luck, friend.

  It was signed with the single letter “M.”

  “From her,” he said slowly. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or delighted. “It is from Marya, isn’t it? Is this all she sent? Did you see her?”

  Binabik nodded his head. He looked sad. “I saw her, but it was only of a moment. She said also that we would perhaps see her more, but there were things that must be done first.”

  “What things? She makes me angry…no, I don’t mean that. Is she here at Naglimund?”

  “She gave me the message, did she not?” Binabik got unsteadily to his feet, but for the moment Simon was too consumed to pay much attention. She had written! She had not forgotten! But she certainly had not written much, and she hadn’t come to see him, to talk, to do anything…

  Usires save me, is this being in love? he suddenly wondered. It was nothing like the ballads he had heard sung—this was more irritating than uplifting. He had thought he was in love with Hepzibah. He had certainly thought about her a great deal, but it had mostly been about the way she looked, she walked. With Marya, he certainly remembered how she looked, but just as much he wondered what she thought.

  What she thinks! He was disgusted with himself. I don’t even know where she comes from, let alone anything about how she thinks! I don’t know the simplest thing about her…and if she likes me, it’s certainly not something she bothered to write in this letter.

  And that was only the truth, he knew.

  But she said I was brave. She called me friend.

  He looked up from the parchment to see Binabik staring at him. The troll’s expression was morose, but Simon was not sure why.

  “Binabik,” he began, but then could think of no question whose answer would clear his muddy thoughts. “Well,” he said at last, “do you know where the captain of the guard is? I have to get a sword.”

  The air was damp, and heavy gray skies hung over them as they walked to the outer ward. A pressing crowd of people streamed through the city gate, some bearing vegetables and flax and other things to sell, many pulling rickety carts that seemed to be heaped with the pitiful entirety of their worldly possessions. Simon’s companions, the diminutive troll and the huge, yellow-eyed wolf, made no small impression on these newcomers: some pointed and cried out anxious questions in rustic dialect, others shrank back, making the protective sign of the Tree on their rough-suited breasts. On all faces there were signs of fear—fear of the different, fear of the bad days that had come to Erkynland. Simon felt torn between wishing he could help them and wishing he did not have to see their homely, fretful faces.

  Binabik left him at the guardhouse, part of the gate building of the outer ward, then went on to visit with Father Strangyeard in the castle library. Simon quickly found himself before the captain of the guard, a drawn, harried looking young man who was several days unshaven. He was bareheaded, his conical helm filled full of tally stones with which he was counting the muster of the outland militias trickling into the castle. He had been told to expect Simon, who was duly nattered the prince had remembered him, and handed the youth over to the ministrations of a bearlike North Erkynlandish guardsman named Haestan.

  “Ha’n’t got y’r growth yet, have ye?” Haestan growled, tugging his curly brown beard as he eyed Simon’s lanky frame. “A bowman, then, tha’s the story. Get ye a sword we will, but t’won’t be big enough t’do much. Bow’s the thing.”

  Together they walked around the outer wall to the armory, a long narrow room behind the ringing smithy. As the arms warden led them down rows of battered armor and tarnished swords, Simon was saddened to see the dregs of the castle armaments, slim protection against the shining legions that Elias would no doubt put into the field.

  “No’ much left,” Haestan observed. “Warn’t half enough in first place. Hope th’outland levies bring somewhat beside pitchfork and plowshare.”

  The limping warden at last found a scabbarded sword that the guardsman deemed to be of proper slenderness for Simon’s size. It was crusty with dried oil, and the warden was hard put to mask his frown of distaste. “Polish it,” he said, ” ‘twill be a fine piece.”

  Further search turned up a longbow that lacked only a string, but was otherwise in good enough shape, and a leather quiver.

  “Thrithings work,” Haestan said, pointing out the round-eyed deer and rabbits etched on the dark hide. “Make fine quivers, Thrithings-men do.” Simon had a feeling the guardsman felt a little guilty over the unprepossessing sword. Back at the guardhouse his new tutor wheedled a bowstring and half a dozen arrows from the quartermaster, then showed Simon how to clean and care for his new weapons.

  “Sharp it away, lad, sharp it away,” the burly guardsman said, making the blade skitter across the whetstone, “lest otherways ye’ll be a girl afore ye’re a man.” Somehow, against logic, he found a gleam of true steel beneath the tarnish and grit.

  Simon had hoped to start immediately with sword wielding, or at least some target shooting, but instead Haestan produced a pair of cloth-padded wooden poles and took Simon out the city gate to the hillside above the town. Simon quickly learned how little like real soldier-sparring his play with Jeremias Chandler’s-boy had been.

  “Spear work’d be more use,” Haestan said as Simon sat on the turf, wheezing over a buffet to the stomach. “As ‘tis, though, we’ve none t’spare. That’s why arrows be y’r game, boy. Still, s’nice t’know some swording for close work. That’s when ye’ll thank old Haestan a hundredfold.”

  “Why…not…bow…?” Simon panted.

  “Tmorrow, boy, for bow’n’arrows…or day after.” Haestan laughed and extended a broad paw. “Get on y’r feet. Jolliness’ just started for th’day.”

  Weary, sore, threshed like wheat until he thought he could feel the chaff trickling from his ears, Simon ate beans and bread at the guards’ afternoon meal while Haestan continued the verbal part of his education, most of which Simon missed due to a low and continuous ringing in his ears. He was dismissed at last w
ith a warning to be out sharp early the next morning. He stumbled back to Strangyeard’s empty room and fell asleep without even pulling off his boots.

  Rain spattered in through the open window, and thunder murmured in the distance. Simon woke to find Binabik waiting for him as he had that morning, as though the long, bruising afternoon had not occurred. That illusion was quickly dispelled when he sat upright: every single muscle was stiff. He felt as though he were a hundred years old.

  It took more than a little work for Binabik to convince him to get off the bed. “Simon, this is no evening of sport for your attending or declining. These are things on which our lives will hang balanced.”

  He had returned to his back. “I believe you…but if I get up, I’ll die.”

  “Enough.” The little man got hold of a wrist, braced his heels against the floor, wincing as he slowly tugged Simon back into a sitting position. There was a deep groan and a thump as one of Simon’s booted feet hit the floor, then a long interval of silence before the second joined it.

  Long minutes later he was limping out the door at Binabik’s side, into the gathering winds and chill rain.

  “Will we have to sit through supper as well?” Simon asked. For once in his life he actually felt too sore to eat.

  ’That I do not think. Josua is a strange one in that way; he is not for eating and drinking much with his court. He has a desire for solitariness. So, I am thinking, all have eaten before. That is indeed how I am reconciling Qantaqa to staying in the room.” He smiled and patted Simon’s shoulder. Simon winced. “All that we will feast on this night will be worrying and arguing. Bad for digestion of troll, man, or wolf.”

  While the storm blustered loudly outside, the great hall of Naglimund was dry, warmed by three huge open hearths, lit by the flames of countless candles. The slanting beams of the roof disappeared in darkness high above, and the walls were thick with somber religious tapestries.

  Scores of tables had been pushed together into the shape of a vast horseshoe; Josua’s tall, narrow wooden chair stood at the apex of the arc, inscribed with the Swan of Naglimund. Already half a hundred men had installed themselves at different points along the rim of the shoe, talking avidly among themselves—tall men, dressed in the furred robes and gawdy trinkets of petty nobility for the most part, but some wearing the rough gear of soldiers. Several looked up as the pair walked past, viewing them with appraising eyes before turning back to their discussions.

  Binabik elbowed Simon’s hip. “They are thinking perhaps that we are the hired tumblers.” He laughed, but Simon did not think he looked truly amused.

  “Who are all these people?” Simon whispered as they sat down at the far end of the one of the horseshoe’s arms. A page set wine before them and added hot water before shrinking back into the long shadows of the wall.

  “Lords of Erkynland loyal to Naglimund and Josua—or at least undecided as yet in their loyalties. The stout one in red and white is Ordmaer, baron of Utersall. He speaks with Grimstede, Ethelferth, and some other lords.” The troll hefted his bronze goblet and drank. “Hmmm. Our prince is not being profligate with his wine, or perhaps it is that he wishes appreciation for the fine local water.” Binabik’s mischievous smile reappeared; Simon slid back in his chair, fearing a similar reappearance of the small, sharp elbow, but the small man only looked past him up the table.

  Simon took a long swallow of his wine. It was watery; he wondered whether it was the seneschal or the prince himself who was tight with a fithing piece. Still, it was better than nothing, and might serve to ease his aching limbs. When he finished, the page scurried forward and filled it again.

  More men trickled in, some animatedly conferring, others coolly surveying those who had already arrived. A very, very old man in sumptuous religious robes entered on the arm of a husky young priest and began to set up various shiny articles near the head of the table; the look on his face was one of definite bad temper. The younger man helped him into a chair and then leaned down and whispered something into his ear. The elder made a reply of seemingly dubious civility; the priest, with a long-suffering glance at the roofbeams, strode from the room.

  “Is that the lector?” Simon asked in hushed tones.

  Binabik shook his head. “It seems very doubtful to me that the head of your whole Aedonite church would be here in the den of an outlaw prince. Likely that is Anodis, the bishop of Naglimund.”

  As Binabik spoke, a last clutch of men came in, and the troll broke off to watch. Some, with hair in slender braids down their backs, wore the belted white tunics of the Hernystiri. Their apparent leader, an intense, muscular young man with long dark mustaches, was talking to a southerner of some kind, an exceedingly welldressed fellow who appeared only slightly older. This one, hair carefully curled, robed in delicate shades of heather and blue, was so neatly turned out that Simon felt sure even Sangfugol would be impressed. Some of the old soldiers around the table were openly grinning at the foppishness of his rig.

  “And these?” Simon asked. “The ones in white, with the gold ’round their necks—Hernystirmen, yes?”

  “Correct. Prince Gwythinn that is, and his embassy. The other, my guessing is, would be Baron Davasalles of Nabban. He has a reputation as a sharp wit, if a bit full of fondness for costume. A brave fighter, too, I was told.”

  “How do you know all this, Binabik?” Simon asked, turning his attention from the newcomers back to his friend. “Do you listen at keyholes?”

  The troll drew himself up haughtily. “I do not live always on mountaintops, you know. Also, I have found Strangyeard and other resources here, while you have been at keeping your bed warm.”

  “What!?” Simon’s voice came out louder than he had intended it to; he realized he was at least a little drunk. The man seated beside him turned with a curious glance; Simon leaned forward to continue his defense in a quieter tone.

  “I have been…” he began, then chairs began creaking all over the hall as their occupants suddenly stood. Simon looked up to see the slender figure of Prince Josua, dressed in his customary gray, enter at the hall’s far end. His expression was calm but unsmiling. The only indication of his rank was the silver circlet on his brow.

  Josua nodded to the assembly and then seated himself; the others quickly followed suit. As the pages came forward to pour wine, the old bishop at Josua’s left hand—Hernystir’s Gwythinn sat at his right—rose.

  “Please, now,” the bishop sounded sour, as a man who does a favor he knows will have no good result, “bow down your heads as we ask the blessing of Usires Aedon on this table and its deliberation.” So saying, he lifted a beautiful Tree of wrought gold and blue stones and held it before him.

  “He who was of our world, but is not wholly of our flesh, hear us now.

  “He who was a man, but whose Father was no man, but rather the breathing God, give us comfort.

  “Watch over this table, and those who take seat here, and put Your hand on the shoulder of him who is lost and searching.”

  The old man took a breath and glared around the table. Simon, straining to watch with his chin sunk on his breast, thought he looked as though he would like to take his jeweled Tree and brain the lot of them.

  “Also,” the bishop finished in a rush, “forgive those assembled for any damnable, prideful foolishness that might be spoken here. We are Your children.”

  The old man teetered and dropped into his chair; there was a murmur of low conversation around the table.

  “Would you guess, Simon, that the bishop is not happy to be here?” Binabik whispered.

  Josua rose. “Thank you, Bishop Anodis for your…heartfelt prayers. And thanks to all who come to this hall.” He looked about the high, firelit chamber, left hand on the table, the other hidden in the folds of his cloak. “These are grave times,” he intoned, moving his glance from one face to the other. Simon felt the warmth of the room well up in his, and wondered if the prince would say anything about his rescue. He blinked, opening his e
yes in time to see Josua’s gaze slide quickly over him and return to the center of the room, “Grave and troubling times. The High King in the Hayholt—and yes, he is my brother, of course, but for our purposes here he is the king—seems to have turned his back on our hardships. Taxes have been raised to the point of cruel punishment, even as the land has suffered beneath fierce drought in Erkynland and Hernystir and terrible storms in the north. At the same time that the Hayholt reaches out to take more than it ever did under King John’s reign, Elias has pulled back the troops that once kept the roads open and safe, and which helped to garrison the emptier lands of the Frostmarch and the Wealdhelm.”

  “Too true!” shouted Baron Ordmaer, and clanged a flagon on the table. “God bless you but that’s true. Prince Josua!” He turned and waggled his fist for the benefit of the others. There was a chorus of agreement, but there were also others. Bishop Anodis among them, who shook their heads to hear such rash words so early on.

  “And thus,” Josua said loudly, quieting the assembly, “thus we are faced with a problem. What are we to do? That is why I have called you here and, I presume, why you have come. To decide what we may do. To keep those chains,” he lifted his left arm and showed the manacle still clasped there, “off of our necks, that the king would put on us.”

  There was a handful of appreciative cries. The buzz of whispered speech rose as well. Josua was waving his enshackled arm for silence when there came a flash of red in the doorway. A woman swept into the room, long silk dress like a torch flame. It was she whom Simon had seen in Josua’s chambers, dark-eyed, imperious. Within moments she had reached the prince’s chair, the eyes of the men following her with undisguised interest. Josua seemed uncomfortable: as she bent down to whisper something in his ear, he kept his gaze fixed on his wine cup.

  “Who is that woman?” Simon hissed, and was not the only one asking, to judge by the rush of whispers.