Author's Note

Copyright © 1988 by Tad Williams.
All Rights Reserved.
Jacket art by Michael Whelan.
Maps by Tad Williams.

DAW Books are distributed by New American Library,
1633 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.

"I have undertaken a labor, a labor out of love for the
world and to comfort noble hearts: those that I hold dear,
and the world to which my heart goes out. Not the com-
mon world do I mean, of those who (as I have heard)
cannot bear grief and desire but to bathe in bliss. (May
God then let them dwell in bliss!) Their world and man-
ner of life my tale does not regard: its life and mine lie
apart. Another world do I hold in mind, which bears to-
gether in one heart its bitter sweetness and its dear grief,
its heart's delight and its pain of longing, dear life and
sorrowful death, dear death and sorrowful life. In this
world let me have my world, to be damned with it, or to be
saved."

 -- GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG

(author of Tristan und Isolt)

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead
is strictly coincidental.

This work would not have been possible without the help of many
people. My thanks go out to: Eva Cumming, Nancy Deming-Wil-
liams, Arthur Ross Evans, Peter Stampfel, and Michael Whelan,
who all read a dreadfully long manuscript, then offered support,
useful advice, and clever suggestions; to Andrew Harris, for logisti-
cal support above and beyond the call of friendship; and especially
to my editors, Betsy Wollheim and Sheila Gilbert, who worked long
and hard to help me write the best book I could. They are great
souls all.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This book is dedicated to my mother, Barbara Jean Evans, who
taught to me a deep affection for Toad Hall, the Hundred Aker
Woods, the Shire, and many other hidden places and countries be-
yond the fields we know. She also induced in me a lifelong desire to
make my own discoveries, and to share them with others. I wish to
share this book with her.

Author's Warning

Wanderers in the land of Osten Ard are cautioned not to put blind
trust in old rules and forms, and to observe all rituals with a careful
eye, for they often mask being with seeming.

The Qanuc-folk of the snow-mantled Trollfells have a proverb.
"He who is certain he knows the ending of things when he is only
beginning them is either extremely wise or extremely foolish; no
matter which is true, he is certainly an unhappy man, for he has put
a knife in the heart of wonder."

More bluntly, new visitors to this land should take heed:

Avoid Assumptions.

The Qanuc have another saying: "Welcome stranger. The paths
are treacherous today."

Foreword

". . . The book of the mad priest Nisses is large, say those who
have held it, and as heavy as a small child. It was discovered at
Nisses' side as he lay, dead and smiling, beside the tower window from
which his master King Hjeldin had leaped to his own death moments
before.

"The rusty brown ink, concocted oflambsfoil, hellebore, and rue -- 
as well as some redder, thicker liquid -- is dry, and flakes easily from
the thin pages. The unadorned skin of a hairless animal, the species
unprovable, forms the binding.

"Those holy men ofNabban who read it after Nisses' passing pro-
nounced it heretical and dangerous, but for some reason did not bum
it, as is usually done with such texts. Instead, it lay for many years in
Mother Church's near-endless archives, in the deepest, most secret
vaults of the Sancellan Aedonitis. It has now apparently disappeared
from the onyx casket which housed it; the never-gregarious Order of
the Archives is vague as to its present whereabouts.

"Some who have read Nisses' heretical work claim that it contains
all the secrets ofOsten Ard, from this land's murky past to the shad-
ows of things unborn. The Aedonite priest-examiners will say only that
its subject matter was 'unholy.'

"It may indeed be true that Nisses' writings predict the what-will-be
as clearly -- and, we may presume, eccentrically -- as they chronicle
the what-has-been. It is not known, however, whether the great deeds
of our age -- especially, for our concern, the rise and triumph ofPres-
ter John -- are included in the priest's foretellings, although there are
suggestions that this may be true. Much of Nisses' writing is mysteri-
ous, its meaning hidden in strange rhymes and obscure references. I
have never read the full work, and most of those who have are now
long dead.

"The book is titled, in the cold, harsh runes of Nisses' northern
birthplace, Du Svardenvyrd, which means The Weird of the
Swords ..."

 -- from

The Life and Reign of King John Presbyter,
by Morgenes Ercestres

PART ONE

^

Simon Mooncaff

The Grasshopper
and the King

ON THIS day of days there was an unfamiliar stirring deep inside the
dozing heart of the Hayholt, in the castle's bewildering warren of
quiet passages and overgrown, ivy-choked courtyards, in the monk's
holes and damp, shadowed chambers. Courtiers and servants alike
goggled and whispered. Scullions exchanged significant glances
across the washing tubs in the steamy kitchen. Hushed conversa-
tions seemed to be taking place in every hallway'and dooryard of the
great keep-
It might have been the first day of spring, to judge from the air of
breathless anticipation, but the great calendar in Doctor Morgenes*
cluttered chamber showed differently: the month was only No-
vander. Autumn was holding the door, and Winter was trudging in.

What made this a day different from all others was not a season
but a place -- the Hayholt's throne room. For three long years its
doors had been shut by the king's order, and heavy draperies had
cloaked the multicolored windows. Even the cleaning servants had
not been permitted to cross the threshold, causing the Mistress of
Chambermaids no end of personal anguish. Three summers and
three winters it had stood undisturbed. Today it was no longer
empty, and all the castle hummed with rumor.

In truth, there was one person in the busy Hayholt whose atten-
tion was not fixed on that long-untenanted room, one bee in the
murmuring hive whose solitary song was not in key with the greater
droning. That one sat in the heart of the Hedge Garden, in an alcove
between the dull red stone of the chapel and the leafless side of a
skeletal hedge-lion, and thought he was not missed. It had been an
irritating day so far -- the women all busy, with scant time to answer

4                    Tad Williams

questions; breakfast late, and cold into the bargain. Confusing or-
ders had been given to him, as usual, and no one had any time to
waste with any of his problems. . . .

And that was also, he thought grumpily, quite predictable. If it
hadn't been for his discovery of this huge, magnificent beetle -- 
which had come strolling across the garden, as self-satisfied as any
prosperous villager -- then the entire afternoon would have been a
waste of time.

With a twig he widened the tiny road he had scraped in the dark,
cold earth beside the wall, but still the captive would not walk for-
ward. He tickled gently at its glossy carapace, but the stubborn
beetle would not budge. Frowning, he sucked at his upper lip.

"Simon! Where in the name of holy Creation have you been!"

The twig dropped from his nerveless fingers, as though an arrow
had pierced his heart. Slowly, he turned to look at the looming
shape.

"Nowhere . . ." Simon began to say, but even as the words
passed his lips a pair of bony fingers caught his ear and brought him
sharply to his feet, yelping in pain.

"Don't you dare 'nowhere* me, young layabout," Rachel the
Dragon, Mistress of Chambermaids, barked full into his face -- a
juxtaposition made possible only by Rachel's tiptoed stance and the
boy's natural inclination to slouch, for the head chambermaid
lacked nearly a foot of Simon's height.

"Sorry, then, mistress, I'm sorry," Simon muttered, noting with
sadness the beetle nosing toward a crack in the chapel wall and
freedom.

" 'Sorry' is not going to get you by forever," Rachel growled.
"Every single body in the house is at work a-getting things ready but
you! And, bad enough that is, but then / have to waste my valuable
time trying to find you! How can you be such a wicked boy, Simon,
when you should be acting like a man? How can you?"

The boy, fourteen gangly years old and furiously embarrassed,
said nothing. Rachel stared at him.

Sad enough, she thought, that red hair and those spots, but when
he squints his eyes all up that way and scowls -- why, the child looks
half-witted!

Simon, staring in turn at his captor, saw Rachel breathing heavily,
pluming the Novander air with puffs of vapor. She was shivering,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               5

too, although whether from the cold or anger, Simon couldn't tell. It
didn't really matter. It just made him feel worse.

She's still waiting/or an answer -- how tired and cross she looks! He
curled himself into an even more pronounced slump and glared at
his own feet.

"Well, you'll just come with me, then. The good Lord knows I've
got things to keep an idle boy busy with. Don't you know the king is
up out of his sickbed? That he's gone to his throne room today? Are
you deaf and blind?" She grabbed his elbow and frog-marched him
across the garden.

"The King? King John?" Simon asked, surprised.

"No, you ignorant boy. King Stone-in-the-RoadI Of course King
John!" Rachel halted in her tracks to push a wisp of limp steel-gray
hair back under her bonnet. Her hand trembled. "There, I hope
you're happy," she said. "You've gotten me so flummoxed and upset
that I've gone and been disrespectful to the name of our good old
King John. And him so sick and all." She snuffled loudly and then
leaned over to deal Simon a stinging slap on the-fat part of his arm.
"Just you come."

She stumped forward, wicked boy in tow.

Simon had never known any other home but the ageless castle
called Hayholt, which meant High Keep. It was well named: Green
Angel Tower, its loftiest point, soared far above even the eldest and
tallest of trees. If the Angel herself, perched on the tower top, had
dropped a stone from her verdigrised hand it would have plummeted
nearly two hundred cubits before splashing into the brackish moat
and troubling the sleep of the great pikefish bobbing close above the
centuried mud.

The Hayholt was older by far than all the generations of Erkyn-
landish peasants who had been born, labored, and died in the fields
and villages surrounding the great keep. The Erkynlanders were
only the latest to claim the castle -- many others had called it their
own, but none had been able to make it wholly so. The outwall
around the sprawling keep showed the work of diverse hands and
times: the rough-hewn rock and timber of the Rimmersmen, the
haphazard patching and strange carvings of the Hemystiri, even the
meticulous stonework of Nabbanai craftsmen. But looming over all
stood Green Angel Tower, erected by the undying Sithi long before

6                     Tad Williams

men had come to these lands, when all of Osten Ard had been their
dominion. The Sithi had been the first to build here, constructing
their primeval stronghold on the headlands overlooking the Kyn-
slagh and the river-road to the sea. They had called their castle
Asu 'a; if it had a true name, this house of many masters, then Asu'a
was that name.

The Fair Folk had vanished now from the grassy plains and roll-
ing hill country, fled mostly to the woods and craggy mountains and
other dark places inconvenient to men. The bones of their castle -- a
home to usurpers -- remained behind.

Asu'a the paradox; proud yet ramshackle, festive and forbidding,
seemingly oblivious to changes of tenantry. Asu'a -- the Hayholt. It
bulked mountainously above the outlands and town, hunched over
its fief like a sleeping, honey-muzzled bear among her cubs.

It often seemed that Simon was the only dweller in the great castle
who had not settled into his place in life. The masons plastered the
whitewashed facing of the residence and shored up the castle's
crumbling walls -- although the crumbling did sometimes seem to
outpace the restorations -- with never a thought toward how the
world spun or why. The pantlers and butlers, whistling merrily,
rolled huge casks of sack and salted beef here and there. With the
castle seneschal beside them, they haggled with farmers over the
whiskery onions and soil-moist carrots brought in sacks to the
Hayholt's kitchen every morning. And Rachel and her chamber-
maids were always excruciatingly busy, flourishing their brooms of
bound straw, chasing dust balls as if herding skittish sheep, mutter-
ing pious imprecations about the way some people left a chamber
when they departed, and generally terrorizing the slothful and slov-
enly.

In the midst of such industry, gawky Simon was the fabled grass-
hopper in the nest of ants. He knew he would never amount to
much: many people had told him so, and nearly all of them were
older -- and presumably wiser -- than he. At an age when other boys
were clamoring for the responsibilities of manhood, Simon was still
a muddier and a meanderer. No matter what task he was given to
do, his attention soon wandered, and he would be dreaming of bat-
tles, and giants, and sea voyages on tall, shining ships . . . and
somehow, things would get broken, or lost, or done wrong.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR                  7

Other times he could not be found at all. He skulked around the
castle like a scrawny shadow, could shinny up a wall as well as the
roof-masons and glaziers, and knew so many passageways and hid-
ing holes that the castle folk called him "ghost boy." Rachel boxed
his ears frequently, and called him a mooncalf.

Rachel had finally let go of his arm, and Simon dragged his feet
glumly as he followed the Mistress of Chambermaids like a stick
caught in a skirt hem. He had been discovered, his beetle had es-
caped, and the afternoon was ruined.

"What must I do, Rachel," he mumbled unpleasantly, "help in
the kitchen?"

Rachel snorted disdainfully and waddled on, a badger in an
apron. Simon looked back regretfully on the sheltering trees and
hedges of the garden. Their commingled footfalls resounded sol-
emnly down the long stone hallway.

He had been raised by the chambermaids, but since he was cer-
tainly never going to be one himself -- his boy-ness aside, Simon was
obviously not to be trusted with delicate domestic operations -- a
concerted effort had been made to find suitable labors for him. In a
great house, and the Hayholt was doubtless the greatest, there was
no place for those who did not work. He found employment of a sort
in the castle kitchens, but even at this undemanding job he was not
completely successful. The other scullions would laugh and nudge
each other to see Simon -- elbow-deep in hot water, eyes squinted
shut in oblivious reverie -- learning the trick of bird flight, or saving
dream-maidens from imaginary beasts as his scrubbing stick floated
off across the washing vat.

Legend had it that Sir Fluiren -- a relative of the famous Sir
Camaris of Nabban -- had in his youth come to the Hayholt to be a
knight, and had worked a year in disguise in this same scullery, due
to his ineffable humility. The kitchen workers had teased him -- or so
the story went -- calling him "Pretty-hands" because the terrible toil
did not diminish the fine whiteness of his fingers.

Simon had only to look at his own cracked-nail, pink-boiled paws
to know that he was no great lord's orphan son. He was a scullion
and a comer sweeper, and that was that. At a not much greater age,
everyone knew, King John had slain the Red Dragon. Simon wres-

Tad Williams

tied with brooms and pots. Not that it made much difference: it was
a different, quieter world than in John's youth, thanks largely to the
old king himself. No dragons -- living ones, anyway -- inhabited the
dark, endless halls of the Hayholt. But Rachel -- as Simon often
cursed to himself -- with her sour face and terrible, tweezing fingers,
was near enough.

They reached the antechamber before the throne room, the center
of the inordinate activity. The chambermaids, moving at a near-run,
careened from wall to wall like flies in a bottle. Rachel stood with
fists set on hips and surveyed her domain -- seeming, from the smile
that tightened her thin mouth, to find it good.

Simon lurked against a tapestried wall, forgotten for a moment.
Slouching, he stared from the comer of his eyes at the new girl
Hepzibah, who was plump and curly-haired and walked with an
insolent sway. Passing by with a sloshing bucket of water she caught
his glance and smiled widely, amused. Simon felt fire crackling up
his neck into his cheeks and turned to pick at the tattered wall
hanging.

Rachel had not missed the exchange of looks.

"Lord whip you for a donkey, boy, didn't I tell you to get to
work? Have at it, then!"

"At what?' Do what?'" Simon shouted, and was mortified to hear
Hepzibah's silvery giggle float out from the hallway. He pinched his
own arm in frustration. It hurt.

"Take this broom, and go and sweep out the Doctor's chambers.
That man lives like a pack rat, and who knows where the king will
want to go now that he's up?" It was clear from her tone that Rachel
found the general contrariness of men to be undiminished by king-
ship.

"Doctor Morgenes' chambers?" Simon asked; for the first time
since he had been discovered in the garden his spirits rose. "I'll do it
straight away!" He snatched the broom at a dead run and was gone.

Rachel snorted and turned back to examine the spotless perfection
of the antechamber. She briefly wondered what could possibly be
going on behind the great throne-room door, then dismissed the
errant thought as mercilessly as she might swat a hovering gnat.
Herding her legions with clapping hands and steely eye, she led

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               9

them out of the antechamber and off to another pitched battle
against her archenemy, disorder.

In that hall beyond the door dusty banners hung, row upon row
along the walls, a faded bestiary of fantastic animals: the sun-golden
stallion of Clan Mehrdon, Nabban's gleaming kingfisher crest, owl
and ox, otter, unicorn, and cockatrice -- rank after rank of silent,
sleeping creatures. No draft stirred these threadbare hangings; even
the spiderwebs sagged empty and unstitched.

Some small change had come to the throne room, though -- some-
thing lived once more in the shadowed chamber. Someone was sing-
ing a quiet tune in the thin voice of a very young boy or a very old
man.

At the farthest end of the hall a massive tapestry hung on the
stone wall between the statues of the High Kings of the Hayholt, a
tapestry bearing the royal coat of arms, the Firedrake and the Tree.
The grim malachite statues, an honor guard of six, flanked a huge,
heavy chair that seemed entirely carved from yellowing ivory, the
chair arms knobbed and knuckled, the back capped with a huge,
many-toothed, serpentine skull whose eyes were pools of shadow.

It was on and before this chair that two figures sat. The small one
clothed in worn motley was singing; it was his voice that floated up
from the foot of the throne, too weak to chip loose even a slight
echo. Over him bent a gaunt shape, perched at the edge of the chair
like an aged raptor -- a tired, hobbled bird of prey shackled to the
dull bone.

The king, three years sick and enfeebled, had returned to his dusty
hall. He listened as the small man at his feet sang; the king's long,
mottled hands grasped the arms of his great, yellowing throne.

He was a tall man -- once very tall, but now hunched like a monk
at prayer. He wore a sagging robe of sky blue, and was bearded like
a Usirean prophet. A sword lay athwart his lap, shining as though
new-polished; on his brow sat an iron crown, studded all about with
sea-green emeralds and secretive opals.

The mannekin at the king's feet paused for a long, silent moment,
then began another song:

"Can tha count th' rain-drops
When th' sun is high?

10                    Tad Williams

Can tha swim th' river
When th' bed gang dry?
Can tha catch a cloud?
Nay, canst not, nor I . . .
An' th' wind a cry 'Wait.'
As a passeth by.
Th'wind a cry 'Wait.'
As a passeth by . . ."

When the tune was finished, the tall old man in the blue robe
reached down his hand and the jester took it. Neither said a word.

John the Presbyter, Lord of Erkynland and High King of all
Osten Ard; scourge of the Sithi and defender of the true faith,
wielder of the sword Bright-Nail, bane of the dragon Shurakai . . .
Prester John was sitting once more upon his chair made of dragon's
bones. He was very, very old, and had been crying.

"Ah, Towser," he breathed at last, his voice deep but flawed with
age, "it is surely an unmerciful God who could bring me to this
sorry pass."

"Perhaps, my lord." The little old man in the checkered jerkin
smiled a wrinkled smile. "Perhaps ... but doubtless many others
would not complain of cruelty if brought to your station in life."

"But that is just what I mean, old friend!" The king shook his
head angrily. "In this shadow-age of infirmity, all men are leveled.
Any thick-witted tailor's apprentice sups more of life that I!"

"Ah, la now my lord, my lord . . ." Towser's grizzled head
wagged from side to side, but the bells of his cap -- long since clap-
periess -- did not jingle. "My lord, you complain seasonably, but un-
reasonably. All men come to this pass, great or small. You have had
a fine life."

Prester John lifted the hilt of Bright-Nail before him, holding it as
though it were a Holy Tree. He pulled the back of a long thin hand
across his eyes.

"Do you know the story of this blade?" he asked.

Towser looked up sharply: he had heard the story many times.

"Tell me, 0 King," he said quietly.

Prester John smiled, but his eyes never left the leather-bound hilt
before him. "A sword, small friend, is the extension of a man's right

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              11

hand . . - and the end point of his heart." He lifted the blade up
higher, so that it caught a glimmer of light from one of the tiny, high
windows. "Just the same is Man the good right hand of God -- Man
is the sharp executor of the Heart of God. Do you see?"

Suddenly he was leaning down, eyes bird-bright beneath shaggy
brows. "Do you know what this is?" His shaking finger indicated a
bit of crimped, rusty metal bound into the sword haft with golden
wire.

"Tell me, Lord," Towser knew perfectly well.

"This is the only nail of the true Execution Tree still remaining in
Osten Ard." Prester John brought the hilt forward to his lips and
tossed it, then held the cool metal against his cheek. "This nail came
from the palm of Usires Aedon, our Savior . . . from His
hand . , ." The king's eyes, catching for a moment a strange half-
light from above, were fiery mirrors.

"And there is also the relic, of course," he said after a quiet
moment, "the finger-bone of martyred Saint Eahlstan, the dragon-
slain, right here in the hilt. ..."

There was another interval of silence, and when Towser looked up
his master was weeping again.

"Fie, fie on it!" John moaned. "How can I live up to the honor of
God's Sword? With so much sin, such a weight of it, still staining
my soul -- the arm that once smote the red dragon can now scarce
lift a milk-cup. Oh, I am dying, my dear Towser, dying!"

Towser leaned forward, pulling one of the king's bony hands free
from the sword-grip and kissing it as the old man sobbed.

"Oh, please, master," the jester beseeched. "Weep no more! All
men must die -- you, I, everyone. If we are not killed by youthful
stupidity or ill-luck, then it is our fate to live on like the trees; older
and older until at last we totter and fall. It is the way of all things.
How can you fight the Lord's will?"

"But I built this kingdom!" A quivering rage was on John the
Presbyter as he pulled his hand free from the jester's grasp and
brought it sharply down on the arm of his throne. "That must weigh
against any blot of sin on my soul, however darki Surely the Good
Lord will have that in his Book of Accounts! I dragged these people
up from the mud, scourged the cursed, sneaking Sithi out of the
countryside, gave the peasantry law and justice ... the good I

12                    Tad Williams

have done must weigh strongly." For a moment John's voice became
fainter, as though his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

"Ah, my old friend," he said at last in a bitter voice, "and now I
cannot even walk down to the marketplace on Main Row! I must lie
in bed, or shuffle about his cold castle on the arms of younger men.
My ... my kingdom lies corrupting on the vine, while servants
whisper and tiptoe outside my bedchamber door! All in sin!"

The king's words echoed back from the chamber's stone walls and
slowly dissipated up among the swirling dust motes. Towser
regained John's hand and squeezed it until the king was composed

once more.

"Well," said Prester John after some time had passed, "my Elias

will rule more firmly than I now can, at least. Seeing the decay of all
this," he swept his hand around the throne room, "today I have
decided to call him back from Meremund. He must prepare to take
the crown." The king sighed. "I suppose I should leave off my wom-
anish weeping, and be grateful I have what many kings have not: a
strong son to hold my kingdom together after I am gone."

"Two strong sons. Lord."
"Fan." The king grimaced. "I should call Josua many things, but

I do not believe 'strong' is one of them."

"You are too hard on him. Master."

"Nonsense. Do you think to instruct me, jester? Do you know the
son better than the father does?" John's hand trembled, and for a
moment it seemed he would struggle to his feet. Finally, the tension

slackened.

"Josua is a cynic," the king began again in a quieter voice. "A

cynic, a melancholic, cold to his inferiors -- and a king's son has
nothing but inferiors, each one a potential assassin. No, Towse, he is
a queer one, my younger -- most especially since . . . since he lost
his hand. Ah, merciful Aedon, perhaps the fault is mine."

"What do you mean. Lord?"

"I should have taken another wife after Ebekah died. It has been a
cold house without a queen . . . perhaps that caused the boy's odd

humors. Elias is not that way, though."

"There is a certain crude directness to Prince Elias' nature,"
Towser muttered, but if the king heard he gave no sign.

"I thank beneficent God that Elias was first-born. He has a brave,
martial character, that one -- I think that if he were the younger,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

13

Josua would not be secure upon the throne." King John shook his
head with cold fondness at the thought, then groped down and
grasped his jester's ear, tweaking it as if that old worthy were a child
of five or six years.

"Promise me one thing, Towse . . . ?"

"What, Lord?"

"When I die -- doubtless soon, I do not think I shall last the win-
ter -- you must bring Elias to this room ... do you suppose they
will hold the crowning here? Never mind you, if they do then must
wait until it has ended. Bring him here and give him Bright-Nail.
Yes, take it now and hold it. I fear that I may die while he is away at
Meremund or some other place, and I want it to come straight to his
hand with my blessing. Do you understand, Towse?"

With shaking hands Prester John pushed the sword back into its
tooled scabbard, and struggled for a moment to unbuckle the baldric
on which it hung. The twining was caught, and Towser got up on his
knees to work on the knot with his strong old fingers.

"What is the blessing, my Lord?" he asked, tongue between teeth
as he picked at the tangle.

"Tell him what I have told you. Tell him that the sword is the
point of his heart and hand, just as we are the instruments of the
Heart and Hand of God the Father . . . and tell him that no prize,
however noble, is worth ... is worth , . ." John hesitated, and
drew his trembling fingers to his eyes. "No, pay that no mind. Speak
only what I told you about the sword. Tell him that."

"I shall, my King," said Towser. He frowned, although he had
solved the knot. "I will gladly do your wish."

"Good." Prester John leaned back once more in his dragonbone
chair and closed his gray eyes. "Sing for me again, Towse."

Towser did. Above, the dusty banners seemed to sway slightly, as
if a whisper passed among the crowd of watchers, among the ancient
herons and dull-eyed bears, and others stranger still.

2

A Two-Frog Story

AN IDLE MIND is the Devil's seedbed.

Simon reflected ruefully on this, one of Rachel's favorite expres-
sions, as he stared down at the display of horse-armor which now
lay scattered the length of the chaplain's walking-hall. A moment
before he had been leaping happily down the long, tiled hallway
which ran along the outer length of the chapel, on his way to sweep
Doctor Morgenes' chambers. He had been waving the broom about
a little, of course, pretending it was the Tree and Drake flag of
Prester John's Erkynguard, and that he was leading them into bat-
tle. Perhaps he should have been paying better heed to where he was
waggling it -- but what sort of idiot would hang a suit of horse-armor
in the chaplain's hallway, anyway? Needless to say, the clatter had
been ferocious, and Simon expected skinny, vengeful Father Dre-
osan to descend at any minute.

Hurrying to gather up the dingy armor plates, some of which had
torn loose from the leather straps that bound the suit together, Si-
mon considered another of Rachel's maxims -- "the Devil finds
chores for empty hands." That was silly, of course, and made him
angry. It was not the emptiness of his hands, or the idleness of his
thoughts that got him into trouble. No, it was the doing and the
thinking that tripped him up time and time again. If only they would
leave him alone!

Father Dreosan had still not made an entrance by the time he at
last worried the armor into a precarious stack, then hastily pushed it
beneath the skin of a table rug. In doing so he nearly upset the
golden reliquary seated on the table top, but at last -- and with no
further mishaps -- the sundered armor was gone from view, with
nothing but a slightly cleaner-looking patch on the wall to proclaim
that the suit had ever existed at all. Simon picked up his broom and
scuffed away at the sooty stone, trying to even up the edges so that

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              15

the bright spot was not so noticeable, then hurried on down the hall
and out past the winding choir-loft stairs.

Emerging once more into the Hedge Garden from which he had
been so brutally abducted by the Dragon, Simon halted for a mo-
ment to inhale the pungent smell of greenery, to drive the last of the
tallow-soap stench from his nostrils. His eye was caught by an un-
usual shape in the upper branches of the Festival Oak, an ancient
tree at the far end of the garden, so gnarled and convoluted of
branch that it looked as though it had grown for centuries beneath a
giant bushel basket. He squinted, hand raised to block the slanting
sunlight. A bird's nesti And so late in the yearl

It was a very near thing. He had dropped the broom and taken
several steps into the garden before he remembered his mission to
Morgenes. If it had been any other errand he would have been up
the tree in an instant, but getting to see the doctor was a treat, even
when it entailed work. He promised himself that the nest would not
remain long unexamined, and passed on through the hedges and into
the courtyard before the Inner Bailey Gate.

Two figures had just entered the gate and were coming toward
him; one slow and stumpy, the other stumpier and slower still. It
was Jakob the chandler and his assistant Jeremias. The latter was
carrying a large, heavy-looking bag over his shoulder, and walking
 -- if such was possible -- more sluggishly than usual. Simon called a
greeting as they passed. Jakob smiled and waved.

"Rachel wants new candles for the dining room," the chandler
shouted, "so candles she gets!" Jeremias made a sour face.

A short trot down the sloping greensward brought Simon to the
massive gatehouse. A sliver of afternoon sun still smoldered above
the battlements behind him, and the shadows of the pennants of the
Western Wall flopped like dark fish on the grass. The red-and-white
liveried guard -- scarcely older than Simon -- smiled and nodded as
the master spy pounded past, deadly broom in hand, head held low
in case the tyrant Rachel should happen to peep from one of the
keep's high windows. Once through the barbican and hidden in the
lee of the high gatewall he slowed to a walk. Green Angel Tower's
attenuated shadow bridged the moat; the distorted silhouette of the
Angel, triumphant on her spire, lay in a pool of fire at the water's
farthest edge.

As long as he was here, Simon decided, he might as well catch

16

Tad Williams

some frogs. It shouldn't take too long, and the doctor frequently had
use for such things. It wouldn't really be putting off the errand so
much as expanding the nature of the service. He would have to
hurry, though -- evening was coming on swiftly. Already he could
hear the crickets laboriously tuning up for what would be one of the
waning year's last performances and the bullfrogs beginning their
muffled, clunking counterpoint.

Wading out into the lily-crusted water, Simon paused for a mo-
ment to listen, and to watch the eastern sky darkening to a dull
violet. Next to Doctor Morgenes' chambers, the moat was his favor-
ite spot in all Creation . . . all of it that he had seen so far, anyway.

With an unconscious sigh he pulled off his shapeless cloth hat and
sloshed along toward where the pond grass and hyacinths were
thickest.

The sun had completely vanished and the wind was hissing
through the cattails ringing the moat by the time Simon had reached
the Middle Bailey to stand, clothes a-drip and a frog in each pocket,
before the door of Morgenes' chambers. He knocked on the stout
paneling, careful not to touch the unfamiliar symbol chalked on the
wood. He had learned by hard experience not to carelessly lay hands
on something of the doctor's without asking. Several moments
passed before Morgenes' voice was heard.

"Go away," it said, in a tone of annoyance.

"It's me ... Simon!" called Simon, and knocked again. There
was a longer pause this time, then the sound of rapid footfalls. The
door swung open. Morgenes, whose head barely reached Simon's
chin, stood framed in bright blue light, the expression on his face
obscured. For a moment he seemed to stare.

"What?" he said finally. "Who?"

Simon laughed. "Me, of course. Do you want some frogs?" He
pulled one of the captives from its prison and held it up by a slippery

leg-

"Oh. Oh!" The doctor seemed to be coming awake as from a deep
sleep. He shook his head. "Simon ... but naturally! Come in, boy!
My apologies ... I am a little distracted." He opened the door
wide enough for Simon to slip past him into the narrow inner hall-
way, then pulled it closed again.

"Frogs, is it? Hmmmm, frogs . . ." The doctor angled past and

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              17

led him along the corridor. In the glow of the blue lamps that lined
the hall the doctor's spindly form, monkeylike, seemed to bound
instead of walk. Simon followed, his shoulders nearly touching the
cold stone walls on either side. He could never understand how
rooms that seemed as small as the doctor's did from outside -- he had
looked down on them from the bailey walls, and paced the distance
in the courtyard -- how they could have such long corridors.

Simon's musings were interrupted by a hideous eruption of noise
echoing down the passageway -- whistles, bangs, and something that
sounded like the hungry baying of a hundred hounds.

Morgenes jumped in surprise and said: "Oh, Name of a Name, I
forgot to snuff the candles. Wait here." The small man hurried down
the hallway, wispy white hair fluttering, pulled the door at the end
open just a crack -- the howling and whistling doubled its intensity -- 
and slipped quickly inside. Simon heard a muffled shout.

The horrendous noise abruptly ceased -- as quickly and completely
as ... as ...

As the snuffing of a candle, he thought.

The doctor poked his head out, smiled, and beckoned him in.

Simon, who had witnessed scenes of this type before, followed
Morgenes cautiously into his workshop. A hasty entrance could, at
the very least, cause one to step on something strange and unpleas-
ant to contemplate.

There was now not a trace of whatever had set up that fearful
yammering. Simon again marveled at the discrepancy between what
Morgenes' rooms seemed to be -- a converted guard-barracks per-
haps twenty paces in length, nestled against the ivy-tangled wall of
the Middle Bailey's northeastern comer -- and the view inside, which
was of a low-ceilinged but spacious chamber almost as long as a
tournament field, although not nearly so wide. In the orange light
that filtered down from the long row of small windows overlooking
the courtyard Simon peered at the farthest end of the room and
decided he would be hard-pressed to hit it with a stone from the
doorway in which he stood.

This curious stretching effect, however, was quite familiar. In fact,
despite the terrifying noises, the whole chamber seemed much as it
usually did -- as though a horde of crack-brained peddlers had set up
shop and then made a hasty retreat during a wild windstorm. The
long refectory table that spanned the length of the near wall was

18

Tad Williams

littered with fluted glass tubes, boxes, and cloth sacks of powders
and pungent salts, as well as intricate structures of wood and metal
from which depended retorts and phials and other unrecognizable
containers. The centerpiece of the table was a great brazen ball with
tiny angled spouts protruding from its shiny skin. It seemed to float
in a dish of silvery liquid, the both of them balanced at the apex of a
carved ivory tripod. The spouts chuffed steam, and the brass globe

slowly revolved.

The floor and shelves were littered with even stranger articles.
Polished stone blocks and brooms and leather wings were strewn
across the flagstones, vying for space with animal cages -- some
empty, some not -- metal armatures of unknown creatures covered
with ragged pelts or mismatched feathers, sheets of seemingly clear
crystal stacked haphazardly against the tapestried walls . . . and
everywhere books, books, books, dropped halfway open or propped
upright here and there about the chamber like huge, clumsy butter-
flies.

There were also glass balls of colored liquids that bubbled without

heat, and a flat box of glittering black sand that rearranged itself
endlessly, as if swept by unfelt desert breezes. Wooden cabinets on
the wall from time to time disgorged painted wooden birds who
cheeped impertinently and disappeared. Beside these hung maps of
countries with totally unfamiliar geography -- although geography,
admittedly, was not something Simon felt too confident about.
Taken altogether, the doctor's lair was a paradise for a curious
young man . . . without doubt, the most wonderful place in Osten

Ard.

Morgenes had been pacing about in the far comer of the room

beneath a drooping star-chart that linked the bright celestial points
together by painted line to make the shape of an odd, four-winged
bird. With a little whistle of triumph the doctor suddenly leaned
down and began to dig like a squirrel in spring. A flurry of scrolls,
brightly painted flannels, and miniature flatware and goblets from
some homunculate supper table rose in the air behind him. At last
he straightened up, netting a large glass-sided box. He waded to the
table, set the glass cube down, and picked a pair of flasks out of a

rack, apparently at random.
The liquid in one of them was the color of the sunset skies outside;

it smoked like a censer. The other was full of something blue and

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

19

viscous which flowed ever so slowly down into the box as Morgenes
upended the two flasks. Mixing, the fluids turned as clear as moun-
tain air. The doctor threw his hand out like a traveling performer,
and there was a moment's pause.

"Frogs?" Morgenes asked, waggling his fingers. Simon rushed for-
ward, pulling the two he had caught out of his coat pockets. The
doctor took them and dropped them into the tank with a flourish.
The pair of surprised amphibians plunked into the transparent liq-
uid, sank slowly to the bottom, then began to swim vigorously about
in their new home. Simon laughed with as much surprise as amuse-
ment.

"Is it water?"

The old man turned to look at him with bright eyes. "More or
less, more or less . . . So!" Now Morgenes dragged long, bent fin-
gers through his sparse fringe of beard. "So . . . thank you for the
frogs. I think I know what to do with them already. Quite painless.
They may even enjoy it, although I doubt they'll like wearing the
boots."

"Boots?" wondered Simon, but the doctor was off and bustling
again, this time pushing a stack of maps from a low stool. He beck-
oned Simon to sit.

"Well then, young man, what will you take as due coin for your
day's work? A fithing piece? Or perhaps you would like Coccindrilis
here for a pet?" Chuckling, the doctor brandished a mummified
lizard.

Simon hesitated for a moment over the lizard -- it would be a
lovely thing to slip into the linen basket for the new girl Hepzibah to
discover -- but no. The thought of the chambermaids and cleaning
stuck in his mind, irritating him. Something wanted to be remem-
bered, but Simon pushed it back. "No," he said at last, "I'd like to
hear some stories."

"Stories?" Morgenes bent forward quizzically. "Stories? You
would be much better off going to old Shem Horsegroom in the
stables if you want to hear such things."

"Not that kind," Simon said hastily. He hoped he hadn't offended
the little man. Old people were so sensitive! "Stories about real
things- How things used to be -- battles, dragons -- things that hap-
pened!"

"Aaahh." Morgenes sat up, and the smile returned to his pink

20

Tad Williams

face. "I see. You mean history." The doctor rubbed his hands.
"That's better -- much better!" He sprang to his feet and began pac-
ing, stepping nimbly over the oddments scattered about the floor.
"Well, what do you want to hear about, lad? The fall of Naarved?

The Battle of Ach Samrath?"

"Tell me about the castle," Simon said. "The Hayholt. Did the

king build it? How old is it?"

"The castle . . ." The doctor stopped pacing, plucked up a cor-
ner of his wom-shiny gray robe, and began to rub absently at one of
Simon's favorite curiosities: a suit of armor, exotically designed and
colored in wildflower-bright blues and yellows, made entirely from

polished wood.

"Hmmm ... the castle . . ." Morgenes repeated. "Well, that's

certainly a two-frog story, at the very least. Actually, if I were to tell
you the whole story, you would have to drain the moat and bring
your warty prisoners in by the cartload to pay for it. But it is the
bare bones of the tale that I think you want today, and I can cer-
tainly give you that. Hold yourself still for a moment while I find

something to wet my throat."

As Simon tried to sit quietly, Morgenes went to his long table and
picked up a beaker of brown, frothy liquid. He sniffed it suspi-
ciously, brought it to his lips, and downed a small gulp. After a
moment of consideration he licked his bare upper lip and pulled his

beard happily.

"Ah, the Stanshire Dark. No doubt on the subject, ale is the stuff!
What were we talking about, then? Oh, yes, the castle." Morgenes
cleared a place on the table and then -- holding his flask carefully -- 
vaulted up with surprising ease to sit, slippered feet dangling half a
cubit above the floor. He sipped again.

"I'm afraid this story starts long before our King John. We shall
begin with the first men and women to come to Osten Ard -- simple
folk, living on the banks of the Gleniwent. They were mostly
herdsmen and fisherfolk, perhaps driven out from the lost West over
some land-bridge that no longer exists. They caused little trouble for

the masters of Osten Ard. . . ."

"But I thought you said they were the first to come here?" Simon
interrupted, secretly pleased he had caught Morgenes in a contradic-
tion.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

21

"No. I said they were the first men. The Sithi held this land long
before any man walked on it."

"You mean there really were Little Folk?" Simon grinned. "Just
like Shem Horsegroom tells of? Pookahs and niskies and all?" This
was exciting.

Morgenes shook his head vigorously and took another swallow.
"Not only were, are -- although that jumps ahead of my narrative -- 
and they are by no means 'little folk' . . . wait, lad, let me go on."

Simon hunched forward and tried to look patient. "Yes?"

"Well, as I mentioned, the men and Sithi were peaceful neighbors
 -- true, there was an occasional dispute over grazing land or some
such, but since mankind seemed no real threat the Fair Polk were
generous. As time went on, men began to build cities, sometimes
only a half a day's walk from Sithi lands. Later still a great kingdom
arose on the rocky peninsula of Nabban, and the mortal men of
Osten Ard began to look there for guidance. Are you still following
my trail, boy?"

Simon nodded.

"Good." A long draught. "Well, the land seemed quite big enough
for all to share, until black iron came over the water."

"What? Black iron?" Simon was immediately stilled by the doc-
tor's sharp look.

"The shipmen out of the near-forgotten west, the Rimmersmen,"
Morgenes continued. "They landed in the north, armed men fierce
as bears, riding in their long serpent-boats."

"The Rimmersmen?" Simon wondered. "Like Duke Isgrimnur at
the court? On boats?"

"They were great seafarers before they settled here, the Duke's
ancestors," Morgenes affirmed. "But when they first came they were
not searching for grazing or farming land, but for plunder. Most
importantly though, they brought iron -- or at least the secret of
shaping it. They made iron swords and spears, weapons that would
not break like the bronze of Osten Ard; weapons that could beat
down even the witchwood of the Sithi."

Morgenes rose and refilled his beaker from a covered bucket
standing on a cathedral of books beside the wall. Instead of re-
turning to the table he stopped to finger the shiny epaulets of the
armor suit.

"None stood against them for long -- the cold, hard spirit of the

22 Tad Williams

iron seemed in the shipmen themselves as much as in their blades.
Many folk fled south, moving closer to the protection of Nabban's
frontier outposts. The Nabbanai legions, well-organized garrison
forces, resisted for a while. Finally they, too, were forced to abandon
the Frostmarch to the Rimmersmen. There . . . was much slaugh-
ter."

Simon squirmed happily. "What about the Sithi? You said they
had no iron?"

"It was deadly to them." The doctor licked his finger and rubbed
away a spot on the polished wood of the breastplate. "Even they
could not defeat the Rimmersmen in open battle, but," he pointed
the dusty finger at Simon, as if this fact concerned him personally,
"but the Sithi knew their land. They were close to it -- a part of it,
even -- in a way that the invaders could never be. They held their
own for a long time, falling slowly back on places of strength. The
chiefest of these -- and the reason for this whole discourse -- was
Asu'a. The Hayholt."

"This castle? The Sithi lived in the Hayholt?" Simon was unable
to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "How long ago was it built?"

"Simon, Simon . . ." The doctor scratched his ear and returned
to his perch on the table. The sunset was completely gone from the
windows, and the torch light divided his face into a mummer's
mask, half illumined, half dark. "There may, for all I or any mortal
can know, have been a castle here when the Sithi first came . . .
when Osten Ard was as new and unsullied as a snow-melt brook.
Sithi-folk certainly dwelled here countless years before man arrived.
This was the first place in Osten Ard to feel the work of Grafting
hands. It is the stronghold of the country commanding the water
ways, riding herd on the finest croplands. The Hayholt and its pre-
decessors -- the older citadels that lie buried beneath us -- have stood
here since before the memories of mankind. It was very, very old
when the Rimmersmen came."

Simon's mind whirled as the enormity of Morgenes' statement
seeped in. The old castle seemed suddenly oppressive, its rock walls
a cage. He shuddered and looked quickly around, as though some
ancient, jealous thing might even at this moment be reaching out for
him with dusty hands.

Morgenes laughed merrily -- a very young laugh from so old a
man -- and hopped down from the table. The torches seemed to glow

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

23

a little brighter. "Fear not, Simon. I think -- and I, of all people,
should know -- that there is not much for you to fear from Sithi
magic. Not today. The castle has been much changed, stone laid
over stone, and every ell has been rigorously blessed by a hundred
priests. Oh, Judith and the cooking staff may turn around from time
to time and find a plate of cakes missing, but I think that can be as
logically ascribed to young men as to goblins . . ."

The doctor was interrupted by a short series or raps upon the
chamber door. "Who is it?" he cried.

"It's me," said a doleful voice. There was a long pause. "Me,
Inch," it finished.

"Bones ofAnaxos!" swore the doctor, who favored exotic expres-
sions. "Open the door, then . . . I am too old to run about waiting
on fools."

The door swung inward. The man framed against the glow of
inner hallway was probably tall, but hung his head and hunched his
body forward in such a way that it was difficult to make sure. A
round, vacant face floated like a moon just above his breastbone,
thatched by spiky black hair that had been cut with a dull and
clumsy knife.

"I'm sorry I ... I bothered you, Doctor, but . . . but you said
come early, now didn't you?" The voice was thick and slow as drip-
ping lard.

Morgenes gave a whistle of exasperation, and tugged on a coil of
his own white hair. "Yes, I did, but I said early after the dinner
hour, which has not yet arrived. Still, no sense in sending you away.
Simon, have you met Inch, my assistant?"

Simon nodded politely. He had seen the man once or twice;

Morgenes had him come in some evenings to help, apparently with
heavy lifting. It certainly wouldn't be for anything else, since Inch
did not look as though he could be trusted to piss on the fire before
going to bed.

"Well, young Simon, I'm afraid that will have to put an end to my
windiness for the day," the old man said. "Since Inch is here, I must
use him. Come back soon, and I will tell you more -- if you like."

"Certainly." Simon nodded once more to Inch, who rolled a cow-
like gaze after him. He had reached the door, almost touched it,
when a sudden vision blazed into life in his head: a clear picture of

24 Tad Williams

Rachel's broom, lying where he had left it, on the grass beside the
moat like the corpse of a strange water bird.

Mooncalf!

He would say nothing. He could collect the broom on his way
back, and tell the Dragon that the chore was finished. She had so
much to think about, and, although she and the doctor were two of
the castle's oldest residents, they seldom spoke. It was obviously the
best plan.

Without understanding why, Simon turned back. The little man
was scrutinizing a curling scroll, bent over the table while Inch
stood behind him staring at nothing particular.

"Doctor Morgenes . . ."

At the sound of his name the doctor looked up, blinking. He
seemed surprised that Simon was still in the room; Simon was sur-
prised, too.

"Doctor, I've been a fool."

Morgenes arched his eyebrows, waiting.

"I was supposed to sweep your room. Rachel asked me to. Now
the whole afternoon has gone by."

"Oh. Ah!" Morgenes' nose wrinkled as if it itched him, then he
broke out a wide smile. "Sweep my chamber, eh? Well, lad, come
back tomorrow and do it. Tell Rachel that I have more work for
you, if she will be so good as to let you go." He turned back to his
book, then looked up again, eyes narrowing, and pursed his lips. As
the doctor sat in silent thought, the elation Simon was feeling
changed suddenly to nervousness.

Why is he staring at me like that?

"Come to think of it, boy," the man finally said, "I will be having
many chores coming up that you could help me with -- and eventu-
ally I will need an apprentice. Come back tomorrow, as I said. I will
talk with the Mistress of Chambermaids about the other." He smiled
briefly, then turned back to his scroll. Simon was suddenly aware
that Inch was staring across the doctor's back at him, an unreadable
expression moving beneath the placid surface of his whey-colored
face. Simon turned and sprinted through the door. Exhilaration
caught him up as he bounded down the blue-lit hallway and
emerged under dark, cloud-smeared skies. Apprentice! To the doc-
tor!

When he reached the gatehouse, he stopped and climbed down to

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

25

the edge of the moat to look for the broom. The crickets were well
into the evening's chorale. When he found it at last, he sat down for
a moment against the wall near the water's brink to listen.

As the rhythmic song rose around him, he ran his fingers along
the nearby stones. Caressing the surface of one worn as smooth as
hand-burnished cedar, he thought:

This stone may have been standing here since . . . since before
our Lord Usires was born. Perhaps some Sithi boy once sat here in this
same quiet place, listening to the night. . . .

Where did that breeze come from?

A voice seemed to whisper, whisper, the words too faint to hear.

Perhaps he ran his hands across this same stone. . . .

A whisper on the wind: We will have it back, manchild. We will
have it all back. . . .

Clutching the neck of his coat tight against the unexpected chill,
Simon got up and climbed the grassy slope, suddenly lonesome for
familiar voices and light.

Birds in the Chapel

"BY THE Blessed Aedon . . ."

Whack!

(t. . . And Elysia his mother . . ."

Whack! Whack!

". . . And all the saints that watch over . . ."

Whack!

". . . Watch over . . . ouch!" A hiss of frustration. "Damned
spiders'" The whacking resumed, curses and invocations laid on
between. Rachel was cleaning cobwebs from the dining hall ceiling.

Two girls sick and another with a twisted ankle. This was the kind
of day that put a dangerous glint in Rachel the Dragon's agate eye.
Bad enough to have Sarrah and Jael down with the fluxion -- Rachel
was a hard taskmistress, but she knew that every day of working a
sick girl could mean losing her three days in the longer run -- yes,
bad enough that Rachel had to pick up the slack left by their ab-
sence. As if she did not do two people's work already! Now the
seneschal said the king would dine in the Great Hall tonight, and
Elias, the Prince Regent, had arrived from Meremund, and there
was even more work to do!

And Simon, sent off an hour before to pick a few bundles of
rushes, was still not back.

So, here she stood with her tired old body perched on a rickety
stool, trying to get the spiderwebs out of the ceiling's high corners
with a broom. That boy! That, that . . .

"Holy Aedon give strength . . ."

Whack! Whack! Whack!

That damnable boy!

It was not enough, Rachel reflected later as she slumped red-faced
and sweaty on the stool, that the boy was lazy and difficult. She had

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              27

done her best over the years to thump the contrariness out of him;

he was certainly a better person for it, she knew. No, by the Good
Mother of God, what was worse was that no one else seemed to care!
Simon was man-tall, and at an age when he should be doing nearly a
man's work -- but no! He hid and slid and mooned about. The
kitchen workers laughed at him. The chambermaids coddled him,
and snuck dinner to him when she, Rachel, had banished him from
table- And Morgenes! Merciful Elysia, the man actually encouraged
him!

And now he had asked Rachel if the boy could come and work for
him every day, sweeping up, helping to keep things clean -- hah! -- 
and assisting the old man with some of his work. As if she didn't
know better. The two of them would sit about, the old souse guz-
zling ale and telling the boy Heaven knew what kind of devil's sto-
ries.

Still, she couldn't help considering his offer. It was the first time
anyone had asked for the boy, or wanted him at all -- he was so
underfoot all the time! And Morgenes had really seemed to think he
could do the boy some good. . . .

The doctor often irritated Rachel with his fancy talk and his flow-
ery speeches -- which the Mistress of Chambermaids felt sure were
disguised mockery -- but he did seem to care about the boy. He had
always kept an eye out for what was best for Simon ... a sugges-
tion here, an idea there, a quiet intercession once when the Master of
Scullions had thrashed him and banished him from the kitchens.
Morgenes had always kept a watch on the boy.

Rachel looked up at the broad beams of the ceiling, her gaze
traveling off into the shadows. She blew a strand of damp hair off of
her face.

Starting back on that rainy night, she thought -- what was it, al-
most fifteen years ago? She felt so old, thinking back this way . . .
it seemed only a moment. . . .

^

The rain had been sheeting down all day and night. As Rachel
went gingerly across the muddy courtyard, holding her cloak over
her head with one hand, the lantern in the other, she stepped in a

28 Tad Williams

wide wagon rut and felt the water splash her calves. Her foot came
free with a sucking sound, but without a shoe. She cursed bitterly
and hurried forward. She would catch her death running around on
such a night with one foot bare, but there was no time to go digging
about in puddles.

A light was burning in Morgenes' study, but it seemed to take
forever for the footsteps to come. When he opened the door she saw
that he had been abed: he wore a long nightshirt in need of mending,
and rubbed his eyes groggily in the lantern-glare. The tangled blan-
kets of his bed, surrounded by a leaning palisade of books in the
room's far comer, made Rachel think of some foul animal's nest.

"Doctor, come quick!" she said. "You must come quick, now!"

Morgenes stared, then stepped back. "Come in, Rachel. I have no
idea what nocturnal palpitations have brought you, but since you are
here . . ."

"No. no, you foolish man, it's Susanna! Her time is here, but she
is very weak. I'm afraid for her."

"Who? What? Never mind, then. Just a moment, let me get my
things. What a dreadful night! Go on, I shall catch up to you."

"But, Doctor Morgenes, I brought the lantern for you."

Too late. The door was closed, and she was alone on the step with
rain dribbling off her long nose. Cursing, she splashed back to the
servants' quarters.

It was not long before Morgenes was stamping up the stairs shak-
ing the water from his cloak. At the doorway he absorbed the scene
in a single glance: a woman on the bed with her face turned away,
big with child and groaning. Dark hair lay across her face, and she
squeezed in a sweaty fist the hand of another young woman who
kneeled beside her. At the foot of the bed Rachel stood with an older
woman.

The old one stepped toward Morgenes while he shed his bulky
outer clothing.

"Hello, Elispeth," he said quietly- "How does it look?"

"Not good, I'm afraid, sir. You know I could have dealt with it
otherwise. She's been trying for hours, and she's bleeding. Her heart
is very faint." As Elispeth spoke, Rachel moved nearer.

"Hmmm." Morgenes bent and rummaged in the sack he had
brought. "Give her some of this, please," he said, handing Rachel a
stoppered vial. "Just a swallow, but mind she gets it." He returned

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

29

to searching his bag as Rachel gently pried open the clenched, trem-
bling jaw of the woman on the bed and poured a little of the liquid
into her mouth. The odor of sweat and blood that suffused the room
was suddenly supplemented by a pungent, spicy scent.

"Doctor," Elispeth was saying as Rachel returned, "I don't think
we can save both mother and child -- if we can even save one."

"You must save the child's life," Rachel interrupted. "That's the
duty of the Godfearing. The priest says so. Save the child."

Morgenes turned to her with a look of annoyance, "My good
woman, I will fear God in my own way, if you don't mind. If I save
her -- and I do not pretend to know I can -- then she can always have
another child."

"No, she can't," Rachel said hotly. "Her husband's dead."
Morgenes of all people should know that, she thought. Susanna's
fisherman husband had often visited the doctor before he drowned -- 
although what they might have had to talk about, Rachel could not
imagine.

"Well," Morgenes said distractedly, "she can always find another
 -- what? Her husband?" A startled look came to his face, and he
hurried to the bedside. He seemed to finally realize who it was lying
there, bleeding her life out on the rough sheet.

"Susanna?" he asked quietly, and turned the woman's fearful,
pain-clenched face toward him. Her eyes opened wide for a moment
as she saw him, then another wave of agony shut them again. "Ah,
what has happened here?" Morgenes sighed. Susanna could only
moan, and the doctor looked up at Rachel and Elispeth with anger
on his face. "Why didn't anyone inform me that this poor girl was
ready to bear her child?"

"She was not due for two months more," Elispeth said gently.
"You know that. We are as surprised as you."

"And why should you care that a fisherman's widow was going to
have a baby?" Rachel said. She could be angry, too. "And why are
you arguing about it now?"

Morgenes stared at her for a moment, then blinked twice. "You
are absolutely correct," he said, and turned back to the bed. "I will
save the child, Susanna," he told the shivering woman.

She nodded her head once, then cried out.

30 Tad Williams

It was a thin, keening wail, but it was the cry of a living baby.
Morgenes handed the tiny, red-smeared creature to Elispeth.

"A boy," he said, and returned his attention to the mother. She
was quiet now and breathing more slowly, but her skin was white as
Harcha marble.

"I saved him, Susanna. I had to," he whispered. The comers of
the woman's mouth twitched -- it might have been a smile.

"I ... know ..." she said, voice coming ever so softly in her
raw throat. "If only ... my Eahlferend . . . had not . . ." The
effort was too much, and she stopped. Elispeth leaned down to show
her the child, wrapped in blankets, still attached by the bloody um-
bilicus.

"He's small," the old woman smiled, "but that's because he ar-
rived so early. What is his name?"

". . . Call . . . him . . . Seoman . . ." Susanna croaked out.
". . . it means . . . 'waiting' . . ." She turned to Morgenes and
seemed to want to say something more. The doctor leaned closer, his
white hair brushing her snow-pale cheek, but she could not make the
words come. A moment later she gasped once, and her dark eyes
rolled up until the whites showed. The girl holding her hand began
to sob.

Rachel, too, felt tears come to her eyes. She turned away and
pretended to begin cleaning up. Elispeth was severing the infant's
last tie to his dead mother.

The movement caused Susanna's right hand, which had been
tightly tangled in her own hair, to sag free and drop limply to the
floor. As it struck, something shiny flew from her clutching palm
and rolled across the rough boards to stop near the doctor's foot.
From the comer of her eye Rachel saw Morgenes stoop down and
pick the object up. It was small, and disappeared easily into the
palm of his hand, and from there into his bag.

Rachel was outraged, but no one else seemed to have noticed. She
whirled to confront him, teardrops still standing in her eyes, but the
look on his face, the terrible grief, stilled her before she breathed a
word.

"He will be Seoman," the doctor said, his eyes strange and shad-
owed now as he moved closer, his voice hoarse. "You must take care
of him, Rachel. His parents are dead, you know."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              31

^

A swift intake of breath. Rachel had caught herself just before she
slipped off the stool. Nodding off in bright daylight -- she was
ashamed of herself! Then again, it only went to show the criminal
length to which she had driven herself today, all in an effort to make
up for the three girls off ... and for Simon.

What she needed was a little fresh air. Up on a stool, swatting the
broom around like a madwoman -- no wonder a body started in get-
ting the vapors. She'd just step outside for a moment. The lord knew
she had every right to a little fresh air. That Simon, such a wicked
boy.

They'd raised him, of course, she and the chambermaids. Susanna
hadn't any kinfolk nearby, and no one seemed to know much of
anything about her drowned husband Eahlferend, so they kept the
boy. Rachel had pretended to raise a fuss over it, but she would no
more have let him go than she would have betrayed her King, or left
beds unmade. It was Rachel who had given him the name Simon.
Everyone in the service of King John's household took a name from
the king's native island, Warinsten. Simon was the closest to Se-
oman, and so Simon it was.

Rachel went slowly down the stairs to the bottom floor, feeling
just a little shaky in the legs. She wished she'd brought a cloak, as
the air was bound to be nippy. The door creaked open slowly -- it
was such a heavy door, needed the hinges oiled, most likely -- and
she walked out into the entry yard. The morning sun was just nosing
over the battlement, peeping like a child.

She liked this spot, just underneath the stone span that connected
the dining hall building with the main body of the chapel. The little
courtyard in the shadow of the span was full of pine trees and
heather, all set about on small, sloping hills; the whole garden was
not more than a stone's throw in length. Looking up past the stone
walkway she could see the needle-slim thrust of Green Angel Tower,
shining white in the sunlight like an ivory tusk.

There had been a time, Rachel remembered, long before Simon
came, when she herself had been a girl playing in this garden. How
some of those maids would laugh to think of that: the Dragon as a

32 Tad Williams

little girl. Well, she had been, and after that a young lady -- not
unpleasant to look at, either, and that was only the truth. The gar-
den then had been full of the rustle of brocade and silk, of lords and
ladies laughing, with hawks on their fists and a merry song on their

lips.

Now Simon, he thought he knew everything -- God just made
young men stupid, and that was that. Those girls had nearly spoiled
him beyond redemption, and would have if Rachel hadn't kept her
eye out. She knew what was what, even if these young ones thought
otherwise.

Things were different once, Rachel thought . . . and as she
thought it the pine smell of the shaded garden seemed to catch at
her heart. The castle had been such a beautiful, stirring place: tall
knights, plumed and shiny-mailed, and beautiful girls in fine dresses,
the music ... oh, and the tourney field all jewel-bright with tents!
Now the castle slept quietly, and only dreamed. The towering battle-
ments were commanded by Rachel's kind: by cooks and chamber-
maids, seneschals and scullions. . . .

it was a little chilly. Rachel leaned forward, hugging her shawl
tighter, then straightened up staring. Simon stood before her, hands
hidden behind his back. How on the earth had he managed to slip
up on her that way? And why did he have that idiot grin smeared
across his face? Rachel felt the strength of righteousness come surg-
ing back into her body. His shin -- clean an hour before -- was black-
ened with dirt and torn in several places, as were his breeches.

"Blessed Saint Rhiap save me!" Rachel shrieked. "What have you
done, you fool boy!?" Rhiappa had been an Aedonite woman of
Nabban who had died with the name of the One God on her lips
after being repeatedly violated by sea-pirates. She was a great favor-
ite with domestics.

"Look what I have, Rachel!" Simon said, producing a tattered,
lopsided cone of straw: a bird's nest. It gave off faint chirps. "I found
it underneath Hjeldin's Tower! It must have blown off in the wind.
Three of them are still alive, and I'm going to raise them!"

"Are you utterly mad?" Rachel lifted her broom on high, like the
vengeful lightnings of the Lord that had surely destroyed Rhiap's
ravishers. "You are no more going to raise those creatures in my
household than I am going to swim to Perdruin! Filthy things flying

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              33

around, getting in people's hair -- and look at your clothes! Do you
know how long it will take Sarrah to patch all that?" The broom-
stick quivered in the air.

Simon cast his eyes down. He had not found the nest on the
ground, of course: it was the one he had spotted in the Hedge Gar-
den, partially dislodged from its seat in the Festival Oak. He had
climbed up to rescue it, and in his excitement at the thought of
having the young birds for his own he had not given a thought to the
work he was making for Sarrah, the quiet, homely girl who did the
downstairs mending. A wave of gloom and frustration washed over
him-

"But Rachel, I remembered to pick the rushes!" He balanced the
nest carefully and pulled from beneath his jerkin a meager, bedrag-
gled clump of reeds.

Rachel's expression softened somewhat, but the scowl remained.
"It's just that you don't think, boy, you don't think -- you're like a
little child. If something gets broken, or something is done late,
someone has to take responsibility for it. That's the way the world is.
I know you mean no real harm, but must you be so By-Our-Lady
stupid?"

Simon looked up cautiously. Although his face still showed sor-
row and contrition in proper measure, Rachel with her basilisk eye
could see that he thought he was through the worst of it. Her brow
re-beetled.

"I'm sorry, Rachel, truly I am . . ." he was saying when she
reached out and poked his shoulder with her broom handle.

"Don't you come to the old 'sorry' with me, lad. Just you take
those birds out of here and put them back. There'll be no flapping,
flying creatures 'round these parts."

"Oh, Rachel, I could keep them in a cage! I could build one!"

"No, no, and once more means no. Take them and give them to
your useless doctor if you want, but don't bring them 'round to
trouble honest people who have work to do."

Simon trudged off, the nest cupped in his hands. He had made a
miscalculation somewhere -- Rachel had almost given in, but she was
a tough old stalk. The slightest error in dealing with her meant swift,
terrible defeat.

"Simon!" she called. He whirled.

"I can keep them?!"

34 Tad Williams

"Of course not. Don't be a mooncalf." She stared at him. An
uncomfortably long time passed; Simon shifted from foot to foot and
waited.

"You go work for the doctor, boy," she said at last. "Maybe he
can squeeze some sense into you. I give up." She glowered at him.
"Mind you do what you're told, and thank him -- and what little
luck you have left -- for this one last chance. Understand?"

"Yes, certainly!" he said happily.

"You're not escaping from me all that easily. Be back at dinner
hour."

"Yes, mistress!" Simon turned to hurry off to Morgenes, then
stopped.

"Rachel? Thank you."

Rachel made a noise of disgust and marched back toward the
stairs to the dining hall. Simon wondered how she had gotten so
many pine needles stuck in her shawl.

A gentle mist of snow had begun to float down from the low, tin-
colored clouds. The weather had turned for good, Simon knew: it
would be cold right through to Candlemansa. Rather than carry the
baby birds across the windy courtyard, he decided to duck through
the chapel and continue through to the western side of the Inner
Bailey. Morning prayers had been over for an hour or two, and the
church should be empty. Father Dreosan might not look kindly on
Simon tramping through his lair, but the good father was undoubt-
edly entrenched at table with his usual large midmorning meal,
humming ominously at the quality of the butter or the consistency
of the honey-and-bread pudding.

Simon climbed the two dozen steps up to the chapel's side door.
The snow had started to flurry; the gray stone of the doorway was
dotted with the wet residue of dying flakes. The door swung back on
surprisingly silent hinges.

Rather than leave telltale wet footprints across the tile floor of the
chapel, he pushed through the velvet hangings at the back of the
entry chamber and climbed another set of stairs to the choir loft.

The cluttered, stuffy loft, a steaming misery-box during high sum-
mer, was now pleasantly warm. The floor was strewn with bits of the
monks' leavings: nutshells, an apple core, scraps of slate roof tiles on
which messages had been written in petty contravention of the si-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              35

lence vows -- it looked more like a cage for apes or festival bears than
a room where men of God came to sing the Lord's praises. Simon
smiled, threading his way quietly among the various other oddments
strewn about -- bolts ofplaincloth, a few small, flimsy wooden stools.
It was nice to know that those dour-faced, shaven-headed men could
be as unruly as farm boys,

Alarmed by the sudden sound of conversation, Simon stopped
and edged back into the wall hanging that blanketed the rear of the
loft. Crushed into the musty fabric, he held his breath as his heart
raced. If Father Dreosan or Bamabas the sexton were below, he
would never make his way down and out the far door unobserved.
He would have to sneak back out the way he had come, using the
courtyard route after all -- the master-spy in the enemy's camp.

Squatting, silent as cotton wool, Simon strained to locate those
who spoke. He seemed to hear two voices; as he concentrated the
birdlings peeped quietly in his hands. He balanced the nest carefully
for a moment in the crook of his elbow while he pulled off his hat -- 
more woe to him if Father Dreosan should catch him hatted in the
chapel! -- then slid the soft brim down over the top of the nest. The
chicks went promptly silent, as if night had fallen. Parting the edges
of the hanging with trembling care he leaned his head out. The
voices were rising from the aisle below the altar. Their tone seemed
unaltered: he had not been heard.

Only a few torches were lit. The vast roof of the chapel was al-
most entirely painted in shadow, the shining windows of the dome
seeming to float in a nighttime sky, holes in the darkness through
which the lines of Heaven could be seen. His foundlings capped and
delicately cradled, Simon crept forward on noiseless feet to the rail
of the choir loft. Positioning himself at the shadowy end nearest the
staircase descending to the chapel proper, he poked his face between
the carved rails of the balustrade, one cheek against the martyrdom
of Saint Tunath, the other rubbing the birth of Saint Pelippa of the
Island.

". . . And you, with your God-be-cursed complaining!" one of
the voices railed. "I have grown unutterably tired of it." Simon
could not see the speaker's face; his back was to the loft, and he
wore a high-collared cloak. His companion, however -- slumped
across from him on a pew-bench -- was quite visible; Simon recog-
nized him at once.

36 Tad Williams

"People who are told things they do not want to hear often call
such tidings 'complaining,' brother," said the one on the bench, and
waved a slim-fingered left hand wearily. "I warn you about the
priest out of love for the kingdom." There was a moment's silence.
"And in memory of the affection we once shared."

"You may say anything, anything you wish to!" the first man
barked, his anger sounding strangely like pain, "but the Chair is
mine by law and our father's wish. Nothing you think, say, or do
can change that!"

Josua Lackhand, as Simon had often heard the King's younger
son called, pushed himself stiffly up from the bench. His pearl-gray
tunic and hose bore subtle patterns of red and white; he wore his
brown hair cropped close to his face and high upon his forehead.
Where his right hand should have been, a capped cylinder of black
leather protruded from his sleeve.

"I do not want the Dragonbone Chair -- believe that, Elias," he
hissed. His words were soft-spoken, but they flew to Simon's hiding
place like arrows. "I merely warn you against the priest Pryrates, a
man with . . . unhealthy interests. Do not bring him here, Elias.
He is a dangerous man -- believe me, for I know him of old from the
Usirean seminary in Nabban. The monks there shunned him like a
plague carrier. And yet you continue to give him your ear, as though
he were trustworthy as Duke Isgrimnur or old Sir Fluiren. Fool! He
will be the ruin of our house." He composed himself. "I seek only to
offer a word of heartfelt advice to you. Please believe me. I have no
designs on the throne."

"Then leave the castle!" Elias growled, and turned his back on his
brother, arms crossed on his chest. "Go, and let me prepare to rule
as a man should -- free of your complaints and manipulation."

The older prince had the same high brow and hawklike nose, but
was far more powerfully built than Josua; he looked like a man who
could break necks with his hands. His hair, like his riding boots and
tunic, was black. His cloak and hose were a travel-stained green.

"We are both our father's sons, 0 King-to-be . . ." Josua's smile
was mocking. "The crown is yours by right. The griefs we bear
against each other need not worry you. Your soon-to-be-royal self
will be quite safe -- my word on that. But," his voice gained force, "I
will not, do you hear me, will not be ordered out of my sire's house
by anyone. Not even you, Elias."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              37

His brother turned and stared; as their eyes met it seemed to
Simon a flash of swords.

"Griefs we bear against each other?" Elias snarled, and there was
something broken and agonized in his voice. "What grief can you
bear against me? Your hand?" He walked away from Josua a few
steps, and stood with his back to his brother, his words thick with
bitterness. "The loss of a hand. Because of you, / stand a widower,
and my daughter half an orphan. Do not speak to me of grief!"

Josua seemed to hold his breath for a time before replying.

"Your pain . . . your pain is known to me, brother," he said at
last. "Do you not know, I would have given not just my right hand,
but my life . . . !"

Elias whirled, reaching a hand to his throat, and pulled something
glittering from out of his tunic. Simon gaped between the railings. It
was not a knife, but something soft and yielding, like a swatch of
shimmering cloth. Elias held it before his brother's startled face for a
sneering moment, then threw it to the floor, pivoted on his heel and
stalked away up the aisle. Josua stood motionless for a long moment,
then bent, like a man in a dream, to pick up the bright object -- a
woman's silver scarf. As he stared, its gleam cupped in his hand, a
grimace of pain or rage twisted his face. Simon breathed in and out
several times before Josua at last tucked the thing into the breast of
his shirt and followed his brother out of the chapel.

A lengthy interval had passed before Simon felt safe to creep
down from his spying-place and make his way to the chapel's main
door. He felt as though he had witnessed a strange puppet show, a
Usires Play enacted for him alone. The world suddenly seemed less
stable, less trustworthy, if the princes of Erkynland, heirs to all of
Osten Ard, could shout and brawl like drunken soldiers.

Peering into the hall, Simon was startled by a sudden movement:

a figure in a brown jerkin hurrying away up the corridor -- a small
figure, a youth of perhaps Simon's age or less. The stranger nicked a
glance backward -- a brief glimpse of startled eyes -- and then was
gone around the comer. Simon did not recognize him. Could this
person have been spying on the princes, too? Simon shook his head,
feeling as confused and stupid as a sun-struck ox. He pulled his hat
off the nest, bringing daylight and chirping life back to the birds.
Again he shook his head. It had been an unsettling morning.

4

Cricket Cage

MORGENES was rattling about his workshop, deeply engaged in a
search for a missing book. He waved Simon permission to find a
cage for the young birds, then went back to his hunt, toppling piles
of manuscripts and folios like a blind giant in a city of fragile towers.

Finding a home for the nestlings was more difficult than Simon
had expected: there were plenty of cages, but none seemed quite
right. Some had bars so widely spaced that they seemed built for
pigs or bears; others were already crammed full of strange objects,
none of which resembled animals in the least. Finally he found one
that seemed suitable beneath a roll of shiny cloth. It was knee-high
and bell-shaped, made of tightly twisted river reeds, empty but for a
layer of sand on the bottom; there was a small door on the side held
closely by a twist of rope. Simon worried the knot loose and opened
it.

"Stop! Stop that this instant!"

"What?!" Simon leaped back. The doctor hopped past him and
pushed the cage door shut with his foot.

"Sorry to alarm you, boy," Morgenes panted, "but I should have
thought before sending you off to dig and muck about. This is no
good for your purposes, I'm afraid."

"But why not?" Simon leaned forward, squinting, but could see
nothing extraordinary.

"Well, my grub, stand here for a bit and don't touch, and I'll show
you. Silly of me not to have remembered." Morgenes cast about for
a moment until he found a long-ignored basket of dried fruit. He
blew the dust off a fig as he walked to the cage.

"Now observe carefully." He opened the door and tossed in the
fruit; it landed in the sand on the cage bottom.

"Yes?" asked Simon, puzzled.

"Wait," whispered the doctor. No sooner had the word passed his

39

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

lips than something began to happen. At first it seemed that the air
in the cage was shimmering; it quickly became apparent that the
sand itself was shifting, eddying delicately around the fig. Suddenly

 -- so suddenly that Simon jumped backward with a surprised grunt

 -- a great toothy mouth opened in the sand, gulping the fruit as
swiftly as a carp might break the surface of a pond to take a mos-
quito. There was a brief ripple along the sand, and then the cage was
still again, as innocent-seeming as before.

"What's under there?" Simon gasped. Morgenes laughed.

"That's it!" He seemed very pleased. "That's the beastie itself!
There is no sand: it's just a masquerade, so to speak. The whole
thing at the bottom of the cage is one clever animal. Lovely, isn't
it?"

"I suppose so," said Simon, without much conviction. "Where
does it come from?"

"Nascadu, out in the desert countries. You can see why I didn't
want you poking about in there -- I don't think your feathered or-
phans would have had a very happy time of it, either."

Morgenes shut the cage door again, binding it closed with a
leather thong, and placed it on a high shelf. Having climbed onto his
table to accomplish this, he then continued along its great length,
stepping expertly over the litter until he found what he wanted and
hopped down. This container, made of thin strips of wood, held no
suspicious sand.

"Cage for crickets," the doctor explained, and helped the youth
move the birds into their new home. A small dish of water was
placed within; from somewhere else Morgenes even produced a tiny
sack of seeds, which he scattered on the cage floor.

"Are they old enough for that?" Simon wondered. The doctor
waved a careless hand.

"Not to worry," he said. "Good for their teeth."

Simon promised his birds that he would be back soon with some-
thing more suitable, and followed the doctor across the workshop.

"Well, young Simon, charmer of finch and swallow," Morgenes
smiled, "what can 1 do for you this cold forenoon? It seems to me
that we had not completed your just and honorable frog transaction
the other day when we were forced to stop."

"Yes, and I was hoping . . ."

"And I believe there was another thing, too?"

40 Tad Williams

"What?" Simon thought hard.

"A little matter of a floor in need of sweeping? A broom, lone and
lorn, aching in its twiggy heart to be put to use?"

Simon nodded glumly. He had hoped an apprenticeship might
start on a more auspicious note.

"Ah. A small aversion to menial labor?" The doctor cocked an
eyebrow. "Understandable but misplaced. One should treasure those
humdrum tasks that keep the body occupied but leave the mind and
heart unfettered. Well, we shall strive to help you through your first
day in service. I have thought of a wonderful arrangement." He did
a funny little jig-step. "I talk, you work. Good, eh?"

Simon shrugged. "Do you have a broom? I forgot mine."

Morgenes poked around behind the door, producing at last an
object so worn and cobwebby it was scarcely recognizable as a tool
for sweeping,

"Now," the doctor said, presenting it to him with as much dignity
as if it were the king's own standard, "what do you want me to talk
to you about?"

"About the sea-raiders and their black iron, and the Sithi . . .
and our castle, of course. And King John."

"Ah, yes." He nodded thoughtfully. "A longish list, but if we are
not once again interrupted by that cloth-headed sluggard Inch, I
might be able to whittle it down a bit. Set to, boy, set to -- let the
dust fly! By the by, where exactly in the story was I . . . ?"

"Oh, the Rimmersmen had come, and the Sithi were retreating,
and the Rimmersmen had iron swords and they were chopping peo-
ple up, and killing everyone, killing the Sithi with black iron . . ."

"Hmmm," said Morgenes dryly, "it comes back to me now.
Hmm. Well, truth be told, the northern raiders were not killing quite
everybody; neither were their expansions and assaults quite so relent-
less as I may have made them sound. They were many years in the
north before they ever crossed the Frostmarch -- even then they ran
into a major obstacle: the men of Hemystir."

"Yes, but the Sithi-folk . . . !" Simon was impatient. He knew all
about the Hemystiri -- had met many people from that pagan west-
ern land. "You said that the little people had to flee from the iron
swords!"

"Not little people, Simon, I ... oh, my!" The doctor slumped
down onto a pile of leather-bound books and pulled at his sparse

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              41

chinwhiskers."I can see that I must give this story in greater depth.
Are you expected back for the midday meal?"

"No," Simon lied promptly. An uninterrupted story from the doc-
tor seemed a fair bargain for one of Rachel's fabled thrashings.

"Good. Well, then, let us find ourselves some bread and onions
. . . and perhaps a noggin of something to drink -- talking is such
thirsty work -- then I shall endeavor to turn dross to purest Metal
Absolute: in short, to teach you something."

When they had provisioned themselves, the doctor once more
took a seat.

"Well and well, Simon -- oh, and don't be bashful about wielding
that broom while you eat. The young are so flexible! -- now, correct
me please if I misspeak. The day today is Drorsday, the fifteenth -- 
sixteenth? -- no, fifteenth of Novander. And the year is 1164, is it
not?"

"I think so."

"Excellent. Do put that over on the stool, will you? So, the eleven-
hundred and sixty-fourth year since what? Do you know?"
Morgenes leaned forward.

Simon pulled a sour face. The doctor knew he was a mooncalf and
was testing him. How was a scullion supposed to know about such
things? He continued to sweep in silence.

After some moments he looked up. The doctor was chewing, star-
ing at him intently over a crusty chunk of dark bread.

What sharp blue eyes the old man has!

Simon turned away again.

"Well, then?" the doctor said around a mouthful. "Since what?"

"I don't know," Simon muttered, hating the sound of his own
resentful voice.

"So be it. You don't know -- or you think you don't. Do you listen
to the proclamations when the crier reads them?"

"Sometimes. When I'm at Market. Otherwise Rachel tells me
what they say."

"And what comes at the end? They read the date at the end, do
you remember? -- and mind that crystal um, boy, you sweep like a
man shaving his worst enemy. What does it say at the end?"

Simon, nettled with shame, was about to throw the broom down
and leave when suddenly a phrase floated up from the depths of his
memory, bringing with it market-sounds -- the wind-snapping of

42 Tad Williams

pennants and awnings -- and the clean smell of spring grass strewn
underfoot.

"Since the Founding." He was sure. He heard it as though he
were standing on Main Row.

"Excellent!" The doctor lifted his jar as if in salute and knocked
back a long swallow. "Now, the 'Founding' of what? Don't worry,"
he continued as Simon began to shake his head, "I'll tell you. I don't
expect young men these days -- raised as they are on apocryphal
errantry and derring-do -- to know much of the real substance of
events." The doctor shook his own head, mock-sadly. "The Nab-
banai Imperium was founded -- or declared to be founded -- eleven-
hundred and sixty-whatever-it-was years ago, by Tiyagaris, the first
Imperator. At that time the legions of Nabban ruled all the coun-
tries of Men north and south, on both sides of the River Gleniwent."

"But -- but Nabban is small!" Simon was astonished. "It's just a
small part of King John's kingdom!"

"That, young man," Morgenes said, "is what we call 'history.'
Empires have a tendency to decline; kingdoms to collapse. Given a
thousand years or so, anything can happen -- actually, Nabban's
zenith lasted considerably less than that. What I was getting to,
however, is that Nabban once ruled Men, and Men lived side by side
with the Sithi-folk. The king of the Sithi reigned here in Asu'a -- the
Hayholt, as we call it. The Eri-king -- 'eri' is an old word for Sitha -- 
refused humans the right to enter his people's lands except by spe-
cial grant, and the humans -- more than a little afraid of the Sithi -- 
obeyed."

"What are Sithi? You said they're not the Little Folk."

Morgenes smiled. "I appreciate your interest, lad -- especially
when I haven't put in killing or maiming once yet today! -- but I
would appreciate it even more if you were not so shy with the
broom. Dance with her, boy, dance with her! Look, clean that off, if
you will."

Morgenes trotted over to the wall and pointed to a patch of soot
several cubits in diameter. It looked very much like a footprint.
Simon decided not to ask, and instead set to sweeping it loose from
the white-plastered stone.

"Ahhhh, many thanks to you. I've been wanting to get that down
for months -- since last year's Harrow's Eve, as a matter of fact.
Now, where in the name of the Lesser Vistrils was I . . . ? Oh,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              43

your questions. The Sithi? Well, they were here first, and perhaps
will be here when we're gone. When we're all gone. They are as
different from us as Man is from the Animal -- but somewhat simi-
lar, too. . . ." The doctor stopped to consider.

"To be fair, Man and Animal both live a similarly brief span of
years in Osten Ard, and this is not true of Sithi and Man. If the Fair
Folk are not actually deathless, they are certainly much longer-lived
than any mortal man, even our nonagenarian king. It could be they
do not die at all, except by choice or violence -- perhaps if you are a
Sitha, violence itself might be a choice. . . ."

Morgenes trailed off. Simon was staring at him open-mouthed.

"Oh, shut that jaw, boy, you look like Inch. It's my privilege to
wander in thought a little bit. Would you rather go back and listen
to the Mistress of Chambermaids?"

Simon's mouth closed, and he resumed sweeping the soot off the
wall. He had changed the original footprint shape to something re-
sembling a sheep; he stopped from time to time to eye it apprais-
ingly. An itch of boredom made itself known at thettack of his neck:

he liked the doctor, and would rather be here than anywhere else -- 
but the old man did go on so! Maybe if he swept a little more of the
top part away it would look like a dog . . . ? His stomach growled
quietly.

Morgenes went on to explain, in what Simon thought was perhaps
unnecessary detail, about the era of peace between the subjects of the
ageless Eri-king and those of the upstart human Imperators.

". . . so, Sithi and Man found a sort of balance," the old man
said. "They even traded together a little . . ."

Simon's stomach rumbled loudly. The doctor smiled a tiny smile
and put back the last onion, which he had just lifted from the table.

"Men brought spices and dyes from the Southern Islands, or pre-
cious stones from the Grianspog Mountains in Hemystir; in return
they received beautiful things from the Eri-king's coffers, objects of
cunning and mysterious workmanship."

Simon's patience was at an end. "But what about the shipmen, the
Rimmersmen? What about the iron swords?" He looked about for
something to gnaw on. The last onion? He sidled cautiously over.
Morgenes was facing the window; while he gazed out at the gray
noontide, Simon pocketed the papery brown thing and hurried back

44 Tad Williams

to the wall-spot. Much diminished in size, the splotch now looked
like a serpent.

Morgenes continued without turning away from the window. "I
suppose there has been quite a bit of peaceful-times-and-people in
my history today." He wagged his head, walking back to his seat.
"Peace will soon give way -- never fear." He shook his head again,
and a lock of thin hair settled across his wrinkled forehead. Simon
gnawed furtively at his onion.

"Nabban's golden age lasted a little over four centuries, until the
earliest coming of the Rimmersmen to Osten Ard. The Nabbanai
Imperium had begun to turn in on itself. Tiyagaris' line had finally
died out, and every new Imperator who seized power was another
cast of the dice cup; some were good men who tried to hold the
realm together. Others, like Crexis the Goat, were worse than any
northern reavers. And some, like Enfortis, were just weak.

"During Enfortis' reign the iron-wielders came. Nabban decided
to withdraw from the north altogether. They fell back across the
river Gleniwent so quickly that many of the northern frontier out-
posts found themselves entirely deserted, left behind to join the on-
coming Rimmersmen or die.

"Hmmm . . - Am I boring you, boy?"

Simon, leaning against the wall, jerked himself upright to face
Morgenes' knowing smile.

"No, Doctor, no! I was just closing my eyes to listen better. Go
on!"

Actually, all of these names, names, names were making him a bit
drowsy . . . and he wished the doctor would hurry along to the
parts with battles in them. But he did like to be the only one in the
entire castle to whom Morgenes was speaking. The chambermaids
didn't know anything about these kind of things . . . men things.
What did maids or serving girls know about armies, and flags, and
swords . . . ?

"Simon?"

"Oh! Yes? Go on!" He whirled to sweep off the last of the wall-
blot as the doctor resumed. The wall was clean. Had he finished
without knowing?

"So I will try and make the story a little briefer, lad. As I was
saying, Nabban withdrew its armies from the north, becoming for
the first time purely a southern empire. It was just the beginning of

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              45

the end, of course; as time passed, the Imperium folded itself up just
like a blanket, smaller and smaller until today they are nothing more
than a duchy -- a peninsula with its few attendant islands. What in
the name of Paldir's Arrow are you doing?"

Simon was contorting himself like a hound trying to scratch a
difficult spot. Yes, there was the last of the wall dirt: a snake-shaped
smear across the back of his shirt. He had leaned against it. He
turned sheepishly to Morgenes, but the doctor only laughed and
continued.

"Without the Imperial garrisons, Simon, the north was in chaos.
The shipmen had captured the northernmost part of the
Frostmarch, naming their new home Rimmersgard. Not content
with that, the Rimmersmen were fanning out southward, sweeping
all before them in a bloody advance. Put those folios in a stack
against the wall, will you?

"They robbed and ruined other Men, making captives of many,
but the Sithi they deemed evil creatures; with fire and cold iron they
hunted the Fair Folk to their death everywhere . - . careful with
that one, there's a good lad."

"Over here. Doctor?"

"Yes -- but. Bones of Anaxos, don't drop them! Set them down! If
you knew the terrible midnight hours I spent rolling dice in an
Utanyeat graveyard to get my hands on them . . . ! There! Much
better.

"Now the people ofHemystir -- a proud, fierce people whom even
the Nabbanai Imperators never really conquered -- were not at all
willing to bend their necks to Rimmersgard. They were horrified by
what the northerners were doing to the Sithi. The Hemystiri had
been of all Men the closest to Fair Folk -- there is still visible today
the mark of an ancient trade road between this castle and the Taig at
Hemysadharc. The lord of Hemystir and the Eri-king made a des-
perate compact, and for a while held the northern tide at bay.

"But even combined, their resistance could not last forever.
Fingil, king of the Rimmersmen, swept down across the Frostmarch
over the borders of the Eri-king's territory . . ." Morgenes smiled
sadly. "We're coming to the end now, young Simon, never fear,
coming to the end of it all. . . .

"In the year 663 the two great hosts came to the plains of Ach
Samrath, the Summerfield, north of the River Gleniwent. For five

46 Tad Williams

days of terrible, merciless carnage the Hemystiri and the Sithi held
back the might of the Rimmersmen. On the sixth day, though, they
were set on treacherously from their unprotected flank by an army
of men from the Thrithings, who had long coveted the riches of
Erkynland and the Sithi for their own. They made a fearful charge
under cover of darkness. The defense was broken, the Hemystiri
chariots smashed, the White Stag of the House of Hem trampled
into the bloody dirt. It is said that ten thousand men of Hemystir
died in the field that day. No one knows how many Sithi fell, but
their losses were grievous, too. Those Hemystiri who survived fled
back to the forest of their home. In Hemystir, Ach Samrath is today
a name only for hatred and loss."

"Ten thousand!" Simon whistled. His eyes shone with the terror
and grandness of it all.

Morgenes noted the boy's expression with a small grimace, but
did not comment.

"That was the day that Sithi mastery in Osten Ard came to an
end, even though it took three long years of siege before Asu'a fell to
the victorious northerners.

"If not for strange, horrible magics worked by the Eri-king's son,
there would likely have been not a single Sithi to survive the fall of
the Castle. Many did, however, fleeing to the forests, and south to
the waters and . . . and elsewhere."

Now Simon's attention was fixed as though nailed. "And the Eri-
king's son? What was his name? What kind of magic did he do?" -- a
sudden thought -- "How about Prester John? I thought you were
going to tell me about the king -- our king!"

"Another day, Simon." Morgenes fanned his brow with a sheaf of
whisper-thin parchments, although the chamber was quite cool.
"There is much to tell about the dark ages after Asu'a fell, many
stories. The Rimmersmen ruled here until the dragon came. In later
years, while the dragon slept, other men held the castle. Many years
and several kings in the Hayholt, many dark years and many deaths
until John came. . . ." He trailed off, passing a hand over his face
as though to brush weariness away.

"But what about the king of the Sithi's son?" Simon asked quietly.
"What about the ... the 'terrible magic'?"

"About the Eri-king's son ... it is better to say nothing."

"But why?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              47

"Enough questions, boy!" Morgenes growled, waving his hands.
"I am tired of talking!"

Simon was offended. He had only been trying to hear the whole
story; why were grown people so easily upset? However, it was best
not to boil the hen who lays golden eggs.

"I'm sorry, Doctor." He tried to look contrite, but the old scholar
looked so funny with his pink, flushed monkey-face and his wispy
hair sticking up! Simon felt his lip curling toward a smile. Morgenes
saw it, but maintained his stem expression.

"Truly, I'm sorry." No change. What to try next? "Thank you for
telling me the story."

"Not a 'story'!" Morgenes roared. "History! Now be off with you!
Come back tomorrow morning ready to work, for you have still
barely begun today's work!"

Simon got up, trying to keep his smile in check, but as he turned
to go it broke loose and wriggled across his face like a ribbon-snake.
As the door closed behind him he heard Morgenes cursing whatever
eldritch demons had hidden his jug of porter.

Afternoon sunlight was knifing down through chinks in the heavy
clouds as Simon made his way back to the Inner Bailey. On the face
of it he seemed to dawdle and gape, a tall, awkward, red-haired boy
in dust caked clothes. Inside he was aswarm with strange thoughts,
a hive of buzzing, murmuring desires.

Look at this castle, he thought -- old and dead, stone pressed upon
lifeless stone, a pile of rocks inhabited by small-minded creatures.
But it had been different once. Great things had happened here.
Horns had blown, swords had glittered, great armies had crashed
against each other and rebounded like the waves of the Kynslagh
battering the Seagate wall. Hundreds of years had passed, but it
seemed to Simon it was happening just now only for him, while the
slow, witless folk who shared the castle with him crawled past,
thinking of nothing but the next meal, and a nap directly afterward.

Idiots.

As he came through the postern gate a glimmer of light caught his
eye, drawing it up to the distant walkway that ringed Hjeldin's
Tower. A girl stood there, bright and small as a piece of jewelry, her
green dress and golden hair embracing the ray of sunlight as if it had
arrowed down from the sky for her alone. Simon could not see her

48 Tad Williams

face, but he was somehow certain she was beautiful -- beautiful and
forgiving as the image of the Immaculate Elysia that stood in the
chapel.

For a moment that flash of green and gold kindled him like a
spark on dry timber. He felt all the bother and resentment that he
had carried disappear, burned away in a hasty second. He was as
light and buoyant as swansdown, prey to any breeze that might
carry him away, might waft him up to that golden gleam.

Then he looked away from the wonderful faceless girl, down at his
own ragged garments. Rachel was waiting, and his dinner had got-
ten cold. A certain indefinable weight climbed back into its accus-
tomed seat, bending his neck and slumping his shoulders as he
trudged toward the servants' quarters.

The Tower Window

NOVANDER was sputtering out in wind and delicate snow; Decander
waited patiently, year's-end in its train.

King John Presbyter had been taken ill after calling his two sons
back to the Hayholt, and had returned to his shadowed room, again
to be surrounded by leeches, learned doctors, and scolding, fretting
body servants. Bishop Domitis swept in from Saint Sutrin's, Erches-
ter's great church, and set up shop at John's bedside, shaking the
king awake at all hours to inspect the texture and heft of the royal
soul. The old man, continuing to weaken, bore both pain and priest
with gallant stoicism.

In the tiny chamber next to the king's own that Towser had occu-
pied for forty years the sword Bright-Nail lay, oiled and scabbarded,
wrapped in fine linens at the bottom of the jester's oaken chest.

Far and wide across the broad face of Osten Ard the word flew:

Prester John was dying. Hemystir in the west and northern
Rimmersgard immediately dispatched delegations to the bedside of
stricken Erkynland. Old Duke Isgrimnur, John's left-hand compan-
ion at the Great Table, brought fifty Rimmersmen from Elvritshalla
and Naarved, the whole company wrapped head to foot in furs and
leather for the winter crossing of the Frostmarch. Only twenty
Hemystiri accompanied King Lluth's son Gwythinn, but the bright
gold and silver they wore flashed bravely, outshining the poor cloth
of their garments.

The castle began to come alive with the music of languages long
unheard, Rimmerspakk and Perdruinese and Harcha-tongue.
Naraxi's rolling island speech floated in the gateyard, and the stables
echoed to the singsong cadences of the Thrithings-men -- the
grasslanders, as always, most comfortable around horses. Over these
and all others hung the droning speech of Nabban, the busy tongue

50 Tad Williams

of Mother Church and her Aedonite priests, taking charge as always
of the comings and goings of men and their souls.

In the tall Hayholt and Erchester below these small armies of
foreigners came together and flowed apart, for the most part without
incident. Although many of these peoples had been ancient enemies,
nearly four score years beneath the High King's Ward had healed
many wounds. More gills of ale were bought than harsh words
traded.

There was one worrisome exception to this rule of harmony -- one
difficult to miss or misunderstand. Everywhere they met, under
Hayholt's broad gates or in the narrow alleyways of Erchester,
Prince Elias' green-liveried soldiers and Prince Josua's gray-shirted
retainers jostled and argued, mirroring in public the private division
of the king's sons. Prester John's Erkynguard were called upon to
break up several ugly brawls. At last, one of Josua's supporters was
stabbed by a young Meremund noble, an intimate of the heir-appar-
ent. Luckily, Josua's man took no fatal harm -- the blow was a
drunken one, and poorly aimed -- and the partisans were forced to
heed the rebukes of the older courtiers. The troops of the two
princes returned to cold stares and disdainful sneers; open bloodshed
was averted.

These were strange days in Erkynland, and in all of Osten Ard,
days freighted with equal measures of sorrow and excitement. The
king was not dead, but it seemed he soon would be. The whole world
was changing -- how could anything remain the same once Prester
John no longer sat the Dragonbone Chair?

^

". . . Udunsday: dream . . . Drorsday: better . . . Frayday:

best . . . Satrinsday: market day . . . Sunday -- rest!"

Down the creaking stairs two at a clip, Simon sang the old rhyme
at the top of his voice. He almost knocked over Sophrona the Linen
Mistress as she led a squadron of blanket-burdened maids in at the
Pine Garden door. She threw herself back against the doorjamb with
a little shriek as Simon pounded by. then waved a skinny fist at his
fast-departing back.

"I'll tell Rachel!" she shouted. Her charges stifled laughter.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

51

Who cared for Sophrona? Today was Satrinsday -- market day -- 
and Judith the cook had given Simon two pennies to buy some
things for her, and a fithing piece -- glorious Satrinsday! -- to spend
on himself. The coins made a lovely, suggestive clink in his leather
purse as he spiraled out through the castle's acres of long, circular
courtyards, out the Inner Bailey gate to Middle Bailey, nearly empty
now since its residents, the soldiers and the artisans, were mostly on
duty or at market.

In Outer Bailey animals milled in the commons yard, bumping
miserably together in the cold, guarded by herders who looked
scarcely more cheerful. Simon bustled along the rows of low houses,
storage rooms, and animal sheds, many of them so old and over-
grown with winter-naked ivy that they seemed only warty growths
on the High Keep's inner walls.

The sun was glinting through the clouds on the carvings that
swarmed the mighty chalcedony face of the Nearulagh Gate. As he
slowed to a puddle-dodging trot, staring open-mouthed at the intri-
cate depictions of King John's victory over Ardrivis -- the battle that
had brought Nabban at last under the royal hand -- Simon heard the
tumult of swift hooves and the shrill squeak of cart wheels. He
looked up in horror to find himself faced with the white, rolling eyes
of a horse, mud gouting from beneath its hooves as it plunged
through the Nearulagh Gate. Simon flung himself out of the way
and felt wind on his face as the horse thundered by, the cart drawn
behind it pitching wildly. He had a brief glimpse of the driver,
dressed in a dark hooded cloak lined with scarlet. The man's eyes
raked him as the cart hurtled past -- they were black and shiny, like
the cruel button-orbs of a shark; although the contact was fleeting,
Simon felt almost that the driver's gaze burned him. He reeled back,
clutching at the stone facing of the gate, and watched as the cart
disappeared around the track of Outer Bailey. Chickens squawked
and flapped in its wake, except for those that lay crushed and bloody
in the wagon's ruts. Muddied feathers drifted to the ground.

"Here, boy, not hurt are you?" One of the gatewarders peeled
Simon's trembling hand from the carvings and set him back upright.
"Get on with you, then."

Snow swirled in the air and stuck melting to his cheeks as he
walked down the long hill toward Erchester. The chink of the coins
in his pocket now played to a slower, wobbly-kneed rhythm.

52 Tad Williams

"That priest is mad as the moon," Simon heard the warder say to
his gate companion. "Were he not Prince Elias' man . . ."

Three little children following their toiling mother up the damp
hillpath pointed at long-legged Simon as he passed, laughing at the
expression on his pale face.

Main Row was roofed all over with stitched skins that stretched
across the wide thoroughfare from building to building. At each
waycrossing were set great stone fire-cairns, most -- but certainly not
all -- of their smokes billowing up through holes in the roof-tenting.
Snow fluttering down through the chimney holes sizzled and hissed
in the hot air. Warming themselves by the flames or strolling and
talking -- all the while surreptitiously examining the goods displayed
on every side -- Erchester and Hayholt folk mixed with those of the
outer fiefs, eddying together in and out of the wide central row
which ran two full leagues from the Nearulagh Gate to Battle
Square at the city's far end. Caught up in the press, Simon found his
spirits reviving. What should he care for a drunken priest? After all,
it was market day!

Today the usual army of marketers and shrill-voiced hawkers,
wide-eyed provincials, gamblers, cutpurses, and musicians was
swelled by the soldiery of the various missions to the dying king.
Rimmersman, Hemystiri, Warinstenner or Perdruinese, their swag-
ger and bright garb caught Simon's jackdaw fancy. He followed one
group of blue and gold clad Nabbanai legionaries, admiring their
strut and easy superiority, understanding without language the off-
hand way they insulted each other. He was edging up closer, hoping
for a clear look at the short stabbing-swords they wore scabbarded
high on their waists, when one of them -- a bright-eyed soldier wear-
ing a thin, dark mustache -- turned and saw him.

"Hea, brothers!" he said with a grin, grabbing at one of his fel-
lows' arms. "Look now! A young sneaking thief, I wager, and one
who has his eye on your purse, Turis!"

Both men squared to face Simon, and the heavy, bearded one
called Turis gave the youth a grim stare. "Did he touch it, then I
would kill," he growled- His command of the Westerling speech was
not as sure as the first man's; he seemed to lack the other's humor as
well.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               53

Three other legionaries had now come back to join the first pair.
They gradually closed in until Simon felt like a winded fox.

"What's here, Gelles?" one of the new arrivals asked Tuns' com-
panion. "Hue fauge? Did this one steal?"

"Nai, nai . . ." Gelles chuckled, "I was but having sport with
Turis. Skinny-one here did nothing."

"I have my own purse!" Simon said indignantly. He untied it from
his belt and waved it in the soldiers' smirking faces. "I am no thief! I
live in the king's household! Your king!" The soldiers all laughed.

"Hea, listen to him!" Gelles shouted. "Our king he says, so very
bold!"

Simon could see now that the young legionary was drunk. Some -- 
but not all -- of his fascination turned to disgust.

"Hea, lads," Gelles waggled his eyebrows. " 'Mulveiz-nei cenit
drenisend,' they say -- let us beware this pup, then, and let him
sleep!" Another round of hilarity followed. Simon, red-faced, se-
cured his purse and turned to go.

"Goodbye, castle-mouse!" one of the soldiers called mockingly.
Simon did not turn or speak, but hurried away.

He had gone past one of the fire-caims and out from under the
Main Row awnings when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He
whirled, thinking that the Nabban-men had returned to insult him
further, but instead found a plump man with a weather-hardened
pink face. The stranger wore the gray robe and tonsure of a mendi-
cant friar.

"Your pardon, my young lad," he said, with a Hemystirman's
crackling burr, "I only wished to find out if you were safe, then, if
those goirach fellows had done you harm." The stranger reached out
to Simon and patted him, as if searching for damage. His heavy-
lidded eyes, fitted round about with wrinkles marking the curves of a
frequent smile, nevertheless held something back: a deeper shadow,
troubling but not frightening. Simon realized he was staring, almost
against his will, and shied back.

"No, thank you. Father," he said, startled into the patterns of
formality. "They were just making sport of me. No harm."

"Good that is, very good . . . Ah, forgive me, I have not intro-
duced myself. I am Brother Cadrach ec-Crannhyr, of the Vilderivan
Order." He pulled a small, self-deprecatory smile. His breath

54 Tad Williams

smelled of wine "I came with Pnnce Gwythmn and his men Who
might you be9"

"Simon I live in the Hayholt " He made a vague gesture toward
the castle

The fnar smiled again, saying nothing, then turned to watch a
Hyrkaman walk by, dressed in bright, disparate colors and leading a
muzzled bear on a chain When the duo had passed, Cadrach re-
turned his small, sharp eyes to Simon.

"There are some that say the Hyrkas can talk to animals, have
you heard9 Especially their horses And that the ammals understand
perfectly " The fnar gave a mocking shrug, as if to show that a man
of God naturally would not believe such nonsense.

Simon did not reply He, of course, had also heard such tales
related about the wild Hyrkamen Shem Horsegoom swore the sto-
nes were pure truth The Hyrkas were often seen at market, where
they sold beautiful horses at outrageous prices, and befuddled the
villagers with tncks and puzzles Thinking about them -- especially
their less-than-honest reputation -- Simon put a hand down and
grabbed his leather purse, reassunng himself by the feel of the corns
inside

"Thank you for your help, Father," he said at last -- although he
could not actually remember the man doing anything helpful "I
must go now. I have spices to buy "

Cadrach looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to remem-
ber something, a clue to which might be hidden in Simon's face At
last he said- "I would like to ask you a favor, young man "

"What?" Simon said suspiciously

"As I mentioned, I am a stranger in your Erchester Perhaps you
would be good enough to guide me around for a short while, just to
help me You could then go on your way, having done a good turn."

"Oh." Simon felt somewhat relieved His first impulse was to say
no -- it was so rarely that he got an afternoon to himself at the mar-
ket But how often did you get to talk with an Aedonite monk from
pagan Hernystir9 Also, this Brother Cadrach did not seem like the
type who only wanted to lecture you about sin and damnation He
looked the man over again, but the monk's face was unreadable

"Well, I suppose so -- certainly Come along      do you want to
see the Nascadu-dancers in Battle Square      ?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

55

*

Cadrach was an interesting companion Although he talked
freely, telling Simon of the cold journey from Hemysadharc to
Erchester with Prince Gwythmn, and made frequent jests about the
passersby and their various exotic costumes, still he seemed re-
strained, watching always for something even as he laughed at his
own stones He and Simon wandered the market for a good part of
the afternoon, looking at the tables of cakes and dned vegetables
that stood against the shop walls of Main Row, smelling the warm
smells of the bread bakers and chestnut vendors Noting Simon's
wistful gaze, the fnar insisted they stop and buy a rough straw
basket of roasted nuts, which he kindly paid for, giving the chap-
faced chestnut man a half-fithmg piece nimbly plucked from a
pocket in his gray cassock After burning fingers and tongues trying
to eat the nut meats they conceded defeat and stood watchmg a
comical argument between a wine merchant and a Juggler blocking
his wine-shop doorway while they waited for their purchase to cool

Next they halted to watch a Usires Play being enacted for a gaggle
of shnekmg children and fascinated adults The puppets bobbed and
bowed, Usires in his white gown being chased by the Imperator
Crexis weanng goat-horns and a beard, and waving a long, barb-
headed pike At last Usires was captured and hung upon the Execu-
tion Tree; Crexis, his voice high and shnll, leaped about poking and
tormenting the tree-nailed Savior The children, wildly excited,
shouted abuse at the capenng Imperator

Cadrach nudged Simon "Do you see9" he asked, pointing a thick
finger toward the front of the puppet-stage The curtain that hung
from the stage to the ground billowed, as if in a strong breeze
Cadrach nudged Simon again

"Would you not say that this is a fine representation of Our
Lord9" he asked, never once taking his eyes from the flapping cloth
Above, Crexis jigged and Usires suffered. "While man plays out his
show, the Manipulator remains unseen, we know Him not by sight,
but by the ways His puppets move And occasionally the curtain
stirs, that hides Him from His faithful audience Ah, but we are
grateful even for just that movement behind the curtain -- grateful!"

Simon stared; at last Cadrach looked away from the puppet show
and met his gaze A strange, sad smile cnmped the comer of the
friar's mouth, for once the look in his eyes seemed to match

56 Tad Williams

"Ah, boy," he said, "and what should you know of religious mat-
ters, anyway?"

They strolled for some while longer before Brother Cadrach at
last took his leave with many thanks to the young man for his
hospitality. Simon continued to walk aimlessly long after the monk
was gone, and the patches of sky that could been seen through the
roof-tenting were filmed with early darkness before he remembered
his errand.

At the spice-merchant's stall he discovered that his purse was
gone.

His heart thumped triple-time as he thought back in panic. He
knew that he had felt it swinging on his belt when he and Cadrach
had stopped to buy chestnuts, but could summon no memories of
having it later in the afternoon. Whenever it had disappeared,
though, it was definitely gone now -- along with not just his own
flthing piece, but also the two pennies entrusted to him by Judith!

He searched the market vainly until the sky-holes had gone black
as an old kettle. The snow that he had barely felt before seemed very
cold and very wet as he returned, empty-handed, to the castle.

Worse than beating -- as Simon discovered when he came home
without spices or money -- was the look of disappointment that
sweet, fat, flour-dusted Judith gave him. Rachel also used this most
unfair of gambits, punishing him with nothing more painful than an
expression of disgust at his childishness and a promise that he would
"work fingers to the nubbin" earning the money back. Even
Morgenes, whom Simon went to half in hope of sympathy, seemed
faintly surprised at the youth's carelessness. All in all, although
spared a thrashing, he had never felt lower or more sorry for him-
self-

^

Sunday came and went, a dark, slushy day in which most of the
Hayholt's staff seemed to be at chapel saying a prayer for King John
 -- that, or telling Simon to go away. He had exactly the kind of
scratchy, irritable, kick-things-across-the-floor sort of feeling that

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

57

could usually be soothed by visiting Morgenes or trekking out of
doors to do some exploring. The doctor, however, was busy -- locked
in with Inch, working on something that he said was large, danger-
ous, and likely to catch fire; Simon would not be needed for any-
thing. The weather outside was so cold and dismal that even in his
misery he could not convince himself to go a-roving. Instead, he
spent the endless afternoon with the chandler's fat apprentice Jere-
mias, tossing rocks from one of the turrets of the Inner Bailey wall
and arguing in a desultory way as to whether the fish in the moat
froze during the winter or, if not, where they went until Spring's
arrival.

The chill outside -- as well as the different kind of chill in the
servants' quarters -- still prevailed Moonday when he arose, feeling
weedy and unpleasant. Morgenes also seemed in a damp and unre-
sponsive mood, and so when Simon had finished his chores in the
doctor's chambers he filched some bread and cheese from the pantry
larder and went off to be by himself.

For a while he moped by the Hall of Records in the Middle Bai-
ley, listening to the dry, insectlike sounds of the Writing-Priests, but
after an hour he begin to feel as though it was his own skin on which
the scribes' pens were scratching and scratching and scratch-
ing. ...

He decided to take his dinner and climb the stairs of Green Angel
Tower, something he had not done since the weather had begun to
turn. Since Bamabas the sexton would as gladly chase him off as go
to Heaven, he resolved to bypass the chapel route to the tower en-
tirely, taking instead his own secret path to the upper floors. Tying
his meal securely in his handkerchief, he set out.

Walking through the seemingly endless halls of the Chancelry,
passing continuously from covered passage to open courtyard and
back under cover again -- this part of the castle was dotted with
small, enclosed yards -- he superstitiously avoided looking up at the
tower. Eminently slender and pale, it dominated the southwestern
comer of the Hayholt like a birch tree in a rock garden, so impossi-
bly tall and delicate that from ground level it almost appeared to be
standing on some far hillside, miles and miles beyond the castle's
wall. Standing beneath he could hear it shudder in the wind, as
though it were a lute string tight-cinched on some celestial peg.

58 Tad Williams

The first four stories of Green Angel Tower looked no different
than any of the other hundreds of varied structures of the castle.
Past masters of the Hayholt had cloaked its slim base in granite
outwalls and battlements -- whether out of legitimate desire for im-
proved security or because the alienness of the tower was unsettling,
no one could know. Above the level of the encircling bailey wall the
armoring stopped; the tower thrust nakedly upward, a beautiful al-
bino creature escaping its drab cocoon. Balconies and windows in
strangely abstract patterns were cut directly into the stone's glossy
surface, like the carved whalefish teeth Simon often saw at market.
At the tower's pinnacle shimmered a distant flare of copper-gold and
green: the Angel herself, one arm outstretched as if in a gesture of
farewell, the other shading her eyes as she stared into the eastern
distance.

The huge, noisy Chancelry was even more confounding than
usual today. Father Helfcene's cassocked minions dashed back and
forth from one chamber to another, or huddled for shivering discus-
sions in the chill, snowflecked air of the courtyards. Several, bearing
rolled papers and distracted expressions, tried to commandeer Si-
mon for errands to the Hall of Records, but he bluffed his way
through, protesting a mission for Doctor Morgenes.

In the throne room antechamber he halted, pretending to admire
the vast mosaics while he waited for the last of the Chancelry priests
to hurry through to the chapel beyond. When his moment came, he
levered the door open and slid through into the throne room.

The huge hinges creaked, then went silent. Simon's own footsteps
echoed and re-echoed, then stopped, fading at last into the deep,
breathing quiet. No matter how many times he snuck through this
room -- for several years he had been, as far as he knew, the only
castle resident who dared enter it -- it never seemed less than awe-
inspiring.

Just last month, after King John's unexpected rising, Rachel and
her crew had finally been allowed past the forbidden threshold; they
had indulged themselves with a two-week assault on years of dust
and grit, on broken glass and birds' nests and the webs of spiders
long since gone to their eight-legged ancestors. But even thoroughly
cleaned, with its flagstones mopped, its walls washed down, and
some -- but not all -- of the banners shed of their armor of dust, de-
spite relentless and implacable tidying, the throne room emanated a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              59

certain age and stillness. Time here seemed bound only to the mea-
sured tread of antiquity.

The dais stood at the great room's far end, in a pool of light that
poured down from a figured window in the vaulted ceiling. Upon it
the Dragonbone Chair stood like a strange altar -- untenanted, sur-
rounded by bright, dancing motes of dust, flanked by the statues of
the Hayholt's six High Kings.

The bones of the chair were huge, thicker than Simon's legs, pol-
ished so that they gleamed dully like burnished stone. With a few
exceptions they had been cut and fitted in such a way that, although
their size was evident, it was difficult to guess in which part of the
great fire-worm's mighty carcass they had once sheltered. Only the
chair back, a great seven-cubit fan of curving yellow ribs behind the
king's velvet cushions, reaching far above Simon's head, could be
seen immediately for what it was -- that and the skull. Perched atop
the back of the great seat, jutting far enough to serve as an awning -- 
if more than a thin film of sunlight ever penetrated the shadowed
throne room -- were the brain-case and jaws of the dragon Shurakai.
The eye-holes were broken black windows, the teeth curving spikes
as long as Simon's hands. The dragon's skull was the color of old
parchment, and webbed with tiny cracks, but there was something
alive about it -- terribly, wonderfully alive.

In fact, there was an astonishing and holy aura about this entire
room that went far beyond Simon's understanding. The throne of
heavy, yellowed bones, the massive black figures guarding an empty
chair in a high, deserted chamber, all seemed filled with some dread
power. All eight inhabitants of the room, the scullion, the statues,
and the huge eyeless skull, seemed to hold their breath.

These stolen moments filled Simon with a quiet, almost fearful,
ecstasy. Perhaps the malachite kings but waited with black, stony
patience for the boy to touch a blasphemous commoner's hand to
the dragonbone seat, waited . . . waited . . . and then, with a
horrible creaking noise, they would come to life! He shivered with
nervous pleasure at his own imaginings and stepped lightly forward,
surveying the dark faces. Their names had been so familiar once,
when they had been strung-together nonsense in a child's rhyme, a
rhyme Rachel -- Rachel? Could that be right? -- had taught him

60 Tad Williams

when he was a giggling ape of four years or so. Could he remember
them still?

If his own childhood seemed so long ago, he suddenly wondered,
how must it feel to Prester John, who wore so many decades? Merci-
lessly clear, as when Simon remembered past humiliations, or soft
and insubstantial, like stories of the glorious past? When you were
old, did your memories crowd out your other thoughts? Or did you
lose them -- your childhood, your hated enemies, your friends?

How did that old song go? Six kings . . .

Six Kings have ruled in Hayholt's broad halls
Six masters have stridden her mighty stone walls
Six mounds on the cliff over deep Kynslagh-bay
Six kings will sleep there until Doom's final day

That was it!

Fingil first, named the Bloody King
Flying out of the North on war's red wing

Hjeldin his son, the Mad King dire
Leaped to his death from the haunted spire

Ikferdig next, the Burned King hight
He met the fire-drake by dark of night

Three northern kings, all dead and cold
The North rules no more in lofty Hayholt

Those were the three Rimmersgard kings on the left of the throne.
Wasn't Fingil the one Morgenes spoke of, the leader of the dreadful
army? The one who killed the Sithi? So, on the right side of the
yellowed bones the rest must be ...

The Heron King Suits, called Apostate
Fled Nabban, but in Hayholt he met his fate

The Hemystir Holly King, old Tethtain
Came in at the gate, but not out again

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              61

Last, Eahlstan Fisher King, in lore most high
The dragon he woke, and in Hayholt he died . . .

Hah! Simon stared at the Heron King's sad, pinched face and
gloated. My memory is better than most people think -- better than
that of most mooncalves! Of course, now there was at last a seventh
king in the Hayholt -- old Prester John. Simon wondered if someone
would add King John to the song someday.

The sixth statue, closest to the throne's right arm, was Simon's
favorite: the only native Erkynlander who had ever sat on the
Hayholt's great seat. He moved closer to look into the deep-cut eyes
of Saint Eahlstan -- called Eahlstan Fiskeme because he came from
the fisher-people of the Gleniwent, called The Martyr because he too
had been slain by the fire-drake Shurakai, the creature destroyed at
last by Prester John.

Unlike the Burned King on the throne's other side, the Fisher
King's face was not carved in a twist of fear and doubt: rather the
sculptor had brought radiant faith into the stony features, had given
opaque eyes the illusion of seeing faraway things. The long-dead
artisan had made Eahlstan humble and reverent, but had also made
him bold. In his secret thoughts, Simon often imagined that his own
fisherman father might have looked like this.

Staring, Simon felt a sudden coldness on his hand. He was touch-
ing the Chair's bone armrest! A scullion touching the throne! He
snatched his fingers away -- wondering all the while how even the
dead substance of such a fiery beast could feel so chill -- and stum-
bled back a step.

It seemed for a heart-seizing moment that the statues had begun
to lean toward him, shadows stretching on the tapestried wall, and
he skittered backward. When nothing resembling actual movement
followed, he straightened himself with what dignity he could, bowed
to Kings and Chair, and backed across the stone floor. Searching
with his hand -- calmly, calmly, he thought to himself, don't be a
frightened fool -- he at last found the door into the standing room,
his original destination. With a cautious look back at the reassur-
ingly immobile tableau, he slipped through.

Behind the standing room's heavy tapestry, thick red velvet em-
broidered with festival scenes, a staircase inside the wall mounted to
a privy at the top of the throne room's southern gallery. Chiding

62 Tad Williams

himself for his nervousness of moments before, he climbed it. At the
top it was a simple enough matter to squeeze out of the privy's long
window-slit and onto the wall that ran beneath. The trick, however,
was a little more difficult now than when he had been here last in
Septander: the stones were snow-slippery, and there was a deter-
mined breeze. Fortunately the wall top was wide; Simon negotiated
it carefully.

Now came the pan that he liked best. The comer of this wall
came out within only five or six feet of the broad lee of Green Angel
Tower's fourth-floor turret. Pausing, he could almost hear the bray
of trumpets, the clash of knights battling on the decks below him as
he prepared to leap through the fierce wind from mast to burning
mast. . . .

Whether his foot slipped a little as he jumped, or his attention was
distracted by the imaginary sea-skirmish below, Simon landed badly
on the edge of the turret. He caught his knee a tremendous crack on
the stone, nearly sliding back and off, which would have dropped
him two long fathoms onto the low wall at the tower's base or into
the moat. The sudden realization of his peril spurred his heart into a
terrified gallop. Instead he managed to slide down into the space
between the turret's upstanding merlons, crawling forward to slip
down onto the floor of long boards.

A light snow sifted down as he sat, feeling horribly foolish, and
hugged his throbbing knee. It hurt like sin, betrayal, and treachery;

if he had not been conscious of how childish he must already seem,
he would have cried.

At last he climbed to his feet and limped into the tower. One piece
of luck, anyway: no one had heard his painful landing. His disgrace
was his alone. He felt in his pocket -- the bread and cheese were
rather nastily flattened, but still eatable. That, too, was a small so-
lace.

Climbing stairs on his aching knee was an effort, but it was no
good getting into Green Angel Tower, tallest building in Erkynland
 -- probably in all ofOsten Ard -- and then not getting up any higher
than the Hayholt's main walls.

The tower staircase was low and narrow, the steps made of a
clean, smooth white stone unlike any other in the castle, slippery to
the touch but sure beneath one's feet. The castle folk said that this

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              63

tower was the only part of the original Sithi stronghold that re-
mained unchanged. Doctor Morgenes had once told Simon that this
was untrue. Whether that meant that the tower had indeed been
changed, or simply that other unsullied remnants of old Asu'a still
remained, the doctor -- in his maddening style -- would not say.

Having climbed for several minutes, Simon could see from the
windows that he was already higher than Hjeldin's Tower. The
somewhat sinister domed column where the Mad King had long ago
met his death gazed up at Green Angel across the expanse of the
throne room roof, as a jealous dwarf might stare at his prince when
no one was looking.

The stone facing on the inside of the stairwell was different here: a
soft fawn color, traced across with minute, puzzling designs in sky
blue. Turning his attention away from Hjeldin's Tower, he stopped
for a moment where the light of a high window shone on the wall,
but when he tried to follow the course of one of the delicate blue
scrolls it made his head dizzy and he gave up.

At last, when it seemed he had been climbing" painfully for hours,
the staircase opened out onto the shiny white floor of the bell tower,
this, too, constructed from the unusual stair-stone. Although the
tower stretched up another near-hundred cubits, tapering to the An-
gel herself perched on the cloudy horizon, the staircase ended here
where the great bronze bells hung row by row from the vaulted
rafters like solemn green fruit. The bell chamber itself was open on
all sides to the cold air, so that when Green Angel's chimes sang
from its high-arched windows the whole countryside might hear.

Simon stood with his back against one of the six pillars of dark,
smooth, rock-solid wood that spanned floor to ceiling. As he chewed
his crust of bread he looked out across the western vista, where the
Kynslagh's waters rolled eternally against the Hayholt's massive sea
wall. Although the day was dark, and snowflakes danced crazily
before him, Simon was startled by the clarity with which the world
below rose to his eyes. Many small boats rode the Kynslagh's swells,
lake men in black cloaks bent stolidly over their oars. Beyond, he
thought he could dimly make out the place where the river
Gleniwent issued out of the lake at the start of its long journey to the
ocean, a winding course of half a hundred miles, past dock-towns
and farms. Out of Gleniwent, in the arms of the sea herself, Warin-

64 Tad Williams

sten island watched the river mouth; beyond Warinsten to the west
lay nothing but uncountable, uncharged leagues of ocean.

He tested his sore knee and decided for the moment against sitting
down, which would necessitate rising again. He pulled his hat down
over his ears, which were reddening and stinging in the wind, and
started in on a piece of crumbling cheese. To his right, but far past
the limits of his vision, were the meadows and jutting hills of Ach
Samrath, the outermost marches of the kingdom of Hemystir, and
the site of the terrible battle Morgenes had described. On his left
hand, across the broad Kynslagh, rolled the Thrithings -- grasslands
seemingly without end. Eventually, of course, they did end; beyond
lay Nabban, Pirranos Bay and its islands, and the marshy Wran
country ... all places Simon had never seen and most likely never
would.

Growing bored at last with the unchanging Kynslagh and imagin-
ings of the unseeable South, he limped to the other side of the bell
chamber. Seen from the center of the room, where no details of the
land below were visible, the swirling, featureless cloud-darkness was
a gray hole into nowhere, and the tower was momentarily a ghost-
ship adrift on a foggy, empty sea. Wind howled and sang around the
open window frames; the bells hummed faintly, as if the storm had
driven small, frightened spirits into their bronze skins.

Simon reached the low sill and leaned out to look at the mad
jumble of the Hayholfs roofs below him. At first the wind tugged as
though it wished to catch him up and toss him, like a kitten sporting
with a dead leaf. He tightened his grip on the wet stone, and soon
the wind eased. He smiled: from this vantage point the Hayholfs
magnificent hodgepodge of roofs -- each a different height and style,
each with its forest of chimney pots, rooftrees, and domes -- looked
like a yard full of odd, square animals. They sprawled half-atop one
another, struggling for space like hogs at their feed.

Shorter only than the two towers, the dome of the castle chapel
dominated the Inner Bailey, colorful windows draped in sleet. The
keep's other buildings, the residences, dining hall, throne room and
chancelry, were each one of them stacked and squeezed with addi-
tions, mute evidence of the castle's diverse tenantry. The two outer
baileys and the massive curtain wall, descending concentrically
down the hill, were similarly cluttered. The Hayholt itself had never

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              65

expanded past the outwall; the people crowding in built upward, or
divided what they already had into smaller and smaller portions.

Beyond the keep the town of Erchester stretched out in street
after careless street of low houses, wrapped in a mantle of white
drifts; only the cathedral reared up from their midst, itself dwarfed
by the Hayholt and by Simon in his sky-tower. Here and there a
feather of smoke drifted upward to shred in the wind.

Past the city walls Simon could make out the dim, snow-
smoothed outlines of the Itch-yard -- the old pagan cemetery, a place
of ill repute. The downs beyond it ran almost to the forest's edge;

above their humble congregation the tall hill called Thisterborg
stood as dramatically as the cathedral in low-roofed Erchester. Si-
mon could not see them, but he knew that Thisterborg was crowned
with a ring of wind-polished rock pillars that the villagers called the
Anger Stones.

And beyond Erchester, past the lich-yard and downs and stone-
capped Thisterborg, lay the Forest. Aldheorte was its name -- 
Oldheart -- and it stretched outward like the sea, vast, dark, and
unknowable. Men lived on its fringes, even maintained a few roads
along its outer edges, but very few ventured inward beyond its skirts.
It was a great, shadowy country in the middle of Osten Ard; it sent
no embassies, and received few visitors. Placed against its eminence
even the huge Circoille, the Combwood of Hernystir in the west, was
a mere copse. There was only one Forest.

The sea to the West, the Forest to the East; the North and its iron
men, and the land of shattered empires in the South . . . staring
out across the face of Osten Ard, Simon forgot his knee for a while.
Indeed, for a time Simon himself was king of all the known world.

When the shrouded winter sun had passed the top of the sky, he
moved at last to leave. Straightening his leg forced out a gasp of
pain: the knee had stiffened in the long hour he had stood at the sill.
It was obvious that he would not be able to take his strenuous secret
route down from the bell tower. He would have to chance his luck
against Bamabas and Father Dreosan.

The long stairway was a misery, but the view from the tower
window had pushed away his other regrets; he did not feel nearly as
sorry for himself as he otherwise might have. The desire to see more
of the world glowed within him like a low-banked fire, warming him

66 Tad Williams

to his fingertips. He would ask Morgenes to tell him more of Nabban
and the Southern Islands, and of the Six Kings.

At the fourth level, where he had made his original entry, he
heard a sound: someone moving quickly down the stairwell below
him. For a moment he stood still, wondering if he had been discov-
ered -- it was not strictly forbidden to be in the tower, but he had no
good reason for his presence; the sexton would presume guilt. It was
strange, though -- the footfalls were receding. Certainly Bamabas or
anyone else would not hesitate to come up and get him, to lead him
down by the much-handled scruff of his neck. Simon continued
down the winding stairs; cautiously at first; then, despite his throb-
bing knee, faster and faster as his curiosity got the better of him.

The staircase ended at last in the huge entry hall of the tower. The
hall was dimly lit, its walls cloaked in shadows and faded tapestries
of subjects probably religious but long since obscured. He paused at
the last step, still concealed in the darkness of the stairwell. There
was no sound of footsteps -- or of anything else. He walked as si-
lently as possible across the nagged floor, every accidental boot-
scrape hissing up toward the oak-ribbed ceiling. The hall's main
door was closed; the only illumination streamed in from windows
above the lintel.

How could whoever had been on the stairs have opened and
closed the giant door without his knowing? He had easily heard the
light footfalls, and had himself been worrying about the squeak that
the large hinges would make. He turned to again scan the portal-
hall.

There. From beneath the fringed trim of the stained silver tapestry
hung by the stairs, two small, rounded shapes protruded -- shoes. As
he looked carefully now, he could see how folds of the old hanging
bellied out where someone hid behind it.

Balancing on one foot like a heron, he quietly pulled off first one
boot, then the other. Who could it be? Perhaps fat Jeremias had
followed him here to play a trick? Well, if so, Simon would soon
show him.

Bare feet nearly silent on the stones, he crept across the hall until
he stood immediately before the suspicious bump. For a moment,
reaching a hand out to the edge of the hanging, he remembered the
strange thing Brother Cadrach had said about curtains while they

67

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

had watched the puppet show. He hesitated, then felt ashamed of his
own timidity, and swept the tapestry aside.

Instead of flying open to reveal the spy, the massive hanging tore
free of its stays and billowed down like a monstrous, stiffened blan-
ket. Simon had only a momentary glimpse of a small, startled face
before the weight of the tapestry knocked him to the ground. As he
lay cursing and struggling, badly tangled, a brown-clad figure shot
by.

Simon could hear whoever-it-was struggling with the heavy door
as he himself wrestled the dusty, enveloping fabric. At last he pulled
free and rolled to his feet, moving across the room in a bound to
catch the small figure before it slipped through the partially opened
door. He got a firm handhold on a rough jerkin- The spy was cap-
tured, half-in and half-out.

Simon was angry now, mostly from embarrassment. "Who are
you?" he snarled. "You spier-on-people!" His captive said nothing,
but only struggled harder. Whoever he was, he-was not big enough
to loosen Simon's restraining grasp.

Fighting to pull the resisting figure back through the doorway -- 
no easy task -- Simon was startled to recognize the sand-colored
broadcloth he was gripping. This must be the young man who had
been spying at the door of the chapel! Simon gave a fierce pull and
got the youth's head and shoulder back through the doorframe so he
could look at him.

The prisoner was small, and his features were fine, almost sharp:

there was something a shade foxlike in nose and chin, but not un-
pleasantly so. His hair was as dark as a crow's wing. For a moment
Simon thought he might be a Sitha-man, because of his height -- he
tried to remember Shem's stories about not letting go of a Pookah's
foot, and so winning a cauldron of gold -- but before he could spend
any of his dream-treasure he saw the fear-sweat and reddened
cheeks and decided that this was no supernatural creature.

"What is your name, you?" he demanded. The captured youth
tried to pull free again, but was obviously tiring. After a moment he
stopped his struggling altogether. "Your name?" Simon prompted,
this time in a softer tone.

"Malachias." The youth turned away panting.

"Well, Malachias, why are you following me?" He gave a little

68 Tad Williams

shake to the youth's shoulder, to remind him just who had captured
whom.

The youth turned and stared sullenly. His eyes were quite dark.

"I wasn't spying on you!" he said vehemently.

As the boy averted his face once more, Simon was struck by a
feeling that he had seen something familiar in this Malachias' face,
something he should recognize.

"Who are you then, sirrah?" Simon asked, and reached out to
turn the boy's chin toward him. "Do you work in the stables -- work
somewhere here in the Hayholt?"

Before he could bring the face around to look at it once more,
Malachias suddenly put both hands in the middle of Simon's chest
and gave a surprisingly hard push. He lost his grip on the youth's
jerkin and staggered backward, then fell on his seat. Before he could
even attempt to rise, Malachias had whisked through the doorway,
pulling it shut behind him with a loud, reverberating squeal of
bronze hinges.

Simon was still sitting on the stone floor -- sore knee, sore rump,
and mortally wounded dignity clamoring for attention -- when the
sexton Bamabas came in out of the Chancelry hall to investigate the
noise. He stopped as if stunned in the doorway, looking from Simon
bootless on the floor to the torn and crumpled tapestry in front of
the stairwell, then turned his stare back to Simon. Bamabas said not
a word, but a vein began to drumbeat high on each temple, and his
brow beetled downward until his eyes were the merest slits.

Simon, routed and massacred, could only sit and shake his head,
like a drunkard who had tripped over his own jug and landed upon
the Lord Mayor's cat.

6

The Cairn
on the Cliffs

^

SIMON'S punishment for his most recent crime was suspension from
his new apprenticeship and confinement to the servants' quarters.

For days he strode the boundaries of his prison, from the scullery
to the linens room and back again, restless as a hooded kestrel.

/ have done this to myself, he sometimes thought. I'm just as
stupid as the Dragon says I am.

Why do they all make such trouble for me? he fumed at other
moments- Anyone would think I was a wild animal that can't be
trusted.

Rachel, with a form of mercy in mind, found a series of petty
tasks to which he could turn his hand; the days did not pass as
excruciatingly slowly as they might have, but to Simon it seemed
only more proof that he was to be a draft horse forever. He would
fetch and haul until he was too old to labor any longer, then be
taken out back and knocked on the head with Shem's splintered
mallet.

Meanwhile the final days of Novander crept by, and Decander
sidled in like a sneak thief.

At the end of the new month's second week Simon was given his
freedom -- such as it was. He was forbidden Green Angel Tower and
certain other favorite haunts; he was allowed to resume service for
the doctor, but given additional afternoon chores which required
him to return promptly at dinnertime to the servants' quarters. Even
these short visits, however, were a grand improvement. In fact, it
seemed that Morgenes was more and more coming to rely on Simon.
The doctor taught him many things about the uses and care of the
fantastic variety of oddments littering the workshop.

70 Tad Williams

He was also, painfully, learning to read It was infinitely more
laborious than sweeping floors or washing dusty alembics and bea-
kers, but Morgenes drove him through it with a determined hand,
saying that without letters Simon could never be a useful apprentice

On Saint Tunath's Day, Decander the twenty-first, the Hayholt
was bustling with activity The saint's day was the last high holiday
before Aedonmansa, and a mighty feast was being laid on Serving
girls set spngs of mistletoe and pnckly holly around dozens of slen-
der white beeswax candles -- these were all to be lit at sunset, when
their flames would pour light from every window, summoning wan-
dering Saint Tunath in from the midwinter darkness to bless the
castle and its occupants. Other servants stacked pitchy, new-split
logs in the fireplaces, or strewed fresh rushes on the floor

Simon, who had done his best all afternoon to remain unnoticed,
was nevertheless discovered and deputed to go to Doctor Morgenes
and find if he had any oil suitable for polishing things -- Rachel's
troops had used up all the available supply putting a blinding gloss
on the Great Table, and work had barely begun on the Main Hall.

Simon, who had already spent an entire morning in the doctor's
rooms reading aloud word by boggling word from a book entitled
The Sovran Remedys of the Wranna Healers, still infinitely preferred
anything Morgenes might want of him to the horrors of Rachel's
steel-glint gaze He practically flew from the Main Hall, down the
long Chancelry hall, and out into the Inner Commons beneath
Green Angel He was across the moat-bndge seconds later like a
spar-hawk on the wing, only moments passed before he was at the
doctor's doors for the second time that day

The doctor did not answer his knock for some time, but Simon
could hear voices within He waited as patiently as he could, picking
long splinters from the weathered doorframe, until at last the old
man came Morgenes had seen Simon only a short while earlier, but
made no comment on his reappearance He seemed distracted as he
ushered the young man in; sensing his strange mood, Simon fol-
lowed quietly down the lamplit corridor.

Heavy draperies cloaked the windows At first, as his eyes ad-
justed to the darkness of the chamber, Simon could see no sign of
any visitor Then he made out a dim shape sitting on a large sea-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               71

chest m the comer The gray-cloaked man was gazing at the floor,
face concealed, but the boy knew him

"Forgive me, Pnnce Josua," Morgenes said, "this is Simon, my
new apprentice "

Josua Lackhand looked up His pale eyes -- were they blue9
gray9 -- flicked over him with an air of detachment, as a Hyrka
trader might examine a horse he did not intend to buy After a
moment's inspection the pnnce turned his attention back to
Morgenes as completely as if Simon had just winked out of exis-
tence. The doctor motioned for the boy to go and wait at the far end
of the room.

"Highness," he said to the pnnce, "I am afraid there is nothing
further I can do. My skills as a doctor and apothecary have been
exhausted " The old man rubbed his hands together nervously
"Forgive me You know that I love the king, and hate to see him
suffering, but      but some things are not to be meddled m by
such as I -- too many possibilities, too many unforeseeable conse-
quences One of those things is the passing of a kingdom,"

Now Morgenes, whom Simon had not seen m this sort of mood,
plucked an object on a golden chain out of his robe and handled it
agitatedly In Simon's knowledge, the doctor -- who loved to scom
pretension and show -- had never worn jewelry of any kind, either

"But, God curse it, I am not asking you to interfere with the
succession!" Josua's quiet voice was taut as a bowstnng. Having to
overhear such a conversation embarrassed Simon tremendously, but
there was nowhere for him to go without making himself even more
conspicuous

"I ask you to 'meddle' with nothing, Morgenes," Josua continued,
" -- only give me something that will make the old man's last mo-
ments easier If he dies tomorrow or next year, Ehas is still the High
King, and I am still liege-lord only of Naglimund " The pnnce
shook his head. "At least think of the ancient bond you and my
father share -- you, who have been his healer, and have studied and
chronicled his life for scores of years'" Josua swept his hand across
his body to point at a pile of loose book-leaves stacked on the doc-
tor's worm-bored writing desk

Writing about the life of the king? Simon wondered This was the
first he had heard of such a work The doctor seemed very full of
secrets this morning

72 Tad Williams

Josua was still trying. "Can you not take pity? He is like an aged
lion at bay, a great beast dragged down by jackals! Sweet Usires, the
unfaimess ..."

"But, Highness . . ." Morgenes had painfully begun when all
three in the room became aware of the sound of running feet and
voices in the courtyard outside. Josua, pale-faced and fever-eyed,
was on his feet with his sword drawn so quickly it seemed to have
simply appeared in his left hand. A loud pounding shook the door.
Morgenes, starting forward, was restrained by a hiss from the
prince- Simon felt his heart racing -- Josua's obvious fear was conta-
gious.

"Prince Josua! Prince Josua!" someone called. The rapping re-
sumed. Josua scabbarded his sword with a flick and moved past
Doctor Morgenes into the workshop corridor. He flung the door
open to reveal four figures standing on the courtyard porch. Three
were his own gray-liveried soldiers; the last, who dropped to one
knee before the prince, was dressed in a shining white robe and
sandals. Dreamily, Simon recognized him as Saint Tunath, long-
dead subject of countless religious paintings. What could this
mean . . . ?

"Oh, your Highness . . ." said the kneeling saint, and stopped to
catch his breath. Simon's mouth -- which had begun to quirk upward
in a grin as he realized that this was only another soldier, dressed up
to enact the saint's part at tonight's festivities -- now froze as he saw
the stricken look on the young man's face. "Your Highness . . .
Josua . . ." the soldier repeated.

"What is it, Deornoth?" the prince demanded. His voice was
strained.

Deomoth looked up, dark, rough-cut soldier's hair framed in the
white gleam of his hood. He had in that moment true martyr's eyes,
blasted and knowing.

"The king. Lord, your father the kind . . . Bishop Domitis said
. . . that he is dead."

Soundlessly, Josua pushed past the kneeling man and was gone
across the courtyard, the soldiers trotting behind. After a moment
Deomoth rose too and followed, hands clasped monkishly before
him as if the breath of tragedy had changed imposture to reality.
The door swung listlessly in a cool wind.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              73

When Simon turned to Morgenes, the doctor was staring after
them, his old eyes shining and brimful.

^

So it was that King John Presbyter died at last on Saint Tunath's
Day, at an exceedingly advanced age: beloved, revered, and as thor-
oughly a pan of his people's lives as the land itself. Although it had
been long expected, still the sorrow of his passing reached out and
touched all the countries of Men.

Some of the very oldest remembered that it had been Tunath's
Day in the Founding-year 1083 -- exactly eighty years before -- when
Prester John had slain the devil-worm Shurakai and ridden back in
triumph through the gates of Erchester. When this tale was retold,
not without some embellishing, heads nodded wisely. Anointed by
God as King -- they said -- as revealed by that great deed, then taken
back to the bosom of the Redeemer on its anniversary. It should
have been foreseen, they said.

It was a sad midwinter and Aedontide, although people nocked to
Erchester and the High Castle from all the lands of Osten Ard.
Indeed, many of the local folk began to growl about the visitors who
came to take up the best benches in church, and the same in the
taverns. There was more than a little resentment of outlanders mak-
ing such a fuss over their king: although he had been master of all,
John had been more like a simple fiefholder to the townsmen of
Erchester. In younger, haler days he had loved to go out among the
people, cutting a beautiful figure all gleaming-armored and a-horse-
back. The citizens of the town, in the poorer quarters at least, often
spoke with familiar, possessive pride of "our old man up to th'
Hayholt."

Now he was gone, or at least out of the reach of such simple souls.
He belonged to the history-scribes, the poets, and priests.

In the forty days mandated between the death and burial of a
king, John's body went to the Hall of Preparing in Erchester, where
the priests bathed it in rare oils, rubbed it with pungent herbal resins
from the southern islands, then bound it up from ankle to neck in
white linen, saying all the while prayers of overmastering piety.

74 Tad Williams

King John was next clothed in a simple gown of the type used by
young knights at their first vows, and gently laid on a bier in the
throne room, slender black candles burning all around.

As Prester John's body lay in state. Father Helfcene, the king's
chancellor, ordered the Hayefur kindled atop the rock-fortress at
Wentmouth, something done only in times of war and great happen-
ings. Few living could remember the last time the mighty torch-
tower had been fired.

Helfcene also commanded a great pit to be dug at Swertclif, on
the headlands east of Erchester overlooking the Kynslagh -- the
windy hilltop, where stood the six snow-thatched barrows of the
kings who had held the Hayholt before John. It was miserable
weather for digging, the ground winter-frozen, but the Swertclif la-
borers were proud, and suffered the biting air and bruises and bro-
ken skin for the honor of the task. Much of the chill month of
Jonever passed before the excavation was completed and the pit was
covered with a vast tent of red and white sailcloth.

Preparations at the Hayholt proceeded at a less deliberate pace.
The castle's four kitchens glowed and smoked like busy foundries as
a horde of perspiring scullions prepared the funeral baked goods, the
meats and bread and festival wafers. The seneschal Peter Gilded-
Bowl, a small, fierce man with yellow hair, was everywhere at once
like an avenging angel. With equal facility he tasted the broth bil-
lowing in giant vats, looked for dust in the cracks of the Great Table
 -- thin chance, since that was Rachel's province -- and threw impre-
cations after scurrying servitors. It was, all agreed, his finest hour.

The mourning-party gathered at the Hayholt from all the nations
of Osten Ard. Skali Sharp-nose of Kaldskryke, Duke Isgrimnur's
unloved cousin, arrived from Rimmersgard with ten suspicious,
deep-bearded kinsmen. From the three clans that among them ruled
the wild, grassy Thrithings came the Marchthanes of their reigning
houses. Oddly enough, the clansmen put enmity aside for once and
arrived together -- a token of their respect for King John. It was even
said that when news of John's death reached the Thrithings the
Randwarders of the three clans had met at the borders they guarded
so jealously against each other; weeping together, they had drunk to
John's spirit all through the night.

From the Sancellan Mahistrevis, the ducal palace in Nabban,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

75

Duke Leobardis sent his son Benigaris with a column of legionaries
and mail-clad knights numbering almost a hundred head. As they
disembarked from the warships, each of the three with Nabban's
golden kingfisher on its sail, the crowd at wharfside oohed apprecia-
tively. A few respectful cheers were even raised for Benigaris as he
passed, mounted on a tall gray palfrey, but many people whispered
that if this was the nephew of Camaris, greatest knight of the age of
John, then he was a cutting from his father's tree and not his uncle's.
Camaris had been a mighty, towering man -- or so said those old
enough to have remembered him -- and Benigaris, truth to tell,
looked to run a little to fat. But it had been almost forty years since
Camaris-sa-Vinitta had been lost at sea: many of the younger folk
suspected that his stature had grown somewhat in the memories of
gaffers and gossips.

Another great delegation also came from Nabban, one only
slightly less martial than Benigaris': the Lector Ranessin himself
sailed into the Kynslagh on a beautiful white ship, upon whose
azure sail gleamed the white Tree and golden Pillar of Mother
Church. The wharfside crowd, which had greeted Benigaris and the
Nabbanai soldiers mildly -- as if in dim remembrance of days when
Nabban had striven with Erkynland for mastery -- hailed the lector
with a loud, welcoming cry. Those gathered on the quay surged
forward, and it took the combined force of the king's and lector's
guardsmen to hold them back; still, some two or three were crowded
so that they fell into the bone-cold lake, and only swift rescue saved
them from freezing.

^

"This is not as I would have wanted it," the lector whispered to
his young aide. Father Dinivan. "I mean, just look at this gawdy
thing they have sent me." He gestured at the litter, a splendid cre-
ation of carved cherry wood and blue and white silks. Father
Dinivan, robed in homely black, grinned-

Ranessin, a slender, handsome man of nearly seventy years,
frowned down in annoyance at the waiting litter, then gently beck-
oned over a nervous Erkynguard officer.

76 Tad Williams

"Please take this away," he said. "We appreciate Chancellor
Helfcene's thought, but we prefer to walk near the people."

The offending conveyance was hustled away, and the lector
moved toward the crowded Kynslagh stairs. As he made the sign of
the Tree -- thumb and small finger as hooked branches, then a verti-
cal stroke with the middle fingers -- the jostling crowd slowly opened
an aisle up the length of the great steps.

"Please don't walk so fast. Master," said Dinivan, pushing past
reaching, waving arms. "You'll outpace your guardsmen."

"And what makes you think," -- Ranessin allowed a mischievous
smile to cross his face, so quickly none but Dinivan saw -- "that this
is not what I am trying to achieve?"

Dinivan cursed quietly, then immediately regretted his weakness.
The lector had gained a step on him, and the crowd was pushing in.
Luckily, the dockside wind now sprang to life and Ranessin was
forced to slow down, clutching with his unoccupied hand at his hat,
which seemed nearly as tall, thin, and pale as His Sacredness him-
self. Father Dinivan, seeing the lector begin to tack slightly into the
wind, struggled forward. When he caught up with the older man, he
took a firm grip on an elbow.

"Forgive me, Master, but Escritor Velligis would never under-
stand it if I were to let you fall into the lake."

"Of course, my son," Ranessin nodded, continuing to trace the
Tree in the air on either side of their progress up the long, wide
staircase. "I was thoughtless. You know how much I despise this
unnecessary pomp."

"But Lector," Dinivan argued gently, lifting his bushy eyebrows
in a look of mock-surprise, "you are Usires Aedon's worldly voice.
It won't do to have you scrambling up stairs like a seminary boy."

Dinivan was disappointed when this raised only a faint smile. For
a while they climbed in silent lockstep, the young man retaining his
protective grasp on the older's arm.

Poor Dinivan, Ranessin thought. He tries so hard, and is so care-
ful. Not that he doesn '? treat me -- the Lector of Mother Church, after
all -- with a certain lack of respect. Of course he does, because I have
allowed it -- for my own good. But I am not in a light mood today,
and he knows it.

It was John's death, of course -- but not merely the loss of a good
friend and fine king: it was change, and the Church, in the person of

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              77

Lector Ranessin, could not afford to trust change too easily. Of
course it was also the parting -- in this world only, the lector re-
minded himself firmly -- from a man of good heart and intention,
although John certainly had been at times over-direct in the fulfilling
of those intentions. Ranessin owed much to John, not least that the
king's influence had played a large part in the elevation of the for-
mer Oswine of Stanshire to the heights of the church, and eventually
to the Lectorship that no other Erkynlander had held in five centu-
ries. The king would be much missed.

Fortunately, Ranessin held hope for Elias. The prince was un-
doubtedly courageous, decisive, bold -- all traits rare in the sons of
great men. The king-to-be was also short-tempered and somewhat
careless, but -- Duos wulstei -- these were faults often cured, or at
least softened by responsibility and good counsel.

As he reached the top of the Kynslagh stairs and entered with his
struggling retinue onto the Royal Walk that circumscribed the walls
of Erchester,. the lector promised himself that he would send a trust-
worthy advisor to help the new king -- and of course to keep a wary
eye out for the Church's welfare -- someone like Velligis, or even
young Dinivan ... no, he wouldn't part with Dinivan. Anyway,
Ranessin would find somebody to counteract Elias' bloody-minded
young nobles, and that blowing idiot. Bishop Domitis.

^

The first of Feyever, the day before Elysiamansa -- Lady Day -- 
dawned bright, chill and clear. The sun had barely scaled the stee-
pled peaks of the far mountains when a slow, solemn crowd began to
file into the Hayholt's chapel. The king's body was already lying
before the altar on a bier draped in cloth-of-gold and black silk
ribbons.

Simon watched the nobles in their rich, somber dress with resent-
ful fascination. He had come to the unused choir loft straight from
the kitchens, still wearing his gravy-stained shirt; even crouched
hidden in the shadows he felt ashamed to be so poorly clad.

And me the only servant here, he thought. The only one of all who
lived in the castle with our king. Where are all these fancy lords and

78 Tad Williams

ladies from? I recognize only a few -- Duke Isgrimnur. the two princes,
some others.

There was certainly something wrong, that those seated in the
chapel below should be so splendid in their funeral silks while he
carried the stink of the scullery on him like a blanket -- but wrong in
what way? Should the castle serving help be welcomed in among the
nobles? Or was he himself at fault for daring to intrude?

What if King John is watching? He felt a chill as he thought it.
What if he is somewhere, watching? Will he tell God that I snuck in
wearing a dirty shirt?

Lector Ranessin entered at last, arrayed in the full circumstance
of his holy office robes of black, silver, and gold. On his head he
wore a wreath of sacred ciyan leaves, and he held a censer and wand
crafted from black onyx. Motioning the crowd to their knees, he
began the opening prayers of the Mansa-sea-Cuelossan: the Death
Mass. As he called out the lines in his rich, but still ever-so-slightly
accented Nabbanai, and censed the body of the dead king, it seemed
to Simon that a light shone on Prester John's face, that he could see
for a moment how the king must have looked when he had first
ridden, bright-eyed and battle-stained, out of the gates of the new-
conquered Hayholt. How he wished he could have seen him then!

When the numerous prayers were finished, the company of nobles
rose to sing the Cansim Falis; Simon contented himself with mouth-
ing the words. As the mourners sat down again, Ranessin began to
speak, surprising everyone by abandoning Nabbanai to use the coun-
try-plain Westerling speech that John had made the common tongue
of his kingdom.

"It may be remembered," Ranessin intoned, "that when the last
nail had been driven into the Execution Tree, and our Lord Usires
was left to hang in terrible agony, a noble woman of Nabban named
Pelippa, daughter of a mighty knight, saw him and her heart was
filled with pity for His suffering. As the darkness fell that First
Night, while Usires Aedon hung dying and alone -- for His disciples
had been scourged from the Temple courtyard -- she came to Him
with water, which she gave to Him by dipping her rich scarf in a
golden bowl and then bringing it to His dry lips.

"As she gave Him to drink, Pelippa wept to see the Ransomer's
pain. She said to Him: 'Poor man, what have they done to you?'
Usires answered her: 'Nothing that poor Man is not bom to.'

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              79

"Now Pelippa wept afresh, saying: *But terrible enough that they
kill you for words, without also they hang you heels-high for the
sake of humiliation.' And Usires the Reclaimer said: 'Daughter, it
matters not which way I hang, top-first or the opposite -- I am still
looking full into the face of God my Father.'

"So, then . . ." the lector lowered his gaze to the assemblage,
"... as was said by our Lord Usires, so may we say it is with our
beloved John. The common people in the city below us say that John
Presbyter is not gone, but remains to watch over his people and his
Osten Ard. The Book of the Aedon promises that even now he has
ascended to our beautiful Heaven of light and music and blue moun-
tains. Others -- our brethren, John's subjects in Hemystir -- will say
that he has gone to join the other heroes in the stars. It matters not-

"Whatever he is, he who was once young John the King, be he
enthroned in bright mountains or stellar fields, we know this; he is
happily gazing full into the face of God. . . ."

When the lector had finished speaking, tears standing in even his
eyes, and the final prayers had been recited, the assembled company
left the chapel.

Simon watched in reverent silence as King John's black-clad body
servants began their final services in his behalf, stalking like beetles
around a fallen dragonfly, dressing him in his royal raiment and
war-gear. He knew he should leave -- this was beyond sneaking and
spying; it bordered on blasphemy -- but he could not make himself
move. Fear and sorrow had been replaced by a strange sense of
unreality. Everything seemed a pageant or mummer's play, the char-
acters moving stiffly through their parts as though their limbs were
freezing and thawing and then freezing once more.

The dead king's servants dressed him in his ice-white armor, tuck-
ing his folded gauntlets into his baldric but leaving his feet bare.
They drew a tunic of sky blue over John's corselet, and pulled a
shiny crimson cloak about his shoulders, moving all the while as
slowly as fever victims. His beard and hair were knotted up in war-
braids, and the iron circlet that signified mastery of the Hayholt was
set upon his brow. At last Noah, the king's aged squire, brought out
the iron ring of Fingil which he had been keeping back; the sudden
sounds of his grief shattered the enveloping silence. Noah sobbed so

80 Tad Williams

bitterly that Simon wondered how he could see through his tears to
slip the ring onto the king's white finger.

Finally the black-cloth beetles lifted King John back onto his bier.
Draped in the cloth-of-gold mantle, he was carried out of his castle
for the last time, three men on each side. Noah followed behind
carrying the king's dragon-crested war helmet.

In the shadows of the loft overhead, Simon released what seemed
an hour's worth of prisoned breath. The king was gone.

^

As Duke Isgrimnur saw Prester John's body pass out through the
Nearulagh Gate, and the procession of nobility began to fall into
place behind, a slow, fog-shrouded feeling overtook him, like a
dream of drowning.

Don't be such an ass, old man. he told himself. No one lives forever
 -- even if John did take a mighty swipe at it.

The funny thing was, even when they had stood side to side in the
screeching hell of battle, the black-fletched Thrithings arrows
whistling past like Udun's own -- damn. God's own -- lightning, Is-
grimnur had always known that John Presbyter would die abed. To
see the man at war was to see a man anointed by Heaven, untouch-
able and commanding, a man who laughed as the blood-mist dark-
ened the sky. If John had been a Rimmersman, Isgrimnur smiled
inwardly, he would have been a bear-shirt for certain.

But he is dead, and that's the hard thing to understand. Look at
them, knights and lords . . . they thought he'd last forever, too.
Frightened, the greater pan of them.

Elias and the lector had taken their places directly behind the
king's bier. Isgrimnur, Prince Josua, and fair-haired Princess
Miriamele -- Elias' only child -- followed closely. The other high fam-
ilies had taken their places as well, with none of their usual elbowing
for favorable position. As the body was carried down the Royal
Walk toward the headlands, the common people fell into step at the
rear, a huge crowd quieted and overawed by the procession.

Resting on a bed of long poles at the base of the Royal Walk lay
the king's boat Sea-Arrow, in which it was said he had long ago
come to Erkynland out of the Westerling islands. It was but a small

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              81

vessel, no more than five ells in length; Duke Isgrimnur was glad to
see that its woods have been new-lacquered until they glimmered in
the dim Feyever sunlight.

Gods. but he loved that boat! Isgrimnur remembered. Kingship
had left him scant time for the sea, but the duke recalled one wild
night, thirty years or more ago, when John had been in such a mood
that nothing would do but that he and Isgrimnur -- a young man
then -- must get Sea-Arrow rigged and go out upon the windlashed
Kynslagh. The air had been so cold it stung. John, almost seventy
years old, had whooped and laughed as Sea-Arrow bucked on the
high swells. Isgrimnur, whose ancestors had taken to land long be-
fore his time, had held on tightly to the gunwale and prayed to his
many old gods and his one new one.

Now the king's servants and soldiers were laying John's body into
the boat with great tenderness, lowering it onto a platform that had
been prepared to hold the bier. Forty soldiers of the king's
Erkynguard picked up the long poles and placed them on their
shoulders, bearing the boat up and carrying it forward.

The king and Sea-Arrow led the vast company half a league along
the headlands above the bay; at last they reached Swertclif, and the
grave. The covering tent had been removed, and the hole was like an
open wound beside the six solemn, rounded barrows of the
Hayholt's earlier masters.

On one side of the pit stood a massive pile of cut turves and a heap
of stones and undressed timbers. Sea-Arrow was laid down on the
grave's far side, where the earth had been dug down at a shallow
angle. When the boat came to rest, the noble houses of Erkynland
and the Hayholt's servants filed by to place some small thing in boat
or barrow as a token of love. Each of the lands beneath his High
Ward had also sent some thing of mighty craft, that Prester John
might carry it with him to Heaven -- a robe of precious Pisa-island
silk from Perdruin, a white porphyry Tree from Nabban. Is-
grimnur's party had brought from Elvritshalla in Rimmersgard a
silver axe of Dveming-make with mountain-blue gems in its haft.
Lluth, the Hemystiri king, had sent from the Taig at Hemysadharc
a tall ashwood spear all inlaid with red gold, and with a golden
point.

82 Tad Williams

The noon sun seemed to hang too high in the sky, Duke Is-
grimnur thought as he made his way forward at last; though it rolled
unhindered across the gray-blue dome of the sky, it seemed to hold
back its warmth. The wind blew harder, skirling across the clifftop.
Isgrimnur carried John's battered black war-boots in his hand. He
could not find it in his heart to look up at the white faces that peered
from the crowd like glimmers of snow in the deep forest.

As he approached Sea-Arrow he looked one last time at his King.
Although paler than a dove's breast, still John looked so stem and
fine and full of sleeping life that Isgrimnur caught himself worrying
for his old friend, lying out in the wind this way with no blanket. For
a moment he almost smiled-

John always said I had the heart of a bear and the wit of an ox,
Isgrimnur chided himself. And if it be cold up here, think how chill it
will be for him in the frozen earth . . .

Isgrimnur moved carefully but nimbly around the steep ramp of
earth, using a hand to steady himself when necessary. Although his
back hurt him fiercely, he knew no one suspected it; he was not too
old to find some pride in that.

Taking John Presbyter's blue-veined feet in his hands one at a
time, he slipped the boots on. He silently commended the skilled
hands in the House of Preparing for the ease with which his task was
accomplished. Without looking again at his friend's face he quickly
took the hand and kissed it, then walked away, feeling stranger still.

Suddenly it seemed to him that this was not his king's lifeless husk
that was being condemned to the soil, the soul fluttered free like a
newly-unfurled butterfly. The suppleness of John's limbs, the so-
familiar face in repose -- as Isgrimnur had seen it countless times
when the king snatched an hour or two of sleep in the lull of battle -- 
alt these things made him feel as though he deserted a living friend.
He knew John was dead -- he had held the king's hand as the last
breaths fluted out of him -- still, he felt a traitor.

So possessed was he by his thoughts that he nearly stepped into
Prince Josua, who moved nimbly around him on his path to the
barrow. Isgrimnur was shocked to see that Josua carried John's
sword Bright-Nail on a gray cloth.

What happens here? Isgrimnur wondered. What is he doing with
the sword?

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              83

As the Duke reached the first row of the crowd and turned to
watch, his unease deepened: Josua had laid Bright-Nail on the king's
chest, and was clasping John's hands about the hilt.

This is madness, the duke thought. That sword is for the king's heir
 -- I know John would have wanted Elias to have it! And even ifElias
chose to bury it with his father, why does he not lay it in the grave
himself? Madness! Does no one else marvel at such a thing?

Isgrimnur looked from side to side, but saw nothing on the faces
around him but sorrow.

Now Elias walked down, passing his younger brother slowly, like
a participant in a stately dance -- as in fact he was. The heir to the
throne bent over the gunwale of the boat. What he sent with his
father no one could see, but it was noted by all that although a tear
sparkled on Elias' cheek when he turned, Josua's eyes were dry.

The company now made one more prayer. Ranessin, robes billow-
ing in the lake-breeze, sprinkled Sea-Arrow with holy oils. Then the
boat was gently lowered down the sloping pitfall, soldiers laboring in
silence with their heavy staves until it lay at last a fathom deep in
the earth. Above, timbers were raised into a great arch and work-
men laid the turves about, one atop the other. Finally, as stones were
being lifted into place to complete John's caim, the mourning party
turned and made its slow way back along the dins above the Kyn-
slagh.

^

The funeral feast that night in the castle's great hall was not a
solemn gathering, but rather a brave and merry occasion. John was
dead, of course, but his life had been long -- far beyond that of most
men -- and he had left behind a kingdom wealthy and at peace, and a
strong son to rule.

The fireplaces were banked high; the leaping flames threw strange,
capering shadows on the walls as sweating servants hurried in and
out. The feasters waved their arms and shouted toasts to the old
king gone, and the new one to be crowned in the morning. The
castle hounds, large and small, barked and scrabbled over discarded
scraps and rooted in the straw that covered the floor. Simon, pressed
into service bearing one of the heavy wine ewers from table to table,

84 Tad Williams

shouted at and splashed by roaring merrymakers, felt as though he
served wine in some noisy hell from Father Dreosan's sermons; the
bones scattered across the tables and crunching underfoot could be
the remains of sinners, tormented and then cast aside by these laugh-
ing demons.

Not yet crowned, Elias already had the look of a warrior-king. He
sat at the main table surrounded by the young lords in his favor:

Guthwulf of Utanyeat, Fengbald the Earl of Falshire, Breyugar of
the Westfold, and others -- each wearing some bit of Elias1 green on
the mourning black, each vying to make the loudest toast, the sharp-
est jest. The king-to-be presided over all their striving, rewarding the
favorites with his loud laughter. From time to time he leaned over to
say something to Skali of Kaldskryke, Isgrimnur's kinsman, who sat
at Elias' table by special invitation. Although he was a large man,
hawk-faced and blond-bearded, Skali seemed a little overwhelmed at
the crown prince's side -- especially when Duke Isgrimnur had re-
ceived no similar honor. Something Elias now said, though, struck
home; Simon saw the Rimmersman smile, then break out into a
great guffaw and clang his metal goblet against the prince's. Elias,
grinning wolfishly, turned and said something to Fengbald; he, too,
joined the merriment.

By comparison, the table at which Isgrimnur sat with Prince
Josua and several others was much more subdued, seeming to match
in mood the prince's gray raiment. Although the other nobles were
doing their best to make conversation, Simon could see as he passed
by that the two chief figures were having none of it. Josua stared into
space, as though fascinated by the tapestries that lined the walls.
Duke Isgrimnur was just as unresponsive to the table talk, but his
reasons were no mystery. Even Simon could see the way the old
duke glowered at Skali Sharp-nose, and how his huge, gnarled hands
plucked distractedly at the fringe of his bear-skin tunic.

Elias' slight to one of John's most faithful knights was not going
unnoticed at other tables: some of the younger nobles, although
courteous enough not to make a show of it, seemed to find the
duke's discomfiture amusing. They whispered behind their hands,
eyebrows raised to signal the magnitude of the scandal.

As Simon swayed in place, amazed by the din and the smoke and
his own confused observations, a voice rang out from a back table,

THE DRAGON BONE CHAIR

85

cursing him and calling for more wine, stirring him into scurrying
life once more.

Later in the evening, when Simon finally found a chance to snatch
a moment's rest in an alcove beneath one of the giant tapestries, he
noticed that a new guest was seated at the head table, wedged in
between Elias and Guthwulf on a tall stool. The newcomer was
robed in most unfunereal scarlet, with black and gold piping wound
about the hem of his voluminous sleeves. As he leaned forward to
whisper in Elias' ear, Simon watched him with helpless fascination-
The man was completely hairless, without even eyebrows or lashes,
but his features were those of a youngish man. His skin, tight-
stretched on his skull, was notably pale even in the flaring orange
rushlight; his eyes were deep-sunken, and so dark that they seemed
only shiny black spots below his naked brows. Simon knew those
eyes -- they had glared out at him from the hooded cloak of the cart-
driver who had nearly run him down at Nearulagh Gate. He shud-
dered and stared. There was something sickening but enthralling
about the man, like a swaying serpent.

"He's a nasty looking one, isn't he?" said a voice at his elbow.
Simon jumped. A young man, dark-haired and smiling, stood in the
alcove behind him, an ashwood lute cradled against his pigeon-gray
tunic.

"I ... I'm sorry," Simon stuttered. "You took me by surprise."

"I didn't mean to," the other laughed, "I was just coming to see if
you could give me a bit of help." He pulled his other hand from
behind his back and showed Simon an empty wine cup.

"Oh . . ." said Simon, "I'm so sorry -- I was resting, master . . .
I'm very sorry . . ."

"Peace, friend, peace' I did not come to cause trouble for you, but
if you do not stop apologizing, then I will be upset. What's your
name?"

"Simon, sir." He hastily upended the ewer and filled the young
man's flagon. The stranger set his cup down in a niche, readjusted
his grip on the lute, and reached into his tunic to produce another
cup. He proffered it with a bow.

"Here," he said, "I was going to steal this. Master Simon, but
instead I think we shall drink each other's health, and the old king's
memory -- and please don't call me 'sir,' for that I am not." He

86 Tad Williams

bumped the cup against the ewer until Simon poured again.
"There!" said the stranger. "Now, call me Sangfugol -- or, as old
Isgrimnur mangles it, 'Zong-vogol.' "

The stranger's excellent imitation of the Rimmersgard accent
brought a tiny smile to Simon's face. After looking around furtively
for Rachel he sat the ewer down and tipped back the flagon that
Sangfugol had given him. Strong and sour, still the red wine rolled
down his parched throat like spring rain; when he lowered the cup,
his smile had widened.

"Are you part of Duke Isgrimnur's . . . retinue?" Simon asked,
wiping his lips with his sleeve.

Sangfugol laughed. Mirth seemed to come quickly to him.

"Retinue! Quite a word for a bottle boy! No, I am Josua's harper.
I live at his keep at Naglimund, in the North."

"Does Josua like music?!" For some reason this thought as-
tounded Simon. He poured himself another cupful. "He seems so
serious."

"And serious he is . . . but that doesn't mean he dislikes harping
or lute playing. True, it is my melancholy songs that are most often
to his liking, but there are times when he calls for the Ballad of
Three-Legged Tom or some such."

Before Simon could ask another question, there was a great
whoop of hilarity from the high table. Simon turned to see that
Fengbald had knocked a flagon of wine into the lap of another man,
who was drunkenly wringing out his shirt while Elias and Guthwulf
and the other nobles jibed and shouted. Only the bald stranger in the
scarlet robe was aloof, with cold eyes and a tight, tooth-baring smile.

"Who is that?" Simon turned back to Sangfugol, who had finished
his wine and was holding his lute up to his ear, plucking at the
strings as he delicately turned the pegs. "I mean the man in red."

"Yes," said the harper, "I saw you looking at him when I came
up. Frightful fellow, eh? That is Pryrates -- a Nabbanai priest, one of
Elias' counselors. People say that he is a marvelous alchemist -- 
although he does look rather young for it, doesn't he? Not to men-
tion that it doesn't quite seem a fitting practice for a priest. Actually,
if you listen closely, you may also hear it whispered that he is a
warlock: a black magician. If you listen closer still . . ."Here, as if
to demonstrate, Sangfugol's voice dropped dramatically; Simon had

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

87

to lean forward to hear. He realized, as he swayed slightly, that he
had just drunk a third flagon of wine.

"If you listen very, very carefully . . ." the harper continued,
"you will hear people say that Pryrates' mother was a witch, and his
father . . . a demon!" Sangfugol loudly twanged a lute-string, and
Simon leaped back, surprised. "But Simon, you cannot believe ev-
erything you hear -- especially from drunken minstrels," Sangfugol
finished with a chuckle and extended his hand. Simon stared at it
stupidly.

"To clasp, my friend," the harper grinned. "I have enjoyed speak-
ing with you, but I fear I must return to table, where other diver-
sions impatiently await me. Farewell!"

"Farewell . . ." Simon grasped Sangfugol's hand, then watched
as the harper wound his way across the room with the nimbleness of
an experienced drunkard.

As Sangfugol took his seat again, Simon's eyes came to rest on
two of the serving girls leaning against a wall in the hallway at the
room's far side, fanning themselves with their aprons and talking.
One of them was Hepzibah, the new girl; the other was Rebah, one
of the kitchen maids.

There was a certain warmth in Simon's blood. It would be so easy
to walk across the room and speak to them. There was something
about that Hepzibah, a sauciness in her eyes and mouth when she
laughed. . . . Feeling more than a little lightheaded, Simon stepped
out into the room, the roar of voices rising around him like a flood.

A moment, a moment, he thought feeling suddenly flushed and
frightened, how can I just walk up and speak -- won't they know I've
been watching them? Wouldn't they . . .

"Hi there, you lazy clodpoll! Bring us some more of that wine!"

Simon turned to see red-faced Earl Fengbald waving a goblet at
him from the king's table. In the hallway the serving girls were
sauntering away. Simon ran back to the alcove to get his ewer, and
fetched it out from a tangle of dogs fighting over a chop. One pup,
young and scrawny, with a splotch of white on its brown face,
whined piteously at the fringe of the mob, unable to compete with
the larger dogs. Simon found a scrap of greasy skin on a deserted
chair and tossed it to the little dog. It wagged its stub of tail as it
bolted the treat, then followed at Simon's heels as he carried the
ewer across the room.

88 Tad Williams

Fengbald and Guthwulf, the long-jawed Earl of Utanyeat, were
involved in some kind of wrist-wrestling contest, their daggers
drawn and plunged into the tabletop on either side of the combat-
ants' arms. Simon stepped around the table as nimbly as he could,
pouring wine from the heavy ewer into the cups of the shouting
spectators and trying not to trip over the dog, which was darting in
and out between his feet. The king was watching the contest with
amusement, but he had his own page at his shoulder so Simon left
his goblet alone. He poured Pryrates' wine last, avoiding the priest's
glance, but could not help noticing the strange scent of the man, an
inexplicable amalgam of metal and over-sweet spices. Backing away,
he saw the little dog rooting in the straw near Pryrates' shiny black
boots, on the track of some fallen treasure.

"Come!" Simon hissed, backing farther away and slapping his
knee, but the dog paid no heed. It began to dig with both paws, its
back bumping against the priest's red-robed calf. "Come along!"
Simon whispered again.

Pryrates turned his head to look down, shiny skull pivoting slowly
on his long neck. He lifted his foot and brought his heavy boot down
on the dog's back -- a swift, compact movement finished in a heart-
beat. There was a crack of splintered bone, and a muffled squeal; the
little dog writhed helplessly in the straw until Pryrates lifted his heel
again and crushed its skull.

The priest stared for a disinterested moment at the body, then
lifted his gaze, his eyes alighting on Simon's horrified face. That
black stare -- remorseless, unconcerned -- caught and held him.
Pryrates' flat, dead eyes flicked down again to the dog, and when
they returned to Simon a slow grin stretched across the priest's face.

What can you do about it, boy? the smile said. And who cares?

The priest's attention was drawn back to the table; Simon, freed,
dropped the ewer and stumbled away, looking for a place to throw
up.

It was just before midnight; fully half the revelers had staggered,
or been carried, off to bed. It was doubtful many of them would be
present for the morrow's coronation. Simon was pouring into a
drunken guest's cup the heavily watered wine that was all Peter
Gilded-Bowl would serve at this late hour, when Earl Fengbald, the
only one remaining of the king's party, staggered into the hall from

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

89

the commons outside. The young noble was disheveled and his
breeches were half-undone, but he wore a beatific smile on his face.

"Come outside, everybody!" he shouted. "Come outside now!
Come see!" He lurched back out the door. Those who could do it
pulled themselves to their feet and followed him, elbowing and jest-
ing, some singing drunkenly.

Fengbald stood in the commons, head tilted backward, black hair
hanging unbound down the back of his stained tunic as he stared up
into the sky. He was pointing; one by one, the faces of the followers
turned up to look.

Across the sky a strange shape was painted, like a deep wound
that spurted blood against the nightblack: a great, red comet,
streaming across the sky from north to south.

"A bearded star!" someone shouted. "An omen!"

"The old king is dead, dead, dead!" cried Fengbald, waving his
dagger in the air as if daring the stars to come down and fight.
"Long live the new king!" he shouted. "A new age is begun!"

Cheers rang out, and some of those present stamped their feet and
howled. Others began a giddy, laughing dance, men and women
holding hands as they whirled in a circle. Above them the red star
gleamed like a smoldering coal.

Simon, who had followed the merrymakers outside to see the
cause of the ruckus, turned back to the hall; the shouts of the danc-
ers floated up behind him. He was surprised to see Doctor Morgenes
standing in the shadows of the bailey wall. The old man, wrapped in
a heavy robe against the chill air, did not notice his apprentice -- he,
too, was staring up at the bearded star, the scarlet slash across the
vault of Heaven. But unlike the others, there was no drunkenness or
glee upon his face. He looked fearful and cold and small.

He looked, Simon thought, like a man alone in the wilderness
listening to the hungry song of wolves. . . .

The Conqueror Star

THE SPRING and summer of Elias' first regnal year were magical,
sun-bright with pomp and display. All Osten Ard seemed reborn.
The young nobility came back to fill the Hayholfs long-quiet halls,
and so marked was the difference that they might have brought
color and daylight with them to what had been a dark place. As in
John's young days the castle was full of laughter and drinking, and
the swagger of shining battle-blades and armor. At night music was
heard in the hedged gardens once more, and the splendid ladies of
the court flitted to -- or fled from -- assignations in the warm dark-
ness like graceful, flowing ghosts. The tourney field sprang back to
life, sprouting multicolored tents like a bank of flowers. To the com-
mon people it seemed as though every day was holiday, and that the
merrymaking would have no end. King Elias and his friends made
furious sport, in the manner of children who must soon be put to
bed, and know it. All of Erkynland seemed to roister and tumble like
a summer-drunken dog.

Some of the villagers muttered darkly -- it was hard to get the
spring crop sowed with such heedlessness in the air. Many of the
older, sourer priests grumbled at the spread of licentiousness and
gluttony. But most people laughed at these doomsayers. Elias' mon-
archy was but newly-coined, and Erkynland -- all of Osten Ard, it
seemed -- had come out of a long winter of age into a season of
headlong youth. How could that be unnatural?

^

Simon felt his fingers cramping as he laboriously traced the letters
onto the gray parchment. Morgenes was at the window, holding a
long, fluted piece of glass pipe up to the sunlight as he examined it
for dirt.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              91

If he says one word about the thing not being properly cleaned, I'll
walk out, Simon thought. The only sunshine I see anymore is what's
reflected in the beakers I polish.

Morgenes turned from the window and brought the piece of glass
pipe over to the table where Simon slaved at his writing. As the old
man approached, Simon prepared himself for the scolding, feeling a
swelling of resentment that seemed to lodge between his shoulder
blades.

"A lovely job, Simon!" Morgenes said as he laid the pipette down
beside the parchment. "You take much better care of things around
here than I ever could by myself." The doctor gave him a pat on the
arm and leaned over. "How are you coming there?"

"Terribly," Simon heard himself say. Even though the resentful
knot was still there, he was disgusted by the petty tone of his own
voice. "I mean, I'll never be good at this. I can't make the letters
cleanly without the ink blobbing up, and I can't read any of what
I'm writing anyway!" He felt a little better for having said it, but he
still felt stupid.

"You're worrying about nothing, Simon," the doctor said, and
straightened up. He seemed distracted: as he spoke his eyes darted
about the room. "First of all, everybody's writing 'blobs up' at first;

some folk spend their whole lives blobbing up -- that doesn't mean
they have nothing important to say. Secondly, of course you can't
read the things you're writing -- the book is written in Nabbanai.
You can't read Nabbanai."

"But why should I copy words that I don't understand?" Simon
growled. "That's foolish."

Morgenes turned sharp eyes back to Simon. "Since I told you to
do it, I suppose I'm foolish, too?"

"No, I didn't mean that . . . it's just that . . ."

"Don't bother to explain." The doctor pulled up a stool and sat by
Simon's side. His long, bent fingers scrabbled aimlessly in the rub-
bish of the tabletop. "I want you to copy these words because it's
easier to concentrate on the form and shape of your letters if you're
not distracted by the subject matter."

"Hmmmph." Simon felt only partially satisfied. "Can't you tell
me what book it is, anyway? I keep looking at the pictures, but I still
can't figure it out." He flipped the page back to an illustration that
he had stared at many times in the past three days, a grotesque

92 Tad Williams

woodcut of an antlered man with huge staring eyes and black hands.
Cringing figures huddled at his feet; above the honied man's head a
flaming sun hung against an ink-black sky.

"Like this," Simon pointed at the strange picture, "here at the
bottom it says, 'Sa Asdridan Condiquilles' -- what does that mean?"

"It means," Morgenes said as he closed the cover and picked the
book up, " "The Conqueror's Star,' and it is not the kind of thing
that you need to know about." He placed the book on a precariously
balanced stack against the wall.

"But I'm your apprentice!" Simon protested. "When are you go-
ing to teach me something?"

"Idiot boy! What do you think I'm doing? I'm trying to teach you
to read and to write. That's the most important thing. What do you
want to learn?"

"Magic!" Simon said immediately. Morgenes stared at him.

"And what about reading . . . ?" the doctor asked ominously.

Simon was cross. As usual, people seemed determined to balk him
at every turn. "I don't know," he said. "What's so important about
reading and letters, anyway? Books are just stories about things.
Why should I want to read books?"

Morgenes grinned, an old stoat finding a hole in the henyard
fence. "Ah, boy, how can I be mad at you . . . what a wonderful,
charming, perfectly stupid thing to say!" The doctor chuckled ap-
preciatively, deep in his throat.

"What do you mean?" Simon's eyebrows moved together as he
frowned. "Why is it wonderful and stupid?"

"Wonderful because I have such a wonderful answer," Morgenes
laughed. "Stupid because . . . because young people are made stu-
pid, I suppose -- as tortoises are made with shells, and wasps with
stings -- it is their protection against life's unkindnesses."

"Begging your pardon?" Simon was totally flummoxed, now.

"Books," Morgenes said grandly, leaning back on his precarious
stool, " -- books are magic. That is the simple answer. And books are
traps as well."

"Magic? Traps?"

"Books are a form of magic -- " the doctor lifted the volume he
had just laid on the stack, " -- because they span time and distance
more surely than any spell or charm. What did so-and-so think

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              93

about such-and-such two hundred years agone? Can you fly back
through the ages and ask him? No -- or at least, probably not.

"But, ah! If he wrote down his thoughts, if somewhere there exists
a scroll, or a book of his logical discourses ... he speaks to you!
Across centuries! And if you wish to visit far Nascadu, or lost
Khandia, you have also but to open a book. . . ."

"Yes, yes, I suppose I understand all that." Simon did not try to
hide his disappointment. This was not what he had meant by the
word "magic." "What about traps, then? Why "traps'?"

Morgenes leaned forward, waggling the leather-bound volume un-
der Simon's nose. "A piece of writing is a trap," he said cheerily,
"and the best kind. A book, you see, is the only kind of trap that
keeps its captive -- which is knowledge -- alive forever. The more
books you have," the doctor waved an all-encompassing hand about
the room, "the more traps, then the better chance of capturing some
particular, elusive, shining beast -- one that might otherwise die un-
seen." Morgenes finished with a grand flourish, dropping the book
back on the pile with a loud thump. A tiny cloud of dust leaped up,
the flecks milling in the banded sunlight leaking past the window
bars.

Simon stared at the shimmering dust for a moment, collecting his
thoughts. Following the doctor's words was like trying to catch mice
while wearing mittens.

"But what about real magic?" he said at last, a stubborn crease
between his brows. "Magic like they say Pryrates does up in the
tower?"

For a brief instant a look of anger -- or was it fear? -- contorted the
doctor's face.

"No, Simon," he said quietly. "Do not throw Pryrates up to me.
He is a dangerous, foolish man."

Despite his own horrid memories of the red priest, Simon found
the intensity of the doctor's look strange and a little frightening. He
nerved himself to ask another question. "You do magic, don't you?
Why is Pryrates dangerous?"

Morgenes stood suddenly, and for a wild moment Simon feared
that the old man might strike him, or shout. Instead Morgenes
walked stimy to the window and stared out for a moment. From
where Simon sat, the doctor's thin hair was a bristly halo above his
narrow shoulders.

94 Tad Williams

Morgenes turned and walked back. His face was grave, troubled
by doubt. "Simon," he said, "it will probably do me no good at all to
say this, but I want you to keep away from Pryrates -- don't go near
him, and don't talk about him . . . except to me, of course."

"But why?" Contrary to what the doctor might think, Simon had
already decided to stay far away from the alchemist. Morgenes was
not usually so forthcoming, though, and Simon was not going to
waste the opportunity. "What is so bad about him?"

"Have you noticed that people are afraid of Pryrates? That when
he comes down from his new chambers in Hjeldin's Tower people
hurry to get out of his way? There is a reason. He is feared because
he himself has none of the right kinds of fear. It shows in his eyes."

Simon put the pen nib to his mouth and chewed, thoughtfully,
then took it out again. "Right kinds of fear? What does that mean?"

"There is no such thing as 'fearless,' Simon -- not unless a man is
mad. People who are called fearless are usually just good at hiding
it, and that is quite a different thing. Old King John knew fear, and
both his sons certainly have known it ... I have, too. Pryrates
. . . well, people see that he doesn't fear or respect the things that
the rest of us do. That is often what we mean when we call someone
mad."

Simon found this fascinating. He wasn't sure that he could believe
either Prester John or Elias had ever been afraid, but the subject of
Pryrates was itself compelling.

"Is he mad, doctor? How could that be? He is a priest, and one of
the king's counselors." But Simon remembered the eyes and toothy
smile, and knew Morgenes was right.

"Let me put it another way." Morgenes twined a curl of snowy
beard around his finger. "I spoke to you of traps, of searching for
knowledge as though hunting an elusive creature. Well, where I and
other knowledge-seekers go out to our traps to see what bright beast
we may have been lucky enough to capture, Pryrates throws open
his door at night and waits to see what comes in." Morgenes took
the quill pen away from Simon, then lifted the sleeve of his robe and
dabbed away some of the ink that had smeared on Simon's cheek.
"The problem with Pryrates' approach," he continued, "is that if
you do not like the beast that comes to call, it is hard -- very, very
hard -- to get the door closed again."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

95

^

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

"The barest whisper across my vest," Josua said, raising an eye-
brow in feigned surprise. "I'm sorry to see that infirmity has driven
you to such desperate devices . . ." In mid-sentence, without alter-
ing 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. "1*11 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 leam 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-

96 Tad Williams

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 by-
the-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 Mul-
lach -- a kinsman of Hemystir's King Lluth -- were chasing a frac-
tious 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

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              97

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 north-
ern 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 stal-
lion. He answered without turning. "Skali of Kaldskryke says that
you have more than enough men, old Uncle. He says you are hoard-
ing 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 scandal-
ous 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. For-
give me, Uncle," he said to Isgrimnur, "for as you said, it is a hot
day. Forgive my temper." He smiled.

98 Tad Williams

Isgrimnur bobbed his head. "Of course. Sire. It is easy to let ill-
humors 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, can-
not 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 . . . acci-
dent." 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 down-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR                99

ward 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 heav-
ing, 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 dmnertime.
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 shoul-
der 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 straight-

100 Tad Williams

ened, 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 Inniscnch 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

101

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

door, or pulled loaves from the baking ovens with flat wooden pad-
dles. 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 des-
sert. 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

102 Tad Williams

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<! seem to have spoiled this one -- see, ifs all
crooked." She handed him a loaf of warm bread, twisted like a piece
of rope and smelling of sugar.

'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, gasp-
ing 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 Decander-
month -- 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.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             103

As they walked past the comer 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?"

A dim memory of gold catching the afternoon sunlight floated up
in Simon's mind, but he was not to be distracted.

"Oh, I think you have much nicer hair," he said, then turned
away to look at one of the guardtowers in the Middle Bailey wall, a
treacherous blush stealing up his cheeks.

"Do you really?" laughed Hepzibah. "I think it's the worst tangle.
Princess Miriamele has ladies to brush hers. Sarrah -- you know her,
the fair-haired girl? -- knows one of them. Sarrah says that this lady
told her the princess is very sad, sometimes, and that she wants to go
back to Meremund where she grew up."

Simon was looking with great interest at Hepzibah's neck,
wreathed by the sprays of curly brown hair that hung down from
her cap. "Hmmm," he said,

"You want to know something else?" Hepzibah asked, turning
away from the tower. " -- What are you staring at?" she squealed,
but her eyes were merry. "Stop it, I told you my hair was in a strew.
Do you want to know something else about the princess?"

"What?"

"Her father wants her to marry Earl Fengbald, but she doesn't
want to. The king is very angry with her, and Pengbald is threaten-
ing to leave the court and go back to Falshire -- although why he'd
want to do that, who knows. Lofsunu says he never will, since no
one in his earldom has enough money to appreciate his horses and
clothes and things."

"Who's Lofsunu?" Simon wanted to know.

"Oh." Hepzibah looked coy. "He's a soldier I know. He's with
Count Breyugar's household force. He's very handsome."

The last of the Aedontide bread turned to wet ashes in Simon's
mouth. "A soldier?" he said quietly. "Is he ... a relative of
yours?"

Hepzibah giggled, a sound that Simon was beginning to find a
little irritating. "A relative? Merciful Rhiap, no, I should say not!
Mooning around after me all the time!" She giggled again. Simon

104 Tad Williams

liked it even less. "Maybe you've seen him," she continued, " -- he's
a guard in the eastern barracks? Big shoulders and a beard?" She
sketched in the air a man in whose shadow two Simons could com-
fortably have sat on a summer day.

Simon's feelings were at war with his more sensible nature. His
feelings won. "Soldiers are stupid," he grunted.

"They are not!" said Hepzibah. "You take that back! Lofsunu is a
fine man! Someday he's going to marry me!"

"Well, you'll make a fine couple," Simon snarled, then felt sorry.
"I hope you'll be happy," he finished, hoping that the reasons for his
resentment were not as crystallinely clear as he felt sure they were.

"Well, we will be," said Hepzibah, mollified. She stared at a pair
of yeomen warders walking on the battlements above their heads,
long pikes couched on shoulders. "Someday Lofsunu will be a ser-
geant, and we shall have a house of our own in Erchester. We'll be
happy as ... as can be. Happier than that poor princess, anyway."

Grimacing, Simon picked up a round stone and rattled it off the
bailey wall.

Doctor Morgenes, pacing the battlements, looked down as Simon
and one of the young serving girls passed beneath him. A dry breeze
blew his hood back from his head as the couple passed below- He
smiled and silently wished Simon good luck -- the boy appeared to
need it. His awkward carriage and bouts of sullenness made him
seem more child than man, but he had the height, and showed the
promise of growing into it some day. Simon was straddling the bor-
derline, and even the doctor, whose age no one in the castle now
could guess, remembered what that was like.

There was a sudden whirring of wings in the air behind him;

Morgenes turned, but slowly, as if it was no surprise. Anyone watch-
ing would have seen a fluttering gray shadow that hung in the air
before him for the span of a few heartbeats, then disappeared into
the spacious folds of his gray sleeves.

The doctor's hands, which had been empty a moment earlier, now
held a small roll of fine parchment bound with a slender blue ribbon.
Cupping it in one palm, he unrolled it with a gentle finger. The
message upon it was in the southern tongue of Nabban and the
Church, but the letters were stark Rimmersgard runes.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              105

Morgen -- 

The fires ofStormspike have been lit. From Tungoldyr I have
seen their smokes nine days, and their flames eight nights. The
White Foxes are awake again, and in the darkness they trouble
the children. I have also sent winged words to our smallest
friend, but I doubt they will find him unawares. Someone has
been knocking at dangerous doors.

 -- Jamauga

Beside the signature the author had drawn a crude feather in a
circle.

"Odd weather, is it not?" a dry voice said. "And yet so pleasant
for walking on the battlements."

The doctor whirled, crumpling the parchment in his hand.
Pryrates stood at his shoulder, smiling.

"The air is full of birds today," the priest said. "Are you a student
of birds, doctor? Do you know much of their habits?"

"I have some small knowledge of them," Morgenes said quietly.
His blue eyes were narrowed.

"I myself have thought of studying them," Pryrates nodded.
"They are easily captured, you know . . . and they hold so many
secrets that the inquiring mind would find valuable." He sighed and
rubbed his smooth chin. "Ah, well, merely another thing to consider
 -- my time is so full already. Good day, doctor. Enjoy the air." He
moved off down the battlement, boots clicking on the stone.

For a long while after the priest had gone Morgenes stood quietly,
staring at the blue-gray northern sky.

8

Bitter Air
and Sweet

^

IT WAS LATE in the month of Jonever. The rains had still not come.
As the sun began to sink behind the western walls, and insects gos-
siped in the tall dry grass, Simon and Jeremias the chandler's boy sat
back to back and panting.

"Come on, then." Simon forced himself to his feet. "Let's have
another go." Jeremias, now unsupported, slumped backward until
he lay outstretched in the scratchy grass like an upended tortoise.

"You go on," he wheezed. "I'll never be a soldier."

"Of course you will," said Simon, annoyed at such talk. "We both
will. You were much better last time. Come on, get up."

With a groan of pain Jeremias allowed himself to be tugged up-
right. He reluctantly took the barrel stave Simon handed to him.

"Let's go in, Simon. I hurt all over."

"You think too much," Simon responded, and lifted his own
stave. "Have at you!" Stave smacked on stave.

"Oucht" Simon yelped.

"Ho, ho!" chortled Jeremias, much heartened. "A mortal blow!"
The clicking and smacking resumed.

It had not been just his unsuccessful flirtation with Hepzibah that
reawakened Simon's old fascination with the glories of the military
life. Before Elias had come to the throne Simon had felt sure that his
true desire -- the one for which he would give anything -- was to be
Morgenes' apprentice, and to leam all the secrets of the doctor's
muddled, magical world. But now that he had it, and had replaced
plodding Inch as the doctor's helper, the glory had begun to pale.
There was so much work, for one thing, and Morgenes was so dam-
nably rigorous about everything. And had Simon learned to do any

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              107

magic at all? He had not. Placed against hours of reading and writ-
ing and sweeping and polishing in the doctor's dark chamber, great
deeds on the battlefield and the admiring glances of young women
were not to be sneered at.

Deep in Jakob the Chandler's tallow-scented den, fat Jeremias
had also been caught up in the martial splendor of the king's first
year. During the week-long pageants that Elias seemed to hold vir-
tually every month, all the color of the realm settled on the jousting
lists, the knights like shiny butterflies of silk and gleaming steel, far
more beautiful than any mortal thing. The glory-spiced wind that
blew across the tournament field awakened deep longings in the
breasts of young men.

Simon and Jeremias went to the cooper for long slats to fashion
into swords, just as they had in childhood. They traded blows to-
gether for hours after chores were finished, at first staging their
mock battles in the stables until Shem Horsegroom threw them out
for the peace of his wards, then moving to the unmowed grass just
south of the tourney field. Night after night Simon came limping
back to the servants' quarters, breeches snagged and shirt torn, and
Rachel the Dragon turned up her eyes and prayed aloud for Saint
Rhiap to save her from the blockheadedness of boys, then rolled up
her sleeves and added some bruises to those Simon had already
garnered.

"I think . . ." Simon puffed, "that's . . . enough." Jeremias,
pink-faced and doubled over, could only nod his agreement.

As they trooped back toward the castle in the fading light, sweat-
ing and huffing like plow oxen, Simon noted with approval that
Jeremias was beginning to lose some of his lumpishness. Another
month or so and he would begin to resemble a soldier. Before their
regular dueling began, he had looked more like something his mas-
ter might put a wick into.

"That was good today, wasn't it?" Simon asked. Jeremias rubbed
his head through his cropped hair and gave Simon a look of disgust.

"I don't know how you talked me into this," he grumbled. "They
will never let folk like us be anything but cook-fire boys."

"But on the field of battle anything can happen!" Simon said.
"You might save the king's life from Thrithings-men or Naraxi raid-
ers -- and be knighted on the spot!"

108 Tad Williams

"Hmmm." Jeremias was not impressed. "And how are we going
to get them to take us in the first place, with no families, nor horses,
nor swords even?" He waggled his stave.

"Yes," said Simon, "well . . . well then, I'll think of something."

"Hmmm," agreed Jeremias, and mopped his flushed face with the
hem of his tunic.

The flare of torchlight sprang up before them in a score of places
as they neared the castle walls. What had been open, grassy space in
the shadow of the Hayholt's outwall was now an infestation of
wretched huts and tents, piled together and overlapping each other
like the scales of an old, sick lizard. The grass was long gone,
cropped to the soil by sheep and goats. As the ragged shanty dwell-
ers milled about, setting up their campfires for the night and calling
their children in ahead of the darkness, the dust kicked into gritty
plumes that swirled briefly before settling, dyeing clothes and tent-
fabric alike a dusky gray-brown.

"If it doesn't rain soon," said Jeremias, frowning at a pack of
shrieking children who tugged at the faded garments of a faded-
looking woman, "the Erkynguard will have to drive them away. We
don't have enough water to keep giving it to them. Let them go and
dig their own wells."

"But where . . ." Simon started to ask, then broke off, staring.
Down at the end of one of the squatter-town byways he saw what
seemed a familiar face. It had appeared for only a moment in a
crowd, then disappeared, but he was sure it was that of the boy he
had caught spying, the one who had left him to the wrath of the
sexton Barnabas.

"It's that one I told you about!" he hissed excitedly. Jeremias
looked back without comprehension. "You know, Mal - . .
Malachias! I owe him something!" Simon reached the knot of people
where he felt sure he had seen the spy's sharp-featured face. They
were mostly women and young children, but a few older men stood
among them, bent and withered like old trees. They had surrounded
a young woman crouching on the ground before the opening to a
half-tumbled hovel, which backed directly onto the stone of the
great outwall. She held the pale body of a tiny child in her lap as she
rocked herself from side to side, weeping. Malachias was nowhere in
sight.

THE DRACONBONE CHAIR             109

Simon looked at the impassive, battered faces around him, and
then down at the crying woman.

"Is the child sick?" he asked someone next to him. "I am Doctor
Morgenes' apprentice. Should I go and fetch him?"

An old woman turned her face up to him. Her eyes, set in an
intricate net of dirty wrinkles, were as harsh and dark as a bird's.

"Get away from us, castle man," she said, and spat into the dirt,
"King's man. Just get away."

"But I want to help . . ." Simon began, when a strong hand
gripped his elbow.

"Do what she says, lad." It was a wiry old man with a matted
beard. The look on his face was not unkind as he tugged Simon
away from the circle. "You can do nought here, and people are bad
angry. The child is dead. Go on with you." He gave Simon a gentle
but firm push.

Jeremias was still standing in the same spot when Simon returned.
The campfires all around outlined his worried expression in flicker-
ing light.

"Don't do that, Simon," he whined. "I don't like it out here,
especially after the sun has gone down."

"They looked at me like they hated me," Simon murmured, puz-
zled and upset, but Jeremias was already hurrying ahead.

^

None of the torches were lit, but strange, smoky light filled the long
hall. He could see not a soul stirring anywhere in the Hayholt, but
down every passageway echoed the sound of voices lifted in song and
laughter.

Simon moved from one room to another, pulling aside curtains,
opening pantry doors, but still could find no one. The voices seemed
almost to mock him as he searched -- now swelling in volume, now
diminishing, chanting and singing in a hundred different languages
not one of them his own.

At last he stood before the door of the throne room. The voices were
louder than ever, all seeming to cry out from inside the great cham-
ber. He reached a hand down; the door was not locked. As he pushed
it open the voices stilled, as though startled into silence by the creak of

110 Tad Williams

the hinges. The misty light poured out past him like shimmering
smoke. He stepped inside.

The yellowing throne, the Dragonbone Chair, stood in the room's
center. Around it danced a linked circle of figures, hands clasped,
moving as slowly as though they were in deep, deep water. He recog-
nized several; Judith, Rachel, Jakob the Chandler and other castle
folk, their faces stretched with wild merriment as they bowed and
capered. Among them moved dancers more grand: King Elias,
Guthwulf of Utanyeat, Gwythinn of Hernystir; these, like the castle
folk, wheeled as slowly and deliberately as ageless ice grinding moun-
tains down to dust. Scattered about the silent circle were looming
figures, shiny-black as beetles -- the malachite kings come down from
their pedestals to join the sluggish festivity. And in the middle bulked
the great chair, a skull-peaked mountain of dull ivory that seemed
somehow full of vitality, suffused with an ancient energy thai held the
circling dancers by taut, invisible reins.

The throne room was silent but for a thin thread of melody that
wavered in the air: the Cansim Falls, the Hymn to Joy. The tune was
stretched and discomforting, as if the invisible hands that plucked it
out were not made to handle earthly instruments.

Simon felt himself drawn toward the terrible dance, as to a whirl-
pool; he dragged his feet, but still moved inexorably inward. The
dancers' heads turned toward his approach with a slow twisting mo-
tion like the unwinding of crumpled stems of grass.

In the center of the ring, on the Dragonbone Chair itself, a dark-
ness was coalescing -- a darkness of many flittering parts, like a cloud
of flies. Near the top of this swarming, rolling dark, two smoldering
sparks of crimson began to brighten, as though fanned by a sudden
breeze.

The dancers were staring at him now as they swam by, mouthing
his name: Simon, Simon, Simon . . . On the far side of the ring,
beyond the crawling obscurity on the throne, a gap opened: two
clasped hands sliding apart like the tearing of a rotted rag.

As the opening moved around to him, one of the hands fluttered out
in fishlike undulation. It was Rachel's, and as she neared she beck-
oned to him. Instead of her usual look of suspicion, her face was set in
lines of desperate cheerfulness. She reached out: across from her fat
Jeremias held the gap open, a dull smile on his pale features.

"Come boy . . ." Rachel said, or at least it was her lips that

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             111

moved -- the voice soft and hoarse, was a man's. "Come, can you not
feel the place we have left for you? A place especially prepared?"

The grasping hand caught at his collar and began to pull him into
the dance's orbit. He struggled, slapping at the clammy fingers, but
his arms were strengthless. Rachel's and Jeremias' lips split in wide
grins. The voice deepened.

"Boy! Don't you hear me?! Come on, boy!"

"No!" The cry came out at last, leaping from the prison of
Simon's constricted throat. "No! I won't! Nol"

"Oh, Frayja's Garters, boy, wake up! You've woken everyone
else!" The hand shook him again, roughly, and there was a sudden
gleam of light. Simon sat up, tried to scream and fell back in a
coughing fit. A dark shape leaned over him, starkly outlined by an
oil lamp.

Actually the boy hasn't really wakened anyone, Isgrimnur realized.
The rest of 'em have been tossing and moaning since I walked in -- 
like they were all having the same nightmare. What a gods-cursed
strange night!

The duke watched as the restless shapes around him slowly lapsed
back into quietude, then returned his attention to the boy.

Look there -- the little puppy is coughing something fierce. Truth-
fully, though, he's not so little -- just thin as a starveling colt.

Isgrimnur put the lantern down in a niche, then pulled the sheet
of homespun stretched across the alcove to one side, so he could get
a good grip on the youth's shoulder. He pulled the boy upright in
bed and gave him a firm swat on the back. The boy coughed once
more and then stopped. Isgrimnur patted him a few more times with
a wide, hairy hand.

"Sorry, fellow, sorry. Take your time, there."

While the youth regained his breath the Duke looked around the
curtained-off alcove in which the boy's slat bed was set. From be-
yond the drooping cloth came the murmuring night-sounds of the
dozen or so scullions bedded nearby.

Isgrimnur picked up the lantern again, peering at the odd shapes
pegged on the shadowed wall: an unraveling bird's nest, a silky
streamer -- it looked green in the poor lamplight -- that had probably
come from some knight's festival gear. Nearby, also hanging from
nails driven into cracks, were a hawk feather, a crude wooden Tree,
and a picture whose ragged edge showed it to be torn from a book.

112 Tad Williams

Squinting, Isgrimnur thought he could make out a staring man with
wild hair standing out from his head ... or were they ant-
lers ...?

When he looked down again, smiling to himself at the unholy
clutter of younglings, the boy had regained his breath. He was look-
ing up at the duke with wide, nervous eyes.

With that nose and thatch of -- what is it, red? -- hair, the boy looks
like a be-damned marsh bird, Isgrimnur thought.

"Sorry to startle you," the old duke said, "but you were closest to
the door. I need to speak to Towser -- the jester. Do you know who
he is?" The boy nodded, watching his face intently. Good, thought
the Rimmersman, at least he isn 't simple-minded. *'I was told that he
dossed down here tonight, but I don't see him. Where is he?"

"You're - . . you're . . ." The youth was having trouble coming
out with it.

"Yes, I'm the Duke ofElvritshalla -- and don't start in bowing and
'sir'-ing. Just tell me where the jester is and I'll let you go back to
sleep."

Without another word the boy slid off his pallet and stood up,
pulling his blanket free and wrapping it about his shoulders. The
hem of his shirt hung down below, flapping against bare legs as he
stepped over the slumbering men around him, some of whom lay
wrapped in their cloaks in the middle of the floor as though they had
not been able to make it all the way to their beds. Isgrimnur fol-
lowed with the lamp, stepping carefully over the dark forms as
though he followed one of Udun's ghost-maidens through a field of
battle-slain.

They went through two more rooms this way, the big spirit and
the small, the larger just as silent for all his bulk. In the last room a
few dim coals sparkled in the fireplace. On the bricks before the
grate, curled in a nest of coats and with a sheepskin winebag still
gripped in his horny old fist, Towser the jester lay snoring and mum-
bling.

"Ah," Isgrimnur grunted. "Well, thanks then, boy. Go back to
your bed with my apologies -- although I think you were dreaming a
dream you'd be just as happy to wake from. Go on now."

The youth turned and went back past Isgrimnur toward the door-
way. As he brushed by, the duke was mildly surprised to note that
the youth was nearly as tall as he was -- and Isgrimnur was not a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              113

small man. It was the boy's slendemess, and the way he hunched
when he walked, that made his size less evident.

It's a pity nobody's taught that one to stand up, he thought. And
most likely he never will learn in the kitchens, or wherever.

When the youth had disappeared a moment later, Isgrimnur bent
and shook Towser -- gently at first, then with increasing vigor as it
became apparent that the little man was well and truly swotted; even
the firmest agitation produced only faint noises of protest. At last
Isgrimnur's patience ended. He bent down, clutching one of the
older man's ankles in each hand, and pulled them up in the air until
Towser dangled upside down, only the crown of his bald head touch-
ing the floor. Towser's grumbling turned to gurgles of discomfort,
and at last became good, understandable Westerling words.

"What ...?... Down! Put . . . down,  Aed'n damn
you . . ."

"If you don't wake up, old souse, I shall knock your head against
the ground until you think wine is poison forever!" Isgrimnur wed-
ded word to deed, lifting the jester's ankles a few hand-spans, then
setting his head back down none too gently on the cold stone.

"Desist! Demon, I ... surrender! Turn me 'round, man, turn
me 'round -- I am not Usires, to hang heels-o'er-head for the instruc-
tion of ... of the masses!"

Isgrimnur lowered him gently until the little jester lay stretched
full length on his back.

"Don't add blasphemy to besottedness, old fool," Isgrimnur
growled. Watching Towser roll painfully onto his stomach, the duke
failed to see a slender shadow take up a position in the doorway
behind him.

"Oh, merciful, merciful Aedon," Towser groaned as he levered
himself into a sitting position, "did you have to use my head for a
digging stick? If it is a well you wish to scrape, I could have told you
the ground is too stony here in the servants' chambers."

"Enough, Towser. I didn't wake you two hours before sunrise to
bandy jokes. Josua is gone."

Towser rubbed his crown, searching blindly with the other hand
for his wineskin. "Gone where, Isgrimnur? For pity's sake, man,
have you broken my pate because Josua failed to meet you some-
where? I had nothing to do with it, I promise you." He took a long,
self-pitying swig from the bag.

114 Tad Williams

"Idiot," Isgrimnur said, but his tone was not harsh. "I mean the
prince is gone. Left the Hayholt."

"Impossible," said Towser firmly, recovering some of his self-pos-
session with his second trembling swallow of malmsey. "He is not
leaving until next week. He said so. He told me I could go with him
if I wished then, and be his jester at Naglimund." Towser leaned his
head to the side and spat. "I told him I would give him my answer
tomorrow -- today, I suppose now -- since Elias doesn't seem to care
if I stay or I go." He shook his head. "And me his father's dearest
companion . . ."

Isgrimnur shook his head impatiently, his gray-shot beard wag-
ging. "No, man, he is gone. Left sometime after middle-night, as far
as I can tell -- or so said the Erkynguardsman I found at his empty
chamber when I went to keep a meeting-time with him. He had
asked me to come so late, though I would have rather been abed, but
he said it was something that would not wait. Does that sound like a
man who would leave without even a message for me?"

"Who knows?" said Towser, his wrinkled face screwed up as he
pondered. "Mayhap that is why he wished to speak to you -- because
he was leaving secretly."

"Then why did he not wait till I arrived? I do not like it." Is-
grimnur squatted down and poked at the coals with a stick lying
there. "There is a queer air in the halls of this house tonight."

"Josua is often strange in his action," said Towser with calm as-
surance. "He is moody -- by the Lord, is he moody! He has probably
gone out to hunt owls by moonlight, or some other tricksy pastime.
Fear not."

After a long moment of silence, Isgrimnur let out a long breath.
"Ah, I am sure you're right," he said, and his tone was quite nearly
convincing. "Even were he and Elias at open odds, nothing could
ever happen here in his father's house, before God and the court."

"Nothing but you thumping me on the head in the middle-night.
God seems to be a bit slow in doling out punishments tonight."
Towser grinned a wrinkly grin.

As the two men carried on their talking, voices hushed near the
dull embers, Simon stole quietly back to his bed. He lay awake for
some long time wrapped in his blanket, staring up into the darkness;

but by the time the cock in the court yard below finally saw the sun's
first rising glow, he had fallen back into sleep.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

^

"Now you just remember," Morgenes cautioned, wiping the swe<
from his forehead with a bright blue kerchief, " -- don't eat anythin
until you've brought it back and asked me. Especially if it has re
spots. Understood? Many of the articles I've asked you to gather ai
direst poison. Avoid stupidity, if such a thing is possible. Simon, yo
are in charge, boy. I hold you responsible for the safety of the oti
ers."

The others were Jeremias the chandler's lad and Isaak, a youn
page from the upstairs residence. The doctor had picked this he
Feyever afternoon to organize a mushroom and herb-hunting exps
dition to the Kynswood, a small forest of less than a hundred acre
that huddled on the high bank of the Kynslagh along the Hayholt'
western wall. Because of the drought, Morgenes' supplies of impol
tant commodities had dwindled alarmingly, and the Kynswooc
standing as it did beside the great lake, seemed a good place t
search for the doctor's moisture-loving treasures.

As they fanned out through the forest, Jeremias hung back, wai<
ing until the sound of Morgenes' crunching footsteps had dimin
ished into the crackly brown undergrowth.

"Have you asked him yet?" Jeremias* clothes were already so we
with perspiration that they clung.

"No." Simon had squatted down to watch a press-gang of ant
hurrying single file up the trunk of a Vestivegg pine. "I'm going ti
do it today. I just have to think of the right way to do it."

"What if he says no?" Jeremias eyed the procession with sonn
distaste. "What will we do then?"

"He won't say no." Simon stood up. "And if he does . . . well
1*11 think of something."

"What are you two whispering about?" Young Isaak had reap
peared in the clearing. "It's not right to keep secrets." Though hi
was some three or four years younger than Simon and Jeremias
Isaak had already developed an "upstairs" tone. Simon scowled a
him.

"Never you mind."

116 Tad Williams

"We were looking at this tree," Jeremias offered, quick to feel
guilt.

"I should have thought," Isaak said archly, "that there were
plenty of trees to look at without skulking and telling secrets."

"Oh, but this one," Jeremias began. "This one is . . ."

"Forget the stupid tree," said Simon in disgust. "Let's go.
Morgenes had gotten the jump on us, and will let us know if he
outgathers us." He ducked a branch and waded into the ankle-high
tangle of undergrowth.

It was hard work; when they stopped to drink water and rest in
the shade some hour and a half later, all three of the boys were
covered in fine red dust up to their elbows and knees. Each carried a
small bundle of goods wrapped in his kerchief: Simon's the largest,
Isaak's and Jeremias' of more modest size. They found a large
spruce which they shared as a backrest, dusty legs fanning out
around it like the spokes on a wheel. Simon tossed a stone across the
clearing; it thumped into a pile of broken branches, setting dead
leaves a-tremble.

"Why is it so hot?" moaned Jeremias, swabbing his brow. "And
why is my handkerchief full of ridiculous mushrooms, so that I have
to wipe the sweat away with my hands?" He held up slick, wet
palms.

"It's hot because it's hot," Simon grumbled. "Because there's no
rain. And that's that."

A longish stretch of time passed in silence. Even the insects and
birds seemed to have disappeared, gone to dark places to sleep the
dry, still afternoon away in silence.

"I suppose we should be glad we are not at Meremund," said
Jeremias at last. "They say that a thousand have died there from the
plague."

"A thousand?" said Isaak, scornful. The heat had brought high
color to his thin, pale face. "Thousands! It is the talk of the resi-
dence. My master goes about the Hayholt with a kerchief doused in
holy water clapped to his face, and the plague has not come within a
hundred leagues of here."

"Does your master know what is happening in Meremund?" Si-
mon asked, interested -- Isaak did have his uses. "Does he speak of it
to you?"

117

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"All the time." The young page was smug. "His wife's brother is
the mayor. They were among the first to flee the plague. He has
gotten much news from them."

"Elias made Guthwulf of Utanyeat the King's Hand," said Si-
mon. Jeremias groaned and slid away from the trunk, stretching out
full-length on the pine needle-matted ground.

"That's right," Isaak replied, scratching in the dirt with a long
twig. "And he has kept the plague there. It has not spread."

"What caused it, this pestilence?" Simon asked. "Do any of the
residence people know?" He felt stupid asking questions of a child so
much younger than himself, but Isaak did hear the upstairs gossip
and was not reticent in sharing it.

"Nobody knows for sure. Some people say that jealous Hemystir
merchants from Abaingeat across the river poisoned the wells.
Many people in Abaingeat have died, too." Isaak said this with a
certain air of satisfaction -- after all, the Hemystiri were not
Aedonites but heathens, however noble an ally the House of Lluth
might be under the High King's Ward. "Others say that the drought
has cracked the earth with dryness, and poisonous airs have escaped
from the ground. Whatever it is, my master says that it spares no-
body, rich man, priest, or peasant. You first become hot and fever-
ish . . ." -- Jeremias, on his back, groaned and mopped at his fore-
head -- ". . . then you blister up, like you had laid on hot coals.
Then the blisters begin to ooze . . ." He emphasized this last word
with a childish grimace, fine blond hair hanging in his flushed face.
"And then you die. Painfully."

The forest breathed heat around them as they sat without speak-
ing.

"My master Jakob," Jeremias said at last, "fears that the plague
shall come to the Hayholt, on account of all the dirty peasants living
by the walls." The Kynswood took another slow breath. "Ruben the
Bear. the blacksmith, told my master that he had gotten news from a
mendicant friar that Guthwulf has taken very harsh measures in
Meremund."

"Harsh measures?" Simon asked, eyes closed. "What does that
mean?"

"The friar told Ruben that Guthwulf, when he arrived in Mer-
emund as King's Hand, took the Erkynguard and went to the homes

118 Tad Williams

of the sick. They took hammers, nails, and boards, and sealed the
houses up."

"With the people inside?" Simon asked, horrified but fascinated.

"Of course. To stop the spread of plague. They boarded up the
houses so families of the diseased could not run away and spread the
plague to others." Jeremias raised his sleeve and mopped again.

"But I thought the plague came from bad airs, from the ground?"

"Even so, it can be spread. That is why so many priests and
monks and leeches have died. The friar said that at night, for many
weeks, the streets of Meremund were . . . were . . . what did he
say . . . ? 'Like the Halls of Hell.' You could hear the people howl-
ing like dogs in the boarded-up houses. Finally, when they all went
silent, Guthwulf and the Erkynguard burned them. Unopened."

As Simon marveled at this last detail, there was a sound of break-
ing branches.

"Ho there, you lazy lumps!" Morgenes appeared from a knot of
trees, his robes festooned with twigs and leaves, a fringe of moss
clinging to the brim of his wide hat. "I should have known I would
find you flat on your backs."

Simon struggled to his feet. "We have only been sitting a short
while. Doctor," he said. "We gathered for a long time."

"Don't forget to ask him!" hissed Jeremias, pulling himself up.

"Well," Morgenes said, eyeing their bundles critically. "I suppose
you have not done badly, considering the conditions. Let me see
what you have found." He squatted like a farmer weeding a hedge-
row and began sifting through the boys' collections. "Ah! Devil's
Ear!" he cried, holding a scalloped mushroom up to the shaft of
sunlight. "Excellent!"

"Doctor," Simon said, "I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Hmmm?" Morgenes was poking through bits of fungus, using an
unrolled kerchief as a table.

"Well, Jeremias is interested in joining the guards -- or trying to.
The problem is. Count Breyugar knows us castle folk hardly at all,
and Jeremias has no connection into such circles."

"That," said Morgenes dryly, "is no surprise." He emptied out
the next kerchief.

"Do you think you could write him a letter of introduction? You
are well known to all." Simon tried to keep his voice calm. Isaak

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               119

looked at sweating Jeremias with a mixture of respect and amuse-
ment.

"Hmmm." The doctor's tone was neutral. "I suspect I am only
too well known to Breyugar and his friends." He looked up, fixing
Jeremias with a sharp eye. "Does Jakob know?"

"He ... he knows my feelings," stammered Jeremias.

Morgenes bundled all the gatherings together in a sack and re-
turned the boys' kerchiefs. The doctor stood, shaking the clinging
leaves and tree needles from his robe.

"I suppose I could," he said, as they started back toward the
Hayholt. "I don't think I approve -- and I don't think a note from
me will quite bring them to respectful attention -- but I suppose if
Jakob knows, then it's all right." They waded single file through the
scratching thicket.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Jeremias breathlessly, struggling to
keep up.

"I doubt they shall want you." Isaak sounded a little envious. As
they moved closer to the castle, his haughtiness seemed to return
apace.

"Doctor Morgenes," Simon said, mustering as best he could a
tone of benign unconcern, "why don't / write the letter, and then
you can look at it and sign it? It would be good practice for me,
don't you think?"

"Why, Simon," the doctor said, stepping over a fallen tree trunk,
"that's an excellent idea. I'm glad to see you take such initiative.
Maybe I will make a true apprentice of you yet."

The doctor's cheerful statement, his tone of pride, weighed Simon
down like a cape of lead. He hadn't done anything yet, let alone
anything bad, and already he felt like a murderer or some worse
thing. He was about to say something else when the stifling forest air
was ripped by a scream.

Simon turned around to see Jeremias, his face white as wheat
paste, pointing at something in a thicket beside the fallen log. Isaak
stood beside him, frozen in shock. Simon hurried back, Morgenes
only a step behind him.

It was a corpse, lying tumbled half-in and half-out of the thicket.
Although the face was mostly covered by bushes, the near-fleshless
state of the exposed parts showed that the body had been dead for
some time.

120 Tad Williams

"Oh, oh, oh," gasped Jeremias, "he's dead! Are there outlaws
here? What shall we do?"

"Oh, hush," snapped Morgenes. "That will be a start. Let me
have a look." The doctor picked up the hem of his robe and waded
forward into the thicket, then stopped and gingerly lifted the
branches that masked much of the body.

From the tendrils of beard that still clung to his bird- and insect-
gnawed face, he seemed to have been a northerner -- a Rimmersman
perhaps. He wore unremarkable traveling clothes, a light wool cloak
and tanned leather boots, rotting now so that bits of the fur lining
showed through.

"How did he die?" asked Simon. The eyeless sockets, dark and
secretive, unnerved him. The toothy mouth, flesh shrunken and
pulled away, seemed to be grinning, as though the cadaver had been
lying here for weeks enjoying a bleak joke.

Morgenes used a stick to pull the tunic aside. A few flies rose
lazily and circled. "Look," he said.

From a puckered hole in the corpse's desiccated trunk rose the
stump of an arrow, broken off a handsbreadth above the ribs.

"Done by someone in a hurry, perhaps -- someone who did not
want their arrow recognized."

They had to wait a moment for Isaak to finish being noisily ill
before they could hurry on to the castle.

9

Smoke on the Wind

"DID YOU get it? Did he guess?" Still pale for all his hours in the
sun, Jeremias bobbed along at Simon's side like the sheep's-bladder
float on a fisherman's net.

"I've got it," Simon growled. Jeremias' agitation irritated him; it
seemed out of keeping with the masculine gravity of their mission.
"You think too much."

Jeremias took no offense. "As long as you've got it," he said.

Main Row, open to the harsh noontide sky, tent-roofing skinned
back, was nearly deserted. Here and there the constabulary guard -- 
yellow-liveried to show their immediate allegiance to Count Breyu-
gar, bearing sashes of Elias' royal green -- lounged in the doorways
or diced with one another against the walls of shuttered shops. Even
though the morning market was long over, still it seemed to Simon
that there were fewer common people in the streets than was usual.
Those to be seen were mostly the homeless who had been flooding
into Erchester in the recent winter months, driven out of the coun-
tryside by drying streams and failing wells. They stood or sat in the
shadows of stone walls and buildings, knots of indifference, their
movements slow and purposeless. The constables pushed past or
stepped over them as though they were dogs in the street.

The pair turned right off Main Row onto Tavern Way, the largest
of the thoroughfares running perpendicular to the Row. Here there
was more activity, although still the largest number of folk in sight
were soldiers. The heat had driven most of them indoors; they
leaned out of the low windows with flagons in their hands, watching
Simon and Jeremias and the half a dozen or so other pedestrians
with beery disinterest.

A peasant girl in a homespun skirt -- some ostler's daughter most
likely, by the jug she balanced on her shoulder -- hurried past up the
street. A few soldiers whistled and called out to her, spilling great

122 Tad Williams

sloshes of beer into the dust below the tavern windowsills. The girl
did not look up as she trotted by, chin on chest. Her haste, combined
with the heavy jug, kept her steps short. Simon watched the fluid
sway of her hips appreciatively, even turning completely around to
keep her in view until she swooped abruptly into an alleyway and
disappeared.

"Simon, come on!" Jeremias called. "There it is!"

In the middle of the block of buildings, standing up from Tavern
Row like a rock in a rutted road, stood Saint Sutrin's cathedral. The
stone of its great face dully reflected the patient sun. Its tall arches
and vaulting buttresses cast thin shadows over the nests of gar-
goyles, whose lively, twisted faces peered down happily, cackling
and joking over the shoulders of the humorless saints. Three limp
pennants hung from the flagpole over the high double doors: Ellas'
green dragon, the Pillar and Tree of the church, and at the bottom
the gold coronet of Erchester-town on a white field. A pair of con-
stabulary guards leaned on the open doors, their pikes point down in
the wide stone doorway.

"Well, here's for it," said Simon grimly, and with Jeremias trot-
ting at his heels he made his way up the two dozen marble steps. At
the top one of the guards lifted his pike lazily and barred their
entrance. His chain mail hood was pulled back, hanging like a veil
across his shoulders.

"What do you want, then?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"A message for Breyugar." Simon was embarrassed to hear his
voice break. "For Count Breyugar, from Doctor Morgenes at the
Hayholt." A little defiantly, he thrust out the rolled parchment. The
guardsman who had spoken took it and gave the seal a cursory
glance. The other was staring intently up at the carved door-lintel,
as if hoping to see written there his dismissal from duty for the day.

The first guard handed the parchment back with a shrug. "Inside
and to the left. Don't be scamping about."

Simon drew himself up to his full height, indignant. When he was
a guardsman, he would carry himself with a great deal more style
than these bored, unshaven idiots. Didn't they know what an honor
it was to wear the king's green? He and Jeremias climbed past them
into Saint Sutrin's cool interior.

Nothing moved in the antechamber, not even the air, but Simon
could see the play of light on figures in motion beyond the far door-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             123

way. Instead of going directly to the door on the left, he looked back
to see if the guards were watching -- they weren't, of course -- then
strode forward to look into the cathedral's grand chapel.

"Simon!" Jeremias hissed, alarmed. "What are you doing?! They
said over there!" He pointed to the leftmost doorway.

Ignoring his companion, Simon leaned his head through the door-
way. Jeremias, muttering nervously, came up behind.

It's like one of those religious pictures, Simon thought. Where you
see Usires and the Tree way in the back, and the faces of Nabbanai
peasants and all very close up front,

Indeed, the chapel was so large and high-ceilinged that it seemed
a whole world. Sunlight, softened by the colored windows as though
by clouds, streamed down from the uppermost reaches. White-robed
priests moved around the altar, cleaning and polishing like shaven-
headed chambermaids. Simon supposed they were preparing for the
Elysiamansa services only a week or two away.

Closer to the door, moving equally busily but with no other com-
mon reference, Breyugar's yellow-tunicked constables milled back
and forth on various errands, dotted here and there with the green of
one of the castle's Erkynguard, or the dun or black clothes of some
Erchester notable. The two groups seemed completely separated; it
took a moment for Simon to see the row of boards and stools that
had been mounted between the front and back of the cathedral. In a
flash of insight, Simon realized that it was not a fence to keep the
scurrying priests in, as was the first impression -- no, rather it was to
keep the soldiers out. It seemed that Bishop Domitis and the priests
had still not given up hope that the Lord Constable's occupation of
their cathedral would be less than permanent.

As they climbed the stairs, they had to show their parchment to
three more guards in turn, all of these more alert than those at the
massive front door -- either because they were inside out of the sun,
or else due to their increased proximity to the object of protection.
At last they stood in a crowded guardroom before a seam-faced,
gap-toothed veteran whose belt full of keys and air of harried dis-
interest bespoke authority.

"Yes, the Lord Breyugar's here today. Give me the letter, and I'll
be passing it on." The sergeant scratched his chin impassively.

"No, sir, we must give it to him. It's from Doctor Morgenes."
Simon tried to sound firm. Jeremias was staring at the floor.

124 Tad Williams

"Oh, is it then? Well, think of that." The man spat on the saw-
dust-covered floor. Here and there the gleam of marble tiles showed
through. "Aedon bite me, what a day. Wait here, then."

"So, what have we here?" Count Breyugar, sitting at the table
beside the bony remnants of a meal of small birds, raised an eye-
brow. He had delicate features, nearly lost in jowly flesh, and the
hands of a musician -- fine, long-fingered hands.

"A letter, my Lord." Simon, on one knee, extended the tube of
parchment.

"Well give it to me, then, boy. Can't you see I'm at dinner?" The
count's voice was high-pitched and effeminate, but Simon had heard
that Breyugar was a terrifying swordsman -- those slender hands had
killed many men.

As the count read the message, lips moving, shiny with grease,
Simon tried to keep his shoulders straight and his back stiff as a pike
handle. Out of the comer of his eye he thought he saw the grizzled
sergeant looking at him, so he tilted his chin back and stared
straight ahead, thinking about what a favorable comparison he must
make to the slouching dullards on watch at the cathedral doors.

". . . Please consider the . . . bearers ... for service under
your Lordship's guidance . . ." Breyugar read aloud. His emphasis
gave Simon a panicky moment -- had he noticed the "s" Simon had
added to "bearer"? He had made it a bit squeezy so it would fit.

Count Breyugar, his eyes on Simon, handed the letter to the staff
sergeant. As the sergeant read, slower even than Breyugar, the no-
bleman looked the youth up and down, then flicked a brief glance to
the still-kneeling Jeremias. When the sergeant handed the letter
back, he wore a smile that showed two teeth missing, and a pink
tongue probing in the dark gulf.

"So." Breyugar fluted the sound like a sorrowful breath.
"Morgenes, the old apothecary, wants me to take on a couple of
castle-mice and turn them into men." He picked up a tiny haunch
from his plate and chewed on the bone. "Impossible."

Simon felt his knees buckle and his stomach push up toward his
throat. "But ... but why?" he stammered.

"Because I don't need you. I have fighting men enough. I can't
afford you. No one can plant if it doesn't rain, and I have men lined
up already looking for a job of work that will feed them. But most

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             125

important, I don't want you -- a couple of suet-soft castle boys who
have felt nothing more painful in their lives than a smack on their
pink arses for stealing cherries. Go on with you. If war comes, if
those sneering heathen in Hemystir continue to resist the king's will,
or treacherous Josua turns up, then you can carry a pitchfork or
scythe with the rest of the peasants -- maybe you can even follow the
army and water the horses, if manpower gets short enough. But
you'll never be soldiers. The king didn't make me Lord Constable to
nursemaid groundlings. Sergeant, show these castle-mice a hole to
scamper out."

Neither Simon or Jeremias said a word all the long journey back
to the Hayholt. When Simon was alone in his curtained alcove he
broke his barrel-stave sword over his knee. He did not cry. He would
not cry.

^

There is something strange in the north wind today, thought Is-
grimnur. Something that smells like an animal, or a storm about to
happen, or both . . . some scratchy thing that puts the hair on my
neck right up.

He rubbed his hands together as though the air were cold, which
it was not, and pushed the sleeves of his light summer tunic -- worn
months early in this oddest of years -- up over his corded old fore-
arms- He went again to the doorway and looked out, feeling embar-
rassed that an old soldier like himself should be playing such strip-
ling's games.

Where is that damned Hernystirman?

Turning to pace again he nearly tripped over a stack of writing
boxes, instead catching a boot buckle in the bottommost of a small
pyramid of parchment scrolls that hemmed in his confined walking
space. Cursing roundly, he bent in time to keep the arrangement
from toppling. Certainly the deserted room in the Hall of Records,
emptied so that the writing-priests could make their Elysiamansa
observances, was as good a place as could be found on short notice
for a clandestine meeting -- but why couldn't they leave enough
room among their damned daubings for a grown man to move
around?

126 Tad Williams

The door latch rattled Duke Isgnmnur, relieved of waiting at
last, sprang forward Instead of peering out cautiously he flung the
door open to find not two men, as expected, but one

"Praise Aedon you're here, Eclair'" he barked "Where's the es-
cntor?"

"Sshh " The Count of Nad Mullach held two fingers to his hps as
he entered, pulling the door closed behind him "More quiet The
archive-master is nattering about just up the hall"

"And why should I care?" the duke exclaimed, but not so loudly
as the first time. "Are we children, to hide from that leathery old
eunuch?"

"If you wanted a meeting that all know about," Eclair asked,
settling himself on a stool, "then why are we hiding in a closet^"

"It's no closet," the Rimmerman grumbled, "and you know per-
fectly well why I told you to come here, and why no secret is safe in
the Inner Keep Where's Escntor Velhgis^"

"He felt that a closet was no place for the lector's nght-hand
man " Eolair laughed Isgnmnur did not. He thought the Hemys-
tirman drunk by his flushed face, or at least a little so He wished he
were the same

"I thought it important that we meet somewhere we could talk
freely," Isgnmnur said, a little defensively "We have been much
seen in deep conversation lately "

"No, Isgnmnur, it's you that's right." Eolair waved a hand reas-
suringly He was dressed for the Lady Day celebrations, playing the
part of respectful outsider -- a part which the pagan Hernystin had
learned well- His festival tunic of white was belted three times, each
belt covered in gold or enameled metals, and his long mane of black
hair was pulled back behind his head and tied with golden nbbon "I
was only making a joke, and a sad joke it is," he resumed, "when
King John's loyal subjects must meet in secret to speak of things
which are no treason."

Isgnmnur moved slowly to the door and juggled the latch, mak-
ing sure it had closed He turned, putting his wide back against the
wood, and crossed his arms across his substantial chest He, too, was
dressed for the festivities in a fine, light-weight blue tunic and hose,
but the braids of his beard had already been frayed loose by nervous
tugging, and the hose bagged at the knee Isgnmnur hated dressing
up

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              127

"Well," he growled at last, tilting his head defiantly, "should I
speak first, or will you9"

"There is no need to worry who will speak first," the count said

For a moment the flush ofEolair's face, the color on his high, thin
cheekbones, reminded the older man of something he had seen once,
years ago, a haunting figure glimpsed across fifty yards of Rimmers-
gard snow

One of the '^white foxes," my father called that one.

Isgnmnur wondered if the old stones were true -- was there really
Sithi blood in the Hernystin noble houses?

Eolair ran a hand across his forehead as he continued speaking,
blotting away the tiny droplets of sweat, and the momentary likeness
was gone "We have spoken enough to know that things have gone
fiercely wrong What we need to speak on -- and what we need pn-
vacy to speak on," he waved his hand at the cluttered archive room,
a dark nest of paper and parchment lit by a high tnangular window,
*' -- is what we can do about it If anything But that is it What can
be done?"

Isgnmnur was not yet willing to jump so boldly into talk that,
whatever Eolair might say, had already the faint, sickening tang of
treason

"It's this way," he said, "I would be the last to hold Ehas to
blame for this bedamned weather I should know while it's hot as
the Devil's breath and dry as a bone here, in my land in the north
we're having a temble winter snows and ice that beat anything
remembered So weather here is no fault of the king's, any more
than the roofs collapsed and the cattle frozen in the bam halls in
Rimmersgard are mine" He tugged fiercely, and another beard-
braid raveled loose, the nbbon hanging limply down from the gray
tangle "Of course, Elias is to blame for keeping me here while my
kinsfolk and people suffer, but that is another line and another
hook

"No, it's that the man doesn't seem to care! The wells drying up,
the farms lying fallow, starving people sleeping in the fields and
cities a-choke with the plague -- and he seems not to notice. The
taxes and levies go up, those bedamned arse-licking pups of the
nobihty he has befriended nng him 'round all day dunking and
singing and fighting and     and     " The old duke grunted in
disgust "And the tournaments' Udun's red spear, I was as much for

128 Tad Williams

the tourney as any man in my day, but Erkynland is crumbling to
dust beneath his father's throne, the countries of the High Ward are
restless as a spooked colt -- and still the tournaments go on! And the
barge parties on the Kynslagh! And the jugglers, and the tumblers,
and the bearbaitings! It's as bad as what they say of the worst days
of Crexis the Goat!" Red in the face himself now, Isgrimnur balled
his fists and stared at the floor.

"In Hemystir," -- Eolair's voice was soft and musical after the
Rimmerman's hoarse tirade -- "we say: 'A shepherd, not a butcher,'
meaning a king should preserve his land and people like a flock,
taking from them only what he needs to get by -- not use them up
until there's nothing left to do but eat what remains." Eolair stared
at the small window and the particles of parchment dust that eddied
in its diffuse light. "That's what Ehas is doing: eating his land bite
by bite, as surely as did the giant Croich-ma-Feareg once devoured
the mountain at Crannhyr."

"He was a good man once, Elias was," Isgrimnur said wonder-
ingly, " -- far easier to deal with than his brother. Surely, not all men
are meant for kingship, but it seems more is wrong than just a man
made ill by power. Something is damnably wrong -- and it is not only
Fengbald and Breyugar and those that are leading him to the cliff."
The duke had somewhat regained his breath. "You know it is that
vicious bastard Pryrates who fills his head with strange notions, and
keeps him up nights in that tower with lights and unholy noises,
until sometimes it seems that the king does not know where he is
when the sun is up. What could Elias want from such a creature as
that whoreson priest? He is king of the known world -- what could
Pryrates possibly have to offer him?"

Eolair stood, still with eyes fixed to the light above, and dampened
his sleeve against his forehead. "I wish I knew," he said at last. "So.
What then is there to do?"

Isgrimnur narrowed his old, fierce eyes. "What said Escritor Vel-
ligis? It is, after all, Mother Church's cathedral that is confiscate at
Saint Sutrin's. It is Duke Leobardis' Nabbanai ships, along with
your King Lluth's, that Guthwulf has stolen under the lie of 'plague
danger' at the sovereign harbor of Abaingeat. Leobardis and Lector
Ranessin are close; they rule Nabban like one two-headed monarch.
Surely Velligis must have had something to say on his master's be-
half."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             129

"He has much to say, but little of substance, my friend." Eolair
slumped back on his stool. The bright shaft of sunlight was dimin-
ished now, its source partially blocked as the sun sank, the little
room in even denser shadow. "Of what Duke Leobardis thinks of
this act of piracy -- three grain ships thieved outright in a Hemystir
harbor -- Velligis professes not to know. On his master's behalf he is,
as ever, vague. His Sacredness Ranessin, I think, has designs to be a
peacemaker between Elias and Duke Leobardis, and perhaps at the
same time improve the position of your Aedonite Church here at
court. My master King Lluth has directed me next to travel to
Nabban, and perhaps I will find out the truth of that when I am
there, I fear, however, that if such is the case, the lector has mis-
judged: if the snubbing that Elias and his sycophants have given
VeUigis is any indication, the King is more restless even than his
father was under Mother Church's broad shadow."

"So many plots!" Isgrimnur groaned. "So many intrigues! It
makes my head swim. I am not a man for such things. Give me a
sword or an axe and let me deal blows!"

"Is that why you have taken to closets?" Eolair smiled, and pro-
duced from beneath his cloak a skin of sour-honey mead. "There
does not seem anyone to swing at here. I think you are taking rather
well to intrigue late in life, my good Duke."

Isgrimnur frowned, and took the offered skin. He's a born in-
triguer himself, our Eolair, he thought. / should be grateful, if noth-
ing else, to have someone to talk to. For all that Hemystiri poetry-talk
I've heard him trot out for the ladies, he's hard as shield-steel under-
neath -- a good ally for treacherous times.

"There's something else." Isgrimnur handed the skin back to Eo-
lair and wiped his mouth. The count took a long swallow and then
nodded his head.

"Out with it. I'm all ears like a Circoille hare."

"That dead man old Morgenes found out in the Kynswood?"
Isgrimnur said, " -- the arrowshot one?" Eolair nodded again. "He
was mine. Bindesekk by name, although by the time he was discov-
ered I would never have known him but for a broken bone in his
face that was got in an earlier service for me. Of course I said
nothing."

"Yours?" Eolair cocked an eyebrow. "And doing what? Do you
know?"

130 Tad Williams

Isgrimnur laughed, a short, barking sound. "Certainly. That is
why I kept quiet. I sent him out when Skali of Kaldskryke took his
kinsmen and departed north. Sharp-nose has been making too many
new friends among Elias* court for my liking, so I sent Bindesekk
out with a message to my son Isom. As long as Elias is keeping me
here with these ridiculous errands, these shows of mock-diplomacy
that he claims are so important -- and if they were so important, why
entrust them to a blunt old war-dog like me? -- then I wanted Isom
to be on especial close watch. I don't trust Skali any more than I
would a starving wolf, and my son has troubles enough at home
already, from what I hear. All the reports that have trickled down
across the Frostmarch are bad -- raging storms in the north, the
roads unsafe, villagers forced to huddle together in the main halls. It
makes for troubled times, and Skali knows that."

"'Do you think, then, it was Skali killed your man?" Eolair leaned
forward, passing the skin back.

"I don't know, to be sure." The duke tipped back his head for
another long swallow, the muscles in his thick neck pulsing; a thin
drizzle of mead spattered down his blue tunic. "What I mean is: it's
the most obvious thing, but I have many doubts." He wiped at the
stain absently for a moment. "First of all, even if he caught
Bindesekk, it's an act of treason to kill him. For all his contempt,
Skali is my liege-man and I am his liege-lord."

"But the body was hidden."

"Not well. And why so close to the castle? Why not wait until
they had reached the Wealdhelm Hills -- or the Frostmarch Road if
it's even passable -- and kill him there, where I'd never find out?
Also, the arrow doesn't strike me as Skali's way. I could see him
chopping Bindesekk up in a rage with that great axe of his, but
shooting him and then dropping him in the Kynswood? It doesn't sit
right, somehow."

"Then who?"

Isgrimnur shook his head, feeling the mead at last. "That's what
worries me, Hemystinnan," he said at last. "I just don't know.
There are strange things afoot. Travelers' tales, castle rumors . . ."

Eolair went to the door and unlatched it, pushing it open to allow
fresh air into the small room.

"These are indeed strange times, my friend," he said, and took a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             131

deep breath. "And, perhaps the most important question of all -- 
where in this strange world is Prince Josua?"

^

Simon picked up a small piece of flint and sent it spinning into
space. After describing a graceful arc through the morning air the
stone descended with a muffled snap into a leafless topiary animal in
the garden below. Crawling to the edge of the chapel roof, Simon
marked its impact point like a skilled catapult man, noting the
quiver at the haunches of the hedge-squirrel. He rolled back from
the roof gutter and into the shadow of a chimney, savoring the cool
solidity of the stones beneath his spine. Overhead the fierce eye of
the Marris sun glared down, nearing its noon apex.

It was a day to evade responsibility, to escape Rachel's chores and
Morgenes' explanations. The doctor had not yet found out -- or had
not mentioned -- Simon's thwarted foray into the military arts, and
Simon was content to keep it that way.

Spread-eagled and squint-eyed in the morning brightness, he
heard a faint ticking noise near his head. He opened one eye in time
to see a tiny gray shadow whisk past. Rolling slowly over onto his
stomach, he scanned the rooftop.

The great chapel roof spread before him, a field of humped and
irregular slate tiles in whose cracks sprouted tight-coiled hanks of
brown and pale green moss that had somehow miraculously sur-
vived the drought, clinging to life as grudgingly as they clung to the
splintered tiles- The plain of slates marched uphill from the guttered
edge to the chapel's dome, which pushed up through the roof like a
sea turtle's shell breaching the shallow wavelets of a quiet cove. Seen
from this angle the dome's colorful glass panels -- which shone inside
the chapel with magical pictures of the lives of saints -- looked dark
and flat, a parade of crude figures across a dun-colored world. At the
dome's apex an iron knob held aloft a golden Tree, but from Simon's
viewpoint it was merely gilded, the gold leaf peeling in slender,
shimmering strips that revealed the corrosion beneath.

Beyond the castle chapel the sea of roofs spread out in all direc-
tions: the Great Hall, the throne room, the archives and servants'
quarters, all pitched and uneven, repaired or replaced many times as

132 Tad Williams

the seasons in their passing licked at gray stone and lead shingle,
then nibbled them away. To Simon's left loomed the slender white
arrogance of Green Angel Tower; farther back, protruding above the
arch of the chapel dome, the gray, squat bulk of Hjeldin's Tower sat
up like a begging dog.

As Simon surveyed the expanse of the roof-world, a flirt of gray
appeared again at the edge of his vision. Turning swiftly, he saw the
hindquarters of a small soot-colored cat disappear into a hole at the
roof's edge. He crawled across the slates to investigate. When he
was close enough to observe the hole, he dropped back down onto
his stomach, balancing his chin onto the back of his hands. There
was no sign of movement now.

A cat on the roof, he thought. Well, someone might as well live up
here besides flies and pigeons -- I suppose he eats those scrabbling roof
rats,

Simon, despite having seen only its tail and back legs thus far, felt
a sudden affinity with this outlaw roof cat. Like him, the cat knew
the secret passages, the angles and crannies, and went where it
would without leave. Like himself, this gray hunter made its way
without the concern or charity of others. . . .

Even Simon knew that this was a terrible exaggeration of his own
situation, but he rather liked the comparison.

For example, hadn't he crept unsuspected onto this same rooftop
four days ago, the day after Elysiamansa, to watch the mustering
out of the Erkynguard? Rachel the Dragon, irritated by his infatua-
tion with everything except maintenance of the household, which
she felt was his true -- and neglected -- duty, had earlier forbidden
him to go down and join the crowd at the main gate.

Ruben the Bear, the hump-shouldered, slab-muscled master of the
castle smithy, had told Simon that the Erkynguard was going to
Falshire, up the River Ymstrecca to the east of Erchester. The wool
merchants' guild there was causing trouble, Ruben had explained to
the youth as he dropped a red-hot horseshoe into a bucket of water.
Waving away the hissing steam, Ruben had then tried to describe the
complicated situation: it seemed that the drought had caused such
distress that the sheep of Falshire's farmers -- their main livelihood
 -- must now be appropriated by the crown to feed the starving, dis-
possessed masses crowding into Erchester. The wool merchants, cry-
ing that this would ruin them -- that they, too, would be made to

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              133

starve -- were swarming in the streets, inflaming the local folk
against the unpopular edict.

So Simon had climbed secretly onto the chapel roof Tiasday-last
to watch the Erkynguard ride out, several hundred well-armed foot
soldiers and a dozen knights under the command of Earl Fengbald,
whose fief Falshire was. As Fengbald rode out at the front of the
Guard, helmed and corseleted, splendid in his red tunic and silver-
stitched eagle, several of the more cynical in the watching crowd
suggested the Earl was taking so many soldiers for fear that his
Falshire subjects would not recognize him, owing to his extended
absences. Others suggested he might fear that they would recognize
him -- Fengbald had not exactly been tireless in the interests of his
hereditary domain.

Simon thought back warmly on Fengbald's impressive helmet, a
gleaming silver casque crested with a pair of spreading wings.

Rachel and the others are right, he thought suddenly. Here I am
daydreaming again. Fengbald and his noble friends will never know if
I live or die. I must make something of myself. I don't want to be a
child forever, do I? He scratched at a slate tile with a piece of gravel,
trying to draw an eagle. Besides, I would probably look foolish in
armor . . . wouldn't I?

The memory of the soldiers of the Erkynguard marching so
proudly out the great Nearulagh Gate touched him in sore spots, but
it warmed him, too; he kicked his feet lazily as he watched the cat's
cave for sign of its denizen-
It was an hour past noon before a suspicious nose appeared at the
front of the hole. By this time Simon was riding a stallion through
the gates of Falshire, flowers raining down from the windows above.
Tugged back to attention by the sudden movement, he held his
breath as the nose was followed by the rest of the beast: a small,
short-furred gray cat with a patch of white running from right eye to
chin. The youth stayed stock-still as the cat -- a mere half a fathom
from his own position -- took momentary fright at something and
arched its back, eyes narrowing. Simon feared it had seen him, but
as he remained motionless it suddenly moved forward, bounding out
of the shadow of the roof's upcurved edge and into the broad path of
the sun's passage. As Simon watched, delighted, the gray catling

134 Tad Williams

found a loose piece of flint and batted it skittering across the tiles,
following to hook it with an agile paw and begin the game anew.

He watched the roof cat's antics for some time, until a particu-
larly ridiculous pratfall -- the catling had skidded to a stop with both
front paws on the slate chip, tumbled head over heels into a crack
between the tiles, then lay there with its tail wriggling in exaspera-
tion -- forced him to reveal his position. His long-suppressed snort of
laughter broke forth; the little beast leaped tumbling into the air,
landed, and bolted for its hole with no more than a brief glance in
Simon's direction. This scrambling exit convulsed him again.

"Scatter, cat!" he called after the vanished creature. "Scatter, you
catter! Scatter-scatter!"

As he was crawling toward the hole-mouth to sing a little song of
shared outlook on roofs and stones and solitude to the gray cat -- 
who he was somehow certain would be listening -- something else
caught his eye. He put his hands on the roof edge and poked his
head up to look. The beginnings of a breeze traced subtle designs
through his hair.

Away to the southeast, far beyond the limits of Erchester and the
headlands above the Kynslagh, a deep gray mark was smeared
across the clear Marris sky, as if a dirty thumb had been dragged
across a newly-painted wall. The wind shredded the dark smudge
even as he watched, but darker billows were rising from below, a
turbulent darkness too thick for any wind to diffuse. A regular black
cloud was mounting upward on the eastern horizon.

It took him a long, puzzled moment before he realized that what
he was seeing was smoke, a dense plume of it besmirching the pale,
clean sky.

Falshire was burning.

10

King Hemlock

Two DAYS later, on the morning of Marris' last day, Simon was
going down to breakfast with the other scullions when he was
brought up short by a heavy black hand on his shoulder. For an
unreal, terrifying moment his thoughts skipped back to his throne
room dream, and the ponderous dancing of the malachite kings.

This hand, though, proved to be wearing a cracked, fingerless
black glove. Neither was its owner made of dark stone -- although as
Simon stared up in surprise at the face of Inch, it did seem that God
had somehow neglected to provide enough living stuff while this
Inch-person was being made, and that last-minute substitutions of
some inert, imperturbable matter had been necessary.

Inch leaned down until his whiskered face was very close to
Simon's; even his breath seemed to smell more of stone than of wine
or onions or anything ordinary.

"Doctor wants to see you." He rolled his eyes from side to side.
"Right away, like."

The other scullions had scattered past Simon and the hulking
Inch with curious looks and continued on their way. Simon, trying
to squirm out from underneath the weighty hand, watched them go
despairingly.

"Very well. I'll be right there," he said, and with a wiggle tugged
free. "Just let me get a crust of bread that I can eat as I go." He
trotted on down the corridor toward the servants' eating room,
stealing a backward glance; Inch was still standing in the same
place, following his retreat with the tranquil eyes of a bull in a
meadow.

When he emerged in a short while with a heel of bread and a
wedge of chewy white cheese, he was dismayed to find that Inch had
waited for him. The large man fell into step alongside as he headed

136 Tad Williams

toward Morgenes' chambers. Simon offered him some food, trying
to smile as he did so, but Inch only stared at it incuriously and said
nothing.

As they walked across the dry-rutted open ground of the Middle
Bailey, threading through the flocks of writing-priests making their
daily pilgrimages between the Chancelry and the Hall of Archives,
Inch cleared his throat as if to speak. Simon, who felt so uncomfort-
able around this person that even silence made him nervous, looked
up expectantly.

"Why . . ." Inch at last began, ". . . why do you take my
place?" He did not turn his waxy eyes away from the priest-clogged
pathway before them.

It was Simon's heart that now took on the qualities of stone: cold,
heavy, and burdensome. He was sorry for this farm animal that
thought itself a man, but frightened by him, too.

"I ... I haven't taken your place." His protestations sounded
false even to his own ears. "Doesn't the doctor still have you in to
help out with carrying things, and setting things up? He is teaching
me to do other things, things that are very different."

They walked on in silence. At last Morgenes' chambers were in
view, crouched in choking ivy like the nest of a small but resourceful
beast. When they were perhaps ten paces away, Inch's hand
clutched Simon's shoulder once more.

"Before you came," Inch said, his wide, round face moving down
toward Simon's like a basket being lowered from an upstairs win-
dow, ". . . before you came, / was his helper. / was going to be
next." He frowned, pushing his lower lip out and knitting his single
bar of eyebrow into a steeper angle, but his eyes were still mild and
sad. "Doctor Inch, I would have been." He focused his gaze on
Simon, who half-feared he would be crumpled beneath the weight of
the paw on his collarbone. "I don't like you, little kitchen boy."

Turning him loose, Inch shuffled away, the back of his head barely
visible above the mountainous rise of his bowed shoulders. Simon,
rubbing his neck, felt a little sick.

Morgenes was ushering a trio of young priests out of his cham-
bers. They were conspiciously -- and somewhat shockingly, as far as
Simon was concerned -- drunk.

"They came for my contribution to the All Fool's Day celebra-

137

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

tion," Morgenes said as he shut the door behind the trio, who had
already burst into ragged song. "Hold this ladder, Simon."

A bucket of red paint was perched on the ladder's topmost step,
and when the doctor reached it he fished out a brush that had fallen
in and began daubing strange characters above the doorframe -- an-
gular symbols, each one a tiny, puzzling picture. They looked to
Simon a little like the ancient writings contained in some of
Morgenes' books.

"What are those for?" he asked. The furiously painting doctor did
not reply, Simon took his hand off the rung to scratch his ankle and
the ladder began to sway ominously. Morgenes had to grasp the
door lintel to keep from toppling.

"No, no, no!" he barked, trying to keep the ebb and flow of the
paint from overtopping the bucket's edge. "You know better, Simon.
The rule is: all questions written out! But wait until I'm down from
here -- if I fall off and die, there'll be no one to answer you."
Morgenes went back to his painting, sputtering quietly to himself.

"Sorry, Doctor," Simon said, a touch indignantly, "I just forgot."

A few moments passed with no other sounds than the whiskery
swish of Morgenes' brush.

"Will I always have to write down my questions? I can't hope to
write as fast as I think up things I want to know about."

"That," said Morgenes, squinting at his last stroke, "was the gen-
eral idea behind the rule. You, boy, devise questions like God makes
flies and poor people -- in droves. I am an old man, and prefer to set
my own pace."

"But," Simon's voice took on a despairing tone, "I shall be writ-
ing the rest of my days!"

"I can think of many less worthwhile ways you might spend your
life," Morgenes responded, beetling down the ladder. He turned to
survey the complete effect, the arch of strange letters all along the
top of the door frame. "For instance," he said, casting a sharp,
knowing eye over to Simon, "you might forge a letter and join
Breyugar's guardsmen, then spend your time having little bits of you
hacked off by men with swords."

Curses, thought Simon, caught like a rat.

"So you . . . heard, did you?" he asked at last. The doctor nod-
ded, retaining his tight, angry smile.

138 Tad Williams

Usires save me, but he has such eyes! Simon thought. Like needles.
He has a stare worse than Rachel's dragon-voice.

The doctor continued to watch him. Simon's gaze dropped to the
floor. At last, in a sullen voice that sounded years younger than he
would have preferred, Simon said it.

"I'm sorry."

Now the doctor, as if a restraining cord had been cut, began to
pace. "If I'd had any idea of what you were going to use that letter
for . . ." he fumed. "What were you thinking of? And why, why
did you feel you had to lie to me!?"

Somewhere deep inside, a part of Simon was pleased to see the
doctor upset -- a part that enjoyed the attention. Another part, how-
ever, felt ashamed. Somewhere else inside him -- how many Simons
were there? -- was a calm, interested observer who waited to see
which part would speak for all.

Morgenes' pacing was beginning to make him nervous. "Besides,"
he called to the old man, "why should you care? It's my life, isn't it?
A kitchen boy's stupid life! They didn't want me, anyway . . ." he
finished in a mutter.

"And you should be grateful!" Morgenes said sharply. "Grateful
that they don't want you. What kind of life is it? Sitting around the
barracks playing dice with know-nothing louts during time of peace;

getting hacked, arrow-pierced and stallion-stamped in time of war.
You don't know, you stupid boy -- to be a simple kern while all of
these high-living, peasant-cudgeling knights are on the battlefield is
no better than being a shuttlecock at the Lady's Day games." He
whirled to face Simon. "Do you know what Fengbald and his
knights did at Falshire?"

The youth did not answer.

"They put the entire wool district to the torch, that's what they
did. Burned women and children along with the rest -- just because
they didn't want to give up their sheep. Fengbald had the sheep-
dipping vats filled with hot oil and scalded the leaders of the wool
merchants' guild to death. Six hundred of Earl Fengbald's own sub-
jects slaughtered, and he and his men marched back to the castle
singing! And this is the company you wish to join!?"

Simon was truly angry, now. He felt his face getting hot, and was
terrified that he might burst into tears. The dispassionate observer-
Simon had disappeared entirely. "So?" he shouted. "What does it

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              139

matter to anyone!?" Morgenes' apparent surprise at this unusual
outburst made him feel worse. "What is to become of me?" he
asked, and slapped at his thighs in frustration. "There is no glory in
the scullery, no glory among the chambermaids . . . and no glory
here in a dark room filled with stupid . - - books!"

The hurt look on the old man's face burst the straining dikes at
last; Simon fled in tears to the far part of the doctor's chamber to
huddle sobbing on the sea-chest, his face pressed against the cold
stone wall. Outside, somewhere, the three young priests were singing
hymns in distracted, drunken harmony.

The little doctor was at his side in a moment, patting with an
awkward hand at the youth's shoulder.

"Now, boy, now . . ." he said bewilderedly, "what is all this talk
of glory? Have you caught the sickness, too? Curse me for a blind
beggar, I should have seen. This fever has cankered even your simple
heart, hasn't it, Simon? I'm sorry. It takes a strong will or practiced
eye to see through the glitter to the rotten core." He patted Simon's
arm again.

Simon had no idea what the doctor was talking about, but the
tone of Morgenes' voice was soothing. Despite himself, he felt his
anger begin to slip away -- but the feeling of what seemed like weak-
ness that followed made him sit up and shake off" the doctor's hand.
He wiped his wet face roughly with his jerkin sleeve.

"I don't know why you're sorry. Doctor," he began, trying to
keep his voice from shaking. "/ am sorry ... for acting like a
child." He stood up, and the little man's eyes followed him as he
crossed the room to the long table, where he stood drawing a finger
across a scatter of open books. "I have lied to you, and I have made
a fool of myself," he said, not looking up. "Please forgive the stupid-
ity of a kitchen boy, Doctor ... a kitchen boy who thought he
could be more than that."

In the silence that followed this brave speech, Simon heard
Morgenes make a strange sound -- was he actually crying? But a
moment later it became all too clear; Morgenes was chuckling -- no,
laughing, trying to muffle it behind his billowing sleeve.

Simon whirled, ears burning like coals. Morgenes caught his eye
for a moment, then looked away, shoulders heaving.

"Oh, lad ... oh, lad," he wheezed at last, putting a restraining
hand out toward the outraged Simon, "don't go! Don't be angry.

140

Tad Williams

You would be wasted on the field of battle! You should be a great
lord, and win the victories at treaty-table that always outweigh vic-
tories of the field -- or an escritor of the Church, and wheedle the
eternal souls of the rich and dissolute." Morgenes snickered again,
and chewed on his beard until the fit passed. Simon stood stone-still,
face a-frown, unsure if he was being paid compliment or insult.
Finally the doctor regained his composure; he vaulted to his feet and
made his way to the ale butt. A long swallow completed the calming
procedure, and he turned to the youth with a smile.

"Ah, Simon, bless you! Don't let the clanking and boasting of
King Elias' goodfellows and bravos impress you so much. You have
a keen wit -- well, sometimes, anyway -- and you have gifts you know
nothing about yet. Leam what you can from me, young hawk, and
those others you find who can also teach you. Who knows what your
fate will be? There are many kinds of glory." He upended the butt

for another frothy mouthful.

After a moment's careful inspection of Morgenes, to make sure
that the last speech was not just another tease, Simon at last permit-
ted himself a shy grin. He liked being called "young hawk."

"Very well, then. And I am sorry that I told you a lie. But if I
have keen wit, why will you not show me anything important?"

"Like what?" Morgenes asked, his smile fading.

"Oh, I don't know. Magic ... or something."

"Magic!" Morgenes hissed. "Is that all you think about, boy? Do
you think I am some hedge-wizard, some cheap-cloth court conju-
ror, that I should show you tricks?" Simon said nothing. "I am still
angry with you for lying to me," the doctor added. "Why should I

reward you?"

"I will do any chores you want, at any hour," Simon said. "I'll

even wash the ceiling."

"Here now," Morgenes responded, "I will not be bullied. I tell
you what, boy: leave off this endless fascination with magic and I
will answer all your other questions for a month entire, and you
shall not have to write down a one! How's that, hey?"

Simon squinted, but said nothing.

"Well then, I shall let you read my manuscript on the life of
Prester John!" the doctor offered. "I remember you asked about that
once or twice."

Simon squinted harder. "If you'll teach me magic," he suggested,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               141

"I'll bring you one of Judith's pies every week, and a barrel of
Stanshire Dark from the larder."

"There now!" Morgenes barked triumphantly. "See?! Do you see,
boy? So convinced are you that magical tricks will bring you power
and good luck that you are quite willing to steal to bribe me into
teaching you! No, Simon, I cannot make bargains with you over
this."

Simon was angry again, but took a deep breath and pinched his
arm. "Why are you so set against it, Doctor?" he asked when he felt
calmer. "Because I am a scullion?"

Morgenes smiled. "Even if you still labor in the scullery, Simon-
lad, you are no scullion. You are my apprentice. No, there is no
deficiency in you -- except for your age and immaturity. You simply
do not comprehend what you are asking."

Simon slumped onto a stool. "I don't understand," he murmured.

"Exactly." Morgenes downed another gulp of ale. "What you call
'magic' is really only the action of things of nature, elemental forces
much like fire and wind. They respond to natural laws -- but those
laws are very hard to leam and understand. Many may never be
understood."

"But why don't you teach me the laws'?"

"For the same reason I wouldn't give a burning torch to an infant
sitting on a pile of straw. The infant -- and no insult is meant, Simon
 -- is not prepared for the responsibility. Only those who have stud-
ied many years in many other subjects and disciplines can begin to
master the Art that fascinates you so. Even then they are not neces-
sarily fit to wield any power." The old man drank again, wiped his
lips and smiled. "By the time most of us are capable of using the
Art, we are old enough to know better. It is too dangerous for the
young, Simon."

"But . . ."

"If you say: 'But Pryrates . . .' I shall kick you," Morgenes said.
"I told you once, he is a madman -- or as good as. He sees only the
power to be gained from wielding the Art, and ignores the conse-
quences. Ask me about the consequences, Simon."

He asked dully: "What about the con . . ."

"You cannot exert force without paying for it, Simon. If you steal
a pie, someone else goes hungry. If you ride a horse too fast, the

142 Tad Williams

horse dies. If you use the Art to open doors, Simon, you have little
choice of houseguests."

Simon, disappointed, glared around the dusty room. "Why do you
have those signs painted over your door, Doctor?" he asked at last.

"So no one else's houseguests come a-visiting me." Morgenes
stooped to put his flagon down, and as he did so something gold and
shining fell out of the collar of his gray robe, tumbling down to
dangle swinging on its chain. The doctor seemed not to notice. "I
should send you back, now. But remember this lesson, Simon, one fit
for kings ... or the sons of kings. Nothing is without cost. There is
a price to all power, and it is not always obvious. Promise me you
will remember that."

"I promise, Doctor." Simon, feeling the effects of the earlier cry-
ing and shouting, was as lightheaded as if he had run a race. "What
is that thing?" he asked, bending forward to watch the golden object
pendulum back and forth. Morgenes held it out on his palm, giving
Simon a brief look.

"It's a feather," the doctor said shortly. As he dropped the gleam-
ing thing back into his robe, Simon saw that the quill end of the
golden feather was attached to a writing scroll carved of pearly
white stone.

"No, ifs a pen," he said wonderingly, " -- a quill pen, isn't it?"

"Very well, it's a pen." Morgenes growled. "Now if you have
nothing better to do than interrogate me about my personal orna-
ments, be off with you! And don't forget your promise! Remember!"

Wandering back to the servants' quarters across the hedged court-
yard gardens, Simon wondered at the events of a strange morning.
The doctor had found out about the letter, but didn't punish him, or
throw him out, never to return. However, he had also refused to
teach Simon anything about magic. And why had his assertion
about the quill-pendant irritated the old man so?

Pondering, plucking absently at the dry, unbudded rosebushes,
Simon pricked his finger on a hidden thorn. Cursing, he held up his
hand. The bright blood was a red bead on his fingertip, a single
crimson pearl. He stuck his finger in his mouth and tasted salt.

^

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             143

In the darkest part of the night, on the very cusp of All Fools'
Day, a tremendous crash reverberated through the Hayholt. It rat-
tled sleepers awake in their beds and drew a long, sympathetic hum
from the dark bell clusters in Green Angel Tower.

Some of the young priests, gleefully ignoring midnight prayers on
this, their once-yearly night of freedom, were struck from their
stools as they sat swilling wine and insulting Bishop Domitis; the
concussive force of the blow was so great that even the drunkest felt
a wave of terror run through them, as though in a deep-sunken part
of themselves they had known all along that God would eventually
make his displeasure felt.

But when the ragged, startled crew milled out to the courtyard to
see what had happened, shaven acolyte heads like so many pale
mushrooms in the silky moonlight, there was no shape of the univer-
sal cataclysm they had all expected. Except for a few faces of other
recently-wakened castle-dwellers peering curiously from the win-
dows, the night was untroubled and clear.

Simon was dreaming in his spare, curtained bed, nested among
the treasures he had so carefully collected; in his dream he climbed a
pillar of black ice, every straining inch upward eroded by a nearly
identical slip backward. He clutched a parchment in his teeth, a
message of some sort. At the topmost point of the cold-burning
pillar was a door; in the doorway a dark presence crouched, waiting
for him . . . waiting for the message.

As he finally reached the threshold a hand snaked out, grasping
the parchment in an inky, vaporous fist. Simon tried to slide back, to
fall away, but another dark claw jabbed out from the doorway and
caught his wrist. He was drawn upward toward a pair of eyes, red-
bright as paired crimson holes in the belly of an infernal black
oven . . .

As he woke gasping from sleep he heard the sullen voices of the
bells, moaning their displeasure as they descended back into cold,
brooding sleep.

Only one person in all the great castle claimed to have seen any-
thing. Caleb the horse-boy, Shem's slow-witted assistant, had been
terribly excited and unable to sleep all night. The next morning he
was to be crowned King of Fools, and carried on the shoulders of

144 Tad Williams

the young priests as they marched through the castle singing bawdy
songs and tossing oats and flower petals. They would take him to the
refectory hall where he would preside over the All Fools* banquet
from his mock throne built of Gleniwent river reeds.

Caleb had heard the great roar, he told any who would listen, but
he had also heard words, a booming voice speaking a language that
the stable boy could only say was "bad." He also seemed to think he
had seen a great snake of fire leap from the window of Hjeldin's
Tower, looping itself around the spire in flaming coils and then
splintering into a shower of sparks.

No one paid Caleb's story much heed -- there was a reason the
simpleminded boy had been chosen King of Fools. Also, the dawn
brought something to the Hayholt that eclipsed any thunder in the
night, and even the prospects of Fools' Day.

Daylight revealed a line of clouds -- rain clouds -- crouching on the
northern horizon like a flock of fat, gray sheep.

^

"By Dror's becrimsoned mallet, Udun's one dread eye, and . . .
and . - . and our Lord Usires! Something must be done!"

Duke Isgrimnur, nearly forgetting his Aedonite piety in his wrath,
brought his scarred, fur-knuckled fist down on the Great Table hard
enough to make the crockery jump six feet away. His broad body
swayed like an over-cargoed ship in a squall as he cast his eyes from
one end of the table to the other, then brought his fist down again. A
goblet teetered briefly, then surrendered to gravity.

"Steps must be taken, sire!" he roared, and tugged angrily at his
belt-length whiskers. "The Frostmarch is in a state of bedamned
anarchy! While I sit here with my men like so many knots on a log,
the Frostmarch Road has become a byway for bandits! And I have
had no word from Elvritshalla for two months or more!" The duke
blew out a great gust of air that made his mustache flutter. "My son
is in dread need, and I can do nothing! Where is the High King's
ward of safety, my Lord?"

Reddening like a beet the Rimmersman dropped back into his
chair, Elias raised a languid eyebrow and surveyed the other knights
scattered about the circumference of the table, far outnumbered by

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              145

the empty chairs between them. The torches in the wall sconces
threw long wavering shadows onto the high tapestries.

"Well, now that the aged but honorable Duke has made himself
known, would anyone else like to join his suit?" Elias toyed with his
own gold goblet, scuffing it along the crescent-shaped scars in the
oak. "Is there anyone else who feels that the High King of Osten
Ard had deserted his subjects?" At the king's right hand Guthwulf
smirked.

Isgrimnur, smarting, began to climb back to his feet, but Eolair of
Nad Mullach laid a restraining hand on the old duke's arm.

"Sire," Eolair said, "neither Isgrimnur nor anyone else who has
spoken is accusing you of anything." The Hemystirman placed his
palms flat on the table. "What we are all saying then, is that we are
asking -- entreating, my lord -- that you pay more heed to the prob-
lems of those of your subjects who live outside your view here at the
Hayholt." Perhaps thinking his words too harsh, Eolair summoned
a smile onto his mobile face. "The problems, they are there," he
continued. "Outlawry is everywhere in the north and west. Starving
men have few scruples, and the drought just ended has brought out
the worst ... in everyone."

Elias, unspeaking, continued to stare at Eolair after the westerner
had finished. Isgrimnur couldn't help noticing how pale the king
looked. It reminded the older man of the time in the southern is-
lands that he had nursed Elias' father John through a bout of fever.

That bright eye, he thought, that nose like a hunting bird. Odd how
these bits, these brief expressions and reminders, go on generation
after generation -- long after the man and his works are dead.

Isgrimnur thought of Miriamele, Elias' pretty, melancholy child.
He wondered what baggage of her father's she would carry on, what
disparate images of her beautiful haunted mother, dead ten years
now -- or was it twelve?

Across the table Elias shook his head slowly, as if waking from a
dream or trying to dispel the wine fumes from his head. Isgrimnur
saw Pryrates, seated at the king's left side, quickly withdraw his pale
hand from Elias' sleeve. There was something abhorrent about the
priest, Isgrimnur thought, not for the first time, something far
deeper than merely his hairiessness and scratchy voice.

"Well, Count Eolair," the king said, an elusive smile briefly
twitching on his lips, "as long as we are speaking of'obligations' and

146 Tad Williams

such, what does your kinsman King Lluth have to say about the
message I sent him?" He leaned forward with apparent interest, his
powerful hands folded on the table.

Eolair replied in measured tones, choosing his words with care.
"As always. Lord, he sends his respects and love to noble Erkyn-
land. He does feel, though, that he cannot afford to send more in the
way of taxes . . ."

"Tribute!" snorted Guthwulf, picking his nails with a slim pon-
iard.

". . . In the way of taxes right now," Eolair finished, ignoring
the interruption.

"Is that so?" Elias asked, and smiled again.

"Actually, my lord," Eolair deliberately misread the smile's im-
port, "he sent for me to ask you for royal help. You know the
troubles the drought has caused, and the plague. The Erkynguard
must work with us to keep the trade roads open."

"Oh, they must, must they?" King Elias' eyes glinted, and a tiny
throb began between the strong cords of his neck. "It is *must' now,
is it?" He leaned farther forward, shaking off Pryrates' serpent-swift
restraining hand. "And who are you," he growled, "the weanling
stepcousin of a sheepherder-king -- who is only a king at all by my
father's weak-willed forebearance! -- who are you to tell me 'must'!?"

"My Lord!" cried old Fluiren of Nabban in horror, flapping his
spotted hands -- mighty hands once, now bent and curled like a
hawk's feet. "My Lord," he panted, "your anger is kingly, but Her-
nystir is a trusted ally under your father's High Ward -- not to men-
tion his country was the birth-land of your saintly mother, rest her
soul! Please, sire, do not speak so of Lluth!"

Elias swung his emerald gaze to Fluiren, and seemed about to
focus his wrath on that diminished hero, but Pryrates tugged the
king's dark sleeve again and leaned close to mouth a few words in
Elias' ear. The king's expression softened, but the line of his jaw
remained taut as a bowstring. Even the air over the table seemed
pulled tight, a grinding net of awful possibility.

"Forgive me for the unforgivable. Count Eolair," Elias said at
last, a strange, stupid grin stretching the comers of his mouth wide.
"Forgive me my harsh, causeless words. It has been less than a
month since the rains began, and it was a difficult twelvemonth for
us all before that."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              147

Eolair nodded, his clever eyes uneasy. "Of course. Highness. I
understand. Please, you'll grant me your pardon for provoking
you." Across the oval table Fluiren folded his mottled hands with a
satisfied nod.

Isgrimnur now rose to his feet, ponderous as a brown bear climb-
ing an ice floe. "I, too, Sire, shall try to speak in a gentle fashion,
though you all know it is clean against my soldier's nature."

Elias' cheerful grimace remained. "Very good. Uncle Bear-skin -- 
we will all practice gentility together. What would you of your
king?"

The Duke of Elvritshalla took a deep breath, nervously finger-
tangling his beard. "Mine and Eolair's people are in dire need, Lord.
For the first time since the earliest part of John Presbyter's reign, the
Frostmarch Road has again become impassable -- blizzards in the
north, highway robbers further south. The royal North Road past
Wealdhelm is not much better. We need these roads open, and kept
so." Isgrimnur leaned to the side and spat on the floor. Fluiren
winced. "Many of the clan-villages, according to my son Isom's last
letter, are suffering for lack of food. We cannot trade our goods, we
cannot keep contact with the more remote clans."

Guthwulf, carving at the table's edge, yawned conspicuously.
Heahferth and Godwig, two younger barons wearing prominent
green sashes, quietly tittered.

"Surely, Duke," Guthwulf drawled, leaning back against the arm
of his chair like a sun-warmed cat, "you don't blame us for that. Has
our lord the king powers like God Almighty -- to stop the snows and
storms with a wave of his hand?"

"I do not suggest that he should!" Isgrimnur rumbled.

"Perhaps," Pryrates said from the head of the table, his wide
smile strangely inappropriate, "you also blame the king for his
brother's disappearance, as we have heard it rumored?"

"Never!" Isgrimnur was genuinely shocked. Beside him Eolair
narrowed his eyes, as if seeing something unexpected. "Never!" the
duke repeated, looking helplessly at Elias.

"Now, men, I know Isgrimnur would never think such a thing,"
the king said, waving a listless hand. "Why, old Uncle Bear-skin
dandled both Josua and myself on his knees. I hope, of course, that
Josua has suffered no harm -- the fact that he has not appeared at
Naglimund in all this time is troubling -- but if anything foul is afoot

148 Tad Williams

it is not my conscience that will need soothing " But as he finished,
for a moment Ellas did look troubled, staring at nothing as though
he wandered through a confusing memory

"Let me get back to the point. Lord," Isgnmnur said. "The north-
ern roads are not safe, and weather is not the only factor My earls
are spread too thin. We need more men -- strong men to make the
Frostmarch safe again. The marchland is aswann with robbers and
outlaws and .  . and worse things, some say."

Pryrates leaned forward interestedly, chin perched on long-fin-
gered hands like a child watching ram through a window, sunken
eyes catching the torches* gleam. "What 'worse things,' noble Is-
gnmnur?"

"It's not important People think     things, that is all You
know how the marchdwellers are . . " The Rimmersman trailed
off, taking an embarrassed draft of his wine.

Eolair rose. "If he will not voice his thoughts, what we have heard
in the markets and among the servants, I will. The northern people
are afraid. There are things going about that cannot be explained by
deadly weather and bad harvests In my land we do not need to
name things angels or devils We of Hemystu- -- we of the West -- 
know that things walk upright on this earth that are not men . . .
and we know whether to fear them or not. We Hemystm knew the
Sithi when they still lived in our fields, when the high mountains and
wide meadows of Erkynland were theirs."

The torches were guttering now, and Eolair's high forehead and
cheeks seemed to shine with a faint scarlet radiance "We have not
forgotten," he said quietly His voice carried even to half-sleeping
Godwig, who lifted his drunken head like a hound hearing a distant
call- "We, the Hemystm, remember the days of the giants, and the
days of the northern curse, the White Foxes, so now we speak
plainly: evil is abroad in this ill-omened winter and spring. It is not
only the bandits that prey on travelers, and who cause the disappear-
ance of isolated farmers The people of the North are afraid

" *We the HemystinT' Pryrates' mocking voice lanced out
through the silence, skewering the spell of otherworidhness " 'We
the Hemystin'' Our noble pagan friend claims to speak plainly!"
Pryrates traced an exaggerated Tree on the breast of his unpnestly
red vestments Ellas' expression turned to sly good humor. "Very
well!" the pnest continued "He has delivered us the plainest pack of

149

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

riddles and shadow-talk I have ever heard' Giants and elves'"
Pryrates flicked his hand, and his sleeve fluttered above the dinner
plates "As if his majesty the king did not have enough to worry
about -- his brother vanished, his subjects hungry and frightened -- as
if even the king's great heart was not near-to-breakmg' And you,
Eolair, you bnng him pagan ghost stones from the mouths of old
wives'"

"He be pagan, yes," growled Isgnmnur, "but there be more
Aedomte good will in Eolair than in the pack of lazy pups I have
seen lolling around this court  . ." -- Baron Heahferth barked,
drawing drunken laughter from Godwig -- "lolling around while the
people have been living on meager hope and less harvest!"

"It's all nght then, Isgnmnur," said Eolair weanly

"My lords!" Flmren flapped.

"Well, I will not hear you insulted so for your honesty!" Is-
gnmnur rumbled at Eolair He lifted his fist to hammer the table
again, then thought better of it, bunging it instead to his breast
where it enfolded the wooden Tree hanging there "Forgive my out-
burst, my king, but Count Eolair tells the truth Whether their fears
have substance or no, the people do fear "

"And what do they fear, dear old Uncle Bear-skin?" asked the
king as he held his goblet for Guthwulf to refill

"They fear the dark," the old man said, all dignity now "They
fear the winter's dark, and they fear the world will grow darker
still"

Eolair turned his empty cup upside-down on the table. "In
Erchester's market the few merchants who have been able to come
south fill the people's ears with news of a strange vision I have
heard the same story so many times that I do not doubt everyone in
the town has heard it, too " Eolair paused and looked at the Rim-
mersman, who nodded once, gravely, creasing the gray-shot beard

"WelP" said Elias impatiently

"In the Frostmarch wastes at night, a wonderful thing has been
seen -- a cart, a black cart, drawn by white horses

"How unusual'" Guthwulf sneered, but Pryrates and Elias locked
eyes of a sudden The king raised an eyebrow as he rechanneled his
gaze to the westerner

"Go on "

"Those who have seen it say it appeared a few days after All

150 Tad Williams

Fools* Day. They say the can bears a casket, and that black-robed
monks walk behind it."

"And to what heathen nature-sprite do the peasants attribute this
vision?" Elias leaned slowly backward in his chair, until he was
looking down the bridge of his nose at the Hemystinnan.

"They say, my king, that it is your father's death-cart -- begging
your pardon, sire -- and that as long as the land suffers, he shall not
sleep peacefully in his barrow."

After an interval the king spoke, his voice barely louder than the
hissing of the torches-

"Well, then," he said, "we will have to make sure my father gets
his well-earned rest, will we not?"

^

Look at them, old Towser thought as he dragged his bent leg and
tired body up the aisle of the throne room. Look at them, all lollying
and smirking -- they look more like heathen chiefs of the Thrithings
than Aedonite knights of Erkynland.

Elias' courtiers hooted and called out as the jester limped by,
wagging their heads at him as though he were a Naraxi ape on a
chain. Even the king and the King's Hand, Earl Guthwulf, whose
chair was pulled up next to the throne, contributed to the rough
jests; Elias sat with a leg up on the arm of the Dragonbone Chair
tike a farm lout on a gate. Only the king's young daughter
Miriamele sat stiffly silent, pretty face solemn, shoulders pulled back
as if she were expecting a blow. Her honey-colored hair -- which
came from neither her dark father nor raven-haired mother -- hung
down on either side of her face like curtains.

She looks like she's trying to hide behind that hair, thought
Towser. What a shame. They say that the freckled darling is stubborn
and forward, but all I see in her eyes is fear. She deserves better, I
suspect, than the swaggering wolves who prowl our castles these days,
but they say her father's promised her already to that be-damned
drunken strutter Fengbald.

He did not make swift progress, his path to the throne hindered
by the hands that reached out to pat or lightly slap at him. It was
said to be good luck to touch the head of a dwarf. Towser was not

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               151

one, but he was old, very old, and bent, it amused the courtiers to
treat him as if he were.

He reached Elias' throne at last. The king's eyes were red-rimmed
with too much drink or too little sleep, or -- most likely -- both.

Elias turned his green gaze downward to the little man. "So, my
dear Towser," he said, "you grace us with your company." The
jester noticed that the buttons of the King's white blouse were un-
done, and that there was a gravy stain on the beautiful doeskin
gloves tucked into his belt.

"Yes, sire, I have come." Towser assayed a bow, difficult with his
stiff leg; a sputter of mirth came from the lords and ladies.

"Before you entertain us, oldest jester," Elias said, swinging his
leg down off the throne arm and fixing the old man with his most
sincere stare, "may I perhaps beg of you a small favor? A question I
have long wanted to ask?"

"Of course, my king."

"Then tell me, Towser dear, however did you happen to be given a
dog's name'*" Elias raised his eyebrows in mock puzzlement, turning
first to look at Guthwulf, who grinned, and then to Miriamele, who
looked away. The rest of the courtiers laughed and whispered be-
hind their hands.

"I was not given a dog's name, sire," said Towser quietly. "I chose
it for myself."

"What!" said Elias, turning to the old man once more. "I don't
think that I heard you properly."

"I gave myself a dog's name, sire. Your noble father used to tease
me for being so faithful, because I would always go with him, would
be at his side. As a jest he named one of his hounds 'Cruinh,' the
which was my given name." The old man turned slightly, so as to
play to the crowd more fully. " 'So then,' quoth I, 'if the dog be
given my name by John's will, then I shall take the dog's in turn.' I
have never answered since to any name but Towser, and never
shall." Towser permitted himself a tiny smile. "It is possible that
your revered father regretted somewhat his joke thereafter."

Elias did not seem altogether pleased with this answer, but
laughed sharply anyway and slapped his knee. "A saucy dwarf, is he
not?" he said, looking around. The others assembled, trying to take
the king's mood, laughed politely -- all but Miriamele, who looked

152 Tad Williams

down on Towser from her high-backed chair, her face caught in an
intricate expression whose meaning he could not unpuzzle.

"Well," said Elias, "if I were not the good king that I am -- were I,
say for instance, a pagan king like Hernystir's Lluth -- I might have
thy minuscule, wrinkled head off for speaking so of my late father.
But, of course, I am not such a king."

"Of course not, sire," Towser said.

"Are you come to sing for us, then, or to tumble -- we hope not,
since you appear over-frail for such antics -- or what? Come, tell us."
Elias eased himself back in his throne and clapped for more wine.

"To sing. Majesty," the jester replied. He took the lute from off
his shoulder and began to turn the pegs, bringing it into tune. As a
young page scurried over to fill the king's cup, Towser looked up to
the ceiling where the banners of Osten Ard's knights and nobles
hung before the rain-splashed upper windows. The dust was now
gone and the cobwebs dispersed, but to Towser the bright colors of
the pennoncels seemed false -- too bright, like the painted skin of a
drab who hopes to mimic her own younger days, thus destroying
what true beauty remains.

As the nervous page finished filling the goblets of Guthwulf,
Fengbald, and the others, Elias waved his hand at Towser.

"My lord," he nodded, "I will sing of another good king -- this
one an unfortunate and sad monarch, however."

"I do not like sad songs," said Fengbald; he was, predictably, well
into his cups. Beside him, Guthwulf smirked.

"Hush," The King's Hand made a show of elbowing his compan-
ion. "If we do not like the tune when he has finished, then we can
make the dwarf hop."

Towser cleared his throat and strummed, singing then in his thin,
sweet voice:

"Old King Juniper
Mickle old was he
Snowy-white his beard that hung
From chin to bony knee.

Noble old King Juniper
Sitting on his throne

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              153

Called: 'Now bring my sons to me,
For soon I will be gone.'

They brought him then his princely sons
They came with hounds and hawks
The younger hight Prince Holly
The older Prince Hemlock.

'We have heard thy summons, sire,
And left our hunt withal.'
So Hemlock said, 'What wouldst thou
That thou biddest us to thy hall?'

'I soon must die, my princely sons.'
The aged king he said.

'And would see peace between thou twain
When I at last am dead . . .' "

"I do not think I like the sound of this song," growled Guthwulf.
"It has a mocking tone."

Elias bade him be silent; his eyes gleamed as he signaled Towser to
continue.

" 'But father dear, why dost thou fear?
Prince Hemlock has the right.'
Said Holly. 'I could not counter him
And be a Godly knight.'

His mind thus eased, the King did bid
His sons go out again
And thanked merciful Aedon
That they were such goodly men.

But in the heart of Hemlock
Who was the king-to-be
Prince Holly's words so gentle
Sparked a fire of infamy.

"That speaks so sweet a princely tongue
Must wicked heart disguise.'
Thought Hemlock, 'Gainst my crafty kin
I must some scheme devise.'

154                   Tad Williams

So fearing then the gentle heart
That beat in Holly's breast
He took a draught of poison
From out the lining of his vest.

And when the brothers sate at meat

He poured it in a cup

And bade Prince Holly drink it down . . ."

"Enough! This is treason!" roared Guthwulf as he leaped up,
knocking his chair back among the startled courtiers; his long sword
hissed free of its scabbard. Had Fengbald not sprung up in befuddle-
ment, entangling his arm, Guthwulf would have lunged at the quail-
ing Towser.

Elias, too, was quickly on feet. "Sheathe that bodkin, you
lackwit!" he shouted. "No one draws sword in the king's throne
room!" He turned from the snarling Earl of Utanyeat to the jester.
The old man, having recovered somewhat from the alarming specta-
cle of Guthwulf enraged, struggled to put on dignity.

"Do not think, dwarfish creature, that we are amused by your
little song," the king snarled, "or that your long service for my
father makes you untouchable -- but do not think either that you can
prickle the royal skin with such dull barbs. Get you out of my
sight!"

"I confess, sire, that the song was a new-minted one," began the
jester shakily. His belled hat was askew. "But it was not . . .'*

"Get you hence!" U\ias spat, all pale face and beast's eyes. Towser
hobbled quickly out of the throne room, shuddering at the king's
last, wild look, and the caged, hopeless face of his daughter. Princess
Miriamele.

11

An Unexpected Guest

MIDDLING afternoon on the last day of Avrel, Simon was sunk in
the stable's dark hayloft, comfortably adrift in a scratchy yellow sea,
only his head above the dusty billows. The haydust sparkled down
past the wide window as he listened to his own measured breath.

He had just come down from the shadowed gallery of the chapel,
where the monks had been singing the noon rites. The clean,
sculpted tones of their solemn prayers had touched him in a way
that the chapel, and the dry doings within its tapestried walls, sel-
dom did -- each note so carefully held and then lovingly released,
like a woodcarver putting delicate toy boats into a stream. The sing-
ing voices had wrapped his secret heart in a sweet, cold net of silver;

the tender resignation of its strands still clutched him. It had been
such a strange sensation: for a moment he had felt himself all feath-
ers and racing heartbeat -- a frightened bird cupped in the hands of
God.

He had run down the gallery steps, feeling suddenly unworthy of
such solicitousness and delicacy -- he was too clumsy, too foolish. It
seemed that he might, with his chapped scullion's hands, somehow
mishandle the beautiful music, as a child might unwittingly trample
a butterfly.

Now, in the hayloft, his heart began to slow. He buried himself
deep in the musty, whispering straw, and with his eyes closed lis-
tened to the gentle snorting of the horses in their stalls below. He
thought he could feel the almost insensible touch of the dust motes
as they drifted down onto his face in the still, drowsy darkness.

He might have dozed -- he couldn't be sure -- but the next thing
Simon noticed was the sudden, sharp sound of voices below him.
Rolling over, he swam through the tickling straw to the loft's edge,
until he could see down to the stable below-

156 Tad Williams

There were three: Shem Horsegroom, Ruben the Bear, and a little
man that Simon thought might be Towser, the old jester -- he
couldn't be sure because this one wore no motley, and had a hat that
covered much of his face. They had all come in through the stable
doors like a trio of comic fools; Ruben the Bear swung a jug from a
fist as broad as a leg of spring lamb. All three were drunk as birds in
a berry-bush, and Towser -- if it was he -- was singing an old tune:

"Jack take a maid
Up on the cheery hill
Sing a way-o, hey-o
Half-a-crown day ..."

Ruben handed the jug to the little man. The weight over-balanced
him in midchorus so that he staggered a step and then tumbled over,
his hat flying off. It was indeed Towser; as he rolled to a stop Simon
could see his seamed, purse-mouthed face begin to wrinkle up at his
eyes, as though he would cry like a baby. Instead he began to laugh
helplessly, leaning against the wall with the jug between his knees.
His two companions tromped unsteadily over to join him. They sat
all in a row, like magpies on a fence.

Simon was wondering if he should announce himself; he didn't
know Towser well, but he had always been friendly with Shem and
Ruben. After a moment's consideration he decided against it. It was
more fun watching them unsuspected -- perhaps he would be able to
think of a trick to play! He made himself comfortable, secret and
silent in the high loft.

"By Saint Muirfath and the Archangel," Towser said with a sigh
after a few sodden moments had passed, "I had sore need of this!"
He ran his forefinger around the lip of the jug, then put the finger in
his mouth.

Shem Horsegroom reached to him across the smith's broad stom-
ach and took the jug for a swallow. He wiped his lips with the back
of a leathery hand. "Whur will ye go, then?" he asked the jester.
Towser vented a sigh. The life suddenly seemed to drain out of the
little drinking party; all stared glumly at the floor.

"I have some kinfolk -- distant kinfolk -- in Grenefod, at the river's
mouth. Mayhap I will go there, although I doubt they'll be too

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              157

happy with another mouth to feed. Mayhap I will go north to Nag-
limund."

"But Josua is gone," said Ruben, and belched.

"Aye, goon away," added Shem.

Towser closed his eyes and bumped his head back against the
rough wood of the paddock door. "But Josua's people still hold
Naglimund, and they will have sympathies for someone chased out
of his home by Ellas' churls -- even more sympathy now, when peo-
ple say that Elias has murdered poor Prince Josua."

"But other'uns say that Joosua has turn traitor," Shem offered,
rubbing his chin sleepily.

"Pfagh." The little jester spat. In the loft above, Simon, too, felt
the warmth of the spring afternoon, the drowsy, dragging weight of
it. It lent the conversation below an air of unimportance, of distance

 -- murder and treachery seemed the names of faraway places.

During the long pause which followed, Simon felt his eyelids
creeping inexorably downward . . .

"Mayhap it been not sich a wise thing t'do, brother Towser . . ."

 -- Shem was speaking now, skinny old Shem, as gaunt and weath-
ered as something hung in a smokehouse -- ". . . baitin' the king, I
mean. Did ye need to sing sich a goadin' song?"

"Hah!" Towser scratched his nose busily. "My western ancestors,
they were true bards, not limping old tumblers like me. They would
have sung him a song to curl his ears up rightly! They say that the
poet Eoin-ec-Cluias once made an anger-song so mighty that all the
golden bees of the Grianspog descended on the chieftain Gormhbata
and stung him to death . . . that was a song!" The old jester leaned
his head back once more against the stable wall- "The king!? God's
teeth, I cannot stand even to call him such. I was with his sainted
father man and boy -- there was a king you could call a king! This
one is no better than a brigand ... not half the man that his ...
father John was. . . ."

Towser's voice wavered sleepily. Shem Horsegroom's head slowly
fell forward onto his breast- Ruben's eyes were open, but it was as
though he looked into the darkest spaces between the rafters. Beside
him Towser stirred once more.

"Did I tell you," the old man abruptly said, "did I tell you about
the king's sword? King John's sword -- Bright-Nail? He gave it to
me, you know, saying: 'Towser, only you can pass this to my son

158 Tad Williams

Elias. Only you . . . !" A tear winked on the jester's furrowed
cheek. " 'Take my son to the throne room and give him Bright-
Nail,' he told me -- and I did! I brought it to him the night his dear
father died ... put it in his hand just the way his father told me to
. . . and he dropped it! Dropped it!" Towser's voice rose in anger.
"The sword that his father carried into more battles than a brachet
has fleas! I could scarce believe such clumsiness, such . . . disre-
spect! Are you listening, Shem? Ruben?" Beside him the smith
grunted.

"Hist! I was horrified, of course. I picked it up and wiped it with
the linen wrappings and gave it to him; this time he took it with two
hands. 'It twisted,' he said, like an idiot. Now as he held it again the
strangest look passed over his face, like . . . like ..." The jester
trailed off. Simon was afraid he had fallen asleep, but apparently the
little man was merely thinking, in a slow, wine-addled way.

"The look on his face," Towser resumed, "was like a child caught
doing something very, very wicked -- that was it exactly! Exactly! He
turned pale, and his mouth went all slack -- and he handed it back to
me! 'Bury this with my father,' he said, 'It is his sword; he should
have it with him.* -- 'But he wanted it given to you, my lord!' I said
. . . but would he listen? Would he? No. "This is a new age, old
man,* he told me, 'we do not need to dote on these relics of the past.'
Can you imagine the thundering gall of such a man!?"

Towser searched around with his hand until he found the jug and
lifted it up for a long drink. Both his companions now had closed
their eyes and were breathing hoarsely, but the little old man paid
no notice, lost in indignant reverie.

"And then he would not even do his poor dead father the courtesy
of ... placing it in the grave himself. Wouldn't . . . wouldn't
even touch it! Made his younger brother do it! Made Josua . . ."
Towser's bald head nodded. "You'd have thought it bumed him
... to see him hand it back ... so swift . . . damned
puppy . . ." Towser's head bobbed once more, sank to his breast,
and did not come up again.

As Simon came quietly down the hayloft ladder, the three men
were already snoring like old dogs before a fireplace. He crept past
them on his toe-tips, kindly halting to stopper the jug lest one of
them knock it over with a sleep-flung arm. He moved out into the
slanting sunlight on the commons.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             159

So many strange things have happened this year, he thought as he
sat dropping pebbles into the well in the center of the commons
yard. Drought and sickness, the prince disappeared, people burned

and killed in Falshire . . . But somehow none of it seemed very
serious.

Everything happens to someone else, Simon decided, half-glad,
half-regretful. Everything happens to strangers.

^

She was curled up in the window seat, staring down through the
delicately etched panes at something below. She did not look up
when he entered, although the scuff of his boots on the flagstones
announced him clearly; he stood for a moment in the doorway, arms
folded across his breast, but still she did not turn. He strode forward
and then stopped, looking over her shoulder.

There was nothing to see in the commons but a kitchen boy sitting
on the rim of the stone cistern, a long-legged, shock-haired youth in
a stained smock. The yard was otherwise empty of anything but

sheep, dirty bundles of wool searching the dark ground for patches
of new grass.

"What is wrong?" he asked, laying a broad hand on her shoulder.
"Do you hate me now, that you should stalk away without a word?"

She shook her head, briefly netting a stripe of sunlight in her hair.
Her hand stole up to his and grasped it with cool fingers.

"No," she said, still staring at the deserted acre below. "But I hate
the things I see around me." He leaned forward, but she quickly

pulled her hand free and lifted it to her face, as if to shade it from
the afternoon sun.

"What things?" he asked, a measure of exasperation creeping into
his voice. "Would you rather be back in Meremund, living in that
drafty prison of a place my father gave me, with the smell of fish
poisoning the air of even the highest balconies?" He reached down

and cupped her chin, turning it with firm gentleness until he could
see her angry, tearful eyes.

"Yes!" she said, and pushed his hand away, but now she held his

gaze. "Yes, I would. You can smell the wind there, too, and you can
see the ocean."

160 Tad Williams

"Oh, God, girl, the ocean? You are mistress of the known world
and yet you cry because you can't see the damnable water? Look!
Look there!" He pointed out past the Hayholt's walls. "What, then.
is the Kynslagh?"

She looked back with scom. "That is a bay, a king's bay, which
waits passively for the king to boat on it, or swim in it. No king
owns the sea."

"Ah." He dropped onto a hassock, his long legs splayed to either
side. "And the thought behind this all, I suppose, is that you are
prisoned here too, eh? What nonsense! I know why you are upset."

She turned fully away from the window, her eyes intent. "You
do?" she asked, and beneath the scom fluttered a tiny breath of
hope. "Tell me why, then. Father."

Elias laughed. "Because you are about to be married- It is not
surprising at all!" He slid nearer. "Ah, Miri, there's nothing to be
afraid of. Fengbald is a swaggerer, but he's young and still foolish.
With a woman's patient hand at work he'll learn manners soon
enough. And if he doesn't -- well, it would show him a fool indeed
were he to mistreat the king's daughter."

Miriamele's face hardened into a look of resignation. "You don't
understand." Her tone was flat as a tax collector's. "Fengbald is of
no more interest to me than a rock, or a shoe. It's you who I care
about -- and it's you who has something to fear. Why do you show
off for them? Why do you mock and threaten old men?"

"Mock and threaten?!" For a moment Elias' broad face curled
into an ugly snarl. "That old whoreson sings a song that as much as
accuses me of doing away with my brother, and you say I mocked
him?" The king stood up suddenly, giving the hassock an angry
push with his foot that sent it spinning across the floor. "What do I
have to fear?" he asked suddenly.

"If you don't know, Father -- you who spend so much time
around that red snake Pryrates and his deviltry -- if you can't feel
what's happening ..."

"What in Aedon's name are you saying?" the king demanded.
"What do you know?" He struck his hand against his thigh with a
crack. "Nothing! Pryrates is my able servant -- he will do for me
what no one else can."

"He is a monster and a necromancer!" the princess shouted. "You
are becoming his tool, Father! What has happened to you? You have

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             161

changed!" Miriamele made an anguished sound, trying to bury her
face in her long blue veil, then leaped up to dash past on velvet-
slippered feet into her bedchamber. A moment later she had pushed
the heavy door closed behind her.

"Damn all children!" Elias swore. "Girl!" he shouted, striding to
the door, "you understand nothing! You know nothing about what
the king is called on to do. And you have no right to be disobedient.
I have no son! / have no heir! There are ambitious men all around
me, and I need Pengbald. You will not thwart me!"

He stood for a long moment, but there was no reply- He struck
the heel of his hand against the door and the timbers shuddered.

"Miriamele! Open the door!" Only silence answered him.
"Daughter," he said at last, leaning his head forward until it
touched the unyielding wood, "only bear me a grandson, and I will
give you Meremund. I will see that Fengbald does not hinder your
going. You may spend the rest of your life staring at the ocean." He
brought up his hand and wiped something from his face. "I do not
like to look at the ocean myself ... it makes me think of your
mother."

One more time he struck the door. The echo bloomed and died. "I
love you, Miri . . ." the king said softly.

^

The turret at the corner of the western wall had taken the first bite
out of the afternoon sun. Another pebble rattled down the cistern,
following a hundred of its fellows into oblivion.

Pm hungry, Simon decided.

It would not be a bad idea, he reflected, to wander over to the
pantry and beg something to eat from Judith. The evening meal
would not be served for at least an hour, and he was uncomfortably
aware that he hadn't had a bite since early morning. The one prob-
lem was that Rachel and her crew were cleaning out the long refec-
tory hallway and chambers alongside the dining hall, the latest bat-
tle in Rachel's strenuous spring campaign. It would certainly be
better, if possible, to circumvent the Dragon and any words she
might have to offer on the subject of begging food before supper.

After a moment's consideration, during which time he sent three

162 Tad Williams

more stones tick-tack-ticking down the well, Simon decided it would
be safer to go under the Dragon than around her. The refectory hall
took up the entire length of the upper story along the seawall of the
castle's central keep; it would take a very long time to go all the way
around by the Chancelry to come at the kitchens on the far side. No,
the storage rooms were the only route.

He took a chance on a quick dash from the commons yard across
the western portico of the refectory, and made it through unob-
served. A whiff of soapy water and the distant slosh of mops has-
tened his steps as he ducked into the darkened lower floor, and the
rooms of stored goods that took up most of the area below the
dining halls.

Since this floor was a good six or seven ells below the top of the
Inner Bailey walls, only the faintest gleam of reflected light made its
way in through the windows. The deep shadows reassured Simon.
Because of many combustibles, torches were almost never brought
down to these rooms -- there was little chance he would be discov-
ered.

In the large central chamber great piles of iron-banded casks and
butts were stacked to the ceiling, a murky landscape of rounded
towers, and close-hemmed passages. Anything might be stored in
these barrels: dried vegetables, cheeses, bolts of fabric from years
long past, even suits of armor like shining fish in casks of midnight-
dark oil. The temptation to open some and see what treasures lay
hidden privily inside was very strong, but Simon had no prybar to
unlid the heavy, tight-nailed barrels -- neither did he dare make too
much noise with the Dragon and her legions dusting and polishing
away just above like the charwomen of the damned.

Midway across the long, shadowed room, threading his way be-
tween barrel-towers that leaned like cathedral buttressess, Simon
nearly fell down a hole into darkness.

Dancing back in heart-thumping surprise, he quickly saw that
rather than a mere hole it was a hatchway that gaped in the floor
before him, its door flung open and back. With care he could step
around it, despite the narrowness of the path ... but why was it
open? Obviously, heavy hatch-doors did not swing open unaided.
Doubtless one of the housekeepers had brought something up from a
storeroom farther below, and been unable to both manage the bur-
den and close the door.

163

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

With only an instant's hesitation, Simon scrambled down the lad-
der into the hatchway. Who could say what strange, exciting things
might be hiding in the room below?

The space beneath was darker than the room above, and at first he
could see nothing at all. His groping foot encountered something
below him; as he gingerly lowered his weight it took on the solidity
of familiar board flooring. When he took the other foot off the lad-
der, however, it met no resistance at all -- only his tight grip on the
ladder-rung kept him from toppling off balance. There was still open
space immediately below the ladder -- another hatchway to a floor
even further below. He maneuvered his swinging foot until it found
the lip of the lower hatch, then moved off onto the security of this
middle room's floor.

The hatch-door above him was a gray square in the wall of dark-
ness. By its faint light he saw with disappointment that this area was
little more than a closet: the roof was far lower than that of the
upper room, and the walls extended back only a few arm's lengths
from where he stood. This small room was crowded to the rafters
with barrels and sacks, with only a small aisle that reached back to
the far wall separating the leaning dry goods.

As he surveyed the closet with disinterest a board creaked some-
where, and he heard the measured sound of footsteps in the black-
ness below him.

Oh, God's Pain, who's that?! And what have I done now?

How stupid of him not to think that the hatchway might be open
because someone was still down in the rooms below! He had done it
again! Silently cursing himself for an idiot, he slid into the narrow
aisle between the packed goods. The footfalls below approached the
ladder. Simon wedged himself back off the aisle into a space between
two musty plaincloth sacks that smelled and felt like they might be
full of old linen. Realizing that he would still be visible to anyone
who stepped away from the hatch and into the pathway, he sank
into a half-crouch, resting his weight carefully on an oak-ribbed
trunk. The steps halted, and the ladder began to creak as someone
climbed up. He held his breath. He had no idea why he was sud-
denly so frightened; if he was caught it would only mean more
punishment, more of Rachel's hard looks and peppery remarks -- 
why then did he feel like a rabbit scented by hounds?

The sound of climbing continued, and for the moment it seemed

164 Tad Williams

that whoever it was would continue up to the large room above . . .
until the steady creaking stopped. The silence sang in Simon's ears.
There was a creak, then another -- but he realized with a heavy feel-
ing in his stomach that the noises were coming back down. A muf-
fled bump as the unseen figure stepped off the ladder onto the floor
of the closet, and again there was silence, but this time the very
stillness seemed to throb. The slow tread moved closer down the
slender aisle, until it halted directly across from Simon's hastily-
chosen hiding place. In the dim light he could see pointed black
boots, almost close enough to touch; above hung the black-trimmed
hem of a scarlet robe. It was Pryrates.

Simon crouched back among the dry goods and prayed that
Aedon would stop his heart, which seemed to be beating like thun-
der. He felt his gaze drawn upward against his will until he stared
out between the sagging shoulders of the sacks that hid him.
Through the narrow gap he could see the alchemist's bleak face; for
a moment it seemed Pryrates looked right at him, and he nearly
squealed in terror. An instant later he saw it was not so: the red
priest's shadow-shrouded eyes were focused on the wall above
Simon's head. He was listening.

Come out.

Pryrates' lips had not moved, but Simon heard the voice as plainly
as if it had whispered in his ear.

Come out. Now.

The voice was firm but reasonable. Simon found himself ashamed
at his conduct: there was nothing to fear; it was childish foolishness
to crouch here in the dark when he could stand up and reveal him-
self, admit the little joke he had played ... but still . . .

Where are you? Show yourself.

Just as the calm voice in his ear had finally convinced him that
nothing would be simpler than to stand and speak -- he was reaching
for the sacks to help himself up -- Pryrates' black eyes swept for a
scant moment across the dark crack through which Simon peered,
and the glancing touch killed any thought of rising as a sudden frost
shrivels a rose blossom. Pryrates' gaze touched Simon's hidden eyes
and a door opened in the boy's heart; the shadow of destruction
filled that doorway.

This was death -- Simon knew it. He felt the cold crumble of grave
soil beneath his scraping fingers, the weight of dark, moist earth in

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              165

his mouth and eyes. There were no more words now, no dispassion-
ate voice in his head, only a pull -- an untouchable something that
was dragging him forward by fractions of inches. A worm of ice
clasped itself around his heart as he fought -- this was death waiting
. . . his death. If he made a sound, the merest tremble or gasp, he
would never see the sun again. He shut his eyes so tightly that his
temples ached; he locked teeth and tongue against the straining need
for breath. The silence hissed and pounded. The pull strengthened.
Simon felt as though he were sinking slowly down into the crushing
depths of the sea.

A sudden yowl was followed by Pryrates' startled curse. The in-
tangible, throttling grip was gone; Simon's eyes popped open in time
to see a sleek gray shape skitter past, leap over Pryrates' boots and
streak to the hatchway, where it bounded down into darkness. The
priest's surprised laughter scraped out, echoing dully in the cluttered
room.

"A cat . . . r

After a pause of half a dozen heartbeats, the-black boots turned
away and moved back up the aisle. In a moment, Simon heard the
ladder-thongs squeaking. He continued to sit rigidly, his breathing
shallow, all of his senses alarmed. Chill sweat was running into his
eyes, but he did not lift his hand to wipe it away -- not yet.

At last, after many minutes had passed and the ladder-sounds had
faded, Simon rose from the sheltering sacks, balancing on weak,
trembling legs. Praise Usires and bless that little gray scattercat! But
what to do? He had heard the upper hatchway close, and the sound
of booted footfalls on the floor overhead, but that did not mean that
Pryrates had gone very far. It would be a risk even to lift the heavy
door and look; if the priest were still in the storeroom the chances
were good that he would hear. How could he get out?

He knew he should just stay where he was, waiting in the dark.
Even if the alchemist were in the upper room now, eventually he
must finish his business and depart. This seemed by far the safest
plan -- but part of Simon's nature rebelled. It was one thing to be
frightened -- and Pryrates frightened him witless -- it was another
thing to spend the whole evening locked in a dark closet, and suffer
the attendant punishments, when the priest was almost certainly on
his way back to his eyrie in Hjeldin's Tower.

166 Tad Williams

Besides, I don't think he really could have made me come out . . .
could he? Likely I was just scared nearly to death. . . .

The memory of the broken-backed dog rose in his mind. He
gagged and spent long moments breathing deeply.

And what of the cat who had saved him from being caught -- 
caught: the image of Pryrates' pit-black eyes would not leave him:

they were no fear-fantasy. Where had the cat gone? If it had jumped
down to the lower floor it was doubtless trapped, and would never
find its way back without Simon's assistance. That was a debt of
honor.

As he moved quietly forward he could see a dim glow from the
doorway in the floor. Was there a torch lit down there? Or perhaps
there was some other way out, a doorway opening into one of the
lower baileys?

After a few moments of listening silently at the open hatchway,
making sure that no one would surprise him this time, Simon
stepped cautiously onto the ladder and began to climb down. A
breath of cold air ruffled his tunic and goosebumped his arms; he bit
the inside of his lip and hesitated, then continued.

Instead of being halted by another landing directly below, Simon's
careful descent continued for some moments. At first the only light
rose from below him, as though he were climbing down some sort of
bottleneck. At last the illumination became more general, and soon
after that his downward-groping exploration met with resistance. He
touched wood with his toes to one side of the ladder: he had found
the floor. Stepping down he saw that there was no further passage-
way below, that the bottom rung of the ladder rested here. The only
source of light in the chamber -- and with the topmost hatchway
now closed, the only source of illumination at all -- was a strange,
glowing rectangle that shone against the far wall, a misty door
painted on the wall in fitful yellowish light.

Simon superstitiously made the sign of the Tree as he looked
around. The rest of the room contained only a broken quintain and a
few other pieces of discarded jousting furniture. Although the
room's elongated shadows left many comers obscure, Simon could
see nothing that would interest a man like Pryrates. He moved to-
ward the gleaming design on the wall with hands extended, five-
fingered silhouettes outlined in amber. The glowing rectangle flared

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               167

suddenly, then quickly faded, dropping a shroud of absolute black
over all.

Simon was alone in darkness. There was no sound except for that
of his own blood booming in his ears like a distant ocean. He took a
cautious step forward; the sound of his shoe scraping the floor filled
the emptiness for a moment. He took another step, and then one
more: his outstretched fingers felt cold stone . . . and something
else: strange, faint lines of warmth. He slumped to his knees beside
the wall.

Now I know what's it's like to be at the bottom of a well. I only
hope no one starts pitching stones down at me.

As he sat, pondering what he should do next, he heard a faint
whisper of movement. Something struck him in the chest, and he
gave a shout of surprise. At his cry the touch was gone, but it
returned a moment later. Something was butting gently at his tunic
. . . and purring.

"Cat!" he whispered.

You saved me, you know. Simon rubbed at the invisible shape.
Slow down, there. It's hard to tell which end is which when you
squirm around so. That's right, you saved me, and I'm going to get
you out of this hole you've gotten into.

"Of course, I've gotten myself into the same hole," Simon said
aloud. He picked the furry shape up and lifted it into his tunic. The
cat's purring took a deeper note as it settled itself against his warm
stomach. "I know what that glowing thing was," he whispered. "A
door. A magic door."

It was also Pryrates' magic door, and Morgenes would skin him
for even going near it, but Simon felt a certain stubborn indignation:

this was his castle too, after all, and the storage rooms did not
belong to any upstart priest, no matter how fearsome. In any case, if
he went back up the ladder and Pryrates was still there . . . well,
even Simon's returning pride did not permit him to delude himself
about what would happen then. So, it was sit at the bottom of a
pitch-black well all evening, or ...

He flattened his palm on the wall, sliding it across the chill stones
until he found the streaks of warmth again. He traced them with his
fingers and found they corresponded roughly with the rectangular
shape he had first seen. Laying his hands flat in the middle he
pushed, but met only the stolid resistance of unmortared stone. He

168 Tad Williams

pushed again, as hard as he could; the cat stirred uneasily beneath
his shirt. Again nothing happened. As he leaned panting against the
spot, he felt even the warm spots growing chill beneath his hands. A
sudden vision of Pryrates -- the priest waiting in the dark overhead
like a spider, a grin stretching his bony face -- sent Simon's heart a-
pounding.

"Oh, Elysia Mother of God, open!" he murmured hopelessly,
fear-sweat making his palms slippery. "Open!"

The stone became suddenly warm, then hot, forcing Simon to lean
away. A thin golden line formed on the wall before him, running
like a stream of molten metal along the horizontal until both ends
dropped down and then ran back together. The door was there,
shimmering, and Simon had only to lift his hand and touch it with a
finger for the lines to grow brighter; actual cracks became visible,
running the length of the silhouette. He placed his fingers carefully
in one edge and pulled; a stone door swung silently outward, spilling
light into the room.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the wash of brilliance-
Behind the door a stone corridor sloped away and disappeared
around a comer, carved directly into the rough rock of the castle. A
torch bumed brightly in a sconce just inside; it was this that had
dazzled him so. He climbed to his feet, the cat a comfortable weight
inside his shirt.

Would Pryrates have left a torch burning if he didn't plan to
return? And what was this strange passageway? Simon recalled
Morgenes saying something of old Sithi ruins beneath the castle.
This was certainly old stonework, but crude and raw, completely
unlike the polished delicacy of Green Angel Tower. He resolved to
make a quick inspection: if the corridor led nowhere, he would have
to climb the ladder after all.

The coarse stone walls of the tunnel were damp. As Simon padded
down the walkway he could hear a dull booming sound through the
very rock.

/ must be below the level of the Kynslagh. No wonder the stones,
even the air, everything is so damp. As if to punctuate this thought,
he felt water coming in at the seams of his shoes.

Now the corridor turned again, continuing its downward slope.
The dimming light from the entranceway torch was supplemented
by some new source. As he turned one last comer he came onto a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              169

leveled, widened floor that ended some ten paces away in a wall of
craggy granite. Another torch guttered in its bracket there.

Two dark holes loomed in the wall at his left; at the end just
beyond them was what looked to be another door, seated almost
flush with the corridor's end. Water splashed near his shoe-tops as
he moved forward.

The first two spaces seemed to have once been chambers of some
kind -- cells, most likely -- but now splintered doors hung lazily off
their hinges; the flickering torchlight revealed nothing inside but
shadows. A damp odor of decay hung in these untenanted holes, and
he quickly passed them by to stand before the door at the end. The
hidden cat pricked him with gentle claws as he examined the blank,
heavy timbers in the wavering light. What might lie beyond? An-
other rotting chamber, or a corridor leading still farther into the sea-
bitten stone? Or was it perhaps Pryrates' secret treasure room, con-
cealed from all spying eyes . . . well, most spying eyes . . . ?

Midway up the door was fixed a plate of metal: Simon could not
tell if it was a latch or a peephole cover. When he tried it the rusty
metal did not budge, and he came away with red flecks covering his
fingers. Casting about, he saw a bit of broken hinge lying beside the
open doorway to his left. He picked it up and pried at the metal
until, with a begrudging squeak, the plate tilted upward on a rust-
and-salt-stiffened hinge. After a quick look up the corridor and a
moment of silence listening for footfalls, he leaned forward and put
his eye to the hole in the door.

To his great surprise there was a handful of rushes burning in a
wall bracket in the chamber, but any heady and terrifying thought of
having found Pryrates1 secret hoard-room was quickly dashed by the
dank, straw-covered floor and bare walls- There was something at
the back of the chamber, though . . . some dark bundle of shadow.

A clanking noise pulled Simon around in surprise. Fear washed
through him as he looked frantically about, expecting any moment
to hear the thump of black boots in the corridor. The noise came
again; Simon realized with astonishment that it sounded from the
chamber beyond the door. Putting his eye cautiously back to the
hole, he stared into the shadows.

Something was moving at the back wall, a dark shape, and as it
slowly swayed to one side the harsh, metallic sound echoed again in
the small space. The shadow-shape raised its head.

170 Tad Williams

Choking, Simon jumped back from the spy-hole as though
slapped across the face. In a whirling moment he felt the firm earth
totter beneath him, felt that he had turned over something familiar
to find crawling corruption beneath. . . .

The chained thing that had stared out at him -- the thing with the
haunted eyes -- was Prince Josua.

12

Six Silver Sparrows

SIMON stumbled across the commons yard, his thoughts shouting in
his head like a great crowd. He wanted to hide. He wanted to run
away. He wanted to bellow the terrible truth and laugh, to bring the
castlefolk tripping and tumbling out of doors. How sure they were,
sure about everything, guessing and gossiping -- but they knew noth-
ing! Nothing! Simon wanted to howl and knock things over, but he
could not free his heart from the spell of fear cast by Pryrates'
carrion-bird eyes. What could be done? Who would help to turn the
world right side up again?

Morgenes.

Even as Simon ran shamble-jointed across the dusky commons,
the doctor's calm, quizzical face appeared in his thoughts, pushing
back the priest's deathly countenance and the chained shadow in the
dungeon below. Without another conscious thought he fled past the
chained, black-painted gate of Hjeldin's Tower and up the stairs to
the Chancelry. In mere moments he was through the long hallways
and pulling open the door to forbidden Green Angel Tower. So
violent was his need to reach the doctor's chambers that had Barna-
bas the sexton been waiting there to catch him, Simon might have
turned to quicksilver in the man's hands. A great wind rushed
through him, filling him with wild haste, pushing him on. Before the
tower's side door had swung shut behind him he was on the draw-
bridge; seconds later he was pounding on Morgenes' door. A pair of
Erkynguardsmen looked up incuriously, then went back to their
dice.

"Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!" Simon shouted, banging away like a
demented cooper. The doctor quickly appeared, feet bare and eyes
alarmed.

"Horns of snorting Cryunnos, boy! Are you mad!? Have you eaten
bumblebees?!"

172 Tad Williams

Simon pushed past Morgenes without a word of explanation and
headed down the corridor. He stood panting before the inner door as
the little man came up behind. After a moment of shrewd inspection
Morgenes let himself and Simon m.

No sooner had the door closed than Simon began the story of his
expedition and its results. The doctor fussed up a small fire and
poured a jar of spicy hippocras into a pan to warm. As he worked
Morgenes listened, carefully poking an occasional question into
Simon's tirade as a man might reach a stick into a bear cage. He
shook his head grimly, handing the youth a cup of mulled wine, then
sat down with his own cup in a scarred highback chair. He had put
slippers on his thin white feet; as he sat cross-legged on the chair
cushion, his gray robe rucked up above his bony shins.

". . . And I know I shouldn't have touched a magic door, Doc-
tor, I know it, but I did -- and it was Josua' I'm sorry, I'm getting
things out of order, but I'm sure I saw him! He had a beard, I think,
and he looked terrible ... but it was him!"

Morgenes sipped his wine and dabbed at his chin-whiskers with a
long sleeve. "I believe you, lad," he said. "I wish that I didn't, but it
makes an evil kind of sense. It confirms some strange information I
received."

"But what will we do?!" Simon almost shouted. "He's dying! Did
Elias do that to him? Does the king know?"

"I really can't say -- it is certain, however, that Pryrates knows."
The doctor put down his wine cup and stood. Behind his head the
last of the afternoon sun reddened the narrow windows. "As for
what to do, the first thing is for you to go and eat supper."

"Supper?!" Simon choked, spattering hippocras down his tunic.
"With Prince Josua . . . ?"

"Yes, boy, that's what I said. Supper. There's nothing we can do
right this instant, and I need to think. If you miss your supper, it
will just raise a hue and cry -- albeit a small one -- and it will help to
do just what we don't want to do: attract attention. No, go now and
eat supper . . . and between bites, keep your mouth shut, will
you?"

Mealtime seemed to pass as slowly as spring thaw. Wedged be-
tween loudly chewing scullions, his heart beating double time, Si-
mon resisted the wild impulse to lash out and knock cups and crock-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             173

ery spinning to the rush-strewn floor. The conversation infuriated
him with its irrelevance, and the shepherd's pie that Judith had
prepared especially for Belthainn Eve was as tasteless and unchew-
able in his mouth as wood.

Rachel watched his fidgeting with displeasure from her seat at the
head of the table. When Simon had sat still as long as he could and
leaped up to make his excuses, she followed him to the door.

"I'm sorry, Rachel, I'm in a hurry!" he said, hoping to stave off
the lecture she seemed primed to deliver. "Doctor Morgenes has
something very important he wants me to help him with. Please?"

For a moment the Dragon looked as though she were going to get
that fearful grip on his ear and bring him forcibly back to table, but
something in his face or tone caught at her; for a moment she almost
smiled.

"All right, boy, just this once -- but you thank Judith for that nice
bit of pie before you go. She worked on it the whole afternoon."

Simon bolted over to Judith, pitched like a huge tent at her own
table. Her plump cheeks colored prettily while he praised her exer-
tions. As he hurried back to the door, Rachel leaned out and cap-
tured his sleeve. He stopped and turned, mouth already open to
complain, but Rachel only said; "Now just calm yourself and be
carefiil, you mooncalf boy. Nothing's so important that you should
kill yourself getting there." She patted his arm and released him; he
was through the door and gone as she watched.

Simon had pulled on his vest and coat by the time he reached the
well. Morgenes had not yet arrived, so he paced impatiently in the
deeper shadow of the dining hall until a soft voice at his elbow made
him start in surprise.

"Sorry to make you wait, lad. Inch came by, and I had a devilish
time convincing him that I didn't need him after all." The doctor
pulled his hood forward, hiding his face.

"How did you come up so quietly?" Simon asked, his whisper an
imitation of the doctor's.

"I can still get about a little, Simon," the doctor said in an injured
tone. "I am old, but not yet moribund."

Simon did not know what "moribund" meant, but he caught the
general idea. "Sorry," he whispered.

The two made their way silently down the dining room stairs and

174 Tad Williams

into the first storage room, where Morgenes produced a crystal
sphere the size of a green apple. When he rubbed it, a small spark
flickered into being at the center, gradually brightening until it
limned the encircling casks and bundles with soft honey-colored
light. Morgenes shrouded the nether half of it in his sleeve and held
it before them as they paced carefully through the stacked dry
goods.

The hatchway was closed; Simon did not remember whether or
not he had shut it himself in his mad dash out. They went down the
ladder carefully, Simon leading, Morgenes above him casting about
this way and that with the shining glove- Simon pointed out the
closet where Pryrates had almost captured him. They passed on,
down to the bottom floor.

The lowermost room was as untenanted as before, but the door
leading to the stone passageway was shut. Simon was almost positive
that he had not done this, and told Morgenes so, but the little man
just waved his hand and strode to the wall, finding the spot where
the crack had been according to Simon's directions. The doctor
rubbed his hand in a circular movement across the wall, muttering
something under his breath, but no crevice appeared. After
Morgenes had squatted by the wall talking to himself for some time,
Simon grew tired of bouncing from one foot to the other and
crouched down at the doctor's side.

"Can't you just say some magic and make it open?"

"No!" Morgenes hissed. "A wise man never, I repeat, never uses
the Art when he doesn't need to -- especially when dealing with an-
other adept, like our Father Pryrates. We might as well sign my
name to it."

As Simon sat back on his heels and scowled, the doctor placed his
left hand flat in the middle of the area where the door had been;

after a moment's light palpation of the surface he hit it smartly with
the heel of his right hand. The door popped open, pouring torchlight
into the room. The doctor peeked through, then dropped his lamp-
crystal into the hem of his voluminous sleeve and pulled out a
stitched leather bag.

"Ah, Simon-lad," he chuckled, quietly, "what a thief I would
have made. It was not a 'magic door' -- only hidden by use of the
Art. Come on, now!" They stepped through into the damp stone
corridor.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              175

Their footfalls made syrupy echoes as they slipped and stepped
down the walkway to the corridor's end and the locked door. After a
moment's examination of the lock Morgenes stepped to the peephole
and peered inside.

"I think you're right, lad," he hissed. "Nuanni's Shinbonel But I
wish you weren't." He returned to the scrutiny of the lock. "Run up
to the end of the corridor and keep an ear open, won't you?"

As Simon stood guard, Morgenes fished around in his leather bag,
at last extracting a long, needle-thin blade set in a wooden handle.
He waved it merrily at Simon.

"Naraxi pig-sticker. Knew it would come in useful one day!"

He tested it against the keyhole; it slid into the aperture with
room to spare. He removed it and shook a tiny jar from his bag
which he uncorked with his teeth. As Simon watched, fascinated,
Morgenes upended the jar and poured a dark, sticky substance onto
the needle blade, then quickly poked the tip back into the keyhole; it
left glistening traces as it passed into the lock.

Morgenes wiggled the pig-sticker for a moment, then stepped
back and counted on his fingers. When he had talked both hands
three times each, he grasped the slender handle and twisted. He
grimaced and let go.

"Come here, Simon. We need your strong young arms."

At the doctor's direction Simon grasped the strange tool by the
butt end and began to twist. For a moment his sweaty palms slipped
on the polished wood; he tightened his grip, and after a short inter-
val felt something catch inside the lock. An instant later he heard
the bolt slide back. Morgenes nodded his head, and Simon shoul-
dered the door open.

The smoldering rushes in the wall socket threw only faint light.
As Simon and the doctor approached they saw the shackled figure at
the rear of the cell look up, and his eyes widen slowly, as if in some
kind of recognition. His mouth worked, but only a scratchy huff of
breath came out. The smell of wet, foul straw was overwhelming.

"Oh ... oh ... my poor Prince Josua . . ." Morgenes said.
As the doctor gave a quick inspection to Josua's manacles, Simon
could only look on, feeling as helpless to affect the rush of events as
if he dreamed. The prince was achingly thin, and bearded like a
roadsider doomcrier; the parts of his skin that showed through the
miserable sacking were covered with red sores.

176 Tad Williams

Morgenes was whispering in Josua Lackhand's ear. He had again
produced his bag, and held in his hand a shallow pot, the sort that
ladies kept for their lip-paint. Briskly rubbing something from the
pot on first one palm, then the other, the little doctor once more
looked over Josua's restraints. Both arms were shackled to a massive
iron ring in the wall, one manacled about the wrist, the handless
other by a cuff about the prince's thin upper arm.

Morgenes finished smearing his hands and passed pot and bag to
Simon. "Now be a good lad," he said, "and cover your eyes. I traded
a silkbound volume of Plesinnen Myrmenis -- the only one north of
Perdruin -- for this muck. I just hope -- Simon, do cover your
eyes . . ."

As the youth raised his hands he saw Morgenes reaching for the
ring that bound the prince's chains to the stone. An instant later a
flash of light glared pinkly through Simon's meshed fingers, accom-
panied by a crack like hammer on slate. When the youth looked
again Prince Josua lay with his chains in a heap on the floor and
Morgenes kneeled beside him, palms smoking. The wall-ring was
blackened and twisted like a burnt bannock.

"Faugh!" the doctor gasped, "I hope ... I hope I ... never
have to do that again. Can you pick up the prince, Simon? I am very
weak."

Josua rolled stiffly over and looked around. "I ... think ... I
can . . . walk. Pryrates . . . gave me something."

"Nonsense." Morgenes took a deep breath and climbed shakily to
his feet. "Simon is a strong lad -- come on, boy, don't gape! Pick him
up!"

After some maneuvering Simon managed to wrap the hanging
strands of Josua's chains, still attached at wrist and arm, into a loop
around the prince's waist. Then, with Morgenes' assistance, he
somehow hoisted Josua up like a pickaback child. He stood and
sucked in a great draught of air. For a moment he feared he could
not bear up, but with a clumsy hop he moved Josua higher on his
back and found that even with the added weight of the chains it was
not impossible.

"Wipe that silly smile off your face, Simon," the doctor said, "we
still have to get him up the ladder."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             177

*     *

Somehow they managed -- Simon grunting, almost weeping with
the exertion, Josua pulling weakly at the rungs, Morgenes pushing
behind and whispering encouragement. It was a long, nightmarish
climb, but at last they reached the main storeroom. Morgenes scur-
ried past as Simon leaned against a bale to rest, the prince still
clinging to his back.

"Somewhere, somewhere . . ." Morgenes muttered, pushing his
way between the close-stacked goods. When he reached the southern
wall of the room, shining his crystal before him, he began to search
in earnest.

"What . . . ?" Simon started to ask, but the doctor silenced him
with a gesture. As they watched Morgenes appear and disappear
behind piles of barrels, Simon felt a delicate touch on his hair. The
prince was patting gently at his head.

"Real- Real!" Josua breathed. Simon felt something wet run down
his neck.

"Found if" came Morgenes' hushed but triumphant cry. "Come
along!" Simon rose, staggering a little, and carried the prince for-
ward. The doctor was standing beside the blank stone wall, ges-
turing toward a pyramid of large casks. The lamp-crystal gave him
the shadow of a looming giant.

"Found what?" Simon adjusted the prince and stared. "Barrels?"

"Indeed!" the doctor crackled. With a flourish he twisted the
round rim of the topmost cask a half-turn. The whole side of the
barrel swung open as if it were a door, revealing cavernous darkness
beyond.

Simon stared suspiciously. "What's that?"

"A passageway, you foolish boy." Morgenes took his elbow and
guided him toward the open-sided barrel, which stood scarcely more
than chest-high. "This castle is honeycombed with such secret by-
ways."

With a frown Simon stooped, peering at the black depths beyond.
"In there?"

Morgenes nodded. Simon, realizing he could not walk through,
got down on his knees to inch inside, the prince riding his back as if
he were a festival pony. "I didn't know there were such passages in
the storerooms," he said, his voice echoing in the barrel. Morgenes
leaned down to guide Josua's head under the low entrance.

178 Tad Williams

"Simon, there are more things you don't know than there are
things that I do know. I despair of the imbalance. Now close your
mouth and let's hurry."

They were able to stand again on the far side: Morgenes' crystal
revealed a long, angled corridor, unremarkable but for a fabulous
accumulation of dust.

"Ah, Simon," Morgenes said as they hurried along. "I only wish I
had time to show you some of the rooms past which this hallway
creeps -- some were the chambers of a very great, very beautiful lady.
She used this passage to keep her secret assignations." The doctor
looked up at Josua, whose face lay against Simon's neck. "Sleeping,
now," Morgenes murmured. "All sleeping."

The corridor climbed and dipped, turning one way and another.
They passed many doors, some whose locks were rusted shut, some
whose handles were as shiny as a new fithing piece. Once they
passed a series of small windows; in a brief glance Simon was star-
tled to see the sentries on the western wall, silhouetted against the
sky. The clouds were tinted a faint rose where the sun had gone.

We must be above the dining hall, Simon marveled. When did we
do all the climbing?

They were stumbling in exhaustion when Morgenes finally
stopped. There were no windows in this part of the winding corri-
dor, only tapestries. Morgenes lifted one, revealing gray stone be-
neath.

"Wrong tapestry," the doctor panted, lifting the next one to reveal
a door of rough wood. He laid his ear against it and listened for a
moment, then pulled it open.

"Hall of Records." He gestured at the torchlit hallway beyond.
"Only a few . . . hundred paces from my chambers . . ." When
Simon and his passenger had come through, he let the door swing
shut behind; it closed with an authoritative bump. Looking back,
Simon could not distinguish it from other wooden panels that lined
the corridor wall.

There was only one last dash to be made in the open, a relatively
rapid sprint from the easternmost door of the archive rooms, across
the open commons. As they lurched across the shadowed grass,
staying as close to the walls as they could without tripping through
the ivy, Simon thought he saw a movement in the shadows of the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             179

wall across the yard: something large that shifted slightly as though
to watch their passage, a familiar, stoop-shouldered form. But the
light was dying fast and he could not be sure -- it was only one more
black spot moving before his eyes.

He had a stitch in his side that felt as though someone had caught
his rib with Ruben's foundry-tongs. Morgenes, who had limped
ahead, held the door open. Simon tottered through, carefully put his
burden down, then pitched full-length on the cool flagstones, sweaty
and breathless. The world spun about him in a giddy dance.

"Here, your Highness, drink this -- go on," he heard Morgenes
say. After some little while he opened his eyes and lifted himself on
one elbow. Josua sat propped against the wall; Morgenes crouched
over him holding a brown ceramic jug.

"Better?" the doctor asked.

The prince nodded weakly. "Stronger already. This liquor feels
like what Pryrates gave me ... but not so bitter. Said that I was
weakening too fast . . . that they needed me tonight."

"Needed you? 1 don't like the sound of that, hot at all." Morgenes
brought the jug over to Simon. The drink was busy and sour to the
taste, but warming. The doctor peered out the door, then dropped
the bolt.

"Tomorrow is Belthainn Day, the first of Maia," he said. "To-
night is ... tonight is a very bad night, my prince. Stoning Night,
it is called."

Simon felt the doctor's liquor burning pleasantly as it moved
down to his stomach. The ache in his joints lessened, as though a
twisted length of cloth had been slackened a turn or two. He sat up,
feeling dizzy.

"I find it ominous, their 'needing' you on such a night," Morgenes
repeated. "I fear worse things even than the imprisoning of the
king's brother."

"The imprisoning itself was bad enough for me." A wry grimace
stretched Josua's gaunt features, then disappeared- Deep lines of
sorrow took its place. "Morgenes," he said a moment later, his voice
cracking, "those . . . those whoreson bastards killed my men.
They ambushed us."

The doctor raised his hand as though to grasp the prince's shoul-
der, then put it awkwardly back down. "I'm sure, my lord, I'm sure-

180 Tad Williams

Do you know for certain whether your brother was responsible?
Could it have been Pryrates acting alone?"

Josua shook his head wearily. "I don't know. The men who at-
tacked us wore no insignia, and I never saw anyone but the priest
once I was brought here . . . but it is astonishing to consider
Pryrates doing such a thing without Elias."

"True."

"But why?! Why, damn them? I do not covet power -- the reverse,
if anything! You know that, Morgenes. Why should they do this?"

"My prince, I am afraid I do not have the answers right this
instant, but I must say this goes far toward confirming my suspi-
cions about . . . other things. About . . . northern matters. Do
you remember hearing of the white foxes?" Morgenes* tone was sig-
nificant, but the prince only cocked an eyebrow and said nothing.
"Well, there is no time to spend talking of my fears at this moment.
Our time is short, and we must attend to more immediate matters."

Morgenes helped Simon up from the floor, then went puttering off
in search of something. The youth stood looking shyly at Prince
Josua, who remained slumped against the wall, eyes closed. The
doctor returned with a hammer, its head rounded by much use, and

a chisel.

"Strike offJosua's chains, will you, lad? I have a few things left to

attend to." He scuttled off again.

"Your Highness?" Simon said quietly, approaching the prince.
Josua opened bleary eyes and stared first at the youth, then at the
tools he carried. He nodded.

Kneeling at the prince's side he burst the lock on the band that
encircled Josua's right arm with a pair of sharp blows. As he moved
round to the prince's left, Josua opened his eyes again and laid a
restraining hand on Simon's arm.

"Take only the chain from this side, young one." A ghostly smile
nickered across his face. "Leave me the shackle to remember my
brother by. Leave me his band." He displayed the puckered stump
of his right wrist. "We have a sort of tally system, you see."

Simon, suddenly chilled, trembled as he braced Josua*s left fore-
arm against the stone flags. With a single stroke he sliced through
the chain, leaving the cuff of blackened iron above the hand.

Morgenes appeared, carrying a bundle of dark clothing. "Come,
Josua, we must hurry. It is almost an hour after dark, and who

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

181

knows when they will go looking for you? I broke my lock-pick off
in the door, but that will not long prevent them discovering your
absence."

"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. Jt 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 comer 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 leam 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

182 Tad Williams

expression was doubtful. "Where does it go, Morgenes?" he asked.
"It will do me scant good to escape Ellas' 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 parch-
ment 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 braves acts might bring down on you."

"There is nothing you can do about that, Josua," Morgenes re-
plied. "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.

183

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"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 ex-
citement 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: *0h, 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 ..."

184 Tad Williams

*'. . . 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."

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 -- / 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:

185

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"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 hall-
way 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 up-
ended 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 Si-
mon 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 spar-
row; 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

186

Tad Williams

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 re-
leased 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 some-
thing 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 thick-
ening air. Morgenes reeled, and his barrier began to melt like a sheet

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             187

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.

"ENKJANNUKHAI SHFIGAOf" The doctor's voice boomed and
tolled like a bell made of stone. A wind shrieked through the cham-
ber, 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 incandes-
cence as the glass beakers shattered into fiame. 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 blaz-
ing 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 halt-
ing 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 ear-
thumping 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.

188

Tad Williams
*   *   *

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 dark-
ness.

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 now, doomed to wander, to wonder . . .

No. Simon shuddered, trying to rein in the clamoring voices, / will
remember. I will remember the red line on the old map, and to look
for the Tan'J'a 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.

190 Tad Williams

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 . . .

A pinprick of light flared before him -- a needle hole in the sun-
shrouding curtain of night. He rubbed harder and stared. The light
bloomed, folding back the shadows; the passageway's walls leaped
out on either side, brushed with glowing amber. Air seemed to rush
into his lungs. He could see!

The momentary elation evaporated as he turned to look up and
down the corridor. A pain in his head made the walls waver before
his gaze. The tunnel was nearly featureless, a lonely hole burrowing
down into the underbelly of the castle, festooned with pale cobwebs.
Back up the passage he could see a crossway he had already passed,
a gaping mouth in the wall. He walked back. A quick shine of the
crystal revealed nothing beyond the opening but tailings and rubble,
a sloping pile of debris leading down out of reach of the sphere's thin
light. How many other cross-paths had he missed? And how would
he know which ones were the right ones? Another wave of choking
hopelessness washed over him. He was hopelessly alone, hopelessly
lost. He would never find himself back in the world of light.

Simon Pilgrim, Simon mooncalf . . . family dead. friend dead,
see him wander and wander forever . . .

"Silence!" he growled out loud, and was startled to hear the word
caroming down the path before him, a messenger carrying a procla-
mation from the king of Under-the-ground: "Silence . . . silence
. . . silen ... si ..."

King Simon of the Tunnels began his staggering progress.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

191

*      *      *

The passageway squirmed downward into the stone heart of the
Hayholt, a smothering, winding, cobwebbed track lit only by the
gleam of Morgenes' crystal sphere. Broken spiderwebs performed a
slow, ghostly dance in the wake of his passage; when he turned to
look back the strands seemed to wave after him, like the clutching,
boneless fingers of the drowned. Hanks of silky thread stuck to his
hair and draped stickily across his face, so that he had to hold his
hand before his eyes as he walked. Often he would feel some small,
leggy thing scuttling away across his fingers as he broke through its
netting, and would have to stop for a moment, head down, until the
shivers of disgust subsided.

It was becoming colder, and the close-cramped walls of the pas-
sageway seemed to breathe with moisture. Parts of the tunnel had
crumbled; in some places dislodged dirt and stone were piled so high
in the center of the path that he had to push his back against the
damp walls and edge around them.

He was doing just that -- squeezing around an obstruction, the
light-wielding hand held over his head, the other feeling before him
for a way past -- when he felt a searing pain like a thousand needle-
pricks run up his questing hand and onto his arm. A flash of the
crystal brought a vision of horror -- hundreds, no, thousands of tiny
white spiders swarming up his wrist and under his shirt sleeve, bit-
ing like a thousand burning fires. Simon shrieked and slammed his
arm against the tunnel wall, bringing a shower of clotted dirt down
into his mouth and eyes. His terrified shouts echoed down the pas-
sageway, quickly failing- He fell to his knees in damp soil, smacking
his stinging arm up and down into the dirt until the flaring pain
began to subside, then crawled forward on his hands and knees,
away from whatever horrible nest or den he had disturbed. As he
crouched and frantically scrubbed his arm with loose soil the tears
came again, racking him like a whipping.

When he could stand to look at his arm, the crystal's light re-
vealed only reddening and swelling skin beneath the dirt, instead of
the bloody wounds he had been sure he would find. The arm
throbbed, and he wondered dully if the spiders were poisonous -- if
the worst was yet to come. When he felt the sobs climbing once
more in his chest, shortening his breath, he forced himself to his feet.
He must go on. He must.

192 Tad Williams

A thousand white spiders.

He must go on.

He followed the sphere's dim light downward. It gleamed on
moisture-slick stone and earth-choked cross-corridors, twining with
pallid roots. Surely he must be far below the castle by now -- far
down into the black earth. There was no sign of Josua's passage, or
of anyone's. He was sickeningly certain he had missed some turning-
place in the darkness and confusion, and was even now spiraling
downward into an inescapable pit.

He had trudged on so long, making so many twists and turns, that
the memory of the narrow red line on Morgenes' old parchment was
now useless. There was nothing remotely like stairs anywhere in
these narrow, strangling wormholes. Even the glowing crystal was
beginning to flicker. The voices escaped his control again, surround-
ing him in the crazy shadows like a shouting throng.
Dark and getting darker. Dark and getting darker.
Let us lie down for a while. We want to sleep, just for a while,

sleep . . .

The king has an animal inside him, and Pryrates is its keeper . . .

"My Simon." Morgenes called you '"my Simon" . . . he knew
your/other. He kept secrets.

Josua is going to Naglimund. The sun shines there all day and
night Naglimund. They eat sweet cream and drink clear, shining
water at Naglimund. The sun is bright.

Bright and hot. It is hot. Why?

The damp tunnel was suddenly very warm. He stumbled on,
hopelessly sure that he felt the first fever of spider-poison. He would
die in the dark, the terrible dark. He would never again see the sun,
or feel its ...

The warmth seemed to push into his lungs. It was getting hotter!

Stifling air enfolded him, sticking his shirt to his chest and his hair
to his forehead. He felt a moment of even greater panic.

Have I circled round? Have I walked for years only to come back to
the ruins of Morgenes' chamber --  the burned, blackened remains of
his life?

But it was not possible. He had been going downward steadily,
never once mounting back to anything more than a moment's level
going. Why was it so hot?

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

193

The memory of one of Shem Horsegroom's stories pushed for-
ward, a story of young Prester John wandering through darkness
toward a great, brooding heat -- the dragon Shurakai in its lair be-
neath the castle . . . this castle.

But the dragon is dead! I've touched its bones, a yellow chair in the
throne room. There is no dragon anymore -- no sleepless, deep-
breathing red hulk the size of the toumey field, waiting in the dark-
ness with claws like swords and a soul as old as the stones of Osten
Ard -- the dragon is dead.

But did dragons never have brothers?
And what was that sound? That dull, grumbling roar?
The heat was oppressive, and the air was thick with itching
smoke. Simon's heart was a lump of dull lead in his chest. The
crystal began to dim as broad smears of reddish light blotted out the
sphere's weaker radiance. The tunnel flattened, turning now neither
left nor right, leading down a long, eroded gallery to an arched
doorway that danced with a flickering orange radiance. Shivering

despite the sweat streaming down his face, Simon felt himself drawn
toward it,

Turn and run, mooncalf?
He could not. Each step was a labor, but he moved closer. He

reached the archway and craned his neck fearfully around the por-
tal's rim.

It was a great cavern, awash in leaping light. The rock walls
seemed to have melted and set like wax at the base of a candle, the
stone smoothed in long, vertical ripples. For a moment Simon's
light-stunned eyes opened wide in amazement; at the cavern's far
side a score of dark figures were kneeling before the shape of . . . a
monstrous, flame-blazing dragon!

An instant later he saw that it was not so; the huge shape
crouched against the stone was a great furnace. The dark-clad fig-
ures were forking logs into its flaming maw.

The foundry! The castle foundry!

All around the cavern heavily dressed and scarf-masked men were
smithying the tools of war. Massive buckets of glowing liquid iron
were pulled from the flames on the ends of long poles. Molten metal
jumped and hissed as it drizzled into plate-shaped molds, and above

the groaning voice of the furnace reverberated the clang of hammer
on anvil.

194 Tad Williams

Simon shrank back from the doorway. For a heartbeat he had felt
himself about to leap forward and run to these men -- for men they
were, despite their strange dress. It had seemed in that instant that
anything was better than the dark tunnel, and the voices -- but he
knew better. Did he think these foundrymen would help him to
escape? Doubtless they knew only one route from the blazing cav-
ern: up and back into the clutches of Pryrates -- if he had survived
the inferno of Morgenes' chambers -- or the brutal justice of Elias.

He sank down onto his haunches to think. The noise of the fur-
nace and his own painful head made it difficult. He could not re-
member passing any cross-tunnels for some time. He could see what
looked like a row of holes along the far wall of the foundry-cavem; it
could be that they were nothing but storage chambers . . .

Or dungeons . . .

But it seemed just as likely that they were other routes in and out
of the chamber. To retreat back up the tunnel seemed foolish . . .

Coward! Scullion!

Numb, battered, he balanced on the knife-edge of indecision. To
go back, and wander through the same dark, spider-haunted tun-
nels, his only light nickering into extinction ... or to make his
way across the roaring infemo of the foundry floor -- and from there,
who could know? Which should it be?

He will be King of Under-ground, Lord of the Weeping Shades!

No, his people are gone, let him be!

He smacked himself on the head, trying to dispe! the chittering
voices.

If I'm going to die, he decided, wresting back the mastery of his
speeding heart, at least let it be in the light.

He bent over, head throbbing, to stare at the cupped gleam of the
crystal sphere. Even as he looked, the light died, then throbbed back
into tenuous life. He slipped it into his pocket.

The furnace flame and the dark shapes that passed before them
laid pulsing stripes of red, orange and black along the wall; he
dropped down from the archway to huddle beside the downsloping
ramp. The nearest hiding place was a shabby brick structure some
fifteen or twenty ells from where he crouched, a disused kiln or oven
that squatted on the chamber's fringe. After a few deep breaths he
bolted for it, half-running, half-crawling. His head ached from the
motion, and when he reached the bulky kiln he had to lower his face

195

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

between his knees until the black spots went away. The harsh roar of
the feeding furnace rang like thunder inside his head, silencing even
his voices with its painful clamor.

He made his way from dark place to dark place, little islands of
shadowed safety in the ocean of smoke and red noise. The foun-
drymen did not look up and see him; they barely communicated
among themselves, limited in the crushing din to broad gestures, like
armored men in the chaos of battle. Their eyes, points of reflected
light above the masking cloth, seemed instead to stare at one thing
only: the bright, compelling glow of hot iron. Like the red map-line
that still snaked a wistful course through Simon's memory, the radi-
ant metal was everywhere and all the same, like a dragon's magical
blood. Here it splashed over the edge of a vat, spattering in gemlike
drops; over there it wound serpentlike away across the rock to flow
hissing into a pool of brackish water. Great tongues of incandes-
cence sluiced down from buckets, coloring the bundled foundrymen
in demonic scarlet.

Creeping, scuttling, Simon made his slow way around the rim of
the smelting-cave until he reached the nearest ramp leading out of
the chamber. The oppressive, breathing heat and his own sickened
spirit urged him to climb up, but the packed earth of the ramp
showed a deep, crisscrossing scrawl of cartwheel tracks. This was a
much-used doorway, he reasoned, thoughts blurry and slow. It was
not a place he should try.

At last he reached a mouth in the cavern wall that had no ramp.
It was a difficult scrabble up the smooth -- fire-melted? Dragon-
melted? -- rock, but his flagging strength held up long enough for
him to pull himself over the lip and collapse full length in the shel-
tering shadows just inside, the unpocketed sphere glowing weakly in
his hand like a trapped firefly.

When he knew who he was once more, he was crawling.

On your knees again, mooncalf?

The blackness was virtually complete, and he was moving blindly
downward. The tunnel floor was dry and sandy beneath his hands.

He crawled for a long, long time; even the voices began to sound
as if they felt sorry for him.

Simon lost . . . Simon lost lost los . . .

Only the slowly diminishing heat behind convinced him he was

196 Tad Williams

actually moving -- but toward what? Where? He crept like a
wounded animal, through solid shadow, heading down, always
down. Would he crawl downward to the very center of the world?

Scuttling, leggy things beneath his fingers meant nothing now.
The darkness was complete, inside and outside. He felt himself al-
most bodiless, a bundle of frightened thoughts bumping down into
the cryptic earth.

Somewhere, sometime later, the darkened sphere he had clutched
for so long that it seemed a pan of him began to glow again, this
time with a strange azure light. From a core of pulsing blue the light
expanded until he had to hold the sphere away from him, squinting.
He climbed slowly to his feet and stood panting, his hands and knees
tingling where they no longer touched sand.

The tunnel walls were covered in fibrous black growths, tangled as
uncombed wool, but through the twining strands gleamed shining
patches, reflecting the new-flowered light. Simon hobbled closer to
investigate, drawing his hand back with a thin wheeze of disgust as
he touched the greasy black moss. Some of his self had come back
with the light, and as he stood swaying he thought about what he
had crawled through, and trembled.

The wall beneath the moss was covered in some kind of tile,
chipped and scored in many places, missing in others so that the dull
earth showed through. Behind him the tunnel sloped upward, the
rut of his passage stopping where he now stood. Before him the
darkness led on. He would try walking on two legs for a while.

The passage soon widened. The arched entrances of scores of
other corridors joined the one he traveled, most of them filled with
soil and stone. Soon there were also flagstones beneath his shambling
feet, uneven, fractured stone that nonetheless caught the light of the
lantern-sphere with strange opalescence. The ceiling gradually an-
gled away above him, out of reach of the blue light; the corridor
continued downward into the earth. Something that might have
been the beat of leathery wings fluttered in the emptiness above.

Where am I now? How could Hayholt run so deep? Doctor said
castles under castles, down into the world's bones. Castles under cas-
tles . . . under castles . . .

He had stopped without knowing it, and had turned to stand
before one of the cross-passages. In some part of his head he could

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             197

see himself and how he must look -- tattered, dirt-smeared, head
wagging from side to side like a half-wit. A strand of spittle dangled
from his lower lip.

The doorway before him was unblocked; a strange scented air like
dried flowers hung in the black arch. He stepped forward, dragging
an arm that felt like heavy, useless meat across his mouth, holding
aloft the crystal sphere in his other hand.

, . . / Beautiful! Beautiful place . . . !

It was a chamber, perfect in the blue glow, as perfect as if some-
one had left it only a moment before. The ceiling was high-vaulted,
covered in a tracery of delicate painted lines, a pattern suggesting
thom bushes, or flowering vines, or the meandering of a thousand
meadow streams. The rounded windows were choked with rubble,
and dirt had poured down from them to silt the tiled floor beneath,
but all else was untouched. There was a bed -- a miracle of subtle,
curving wood -- and a chair as fine as the bones of a bird. In the
room's center stood a fountain of polished stone that looked as if it
might fill with singing water at any moment.

A home for me. A home beneath the ground. A bed to sleep in, sleep
and sleep until Pryrates and the king and the soldiers have all gone
away . , .

A few dragging steps forward and he stood beside the bed, the
pallet as clean and unsmirched as the sails of the blessed. There was
a face staring down at him from a niche above it, a splendid, clever
woman's face -- a statue. Something about it was wrong, though: the
lines were too angular, the eyes too deep and wide, the cheekbones
high and sharp. Still it was a face of great beauty, captured in trans-
lucent stone, forever frozen in a sad, knowing smile.

As he reached out to gently touch the sculpted cheek his shin
nudged the bedframe, a touch delicate as a spider's step. The bed
crumbled into powder. A moment later, as he stared in horror, the
bust in the niche dissolved into fine ash beneath his fingertips, the
woman's features melting away in an instant. He took a stumbling
step back and the light of the sphere glared and then waned to a dim
glow. The thump of his foot on the floor leveled the chair and deli-
cate fountain, and a moment later the ceiling itself began to sift
down, the twining branches moldering into soft dust- The sphere
flickered as he lurched for the door, and as he plunged back out into
the corridor the blue light guttered out.

198

Tad Williams

Standing in the darkness again, he heard someone crying. After a
long minute he reeled forward, down into the never-ending shadows,
wondering who it was that could still have tears left to shed.

The passage of time had become a thing only of fits and starts.
Somewhere behind him he had dropped the spent crystal to lie for-
ever in darkness, a pearl in the blackest trenches of the secret sea. In
a last, sane part of his wandering thought, thoughts now unbounded
by the hedge of light, he knew that he was moving still further

downward.

Going down. Into the pit. Going down.

Going where? To what?

From shadow to shadow, as a scullion always travels.

Dead mooncalf. Ghost mooncalf . . .

Drifting, drifting . . . Simon thought of Morgenes with his
wispy beard curling in flame, thought of the shining comet glaring
redly down on the Hayholt . . . thought of himself, descending -- 
mounting? -- through the black nothing spaces like a small, cold star.

Drifting.

The emptiness was complete. The darkness, at first just an absence
of light and life, began to assume qualities of its own: narrow, chok-
ing dark when the tunnels narrowed, Simon clambering over drifts
of rubble and tangling roots, or the lofty, airy darkness of invisible
chambers, full of the parchment scrape of bat wings. Feeling his way
through these vast, underground galleries, hearing his own muffled
footfalls and the hissing patter of dirt shaken loose from the walls,
any remaining sense of direction fell away. He might be walking
straight up the walls, for all he could tell, or staggering across the
ceilings like a maddened fly. There was no left or right; when his
fingers found solid walls again, and doors leading to other tunnels,
he groped mindlessly on through more constricted passageways and
into other bat-squeaking, measureless catacombs.

Ghost of a mooncalf!

The odor of water and stone was everywhere. His sense of smell,
like his hearing, seemed to have grown more acute in the blind,
black night, and as he fumbled his way ever downward the scents of
this midnight world washed over him -- damp, loamy earth, nearly
as rich as bread dough, and the bland but harsh fragrance of rocks.
He was awash in the vibrant, breathing odors of moss and roots, the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              199

busy, sweet rottenness of tiny things living and dying. And floating
through everything, permeating and complicating all, was the sour,
mineral tang of seawater.

Seawater? Sightless, he listened, hunting the booming sounds of
the ocean. How deep had he come? All he heard were the minute
shufflings of digging things and his own ragged breathing. Had he
tunneled beneath even the unsounded Kynslagh?

There! Faint musical tones, chiming in the farther depths. Water
dripping.

Down he went. The walls were moist.

You are dead, Simon Mooncalf. A spirit, doomed to haunt a void.

There is no light. There never was such a thing. Smell the dark-
ness? Hear the resounding nothing? This has ever been.

The fear was all he had left, but even that was something -- he was
afraid, so he must be alive! There was darkness, but there was Si-
mon, too! They were not one and the same. Not yet. Not quite . . .

And now, so slowly he did not perceive the difference for a long
time, light came back. It was a light so faint, so dim, that at first it
was less than the points of color hovering before his useless eyes.
Then curiously, he saw a black shape before him, a deeper shadow.
A clot of worms, wriggling? No. Fingers ... a hand . . . his
hand! It was silhouetted before him, bathed in a faint glow-

The close-bending tunnel walls were thick with twining moss, and
it was the moss itself that gleamed -- a pale, green-white shimmer
that threw only enough light to show the greater darkness of the
tunnel before him, and the light-blocking shadow of his own hands
and arms. But it was light! Light! Simon laughed soundlessly, and
his nebulous shadows crisscrossed the passageway.

The tunnel opened out into another open gallery. As he looked
up, astounded at the constellation of radiant mosses sprouting on
the faraway ceiling, he felt a drop of cold water on his neck. More
water drizzled slowly from above, each drop striking the rocks be-
low with a sound like a tiny mallet falling on glass. The vaulting
chamber was full of long pillars of stone, fat on either end, narrow in
the middle; some were as slender as a hair's-breadth, like strands of
oozing honey. As he trudged forward he realized, in some remote
part of his battered mind, that most of this was the work of stone
and dripping water, not of laboring hands. But still, there were lines

200 Tad Williams

in the dimness that did not seem natural: right-angled creases on the
moss-girdled walls, ruined pillars among the stalagmites too orderly
to be accidental. He was moving through a place that had once
known something other than the ceaseless rhythm of water pattering
in stone pools. Once it had echoed to other footsteps. But "once"
only meant something if Time was still a barrier. So long had he
been crawling in dark places, he might have dug through into the
misty future or the shadowed past, or into unmapped realms of
madness -- how was he to know . . . ?

Putting his foot down, Simon felt a moment of shocking empti-
ness. He plunged into cold, wet blackness. His hands lit on the far
edge as he fell, and the water proved only as deep as his knees. He
thought some clawed thing clutched at his leg as he yanked himself
back out onto the passageway, shaking from more than the cold.
/ don't want to die. I want the sun again.
Poor Simon, his voices responded. Mad in the dark.
Dripping, shivering, he limped on through the green-glimmered
chamber, watching carefully for the empty blacknesses that next
time might not be so shallow. Faint flickers, glowing pink and white,
darted to and fro in the holes as he stepped across or made his way
carefully around them- Fish? Shining fish in the deeps of the earth?

Now, as one large chamber opened into another, and another, the
lines of hand-wrought things began to show more clearly beneath
the cloak of moss and stone-drip. They made strange silhouettes in
the dim half-light: crumbled spans that might once have been balco-
nies, arched depressions matted in pallid moss that could have been
windows or gateways. As he squinted, trying to make out details in
the near-darkness, he began to feel his vision was slipping sideways,
somehow -- the overgrown shapes, smothered in shadow, seemed to
simultaneously nicker with the lineaments they had once worn.
From the comer of his eye he saw one of the shattered columns
lining the gallery suddenly standing straight, a shining white thing
carved with trains of graceful flowers. When he turned to stare, it
was only a clump of broken stone once more, half-shrouded in moss
and encroaching earth. The deep gloom of the chambers bent crazily
at the comers of his sight, and his head pounded. The ceaseless
sound of falling water now began to feel like hammerblows to his
reeling mind. His voices came chittering back, revelers excited by
wild music.

201

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Mad! The boy is mad!

Have pity, he's lost, lost, lost . . . !

We will have it back, manchild! We will have it all back!

Mad mooncalf!

And as he passed down yet one more sloping tunnel he began to
hear other voices in his head, voices he had not heard before, some-
how both more real and more unreal than those which had long
been his unwanted companions. Some of these shouted in languages
that he did not know, unless he had glimpsed them in the doctor's
ancient books.

Ruakha, ruakha Asu'a!

T'si e-isi'ha as-irigu!

The trees are burning! Where is the prince?! The witchwood is in
flames, the gardens are burning!

The half-darkness was contorting around him, bending, as though
he stood at the center of a spinning wheel. He turned and stumbled
blindly down a passageway and into one more lofty hall, holding his
agonized head in his hands. There was other,'different light here:

thin blue beams angling down from cracks in the unseen ceiling
above, light that pierced the darkness but illuminated nothing where
it fell. He smelled more water, and strange vegetation; he heard men
running, shouting, women crying and the ring of metal on metal. In
the strange ahnost-blackness the sound of some terrible battle raged
all around, but did not touch him. He screamed -- or thought he did
 -- but could not hear his own voice, only the ghastly din in his head.

Then, as if to confirm his already certain madness, dim figures
began to rush past in the blue-lanced darkness, bearded men with
torches and axes chasing others more slender who bore swords and
bows. All of them, pursuers and pursued, were as transparent and
ill-defined as mist. None touched or saw Simon, although he stood
squarely in their midst.

Jinguzul Aya'aif 0 Jingizu! came a wailing cry.

Kill the Sithi demons, harsher voices shouted. Put fire to their nest!

Hands clutched tight over his ears could not keep the voices away.
He stumbled forward, trying to escape the swirling shapes, and fell
through a doorway, coming to rest at last on a flat landing of gleam-
ing white stone. He could feel cushioning moss beneath his groping
hands, but his eyes saw nothing but polished blankness. He crawled
forward on his stomach, still trying to escape the horrible voices

202 Tad Williams

shrieking in pain and anger. His fingers felt cracks and pits, but still
the stone looked as flawless as glass. He reached the Up and stared
out across a great, level field of black emptiness which smelled of
time and death and the patient ocean. An invisible pebble rolled
from beneath his hand to fall silently for long moments and then
splash in the depths below.

Something large and white gleamed beside him. He lifted his
heavy, aching head from the lip of the dark tarn and looked up.
Scant inches from where he lay jutted the bottom steps of a great
stone staircase, an upward-sweeping spiral that climbed away,
mounting the side of the cavem and circling the underground lake
to disappear at last into upper darkness. He gaped as an urgent,
fractured memory pushed through the clamor in bis head.
Stairs. Tan 'za Stairs. Doctor said look for stairs. . . .
He clambered forward, pulling himself up onto the cool, polished
stone, and knew that he was mad beyond salvation, or had died and
was trapped in some terrible netherworld. He was beneath the earth
in final darkness: there could be no voices, no phantom warriors.
There would be no light making the steps gleam before him like
moonlit alabaster.

He began to climb, pulling himself up to the next high step with
trembling, sweat-slippery fingers. As he mounted higher, sometimes
standing, sometimes clawing his way up in a scrabbling crouch, he
peered out from the stairs. The silent lake, a vast pool of shadow
below him, lay at the bottom of a great circular hall, bigger by far
than the foundry. The ceiling stretched immeasurably upward, lost
in the blackness above with the top of the slender, beautiful white
pillars ringing the chamber. A foggy, directionless light glinted on
the sea-blue and jade-green walls, and touched the frames of high-
vaulting windows that flickered now with an ominous crimson glare.

In the middle of the pearly mists, hovering above the silent lake,
sat a dark, wavering shape. It cast a shadow both of wonder and of
terror, and it filled Simon with inexpressible, pitying dread.
Prince Ineluki! They come! The Northerners come!
As this last impassioned cry echoed in the dark walls of Simon's
skull, the figure at the room's center lifted its head. Gleaming red
eyes bloomed in its face, cutting through the fog like torches.
Jingizu. a voice breathed. Jingizu. So much sorrow.
The crimson light flared. The shriek of death and fear rose from

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             203

below like a great wave. At the center of it all, the dark figure lifted a
long slender object and the beautiful chamber shuddered, shimmer-
ing like a shattered reflection, then fell away into nothingness. Si-
mon turned away in horror, enveloped in a strangling pall of loss
and despair.

Something was gone. Something beautiful had been destroyed be-
yond retrieval. A world had died here, and Simon felt its failing cry
embedded in his heart like a gray sword. Even his consuming fear
was driven out by the terrible sadness that cut through him, bringing
painful, shuddering tears from reservoirs that should have been long
dry. Embracing the darkness, he lurched on up the endless climb,
winding around the mighty chamber. The shadows and silence swal-
lowed the dream-battle and the dream-chamber below him, bringing
a black shroud to pull over his fevered mind.

A million steps passed beneath his blind touch. A million years
slid past as he traveled in the void, drowning in sorrow.

Darkness without and darkness within. The last thing he felt was
metal beneath his fingers and fresh air on Bis face.

The Hill Fire

HE AWAKENED in a long, dark room, surrounded by still, sleeping
figures. It had all been a dream, of course. He was back in his bed
among the other slumbering scullions, the only light a thin film of
moonglow sliding in through a crack in the door. He shook his
aching head.

Why am I sleeping on the floor? These stones are so cold . . .

And why did the others lie so unmovingly, their shadowy shapes
fantastic with helmets and shields, laid out on their beds in neat
rows, like . . . like the dead awaiting judgment . . . ? It had all
been a dream . . . hadn't it . . . ?'

With a gasp of terror Simon crawled away from the black mouth
of the tunnel toward the blue-white chink in the doorway. The im-
ages of the dead, fixed in immobile stone atop their ancient tombs,
did not stay his passing. He shouldered open the heavy door of the
crypt and fell forward into the long, damp grass of the lien-yard.

After what had seemed countless years in the black places below,
the round ivory moon that ranged high in the darkness above looked
like yet another hole, this one leading to a cool, lamplit place beyond
the sky, a country of shining rivers and forgetfulness. He lowered his
cheek to the ground and felt the wet strands bend beneath his face.
Fingers of time-worn rock thrust up on either side through the
prisoning grass, or stretched headlong in broken segments, etched by
the moon in bone-white light, nameless and uncaring as the ancient
dead whose graves they marked.

In Simon's mind the dark span of hours from the last fiery mo-
ments in the doctor's chambers to the night-damp grass of the pres-
ent was as unreachable as the nearly invisible clouds threading the
sky. The shouting and the cruel flames, Morgenes* burning face,
Pryrates' eyes like punch-holes into ultimate darkness -- these were
as genuine as the breath he had just taken. The tunnel was only

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             205

dwindling, half-remembered pain, a fog of voices and empty mad-
ness. He knew there had been rough walls, and cobwebs, and end-
lessly forking tunnels. It seemed there had also been vivid dreams of
sadness and the death of beautiful things. Altogether he felt drained
dry like an autumn leaf, fragile and without strength. He thought he
had crawled at the end -- his knees and arms were certainly sore
enough, and his clothing was torn -- but his memory seemed cloaked
in darkness. None of it was quite real. Not like the lich-ground
where he now lay, the moon's quiet commons yard.

Sleep was pushing at the back of his neck with soft, heavy hands.
He fought it, rising to his knees with a slow shake of the head. It
would not do to doze off here: there had been, as far as he knew, no
pursuit through the blocked doorway of the doctor's chamber, but
that didn't mean a great deal. His enemies had soldiers, and horses,
and the king's authority.

Drowsiness was pushed aside by fear, and not a little anger. They
had stolen all else from him; his friends, his home -- they would not
take his life and freedom, too. He climbed carefully to his feet and
looked around, steadying himself on the leaning stones of the tomb
as he wiped away tears of exhaustion and fear.

The town wall of Erchester loomed some half a league away, a
moonlit belt of stone separating the sleeping citizens from the lien-
yard and the world beyond. Before the outer gates sprawled the pale
band of the Wealdhelm Road; on Simon's right it meandered gradu-
ally north to the hills; on his left it companioned the river Ymstrecca
through the farmlands below Swertclif, past Falshire on the far
bank, and ultimately to the grasslands of the East.

It seemed likely that these towns along the great road would be
the first place that the Erkynguard would search for a fugitive. Also,
much of the road's length wandered through the valley farms of
Hasu Vale, where he would be hard-pressed to find a hiding place if
forced off the path.

Turning his back on Erchester, and the only home he had yet
known, Simon hobbled out across the lich-yard toward the far
downs. His first steps set off a flair of pain at the base of his skull,
but he knew it would be best to ignore the aches of body and spirit
for a while longer, fleeing as far away from the castle as possible
while it was still dark; he could worry about the future when he had
found a safe place to lie up.

206 Tad Williams

As the moon scudded across the warm sky toward midnight,
Simon's steps grew heavier and heavier The lich-yard seemed to
have no ending -- indeed, the ground had begun to nse and fall over
the gentle humps of the outer downs while he still walked among the
weathered stone teeth, some solitary and upright, others leaning
together like old men in senile colloquy He wove in and out among
the buned pillars, stumbling across the uneven, tussocky ground
Every step became a struggle, as though he waded in high waters

Staggering with weariness, he tripped over yet one more con-
cealed stone and fell heavily to the ground He tried to nse, but his
hmbs felt like sacks of wet sand. After crawling forward a short
distance he curled up on the sloping shoulder of a grassy mound.
Something dug into his back and he rolled clumsily to one side, this
made him almost equally uncomfortable, since he was now lying on
Morgenes' folded manuscript, tucked under his belt Staring, eyes
half-shut with exhaustion, he reached out to find the original source
of irritation It was a piece of metal, thick with corrosion and perfo-
rated like worm-gnawed wood He tried to pull it free, but it was
stuck fast in the earth Perhaps the rest of it, whatever it might be,
lay deep in the soil of the moon-frosted mound, anchored by dirt -- a
spear point? A belt buckle or greave from some costume whose
owner had long since gone to feed the grass on which he lay0 Simon
thought for a bleary moment of all the bodies lying deep beneath the
earth, the flesh that had once been quick with life but now moldered
m silence and darkness

As sleep captured him at last, it seemed that he was again on the
roof of the chapel Below him sprawled the castle      but this
castle was made of damp, crumbling soil and blind white roots The
people in the castle slept on and on, tossing uneasily as in their
dreams they heard Simon walking on the rooftop above their
beds

He walked now -- or dreamed he did -- along a black nver that
splashed noisily but reflected no light, like fluid shadow He was
surrounded by mist, and could discern nothing of the land he
walked on but a certain dimness He heard many voices in the ob-
scurity behind him, their murmurs intermixed with the slurring

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             207

voice of the black water, coming closer, rushing like wind through
the leaves

No mist or fog shrouded the far side of the nver The grass on the
nether bank stretched out before his gaze, and beyond it a somber
grove of alder trees sloped up to the skirts of the hills All the
country beyond the nver was dark and moist, as though it stood at
dawn or twilight; after a moment it seemed clear that it must be
evening, for the close-leaning hills echoed with the distant, solitary
song of a nightingale. Everything seemed fixed and unchanging.

He peered across the burbling water and saw a figure standing by
the river's edge on the far shore, a woman dressed all in gray, long
straight hair shadowing the sides of her face; in her arms she held
something close-cradled When she turned her eyes up to him he
saw that she was weeping. It seemed that he knew her

"Who are you0" he cned His voice died out as the words left his
mouth, swallowed up by the damp hiss of the nver The woman
stared at him as if to memorize every feature with her wide dark
eyes At last she spoke.

"Seoman." Her words came as down a long corndor, faint and
hollow "Why have you not come to me, my son0 The wind is drear
and chill, and I have been such a long tune 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 tears0 The
wind is cold, but the nver is warm and gentle. Come    . will you
not cross over to me0" 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 mm, walking down the soft nverbank
toward the laughing black nver 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 black-
ened, the shnveled leaves curling back from their stems, and Simon
knew suddenly that nothing alive crossed that nver 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

208 Tad Williams

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 tor-
rent 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 caim.
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 black-
ness beyond. It was a gray figure, surely, and a woman's voice call-
ing faintly to him from the misty lien-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 arch-
demon's quarry: he was exhausted, limping, and hungry beyond be-
lief. 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 DRAGONBONE CHAIR             209

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 imagin-
ings. 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, bring-
ing 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 sum-
mit 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.

210 Tad Williams

He had reached the last stand of trees that surrounded the hill-
crown. 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 sud-
denly from the underbrush like an angry boar. He worked his way
closer to the light, ducking beneath the twisted limbs of a wind-
wracked 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 shep-
herd 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 can-
dieflame.

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

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             211

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 em-
phasized 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 wres-
tled 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

212 Tad Williams

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 '^vhite 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 dark-
robed 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 DRAGONBONE CHAIR             21

The priest raised his hands placatingly, but his expression wa
stem. "Please, my king, I think you know. Please."

Elias snapped his head around to stare at his counselor. "Do
know, pnest? 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 int
bound Breyugar, "failed in his duty to his sovereign." The alchemii
looked over to the dark-robed figure, whose impassivity carrie
nonetheless a hint of impatience. Pryrates frowned. "Please, m
king, the one we speak of is gone; the point is moot. Please." He laii
a light hand on Elias' cloaked shoulder. The king shook it off, stai
ing out of the shadows of his hood at the priest, but saying nothin|
Pryrates turned to the black-robed figure once more.            I

"This one we offer you ... his blood, too, is noble. His lineage i
high."

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

"Certainly," said Pryrates, seemingly disconcerted. "Hundreds (
years."

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

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

Pryrates stepped forward and grasped Breyugar by the collai
dragging him to the coffin-box where he let him slump to the earti
The priest then unclasped his cloak, revealing a dull flare of re
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 norti
emmost point of the rings of stones, then began to chant, his voic
rising in volume and authority:

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

214                   Tad Williams

Who bestrides the Northern Sky:

Vasir Sombris, feata concordin!

To the Black Huntsman,
Possessor of the icy Hand:

Vasir Sombris, feata concordin 1

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 meil Hear me!
Timior cuelos exaltat meif
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 stum-
bled directly toward his hiding place; he dimly heard Pryrates' an-
gry 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 be-
cause 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 conceal-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

ing stone, and his weary heart was hammering as though it m
rupture. He tried desperately to still his trembling legs. The gua
close enough to touch, yanked Breyugar to his feet with fea
curses. One of them raised a sword and struck the count with
flat of his blade. Simon could see Pryrates staring out from the cu
of light, and the king's ashen, fascinated face beside him. Even
Breyugar's limp form was wrestled back toward the fire, Pryra
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 ir
Simon's head. Pryrates was staring right at him! He must see hi]

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

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

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

"If the covenant no longer suits you," a thin voice said, "then Ie
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.

"Pryrates . . ." the king began.

"Please, your majesty, please. It is only a moment now."

Horribly, a part of Pryrates' thought had not left Simon's mind,
some clinging tag-end that the priest had not pulled back: he could
almost taste the alchemist's quivering expectancy as Pryrates pulled

216 Tad Williams

up Breyugar's head, could sense the priest responding to the low
murmuring of the hooded ones. And now he felt something deeper,
too, a chill wedge of horror driving into his raw and sensitive mind.
Some inexplicable other was there in the night -- a terrible something'
else. It hovered over the hilltop like a choking cloud, and burned
inside the seated figure on the wagon like a hidden black flame; it
dwelt also in the bodies of the standing stones, infusing them with its

greedy attention.

The sickle rose. For a moment the flashing crimson curve of the
blade was a second moon against the sky, an old, red crescent moon.
Pryrates cried out in a high-pitched language Simon could not un-
derstand.

"Ai Samu 'sitech 'at -- At Nakkiga!"

The sickle descended and Breyugar sagged forward. Purplish
blood pumped from his throat, spattering down onto the coffin. For
a moment the Lord Constable twitched violently beneath the priest's
hand, then went limp as an eel; the dark flow continued to drizzle on
the black lid. Enmeshed in the bizarre intermixture of thought, Si-
mon helplessly experienced Pryrates' panicky exhilaration. Behind
that he felt the something-else -- a cold, dark, horribly vast thing. Its
ancient thoughts sang with obscene joy.

One of the soldiers was throwing up; but for the flabby numbness
that unmanned and silenced him, Simon would have done the same.

Pryrates pushed the count's body aside; Breyugar tumbled in a
disordered heap, oyster-pale fingers curled toward the sky. The
blood smoked on the dark box, and the blue light flickered more
brightly. The line it described around the edge became more pro-
nounced. Slowly, dreadfully, the lid began to open, as if forced up
from within.

Holy Usires Who loves me. Holy Usires Who loves me -- Simon's
thoughts were a rush, a panicked tangle -- help me, help me help it's
the Devil in that box, he's coming out help save me oh help . . .

We have done it.. we have done it! -- other thoughts, foreign, not his
 -- Too late to turn back. Too late.

The first step -- the coldest, most terrible thoughts of all -- How
they will pay and pay and pay . . .

As the lid tilted up the light within burst forth, throbbing indigo
touched with smoky gray and sullen purple, a terrible bruised light
that pulsed and glared. The lid fell open, and the wind tightened its

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             217

pitch as if frightened, as if sickened by the radiance of the long black
box. At last what was inside could be seen.
Jingizu, a voice whispered in Simon's head. Jingizu . . .

It was a sword. It lay inside the box, deadly as an adder; it might
have been black, but a floating sheen mottled the blackness, a crawl-
ing gray like oil on dark water. The wind shrieked.

/; beats like a heart -- the heart of all sorrow . . .

Calling, it sang inside Simon's head, a voice both horrible and
beautiful, seductive as claws gently scraping his skin.

"Take it. Highness!" Pryrates urged through the hiss of the wind.
Enthralled, helpless, Simon suddenly wished he had the strength to
take it himself. Could he not? Power was singing to him, singing of
the thrones of the mighty, the rapture of desire fulfilled.

Elias took a dragging step forward. One by one the soldiers
around him stumbled back, turning to run sobbing or praying down
the hill, lurching into the darkness of the girdling trees. Within
moments only Elias, Pryrates, and hidden Simon-remained on the
hilltop with the hooded ones and their sword. Elias took another
step; now he stood over the box. His eyes were wide with fear; he
seemed stricken by wrenching doubt, his lips working soundlessly.
The unseen fingers of the wind plucked at his cloak, and the hill
grasses twined about his ankles.

"You must take it!" Pryrates said again, and Elias stared at him as
though seeing the alchemist for the first time. "Take it!" Pryrates'
words danced frantically through Simon's head like rats in a burning
house.

The king bent, reaching out his hand. Simon's lust turned to sud-
den horror at the wild, empty nothingness of the sword's dark song.

It's wrong/ Can't he feel it?! Wrong!

As Elias' hand neared the sword, the wail of the wind subsided.
The four hooded figures stood motionless before the wagon; the fifth
seemed to sink into deeper shadow. Silence fell on the hilltop like a
palpable thing.

Elias grasped the hilt, lifting the blade out of the coffin in one
smooth movement. As he held it before him the fear was suddenly
wiped from his face, and his lips parted in a helpless, idiot smile. He
lifted the sword high; a blue shimmer played along the edge, mark-

218 Tad Williams

ing it out from the blackness of the sky. Elias' voice was almost a
whimper of pleasure.

"I ... will take the master's gift. I will . . . honor our pact."
Slowly, the blade held before him, he sank to one knee. "Hail to
Ineluki Storm King!"

The wind sprang up anew, shrieking. Simon reeled back from the
flapping, whirling hill-fire as the four robed figures lifted their white
arms, chanting: "Ineluki, ai! Ineluki, ai!"

No! Simon's thoughts flurried, the king . . . all is lost! Run,
Josua!

Sorrow . . . Sorrow on all the land . . .

The fifth hooded shape began to writhe atop the wagon. The black
robe fell away, and a shape of fire-crimson light was revealed, flap-
ping like a burning sail. A ghastly, heart-gnawing fear beat outward
from the thing as it began to grow before Simon's terror-fixed eyes -- 
bodiless and billowing, larger and larger until the empty, wind-snap-
ping bulk of it loomed over all, a creature of howling air and glow-
ing redness.

The Devil is here! Sorrow, his name is sorrow . . . I The king has
brought the Devil! Morgenes, Holy Usires, save me save me save mell

He ran mindlessly down through black night, away from the red
thing and the exulting somethmg-else. The sound of his flight was
lost in the screaming wind. Branches tore at his arms and hair and
face like claws. . . .

The icy claw of the North . . . the ruins ofAsu'a.

And when he fell at last, tumbling, and his spirit fled from such
horror, fled away into deeper darkness, it seemed that in the final
instant he could hear the very stones of the earth moaning in their
beds beneath him.

is

A Meeting
at the Inn

^

THE FIRST thing Simon heard was a humming noise, a dull buzz
that pushed insistently against his ear as he struggled toward wake-
fulness. Half-opening an eye, he found himself staring at a mon-
strosity -- a dark, indistinct mass of squirming legs and glittering
eyes. He sat up with a startled yelp and a great flailing of arms; the
bumblebee that had been guilelessly exploring his nose leaped away
in a whir of translucent wings to search for a less excitable perch.

He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, startled by the vibrant clarity
of the world around him. The daylight was dazzling. The spring sun,
as if on imperial procession, had scattered gold on all sides across
the grassy downs; everywhere he looked the gentle slopes were rich
with dandelions and long-stemmed marigolds. Bees hurried among
them, nipping from flower to flower like little doctors discovering -- 
much to their surprise -- all their patients getting well at the same
time.

Simon slumped back down into the grass, clasping his hands be-
hind his head. He had slept a long while: the rich sun was almost
straight overhead. It made the hairs on his forearms glow like mol-
ten copper; the tips of his ragged shoes looked so far away he could
almost imagine them the peaks of distant mountains.

A sudden cold sliver of memory pierced his drowsiness. How had
he gotten here? What . . . ?

A dark presence at his shoulder brought him quickly onto his
knees; he turned to see the tree-mantled mass of Thisterborg loom-
ing behind him, not half a league away. Every detail was stunningly
clear, a pattern of precise edges; but for the troubling throb of mem-
ory it might have seemed comfortable and cool, a placid hill rising
through encircling trees, banded with shade and bright green leaves.

222

Tad Williams

Along its crest were the Anger Stones, faint gray points against the

blue sky.

The vivid spring day was now corrupted by a mist of dream -- 
what had happened last night? He had fled the castle, of course -- 
those moments, his last with Morgenes, were burned into his very
heart -- but after? What were these nightmarish memories? Endless
tunnels? Elias? A fire, and white-haired demons?

Dreams -- idiot, bad dreams. Terror and tiredness and more terror.
I ran through the graveyard at night, fell down at last, slept and

dreamed.

But the tunnels, and ... a black casket? His head still hurt, but
there was also an odd sense of numbness, as if ice had been laid on
an injury. The dream had seemed so real. Now it was distant, slip-
pery and meaningless -- a dark pang of fear and pain that would drift
away like smoke if he allowed it to -- or, at least, he hoped it would.
He pushed the memories down, burying them as deeply as he could,
and closing his mind over them like the lid of a box.

It's not as though I don't have enough things to worry about. . . .
The bright sun of Belthainn Day had smoothed some of the kinks
from his muscles, but he was still sore . . . and very hungry. He
clambered stiffly to his feet and brushed the clinging grass from his
tattered, mud-smeared clothes. He stole another look at Thisterborg.
Did the ashes of a great fire still smolder among the stones there? Or
had the shattering events of the day before pushed him for a while
into madness? The hill stood, impassive; whatever secrets might lurk
beneath the cloak of trees, or nestle in the crown of stones, Simon
did not want to know. There were already too many hollows that

needed filling.

Turning his back on Thisterborg, he faced across the downs to the
dark breakfront of the forest. Staring across the vast expanse of open
land, he felt a deep sorrow welling up within him, and pity for
himself. He was so alone! They had taken everything from him, and
left him without a home or friends- He slapped his hands together in
anger and felt the palms sting. Later! Later he would cry; now he
had to be a man. But it was all so horribly unfair!

He breathed in and out deeply, and looked again to the distant
woods. Somewhere near that thin line of shadow, he knew, ran the
Old Forest Road. It rolled for miles along Aldheorte's southern pe-
rimeter, sometimes at a distance, sometimes sidling up close to the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

223

old trees like a teasing child. In other places it actually passed be-
neath the forest's eaves, winding through dark bowers and silent,
sun-arrowed clearings. A few small villages and an occasional road-
house nestled in the forest's shadow.

Perhaps I can find some work to do -- even to earn a meal, anyway.
I feel hungry as a bear . . . a just-woken bear, at that. Starved! I
haven't eaten since before . . . before . . .

He bit his lip, hard. There was nothing else to do but start walk-
ing.

The touch of the sun felt like a benediction. As it warmed his sore
body, it seemed also to cut a little way through the clinging, trou-
bling pall of his thoughts. In a way he felt new-bom, like the colt
Shem had brought him to see last spring, all shaky legs and curios-
ity. But the new strangeness of the world was not all innocent; some-
thing strange and secretive lurked behind the bright tapestry laid out
before him; the colors were almost too bright, the scents and sounds
over-sweet.

He was soon uncomfortably aware of Morgenes' manuscript
tucked into his waistband, but after he had tried carrying the sheaf
of parchment in his sweating palms for a few hundred paces he gave
up and slipped it back under his belt- The old man had asked him to
save the thing, and save it he would. He pushed his shirttail behind
it to ease the rubbing.

When he tired of searching patiently for places to ford the small
streams that webbed the meadows he took off his shoes. The smell of
the grasslands and the moist Maia air, untrustworthy indicators
though they were, nevertheless went some way toward keeping his
thoughts from straying toward the black, hurting places; the feel of
mud between his toes helped, too.

Before long he reached the Old Forest Road. Instead of continu-
ing along the road itself, which was wide and muddy and scored
with the rain-filled ruts of wagon wheels, Simon turned west and
accompanied its passage atop the high grass bank. Below him white
asphodels and blue gillyflowers stood abashed and unprotected be-
tween the wheelmarks, as though surprised in the midst of a slow
pilgrimage from one bank to the other. Puddles caught the sky's
afternoon blue, and the humble mud seemed studded with shining
glass.

224                   Tad Williams

A furlong away across the road the trees of Aldheorte stood in
endless formation hke an army asleep on its feet. Darknesses so
complete that they might have been portals into the earth gaped
between some of the trunks. In other places were things that must be
woodcutter's huts, noticeably angular against the forest's graceful
lines.

Walking, staring at the interminable forest porch, Simon tripped
over a berry-bush and painfully scratched both his feet. As soon as
he realized what he had stumbled over, he stopped cursing. Most of
the berries were still green, but enough had ripened that his cheeks
and chin were thoroughly stained with berry juice when he contin-
ued on some minutes later, chewing contentedly. The berries were
not quite sweet yet, but still they seemed the first serious argument
he had found in a long time for the benevolent ordering of Creation.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on his ruined shirt.

As the road, with Simon for company, began to mount a long
track of rising ground, definite evidence of human habitation finally
appeared. Here and there in the southerly distance the rough spines
of split-wood fences pushed up from the high grass; beyond these
weathered boundary wardens were indistinct figures moving in the
slow rhythms of planting, putting down the spring peas. Somewhere
nearby, others would be moving deliberately down the rows plying
the weed hooks, doing their best to save the fruits of a bad year. The
younger folk would be up on the cottage roofs, turning back the
thatch, beating it down firmly with long sticks and pulling off the
moss that had grown during the rains of Avril- He felt a strong urge
to head out across the fields toward those calm, ordered farms.
Someone would surely give him work, take him in ... feed him.

How stupid can I be? he thought. Why don't I just walk back to the
castle and stand shouting in the commons yard?! Country folk were
notoriously suspicious of strangers -- especially these days, with ru-
mors of banditry and worse drifting down from the north. The
Erkynguard would be looking for him, Simon felt sure. These iso-
lated farms would be very likely to remember a red-haired young
man who had recently passed by. Besides, he was in no hurry to
speak to strangers, anyway -- not so close to the Hayholt. Perhaps he
would be better off in one of the inns that bordered the mysterious
forest -- if one would have him.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              225

/ do know something about working in kitchens, don't I? Someone
will give me work . . . won't they?

Topping a rise, he saw the road before him intersected by a dark
swath, a crease of wagon tracks that emerged from the forest and
meandered south across the fields; a woodsman's road, perhaps, a
route from the woodchopper's harvesting-place to the farmlands
west of Erchester. Something dark stood, angular and erect, at the
meeting point of the two roads. A brief twinge of fear passed
through him before he realized that it was too tall an object to be
someone waiting for him. He guessed it to be a scarecrow, or a
roadside shrine to Elysia, the Mother of God -- crossroads were infa-
mously strange places, and the common folk often mounted a holy
relic to keep away loitering ghosts.

As he neared the crossing he decided that he had been right about
it being a scarecrow -- the object seems to be hanging from a tree or
pole, and swayed softly, breeze-blown. But as he came closer he saw
it was no scarecrow. Soon he could no longer convince himself that
it was anything other than what it was; the body of a man swinging
from a crude gibbet.

He reached the crossroad. The wind subsided; thin roadway dust
hung about him in a brown cloud. He stopped to stare helplessly.
The road grit settled, then leaped into swirling motion once more.

The hanged man's feet, bare and swollen black, dangled at the
height of Simon's shoulder. His head lolled to one side, like a puppy
picked up by the neck-scruff; the birds had been at his eyes and face-
A broken shingle of wood with the words "M THE KINGS LAND"
scratched upon it bumped gently against his chest; in the road below
lay another piece. On it was scrawled: "POACHED FRO."

Simon stepped back; an innocent breeze twisted the sagging body
so that the face tipped away to stare sightlessly across the fields. He
hurried across the lumber-road, tracing the four-pointed Tree on his
chest as he passed through the thing's shadow. Normally such a
sight would be fearful but fascinating, as dead things were, but now
all he could feel was sick terror. He himself had stolen -- or helped to
steal -- something far greater than this poor sneak thief could ever
have dreamed of: he had stolen the king's brother from the king's
own dungeon. How long would it be until they caught him, as they
had caught this rook-eaten creature? What would his punishment
be?

226 Tad Williams

He looked back once. The ruined face had swung again, as if to
watch his retreat. He ran until a dip in the road had blocked the
crossing from view.

It was late afternoon when he reached the tiny village of Flett. It
was truthfully not much of a village, just an inn and a few houses
crouching beside the road within a stone's-throw of the woods- No
people were about except a thin woman standing in the doorway of
one of the rude houses, and a pair of solemn, round-eyed children
that peered out past her legs. There were, however, several horses -- 
farm nags, mostly -- tied to a log before the town's inn, the Dragon
and Fisherman. As Simon walked slowly past the open door, looking
cautiously all around, men's loud voices rolled out from the beery
darkness, frightening him. He decided to wait and try his luck later,
when there might be more customers stopping off the Old Forest
Road for the night, and his dirty, tattered appearance would be less
notable.

He followed the road a little farther. His stomach was rumbling,
making him wish he had saved some of his berries. There were only
a few more houses and a little one-room cottage-church, then the
road swerved up and under the forest's eaves and Flett, such as it
was, ended.

Just past the edge of town he found a small stream gurgling along
over the black, leafy soil. He knelt and drank. Ignoring the brambles
and the dampness as best he could, he took his shoes back off again
to use for a pillow and curled up at the base of a live oak, just out of
sight of the road and the last house. He fell asleep quickly beneath
the trees, a grateful guest in their cool hall.

Simon dreamed . . .

He found an apple lying on the ground at the foot of a great white
tree, an apple so shiny and round and red that he hardly dared to
bite it. But his hunger was strong, and soon he lifted it to his mouth
and set his teeth in it. The taste was wonderful, all crunch and
sweetness, but when he looked where he had bitten he saw the thin,
slippery body of a worm coiled beneath the bright surface. He could
not bear to throw the apple away, however -- it was such a beautiful
fruit, and he was famished. He turned it around and bit into the
other side, but as his teeth met he pulled away and saw once more
the sinuous body of the worm. Over and over he bit, each time in a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             22

different place, but each time the slithering thing lay beneath the
skin. It seemed to have no head or tail, but only endless coils wounq
around the core, spreading through the apple's cool, white flesh.

Simon awoke beneath the trees with an aching head and a sour
taste in his mouth. He went to the streamlet to drink, feeling faint
and weak of spirit. When had anyone ever been so alone? The slant-
ing afternoon light did not touch the sunken surface of the creek; as
he kneeled for a moment staring down into the murmuring dark
water, he felt he had been in a place like this before. As he won-
dered, the soft wind-speech of the trees was overwhelmed by a rising
murmur of voices. For a moment he feared he was dreaming again,
but as he turned he saw a crowd of people, a score at least, coming
up the Old Forest Road toward Flett. Still in the shadow of the

trees, he moved forward to watch them, drying his mouth with the
arm of his shirt.

The marchers were peasant folk, dressed in the rough cotsman's
cloth of the district, but with a festive air. The women had ribbons
twined in their unpinned hair, blue and gold and green. Skirts
twirled about bare ankles. Some who ran in front carried flower
petals in their aprons which they cast fluttering to the ground- The
men, some young and lightfooted, some limping gaffers, carried on
their shoulders a felled tree. Its branches were as ribbon-festooned as

the women, and the menfolk held it high, swinging it jauntily as they
came up the road.

Simon smiled weakly. The Maia-tree! Of course. It was Belthainn
Day today, and they were bringing the Maia-tree. He had often
watched the tree go up in Erchester's Battle Square. Suddenly his
smile felt too wide. He was lightheaded. He crouched lower among
the concealing brush.

Now the women were singing, their sweet voices mixing unevenly
as the throng danced and whirled.

"Come now to the Breredon,
Come to the Hill of Briars!
Put on your merry flower-crown!
Come dance beside my fire!"

228                     Tad Williams
The men replied, voices ragged and cheerful:

"HI dance before your fire, lass,
Then, in the forest's shadow
We'll lay a bed of blossoms down
And put an end to sorrow!"

Both together sang the refrain:

"So stand beneath this Yrmansol
Sing hey-up! Hey-yarrow!
Stand beneath the Maia-pole
Sing hey-upl God is growing!"

The women were beginning another verse, one about hollyhock
and lily-leaves and the King of Flowers, as the noisy band drew
abreast of Simon. Caught up for a moment in the high spirits, his
dizzy head full of the exuberant music, he began to push forward.
Not ten paces away on the sun-blotted road one of the men nearest
him stumbled, a trailing ribbon coiled about his eyes. A companion
helped him to disentangle himself, and as he pulled the gold
streamer loose his whiskery face creased in a broad grin. For some

reason the flash of laughing teeth held Simon a step short of leaving
the concealment of the trees.

What am I doing!? he berated himself. The first sound of friendly
voices and I go bounding out into the open? These people are merry-
makers, but a hound will play with his master, too -- and woe to the
stranger that comes up unannounced.

The man he had been watching shouted something to his compan-
ion which Simon could not hear over the din of the crowd, then
turned and held up a ribbon, shouting to someone else. The tree
jounced along, and when the procession's last stragglers had passed,
Simon slipped out on to the road and followed -- a thin, rag-wrapped

figure, he might have been the tree's mournful spirit wistfully pursu-
ing its stolen home.

The lurching parade turned up a small hill behind the church.
Across the broad fields the last splinter of sun was vanishing fast; the
shadow of the church's rooftop Tree lay across the hillock like a
long, curve-hilted knife. Not knowing what was planned, Simon

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              22!

hung well back of the group as they carried the tree up the sligh
rise, stumbling and catching on the new-sprung briars. At the to)
the men gathered, sweaty and full of loud jests, and levered thi
trunk upright into a hole dug there. Then, while some held th<
swaying bulk steady, others shored up the base with stones. At las
they stepped back. The Maia-tree tottered a bit, then tipped slightl]
to one side, drawing a gasp of apprehensive laughter from th«
crowd. It held, only slightly out of plumb; a great cheer went up
Simon, in the tree-shadows, gave voice himself to a small, happs
noise, then had to retreat into hiding as his throat tightened. He
coughed until blackness fluttered before his eyes: it had been neariii
a full day since he had uttered a spoken word.

Eyes watering, he crept back out. A fire had been kindled at thd
hill's foot. With its highest point painted by the sunset, and the
flames jigging down below, the tree seemed a torch fired at botn
ends. Irresistibly drawn by the scent of food, Simon moved near to
the gaffers and gossips who were spreading cloths and laying supper
by the stone wall behind the little church. He was surprised ana
disappointed to see how meager the stores were -- slim rewards for a
festival day, and, dreadful luck, an even slimmer chance of him
making off with any unnoticed.

The younger men and women had begun to dance around the base
of the Maia-tree, trying to make a ring. The circle, with drunken
tumbling-down-the-hill and other impediments, never became corn-1
pletely joined; the spectators whooped to see the dancers vainly
reaching for a hand to close on as they whirled giddily by. One by I
one the merrymakers reeled away from the dance, staggering, some-!
times rolling down the low hill to lie at the bottom laughing help-
lessly. Simon ached to join them.

Soon knots of people were sitting all about the grass and along the
wall. The highest tip of the tree was a ruby spearhead, capturing the
sun's final rays. One of the men at the base of the hill brought out a
shinbone flute and began to play. A gradual silence descended as he
piped, touched only by whispers and an occasional squeak of muf-
fled laughter. At last the breathing blue darkness surrounded them
all. The plaintive voice of the flute soared above, like the spirit of a
melancholy bird, A young woman, black-haired and thin-faced, got
to her feet, steadying herself on the shoulder of her young man.
Swaying gently, like a slim birch tree in the wind's path, she began

230 Tad Williams

to sing; Simon felt the great hollowness inside himself open up to the
song, to the evening, to the patient, contented smell of the grass and
other growing things.

"0 faithful friend, 0 Linden tree."

she sang,

^That sheltered me when I was young,
0 tell me of my faithless one
Befriend again to me.

The one who was my heart's desire
Who promised all for all in turn
Has left me lorn, my heart has spurned
And made of Love a liar.

Where has he gone, 0 Linden tree?
Into the arms of what sweet friend?
What call will bring him back again?
0 spy him out for me!

Ask me not that, my mistress fair
I'd fain not make answer to you.
For I could only answer true
And I would your feelings spare.

Deny me not. 0 Linden tall
Tell me who holds him close tonight!
What woman has o'erthrown my right?
Who keeps him from my call?

0 mistress fair, then truth HI tell
He'll not to you come anymore.
Tonight he walked the river shore
And stumbled there and fell.

The river-woman now he holds
And she in turn holds fast to him.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             231

But she will send him back again
All river-wet and cold.

Thus will he come from there again.
All river-wet and cold . . ."

As the black-haired girl sat down again the fire crackled and spat,
as if in mockery of such a damp, tender song.

Simon hurried away from the fire, his eyes filling with tears. The
woman's voice had awakened in him a fierce hunger for his home;

for the joking voices of the scullions, the offhand kindnesses of the
chambermaids, his bed, his moat, the long, sun-speckled expanse of
Morgenes' chambers, even -- he was chagrined to realize -- the stem
presence of Rachel the Dragon.

The murmurs and laughter behind him filled the spring darkness
like the whir of soft wings.

A score or so of people were in the street before the church. Most
of them, in knots of two or three or four, seemed headed through the
settling darkness toward the Dragon and Fisherman. Firelight
glowed within the door there, stippling the loiterers on the porch
with yellow light. As Simon approached, still wiping at his eyes, the
odors of meat and brown ale rolled over him like an ocean wave. He
walked slowly, several paces behind the last group, wondering if he
should ask for work right off, or just wait in the sociable warmth
until later, when the innkeeper might have a moment to speak with
him and see that he was a trustworthy lad. It made him fearful just
to think about asking a stranger to take him in, but what else could
he do? Sleep in the forest like a beast?

As he squirmed through a clump of drunken farmers arguing the
merits of late-season shearing, he nearly tripped over a dark figure
huddled against the wall beneath the inn's swinging sign. A round
pink face with small dark eyes turned up to stare at him. Simon
mumbled noises of apology, and was moving on when he remem-
bered.

"I know you!" he said to the crouching figure; the dark eyes
widened as if in alarm. "You're the friar I met in the Main Row!
Brother . . . Brother Cadrach?"

Cadrach, who for a brief moment had looked as though he might

232 Tad Williams

scramble away on hands and knees, narrowed his eyes to stare in
turn.

"Don't you remember me?" he said excitedly. The sight of a fa-
miliar face was as heady as wine. "My name is Simon." A couple of
the farmers turned to look blearily and incuriously in their direction,
and he felt a stab of fright, remembering that he was a fugitive. "My
name is Simon," he repeated in a softer voice.

A look of recognition, and something else, passed over the monk's
plump face. "Simon! Ah, of course, boy! What brings you, then, up
from the great Erchester to dismal little Flett?" With the aid of a
long stick that had been leaning against the wall beside him,
Cadrach climbed to his feet.

"Well . . ." Simon was nonplussed.

Yes, what have you been doing, you idiot, that you should strike up
conversation with near-strangers. Think, stupid! Morgenes tried to tell
you that this was no game.

"I have been on an errand ... for some people at the cas-
tle . . ."

"And you decided to take the small bit of money left to you and
stop at the famous Dragon and Fisherman," Cadrach made a wry
face, "and have a bit of something to eat," Before Simon could
correct him, or decide if he wanted to, the monk continued. "What
you should be after, then, is taking your supper with me, and let me
pay your count -- no, no, lad, I insist! It is only a fairness, after the
kindly ways you showed to a stranger." Simon could not utter a
word before Brother Cadrach had his arm, pulling him into the
public room.

A few faces turned as they entered, but no one's eyes lingered.
The room was long and low-ceilinged, lined along both walls with
tables and benches so wine-stained, hacked, and carved-upon that
they seemed held together only by the dried gravy and suet with
which they were so generously splattered. At the end nearest the
door a roaring fire burned in a wide stone fireplace. A sooty, sweat-
ing peasant lad was turning a joint of beef on a spit; he winced as the
dripping fat made the flames sizzle. To Simon it all suddenly looked
and smelled like heaven.

Cadrach dragged him to a spot along the back wall; the tabletop
was so cracked and pitted that it hurt to rest his skinned elbows on
its surface. The monk took the seat across from him, leaning back

233

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

against the wall and extending his legs down the length of the bench.
Instead of the sandals that Simon would have expected, the friar
wore ragged boots, splitting from weather and hard use.

"Innkeeper! Where are you, worthy publican?!" Cadrach called.
A pair of beetle-browed, blue-jawed locals that Simon would have
sworn were twins looked over from the opposite table with annoy-
ance written in every facial furrow. After a little wait the owner
appeared, a barrel-chested, bearded man with a deep scar across his
nose and upper lip.

"Ah, there you are," said Cadrach. "Bless you, my son, and bring
us each a mug of your best ale. Then, will you be so good as to carve
us off some of that joint -- that, and two trenchers of bread to sop
with. Thanks to you, laddie."

The owner frowned at Cadrach's words, but nodded his head
curtly and walked away. As he left, Simon heard him grumble:

". . . Hemystiri buggerer . . ."

The ale came soon, and then the meat, then more ale. At first
Simon ate like a starving dog, but after easing his initial, desperate
hunger, and looking about the room to make sure no one was paying
them undue attention, he slowed his pace and began to attend to
Brother Cadrach's meandering conversation.

The Hemystirman was a wonderful storyteller, despite the burr of
his accent that sometimes made him a little difficult to understand.
Simon was vastly amused by the tale of the harper Ithineg and his
long, long night, despite being a bit shocked to hear such a story told
by a man of the cloth. He laughed so hard at the adventures of Red
Hathrayhinn and the Sithi woman Finaju that he sprayed ale over
his already stained shirt.

They had lingered a long while; the inn was half-empty when the
bearded innkeeper finished filling their mugs for the fourth time.
Cadrach, with broad gesticulation, was telling Simon of a fight he
had once witnessed on the docks of Ansis Pelippe in Perdmin. Two
monks, he explained, had cudgeled each other into near-uncon-
sciousness during an argument about whether or not the Lord
Usires had magically freed a man from a pig-spell on the island of
Grenamman. Just at the most exciting point -- brother Cadrach was
waving his arms so enthusiastically in the description that Simon
feared he would fall off the bench -- the tavemkeeper thumped an ale

234 Tad Williams

jug loudly down in the middle of the table. Cadrach, caught in mid-
exclamation, looked up-

"Yes, my good sir?" he asked, cocking a bushy brow. "And how
can we be helping you?"

The innkeeper stood with arms folded, a look of suspicion pinch-
ing his face. "I've let you stand credit so far 'cause you're a man of
the faith, father," he said, "but I must be closing up soon."

"Is that all that's afflicting you?" A smiled raced across Cadrach's
round face. "We'll be right over to reckon up with you, good fellow,
What was your name, then?"

"Freawaru."

"Well, never fear then, goodman Freawaru. Let the lad and me be
finishing these noggins and then we'll let you get your sleep."
Freawaru nodded in his beard, more or less satisfied, and stumped
off to yell at the turnspit boy. Cadrach emptied his mug with a long
and noisy swallow, then turned his grin on Simon.

"Drink up, now, lad. We must not keep the man waiting. I am of
the Granisian order, you know, and have a feeling for the poor
fellow. Among other things, good Saint Granis is the patron of inn-
keepers and drunkards -- a natural enough pairing!"

Simon chuckled and drained his cup, but as he put it down a
finger of memory tugged at him. Hadn't Cadrach told him when
they first met in Erchester that he was of some other order? Some-
thing with a "v"? Vilderivan?

The monk was fishing about the pockets of his robe with a look of
great concentration on his face, so Simon let the question pass- After
a moment Cadrach pulled out a leather purse and dropped it on the
table; it made no sound -- no clink, no jingle. Cadrach's shining fore-
head wrinkled in a look of concern, and he held the purse up to his
ear and slowly shook it. There was still no sound. Simon stared.

"Ah, laddie, laddie," said the friar mournfully, "will you look at
that now? I stopped to help a poor beggar-man today -- carried him
down to the water I did, and washed his bleeding feet -- and look
what he has done to repay my kindness." Cadrach turned the purse
over so that Simon could see the gaping hole slit across the bottom.
"Can you wonder why I sometimes fear for this wicked world,
young Simon? I helped the man, and, why, he must have robbed me
even as I was carrying him." The monk heaved a great sigh. "Well,
lad, I'm afraid I'll have to prevail on your human kindness and

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             235

Aedonite charity to lend me the money that we are owing here -- I
can soon pay you back, never fear. Teh, tch," he clucked, waving the
slit wallet at the gape-eyed Simon, "oh, but this world is sick with
sin."

Simon heard Cadrach's words only vaguely, a babble of sounds in
his ale-muddled head. He was looking not at the hole, but at the
seagull worked on the leather in heavy blue thread. The pleasant
drunkenness of a minute before had turned heavy and sour. After a
moment he raised his stare until his eyes met Brother Cadrach's.
The ale and the warmth of the commons room had flushed Simon's
cheeks and ears, but now he felt a tide of blood that was hotter still
mounting up from his fast-beating heart.

"That's ... my ... purse!" he said. Cadrach blinked like an
undenned badger.

"What, lad?" he asked apprehensively, sliding slowly away from
the wall to the middle of the bench. "I'm afraid I was not hearing
you well."

"That . . . purse ... is mine." Simon felt all the hurt, all the
frustration of losing it come welling up -- Judith's disappointed face,
Doctor Morgenes* sad surprise -- and the shocked sickness of trust
betrayed. All the red hairs on his neck stood up like boar's bristles.
"Thief!" he shouted suddenly, and lunged, but Cadrach had seen it
coming: the little monk was off the bench and skittering backward
up the length of the inn toward the door.

"Now wait, boy, it's a mistake you're making!" he shouted, but if
he really thought so, he did not seem to have much faith in his
ability to convince Simon. Without pausing for a moment he
grabbed his stick and sprang out the doorway. Simon was after him
at a sprint, but was barely through the doorjamb when he felt him-
self grappled around the waist by a pair ofbearlike arms. A moment
later he was up off the floor, breath pressed out, legs helplessly
dangling.

"Now what do you think you're doing, hey?" Freawaru grunted
in his ear. Turning in the doorway, he flipped Simon back into the
fire-painted commons room. Simon landed on the wet floor and lay
gasping for a moment.

"It's the monk!" he groaned at last. "He stole my purse! Don't let
him get away!"

Freawaru poked his head briefly outside the door. "Well, if that's

236 Tad Williams

true he's long gone, that one -- but how do I know this isn't all pan
of the plan, hey? How do I know that you two don't play this monk-
and-catamite trick in every inn between here and Utanyeat?" A
couple of late drinkers laughed behind him. "Get up, boy," he said,
grasping Simon's arm and yanking him roughly onto his feet. "I'm
going to see if Deorhelm or Godstan has heard of you pair before.

He hustled Simon out the door and around the side of the build-
ing, holding his arm prisoned in a firm grip. The moonlight picked
out the stable's roof of pallid thatch, and the first tree-sentinels of
the forest a stone-throw away.

"I don't know why you didn't just ask for work, you donkey,"
Freawaru growled as he propelled the stumbling youth before him.
"With my Heanfax just quit I could have used a good-sized young
fellow like you. Bloody foolishness -- and just you keep your mouth
shut."

Alongside the stable was a small cottage, standing out but still
connected to the main body of the inn. Freawaru banged his fist on
the door.

"Deorhelm!" he called. "Are you up? Come look at this lad and
tell me if you've seen him before." The sound of footsteps could be
heard within.

"S'bloody Tree, is that you, Freawaru?" a voice grumbled. "We
have to be on the road at cockcrow." The door swung open. The
room behind was lit by several candles.

"Lucky for you we were dicing, and not abed yet," said the man
who'd opened the door. "What is it?"

Simon's eyes went wide, and his heart exploded into horrified
pounding. This man, and the one polishing his sword on one of the
bed sheets, wore the green livery of Elias' Erkynguard'

"This young ruffian and thief of a . . ." Freawaru had just time
to say, when Simon turned and butted his head into the innkeeper's
stomach. The bearded man went down with a startled outrush of
breath. Simon sprang over his kicking legs and headed for the shel-
ter of the forest; in a few leaping steps he had disappeared. The two
soldiers gazed after him in mute surprise. On the ground in front of
the candlelit doorway Freawaru the tavernkeeper cursed and rolled
and kicked and cursed.

16

The White Arrow

"IT'S NOT FAIR?' Simon sobbed for perhaps the hundredth time,
fisting the wet ground. Leaves stuck to his reddened knuckles; he did
not feel the least bit warmer. "Not fair!" he murmured, curling back
into a ball. The sun had been up for an hour, but the thin light
brought no heat, Simon shivered and wept.

And it wasn't fair -- it wasn't at all. What had he done that he
should be lying damp, miserable and homeless in the Aldheorte
forest while others were asleep in warm beds, or just risen to bread
and milk and dry clothes? Why should he be hunted and chased like
some filthy animal? He had tried to do what was right, to help his
friend and the prince, and it had made of him a starveling outcast.

But Morgenes got far worse, didn't he? a part of him pointed out
contemptuously. The poor doctor would probably shift places with
you gladly.

Even that, though, was beside the point: Doctor Morgenes at least
had possessed some idea of what was involved, of what might hap-
pen, He himself had been, he thought disgustedly, as innocent and
stupid as a mouse who goes out of doors to play tag with the cat.

Why does God hate me so? Simon wondered, sniffling. How could
Usires Aedon, who the priest said watched over everyone, have left
him to suffer and die in the wilderness like this? He burst out in
fresh weeping.

Rubbing his eyes some time later, he wondered how long he had
been lying there staring at nothing. He pulled himself up, moving
away from the sheltering tree to shake the life back into his hands
and feet. He returned to the tree long enough to empty his bladder,
then stalked sullenly down to the tiny stream to drink. The merciless
ache in his knees, back, and neck rebuked him with every step.

238 Tad Williams

Damn everyone to Hell. And damn the bloody forest. And God, too,
for that matter.

He looked up fearfully from his chill handful of water, but his
silent blasphemy went unpunished.

When he had finished he moved upstream a short distance to a
place where the stream eddied out into a pool, and the turbulent
waters were smoothed. As he crouched, staring at his tear-rippled
reflection, he felt a resistance at his waist that made it difficult to
bend over without steadying himself with his hands.

The doctor's manuscript! he remembered.

He half-stood, pulling the warm, flexible mass out from between
pants and shirt-front. His belt had smashed a crease the length of the
whole bundle. He had carried them so long that the pages were
molded to the curve of his belly like a piece of armor; in his hand
they lay bowed like a wind-breasted sail. The top page was smeared
and caked with dirt, but Simon recognized the doctor's small, intri-
cate script: he had been wearing the thin armor ofMorgenes' words.
He felt a sudden fierce pang like hunger, and put the papers gently
aside, returning his gaze to the pool.

It took a moment to separate his own reflection from the bands
and blotches of shadow cast on the water's surface. The light was
behind him; his image was largely silhouette, a dark figure with only
the suggestion of features along the illuminated temple, cheek, and
jaw. Twisting his head to catch the sun, he looked from the comer of
his eye to see a hunted animal mirrored in the water, its ear tilted as
though listening for pursuit, hair a tangled hedge of tufts, neck an-
gled in a way that spoke not of civilization, but of watchfulness and
fear. He quickly gathered up the manuscript and walked up the
stream bank.

I'm completely alone. No one will take care of me ever again. Not
that anyone ever did. He thought he could feel his heart breaking
within his chest.

After searching for a few minutes he found a patch of sunlight,
and settled down to dry his tears and think. It seemed obvious, as he
listened to the echoing speech of birds in the otherwise soundless
forest, that he must find warmer clothes if he was going to spend
nights out of doors -- and that he would certainly have to do until he
got farther away from the Hayholt. He also needed to decide where
he was going.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             239

He began to leaf absently through Morgenes' papers, each one
dense with words. Words -- how could anyone think of so many
words at one time, let alone write them down? It made his brain
hurt just thinking about it. And what good were they, he thought,
his lip trembling with bitterness, when you were cold, and hungry
. . , or when Pryrates was at your door? He pulled two pages apart.
The bottom one tore, and he felt as though he had unwittingly
insulted a friend. He stared at it for a moment, solemnly tracing the
familiar calligraphy with a scratched finger, then held it up to catch
the light, squinting his eyes to read.

". . . // is strange, then, to think how those who wrote the songs
and stories that entertained John's glittering court made of him,
in an effort to construct him larger than life. less than he truly
was."

Reading it through the first time, puzzling it word by word, he
could make nothing of it; but as he read it again the cadences of
Morgenes' speech came out. He almost smiled, forgetting for a mo-
ment his horrible situation. It still made little sense to him, but he
recognized the voice of his friend.

"Consider for example," it continued, "his coming to Erkyn-
land out of the island of Warinsten. The balladeers would have it
that God summoned him to slay the dragon Shurakai; that he
touched shore at Grenefod with his sword Bright-Nail in hand,
his mind set only on this great task.

"While it is possible that a benevolent God called him to free
the land from the fearsome beast, it remains to be explained why
God allowed said dragon to lay waste to the country for long
years before raising up its nemesis. And of course, those who
knew him in those days remembered that he left Warinsten a
swordless farmer's son, and reached our shores in the same con-
dition; nor did he even think on the Red Worm until he had the
better part of a year in our Erkynland . . ."

It was vastly comforting to hear Morgenes' voice again, even if it
was only in his own head, but he was puzzled by the passage. Was
Morgenes trying to say that Prester John had not killed the Red

240 Tad Williams

Dragon, or only that he had not been chosen by God to do so? If he
hadn't been chosen by the Lord Usires in heaven, how had he killed
the arch-beast? Didn't the people of Erkynland say he was the king
anointed by God?

As he sat thinking, a cold wind kited down through the trees and
raised gooseflesh on his arms.

Aedon curse it, I must find a cloak, or something warm to wear, he
thought- And decide where I am going, instead of sitting here moon-
ing like a half-wit over old writings.

It seemed obvious now that his plan of the previous day -- that of
covering himself with a shallow layer of anonymity, becoming a
turnspit or a scrubber at some rural hostel -- was an impossible no-
tion. Whether the two guardsmen he had escaped would have
known him was not the issue: if they hadn't recognized him, some-
one eventually would. He felt sure that Elias' soldiers were already
beating the countryside for him: he was not just a runaway servant,
he was a criminal, a terrible criminal. Several deaths had already
been paid out over the issue of Josua's escape; there would be no
mercy for Simon if he fell into the hands of the Erkynguard.

How could he escape? Where would he go? He felt the panic
rising again, and tried to suppress it. Morgenes' dying wish had been
that he follow Josua to Naglimund. It seemed now that was the only
useful course. If the prince had made good his escape, surely he
would welcome Simon. If not, then doubtless Josua's liegemen
would trade sanctuary for news of their lord. Still, it was a dismally
long way to Naglimund; Simon knew the route and distance only by
repute, but no one would call it short. If he continued to follow the
Old Forest Road west, eventually it would cross the Wealdhelm
Road, which ran northward along the base of the hills from which it
took its name. If he could find the Wealdhelm way, he would at least
be headed in the right direction.

With a strip torn from the hem of his shirt he bound the papers
up, rolling them into a cylinder and wrapping the cloth around it,
tying it with a careful twist of the ends. He noticed that he had
neglected a page; it lay to one side, and as he picked it up he saw
that it was the one his own sweat had smeared. In the blur of ruined
letters one sentence had escaped; the words leaped out at him.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             241

!'

" . . If he was touched by divinity, it was most evident in his
nings and goings, in his finding the correct place to be at the
most suitable time, and profiting thereby ..."

It was not exactly a fortune-telling or a prophecy, but it strength-
°d him a little, and hardened his resolve. Northward it would be
lorthward to Naglimund.

A prickly, painful, miserable day's journey in the lee of the Old
Forest Road was salvaged in part by a fortuitous discovery. As he
"tilted through the brush, skirting the occasional cottage that
crouched within hailing distance of the road, he caught a glimpse
through the chink in the forest cover of a treasure beyond price:

someone's untended washing. As he crept toward the tree, whose
branches were festooned with damp clothes and one rank, sodden
blanket, he kept his eye on the shabby, bramble-thatched cabin that
stood a few paces away. His heart beat swiftly as he-pulled down a
wool cloak so heavy with moisture that he staggered when it slid
free into his arms. No alarm was raised from the cottage; in fact, no
one seemed to be about anywhere. For some reason this made him
^l even worse about the theft. As he scrambled back into the tan-
trees with his burden, he saw again in his mind's eye a crude
•den sign bumping against an unbreathing chest.

^

The thing of it was, Simon quickly realized, living the outlaw life
was nothing at all like the stories of Jack Mundwode the Bandit that
Shem had told him- In his imaginings Aldheorte Forest had been a
sort of endless high hall with a floor of smooth turf and tall tree-
trunk pillars propping a distant ceiling of leaves and blue sky, an
airy paviUion where knights like Sir Tallistro of Perdruin or the
great Camaris rode prancing chargers and delivered ensorcelled la-
dies from hideous fates. Stranded in an uncompliant, almost malevo-
lent reality, Simon found that the trees of the forest fringe huddled
close together, branches intertwining like slip-knotted snakes. The
undergrowth itself was an obstacle, an endless humped field of

«  .

242 Tad Williams

brambles and fallen trunks that lay nearly invisible beneath moss
and moldering leaves.

In those first days, when he occasionally found himself in a clear-
ing and could walk unencumbered for a short while, the sound of his
own footfalls drumming on the loose-packed soil made him feel ex-
posed. He caught himself hurrying across the dells in the slanting
sunlight, praying for the security of the undergrowth again. This
failure of nerve so infuriated him that he forced himself to cross
these clearings slowly. Sometimes he even sang brave songs, listen-
ing to the echo as though the sound of his voice quailing and dying
in the muffling trees was the most natural thing in the world, but
once he had regained the brambles he could seldom remember what
he had sung.

Although memories of his life at the Hayholt still filled his head,
they had become wisps of remembrance that seemed increasingly
distant and unreal, replaced by a growing fog of anger and bitterness
and despair. His home and happiness had been stolen from him. Life
at the Hayholt had been a grand and easeful thing: the people kind,
the accommodations wonderfully comfortable. Now, he crashed
through the tortuous forest hour after bleak hour, awash in misery
and self-pity. He felt his old Simon-self vanishing away, and more
and more of his waking thought revolving around only two things:

moving forward and eating.

At first he had pondered long over whether he should take tr
open roadway for speed and risk discovery, or try and follow it from  l •
the safety of the forest. The last had seemed the better idea, but he
quickly discovered that the two, road and forest fringe, diverged
widely at certain points, and in the thick tangle of Oldheart it was
often frighteningly difficult to find the road again. He also realized
with painful embarrassment that he did not have the slightest idea of
how to make a fire, something he had never thought about as he
listened to Shem describing droll Mundwode and his bandit fellows
feasting on roast venison at their woodland table. With no torch to
light his way, it seemed that the only possible thing to do was to
follow the road at night, when moonlight permitted it. He would
then sleep by daylight, and use the remaining hours of sun to slog
through the forest.

No torch meant no cook-fire, and this was in some ways the hard-
est blow of all. From time to time he found clutches of speckled eggs

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              243

deposited by the mother grouse in hiding-holes of matted grass.
These provided some nourishment, but it was hard to suck out the
sticky, cold yolks without thinking of the warm, scented glories of
Judith's kitchen, and to reflect bitterly on the mornings when he had
been in such a tearing hurry to see Morgenes or get out to the
tourney field that he had left great chunks of butter and honey-
smeared bread untouched on his plate. Now, suddenly, the thought
of a buttered crust was a dream of riches.

Incapable of hunting, knowing little or nothing about what wild
plants might be eaten without harm, Simon owed his survival to
pilferage from the gardens of local cotsmen. Keeping a wary eye out
for dogs or angry residents, he would swoop down from the shelter
of the forest to rifle the pitifully sparse vegetable patches, scraping
up carrots and onions or hurriedly plucking apples from lower
branches -- but even these meager goods were few and far between.
Often as he walked, the hunger pains were so great that he would
shout out in anger, kicking savagely at the tangling shrubbery. Once
he kicked so hard and screamed so loudly that when he fell down on
his face in the undergrowth he could not get up for a long time. He
lay listening to the echoes of his cries disappear, and thought he
would die.

No, life in the forest was not a tenth so glorious as he had imag-
ined it in those long-ago Hayholt afternoons, crouching in the sta-
bles smelling hay and tack leather, listening to Shem's stories. The
mighty Oldheart was a dark and miserly host, jealous of doling
comforts out to strangers. Hiding in thorny brush to sleep away the
hours of sun, making his damp, shivering way through the darkness
beneath the tree-netted moon, or scuttling furtively through the gar-
den plots in his sagging, too-large cloak, Simon knew he was more
rabbit than rogue.

Although he carried the rolled pages of Morgenes' life of John
wherever he went, clutching them like a baton of office or a priest's
blessed Tree, less and less often as the days passed did he actually
read them. At the thin end of the day, between a pathetic meal -- if
any -- and the frightening, close-leaning darkness of the world out of
doors, he would open the bundle and read a part of a page, but every
day the sense of it seemed harder to grasp. One page, on which the
names of John, Eahlstan the Fisher King, and the dragon Shurakai

244

Tad Williams

were prominent, caught his mayfly attention, but after he had read it
through four times, struggling, he realized that it made no more
sense to him than would the year-lines on a piece of timber. By his
fifth afternoon in the forest he only sat, crying softly, with the pages
spread on his lap- He absently stroked the smooth parchment, as he
had once scratched the kitchen cat uncountable years ago, in a
warm, bright room that smelled of onions and cinnamon. . . .

A week and a day out from the Dragon and Fisherman he passed
within shouting distance of the village of Sistan, a settlement only
slightly larger than Flett. The twin clay chimneys of Sistan's road-
house were smoking, but the road was empty, the sun bright. Simon
peered down a hillside from the clump of silvery birches and the
memory of his last hot meal struck him like a physical blow, weak-
ening his knees so that he almost fell. That long-lost evening, despite
its conclusion, seemed almost like Doctor Morgenes' onetime de-
scription of the pagan paradise of the old Rimmersgarders; eternal
drinking and storytelling; merrymaking without end.

He crept down the hill toward the quiet roadhouse, hands trem-
bling, forming wild plans of stealing a meat pie from an unguarded
windowsill, or slipping in a back door to pillage the kitchen. He was
out of the trees and halfway down the slope when he suddenly real-
ized what he was doing: walking out of the woods at unshadowed
noon, a sickened, feverish animal that had lost its self-protective
instincts. Feeling suddenly naked despite his bramble-studded wool
cloak he froze in place, then whirled and scrambled away, back up
to the swan-slim birch trees. Now even they seemed too exposed;

cursing and sobbing, he clambered past to the thicker shadows,
drawing Oldheart around him like a cloak.

^

Five days west of Sistan the begrimed and famished youth found
himself crouched on another slope, peering down into a forest dell at
a rough split-log hut- He was sure -- as sure as he could be with his
thoughts so piteously scatted and fragmented -- that another day
without real food or another solitary night spent in the chill, uncar-
ing forest would leave him really and finally deranged: he would

245

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

become completely the beast he more and more frequently felt him-
self to be. His thoughts were turning foul and brutish: food, dark
hiding-places, weary forest tramping, these were his all-consuming
preoccupations. It was increasingly difficult to remember the castle
 -- had it been warm there? Had people spoken to him? -- and when a
branch had lanced his tunic and scored his ribs the day before he
had only been able to growl and flail at it -- a beast!

Somebody . . . somebody lives here . . .

The woodsman's cottage had a front path lined with tidy stones.
A stack of halved timbers nestled beneath the eaves against the side
wall. Surely, he reasoned, sniffling quietly, surely somebody here
would take pity on him if he walked to the door and calmly asked
for some food.

I'm so hungry. It's not fair. It's not right! Somebody must feed me
. . . somebody . . .

He went slowly down the hill on stiff legs, his mouth gaping open
and closed. A flagging recollection of the social contract told him
that he must not frighten these rustic people, these suspicious
woodsfolk in their tree-tiered hollow. He held his empty palms be-
fore him as he walked, pale fingers thrust wide apart in a dumb show
of harmlessness.

The cottage was empty, or else the inhabitants were simply not
responding to his sore-knuckled knocking. He walked around the
little hut, dragging his fingertips along the rough wood. The single
window was shuttered with a wide plank. He rapped again, harder;

only hollow echoes answered.

As he sank into a crouch beneath the boarded window, wondering
desperately if he could batter it open with a piece of firewood, a
rustling, snapping noise from the stand of trees before him brought
him back upright so quickly that his vision momentarily narrowed
to a core of light surrounded by blackness; he wavered, feeling sick.
The tree-fence bulged outward as though struck by a huge hand,
then sprang back with a quiver. A moment later the silence was
skewered again, this time by a strange, staccato hiss. The noise was
transmuted into a rapid stream of words -- in no language that Si-
mon knew, but words nonetheless. After a percussive instant the
glade was quiet again.

Simon was stone-struck; he could not move. What should he do?
Perhaps the cottager had been attacked by an animal on his way

246 Tad Williams

home . . . Simon could help him . . . then they would have to
give him food. But how could he help? He could barely walk. And
what if it was a beast, only a beast -- what if he had only imagined
hearing words in that abrupt spatter of sound?

And what if it was something worse? The king's guardsmen with
bright sharp swords, or a starvation-slender, white-haired witch?
Perhaps it was the very Devil himself, with ember-red robes and
nightshade eyes?

Where he found the courage, even the strength, to unbend his
rigid knees and walk forward into the trees Simon could not say. If
he had not felt so ill and so desperate he might not have . . . but he
was ill, and starved, and as dirty and lonely as a Nascadu jackal.
Wrapping his cloak tightly about his chest, holding the furl of
Morgenes* writings before him, he limped toward the copse.

In the trees the sunlight fell unevenly, strained through a sieve of
spring leaves, dotting the forest floor like a scatter of fithing pieces.
The air seemed taut as held breath. For a moment he saw nothing
but dark tree-shapes and slivers of lancing daylight. In one spot the
shafts of light were jigging fitfully; he realized a moment later that
they shone on a struggling figure. As he took a step forward, the
leaves whispered beneath his foot, and with that sound the strug-
gling ceased. The hanging thing -- it dangled fully a yard off the
spongy ground -- lifted its head and stared at him. It had the face of
a man, but the merciless topaz eyes of a cat.

Simon leaped back, his heart tipping in his chest; he flung out his
hands, fingers spread wide as though to block out the sight of this
bizarre gallows bird. Whatever or whoever he was, he was not like
any man Simon had seen. Still, there was something achingly famil-
iar about him, as from a half-remembered dream -- but so many of
Simon's dreams were now bad ones. What a strange apparition! Al-
though caught in a cruel trap, pinioned at waist and elbows by a
noose of snaky black rope and hanging from a bobbing branch out of
reach of the earth, still this prisoner looked fierce, unhumbled: a
treed fox who would die with his teeth in a hound's throat.

If he was a man, he was a very slender man. His high-cheeked,
thin-boned face reminded Simon for a moment -- a horrifyingly cold
moment -- of the black-robed creatures on Thisterborg, but where

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             247

they had been pale, white-skinned as blindfish, this one was golden
brown like polished oak.

Trying to get a better look in the dim light, Simon took a step
forward; the prisoner narrowed his eyes, then skinned back his lips,
baring his teeth in a feline hiss. Something in the way he did it,
something inhuman about the way his quite-human face moved, told
Simon in an instant that this was no man trapped here like a weasel
. . . this was something different. . . .

Simon had moved closer than was prudent, and as he stared into
the flecked-amber eyes the prisoner lashed out, bringing cloth-
booted feet up into the youth's ribcage. Simon, though he had seen
the momentary backswing and anticipated the assault, still received
a painful blow in the side, so swift was the prisoner's movement. He
stumbled back, glowering at his attacker, who scowled horribly in
return.

As he faced the stranger across the span of a man's height, Simon
watched the somehow unnatural muscles draw the mouth open in a
sneer, and the Sitha -- for Simon had realized suddenly, as if some-
one had told him, that this hanging creature was exactly that -- the
Sitha spat out a single awkward word in Simon's Westerling tongue.

"Coward!"

Simon was so angered by this that he nearly charged forward,
starvation and fear and aching limbs notwithstanding . . . until he
realized that this was just what the Sitha's oddly-accented jibe had
been meant to accomplish. Simon pushed down the pain of his
kicked ribs, folded his hands over his chest, and stared at the
trapped Sitha-man; he had the grim satisfaction of seeing what he
felt sure was a squirm of frustration.

The Fair One, as Rachel had always superstitiously referred to the
race, wore a strange, soft robe and pants of a slithery brown material
only a shade darker than his skin. Belt and ornaments of shiny green
stone contrasted most wonderfully with his hair -- lavender-blue like
mountain heather, pulled back close against his head by a bone ring,
dangling in a horse-tail behind one ear. He seemed only slightly
shorter, although much thinner, than Simon -- but the youth had not
seen himself recently in any reflection but murky forest pools; per-
haps now he, too, looked this scrawny and wild. But even so, still
there were differences, not-quite-definable things: birdlike motions of
the head and neck, an odd fluidity in the pivoting of joints, an aura

248 Tad Williams

of power and control that was discernible even while its possessor
hung like an animal in the crudest of traps. This Sitha, this dream-
haunter, was unlike anything Simon had known. He was terrifying
and thrilling ... he was alien.

"I don't . . . don't want to hurt you," Simon said at last, and
realized he was speaking as though to a child. "I didn't set the trap."
The Sitha continued to regard him with baleful crescent eyes.

What terrible pain he must be hiding, Simon marveled. His arms
are pulled up so far that . . . that I would be screaming . . . if it
were me/

Protruding above the prisoner's left shoulder was a quiver, empty
but for two arrows. Several more arrows and a bow of slim, dark
wood lay strewn on the turf beneath his dangling feet.

"If I try to help you, will you promise not to hurt me?" Simon
asked, forming his words slowly. "I'm very hungry, myself," he
lamely added. The Sitha said nothing, but as Simon took another
step he coiled his legs up before him to kick; the youth retreated.

"Be damned!" Simon shouted. "I only want to help you!" But
why did he? Why let the wolf out of the pit? "You must . . ." he
began, but the rest of his words were snuffed out as a large dark
form came swishing and crackling out of the trees toward them.

"Ah! Here it be, here it be ... !" a deep voice said. A man,
bearded and dirty, waded into the little clearing. His clothes were
heavy and much mended: in his hand he swung an axe.

"Now then, you . . ." he stopped when he saw Simon huddled
against a tree. "Here," he growled, "who be you? What are you
about?"

Simon looked down at the pitted axe-blade. "I'm . . . I'm just a
traveler ... I heard a noise here in the trees . . ." He waved his
hand toward the odd tableau. "I found him here, in ... in this
trap."

"My trap!" the woodsman grinned. "My damned trap -- and there
he be, too." Turning his back on Simon the man looked the dangling
Sitha over coolly. "I promised I'd stop their sneakin* and spyin' and
sourin' the milk, that I did." He reached out a hand and pushed the
prisoner's shoulder, swinging him helplessly back and forth in a
slow arc. The Sitha hissed, but it was an impotent sound. The
woodsman laughed.

"By the Tree, they got fight in 'em they do. Got fight."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             249

"What . . . what are you going to do with him?"

"What do you think, boy? What do you think God'd have us do
with sprites an' imps an' devils when we catch 'em? Send 'em back
to hell with my good chopper, that'll tell you."

The prisoner slowly stopped swinging, revolving in a lazy circle at
the end of the black rope like a webbed fly. His eyes were downcast,
his body limp.

"Kill him?" Simon, ill and weak as he was, still felt a cold wash of
shock. He tried to marshal his straggling thoughts. "You're going to
... but you can't! You can't! He's . . . he's a ..."

"What he's not is no natural creature, that's sure! Get away from
here, stranger. You're in my bit o' garden, as it were, an* you got no
call to be. / know what these creatures are a-gettin' up to." The
woodsman contemptuously turned his back on Simon and moved
toward the Sitha, axe raised as though to split timber. This timber,
though, suddenly heaved, became a struggling, kicking, snarling
beast fighting for its life. The cotsman's first blow went awry, graz-
ing the bony cheek and digging a jagged furrow down the arm of the
strange, shiny garment. A ribbon of all too human-looking blood
dribbled down the slender jaw and neck. The man advanced again.

Simon dropped down to his sore knees, looking for something to
stop this ghastly struggle, to halt the man's grunting and cursing,
and the scratchy snarl of the beleaguered prisoner that punished his
ears. Groping, he found the bow, but it was even lighter than it had
looked, as though strung on marsh reed. An instant later his hand
closed on a half-buried rock. He heaved, and it broke free from the
clinging soil- He held it over his head.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Leave him be!" Neither combatant gave him
even a flicker of notice. The woodsman now stood at arm's length,
swiping at his swirling target, landing only glancing blows but con-
tinuing to draw blood. The Sitha's thin chest was heaving like a
bellows; he was weakening quickly.

Simon could not stand the cruel spectacle any longer. Setting free
the howl that had been coiling itself within him through all the
interminable, terrifying days of his exile, he sprang forward, crossing
the tiny clearing in a bound to bring the rock down on the back of
the cotsman's head. A dull smack reverberated through the trees;

the man seemed to go boneless in an instant. He pitched heavily

250 Tad Williams

forward onto his knees and then his face, a surge of red welling up
through his matted hair-
Staring down at the bloody wreckage, Simon felt his insides heave;

he fell to his knees retching, bringing up nothing but a sour strand of
spittle. He pressed his dizzy head against the damp ground and felt
the forest sway and rock about him.

When he was able, he stood and turned to the Sithi-man, who
again dangled quietly in the noose. The snaky tunic was laced with
streamers of blood, and the feral eyes were dimmed, as though some
internal curtain had rolled down to block the light within. As halt-
ingly as a sleepwalker, Simon picked up the fallen axe and traced the
taut rope up from the prisoner to where it wrapped around a high
limb of the tree -- a limb too high to reach. Simon, too numb for fear,
worked the nicked blade-edge against the knot behind the Sitha's
back. The Fair One winced as the noose pulled tighter, but made no
sound.

After a long moment of scraping and rubbing, the slippery knot
parted. The Sitha fell to the ground, legs buckling, and tumbled
forward onto the motionless woodsman. He rolled away from the
mute hulk immediately, as though burned, and began gathering up
his scattered arrows. Holding them like a clutch of long-stemmed
flowers, he picked up his bow in the other hand and paused to stare
at Simon. His cold eyes glinted, stopping the words in Simon's
mouth. For an instant the Sitha, injuries forgotten or ignored, stood
poised and tense as a startled deer; then he was gone, a flash of
brown and green that vanished into the trees, leaving Simon gape-
jawed and deserted.

The spotted sunlight had not finished rippling on the leaves where
he had passed when Simon heard a buzz like an angry insect and felt
a shadow flit across his face. An arrow stood out from a tree trunk
beside him, quivering gradually back into visibility less than an
arm's length from his head. He stared at it dully, wondering when
the next one would strike him. It was a white arrow, shaft and
feathers alike bright as a gull's wing. He waited for its inevitable
successor. None came. That stand of trees was silent and motionless.

After the strangest and most terrible fortnight of his life, and after
a particularly bizarre day, it should not have surprised Simon to
hear a new and unfamiliar voice speaking to him from the darkness

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             251

beyond the trees, a voice that was not the Sitha's, and certainly did
not come from the woodsman, who lay like a felled tree.
"Go ahead to take it," the voice said. "The arrow. Take it. It is

yours."

Simon should not have been surprised, but he was. He dropped
helplessly to the ground and began to cry -- great choking sobs of
exhaustion and confusion and total despair-

"Oh, Daughter of the Mountains," the strange new voice said.
"This does not seem good."

17
Binabik

^

WHEN SIMON at last looked up to the source of the new voice, his
tearful eyes widened in surprise. A child was walking toward him.

No, not a child, but a man so small that the top of his black-
haired head would probably not reach much higher than Simon's
navel. His face did have something of the childish about it: the
narrow eyes and wide mouth both stretched toward the cheekbones
in an expression of simple good humor.

"This is not a good place for crying," the stranger said. He turned
from kneeling Simon to briefly survey the fallen cotsman- "It is also
my feeling that it will not accomplish much -- at least for this dead

fellow."

Simon wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coarse shirt and hic-
coughed. The stranger had moved toward him to examine the pale
arrow, which stood from the tree trunk near Simon's head like a stiff

ghost-branch.

"You should take this," the little man said, and again his mouth
widened in a froggy smile, baring for an instant a palisade of yellow

teeth.

He was not a dwarf, like the fools and tumblers Simon had seen at
court and in the Main Row of Erchester -- although big-chested, he
seemed otherwise well-proportioned. His clothes looked much like a
Rimmersman's; jacket and leggings of some thick animal hide
stitched with sinew, a fur collar turned up below his round face. A
large skin bag hung bulging from a shoulder strap, and he held a
walking stick that looked to be carved from some long, slender bone.

"Please excuse my suggestions, but you should be taking this ar-
row. It is a Sithi White Arrow, and it is very precious. It signifies a
debt, and the Sithi are conscientious folk."

"Who ... are you?" Simon asked around another hiccough. He
was wrung out, beaten flat like a shirt pounded dry on a rock. If this

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             253

little man had come out of the trees snarling and waving a knife, he
did not think he could have reacted any differently.

"Me?" the stranger asked, pausing as though giving the question
much thought. "A traveler like yourself. I will be happy to explain
more things at a later time, but now we should go. This fellow," he
indicated the woodsman with a sweep of his stick, "will reliably not
become more alive, but he may have friends or family who will be
unsettled to find him so extremely dead. Please. Take the White
Arrow and come with me."

Mistrustful and wary, Simon nevertheless found himself rising to
his feet. It was too much effort to not trust, for the moment; he no
longer had the strength to stay on guard -- a part of him wanted only
to lie down and quietly die. He levered the arrow loose from the
tree. The tiny man was already on the march, climbing back up the
hillside above the cottage. The little house crouched as silently and
tidily as if nothing had happened.

"But . . ." Simon gasped as he scrambled up after the stranger,
who moved with surprising quickness, ". . . but what about the
cottage? I am ... I am so hungry . . . and there might be
food . . ."

The small man turned on the hillcrest to stare down at the strug-
gling youth. "I am very shocked!" he said. "First you make him
dead, then you wish to rob his larder. I fear I have fallen in with a
desperate outlaw!" He turned and continued into the close-knit
trees.

The far side of the crest was a long, gradual downslope. Simon's
limping strides finally brought him abreast of the stranger; in a few
moments he had caught his breath.

"Who are you? And where are we going?"

The strange little man did not look up, but kept his eyes moving
from tree to tree, as though looking for some landmark in the unre-
mitting sameness of the deep woods. After twenty silent paces he
turned his eyes up to Simon's and pulled his stretchy smile.

"My name is Binbiniqegabenik, "he said. "but around the cookfire
I am called Binabik. I hope you will honor me by using the shorter
version of friendship."

"I ... I will. Where are you from?" He hiccoughed again.

"I am of the troll-folk of Yiqanuc," Binabik replied. "High

254

Tad Williams

and

Yiqanuc in the snowing and blowing northern mountains

you are?"

He stared suspiciously for a moment before answering. "Simon.
Simon of the ... of Erchester." This was all happening rather
quickly, he thought . . . like a marketplace meeting, but in the
middle of a forest after a bizarre slaying. Holy Usires, did his head
hurt! And his stomach, too. "Where . . . where are we going?"

"To my camp. But first I must find my mount ... or rather, she
must find me. Please, do not be startled."

So saying, Binabik put two fingers in his wide mouth and blew a
long, trilling note. After a moment he did it again. "Remember, do
not be startled or anxious."

Before he could ponder the troll's words there was a crackle like
wildfire in the underbrush. A moment later a huge wolf burst into
the clearing, bounding past a shocked Simon to leap like a shaggy
thunderbolt onto little Binabik, who tumbled end over end beneath

his growling attacker.

"Qantaqa!" The troll's cry was muffled, but there was amusement
in his voice. Master and mount continued to wrestle across the forest
floor. Simon distractedly wondered if the world outside the castle
was always like this -- was the entirety of Osten Ard but a playing
field for monsters and lunatics?

Binabik at last sat up, Qantaqa's great head cradled in his lap. "I
have left her alone all the day, today," he explained. "Wolves have
much affection, and they become easily lonely." Qantaqa grinned
hugely and panted. Much of her girth was heavy gray fur, but still

she was immense.

"Make yourself free," Binabik laughed. "Scratch upon her nose."
Despite the continuing unreality of his situation, Simon did not

yet feel quite ready for that; instead he asked: "I'm sorry . . . but

did you say you had food at your camp, sir?"
The troll clambered to his feet, laughing, and retrieved his stick.

"Not sir -- Binabik! And as for food: yes. We will eat together -- you,

I, even Qantaqa. Come along. Being deferential to your weak and

hungry feeling, I will walk and not ride."

Simon and the troll were on the march for some time. Qantaqa
accompanied them for stretches, but more often trotted ahead, dis-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             255

appearing in a few bounds into the dense undergrowth. Once she
came back licking her muzzle with her long pink tongue.

"Well," Binabik said cheerfully, "one is fed already!"

At last, when it seemed to the aching, dragging Simon that he
could walk no farther, when he lost the thread of Binabik's every
sentence within a couple of words, they reached a little dell, empty
of tree trunks but roofed overhead with a lattice of intertwined
branches. Beside a fallen log lay a ring of blackened stones. Qantaqa,
who had been pacing along beside them, bounded ahead to make a
sniffing circuit of the dingle.

" 'Bhojujik mo qunquc,' as my people say." Binabik made an ex-
pansive gesture around the clearing. " ' -- If the bears do not eat you,
it is home.' " He led Simon to a log; the youth collapsed, breathing
heavily. The troll looked him up and down with concern. "Oh,"
Binabik said, "you are not going to be crying again, are you?"

"No." Simon smiled weakly. His bones felt cumbersome as dead
stone. "I ... I don't think so. I'm just very hungry and tired. I
promise not to cry."

"Look you. I shall make a fire. Then, I shall produce a supper."
Binabik swiftly gathered a pile of sticks and twigs, hayricking them
in the middle of the ring of stones. "These are spring wood, and
damp," he said, "but luckily that is a matter easily dealt with."

Sliding the skin bag from his shoulder, the troll placed it on the
ground and began to rummage determinedly through it. To Simon,
in his fatigue-bom whimsy, the small squatting figure looked more
than ever like that of a child: Binabik stared into his sack with lips
pursed and eyes narrowed in concentration -- a six year old studying
a limping beetle with high seriousness

"Hah!" said the troll at last, "it is found." He pulled from the
sack a smaller sack, about the size of Simon's thumb. Binabik took a
pinch of some powdery substance from it and sprinkled it on the
green wood, then took two pieces of stone from his belt and struck
them together. The spark that leaped down sputtered for a moment,
then a slender curl of yellow smoke spiraled up. A moment later the
wood puffed into flame, and within instants it was a merry, crackling
fire. The pulsing warmth lulled Simon, despite the pangs of his
empty stomach. His head was nodding, nodding . . . But wait -- a
rush of fear swept over him -- how could he just fall asleep, all un-
guarded in a stranger's camp! He ought to ... he should . . .

256 Tad Williams

"Sit and be warm, friend Simon." Binabik dusted off his hands as
he stood. "I will return very quickly."

Although a deep unease was fighting to make itself known in the
back of his thought -- where was the troll going? To get confeder-
ates? Fellow bandits? -- still Simon could not muster the effort to
watch Binabik leave. His eyes were again fixed on the wavering
names, the tongues like the petals of some shimmering flower . . .
a fire-poppy quivering in a warm summer wind. . - .

He awakened from a great cloudy emptiness to find the gray
wolf's massive head lying across his thighs. Binabik crouched over
the fire, fussing at some project. Simon felt there was something
slightly wrong about having a wolf in one's lap, but could not find
the proper puppet strings in his mind to do anything about it ...
it didn't seem truly important, anyway.

The next time he woke, Binabik was shooing Quantaqa from his
lap to offer him a large cup of something warm.

"It is cool enough now for drinking," the troll said, and helped
Simon raise the vessel to his lips. The broth was musky and deli-
cious, tangy as the smell of autumn leaves. He drank it all; it seemed
he could feel it flowing directly into his veins, the molten blood of
the forest, warming and filling him with the secret strength of trees.
Binabik gave him a second cupful and he drank that, too. A dense,
leaden clutch of worry at the juncture of his neck and shoulders
melted away, swept aside by the rush of good feelings. A new airi-
ness coursed through him, bringing with it a paradoxical heaviness,
a warm, diffuse drowsiness. As he slipped away he heard his own
cradled heartbeat, muffled though it was in the tickling wool of
exhaustion.

^

Simon was almost certain that when he came to Binabik's camp it
had been at least an hour short of sunset, but when he opened his
eyes again the forest glade was bright with new-smithied morning.
As he blinked he felt the last strands of dream pulling free -- a
bird . . . ?

A bright-eyed bird in a sun-catching golden collar . . . an old,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             257

strong bird whose eyes were full of the wisdom of high places and
broad vision . . . from his chitinous claw hung a beautiful, rainbow-
shimmering fish . . .

Simon shivered, pulling his heavy cloak nearer about him. As he
stared up at the overarching trees, their budding spring leaves
picked out by the sun in emerald filigree, he heard a moaning sound
and rolled over on his side to look,

Binabik sat cross-legged beside the firepit, swaying gently from
side to side. Before him an assortment of odd, pale shapes were
spread on a flat rock -- bones. The troll was making the unusual
noise -- was he singing? Simon stared for a moment, but could not
puzzle out what the little man might be doing. What a strange
world!

"Good morning," he said at last. Binabik jumped guiltily.

"Ah! It is friend Simon!" The troll grinned over his shoulder and
quickly swept the objects into his open skin bag, then stood up and
hastened to Simon's side. "How are you now feeling?" he asked,
bending over to place a small, rough hand on Simon's forehead.
"You must have needed a great sleep."

"I did." Simon moved closer to the small fire. "What's that . . .
that smell?"

"A pair of wood pigeons who have stopped to dine with us this
morning," Binabik smiled, pointing out two leaf-wrapped bundles in
the coals at the edge of the campfire. "Keeping their company are
some berries and nuts recently gathered. I would have been waking
you up soon to help entertain them all. They are very good-tasting, I
think. Oh, a moment please." Binabik walked back to his skin bag,
drawing forth two thin packages.

"Here." He handed them across. "Your arrow, and something
else," -- that was Morgenes' papers -- "you had placed them in your
beH, and I feared they would be broken when you were sleeping."

Suspicion flared in Simon's breast. The idea of someone handling
the doctor's writings while he slept made him covetous, distrustful.
He snatched the proffered bundle from the troll's hand and replaced
it in his belt. The little man's cheerful look changed to one of dis-
may. Simon felt ashamed -- although one couldn't be too careful -- 
and took the arrow, which had been wound in thin cloth, more
gently.

"Thank you," he said stiffly. Binabik's expression was still that of

258 Tad Williams

a man whose kindness had been scorned. Guilty and confused, Si-
mon unwrapped the arrow. Although he had not yet had a chance to
study it closely, at the moment he was most concerned with finding
something to do with his hands and eyes.

The arrow was not painted, as Simon had assumed: rather it was
carved from some wood as white as birch bark, and fletched with
snow-white feathers. Only the arrowhead, carved from some milky
blue stone, had any color. Simon hefted it, weighing its surprising
lightness against its amazing flexibility and solidity, and the memory
of the day before came back in a rush. He knew he could never
forget the feline eyes and disturbingly swift movements of the Sitha.
All the stories that Morgenes had told were true.

All along the shaft of the arrow slender whorls, curlicues, and
dots were pressed into the wood with infinite care. "It's all thick
with carvings," Simon mused aloud.

"They are very important things," the troll replied, and shyly
reached out his hand. "Please, if I may?" Simon felt another wash of
guilt and quickly handed him the arrow. Binabik tilted it back and
forth, catching the sunlight and firelight just so. "This is an old-
fellow." He squinted his narrow eyes until the dark pupils disap-
peared altogether. "It has been around for quite some long time.
You are the holder now of a quite-honorable thing, Simon: the
White Arrow is not given in lightness. It seems that this one was
affletched in Tamet'ai, a Sithi stronghold long since gone below the
blue ice east of my homeland."

"How do you know all that?" Simon asked. "Can you read those
letters?"

"Some. And there are things an eye that is trained can see."

Simon took it back, handling it with a good deal more care than
before. "But what should I do with it? You said it was payment for a
debt?"

"No, friend. It is a mark of a debt that is owing. And what you
should be doing is to keep it safe. If it has nothing else to be, it will
be a beautiful thing to look on."

A thin mist still clung to the clearing and forest floor beyond.
Simon propped the arrow point-downward against the log and slid
closer to the fire. Binabik pulled the pigeons from the embers,
pincering with a pair of sticks; he put one bundle down on the warm
rock before Simon's knees.

259

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"Remove the folded leaves," the troll instructed, "then wait for a
short passing-time so the bird will slightly cool." It was very difficult
to obey the last, but somehow Simon managed.

"How did you get these?" he asked at one point, mouth full and
fingers sticky with grease.

"Later I will show you," the troll replied.

Binabik was picking his teeth with a bowed rib bone. Simon
leaned back against the log and belched contentedly.

"Mother Elysia, that was wonderful." He sighed, feeling for the
first time in a long while that the world was not an entirely hostile
place. "A little food in your stomach changes everything."

"I am glad your cure was so simple for effecting," the troll smiled
around the slender bone.

Simon patted his middle. "I don't care about anything right this
moment." His elbow brushed the arrow, which began to topple. As
he caught it and straightened it a flicker of memory came to him. "I
don't even feel bad anymore about . . . about that man yesterday."

Binabik turned his brown eyes to Simon. Although he continued
to probe his teeth, his forehead creased above the bridge of his nose.
"You do not feel bad about him being dead, or about making him
dead?"

"I don't understand," said Simon. "What do you mean? What's
the difference?"

"There is as much difference as between a big rock and a little,
little bug -- but I shall leave the pondering to you."

"But . . ." Simon was confused again. "Well, but ... he was a
bad man."

"Hmmmm ..." Binabik nodded his head, but the gesture car-
ried no suggestion of agreement. "This world is certainly filling itself
with bad men, of that there can be no doubts."

"He would have killed the Sitha-man!"

"That is also a truth."

Simon stared sullenly at the plundered heap of bird bones piled
before him on the rock. "I don't understand. What do you want me
to tell you?"

"Where it is that you are going to." The troll tossed his toothpick
into the fire and stood up. He was so small!

260 Tad Williams

"What?" Simon stared suspiciously as the import of the little
man's words caught up at last.

"I wish to know where you are going, so that perhaps we can be
traveling together for a while." Binabik spoke slowly and patiently,
as though to a beloved but stupid old dog. "I think that perhaps the
sun is too young in the sky for the other questions to be troubled
with. We trolls say: 'Make Philosophy your evening guest, but do
not let her stay the night.* Now, if my question is not of a too-much
inquiring nature, where do you go to?"

Simon rose, knees stiff as unoiled hinges. Again he felt doubt.
Could the little man's curiosity really be as innocent as it seemed?
He had made the mistake of trusting at least once already, with that
damnable monk. But what choice did he have? He did not have to
tell the troll everything, and it was certainly preferable to have a
companion versed in woodcraft. The little man seemed to know just
what to do, and suddenly Simon longed to have someone to rely on
again.

"I am going north," he said, and then took a calculated risk. "To
Naglimund." He watched the troll carefully. "And yourself?"

Binabik was packing his few implements into his shoulder bag.
"Ultimately, I expect to be traveling far north," he replied without
looking up. "It seems that we have a coincidence of paths." Now he
raised his dark eyes. "How strange that you should be traveling
toward the Naglimund, which stronghold's name I have heard much
in recent weeks." His lips quirked in a tiny, secret smile.

"You have?" Simon had picked up the White Arrow, and tried to
look studiously unconcerned as he pondered how to carry it.
"Where?"

"Time there will be for talking as we take to the road." The troll
grinned, a full, friendly yellow grin. "I must call Qantaqa, who is
without doubt spreading horror and despair among the rodents of
this vicinity. Feel yourself welcome to empty your bladder now, so
that we may swiftly walk."

Simon had to hold the White Arrow between clenched teeth as he
followed Binabik's advice.

18

A Net of Stars

BLISTERED, sore-footed, and clothed in rags, Simon nevertheless felt
the pall of despair begin to lift a little. Both mind and body were
badly bruised by mischance, and he had developed a startled eye and
reflexive flinch -- neither of which escaped the sharp gaze of his new
companion -- but the brooding horror had been pushed back a short
way; it had become, for the moment, just another painful half-mem-
ory. The unexpected companionship helped to ease the ache of lost
friends and lost home -- at least to the extent that he allowed it. A
large, secret part of his thoughts and feelings he continued to hold
back. He was still suspicious, and also unwilling to invest again and
risk further loss.

As they trekked through the cool, bird-trilling halls of the mom-
ing forest, Binabik explained to Simon that he had come down from
his lofty home of Yiqanuc, as he apparently did once a year, on
"business" -- a series of errands that carried him to eastern Hemystir
and Erkynland. Simon gathered that it involved some sort of trad-
ing.

"But, oh! my young friend, what disturbances I find this spring-
tide! Your peoples are very upset, very frightened!" Binabik waved
his hands in mock-agitation. "In the outlying provinces the king is
not popular, is he? And they are fearful of him in Hemystir. Else-
where there is anger and there is starving. People are afraid to travel;

the roads are no longer safe. Well," he grinned, "if you wish truth to
be told, the roads never were safe, at least in the areas of isolation -- 
but it is real that there is a change for the worse in the north of
Osten Ard."

Simon was observing how the noon sun had set vertical columns
of light among the tree trunks. "Have you ever traveled to the
South?" he asked at last.

"If by 'South' you mean south of Erkynland, my answering is:

262 Tad Williams

yes, once or twice. But please remember: among my people almost
any leaving of Yiqanuc is 'travel to the South.' "

Simon was not paying very close attention. "Did you travel by
yourself? Did ... did ... did Qantaqa go with you?"

Binabik wrinkled another smile. "No. It was long ago, before my
wolf-friend was born, when I was . . ."

"How did you . . . how did you get this wolf?" Simon inter-
rupted. Binabik gave an exasperated hiss.

"It is a difficult thing answering questions when one is having
continual interruptions with more questions'"

Simon tried to look penitent, but he was feeling the spring as a
bird feels wind in its feathers. "Sorry," he said. "I've been told
before ... by a friend . . . that I ask too many questions."

"It is not 'too many,' " Binabik said, using his stick to push a low-
hanging branch away from their path, " -- it is 'piled on top of one
and another.' " The troll barked a short laugh. "Now, which do you
want for my answering?"

"Oh, whichever you want. You decide," Simon replied meekly,
then jumped as the troll smacked him lightly on the wrist with his
walking stick.

"It would please me your not being obsequious. That is a trait of
marketplace people who are selling shoddy goods. I am sure to pre-
fer endless, stupid questions to that."

"Ob . . . obseek . . . ?"

"Obsequious. Flattering with oiliness. It is not liked by me. In
Yiqanuc we say: 'Send the man with the oily tongue to go and lick
the snowshoes.'"

"What does that mean?"

"It means that we do not like flatterers. Never mind, then!"
Binabik threw back his head and laughed, black hair swinging, eyes
nearly disappearing as his round cheeks rose toward his brows.
"Never mind! We have wandered as far as the wandering of Lost
Piqipeg -- wandered in our conversing, I mean. No, do not ask any-
thing. We will stop here for a rest, and I will be telling you now
about how I met my friend Qantaqa."

They chose a huge stone, an outcropping of granite thrusting up
from the forest floor like a speckled fist, its upper half painted by a
swath of sunlight. The young man and the troll climbed up to perch
on top. The forest was silent around them; the dust of their passage

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             263

slowly settled. Binabik reached into his bag and produced a stick of
dried meat and a goatskin of thin, sour wine. As Simon chewed, he
kicked off his shoes and wiggled his sore toes in the warming sun.
Binabik looked at the shoes critically.

"We shall have to be finding something else." He poked the tat-
tered, blackened leather. "A man's soul is in peril when his feet are
hurting."

Simon grinned at this thought.

They spent a while in silent contemplation of the surrounding
forest, the living greenery of Oldheart. "Well," said the troll at last,
"the first thing that needs understanding is that my people do not
shun the wolf -- although we are not usually having friendships with
them, either. Trolls and wolves have lived side by side for many
thousands of years, and we are leaving each other alone most times.

"Our neighbors, if so polite a term can be used, the hairy men of
the Rimmersgard, think the wolf a dangerous animal of great
treachery. You are familiar with the men of Rimmersgard?"

"Oh, yes." Simon was pleased to be in the know. "They were all
about in the Hay -- " he caught himself, "in Erchester. I have talked
to many of them. They wear their beards long," he added, demon-
strating his familiarity.

"Hmmm. Well, since we live in the high mountains, we Qanuc -- 
we trolls -- and we do not kill these wolves, the Rimmersmen think
we are wolf-demons. In their frost-crazy, blood-feuding brains,"
Binabik put on a look of comical disgust, "it is their thought that
troll-folk are magical and evil. There have been bloody fights, very
many many, between Rimmersmen -- Croohok we call them -- and
my Qanuc-folk."

"I'm sorry," said Simon, thinking guiltily of the admiration he
had felt for old Duke Isgrimnur -- who, on reflection, did not seem
like the type to massacre innocent trolls, testy though he was re-
puted to be.

"Sorry? You should not be. Now myself, I am thinking that men
 -- and women -- of Rimmersgard are clumsy, stupid, and suffer with
excessive tallness -- but I do not think they are then evil, or deserving
of being made dead. Ahhh," he sighed, shaking his head like a phi-
losopher-priest in a dead-end tavern, "Rimmersmen are a puzzle-
ment to me."

264 Tad Williams

"But what about the wolves?" Simon asked, then silently chided
himself for interrupting. This time Binabik did not seem to mind.

"My people live on craggy Mintahoq, in the mountains called
Trollfells by the Rimmersmen. We ride the shaggy, nimble-footed
rams, raising them up from tiny lambkins until they have enough
bigness to bear us through the mountain passes. There is nothing,
Simon, that is in this world quite like being a ram-rider of Yiqanuq.
To sit your steed, to be wending the pathways of the Roof of the
World ... to be leaping in a single bound of greatness across
mountain chasms so very deep, so exquisitely deep that if a rock was
dropped by you it would take half a day to strike bottom . . ."

Binabik smiled and squinted in happy reverie. Simon, trying to
visualize such heights, suddenly felt a little dizzy and put his palms
flat on the reassuring stone. He looked down. This perch, at least,
stood only a man's height above the earth.

"Qantaqa was a pup when she was found by me," Binabik contin-
ued at last. "Her mother had been probably killed, or from starva-
tion had died. She snarled at me when I discovered her, a ball of
white far given away in the snow by black nose." He smiled. "Yes,
she is gray now. Wolves, like people are doing, often change their
colors as they grow, I found myself . . . touched by her effort at
defending. I brought her back with me. My master . . ." Binabik
paused. The harsh cry of a jay filled the moment. "My master said if
I would be taking her from the arms of Qinkipa the Snow Maiden,
then I was assuming duties of a parent. My friends had thought that
I was not being sensible. Aha! I said. I will teach this wolf to carry
me just like a ram with horns. It was not believed -- it was not a
thing that had been done before. So many things are things not done
before . . ."

"Who is your master?" Below them Qantaqa, who had been nap-
ping in a splash of sun, rolled onto her back and kicked, the white
fur of her belly thick as a king's mantle.

"That, Simon-friend, is another tale to tell: not today. To finish,
though, I will say that I did teach Qantaqa to carry me. The teach-
ing was a very . . ." -- he wrinkled his upper lip -- "diverting experi-
ence. But there is no regret in me for this. 1 travel often, farther than
my tribesmen. A ram is a wonderful jumping animal, but their
minds are very small. A wolf is clever-clever-clever, and they are
faithful as a debt unpaid. When they take a mate, do you know, they

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             265

are taking only one for their entire lives? Qantaqa is my friend, and I
think her much preferable to any sheep. Yes, Qantaqa? Yes?"

The great gray wolf sat up, her wide yellow eyes fixed on Binabik.
She dipped her head and uttered a short bark.

"You see?" the troll grinned. "Come now, Simon. I think we
should be to marching while this sun stands high." He slid down the
rock, and the boy followed, hopping as he pulled on his ruined
shoes.

As the afternoon passed, and they tramped on through the crowd-
ing trees, Binabik answered questions about his travels, displaying
an enviable familiarity with places Simon had trod only in
daydreams. He spoke of the summer sun revealing the gleaming
inner facets of icy Mintahoq like a jeweler's deft hammer; of the
northernmost regions of this same Aldeorte Forest, a world of white
trees and silence and the tracks of strange animals; of the cold outer
villages of Rimmersgard that had barely heard of the Court of Pres-
ter John, where wild-eyed, bearded men huddled-over fires in the
shadows of high mountains, and even the bravest of them feared the
shapes that walked the howling darkness above. He spun tales of the
hidden gold mines of Hernystir, secret, serpentine tunnels that
wound down into the black earth among the bones of the Grainspog
mountains, and he spoke of the Hemystiri themselves, artful,
dreamy pagans whose gods inhabited the green fields and the sky
and stones -- the Hemystiri, who of all men had known the Sithi
best.

"And the Sithi are real . . ." Simon said quietly, with wonder
and more than a little fear as he remembered. "The doctor was
right."

Binabik cocked an eyebrow. "Of course Sithi are real. Do you
suppose they sit here in the forest wondering if men are real? What a
nonsense! Men are but a recentness compared to them -- although a
recentness that has terribly damaged them."

"It's just that I had never seen one before!"

"You had never seen me or my people, either," Binabik replied.
'*You have never seen Perdruin or Nabban or the Meadow Thrithing
... is this, then, meaning that they do not have existence? What a
fund of superstitious silliness is owned by you Erkynlanders! A man
whose wisdom is true does not sit in waiting for the world to come at

266 Tad Williams

him piece by piece for proving its existence!" The troll stared
straight ahead, eyebrows knotted; Simon was afraid he might have
offended him.

"Well, what does a wise man do, then?" he asked, a little defiantly.

"The wise man is not waiting for the realness of the world to
prove itself to him. How can one be an authority before the experi-
encing of this realness? My master taught me -- and to me it seems
chash. meaning correct -- that you must not defend against the enter-
ing of knowledge."

"I'm sorry, Binabik," Simon kicked at an oak boll and sent it
tumbling, "but I'm just a scullion -- a kitchen boy. That kind of talk
makes no sense to me."

"Aha!" Quick as a snake, Binabik leaned over and whacked Si-
mon on the ankle with his stick. "That is being an example, exactly!
Aha!" The troll shook his small fist. Qantaqa, thinking herself sum-
moned, came galloping back to dan in circles around the pair, until
they had to halt to avoid tripping over the frisking wolf.

"Hinik, Qantaqa!" Binabik hissed. She bounded off, tail bobbing
like any tame castle hound. "Now, friend Simon," the troll said,
"please forgive my squeaking, but you have made my point." He
held his hand up to stall Simon's question. The youth felt a smile
twitching his lips at the sight of the little troll so rapt and serious.
"First," said Binabik, "scullion boys are not from fish spawned, or
chicken eggs hatched. They can be thinking like the wisest wise folk,
if only they do not fight entering knowledge: if they do not say 'can't'
or 'won't.' Now, it was explaining that I was going to do about this
 -- do you mind?"

Simon was amused. He didn't even mind being struck on the
ankle -- it hadn't really hurt, anyway. "Please, explain to me."

"Then, let us be considering knowledge like a river of water. If
you are a piece of cloth, how are you finding out more about this
water -- if someone dips in your comer and then pulls it out again, or
if you are having yourself thrown in without resistance, so that this
water is flowing all through you, around you, and you are becoming
soaking wet? Well, then?"

The thought of being flung into a cold river made Simon shiver a
little- The sunlight had begun to take a sideways angle: the afternoon
was dwindling. "I suppose ... I suppose getting soaked might
make you know more about water."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             267

"With exactness!" Binabik was pleased. "With exactness! Thus,
you are seeing my lesson-point." The troll resumed walking.

In truth, Simon had forgotten the original question, but he cared
little. There was something quite charming about this little person -- 
an eamestness beneath the good humor. Simon felt himself to be in
good, although small, hands.

It was hard not to notice that they were now headed in a westerly
direction; as they tramped along the slanting rays of the sun were
nearly full in their eyes. Sometimes a dazzling bolt would find its
way through a chink in the trees and Simon would stumble for a
moment, the forest air suddenly full of glittering pinpricks of light.
He asked Binabik about their westward turn.

"Oh, yes," the troll replied, "we are heading ourselves toward the
Knock. We shall not get there today, though. Soon we will stop to
make some camp and eat."

Simon was glad to hear this, but could not forgo asking another
question -- it was, after all, his adventure too. "What is the Knock?"

"Oh, it is not a dangerous thing, Simon. It is the point at which
the southern foothills of Wealdhelm dip down with a saddle-like air,
and one can easily be leaving the thick and not-too-safe forest and
cross to the Wealdhelm Road. As I was saying, though, we shall not
reach it this day. Let us cast around for a camp."

Within a few furlongs they found a site that looked promising: a
cluster of large rocks on a gently sloping bank beside a forest stream.
The water splashed quietly along a course of round, dove-colored
stones, eddying noisily around the twisted branches that had tum-
bled into the stream, disappearing at last into a thicket a few yards
below. A stand of aspens, green coins for leaves, rattled softly in the
beginnings of an evening breeze.

The pair quickly built a fire circle with dry stones found by the
watercourse. Qantaqa seemed fascinated by their project, darting
close at intervals to growl and lightly snap at the rocks as they were
carried laboriously into place. A short while later the troll had a
campfire flickering, pale and spectral in the last potent sunbeams of
the fading afternoon.

"Now, Simon," he said, elbowing the intrusive Qantaqa into an
unwilling crouch, "we find it hunting time. Let us discover some

268 Tad Williams

suitable supper-bird and I will show you clever tricks." He rubbed
his hands together.

"But how will we catch them?" Simon looked at the White Arrow
clutched in his own sweat-grimed paw. "Will we have to throw this
at them?"

Binabik chortled, slapping his hide-suited knee. "You have some
funniness for a scullion boy! No, no, I said I will show you clever
tricks. Do you see, where I live there is only a short season for the
hunting of birds. In the cold winter there are not any birds at all,
except for the cloud-high-flying snow geese who pass our mountain
home on their way to the Northeastern Wastes. But in some of the
southern lands I have traveled, they are hunting and eating only
birds. There I learned some cleverness. I will show you!"

Binabik picked up his walking staff and signed for Simon to fol-
low. Qantaqa leaped up, but the troll waved her off.

"Hinik aia, old friend," he told her kindly. Her ears twitched, and
her gray brow furrowed. "We are going on a mission of stealthiness,
and your big paws will not be a help." The wolf turned and slouched
back to stretch by the campfire. "Not that she cannot be deadly
quiet," the troll told Simon, "but it is when she wants to only."

They crossed the stream and waded into the underbrush. Within a
short time they were into deep woods again; the noise of the water
behind them had faded to a murmur. Binabik squatted down, invit-
ing Simon to join him.

"Now we are going to work," he said. He gave his walking stick a
quick twist; to Simon's surprise it separated into two segments. The
short one, he now saw, was the handle of a knife whose blade had
been concealed within the hollow length of the longer section. The
troll up-ended the longer segment and shook it, and a leather pouch
slid out onto the ground. He then removed a small piece from the
other end; the long segment was now a hollow tube. Simon laughed
with pure delight.

"That's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Like a conjuring trick."

Binabik nodded sagely. "Surprises in small packages -- the Qanuc
credo, that is!" He took the knife up by its cylindrical bone handle
and poked for a moment in the hollow tube. Another bone tube slid
partway out, and he finished the removal with his fingers. When he
held it up for inspection, Simon could see that this tube had a row of
holes along one side.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             269

"A ... flute?"

"A flute, yes. Of what good is supper without music following?"
Binabik put the instrument aside and poked the leather pouch with
the knife tip. Unfolded, it revealed a pressed clump of carded wool
and yet one more slim tube, this one no longer than a finger.

"Smaller and smaller we go, yes?" The troll twisted this open to
show Simon the contents, tiny needles of bone or ivory, packed close
together. Simon reached out a hand to touch one of the delicate
slivers, but Binabik hastily pulled the container away.

"Please, no," he said. "Be observing." He plucked one of the
needles out with thumb and arched forefinger, holding it up to catch
the dying afternoon light; the dart's sharp tip was smeared with
some black and sticky substance.

"Poison?" breathed Simon. Binabik nodded seriously, but his eyes
showed a certain excitement.

"Of course," he said. "Not all are so poisoned -- it is not a neces-
sity for the killing of small birds, and it has an unpleasant tending to
ruin the meat -- but one cannot stop a bear or other large, angered
creature with only a tiny dart." He slid the envenomed needle down
among its fellows and selected another, unstained dart.

"You've killed a bear with one?" Simon asked, extremely im-
pressed.

"Yes, I have done it -- but the wise troll does not stay in the area
while waiting for the bear to know he is dead. The poison is not
finishing its work immediately, you see. Very big are bears."

While talking, Binabik had torn off a piece of the coarse wool and
unraveled the fibers with the point of his knife, fingers working as
quickly and competently as Sarrah the upstairs maid going at the
mending. Before this homely memory could summon any compan-
ions, Simon's attention was captured again as Binabik began wrap-
ping the threads rapidly around the base of the dart, weaving them
over one another until the butt end was a soft globe of wool. When it
was finished he pushed the whole thing, needle and wad, into one
end of the hollow walking stick. He wrapped the other needles in
their pouch, tucked it in his belt, and handed the rest of the disman-
tled staff to Simon.

"Carry these, if you will please," he said. "I do not see many birds
here, although quite often they are emerging now for feeding on the
insects. It is perhaps we shall have to be settling for a squirrel -- not

270 Tad Williams

that they are not tasting good," he hastened to explain as they
stepped over a fallen tree, "but there is a certain more delicate touch
and experience in the hunting of small birds. When the dart hits,
you will be understanding. I think it is their flying that touches me
so, and how quickly their tiny hearts are beating."

Later, in the leaf-whisper of the spring evening, as Simon and the
little troll lazed by the fire digesting their meal -- two pigeons and a
fat squirrel -- Simon thought on what Binabik had said. It was
strange to realize how little you understood someone that you had
grown to like. How could the troll feel such affection toward some-
thing he was going to kill?

/ certainly don't feel that way about that bloody woodsman, he
thought. He probably would have killed me as quickly as he would
have killed the Sitha-man.

But would he have? Would he have taken the axe to Simon?
Maybe not: he had thought the Sitha a demon. He had turned his
back on Simon, something he would not have done had he feared
him.

/ wonder if he had a wife? Simon suddenly thought. Did he have
children? But he was a wicked man! Still, bad men can have children
 -- King Ellas has a daughter. Would she feel bad if her father died? I
certainly wouldn';. And I don 'tfeel bad that the woodsman is dead -- 
but I would feel sad for his family if they found him dead in the forest
that way. I hope he didn 't have any family, that he was alone, that he
lived all alone in the forest by himself . . . alone in the forest. . . .

Simon started upright, full of fear. He had nearly drifted off, alone
by himself and helpless . . . but no. There was Binabik sitting back
against the bank, humming to himself. Simon felt suddenly very
grateful for the little man's presence.

"Thank you ... for the supper, Binabik."

The troll turned to look at him, an indolent smile tugging at the
corners of his mouth. "It is happily given. Now you have seen what
the southern blow-darts can do, perhaps you would like to learn
their using yourself?"

"Certainly!"

"Very good. Then I will be showing you tomorrow -- perhaps then
you can be hunting our supper, hmm?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             271

"How long . . ." Simon found a twig and stirred the embers,
"how long will we be traveling together?"

The troll closed his eyes and leaned back, scratching his head
through his thick black hair. "Oh, a while at least, I am thinking.
You are going to Naglimund, correct? Well, I have sureness I will
travel at least the great pan of the way there. Is that a fair thing?"

"Yes! . . . ummm, yes." Simon felt much better. He, too, leaned
back, wiggling his unshod toes before the coals.

"However," Binabik said beside him, "I am still not understanding
why you are wishing to go there. I am hearing reports that the
Naglimund stronghold is being garrisoned for war. I am hearing
rumors that Josua the prince -- whose disappearing became known
even in the remote places of my travels -- may be hiding there to
make war on his brother the king. Do you not know these sayings?
Why, if I may so presume, are you going there?"

Simon's moment of nonchalance evaporated. He's just small, he
chided himself, not stupid/ He forced himself to breathe deeply sev-
eral times before answering. "I don't know much about these things,
Binabik. My parents are dead, and . . . and I have a friend at Nag-
limund ... a harper." All true, more or less -- but convincing?

"Hmmmm." Binabik had not opened his eyes. "There are perhaps
better destinations than a fortress in caparison for a sieging. Still,
you show quite the bravery for setting out alone, although, 'Brave
and Foolish often live in the same cave,* as we say. Perhaps if your
destination proves not likable to you, you may come and be living
with we Qanuc. It is a great, towering troll you would be!" Binabik
laughed, a high, silly giggle like a scolding squirrel. Simon, despite a
certain rawness of nerves, could not help but join in.

The fire had burned down to a dull glow, and the surrounding
forest was an indeterminate, undistinguished clump of darkness. Si-
mon had pulled his cloak tightly about him. Binabik was absently
running his fingers across the holes of his flute as he stared up into
the velvety patch of sky visible through a gap in the trees.

"Look!" he said, extending his instrument to point up into the
night. "Do you see?"

Simon tilted his head closer to the little man's. Nothing was in
view above but a thin train of stars. "I don't see anything."

"Don't you see the Net?"

272 Tad Williams

"What net?"

Binabik looked strangely at him. "Are they teaching you nothing
in that boxy castle? Mezumiiru's Net."

"Who's that?"

"Aha." Binabik let his head fall back. "The stars. That drift that
you are seeing above you there: it is Mezumiiru 's Net. They say that
she spreads it to catch her husband Isiki, who has run away. We
Qanuc call her Sedda, the Dark Mother."

Simon stared up at the dim points; it looked as though the thick
black fabric separating Osten Ard from some world of light was
wearing thin. If he squinted he could make out a certain fan shape to
the arrangement.

"They're so faint."

"The sky is not clear, you are right. It is said that Mezumiiru
prefers it that way, that otherwise the bright light that the jewels of
her net are making warns Isiki away. Still, there are often cloudy
nights, and she is not catching him yet . . ."

Simon squinted. "Mezza . . . Mezo . . ."

"Mezumiiru. Mezumiiru the Moon Woman."

"But you said that your people call her ... Sedda?"

"That is right. She is the mother of all, as the Qanuc believe."

Simon thought for a moment. "Then why do you call that," --  he
pointed up -- " 'Mezumiiru's Net.' Why not 'Sedda's Net9?"

Binabik smiled and lifted his eyebrows. "A good question. My
people do call it that -- or, actually, they are saying 'Sedda's Blan-
ket. ' I travel more, however, and am learning other names, and, after
all is said, it is the Sithi who were here first. It is the Sithi who were
long ago naming all the stars."

The troll sat for a moment, staring with Simon up at the black
roof of the world. "I know it," he said suddenly. "I will go to singing
you the song of Sedda -- or a little part, perhaps. It is song of great
length, after all. Should I assay this singing?"

"Yes!" Simon snuggled himself even deeper in his cloak. "Sing,
please!"

Qantaqa, who had been snoring softly across the troll's legs, now
woke up, raising her head to look this way and that, giving a low
growl. Binabik, too, stared around, narrowing his eyes as he tried to
pierce the gloom outside the campfire. A moment later Qantaqa,
apparently satisfied that all was well, poked Binabik into a more

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             273

pleasing configuration with her huge head, then settled back down
and closed her eyes. Binabik patted her, took up his flute, and blew
several preparatory notes.

"Be understanding," he said, "that this can only be a shortness of
the whole song. I will be explaining things. Sedda's husband, by the
Sithi named Isiki, my people are calling Kikkasut He is the Lord of
all Birds . . ."

Solemnly, the troll began to chant in a high-pitched voice -- 
strangely tuneful, like wind in a high place. He paused at the end of
each line to pipe skirling notes on his flute.

"'Water is flowing
By Tohuq's cave
Shining sky-cave
Sedda is spinning
Sky-lord's dark daughter
Pale, black-haired Sedda.

Bird-king is flying
On the star path
Gleaming bright path
Now he sees Sedda
Kikkasut sees her
Vows she'll be his.

'Give me your daughter.
Your daughter who spins.
Spins slender thread.'
Kikkasut calls then.
Til clothe her finely
All in bright feathers!'

Tohuq he listens
Hears these fine words
Rich bird-king's words
Thinks of the honor -- 
Sedda he'll give up
Old, greedy Tohuq."

274

Tad Williams

"So," Binabik explained in his speaking voice, "old Tohuq the
sky-lord is selling his daughter to Kikkasut for a beautiful cape of
feathers, which he will use to make the clouds. Sedda is then going
with her new husband to his country beyond the mountains, where
she is becoming the Queen of Birds. But the marriage has not much
happiness. Soon Kikkasut, he begins to ignore her, coming home
only to eat and curse at Sedda." The troll laughed quietly, wiping
the end of his flute on his fur collar. "Oh, Simon, this is always being
such a length of story . . . Well, Sedda goes to a wise woman, who
tells that she could gain back Kikkasufs wandering heart if she will
be giving him children.

"With a charm the wise woman has given, made from bones and
mockfoil and black snow, Sedda is able to then conceive, and she
gives birth to nine children. Kikkasut is bearing, and sends word
that he is coming to take them from her, so that it is properly raised

as birds they will be, and not by Sedda raised as useless moon-
children.

"When she is hearing this, Sedda takes the two most young and
hides them. Kikkasut comes for taking away the others, and he asks
of her the happenstances of the missing two. Sedda tells him they

had become sick and dead. He goes away from her, and she curses
him."

Again he sang.

"Kikkasut winging
Sedda she weeps
Weeps for her lost
Her children all taken
But for the hidden pair
Lingit and Yana.

Sky-lord's grandchildren
Moon-woman's twins
Secret and pale
Yana and Lingit
Hid from their father
Deathless she'll keep them ..."

"You are seeing," Binabik interrupted himself, "Sedda did not

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               275

want her children to have mortalness and be dying, as the birds and
the beasts of the fields. They were her all and onlyness . . .

"Sedda is mourning
Lone and betrayed
Vengeance she plots
Takes her bright jewels
Kikkasut's love gift
Weaves them together.

Mountain-top lofty
Dark Sedda climbs
Blanket new-woven
She spreads on night's sky
A trap for her husband
Thief of her children ..."

Binabik trilled a melody for a while, wagging his head slowly
from side to side. At last he put the flute down. "It is a song of
strenuous length, Simon, but it speaks of most important things. It
goes on to tell of the children Lingit and Yana, and their choosing
between the Death of the Moon and the Death of the Bird -- the
moon, you are seeing, dies, but then has return as itself. The birds
die, but leave their egged young to survive them. Yana, we trolls
think, chose the way of the Moon-death, and was being the matri-
arch -- a word meaning grandmother -- the matriarch of the Sithi.
The mortals, myself and yourself, Simon-friend, are of the descent of
Lingit. But it is a long, very long song . . . would you like to be
hearing more some time?"

Simon made no reply. The song of the moon and the gentle brush
of night's feathered wing had sent him swiftly down to sleep.

19

The Blood of
Saint Hoderund

^

IT SEEMED that every time Simon opened his mouth to speak, or
even to breathe deeply, it was immediately filled with leaves. No
matter how often he bobbed and ducked, he could not avoid the
branches that seemed to grab for his face like the greedy hands of

children.

"Binabik!" he wailed, "why can't we go back to the road? I'm

being torn to pieces!"
"Do not complain so much. We will soon be returning toward the

road."

It was infuriating to watch the tiny troll threading his way be-
tween the tangling twigs and branches. Easy for him to say "don't
complain!" The denser the forest got the more slippery Binabik
seemed to become, slithering gracefully through the thick, clutching
underbrush while Simon crashed on behind. Even Qantaqa bounded
lightly along, leaving barely a ripple in the foliage behind her. Simon
felt as though half of Oldheart must be clinging to him in the form
of broken twigs and scratching thorns.

"But why are we doing this? Surely it wouldn't take any longer to
follow the road around the edge of the forest than it's taking me to
burrow through it inch by inch!?**

Binabik whistled for the wolf, who was momentarily out of sight.
She soon loped back into view, and as the troll waited for Simon to
catch up he ruffled the thick collar of fur around her neck.

"You are most correct, Simon,'* he said as the youth dragged up.
"It is just as good time we might be making the longer way about.
But," he held up a stubby, admonitory finger, "there are other con-
siderations."

Simon knew he was supposed to ask. He didn't, but stood panting

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               277

beside the small man and inspected the most recent of his lacera-
tions. When the troll realized Simon would not rise to the bait, he
smiled.

" 'Why?', you are asking curiously? What 'considerations'? The
answer is being all around, up every tree and beneath all rocks. Feel!
Smell!"

Simon stared miserably around him. All he could see were trees.
And brambles. And even more trees. He groaned.

"No, no, is it no senses you have left at all?" Binabik cried- "What
manner of teachings did you have in that lumpish stone anthill, that
. . . castle!?"

Simon looked up, "I never said I lived in a castle."

"It is having great obviousness in all your actions." Binabik
turned quickly around to face the barely-visible deer trail they had
been following. "You see," he said in a dramatic voice, "the land is a
book that you should be reading. Every small thing," -- a cocky grin
 -- "is having a story to tell. Trees, leafs, mosses and stones, all have
written on them things of wonderful interest . ..."

"Oh, Elysia, no," Simon moaned and sank to the ground, drop-
ping his head forward to rest on his knees. "Please don't read me the
book of the forest right this moment, Binabik. My feet ache and my
head hurts."

Binabik leaned forward until his round face was inches from
Simon's. After a moment's scrutiny of the youth's bramble-matted
hair the troll straightened up again-

"I suppose we may quietly rest," he said, trying to hide his disap-
pointment. "I will tell you of these things in a later moment."

"Thank you," Simon mumbled into his knees.

Simon avoided the task of hunting for supper that night by the
simple expedient of falling asleep the moment they made camp.
Binabik only shrugged, took a long draught from his water bag and
a similar one from his wineskin, then made a short walking tour of
the area, Qantaqa sniffing sentry at his side. After an undistin-
guished but filling meal of dried meat, he cast the knucklebones to
the accompaniment of Simon's deep breathing. On the first pass he
turned up Wingless Bird, Fish-Spear, and The Shadowed Path. Un-
settled, he closed his eyes and hummed a tuneless tune for a while as
the sound of night-insects slowly rose about him. When he threw

278 Tad Williams

again, the first two had changed to Torch at the Cave-Mouth and
Balking Ram, but The Shadowed Path turned up again, the bones
propped against each other like the leavings of some fastidious carni-
vore. Not the sort to follow the bones to hasty decisions -- his master
had taught him too well -- Binabik nonetheless slept, when he finally
could, with his staff and bag cradled close.

^

When Simon awakened, the troll presented him with a satisfying
meal of roasted eggs -- quail, he said -- some berries, and even the
pale orange buds of a flowering tree, which proved quite edible and
rather sweet in an odd, chewy way. The morning's walking also
went considerably easier then the previous day's: the country was
gradually becoming more open, the trees more distantly spaced.

The troll had been rather quiet all morning. Simon felt sure that
his disinterest in Binabik's woodlore was the reason. As they were
coming down a long, gentle slope, the sun high in its morning climb,
he felt driven to say something.

"Binabik, do you want to tell me about the book of the forest
today?"

His companion smiled, but it was a smaller, tighter grin than
Simon was used to seeing. "Of course, friend Simon, but I am afraid
I have given you a wrong thinking. You see, when I am speaking of
the land as a book, I am not suggesting you should be reading it to
improve your spiritual well-feeling, like a religious tome -- although
paying attention to your surroundings for that reason is certainly
possible. No, I am speaking of it more as a book of physic, some-
thing one learns for the sake of health."

It is truly amazing, Simon thought, how easy it is for this little
fallow to confuse me. And without trying/

Aloud, he said, "Health? Book of physic?"

Binabik's face took on a sudden look of seriousness. "For your
living or dying, Simon. You are not in your home, now. You are not
in my home, although I am undoubtedly being an easier guest than
you here. Even the Sithi, for all the ages they have watched the sun
as it is rolling around and around the skies, even they do not claim
Aldheorte as theirs." Binabik stopped, and laid his hand on Simon's

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             279

wrist, then squeezed. "This place where we stand, this great forest, is
the oldest place. That is why it is called, as your people say, Aldhe-
orte; it is always the old heart of Osten Ard. Even these trees of
younger age," he poked with his stick on all sides, "were pitting
themselves against flooding, wind, and fire before your great King
John was first drawing baby-breath on the Warinsten Island."

Simon looked around, blinking,

"Others," Binabik continued, "others there are, some that / have
seen, whose roots are growing into the very rock of Time; older they
are than all the kingdoms of Man and Sithi that were thrown up in
glory and were then crumbling in obscurity."

Binabik squeezed his wrist again, and Simon, looking down the
slope into the vast bowl of trees, felt suddenly small: infinitesimal,
like an insect crawling up the sheer side of a cloud-lancing moun-
tain.

"Why . . . why are you saying these things to me?" he asked at
last, sucking breath and fighting back something that felt like tears.

"Because," said Binabik, reaching up and patting his arm, "be-
cause you must not think that the forest, the wide world, is anything
like the alleyways and such of Erchester. You must watch, and you
must be thinking and thinking."

A moment later the troll was off again. Simon stumbled after him.
What had brought all this on? Now the crowding trees seemed a
hostile, whispering throng. He felt like he had been slapped.

"Wait!" he called. "Thinking about what?" But Binabik did not
slow down or turn.

"Come now," he called over his shoulder. His voice was even but
curt. "We must be making better time. With luck we will reach the
Knock before darkness is falling." He whistled for Qantaqa. "Please,
Simon," he said.

And those were his last words for the morning.

^

"There!" Binabik finally broke his silence. The pair stood atop a
ridge, the treetops a humped blanket of green below. "The Knock."

Two more strands of trees were stair-stepped below them, and
beyond these a sloping ocean of grass stretched out to the hills,

280 Tad Williams

which stood profiled by the afternoon sun. "That is Wealdhelm, or
at least its foothills." The troll pointed with his staff. The shadowed,
silhouetted hills, rounded like the backs of sleeping animals, seemed
only a stone's toss away across the expanse of green.

"How far are they ... the hills?" Simon asked. "And how did
we get so high up? I don't remember climbing."

"Climbing we did not do, Simon. The Knock is a dipping-down
place, sunken low like someone has been pushing at it. If you could
be looking backward," he waved back up the ridge, "you would see
that where we now stand, we are a little lower than the Erchester
Plain. And, to give your second question answering, the hills are
being quite some far ways, but your sight is deceiving you to make
them close. In truth, we had better be at climbing if we wish to make
my stopping-place with sun still on us."

The troll trotted a few paces along the ridge. "Simon," he said,
and as he turned the boy could see some of the tightness had left his
jaw and mouth, "I must tell you that even though those Wealdhelm
Hills are babies only compared to my Mintahoq, still to be near high
places again will be ... like wine."

Suddenly childlike again, Simon thought, watching Binabik's
short legs carrying him rapidly down the slope between the trees
. . . No, he thought then, not childlike, that's just the size, but
young, very young.

How old is he, anyway?

The troll was in fact becoming smaller and smaller even as he
watched. Simon cursed mildly and hurried after him.

They went fairly quickly down the broad and well-forested ridges,
even though actual climbing was necessary in some places. Simon
was not at all surprised by the dexterity which Binabik could exer-
cise -- leaping softly as a feather, kicking up less dust than a squirrel,
showing a sureness of foot that Simon was sure the rams of Qanuc
themselves would not scorn. Binabik's nimbleness did not surprise
him, but his own did. He was recovering a little from his earlier
deprivations, it seemed, and a few good meals had gone far toward
restoring the Simon who had once been known around the Hayholt
as "the ghost-boy," -- the fearless scaler-of-towers and tumbler-off-
of-walls. While no match for his mountain-bom companion, he nev-
ertheless felt he made a good account of himself. It was Qantaqa

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             281

who had a few problems, not because she was not surefooted, but
instead because of the few steep downward climbs -- childishly easy
with handholds -- that were too far to jump. Faced with these situa-
tions she growled a little, sounding more annoyed than upset, and
trotted off to find some longer way down, rejoining them usually
within a short time.

When they finally found a winding deer track down the last hum-
mock, the afternoon sun had fallen below the middle of the sky,
warm on their necks and bright in their faces, A tepid breeze rifned
the leaves but failed to dry the sweat on their brows. Simon's cloak,
tied around his waist, made him as middle-heavy as if he had eaten a
large meal.

To his surprise, when they at last reached the upper slopes of the
meadow -- the beginnings of the Knock -- Binabik elected to bear
northeast, hugging the line of the forest, rather than striking out
directly across the whispering, gently undulating ocean of grass.

"But the Wealdhelm Road is on the other side of the hills!" Simon
said. "It would be so much faster to ..."

Binabik held up a stubby paw, and Simon lapsed into sullen si-
lence. "There is faster, Simon-friend, and then there is being ./aster,"
he said, and the cheerful knowingness of his tone almost -- but not
quite -- incited Simon to say something mocking and childish, but
temporarily satisfying. When he had carefully shut his already
opened mouth, Binabik continued. "Do you see, I thought it might
be nice -- beaniceness? . . . a nicety? -- to take some respite tonight
in a place where you may be sleeping in a bed, and eating at a table.
What are you thinking about that, hmmm?"

All his resentment boiled away at that, like a steam from beneath
a raised pot lid. "A bed? Are we going to an inn?" Recalling Shem's
story of the Pookah and the Three Wishes, Simon knew how a
person felt seeing his first wish made real . . . until he abruptly
remembered the Erkynguard, and the hanged thief.

"Not an inn." Binabik laughed at Simon's eagerness. "But just as
good it is -- no, it is a better thing. It is a place where you are being
fed, and rested, and no one is asking who you are or where you come
from." He pointed out across the Knock, toward where the far side
of the forest bowed back around until its perimeter at last ended at
the base of the Wealdhelm's foothills. "Across there, it is, although it
cannot be seen from where we are standing. Come now."

282 Tad Williams

But why can't we walk straight down across the Knock? Simon
wondered. It's as though Binabik doesn't want to be so out in the
open, so . . . exposed.

The troll had indeed taken the northeasterly path, skirting the
wide meadow to travel in Aldheorte's shadow.

And what did he mean about a place where no one asks . . .
whatever all that was . . . ? Is he hiding, too?

"Slow down, Binabik!" he called. At intervals Qantaqa's white
rump bobbed up from the grass, like a seagull floating on the choppy
Kynslagh. "Slow down!" he called again, hurrying now. The wind
caught at his words and gently carried them away up the rippling
slope behind him.

When Simon had drawn abreast of him at last, the sun on both of
their backs, Binabik reached up and patted his elbow.

"Earlier I was being very sharp, very abrupt with you. It was not
my place to so speak. Apologies." He squinted up at the youth, then
turned his eyes ahead to where Qantaqa's tail was waving above the
swaying grass, now here, now there, the banner of a tiny but swiftly
moving army.

"There is nothing . . ." Simon began, but Binabik interrupted.

"Please, please, friend Simon," he said, a note of embarrassment
clear in his voice, "it was not being my place. Say no more." He
lifted both hands up by his ears and waggled them in a strange
gesture. "Rather, let me tell you something of where we go -- Saint
Hoderund's of the Knock."

"What is that?"

"It is the place we will stay. Many times I have been there myself.
It is a retreating place -- a 'monastery' as you Aedonites say. They
are kind to travelers."

This was enough for Simon. Immediately visions of long, high
halls, roasting meat, and clean pallets swarmed through his head -- a
delirium of comforts. He began to walk faster, accelerating almost to
a trot.

"Running is not needed," Binabik admonished him. "It will be
waiting there still, regardless." He cast a look back at the sun, still
several hours above the western horizon. "Do you want me to tell
you of Saint Hoderund's? Or are you knowing already?"

"Tell me," Simon replied. "I know about such places. Someone I
know stayed at the abbey in Stanshire once."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             283

"Well, this is an abbey of speciamess. It has a history."

Simon raised his eyebrows, willing to listen.

"A song there is," Binabik said, "the Lay of Saint Hoderund. It is
much more popular in the south than it is in the north -- north, by
which I am saying Rimmersgard, not Yiqanuc my home -- and it is
obvious why. Are you knowing anything about the battle of Ach
Samrath?"

"That's where the northerners, the Rimmersmen, beat the
Hemystirmen and the Sithi."

"Oho? Then it was some educating you received after all? Yes,
Simon-friend, it was Ach Samrath that saw the Sithi and Hemystir
armies driven from the field by Fingil Redhand. But there were
other, earlier battles, and one of them was here." He spread his hand
to encompass the waving field beside them. "This land was differ-
ently named, then. The Sithi, who were, I suppose, those who knew
it best, called it Ereb Irigu -- Western Gate, that means."

"Who named it the Knock? It's a funny name."

"I do not know with certainty. Myself, I am thinking that the
Rimmersmen's name for the battle is the root. This place they called
Du Knokkegard --  the Boneyard."

Simon looked back across the rustling grass, watching as row
after row bowed in turn beneath the footsteps of the wind. "Bone-
yard?" he asked, and a chill of premonition ran through him.

The wind is always moving out here, he thought. Restless -- like it's
looking for something lost . . .

"Boneyard, yes. There were many underestimations made on both
sides for that battle. These grasses are growing above the graves of
many thousands of men."

Thousands, like the Itch-yard. Another city of the dead beneath
the feet of the living. Do they know? he suddenly wondered. Do they
hear us and hate us for . . . for being in the sun? Or are they hap-
pier being through with it all?

I remember when Shem and Ruben had to put down old Rim the
plow horse. Just before Ruben and the Bear's mallet had fallen, Rim
had looked up at Simon -- eyes mild but knowing, Simon had
thought. Knowing, and yet not caring.

Did King John feel that way at last, old as he was? Ready to go to
sleep, like old Rim?

"And it is a song any harper south of the Frostmarch will sing,"

284 Tad Williams

Binabik said. Simon shook his head and tried to concentrate, but the
sighing of the grass, the drawn whisper of wind, was loud in his ears.
"I, and you may be thanking me for it, will sing no song," Binabik
continued, "but about Saint Hoderund I should explain, since it is to
his house, as it were, we are going."

Boy, troll, and wolf reached the easternmost end of the Knock
and turned again, left sides to the sun. As they waded through the
high grass Binabik pulled off his jacket of hide and knotted the
sleeves about his waist. The shirt that he wore beneath was white
wool, loose-woven and baggy.

"Hoderund," he began, "was a Rimmersman by birth who, after
many experiences, became converted to the Aedonite religion. Even-
tually he was by the church made a priest.

"As it is said, no single stitch is interesting until the cloak has
fallen apart. We would not have a care what Hoderund did, I am
quite sure, had not King Fingil Redhand and his Rimmersmen
crossed the Greenwade River and for the first time moved them-
selves into the lands of the Sithi.

"This, as with most tales of importance, is too long for describing
in an hour of walking. I will avoid those explainings and tell this: the
Northmen had driven all before them, winning for themselves sev-
eral battles in their southern movement. The Hemystiri, under their
Prince Sinnach, decided to meet the Rimmersmen here," Binabik
again waved an all encompassing hand across the breadth of the
sun-tipped prairie, "to put a stop to their onslaught for all and once.

"All people and Sithi were fleeing from the Knock, fearing to be
crushed between two armies -- all were fleeing but Hoderund. Battle,
it is seeming, draws priests like it does flies, and Hoderund it drew.
He went to Fingil Redhand in his tent and then was begging that
king to withdraw, so by sparing the thousands of lives that would be
lost. He preached, in his -- if I may say -- silliness and bravery to
Fingil, telling him of the words ofUsires Aedon to take your enemy
to breast and make him brother.

"Fingil, it is not surprising, thought him a madman, and was
much disgusted to be hearing such words from a fellow Rim-
mersman . . . Oho, is that smoke?"

Catching Simon by surprise with the change of subject -- Binabik's
narrative had lulled him into a sort of sunstruck, walking dream -- 
the troll pointed up the far side of the Knock. Indeed, from behind a

285

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

series of gentle hills, the farthest of which looked to bear the marks
of cultivation, a thin tendril of smoke was rising. "Supper, I am
thinking," Binabik grinned. Simon's mouth fell open in anticipatory
longing. This time the troll quickened his steps as well. They turned
back toward the sun as the forest's dark edge curved around.

"As told," the troll resumed, "Fingil was finding Hoderund's new
Aedonite ideas most offensive. He commanded the priest be exe-
cuted, but a merciful soldier instead let him go.

"But go away Hoderund did not do. When the two armies met at
last, he rushed out onto the battlefield, between directly the Hemys-
tiri and Rimmersgarders, brandishing his Tree and calling down on
to them all the peace of Usires God. Caught between two angry
pagan armies, he was quickly killed very dead.

"So," Binabik waved his stick, beating down a high tussock of
grass, "a story whose philosophy is difficult, hmmm? At least for we
Qanuc, who prefer both being wh&tyou call pagan, and being what /
call alive. The Lector in Nabban, however, called Hoderund a mar-
tyr, and in the early days of Erkynland named this place a church
and abbey for the Order Hoderundian."

"Was it a terrible battle?" Simon asked.

"The Rimmersgard men called this place Boneyard. The later
battle at Ach Samrath was perhaps bloodier, but there was treachery
there. Here at the Knock it was breast to breast, sword on sword,
and blood running like the streams of first thaw."

The sun, sliding low in the sky, beat full in their faces. The after-
noon breeze, which had sprung up in earnest, bent the long grasses
and tossed the hovering insects so that they danced in the air, tiny
flashes of golden light. Qantaqa came charging back through the
field, obliterating in her approach the sawing, hissing music of stem
on stem. As they began to trudge up a long incline she circled them,
waggling her wide head in the air and yipping excitedly. Simon
shielded his eyes, but could see nothing beyond the rise but the
treetops of the forest's edge. He turned to ask Binabik if they were
almost there, but the troll was staring down as he walked, brows
knit in concentration, paying no heed to Simon or the capering wolf.

After some time had passed in silence, sullied only by the swish of
their passage through the heavy grass and an occasional agitated
bark from Qantaqa, Simon's empty stomach steeled him to ask

286 Tad Williams

again He had no sooner opened his mouth when Bmabik astonished
him by breaking into high, keening song

"Ai-Ereb Ingu
Ka'ai shikisi aruya'a
Shishel, shishel burusa'eya
Pikuuru n'dai-tu."

As Simon climbed that light-soaked, wind-nppled hill, the words
and the strange tune seemed a lament of birds, a desolate call from
the high, lonely, unforgiving spaces of the air

"A Sithi song " Bmabik gave Simon an odd, shy look "I am not
singing it well It is about this place, where the first Sithi died at the
hands of Man, where blood was first spilled by the warring of men
on the lands of the Sithi " As he finished speaking he flapped a hand
at Qantaqa, who was bumping his leg with her broad muzzle
"ffimk aid!" he told her "She is smelling people now, and food
cooking," he muttered apologetically

"What did the song say9" Simon asked "The words, I mean "
The strangeness still chilled him, but at the same moment it re-
minded him how big the world truly was, and how little he had seen
even in the busy Hayholt. Small, small, small he felt, smaller than
the little troll climbing beside him

"I doubt, Simon, whether the Sithi words can truly be made for
singing in mortal languages -- whether their thought is being prop-
erly passed on, do you see9 Even worse, it is not the language of my
birthplace that we are speaking, you and I      but I can try "

They strode on some moments longer Qantaqa had grown bored
at last, or had thought better of sharing her lupine enthusiasms with
these cloddish humans, and had disappeared over the top of the rise

"This, I am thinking, is near in meaning," Bmabik said at last,
and then chanted, rather than sang.

"At the Gate of the West
Between the sun's eye and the hearts
Of the ancestors
Falls a tear

Track of light, track of earthward-falling light
Touches iron and becomes smoke     "

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             287

Bmabik laughed self-consciously "Do you see, in the woodcrafty
hands of a troll, the song of air is becoming words of lumpish
stone "

"No," Simon said, "I don't understand it, exactly     but it
makes me     feel something . . "

"That is then good," Bmabik smiled, "but no words of mine can
be matching the Sithi's own songs, especially this one. It is one of
the longest, I am told, and saddest. It is also said that the Eri-kmg
lyu'umgato made it himself, in the last hours before he was killed by
, by . -  Ah! Look, we are now at the top!"

Simon raised his eyes, in truth, they had almost reached the sum-
mit of the long rise, the endless sea ofAldheorte's huddling treetops
stretching before them

But I don't think he stopped talking because of that, Simon
thought. / think he was about to say something he didn't want to
say. .

"How did you leam to sing Sithi songs, Bmabik?" he asked as
they clambered the last few steps to stand on the hill's wide bask,

"We will speak of it, Simon," the troll replied, staring around.
"But now, look! There is the way down to Samt Hoderund'sl"

Starting barely more than a long stone's throw beneath them,
clinging to the hill's sloping side like moss growing on an ancient
tree, twined rows and rows of evenly spaced, carefully tended vines.
They were separated one from the other by horizontal terraces cut
into the hillside, edges rounded as though the soil had been shaped
long ago Paths ran between the vines, winding down the slope as
sinuously as the plants themselves In the valley below, sheltered on
one side by this first, small cousin of the Wealdhelm Hills, and on
the other by the dark border of the forest, a whole basket-weave
pattern of farming plots could be seen, laid out with the meticulous
symmetry of an illuminated manuscript. Farther along, just visible
around thejut of the hill, were the small outbuildings of the abbey, a
rough but well-tended collection of wooden sheds and a fenced-in
field, empty now of sheep or cows A gate, the one small movmg
object in the massive tapestry, swung slowly back and forth

"Follow the paths, Simon, and it is soon we shall be eating, and
perhaps also imbibing a small of the monastenal vintage " Bmabik
started down at a quick walk Within moments he and Simon were
threading their way among the grapevines while Qantaqa, scornful

288 Tad Williams

of the slow traverse of her companions, sprang down the hillside,
leaping over the curling vines without touching a stake or crushing a
single grape beneath her great paws.

Watching his feet as he hurried down the steep path, feeling his
heels skid a little on every long stride, Simon suddenly felt rather
than saw a presence before him. Thinking that the troll had halted
to wait for him, he looked up with a sour expression, about to say
something about showing some mercy for folk who did not grow up
on a mountain. Instead, when his eyes met the nightmare shape
before him, he shouted in fear and lost his footing, tumbling back
onto his rump and sliding two arm's lengths down the path.

Binahik heard him and turned, racing back up the hill to find
Simon sitting in the dirt beneath a large, tattered scarecrow. The
little man looked at the scarecrow, hanging off-center on a wide
stake, its crude, painted face all but wiped away by wind and rain,
then looked down to Simon sucking his scuffed palms in the path.
Binabik suppressed his laughter until he had helped the boy up,
grabbing with his small, strong hands at Simon's elbow and levering
him to his feet, but then could hold back no longer. He turned and
started back down, leaving Simon frowning angrily as the smothered
sounds of the little man's mirth floated up to him.

Simon bitterly knocked the worst of the dirt off his breeches and
checked the two packages tucked in his belt, arrow and manuscript,
to make sure neither was damaged. It was obvious Binabik couldn't
know about the thief hanged at the crossroads, but he had been
there to see the Sithi strung up in the woodsman's trap. So why
should it be so laughable for Simon to be startled?

He felt very foolish, but as he looked again at the scarecrow he
still felt a tremor of foreboding. He reached up to it, grasped the
hollow sack of a head -- rough and cool to the touch -- and folded it
over, tucking the top into the shapeless, tattered cloak that napped
at its shoulders so that the blurry sightless eyes would be hidden. Let
the troll laugh.

Binabik, composed now, was waiting farther down. He did not
apologize, but patted Simon on the wrist and smiled. Simon re-
turned the smile, but his was smaller than Binabik's.

"When I was here three moons ago," Binabik said, "on my trip
passing southward, I ate the most wonderful venison! The brothers
are permitted to take a very few deer from the king's forest for the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             289

succoring of wayfarers -- and themselves, it needs no saying. Oho,
there it is ... and smoke is risingi"

They had rounded the last curve of the hill; the mournful sound of
the squeaking gate was directly below them. Just ahead and down
the slope were the clustered thatch roofs of the abbey- Smoke was
indeed rising, a thin plume floating up to whirl and dissipate in the
wind off the hilltop. But it was not coming from chimney or smoke
hole.

"Binabik . . ." Simon said, surprise not quite turned to alarm.

"Bumed," Binabik whispered. "Or burning. Daughter of the
Mountains . . . !" The gate banged shut and immediately popped
open again. "It is a terrible guest who has come to Saint Hoderund's
house."

To Simon, who had never seen the abbey before, the smoking
waste below seemed Binabik's very story of the Boneyard come to
life. As in the terrible, mad hours beneath the castle, he felt the
jealous claws of the past pushing through to drag present time down
into a dark place of regret and fear.

The chapel, the main abbey, and most of the outbuildings had
been reduced to steaming husks. The charred roof beams, their bur-
dens of wattle and thatch burned away, lay exposed to the ironic
spring sky like the blackened ribs of a hungry god's feast. Scattered
about the surroundings, as if dice-thrown by the selfsame god, were
the bodies of at least a score of men, as rag-jointed and lifeless as the
scarecrow on the hilltop.

"Chukku's Stones . . ." Binabik breathed, still staring, and
tapped himself lightly on the chest with the heel of his hand. He
moved forward, pulling his bag from his shoulder, and hurried down
the hill. Qantaqa, vindicated, barked and capered joyfully.

"Wait," Simon said, barely a whisper. "Wait!" he called, and
lurched after, "Come back! What are you doing? You'll be killedl"

"Hours old this isl" Binabik called without turning. Simon saw
him halt briefly to lean over the first body he reached. A moment
later he trotted on.

Gasping, heart racing with fear despite the obvious truth of the
little man's words, Simon looked at the same body as he passed. It
was a man in a black robe, a monk by his appearance -- his face was
hidden, pressed into the grass. An arrowhead had pushed violently

290 Tad Williams

out through the back of his neck. Flies walked daintily on the dried
blood.

A few steps later Simon tripped and fell, catching himself pain-
fully with the palms of his hands on the gravel path. When he saw
what he had tripped over, and saw the flies resettling on the up-
turned eyes, he was violently, excruciatingly sick.

When Binabik found him, Simon had crawled into the shade of a
chestnut tree. The youth's head nodded bonelessly as Binabik, like a
tender but efficient mother, wiped the bile from his chin with a hank
of grass. The carrion stench was everywhere.

"Bad it is. Bad." Binabik touched Simon's shoulder gently, as if to
reassure himself that the youth was real, then squatted on his
haunches, narrowing his eyes against the last red rays of sunshine.
"I can find no one that is living here. Monks for the greatest part, all
dressed in abbey robes, but there are others, too."

"Others . . . ?" It was a gurgle.

"Men in traveler's clothes . . . Frostmarch men, stopping here
for a night perhaps, although there is a goodish quantity of them.
Several are wearing beards, and to me have the looking of Rim-
mersmen. It is a puzzlement."

"Where's Qantaqa?" Simon asked weakly. He found himself
strangely worried for the wolf, although she of all of them was
probably least in danger.

"Running. Smelling. She is very excited." Binabik, Simon noticed,
had his stick pulled apart, and had tucked the knife section into his
belt. "I wonder," the troll said, staring at the rising smoke as Simon
finally sat up, "what was bringing this on? Bandits? A kind of bat-
tling for religious matters -- I hear that is not uncommon with you
Aedonites -- or what? Most curious . . ."

"Binabik . . ." Simon hawked and spat. His mouth tasted like a
pigkeeper's boots. "I'm frightened." Somewhere in the distance
Qantaqa barked, a surprisingly high-pitched sound.

"Frightened." Binabik's smile was thin as twine. "Frightened is
what you should be." Though his face appeared clear and unwor-
ried, a kind of stunned defenselessness lurked behind the troll's eyes.
That scared Simon more than had anything else. There was some-
thing more; a hint of resignation, as if the awful thing had not been
entirely unexpected.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             291

"I am thinking . . ." Binabik began, when Qantaqa's yipping
suddenly rose into a snarling crescendo. The troll sprang to his feet.
"She has found something," he said, and pulled the startled youth to
his feet with a strong tug on the wrist. "Or something finds
her . . ." With Simon staggering behind him, impulses of flight and
fear twittering through his skull like bats, Binabik dug away in the
direction of the sounds. As he ran, he reached his finger into his
blowpipe to push something into place. Simon knew -- a heavy, for-
bidding realization -- that this dart was black-tipped.

They ran across the abbey grounds, away from the wreckage and
through the orchard, following the sounds of Qantaqa's distress. A
blizzard of apple blossoms fell all around; the wind prodded and
pushed along the edge of the forest.

Less than ten running steps into the wood they saw Qantaqa,
hackles upraised, her growl so deep that Simon could feel it in his
stomach. She had caught a monk, and had backed him against a
poplar trunk. The man held his pectoral Tree on high, as if to call
heavenly lightning down on the offending beast. Despite his heroic
stance, the sick pallor of his face and his trembling arm showed that
he expected no lightning to come. His pop-eyes, exaggerated by fear,
were fixed on Qantaqa: he had not yet seen the two newcomers.

". . . Aedonis Fiyellis extulanin mei . . ." His wide lips worked
convulsively; the shadows of leaves mottled his pink skull.

"Qantaqa!" Binabik shouted, "Sosaf" Qantaqa growled, but her
ears twitched. "Sosa aia!" The troll whacked his hollow stick
against his thigh. The crack echoed. With a last hacking snarl
Qantaqa dropped her head and trotted back toward Binabik. The
monk, staring at Simon and the troll as though they were quite as
terrifying as the wolf, swayed slightly and then toppled backward to
land sitting on the ground with the stunned expression of a child
who has hurt himself but has not yet realized that he wants to cry.

"Usires the merciful," he gabbled at last as the pair hurried to-
ward him, "Usires the merciful, the merciful ..." A wild look
came into his bulging eyes. "Leave me alone, you pagan monsters!"
he shouted, and tried to struggle to his feet. "Murdering bastards,
pagan bastards!" His heel skidded from beneath him and he sat
down again, mumbling. "A troll, a murdering troll . . ." He began
to pinken, his color coming back. He sucked in a great convulsive
breath, then looked as if at last he truly would cry.

292 Tad Williams

Binabik stopped. Grabbing. Qantaqa by the neck, he gestured Si-
mon forward, saying: "Help him."

Simon walked slowly, trying with some difficulty to compose his
face into something befitting a friend coming to help -- his own
heart, after all, was drumming at his ribcage like a woodpecker. "It's
all well, now," he said, "all well."

The monk had covered his face with his sleeve. "Killed them all,
now you want us, too," he cried, his voice, though muffled, sounding
more of self-pity than fear.

"A Rimmersman, he is," said Binabik, "as if you would not be
guessing already to hear him at slandering the Qanuc. Pfah." The
troll made a disgusted noise. "Help him up, friend Simon, and let us
take him out into the light."

Simon got the man's bony, black-robed elbow and laboriously
steered him onto his feet, but when he tried to guide him toward
Binabik the man pulled away.

"What are you doing?'" he shouted, feeling on his chest for his
Tree. "Making me desert the others? No, you just get away from
me!"

"Others?" Simon turned questioningly to Binabik. The troll
shrugged and scratched the wolf's ears. Qantaqa seemed to grin as if
the spectacle amused her.

"Are there others alive?" the boy asked gently. "We will help you,
and them, too, if we can. I am Simon, and that is my friend
Binabik." The monk stared at him suspiciously. "I believe you met
Qantaqa already," Simon added, and immediately felt sorry for the
poor joke. "Come, who are you? Where are these others?"

The monk, whose composure was beginning to return, gave him a
long, mistrustful look, then turned to stare briefly at troll and wolf.
When he turned back to Simon, some of the tension had left his face.

"If you are indeed . . . a good Aedonite acting in charity, then I
ask your forgiveness." The monk's tone was stiff, as in one unused to
apologizing. "I am Brother Hengfisk- Does that wolf . . ." he
turned his gaze sideways, "does he accompany you?"

"She does," Binabik said sternly before Simon could answer. "Too
bad it is that she frightened you, Rimmersman, but you must notice
that she did you no harm."

Hengfisk did not reply to Binabik. "I have left my two charges for
too long a time," he told Simon. "I must go to them now."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             293

"We'll come with you," Simon replied. "Perhaps Binabik can
help. He is very gifted with herbs and things."

The Rimmersman briefly raised his eyebrows, which made his
eyes seem to bulge all the more. His smile was bitter. "It is a kind
thought, boy, but I am afraid Brother Langrian and Brother
Dochais are not going to be helped by any . . . woodland poul-
tices." He turned on his heel and struck off", rather unsteadily, into
the deeper forest.

"But wait!" called Simon. "What happened to the abbey?"

"I do not know," Hengfisk said without turning, "I was not here."

Simon looked to Binabik for help, but the troll made no immedi-
ate move to follow. Instead, he called after the limping monk.

"Oh, Brother Hangfish?"

The monk whirled, furious. "My name is Hengfisk, troll!" Simon
noted how quickly color came to his face.

"I was merely making translation for my friend," Binabik grinned
his yellow grin, "who is not speaking the language of Rimmersgard.
You say you are not knowing what happened. Where were you when
your brethren were being so very slaughtered?"

The monk seemed about to spit back a reply, but instead reached
his hand up to his Tree and clutched it, A moment later, in a quieter
voice, he said: "Come, then, and see. I have no secrets from you,
troll or from my God." He stalked away.

"Why were you making him mad, Binabik?" Simon whispered.
"Haven't enough bad things happened here already?"

Binabik's eyes were slits, but he had not lost his grin. "Perhaps I
am being unkind, Simon, but you heard his speaking. You have not
been seeing his eyes. Do not let yourself be fooled by the wearing of
a holy robe. We Qanuc have wakened too many times in the night,
finding eyes like this Hengfisk's looking down on us, and torches and
axes close by. Your Usires Aedon has not burned with success that
hatred from his northern heart." With a cluck for Qantaqa to fol-
low, the troll moved after the stiff-backed priest.

"But, listen to you!" Simon said, holding Binabik's eye. "You're
full of hatred, too,"

"Ah." The troll lifted a finger before his now-expressionless face.
"But I am not claiming to believe in your -- forgive the saying -- 
upside-down God of Mercy."

Simon took a breath to say something, then thought better of it.

294 Tad Williams

*

Brother Hengfisk turned once, silently taking notice of their pres-
ence. He did not speak again for some time. The light that filtered
through the leaves was fast diminishing; within a short time his
angular, black-robed form was little more than a moving shadow
before them. Simon was startled when he turned and said: "Here."
He led them around the base of a great fallen tree whose exposed
roots resembled more than anything else a huge broom -- a broom
that would have fired the imagination of Rachel the Dragon toward
heroic, legendary feats of sweeping.

Simon's wry thought of Rachel, coupled with the day's events,
brought on a pang of homesickness so intense that he stumbled,
catching himself with a hand against the scaly bark of the fallen tree.
Hengfisk was kneeling, throwing branches into a small fire that
glowed in a shallow pit. Lying beside the fire, one on either side in
the shelter of the tree's toppled length, were two men.

"This is Langrian," Brother Hengfisk said, indicating the one on
the right, whose face was largely obscured by a bloody bandage
made of sacking. "I found him, the only one alive at the abbey when
I returned. I think Aedon will take him back soon." Even in the
fading light Simon could see that Brother Langrian's skin, that
which showed, was pale and waxy. Hengfisk threw another stick on
the fire as Binabik, without meeting the Rimmersman's eyes once,
kneeled down beside the injured man and began to gently examine
him.

"That one is Dochais," Hengflsk said, gesturing to the other man,
who lay as limply as Langrian, but without visible injury. "It was
him I went out to find when he did not come back from his vigil.
When I brought Dochais back -- carried him -- " there was bitter
pride in Hengfisk's tone, "I returned to find ... to find all dead."
He made the sign of the Tree on his breast. "All but Langrian."

Simon moved close to Brother Dochais, a thin, young man with a
long nose and the blue chin-stubble of the Hemystiri. "What hap-
pened to him? What's wrong?"

"I do not know, boy," Hengfisk said. "He is mad. He has caught
up some fever of the brain." He returned to his search for firewood.

Simon watched Dochais for a moment, noting the man's labored
breathing and the slight trembling of his thin eyelids. As he turned
to look over to Binabik, who was delicately unwinding the bandage

THE DRACONBONE CHAIR             295

around Langrian's head, a white hand came up like a snake from the
black robe before him and caught his shirt-front in a horrifically
powerful grip.

Dochais, eyes still shut, had stiffened, his back so bowed that his
waist rose from the ground. His head was thrown back, and snapped
from side to side.

"Binabik!" Simon shouted in terror, "he's . . . he's . . ."

"Aaaahhhh!" The voice that pushed up from Dochais' straining
throat was harsh with pain. "The black wagon! See, it is coming for
met" He thrashed again, like a landed fish, and his words brought
Simon a thrill of reawakening horror.

The hilltop ... 7 remember something . . . and the creak of
black wheels . . . oh, Morgenes, what am I doing here?!

A moment later, while Binabik and Hengfisk stared in amazement
from the far side of the fire pit, Dochais had pulled Simon forward
until the youth's face was almost touching the Hernystirman's own
fear-stretched features.

"They are taking me back'" the monk hissed, " -- back to ...
back to . . . that terrible place!" Shockingly, his eyes popped open
and stared blindly into Simon's own, a handsbreadth away. Simon
could not struggle out of the monk's grip, even though Binabik was
now at his side trying to help pull him free.

"You know!" Dochais cried, "you know who it is! You have been
marked! Marked like I was! I saw them as they passed -- the white
foxes! They walked in my dream! The white foxes! Their master has
sent them to put ice on our hearts, and take away our souls on their
black, black wagon!"

And then Simon was loose, gasping and sobbing. Binabik and
Hengfisk held the twitching monk until he finally stopped thrashing.
The silence of the black forest returned, surrounding the tiny camp-
fire as the gulfs of night embrace a dying star.

20

The Shadow
of the Wheel

^

HE WAS standing on the open plain at the center of a vast, shallow
bowl of grass, a speck of pale upright life in the midst of an endless
riot of green. Simon had never felt quite so exposed, so naked to the
sky. The fields sloped up and away from him; the horizon on all
sides made a tight seal of grass and stone-gray sky.

After a span that could have been moments or years in such
impersonal, fixed timelessness, the horizon was breached.

With the ponderous creak of a ship of war under heavy wind, a
dark object appeared above the rim that was the outermost limit of
Simon's view. It rose and rose, impossibly tall, until its shadow fell
across Simon at the valley's depth -- the shadow's impact was so
sudden that it seemed almost to resound as it struck, a deep, rever-
berating hum that shook Simon's bones.

The great bulk of the thing came clear against the sky as it stood
for a long moment poised on the valley's edge. It was a wheel, a
huge black wheel as tall as a tower. Sunk in the twilight of its
shadow, Simon could only gape as it began to turn with excruciating
deliberateness, to slowly roll down the long green slope, spouting
flayed gouges of sod behind it. Simon stood frozen in its awful path
as it ground on, as inexorable as the millstones of Hell.

Now it was over him, rim foremost, a black trunk stretching to
the firmament, raining turf down all round. The ground beneath
Simon's feet pitched forward as the weight of the wheel tipped the
bed of the earth. He stumbled, and as he found his balance the black
rim was upon him. As he stared, mute and horrified, a gray shadow
passed before his eyes, a gray shadow with a flashing core ... a
sparrow, flying madly past, with some bright thing caught up in its
curling grip. He flicked his eyes to follow, and then, as if it had

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             297

somehow caught at his heart in its swift passage, he flung himself
after it, out of reach of the plunging wheel . . .

But even as he dove, and the wall-wide rim smashed down,
Simon's pants leg was snagged by a burning cold nail protruding
from the great wheel's outer edge. The sparrow, only inches away,
fluttered free, spiraling up gray on gray against the slate sky like a
moth, its glinting burden disappearing with it into the twilight. A
great voice spoke.

You have been marked.

The wheel took Simon and tumbled him, shook him like a hound
breaking a rat's neck. Then it rolled on, yanking him high up into
the air. Dangling, he was pulled skyward, the ground rocking and
pitching beneath his head like a pulsing green sea. The wind of the
wheel's passage was all around him as he rose, circling toward the
apex; the blood sang in his ears-
Scrabbling with his hands in the grass and mud that clotted the
broad rim, Simon pulled himself painfully upright; riding the wheel
as though it were the back of some cloud-tall beast. He rose ever
nearer to the arching sky.

He reached the top, and for a moment sat perched at the world's
summit. All the spreading fields of Osten Ard were visible beyond
the rim of the valley. The sunlight lanced through the dim sky to
touch on the battlements of a castle, and onto a beautiful shining
spire, the only thing in the world that seemed as tall as the black
wheel. He blinked, seeing something familiar in its sweeping line,
but even as it began to come clear the wheel ground on, pushing him
over the top, then pulling him swiftly toward the ground so far
below.

He struggled with the nail, ripping at his pants leg to work him-
self loose, but somehow he and the nail became one; he could not
break free. The ground leaped up. The two, Simon and the virgin
green earth, were rushing together with a noise like the homs of the
final day booming through the valley. He struck -- the two came
together -- and the wind and the light and the music blew away like a
candle flame.

Suddenly:

298 Tad Williams

Simon was in darkness, deep in earth which parted before
him like water. There were voices around him, slow halting
voices that issued from mouths full of choking dirt.

Who enters our house?

Who comes to disturb our sleep, our long sleep?

They will steal from us! The thieves will take from us our quiet
and our dark beds. They will drag us up again through the
Bright Gate . . .

As the mournful voices cried Simon felt hands clutch at him,
hands as cold and dry as bone, or as wet and soft as burrowing roots,
stretching, twining fingers reaching out to catch him up to empty
breasts ... but they could not stop him. The wheel rolled, rolled,
grinding him downward, ever farther, until the voices died behind
him and he was sliding through gelid, silent darkness.

Darkness . . .

Where are you, boy? Are you dreaming? I can almost touch you. It
was Pryrates' voice that suddenly spoke, and he felt the malevolent
weight of the alchemist's thoughts behind it. / know now who you are
 -- Morgenes' boy, a scullion, a meddler. You have seen things you
should not have seen, kitchen boy -- trifled with things beyond you.
You know far too much. I will search you out.

Where are you?

And then there was a greater darkness, a shadow beneath the
shadow of the wheel, and deep in that shadow two red fires
bloomed, eyes that must have gazed from a skull horribly full of
flame.

No, mortal, a voice said, and in his head it had the sound of ashes
and earth, and the mute, unvoiced end of things. No, this is not for
you. The eyes flared, full of curiosity and glee. We will take this one,
priest.

Simon felt Pryrates' hold slipping away, the alchemist's power
withering before the dark thing.

Welcome, it said. This is the Storm King's house, here beyond the
Darkest Gate . . .

What ... is . . . your . . . name?

And the eyes fell in, like crumbling embers, and the emptiness
behind them burned colder than ice, hotter than any fire ... and
darker than any shadow ...

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             299

"No!" Simon thought he shouted, but his mouth, too, was full of
earth. "I won't tell youF

Perhaps we will give you a name . . . you must have a name, little
fly, little dust speck . . . so that we will know you when we meet
. . . you must be marked . . .

"No!" He tried to struggle free, but the weight of a thousand years
of earth and stone were upon him- "/ don't want a name! I don't
want a name! 11 don't . . ."

"- . . want a name from you!" Even as his last cry echoed out
through the trees, Binabik was crouching over him, a look of real
concern etched on his face. The weak morning sunlight, sourceless
and directionless, filled the glade.

"A madman, and one near death I have already to nurse."
Binabik said as Simon sat up, "and now you must start shouting in
your sleep as well?" He wanted it to be a joke, but the morning was
too cold and thin to support the attempt. Simon was shivering,

"Oh, Binabik, I ..." He felt a trembling, sickly smile come to
his face, forced out by the simple fact of being in. the light, of being
on top of the ground. "I had a terrible, terrible dream."

"I am not very surprised," the troll said, and squeezed Simon's
shoulder. "A terrible day yesterday would not by chance alone lead
to less-than-restful sleeping." The little man straightened up. "If you
like, be free to find something to eat in my bag- I am at tending the
two monks." He pointed to the dark shapes on the far side of the
campfire. The nearer one, who Simon guessed was Langrian, was
wrapped in a dark green cloak.

"Where is . . ." Simon remembered the name after a few mo-
ments, ". . . Hengfisk?" His head was pounding, and his jaw
throbbed as though he had been cracking nuts with his teeth.

"The unpleasant Rimmersman -- who, in fairness it is necessary to
say, did give his cloak for warming Langrian -- is off searching in the
wreckage of his home for food and such things. I must be returning
to my wards, Simon, if you are feeling better."

"Oh, certainly. How are they?"

"Langrian, I have pleasure to say, is much improved." Binabik
gave a little nod of satisfaction. "He has been sleeping quietly for
some long time -- a claim you cannot also be making, hmmm?" The
troll smiled. "Brother Dochais, sadly, is beyond my help, but he is
not sick except in his fearful thoughts. Him I have given something

300 Tad Williams

to help sleep also. Now please forgive, I must look at Brother Lang-
rian's dressings."

Binabik stood and stumped off around the fire pit, stepping over
Qantaqa who lay sleeping near the warm stones, and whose back
Simon had previously taken for another large rock.

The wind lightly fingered the leaves of the oak tree above his head
as Simon rimed through Binabik's bag. He pulled out one small sack
that felt as though it might contain breakfast, but even before he
opened it a clinking noise told him it held the strange bones he had
seen before. A further search turned up smoked, dried meat
wrapped in a rough cloth, but as soon as he had the package open he
realized that the last thing he wanted to do was put food of any kind
into his churning stomach.

"Is there any water, Binabik? Where's your skin?"

"Better, Simon," the troll called from his crouch over Brother
Langrian. "A stream there is just a short walk down this way." He
pointed, then reached down and tossed Simon the skin bag. "Filling
this will be a help for me."

As Simon picked up the skin, he saw his twin bundles lying
nearby. On an impulse, he caught up the rag-wrapped manuscript
and brought it with him as he walked down to the stream.

The streamlet moved sluggishly, and its eddies were clogged with
twigs and leaves. Simon had to clear a space before he could lean
down and bring up handfuls of water to splash his face. He scrubbed
hard with his fingers -- it felt as though the smoke and blood of the
ruined abbey's ending had worked its way into his every pore and
wrinkle. Afterward he drank several great swallows, then filled
Binabik's bag.

He sat down on the bank, and his mind turned to the dream that
had cloaked his thoughts like a dank mist since he had arisen. Like
Brother Dochais' wild words of the night before, the dream had
raised dreadful shadows in Simon's heart, but the daylight was even
now melting them away like unquiet ghosts, leaving only a residue
of fear. All he remembered was the great black wheel as it had borne
down upon him. All else was gone, leaving black, empty spots in his
mind, doors of forgetfulness he could not open.

Still, he knew that he was caught up in something larger than just
the struggle of royal brothers -- greater even than the death of that
good old man Morgenes, or the slaughter of a score of holy men.

301

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

These were all but eddies of some larger, deeper current -- or, rather,
small things crushed by the heedless turning of a mighty wheel- His
mind could not grasp what it all might mean, and the more he
thought, the more elusive such ideas became. He only understood
that he had fallen beneath the wheel's broad shadow, and if he were
to survive, he must harden himself to its dreadful revolutions.

Slumped on the bank, the thin fizz of the insects who hovered
over the stream filling the air, Simon unwrapped the pages of
Morgenes' life of Prester John and began to leaf through it. He had
not looked at it in some time, due to long marching and early bed-
time once camp was made. He pulled apart some of the pages where
they had stuck to each other, reading a sentence here, a handful of
words there, not caring so much what it said as indulging in the
comforting memory of his friend. Staring at the script, he remem-
bered the old man's slender, blue-veined hands, nimble and clever as
nest-building birds.

A passage caught his eye. It was on a page Following a crude,
hand-drawn map that the doctor had titled at the bottom; "The
Battle-field at Nearulagh." The sketch itself was of little interest, as
for some reason the old man had not bothered to label any of the
armies or landmarks, nor had he included an explanatory caption.
The subsequent text, however, leaped out at him, an answer of a sort
to thoughts that had been plaguing him since the awful discovery of
the day before.

"Neither War nor Violent Death," Morgenes had written,
"have anything uplifting about them, yet they are the candle to
which Humanity flies again and again, as complacently as the
lowly moth. He who has been upon a battlefield, and who is not
blinded by popular conceptions, will confirm that on this ground
Mankind seems to have created a Hell on Earth out of sheer
impatience, rather than waiting for that original to which -- if the
priests are correct -- most of us will eventually be ushered.

"Still, it is the field of war that determines those things that
God has forgotten -- accidentally or not, what mortal can know?
 -- to order and arrange. Hence, it is often the arbiter of Divine
Will. and Violent Death is its Law Scribe."

302 Tad Williams

Simon smiled, and drank a little water. He remembered very well
Morgenes' habit of comparing things to other things, like people to
bugs, and Death to a wrinkly old archive-priest. Usually these com-
parisons had been beyond Simon, but sometimes, as he strained to
follow the twists and turns of the old man's thoughts, a meaning had
come clear all of a sudden, like a curtain drawn from in front of a
sunny window.

"John Presbyter," the doctor had also written, "was without
doubt one of the greatest warriors of the age, and without that
ability would never have risen to his final, royal state. But it was
not his battling that made him a great king; rather it was his use
of the tools of kingship that battling brought into his hands, his
statecraft and his example to the common people.

"In fact, his greatest strengths on the field of combat were his
worst failings as High King. In the pitch of battle he was a
fearless, laughing killer, a man who destroyed the lives of those
who came against him with the cheerful enjoyment of an
Utanyeat hedge-baron arrow-feathering a buck deer.

"As a king he was sometimes prone to quick action and heed-
lessness, and it was in that way he very nearly lost the Battle of
Elvritshalla Dale, and did lose the good will of the conquered
Rimmersgarders."

Simon frowned as he traced along the passage. He could feel sun-
light slipping down through the trees to heat the back of his neck.
He knew he really should get the water skin back to Binabik . . .
but it had been so long since he had sat quietly by himself, and he
was most curiously surprised to read Morgenes apparently speaking
ill of the golden, indomitable Prester John, a man who figured in so
many songs and stories that only the name of Usires Aedon was
better known in all the world, and that not by a long measure.

"By contrast." the passage continued, "the one man who was
John's match on the field of war was his virtual opposite.
Camaris-sd-Vinitta, last prince of the Nabbanai royal house, and
brother of the current duke, was a man to whom war seemed
only another fleshly distraction. Astride his horse Alarm, and
with the great sword Thorn in his hand, he was probably the most

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             303

deadly man in our world -- yet he took no pleasure from battle,
and his great skill was only a burden, in that his mighty reputa-
tion brought many against him who would otherwise have had no
cause, and forced him to kill when he would not.

"It is said in the book of the Aedon that when the priests of
Yuvenis came to arrest Holy Usires he went willingly, but when
they purposed to take also His acolytes Sutrines and Granis,
Usires Aedon would not have it, and slew the priests with a touch
of His hand. He wept at the slaying, and blessed their bodies.

"So it was with Camaris, if so sacrilegious a comparison can be
made. If anyone approached the terrible power and universal
love which Mother Church imputes to Usires, Camaris was that
one, a warrior who killed with no hatred for his enemies, and yet
was the most terrifying fighter of this, or probably any
other . . ."

"Simon! Will you please come quickly! I need water, and I am
needing it now!"

The sound of Binabik's voice, harsh with urgency, made Simon
jump guiltily. He scrambled up the bank toward the camp.

But Camaris was a great fighter! All the songs described him
laughing heartily as he hewed the heads from the wild men of the
Thrithings.

Shem used to sing one, how did it go . . . ?

". . . He gave them the left side

He gave them the right side.

He shouted and he sang

As they ran and showed their backside.

Camaris came a-laughing

Camaris came a-fighting

Camaris came a-riding

Through the Battle of the Thrithings ..."

As he emerged from the brush Simon saw in the bright sunlight -- 
how had the sun gotten so high? -- that Hengfisk had returned, and
that he and Binabik were crouching over the supine form of Brother
Langrian.

304 Tad Williams

"Here, Binabik." Simon handed the skin bag to the kneeling troll.

"It was a fine long time you were . . ." Binabik began, then
broke off, shaking the water bag. "Half full?" he said, and the look
on his face made Simon blush with shame.

"I had just drunk some when you called," he offered. Hengfisk
turned a reptilian eye on him and scowled.

"Well," Binabik said, returning to Langrian, who looked much
rosier than Simon remembered, " 'Climbed is climbed, fallen is
fallen/ I think our friend here is to be improving." He lifted the bag
and squirted a few drops of water into Langrian's mouth. The un-
conscious monk coughed and sputtered for a moment, then his
throat moved convulsively as he swallowed.

"Do you see?" Binabik asked proudly, "it is the wound on the
head that I believe I am . . ."

Before Binabik could finish his explanation, Langrian's eyes flut-
tered open. Simon heard Hengfisk suck in a sharp breath. Langrian's
gaze wandered blearily over the faces that hovered above him, then
his eyes fell shut again.

"More water, troll," hissed Hengflsk.

"What am I doing here is what I know, Rimmersman," Binabik
replied with icy dignity. "You were already performing your duty
when you pulled him from the ruins. Now I am at performing mine,
and need no suggestions." As he spoke the little man trickled water
past Langrian's cracked lips. After some moments the monk's thirst-
swollen tongue pushed out of his mouth like a bear coming up from
a winter's sleep. Binabik moistened it with the bag, then dampened a
cloth and draped it across Langrian's forehead, which was traced
with healing cuts.

Finally he opened his eyes again, and seemed to focus on
Hengfisk. The Rimmersman took Langrian's hand in his.

"Heh . . . Hen . . ." Langrian croaked. Hengfisk pressed the
damp cloth against the skin.

"Don't speak, Langrian. Rest."

Langrian turned his eyes slowly from Hengfisk to Binabik and
Simon, then back to the monk. "Others . . . ?" he managed to say-

"Rest, now. You must rest."

"This man and I are agreeing at last on something." Binabik
smiled at his patient. "You should take sleep."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             305

Langrian appeared to want to speak more, but before he could his
eyelids slid down, as if heeding advice, and he slept.

^

Two things happened that afternoon. The first occurred while
Simon, the monk, and the troll were eating a sparse meal. Since
Binabik had not wanted to leave Langrian there was no fresh game;

the trio made do with dried meat and the products of Simon's and
Hengfisk's foraging, berries and a few greenish nuts.

As they sat, chewing silently, each wrapped in his own very differ-
ent thoughts -- Simon's an equal mixture of the horrid dream-wheel
and the triumphant battlefield figures of John and Camaris -- 
Brother Dochais suddenly died.

One moment he was sitting quietly, awake but not eating -- he had
refused the berries Simon offered him, staring like a mistrustful ani-
mal until the boy took them away -- and a moment later he had
rolled over on his face, quivering at first and then pitching violently.
By the time the others could turn him over his eyes had rolled up,
showing a ghastly white in his dirt-smeared face; a moment later he
had quit breathing, although his body remained as rigid as a spar.
Shaken as he was, Simon was certain that just before the final pas-
sion he had heard Dochais whisper "Storm King." The words
bumed in his ears and troubled his heart, although he did not know
why, unless he had heard them in his dream. Neither Binabik nor
the monk said anything, but Simon was sure they had both heard.

Hengfisk, to Simon's surprise, wept bitterly over the body. He
himself, in some strange way, felt almost relieved, a bizarre emotion
that he could neither understand nor quell. Binabik was as unread-
able as stone.

The second thing happened as Binabik and Hengfisk were argu-
ing, an hour or so later.

". . . And I am agreeing we will help, but you are upon the
wrong ledge if you think to order me." Binabik's anger was tightly
controlled, but his eyes had narrowed to black slashes beneath his
brows.

"But you will only help bury Dochais! Would you leave the others

306

Tad Williams

to be food for wolves?" Hengfisk's anger was not at all controlled,
and his eyes pushed out, wide and staring in his reddening face.

"I tried to help Dochais," the troll snapped. "I failed. We will
bury him, if that is what you wish. But it is not my plan to be
spending three days to bury all of your dead brethren. And there are
worse purposes they could serve than 'food for wolves' -- and per-
haps did while living, some of them!"

It took a moment for Hengfisk to work out Binabik's tangled
speech, but when he did his color grew even brighter, if such was

possible.

"You . . . you heathen monster! How can you speak ill of unbur-

ied dead, you . . . poisonous dwarf'"

Binabik smiled, a flat, deadly smile. "If your God loves them so,
then he has taken their . . . souls, yes? ... up to Heaven, and to
be lying around will do harm only to their mortal bodies - . ."

Before another word could be spoken, both combatants were star-
tled out of their dispute by a deep growl from Qantaqa, who had
been napping on the far side of the fire pit, beside Langrian. In a
moment it became clear what had startled the gray wolf.

Langrian was talking.

"Someone . . . someone warn the ... the abbot . . . treach-
ery! . . ." The monk's voice was a harsh whisper.

"Brother!" Hengfisk cried, limping quickly to his side. "Save your

strength!"

"Let him speak," Binabik replied. "It might be saving our lives,

Rimmersman."

Before Hengfisk could respond, Langrian's eyes were open. Star-
ing first at Hengfisk, then at his surroundings, the monk shuddered
as though with a chill, despite being wrapped in a heavy cloak.

"Hengflsk  . . ." he grated, tt. . .  the others  ...  are

they . . . ?"

"All dead," said Binabik plainly.

The Rimmersman shot him a hateful glance. "Usires has taken
them back, Langrian," he said. "Only you were spared."

"I ... I feared it . . ."

"Can you tell us what happened?" The troll leaned forward and
put another damp cloth on the monk's forehead. Simon could see
now for the first time, behind the blood and scars and sickness, that
Brother Langrian was quite young, perhaps not yet twenty years of

307

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

age. "Do not tire yourself too much," Binabik added, "but tell us
what you know."

Langrian closed his eyes again, as if falling back into sleep, but he
was only marshaling his strength. "There were ... a dozen or so
men who came . . . came in, sheltering from ... off the Road."
He licked his lips; Binabik brought the water bag. "Many large . . .
parties are traveling these days. We gave them to eat, and Brother
Scenesefa . . . put them up in Traveler's Hall."

As he drank water and talked, the monk seemed to slowly gain
strength. "They were a strange lot ... didn't come down to the
main hall that night, except the leader -- a pale-eyed man who bore
... an evil-looking helm . . . and dark armor -- he asked . . .
asked if we had heard word of a party of Rimmersmen coming
North . . . from Erchester. ..."

"Rimmersmen?" said Hengfisk, frowning.

Erchester? thought Simon, wracking his brain. Who could it be?

"Abbot Quincines told the man we had heard of no such party
. . . and he seemed . . . satisfied. The abbot seemed troubled, but
of course he did not share his worry with ... we younger broth-
ers. . . .

"The next morning one of the brothers came in from the hill-fields
to report a company of riders from the south ... the strangers
seemed . . . very interested, saying that it was . . . the rest of
their original party come to meet them. Their pale-eyed leader . . .
took his men out to the great courtyard, to greet the new arrivals -- 
or so we thought. . . .

"Just as the new company had crested Vine Hill and been sighted
from the abbey -- they looked to be only a ... head or two fewer
than our current guests. . . ."

Here Langrian had to stop for a moment's rest, panting slightly.
Binabik would have given him something to make him sleep, but the
injured monk waved away the troll's offer.

"Not much . . . more to tell. One of the other brothers . . .
saw one of the guests come running out, late, from Traveler's Hall.
He had not finished donning his cloak -- they were all cloaked,
'though the morning was warm -- and beneath it there was the flash
of a sword blade. The brother ran to the abbot, who had feared
something of the like. Quincines went to confront the leader. Mean-
while, we could see the men riding down the hill -- Rimmersmen all,

308 Tad Williams

bearded and braided. The abbot told the leader he and his men must
put up, that Saint Hoderund's would not be the site of some bandit
struggle. The leader pulled his sword out and put it to Quincines*
throat."

"Merciful Aedon," breathed Hengfisk-

"A moment later we heard hoofbeats. Brother Scenesefa suddenly
ran to the courtyard gate and shouted a warning to the approaching
strangers. One of the ... 'guests' . . . put an arrow in his back,
and the leader slit the abbot's throat."

Hengfisk stifled a sob and made the sign of the Tree over his heart,
but Langrian's face was solemn, emotionless; he continued his narra-
tive without pausing.

"Then there was carnage, the strangers leaping onto the brothers
with knife and sword, or pulling bows and arrows from places of
hiding. When the new arrivals came through the gate it was with
their own swords drawn . , , I suppose they heard Scenesefa's
warning, and saw him shot down in the gateway arch.

"I do not know what happened then, for all was madness. Some-
one threw a torch upon the chapel roof, and it caught afire. I ran for
water as people screamed and horses screamed and . . . and some-
thing hit me on the head. That is all."

"So you do not know who was in either of these two warring
bands?" Binabik asked. "Did they fight with each other, or were
they being partners?"

Langrian nodded seriously. "They fought. The ambushers had a
much more difficult time with them than they did with unarmed
monks. That is all I can say -- all I know."

"May they bum!" hissed Brother Hengfisk.

"They shall." Langrian sighed. "I think I must sleep again." He
closed his eyes, but his breathing did not change,

Binabik straightened up. "I think I will be walking a short ways,"
he said. Simon nodded. "Ninit, Qantaqa," he called, and the wolf
leaped up, stretched, and followed him. He had vanished into the
woods within moments, leaving Simon with the three monks, two
living, one dead.

The services for Dochais were brief and spare. Hengfisk had found
a winding sheet in the ruins of the abbey. They wrapped it around
Dochais' thin body and lowered him into a hole the three able-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             309

bodied folk had dug in the abbey's cemetery, while Langrian slept in
the forest with Qantaqa for a guardian. The digging had been hard
work -- the fire in the great barn had burned the wooden handles
from the shovels, leaving only the blades to be wielded by hand -- 
straining, sweaty work. By the time Brother Hengfisk had completed
his impassioned prayers, coupling them with promises of divine jus-
tice -- seeming to forget in his fervor that Dochais had been far away
from the abbey when the murderers had done their work -- it was the
darkling tag-end of afternoon. The sun had dropped until there was
nothing left but a bright residue along the crest of Vine Hill, and the
grass of the churchyard was dark and cool. Binabik and Simon left
Hengflsk crouching at the graveside, goggle-eyes tightly shut in
prayer, and went to forage and explore around the abbey lands.

Although the troll was careful to avoid as much as possible of the
scene of the tragedy, its results were so widespread that Simon
quickly began to wish he had returned to the forest camp to wait
with Langrian and Qantaqa. A second hot day had done nothing to
improve the condition of the bodies: in their bloated, swollen pink-
ness Simon saw an unpleasant similarity to the roast pig that
crowned the Lady Day table at home. A part of him was scornful of
his weakheartedness -- hadn't he already seen violent death, a battle-
fleld-fiill in a few short weeks? -- but he realized as he walked . . .
trying to keep his eyes ahead, to avoid the sight of other eyes, glazed
and cracked by the sun . . . that death, at least for him, was never
the same, no matter how veteran an observer he had become. Each
one of these ruined sacks of bone and sweetbreads had been a life
once, a beating heart, a voice that complained or laughed or sang.

Someday this will happen to me, he thought as they threaded their
way around the side of the chapel,  -- and who will remember me? He
could find no ready answer, and the sight of the tiny field of grave
markers, their tidiness cruelly lampooned by the sprawled bodies of
slain monks, offered him little comfort.

Binabik had found the charred remnants of the chapel's side door,
areas of sound wood showing through the coal-black surface like
streaks of new-cleaned brass on an old lamp. The troll poked at the
door, knocking loose burned fragments, but the structure held. He
gave it a more vigorous poke with his stick, but still it stuck closed, a
sentry who had died on watch.

"Good," Binabik said. "It is suggesting we may wander inside

310 Tad Williams

without the whole structure crashing upon our heads." He took his
stick and poked it in through a fissure between door and frame, then
used it like a mason's prybar, pushing and levering until, with a little
help from Simon, it sprang open in a shower of black dust.

After working so hard to open a door, it was truly strange to enter
and find the roof gone, the chapel as open to the air as an unlidded
cask. Simon looked up to see the sky framed above him, going red at
the bottom and gray at the top with the onset of evening. Around
the top of the walls the windows were blackened in their frames, the
leading twisted outward, spilling its sooty glass as though a giant
hand had pulled off the roof, reached down through the beams and
poked out each window with a titan finger.

A quick survey turned up nothing of use. The chapel, perhaps
because of its rich draperies and hangings, had burned to the walls.
Crumbled ash sculptures of benches and stairs and an altar stood in
place, and the stone altar steps bore the ghost of a floral wreath, a
perfect, impossibly delicate crown of paper-thin leaves and diapha-
nous gray ash-flowers.

Next, Simon and Binabik made their way across the commons to
the residences, a long low hall of tiny cells. The damage here was
moderate -- one end had caught fire, but for some reason had burned
out before the conflagration had spread.

"Be looking especially for boots," Binabik said. "It is sandals
these abbey men wear mostly, but some of them may occasionally
need to ride or travel in cold weather. Some that are fitting you are
best, but in necessity settle for too large rather than too small."

They started at opposite ends of the long hall. None of the doors
were locked, but they were distressingly bare little rooms, a Tree on
the wall the only decoration in most. One monk had hung a flower-
ing rowan branch above his hard pallet; its jauntiness in such spare
surroundings cheered Simon immensely, until he remembered the
fate of the room's resident.

On the sixth or seventh, Simon was startled when his pulling open
the cell door was followed by a hissing noise and the blur of some-
thing whisking past his ankle. At first he thought an arrow had been
shot at him, but one look at the tiny, empty cell showed the impossi-
bility of such a thing. A moment later he realized what it was, and
quirked his mouth in a half-smile. One of the monks, no doubt in
direct contravention of abbey rules, had kept a pet -- a cat, no less,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             311

just like the little gray scattercat he had befriended at the Hayholt.
After two days locked in the cell, waiting for the master who would
not return, it was hungry, angry, and frightened. He went back
down the hall looking for it, but the animal was gone.

Binabik heard him clomping about. "Is all well, Simon?" he
called, out of sight in one of the other cells.

"Yes," Simon yelled back. The light in the tiny windows above his
head was quite gray now. He wondered if he should head back to the
door, finding Binabik on the way, or go back and look some more.
He was interested at least in examining the cell of the monk with the
contraband cat.

A few moments later Simon was reminded about the problems of
keeping animals shut in too long. Holding his nose, he looked
quickly around the cell, and spotted a book, small but nicely bound
in leather. He tiptoed across the suspect floor, hooked it off the low
bed, and stilted out again.

He had just sat down in the next cell to have a look at his prize
when Binabik appeared in the doorway.

"I am having small luck here. You?" the troll asked.

"No boots."

"Well, it is fast becoming evening. I think I should be having a
look around the Traveler's Hall where the murderous strangers were
sleeping, in case there is some object there that will tell us anything.
Wait for me here, hmmm?"

Simon nodded and Binabik left.

The book was, as Simon had expected, a Book ofAedon, although
it was a very expensive and finely-made book for a poor monk to
have in his possession; Simon guessed it was a gift from a rich rela-
tive. The volume itself was unremarkable, although the illumina-
tions were very nice -- at least as far as Simon could tell in the fading
light -- but there was one thing that caught his attention.

On the first page, where people often wrote their names, or words
of salutation if the book was a gift, there was this phrase, carefully
but shakily written:

Piercing My Hearte there is A Golden Dagger;

That is God
Piercing God's Hearte there is a Golden Needle;

That is me

312 Tad Williams

As Simon sat looking at the words his newfound resolve was
tested; he felt a wave wash through him, a staggering ocean breaker
of remorse and fear, and a feeling of things that, though unseen,
were nonetheless slipping heartbreakingly away.

In the midst of his staring reverie Binabik popped his head
through the door and tossed a pair of boots onto the floor beside him
with a muffled clatter. Simon did not look up.

"Many interesting things there are at Traveler's Hall, your new
boots not least. But dark is coming, and I may take only a moment
more. Meet with me before this hall, soon." And he was gone again.

After long, silent moments in the troll's wake, Simon set the book
down -- he had planned to take it, but had changed his mind -- and
tried the boots on his feet. At other moments he would have been
pleased to find how well they fitted, but now he just left his tattered
shoes on the floor and walked down the hall toward the front en-
trance.

The muted light of evening had descended. Across the commons
stood the Traveler's Hall, a twin to the building he had just left. For
some reason the sight of the door across from him swinging listlessly
to and fro filled him with vague fear. Where was the troll?

Just as he remembered the swinging paddock gate that had been
the first signal that all was not well at the abbey, Simon was startled
by a rough hand grasping at his shoulder, pulling him backward.

"Binabik!" he managed to shout, and then a thick palm was
clamped over his mouth, and he was crushed back against a rock-
hard body.

"Vawer es do kunde?" a voice growled at his ear in the stony
accents of Rimmersgard.

'7m tosdten-grukker!" another voice sneered.

In a blind panic Simon opened his mouth behind the shielding
hand and bit. There was a grunt of pain, and for a moment his
mouth was free.

"Help me! Binabik!" he screeched, then the hand covered him
again, crushingly painful now, and a second later he felt a black
impact behind his ear.

He could still hear the echoes of his cry dissipating as the world
turned to water before his eyes. The door of Traveler's Hall swung,
and Binabik did not come.

21

Cold Comforts

DUKE ISGRIMNUR of Elvritshalla had put a little too much pressure
on the blade. The knife leaped from the wood and nicked his thumb,
freeing a sudden stripe of blood just below the knuckle. He famed a
curse, dropped the piece of heartwood to the ground and stuck his
thumb in his mouth.

Frekke is right, he thought, -- damn him. I'll never have the knack
of this. I don't even know why I try.

He did know, though: he had convinced old Frekke to show him
the rudiments of carving during his virtual imprisonment at the
Hayholt. Anything, he had reasoned, was preferable to pacing about
the castle's halls and battlements like a chained bear. The old sol-
dier, who had served the Duke's father Isbeom as well, had patiently
shown Isgrimnur how to choose the wood, how to spy out the natu-
ral spirit that lurked inside, and how to release it, chip by chip, from
the prisoning grain. Watching Frekke at work -- his eyes nearly shut,
his scarred lip quirked in an unconscious smile -- the demons and
fish and lively beasts that climbed into being from beneath his knife
had seemed the inevitable solutions to the questions the world put
forth, questions of randomness and confusion in the shape of a tree
limb, the position of a rock, the vagaries of rain clouds.

Sucking on his wounded thumb, the duke toyed in a disordered
way with such thoughts -- for all Frekke's claims, Isgrimnur found it
damnably hard to think about anything at all while he was carving:

the knife and wood seemed at odds, in pitched battle that might
elude his vigilance at any moment to slide over into tragedy.

Like now, he thought, sucking and tasting blood.

Isgrimnur sheathed his knife and stood up. All around him his
men were hard at work, cleaning a brace of rabbits, tending the fire,
getting camp ready for the evening. He moved toward the blaze,
turned, and stood with his broad backside to the flames. His earlier

314 Tad Williams

thought of rainstorms came back to him as he looked up at the
rapidly-graying sky.

So here it is Maia-month, he mused. And here we are, less than
twenty leagues north of Erchester . . . and where did that storm
come from?

At the time, some three hours gone, Isgrimnur and his band had
been in hot pursuit of the brigands who had waylaid them at the
abbey. The Duke still had no idea who the men had been -- some of
them had been countrymen, but none had familiar faces -- or why
they had done what they had- Their leader had worn a helmet in the
form of a snarling hound's face, but Isgrimnur had never heard of
such an emblem. He might not have even survived to wonder, but
for the black-robed monk who had screamed a warning from the St.
Hoderund's gateway just before toppling with an arrow between his
shoulder blades. The fighting had been fierce, but the monk's death
. . . God's mercy to him, whoever he was . . . had served notice,
and the Duke's men had been ready for the attack. They had lost
only young Hove on the initial charge; Einskaldir had been
wounded, but killed his man anyway, and another beside. The en-
emy had not been looking for a fair fight, Isgrimnur thought sourly.
Faced by Isgrimnur and his guard, fighting men all and itching for
action after months in the castle, the would-be ambushers had fled
across the abbey commons to the stables, where their horses were
apparently saddled and waiting.

The duke and his men, after a quick inspection found none of the
monks alive to explain what had occurred, had resaddled and fol-
lowed. It might have been more politic to stay and bury Hove and
the Hoderundans, but Isgrimnur's blood had been fired. He wanted
to know who, and he wanted to know why.

It was not to be, however. The brigands had gotten a start of some
ten minutes on the Rimmersmen, and their horses were fresh. The
Duke's men had sighted them once, a moving shadow sweeping
down off Vine Hill onto the plain, heading through the low hills
toward the Wealdhelm Road. The sight had filled Isgrimnur's com-
pany with new life, and they had spurred their horses down the
slope into the valleys of the Wealdhelm foothills. Their mounts
seemed to have caught some of their excitement, drawing up
reserves of strength; for a brief while it had seemed that they might

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             315

run the waylayers down, coming on them from behind like a venge-
ful cloud rolling across the plain.

Instead, a strange thing had happened. One moment they had
been rolling along in the sunlight, then the world had grown percep-
tibly darker. When it did not change, when half a mile later the hills
around them were still lifeless and gray, Isgrimnur had looked up to
see a knot of steel-colored clouds swirling in the sky overhead, a fist
of shadow over the sun. A dim, grumbling crack, and suddenly the
sky was spilling rain -- a splatter at first, then torrents.

"Where did this come from?" Einskaldir had shouted across to
him, a hissing mist now pulled like a curtain between them. Is-
grimnur had no idea, but it had troubled him greatly -- he had never
seen a storm come up so fast out of a relatively clear sky. When a
moment later one of the men's horses had slipped on the wet, matted
grass and stumbled, throwing its rider -- who, thank Aedon, landed
safely -- Isgrimnur raised his voice and bellowed his troops to a halt.

So it was that they had elected to make camp, here only a league
or so from the Wealdhelm road. The duke had briefly considered
going back to the abbey, but the men and horses were tired, and the
blaze that had been roaring from the main buildings when they rode
off suggested there would probably be little to go back for. Wounded
Einskaldir, however -- who, though Isgrimnur knew better, some-
times seemed to possess no emotions save a general fierceness -- had
ridden right back to the abbey for Hove's body, and to pick up
anything else that might give a clue to the attackers' identities or
motivations. Knowing Einskaldir and his ways, the duke had given
in quickly, stipulating only that he must take Sludig along, who was
a slightly less ardent spirit. Sludig was a fine soldier, but nevertheless
valued his own skin enough to provide some counterweight to
bright-burning Einskaldir.

So here I stand, Isgrimnur thought in tired disgust, baking my
bum in front of the campfire while the young men do the work. Curse
age, curse my aching back, curse Elias, curse these damnable times!
He looked down at the din, then stooped and took up the piece of
wood lying there which he had hoped some miracle would help him
shape into a Tree, to lie against his wife Gutrun's breast when he
returned to her.

And curse carving! He gave it to the flames.

316 Tad Williams

*

He was tossing rabbit bones into the fire, feeling a little better for
having eaten, when there came a sudden roll of hoofbeats. Is-
grimnur dropped his hands to wipe grease on his kirtle, and his
liegemen did the same -- it would not do to have a slippery hand on
axe or sword. It sounded like a very small company of riders, two or
three at most; still, no one relaxed until Einskaldir and his white
horse came clear against the twilight. Sludig rode just behind, lead-
ing a third mount across whose pommel were draped . . . nw bod-
ies.

Two bodies, but, as Einskaldir explained in his terse manner, only
one a corpse.

"A boy," Einskaldir grunted, his dark beard already shiny with
rabbit fat. "Found him nosing about. Thought we should bring him
along."

"Why?" Isgrimnur rumbled. "He doesn't look like anything but a
scavenger."

Einskaldir shrugged. Fair-haired Sludig, his companion, grinned
affably: it hadn't been his idea.

"No houses around. We saw no boy at the abbey. Where did he
come from?" Einskaldir cut loose another piece with his knife.
"When we grabbed him, he yelled for someone. 'Bennah,* or 'Bin-
nock,' couldn't say for sure."

Isgrimnur turned away to briefly survey Hove's body, now laid
out on a cloak. He was kin, the cousin of his son Isom's wife -- not
close kin, but close enough by the customs of the cold north that
Isgrimnur felt a deep pang of remorse as he stared down at the
young man's snow-pale face, at his thin yellow beard.

From there he turned to the captive, still bound at the wrists, but
lowered from the horse to lie propped against a rock. The boy was
only a year or two younger than Hove, thin but wiry, and the sight
of his freckled face and shock of reddish hair tugged at Isgrimnur's
memory. He could not summon the reminder forth. The youth was
still stunned from the tap Einskaldir had given him, eyes closed and
mouth slack.

Looks like any poor peasant lout, the duke thought, except for
those boots -- which HI wager he found at the abbey. Why in the name

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              317

ofMemur's Fountain did Einskaldir bring him? What am I supposed
to do with him? Kill him? Keep him? Leave him to starve?

"Let's get to finding rocks," the duke said at last. "Hove will need
a cairn -- this looks like wolf country to me."

^

Night had come down; the outcroppings of rock that dotted the
desolate plain below Wealdhelm were only clumps of deeper
shadow. The fire had been stoked high, and the men were listening
to Sludig sing a bawdy song. Isgrimnur knew only too well why men
who had been blooded, who had lost one of their own -- Hove's un-
distinguished pile of stones was one of the shadow-clumps out be-
yond the firelight -- might feel the urge to indulge in such foolish-
ness. As he himself had said months ago, standing across the table
from King Elias, there were frightening rumors on the wind. Here
on the open plain, dwarfed but not protected by the looming hills,
things that were travelers' tales in the Hayholt or Elvritshalla,
ghost-fables to enliven a dull evening, were no longer so easy to
brush aside with a laughing remark. So the men sang, and their
voices made an off-key but very human sound in the night wilder-
ness.

And ghost-tales aside, Isgrimnur thought, we were attacked today,
and for no reason I can fathom. They were waiting for us. Waiting!
What in the name of sweet Usires does that mean?/

It could have been that the brigands were merely waiting for the
next group of travelers who might stop at the abbey -- but why? If
they were only after robbing and whatnot, why not pillage the abbey
itself, a place likely to have at least a fine reliquary or two? And why
wait for chance travelers at an abbey in the first place, where there
would naturally be witnesses to any act of thievery?

Not that we've got many witnesses left, damn their eyes. One,
maybe if that boy proves to have seen anything.

It just did not make good sense. Waiting to waylay a company of
travelers who, even in these times, might prove to be king's guards-
men -- who had, in fact, turned out to be armed, battle-honed north-
erners.

So the possibility had to be entertained that he and his men had

318 Tad Williams

been the targets. Why? And just as importantly, who? Isgrimnur's
enemies, Skali of Kaldskyrke being a prime example, were well
known to him, and none of the bandits had been recognized as
members ofSkali's clan. Besides, Skali was gone back to Kaldskyrke
long ago, and how could he have known that Isgrimnur, sick to
death of inactivity and fearing for the safety of his duchy, would
decide at last to confront Elias and, after an argument, receive his
reluctant royal permission to take his men north?

"We need you here. Uncle," he told me. He knew I had stopped
believing that long ago. Just wanted to keep his eye on me, that's what
I think.

Still, Elias had not resisted anywhere near as strongly as the duke
had anticipated; the argument had seemed to Isgrimnur only a mat-
ter of form, as though Elias had known the confrontation was com-
ing, and had decided to accede already.

Frustrated by the circles his thoughts were following, Isgrimnur
was about to lever himself up and off to his bedroll when Frekke
came to him, the fire at the aged soldier's back making him a gaunt,
shambling shadow.

"A moment, your Lordship."

Isgrimnur suppressed a grin. The old bastard must be drunk. He
only got formal when he was in his cups.

"Frekke?"

"It's that boy, sire, the one Einskaldir brought back. He's awake.
Thought your Lordship might like to chat with him." He swayed a
little, but quickly turned it into a gesture of pulling up his breeches.

"Well, I suppose." The breeze was up. Isgrimnur pulled his kirtle
tighter and started to turn, then stopped. "Frekke?"

"Lordship?"

"I threw another damned carving in the fire."

"I 'spected you would, sire."

As Frekke wheeled around to head back to the beer jug, Is-
grimnur was positive the old man wore a tiny smile-
Well, damn him and his wood, anyway.

The boy was sitting up, chewing the meat from a bone. Einskaldir
sat on a rock beside him looking deceptively relaxed -- Isgrimnur
had never seen the man relax. The firelight could not reach Ein-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             319

skaldir's deep-set stare, but the boy, when he looked up, was as
wide-eyed as a deer surprised at a forest pond.

At the duke's approach the boy stopped chewing and regarded
Isgrimnur suspiciously for a moment, mouth half-open. But then,
even by fireglow, Isgrimnur saw something pass across the boy's face
. . . was it relief? Isgrimnur was troubled. He had expected, despite
Einskaldir's suspicions -- the man, after all, was as prickly with mis-
trust as a hedgehog -- to find a frightened peasant boy, terrified or at
least dully apprehensive. This one looked like a peasant, an ignorant
cotsman's son in tattered clothes, covered in dirt, but there was a
certain alertness to his gaze that made the duke wonder if perhaps
Einskaldir hadn't been right.

"Here now, boy," he said gruffly in the Westerling speech, "what
were you doing poking about the abbey?"

"/ think I'm going to slit his throat now," Einskaldir said in Rim-
merspakk, pleasant tone in horrid contrast to his words. Isgrimnur
scowled, wondering if the man had lost his mind, then realized as
the boy continued to stare blandly up at him that Einskaldir was
only probing to find if the boy spoke their tongue.

Well, if he does, he's one of the coolest wits I've ever seen, Isgrimnur
thought. No, it beggared imagination to think a boy this age in the
camp of armed strangers could have understood Einskaldir's chill-
ing words and not reacted at all.

"He doesn't understand," the duke said to his liegeman in their
Rimmersgard tongue. "But he is a calm one, isn't he?" Einskaldir
grunted an affirmative and scratched his chin through his dark
beard.

"Now, boy," the duke resumed, "I asked you once. Speaki What
brought you to the abbey?"

The youth lowered his eyes and set the bone he had been gnawing
on the ground. Isgrimnur again felt a tug at his memory, but still
could summon nothing.

"I was . . . I was looking for . . . for some new shoes to wear."
The boy gestured to his clean, well-cared-for boots. The duke picked
him out by his accent as an Erkynlander, and something more . . .
but what?

"And you found some, I see." The duke squatted, so that he was
at eye level. "Do you know you can be hanged for stealing from the
unburied dead?"

320 Tad Williams

Finally, a satisfying reaction! The boy's heartfelt flinch at the
threat could not have been studied, Isgrimnur felt sure. Good.

"I'm sorry . . . master. I didn't mean any harm. I was hungry
from walking, and my feet hurt . . ."

"Walking from where?" He had it now. The boy spoke too well to
be a woodsman's brat. He was a priest's boy, or a shopkeeper's son,
or some such. He'd run away, no doubt.

The youth held Isgrimnur's stare for a moment; again the duke
had the feeling the boy was calculating. A runaway from a seminary,
perhaps, or a monastery? What was he hiding?

The boy spoke at last. "I ... I have left my master, sir. My
parents . . . my parents apprenticed me to a chandler. He beat
me."

"What chandler? Where? Quickly!"

"Mo . . . Malachias! In Erchester!"

It makes sense, mostly, the duke decided. Except for two details.

"What are you doing here, then? What brought you to Saint
Hoderund's? And who," Isgrimnur lanced in, now, "is Bennah?"

"Bennah?"

Einskaldir, who had been listening with half-closed eyes, leaned
forward. "He knows. Duke," he said in Rimmerspakk, "he said
'Bennah' or 'Binnock,' that's sure."

"How about 'Binnock,' then?" Isgrimnur dropped a wide hand on
the captive's shoulder, and felt only a twinge of regret when the boy
winced.

"Binnock . . . ? Oh, Binnock's ... my dog sir. Master's, actu-
ally. He ran away, too." And the boy actually smiled, a lopsided
grin that he quickly suppressed. Despite his misgivings the old duke
found himself liking the lad.

"I'm heading for Naglimund, sir," the boy continued quickly. "I
heard the abbey fed travelers like me. When I saw the ... the
bodies, the dead men, I was scared -- but I needed some boots, sir, I
truly did- Those monks were good Aedonites, sir -- they wouldn't
have minded, would they?"

"Naglimund?" The duke's eyes narrowed, and he sensed Ein-
skaldir grow a little more taut, if such a thing was possible, at the
boy's side. "Why Naglimund? Why not Stanshire, or Hasu Vale?"

"I have a friend there." Behind Isgrimnur Sludig's voice rose,
careening through a final drunken chorus. The boy made a gesture

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              321

in the direction of the fire circle. "He's a harper, sir. He told me if I
ran away from . . . Malachias, to come to him and he would help
me."

"A harper? At Naglimund?" Isgrimnur stared intently, but the
boy's face, though shadowed, was as innocent as cream. Isgrimnur
suddenly felt disgusted with the whole business. Look at me! Ques-
tioning a chandler's boy as if he had single-handedly led the ambush
at the abbey/ What a damnable day it has been!

Einskaldir was still not satisfied- He bent his face close to the
boy's ear and asked, in his heavily-accented speech, "What is the
Naglimund harper's name?"

The youth turned, alarmed, but seemingly from the sudden prox-
imity of Einskaldir rather than the question, for a moment later he
blithely responded.

"Sangmgol."

"Frayja's Paps!" Isgrimnur cursed, and climbed heavily to his
feet. "I know him. That's enough. I believe you,, boy." Einskaldir
had turned away, pivoting on his rocky seat to watch the men laugh-
ing and arguing at the fire. "You may stay with us, boy, if you like,"
the duke said. "We will be stopping at Naglimund, and thanks to
those whoreson bastards we have Hove's horse going riderless. This
is hard country for a stripling to cross alone, and these days it's near
as much as slitting your own throat to travel out of company. Here."
He walked to one of the horses and pulled a saddle blanket down,
tossing it to the youth. "Bed down wherever you like, as long as it's
close in. Easier for the man standing sentry if we're not strung out
like a flock of straying sheep." He stared at the thistledown hair
starting out in all directions, and the bright eyes. "Einskaldir fed
you. Do you need aught?"

The boy blinked -- where had he seen him? In the town, probably.
"No," the boy replied, "I was just hoping that . . . that Binnock
will not get lost without me."

"Trust me, boy. If he doesn't find you, he'll find someone else, and
that's a fact."

Einskaldir had already slipped away. Isgrimnur stumped off. The
boy curled himself in the blanket and lay down at the foot of the
rock.

322 Tad Williams

^

/ haven't really seen the stars for a while, Simon thought as he
stared up from his blanket. The bright points seemed to hang like
frozen fireflies. It's just not the same looking up through the trees as it
is out here in the open -- like being on a tabletop.

He thought of Sedda's Blanket, and doing so thought of Binabik-

/ hope he's safe -- then again, it was him who left me to the Rim-
mersmen.

It had been a stroke of luck that his captor had turned out to be
Duke Isgrimnur, but still, there had been moments of real terror,
waking up in the camp surrounded by hard-looking, bearded men.
He supposed that, knowing the ill-will between Binabik's people and
the Rimmersmen, he did not really hold it against the troll for hav-
ing disappeared -- if he had even known of Simon's abduction. Still,
it hurt to lose a friend that way. He would have to harden himself:

he had begun to depend on the little man to know what was right,
what had to be done, just as he had once listened raptly to Doctor
Morgenes. Well, the lesson was clear: he would be his own man,
keep his own counsel, and make his way.

In truth, he had not wanted to tell Isgrimnur his true destination,
but the duke was sharp, and Simon had felt several times that the
old soldier was balancing him on the blade of a knife -- one false step
would have tipped him over.

Besides, that dark one who sat beside me all the time, he looked
like he would kill me just like drowning a kitten if it suited him.

So, he had given the duke all the truth he comfortably could, and
it had worked.

The question, then, was what to do now. Should he stay with the
Rimmersmen? It would seem foolish not to, but still . . . Simon
was not yet totally sure of where the duke stood. Isgrimnur was
going to Naglimund, but what if it was to arrest Josua? Everybody
at the Hayholt was forever talking about how loyal Isgrimnur had
been to old King John, how he held the High King's Ward more
sacred than his own life. Where did he fit in with Elias? Under no
circumstances did Simon intend to tell what part he had played in
Josua's departure from the Hayholt, but things had a way of slipping

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             323

out, sometimes. Simon was dying to hear some news of the castle, of
what had happened after Morgenes' last gambit -- had Pryrates
lived? Inch? What had Elias told the people had happened? -- but it
was exactly those kind of questions, no matter how guilefully asked,
that could drop him into boiling water.

He was too wound up to sleep. As he stared up at the scattered
stars, he thought of the bones he had seen Binabik cast that morn-
ing- The wind brushed his face, and suddenly the stars themselves
were bones -- a wild array strewn across the dark field of the sky. It
was lonely out here among strangers, under the limitless night. He
longed for his homely bed in the servant's quarters, for the days
when none of these things had happened. His longing was like the
piercing music of Binabik's flute: a cool pain that was nevertheless
the only thing he could cling to in the wide, wild world.

He had dozed a little, but when the noise awakened him, heart
thumping, the stars still burned deep in the blackness. A momentary
panic constricted his throat as a dark shape loomed over him, im-
possibly tall. Where was the moon?

It was only the man on watch, he saw an instant later, stopping
for a moment with his back to Simon's blanket. The sentry had his
own saddle blanket, and had wrapped it high on his shoulders, the
dome of his unhelmeted head poking up through the folds.

The watchman wandered past without looking down. He had an
axe tucked in his broad belt, a wickedly sharp, heavy weapon. He
also carried a spear longer than he was tall; as he paced, the butt end
dragged in the dirt.

Simon pulled the blanket closer, huddling himself against the
sharp wind that was moving across the plain. The sky had changed:

where before it had been clear, the stars picked out in brilliant detail
against its unfathomable blackness, now it was sullied by streamers
of clouds, milky tendrils reaching out like fingers from the north. At
the far side of the sky they had covered the lowest stars like sand
poured over the coals of a fire.

Maybe Sedda will catch her husband tonight, Simon thought sleep-
ily.

The second time he awoke it was to a splash of water in his eyes
and nose. He opened his eyes, gasping, to see the stars had been

324

Tad Williams

snuffed above him as neatly as a top closing on a jewel chest. It was
raining, the clouds now directly overhead. Simon grunted, wiping
water from his face, and turned on his side, pulling the blanket up to
make a hood for his head. He could see the sentry again, a little
farther away now, shielding his face and staring up into the rain.

Simon's eyes were just drifting closed when the man made an odd
grunting noise and dropped his head to look down. Something in the
man's stance, something that suggested that though he stood rock-
still he was nevertheless struggling, made Simon open his eyes wider.
The rain began to sheet down, and thunder growled distantly- Simon
strained to see the sentry through the boiling downpour. The man
was still standing in the same place, but something was moving now
at his feet, something active that had pulled free from the general
blackness. Simon sat up, and the raindrops pounded and splashed on

the ground all about.

A flash of lightning abruptly lit the night, making the rocks glare
forth like painted wooden props from a Usires Play. Everything in
the camp came clear -- the steaming remains of the fire, the huddled,
sleeping forms of the Rimmersmen -- but what leaped to Simon's eye
in that split instant was the sentry, whose face was stretched in a
hideous, silent mask of absolute terror.

Thunder crashed, and then the sky was smeared with lightning
again. The ground around the sentry was seething, gouting up in
great sprays of dirt. Simon's heart lurched in his breast as the man
fell to his knees. The thunder cannoned again; lightning flared three
times in succession. The earth continued to fountain up, but now
there were hands everywhere, and long thin arms, glinting slickly in
the rain as they crawled up the body of the kneeling man, pulling
him down, face forward into the black soil. The sky-glare caught a
greater surge of movement as a horde of dark things pushed up from
the earth, thin, ragged things with waving arms, staring white eyes,
and -- horribly revealed as the lightning leaped across the sky and
the rain hissed down -- matted whiskers and tattered clothes. As the
thunder died out Simon shouted, choking on water, then shouted

again.

It was worse than any vision of Hell. The Rimmersmen, startled
awake by Simon's terrified cry, were beset from all sides by hopping,
flailing bodies. The things were boiling up from the ground like rats
 -- indeed, as they scrambled through the camp the night was filled

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             325

with thin, mewling squeals that rang of tunnels and blindness and
cowardly malice.

One of the northerners was on his feet, the creatures swarming
over him. They were none of them as tall as Binabik, but their
numbers were prodigious, and even as the northerner unsheathed his
sword they pulled him down. Simon thought he saw the flash of
sharp things in their hands, rising and falling.

"VaerI Vaer Bukkanf" one of the Rimmersmen shouted from the
other side of the camp. The men were up now, and in the intermit-
tent flashes Simon could see the pale fire of their swords and axes.
Kicking away the blanket, he climbed to his feet, searching desper-
ately for a weapon. The things were everywhere, prancing on their
thin legs like insects, calling out, shrieking thinly when the axe of a
Rimmersman bit. Their cries almost sounded like a language, and
that, in the midst of nightmare, was one of the most horrible things
of all.

Simon ducked behind the rock that had sheltered him, circling
around as he looked frantically for something to protect himself
with. A figure hurtled toward him, tumbling to the ground only a
pace away -- one of the northerners, half of his face a wet ruin. Si-
mon bolted forward to pull the axe from his convulsive grasp; not
yet dead, the man gurgled as Simon dragged the weapon free. A
moment later Simon felt a bony clutch at his knee, and whirled to
see a hideous little manlike face behind the grasping claw, eyes star-
ing whitely. He swung the axe down at the face, as hard as he could,
and felt a crunch like a beetle ground underfoot. The stiff fingers fell
away, and Simon leaped free, gagging.

With the light from the sky alternately blooming and dying, it was
nearly impossible to tell what was happening. The swaying figures of
the Rimmersmen stood all around, but there was a far greater num-
ber of hopping, piping demons. It seemed that the best place to . . .

Simon was knocked to the ground without warning, a gripping
paw around his neck. He felt the side of his face go down into the
mud, tasted it, then heaved up against the thing on his back. A
crude blade whickered past his eyes and stuck with a sucking noise
in the earth. Simon clambered to his knees, but another hand
reached around his face, covering his eyes. It stank of mud and foul
water, the fingers squirming like nightcrawlers.

Where is the axe? I've dropped the axe!

326 Tad Williams

He clambered shakily to his feet, legs wide on the slippery ground,
and tried to pry loose the clamping fingers around his windpipe. He
stumbled forward, nearly falling again, unable to dislodge the awful,
strangling thing from his back. The bony hand was cutting off his
air, the sharp knees digging at his ribs; he thought he heard the ropy
thing squealing in triumph. He managed a few more steps before he
dropped to his knees, the din of battle growing fainter behind him.
His ears roared; strength flowed out of his arms and body like meal
from a torn sack.

I'm dying . . . was all he could think. Before his eyes there was
nothing but dull red light.

Then the crushing, scratching grip on his throat was suddenly
gone. Simon fell heavily on his chest and face and lay gasping.

Wheezing, he looked up. Painted against the black sky by a sheet
of crackling lightning was a mad silhouette ... a man on a wolf.

Binabik!

Sucking air into his ragged throat, Simon tried to pull himself
upright, but could get no farther than his elbows before the little
man was at his side. A pace away the body of the earth-creature lay
curled like a singed spider, blind eyes to the sky.

'"Say nothing!" Binabik hissed. "We must go! Quickly!" He helped
Simon to a sitting position, but the boy waved him away, batting at
the little man with baby-weak hands.

"Have to ... have to . . ." Simon wagged a shaking hand to-
ward the chaos that raged around the campsit, some twenty paces
away.

"Ridiculous!" Binabik snapped. "The Rimmersmen can fight their
own battles. My duty is to get you to safety. Now cornel"

"No," Simon said stubbornly. Binabik held his hollowed stick in
his hand; Simon knew what had felled his attacker. "We ha -- have to
he -- help them."

"They will survive." Binabik was grim. Qantaqa had followed her
master, and now sniffed solicitously at Simon's wound. "You are my
charge."

"What do you . . ." Simon began. Qantaqa growled, a deep,
threatening sound of alarm; Binabik looked up. "Daughter of the
Mountains!" he groaned. Simon followed his gaze.

A clot of the greater darkness had broken off from the swirling
melee and was rapidly moving toward them. It was hard to tell how

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              327

many creatures might be in the bounding tangle of arms and eyes,
but it was more than a few.

"Nihut, Qantaqa!" Binabik shouted; an instant later the wolf
sprang toward them; they squealed in whistling terror as she struck.

"We have no more time to waste, Simon," the troll snapped.
Thunder caromed across the plain as he pulled his knife from his
belt and dragged Simon up. "The duke's men are holding their own,
now, and I have no way to afford your being killed in the last strug-
gling."

In the midst of the earth-burrowers Qantaqa was a gray-furred
engine of death. As her great jaws bit, and she shook and bit again,
thin black bodies hurtled away on all sides to fall in broken heaps.
More were swarming over, and the wolf's buzzing snarl rose above
the storm's rumble.

"But ... but .. ." Simon held back as Binabik moved toward
his mount.

"It was my bound promise to protect you," Binabik said, tugging
Simon along. "That was Doctor Morgenes' wish."

"Doctor . . . !? You know Doctor Morgenes . . . !?"

As Simon stared, mouth working, Binabik stopped and whistled
twice. Qantaqa, with a last ecstatic shiver, flung two of the creatures
aside and bounded toward them.

"Now, run, foolish boy!" Binabik shouted. They ran -- Qantaqa
first, leaping like a hart, her muzzle black with blood, Binabik after.
Simon followed, tripping and staggering across the muddy plain as
the storm shouted unanswerable questions.

22

A Wind
from the North

^

"No, I DON'T want a damned thingi" Guthwulf, Earl of Utanyeat
spat citril juice on the tile floor as the wide-eyed page went scurrying
away. Watching him go, Guthwulf regretted his hasty words -- not
out of any sympathy for the boy, but because he had suddenly real-
ized that he might indeed want something. He had been nearly an
hour waiting outside the throne room without a drop of anything to
drink, and only Aedon Himself knew how much longer he might sit
here rotting.

He spat again, the pungent citril stinging his tongue and lips, and
cursed as he wiped a line of spittle off his long jaw- Unlike many of
the men in his command, Guthwulf was not accustomed to having a
piece of the bitter southern root always tucked in his cheek, but
during this strange, damp spring -- one that had found him confined
for days at a time in the Hayholt, waiting on the king's bidding -- he
had found that any distraction, even that of burning one's palate,
was welcome.

Also, and undoubtedly because of the wet weather, the halls of the
Hayholt seemed to reek of mold, mold and ... no, corruption was
too melodramatic a word. Anyway, the strongly aromatic citril
seemed to help.

Just as Guthwulf had climbed to his feet, deserting the stool to
resume the frustrated pacing that had occupied most of his waiting
time, the throne room door creaked and swung inward. Pryrates'
blunt head appeared in the gap, black eyes flat and shiny as a liz-
ard's.

"Ah, good Utanyeat!" Pryrates showed his teeth. "How long we
have kept you waitingi The king is ready to see you now." The priest

330 Tad Williams

pulled the door farther in, revealing his scarlet robe and a glimpse of
the high hall behind. "Please," he said.

Guthwulf had to pass very close to Pryrates as he entered, sucking
in his chest to minimize the contact. Why was the man standing so
close? Was it to make Guthwulf uncomfortable -- there was no love
lost between King's Hand and the king's counselor -- or was he try-
ing to keep the door as nearly shut as he possibly could? The castle
was cold this spring, and if anyone deserved to keep warm it was
Elias. Perhaps Pryrates was only trying to conserve heat in the spa-
cious throne room.

Well, if that was what he was up to, he had failed utterly. The
moment Guthwulf stepped over the threshold and past the door he
felt the chill descend upon him, turning the skin on his strong arms
into chicken-flesh. Looking past the throne, he saw that several of
the upper windows were open, propped with sticks. The cold north-
ern air that swirled down tugged at the torch flames, making them
dance in their cressets.

"Guthwulf!" Elias boomed, half-rising from his chair of yellowed
bone. The massive dragon skull leered over his shoulder. "I am
ashamed to have kept you waiting. Come here!"

Guthwulf strode forward up the tiled walkway, trying not to
shiver. "You have much on your mind. Majesty. I do not mind
waiting."

Elias sat back in his throne as the Earl of Utanyeat dropped to a
knee before him. The king wore a black shirt trimmed with green
and silver, and his boots and breeks were also black. The iron crown
of Fingil sat high on his pale brow, and in a sheath at his side was
the sword with the strange crossed hilt. He had not been without it
in weeks, but Guthwulf had no idea whence it came. The king had
never mentioned it, and there was something queer and unsettling
about the blade that prevented Guthwulf from asking.

" 'Do not mind waiting,' " Elias smirked. "Go on, sit down." The
king indicated a bench a pace or two back of where the Earl kneeled.
"Since when do you not mind waiting, Wolf? Just because I am
king, do not think I have gone blind and stupid as well."

"I am sure that when you have something for your King's Hand
to do, you will inform me."

Things had changed between Guthwulf and his old friend Elias,
and the Earl of Utanyeat did not like that. Elias had never been

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             331

secretive, but now Guthwulf felt vast, hidden currents moving be-
neath the surface of daily events, currents that the king pretended
did not even exist. Things had changed, and Guthwulf felt sure he
knew who was to blame. He looked past the king's shoulder at
Pryrates, who was watching him fixedly. When their eyes met, the
red-robed priest lifted a hairless eyebrow, as if in mocking question.

Elias rubbed at his temples for a moment. "You will have work
enough and more soon, I promise you. Ah, my head. A crown is
indeed a heavy thing, friend. I sometimes wish I could lay it down
and go on" somewhere, like we once did so often. Free companions of
the road!" The king turned his grim smile from Guthwulf to his
counselor. "Priest, my head aches again. Bring me some wine, will
you?"

"At once, my Lord." Pryrates moved off to the back of the throne
room.

"Where are your pages, Majesty?" Guthwulf asked. The king
looked dreadfully tired, he thought. The whiskers on his unshaven
cheeks stood out, black against his wan skin. "And why, with re-
spect, are you shut up in this freezing cave of a hall? It is colder than
the Devil's black arse in here, and smells of mildew beside. Let me
light a fire in the grate."

"No." Elias waved a broad hand dismissively. "I don't want it
any warmer. I'm warm already. Pryrates says it is just an ague.
Whatever it is, the cool air feels good to me. And there is plenty of
breeze, so no need to fear stagnancy or bad humors."

Pryrates had returned with the king's goblet; Elias drained it with
a swallow and dried his lips with his sleeve.

"Plenty of breeze indeed. Majesty," Guthwulf grinned sourly.
"Well, my king, you . . . and Pryrates . . . know best, and doubt-
less have nothing to leam from a fighting man. Is there some other
way I can serve you?"

"I think perhaps you can, although the task may not be much to
your liking. First, though, tell me: has Earl Fengbald returned?"

Guthwulf nodded. "I spoke with him this morning, sire."

"I have summoned him." Elias held out his cup for more wine,
and Pryrates brought the ewer and poured. "But since you have seen
him, tell me now: is his news good?"

"I'm afraid not, sire. The spy you seek, Morgenes' henchman, is
still at large."

332 Tad Williams

"God's curses!" Elias nibbed at a spot just beside his eyebrow.
"Did he not have the hounds I gave him? And the master-hunts-
man?"

"Yes, Majesty, and he left them still on the hunt, but in fairness to
Fengbald I must say that you have set him a nearly impossible task."

Elias narrowed his eyes, staring, and for a moment Guthwulf felt
he faced a stranger. Then the bumping of ewer against goblet broke
the tension, and Elias relaxed. "Welladay," he said, "you are most
likely right. I shall have to be careful not to take my frustrations out
on Fengbald. He and I ... share a disappointment."

Guthwulf nodded, watching the king. "Yes, sire, I was alarmed to
hear of your daughter's illness. How is Miriamele?"

The king looked briefly to Pryrates, who finished pouring and
backed away. "It is kind of you to ask, Wolf. We do not think she is
in any danger, but Pryrates feels sure that the sea air of Meremund
will be the best remedy for her ailments. It is a pity to put off the
marriage, though." The king stared into his wine cup as though it
wee the mouth of a well down which he had just dropped something
valuable. The wind whistled in the open windows.

After some long moments had passed, the Earl of Utanyeat felt
compelled to speak. "You said that there was some small task I
could do for you, my king?"

Elias looked up. "Ah. Of course. I wish you to go to
Hemysadharc. Since I was forced to raise the taxes to make up for
the cursed, miserable drought, that old hill-gopher Lluth has defied
me. He sent that prancing Eolair to soothe me with honeyed words,
but the time for words is over."

"Over, my Lord?" Guthwulf raised an eyebrow.

"Over," Elias growled. *'I wish you to take a dozen knights -- any
more and Lluth would have no choice but resist -- and hie you to the
Taig to beard the old miser in his den. Tell him to refuse me my
rightful due is to slap my face ... to spit on the very Dragonbone
Chair. But be subtle, say nothing in front of his knights that will
shame him into resistance -- nevertheless, make it clear that to deny
me further will risk his walls falling in flames about his head. Make
him/ear, Guthwulf."

"I can do that. Lord."

Elias smiled tightly. "Good. And while you're there, keep an eye
open for any sign of Josua's whereabouts. There is no news from

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             333

Naglimund, though my spies have it ringed 'round. It is possible my
treacherous brother might have gone to Lluth. It may even be he
who is fueling Hemystir's obstinance!"

"I will be your Eye as well as your Hand, my King."

"If I may. King Elias?" At the king's elbow, Pryrates lifted a
finger.

"Speak, priest."

"I would also like to suggest that our lord of Utanyeat keep an eye
out for the boy, Morgenes' spy. It would help to supplement
Fengbald's effort. We need that boy, Majesty -- what good to slay the
serpent if the hatchlings go free?"

"If I find the young viper," Guthwulf grinned, "I will happily
grind him beneath my heel."

"No!" Elias shouted, startling Guthwulf with his vehemence.
"No! The spy must live, and any of his companions, until we have
them here in the Hayholt, safe. There are questions we must ask
them." Elias, as if embarrassed by his outburst, turned strangely
pleading eyes to his old friend, "You understand-that, surely?"

"Of course. Majesty," Guthwulf answered quickly.

"They need only be brought to us with the breath still quick in
their bodies," said Pryrates, calm as a baker talking of flour. "Then
we shall discover everything."

"Enough." Elias slid farther back on his seat of bone. Guthwulf
was surprised to see drops of sweat beading his forehead, even as the
Earl of Utanyeat was shivering in the chill air. "Go, now, old friend.
Bring me Lluth's full allegiance, or if not, I will send you back to
bring me his head. Go."

"God keep you. Majesty." Guthwulf dropped off the bench onto
one knee, then rose to his feet and backed down the aisle. The
banners above his head swung, wind-whipped; in the fluid shadows
thrown by the nickering torches the clan-animals and heraldic beasts
seemed engaged in an eerie, fitful dance.

Guthwulf met Fengbald in the antechamber hall. The Earl of
Falshire had bathed the grit of the road from his face and hair since
their meeting that morning, and was dressed in a red velvet jerkin
with the silver eagle of his family chased on the breast, its feathers
twining in a fanciful pattem-

"Ho, Guthwulf, have you seen him?" he asked.

334 Tad Williams

The Earl of Utanyeat nodded. "Yes, and you will, too. God curse
it, he is the one who should be taking salt air at Meremund instead
of Miriamele. He looks ... I don't know, he looks damned ill.
And the throne chamber is cold as frost."

"So it's true?" Fengbald asked sullenly. "About the princess? I
was hoping he'd changed his mind."

"Gone west to the sea. Your great day will have to wait a bit, it
looks." Guthwulf smirked. "I'm sure you'll find something to keep
your interest up until the princess returns."

"That's not the problem." The Earl ofFalshire's mouth twisted as
though he tasted something sour. "I just fear he's trying to back out
of his promise. I have heard that nobody knew she was ill until she
was gone."

"You worry too much," Guthwulf said. "It's womanish. Elias
needs an heir. Be grateful that you fit his bill of particulars for a son-
in-law better than 1 do." Guthwulf showed his teeth in a mocking
smile. "I would go to Meremund and get her." He gave a mock
salute and sauntered away, leaving Fengbald standing before the
high oak doors of the throne room.

^

She could tell from far away up the corridor that it was Earl
Pengbald, and that he was in a foul temper. His arm-swinging walk,
like a young boy sent away from the supper table, and the loud,
deliberate banging of his boot heels on the floor stones trumpeted his
mood before him-

She reached forward and tugged at Jael's elbow. When the cow-
eyed girl looked up, already sure she'd done something else wrong,
Rachel made a gesture toward the approaching Earl of Falshire.

"Better move that bucket, girl." She took the scrubbing broom
from Jael's hand. The pail of soapy water stood in the center of the
hallway, directly in the path of the oncoming nobleman.

"Hurry up, you stupid girl!" Rachel hissed, a touch of alarm
tingeing her voice. The moment the words were out Rachel knew
she should not have uttered them. Fengbald was cursing to himself,
his face set in a petulant snarl. Jael, in a frenzy of ill-coordinated
haste, let the bucket slide through her wet fingers. It struck the floor

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             335

with a loud thump, and a gout of sudsy water slopped over the rim
to splatter onto the hallway. Fengbald, upon them now, stepped
squarely in the spreading puddle. He lost his balance for a moment,
throwing his arms up as he slid, then clutched at a tapestry on the
wall for support as Rachel watched in helpless, anticipatory horror.
It was a stroke of luck that the hanging held Fengbald's weight long
enough for him to regain his equilibrium; nonetheless, a moment
later the tapestry itself pulled free at an upper comer and slid gently
down the wall to sag into the soapy pool.

Rachel looked at the Earl of Falshire's reddening face for only a
moment before turning to Jael. "Go, you clumsy cow. Get on with
you. Now!" Jael, with a hopeless glance at Fengbald, turned and ran,
her fat rump wagging pitifully.

"Come back here, you slut!" Fengbald screamed, jaw trembling
with rage. His long black hair, disarranged, hung in his face. "I'll
have my due, my due for ... for this . . . this . . . '"

Rachel, keeping an eye cocked toward the Earl, bent and lifted the
sodden comer of the tapestry out of the water. There was no way
she could re-hang it; she stood holding it, watching it drip as
Fengbald raged.

"Look! Look at my boots! I'll have that filthy bitch's throat slit for
this!" The Earl turned his eye onto Rachel. "How dare you send her
away?"

Rachel cast her eyes down, not hard to do since the young noble-
man stood at least a foot taller than she. "I'm sorry, Lord," she said,
and her honest fear put a convincing tone of respect into her voice.
"She is a stupid girl. Master, and she will be beaten for it, but I am
the Mistress of Chambermaids and I take the blame, you see. I'm
very, very sorry."

Fengbald stared down at her for a moment, and his eyes nar-
rowed. Then, as swiftly as an arrow strikes, he reached out and
slapped Rachel across the face. Her hand flew up to the red mark
spreading across her cheek, spreading as the puddle had across the
flagstones.

"Then give that to the fat slut," Fengbald spat, "and if I run into
her again, you tell her I'll break her neck." He stared at the Mistress
of Chambermaids for a moment, then walked on down the hall,
leaving a trail of heel-and-toe boot prints shimmering wetly on the
flags.

336 Tad Williams

*

And he could do it, too. Rachel thought to herself later as she sat
on her bed holding a wet washrag to her burning cheek. Across the
hall, in the maid's dormitory, Jael was sobbing. Rachel had not had
the heart even to shout at her, but the sight of Rachel's swelling face
had been punishment enough to send the lumpy, soft-hearted girl
into a paroxysm of tears.

Sweet Rhiap and Pelippa. I'd rather be slapped twice than listen to
her blubbering.

Rachel rolled over onto the hard pallet -- she kept it on a board
because of her always-aching back -- and pulled the blanket up over
her head to dull the sound ofJael's weeping. Wrapped in the blanket
she could feel her own warm breath wreathing her face.

This must be what it's like to be laundry in the basket, she thought,
and then chided herself for such simplemindedness. You 're getting
old, old woman . . . old and useless. Suddenly she found tears com-
ing, the first she had cried since the news about Simon.

I'm just so tired. Sometimes I think I'm going to drop where I
stand, fall over like a broken broom at the feet of these young mon-
sters -- stamping around my castle, treating us like we were dirt -- and
they'd probably just push me out with the dust. So tired . . . if only
...if...

The air beneath the blanket was thick and warm. She had finished
crying -- what good were tears, anyway? Leave them to her stupid,
flighty girls -- and now she felt herself falling into sleep, succumbing
to its heaviness as though drowning in warm. sticky water.

And in her dream Simon was not dead, had not died in the terri-
ble fire that had also taken Morgenes, and several of the guardsmen
who had rushed to put it out. Even Count Breyugar, they said, had
perished in the catastrophe, crushed beneath the collapse of the
flaming roof . . . No, Simon was alive, and healthy. Something
about him was different, but Rachel could not say what -- the look in
his eye, the harder line of his jaw? -- but that did not matter. It was
Simon, alive, and as she dreamed Rachel's heart was full again. She
saw him, the dead boy -- her dead boy, really; hadn't she raised him
like a mother until he was taken away? -- and he was standing in a
place of near-absolute whiteness, staring up at a great, white tree
that stretched into the air like a ladder to the Throne of God. And
though he stood resolutely, his head flung back and his eyes upon

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             337

the tree, Rachel could not help noticing that his hair, that thick
reddish tangle, was badly in need of cutting . . . well, she would
see to that soon, right enough ... the boy needed a firm
hand . . .

When she woke, pulling the smothering blanket aside in a panic to
find more darkness around her -- this time the darkness of evening -- 
the weight of loss and grief came sliding back down like a wet tapes-
try. As she sat up on the bed and climbed slowly to her feet the
washrag tumbled free, dry as an autumn leaf. There was no call for
her to be laying about, pining like some fluttery girlchild. There was
work that needed doing, Rachel reminded herself, and no rest this
side of Heaven.

^

The tabor rattled, and the lute player plucked a gentle chord
before beginning the last verse.

". . . And now dost thou come, my lady fair
In Khandery-cloth and silks withal?
Then if thou wouldst rule o'er my heart
Take foot now and follow to Emettin's Hallf"

The musician finished with a flurry of delicate notes, then bowed
as Duke Leobardis applauded.

"Emettin's Hall!" the duke said to Eolair, Count of Nad Mullach,
who followed Leobardis' example with his own dutiful applause.
Secretly, the Hemystirman felt sure that he had heard better. He
was not much taken by the love ballads that were so popular here in
the Nabbanai court.

"I am fond of that song," the duke smiled. His long white hair
and pink cheeks gave him the look of a favorite old great-uncle, the
sort who drank too much stout at the Aedontide feasts and then
tried to teach the children how to whistle. Only the flowing white
robe trimmed in lapis and gold, and the golden circlet on his head
with its mother-of-pearl kingfisher, proclaimed him as different than
ordinary men. "Come, Count Eolair, I thought that music was the

338 Tad Williams

tifeblood of the Taig. Does not Lluth count himself Osten Ard's
greatest patron of harpers, and your Hemystir the natural home of
musicians?" The duke leaned across the arm of his sky-blue chair to
pat Eolair's hand.

"King Lluth does indeed keep his harpers beside him at all
times," Eolair agreed. "Please, Duke, if I seem preoccupied, it is in
no way due to any stinting on your part. Your kindness has been
indeed a thing to remember. No, I must admit I am still bothered
about the matters we discussed earlier."

A look of concern came to the duke's mild blue eyes. "I have told
you, my Eolair, that there is a time for such things. It is very wear-
ing to have to wait, but there you are." Leobardis motioned to the
lute player, who had been waiting patiently on one knee. The musi-
cian rose, bowed, and moved off. His fantastically intricate garment
flounced around him as he joined a group of courtiers similarly
garbed in sumptuously embroidered robes and tunics. The ladies
had supplemented their outfits with exotic hats winged like seabirds,
or crested like the fins of bright fish. The colors in the throne room,
like those of the courtiers' costumes, were muted; tasteful blues,
yellow beiges, pinks, whites, and foam greens- The impression was
that of a palace built from delicate sea-stones, everything smoothed
and softened by the clutch of the ocean.

Beyond the gentlemen and ladies of the court, taking up the whole
southwest wall facing the duke's chair, were the high arched win-
dows that looked out over the active, sun-tipped green sea. The
ocean, which threw itself ceaselessly against the rocky headland on
which the ducal palace perched, was a vibrant, living tapestry.
Watching through the day as the moving light danced on its surface,
or revealed patches of still sea as heavy and translucent as jade,
Eolair frequently wished to sweep the courtiers from the way, send
them tumbling and squeaking from the room so that nothing would
obscure his view.

"Perhaps you are right, Duke Leobardis," Eolair said at last.
"One must stop talking sometime, even when the subject is a vital
one. I suppose, sitting here, I should be taking a lesson from the
ocean. It doesn't need to work hard to get what it wants; eventually
it wears the rocks away, the beaches . . . even the mountains."

Leobardis liked this sort of conversation better. "Ah, yes, the sea
never changes, does it? And yet, it is always changing."

339

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"That's true, my lord. And it is not always quiet. Sometimes there
are storms."

As the duke cocked his head toward the Hemystirman, unsure
whether this remark meant something more than was immediately
obvious, his son Benigaris strode into the room, nodding briefly to
some of the courtiers who greeted him as he moved toward the
duke's chair.

"The duke my father; Count Eolair," he said, bowing once to
each. Eolair smiled, and put out a hand to clasp Benigaris'.

"It's good to see you," the Hemystirman said. Benigaris was taller
than when he had last seen him, but the duke's son had then been
only seventeen or eighteen. Nearly two decades had passed, and
Eolair was not displeased to see that despite his being a good eight
years the elder, it was Benigaris who had thickened around the
waist, not he. Nonetheless, the duke's son was tall and broad-shoul-
dered, with intent dark eyes beneath thick black brows. He made
quite an imposing figure in his belted tunic and quilted vest -- an
energetic contrast to his affable father.

"Hea, it has been a long time," Benigaris agreed. "We shall talk at
supper tonight." Eolair did not think he sounded very excited at the
prospect. Benigaris turned to his father. "Sir Fluiren is here to see
you. He is with the chamberlain at the moment."

"Ah, good old Fluiren! There is irony for you, Eolair. One of the
greatest knights Nabban has ever produced."

"Only your brother Camaris was ever called greater," Eolair in-
terrupted, not adverse to resurrecting the memories of a more mar-
tial Nabban.

"Yes, my dear brother." Leobardis smiled a sad smile. "Well, to
think that Fluiren should be coming to see me as an emissary of
Elias!"

"There is a certain irony," Eolair said lightly.

Benigaris curled his lip with impatience. "He's waiting for you. I
think you should see him quickly, as a gesture of respect to the High
King."

"My, my!" Leobardis turned an amused glance toward Eolair.
"Do you hear my son order me?" When the duke turned back to
Benigaris, Eolair thought there might be something in Leobardis'
gaze beside amusement -- anger? Worry? "Yes, then, tell my old

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friend Fluiren I will see him ... let me think . . . yes, in the

Council Hall. Will you join us, Eolair?"

Benigaris leaped in, "Father, I do not think you should invite even
so trusted a friend as the count in to hear secret communications

from the High King!"

"And what need, may I ask, is there for secrets to be kept from

Hernystir?" the duke asked. Anger had crept into his voice.

"Please, Leobardis, I have things I must do anyway. I shall walk
in later to say hello to Fluiren." Eolair rose and bowed.

As he stopped on his way across the throne room to look one
more time on the splendid view, he heard the voices of Leobardis
and his son raised behind him in muffled argument.

Waves make more waves as these Nabbanai say, thought Eolair. It
looks as though Leobardis' balance is more delicate than I thought.
Doubtless that is why he is so unwilling to talk frankly with me about
his troubles with the king. A good thing it is that Leobardis is a

tougher stalk than he appears to be.
He heard the courtiers whispering behind him, and turned to see

several of them looking in his direction. He smiled and nodded. The
women blushed, covering their mouths with their flowing sleeves;

the men nodded gravely and quickly looked away. He knew what
they were thinking -- he was a curiosity, a rustic and untutored west-
erner, even if he was an old friend of the duke's. No matter what he
wore, or how perfectly he spoke, still they would feel the same.
Suddenly, Eolair felt a deep longing for his home in Hemystir. He

had been too long in foreign courts.

The waves rushed against the rocks below, as though the sea
would not be satisfied until its monstrous patience had at last
brought the palace tumbling down into its watery grasp.

Eolair spent the rest of the afternoon strolling the high, airy hall-
ways and meticulous gardens of the Sancellan Mahistrevis. Al-
though it was now the duke's palace and the capitol ofNabban, once
it had been the seat of Man's whole empire in Osten Ard; diminished
in importance now, still its glories were many.

Perched on the rocky knob of the Sancelline Hill, the palace's
western walls overlooked the sea which had always been Nabban's
lifeblood -- indeed, all of Nabban's noble houses used water birds as
the symbols of their power: the Benidrivine kingfisher of the current

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              341

duke's line, the Prevan osprey and Ingadarine albatross; even the
Heron of Sulis that had once, briefly, flown over the Hayholt in
Erkynland.

East of the palace the city of Nabban itself spread down the penin-
sula's neck, a crowded, swarming city of hills and close quarters,
thinning at last as the peninsula widened out into the meadows and
farms of the Lakeland. From the known world to this peninsular
duchy and bridal-veil of island possessions, Nabban's visits had nar-
rowed, and its rulers had turned in on themselves. But once, not too
long ago, the mantle of the Nabbanai Imperators had covered the
world, from the brackish Wran to the farthest reaches of icy
Rimmersgard; in those days the wrangling of osprey and pelican and
the strivings of heron and gull had carried as their reward a prize
worth any risk.

Eolair walked in the Hall of Fountains, where jets of glimmering
spray arched up to commingle as fine mist beneath the open lattice-
work of the stone roof, and wondered if there was yet the will left in
the Nabbanai to fight, or whether they had simply come to terms
with their own gradual dimunition, so that Ellas' provocations only
served to drive them further into their beautiful, delicate shell.
Where now were the men of greatness like those who had carved
Nabban's empire out of the rough stone of Osten Ard -- men like
Tiyagaris or Anitulles . . . ?

Of course, he thought, there was Camaris -- a man who, had he not
found in himself a stronger call to serve than to be served, might
have held the willing world in the palm of his hand. Camaris had
been a mighty man indeed.

And who are we Hernystirmen to speak? he wondered. Since Hern
the Great, what mighty men have risen up in our western lands?
Tethtain, who took the Hayholt from Sulis? Perhaps. But who else?
Where is Hemystir's Hall of Fountains, where are oar great palaces
and churches?

But of course, that is the difference. He looked out past the stream-
ing fountains to the cathedral spire of the Sancellan Aedonitis, the
palace of the Lector and Mother Church. We of the Hernystiri do not
look at the hill streams and say: how can I bring that to my home? We
build our homes beside the stream. We do not have a faceless God to
glorify with towers taller than the trees of the Circoille. We know that
the gods live in the trees and in the bones of the earth, and in the

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rivers that splash high as any fountain, racing down from the Grian-

spog mountains.

We never wanted to rule the world. He smiled to himself, remem-
bering the Taig at Hemysadharc, a castle made not of stone but
wood: oak-hearted to match the hearts of his people. Really, now, all
we want is to be left alone. Still, with all their years of conquest,
perhaps these Nabbanfolk have forgotten sometimes you have to fight

for thatt too.

As he left the room of fountains, Eolair of Nad Mullach brushed

past two legion guardsmen coming in.
"Bloody hillman," he heard one of them say, eyeing his garb and

horsetail of black hair.
"Hea, you know," the other replied, "every now and then the

sheepherders need to come and see what a city looks like."

". . . And how is my little niece Miriamele, Count?" the duchess
asked. Eolair was seated at her left hand near the head of the long
table. Fluiren, as a more recent arrival and a distinguished son of
Nabban, had the place of honor on the right of Duke Leobardis.

"She seemed well, my lady.'*

"Did you see much of her while you were at the High King's
court?" The Duchess Nessalanta leaned toward him, raising an ex-
quisitely drawn eyebrow. The duchess was a sternly beautiful older
woman, although how much of that beauty was due to the skilled
manipulations of her hairdressers, seamstresses, and lady's maids,
Eolair had no way of guessing. Nessalanta was exactly the kind of
woman who made Eolair -- no stranger to the company of the fairer
sex -- feel completely out of his depth. She was younger than her
husband the duke, but she was the mother of a man well into his
prime. What here was lasting beauty and what was artifice? Then
again, what did it matter? Nessalanta was a powerful woman, and
only Leobardis himself held greater sway over the affairs of the

nation.
"I was not often in the princess' company, Duchess, but we had

several chances to speak at supper. She was as delightful as ever, but
I'm thinking she was already very homesick for Meremund."

"Hmmm." The duchess popped a comer of her trencher-bread
into her mouth and then delicately licked her fingers. "It was inter-
esting you should mention that, Count Eolair. I have just had news

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             343

from Erkynland that she has returned to the castle at Meremund."
She raised her voice. "Father Dinivan?"

A few seats down a young priest looked up from his meal. Al-
though his scalp was shaved in the monasterial style, the hair that
remained was curly and rather long. "Yes, my lady?" he asked.

"Father Dinivan is His Sacredness the Lector Ranessin's private
secretary," Nessalanta explained. The Hemystirman made an im-
pressed face, and Dinivan laughed.

"I don't think it's accreditable to any great wit or talent on my
pan," he said. "The lector also takes in stray dogs. Escritor Velligis
gets very upset. The Sancellan Aedonitis is not a kennel,' he tells the
lector, but His Sacredness smiles and says: 'Neither is Osten Ard a
nursery, but the Benevolent Lord lets His children remain, for all
their mischief." Dinivan waggled his bushy brows. "It's hard to
argue with the lector."

"Isn't it true," the Duchess said as Eolair laughed, "that when
you saw the king he said his daughter was gone to Meremund?"

"Yes, yes he did," Dinivan said, more serious now. "He said she
had taken ill, and the court physicians recommended sea air."

"I am sorry to hear that." Eolair looked past the duchess to the
duke and old Sir Fluiren, who were conversing quietly amidst the
uproar of supper -- for a refined people, he reflected, the Nabbanai
certainly enjoyed loud table talk.

"Well," Nessalanta pronounced, sitting back in her chair as a page
scurried up with a finger basin, "it just proves that you can't force
people to be what they're not. Miriamele has Nabbanai blood, of
course, and our blood is salty as the sea. We are not meant to be
taken away from the coast- People should stay where they belong."

And what, the count wondered to himself, are you trying to tell
me, my gracious lady? To stay in Hemystir and leave your husband -- 
and your duchy -- alone? To, in effect, go back to my own kind?

Eolair watched Leobardis' and Fluiren's discussion wistfully. He
had been maneuvered, he knew: there was no gracious way he could
ignore the duchess and insinuate himself into their conversation.
Meanwhile, old Fluiren was at work on the duke, transmitting Elias'
blandishments. And threats? No, probably not. Elias would not have
sent the dignified Fluiren for that. He had Guthwulf the King's
Hand ready for use whenever such a tool was called for.

Resigned, he made light talk with the duchess, but his heart was

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not in it. He was sure now that she knew his mission and was hostile
to it. Benigaris was the apple of her eye, and he had been avoiding
Eolair all evening. Nessalanta was an ambitious woman, and doubt-
less felt the fortunes of Nabban would be better assured if they were
yoked to the power of Erkynland -- even a domineering, tyrannical
Erkynland -- instead of the pagans of Hemystir.

And, Eolair realized suddenly, she has a marriageable daughter
herself, the Lady Antippa. Perhaps her interest in Miriamele's health
is not just that of a kindly aunt's for her niece.

The duke's daughter Antippa was pledged already, he knew, to
one Baron Devasalles, a foppish-looking young nobleman who at
this precise moment was arm wrestling with Benigaris in a pool of
wine at the far end of the table. But maybe Nes&alanta had her eye

on greater things.

If Princess Miriamele will not -- or cannot -- marry . . . Eolair
mused, then perhaps the duchess has eyes for Fengbald to marry her
daughter instead. The Earl of Falshire would be a much finer catch
than any back-row Nabbanai baron. And Duke Leobardis would then
be tied to Erkynland with cords of steel.

So now, the count realized, there was not only Josua's where-
abouts to worry over, but Miriamele's as well. What a tanglel

Just think how old Isgrimnur would see this, with all his complaints
about intriguing! His beard would catch fire!

"Tell me, Father Dinivan," the count said, turning to the priest,
"what does your holy book have to say on the art of politicking?"

"Well," a look of concentration momentarily clouded Dinivan's
homely, intelligent face, "the Book of the Aedon speaks often of the
trials of nations." He thought a moment more. "One of my favorite
passages has always been: 'If your enemy comes to speak bearing a
sword, open your door to him and speak, but keep your own sword at
hand. If he comes to you emptyhanded, greet him the same way. But
if he comes to you bearing gifts, stand on your walls and cast stones
down on him.' *' Dinivan wiped his fingers on his black cassock.

"A wise book, indeed," nodded Eolair.

23

Back into the Heart

THE WIND flung rain into their faces as they ran eastward through
the darkness toward the hidden foothills. The clamor of Isgrimnur's
camp receded, muffled in a blanket of thunder.

Coursing across the wet plain, Simon's panicked exhilaration be-
gan to recede as well; the ecstatic sensation of energy, the feeling
that he could run and run through the night like a deer, was gradu-
ally cooled by the rain and relentless pace. Within half a league his
gallop had slowed to a fast walk; soon even that was an effort.
Where a bony hand had clutched his knee he felt the joint stiffening
like a rusty hinge; bands of pain around his throat throbbed at every
deep breath.

"Morgenes . . . sent you?" he shouted.
"Later, Simon," Binabik gasped. "All told later."
They ran and ran, tripping and splashing over the sodden turf.
"Then . . ." Simon panted, "then what . . . were those
things . . . ?"

"The . . . attacking things?" Even as he ran the troll made an
odd hand-to-mouth gesture. "Bukken -- 'diggers' they are ... also
called."

"What are they?" Simon asked, and nearly supped on a patch of
mud, skidding for a moment flat-footed.
"Bad." He grimaced. "There is no more needs telling now,"
When they could run no longer they walked, trudging on until the
sun edged up behind the wash of clouds, a candle behind a gray
sheet. The Wealdhelm stood before them, thrown up in relief against
the pallid dawn like the bowed backs of monks at prayer.

In the meager shelter of a cluster of rounded granite boulders, set
starkly in the sea of grass as though in imitation of the hills beyond,
Binabik made a sort of camp. After walking around the rocks to find

346 Tad Williams

the spot most sheltered from the shifting rains, he helped Simon
down into a space where two boulders leaned together, forming an
angle in which the boy could recline with some minimal comfort.
Simon fell quickly into limp, exhausted sleep.

Flying raindrops skipped from the tops of the boulders as Binabik
crouched, tucking in the boy's cloak -- which the troll had brought
with their other things all the way from Saint Hoderund's -- then
rooted in his pack for some dried fish to chew, and his knucklebones.
Qantaqa returned from an investigatory tour of her new territory to
curl up on Simon's shins. The troll took the bones out and tossed
them, using his pack bag for a table.

The Shadowed Path. Binabik grinned a bitter grin. Then, Master-
less Ram, and again, The Shadowed Path. He cursed, quietly but
lengthily -- only a fool would ignore such a clear message. Binabik
knew himself to be many things, and foolish was occasionally one of
them, but here, now, there was no room to take such chances.

He pulled his fur hood back up around his face and curled in
beside Qantaqa. To any passing by -- if they could have seen any-
thing at all in the faint light, and with rain in their faces -- the three
companions would have looked like nothing so much as an unusual,
dun-colored lichen on the lee-side of the rocks.

^

"So, what kind of a game have you been playing with me,
Binabik?" Simon asked sullenly. "How do you know of Doctor
Morgenes?" In the few hours he had slept the pale dawn had turned
into a cold, gloomy morning, unredeemed by campfire or breakfast.
The sky, swollen with clouds, hung close overhead like a low ceiling.

"It is no game I am playing, Simon," the troll replied. He had
cleaned and bandaged Simon's neck and leg wounds, and was pa-
tiently seeing to Qantaqa's. Only one of the wolf's injuries was seri-
ous, a deep slash on the inside other foreleg. As Binabik picked grit
from the skin, Qantaqa sniffed at his fingers, trusting as a child.

"I have no regret for not telling you; if I had not felt forced, still
you would not know." He rubbed a fingerful of salve into the cut
and then turned his mount loose. She promptly bent and began
licking and biting at the leg. l<! knew that she would do that," he

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             347

said in mild reproach, then mustered a careful smile. "Like you, she
is not thinking I know my work."

Simon, realizing he had been unconsciously plucking at his own
bandages, sat forward. "Come, Binabik, just tell me. How do you
know of Morgenes? Where do you really come from?"

"I am from exactly where I say," the troll replied indignantly. "I
am a Qanuc. And I am not merely knowing o/Morgenes, once I met
him. He is a good friend of my master. They are . . . colleagues, I
think the learned men say."

"What do you mean?"

Binabik sat back against the rock. Although at the moment there
was no rain to shelter from, the cutting wind alone was reason
enough to stay close to the outcropping. The little man seemed to be
considering his words carefully. He looked tired to Simon, his dark
skin loose and a shade paler than normal.

"First," the troll said at last, "you must be knowing something of
my master. He was named Ookequk. He was the ... Singing Man,
you would call him, of our mountain. When we say Singing Man, we
mean not someone who is just singing, but someone who is remem-
bering the old songs and old wisdom. Like doctor and priest joined
together, it seems to me.

"Ookequk was my master because of certain things the elders
thought they were seeing in me. It was a great honor to be the one to
share in Ookequk's wisdom -- I went three days without eating food
when I was told, just to make myself of the right pureness." Binabik
smiled. "When I announced this priderully to my new master, he hit
me on my ear. 'You are too young and stupid to be starving yourself
on purpose,' he said to me. ' Tt has presumptuousness. You may
only starve by accident . . .'"

Binabik's grin split open into a laugh; when Simon thought about
it for a moment, he laughed a little, too.

"In any way," he continued, "I will be telling you someday about
my years learning from Ookequk -- he was a great, fat troll, Simon;

he weighed more than you, and he was being my height only -- but
now the point must be reached sooner.

"I do not know with exactness where my master first met
Morgenes, but it was long before I came to his cave. They were
friends, though, and my master taught Morgenes the art of making

348 Tad Williams

birds carry messages. They had much talk in letters, my master and
your doctor. They shared many . . . ideas about the world's ways.

"Just two summers gone my parents were killed. Their death
came in the dragon-snow of the mountain we call Little Nose, and
once they were no more, I devoted all my thinking -- well, almost all
 -- to learning from master Ookequk. When he told me this thaw that
I was to be accompanying him on a great journey south, I was filled
with excitement. It was clear-seeming to me that this would be my
test of worthiness.

"What I was not knowing," the troll said, poking up the muddy
grass before him with his walking stick -- almost angrily, Simon
thought, but there was no anger to hear in his voice -- "what I was
not told, was that Ookequk had more important reasons for travel-
ing than the finish of my apprenticeship. He had been receiving
words from Doctor Morgenes . . . and some others ... of things
that disturbed him, and he felt it was time to be returning the visit
Morgenes had made on him long years before, when I first was with
him."

"What 'things*?" Simon asked. "What did Morgenes tell him?"

"If you are not yet knowing," Binabik said serious, "then perhaps
there are still truths you can do without. On that I must think, but
for now let me say what I can -- what I must."

Simon nodded stiffly, rebuked.

"I will not either burden you with all the long story of our south-
ward trip. I was realizing quite early on that my master had not
given me all the truth, either. He was worried, much worried, and
when he cast the bones or read certain signs in the sky and wind he
became even more so. Also, some of our experiences were very bad.
I have traveled by myself, as you know, much of it before becoming
a servant of my master Ookequk, yet never have I seen times so bad
for travelers. An experience much like yours of last night we were
having just below the lake Drorshullvenn, on the Frosttnarch."

"You mean those . . . Bukken?" Simon asked. Even with day-
light around them, the thought of the clasping hands was terrify-
ingly vivid.

"Indeed," Binabik nodded, "and that was . . . is ... being a
bad sign, that they should attack so. It is not in the memory of my
people that the Boghanik, which is our name for them, should as-

349

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sault a group of armed men. Bold it is, and frighteningly so. Their
usual way is to be preying on animals and solitary travelers."

"What are they?"

"Later, Simon, there is much that you will leam if you have pa-
tience with me. My master did not tell me all, either -- which is not
saying, please notice, that I am your master -- but he was very much
upset. In our whole journeying down the Frostmarch I did not see
him sleeping. When I would sleep, still he would be awake, and the
morning would find him up before me. He was not young, either: he
was old before I came to him, and several years I was by him study-
ing.

"One night, when first we had crossed down into the northern
parts of Erkynland, he asked me to be standing watch so that he
could walk the Road of Dreams. We were in a place much like this,"
Binabik gestured around at the bleak plain below the hills, "spring
arrived, but not yet broken through. This would have been, oh,
perhaps around the time of your All Fool's Day or the day before."

"All Fools Eve . . . Simon tried to think back, to remember. The
night that terrible noise awakened the whole castle. The night before
. . . the rains came . . .

"Qantaqa was off hunting, and the old ram One-eye -- a great, fat,
patient thing he was to carry Ookequk! -- was sleeping by the fire. We
were alone with just the sky. My master ate of the dream-bark that
came to him from the marshy Wran in the south. He crossed over
into a kind of sleeping. He had not told me why he was doing this,
but I could guess he was searching for answers that he could find no
other way. The Boghanik had frightened him, because there was
wrongness in their actions.

"Soon he was mumbling, as he was usually doing as his heart
walked the Road of Dreams. Much was not understandable, but one
or two things that he said were also said more lately by Brother
Dochais, which is why you may have seen me show surprise."

Simon had to restrain a sour smile. And he had thought that it
had been his own fear which was so obvious, sparked by the Hemys-
tirman's delirious words!

"Suddenly," the troll continued, still poking fixedly with his stick
at the spongy turf, "it seemed to me that something had caught at
him -- again, with likeness to Brother Dochais. But my master was
strong, stronger in his heart, I think, than nearly anyone, man or

350 Tad Williams

troll, and he fought. Struggled and struggled, he did, all the after-
noon long and into the evening, as I was standing beside him with
no help to give but to wet his brow." Binabik pulled a handful of
grass, tossing it into the air to bat at it with his staff. "Then, a little
past the middle of the night, he said some words to me -- quite
calmly, as if he were at drinking with the others elders in the Clan
cave -- and died.

"It was for me, I am thinking, worse than my parents, because
they were lost -- just vanished in a snowslide, gone with no trace. I
buried Ookequk there on a hillside. None of the proper rituals were
correctly done, and that is a shame for me. One-eye would not leave
without his master; for all I can know, he may be there still. I am
hoping so."

The troll was quiet for a while, staring fiercely at the scuffed hide
on the knees of his breeches. His pain was so close to Simon's own
sorrow that the boy could think of no words to say that would make
sense to anyone but himself.

After a while Binabik silently opened his bag and proffered a
handful of nuts. Simon took them, along with the waterskin.

"Then," Binabik began again, almost as if he had not stopped, "a
strange thing happened."

Simon huddled in his cloak and watched the troll's face as he
talked.

"Two days I had spent beside my master's burial place. A nice
enough place it was, lying beneath unblocked sky, but my heart was
sore because I knew he would be more happy up high in the moun-
tains. I was thinking of what I should be doing, whether to continue
on to Morgenes in Erchester, or return to my people and tell them
the Singing Man Ookequk was dead.

"I decided on the afternoon of the second day that I should return
to Qanuc. I had no understanding of the importance of my master's
talk with Doctor Morgenes -- I am still not understanding much,
sadly to say -- and I had other . . . responsibilities.

"As I was calling Qantaqa, and scratching a last time between the
horns of faithful One-eye, a small gray bird fluttered down, landing
on Ookequk's mound. I recognized it as one of my master's messen-
ger birds; it was very tired from carrying a heavy burden, a message
and . . . and another thing. As I approached to capture it, Qantaqa
came crashing up along the underbrush. The bird, it is not surpris-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             351

ing, was frightened and leaped into the air. I barely caught it. It was
a nearness, Simon, but I caught it.

"It was written by Morgenes, and the subject of the note was you,
my friend. It told to the reader -- who should have been my master -- 
that you would be in danger, and traveling alone from the Hayholt
toward Naglimund. It asked my master to be helping you -- without
your knowing, if such was possible. It said a few things more."

Simon was riveted; this was a missing part of his own story.
"What other things?" he asked.

"Things only for my master's eyes." Binabik's tone was kindly,
but firm. "Now, it needs no saying that here was a difference. My
master was asked a favor by his old friend . . . but only I could do
that favor. This was also difficult, but from the moment I read
Morgenes' note, I knew I must fulfill his request. I set out that day
before evening toward Erchester."

The note said I would be traveling alone. Morgenes never thought
he would escape. Simon felt tears coming, and covered the effort of
suppressing them with a question.

"How were you supposed to find me?"

Binabik smiled. "By the use of Qanuc hard work, friend Simon. I
had to pick up your trail -- the signs of passing of a young man, no
•set destination, things of this kind. Qanuc hard work and a largeness
of luck led me to you."

A memory flared in Simon's heart, gray and fearful even in distant
retrospect. "Did you follow me across the lich-yard? The one out-
side the city walls?" It had not all been dream, he knew. Something
had called his name.

The troll's round face, however, was unreassuringly blank. "No,
Simon," he said carefully, thinking. "I was not discovering your
track until, I think, upon the Old Forest Road. Why?"

"It's not important." Simon rose and stretched, looking around
the damp flatland. He sat again, and reached for the waterskin.
"Well, I guess I understand, now . . . but I have much to think
about. It seems we should continue to Naglimund, I suppose. What
do you think?"

Binabik looked troubled. "I am not sure, Simon. If the Bukken
are active in the Frostmarch, the road to Naglimund-keep will be
too dangerous for a pair of travelers alone. I must admit I am much
worried about what to do now. I am wishing we had your Doctor

352 Tad Williams

Morgenes here to advise us. Are you in so much peril, Simon, that
we could not risk even a message to him somehow? I am not think-
ing he wants me to take you through such terrible dangers."

It took a moment for Simon to realize that the "he" Binabik was
talking about was still Morgenes. A second later the astonishing
realization struck: the troll did not know what had happened.

"Binabik," he began, and even as he spoke he felt he was inflicting
a kind of wound, "he's dead. Doctor Morgenes is dead."

The little man's eyes flared wide for a moment, the white around
the brown visible for the first time. An instant later Binabik's expres-
sion froze in a dispassionate mask.

"Dead?" he said at last, his voice so cold that Simon felt a strange
defensiveness, as though it was somehow his fault -- he, who had
cried so many tears over the doctor!

"Yes." Simon considered for a moment, then took a calculated
risk. "He died getting Prince Josua and me out of the castle. King
Ellas killed him -- well, he had his man Pryrates do it, anyway."

Binabik stared into Simon's eyes, then looked down. "I had
knowledge of Josua's captivity. In the letter it was mentioned. The
rest is ... tidings that are very bad." He stood, and the wind
plucked at his straight black hair. "Let me walk now, Simon. I must
think what these things are meaning ... I must think . . -"

His face still emotionless, the little man stepped away from the
clutch of rocks. Qantaqa immediately leaped up to follow, and
Binabik started to shoo her off, then shrugged. She circled him in
wide, lazy arcs as he moved slowly away, head bowed and small
hands hidden in his sleeves. Simon thought he looked far too small
for the burdens that he carried.

^

Simon was half-hoping that when the troll returned he might be
carrying a fat wood pigeon or something similar. In this he was
disappointed.

"I am sorry, Simon," the little man said, "but it would have been
of small use anyway. We cannot have a smokeless fire with nothing
around but wet brush, and a smoke-beacon I do not think is good at
the moment. Have some dried fish."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             353

The fish, itself in short supply, was neither filling nor tasty, but
Simon chewed morosely at his piece: who knew when he would next
get a meal on this miserable adventure?

"I have been thinking, Simon. Your news, with no fault of yours,
is hurtful. So soon after my master's death, to hear of the ending of
the doctor, that good old man . . ." Binabik trailed on, then bent
and began shoving things back into his pack, after first separating
out several articles.

"These are your things -- see, I was saving them for you." He
handed Simon the two familiar cylindrical bundles.

"This other . . ." Simon said, accepting the packages, ". . . not
the arrow, but this . . ." He handed it back to Binabik. "It's writ-
ing by Doctor Morgenes."

"Truthfully?" Binabik skinned back a comer of the rag wrap-
pings. "Things that will help us?"

"I don't think so," Simon said. "It's his life ofPrester John. I read
some of it -- it's mostly about battles and things."

"Ah. Yes." Binabik passed it back over to Simon, who pushed it
through his belt. "Too bad, that is- We could use his more specific
words at this moment." The troll bent and continued pushing ob-
jects into his pack. "Morgenes and Ookequk my master, they were
belonging together to a very special group." He scooped something
out of his belongings and held it up for Simon to see. It gleamed
faintly in the overcast afternoon light, a pendant of a scroll and quill
pen.

"Morgenes had one of those!" Simon said, leaning close to look.

"Indeed," Binabik nodded. "This was my master's. It is a sigil
belonging to those who join the League of the Scroll. There are, I
was told by him, never more than seven members. Your and my
masters are dead -- there can be no more than five left, now." He
snapped his small hand shut on the pendant and dropped it into the
sack.

"League of the Scroll?" Simon wondered. "What is it?"

"A group of learned people who share knowledge, I have heard
my master saying. Perhaps something more, but he would never tell
me." He finished the last of his packing and straightened up. "I am
sorry to be saying this, Simon, but I am afraid we must walk again."

"Again?" Aches he had forgotten suddenly flared in Simon's mus-
cles.

354 Tad Williams

"I am afraid it is needed. As I was telling, 1 have been much in
thought. I have thought these things . . ." He tightened his walking
stick at the join and whistled for Qantaqa.

"Firstly, I am bound for getting you to Naglimund. This has not
been changed, it was unhappily only my resolution that was slip-
ping. The problem is: I do not trust the Frostmarch. You saw the
Bukken -- it is likely you would prefer not to see them again. But it is
northward we must travel. I am thinking, then, that we must go
back to Aldheorte."

"But Binabik, how will we be any safer there? What's to keep
those digger-things from coming after us in the forest, where we
probably can't even run?"

"A good question to ask. I spoke to you once of the Oldheart -- of
its age and . . . and ... I cannot think of a word in your lan-
guage, Simon, but *soul' and 'spirit' may be giving you an idea.

"The Bukken can pass beneath the old forest, but not easily.
There is power in the Aldheorte's roots, power that is not to be
lightly broached by ... such creatures. Also, there is someone
there I must see, someone who must hear the telling of what hap-
pened to my master and yours."

Simon was already tired of hearing his own questions, but asked
anyway. "Who is that?"

"Her name is Geloe. A wise woman she is, one known as a valada
 --  a Rimmersgard word, that. Also, she can perhaps help us to
reach Naglimund, since we will have to be crossing from the forest
side on the east over the Wealdhelm, a route that is not known to
me."

Simon pulled his cloak on, hooking the worn clasp beneath his
chin. "Must we leave today?" he asked. "It's so late in the after-
noon."

"Simon," Binabik said as Qantaqa jogged up, tongue lolling,
"please believe me. Even though there are things that I cannot yet
tell to you, we must be true companions. I need your trust. It is not
only the business of Elias* kingship that is at stake. We have lost,
both of us, people who we were holding dearly -- an old man and an
old troll who knew much more than we are knowing. They were
both afraid. Brother Dochais, I am thinking, died of fright. Some-
thing evil is waking, and we are foolish if we spend more time in
open ground."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              355

"What is waking, Binabik? What evil? Dochais said a name -- I
heard him. Just before he died he said . . ."

"You need not ... '" Binabik tried to interrupt, but Simon paid
him no heed. He was growing tired of hints and suggestions.

", . . Storm King," he finished resolutely.

Binabik looked quickly around, as though he expected something
terrible to appear. "I know," he hissed. "I heard, too, but I do not
know much." Thunder tolled beyond the distant horizon; the little
man looked grim, "The Storm King is a name of dread in the dark
north. Simon, a name out of legends to frighten with, to conjure
with. All I have are small words my master was giving me some-
times, but it is enough to make me sick with worry." He shouldered
his bag and started off across the muddy plain, toward the blunt,
crouching line of hills.

"That name," he said, his voice incongruously hushed in the
midst of such flat emptiness, "is of itself a thing to wither crops, to
bring fevers and bad dreaming ..."

". . . Rain and bad weather . . . ?" Simon asked, looking up at
the ugly, lowering sky.

"And other things," Binabik replied, and touched his palm to his
jacket, just above his heart.

The Hounds
of Erkynland

^

SIMON DREAMED that he was walking in the Pine Garden of the
Hayholt, just outside the Dining Hall. Above the gently swaying
trees hung the stone bridge that connected hall and chapel. Al-
though he felt no sensation of cold -- indeed, he was not aware of his
body at all except as something to move him from one place to
another -- gentle flakes of snow were filtering down around him. The
fine, needled edges of the trees were beginning to blur beneath blan-
kets of white and all was quiet: the wind, the snow, Simon himself,
all moved in a world seemingly without sound or swift motion.

The unfelt wind blew more fiercely now, and the trees of the
sheltered garden began to bend before Simon's passage, parting like
ocean waves around a submerged stone. The snow flurried, and he
moved forward into the opening, into a tree-lined hallway of
swirling white. On he went, the trees leaning back before him like
respectful soldiers.

The garden was never this long, was it?

Suddenly Simon felt his eyes drawn upward. At the end of the
snowy path stood a great white pillar, looming far over his head into
the dark skies.

Of course, he thought to himself in dreamy half-logic, it's Green
Angel Tower. He could never walk directly from the garden to the
base of the tower before, but things had changed since he'd been
gone . . . things had changed.

But if it's the tower, he thought, staring upward at the immense
shape, why does it have branches? It's not the tower . . . or at least it
isn't any more . . . it's a tree -- a great white tree . . .

Simon sat upright, staring.

"What is a tree?" asked Binabik, who sat close by, restitching

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             357

Simon's shirt with a bird-bone needle. He finished a moment later,
and handed it back to the youth, who extended a freckled arm from
beneath his sheltering cloak to claim it. "What is a tree, and was
your sleeping good?"

"A dream, that's all," Simon said, muffled for a moment as he
pulled the shirt over his head. "I dreamed that Green Angel Tower
turned into a tree." He looked at Binabik quizzically, but the troll
only shrugged.

"A dream," Binabik agreed.

Simon yawned and stretched. It had not been particularly com-
fortable, sleeping in a protected crevice on the side of a hill, but it
was eminently preferable to spending a night unprotected on the
plain. He had seen the logic of that quickly enough, once they had
gotten moving.

Sunrise had come while he slept, inconspicuous behind the blan-
ket of clouds, just a smear of pinkish gray light across the sky.
Looking back from the hillside perch it was difficult to tell where the
sky left off and the misty plains began. The world seemed a murky
and unformed place this morning.

"I saw fires in the night, while you were sleeping," the troll said,
startling Simon out of his reverie.

"Fires? Where?"

Buiabik pointed with his left hand, southward along the plain.
"Back there. Do not be worrying, I think they are a far way off. It is
quite the possibility they have nothing to do with us."

"I suppose so." Simon squinted into the gray distance. "Do you
think it might be Isgrimnur and his Rimmersgarders?"

"It is doubtful."

Simon turned to look at the little man. "But you said they would
get away! That they'd survive. . . ."

The troll gave him an exasperated look. "If you would wait, you
would hear. I am sure they survived, but they were traveling north,
and I am doubting they would turn back. Those fires were farther
toward south, as though . . ."

". . . As though they were traveling up from Erkynland," Simon
finished.

"Yes!" Binabik said, a little testily. "But it could be they are trad-
ers, or pilgrims . . ." He looked around. "Where has Qantaqa now
gone to?"

358 Tad Williams

Simon grimaced. He knew a dodge when he saw one. "Very well.
It could be anything . . . but you were the one counseling speed
yesterday. Are we to wait so we can see first hand if these are mer-
chants or ... or diggers?" The joke felt more than a little sour.
The last word had not tasted good in his mouth.

"Not being stupid is important," Binabik grunted in disgust.
"Boghanik -- the Bukken -- light no fires. They hate things that are
bright. And no, we will not be waiting for these fire builders to reach
us. We are heading back to the forest, as I was telling you." He
gestured back over his head. "On the hill's far side we will be within
sight of it."

The brush crackled behind them, and troll and boy jumped in
surprise. It was only Qantaqa, traversing erratically down the hill-
side, nose held tight to the ground. When she reached their camp-
site, she butted Binabik's arm until he scratched her head. "Qantaqa
has a cheerful mood, hmmm?" The troll smiled, showing his yellow
teeth. "Since we have the advantage of a day with heavy clouds,
which will be covering the smoke of a campfire, I am thinking we
can at least have a decent meal before we again take to our feet. Are
you in favor?"

Simon tried to make his expression a serious one. "I ... suppose
I could eat something ... if I must," he said. "If you really think
it's important . . ."

Binabik stared, trying to decide if Simon actually disapproved of
breakfast, and the boy felt laughter trying to bubble free.

Why am I acting like a mooncalf? he wondered. We're in terrible
danger, and it won't get any better soon.

Binabik's puzzled look was finally too much, and the laughter
burst forth.

Well, he answered himself, a person can't worry all the time.

Simon sighed, contented, and allowed Qantaqa to take the few
remaining bits of squirrel meat from his fingers. He marveled at the
delicacy the wolf could exhibit with those great jaws and gleaming
teeth.

The fire was a small one, since the troll did not believe in unneces-
sary risks. A thin stream of smoke curled sinuously in the wind
sliding along the hillside.

Binabik was reading Morgenes' manuscript, which he had un-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             359

wrapped with Simon's permission. "It is my hope you understand,"
the troll said without looking up, "that you will not be trying that
with any other wolf beside my friend Qantaqa."

"Of course not. It's amazing how tame she is."

"Not tame." Binabik was emphatic. "She has a bond of honor
with me, and it is including those who are my friends."

"Honor?" Simon asked lazily.

"I am sure you know that term, much as it is bandied about in
southern lands. Honor. Are you thinking such a thing cannot exist
between troll and beast?" Binabik glanced over, then went back to
leafing through the manuscript.

"Oh, I don't think much about anything these days," Simon said
airily, leaning forward to scratch Qantaqa's deep-furred chin. "I'm
just trying to keep my head down and reach Naglimund."

"You are making a gross evasion," Binabik muttered, but did not
pursue the subject. For a while there was no sound on the hillside
but the riming of parchment. The morning sun climbed up through
the sky.

"Here," Binabik said at last, "listen, now. Ah, Daughter of the
Mountains, but I am missing Morgenes more just from reading his
words. Do you know of Nearulagh, Simon?"

"Certainly. Where King John beat the NabbanaL There's a gate at
the castle all covered with carvings of it."

"You are right. So then, here Morgenes is writing of the Battle of
Nearulagh, where John was first meeting the famous Sir Camaris.
May I read to you?"

Simon suppressed a twinge of jealousy. The doctor had not in-
tended that his manuscript be for Simon and no one else, he re-
minded himself.

"*. . . So after Ardrivis'decision -- a brave one. some said, arro-
gant said others -- to meet this upstart northern king in the flat
plain of the Meadow Thrithing before Lake Myrme, proved a
disaster. Ardrivis pulled the bulk of his troops back into the
Onestrine Pass, a narrow way between the mountain lakes Eadne
and Clodu . . .'"

"What Morgenes speaks of," Binabik explained, "is that Ardrivis,
the Imperator of Nabban, did not believe Prester John could come

360 Tad Williams

against him with great force, so far from Erkynland. But the Per-
druinese islanders, who were always being in the Nabbanai shadow,
made secret treaty with John and helped to supply his forces. King
John cut Ardrivis' legions in ribbons near the Meadow Thrithing, a
thing unsuspected as possible by the proud Nabbanai. Do you see?"

"I think so." Simon was not sure, but he had heard enough bal-
lads about Nearulagh to recognize most of the names. "Read some
more."

"I shall do so. Let me only be finding the part I wanted to read for
you . . ." He scanned down the page. "Ho!"

"'. . . And so, as the sun sank behind Mount Onestris, the last
sun for eight thousand dead and dying men, young Camaris,
whose father Benidrivis-sd Vinitta had taken the Imperator's
Staff from his dying brother Ardrivis only an hour before, led a
charge of five hundred horse, the remainder of the Imperial
Guard, in quest of vengeance . . .' "

"Binabik?" Simon interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Who took what from which?"

Binabik laughed. "Forgive me. It is a net full of names to capture
at once, is it not? Ardrivis was the last Imperator of Nabban, al-
though his empire was no larger, you are seeing, than what is the
duchy of Nabban today. Ardrivis fell out with Prester John, likely
because Ardrivis knew that John had designs on a united Osten Ard,
and that eventually there would have to be conflict. In any way, I
will not bore you with all the fighting, but this was their last battle,
as you know. Ardrivis the Imperator was killed by an arrow, and his
brother Benidrivis became the new Imperator ... for the rest of
that day, only, ending with Nabban's surrendering. Camaris was the
son of Benidrivis -- and being young, too, perhaps fifteen years -- and
so for that afternoon he was the last prince of Nabban, as songs are
sometimes calling him . . . understood, now?"

"Better. It was all those 'arises' and 'ivises' that left me behind for
a moment." Binabik picked up the parchment and continued read-
ing.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             361

" 'Now, with the coming of Camaris onto the field, the tired
armies of Erkynland were much distraught. The young prince's
troops were not fresh, but Camaris himself was a whirlwind, a
storm of death, and the sword Thorn that his dying uncle had
given him was like a fork of dark lightning. Even at that late
moment, the records say, the forces of Erkynland might have
been routed, but Prester John came onto the field, Bright-Nail
clutched in his gauntleted fist, and cut a path through the Nab-
banai Imperial Guard until he was face to face with the gallant
Camaris.'"

"This is the pan I wanted you especially to hear," Binabik said as
he leafed forward to the next sheet.

"This is very good," Simon said. "Will Prester John cleave him in
twain?"

"Ridiculous!" snorted the troll. "How, then, would they come to
be the fastest and most famous of friends? -- 'cleave him in twain'!"
He resumed.

" 'The ballads say that they fought all day and into the night,
but I doubt greatly that was so. Certainly they fought a long
while, but doubtless the twilight and darkness had nearly arrived
anyway, and it only seemed to some of the tired observers that
these two great men had battled all the day long . . .'"

"What thinking your Morgenes does!" Binabik chortled.

" 'Whatever the truth, they traded blow after blow, clanging
and hammering on each other's armor as the sun sank and the
ravens fed. Neither man could gain an upper hand, even though
Camaris' guard had long since been defeated by John's troop.
Still, none of the Erkynlanders dared to interfere.

'By chance at last, Camaris' horse stepped in a hole, breaking
its leg, and fell with a great scream, trapping the prince beneath
it. John could have ended it there, and few would have blamed
him, but instead -- observers uniformly swear -- he helped the
fallen knight of Nabban out from under his steed, gave him back
his sword, and when Camaris proved sound, continued the
fight.'"

362 Tad Williams

"Aedon!" breathed Simon, impressed. He had heard the story, of
course, but it was a different thing entirely to hear it confirmed in
the doctor's wry, confident words.

" 'So they struggled on and on until Prester John -- who was,
after all, over twenty years Camaris' senior -- grew weary and
stumbled, falling to the ground at the feet of the Prince of Nob-
ban,

'Camaris, moved by the power and honor of his opponent,
forewent slaying him and instead held Thorn at John's gorget
and asked him to promise to leave Nabban in peace. John, who
had not expected his mercy to be repaid in kind, looked around
at the field ofNearulagh, empty but for his own troops, thought
for a moment, and then kicked Camaris-sa-Vinitta in the fork of
his legs.'"

"No!" said Simon, taken aback; Qantaqa raised a sleepy head at
the exclamation. Binabik only grinned and continued to read from
Morgenes' writings.

" 'John then stood in his turn over the sorely wounded
Camaris, and told him: "You have many lessons to learn, but you
are a brave and noble man, I will do your father and family
every courtesy, and take good care of your people. I hope in turn
you will leam the first lesson, the one I have given you today, and
that is this: Honor is a wonderful thing, but it is a means, not an
end. A man who starves with honor does not help his family, a
king who falls on his sword with honor does not save his king-
dom. "

'When Camaris recovered, so awed was he by his new king
that he was John's most faithful follower from that day for-
ward . . .'"

"Why did you read that to me?" Simon said. He felt more than a
little insulted by the glee that Binabik had displayed while reading
about the foul practices of the greatest hero of Simon's country . . .
still, they had been Morgenes' words, and when you thought about
them, they made old King John seem more like a real person, and

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             363

less like a marble statue of Saint Sutrin catching dust on the cathe-
dral facade.

"It seemed to be interesting," Binabik smiled impishly, "No, that
was not the reason," he explained quickly as Simon frowned, "truly,
I was wanting you to take a point, and I thought Morgenes could do
it with more ease than I.

"You did not want to leave the men ofRimmersgard, and I under-
stand your feeling -- it was not, perhaps, the most honorable way of
behaving. Neither, however, was it honorable for me to leave my
duties unfulfilled in Yiqanuc, but sometimes we must go against
honor -- or, it is to say, against what is obviously honorable ... are
you understanding me?"

"Not particularly," Simon's frown turned into a mocking affec-
tionate smile.

"Ah." Binabik gave a philosophical shrug. "Ko muhuhok na mik
aqa nop, we say in Yiqanuc; 'When it falls on your head, then you
are knowing it is a rock,' "

Simon pondered this stoically as Binabik returned his cooking
things to his bag.

Binabik had certainly been right about one thing. As they crested
the hill they could see virtually nothing but the great, dark sweep of
Aldheorte stretching inimitably before them -- a green and black
ocean frozen a moment before its waves crashed at the feet of the
hills. Oldheart, however, looked like a sea that the land itself might
break against and fail.

Simon could not help sucking in a deep breath of wonderment.
The trees rolled off and away into the distance until the mist swal-
lowed them, as if the forest might somehow pass beyond the very
boundaries of the earth.

Binabik, seeing him staring, said: "Of all times when it is impor-
tant to be listening to me, this will be it. If we lose each other out
there, there may be no finding again."

"I was in the forest before, Binabik."

"The fringes, only, friend Simon. Now we are going deeply in."

"All the way through?"

"Ha! No, that would take months -- a year, who is knowing? But
we are going far past her borders, so we must hope we are permitted
guests."

364 Tad Williams

As Simon stared down he felt his skin tingle. The dark, silent
trees, the shadowy pathways that had never known the sound of a
footfall ... all the stories of a town and castle-dwelling people
were just at the fringes of his imagination, and all too easy to sum-
mon,

But I must go, he told himself. And anyway, I don't think the
forest is evil. It's just old . . . very old. And suspicious of strangers-
or at least it makes me feel that way. But not evil.

"Let's go," he said in his clearest, strongest voice, but as Binabik
started down the hill before him Simon made the sign of the Tree on
his breast, just to be on the safe side of things.

They had made their way down the hill and onto the league of
grassy downs that sloped to Aldheorte's edge when Qantaqa sud-
denly stopped, shaggy head cocked to one side. The sun was high in
the sky now, past noon, and much of the ground-hugging mist had
burned away. As Simon and the troll walked toward the wolf, who
crouched motionless as a gray statue, they looked all around. No
movement broke the land's static undulation on either side.

Qantaqa whined as they approached and tilted her head to the
other side, listening. Binabik gently lowered his shoulder bag to the
ground, stilling the quiet clinking of the bones and stones inside,
then cocked an ear himself.

The troll opened his mouth to say something, his hair hanging
lank in his eyes, but before he spoke Simon heard it too: a thin, faint
noise, rising and falling as though a flight of honking geese were
passing leagues overhead, far above the clouds. But it did not seem
to come from the sky above -- rather, it sounded as though it rolled
down the long corridor between the forest and the hills, whether
from north or south Simon could not say.

"What . . . ?" he began to ask. Qantaqa whined again and shook
her head, as though she did not like the sound in her ears. The troll
raised his small, brown hand and listened a moment more, then
shouldered his bag again, beckoning Simon to follow him toward the
murky breakfront of the forest.

"Hounds, I am thinking," he said. The wolf trotted around them
in erratic ovals, moving close and then bounding out again. "I think
they are far away, still, south of the hills . . . upon the Frostmarch.
The sooner we are entering the forest, though, the better . . ."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             365

"Perhaps," Simon said, making good time as he strode along be-
side the little man, who was going at a near-trot, "but they didn't
sound like any hounds that I've heard. . . ."

"That," Binabik grunted, "is my thought, also . . . and it is also
why we are going quickly as we can."

As he thought about what Binabik had said, Simon felt a cold
hand clutch his innards.

"Stop," he said, and did.

"What are you doing?" the little man hissed. "They are still far
behind, but . . ."

"Call Qantaqa." Simon stood patiently. Binabik stared at him for
a moment, then whistled for the wolf, who was already trotting
back.

"I hope that you will soon explain . . ." the troll began, but
Simon pointed at Qantaqa.

"Ride her. Go on, now, get up. If we need to hurry, I can run -- 
but your legs are too short."

"Simon," Binabik said, anger crinkling his eyes, "I was running
on the slender ridges of Mintahoq when I had only baby-
years . . ."

"But this is flat ground, and downhill. Please, Binabik, you said
we needed to go quickly!"

The troll stared at him for a moment, then turned and clucked at
Qantaqa, who sank to her stomach in the sparse grass. Binabik
threw a leg over her broad back and pulled himself into place using
the thick fur of her hackles for a pommel. He clucked again and the
wolf rose, front feet and then hind, Binabik swaying on her back.

"Ummu, Qantaqa," he snapped; she started forward. Simon
lengthened his pace and began to lope along beside them. They
could hear no sound now beside the noise of their own passage, but
the memory of the distant howling made the back of Simon's neck
prickle, and the dark face of Aldheorte look more and more like the
welcoming smile of a friend. Binabik leaned low over Qantaqa's
neck, and for a long time would not meet Simon's eye.

Side by side they ran down the long slope. At last, as the flat gray
sun was tipping down toward the hills behind them, they reached
the first line of trees, a cluster of slim birches -- pale serving girls
ushering visitors into the house of their dark old master.

366 Tad Williams

*     *     *

Although the downs outside were bright with slanting sunlight,
the companions found themselves passing quickly into twilit gloom
as the trees rose above them. The soft forest floor cushioned their
footfalls, and they ran silently as ghosts through the sparse outer
woods. Columns of light speared down through the branches, and
the dust of their passage rose behind them to hang sparkling be-
tween the shadows.

Simon was tiring rapidly, sweat running down his face and neck
in dirty rivulets.

"Farther we must go," Binabik called to him from the pitching
platform of Qantaqa's back. "Soon enough the way will be too tan-
gled for speed, and the light too dim. Then we will rest."

Simon said nothing but only dug on, his breath burning in his
lungs.

When the boy slowed at last to an unsteady canter, Binabik
slipped down from the wolf's back and ran at his side. The angling
sun was sliding up the tree trunks around them, the forest floor
darkening even as the upper branches took on shining haloes, like
the colored windows of the Hayholt's chapel. At last, as the ground
before them disappeared in darkness, Simon tripped over a half-
buried stone; when Binabik caught him up at the elbow, he held on.

"Sit, now," the troll said. Simon slid to the ground without a
word, feeling the loose soil give slightly beneath him. A moment
later Qantaqa circled back. After sniffing the immediate area, she sat
down and began to lick the perspiration from the back of Simon's
neck; it tickled, but Simon was too exhausted to do much of any-
thing about it.

Binabik crouched on his haunches, examining their stopping
place. They were partway down a small slope, at the bottom of
which snaked a muddy streambed with a dark trickle of water at its
center.

"When you are again breathing," he said, "I think we might be
moving just there." With his finger he indicated a spot slightly uphill
where a great oak stood, its tangle of roots warding off the encroach-
ment of other trees so that there was a stone's throw of clear ground
on all sides of its massive, gnarled trunk. Simon nodded, still labor-
ing for breath. After a while, he dragged himself to his feet and
moved with the little man up the slope to the tree.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             367

"Do you know where we are?" Simon asked as he sank down to
place his back against one of the looping, half-buried roots.

"No," said Binabik cheerfully. "But tomorrow when the sun is up
and I have time for doing certain things . . . then I will. Now help
me find some stones and sticks and we will be having a bit of fire.
And later," Binabik rose from his crouch and began foraging for
deadwood in the fast-fading daylight, "later there will be a pleasant
surprise for you."

Binabik had built a sort of three-sided box of stones around the
fire pit to shield its light, but still it crackled in a most heartening
manner. The red gleam cast odd shadows as Binabik rooted in his
bag. Simon watched a few lonely sparks spiral upward.

They had made themselves a meager dinner of dried fish, hard
cakes, and water. Simon did not feel he had treated his stomach as
well as he would have liked, but it was still better to be lying here
warming the dull ache in his legs than to be running. He could not
remember a time when he had ever run so long or so far without
stopping.

"Ha!" Binabik chortled, lifting his firelight-tinted face from his
bag in triumph. "A surprise I was promising you, Simon, and a
surprise I have!"

"A pleasant surprise, you said. I've had enough of the other kind
to last for my whole life."

Binabik grinned, his round face seeming to stretch back toward
his ears. "Very well, it is for you to decide. Have a try of this." He
handed Simon a small ceramic jar.

"What is it?" Simon held it up to the fire. It felt solid, but the jar
had no markings. "Some troll-thing?"

"Open it."

Simon stuck his finger into the top and found it was sealed with
something that felt like wax. He scraped a hole through, then
brought it up to his nose for a tentative sniff. A moment later he
pushed his finger in, pulled it out, and stuck it in his mouth.

"Jam!" he said, delighted.

"Made from grapes, I am sure," Binabik said, pleased by Simon's
response. "Some I found at the abbey, but the excitement of late had
driven it from my mind."

After eating several dollops, Simon reluctantly passed it to

368 Tad Williams

Binabik, who also found it rather pleasant. Within a short while they
had finished it off, leaving Qantaqa the sticky jar to lick.

Simon curled himself in his cloak beside the warm stones of the
dying fire. "Could you sing a song, Binabik?" he asked, "or tell a
story?"

The troll looked over. "I am thinking not a story, Simon, for we
need to sleep and rise early. Perhaps a short song."

"That would be fine."

"But, after thinking again," Binabik said, tugging his hood up
around his ears, "I would like to be hearing you sing a song. A quiet
singing, of course."

"Me? A song?" Simon pondered. Through a chink in the trees he
thought he could see the faint glimmer of a star. A star . . . "Well,
then," he said, "since you sang your song for me, about Sedda and
the blanket of stars ... I suppose I can sing one that the chamber-
maids taught me when I was a child." He moved around a bit,
making himself more comfortable. "I hope I remember all the
words. It's a funny song."

"In the Oldheart's deep dell,"
Simon began softly,

"Jack Mundwode did yell

To his men of the woods near and far,

He offered a crown, and the forest's reknown

To the one who could catch him a star.

Beornoth stood first time, and he shouted: Til climb
To the top of the highest of trees!
And I'll snatch that star down for the fair golden crown
That will soon belong only to me.'

So he climbed up a birch to the highest high perch
Then he leaped to an old, tall yew.
But as much as he jumped, and he leaped and he bumped
Reach the star. that he never could do.

Next gay Osgal stood, and he promised he would
Loose an arrow up into the sky.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             369

7 will knock that star free so it falls down to me
And the crown will be mine by and by . . .'

Twenty arrows he shot. Not a single one caught
On the star that hung mocking above.
As the arrows fell back Osgal hid behind Jack
Who chuckled and gave him a shove.

Now all the men sought, and they quarreled and fought
And they had not a pinch of success,
Till the fair Hruse rose, and she looked down her nose
At the men as she smoothed out her dress.

'Tis a small enough task for Jack Mundwode to ask,'
She said with a gleam in her eye,
'But if none of you here hold a gold crown that dear
I will seek Mundwode's knot to untie.'

Then she took up a net which she'd bade the men get

And she cast it full into the lake.

So the water did roil, and it almost did spoil

The reflection the bright star did make.

But then after a while she turned 'round with a smile,
Said to Jack: 'Do you see what's about?
It is there in my net, all caught up and quite wet
If you want it, then you pull it out.'

Old Jack laughed and he shouted to all those who crowded

'Here's the woman I must take to wife.

For she's taken my crown, and she's brought my star down

So I might as well give her my life.'

Yes, she's taken the crown, and she's brought the star down

So Jack Mundwode has took her to wife ..."

From the darkness he could hear Binabik laugh, quietly and eas-
ily.

"A song of enjoyment, Simon, Thanks to you."

Soon the hissing of the embers quieted, and the only sound was
the soft breathing of the wind through the endless trees.

370 Tad Williams

*     *

Before he opened his eyes he was aware of a strange droning
noise, rising and falling close to where he lay. He lifted his head,
feeling sticky with sleep, to see Binabik sitting cross-legged before
the fire. The sun had not been up long; the forest around them was
draped in tendrils of pale mist.

Binabik had carefully placed a circle of feathers around the fire
pit, feathers of many different birds, as though he had scavenged
them from the surrounding woods. Eyes closed, he leaned toward
the small fire and chanted in his native language, the sound that had
pulled Simon to wakefiilness.

". . . Tutusik-Ahyuq-Chuyuq-Qachimak, Tutusik-Ahyuk-Chuyuq-
Qaqimak . . ."On and on he went. The slender ribbon of smoke
that rose from the campfire began to waver, as though in a strong
breeze, but the tiny feathers lay flat on the ground, unmoving. With
his eyes still closed, the troll began to move the palm of his hand in a
flat circle over the fire; the ribbon of smoke bent as though pushed,
and began to stream steadily away across one corner of the pit.
Binabik opened his eyes and looked for a moment at the smoke, then
stopped the circling movement of his small hand. A moment later
the smoke resumed its normai motion.

Simon had been holding his breath. He let it out. "Do you know
where we are now?" he asked. Binabik turned and smiled, pleased.

"Morning greetings. Yes, I think I am knowing to a nicety. We
should be having little trouble -- but much walking -- to get to
Geloe's house . . ."

"House?" Simon asked. "A house in the Aldheorte? What's it
like?"

"Ah," Binabik straightened his legs and rubbed at his calves, "it is
not like any house you . . ." He stopped, and sat staring over
Simon's shoulder, transfixed. The youth whirled in alarm, but there
was nothing to see.

"What is it?"

"Hush . . ." Binabik continued to gaze out. "There. Are you
hearing?"

After a moment, he did hear it: the distant baying they had
marked in their journey across the downs to the forest. Simon felt
his skin crawl.

371

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"The hounds again . . . !" he said. "But it sounds as though
they're still far away."

"You are not understanding yet." Binabik looked down at the fire
pit, then up at the morning light bleeding down through the tree-
tops. "They have passed us in the night. They have run all night!
And now, unless my ears are playing tricks at me, they have turned
back toward us."

"Whose hounds?" Simon felt his palms go moist with sweat, and
rubbed them on his cloak. "Are they following us? They can't hunt
us in the forest, can they?"

Binabik scattered the feathers with a scuff of his small boot and
began packing his shoulder bag. "I do not know," he said. "I am not
knowing the answer to any of those questions. There is power in the
forest that might confuse hunting hounds -- ordinary hounds. It is
doubtful, however, that any local baron out for sport would be run-
ning his dogs through all the night, and I have not heard of dogs
that could do so."

Binabik called Qantaqa. Simon sat up and hurriedly pulled his
boots on. He felt sore all over, and now he felt sure he would be
running again.

"It's Elias, isn't it?" he said grimly, wincing as he pushed his
blistered foot down into the boot heel.

"Perhaps." Qantaqa trotted up, and Binabik threw a leg over her
back, pulling himself up. "But what is making a doctor's helper so
important to him -- and where is the king finding hounds that can
run twenty leagues between dusk and sunrise?" Binabik put the pack
on Qantaqa's shoulders before him, and handed Simon his walking
stick. "Do not lose this, please. I wish we had found a horse for your
riding."

The pair started down the slope to the gulley, then up the far side.

"Are they close?" Simon asked. "How far is ... this house?"

"Neither hounds nor house are nearby," Binabik said. "Well, I
shall be running beside you as soon as Qantaqa is tiring. Kikkasut/"
he swore, "how I am wishing for a horse!"

"Me, too," Simon panted.

They trekked on through the morning, eastward into deeper for-
est. As they went up and down the rocky dells the baying behind
them faded for long minutes, then returned seemingly louder than

372 Tad Williams

ever. As good as his word, Binabik jumped down from Qantaqa
when the wolf began to flag and trotted along beside, his short legs
carrying him two steps for Simon's every one, his teeth bared as his
cheeks puffed in and out.

They stopped to drink water and rest as the sun neared midmom-
ing. Simon tore strips from his two packages to bandage his blistered
heels, then handed the bundles to Binabik so he could put them in
the pack: Simon could no longer stand to feel them rattling against
his thigh as he walked and ran. As they sloshed the last musky drops
from the waterbag in their cheeks and tried to regain their straining
breath, the sounds of pursuit came up again. This time the unmis-
takable clamor of the hounds was so much nearer that they immedi-
ately lurched into motion once more.

Within a short while they began to ascend a long rise. The ground
was becoming increasingly rocky as it mounted upward, and even
the types of trees seemed to be changing. Staggering up the hilly
slope, Simon felt a sickening sense of defeat spread through his body
like a poison. Binabik had told him it would be late in the afternoon
at least before they reached this Geloe, yet they were already losing
the race, with the sun not risen to noon above the sheltering trees.
The noise of their pursuers was constant, an excited howling so loud
that Simon could not help wondering, even as he stumbled up the
daunting slope, where they found the breath to run and bark at
once. What kind of hounds were they? Simon's heart beat as fast as a
bird's wings. He and the troll would get to face the hunters soon
enough. The thought made him feel sick.

At last a slender patch of sky could be seen through the standing
trunks on the horizon: the top of the rise. They limped past the final
line of trees. Qantaqa, who ran before them, stopped abruptly and
barked, a sharp, high pitched sound from deep in her throat.

"Simon!" Binabik shouted and threw himself to the ground,
knocking the boy's legs from beneath him so he tumbled down with
a huff of punched-out breath. When the black tunnel of Simon's
vision widened a moment later, he was lying on his elbows looking
down a craggy rock face into a deep canyon. A cluster of fragments
broke loose from the stone beneath his hand and hopped and tum-
bled down the sheer wall to disappear into the green treetops far
below.

The baying was like the brazen flare of war trumpets. Simon and

373

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

the troll edged themselves away from the canyon's edge, a few feet
back down the slope, and stood.

"Look!" Simon hissed, his bleeding hands and chin of no import
now. "Binabik, look!" He pointed back down the long slope they
had just climbed, through the clinging blanket of trees.

Passing in and out of the clearings, far, far less than half a league
behind, was a flurry of low white shapes: the hounds.

Binabik took his stick from Simon and twisted it into halves. He
shook out his darts and handed the knife end to Simon.

"Quickly," he said. "Cut yourself a tree branch, a cudgel. If sell-
ing our lives we must be, let us keep the price high."

The throaty voices of the dogs boiled up the hillside, a rising song
of the closing and the kill.

25

The Secret Lake

HE HACKED and chipped frantically, bending the limb down with
his full weight, the knife slippery in his trembling fingers. It took
Simon many costly seconds to cut loose a branch that would suit
him -- pathetic defense though it would be -- and every second
brought the hounds nearer. The limb that he finally snapped off was
as long as his arm, knobbed at one end where another branch had
fallen away.

The troll was rummaging in his backpack, one hand clutching the
heavy fur at Qantaqa's neck.

"Hold her!" he called to Simon, "If she is let go now, she will
attack too soon. They will drag her down and be quickly killing
her." Simon crouched with an arm around the wolf's broad neck.
She was trembling with excitement, heart beating beneath his arm.
Simon felt his own heart speeding in tandem -- this was all so unreal!
Just this morning he and Binabik had been sitting calmly beside the
fire. . . .

The cry of the pack intensified; they came surging up the hill like
white termites fleeing a crumbling nest. Qantaqa lunged forward,
dragging Simon to his knees.

"Hinik Aia!" Binabik shouted, and flicked at her nose with his
hollow bone tube, then dropped it as he pulled a length of rope from
the bottom of his bag and began to make a noose. Simon, thinking
he understood, looked over the canyon's edge behind them and
shook his head despairingly. It was much too far to the bottom,
more than twice as far as Binabik's rope could reach down the sheer
rock face. Then he saw something, and felt hope still struggling
inside him.

"Binabik, look!" he pointed. The troll, despite the impossibility of
a climb down, was looping his rope around a stump anchored not a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             375

yard from the canyon's edge. As he finished he looked up to follow
Simon's pointing finger.

Less than a hundred paces from where they crouched a huge old
hemlock lay tipped downward, its bottom end balanced on the near
lip, the tip lodged halfway down the far canyon wall, caught on a
jutting ledge.

"We can climb across to the far side!" Simon said. But the troll
shook his head.

"If we can climb down it with Qantaqa, then they can be doing it
as well. And it goes to nowhere." He gestured. The ledge where the
tree had caught was no more than a wide shelf in the rock face- "But
it will be some help." He stood up and tugged at the rope, testing the
knot around the stump. "Take Qantaqa down onto it, if you can.
Not far, perhaps ten cubits only. Hold her until I am calling, under-
stood!?"

"But . . ." Simon began, then looked back down the slope. The
white shapes, perhaps a dozen in all, were almost upon them. He
grabbed the balking Qantaqa by the scruiF of the neck and urged her
toward the fallen hemlock.

Enough of the tree had remained on the canyon's edge that there
was space between the twisting roots and the rock rim. It was not
easy to keep balance while clinging to the wolf. She shivered and
pulled back, growling; the noise was almost subsumed in the clamor
of the approaching hounds. He could not coax her up onto the broad
trunk, and turned to Binabik in despair.

"Ummu!" the troll called hoarsely, and a moment later she
jumped up onto the hemlock, still growling. Simon straddled the
trunk as best he could, his club a hindrance in his belt. He slid
backward on his rump, keeping a grip on Qantaqa, until he was well
out from the canyon's rim. Just then the troll cried out, and Qantaqa
whirled toward the sound of his voice. Simon hung on to her neck
with both arms as his knees gripped the rough bark. He was sud-
denly cold, so cold! He lowered his face into her fur, smelled her
thick, wild smell, and whispered a prayer.

"... Elysia, mother of our Ransomer, give mercy, protect
us . . ."

Binabik was standing with a coil of rope in his hand just a step
before the rim. "Hinik, Qantaqa!" he called, and then the hounds
were out of the trees and up the final slope.

376 Tad Williams

Simon could not really see much of them from where he sat hold-
ing the straining wolf -- only long, thin white backs and sharp ears.
The beasts moved toward the troll at a gallop, making a noise like
metal chains dragged on a slate floor.

What is Binabik doing? Simon thought, panic making it hard for
him to breathe. Why doesn't he run, why doesn't he use his darts -- 
something?

It was like the recurrence of his worst nightmare, like Morgenes
in names standing between Simon and the deadly hand of Elias. He
couldn't sit and watch Binabik killed before his eyes. As he started
to pull himself forward, the dogs leaped toward the troll.

Simon had only a moment's impression of long, pale snouts, of
empty, pearl-white eyes, and a flare of red curving tongues and red
mouths . . . then Binabik jumped backward, down into the can-
yon.

"No!" Simon shrieked, horrified. The five or six creatures that had
been nearest lunged forward, unable to stop, and tumbled over the
cliff in a squealing tangle of white legs and tails. Helpless, Simon
watched the clot of whinnying dogs bounce against the steep rock
face and plummet down into the trees far below with an explosive
popping of broken branches. He felt another choking scream rise in
his breast . . .

"Now, Simon! Let her go!"

Mouth agape, Simon looked down to see Binabik's feet braced
against the canyon wall, the troll hanging suspended from the rope
about his waist not two dozen feet below the spot where he had
jumped. "Let her go!" he called again, and Simon finally uncurled
his restraining arm from Qantaqa's neck. The remainder of the dogs
were milling at the rim above Binabik's head, sniffing the ground
and staring down, barking savagely at the little man who hung so
frustratingly near.

As Qantaqa made her cautious way back up the hemlock's broad
back, one of the white hounds turned tiny eyes like fogged mirrors
toward the tree and Simon, letting out a great rasping snarl as he
hurried forward; the others quickly followed.

Before the yammering pack reached the hemlock, the gray wolf
negotiated the last steps, reaching the rim with a magnificent leap.
The first dog was on her in a heartbeat, two more right behind. The

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             377

snarling battle song of the wolf rose, a deeper note among the bark-
ing and howling of the hounds.

Simon, frozen for a moment of indecision, began inching forward
toward the edge of the rim. The trunk was so broad that his spread
legs ached, and he considered getting up to his knees to crawl for-
ward, sacrificing his clutch on the tree for speed. For the first time
he turned his gaze straight down. The tops of the trees were a
bumpy green carpet far below. The distance was dizzying, much
farther than the leap from the wall to Green Angel Tower. His head
reeled and he looked away, deciding to keep his knees right where
they were. As he looked up, a white shape bounded from the can-
yon's edge onto the wide hemlock.

The hound growled and drove forward, talons catching at the
bark. Simon had only an instant to pull out his knotted branch
before the beast crossed the dozen or so feet and dove for his throat.
For a moment the branch caught in his belt, but he had pushed it in
narrow-end-down, which saved his life,

As the club came free, the dog was upon him. Yellow teeth
gleamed as it bit at his face. He got the branch up high enough to
strike a glancing blow, turning the dog's lunge so that the teeth
snapped on air an inch from his left ear, spraying him with saliva.
Its paws were on his chest, and the awful carrion-stench of its breath
blew in his face; he was losing his hold. He tried to pull the club
back up, but it caught between the animal's extended front legs. He
leaned back as the long, snarling muzzle once more snaked toward
his face, and tried to twist the branch free. There was a moment of
resistance, then one of the white hound's paws was knocked from his
shoulder and the beast overbalanced. It squealed and tumbled away,
scrabbling for a moment at the bark, then pulling the club from his
hand as it slid from the tree trunk to fall end over end down into the
canyon.

Simon sank forward, catching at the tree with his hands, and
coughed, trying to drive the fetid breath of the thing out of his
nostrils. He was cut short by a low growl. He lifted his head slowly
to see another hound standing on the log just below the roots, milky
eyes glinting like a blind beggar's. It bared its teeth in a frothing,
crimson-tongued grin. Simon hopelessly lifted his empty hands as
the beast padded slowly down the trunk, ropy muscles bunching
beneath the short fur.

378 Tad Williams

The hound turned to nip at its flank, worrying the skin for a
moment, then returned its eerie, vacant gaze to Simon. It took an-
other step, wobbled, took one shaky step more, then folded in place
to slide off the hemlock into oblivion.

"The black dart seemed the safest," Binabik called. The little man
stood a few yards down slope from the tree's ball of dried roots. A
moment later Qantaqa limped up to stand at his side, her muzzle
dripping with dark red blood. Simon stared, slowly realizing that
they had survived.

"Go slowly, now," the troll called. "Here, I will throw the rope. It
would be bad sense to lose you after all we were going
through . . ." The rope arced out and fell slithering across the log
where Simon sat. He took it gratefully, his hands shaking as though
with palsy.

Binabik laboriously turned the dog over with his foot. It was one
he had killed with a dart: the cotton wadding sprouted from the
smooth white fur of the creature's neck like a tiny mushroom.

"See there," the troll said. Simon leaned a little closer. It was not
like any hunting hound he had ever seen; the slender muzzle and
underslung jaw reminded him more of the sharks that fishermen
pulled thrashing from the Kynslagh. The opalescent white eyes, now
staring sightlessly, seemed windows of some inner disease.

"No, look there," Binabik pointed. On the dog's chest, burned
black through the short hairs, was a slender triangle with a narrow
base. It was a branded mark, like the kind that the Thrithings-men
burnt into the flanks of their horses with flame-heated spears.

"That sign is for Stormspike," Binabik said quietly. "It is the
mark of the Norns."

"And they are ... ?"

"A strange people. Their country is north even of Yiqanuc and
Rimmersgard. A great mountain is there -- very tall and with a cov-
ering of snow and ice -- called Stormspike by the Rinunersmen. The
Noms do not travel in the fields of Osten Ard. Some are saying that
they are Sithi, but I do not know if that is truth."

"How can that be?" Simon asked. "Look at the collar." He leaned
down, gingerly pushing a finger under the white leather to lift it
away from the stiffening flesh of the dead hound.

Binabik smiled sheepishly. "Shame to me! I overlooked the collar,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              379

white against white as it is -- me, taught since child-age to hunt in
snow!"

"But look at it," Simon urged. "See the buckle?"

The buckle of the collar was indeed an interesting thing: a piece of
hammered silver in the shape of a coiling dragon.

"That's the dragon of Elias' kennels," Simon said firmly. "I
should know -- I used to visit Tobas the houndkeeper often."

Binabik crouched, staring at the carcass. "I believe you. And as
for the mark of Stormspike, it is only necessary to look for seeing
that these dogs are not things raised in your Hayholt." He stood up
and stepped back a pace; Qantaqa moved in to sniff at the body, then
quickly backed away with a rumbling growl.

"A mystery whose solving must wait," the troll said. "Now we
are very lucky to have our lives, with all of our limbs as well. We
should be moving again. I have no wish to meet this hound's mas-
ter."

"Are we close to Geloe?"

"Somewhat we have been driven off our route, but not beyond
repairing. If we leave now, we should still outrun the darkness."

Simon looked down at the long snout and vicious jaw of the
hound, at its powerful body and filming eye. "I hope so," he said.

They could find no way to cross the canyon anywhere, and reluc-
tantly decided to move back down the long slope and look for an-
other, easier descent than the sheer rock face before them. Simon
was almost childishly happy not to have to climb down: his knees
still felt as weak as if he'd had a fever. He had no wish to look down
into the canyon's maw again with nothing beneath him but a long,
long fall. It was one thing to climb the walls and towers of the
Hayholt, with their square comers and mason's cracks -- a tree trunk
suspended like a frail twig over nothingness was another story en-
tirely-

At the base of the long slope an hour later they turned to their
right hand and began to track around to the northwest. They had
not gone more than five furlongs when a high-pitched, wailing cry
knifed through the afternoon air. They both stopped short; Qantaqa
pricked her ears and growled. The sound came again.

"It sounds like a child screaming," Simon declared, turning his
head to locate the noise's source.

380 Tad Williams

"The forest is often playing such tricks," Binabik began. The
keening noise rose again. Quickly afterward came an angry baying
that they knew all too well.

"Qinkipa's Eyes!" Binabik cursed. "Will they chase us all the way
to Naglimund!?" The baying rose again, and he listened. "It has the
sound of one dog only, however. That is something lucky."

"It sounds like it's coming from down there." Simon pointed to
where the trees grew more densely some distance away. "Let's go
and see."

"Simon!" Binabik's voice was harsh with surprise. "What thing
are you saying? We are fleeing to keep our lives!"

"You said it sounded like only one. We have Qantaqa. Someone is
being attacked. How can we run away?"

"Simon, we do not know if that crying is a trick ... or an ani-
mal it could be."

"What if it isn't?" Simon demanded. "What if that thing has
caught some woodsman's child ... or ... or something?"

"A woodsman's child? This far from the forest's edge?" Binabik
stared at him in frustration for a moment. Simon returned the gaze
defiantly. "Ha!" Binabik said heavily. "So it will be, then, as you are
wishing."

Simon turned and began jogging down toward the thickening
trees.

" 'Afikmok hanno so gyiq,' we say in Yiqanuc!" Binabik called.
" 'If you wish to carry a hungry weasel in your pocket, it is your
choice!" The youth did not look back. Binabik slapped the ground
with his walking stick, then trotted after him.

He caught up to Simon within a hundred paces; within twenty
more he had opened his staff to shake loose his dart bag. He hissed a
command to bring the racing Qantaqa back, then deftly rolled
coarse wool around one of the dark-tipped darts as he ran.

"Couldn't you get poisoned if you tripped and fell?" Simon asked.
Binabik shot him a sour, worried look as he struggled to keep up.

When they came upon the scene at last, its appearance was decep-
tively innocent: a dog crouching before a spreading ash tree, staring
up at a dark shape huddled on a branch overhead. It might have
been one of the Hayholt castle hounds with a treed cat, except that
both dog and quarry were far larger.

They were less than a hundred paces away when the dog turned

381

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

toward them. It skinned back its lips and barked, a vicious, raw bray
of sound. It looked back at the tree for a moment, then straightened
long legs and loped toward them. Binabik slowed and stopped, rais-
ing his hollow tube to his lips; Qantaqa trotted past him. As the
hound closed the gap, the troll puffed out his cheeks and blew. If the
dart struck, the dog gave no sign; instead it sped forward, growling,
and Qantaqa charged to meet it. This hound was even bigger than
the others, as large or even a little larger than Qantaqa herself.

The two animals did not circle, but flung themselves together,
jaws snapping; a moment later they tumbled to the ground snarling,
a heaving, spinning ball of gray and white fur. At Simon's side
Binabik cursed sharply; his leather packet fell from his hand in his
haste to wind another dart. The ivory needles scattered into the
leaves and moss underfoot.

The snarls of the combatants had risen to a higher pitch. The long
white head of the hound lunged in and out: once, twice, thrice, like a
striking viper. The last time it came back with blood on its pale
muzzle.

Simon and the troll were trotting toward them when Binabik
made a strange choking noise.

"Qantaqa!" he cried, and sped forward. Simon saw the flash of
Binabik's bone-handled blade, then a moment later, incredibly, the
troll cast himself onto the writhing, snapping animals and brought
the knife down, raised it, and struck again. Simon, fearing for the
lives of both his companions, snatched the hollow tube from where
Binabik had dropped it and ran forward. He arrived in time to see
the troll brace himself, grab the thick gray fur of Qantaqa's back,
and pull. The two animals slid apart; there was blood on each of
them. Qantaqa slowly stood, favoring a leg- The white hound lay
silent.

Binabik crouched and put an arm around the wolf's neck, press-
ing his forehead to hers. Simon, oddly touched, walked away from
them to the tree.

The first surprise was that there were two figures up in the
branches of the white ash: a wide-eyed youth who held a smaller,
silent figure in his lap. The second surprise was that Simon knew the
larger of the two.

"It's you!" He stared up in astonishment at the grime-streaked
and bloody face. "You! Mal . . . Malachias!"

382 Tad Williams

The boy said nothing, but gazed down with haunted eyes, gently
rocking the small figure in his lap. For a moment the forest copse
was silent and unmoving, as though the afternoon sun above the
trees had been arrested in its progress. Then the blare of a horn
shattered the quiet.

"Quickly!" Simon called up to Malachias. "Down! You must
come down!" Binabik came up behind him with the limping
Qantaqa.

"Huntsman's horn, I am sure," was all he said.

Malachias, as if comprehending at last, began sliding up the long
branch toward the trunk, holding his small companion carefully.
When he reached the crotch, he hesitated a moment, then handed
the limp burden down to Simon. It was a little dark-haired girl, aged
no more than ten years. She was unmoving, eyes closed in her too-
pale face; when Simon took her, he felt something sticky all across
the front of her rough dress. A moment later Malachias lowered
himself down from the branch, falling the last few feet and tumbling,
getting up almost immediately.

"What now?" Simon asked, trying to balance the little girl against
his chest. The hom echoed again somewhere on the canyon rim they
had left behind, and now there rose the excited squalling of more
hounds as well.

"We cannot fight men, and dogs along with them," the troll said,
exhaustion plain on his slack face. "Horses we cannot outrun. We
must hide ourselves."

"How?" Simon demanded. "The dogs will smell us."

Binabik leaned forward and took Qantaqa's injured paw in his
small hand, bending it back and forth. The wolf resisted for a mo-
ment, then sat, panting, as the little man finished his manipulations.

"Painful it is, but not broken," he told Simon, then turned to
speak to the wolf. Malachias lifted his gaze from Simon's burden to
stare. "Chok, Qantaqa my brave friend," the troll said, "ummu chok
Geloe/"

The wolf rumbled deep in her chest, then leaped away at once to
the northwest, away from the rising clamor behind them. Favoring
the bloodied front leg, she was gone from view among the trees in a
matter of moments.

"I am hoping," Binabik explained, "that the confusion of scents
here," he gestured to the tree, and then to the huge hound lying

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             383

nearby, "will distract them, and that the scent they will follow may
be Qantaqa's. I think they cannot catch her, even lamed -- too smart
she is."

Simon looked around. "How about there?" he asked, pointing to a
crevice in the hillside formed by a great rectangle of streaked stone
that had broken loose and fallen back, as though split by a vast
wedge.

"Except that we do not know which direction they will take,"
Binabik said. "If they come down the hillside, that will be luck for
us. If they are descending farther back, they will ride right past the
hole there. Too much risk."

Simon found it hard to think. The din of the approaching hounds
was fearsome. Was Binabik right? Were they to be chased all the way
to Naglimund? Not that they could run much longer, weary and
battered as they were.

"There!" he said, suddenly. Another finger of rock thrust up
through the forest floor some distance away, three times the height
of a man. Trees grew close about its base, surrounding it like young
children helping their grandfather hobble to the supper table.

"If we can climb up that," Simon said, "we will be above even the
ones on horses!"

"Yes," Binabik said, nodding his head. "Right, you are right.
Come, let us climb." He made for the outcropping, the silent
Malachias just behind him. Simon readjusted the little girl against
his body and hurried after.

Binabik scrambled up partway, and clung to the branch of a close-
leaning tree as he turned. "Pass the little one to me."

Simon did, extending his arms to their full reach, then turned to
put a guiding hand on the elbow of Malachias, who was looking for
an initial toehold. The boy shook off Simon's helpful gesture and
climbed carefully upward.

Simon was last. When he got to the first ledge he picked up the
still figure of the little girl and gently slung her over his shoulder,
then made his way up to the rock's rounded top. He lay down with
the others among the leaves and twigs, hidden from the ground by a
screen of branches. His heart thudded from exhaustion and fear. He
had, it seemed, been running and hiding forever.

Even as they squirmed, trying to find comfortable positions for all

384 Tad Williams

four bodies, the yammering of the dogs rose to a hideous pitch; a
moment later the woods below were full of darting white shapes.

Simon left the little girl clutched in Malachias' arms and quietly
pulled himself forward until he could join Binabik at the outcrop-
ping's edge, peering with the troll through a gap in the foliage. The
dogs were everywhere, sniffing, barking; there were at least a score
of them running excitedly back and forth between the tree, the body
of their fellow, and the base of the outcropping. One of them even
seemed to stare directly up at Simon and Binabik, empty white eyes
gleaming, red mouth grinning fiercely. A moment later it trotted
back to join its lathered companions.

The hom sounded nearby. Within a minute a line of horses ap-
peared, picking their way down the densely wooded hillside. Now
the dogs had a fourth corner to their circuit, and ran braying be-
tween the stone-gray legs of the lead horse, who walked on as calmly
as if they were moths. The trailing horses were not quite so san-
guine; one immediately behind shied a little, and its master cut it out
of line, spurring it down the last short slope to bring it to a pacing,
sputtering halt near the outcropping.

This rider was young and clean-shaven, with a strong chin and
curling hair the color of his chestnut horse. He wore a blue and
black surcoat over his silvery armor, with a design of three yellow
flowers set diagonally from shoulder to waist. His expression was
sour.

"Another one dead," he spat. "What do you make of this, Jeg-
ger?" His voice took on a sarcastic tone. "Oh, pardon me, I meant
Master Ingen."

Simon was amazed at how clear the man's words were, as though
he spoke directly to the hidden listeners. He held his breath.

The armored man was staring at something out of their view, and
his profile suddenly seemed very familiar. Simon felt sure he had
seen this man somewhere, most likely at the Hayholt. He was cer-
tainly an Erkynlander, by his accent.

"It is not important what you call me," another voice said, a deep,
smooth, cold voice. "You did not make Ingen Jegger master of this
hunt. You are here as ... courtesy, Heahferth. Because these are
your lands."

Simon realized that the first man was Baron Heahferth, a regular
at Ellas' court and a crony of Earl Fengbald. The second speaker

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             385

rode his gray horse into the gap through which Simon and Binabik
stared. Agitated white dogs twined in and out around the horse's
hooves.

The man called Ingen was dressed all in black, his surcoat,
breeches and shirt all the same bleak, lusterless shade. At first he
looked to be white-bearded; a moment later it was apparent that the
close-cropped whiskers on the hard face were a yellow so light as to
be nearly colorless -- as colorless as his eyes, faint pale spots in his
dark face. They might be blue.

Simon stared at the cold face framed in the black coif, at the
powerful, thick-muscled body, and felt a fear different than any he
had felt this whole dangerous day. Who was this man? He looked
like a Rimmersman, his name was a Rimmersgard name, but he
spoke strangely, with slow, strange accents Simon had never heard.

"My lands ended at the forest's edge," Heahferth said, and turned
his balking mount back into place. Half a dozen men in light armor
had filed down into the clearing behind and sat their horses, waiting.
"And where my lands ended," Heahferth continued, "my patience
did, too. This is a farce. Dead dogs scattered about like chaff . . ."

"And two prisoners escaped," Ingen finished heavily.

"Prisoners!" Heahferth scoffed. "A little boy and girl! Do you
think these are the traitors Elias is so anxious to get? Do you think
such a pair," he tipped his head toward the carcass of the great
hound, "did that?"

"The dogs have been chasing something." Ingen Jegger stared
down at the dead mastiff. "Look. Look at the wounds. This was no
bear, no wolf that did this. It is our quarry, and he is still running.
And now, thanks to your stupidity, our prisoners are running, also."

"How dare you?!" Baron Heahferth said, his voice rising. "How
dare you?! With one word I could have you sprouting arrows like a
hedgehog."

Ingen looked slowly up from the body of the hound. "But you will
not," he said quietly. Heahferth's horse shied back, rearing, and
when the baron had mastered him the two men stared at each other
for a moment.

"Oh . . . very well, then," Heahferth said. A different note had
crept into his voice as he looked away from the black-clad man to
stare out across the forest. "What now?"

"The dogs have a scent," Ingen said. "We will do what we must

386 Tad Williams

do. Follow." He raised the horn that swung at his side and winded it
once. The dogs, who had been swarming about at the edge of the
clearing gave throat and sped off in the direction Qantaqa had disap-
peared; Ingen Jegger spurred his tall gray horse after them without a
word. Baron Heahferth, cursing, waved to his men and followed.
Within the course of a hundred heartbeats the woods below the
outcropping were empty and silent once more, but Binabik kept
them all in place for some time before he would let them climb
down.

Once on the ground, he quickly examined the little girl, opening
her eyes with a delicate, stubby finger, leaning close to listen to her
breathing.

"Very bad she is, this one. What is her name, Malachias?"

"Leieth," the boy said staring at the pale face. "My sister."

"Our only hope is to quickly get her to the house of Geloe,"
Binabik said. "And hope also that Qantaqa has led those men
astray, so that we are reaching it alive."

"What are you doing out here, Malachias!?" Simon demanded.
"And how did you get away from Heahferth?" The boy did not
answer, and when Simon asked again he turned his head away.

"Questions for later," Binabik said, standing. "Quickness we need
now. Can you carry this girlchild, Simon?"

They made their way northwest through the dense forest, the
lowering sun lancing through the branches. Simon asked the troll
about the man named Ingen and his odd way of speaking.

"Black Rimmersman, I am thinking," Binabik said. "They are a
rare lot, not often seen except at northernmost settlements where
they some times come to trade. They do not speak the language of
Rimmersgard. It is said they live on the fringes of the lands belong-
ing to the Noms."

"The Noms again," Simon grunted, ducking beneath a branch
that had sprung from Malachias' careless hand. He turned to con-
front the troll. "What is going on?! Why should such people be
concerned with us?"

"Perilous times, friend Simon," Binabik said. "Through perilous
times we are passing."

Several hours went by and the shadows of afternoon grew longer
and longer. The patches of sky that glimmered through the treetops

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              387

turned slowly from blue to shell pink. The three walked on. The
land was mostly level, from time to time sloping away like a shallow
beggar's bowl. In the branches above, squirrels and Jays carried on
their endless arguments; crickets droned in the leaf-tangle at their
feet. Once Simon saw a large gray owl scudding like a phantom
through the twining branches overhead. Later he saw another, so
like the first as to have been its twin.

Binabik watched the sky carefully when they passed through
clearings, and jogged them a little to the east; soon they reached a
small forest stream that gurgled past a thousand tiny breakwaters of
fallen branches. They walked through the thick grasses that lined its
banks for a while; when the bulk of a tree blocked their passage, they
stepped out and made their way past on the backs of the stones
dotting the stream's gentle course.

The streambed became wider as another small waterway entered,
and within moments Binabik raised a hand to bring them to a stop.
They had just rounded a bend in the watercourse; here the stream
suddenly dropped away, rushing in a tiny waterfall down a series of
rock slabs.

They stood on the rim of a great bowl, a sloping expanse of trees
leading down to a wide, dark lake. The sun had dipped out of sight,
and in the insect-humming twilight the water looked purple and
deep. Tree roots twisted down into the water like snakes. There was
an air of stillness about the lake, of quiet secrets whispered only to
the endless trees. At the far side, dim and difficult to see in the
gathering darkness, a tall thatched hut stood over the water in such
a way that at first it seemed to float on air; a moment later Simon
could see that it was raised above the lake's surface on stilts. Buttery
light gleamed in the two small windows.

"The house of Geloe," Binabik said, and they started down into
the tree-lined bowl. With a soundless rush of wings a gray shape tore
loose from the trees above them and glided out to circle low over the
lake two times, then vanish into the darkness beside the cottage. For
a moment Simon thought he saw the owl pass into the cottage, but
his eyelids were heavy from exhaustion and he could not see clearly.
The crickets' nightsong rose about them as the shadows deepened. A
bounding shape came speeding around the lake's rim toward them.

"Qantaqa!" Binabik laughed, and ran down to meet her.

26

In the House
of Geloe

^

THE FIGURE that stood framed in the warm light of the doorway did
not move or speak as the companions mounted the long board-
bridge that slanted from the doorstep to the lake's edge. As Simon
followed Binabik up, carefully cradling the child Leieth, he could
not help wondering why this Geloe woman did not have an en-
tranceway of a more permanent nature, something at least with a
rope handrail. His weary feet were having trouble keeping to the
narrow bridge.

/ suppose she doesn't gel many visitors, for one thing, he thought,
looking out across the rapidly darkening forest.

Binabik pulled up short of the front step and bowed, almost
bumping Simon off into the still waters.

"Valada Geloe," he announced, "Binbines Mintahoqis requests
your aid. I bring travelers."

The figure in the doorway stepped back, leaving the way open.

"Spare me the Nabbanai constructions, Binabik." It was a harshly
musical voice, heavily and strangely accented, but unmistakably a
woman's. "I knew it was you. Qantaqa has been here an hour." At
the shore end of the ramp the wolf pricked her ears forward. "Of
course you are welcome. Do you think I would deny you?"

Binabik entered the house. Simon, a step behind, spoke up.

"Where shall I put the little girl?" He ducked through the door,
getting a quick impression of a high roof and long, fluttering shad-
ows cast by the flames of many candles, then Geloe stepped in front
of him.

She was dressed in a rough robe of dun cloth, clumsily tied with a
belt. Her height was somewhere between Simon's and the troll's, her
face wide and sunbrowned, seamed with wrinkles at both the eyes

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             389

and mouth. Her dark hair was shot all through with gray and cut
short, so that she looked almost like a priest. But it was her eyes that
caught him -- round, heavy-lidded yellow eyes with large, jet-black
pupils. They were old, knowing eyes, as though they belonged to
some ancient bird of the heights, and there was a power behind them
that fixed him in his tracks. She seemed to measure him completely,
to turn him inside out and shake him like a sack, all in a moment.
When her gaze at last flicked down to the injured girl, he felt
drained like an empty wineskin.

"This child is hurt." It was not a question.

Simon helplessly let her take Leieth from his arms as Binabik
came forward.

"She has been attacked by dogs," the troll said. "Dogs with the
brand ofStormspike."

If he expected a look of surprise or fear, he was disappointed.
Geloe pushed briskly past to a straw pallet on the floor, where she
laid the girl down. "Find food if you are hungry," she said. "I must
work now. Were you followed?"

Binabik was hurriedly telling her of the most recent events, Geloe
all the while undressing the unresponsive body of the child, when
Malachias finally entered. He squatted down near the pallet, hover-
ing as Geloe cleaned Leietb's wounds. When Malachias leaned too
close, blocking her movements, the valada gently touched the boy's
shoulder with a sun-freckled hand. She held the contact, staring at
him for a moment, until Malachias glanced up and flinched. After a
moment he raised his eyes to Geloe's once more, and something
seemed to pass silently between them before Malachias turned away
and sat back against the wall.

Binabik poked up the fire, ingeniously set in a deep well in the
floor. The smoke -- there was surprisingly little -- rose up to the ceil-
ing; Simon imagined there must be a chimney hidden in the shadows
overhead.

The cottage itself, which was really one large room, reminded him
in many ways of Morgenes' study chambers. Many strange objects
were hung on the clay-plastered walls: leafy branches tied in careful
sheaves, bags of dried flowers spilling their petals, and stalks, reeds,
and long, slippery roots that looked as though they had come grudg-
ingly from the lake below. The firelight also flickered across a multi-

390 Tad Williams

tude of tiny animal skulls, limning their bright, polished surfaces
without penetrating the darkness of the eyes.

One entire wall was divided between floor and ceiling by a waist-
high shelf of frame-stretched bark; it, too, was covered with curious
objects: animal pelts and tiny bundles of sticks and bones, beautiful
water-smoothed rocks of every shape and color, and a carefully
stacked aggregation of scrolls, handles facing out like a cord of fire-
wood. It was so cluttered that it took Simon a moment to realize it
was not really a shelf at all, but a writing table; beside the scrolls was
a stack of vellum, and a quill pen in an inkwell made from another
animal skull.

Qantaqa whined softly and nosed against his thigh. Simon
scratched her muzzle. There were cuts on her face and ears, but the
fur had been carefully cleaned of dried blood. He turned from the
table to the wide wall that faced out on the lake with its two small
windows. The sun was gone now, and the candlelight streaming out
made two long, irregular rectangles on the water; Simon could see
his own gangly silhouette in one of them, like the pupil of a bright
eye.

"I have wanned some soup," Binabik said behind him, and of-
fered a wooden bowl. "I have need of it myself," the troll smiled,
"and so do you and everyone else. I hope to never have another day
the like of this."

Simon blew on the hot liquid, then sucked a little past his lips. It
was tangy and a little bitter, like mulled Elysiamansa cider.

"It's good," he said, and sipped a tittle more. "What is it?"

"Better that you are not asking, perhaps," Binabik grinned mis-
chievously. Geloe looked up from the pallet, eyebrows slanting
down to the bridge of her sharp nose, and fixed Binabik with a
penetrating glance.

"Stop that, troll, you'll give the boy stomach pains," she snorted
irritably. "Honeylock, dandelion, and stonegrass is all that's in it,
boy."

Binabik seemed chastened. "Apologies, Valada."

**I like it," Simon said, worried that he had somehow offended
her, even if only as the recipient of Binabik's teasing. "Thank you
for taking us in. My name is Simon."

"Ah," grunted Geloe, then turned back to cleansing the little
girl's injuries. Nonplussed, Simon finished his broth as quietly as he

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             391

could, Binabik took the bowl and refilled it; he finished that one
almost as quickly.

Binabik began combing Qantaqa's thick pelt with his stubby fin-
gers, tossing the burrs and twigs he worked loose into the fire. Geloe
was silently applying dressings to Leieth while Malachias looked on,
lank black hair hanging in his face. Simon found a relatively unclut-
tered place to lean against the cottage wall.

A legion of crickets and other night singers filled the night's hol-
low spaces as Simon slid into exhausted sleep, his heart beating
along in slow time.

It was still night when he awoke. He bobbed his head stupidly,
trying to clear away the sticky residue of a too-short sleep; it took a
moment of peering around the unfamiliar room until he remem-
bered where he was.

Geloe and Binabik were quietly talking, the woman on a high
stool, the troll cross-legged at her feet, like a student. Behind them
on the pallet lay a dark, bumpy shape that Simon at last recognized
as Malachias and Leieth huddled together in sleep.

"It doesn't matter whether you were clever or not, young
Binabik," the woman was saying. "You have been lucky, which is a
better thing."

Simon decided to let them know he was awake. "How is the little
girl?" he asked, yawning.

Geloe turned her hooded stare toward him. "Very bad. Badly
wounded and feverish. The Nomhounds . . . well, it is not good to
be bitten. They eat unclean flesh."

"The valada has done all things that can be done, Simon,"
Binabik said. He had something in his hands: a new pouch that he
was stitching out of skin even as he spoke. Simon wondered where
the troll might find new darts. Oh, for a sword . . . even a knife!
People on adventures always had swords or sharp wits. Or magic.

"Did you tell her . , ." Simon hesitated. "Did you tell her about
Morgenes?"

"I already knew." Geloe stared at him, firelight reddening her
bright eyes. When she spoke, it was with powerful deliberateness.
"You were with him, boy. I know your name, and I felt Morgenes'
mark upon you when I touched you as I took the child." As if to
demonstrate, she held out her own wide, callused hand.

392 Tad Williams

"You knew my name?"

"Where the doctor is concerned, I know many things." Geloe
leaned over and poked up the fire with a long, blackened stick. "A
great man has been lost, a man we can ill afford to lose."

Simon hesitated. Curiosity at last won out over awe. "What do
you mean?" He crawled across the floor to sit near the troll. "That
is, what does we mean?"

" 'We* means all of us," she said. " 'We' means: those who do not
welcome darkness."

"I have told Geloe what happened to us, friend Simon." Binabik
spoke quietly. "There is no secret that I have few explanations."

Geloe made a wry face and pulled her coarse robe tighter around
her body. "And I have none to add . . . yet. It is clear to me now,
however, that the weather signs I have seen here on my isolated
lake, the north-flying geese that should have gone clattering over-
head a fortnight ago, all of the things that have given me pause in
this strange season," she pushed her palms together, as in a gesture
of prayer, "they are real -- and the change they augur is real, also.
Terribly real." She dropped her hands heavily to her lap and stared
at them.

"Binabik is right," she said at last. Beside her the troll nodded his
head gravely, but Simon thought he saw a satisfied glint in the little
man's eyes, as though he had been paid a great compliment. "This is
far more than the striving of a king and his brother," she continued.
"The contendings of kings can beat down the land, can uproot trees
and bathe the fields in blood," a log collapsed with a pop of sparks,
and Simon jumped, "but the wars of men do not bring dark clouds
from the north, or send the hungry bears back to their dens in Maia-
month."

Geloe stood up and stretched, the wide sleeves of her robe hang-
ing like the wings of a bird. "Tomorrow I will try and find some
answers for you. Now all should sleep while they can, for I fear the
child's fever will return strongly during the night."

She moved to the far wall and began putting small jars back on
the shelves. Simon spread his cloak on the floor near the edge of the
fire well.

"Perhaps you should not sleep so closely," Binabik cautioned. "A
spark leaping out may set you on fire."

Simon looked at him carefully, but the troll did not appear to be

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              393

joking. He pulled his cloak back several feet and lay on top of it,
rolling the hood into a cushion beneath his head, then carefully
pulled the sides up and over himself. Binabik moved away toward
the comer, and after a moment of rustling and thumping made
himself comfortable as well.

The song of the crickets had died out. Simon stared into the shad-
ows that flickered in the rafters, and listened to the gentle hiss of the
wind passing endlessly through the branches of the circling trees and
out across the lake.

No lanterns were burning, and no fire; only the mushroom-pale
light of the moon filtered in through the high windows, painting the
cluttered room with a kind of frost-sheen. Simon stared around him
at the curious, unrecognizable silhouettes that littered the tabletops,
and the blocky, inert shapes of books stacked in crooked piles,
sprouting up from the floor like grave markers in a churchyard. His
eyes were drawn to one particular book that lay spread open, gleam-
ing white like the flesh of a bark-stripped tree. In the middle of the
open page there was a familiar face -- a man with burning eyes,
whose head wore the branching antlers of a stag.

Simon looked up at the room, then back to the book. He was in
Morgenes* chambers, of course. Ofcoursel Where had he thought he
was?

Even as the realization came to him, as the silhouettes took on the
familiar shapes of the doctor's flasks and racks and retorts, there
was a cautious scraping noise at the door. He started at the unex-
pected sound. Diagonal stripes of moonlight made the wall seem to
lean crazily. The scraping came again.

". . . Simon . . . ?"

The voice was very quiet, as though the speaker did not wish to be
heard, but he recognized it instantly.

"Doctor?!" He leaped to his feet and crossed to the door in a few
steps. Why hadn't the old man knocked? And what was he doing
coming back so late? Perhaps he had been away on some mysterious
journey, and had foolishly locked himself out -- that was it, of
course! Lucky that Simon was there to let him in.

He rumbled with the shadowy latch. "What have you been up to,
Doctor Morgenes?" he whispered. "I have been waiting for you for
such a long time!" There was no answer.

394 Tad Williams

Even as he worked the bolt from the slot, he was filled with a
sudden sense of unease. He stopped with the door half-unbarred,
standing on his tiptoes to peer down through a crack between the
boards.

"Doctor?"

In the inner passageway, splashed in the blue light of the hall
lamps, the old man's hooded, cloaked form stood before the door.
His face was shadowed, but there was no mistaking his tattered old
cloak, his slight build, the wisps of white hair that straggled from his
hood, blue-tinted in the lampglow. Why wouldn't he answer? Was
he hurt?

"Are you all right?" Simon asked, swinging the door inward. The
small, bowed figure did not move. "Where have you been? What
have you found out?" He thought he heard the doctor say some-
thing, and bent forward.

"What?"

The words that rose up to him were full of air, painfully harsh.
". . . False . . . messenger ..." was all he understood -- the dry
voice seemed to labor at speech -- and then the face tilted up, and the
hood fell back.

The head that wore the ragged fringe of white hair was a burnt,
blackened ruin: a knob with cracked, empty pits for eyes, the spindly
neck on which it wobbled a charred stick. Even as Simon staggered
away, an unfreeable scream lodged in his throat, a thin red line
spread across the front of the black, leathery ball; an instant later the
mouth yawned open, a split grin of pink meat.

". . . The . . . false . . . messenger . . ."it said, each word a
rustling gasp. ". . . Beware ..."

And then Simon did scream, until the blood pounded in his ears,
for the bumed thing spoke, beyond a doubt, with the voice of Doc-
tor Morgenes.

His speeding heart took a long time to slow. He sat, breathing
raggedly, and Binabik sat beside him.

"There is nothing of harm here," the troll said, then pressed his
palm against Simon's forehead. "You are chilled."

Geloe strode back from the pallet where she had replaced
Malachias' blanket, kicked free when Simon's cry had startled him
awake.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             395

"You had powerful dreams like this when you lived at the castle,
boy?" she asked, fixing him with a stem eye as if daring him to deny
it.

Simon shivered. Faced with that overwhelming gaze, he felt no
urge to tell anything but the truth. "Not until . . . until the last
few months before . . , before . . ."

"Before Morgenes died," said Geloe flatly, "Binabik, unless the
learning I have has deserted me completely, I cannot believe this is
chance, for him to dream of Morgenes in my house. Not a dream
like that."

Binabik ran a hand through his own sleep-tousled hair. "Valada
Geloe, if you do not know, how can I? Daughter of the Mountains! I
feel that I am listening to noises in the dark-1 cannot make out the
dangers that surround us, but dangers I know they are. Simon
dreams of a warning against 'false messengers' . - . but that is one
only of too many mysterious things. Why the Noms? The Black
Rimmersman? The filthy Bukken?"

Geloe turned to Simon and gently but forcefully pushed him back
onto his cloak. "Try and go back to sleep," she said- "Nothing will
enter the house of the witch woman that can harm you." She turned
to Binabik, "I think, if the dreaming he has described is as coherent
as it seems, he will be of use in our search for answers."

Lying on his back, Simon saw the valada and the troll as black
shapes against the firefly gleam of the embers. The smaller shadow
leaned close to him.

"Simon," Binabik whispered, "are there any other dreamings that
have been left out? That you have not told?"

Simon slowly wagged his head from side to side- There was noth-
ing, nothing but shadows, and he was tired of talking. He could still
taste the fear from the bumed thing in the doorway; he only wanted
to surrender to the sucking pull of oblivion, to sleep, to sleep. . - .

But it did not come so easily. Although he held his eyes tightly
closed, still the images of fire and catastrophe rose before him. Toss-
ing in place, unable to find a position that would encourage his tight
muscles to loosen, he heard the quiet talk of the troll and the witch
woman scratch away like rats in the walls.

Finally even that noise ceased, and the solemn breathing of the
wind rose again in his ears; he opened his eyes. Geloe was sitting
alone before the fire, shoulders up like a bird huddling from the rain,

396 Tad Williams

eyes half-open; he could not tell if she was sleeping or watching the
fire smolder out.

His last waking thought, which rose slowly up from deep inside
him, flickering as it came like a fire beneath the sea, was of a tall hill,
a hill crowned with stones. That had been in a dream, hadn't it? He
should have remembered . . . should have told Binabik.

A fire sprang up in the darkness of the hilltop, and he heard the
creaking of wooden wheels, the wheels of dream.

^

When morning came, it did not bring the sun with it. From the
window of the cottage Simon could see the dark treetops at the far
edge of the bowl, but the lake itself wore a thick cloak of fog. Even
directly below the window the water was hard to see, slowly swirling
mist making all things hazy and insubstantial. Above the top of the
murky treeline the sky was a depthless gray.

Geloe had marched the boy Malachias out with her to gather a
certain healing moss, leaving Binabik behind to tend to Leieth. The
troll seemed faintly encouraged about the child's condition, but
when Simon looked at her pale face and the faint movements of her
small chest he wondered what difference the little man could see
that he could not.

Simon rebuilt the fire from a pile of dead branches that Geloe had
stacked neatly in the corner, then went to help change the girl's
dressings.

As Binabik peeled the sheet back from Leieth's body and lifted
away the bandages Simon winced, but would not let himself turn
away. Her whole torso was blackened by bruises and ugly tooth-
marks. The skin had been torn from under her left arm to her hip, a
ragged slash a foot long. As Binabik finished cleaning the wound
and bound her up again with broad strips of linen, little roses of
blood bloomed through the cloth.

"Does she really have a chance to live?" Simon asked. Binabik
shrugged, his hands engaged in the making of careful knots.

"Geloe thinks she may," he said. "She is a woman of a stem and
direct mind, who places people not above animals in her esteem, but

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             397

that is still esteem most high. She would not struggle against the
impossible, I am thinking."

"Is she really a witch woman like she said?"

Binabik pulled the sheet up over the little girl, leaving only her
thin face exposed. Her mouth was partly open; Simon could see that
she had lost both her front teeth. He felt a sudden, bitter ache of
empathy for the child -- lost with only her brother in the wild forest,
captured and tormented, frightened. How could the Lord Usires
love such a world?

"A witch woman?" Binabik stood up. Outside, Qantaqa clattered
up the front door bridge: Geloe and Malachias would be close be-
hind. "A wise woman she certainly is, and a being of rare strength.
In your tongue I understand 'witch' to mean a bad person, one who
is of your Devil and does her neighbors harm. That the valada is
certainly not. Her neighbors are the birds and the forest dwellers,
and she tends them like a flock. Still, she was leaving Rimmersgard
many years ago -- many, many years ago -- to come here. Possible it
is that the people who once lived around her thought some nonsense
as that . . . perhaps that was the cause of her coming to this lake."

Binabik turned to greet the impatient Qantaqa, scratching
through the deep fur of her back as she wriggled in pleasure, then
took a pot out to the front door and lowered it down into the water.
Returning, he hung it on a hooked chain over the fire.

"You have known Malachias from the castle, you said?"

Simon was watching Qantaqa: the wolf had trotted back down to
the lake and was standing in the shallows, lunging at the water with
her snout. "Is she trying to catch fish?" he asked, laughing.

Binabik smiled patiently and nodded. "And catch them she can
do, too. Malachias?"

"Oh, yes, I knew him there ... a little. I caught him once, spy-
ing on me. He denied it, though. Did he speak to you? Did he tell
you what he and his sister were doing in Aldheorte, how they were
captured?"

Qantaqa had indeed caught a fish, a shining silver thing that flut-
tered wildly but pointlessly as the wolf mounted onto the lake's
edge, streaming with water.

"More luck I would be having trying to teach a rock to sing."
Binabik found a bowl of dried leaves on one of Geloe's shelves and
crumbled a handful into the pot of boiling water. Instantly, the room

398 Tad Williams

was full of warm, minty smells. "Five or six words I have heard
from his mouth since we found them up in that tree. He remembers
you, though. Several times I have seen him at staring at you-1 think
he is not dangerous -- in fact, I have a real sureness of it -- but still,
he is in need of watching."

Before he could speak, Simon heard Qantaqa give a short bark
down below. He looked out the window in time to see the wolf
spring up, her mostly-devoured catch left on the lakeshore, and
bound away up the path; within a moment she had disappeared into
the mist- She soon came trotting back, followed by two dim shapes
that gradually became Geloe and the odd, fox-faced boy Malachias.
The two of them were talking animatedly.

"Qinkipa!" Binabik snorted as he stirred the pot of water. "Now
he is speaking."

As she scraped her boots at the doorway, Geloe leaned her head
inside. "Fog everywhere," she said. "The forest is sleepy today." She
entered shaking out her cloak, followed by Malachias, who again
looked wary. The color was high in his cheeks.

Geloe went promptly to her table and began sorting out the con-
tents of a pair of sacks. Today she was dressed like a man, in thick
wool breeches, a jerkin, and a pair of worn but sturdy boots. She
exuded an air of calm force, like a war captain who had made all
possible preparations, and now waited only for the battle to com-
mence.

"Is the water ready?" she asked.

Binabik leaned over the pot and sniffed. "It is seeming to be," he
said after a moment.

"Good." Geloe untied a small cloth bag from her belt and re-
moved a handful of dark green moss, still shiny with beads of water.
After dumping it unceremoniously into the pot she stirred it with
the stick Binabik had given her.

"Malachias and I have been talking," she said, squinting down
into the steam. "We have spoken of many things." She looked up,
but Malachias only ducked his head, his pink cheeks even reddening
a bit further, and went to sit beside Leieth on the pallet. He took her
hand and stroked her pale, damp forehead.

Geloe shrugged. "Well, we shall speak when Malachias is ready.
For now, we have tasks enough, anyway." She lifted some of the
moss on the end of the stirring stick, poked it with her finger, then

THE DRACONBONE CHAIR             399

plucked a bowl from a small wooden table and scooped the whole
sticky mess out of the pot. She carried the steaming bowl over to the
mattress.

While Malachias and the witch woman made poultices of the
moss, Simon walked down to the lakeside. The outside of the witch
woman's cottage looked quite as odd by daylight as the inside
seemed by night; the thatched roof came to a point, like a strange
hat, and the dark wood of the walls was covered all over in black
and blue rune-paintings. As he walked around the house and down
to the shore the letters disappeared and reappeared as the angle of
the sun changed. Mired in the dark shadows beneath the hut, the
twin stilts on which it stood also seemed covered with some kind of
unusual shingles.

Qantaqa had returned to the carcass of her fish, delicately worry-
ing the last bits of meat loose from the slender bones. Simon sat
beside her on a rock, then moved a bit farther away in response to
her warning growl. He threw pebbles out into the swallowing mist,
listening for the splash, until Binabik came down to join him.

"Break your fasting?" the troll asked, handing him a knob of
crusty dark bread liberally smeared with pungent cheese. Simon ate
it quickly, then they sat and watched a few birds picking in the sand
of the lake shore.

"Valada Geloe would like you to join us, to be pan of the thing we
are to be doing this afternoon," Binabik said at last.

"What thing?"

"Searching. Searching answers."

"Searching how? Are we going somewhere?"

Binabik looked at him seriously. "In some way, yes -- no, do not
be looking so cross! I will explain." He cast a pebble. "There is a
thing that is done sometimes, when ways of finding things out are
closed. A thing that the wise can do. My master Ookequk called it
walking the Road of Dreams."

"But that killed him!"

"No! That is to say . . ." the troll's expression was worried as he
searched for words. "It is to say, yes, he died while on the road. But
a man may die on any road. That is not meaning that anyone who
walks upon it will be dying. People have been crushed by carts in
your Main Row, but hundreds of others walk upon it every day
without harm."

400 Tad Williams

"What exactly is the Road of Dreams?" Simon asked.

'I must first admit," Binabik said with a sad half-smile, "that the
dream-road is more dangerous than Main Row. 1 was taught by my
master that this road is like a mountain path higher than any oth-
ers." The troll lifted his hand in the air above his own head. "From
this road, although the climbing of it has great difficulty, you can see
things that never otherwise would you have seen -- things that from
the road of every-day would be invisible."

"And the dream part?"

"I was taught that by dreaming is one way to mount up to this
road, one any person can do." Binabik furrowed his brow. "But
when a person reaches to the road by ordinary night dreaming, he
cannot then be walking along the road: he sees from one spot only,
and then must come back down. So -- Ookequk told to me -- this one
does not often know what he is looking at. Sometimes," he gestured
out at the mist that clung to the trees and lake, "it is only fog that he
sees. The wise one, though, can be walking along the road, once he
has mastered the art of climbing to it. He can be walking and look-
ing, seeing things as they are, as they change."

He shrugged. "Explaining is difficult. The dream-road is a place
to go and see things that cannot be seen clearly where we stand
beneath the waking sun. Geloe is a veteran of this journey. I have
been given some experience of it myself, although I am no master."

Simon sat staring quietly out across the water for a while, think-
ing about Binabik's words. The lake's other shore was invisible; he
wondered idly how far away across the water it was. His tired mem-
ories of their arrival the day before were as hazy as the morning air.

Now that I come to think of it, he realized, how far have I come? A
long way, farther than I thought I would ever travel. And still have
many leagues to go, I'm sure. Is it worth the risk to better our chances
of reaching Naglimund alive?

Why had such decisions fallen on him? It really was horribly
unfair. He wondered bitterly why God had picked him out for such
mistreatment -- if indeed it was true, as Father Dreosan used to say,
that He kept His eye on everyone.

But there was more to think about than just his anger. Binabik
and the others seemed to be counting on him, and that was some-
thing Simon was not used to. Things were expected of him now.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             401

"I'll do it," he said finally. "But tell me one thing. What really
happened to your master? Why did he die?"

Binabik slowly nodded his head. "I am told that there are two
ways that things can happen on the road . , . things that are dan-
gerous. The first, and it is usually happening only to the unskilled, is
that if one tries to walk the road without proper wisdom, it is possi-
ble to miss the places where the dream-road and the track of earth-
bound life go separate ways." He skewed the palms of his hands.
"The walker then cannot locate the way back. But Ookequk, I am
thinking, was far too wise for that."

Going lost and homeless in those imagined realms touched a re-
sponsive point in Simon, and he sucked in a breath of damp air.
"Then what happened to Ook . . . Ookequk?"

"The other danger, he was teaching me," Binabik said as he stood
up, **was that there are other things beside the wise and the good
that roam upon the Road of Dreams, and other dreamers of a more
dangerous sort. It is my thinking that he met one of these."

Binabik led Simon up the little ramp into the cottage.

Geloe unstoppered a wide pot and stuck two fingers in, bringing
them out covered with a dark green paste even stickier and stranger
smelling than the moss poultice.

"Lean forward," she said, and wiped a gob of it on Simon's fore-
head just above his nose, then did the same for herself and Binabik.

"What is it?" Simon asked. It felt strange on his skin, both hot
and cold.

Geloe settled herself before the sunken fire and gestured for the
boy and troll to join her. "Nightshade, mockfoil, whitewood bark to
give it the proper consistency . . ." She ranged the boy, the troll,
and herself around the fireplace in a triangle, placing the pot on the
floor by her knee.

The sensation on his forehead was most curious, Simon decided as
he watched the valada throw green twigs onto the fire. White
streamers of smoke went writhing upward, turning the space be-
tween them into a misty column through which her sulfurous eyes
glowed, reflecting the firelight.

"Now rub this on both your hands," she said, scooping out an-
other gobbet for each of them, "and a dab on your lips -- but not in
your mouth! Just a dab, there ..."

402 Tad Williams

When all was finished, she had them reach out and join hands.
Malachias, who had not spoken since Simon and the troll had re-
turned, watched from the pallet beside the sleeping child. The
strange boy looked tense, but his mouth was set in a grim line, as
though he willed himself to keep his nervousness hidden. Simon
stretched his arms out on both sides, clasping Binabik's small dry
paw in his own left hand and Geloe's sturdy one in his right.

"Hold tightly," the witch woman said. "There is nothing terrible
that will happen if you let go, but it will be better if you hold on."
She cast her eyes down and began to speak softly, the words inaudi-
ble. Simon stared at her moving lips, at the drooping lids other wide
eyes; again he was struck by how much she resembled a bird, a
proud, steep-soaring bird at that. As he continued to gaze through
the column of smoke, the tingling on his palms, forehead, and lips
began to bother him.

Darkness was suddenly all around, as though a dense cloud had
passed before the sun. In a moment he could see nothing but the
smoke and the red fireglow beneath it, all else had disappeared into
the walls of blackness that loomed up on either side. His eyes were
heavy, and at the same time he felt as though someone had pushed
his face down in snow. He was cold, very cold. He fell backward,
toppling, and the blackness was all around him.

After a time -- and Simon had no idea how long it might have
been, only that through it all he could still faintly feel the grip on
both his hands, a very reassuring sensation -- the darkness began to
glow with a directionless light, a light that gradually resolved itself
into a field of white. The whiteness was uneven: some parts of it
shone like sunlight on polished steel; other places were almost gray.
A moment later the field of white became a vast, glittering mountain
of ice, a mountain so impossibly tall that its head was hidden in the
swirling clouds lining the dark sky. Smoke belched from crevices in
its glassy sides and streamed upward to join the cloud-halo.

And then, somehow, he was inside the great mountain, flying as
rapidly as a spark through tunnels that led ever inward, dark tunnels
that were nevertheless lined with mirroring ice. Uncountable thou-
sands of shapes made their way through the mists and shadows and
frostgleam -- pale-faced, angular shapes who marched the corridors
in moving thickets of glimmering spears, or tended the strange blue
and yellow fires whose smokes crowned the heights above.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             403

The spark that was Simon still felt two firm hands grasping his
own, or rather felt something else that told him he was not alone, for
certainly a spark could have no hands to hold. He was at last in a
great chamber, a vast hollow in the mountain's center. The roof was
so high above the ice-glazed tiles of the floor that snow flurried
down from its upper reaches, leaping, whirling clouds of snow like
armies of tiny white butterflies. In the center of the immense cham-
ber was a monstrous well, whose mouth flickered with pale blue
light, and which seemed the source of a hideous, heart-squeezing
fear. Some heat must have been floating up from its unguessable
depths, for the air above it was a roiling pillar of fogs, a misty
column gleaming with diffuse colors like a titan icicle catching the
sun's light.

Hanging somehow in the fog above the well, its shape not quite
clear or its dimensions entirely guessable, was an inexplicable some-
thing: a thing made up of many things and many shapes, all colorless
as glass. It seemed -- as its lineaments appeared here and there in the
swirling mist-pillar -- a creation of angles and sweeping curves, of
subtle, frightening complexity. In some not quite definable way it
seemed an instrument of music. If so, it was an instrument so huge,
alien, and frightening that the spark that was Simon knew he could
never hear its awful music and live.

Facing the well, in an angular seat of rime-crusted black rock, a
figure sat. He could see it clearly, as though suddenly he hovered
directly over the terrible, blue-burning well. It was cloaked in a
white and silver robe of fantastic intricacy. Snowy hair streamed
down over its shoulders to blend almost invisibly with the immacu-
late white garments.

The pale form lifted its head, and the face was a mass of shining
light. A moment later, as it turned away again, he could see that it
was only a beautiful, expressionless sculpture of a woman's face
... a mask of silver.

The dazzling, exotic face turned back toward him. He felt himself
pushed away, brusquely disconnected from the scene like a clinging
kitten being pulled free from the hem of a dress.

A vision swam up before him that was somehow a part of the
wreath of fogs and the grim white figure. At first it was only another
patch of alabaster whiteness; gradually it became an angular shape
crisscrossed with black. The black shapes became lines, the lines

404 Tad Williams

became symbols; at last an open book hung before him. On its
opened page were letters Simon could not read, twisting runes that
wavered and then came clear.

A timeless instant passed, then the runes began to shimmer once
more. They pulled apart and reformed themselves into black silhou-
ettes, three long, slender shapes . . . three swords. One had a hilt
shaped like the Tree of Usires, another a hilt like the right-angle
crossbeams of a roof. The third had a strange double guard, the
cross pieces making, with the hilt, a son of five-pointed star. Some-
where, deep in Simon's self, he recognized this last sword. Some-
where, in a memory black as night, deep as a cave, he had seen such

a blade.

The swords began to disappear, one by one, and when they were
gone only gray and white nothingness was left.

Simon felt himself falling back -- away from the mountain, away
from the well chamber, away from the dream itself. A part of him
welcomed this falling away, horrified by the terrible, forbidden
places where his spirit had flown, but another part of him did not
want to let go.

Where were the answers?! His whole life had been caught up.
snagged by the passage of some damnable, remorseless, uncaring
wheel, and deep in the part of himself that was most private, he was
desperately angry. He was frightened, too, trapped in a nightmare
that would not end, but what he felt now was the anger; at that
moment, it was the stronger.

He resisted the pull, fighting with weapons he did not understand
to retain the dream, to wring from it the knowledge he wanted. He
seized the fast-diminishing whiteness and furiously tried to mold it,
to make it into something that would tell him why Morgenes had
died, why Dochais and the monks of Saint Hoderund's had per-
ished, why the little girl Leieth lay close to death in a hut in the
depths of the wild forest. He struggled and he hated. If a spark could
weep, he wept.

Slowly, painfully, the ice mountain formed again from the blank-
ness before him. Where was the truth? He wanted answers! As
Simon's dream-self struggled, the mountain grew taller, grew more
slender, began sprouting branches like an icy tree as it reached into
the heavens. Then the branches fell away, and it was only a smooth
white tower -- a tower that he knew. Flames bumed at its summit. A

405

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

great, booming sound came, like the tolling of a monstrous bell. The
tower wavered. The bell thundered again. This was something of
dreadful importance, he knew, something ghastly, something secret.
He could feel an answer almost within reach. . . .

Little fly! You have come to us, have you?

A horrible, searing black nothingness reached up and engulfed
him, blocking out the tower and the sounding bell. He felt the breath
of life burning away inside his dream-self as infinite coldness closed
around him. He was lost in the screamingly empty void, a tiny speck
at the bottom of a sea of infinite black depths, cut free from life,
breath, thought. Everything had vanished . . . everything except
the horrible, crushing hatred of the thing that gripped him . . .
smothered him.

And then, beyond all hope, he was free.

He was soaring, dizzyingly high above the world of Osten Ard,
clutched in the strong talons of a large gray owl, flying like the
wind's own child. The ice mountain was disappearing behind him,
swallowed up in the immensity of the bone-white- plain. In impossi-
bly swift moments the owl carried him away, over lakes and ice and
mountains, winging toward a dark line on the horizon. Just as it
came clear to him, as the line became a forest, he felt himself begin-
ning to slip from the owl's claws. The bird clutched him tighter, and
dropped earthward in a whistling dive. The ground leaped up, and
the owl spread her wide wings. They flattened out, gliding, and
whirled across the snowfields toward the security of the forest.

And then they were under the eaves, and safe.

Simon groaned and rolled over onto his side. His head was pound-
ing like Ruben the Bear's anvil during tournament time. His tongue
seemed swollen to twice its normal size; the air he breathed tasted of
metal. He pulled himself into a crouch, moving his heavy head as
slowly as possible.

Binabik was lying nearby, his wide face pale; Qantaqa nosed at the
troll's side, whimpering. Across the smoking fireplace dark-haired
Malachias was shaking Geloe, whose mouth hung slack, her lips
gleaming wetly. Simon groaned again as his head throbbed, hanging
down between his shoulders like a bruised fruit. He crawled to
Binabik. The little man was breathing; even as Simon leaned over
him the troll began to cough, gasped for air, and opened his eyes.

406 Tad Williams

"We . . ." he rasped, "we ... are ... all here?"

Simon nodded, looking over to Geloe, still motionless despite
Malachias' attentions. "A moment . . ." he said, and slowly got to
his feet.

He walked gingerly out the hut's front door carrying a small,
empty pot. He was faintly surprised to see that, despite the pall of
fog, it was still full afternoon; the time on the dream-road had
seemed much longer than that. He also had the nagging feeling that
something else had changed outside the cottage, but could not put
his finger on what the difference was. The view seemed slightly off.
He decided it must be some effect of his experience. After filling the
pot with lake water and washing the sticky green paste from his
hands, he returned to the house.

Binabik drank thirstily, then gestured that Simon should take the
container to Geloe. Malachias watched, half-hopeful, half-jealous, as
Simon carefully took the witch woman's jaw in one hand and
splashed a little water into her open mouth. She coughed, then swal-
lowed, and Simon gave her a little more.

As he held her head Simon was suddenly aware that, in some way,
Geloe had saved him while they were all walking in dream. As he
looked down at the woman, who was breathing more regularly now,
he remembered the gray owl who had caught him up when his
dream-self had been at its final gasp, and had borne him away.

Geloe and the troll had not expected quite such a circumstance,
he sensed; in fact, it was Simon who had put them in such danger.
For once, though, he had no feelings of shame over his actions. He
had done what needed doing. He had been fleeing the wheel long
enough.

"How is she?" Binabik asked.

"I think she will be well," Simon replied, looking at the witch
woman carefully. "She saved me, didn't she?"

Binabik stared for a moment, hair hung in sweaty spikes on his
brown forehead. "It is likely that she did," he said finally. "She is a
powerful ally, but even her strength has been by this taxed to the
limit."

"What did it mean?" Simon asked now, releasing Geloe to the
supporting arms of Malachias. "Did you see what I saw? The moun-
tain, and . . . and the lady with the mask, and the book?"

"I wonder if we saw all things the same, Simon," Binabik an-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             407

swered slowly. "But I am thinking it is important we wait until
Geloe can share her thoughts with us. Perhaps later, when we have
eaten. I am full of terrible hunger."

Simon gave the troll a shaky half-smile, and turned to find
Malachias staring at him. The boy started to turn away, then seemed
to find some internal resolution and held his stare, until it was Si-
mon who began to feel uncomfortable.

"It was as if the whole house was shaking," Malachias said
abruptly, startling Simon more than a little. The boy's voice was
strained, high-pitched and hoarse.

"What do you mean?" Simon asked, fascinated as much by the
fact of Malachias speaking as by what he said.

"The whole cottage- While you three sat and stared at the fire, the
walls began to ... to quiver. Like someone picked it up and set it
down again."

"Most likely it was only the way we were moving while we were
... I mean ... oh, I don't know." Simon gave up in disgust. The
truth was, he didn't really know anything right at this moment. His
brains felt as though they'd been stirred with a stick.

Malachias turned away to give more water to Geloe. Raindrops
suddenly began to patter down onto the windowsill; the gray sky
could hold back its burden of storm no longer.

The witch woman was grim. They had pushed aside the soup
bowls and sat facing each other on the bare floor: Simon, the troll,
and the mistress of the cottage. Malachias, although obviously inter-
ested, remained on the bed beside the little girl.

"I saw evil things moving," Geloe said, and her eyes flashed. "Evil
things that will shake the roots of the world we know." She had
recovered her strength, and something else: she was solemn, and
grave as a king in judgment. "I almost wish we had not taken the
dream-path -- but that is an idle wish, from the part of me that wants
just to be left alone. I see darker days coming, and I fear to be drawn
in by events so ill-omened."

"What do you mean?" Simon asked. "What was all that? Did you
see the mountain, too?"

"Stormspike." Binabik's voice was strangely flat. Geloe looked
over at him, nodded, then turned back to Simon.

"True. It was Sturmrspeik we saw, as they call it in Rimmersgard,

408 Tad Williams

where it is a legend, as far as Rimmersmen are concerned. Storm-
spike. The mountain of the Noms."

"We Qanuc," Binabik said, "know Stormspike to be real. But still,
the Noms have not been intruding on the affairs of Osten Ard since
time beyond time. Why now? It looked to me as if, as if . . ."

"As if they were preparing for war," Geloe finished for him- "You
are right, if the dream is to be trusted. Whether it was true-seeing, of
course, would take a better-trained eye than even mine. But you said
the hounds that pursue you wear the brand of Stormspike; that is
real evidence in the waking world. I think we can trust this part of
the dream, or at least I think we ought to."

"Preparing for war?" Simon was already confused. "Against who?
And who was the woman in the silver mask?"

Geloe looked very tired. "The mask? Not a woman. A creature
out of legend, you could say, or a creature out of time beyond time,
as Binabik put it. That was Utufc'ku, the Queen of the Noms."

Simon felt a chill sweep over him. The wind outside sang a cold
and lonely song. "But what are these Noms? Binabik said they were
Sithi."

"The old wisdom says that they were part of the Sithi once,"
Geloe responded. "But they are a lost tribe, or renegades. They
never came to Asu'a with the rest of their folk, but disappeared into
the unmapped north, the icy lands beyond Rimmersgard and its
mountains. They chose to separate themselves from the doings of
Osten Ard, although that seems to be changing."

For a moment Simon saw a flicker of deep unease cross the witch
woman's sour, practical face.

And these Noms are helping Elias chase me? he thought, feeling
panic rise again. Why am I sunk in this nightmare?

Then, as if his fright had opened a door in his mind, he remem-
bered something. Unpleasant shapes climbed up from the hidden
places in his heart, and he struggled to catch his breath.

"Those . . . those pale people. The Noms. I've seen them be-
fore!"

"WhatI?" Geloe and the troll spoke at the same time, leaning
forward. Simon, startled by their intensity, backed away.

"When?" Geloe snapped.

"It happened ... I think it happened: it may have been a dream
... on the night I ran away from the Hayholt. I was in the lich-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              409

yard, and I thought I heard something calling my name -- a woman's
voice. I was so frightened that I ran away, out of the lich-yard and
toward Thisterborg." There was a stirring on the pallet: Malachias
nervously shifting position. Simon ignored him and continued-

"There was a fire on top of Thisterborg, up among the Anger
Stones. Do you know them?"

"I do," Geloe's response was matter of fact, but Simon sensed
some weight behind the words he did not understand.

"Well, I was cold and frightened, so I climbed up. I'm sorry, but I
was so sure that this was a dream. Perhaps it is."

"Perhaps. Go on."

"There were men on the top. They were soldiers, I could tell
because they wore armor." Simon felt a thin sweat break on his
palms, and nibbed them together. "One of them was King Elias. I
was frightened even more, then, so I hid. Then . . . then there was
a horrible creaking noise, and a black wagon came up the far side of
the hill." It was coming back, all coming back ... or, at least, it
seemed like all ... but there were still empty shadows. "Those
pale-skinned people -- the Noms, that's what they were -- were with
it, several of them, dressed in black robes."

There was a long pause while Simon struggled to remember. Rain
drummed on the cottage roof.

"And?" the valada asked at last, gently.

"Elysia Mother-of-God!" Simon swore, and tears started in his
eyes. "I can't remember! They gave him something, something from
the wagon. Other things happened, too, but it feels like it's all under
a blanket in my head. I can touch it, but I can't tell what it is! They
gave him something! I thought it was a dream!" He buried his face
in his hands, trying to squeeze the painful thoughts from his
whirling head.

Binabik awkwardly patted Simon's knee. "This is perhaps answer-
ing our other question. I, too, pondered over why the Noms should
be readying for battle. I wondered if they would be fighting against
Elias the High King, as some age-old grievance against mankind.
Now, it has the appearance to me that they are helping him. Some
kind of bargain has been struck. Possibly it was that which Simon
saw. But how? How could Elias ever make such compact with the
secretive Noms?"

"Pryrates." As soon as Simon said it, he was sure it was true.

410 Tad Williams

"Morgenes said that Pryrates opened doors, and that terrible things
came through. Pryrates was on that hill, too."

Valada Geloe nodded her head. "It makes a kind of sense. A
question that must be answered, but one that I am sure is beyond
our powers, is -- what was the bargaining-tally? What could these
two, Pryrates and the king, have to offer to the Noms for their aid?"

They shared a long silence.

"What did the book say?" Simon asked abruptly. "On the dream-
road. Did you see the book, too?"

Binabik thumped the heel of his hand against his chest. "It was
there. The runes I saw were of Rimmersgard: 'Du Svardenvyrd.' In
your speech it means: The Spell of the Swords.' "

"Or Weird of the Swords," Geloe added. "It is a famous book in
the circles of the wise, but it has been long lost. I have never seen it.
It is said to have been written by Nisses, a priest who was a coun-
selor to King Hjeldin the Mad."

"The one Hjeldin's tower is named after?" Simon "sked her.

"Yes. That is where Hjeldin and Nisses both died."

Simon considered. "I saw three swords, too."

Binabik looked to Geloe. "Only shapes was I seeing," the troll
said slowly. "I thought they might have the look of swords."

The witch woman had not been sure, either. Simon described the
silhouettes, but they meant nothing to her or to Binabik.

"So," the little man said at last, "we have learned what from the
dream-road -- that the Noms are giving aid to Elias? This we
guessed. That a strange book is playing some part . . . perhaps?
This is a new thing. We were given a dream-glimpse of Stormspike,
and the halls of the mountain's queen. We may have learned things
that we do not understand yet -- still, I am thinking, one thing has
changed not at all: we must take ourselves to Naglimund. Valada,
your house will be protection for a while, but if Josua lives he has
need to know of these things."

Binabik was interrupted from an unexpected quarter. "Simon,"
Malachias said, "you said someone called you in the lien-yard. It
was my voice you heard. I was the one calling you."

Simon could only gape.

Geloe smiled. "At last, one our mysteries begins to speak! Go on,
child. Tell them what you must."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              411

Malachias blushed furiously. "I ... my name is not Malachias.
It is ... Marya."

"But Marya is a girl's name," Simon began, then broke off at the
sight of Geloe's widening grin. "A girl ...?'* he said lamely. He
stared at the strange boy's face, and suddenly saw it for what it was.
"A girl," he grunted, feeling impossibly stupid.

The witch woman chuckled. "It was obvious, I must say -- or it
should have been. She had the advantage of traveling with a troll
and a boy, and the cloak of confusing, dangerous events, but I told
her the deception could not last."

"Especially not all the way to Naglimund, and that is where I
must go." Marya nibbed her eyes wearily. "I have an important
message to bear to Prince Josua from his niece, Miriamele. Please do
not ask me what it is, for I may not tell you."

"What of your sister?" Binabik asked, "She will not be able to
travel for a long time." He, too, squinted at the surprising Marya, as
if trying to discover how he had been fooled. It did seem obvious,
now.

"She is not my sister," Marya said sadly. "Leieth was the prin-
cess' handmaiden. We were very close. She was frightened to stay in
the castle without me, and was desperate to come along." She
looked down at the sleeping child. "I should never have brought her.
I tried to pull her up into the tree before the dogs caught us. If I had
only been stronger . . ."

"It is not clear," Geloe broke in, "whether the little girl will ever
be able to travel. She has not moved far from the brink of death. I
am sorry to say it, but it is the truth. You must leave her with me."

Marya started to protest, but Geloe would not listen. Simon was
disturbed to see what he thought was a glimmer of relief in the girl's
dark eyes. It angered him to think she would leave the wounded
child behind, no matter how important the message.

"So," Binabik said finally, "where is it we are now? We still must
reach Naglimund, and we are blocked by leagues of forest and the
steep slopes ofWealdhelm. Not mentioning those who will be in our
pursuit."

Geloe thought carefully. "It seems clear to me," she said, "that
you must get through the forest to Da'ai Chikiza. That is an old
Sithi place, long-deserted, of course. There you can find the Stile,
which is an old road through the hills from a time when the Sithi

412 Tad Williams

regularly traveled between there and Asu'a -- the Hayholt. It is un-
used now, except by animals, but it will be the easiest, safest place to
cross. I can give you a map in the morning. Yes, Da'ai
Chikiza ..." A deep light kindled in her yellow eyes, and she
nodded her head slowly, as if lost in thought. A moment later she
blinked, and became her brisk self once more. "Now you should
sleep. We should all sleep. The day's doings have left me limp as a
willow branch."

Simon didn't think so. He thought the witch woman looked
strong as an oak tree -- but he supposed even an oak could suffer in a
storm.

Later, as he lay curled in his cloak, the warm bulk of Qantaqa's
somewhat intrusive presence against his legs, he tried to push away
thoughts of the terrible mountain. Such things were too vast, too
murky. Instead, he wondered what Marya must think of him. A
boy, Geloe had called him, a boy who did not know what a girl
looked like. But that was not fair -- when had there been time to
think about it?

Why had she been spying in the Hayholt? For the princess, per-
haps? And if it had been Marya who called to him in the lien-yard,
why? How had she known his name, why had she bothered to leam
it? He didn't remember ever seeing her at the castle -- or at least not
as a girl.

When he at last floated off into sleep, like a tiny boat pushed out
onto a black ocean, he felt as though he pursued a receding light, a
patch of brightness just out of reach. Outside the windows, rain
covered the dark mirror of Geloe's lake.

27

The Gossamer Towers

HE TRIED to ignore the hand on his shoulder, but could not. Open-
ing his eyes, he found the room still quite dark, two angular sittings
of stars the only indication of where the windows stood.

"Let me sleep," he moaned. "It's too early!"

"Get up, boy!" came the harsh whisper. It was Geloe, her robe
loosely drawn about her. "There is no time to waste."

Blinking his dry and painful eyes, Simon looked past the kneeling
woman to see Binabik quietly repacking his bag. "What's going on?"
he asked, but the troll seemed too busy to talk.

"I have been outside," Geloe said. "The lake has been discovered
 -- I assume by the men who were hunting you."

Simon sat up quickly and reached for his boots. It all seemed so
unreal in the near-darkness; nevertheless, he could feel his heart
beating swiftly. "Usires!" he cursed quietly. "What shall we do? Will
they attack us?"

"I do not know," Geloe answered as she left him to go and wake
Malachias -- no, Marya, Simon reminded himself. "There are two
camps, one at the lake's far end by the inlet stream, one not far from
here. Either they know whose house this is and are trying to decide
what to do, or they do not yet know the cottage is here at all. They
may have arrived after we put the candles out."

A sudden question occurred to him. "How do you know they're
out at the far end?" He peered through the window. The lake was
again shrouded in fog, and there was no sign of campfires. "It's so
dark," he finished, and turned back to Geloe. She was certainly not
dressed to be out prowling in the woods. Her feet were bare!

But even as he looked at her, at the hastily donned robe and the
wet beads of mist clinging to her face and hair, he remembered the
great wings of the owl who had flown before them to this lake. He

414 Tad Williams

could still feel the strong talons that had carried him away when the
hateful thing on the Road of Dreams had been crushing out his life.

"I don't suppose it's important, is it?" he finished at last. "It's
only important that we know they're out there." Despite the faint
moonlight, he saw the witch woman grin.

"Right you are, Simon-boy," she said softly, then went to help
Binabik fill two more bags, one each for Simon and Marya.

"Listen," Geloe said as Simon, now dressed, came over. "It is
obvious you must get out now, before dawn," she squinted out at the
stars for a moment, "which will not be long in coming. The question
is, how?"

"All we can hope," Binabik grunted, "is to slip away and try and
pass them in the forest, moving with great quietness. We with cer-
tainty cannot fly." He grinned, somewhat sourly. Marya, bundling
into a cloak the valada had given her, stared at the troll's smile in

puzzlement.

"No," said Geloe seriously, "but I also doubt you could slip by
those terrible hounds. You may not fly, but you can float away. I
have a boat tied beneath the house. It is not big, but it will hold you
all -- Qantaqa too, if she does not frolic around." She affectionately
ruffled the ears of the wolf, who reclined by her squatting master.

"And of what good is that?" Binabik asked. "Shall we paddle out
to the center of the lake, then in the morning dare them to swim and
get us?" He finished the last bag and pushed one toward Simon, one
toward the girl.

"There is an inlet stream," Geloe said. "It is small and not very
fast-flowing, not even as strong as the one you followed on your way
here- With four paddles you can easily make your way out of the
lake and up it some ways." Her faint frown was more contemplative
than worried. "Unfortunately, it also passes by one of the two
camps. Well, that is not to be helped. You must simply paddle qui-
etly. Perhaps it will even help in your escape. Such a thickheaded
man as your Baron Heahferth -- believe me, I have had my dealings
with him and his like! -- would not credit that his quarry might slide
by so near."

"Heahferth is not giving me worry," Binabik replied. "It is that
one who is truly leading the hunt -- the Black Rimmersman, Ingen
Jegger."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             415

"He probably doesn't even sleep," added Simon. He didn't like
the memory of that one at all.

Geloe made a wry face. "Never fear, then. Or at least, do not let
fear overwhelm you. Some useful distraction or other may occur
. . . one never knows." She stood up. "Come, boy," she said to
Simon, "you are good-sized. Help me untie the boat and move it
silently to the front door bridge."

"Can you see it?" Geloe hissed, pointing at a dark shape bobbing
on the ebony lake near the far comer of the elevated house. Simon,
already knee-deep in the water, nodded his head. "Go quietly,
then," she said -- somewhat unnecessarily, Simon thought.

As he waded around the side, head-high to the cottage's stilted
floorboards. Simon decided that he had not been mistaken last after-
noon, when he had felt that somehow things around the hut had
changed. That tree there, roots halfway into the water: he had seen
it the first day they had arrived, but then -- he was sure, by Usires! -- 
it had been on the cottage's other side, near the door plank. How
could a tree move?

He found the boat's tie rope with his fingers and slid them up until
he encountered the place where it was tied to a sort of hoop hanging
down from the bottom of the cottage. As he bent down at a back-
aching angle to try and work the knot loose, he wrinkled his nose
against the strange reek. Was it the lake, or the underside of the
house itself that smelled so? Beside the odor of damp wood and
mold, there was also a kind of odd, animal scent -- warm and musky,
but not unpleasant.

Even as he squinted into the darkness the shadows lightened a bit;

he could even see the knot! His pleasure at that, and the rapid unty-
ing that followed, was dashed by the cold realization that dawn
would be coming soon: the fading darkness was his friend. After
pulling the tie line loose, he began wading back, towing the boat
quietly behind him. He could just discern the dim shape of Geloe
standing huddled beside the long plank that sloped from the hut's
entrance; he headed toward her as quickly as he could . . . until he
tripped.

With a splash and a muffled cry, he half-fell down onto one knee,
then drew himself upright. What had caught at him? It felt like a
log. He tried to step over the obstruction, but merely succeeded in

416 Tad Williams

putting his bare foot down directly on top of it, and had to stifle the
urge to cry out again. Although it lay unmoving and solid, still it
had the scaly feel of one of the pikefish from the Hayholt's moat, or
one of the stuffed cockindrills Morgenes had kept perched on his
shelves. As the ripples quieted, and he heard Geloe's quiet but wary
voice asking if he had hurt himself, he looked down.

Although the water was very nearly opaque in the darkness, Si-
mon was sure he could see the outlines of some strange type of log,
or rather a vast branch of some kind, for he could see that the thing
he had tripped over, lying close beneath the surface of the water,
joined two other scaly branches. Together they seemed connected to
the base of one of the two pillars on which the cottage stood sus-
pended over the lake.

And as he stepped carefully over it, sliding silently through the
water toward the shadow that was Geloe, he suddenly realized that
what the tree roots -- or branches, or whatever they were -- what they
truly looked like was . . . some kind of monstrous foot. A claw,
actually, the claw of a bird. What a funny idea! A house did not have
bird's feet, anymore than a house got up and . . . walked.

Simon was very quiet as Geloe tied the boat up to the base of the
plank.

Everything and everybody was packed into the tiny boat: Binabik
perched .n th^ pointed brow, Marya in the middle, Simon seated in
the stem with a restless Qantaqa between his knees. The wolf was
obviously very uncomfortable; she had whined and resisted when
Binabik ordered her into the little craft. He had finally needed to
smack her lightly on the snout. The discomfort on the little man's
face showed clearly even in the predawn darkness.

The moon had swung far into the blue-black vault of the lighten-
ing western sky. Geloe, after handing them the paddles, straightened
up.

"Once you have gotten safely out of the lake and a bit upstream, I
think you should probably carry the boat overland through the for-
est to the Aelfwent. It is not a very heavy craft, and you don't need
to carry it far. The river is flowing the proper direction, and should
get you to Da'ai Chikiza."

Binabik reached out with his paddle and pushed the boat away

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             417

from the plank. Geloe stood ankle-deep at the lake's edge as they
spun gently out from the shore.

"Remember," she whispered, "edge those paddles into the water
as you reach the inlet stream. Silence! That is your protection."

Simon raised his palm. "Farewell, Valada Geloe."

"Farewell, young pilgrim." Her voice was already growing faint,
with less than three cubits between them. "Good luck to you all.
Fear not! I will take good care of the little girl." They slid quietly
away, until the witch woman was only a shadow beside the house's
near stilt.

The prow of the little boat cut through the water like a barber's
blade through silk. At Binabik's gesture they lowered their heads,
and the troll silently guided the craft toward the center of the misty
lake. As Simon huddled into the thick fur ofQantaqa's back, feeling
the pulse of her nervous breath, he watched tiny rings form on the
lake's surface beside the boat; at first he thought it might be fish, up
early to break their fast on mayflies and mosquitos. Then he felt a
tiny drop of moisture splash on the back of his neck, and another. It
was raining again.

As they neared the middle, cutting through swarms of hyacinths
that lay scattered on the water before them as though cast in the
path of a returning hero, the sky began to brighten. Dawn did not
announce its arrival: it would be hours before the sun cut through
the clouds and became visible in the sky. Rather, it was as if a layer
of darkness had been stripped away from the heavens, the first of
many veils. The line of trees that had been a blot of obscurity on the
horizon became a thatch of distinguishable treetops profiled against
the slate-gray sky. The water was black glass around them, but now
some details of the shoreline could be seen, the faint, pale tree roots
like the twisted legs of beggars, the dim silver shine of a granite
outcropping -- all standing around the secret lake like a court gallery
waiting for the players to arrive, all slowly metamorphosing from
gray night shapes to the vivid objects of day.

Qantaqa hunched, surprised, as Marya suddenly leaned forward
to peer over the gunwale of the boat. She started to say something,
checked herself, and instead pointed a finger out across the bow and
slightly to the right.

Simon squinted, then saw it: an anomalous shape in the orderless
but somehow symmetrical forest fringe, a square, blocky shape that

418 Tad Williams

was a different color from the dark branches around it -- a striped
blue tent.

Now they could see several more, a crowd of three or four just
behind the first. Simon scowled, then smiled disdainfully. How typi-
cal of the Baron Heahferth -- from what he had heard in his days at
the castle, anyway -- to carry such luxuries out into the wild forest.

Just beyond the scatter of small tents the lakeshore dipped back
for several ells, then reappeared again, leaving a dark space in the
middle as though a bite had been taken from the shoreline. Tree
branches hung low over the water there; it was impossible to see if it
was truly the river inlet, but Simon felt sure that it was.

Right where Geloe said! he thought. Sharp, sharp eyes she's got -- 
but then, that's not much of a surprise, is it?

He pointed to the dark break in the lake's rim, and Binabik nod-
ded; he had seen it, too.

As they neared the silent camp, Binabik had to paddle a bit
harder to keep them scudding along at a good pace; Simon guessed
that they must be starting to feel the push of the feeder stream. He
delicately lifted his paddle to lower it over the side. Binabik, catch-
ing the movement from the comer of his eye, turned and shook his
head, silently mouthing "not yet"; Simon stopped the small paddle
just above the rain-puckered water.

As they slid past the tents, not thirty ells from the shore, Simon
saw a dark shape moving among the walls of azure cloth. His throat
tightened. It was a sentry: he could see the dull sheen of metal
beneath the cloak. He might even be facing in their direction, but it
was difficult to tell, for he had the hood of his cloak up around his
head.

Within instants the others had also seen the man. Binabik slowly
lifted his paddle from the water and they all leaned forward, hoping
to show as little profile as possible. Even if the soldier chanced to
look out onto the lake, perhaps his eye would pass over them, or see
only a log bobbing on the water -- but that was really too much to
hope for, Simon felt sure. He could not imagine the man failing to
spot them if he turned, close as they were.

Even as the progress of the little craft slowed, the dark gap in the
shoreline came up before them. It was the inlet stream: Simon could
see the water rippling faintly where it passed over the rounded back
of a stone some few yards up the channel. It had also nearly stopped

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             419

their forward motion; as a matter of fact, the nose of the boat was
beginning to come around, rebuffed by the mild current. They would
have to put paddles in the water soon, or be pushed into the bank
just below the blue tents.

Then, finished with whatever had caught his attention at the far
side of the camp, the sentry turned around to gaze out across the
lake.

Within an instant, even before the mounting fear could truly take
hold of them, a dark shape dropped from the trees over the camp
and skimmed swiftly toward the sentry. It sailed through the
branches like a huge gray leaf and fetched up against his neck, but
this leaf had talons; when he felt them at his throat the armored man
gave a shout of horror and dropped his spear, beating at whatever
had clutched him. The gray shape fluttered up, wings churning, and
hung over his head just beyond his reach. He shouted again, clutch-
ing his neck, and fumbled in the dirt for his spear.

"Now!" Binabik hissed. "Paddle!" He and Marya and Simon
drove the wooden blades into the water, pulling desperately. For the
first few strokes they seemed somehow snagged, water splashing
purposelessly as the boat rocked. Then they began to ease forward,
and within moments were pushing against the stronger current of
the stream, sliding in beneath the overarching branches.

Simon looked back to see the sentry, head bare, leaping up and
down trying to swat the hovering creature. A few of the other men
sat up from their bedrolls, beginning to laugh as they watched their
comrade, who had dropped his spear and was now throwing rocks at
this daft, dangerous bird. The owl dodged the missiles with ease; as
Simon lowered the curtain of leafy branches down behind the boat it
gave a flirt of its wide white tail and circled up into the shadowed
trees.

As they strained forward against the difficult current -- surpris-
ingly difficult, since on the surface it did not appear to be moving at
all -- Simon gave a quiet chortle of triumph.

For a long time they paddled hard against the river's flow. Even
had they not felt the need for silence they would have been hard-
pressed to make any conversation, the paddling was such strenuous
work. At last, close to an hour later, they found a small backwater

420 Tad Williams

hedged in by a secretive screen of reeds where they could stop and
rest.

The sun was now well up, a glowing blur behind a pearly, sky-
wide canopy of clouds. A film of mist still clung to the forest and
river, so that their surroundings seemed the landscape of a dream.
Somewhere up ahead the stream was passing through or over some
obstacle; the quiet purr of moving water was augmented by the
chimelike tones of the watercourse leaping and splashing back upon
itself.

Simon, panting, watched the girl Marya as she leaned on the
gunwale, her cheek resting on her forearm. It was hard to under-
stand how he had ever mistaken her for a boy. What he had seen as
foxlike, as a sharpness of feature unusual in a boy, he now saw as
delicacy. She was flushed with exertion; Simon stared at her ruddy
cheek, and his eye moved down the white length of her extended
neck, to the gentle but well-defined protrusion of her collarbone
where the boy's shirt she wore gaped open at the throat.

She's not well-padded . . . not like Hepzibah, he mused. Huh/ Vd
like to see Hepzibah pass as a boy! Still, she's pretty in a kind of thin
way. Her hair's so very black.

Marya's eyes fluttered closed. She continued to breathe deeply.
Simon absently stroked Qantaqa's wide head.

"Well made, is she not?" Binabik asked cheerfully. Simon gaped
at him, startled.

"What?"

Binabik frowned. "I am sorry. Perhaps you are calling them 'him*
in Erkynland? 'It,' possibly? Still, you must agree that Geloe has
done a job of great craft."

"Binabik," Simon said, his blush beginning to fade, "I don't have
any idea what you are talking about."

The little man pounded the gunwale softly with the flat of his
hand. "What a nice work Geloe has accomplished with bark and
wood. And so light! We shall not have much trouble, I am thinking,
to carry this overland to the Aelfwent."

"The boat . . ." Simon said, nodding like a village idiot. "The
boat. Yes, it is well made."

Marya sat up. "Are we going to try and cross to the other river
now?" she asked. As she turned again to look out across the thin
strip of forest visible through the reeds, Simon noticed the dark

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             421

circles under her eyes, her strained look. In a way, he was still upset
with her for being relieved when Geloe volunteered to keep the
child, but he was glad to see that this servant girl seemed concerned,
that she wasn't just the kind of girl who laughed and teased all the
time-

Well of course she's not, he thought a moment later. As a matter of
fact, I don't think I've seen her smile yet. Not that things haven't been
frightening -- but you don't see me always frowning and moping.

"That might perhaps be a good idea," Binabik said, responding to
Marya's question. "I believe that the noise which is sounding ahead
is a gathering of rocks in the stream. If that is being the case. we
would anyway have little choice but to carry the boat around. Per-
haps Simon would go find out."

"How many years old are you?" Simon asked Marya. Binabik,
surprised, turned around and stared. Marya quirked her lips and
looked at Simon for a long moment.

"I am . . ." she began, then paused. "I will have sixteen years in
Octander."

"Fifteen, then," said Simon, a little smugly.

"And you?" the girl challenged.

Simon bristled. "Fifteen!"

Binabik coughed. "Well and good that shipmates should have ac-
quaintance of each other, but . . . perhaps later. Simon, could you
go to see if those are indeed rocks ahead?"

He was about to agree, then suddenly did not want to. Was he an
errand boy? A child, to run and find out things for the grown-ups?
Who had made the decision to go and rescue this stupid girl from a
tree, anyway?

"As long as we need to cross to the whatever-ifs-called, why
bother?" he said. "Let's just do it."

The troll stared, then at length nodded his head. "Very well. I
think it will do my friend Qantaqa good to be stretching her legs,
besides." He turned to Marya. "Wolves are not sailors, you know."

Now for a few moments Marya stared at Binabik as if he were
odder than Simon. Then she burst into ringing laughter.

"That's very true!" she said, and laughed again.

The canoe was indeed feathery light, but they still had difficulty
carrying it through the clinging branches and creepers. To keep it at

422 Tad Williams

a height where both Binabik and the girl could help bear the load
they had to hold the upside-down boat in such a way that the sharp
angle of the stem kept thumping against Simon's breastbone. He
couldn't see his feet as he walked, either, with the result that time
and again he was tripped up in the undergrowth. Rain showered
down through the overhanging net of boughs and leaves; with his
hands occupied, Simon could not even wipe away the drops that ran
into his eyes. He was not in the best of all possible moods.

"How far is it, Binabik?" he asked at last. "My chest is being
battered to pieces by this by-Usires damnable boat."

"Not far, I am hoping," the troll called, his voice echoing
strangely from beneath the stretched-bark shell. "Geloe said that the
inlet stream and the Aelfwent run side by side for a long distance,
being only a quarter of a league or so apart. Soon we should reach
it."

"Soon it had better be," Simon said grimly. In front of him Marya
made a noise that he was sure was a sound of disgust -- disgust with
him, probably. He scowled horribly, red hair stringy and wet on his
forehead.

At last they heard another sound above the soft drumming of
raindrops on leaves, a breathy rush that made Simon think of a
room full of murmuring people. Qantaqa leaped ahead, clattering
through the underbrush.

"Hah!" Binabik grunted, laying his end of the boat down. "You
see? We have found if T'si SuhyaseiF

"I thought it was named Aelfwent." Marya rubbed the place
where the boat had rested on her shoulder. "Or is that what trolls
always say when they find a river?"

Binabik smiled. "No. That is a Sithi name. It is a Sithi river, in a
way, since they used to be boating upon it when Da'ai Chikiza was
their city. You should be knowing that. Aelfwent means 'Sithi river'
in the old tongue of Erkynland."

"Then what does . . . what you said mean?" Marya asked.

"T'si Suhyasei?" Binabik thought. "Hard it is to say, exactly. It
means something like: 'her blood is cool.* "

"Her?" Simon asked, digging mud from his boots with a stick.
"What's 'her' this time?"

"The forest," Binabik replied. "Come now. You can be washing
that mud off in the water."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             423

They carried the boat down the bank, pushing it through a thicket
of cattails only with a great deal of stem snapping, until the river
was before them -- a wide, healthy expanse of water, far bigger than
the inlet stream, and with what looked like a far stronger current.
They had to lower the boat down into the gully carved by the river's
passage; Simon, the tallest, wound up standing knee-deep in the
shallows to receive the boat -- his boots were indeed washed clean.
He held the bobbing craft as Marya and the troll first levered a
doubtful Qantaqa over the edge -- without much help from the wolf
herself -- then followed after. Simon climbed in last, taking his place
in the stem.

"Your positioning, Simon," Binabik told him gravely, "requires
great responsibility. We shall find little need to paddle with a current
of such vigor, but you must steer, and you must call out when there
are rocks ahead so we can all help push away from them."

"I can do it," he said quickly. Binabik nodded and let go of the
long branch he had been clutching; they eased off from the bank and
out onto the surging Aelfwent.

It was a little difficult at first, Simon found. Some of the rocks that
they needed to avoid were not even visible above the water's glassy
surface; rather, they lay just below, only recognizable by the shiny
humps made by the water above them. The first one that Simon did
not see made a horrible noise scraping along the taut hull, giving
them all a moment's scare, but the little boat bounded away from
the submerged stone like a sheep fleeing the shears. Soon Simon had
the feel of it; in spots the craft seemed almost to skim the top of the
water, weightless as a leaf on the river's undulating back.

As they hit a stretch of smoother water, the clamor of the rocks
falling away behind them, Simon felt his heart swell within his chest.
The playful hands of the river tugged his trailing paddle. A memory
of climbing on the Hayholt's broad battlements came to him -- 
breathless with his own power, with the sight of the ordered fields
lying so far below. He remembered, too, crouching in the bell cham-
ber of Green Angel Tower, looking down on the huddling houses of
Erchester, staring out over the broad world with the wind in his
face. Now, in the stem of the little boat, he was again both of the
world and above it, far above it, sailing like the spring wind gusting
through the treetops. He lifted the paddle in the air before him . . .
it was now a sword.

424 Tad Williams

"Usires was a sailor," he abruptly sang, the words coming back to
him in a rush. It was a tune someone had sung to him when he was
very young.

'"Usires was a sailor

He went upon the ocean

He took the Word of God

And he went sailing to Nabban-o!"

Binabik and Marya turned to look at him; Simon grinned.

"Tiyagaris was a soldier
He went upon the ocean
He took the Word of Justice
And went sailing to Nabban-o!

King John he was a ruler

He went upon the ocean

He took the word ofAedon

And went sailing to Nabban-o! ..."

He trailed off.

"Why do you stop?" Binabik asked. Marya still stared, a specula-
tive look in her eye.

"That's all I know," Simon said, lowering his paddle back into the
boat's rippling wake. "I don't even know where it's from. I think
one of the chambermaids used to sing it when I was small."

Binabik smiled. "A good song for river travel, I am thinking,
although some of the details have not much historical correctness.
Are you sure you can remember no more?"

"That's it." His failure to recall troubled him little. Just a short
hour on the river had redeemed his mood entirely. He had been on a
fisherman's boat in the bay, and had enjoyed it ... but that was
nothing to this, to the forest rushing by, and the feeling of the deli-
cate boat beneath him, as sensitive and responsive as a colt.

"I have no sailing songs to sing," the troll said, pleased by Simon's
change of mood. "In high Qanuc the rivers are ice, and used only for
the sliding games of trollings. I could be singing perhaps of mighty
Chukku, and his adventures . . ."

"I know a river song," said Marya, running a slender white hand

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             425

through her thatch of black hair. "The streets of Meremund are full
of sailor's songs."

"Meremund?" Simon asked. "How did a castle girl ever get to
Meremund?"

Marya curled her lip at him. "And where do you think the prin-
cess and all her court lived before we came to the Hayholt -- the
wilds of Nascadu?" She snorted. "Meremund, of course. It is the
most beautiful city in the world, where the ocean and the great river
Gleniwent meet. You wouldn't know, you haven't been there.'* She
grinned wickedly. "Castle boy."

"Then sing!" Binabik said, waving his hand before him. "The
river waits to hear. The forest, too!"

"I hope I remember," she said, sneaking a glance at Simon, who
haughtily returned it -- her remark had barely touched the buoyancy
of his mood. "It's a river rider song," she continued, then cleared
her throat and began -- tentatively at first, then more confidently -- to
sing in a sweet, throaty voice.

". . , Now those who sail the Big Pond
Will tell you of its mystery
They'll brag of all those battles
And all that bloody history

But talk to any river-dog
Who sails upon the Gleniwent
He'll say God made the oceans
But the River's what he really meant

Oh, the Ocean is a question

But the River is an answer

With her rollicking and frolicking

As fine as any dancer

So let Hell take the shirkers

For this old boat won't carry 'em

And if we lose some crew or two

We'll drink to 'em at Meremund . . .

Now some men go away to sea
And they're never seen again

426                   Tad Williams

But every night we river-dogs
Are found down at the inn

And some may say we drink a bit
And punch it up a mite
But if the river is your lady
That's just how you rest at night

Oh, the Ocean is a question

But the River is an answer

With her rollicking and frolicking

As fine as any dancer

So let Hell take the shirkers

For this old boat won't carry 'em

And if we lose some crew or two

We'll drink to 'em at Meremund . . .

In Meremund! In Meremund!

We'll drink to 'em in Meremund

If we don't spy 'em floating by

It'll save the penny to bury 'em . . . !"

By the time Marya had gotten to the chorus the second time
around, Simon and Binabik knew the words well enough to join in.
Qantaqa flattened her ears as they hooted and shouted down the
swift-racing Aelfwent.

"Oh the Ocean is a question, but the River is an answer . . ."
Simon was singing at the top of his lungs when the nose of the boat
dipped down into a trough and bounced up: they were among the
rocks again. By the time they had negotiated the roiling waters and
were out into the clear, they were all too breathless for singing.
Simon, however, was still grinning, and as the gray clouds above the
forest roof opened, showering down more rain, he tilted his chin up
and caught the drops on his tongue.

"Raining, now," Binabik said, eyebrows arched beneath the hair
plastered to his forehead. "I am thinking we shall get wet."

The brief instant of silence was pierced by the troll's high-pitched,
gusting laugh.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             427

*     *

When the light filtering down through the canopy of trees began
to dim, they steered the boat to the side and made camp. After
building a fire, using his sack of yellow dust to kindle the damp
wood, Binabik produced a parcel of fresh vegetables and fruits from
one of the packs Geloe had provided. Qantaqa, left to her own de-
vices, went slinking off into the tall brush, returning some time later
with her fur soaking wet and a few streaks of blood adorning her
muzzle. Simon looked at Marya, who was meditatively sucking on a
peach pit, to see what her reaction would be to this evidence of the
brutal side of the wolf's nature, but if the girl noticed she showed no
signs of unease.

She must have worked in the princess' kitchens, he guessed. Still, if
I had one of Morgenes' stuffed lizards to slip in her cloak, then she'd
jump, I'll wager.

Thinking about her working in castle kitchens set him to wonder-
ing just what it was she had done in the princess' service -- and now
that he thought of it, what had she been doing spying on him? But
when he tried to ask her questions about the princess, she only
shook her head, saying that she could not say anything about her
mistress or her services until the message had been delivered at
Naglimund.

"I am hoping you will forgive my asking," Binabik said as he
packed away the few supper things and took his walking stick apart,
producing at last his flute, "but what is your plan ifJosua is not at
Naglimund, for receiving your message?"

Marya looked disturbed by this, but still would not say anything
more. Simon was tempted to ask Binabik about their plans, about
Da'ai Chikiza and the Stile, but the troll was already tootling ab-
sently on his flute. Night pulled a blanket of darkness over all the
great Aldheorte but their tiny fire. Simon and Marya sat listening as
the troll set his music to swooping and echoing in the rainy treetops.

They were on the river soon after sunup the next day. The
rhythms of the moving water now seemed as familiar as a child's
rhyme: the long idle stretches in which it seemed that their boat was
a rock upon which they sat while the vast sea of trees marched by on
either side, then the dangerous excitement of the fast-running rapids
that shook the frail craft as though it were a hooked and wriggling

428 Tad Williams

fish. The rain let up in mid-moming, and in its place the sun sprin-
kled down through the overhanging branches, dotting the river and
forest floor with puddles of light.

The welcome respite from the weather -- unusually wintry for late
Maia, Simon couldn't help noticing, remembering the icy mountain
of their shared dream -- kept their spirits high. As they floated along
through the tunnel of leaning trees, broken here and there by majes-
tic sheets of sunlight that streamed down through gaps in the tan-
gled branches to turn the river briefly into a mirror of polished,
golden glass, they entertained each other with talk. Simon, reluc-
tantly at first, told of the people he had known at the castle -- Ra-
chel, Tobas the dogkeeper, who daubed his nose black with lamp
grease to more easily pass as family among his charges, Peter
Gilded-Bowl, giant Ruben and the rest. Binabik spoke more of his
journeying, of his youthful travels to the brackish Wran-country and
the dismal, exotic wastelands east of his Mintahoq home. Even
Marya, despite her initial reticence and the large area of unap-
proachable topics, made Simon and the troll smile with her imita-
tions of river-sailor and ocean-mariner arguments, and her observa-
tions about some of the dubious nobility that surrounded the
Princess Miriamele at Meremund and the Hayholt.

Only once did the conversation of the second day's boating turn
to the darker subjects that shadowed all the companions' thoughts.

"Binabik," Simon asked, as they took their midday meal in a
sunlit patch of forest-meadow, "do you really think we've left those
men behind? Might there be others looking for us, too?"

The troll flicked an apple pip from his chin. "I do not know
anything with sureness, friend Simon -- as I have already been say-
ing. Sure I am that we slipped by, that there was no immediate
pursuit, but since I cannot be knowing why exactly they seek us, I
cannot know whether they can find us. Do they know we are bound
for Naglimund? That is not a difficult thing to be supposing. But,
three things are in our favor."

"What things?" Marya asked, a slight frown on her face.

"First, it is easier to hide than find in a forest." He held up a
stubby finger. "Second, we are taking a back route to Naglimund
that is not well-known for hundreds of years." Another finger.
"Last, to find out our route, those men will have to hear it from

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             429

Geloe," his third finger straightened, "and that is a thing that will
not, I think, happen."

Simon had been secretly worrying about just this. "Won't they
hurt her? Those were men with swords and spears, Binabik. Owls
won't scare them off forever if they think we're with her."

A grave nod. The troll tented his short fingers. *T am not being
unconcerned, Simon- Daughter of the Mountains, I am not! But you
know little of Geloe. To think of her only as a village wise woman is
to be making a mistake, a mistake Heahferth's men may regret if
they do not treat her with respect. A long time Valada Geloe has
walked Osten Ard: she has been many years in the forest, and many,
many years before that among the Rimmersgarders. Even preceding
that, she was coming up from the south into Nabban, and her travels
before no one knows. She is one who can be trusted for taking care
of herself -- far more than I, or even, as was proved with such sad-
ness, that good man Morgenes." He reached for another apple, the
last in the bag. "But that is enough of such worrying. The river is
waiting, and our hearts must be light, so we can Taster travel."

Later in the afternoon, as the shadows of the trees began to blend
together into one large blotch of shade stretched across the river,
Simon learned more of the mysteries of the Aelfwent.

He was digging through his pack, searching for a bit of rag to
wrap around his hands, to protect them from the blisters raised by
the coarse paddle. He found something that felt like what he was
searching for and pulled it out. It was the White Arrow, still bound
in the tattered hem of his shirt. It was surprising to suddenly have it
in his hand again, to feel its delicacy laying in his palm like a feather
that might be swept away in the first errant breeze. He carefully
unwrapped the shielding cloth.

"Look here," he said to Marya, reaching past Qantaqa to show it
nestled on its blanket of rag. "It's a Sithi White Arrow. I saved the
life of a Sitha-man and he gave it to me." He reconsidered briefly.
"Shot it at me, actually."

It was a beautiful thing; in the dimming light it was almost lumi-
nous, like the shimmering breast of a swan. Marya looked at it for a
moment, then touched it with a raised finger.

"It's pretty," she said, but in her tone there was none of the
admiration Simon had hoped to hear.

430 Tad Williams

"Of course it's pretty! It's sacred. It means a debt owed. Ask
Binabik, he'll tell you."

"Simon is correct," the troll called back from the prow. "That
was happening just before we met."

Marya continued to regard the arrow calmly, as though her mind
flew elsewhere. "It's a lovely thing," she said, only slightly more
conviction in her voice than the time before. "You're very lucky,
Simon."

He didn't know why, but that made him furious. Didn't she real-
ize what he had been through? Lich-yards, trapped Sithi, the
hounds, the enmity of a High King!? Who was she, to answer like
one of the chambermaids absentmindedly soothing him when he had
skinned a knee?

"Of course," he said, holding the arrow up before him so it caught
a beam of near-horizontal sunlight, the riverbank a moving tapestry
behind it, "of course, for all the luck it's brought me so far -- at-
tacked, bitten, hungry, chased -- I might as well have never got it."
He stared at it crossly, running his eyes over the carvings that might
have been the story of his life since he had left the Hayholt, compli-
cated but meaningless.

"I really might as well throw it away," he said casually. He never
would, of course, but it was strangely satisfying to pretend that he
might. "I mean to say, what good has it brought me ... ?"

Binabik's warning cry came in midsentence, but by the time Si-
mon could sort things out it was too late. The boat struck the hidden
rock almost directly; the craft lurched, stem breaching the water
with a sucking splash. The arrow flew from Simon's hand to go
spinning through the air and into the water churning around the
rocks. As the boat's rear smacked down, Simon turned to look for it;

a moment later they skidded off another submerged stone and he
was falling, the boat tipping, falling. . . .

The water was shockingly cold. For an instant it was as though he
had fallen through some hole in the world into absolute night. Then
he was gasping, breaking the surface, whirling crazily in the turbu-
lent water. He struck a rock, spun away and went under again,
terrifying water pushing the air from his nose and mouth. Strug-
gling, he got his head to the top again and tensed as the swirling
current battered him against one hard object after another. He felt
wind on his face for a moment and sucked in, coughing; he felt some

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             431

of the praise-Usires air making its way into his burning lungs. Then,
suddenly, the rocks were past and he was floating free, kicking to
keep his head above the plane of the river. To his surprise, the boat
was behind him now, just sliding around the last of the hump-
backed stones. Binabik and Marya were paddling hard, eyes round
with fear, but Simon saw the distance gradually growing wider. He
was slipping downstream, and as he pivoted his head wildly to either
side he saw the riverbanks were shockingly far away. He gasped in
another great clout of air.

"Simon!" Binabik yelled, "Swim back to us! We cannot row fast
enough!"

Floundering, he tried to turn about and struggle back to them, but
the river pulled him with a thousand invisible fingers. He splashed,
trying to form his hands into the paddle shapes Rachel -- Morgenes?
 -- had once shown him as they held him suspended in the shallows
of the Kynslagh, but the effort seemed laughable against the all-
pervading power of the current. He was tiring fast; he could not find
his legs anymore, felt nothing but a cold emptiness when he tried to
make them kick. The water splashed up into his eyes, prisming the
reaching tree branches as he slipped back under the surface.

Something smacked down beside his hand, and he beat his arms
against the cold water to climb back up one last time. It was Marya's
paddle. With her longer reach she had pushed up to Binabik's place
in the prow and stretched out, extending the flat piece of wood to
within inches of his grasp. Qantaqa was standing beside her, bark-
ing, straining forward almost in mimicry of the girl; the canoe, with
so much weight forward, was leaning dangerously.

Simon sent a thought back to where his legs had been, told them
to kick if they could hear him, and threw out his hand. He barely
felt the paddle as he curled his numb fingers about it, but it was
there, just where he needed it to be.

After they had hauled him over the side -- a nearly impossible task
in itself, since he weighed more than any of them except the wolf -- 
and after he had coughed out or thrown up great quantities of river
water, he lay panting and shivering, curled in a ball at the bottom of
the boat while the girl and the troll searched for a spot to make
landing.

He recovered enough strength to crawl out of the boat by himself
on shaking legs. As he fell on his knees, spreading grateful palms on

432 Tad Williams

the soft forest floor, Bmabik reached down and plucked something
loose from the sodden, ragged mess that was Simon's shirt

"See what was caught up in your clothes," Bmabik said, an odd
look on his face It was the White Arrow "Let us make a fire for
you, poor Simon Perhaps you have had a lesson -- a cruel lesson, but
a senous one -- about speaking ill of Sithi gifts while sailing on a
Sithi nver "

Denied even the strength to be embarrassed as Binabik helped
him shed his clothes and wrapped him in his cloak, Simon fell asleep
in front of the blessed fire His dreams were unsurprisingly dark, full
of things that clutched and smothered

Clouds hovered low the following morning Simon felt very sick
After chewing and swallowing a couple of strips of dried meat -- 
against the protestations of his queasy stomach -- he clambered gin-
gerly into the boat, letting Marya take the stem this time while he
huddled in the middle, Qantaqa's warm bulk pressed against him
He slept on and off throughout the long day on the nver The sliding
green blur that was the forest made him dizzy, and his head felt hot
and much too large, like a potato swelling on the coals Both
Bmabik and Marya checked the progress of his fever solicitously
When he woke from the sludgy doze he had fallen into while his two
companions ate lunch, and found them bending over him, Marya's
cool palm on his forehead, his confused thought was What a strange
mother and father I have!

They halted for the night just as twilight began creeping through
the trees Simon, swaddled m his cloak like an infant, sat close to the
fire, unwrapping his arms only long enough to dnnk some soup the
troll had prepared, a broth of dried beef, turnips and onions

"We must be getting up with the first footsteps of the sun tomor-
row," Binabik said, proffering the stem end of a turnip to the wolf,
who sniffed it with benign indifference "Close we are to Da'ai
Chikiza, but it would be senseless to come upon it at night when it
could not be properly seen In any way, we will have a long climbing
up the Stile from there, and may as well undertake it when the day is
warm "

Simon watched bleanly as the troll pulled Morgenes' manuscript
from one of the packs and unwrapped it, squatting close to the
flickering campfire and tilting the pages to read, he looked like a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             433

little monk at prayer over his Book of the Aedon. The wind rustled
through the trees overhead, knocking loose water drops that had
clung to the leaves, remnants of the afternoon's shower. Mixed m
with the dull rush of the waters below was the insistent piping of the
tiny nver frogs.

It took Simon a while to realize that the soft pressure against his
shoulder was not just another strange message from his sick, dis-
comforted body- He laboriously turned his chin past the collar of his
heavy wool cloak, freeing a hand to shoo Qantaqa off, only to see
Marya's dark head resting on his upper arm, mouth slightly open,
breath easing m and out with the rhythms of sleep.

Bmabik looked over. "It was a hard day of working, today," he
smiled. "Much paddling. If it is not paining you, let her stay there a
bit." He turned back to the manuscnpt.

Marya stirred against him and murmured something. Simon
tugged the cloak that Geloe had loaned her up higher; as it touched
her cheek she half-muttered something, reached up a hand and pat-
ted clumsily at Simon's chest, then squirmed a little nearer.

The sound of her even breathing so close to his ear threaded its
way in among the noises of nver and night forest. Simon shivered,
and felt his eyes becoming heavy, so heavy . . . but his heart was
beating swiftly, and it was the sound of his restless blood that led
him down a path toward warm darkness.

In the gray, diffuse light of a rainy dawn, with eyes still sticky
with sleep and bodies queerly unresponsive from their too-early
start, they saw the first bridge

Simon was in the stem again Despite the disonentation of board-
ing the boat and joining the river in near-darkness, he felt better
than he had the day before, still light-headed, but much more fit. As
they rounded a bend in the nver, which leaped along happily, care-
less of the hour, he saw a strange shape arched across the water
ahead. Wiping his eyes free for a moment of the misty drizzle that
seemed not so much to fall as to hang in the air, he squinted.

"Binabik," he asked, leaning forward, "is that a ..."

"A bndge it is, yes," the troll replied cheerily. "The Gate of
Cranes, I think it must be "

The nver bore them ever closer, and they shipped water with their
paddles to slow down The bndge stretched up from the choking

434

Tad Williams

undergrowth of the river bank to extend in a slender arc into the
trees on the other side. Carved in pale, translucent green stone, it
seemed delicate as a span of frozen sea foam. Once covered with
intricate carvings, now much of its surface was obscured by moss
and twining ivy; the spots that showed through had been worn
down, the whorls and curves and hard angles softened, rounded by
wind and rain. Perched at its apex, directly over their heads as the
little boat slid underneath, a cream-green, translucent stone bird

spread its water-worn wings.

They passed through the faint shadow in moments, and were out
the other side. The forest suddenly seemed to breathe antiquity, as
though they had slid through an open door into the past.

"Long ago have the river roads been swallowed up by Oldheart,"
Binabik said quietly as they all turned to watch the bridge dwindling
behind them. "Perhaps even the other works of the Sithi will be

fading someday."

"How could people cross over a river on such a thing?" Marya

wondered. "It looked so ... so fragile."

"More fragile than it was once, that is certain," Binabik said with
a wistful backward glance. "But the Sithi never built . . . never
build ... for beauty alone. Their works have strength. Does not
the tallest tower in Osten Ard, the work of their hands, still stand in

your Hayholt?"

Marya nodded, thinking. Simon trailed his fingers in the cold

water.

They passed eleven more bridges, or "gates" as Binabik called
them, since they had for a thousand years or more marked the river
entrance to Da'ai Chikiza. Each gate was named for an animal, the
troll explained, and corresponded to a phase of the moon. One by
one, they drifted beneath Foxes, Roosters, Hares and Doves, each
one slightly diiferent in shape, made of pearly moonstone or bright
lapis, but all unmistakably the work of the same sublime and rever-
ent hands.

By the time the sun had climbed behind the clouds to its mid-

moming station they were just slipping beneath the Gate of Nightin-
gales. On the far side of this span, on whose proud carvings flecks of
gold still glimmered, the river began to turn, bearing west one more
time toward the unseen eastern flank of the Wealdhelm Hills. There

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             435

were no surface-roiling rocks here; the current moved swiftly and
evenly. Simon was in the midst of asking Marya a question when
Binabik raised his hand.

As they rounded a bend it was before them; a forest of impossibly
graceful towers, set like a jeweled puzzle within the larger forest of
trees. The Sithi city, flanking the river on either side, seemed to grow
out of the very soil. It seemed the forest's own dream realized in
subtle stone, a hundred shades of green and white and pale summer-
sky blue. It was an immense thicket of needle-thin stone, of gossa-
mer walkways like bridges of spiderweb, of filagreed tower tops and
minarets reaching up into the high treetops to catch sun on their
faces like icy flowers. The world's past lay open before them, breath-
taking and heartrending. It was the most beautiful thing Simon had
ever seen.

But as they floated into the city, the river winding around the
slender columns, it became apparent that the forest was reclaiming
Da'ai Chikiza. The tiled towers, intricate with cracks, were netted in
ivy and the twining branches of trees. In many places, where once
there had been walls and doors of wood or some other perishable
substance, the stone outlines now stood precariously unsupported,
like the bleached skeletons of incredible sea creatures. Everywhere
the vegetation was thrusting in, clinging to the delicate walls,
smothering the whisper-thin spires in uncaring leaves.

In a way, Simon decided, it only made it more beautiful, as
though the forest, restless and unfulfilled, had grown a city from out
of itself.

Binabik's quiet voice broke the silence, solemn as the moment; the
echoes quickly vanished in the choking greenery.

" 'Tree of the Singing Wind,' they named it: Da'ai Chikiza. Once,
can you imagine, it was full of music and life. All the windows
burned with lamps, and there were bright boats at sail upon the
river." The troll tilted his head back to stare as they passed beneath
a last stone bridge, narrow as a feather quill, clothed in images of
graceful antlered deer. "Tree of the Singing Wind," he repeated,
distant as a man lost in memory.

Simon wordlessly steered their little craft over to a bank of stone
steps that ended in a platform, nearly flush with the surface of the
wide river. They climbed out, tying the boat to a root that had
pushed through the cracked white stone. When they had mounted

436 Tad Williams

up they stopped, staring silently at the vine-draped walls and mossy
corridors. The very air of the ruined city was charged with quiet
resonance, like a tuned but unplucked string. Even Qantaqa stood
seemingly abashed, tail held low as she sniffed the air. Then her ears
straightened, and she whined.

The hiss was almost imperceptible. A line of shadow leaped past
Simon's face and struck one of the attenuated walkways with a
sharp crack. Sparkling chips of green stone exploded in all direc-
tions. Simon whirled to look back.

Standing not a hundred ells away, separated from the companions
only by the rolling expanse of river, stood a black-garbed figure
holding a bow as long as he was tall. A dozen or so others garbed in
blue and black surcoats were scrambling up a pathway to stand
beside him. One of them carried a torch.

The black figure lifted a hand to his mouth, showing for an instant
a flash of pale beard.

"You have nowhere to go!" Ingen Jegger's voice came faint above
the sounds of the river. "Surrender in the King's name!"

"The boat!" Binabik cried, but even as they moved to the steps
black-clad Ingen reached out some slender thing toward the torch-
bearer; fire blossomed at one end. A moment later he had nocked it
on his bowstring. As the companions reached the bottom step, a bolt
of fire leaped across the river, exploding into the side of the boat.
The quivering arrow ignited the bark almost instantly, and the troll
had time only to pull one of the packs from the craft before the
flames forced him back. Momentarily hidden behind the leaping fire,
Simon and Marya darted up the stairs, Binabik close behind. At the
top Qantaqa was running from side to side, uttering hoarse barks of
dismay.

"Run now!" Binabik snapped. On the far side of the river two
more bowmen stepped up to Ingen's side. As Simon strained toward
the cover of the nearest tower he heard the awful hum of another
arrow, and saw it skid across the tiles twenty cubits before him. Two
more clattered against the tower wall that seemed so achingly far
ahead. He heard a cry of pain, and Marya's terrified call.

"Simon!"

He whirled to see Binabik tumble to the ground, a tiny bundle at
the girl's feet. Somewhere, a wolf was howling.

28

Drums of Ice

THE MORNING sun of the twenty-fourth day of Maia-month beamed
down on Hemysadharc, turning the golden disc atop the highest of
the Taig's roofs into a circlet of brilliant flame. The sky was blue as
an enamel plate, as though Brynioch of the Skies had chased the
clouds away with his heavenly hazel stick, leaving them to lurk
sullenly around the upper peaks of the looming Grianspog.

The sudden return of spring should have gladdened Maegwin's
heart. All over Hemystir the untimely rains and cruel frosts had
drawn a shroud over both the land and her father Lluth's people.
Flowers had frozen in the ground, unborn. Apples had dropped
small and sour from the gnarled branches in the orchards. The sheep
and cows, put out to graze in sodden fields, came back with rolling,
frightened eyes, unnerved by hailstones and gusting winds.

A blackbird, insolently waiting until the last moment, hopped up
from Maegwin's path into the denuded branches of a cherry tree
where he trilled disputatiously. Maegwin paid him no heed, but
hitched up her long dress and hurried toward her father's hall.

She ignored the voice calling her name at first, unwilling to be
hindered in her errand. Finally, reluctantly, she turned to see her
half brother Gwythinn running toward her. She stopped and waited
for him, arms folded.

Gwythinn's white tunic was disordered, and his golden neck
torque had ridden halfway around to the back, as though he were a
child instead of a young man of warrior age. He caught up and stood
panting; she gave a snort of dismay and set to straightening out his
garments. The prince smirked, but waited patiently while she pulled
the torque around to lie against his collarbone. His long brown mane
of hair had largely pulled free of the red cloth holding it in a careless
horse tail. As she reached around to tie it, their faces were eye-to-

438 Tad Williams

eye, although Gwythiirn was by no means a short man. Maegwin
scowled.

"Bagba's Herd, Gwythinn, look at you! You must do better. You
will be king someday!"

"And what has being king to do with how my hair is worn?
Besides, I was handsome enough when I started out, but I had to
run like the very wind to catch you, you with those long legs."

Maegwin flushed as she turned away. Her height was something
about which, try as she might, she could not be matter-of-fact.

"Well, you*ve caught me up now. Are you going to the hall?"

"I certainly am." A sterner expression ran across Gwythinn's face
like quicksilver, and he tugged at his long mustache. "I have things I
must say to our father."

"As do I," Maegwin nodded, walking now. Their strides and
heights so evenly matched, their sorrel-colored hair so alike it might
have been spun from one wheel, any outsider would have guessed
they were twins, instead of Maegwin five years older and from a
different mother.

"Our best brood sow, Aeghonwye, died evening last. Another one,
Gwythinn! What is happening? Is it another plague, like at Aba-
ingeat?"

"If it is a plague," her brother said grimly, fingering the leather-
wrapped hilt of his sword, "I know who brought it here. That man is
a sickness on legs." He slapped the pommel and spat. "I only pray
that he speaks out of turn today. Brynioch! Would I love to cross
blades with that one!"

Maegwin narrowed her eyes. "Don't be a fool," she said crossly,
"Guthwulf has killed a hundred men. And, strange as it may seem,
he is a guest at the Taig."

"A guest who insults my father!" Gwythinn snarled, pulling his
elbow from Maegwin's gentle, prisoning grasp. "A guest who brings
threats from a High King drowning in his own poor kingship -- a
king who struts and bullies and spends golden corns like they were
pebbles, then turns to Hernystir and demands we help mm!"
Gwythinn's voice was rising, and his sister darted a glance around,
worried who might hear. There was no one in sight but the pale
shapes of the door guards a hundred paces away. "Where was King
Elias when we lost the road to Naarved and Elvritshalla? When
bandits and the gods know what else descended on the Frostmarch

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              439

Road?" Face flushed again, the prince looked up to find Maegwin no
longer at his side. He turned to see her standing, arms folded, ten
steps behind.

"Have you finished, Gwythinn?" she asked. He nodded, but his
mouth was tight. "Good, then. The difference between our father
and yourself, fellow, is more than only thirty-some years. In those
years he has learned when to speak, and when to keep his thoughts
inside. That is why, thanks to him, someday you stand to be King
Gwythinn, and not just the Duke of Hemystir-Duchy."

Gwythinn stared for a long moment. "I know," he said at last,
"you would have me be like Eclair, and bow and scrape to the dogs
of Erkynland. I know you think Eolair is the sun and moon -- re-
garding not what he thinks of you, king's daughter though you be -- 
but I am not such a man. We are Hemystiri! We crawl for no one!"

Maegwin glared, stung by the jab over her feelings for the Count
of Nad Mullach -- about whom Gwythinn was exactly right: the at-
tention he showed her was only that due to a king's gawky, unmar-
ried daughter. But the tears she dreaded did not come; instead, as
she looked at Gwythinn, his handsome face twisted by frustration,
by pride, and not least by genuine love of his people and land, she
saw again the little brother she had once carried on her shoulder -- 
and whom she herself had, from time to time, teased into tears.

"Why are we fighting, Gwythinn?" she asked wearily. "What has
brought this shadow down on our house?"

Her brother lowered his gaze to his boot tops, embarrassed, then
extended his hand. "Friends and allies," he said. "Come, let us go in
and see Father before the Earl of Utanyeat comes slinking in to bid
fond farewells."

The windows of the Taig's great hall were thrown open; the sun-
light streaming through was full of sparkling dust from the rushes
spread across the floor. The thick wall timbers, hewed from the oak
trees of the Circoille, were fitted so carefully that not a gleam of light
showed between them. Up among the roofbeams hung a thousand
painted carvings of the gods of the Hemystiri, of heroes and mon-
sters, all twisting slowly in the rafters as reflected light shone
warmly on their polished wooden features.

At the hall's far end, sun splashing in on either side. King Lluth
ubh-Llythinn sat in his huge oaken chair, beneath the carved stag's

440 Tad Williams

head that strained upward from the chair's back, antlers of real horn
fixed to its wooden skull. The king was eating a bowl of porridge and
honey with a bone spoon while Inahwen, his young wife, sat on a
lower chair at his side, putting a tracery of delicate stitching onto
the hem of one of Lluth's robes.

As the sentries banged their spear points twice upon their shields
to signal Gwythinn's arrival -- lesser nobility such as Count Eolair
received only a single beat, while the king himself received three,
and Maegwin not a one -- Lluth looked up and smiled, placing his
bowl down on the arm of his chair and wiping his gray mustache on
his sleeve. Inahwen saw the gesture and gave Maegwin a despairing
woman-to-woman look that Lluth's daughter resented more than a
little. Maegwin had never really gotten used to Gwythinn's mother
Fiathna taking the place of her own (Maegwin's mother Penemhwye
had died when Maegwin was four), but at least Fiathna had been
Lluth's age, not a mere girl like Inahwen! Still, this young, golden-
haired woman was good-hearted, although perhaps a little slow of
wit. It was not really Inahwen's fault she was a third wife,

"Gwythinn!" Lluth half-rose, brushing crumbs from the lap of his
belted yellow robe. "Are we not lucky to have the sun today?" The
king swept a hand window-ward, as pleased as a child who has
learned a trick, "It is a certain thing that we need a little, eh? And
perhaps it will help to put our guests from Erkynland," he made a
wry face, his mobile, clever features shifting into a look of bemuse-
ment, eyebrows arching above the thick, crooked nose broken in his
boyhood, "to put them in a more agreeable mood. Do you think?"

"No, I do not think that, father," Gwythinn said, approaching as
the king settled back into his antler-crested seat. "And I hope the
answer you give them today, if I may presume, will send them away
in an even fouler one." He pulled up a stool and sat at the king's feet
just below the raised platform, sending a harper scuttling. "One of
Guthwulf's soldiers picked a fight with old Craobhan last evening. I
had a hard time preventing Craobhan from feathering the bastard's
back with an arrow."

Lluth looked troubled for a moment, then the look was gone,
hidden behind the smiling mask that Maegwin knew so well.

Ah, father, she thought even you are finding it a bit hard to keep
the music playing while these creatures bay all around the Taig. She
walked quietly forward and sat on the platform by Gwythinn's stool.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             441

"Well, the king grinned ruefully, "sure it is that King Elias could
have chosen his diplomats with a bit more care. But today in an
hour they are gone, and peace descends again on Hernysadharc."
Lluth snapped his fingers and a serving boy sprang forward to take
his dish of porridge away. Inahwen watched critically as it went by.

"There," she said reproachfully. "You didn't finish again. What
am I to do with your father?" she added, this time directing her gaze
to Maegwin, smiling fondly as though Maegwin, too, was a soldier
in the constant battle to make Lluth finish his meals.

Maegwin, still at a loss as to how to deal with a mother a year
younger than herself, hastily broke the silence. "Aeghonwye died,
Father. Our best, and the tenth sow this month. And some of the
others have gotten very thin."

The king frowned. "This cursed weather. If Elias could but keep
this spring sun overhead, I'd give him any tax he asked." He reached
down to pat Maegwin's arm, but was not quite able to reach. "All
we can do is pile more rushes in the barns to keep out the chill.
Failing that, we are in the godly hands of Brynioch and Mircha."

There was another metallic clash of spear on shield, and the door-
speaker appeared, hands nervously clasped.

"Your Highness," he called, "the Earl of Utanyeat requests an
audience."

Lluth smiled. "Our guests have decided to say farewell before
they take to their horses. Of course! Please, bring Earl Guthwulf in
immediately."

But their guest, followed by several of his armored but unsworded
men, was already moving past the ancient servant.

Guthwulf dropped slowly to his knee five paces before the plat-
form. "Your majesty ... ah, and the prince, as well. I am fortu-
nate." There was no hint of mockery in his voice, but his green eyes
held an unsubtle fire. "And Princess Maegwin," -- a smile -- "the
Rose of Hernysadharc."

Maegwin struggled to maintain her composure. "Sir, there was
only one Rose of Hernysadharc," she said, "and since she was the
mother of your King Elias, I am surprised it should slip your mind."

Guthwulf nodded gravely. "Of course, lady, I sought only to pay
a compliment, but I must take exception to your calling Elias my
king. Is he not yours, too, under the High Ward?"

442 Tad Williams

Gwythinn shifted on his stool, turning to see what his father's
reaction would be; his scabbard scraped on the wooden platform.

"Of course, of course," Lluth waved his hand slowly, as if beneath
deep water. "We have been through all this, and I see no need to
belabor it. I recognize the debt of my house to King John. We have
always honored it, in peace or war."

"Yes." The Earl of Utanyeat stood, dusting the knees of his
breeches. "But what about your house's debt to King Elias? He has
shown great tolerance . . ."

Inahwen stood up, and the robe she had been sewing slid to the
floor. "You must excuse me," she said breathlessly, plucking the
garment up, "there are things in the household I should attend to."
The king waved his permission and she walked quickly but carefully
between the waiting men and slid out the half-opened door of the
hall, as lithely as a doe.

Lluth breathed a quiet sigh; Maegwin looked at him, seeing the
always-surprising lines of age that wreathed her father's face.

He is tired, and she, Inahwen, is frightened. Maegwin thought. /
wonder what I am? Angry? I'm not sure -- exhausted, really.

As the king stared at Elias' messenger, the room seemed to
darken. For a moment Maegwin feared that clouds had covered the
sun, that the winter was returning; then she realized it was only her
own apprehension, her sudden feeling that something more than her
father's peace of mind hung in the balance here.

"Guthwulf," the king began, and his voice sounded bowed as
though beneath a great weight, "do not think to provoke me today
. . . but neither think that you can cow me. The king has shown no
tolerance for the troubles of the Hemystiri at all. We have weathered
a bitter drought, and now the rains for which we thanked all the
gods a thousand times have themselves become a curse. What pen-
alty that Elias can threaten me with can exceed that of seeing my
people frightened, our cattle starving? I can pay no greater tithe."

The Earl of Utanyeat stood silently for a moment, and the blank-
ness of his expression slowly hardened into something that to
Maegwin looked unsettlingly like jubilation.

"No greater penalty?" the Earl said, savoring each word as
though it felt good on his tongue. "No greater tithe?" He spat a wad
of citril juice on the ground before the king's chair. Several of
Lluth's men-at-arms actually cried out in horror; the harper who

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              443

had been quietly playing in the comer dropped his instrument with a
discordant crash.

"Dog!" Gwythinn leaped up, his stool clattering away. In a flash-
ing moment his sword was out and at Guthwulf's throat. The earl
only stared, his chin tipped ever so slightly back.

"Gwythinn!" Lluth barked, "Sheathe, damn you, sheathe!'*

Guthwulf's lip curled. "Let him. Go ahead, pup, kill the High
King's Hand unarmed!" There was a clanking by the door as some
of his men, their astonishment thawing, started to move forward.
Guthwulf's hand shot up. "No! Even if this whelp should slit my
weasand from ear to ear, no one shall strike back! You walk out and
ride to Erkynland. King Elias will be ... most interested." His
men, confused, stood in place like armored scarecrows.

"Let him go, Gwythinn," Lluth said, cold anger in his voice. The
prince, face flushed, glared at the Erkynlander for a long moment,
then dropped his blade back to his side. Guthwulf passed a finger
over the tiny cut on throat and gazed coolly at his own blood.
Maegwin realized she had been holding her breath; at the sight of
the crimson smear on the Earl's fingertip, she let it whistle out again.

"You will live to tell Elias yourself, Utanyeat." Only a slight
tremor disturbed the evenness of the king's tone. "I hope you will
tell him as well the mortal insult you have paid to the House of
Hem, an insult that would have gained your death had you not been
Elias' emissary and King's Hand. Go."

Guthwulf turned and walked to where his men stood, wild-eyed.
When he reached them he pivoted on one heel, facing Lluth across
the expanse of the great hall.

"Remember that you could think of no greater tithe you could
pay," he said, "if someday you hear fire in the beams of the Taig,
and your children crying." He strode heavily through the door.

Maegwin, her hands shaking, bent and picked up a piece of the
shattered harp, and wound its curling string around her hand. She
raised her head to look at her father and brother; what she saw there
made her turn back again to the shard of wood in her palm, and the
string pulled tight against her white skin.

^

444 Tad Williams

Breathing a soft Wrannaman curse, Tiamak stared disconsolately
at the empty cage of reeds. It was his third trap, and there had not
been a crab yet. The fishhead that had baited it was, of course, gone
without trace. Glaring down into the muddy water, he had a sudden
nervous premonition that the crabs were somehow a step ahead of
him -- were perhaps even now waiting for him to drop the cage down
lardered with another pop-eyed head. He could picture a whole tribe
of them scuttling over with expressions of glee to poke the bait out
through the bars with a stick or some other such tool recently
granted to crab-kind by some beneficent crustacean deity.

Did the crabs worship him as a soft-shelled providing angel, he
wondered, or did they look up at him with the cynical indifference of
a gang of ne'er-do-wells taking the measure of a drunkard before
relieving him of his purse?

He felt sure it was the latter. He rebaited the carefully woven cage
and, with a soft sigh, let it splash down into the water, uncoiling its
rope behind as it sank.

The sun was just slipping below the horizon, washing the long sky
above the marsh in shades of orange and persimmon-red. As Tiamak
poled his flatboat through the Wran's waterways -- distinguishable in
places from the land only by the lesser height of the vegetation -- he
had a sinking feeling that today's ill luck was only the beginning of a
long rising tide. He had broken his best bowl that morning, the one
that he had spent two days writing Roahog the Potter's ancestor-list
to pay for; in the afternoon he had shattered a pen nib and spattered
a great gobbet of berry-juice ink across his manuscript, ruining an
almost completed page. And now, unless the crabs had decided to
hold some kind of festival in the cramped confines of his last trap,
there was going to be precious little to eat tonight. He was growing
so very tired of root soup and rice biscuits.

As he silently approached the last float, a latticework ball of
reeds, he offered an unspoken prayer to He Who Always Steps on
Sand that even now the little bottom-walkers were pushing and
shoving their way into the cage below. Because of his unusual educa-
tion, which included a year living on Perdruin -- unheard of for a
Wrannaman -- Tiamak did not really believe in He Who Steps on
Sand anymore, but he still held a fondness for him, such as might be
felt for a senile grandfather who often tumbled down from the
house, but once brought nuts and carved toys. Besides, it never hurt

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             445

to pray, even if one did not believe in the object of prayer. It helped
to compose the mind, and, at the very least, it impressed others.

The trap came up slowly, and for a moment Tiamak's heart sped a
little in his thin brown chest, as if seeking to drown out the expec-
tant noises of his stomach. But the sensation of resistance was short-
lived, probably some clinging root which had held and then slipped
away, and the cage suddenly popped up and bobbed on the water's
cloudy surface. Something was moving inside; he lifted the cage up,
interposing it between himself and the sunset-glaring sky, squinting.
Two tiny, stalked eyes goggled back at him, eyes that wobbled atop
a crab that would disappear in his palm if he folded his fingers over
it.

Tiamak snorted. He could imagine what had happened here: the
older, rowdier crab-brothers goading the littlest into assaying the
trap; the youngling, caught inside, weeping while his crude brothers
laughed and waved their claws- Then the giant shadow of Tiamak,
the cage suddenly tugged upward, the crab-brothers staring abash-
ediy at each other, wondering how they would .explain Baby's ab-
sence to Mother.

Still, Tiamak thought, considering the hollowish feeling in his
middle, if this was all he had to show for today ... it was small,
but it would go nicely in the soup-
He squinted into the cage again, then upended it, shaking the
prisoner out onto his palm. Why delude himself? This was a run-on-
the-sandbar day, and that was that.

The crablet made a plopping noise as he dropped it back into the
water. He did not even bother to resink the trap.

As he climbed the long ladder from his moored boat to the little
house perched in the banyan tree, Tiamak vowed to be content with
soup and a biscuit. Gluttony was an obstacle, he reminded himself,
an impediment between the soul and the realms of truth. As he
reeled the ladder up onto the porch he thought of She Who Birthed
Mankind, who had not even had a nice bowl of root soup, but had
subsisted entirely on rocks and dirt and swamp water until they
combined in her stomach and she whelped a litter of clay men, the
first humans.

There, that made root soup a real bargain, didn't it? Besides, he
had much work to do anyway -- repair or rewrite the blotched manu-

446 Tad Williams

script page, for one thing. Among his tribesmen he was thought of
as merely strange, but somewhere out in the world there would be
people who would read his revision of Sovran Remedys of the
Wranna Healers and realize that there were minds of true learning in
the marshes. But ay! a crab would have gone down smartly -- that
and a jug of fem beer.

As Tiamak washed his hands in the water bowl he had put out
before leaving, crouching because there was no room to sit between
his obsessively scraped and polished writing board and his water jug,
he heard a scratching sound on the roof. He listened carefully as he
wiped his hands dry on his waistcloth. It came again: a dry rustle,
like his broken pen being rubbed across the thatching.

It took him only a moment to slide out the window and climb
hand over hand onto the sloping roof. Grasping one of the banyan's
long, curving limbs he made his way up to where a little bark-roofed
box sat atop the roof peak, an infant house carried on its mother's
back. He ducked his head into the box's open end.

It was there, right enough: a gray sparrow, pecking briskly at the
seeds that were scattered across the floor. Tiamak reached in a gen-
tle hand to enfold it; then, as carefully as he could, he climbed down
the roof and slid in through the window.

He put the sparrow in the crab cage he kept hanging from the
roofbeam for just such occasions, and quickly made a fire. When the
flames began to lick up from the stone hearth, he removed the bird
from the cage, his eyes smarting as the smoke began to coil toward
the hole in the ceiling.

The sparrow had lost a feather or two from its tail, and held one
wing out a bit from its side as though it had come through some
scrapes on its way down from Erkynland. He knew it had come
from Erkynland because it was the only sparrow he had ever raised.
His other birds were marsh doves, but Morgenes insisted on spar-
rows for some reason -- funny old man, he was.

After he had set a pot of water on the flames, Tiamak did what he
could for the awkward silver wing, then put down more seeds and a
hollow curl of bark full of water. He was tempted to wait until he
had eaten to read the message, to hold off the pleasure of faraway
news as long as possible, but on a day like this one had been, such
patience was too much to expect of himself. He mashed some rice
flour up in the mortar, added some pepper and water, then spread

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             447

the mixture out and rolled it into a cake which he set on the fire
stone to bake.

The slip of parchment that had been wrapped around the spar-
row's leg was ragged at the edges, and the printed characters were
smeared, as though the bird had gotten more than a little wet, but he
was used to such things and soon sorted it out. The notation signify-
ing the date when it had been written surprised him: the gray spar-
row had taken nearly a month to reach the Wran. The message
surprised him even more, but it was not the kind of surprise he had
been hoping for.

It was with a feeling of cold weight in his stomach superceding
any hunger that he went to the window, looking out past the tangled
banyan branches to the fast-blooming stars. He stared into the
northern sky, and for a moment could almost believe he felt a cold
wind knifing in, driving a wedge of chill through the warm air of the
Wran. He was a long time at the window before he noticed the smell
of his supper burning.

^

Count Eolair sat back in the deep-cushioned chair and looked up
at the high ceiling. It was covered in religious paintings, painstaking
renditions of Usires healing the washerwoman, Sutrin martyred in
the arena of the Imperator Crexis, and other such subjects. The
colors seemed to be fading somewhat, and many of the pictures were
obscured by dust, as though draped in a fine veil. Still, it was an
impressive sight, for all that this was one of the smaller antecham-
bers of the Sancellan Aedonitis.

A millionweight of sandstone, marble, and gold, Eolair thought,
and all for a monument to something no one has ever seen.

Unbidden, a wave of homesickness washed over him, as had often
happened in this last week. What he would not give to be back in his
humble hall in Nad Mullach, surrounded by nieces and nephews
and the small monuments of his own people and gods, or at the Taig
in Hernysadharc, where a bit of his secret heart always lingered,
instead of surrounded here by the land-devouring stone of Nabban!
But the scent of war was on the wind, and he could not lock himself
away when his king had asked his help. Still, he was weary oftravel-

448 Tad Williams

ing. The grass of Hemystir would feel fine beneath his horse's
hooves again.

"Count Eolair! Forgive me, please, for keeping you waiting." Fa-
ther Dinivan, the lector's young secretary, stood in the far doorway
wiping his hands on his black robe. "Today has been a full one
already, and we have not reached the forenoon. Still," he laughed,
"that is a terribly poor excuse. Please, come into my chambers!"

Eolair followed him out of the antechamber, his boots silent on
the old, thick carpets.

"There," said Dinivan, grinning and warming his hands before
the fire, "is that better? It is a scandal, but we cannot keep the
Lord's greatest house warm. The ceilings are too high. And it has
been such a cold springi"

The count smiled. "Truth to tell, I had not much noticed it. In
Hemystir we sleep with our windows open, except in direst winter.
We are a people who live out-of-doors."

Dinivan wagged his eyebrows. "And we Nabbanai are soft south-
erners, eh?"

"I did not say that!" Eolair laughed. "One thing you southerners
are, you are masters of clever speech."

Dinivan sat down in a hard-backed chair. "Ah, but his Sacredness
the lector -- who is an Erkynlandish man originally, as you well
know -- the lector can talk circles around any of us. He is a wise and
subtle man."

"That I know. And it is about him I would speak. Father."

"Call me Dinivan, please. Ah, it is ever the fate of a great man's
secretary -- to be sought out for one's proximity rather than one's
personality." He made a mock-downcast face.

Eolair again found himself liking this priest very much. "Such
indeed is your doom, Dinivan. Now hear, please. I suppose you
know why my master has sent me here?"

"I would have to be a clod indeed not to know. These are times
that set tongues wagging like the tails of excited dogs. Your master
reaches out to Leobardis, that they can make some sort of common
cause."

"Indeed." Eolair stepped away from the fire to draw up a chair
near Dinivan's. "We are delicately balanced: my Lluth, your Lector
Ranessin, Elias the High King, Duke Leobardis . . ."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             449

"And Prince Josua, if he lives," Dinivan said, and his face was
worried. "Yes, a delicate balance. And you know that the lector can
do nothing to upset that balance."

Eolair nodded slowly. "I know."

"So why have you come to me?" Dinivan asked kindly.

"I am not quite sure. Only this I would tell you: it seems there is
some struggle brewing, as often happens, but I myself fear it is
deeper. You might think me a madman, but I forebode that an age is
ending, and I fear what the coming one may bring."

The lector's secretary stared. For a moment his plain face seemed
far older, as though he reflected on sorrows long carried.

"I will say only that I share your fears. Count Eolair," he said at
last. "But I cannot speak for the lector, except to say as I did before:

he is a wise and subtle man." He stroked the Tree at his breast. "For
your heartsease, though, I can say this: Duke Leobardis has not yet
made up his mind where he will lend his support. Although the
High King alternately flatters and threatens him, still Leobardis re-
sists."

"Well, this is good news," said Eolair, and smiled warily. "When I
saw the duke this morning he was very distant, as though he feared
to be seen listening to me too closely."

"He has many things to weigh, as does my own master," Dinivan
replied. "But know this, too -- and it is a deep secret. Just this morn-
ing I took Baron Devasalles in to see Lector Ranessin. The baron is
about to set forth on an embassy that will mean much to both Le-
obardis and my master, and will have much to do with which way
Nabban throws her might in any conflict. I can tell you no more
than that, but I hope it is something."

"It is more than a little," Eolair said. "I thank you for your trust,
Dinivan."

Somewhere in the Sancellan Aedonitis a bell rang, deep and low.

"The Clavean Bell calls out the noon hour," Father Dinivan said.
"Come, let us find us something to eat and a jug of beer, and talk
about more pleasant things." A smile chased across his features,
making him young again. "Did you know I traveled once in Hemy-
stir? Your country is beautiful, Eolair."

"Although somewhat lacking in stone buildings," the count re-
plied, patting the wall of Dinivan's chamber.

450 Tad Williams

"And that is one of its beauties," the priest laughed, leading him
out the door.

^

The old man's beard was white, and long enough that he tucked it
into his belt when he walked -- which, until this morning, he had
been doing for several days. His hair was no darker than his beard.
Even his hooded jacket and leggings were made from the thick pelt
of a white wolf. The creature's skin had been carefully flayed; the
forelegs crossed on his chest, and its jawless head, nailed to a cap of
iron, sat upon his own brow. Had it not been for the bits of red
crystal in the wolf's empty sockets, and the old man's fierce blue
eyes beneath them, he would have been nothing but another patch of
white in the snow-covered forest that lay between Drorshull Lake
and the hills.

The moaning of the wind in the treetops increased, and a spatter
of snow dropped from the branches of the tall pine tree onto the
man crouching below. He shook himself impatiently, like an animal,
and a fine mist rose around him, momentarily breaking the weak
sunlight into a fog of tiny rainbows. The wind continued its keening
song, and the old man in white reached to his side, grasping some-
thing that at first appeared to be only another lump of white -- a
snow-covered stone or tree stump. He held it up, brushing the pow-
dery whiteness from its top and sides, then lifted away the cloth
cover Just far enough to peer inside.

He whispered into the opening and waited, then knitted his brows
for an instant as if annoyed or troubled. Setting the object down, he
stood up and unbuckled the belt of bleached reindeer hide from
around his waist. After first pulling the hood back from his lean,
weather-hardened face, he stripped off the wolfskin coat. The sleeve-
less shin he wore beneath was the same color as the jacket, the skin
of his sinewy arms not much darker, but starting on his right wrist
just above the fur gauntlet the head of a snake was drawn in bright
inks, scribed in blue and black and blood-red directly on the skin.
The body of the snake curved round and round the old man's right
arm in a spiral, disappearing into the shoulder of his shirt to reap-
pear writhing sinuously about his left arm and terminate in a cur-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              451

licued tail at the wrist. This fierce splash of color leaped out against
the dull winter forest and the man's white garb and skin; from a
short distance it appeared that some flying serpent, halved in midair,
was suffering its death agonies two cubits above the frozen earth.

The old man paid no attention to the gooseflesh on his arms until
he had finished draping his jacket over the bundle, tucking the loose
folds in beneath it. Then he pulled a leather bag from a pouch in his
undershirt, squeezed from it a quantity of yellow grease, and briskly
rubbed it over his exposed skin, causing the serpent to gleam as
though newly-arrived from some humid southern jungle. The task
over, he crouched back again on his heels to wait. He was hungry,
but he had finished the last of his traveling rations the night before.
That was of no importance, anyway, because soon the ones he
waited for would come, and then there would be food.

Chin tilted down, cobalt eyes smoldering beneath his icy brows,
Jarnauga watched the southern approaches. He was an old, old man,
and the rigors of time and weather had made him hard and spare. In
a way he looked forward to the hour that was^ coming soon, when
Death called for him and took him to her dark, quiet hall. Silence
and solitude held no terror; they had been the warp and weft of his
long life. He wanted only to finish the task that had been set before
him, to hand on a torch that others might use in the darkness ahead;

then he would let life and body go as easily as he shrugged the snow
from his bare shoulders.

Thinking of the solemn halls that waited at the final turn of his
road, he remembered his beloved Tungoldyr, left behind him a fort-
night ago. As he had stood upon his doorstep that last day, the little
town where he had spent most of his four and a half score of years
had stretched before him, as empty as the legendary Huelheim that
awaited him when his work was done. All of Tungoldyr's other
inhabitants had fled months before; only Jarnauga remained in the
village called Moon Door, perched among the high Himilfell Moun-
tains, but still in the shadow of distant Sturmrspeik -- the Storm-
spike. The winter had hardened into a cold that even the Rim-
mersmen of Tungoldyr had never known before, and the nighttime
songs of the winds had changed into something that had the sound
of howling and weeping in it, until men went mad and were found
laughing in the morning, their families dead around them.

452

Tad Williams

Only Jamauga had remained in his small house as the ice mists
became thick as wool in the mountain passes and the narrow streets
of the town, Tungoldyr's sloping roofs seeming to float like the ships
of ghost warriors sailing the clouds. No one but Jamauga had been
around to see the nickering lights of Stormspike bum brighter and
brighter, to hear the sounds of vast, harsh music that wound in and
out through the din of thunder, playing across the mountains and
valleys of this northernmost province of Rimmersgard.

But now even he -- his time come around at last, as made known
to him by certain signs and messages -- had left Tungoldyr to the
creeping darkness and cold. Jamauga knew that no matter what
happened, he would never again see the sun on the wooden houses,
or listen to the singing of the mountain rills as they splashed past his
front door, down to the swelling Gratuvask. Neither would he stand
on his porch in the clear, dark spring nights and see the lights in the
sky -- the shimmering northern lights that had been there since his
boyhood, not the guttering, sickly flares now playing about the dark
face of Stormspike. Such things were gone, now. His road ahead was
plain, but there was little joy in it.

But not everything was clear, even now. There was still the nag-
ging dream to be dealt with, the dream of the black book and the
three swords. It had dogged his sleep for a fortnight, but its meaning

was still hidden from him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a blotch of movement on the
southern approach, far away along the rim of the trees dotting the
Wealdhelm's western skirts. He squinted briefly, then slowly nodded

his head and rose to his feet.

As he was pulling his coat back on, the wind changed direction; a
moment later a dim mutter of thunder rolled down from the north.
It came again, a low growl like a beast struggling awake from sleep-
On its heels, but from the opposite direction, the sound of hooves
grew from a murmur to a noise that rivaled the thunder.

As Jamauga picked up his cage of birds and walked out to meet
the riders, the sounds grew together -- thunder tolling in the north,
the muffled din of approaching horsemen to the south -- until they
filled the white forest with their cold rumble, like music made on
drums of ice.

29

Hunters and Hunted

THE HOLLOW roar of the river filled his ears. For a heartbeat it
seemed to Simon that the water was the only moving thing -- that
the archers on the far side, Marya, he himself, all had been frozen
into immobility by the impact of the arrow that quivered in
Binabik's back. Then another shaft spat past the white-faced girl,
splintering noisily against a broken cornice of shining stone, and all
was frantic movement once more.

Only half-aware of the insectlike scuttling of the archers across
the water, Simon covered the distance back to the girl and troll in
three steps. He bent to look, a strange, isolated part of his mind
noticing how the boy's leggings Marya wore had tattered holes at
the knee, and an arrow snicked through his shirt beneath his arm.
At first he thought it had missed him completely; a moment later he
felt a flare of pain sizzle along his rib cage.

More darts skimmed past, hitting low on the tiles before them and
skipping like stones on a lake. Simon quickly kneeled and scooped
the silent troll into his arms, feeling the horrible, stiff arrow quiver
between his fingers. He turned, putting his back between the little
man and the archers -- Binabik was so pale! He was dead, he must
be! -- then stood. The pain in his ribs burned him again, and he
staggered, Marya catching at his elbow.

"Loken's Blood!" screamed the black-garbed Ingen, his far-off
voice a faint murmur in Simon's ear. "You're killing them, you idi-
ots! I said to keep them there! Where is Baron Heahferth?!"

Qantaqa had run down to Join them; Marya tried to wave the wolf
away as she and Simon lumbered up the stairs into Da'ai Chikiza.
One last feathered shaft cracked into the step behind them, then the
air was still again.

"Heahferth is here, Rimmersman!" a voice shouted amid the

454 Tad Williams

clamor of armored men. Simon looked back from the top step. His
heart sank.

A dozen men in battle array were rushing past Ingen and his
bowmen, heading straight for the Gate of Stags, the bridge Simon
and his companions had passed beneath just before coming ashore.
The baron himself rode behind them on his red horse, a long spear
held above his head. They couldn't have outrun even the foot
soldiers for long -- the baron's horse would catch them in three
breaths.

"Simon! Run!" Marya jerked his arm, pulling him forward at a
stumble. "We must hide in the city!" But Simon knew that was
hopeless, too. By the time they reached the first concealment the
soldiers would be upon them.

"Heahferth!" Ingen Jegger's voice cried out behind them, a flat,
small sound above the river's drone. "You can't! Don't be a fool,
Erkynlander, your horse . . . !"

The rest was lost in water sounds; if Heahferth heard he did not
seem to care. In a moment the clangor of his soldiers' feet upon the
bridge was matched by the pounding of hoofbeats on stone.

Even as the din of pursuit mounted, Simon caught the toe of his
boot on an uprooted tile and pitched forward.

A spear in the back ... he thought to himself in midfall, and:

How did all this happen? Then he was tumbling painfully onto his
shoulder, rolling to protect the cradled body of the troll.

He lay on his back staring up at the patches of sky gleaming
through the dark dome of trees, Binabik's not unsubstantial weight
perched on his chest. Marya was pulling at his shirt, trying to get
him upright. He wanted to tell her it was not important now, no
longer worth the bother, but as he sat up on one elbow, propping the
troll's body with his other arm, he saw a strange thing happening
below.

In the middle of the long, arching bridge, Baron Heahferth and
his men had stopped moving -- no, that was not quite correct, they
were swaying in place -- the men-at-arms clinging to the bridge's low
walls, the baron perched atop his horse, his features not quite distin-
guishable from this distance, but his pose that of a man who is
startled out of sleep. A moment later, for no reason Simon could
discern, the horse reared and plunged forward; the men followed,
running faster than before. Immediately after -- a flicker behind the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             455

movement -- Simon heard a great crack, as though a giant hand had
snapped off a tree trunk for a toothpick. The bridge seemed to come
unstuck in the middle.

Before the shocked, fascinated eyes of Simon and Marya, the slen-
der Gate of Stags plunged downward, middle first, stones crumbling
loose in great angular shards to crash foaming into the water below.
For a few pulsebeats it seemed that Heahferth and his soldiers would
reach the far side; then, rippling like a shook-out blanket, the arc of
stone folded in on itself, sending a writhing mass of arms, legs. pale
faces, and a thrashing horse toppling down amidst the ragged blocks
of milky chalcedony, to disappear in gouts of green water and white
froth. A few moments later the head of the baron's horse appeared
several ells downstream, neck straining upward, then it slid back
into the swirling river.

Simon slowly tilted his head around to the base of the bridge. The
two archers were on their knees, staring into the torrent; the black-
hooded figure of Ingen stood behind them, staring across at the
companions. It felt like his pale eyes were only inches away. . . .

"Get up!" Marya shouted, pulling at Simon's hair. He freed his
gaze from Ingen Jegger's with an almost palpable snap of separation,
like a cord fraying through. He climbed to his feet, balancing his
small burden, and they turned and fled into the echoes and tall
shadows of D'ai Chikiza.

Simon's arms were aching after a hundred steps, and it felt as
though a knife was sliding in and out of his side; he fought to stay
even with the girl as they followed the bounding wolf through the
ruins of the Sithi city. It was like running through a cave of trees
and icicles, a forest of vertical shimmer and dark, mossy corruption.
Shattered tile was everywhere, and massive tangles of spiderwebs
strung across beautiful, crumbling arches. Simon felt as though he
had been swallowed by some incredible ogre with innards of quartz
and jade and mother-of-pearl. The river sounds became muted be-
hind them; the rasp of their own hard breathing vied with the scrape
of their running feet.

At last, it seemed they were reaching the outskirts of the city: the
tall trees, hemlock and cedar and towering pine, were closer to-
gether, and the tiled flooring that had been everywhere underfoot
now dwindled to pathways coiling at the feet of the forest giants.

456 Tad Williams

Simon stopped running. His eyesight was blackening at the edges.
He stood in place and felt the earth reel about him. Marya took his
hand and led him a few limping steps to an ivy-choked mound of
stone that Simon, his sight slowly returning, recognized as a well.
He set Binabik's body down gently on the pack that Marya had been
carrying, propping the little man's side against the rough cloth, then
leaned on the well's rim to suck air into his needy lungs. His side
continued to throb.

Marya squatted next to Binabik, pushing away Qantaqa's nose as
the wolf prodded at her silent master. Qantaqa took a step back,
making a whimpering sound of incomprehension, then lay down
with her muzzle on her paws. Simon felt hot tears spring to his eyes.

"He's not dead."

Simon stared at Marya, then at Binabik's colorless face. "What?"
he asked. "What do you mean?"

"He's not dead," she repeated without looking up. Simon kneeled
beside her. She was right: the troll's chest was moving almost imper-
ceptibly. A frothy bubble of blood on his lower lip pulsed in time.

"Usires Aedon." Simon wiped his hand across his dripping fore-
head. "We have to take the arrow out."

Marya looked at him sharply. "Are you mad? If we do, the life
will run out of him! He'll have no chance at all!"

"No." Simon shook his head. "The doctor told me, I'm sure he
did, but I don't know if I can get it out, anyway. Help me to take on"
his jacket."

When they had pried cautiously at the jacket for a moment, they
realized there was no possible way to remove it without pulling on
the arrow. Simon cursed. He needed something to cut the jacket
away, something sharp. He pulled the salvaged pack over by a strap
and began to rummage through it. Even in his sorrow and pain he
was gratified to discover the White Arrow, still wrapped in its
shroud of rags. He pulled it out and began loosening the knot that
held the strips of cloth.

"What are you doing?" Marya demanded. "Haven't we had
enough arrows?"

"I need something sharp to cut with," he grunted. "It's a pity
we've lost part of Binabik's staff . . . it's the part that's got a knife
in it."

"Is that what you're doing?" Marya reached into her shirt and

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             457

pulled out a small knife in a leather sheath, hung on a throng around
her neck. "Geloe told me I should have it," she explained, un-
sheathing it and passing it over. "It's not much good against ar-
chers."

"And bowmen aren't much good at keeping bridges from falling,
praise God." Simon began to saw away at the oiled hide.

"Do you think that's all that happened?" Marya said after a
while.

"What do you mean?" Simon panted. It was hard work, but he
had cut upward from the bottom of the jacket and past the arrow,
revealing a sticky mass of congealed blood. He pulled the knife blade
up toward the collar.

"That the bridge just . . . fell." Marya looked up at the light
filtering down through the twining greenery. "Maybe the Sithi were
angry about what was happening in their city."

"Pfah." Simon clenched his teeth and split the last piece of hide.
"The Sithi who are alive don't live here anymore, and if the Sithi
don't die, like the doctor told me, then there aren't any spirits to
make bridges fall." He spread the wings of the split jacket and
winced. The troll's back was covered in drying blood. "You heard
the Rimmersman shouting at Heahferth: he didn't want him to take
his horse on the bridge. Now let me think, damn you!"

Marya raised her hand as though to strike him; Simon looked up,
and their eyes locked. For the first time he saw that the girl, too, had
been crying. "I gave you my knife!" she said.

Simon shook his head, confused, "It's just that . . . that devil
Ingen may have already found another place to cross. He's got two
archers, at least, and who knows what's become of the hounds . . .
and . . . and this little man is my friend." He turned back to the
bloodied troll.

Marya was silent for a moment. "I know," she said at last.

The arrow had entered at an angle, striking a good hand's length
from the center of the spine. By carefully tilting the small body,
Simon was able to slide his hand underneath. His fingers quickly
found the sharp iron arrowhead protruding from just below
Binabik's arm, near the front of his ribs.

"Blazes! It's gone right through him!" Simon thought frantically.
"A moment ... a moment . . ."

"Break the point off," Marya suggested, her voice now calm.

458 Tad Williams

"Then you can pull it through more easily -- if you're sure you
should."

"Of course!" Simon was elated, and a bit dizzy. "Of course."

It took him no little time to cut through the arrow beneath its
head; the little knife had been considerably dulled. When he fin-
ished, Marya helped him tilt Binabik into the position where the
arrow was most flexible. Then, with a silent prayer to the Aedon
under his tongue, he eased the arrow out through the wound made
by its entry as fresh blood welled around it. He stared at the hateful
object for a moment, then threw it away. Qantaqa raised her massive
head to watch its flight, gave a rumbling moan, and slumped back
down.

They wrapped Binabik in the rags from the White Arrow, along
with strips cut from his ruined jacket, then Simon picked up the still
faintly-breathing troll and cradled him.

"Geloe said climb the Stile. I don't know where that is, but we'd
best continue on to the hills," he said. Marya nodded.

The glimpses of sun through the treetops told them it was near
noontime as they left the overgrown well. They passed quickly
through the fringes of the decaying city, and within an hour found
the land beginning to slope upward beneath their weary feet. The
troll was again becoming a difficult burden. Simon was too proud to
say anything, but he was sweating profusely, and his back and arms
had begun to ache fully as much as his wounded side. Marya sug-
gested that he cut leg holes in the pack so that it could be used to
carry Binabik. After some consideration, Simon discarded the idea.
For one thing, it would mean too much jouncing for the helpless,
unconscious troll; also, they would have to leave some of the pack's
contents behind, and most of that was food.

When the gently rising land began to change into steep, brushy
slopes of sedge and thistle, Simon at last waved Marya to a stop. He
set the little man down and stood for a moment, hands on hips, sides
puffing in and out as he got back his breath.

"We ... we must ... I must . . . rest ..." he huffed.
Marya looked up at his flushed face with sympathy.

"You can't carry him all the way to the top of the hills, Simon,"
she said gently. "It looks to get steeper ahead. You'll need your
hands to climb with."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             459

"He's ... my friend," Simon said stubbornly. "I can ... do
it."

"No, you can't." Marya shook her head. "If we can't use the pack
to carry him, then we must . . ." Her shoulders slumped, and she
slid down to sit on a rock. "I don't know what we must, but we
must," she finished.

Simon sagged down beside her. Qantaqa had disappeared up the
slope, bounding nimbly along where it would take the boy and girl
long minutes to follow.

Suddenly, an idea came to Simon. "Qantaqa!" he called, rising to
his feet and spilling the pack out on the grassy ground before him.
"Qantaqa! Come here!"

Working feverishly, the unspoken thought of Ingen Jegger a hov-
ering shadow, Simon and Marya wrapped Binabik up neck to toe in
the girl's cloak, then balanced the troll stomach down on Qantaqa's
back, tying him in place with the last shredded strips of clothing
from out of the pack. Simon remembered the position from his in-
voluntary ride to Duke Isgrimnur's camp, but-he knew that if the
thick cloak was between Binabik's ribs and the wolf's back, the little
man would at least be able to breathe. Simon knew it was not a good
situation for a wounded, probably dying, troll, but what else could
be done? Marya was right; he would need his hands going up the
hill.

Once Qantaqa's initial skittishness wore off, she stood passively as
the boy and girl worked, turning occasionally to try and sniff
Binabik's face where it bobbed at her side. When they finished and
started up the slope, the wolf picked her way carefully, as if aware of
the importance to her silent burden of a smooth ride.

Now they made better time, scrambling over stones and ancient
logs molting their bark in peeling strips. The bright, cloud-blurred
ball of sun that peered down through the branches had rolled far
toward its western mooring. Scrabbling along, the wolf's gray and
white tail floating before his sweat-smarting eyes like a plume of
smoke, Simon wondered where the darkness would find them -- and
what might find them in that darkness.

The going had become very steep, and both Simon and Marya
were beribboned with scratchmarks from the clutching under-
growth, when they at last stumbled across a clear, horizontal crease

460

Tad Williams

in the side of the hill. They sat down gratefully in the dusty track.
Qantaqa looked as though he would not mind exploring farther up
the narrow, grass-clotted trail, but instead she slumped down beside
them, tongue lolling. Simon untied the troll from the makeshift har-
ness. The little man's condition seemed unchanged, his breathing
still terribly shallow. Simon dribbled water into his mouth from the
waterskin, then passed it to Marya. When she had finished, Simon
cupped his hands, which she filled, and held them out for Qantaqa
to drink. Afterward he took several long swallows from the bag

himself.

"Do you think this is the Stile?" Marya asked as she ran her
hands through her damp black hair. Simon smiled weakly. Wasn't
that like a girl, to be arranging her hair in the midst of the forest!
She was very flushed, and he saw that it brought out the freckles
across the bridge of her nose.

"It looks more like a deer path or some such," he said at last,
turning his attention to where the track wandered away along the
flank of the hill. "I think the Stile is a Sithi thing, Geloe said. But I
think we might follow this for a while."

She's not really thin, so much, he thought. It's more what they call
delicate. He remembered how she reached up and snapped off the
overhanging branches, and her coarse river chanteys. No, maybe
"delicate" wasn't quite it, either.

"Let's be off, then," Marya broke into his ruminations. "I'm hun-
gry, but I'd rather not be out in the open here when the sun goes
down." She stood up and began collecting the cloth strips to re-
mount Binabik on his steed, who was using her last moments of
unencumbered freedom to scratch behind one ear.

"I like you, Marya," Simon blurted out, and then wanted to turn
away, to run, to do something; instead he bravely stayed where he
was, and a moment later the girl looked up at him, smiling -- and she
was the one who looked embarrassed!

"I'm glad," was all she said, and then moved away up the deer
track a few steps to let Simon, hands suddenly clumsy, bind Binabik
into place. Suddenly, as he finished tying the last loop beneath the
shaggy belly of the hugely patient wolf, he looked at the troll's
bloodless face, as slack and still as death -- and was angry with him-
self.

What a mooncalf! he thought savagely. One of your closest friends

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             461

is dying, you're lost in the middle of nowhere, being chased by armed
men and maybe worse -- and here you stand moping over a skinny
servant girl! Idiot!

He did not say anything to Marya as he caught up with her, but
the expression on his face must have told her something. She gave
him a pensive look and they fell into stride with no further conversa-
tion.

The sun had dipped down behind the ridged backs of the hills
when the deer path began to widen. Within a quarter of a league it
became a broad, flat path that might have once been used for wagon
travel, although it had long since given over sovereignty to the
creeping wilderness. Other smaller tracks wound alongside, distin-
guishable mainly as flaws in the smooth cover of brush and trees.
They came to a place where these lesser pathways joined with theirs,
and within a hundred ells found themselves walking again on an-
cient stone tiles. Soon after, they reached the Stile.

The wide, cobbled roadway cut across the track they had been
following, switching back and forth up the hill in a steep traverse.
Tall grasses pushed up between the cracked gray and white tiling,
and in places large trees had grown right through the road surface,
shouldering the stones up and outward as the trees gained size, so
that each was now surrounded by a small slagheap of uprooted
stones.

"And this will take us to Naglimund," Simon said, half to himself.
They were the first words either had spoken for a long time.

Marya was about to reply when something on the hilltop caught
her eye. She stared, but whatever had made the flash of light was
gone.

"Simon, I think I saw something bright up there." She pointed to
the crest of the hill, a good league above them.

"What was it?" he asked, but she only shrugged. "Armor, per-
haps, if the sun would reflect this late in the day," he answered
himself, "or the walls of Naglimund, or, or who knows . . . ?" He
looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"We can't leave the road," he said finally. "Not until we get far-
ther, not while there's light. I would never forgive myself if we
didn't get Binabik to Naglimund, especially if he ... if ..."

"I know, Simon, but I don't think we can make it all the way over

462 Tad Williams

the top tonight." Marya kicked a stone, sending it rolling into the
tall grass beside the paving tiles. She winced. "I have more blisters
on one foot than I've had in my whole life before this. And it can't
be good for Binabik to bounce on the wolf's back all night," she met
his eyes, 'yhe's even going to live. You've done everything anybody
could do, Simon. It's not your fault."

"I know!" Simon replied angrily. "Let's walk. We can talk about it
while we're moving."

They trudged on. It did not take long for the wisdom of Marya's
words to become uncomfortably obvious. Simon, too, was so
scratched and blistered and scuffed that he wanted to lie down and
weep -- a different Simon, the Simon that had lived his castle-boy life
in the labyrinthine Hayholt, would have lain down -- he would have
sat on a stone and demanded dinner and sleep. He was somewhat
different, now: he still hurt, but there were other things that were
more important. Still, there was no good to be done by crippling
them all.

At last even Qantaqa began to favor one of her legs. Simon was
finally ready to give in when Marya spotted another light on the
spine of the hill. This one was no sun reflection: blue twilight was
settling over the slopes.

Torches!" Simon groaned. "Usires! Why now, when we're almost
there?!"

"That's probably why. That Ingen monster must have headed for
the top of the Stile to wait for us. We must get away from the roadi"

Hearts stone-heavy, they quickly made their way off the Stile's
paving and down into a gulley that ran along the width of the hill-
They scurried on, stumbling frequently in the fading light, until they
found a little clearing no wider than Simon was tall, protected by a
stockade of young hemlocks. As he looked up one last time before
ducking into the cover of the high brush, Simon thought he saw the
gleaming eyes of several more torches winking on the hilltop.

"May those bastards bum in Hell!" he snarled breathlessly,
crouching to untie Binabik's limp form from Qantaqa's back.
"Aedon! Usires AedonI How I wish I had a sword, or a bow!"

"Should you take Binabik off?" Marya whispered. "What if we
have to run again?"

"Then I'll carry him. Besides, if it comes to running, we might as
well give up now. I don't think I could run fifty steps, could you?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             463

Marya ruefully shook her head.

They took turns swigging at the waterskin while Simon massaged
Binabik's wrists and ankles, trying to get some blood back into the
trolTs chill extremities. The little man was breathing better now, but
Simon did not feel confident that would last long: a thin film of
Moody saliva bulged in and out of his mouth with each breath, and
when Simon skinned back the little man's eyelids, as he had once
seen Doctor Morgenes do with a fainting chambermaid, the whites
of the trolPs eyes seemed quite gray.

As Marya fished about in the pack for something to eat, Simon
tried to lift one of Qantaqa's paws to see why she was limping. The
wolf stopped panting long enough to bare her teeth and snarl at him
in a very convincing manner. When he tried to pursue the investiga-
tion, she snapped at his hand, jaws clashing hard not an inch from
his probing fingers. Simon had almost forgotten she was a wolf, and
had grown used to handling her as though she were one of Tobas'
hounds. He was suddenly grateful she had chastened him so mildly.
He left her alone to tongue-wash her ragged pads.

The light dwindled, pinpoint stars blooming in the thickening
darkness overhead. Simon was chewing a piece of hard biscuit
Marya had found for him, and wishing he had an apple, or anything
with juice to it, when a thin, clamoring noise began to untangle itself
from the song of the evening's first crickets. Simon and Marya
looked at each other, then, for the confirmation that they did not
really need, to Qantaqa. The wolf's ears were swung forward, her
eyes alert.

There was no need to name the creatures that made that faraway
baying noise. Both of them were far too familiar with the sounds of
hunting hounds at full cry.

"What should . . . ?" Marya started to ask, but Simon shook his
head. He banged his fist in frustration against the trunk of a tree,
and absently watched blood rise on the back of his pale knuckles. In
a few minutes they would be in full darkness.

"There's nothing we can do," he hissed. "If we run, we will only
make more of a track for them to follow.'* He wanted to lash out
again, to break something. Stupid, stupid, stupid, this whole bloody
adventure -- and to what end?

As he sat fuming, Marya pushed in close against his side, lifting
his arm and draping it around her shoulder.

464 Tad Williams

"I'm cold," was all she said. He wearily leaned his head against
hers, tears of frustration and fear welling in his eyes as he listened to
the noises from the hillside above. Now he thought he could hear
men's voices shouting back and forth above the din of the hounds.
What he would give for a sword! Unskilled as he was, he could at
least cause them some pain before they took him.

Gently, he lifted Marya's head from his shoulder and bent for-
ward. As he had remembered, Binabik's skin bag was nestled at the
bottom of the pack. He pulled it out and ran his fingers through it,
searching by touch alone in the obscurity of the clearing.

"What are you doing?" Marya whispered.

Simon found what he was seeking and closed his hand on it. Some
of the noises were now coming from the hillside north of them, too,
almost at their level of the slope. The trap was closing.

"Hold Qantaqa." He got up and crawled a short distance, scour-
ing the brush until he found a good-sized broken branch, a thick one
longer than his arm. He brought it back and upended Binabik's bag
of powder on it, then laid it down carefully. "I'm making a torch,"
he said, pulling out the troll's flints.

"Won't that just lead them to us?" the girl asked, a note of de-
tached curiosity in her voice.

"I won't light it until I have to," he replied, "but at least we'll
have something . . . something to fight with."

Her face was in shadow, but he could sense her eyes on him. She
knew exactly how much good such a gesture would do them. He
hoped -- and the hope was very strong -- that she would understand
why it was a necessary gesture.

The ferocious uproar of the dogs was horribly close now. Simon
could hear the sounds of the bushes being beaten down, and the loud
cries of the hunters. The sound of branches snapping grew louder,
just above them on the hillside and approaching rapidly -- too loud a
noise for dogs, Simon thought, heart fluttering as he smacked flint
against stone. It must be men on horseback. The powder sparked
but did not catch. The underbrush was crackling as though a wagon
was tumbling through it end over end.

Catch, damn you, catch!

Something smashed through the thicket just above their hiding
place. Marya's hand clutched his arm hard enough to cause pain.

"Simon!" she cried, and then the powder sputtered and flared; a

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             465

wavering orange flower blossomed at the tip of the branch. Simon
leaped up, swinging it out at the end of his arm, the flames rippling.
Something crashed out of the trees. Qantaqa pulled free of Marya's
grasp, howling.

Nightmare! That was all Simon could think as he lifted the torch;

the light reached out, illuminating the thing that stood, startled up-
right before him.

It was a giant.

In the horrifying, static instant that followed, Simon's mind strug-
gled to absorb what his eyes saw -- the thing that towered above him,
swaying in the torch glare. At first he thought it some kind of bear,
for it was covered all over in pale, shaggy fur. But no, its legs were
too long, its arms and black-skinned hands too human. The top of
its hairy head was three cubits above Simon's as it leaned forward at
the waist, eyes squinting in its leathery, manlike face.

The baying was everywhere, like the music of a ghastly choir of
demons. The beast lashed out a long, taloned arm, tearing the flesh
of Simon's shoulder, rocking him backward so that he stumbled and
almost dropped the torch. The darting light of its flames briefly
illuminated Marya, eyes wide with horror as she clutched Binabik's
limp form, trying to drag him back out of the way- The giant opened
its mouth and thundered -- that was the only possible word for the
echoing rumble that came out -- and lunged at Simon again. He
leaped away, catching his foot on something and toppling over, but
before the thing could move toward him, its chest-rattling growl
turned into a howl of pain. It fell forward, half-slumping to the
ground.

Qantaqa had caught it behind a shaggy knee, a gray shadow dash-
ing back to leap again at the giant's legs. The beast snarled and
swiped at the wolf, missing her once. The second time its broad
hand caught her; she tumbled over and over into the brush.

The giant turned back to Simon, but even as he hopelessly raised
the torch before him, and saw its pulsing light reflected in the giant's
glossy black eyes, a boiling mass of shapes came through the under-
growth, howling like the wind in a thousand high turrets. They
seethed around the giant like an angry ocean -- dogs everywhere,
leaping and biting at the huge creature as it raged in its thunder-
storm voice. It windmilled its arms and broken bodies flew away;

466 Tad Williams

one knocked Simon to the ground, his torch skittering, but five more
leaped in to fill the place of each one dislodged.

Even as Simon crawled to the torch, his mind a jumble of insane,
feverish pictures, light suddenly bloomed everywhere. The vast
shape of the beast reeled around the clearing, roaring, and then men
came, and there were horses rearing and people shouting. A dark
shape leaped over Simon, knocking his torch away once more. The
horse slid to a halt just beyond, the rider standing atop his mount
with a long spear flicking in and out of the torchlight. A moment
later the spear was a great black nail standing out from the breast of
the besieged giant, who gave a last shuddering roar and slipped
down beneath the convulsing blanket of hounds.

The horseman dismounted. Men with torches ran past him to pull
the dogs off; the light revealed the horseman's profile, and Simon
climbed to one knee.

"Josua!" he said, then pitched forward. His last sight was the
prince's spare face limned in the yellow light of torch flames, eyes
widening in surprise.

Time came and went in fitful moments of waking and darkness.
He was on a horse before a silent man who smelled of leather and
sweat. The man's arm was a stiff band around Simon's middle as
they swayed up the Stile. The horse's hooves clopped on stone, and
he found he was watching the swinging tail of the horse before him.
There were torches everywhere.

He was looking for Marya, for Binabik, for everyone else . . .
where were they all?

Some kind of tunnel was all around now, stone walls echoing with
the rippling sound of heartbeats. No, hoof beats. The tunnel seemed
to go on forever.

A great wooden door set in the stone loomed before them. It
swung open slowly, torchlight flooding out like water through a
burst dam, and the shapes of many men were in the spreading light
of the entrance.

And now they came down a long slope in the open air, the horses
single file, a glimmering snake of torches winding down the path
ahead as far as he could see. All around them was a field of bare
earth, planted with nothing but naked bars of iron.

Below them, the walls were lined with more torches, the sentries

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

467

staring up at the procession descending from the hills. The stone
walls were before them, now level, now slowly rising up past their
heads as they followed the trail downward. The night sky was dark
as the inside of a barrel, but salted with stars. Head bobbing, Simon
found himself sliding back down into sleep -- or the dark sky, it was
hard to tell which.

Naglimund, he thought, as the light of the torches splashed on his
face, and the men shouted and sang on the walls above. Then he was
falling away from the light, and darkness covered him like a drift of
ebony dust.

PART THREE

\

^

Simon Snowlock

30

A Thousand Nails

SOMEBODY was breaking down the door with axes -- hacking, chop
ping, splintering away the shielding timber.

"Doctor!" Simon shouted, sitting up, "it's the soldiers! The
soldiers have come!"

But he was not in Morgenes' chambers. He was wrapped in sweat-
drenched sheets, on a small bed in a small, neat room. The sound of
blades splitting wood continued; a moment later the door swung
inward, and the din rose in volume. An unfamiliar face peered
around the edge, pale and long of chin, topped with a sparse crest of
hair that gleamed as coppery red as Simon's own in the framing
sunlight. His one visible eye was blue. The other was covered by a
black patch.

"Ah!" the stranger said, "you're awake, then. Good." He was an
Erkynlander by his accent, with a touch of the northern heaviness-
He closed the door behind him, cutting off some of the noise of the
work outside. He wore a long gray priestly cassock that hung limply
on his slight frame.

"I'm Father Strangyeard." He settled into a high-backed chair
beside Simon; other than the bed and a low table covered with
parchment and odds and ends, it was the only furniture in the room.
When he was comfortable, the stranger leaned forward and patted
Simon's hand.

"How are you feeling? Better, I hope?"

"Yes . . . yes, I suppose so," Simon looked around. "Where am
I?"

"Naglimund, but you knew that, of course." Father Strangyeard
smiled. "More specifically, you are in my room ... my bed, too."
He lifted a hand. "I hope you found it comfortable. It is not very
well-appointed -- but, goodness, how foolish of me! You have been

472 Tad Williams

sleeping in the forest, haven't you?" The priest gave another quick,
hesitant smile. "It must be better than the forest, hmmm?"

Simon swung his feet to the cold floor, relieved to find that he was
wearing breeches, a little unsettled to see that they weren't his own.
"Where are my friends?" A dark thought came up like a cloud.
"Binabik ... is he dead?"

Strangyeard pursed his lips, as though Simon had uttered a mild
blasphemy. "Dead? Praise Usires, no -- although he is not well, not
well at all."

"May I see him?" Simon slid down to the flags to look for his
boots. "Where is he? And how is Marya?"

"Marya?" the priest's expression was puzzled as he watched Si-
mon crawl about the floor. "Ah. Your other companion is fine. You
will eventually see her as well, I do not doubt."

The boots were under the writing table. As Simon pulled them on
Father Strangyeard reached around and lifted a clean white blouse
from the back of the chair.

"Here," he said. "My, you are in a hurry. Would you like to see
your friend first, or have something to eat?"

Simon was already tying the front of the shirt closed. "Binabik
and Marya, then eat food," he grunted, concentrating. "And
Qantaqa, too."

"Hard as times have been of late," the father said in a tone of
reproof, "we never eat wolves at Naglimund. I assume you are
counting her as a friend."

Looking up, Simon saw that the one-eyed man was making a joke.

"Yes," Simon said, feeling suddenly shy. "A friend."

"Then let us go," the priest said, standing. "I was told to make
sure you were well provided for, so the sooner I get food into you,
the better I will have fulfilled my commission." He opened the door,
admitting another flood of sunshine and noise.

Simon blinked in the strong light, looking up at the high walls of
the keep and the vast purple and brown expanse of the Wealdhelm
looming above, dwarfing the gray-clad sentries. A congregation of
angular stone buildings bulked large at the keep's center, arranged
without any of the Hayholt's eccentric beauty, its contrast of styles
and eras. The dark smoke-streaked cubes of sandstone, the small
lightless windows and heavy doors, looked as if they had been con-
structed for one purpose only: to keep something out.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             473

Just a stone's throw away, in the midst of the swarming commons
yard, a crew of shirtless men were splitting a stack of logs, adding to
a pile of timbers already as high as their heads.

"So that's what that chopping was," Simon said, watching the
axes flash and fall. "What are they doing?"

Father Strangyeard turned to follow his glance. "Ah. Ah. Build-
ing a pyre, they are. Going to bum the Hune -- the giant."

"The giant?" It came back in a rush: the snarling, leathery face,
the arms of impossible length lashing out at him. "It isn't dead?"

"Oh, quite dead, yes." Strangyeard began walking toward the
main buildings. Simon fell in behind, sneaking a last look back at the
growing stack of spars. "You see, Simon, some of Josua's men
wanted to make a show of it, you understand, cut its head off, mount
it on the gate, that sort of thing. The prince said no. He said that it
was an evil thing, but it was no animal. They wear clothes of a sort,
did you know? Carry clubs, as well, cudgels really- Well, Josua said
he'd mount no enemy's head for sport. Said bum it." Strangyeard
tugged at his ear. "So, they're going to bum it." -

Tonight?" Simon had to stretch to keep up with the priest's long
strides.

"Just as soon as the pyre is finished. Prince Josua doesn't want
any more made of it than has to be. I'm sure he'd just as lief bury it
in the hills, but the people want to see it dead.'* Father Strangyeard
quickly sketched the sign of the Tree on his breast. "It's the third
one come down from the north this month, you see. One of the
others killed the bishop's brother. It's all been most unnatural."

Binabik was in a small room off the chapel, which stood in the
center courtyard of the main keep buildings. He looked very pale,
and smaller than Simon expected, as though some of the substance
had drained from him, but his smile was cheerful.

"Friend Simon," he said, sitting up carefully. His small brown
torso was swathed in bandages to the collarbone. Simon resisted the
urge to pick the little man up and hug him, not wanting to open the
healing wounds. Instead he sat on the edge of the pallet and clasped
one of Binabik's warm hands.

"I thought you were lost," Simon said, tongue thick in his mouth.

"As I did, when the arrow struck at me," the troll said with a
rueful shake of the head. "But apparently nothing of a serious na-

474 Tad Williams

ture was pierced. I have been given good care, and but for a soreness
of movement I am nearly new." He turned to the priest. "I walked
upon the yard today."

"Good, very good." Father Strangyeard smiled absently, fiddling
with the string that held his eye patch in place. "Well, I must be
going. I'm sure there are many things you companions wish to dis-
cuss." He sidled for the door. "Simon, please use my room as long as
you like. I am sharing Brother Eglaf's room for the nonce. He
makes terrible noises when he sleeps, but he is a good man to take
me in."

Simon thanked him. After a last wish for Binabik's continued
return to strength, he went out.

"He is a man of very good mind, Simon," Binabik said as they
listened to the priest's footsteps fade down the corridor. "Master of
the castle archives, he is. We have already had fine conversing."

"He's a little strange, isn't he? Sort of ... distracted?"

Binabik laughed, then winced and coughed. Simon leaned for-
ward, apprehensive, but the troll waved him back. "A moment,
only," he said. When he had his breath back, he continued. "Some
types of men, Simon, whose minds are very full of thoughts, they are
forgetting to speak and act like normal men."

Simon nodded, looking around at the room. It was much like
Strangyeard's: spare, small, with whitewashed walls. Instead of the
piles of books and parchment, the writing table bore only a copy of
the Book of the Aedon, a red ribbon like a slender tongue keeping
the place where the last reader had stopped.

'Do you know where Marya is?" he asked.

"No." Binabik looked extremely serious. Simon wondered why.
"I expect she gave her message to Josua. Perhaps he sent her back to
wherever the princess is, for relaying of a return answer."

"No!" Simon did not like that idea at all. "How could all that
have happened so fast?"

"So fast?" Binabik smiled. "This is the morning of the second day
we have been in Naglimund."

Simon was astonished. "How can that be?! I just woke upl"

Binabik shook his head, sliding back down into the sheets as he
did so. "Not so. You slept through most of yesterday, waking only to
take some water, then sleeping again. I would suppose it was the last

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             475

part of the trip weakening you, on top of your fever from when we
rode the river."

"Usires!" He felt as though his body had betrayed him. "And
Marya's been sent away?"

Binabik raised a placating hand from beneath the sheets. "I have
no such knowledge. That was a guess, only. Just as likely she is here
somewhere -- perhaps staying with some of the womenfolk, or in the
quarter of servants. She is, for all said, a servant."

Simon glowered. Binabik gently took back the hand the boy had
tugged free in his agitation. "Be of patience, Simon-friend," the troll
said. "You have done a hero's work to be reaching so far. Who
knows what may happen next?"

"You are right ... I suppose . . ." He took a deep breath.

"And you have saved my life," Binabik pointed out.

"Is that important?" Simon distractedly patted the small hand
and stood up. "You have saved mine as well, several times. Friends
are friends."

Binabik smiled, but his eyes showed weariness. "Friends are
friends," he agreed. "Speaking of those things, I must sleep again
now. There will be important doings in the days ahead. Will you
look on Qantaqa, and how she is being kept? Strangyeard was sup-
posed to be fetching her to me, but I am afraid it has slipped from
his busy head like down from a" -- he plumped his -- "a pillow."

"Certainly," Simon said, pulling open the door. "Do you know
where she is?"

"Strangyeard said ... the stables . . ." Binabik responded,
yawning. Simon let himself out.

As he emerged into the central courtyard, stopping to watch the
people passing by, courtiers and servants and clerics, none of them
paying him the slightest attention, he was struck by a twofold reve-
lation.

First of all, he had no idea where the stables might be. Second, he
was very, very hungry. Father Strangyeard had said something
about being sworn to see him provided for, but the priest had wan-
dered off. He was a daft old bird!

Suddenly he saw a familiar face across the courtyard. He had
already taken several steps before he remembered the name that
went with it.

"Sangfugol!" he called, and the harper stopped, looking around to

476 Tad Williams

find who had called him. He saw Simon running toward him and
shaded his eyes, continuing to look puzzled even as the youth slid to
a stop before him.

"Yes?" he said. He was dressed in a rich doublet of lavender, and
his dark hair hung gracefully from beneath a matching feathered
cap. Even in his clean clothes, Simon felt shabby standing before the
politely-smiling musician. "Do you have some message for me?"

"I'm Simon. You probably don't remember . . . you spoke to me
at the funeral feast at the Hayholt."

Sangfugol stared at him a moment longer, frowning slightly, then
his face lightened. "Simon! Aha, of course! The well-spoken bottle
boy. I am truly sorry, I didn't recognize you at all. You have grown
a great deal."

"I have?"

The harper grinned. "I should say! You certainly didn't have this
fuzz on your face when I saw you last." He reached out and cupped
Simon's chin. "Or at least I don't remember any."

"Fuzz?" Wonderingly, Simon reached his hand up and felt his
cheek. It did seem furry ... but soft, like the hair on the back of
his arms.

Sangfugol quirked his lips and laughed. "How could you not
know? When I first got my mannish beard, I was at my mother's
glass every day to see how it was coming in." He raised a hand to his
clean-shaven jaw. "Now I am cutting it off with curses every mom-
ing, to keep my face soft for the ladies."

Simon felt himself blushing. He must seem such a rustic! "1 have
been away from looking glasses for a while."

"Hmmm." Sangfugol looked him up and down. "Taller too, if my
memory serves. What brings you to Naglimund? Not that I can't
guess. There are many here who have fled the Hayholt, my master
Prince Josua not the least of them."

"I know," Simon said. He felt the need to say something that
would bring him back to some kind of parity with the well-dressed
young man. "I helped him escape."

The harper raised an eyebrow. "True? Well, this sounds an inter-
esting tale, indeed! Have you eaten yet? Or would you like to find
some wine? I know the hour is early, but truth to tell, I have not yet
been to bed ... to sleep."

477

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"Food would be splendid," Simon said, "but first I must do some-
thing. Can you show me where the stables are?"

Sangfugol smiled. "What now, young hero? Will you ride down to
Erchester to bring Pryrates' head to us in a sack?" Simon blushed
again but this time with no little pleasure. "Come," the harper said,
"stables, then food."

The bent, sour-faced man pitchforking hay seemed suspicious
when Simon asked after Qantaqa's whereabouts.

"Here, what do you want with him?" the man asked, then shook
his head. "Fair vicious he is. Not right to put him in here. I
shouldn't have to, but that's what the prince said. Almost took my
hand off, that beast did."

"Well, then," Simon said, "you should be glad to be rid of her.
Take me to her."

"That's a devil-beast, I tell you," the man said. They followed his
limping progress all the way through the dark stables and out the
back door to a muddy yard nestled in the shadow of the wall.

"Bring the cows here for slaughter, sometimes," the man said,
pointing to a square pit. "Don't know why the prince brought this
one back alive for poor old Lucuman to mind. Should have put a
spear right in the evil bastard, like that giant."

Simon gave the bent man a look of disgust, then strode forward to
the edge of the pit. A rope staked to the ground at the edge trailed
down into the hole. It was knotted around the neck of the wolf, who
lay on her side at the pit's muddy bottom.

Simon was shocked. "What have you done to her!?" he shouted,
turning on the stablekeeper. Sangfugol, treading the soggy yard
more carefully, came up behind.

The old man's suspicion turned to peevishness. "Didn't do noth-
ing," he said resentfully, "Proper devil he is -- howled and howled
like a fiend. Tried to bite me, too."

"So would I," Simon snapped. "As a matter of fact, I still might.
Bring her out of there."

"How, then?" the man asked disquieted. "Just pull on the rope?
He's too big by half."

"She, you idiot." Simon was full of rage to see the wolf -- his
companion of uncounted miles -- lying in a dark, runny hole. He
leaned over.

478 Tad Williams

"Qantaqa," he called. "Ho, Qantaqa!" She flicked her ears, as
though to dislodge a fly, but did not open her eyes. Simon looked
around the yard until he saw what he needed: the chopping block, a
scarred log stump as big as a man's chest. He wrestled it to the pit
while the stableman and the harper looked on in puzzlement.

"Watch now," he called down to the wolf, then rolled the stump
over the edge; it thumped into the soft earth only a cubit from the
wolf's hind legs. She lifted her head briefly to look, than lay back.

Simon again peered over the edge of the pit, trying to coax
Qantaqa up, but she paid him no heed.

"Be careful, for pity's sake," Sangfugol said.

"He's lucky that beast's a-resting now," the other man said,
sagely chewing on his thumbnail. "Should of heard him afore, howl-
ing and all."

Simon swung his feet over the rim of the hole and slid down,
landing in the squelching, slippery mud below.

"What are you doing?!" Sangfugol cried. "Are you mad?"

Simon crouched beside the wolf, and slowly reached his hand
forward. She growled at him, but he held his fingers out. Her muddy
nose snuffled briefly, then she carefully extended her long tongue
and licked the back of his hand. Simon applied himself to scratching
her ears, then felt her for cuts or broken bones. None were apparent.
He turned and sat the chopping log upright, digging it into the mud
beside the pit wall, then went back to Qantaqa. He put his arms
around the width of her trunk and coerced her into standing up-
right.

"He's mad, isn't he?" the sour-faced man half-whispered to
Sangfugol.

"Close your mouth," Simon growled, looking at his clean boots
and clothing already smeared with mud. "Grab the rope and pull
when I say pull. Sangfugol, cut his head off if he dallies."

"Here, now," the man said reproachfully, but clutched the rope.
The harper took up a position behind him to help. Simon urged
Qantaqa toward the stump, at last persuading her to put her forelegs
up on it. Simon lowered his shoulder to her wide, fur-fringed hind-
quarters.

"Ready? Haul away!" he cried. The rope went taut. Qantaqa
fought it at first, pulling away from the straining men, dropping her
considerable weight back on Simon, whose feet were slipping in the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             479

ooze. Just as he thought he could feel himself sliding under, to be
crushed to death in a mud pit beneath a large wolf, Qantaqa relented
and went with the tug of the rope. Simon did slide, then, but had
the satisfaction of seeing the wolf scramble kicking over the side of
the pit. There was a whoop of surprise and consternation from the
stablekeeper and Sangfugol as her yellow-eyed head breached the
rim.

Simon used the block himself to climb out. The stable man was
cowering in terror before the wolf, who regarded him balefully.
Sangfugol, looking more than a little alarmed himself, was cau-
tiously sliding away from her on his rump, for the moment uncaring
of the damage to his fine garments.

Simon laughed and helped the harper to his feet. "Come with
me," he said. "We will deliver Qantaqa to her friend and master,
who you should meet anyway -- then perhaps that food we talked
of?"

Sangfugol slowly nodded his head. "Now that I have seen Simon,
Companion of Wolves, some of the other things are easier to credit.
Let us go, by all means."

Qantaqa nudged the prostrate stablekeeper one last time, eliciting
a whimper of fright. Simon untied her rope from the stake and they
set out across the stable, leaving four pairs of muddy footprints
behind them.

While Binabik and Qantaqa had their reunion, moderated by Si-
mon in order to protect the still-weak troll from his mount's danger-
ous exuberance, Sangfugol slipped off to the kitchens. He returned a
short while later with a jar of beer, a goodly quantity of mutton,
cheese and bread wrapped in a cloth; he was also -- Simon was sur-
prised to see -- still wearing the same mud-spattered clothes.

"The south battlement, where we're going, is quite dusty," the
harper explained. "I'm damned if I'm going to ruin another dou-
blet."

As they headed for the keep's main gate, and the steep staircase
up to the battlements, Simon commented on the great number of
people who milled about the commons yard, and the tents and lean-
tos that dotted the open spaces.

"Come for refuge, many of them," Sangfugol said. "Most are off
the Frostmarch and out of the Greenwade river valley. Some also

480 Tad Williams

from Utanyeat who've found Earl Guthwulf's hand a little too
heavy, but mostly they're folk who've been driven from their land by
weather or bandits. Or other things -- like the Hunen." He gestured
to the completed pyre as they passed. The woodsmen had gone
away; the stack of lumber stood mute and significant as a ruined
church.

Atop the battlements they settled down on rough-hewn stone. The
sun had scaled high into the sky, beating down past the few remain-
ing clouds. Simon wished he had a hat.

"Either you or someone else has brought good weather with
them." Sangfugol opened his doublet to the warmth. "It has been
the strangest Maia weather of my memory -- snow flurries on the
Frostmarch, cold rains down into Utanyeat . . . hail! We had hail a
fortnight ago, icestones big as bird's eggs." He began to unwrap the
food as Simon took in the view. Perched as they were atop the high
walls of the inner keep, Naglimund was spread at their feet like a
blanket.

The castle hunched in a steep-sided hollow in the Wealdhelm Hills
like something held in an upturned palm. Below the western battle-
ments, across from where they sat, lay the castle's broad outer wall;

beyond that the crooked streets of Naglimund town sloped down to
the outwall of the city. Outside the wall lay a nearly limitless ex-
panse of rocky grazing land and low hills.

On the far side, between the eastern battlements and the stark
violet wall of the Wealdhelm, was a long, twisting trail down from
the crest of the hills. Dotting the slopes on either side of the pathway
were a thousand points of blackly gleaming sunlight.

"What are those?" Simon pointed. Sangfugol squinted his eyes,
chewing.

"The nails, you mean?"

"What nails? Those long spikes on the hillside are what I'm ask-
ing about."

The harper nodded. "The nails. What do you think Naglimund
means, anyway? You Hayholt-folk have forgotten your Erkyn-
landish. 'Nail-fort' -- that's what it means. Duke Aeswides put them
there when he built Naglimund."

"When was that? And what are they for?" Staring, Simon let the
wind take his bread crumbs and swirl them out over the outer bai-
ley.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             481

"Sometime before the Rimmersmen came south, that's all I
know," Sangfugol answered. "But he got the steel from Rimmers-
gard, all those bars. The Dvemings made them," he added signifi-
cantly, but the name meant nothing to Simon.

"Why, though? It's like an iron garden."

"To keep the Sithi out," Sangfugol declared. "Aeswides was terri-
fied of them, because this was really their land. One of their great
cities, I forget the name, was on the far side of the hills here."

"Da'ai Chikiza," Simon said quietly, staring at the thicket of tar-
nished metal.

"That's right," the harper agreed. "And the Sithi can't stand iron,
it's said. Makes them quite ill, even kills them. So Aeswides sur-
rounded his castle with those steel 'nails' -- used to be they were all
around the front of the keep as well, but with the Sithi gone they just
got in the way: made it hard to bring wagons in on market day,
things of that sort. So when King John gave this place to Josua -- to
keep him and his brother apart as much as possible, I suspect -- my
master took them all down except the ones there on the slopes. I
think they amuse him. He likes old things very much, the prince my
master."

As they shared the jug of beer, Simon related to the harp player a
pared-down version of what had happened to him since they had last
met, leaving out some of the more inexplicable things since he had
no answer to the questions the harper would surely raise. Sangfugol
was impressed, but he was most strongly affected by the tale of
Josua's rescue and Morgenes' martyrdom.

"Ah, that villain Elias," he said at last, and Simon was surprised
by the look of real anger that clouded the harper's face like a storm.
"King John should have strangled that monster at birth, or barring
that, at least made him general of the armies and let him harry the
Thrithings-men -- anything but putting him on the Dragonbone
Chair to be a plague to us all!"

"But he is there," Simon said, chewing. "Do you think he will
attack us here in Naglimund?"

"Only God and the Devil know," Sangfugol grinned sourly, "and
the Devil's hedging his bets. He may not know yet that Josua is here,
although that certainly won't last long. This keep is a strong, strong
place. We have long-dead Aeswides to thank for that, anyway. All

482 Tad Williams

the same, strong or no, I can't imagine Elias standing by for long
while Josua builds power here in the north."

"But I thought Prince Josua didn't want to be king," Simon said.

"And he doesn't. But Elias is not the type to understand that.
Ambitious men never believe others aren't the same. He's also got
Pryrates whispering words of snaky advice in his ear."

"But haven't Josua and the king been enemies for years? Since
long before Pryrates came?"

Sangfugol nodded. "There has been no shortage of trouble be-
tween them. They loved each other once, were closer than most
brothers -- or so I'm told by Josua's older retainers. But they fell out,
and then Hylissa died."

"Hylissa?" Simon asked.

"Elias' Nabbanai wife. Josua was bringing her to Elias, who was
still a prince, at war then for his father in the Thrithings. Their party
was waylaid by Thrithings raiders. Josua lost his hand trying to
defend Hylissa, but to no avail -- the raiders were too many."

Simon let out a long breath, "So that's how it happened!"

"It was the death of any love between them ... or so people

say."

After thinking for a while on Sangfugol's words, Simon stood and
stretched; the sore spot on his ribs gave him a warning twinge. "So
what will Prince Josua do now?" he asked.

The harper scratched at his arm and stared down at the commons
yard. "I can't even guess," Sangfugol said. "Prince Josua is cautious,
and slow to action; anyway, they don't usually call me in to discuss
strategy." He smiled. "There is talk that important emissaries are
arriving, and that sometime within a sennight Josua will call a for-
mal Raed."

"A what?"

"Raed. It's an old Erkynlandish term for council, more or less.
People in these parts tend to cling to the older ways. Out in the
country, away from the castle, most of them still use the old speech.
A Hayholt man like yourself would probably need a local inter-
preter."

Simon would not be distracted by talk of rustic foibles. "A coun-
cil, you said -- a ... a Raed? Would that be a council of ...
war?"

483

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"These days," the musician replied, and his face was again som-
ber, "any council at Naglimund will be a council of war."

They walked along the battlements.

"I'm surprised," Sangfugol said, "that with all the services you
have rendered to my master he has not yet called you for an audi-
ence."

"I've only just got out of bed this morning," Simon said. "Besides,
he may not even have known it was me ... in a dark clearing,
with a dying giant and all."

"I suppose you're right," the harper said, clinging to his hat,
which was doing its best to take to the gusting winds.

Still. Simon thought, if Marya took him the message from the
princess, I should hope she would mention her companions. I never
would have thought she was the kind of girl to just forget us.

He had to be fair, though: what girl suddenly saved from the
damp and dangerous wilderness would not prefer to spend her time
with the gentlefolk of the castle instead of a stringy scullion?

"You haven't by any chance seen the girl Marya who came with
us?" he asked.

Sangfugol shook his head. "People are coming in at the gates
every day. And not just the ones fleeing the outlying farms and
villages, either. The outriders for Prince Gwythinn of Hemystir
came in last night, horses in a lather. The prince's party should be
here this evening. Lord Ethelferth of Tinsett has been here for a
week with two hundred men. Baron Ordmaer brought a hundred
Utersall men just after. Other lords are coming in with their musters
from all around. The hunt is afoot, Simon -- though the Aedon only
knows who's hunting who."

They had reached the northeastern turret. Sangfugol tipped a sa-
lute to the young soldier who was walking sentry. Beyond his gray-
cloaked shoulder rose the bulk of the Wealdhelm, the massive hills
seeming close enough to reach out and touch.

"Busy as he is," the harper said suddenly, "it doesn't seem right
that he shouldn't have seen you yet. Do you mind if I put in a word
for you? I'm to attend him at dinner tonight."

"I would certainly like to see him, yes. I was . . . very frightened
for his safety. And my master gave a great deal so that Josua could
return here, to his home."

484 Tad Williams

Simon was surprised to notice a faint touch of bitterness in his
own voice. He hadn't meant it to sound that way, but still, he had
gone through a t here, and it had been him and no other who had
found Josua, trussed and hanging like a pheasant over a cotsman's
doorway.

The tone of the remark had not escaped Sangfugol, either; the
look he turned on Simon was compounded of sympathy and amuse-
ment.

"I understand. I would advise, however, that you do not put it to
my prince in quite that manner. He is a proud, difficult man, Simon,
but I am sure he hasn't forgotten you. Things have been, as you
know, rather difficult of late in these parts, almost as harrowing as
your own journey."

Simon lifted his chin and stared out at the hills, at the strange
shimmer of the wind-ruffled trees. "I know," he said. "If he can see
me, it will be an honor. If he cannot . . . well, that is what will be."

The harper grinned lazily, playful eyes drooping at the comers.
"A proud and fair speech. Come now, let me show you the Nails of
Naglimund."

It was truly an astonishing sight in broad daylight. The field of
shining poles, starting within a few ells of the ditch below the east-
ern wall of the castle, slanted up the slope and away for perhaps a
quarter of a league, right up to the feet of the hills. They were
arranged in symmetrical rows, as though a legion of spearmen had
been buried there, leaving only their weapons protruding above the
dark soil to show how conscientiously they stood their guard. The
road that meandered down from a gaping cavern in the hill's west-
ern face wound back and forth between the rows as sinuously as the
track of a serpent, stopping at last before the Naglimund's heavy
eastern gate.

"And whatever-was-his-name did all this because he was fright-
ened of the Sithi?" Simon asked, bewildered by the strange, silvery-
dark crop that stretched before him. "Why not just put them at the
top of the wall?"

"Duke Aeswides was his name. He was Nabban's governor here,
and he was breaking precedent to place his castle on Sithi lands. As
to why not on the walls, well, I suppose he feared they could find
some way to get over a single wall -- or beneath, perhaps. This way

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             485

they would need to go through them. You have not seen the half,
Simon -- these things used to sprout on every side!" Sangfugol swung
his arm in an encompassing gesture.

"What did the Sithi do?" Simon asked. "Did they try and at-
tack?"

Sangfugol frowned. "Not as I've ever heard. You should really ask
old Father Strangyeard about that. He the archivist and historian of
the place."

Simon smiled. "I've met him."

"Interesting old scuffer, isn't he? He told me once that when Aes-
wides built this place, the Sithi called it ... called it ... damn! I
should know these old stories, being a balladeer. Anyway, the name
they had for it meant something like Trap that Catches the Hunter'
... as if Aeswides had just walled himself in or some such: that he
had made his own trap."

"And did he? What happened to him?"

Sangfugol shook his head, and nearly lost his hat again. "Damn
me if I know. Probably got old and died here. I-don't think the Sithi
paid much attention to him."

It took them an hour to complete the circuit. They had long ago
emptied the jar of beer Sangfugol had brought to wash down their
meal, but the harper had prudently brought a skin of wine as well,
thus saving them from a dry hike. They were laughing; the older
man was teaching Simon a bawdy song about a Nabbanai noble-
woman when they reached the main gate and the winding stairs
back down to the ground. As they emerged from the gatehouse they
found themselves in a milling crowd of workmen and soldiers; most
of the latter were off duty, to judge by the disarray of their dress.
Everyone was shouting and shoving; Simon quickly found himself
crushed between a fat man and a bearded guardsman.

"What's happening?" he called to Sangfugol, who had been pulled
a short distance away by the movement of the crowd.

"I'm not sure," the other called back. "Perhaps Gwythinn of
Hemysadharc has arrived."

The fat man turned his red face up to Simon. "Naow, it ain't," he
said cheerfully. His breath stank of beer and onions. "It's that giant,
the one what the prince has killed." He pointed toward the pyre,
which still stood naked at the edge of the commons.

486 Tad Williams

"But I don't see the giant," Simon said.

"They're just a-fetching him," the man said. "I just came with the
others, to make sure of seeing. My sister's son was one of the beaters
what helped catch the devil-beast!" he added proudly.

Now another wave of sound passed through the crowd: somebody
up front could see something, and the word was hurrying back to
those who could not. Necks were craned, and children were lifted to
the shoulders of patient, dirty-faced mothers.

Simon looked around. Sangfugol had disappeared. He stood up on
tiptoe, and found that only a few in the throng were as tall as he.
Beyond the pyre he saw the bright silks of a tent or awning, and
before it the flashing colors of some of the castle's courtiers, sitting
on stools and talking, waving their sleeves as they gestured, like a
branch full of brilliant birds. He scanned the faces for a glimpse of
Marya -- perhaps she had already found a noble lady to attach her-
self to: surely it was not safe for her to go back to the princess at the
Hayholt, or wherever she was. None of the faces was hers, however,
and before he could look for her elsewhere in the assemblage a line
of armored men appeared in one of the archways of the inner wall.

Now the crowd was murmuring in earnest, for the first half-dozen
soldiers were followed by a team of horses pulling a high wooden
cart. Simon felt a moment of hollowness in his stomach but dis-
missed it: was he to go all queasy every time a wagon creaked by?

As the wheels ground to a halt, and the soldiers gathered around
to unload the pale thing humped high on the bed of the cart, Simon
caught a glimpse of crow-black hair and white skin over where the
nobles stood, beyond the stacked timbers; when he looked closer,
hoping it was Marya, the laughing courtiers had closed in again and
there was nothing to see.

It took eight straining guardsmen to lift the pole on which the
giant's body hung like a deer from the king's hunting preserve, and
even so they still had to slide it from the wagon to the ground before
they could get their shoulders comfortably under the bar. The crea-
ture had been trussed at knees and elbows; huge hands wagged in
the air as its back bumped along the ground. The crowd, which had
pushed forward eagerly, now began to fall back with exclamations of
fear and disgust.

The thing looked more manlike now, Simon thought, than when it
had loomed upright before him in the forest of the Stile. With the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             487

skin of its dark face gone slack in death, the menacing snarl erased,
it wore the puzzled expression of a man given unfathomable news.
As Strangyeard had said, it wore a garment of rough cloth around
its waist. A belt of some reddish stones hung dragging in the dust of
the commons.

The fat man beside Simon, who had been exhorting the soldiers to
march faster, turned a merry eye his way.

"Do you know what he was a-wearing 'round his neck?" he
shouted. Simon, hemmed in on both sides, shrugged. "Skulls!" the
man said, as pleased as if he had given them to the dead giant
himself. "Wearing 'em as a necklace, he was. Giving *em an
Aedonite burial, the prince is -- even though it's anyone's guess
whose they be." He turned back to the spectacle again.

Several other soldiers had climbed to the top of the pyre, and were
helping the bearers move the massive creature into place. When they
had wrestled it into place, lying on its back at the summit, they
supped the pole out from between its crossed arms and legs and
scrambled down in a group. As the last man leaped down to the
ground, the great body slipped forward a little way, and the sudden
movement made a woman scream. Several children began to cry. A
gray-cloaked officer shouted an order; one of the soldiers leaned
forward and thrust a torch deep into the bundles of straw that had
been laid around the edges. The flames, strangely colorless in the
late afternoon sun, began to bend around the straw, reaching up-
ward toward more substantial food. Wisps of smoke twined around
the form of the giant, and some current of air bent his shaggy fur
like dry summer grass.

There! He had seen her again, beyond the pyre! Trying to push
forward, he received a sharp elbow to the ribs from someone fighting
to retain their choice viewpoint. He stopped, frustrated, and stared
at the spot where he thought he had spotted her.

Then he saw, and he realized it was not Marya. This black-haired
woman, wrapped in a somber, exquisitely-sewn green cloak, was
perhaps twenty years older. She was certainly beautiful, though,
with ivory skin and wide, uptilted eyes.

As Simon stared, she in turn watched the burning giant, whose
hair was beginning to curl and blacken as the fire climbed the

488 Tad Williams

mound of pine logs The smoke rose like a curtain, obscuring her
from Simon's view, he wondered who she was, and why -- as the
Naglimunders all around shouted and waved their fists at the pillar
of smoke -- she looked into the blaze with such sad, angry eyes

31

The Councils
of the Prince

^

ALTHOUGH HE had been quite hungry while walking the castle
walls with Sangfugol, when Father Strangyeard came by to take him
to the kitchens -- belatedly fulfilling his earlier promise -- Simon
found that his appetite had fled The stench of the afternoon's burn-
ing was still in his nostrils; he could almost feel the clinging smoke
as he walked behind the castle archivist

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 stem 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
pnest said at last, "I was meaning to ask you     I hope you don't
think it's grasping of me .   "

"Yes?"

"Well, Bmbines .    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

490 Tad Williams

"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
eamestness. "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, com-
posing 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 south-
ern 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

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             491

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, clos-
ing to within a few feet, peering up at Simon. He jingled faintly.

"Towser!" Simon said happily. "Towser! What are you doing
herel?" 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 spo-
ken to him." He turned to Father Strangyeard. "I must go with him.
I haven't moved that pack -- didn't even know ifwas 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 stag-
gered 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.

492 Tad Williams

"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, re-
vealing a sliver of lamplight beyond. A face appeared, dark-eyed,
framed in thick black hair -- the woman he had seen in the court-
yard, 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 imprison-
ment."

"No ... no need to apologize, your Highness," Simon stam-
mered.

Josua spread the fingers of his left hand, a pained expression on

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             493

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 'aco-
lyte,' or 'boy.' I do not think I have come so far since then."

"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 archi-
vist 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 leather-
capped 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

494 Tad Williams

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 him-
self 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 thombush- 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 won-
dered?

The wintry look returned to the prince's stem face. "I heard
about the doctor. A cruel blow to us all, but even cruder 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 Hemystir'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'

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              495

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.
'Tm 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. Tom 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 dis-
cover a gray morning, a large wolf, and a troll.

"I am startled to be finding you abedl" 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

496 Tad Williams

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 look-
ing 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 advis-
ing."

"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
Hemystiri 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

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             497

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 Nag-
limund? 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 ques-
tions? 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 in-
tently 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?"

"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

498 Tad Williams

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 0-ewe -- 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 some-
thing about the mysteries we have found ... the Noms, 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 some-
thing 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 disap-
pointed or delighted. "It is from Marya, isn't it? Is this all she sent?
Did you see her?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             499

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. / 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 com-
panions, 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

500 Tad Williams

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 beariike 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 f 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 protec-
tion 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.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

501

"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 tamish 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 contin-
uous ringing in his ears. He was dismissed at last with 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 mur-
mured 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 up-
right: 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

502 Tad Williams

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 Nag-
limund was dry, warmed by three huge open hearths, lit by the
flames of countless candles. The slanting beams of the roof disap-
peared 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 turn-
ing 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,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               503

and some other lords." The troll hefted his bronze goblet and drank.
"Hmmm. Our prince is not being profligate with his wine, or per-
haps 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 won-
dered 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 seem-
ingly 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.

Bilbabil 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 Hemystiri. Their apparent
leader, an intense, muscular young man with long dark mustaches,
was talking to a southerner of some kind, an exceedingly well-
dressed fellow who appeared only slightly older. This one, hair care-
fully 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 -- Hemystirmen, yes?"

"Correct. Prince Gwythinn that is, and his embassy. The other,
my guessing is, would be Baron Davasalles of Nabban. He has a

504 Tad Williams

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 -- Hemystir'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 delibera-
tion." 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 DRAGONBONE CHAIR              505

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 eyes 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 Hemystir and ter-
rible 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 mo-
ments she had reached the prince's chair, the eyes of the men follow-

506 Tad Williams

ing 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.

"Her name ifVorzheva. Daughter of a clan lord of the Thrithings,
she is, as well as being the prince's . . . what? Woman, I suppose.
They say she is of great beauty."

"She is." Simon continued to stare for a moment, then turned
back to the troll. " 'They say'! What do you mean, 'they say'? She's
right there, isn't she?"

"Ah, but I am having trouble judging." He smiled. "It is that I do
not like the look of tall women."

The Lady Vorzheva had apparently finished giving her message.
She listened to Josua's reply, then a moment later glided swiftly
from the hall, leaving only a final scarlet shimmer in the dark of the

doorway.

The prince looked up, and behind his placid face Simon thought
he detected something that looked like . . . embarrassment?

"Now," Josua began, "we were . . . ? Yes, Baron Devasalles?"

The dandy from Nabban stood up. "You were saying, your High-
ness, that we should be considering Elias only as king. But that is
obviously not true."

"What do you mean?" asked the lord of Naglimund, above a
disapproving rumble from his liegemen.

"Your pardon, prince, but what I mean is this: if he were only
king we would not be here, or at least Duke Leobardis would not
have sent me. You are the only other son of Prester John. Why else
would we travel so far? Otherwise, those who had complaints with
the Hayholt would travel to the Sancellan Mahistrevis, or to the
Taig in Hemysadharc. But you are his brother, yes? The king's

brother?"

A chilly smile flickered across Josua's mouth. "Yes, Baron, I am.
And I understand your meaning."

"Thank you. Highness." Devasalles made a small bow. "Now the
question remains. What do you want. Prince Josua? Revenge? The
throne? Or merely an accommodation with a grasping king, one that
will leave you unmolested here at the Naglimund?"

Now there was a full-blown growl from the Erkynlanders present,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             507

and a few rose, brows beetling and mustaches quivering. But before
any of them could seize the moment, young Gwythinn of Hemystir
leaped to his feet, leaning across the table toward Baron Davasalles
like a horse straining at the bit.

"The gentleman from Nabban wants a word, eh? Well, then,
here's mine. Fight! Elias has insulted my father's blood and throne,
and has sent the King's Hand to our Taig with threats and harsh
words, like a man punishing children. We do not need to weigh the
this and that of it -- we are ready to fight!"

Several people cheered the Hemystirman's bold words, but Si-
mon, looking fuzzily about the room as he finished the last drops of
another cup of wine, saw even more looking worried, talking quietly
with their tablemates. Beside him Binabik was frowning, mirroring
the expression that shadowed the face of the prince.

"Hear mel" Josua cried. "Nabban, in the person of Leobardis'
emissary, has asked hard but fair questions, and I will answer
them." He turned his cold stare to Devasalles. "I have no wish to be
king, Baron. My brother knew that, yet still he captured me, killed a
score of my men, and held me in his dungeons." He brandished the
arm shackle again. "For that, yes, I do wish revenge -- but if Elias
was ruling well and fairly, I would sacrifice the revenge for the good
of Osten Ard, and especially my Erkynland. As to accommodation
... I do not know if that is possible. Elias has grown dangerous
and difficult; some say that he crosses over into madness at times."

"Who says?" Devasalles asked. "Lords who chafe under his ad-
mittedly heavy hand? We speak of a possible war that will tear our
nations like rotted cloth. It would be a shame if it started over
rumors."

Josua leaned back and summoned a page, whispering a message to
him. The boy virtually flew out of the hall.

A muscular, bearded man in white furs and silver chains stood.
"If the baron remembers me not, I will remind him," he said, plainly
uncomfortable. "Ethelferth, Lord of Tinsett am I, and I wish to say
only this; if my prince says the king has lost his wits, well, that word
is good enough for me." He furrowed his brow and sat.

Josua stood up, slender, gray-clad body uncoiling like a rope-
"Thanks to you, Lord Ethelferth, for your good words. But, "he cast
his eyes around the assembly, which quieted to watch him, "no one
need take my word for anything, or the words of other of my

508 Tad Williams

liegemen. Instead I bring to you one whose firsthand knowledge of
Elias's ways you will, I am sure, find easy to trust." He waved his
left hand toward the near door of the hall, the one through which
the page had disappeared. The boy had reentered; behind him in the
doorway were two figures. One was the Lady Vorzheva. The other,
dressed in sky blue, stepped past Vorzheva into the pool of light
around the wall sconce.

"My lords," Josua said, "the Princess Miriamele -- daughter of the
High King."

And Simon, gaping, stared at the short, cropped strands of golden
hair that showed beneath the veil and crown, shed of their dark
disguise . . . and staring at the oh-so-famuiar face, felt a great tum-
bling inside him. He almost stood, as the others were doing, but his
knees went watery and dropped him back into his chair. How?
Why? This was her secret -- her rotten, treacherous secret!

"Marya," he murmured, and as she sat in the chair Gwythinn
surrendered to her, acknowledging his gesture with a precise, gra-
cious nod of her head, and as everyone else sat down again, talking
aloud in their wonder, Simon finally lurched to his feet.

"You," he said to Binabik, grabbing the little man's shoulder, "did

... did you know?!"

The troll seemed about to say something, then grimaced instead
and shrugged. Simon looked up across the sea of heads to find
Marya . . . Miriamele . . . staring at him with wide, sad eyes.

"Damn!" he hissed, then turned and hurried from the room, his
eyes pooling with snamefiil tears.

32

Northern Tidings

"WELL, LAD," Towser said, pushing another flagon across the table-
top, "you couldn't be righter -- trouble they are. Always will be."

Simon squinted at the old jester, who suddenly seemed the reposi-
tory of all knowledge. "They write letters to a fellow," he said, and
took a generous swallow, "lying letters." He set the cup back down
on the wood and watched the wine wash from side to side, threaten-
ing to overtop the rim.

Towser leaned back against the wall of his boxlike room. He was
in his linen undershirt, and had not shaved for a day or two. 'They
do write those letters,** he said, nodding his white-bristled chin
gravely. "Sometimes they lie about you to the other ladies."

Simon frowned, thinking about it. She had probably done just
that, telling the other highborn noble folk about the stupid scullion
who had ridden with her on a boat down the Aelfwent. It was proba-
bly a merry tale all through the Naglimund.

He took another swig and felt the sour taste come back up, filling
his mouth with bile. He set the cup down.

Towser was struggling to his feet. "Look, look," the old man said,
going to a wooden chest and rummaging about inside. "Damnation,
1 know it's here somewhere."

"I should have realized!" Simon berated himself. "She wrote me a
note. How could a serving girl have . . . have known how to spell
better than me?!"

"Here's that God-be-cursed lute string!" Towser continued to
rummage.

"But Towser, she wrote me a note -- said God bless me! Called me
*friend.'"

"What? Well, that's fine, lad, fine. That's the kind of girl you
want, not some stuck up fancy-lady who'll look down on you, like
that other. Ah! Here!"

510 Tad Williams

"Hah?" Simon had lost the thread. He was virtually positive he
had only been talking of one girl -- the arch-traitoress, the identity-
shifting Marya . . . Miriamele . . . well, it didn't matter very
much, did it?"

But she fell asleep on my shoulder. Fuzzily, drunkenly, he remem-
bered warm breath on his cheek, and felt a corresponding ache of
loss.

"Look at this, lad." Towser was standing over him, swaying, hold-
ing out something white. Simon stared, puzzled.

"What is it?"

"A scarf. For cold weather. Do you see these?" The old man
pointed a bent forefinger at a series of characters woven onto the
white in dark blue thread. The shape of the runes reminded Simon
of something that touched off a throb of cold inside him even
through the fog of wine.

"What are they?" he asked, his voice a little clearer than before.

"Rimmersgard runes," the old jester said, smiling absently. "They
read *Cruinh' -- my true name. A girl wove those, wove the scarf-
For me. When I was with my dear King John at Elvritshalla." Un-
expectedly, he began to cry, feeling his way back to the table to
slump down in the hard chair. Within a few moments the sobbing
was over, and water stood in his red-rimmed eyes like puddles after
a sunshower. Simon said nothing.

"I should have married that one," Towser said at last. "But she
would not leave her land -- wouldn't come back to the Hayholt.
Frightened of foreign ways, she was, frightened to leave her family.
She died years ago, poor girl." He sniffled loudly. "And how could I
have ever left my good John?"

"What do you mean?" Simon asked. He couldn't remember where
he'd seen the Rimmersgard runes lately, or at least he did not want
to put out the effort to recall. Easier just to sit here in the candlelight
and let the old man talk. "When were th . . . when were you in
Rimmersgard?" he prompted.

"Oh, lad, years and years and years." Towser wiped his eyes with-
out embarrassment and blew his nose into a capacious kerchief. "It
was after the Battle of Naarved. In the year after it was over, that
was when I met the girl who made this."

"What was the Battle of Naarved?" Simon reached out to pour

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             511

himself more wine, then thought better of it. What, he wondered,
was going on in the great hall at this moment?

"Naarved?" Towser goggled. "You don't know Naarved? Where
John beat old King Jormgrun, and became High King over the
north?"

"I suppose I do know some of it," Simon said uncomfortably-
What a lot there was to know in the world! "It was a famous bat-
tle?"

"Of course!" Towser's eyes were bright- "John laid siege to Naar-
ved all through the winter. Jormgrun and his men never thought
that southerners, Erkynlanders, could survive the cruel Rimmere-
gard snows. They were sure that John would have to call off the
siege and retreat south. But John did iti Not only did they break
Naarved, but in the final storming John went over the wall of the
inner keep himself and got the porticullis open -- held off ten men
until he could cut the guy rope. Then he broke Jormgrun's shield
and cut him down before his own heathen altar!"

"Really? And you were there?" Simon had heard this story, more
or less, but it was exciting to hear it from a firsthand witness.

"As good as. I was in John's camp; he took me everywhere with
him, my good old king."

"How did Isgrimnur get to be duke?"

"Ah." Towser's hand, which had been wringing the white scarf,
went in search of the wine jug and found it. "It was his father
Isbeom who was the first duke, you see. He was the first of the
pagan Rimmersgard nobles to become enlightened -- to receive the
grace of Usires Adeon. His house was made by John the first house
of Rimmersgard. So Isbeom's son Isgrimnur is duke now, and a
more pious Aedonite you'd have a hard time finding."

"What happened to King Jorg-whatever-was-his-name*s sons?
Didn't any of them want to become Aedonites?"

"Oh," Towser waved his hand dismissively, "I think they all died
in the fighting."

"Hmmm." Simon sat back, pushing the confusing business of reli-
gion and paganism out of his mind to try and visualize the great
battle. "Did King John have Bright-Nail then?" he asked.

"Yes . . . yes, he did." Towser said. "God's Tree, he was a beau-
tiful man to watch in battle. Bright-Nail, it shone so brightly and
moved so quickly -- just a blur of steel it was -- that sometimes John

512 Tad Williams

looked like he was surrounded by beautifiil, holy silver light." The
old jester sighed.

"So who was the girl?" Simon asked.

Towser stared. "What girl?"

"The one who made the scarf for you."

"Oh!" Towser frowned, wrinkling. "Sigmar." He thought for sev-
eral long moments. "Well, you see, we did not leave for almost a
year. It's hard work administering a conquered country, you know,
hard work. Harder than fighting the damned war, it sometimes
seemed to me. She was a girl who cleaned the hall where the king
stayed -- where I stayed, too. She had hair the color of gold -- no,
lighter, it was almost white. I lured her in to me, just like taming a
wild colt: a kind word here, a bit of extra food for her family there-
Ah, she was a pretty one!"

"Did you want to marry her then?"

"I think I did. It's been many a long year, boy. I wanted to take
her with me, that's sure as sure. But she wouldn't go."

Neither spoke for a while- The storm winds moaned outside the
thick castle walls, like hounds forgotten by their master. Candle wax
dripped and sizzled.

"If you could go back," Simon said at last, '"if you could be there
again . . ." he struggled with the difficult idea, "would you . . .
would you let her get away a second time?"

There was no reply at first. Just when Simon was about to reach
up and give a gentle shake, the old man stirred and cleared his
throat.

"I don't know," Towser said slowly. "It seems as though God
made happen what He meant to happen, but we must have choices,
eh, boy? Without choices there's no good. I don't know -- I don't
think I want to unwrap the past that much. Better the way it is,
choices right or wrong."

"But choices are so much easier afterward," Simon said, clamber-
ing to his feet. Towser stared fixedly into the wavering candleflame.
"I mean, at the moment you have to decide on things, you never
know enough. It's only later that you see everything."

He suddenly felt more tired than drunken, caught and tugged at
by a wave of fatigue. He gave thanks for the wine, then said good
night to the old jester and walked out into the deserted courtyard
and the slanting rain.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             513

*               *

Simon stood and knocked mud off his boots, watching Haestan
stump away across the damp, wind-lashed hillside. The cookfires of
the town below bled their smokes upward into the steely sky. Un-
wrapping the cloth padding from his sword, he watched the white
blades of sunlight that thrust down through the clouds on the north-
western horizon, shafts that might signify either the presence of a
brighter, better place beyond the storm, or only the impersonal play
of light, caring nothing for the world or its problems. Simon stared
upward, rolling the batting in his hands, but his mood remained
unchanged. He felt lonely. Standing amid the swaying grasses he
might as well have been a stone or the stump of a tree.

Binabik had come by that morning, the sound of his rap at the
door eventually cutting through Simon's wine-weighted sleep. He
had ignored the rapping and the troll's faint words until both
stopped, and he could roll back over and doze a little longer. He had
no wish to see the little man quite yet, and had been grateful for the
impersonal door between them.

Haestan had laughed callously at the greenish tinge Simon wore
to the guard barracks, and after promising to take him out sometime
soon for some real drinking, proceeded to sweat the vapors out of
him. Although at first Simon was convinced that his life was being
drained from him at the same time, after an hour or so he thought
he could feel his blood once more begin to flow through his veins.
Haestan worked him even harder than the day before, with cloth-
shrouded sword and padded buckler, but Simon was grateful for the
distraction: it was a luxury to submerge himself in the relentless,
pounding rhythm of sword on shield, of swipe and dodge and
counter-swipe.

Now, with the wind knifing though his sweat-sodden shirt, he
picked up his gear and started back up the slope to the main gate.

Trudging across the rain-puddled inner courtyard, dodging the
squad of guards in thick wool cloaks on their way out to relieve the
sentries, it seemed to him that all the color had been bled out of
Naglimund. The unhealthy trees, the gray capes of Josua's guards-
men, the priests' somber vestments, every object in his view could
have been hewn from stone; even the hurrying pages were only stat-
ues that had been given some sort of transitory life, but would even-
tually grind down into immobility again.

514

Tad Williams

As Simon toyed with, even enjoyed, these gloomy sentiments, his
attention was attracted by a gleam of color that suddenly appeared
across a long open courtyard, colors whose brightness leaped out
like a trumpet call on a quiet evening.

The extravagant silks belonged to three young women who had
swung out from an archway to skitter headlong, laughing, across the
open court. One wore red and gold, another a yellow like a field of
mown hay; the third had a long, shiny dress of dove-gray and blue.
It took him only a fraction of an instant to recognize the last as
Miriamele.

He was already walking toward the retreating threesome before
he knew what he was up to; a moment later he began to trot as they
disappeared under the long, columned walkway, the sound of their
talk floating back to him like a provocative scent to a chained mas-
tiff. Within thirty long paces he had caught up.

"Miriamele!" he said, and it came out of his mouth very loudly,
making him stop short in surprise and embarrassment. "Princess?"
he lamely tacked on as she turned. Recognition was pushed off her
face by another emotion that followed quickly behind, one that
looked to him terrify ingly like pity.

"Simon?" she questioned, but there was no corresponding doubt
in her eyes. They stood, three or four ells between them, facing each
other as though across a canyon. For a moment they only stared,
each waiting for the other's voice to cross the distance with the
proper reply. At last Miriamele said something short and quiet to
her two companions, whose faces Simon took no notice of, except to
register what he was sure was disapproval in their expressions; the
pair backed away, then turned and walked a short distance ahead.

tt! . . . I feel strange not calling you Marya . . . Princess." Si-
mon looked down at the mud splattered on his boottops, his grass-
stained pants, and instead of the shame he would have expected felt
a kind of strange, fierce pride. Perhaps he was a bumpkin; at least he
was an honest bumpkin.

The princess looked him over quickly, saving his face for last.
"I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't lie to you because I wanted to, but
because I had to." She unknotted her fingers to make a brief gesture
of helplessness. "I'm sorry."

"No ... no need to be sorry. It just . . . just . . ." he

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             515

searched for words, keeping his own hands resolutely clamped
around his scabbard, "it just makes things strange, I suppose."

Now he was looking her over. He decided that the beautiful dress
 -- which, he noticed, was striped in green, perhaps in stubborn loy-
alty to her father -- both added to the Marya he remembered, and
took something away as well. She looked good, he had to admit: her
fine, sharp features were now set, like a valuable stone, in a sub-
stance that showed them off properly. At the same time there was
something missing, something funny and earthy and careless in the
Marya who had shared his river journey and the terrifying night on
the Stile. There was not much to remind him of it in her subdued
face, but a hint still lurked in the close-shorn strands of hair that
showed at the neck of her cowl.

"Did you have your hair dyed black?" he asked at last.

She smiled shyly. "Yes. I decided a long time before I ran away
from the Hayholt what I needed to do. I cut my hair off -- it was very
long," she added proudly, "then I had a woman in Erchester make it
into a wig. Leieth brought it to me. I hid my cufhair beneath it,
which was dyed black so I could watch the men around my father
unrecognized, hear things I wouldn't otherwise hear . . . find out
what was going on."

Simon, despite his discomfort, was full of admiration for the girl's
cunning. "But why were you spying on me? I wasn't important."

The princess continued to twine and untwine her fingers. "I really
wasn't spying on you, not the first time. I was listening to an argu-
ment my father had with my uncle in the chapel. The other times
. . . well, I did follow you. I had seen you in the castle, on your
own, no one telling you what to do, where to be, who to smile at and
talk to ... I was envious."

"No one telling me what to do!" Simon grinned in spite of him-
self. "You never met Rachel the Dragon then, girl!" He caught him-
self. "Princess, I mean."

Miriamele, who had been smiling, too, again looked uncomfort-
able. Simon felt a surge of the anger that had bumed in him all
night. Who was she to be uncomfortable around him? Wasn't he the
one who had plucked her out of a tree? Didn't she rest her head on
his shoulder?

Yes, but that's a large part of the problem, isn 't it? he thought.

"I have to go." He hoisted the scabbard as though to show her

516 Tad Williams

some detail of its tooling. "I've been swording it all day. I'm sure
your lady friends are waiting for you." He started to turn, then
stopped and bent his knee to her. Her expression became, if any-
thing, more discomforted, more sad than before.

"Princess," he said, and walked away. He did not look back to see
if she watched him go. He held his head up, and his back was very
straight.

Binabik, wearing what looked like his good clothes, a white deer-
skin jacket and a necklace of bird skulls, met him on his way back to
the room. Simon greeted him coolly; he was secretly surprised to
find that where there had been a vast store of anger only hours
before, there now existed only a strange emptiness of spirit.

The troll waited as he scraped more mud from his boots at the
doorstep, then followed him into the room while he changed into the
other shirt Strangyeard had kindly left for him.

"I am sure you are now angry, Simon," Binabik began. "I am
wanting you to understand that I did not know about the princess
until Josua told me it the night before the last."

The priest's shirt was long, even on Simon's lank frame; he tucked
it into his breeches. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, pleased
with the light-headed, casual way he felt. There was no reason he
should let the little man's bad faith trouble him; he had been on his
own before.

"It was because a promise was made." Binabik looked very un-
happy. "I was agreeing before I knew to what. But it was only one
day you did not know and I did -- would there have been much
difference made? She should have been telling you and me her own
self, that is my thinking."

There was truth to what the little man said, but Simon did not like
to hear Miriamele criticized, even though he himself blamed her for
vaster but more subtle crimes.

"It isn't important now," was all he said.

Binabik pulled a poorly-formed smile. "I am hoping that is so.
For now, the important thing is certainly the Raed. Your story
should be told, and I am thinking tonight will be the night. With
your departure you did not miss much, mostly Baron Devasalles
looking for assurances from Prince Josua, should the Nabbanai be
committing themselves to his side. But tonight . . ."

517

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"I don't want to go." He rolled up the sleeves, which hung half-
way down over his hands. "I'm going to go see Towser, or maybe
Sangfugol." He fussed with a cuff. "Is the princess going to be
there?"

The troll looked concerned. "Who can say? But you are needed,
Simon. The Duke and his Rimmersgarders are here. They have ar-
rived less than an hour gone, cursing and dirty and with their horses
blowing froth. There will be discussion of important things tonight.'*

Simon stared at the floor. It would be simpler just to find the
harper and drink; it did seem to take one's mind off these kind of
problems. Doubtless there would be some of his new guardsmen
acquaintances who might be good company, too. They could all go
down to Naglimund-town, which he hadn't really seen yet. It would
be so much easier than sitting in that great room, that heavy room,
with the weight of decisions and danger upon them all. Let others do
the discussing, the worrying -- he was only a scullion, and had been
out of his depth for too long. Wasn't that best? Wasn't it?

"I'll go,'* he said finally, "but only if I can decide whether I want
to talk or not."

"Agreed!" said Binabik, and offered a smile, but Simon was not in
the mood to dole one out in return. He pulled on his cloak, clean
now, but bearing the unmended scars of the road and the forest, and
let Binabik lead him away toward the great hall.

^

"This is it!" shouted Duke Isgrimnur ofElvritshalla. "What more
proof does anyone need! He will have all our lands soon enough!"

Isgrimnur, like his men, had not even taken time yet to shed his
traveling clothes. Water drizzled from his sodden cloak, pooling on
the stone floor. "To think that I once dandled such an unnatural
monster on my lap!" He clutched his chest apoplectically, looking to
his men for support. All but the expressionless, slit-eyed Einskaldir
nodded their heads in bleak commiseration.

"Duke!" Josua called out, raising his hand, "Isgrimnur, please, sit
down. You have been shouting since the moment you crashed
through the door, and I still do not understand what . . ."

"What your brother the king has done!?" Isgrimnur purpled, and

518 Tad Williams

looked as though he might grab the prince and throw him over a
broad knee. "He has stolen my land! He has given it to traitors, and
they have imprisoned my son! What more would you have him do to
be proved a demon?"

The assembled lords and generals, who had leaped to their feet
when the Rimmersmen came tumbling and shouting into the room,
began to drop back into the hard wooden chairs, muttering angrily,
steel sliding back into a dozen scabbards with a tuneful hiss.

"Must I ask your man to talk for you, good Isgrimnur?" Josua
asked. "Or will you be able to tell us what has happened?"

The old duke glared up the table at the prince for a moment, then
slowly lifted his hand and drew it across his face, as though to wipe
away the sweat. For a dangerous moment, Simon felt sure that Is-
grimnur would cry: the duke's red face crumpled into a mask of
helpless despair, his eyes those of a stunned animal. He took a step
backward and lowered himself into his seat. "He has given my land
to Skali Sharp-nose," he said at last, and as the bluster left Is-
grimnur's voice the hollowness rang clear. "I have nothing else, and
nowhere to go but here." He shook his head.

Ethelferth of Tinsett stood up, his broad face full of sympathy.
"Tell us what happened. Duke Isgrimnur," he said. "Here we all
share one grief or another, but we also share a long history of com-
radeship. We will be each other's sword and shield."

The duke looked over to him gratefully. 'Thank you. Lord
Ethelferth. You are a good comrade, and a good northern man." He
turned back to the others. "Forgive me. This is disgraceful, the way
I'm going on. It's also no damnable way to give news. Let me tell
you of some things you should know about." Isgrimnur picked up a
stray wine flagon and drained it. Several of the other men, anticipat-
ing a long story, called for their cups to be refilled.

"Much that has happened you will know, I am sure, since Josua
and many others here were aware already: I told Elias I would not
stay at his bidding in the Hayholt any longer, now while blizzards
killed my people and buried our towns, and while my young son
must rule the Rimmersmen in my stead. The king had resisted me
and resisted me for months, but finally said yes. I took my men and
started north.

"The first thing was that we were ambushed at Saint Hoderund's;

before we walked into the trap, the ambushers killed the keepers of

519

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

that holy place." Isgrimnur reached up and patted the wooden tree
swinging against his chest. "We fought them and they fled, escaping
when we were slowed by a freakish rainstorm."

"I had not heard this," Devasalles of Nabban said, fixing Is-
grimnur with a contemplative look. "Who ambushed you at the
abbey?"

"I do not know," the Rimmersman replied, disgusted. "Not a
single prisoner could we take, although we sent a fair lot of them
down the cold road to Hell. Some of them looked like Rimmers-
garders. At the time I was sure they were mercenaries -- now I am
not so quick to think I know. One of my relatives fell to them.

"Secondly, while camped not far north of the Knock, we were set
upon by filthy Bukken, a great hive of them, and on open ground, no
less. A whole armed camp they attacked! We fought them off, too,
but not without great losses . . . Ham, Thrinin, Ute of Sae-
gard . . ."

"Bukken?" It was hard to tell if Devasalles' arched eyebrow was a
sign of surprise or contempt. "Are you telling me that your men
were attacked by the little people of legend, Duke Isgrimnur?"

"A legend in the south, maybe," Einskaldir sneered from his seat,
"a legend in the soft courts of Nabban; in the north we know them
as real, and keep our axes sharp."

Baron Devasalles bristled, but before he would launch an angry
reply, Simon felt a movement at his side, and a voice rang out.

"Misunderstanding and ignorance both north and south are hav-
ing in plenty," Binabik said, standing on his chair with one hand on
Simon's shoulder. "The Bukken, the diggers, are not extending then-
holes much past the northern borders of Erkynland, but what is
good fortune for those farther south should not be mistaken for
universal truth."

Devasalles openly gaped in amazement, and he was not the only
one. "And is this one of the Bukken themselves, come as emissary to
Erkynland? Now I have seen everything under the sun, and die
happy!"

"If I am the strangest thing you see before a year is out . . ."
Binabik began, when he was interrupted by Einskaldir, leaping out
of his seat to stand beside the startled Isgrimnur.

"It is worse than a Bukka!" he snarled. "It is a troll -- •& hell-

520 Tad Williams

wight!" He tried to push past the duke's restraining arm. "What is
this stealer-of-babies doing here?"

"More good than you, you hulking and bearded idiot!" Binabik
snapped back; the assembly collapsed into general shouting and con-
fusion. Simon grabbed the troll's waist, as the little man had leaned
so far forward he threatened to tumble onto the wine-stained table.
At last Josua's voice could be heard above the clamor, calling an-
grily for order,

"Aedon's Blood, I will not have thisi Are you men or children?!
Isgrimnur, Binabik of Yiqanuc is here by my invitation. If your man
does not respect the rules of my hall, he may try the hospitality of a
tower cell! I wish an apology!" The prince tilted forward like a
stooping hawk, and Simon, clutching Binabik's jacket, was struck by
the resemblance to the dead High King. Here was Josua as he
should be!

Isgrimnur bowed his head. "I apologize for my liegeman, Josua.
He is hotheaded, and not broken to courteous company." The Rim-
mersman turned a fierce look on Einskaldir who sat down again,
muttering silently in his beard, eyes cast to the floor. "Our people
and the trolls are age-old enemies," the duke explained.

'The trolls of Yiqanuc are no one's enemy," Binabik replied,
more than a little haughtily. "It is the Rimmersmen who are so
frightened by our great size and strength that they attack wherever
they see us -- even in the hall of Prince Josua."

"Enough." Josua waved his hand in disgust. "This is no place for
the unstoppering of old bottles. Binabik, you will have your say.
Isgrunnur, you have a story yet to finish."

Devasalles cleared his throat. "One thing only let me say, Prince."
He turned to Isgrimnur. "Faced with the little man from . .
Yiqanuc? ... I find your story of Bukken easier to credit. Forgive
my doubting words, good Duke."

Isgrimnur's frown softened at the edges. "Say nothing of it,
Baron," he grumbled. "I have forgotten it, as I'm sure you've forgot-
ten Einskaldir's foolish speech."

The duke paused for a moment to marshall his scattered thoughts.

"Well, as I was saying, that was the strangeness of it all. Even in
the Frostmarch and the northern wastes the Bukken are scarce -- 
and we are thankful to God it is so. For them to attack an armed
force of our size is simply unheard of. The Bukken are small," his

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             521

gaze lit briefly on Binabik, and slid off onto Simon. Arrested, the
duke frowned again, staring. "Small . . . they are small ... but
fierce, and dangerous when they attack in numbers." Shaking his
head, as if to banish Simon's disturbing familiarity, Isgrimnur
turned his attention back to the others gathered around the long,
looping table.

"After escaping the hole dwellers, and making our way here to
Naglimund, we quickly resupplied and headed north again. I was
anxious to see my home again, and my son and wife.

"The upper Wealdhelm Road and the Frostmarch Road are not
good places these days. Those of you whose lands are north of here
know what I mean without any more talk needed. We were happy to
see the lights of Vestvennby below us the night of the sixth day out.

"The next morning we were met before the gate by Storfot, Thane
of Vestvennby -- what you would call a baron, I suppose -- and a half-
hundred of his housecarls. But had he come to welcome his duke?

"Embarrassed -- and well he should be, the treacherous dog -- he
tells me that Elias has called me the traitor, and given my lands over
to Skali Sharp-nose. Storfot says that Skali wants me to surrender
myself, and he, Storfot, will take me to Elvritshalla where my son
Isom is already being held ... and that Skali will be fair and
merciful. Fair! Skali of Kaldskryke, who slew his own brother in a
drunken brawl! Would grant me mercy under my own roof!

"If my men hadn't held me back . . . if they hadn't . . ."Duke
Isgrimnur had to stop for a moment, twisting his beard in fretful
anger. "Well," he resumed, "you may guess I was all for disembow-
eling Storfot on the instant. Better to die with a sword in my guts, I
thought, then to bow to a pig like Skali. But, as Einskaldir pointed
out, best of all will be to take back my hall and make Skali eat steel."

Isgrimnur shared a brief, sour grin with his earl, then turned back
to the assembly and slapped his empty scabbard. "So, that I promise.
If I have to crawl on my old, fat belly all the way to Elvritshalla, I
swear by Dror's Hamm ... by Usires Aedon, I mean -- your par-
don, Bishop Anodis -- I will be there to put my good sword Kvamir
a yard into his guts."

Gwythinn, prince of Hemystir, who had been unusually silent,
now pounded a fist on the table. His cheeks were flushed, but not,
Simon thought, just by wine, although the young Westerner had
been drinking that in plenty. "Good!" the prince said. "But see,

522 Tad Williams

Isgrimnur, see: it is not this Skali who is your greatest enemy -- no, it
is the king himself!"

A rumble went around the table, but this time it seemed mostly
one of approval. The idea of having one's lands taken away and
handed to a blood rival struck a deep and threatening spot in almost
everyone.

"The Hemystinnan speaks rightly!" shouted fat Ordmaer, heav-
ing his bulk up from his seat. "It is obvious that Elias only kept you
at the Hayholt so long in order for Skali to work his treachery. Elias
is the enemy behind it all."

"As he has worked through his only-too-wilhng tools, Guthwulf
and Fengbald and the others, to trample on the rights of most of you
here!" Gwythinn had the bit in his teeth now, and he was pulling
hard. "It is Elias who is reaching out to crush us all, until there is no
resistance to the reign of misfortune, until the rest of us are taxed
into poverty, or ground beneath the heels of Elias' knights. The
High King is the enemy, and we must act!"

Gwythinn turned to Josua, overlooking the proceedings like a
gray statue. "It is for you, Prince, to show us the lead. Your brother
doubtless has plans for us all, as he has shown so clearly with you
and Isgrimnuri Is he not our true, and most dangerous enemy?!"

*Wo/ He is not!"

The startling voice cracked like a drover's whip through Nag-
limund's great hall. Simon, with every other soul in the room,
whirled to see who had spoken. It was not the prince, who stood as
baffled as everyone else.

For a moment it seemed that the old man had materialized out of
the insubstantial air, so suddenly did he step forward from the shad-
ows into the glow of the wall sconce. He was tall, and almost impos-
sibly spare; the torchlight cast deep shadows in the hollows of his
cheeks, and beneath the bony ridge of his brow. He wore a cloak of
wolfskin, and his long white beard was tucked into his belt; to Simon
he looked like some wild spirit of the winter forest.

"Who are you, old man?" Josua called. Two of his guards stepped
forward to stand at either side of the prince's chair. "And how do
you come to be in our councils?"

"He is one of Ellas' spies!" hissed one of the northern lords, and
others echoed him.

Isgrimnur stood. "He is here because / brought him, Josua," the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              523

duke growled. "He was waiting for us on our road to Vestvennby -- 
knew where we were bound, and knew before we did that we would
return here. He said that one way or another he was coming to
speak to you."

"And that it would only be better for everyone if I arrived as soon
as was possible," the old man finished, fixing his luminous blue eyes
on the prince. "I have things of importance to tell you -- to tell you
all." He turned his disturbing gaze along the length of the table, and
the whispering ceased in its wake. "You may listen or not, that is
your choice . . . that is always the choice in matters like these."

"These are children's riddles, man," mocked Devasalles. "Who-
ever are you, and what do you know of the things we debate? In
Nabban," he smiled up at Josua, "we would send this old fool to the
Vilderivan Brothers, whose purview is the care of lunatics."

"We are not speaking of southern matters here, Baron," the old
man said, with a smile cold as a row of icicles, "though soon the
south, too, will feel chill fingers at its throat."

"Enough!" Josua cried. "Speak now, or I shall have you put in
chains as a spy indeed. Who are you, and what is your business with
us?!"

The old man nodded stiffly. "Your pardon. I am long out of prac-
tice with the ways of courts. Jarnauga is my name, late of
Tungoldyr."

"Jamauga!" Binabik said, climbing back onto his chair to peer at
the new arrival. "Amazing! Jamauga! Ho, I am Binabik! I was for
long apprenticing with Ookequk!"

The old man pinned the troll with his bright, steely eyes. "Yes. We
shall talk, and soon. But first I have business in this hall, with these
men." He stood straight, facing the prince's chair.

"King Elias is the enemy, I heard the young Hemystinnan say,
and I heard others echo him. You are all like mice, who speak in
hushed tones of the terrible cat, and dream in the walls of doing
away with him someday. Not a one of you realizes that it is not the
cat who is the problem, but the master who brought him in to kill
mice."

Josua leaned forward, displaying reluctant interest. "Are you say-
ing that Elias himself is someone's pawn? Who? That devil Pryrates,
I suppose?"

"Pryrates presumes to deviltry," the old man sneered, "but he is a

524 Tad Williams

child. I speak of one to whom the lives of kings are flitting moments
. . . one who will take away far more than your lands."

The men began to talk among themselves. "Has this mad monk
broken in upon us to lecture us on the works of the Devil?" one of
the barons cried. "It is no secret to us that the Arch-fiend uses men
for his purposes."

"I do not speak of your Aedonite master-demon," Jamauga said,
then turned his gaze back to the prince's tall chair. "I speak of the
true master-demon of Osten Ard, who is as real as this stone," he
squatted and slapped a palm on the floor, "and as much a part of
our land."

"Blasphemy!" someone shouted. "Throw him out!"

"No, let him speak!"

"Speak up, old man!"

Jamauga raised his hands. "I am not some mad, half-frozen holy
man come to save your imperiled souls." He pinched his mouth in a
bleak smile. "I come to you as one of the League of the Scroll, one
who has lived his life beside -- and spent that life watching -- the
deadly mountain called Stormspike. We of the League of the Scroll,
as the troll can confirm for you, have for long kept vigil while others
slept. Now I come to fulfill a vow made long-ago . . . and to tell
you things you will wish you had never heard."

A nervous silence fell over the hall as the old man walked across
the room and pushed open the door that led to the courtyard. The
howl of the wind, that had been only a dim moan, was loud in
everyone's ears.

"Yuven-mouth!" Jarnauga said. "It is only weeks till Midsummer!
Listen; can a king, even the High King, do this?/" A swirl of rain
blew past him like smoke. "There are fur-clad Hunen, giants,
a-hunting men in the Wealdhelm. Bukken crawl from the cold earth
to attack armed soldiers on the Frostmarch, and the forge fires of
Stormspike in the north bum all night long. I myself have watched
the glow against the sky, and heard the icy hammers falling! How do
you think Elias has caused all this? Do you not see that there is a
black, fell winter coming down on you out of all season, beyond all
your power of understanding?"

Isgrimnur stood again, round face pale, eyes squinting. "What
then, man, what? Are you saying, Udun One-Eye help me, that we

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             525

are fighting . . . the White Foxes out of old legends?" Behind him
was a chorus of whispered questions and shocked mumblings.

Jamauga stared at the duke, and his seamed face softened with an
expression that might have been pity, or sorrow. "Ah, Duke Is-
grimnur, bad as the White Foxes -- who some know as the Noms -- 
bad as they would be, it would be a boon to us if it were the whole
case. But I tell you that Utuk'ku, the queen of the Noms herself,
mistress of the dreadful mountain Sturmrspeik, is no more the guid-
ing hand than is Elias."

"Hold, man, just hold your tongue a moment." Devasalles leaped
up angrily, robes billowing. "Prince Josua, forgive me, but it is bad
enough this madman walks in and disrupts the council, stealing
away the floor with no explanation of who or what he is, but now, as
emissary for Duke Leobardis, I must waste my time listening to
northern bogey tales? This is insufferable!"

As the hubbub of argument rose again, Simon felt a strange, excit-
ing chill. To think that he and Binabik had been in the center of it
all, in the middle of a tale that would boggle anything Shem Horse-
groom could devise! But as he thought of the story he might tell
beside the fire one day, he remembered the muzzles of the Nom
hounds, and the pale faces in the dark mountain of his dreams, and
again, not for the first time or the last, wished desperately that he
was back in the Hayholt kitchen, that nothing had changed, that
nothing would ever change. . . .

Old Bishop Anodis, who had been watching the new arrival with
the keen, fierce gaze of a gull confronting a newcomer to his favorite
scavenging ground, arose.

"I must say, and I feel no shame in admitting it, that I have
thought very little of this . . . this Raed. Elias has perhaps made
mistakes, but His Holiness the Lector Ranessin has offered to medi-
ate, to try and find a way to bring peace between Aedonites, includ-
ing, of course, their honorable pagan allies," he nodded perfuncto-
rily in the direction of Gwythinn and his men, "but all I have heard
is talk of war, and the spilling of Aedonite blood in revenge for petty
insults."

"Petty insults?!" Isgrimnur fumed. "You call the theft of my
duchy a petty insult, Bishop? Let you come home to find your
church a ... a damned Hyrka stable, or a nest of trolls, and see if
you find it a 'petty insult'!"

526 Tad Williams

"Nest of trolls?!" said Binabik, rising.

"And this only proves my point," Anodis snapped, wielding the
Tree in his knotted hand as though it were a knife to hold off ban-
dits. "See, you shout at a churchman when he seeks to correct your
foolish ways." He drew himself up. "And now," he waved the Tree
at Jamauga, "now this . . . this . . . bearded hermit comes to tell
tales of witches and demons, and drive a wedge larger still between
the only sons of the High King! Who does that benefit, eh? Who does
this Jamauga serve, eh?" Red and shaking, the bishop collapsed into
his chair, taking the flagon of water his acolyte brought and drinking
thirstily.

Simon reached up and pulled on Binabik*s arm until his friend sat
down.

"I am still wanting an explanation for *nest of trolls,' " he growled
under his breath, but at Simon's frown he pursed his lips and was
silent.

Prince Josua sat staring for some time at Jamauga, who bore the
prince's eye as calmly as a cat.

**I have heard of the League of the Scroll," Josua said at last. "It
was not my understanding that its adherents tried to influence the
ways of rulers and states."

**I have not heard of this so-called League," Devasalles said, "and
I think it is time this strange old man told us who sends him, and
what it is that endangers us -- if it is not the High King as many here
seem to think it is."

"For once I agree with the Nabbanman," Gwythinn of Hemystir
called out. "Let Jarnauga tell us all, that we may decide whether to
believe him or drive him from the hall."

In the highest chair Prince Josua nodded. The old Rimmersman
looked around at the expectant features, then raised his hands in a
strange gesture, touching fingers to thumbs as though to hold a
slender thread before his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Good. Thus we are on the first steps of the
road, the only road that might possibly lead us out of the mountain's
black shadow." He spread his arms, as though drawing the invisible
thread out to great length, then opened his hands wide.

"The story of the League is only a small story," he began, "but it
fits inside a larger story." Again he walked to the door, which a page
had closed to keep the warmth in the high-raftered hall. Jamauga

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             527

touched the heavy frame. "We can close this door, but that does not
make the snow and hail go away. In the same manner, you can call
me mad -- that will not make he who menaces you go away, either.
He has waited five centuries to take back what he feels is his, and his
hand is colder and stronger than any of you can understand. His is
the larger story, inside which the tale of the League is nestled like an
old arrowhead stuck in a great tree, over which the bark has grown
thick until the arrow itself is hidden.

"The winter that is upon us now, the winter that has dethroned
summer from its rightful place, is his. It is the symbol of his power
as he reaches out and begins to shape things to his will."

Jamauga stared fiercely, and for a stretching moment there was
no sound but the wind's lonely singing beyond the walls.

"Who?" Josua asked at last. "What is the name of this thing, old
man?"

"I thought you might know. Prince," Jamauga replied. "You are
a man who has learned many things.

"Your enemy ... our enemy . . . died five hundred years ago;

the place where his first life ended lies beneath the foundations of the
castle where your life began. He is Ineluki ... the Storm King,"

33

From the Ashes

J

ofAsu^a

^

''STORIES within stories," Jamauga intoned, shucking off his wolf-
skin cloak. The firelight revealed the twining snakes that banded the
skin of his long arms. occasioning fresh whispers. "I cannot tell you
the story of the League of the Scroll without you first understanding
the fall of Asu'a. The end of King Eahlstan Fiskeme, he who con-
structed the League as a wall against darkness, cannot be separated
from the end of Ineluki, whose darkness is now upon us. Thus, the
stories are woven together, one strand upon the other. If you pull a
single thread away it is just that -- a single thread. I defy any man to
read a tapestry from a solitary strand."

As he spoke Jamauga ran slender fingers through his knotted
beard, smoothing it and arranging its great length as though it were
a kind of tapestry itself, and might lend some sense to his story.

"Long before men came to Osten Ard," he said, "the Sithi were
here- There is no man or woman who knows when they came, but
they did, traveling out of the east, out of the rising sun, until they
settled at last in this land.

"In Erkynland, on the site where the Hayholt now stands, they
made their greatest work of hands, the castle Asu'a. They delved
deep into the earth, laying its foundations into the very bones of
Osten Ard, then built walls of ivory and pearl and opal stretching up
higher than the trees, and towers that stood against the sky like the
masts of ships, towers from which all of Osten Ard could be seen,
and from which the sharp-eyed Sithi could watch the great ocean
bounding the western shore.

"For countless years they lived alone in Osten Ard, building their
fragile cities on the mountain slopes and in the deeps of the forest,
delicate hill-cities like icy flowers, and forest settlements like earth-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             529

bound boats with many sails. But Asu'a was the greatest, and the
long-lived kings of the Sithi ruled there.

"When men first came, it was as simple herders and fishermen,
wandering over some long-vanished land bridge in the northern
wastes, fleeing some fearful thing behind them in the west, perhaps,
or merely looking for new grazing lands. The Sithi paid them no
more mind than they did the deer or the wild cattle, even when the
swift generations multiplied, and Man began to build himself stone
cities, and forge bronze tools and weapons. As long as they did not
take what was the Sithi's, and stayed on the lands the Erf-king had
allowed them, there was peace between the peoples.

"Even the empire of Nabban in the south, glorious in its arts and
its arms, that put all mortal men of Osten Ard beneath its long
shadow, caused no concern to the Sithi, or their king, lyu'unigato."

Here Jamauga looked about for something to drink, and as a page
filled a flagon for him the listeners exchanged looks and puzzled
murmurs.

"Doctor Morgenes told me about this," Simon whispered to
Binabik. The troll smiled and nodded, but appeared distracted by
thoughts of his own.

"There is no need, I'm sure," Jamauga resumed, his voice raised
to recapture the attention of the muttering throng, "to speak about
the changes that came with the first Rimmersmen. There will be old
wounds enough that shall be opened without dwelling on what hap-
pened when they found their way across the water, out of the west.

"But what must be spoken of is the march of King Fingil down
out of the north, and the fall of Asu'a. Five long centuries have
covered much of the story with the debris of time and ignorance, but
when Eahlstan the Fisher King chartered our League two hundred
years ago, it was to find and preserve such knowledge. Thus, there
are things I will now tell you that most of you have never heard.

"At the Battle of the Knock, and Ach Samrath Plain, and in the
Utanwash -- at one place and another Fingil and his armies tri-
umphed, and drew the noose tight around Asu'a. The Sithi lost their
last human allies at the Summerfield, Ach Samrath, and with the
Hemystiri routed there were none among the Sithi who could stand
against northern iron."

"Routed by treachery!" said Prince Gwythinn, red-faced and
trembling. "Naught but treachery could drive Sinnach from the field

530 Tad Williams

 -- the corruption of the Thrithings-men, stabbing the Heraystiri in
the back in hopes of some crumbs from Fingil's bloody table!"

"Gwythinn!" Josua barked. "You have heard Jamauga: these are
old wounds. There is not even a Thrithings-man present. Would you
leap across the table and strike Duke Isgrimnur, since he is a Rim-
mersman?"

"Let him try," growled Einskaldir.

Gwythinn shook his head, abashed. "You are right, Josua.
Jaraauga, my apologies." The old man nodded, and Lluth's son
turned to Isgrimnur. "And of course, good Duke, we are here the
thickest of allies."

"No offense was taken, young sir," Isgrimnur smiled, but beside
him Einskaldir caught Gwythinn's eyes and two stared hard at each
other.

"So it was," Jamauga continued, as if there had been no interrup-
tion, "that in Asu'a, even though its walls were bound with old and
powerful magics, home and heart of the Sithi race though it was,
still there was a sense that things were at their ending, that the
upstart mortals would throw down the house of their elders, and
that the Sithi would pass from Osten Ard forever.

"lyu'unigato the king dressed himself all in mourning white, and
with his queen Amerasu spent the long days of Fingil's siege -- which
quickly became months, then years, for even cold steel could not
throw down the work of the Sithi overnight -- listening to melan-
choly music, and the poetry of the Sithi's brighter days in Osten
Ard. From the outside, in the camps of the besieging northerners,
Asu'a still seemed a place of great power, wrapped tight in glamour
and sorceries . . . but inside the gleaming husk the heart was rot-
ting away.

"There was one among the Sithi, though, who wished it other-
wise, and was not content to spend his last days keening over lost
peace and ravaged innocence. He was lyu'unigato's son, and his
name was . . . Ineluki."

Without saying a word, but not without a good deal of noise,
Bishop Anodis was gathering his things together. He waved his
hand for his young acolyte, who helped him to his feet.

"Your pardon, Jamauga," Josua said. "Bishop Anodis, why are
you leaving us? As you can hear, there are dreadful things moving

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              531

against us. We look for your wisdom and the strength of Mother
Church to guide us."

Anodis looked up crossly. "And I should sit here, in the midst of
a war council I never approved of, and listen to this . . . this wild
man speaking the names of heathen demons? Look at you all -- 
hanging on his words as though they were every one from the Book
of the Aedon."

"Those of whom I speak were born long before your holy book,
Bishop," said Jamauga mildly, but there was a fierce, combative tilt
to his head.

"It is fantasy," Anodis grunted. "You think me a sour old man,
but I tell you that such children's tales shall lead you into perdition.
The greater sadness, though, is that you may drag all our land down
with you."

He sketched the sign of the Tree before him like a shield, then
tottered out on the arm of the young priest-

"Fantasy or no, demons or Sithi," Josua said, rising from his chair
to survey the assembly, "this is my hall, and I have asked this man
to tell us what he knows. There will be no further interruptions." He
cast his eye about the shadowed room, then sat down, satisfied.

"Well you should attend now," Jamauga said, "for this is the
meat of what I bring you. I speak of Ineluki, son of lyu'unigato the
Eri-king.

"Ineluki, whose name means 'here is bright speech* in the Sithi
tongue, was the younger of the king's two sons. Together with his
older brother Hakatri he had fought the worm Hidohebhi the Black,
mother of the red worm Shurakai that Prester John slew, and
mother as well of Igjarjuk, the white dragon of the north."

"Your pardon, Jamauga?" One of Gwytbinn's companions stood.
'This is strange to us, but perhaps not all unfamiliar. We Hemystiri
know stories of a black dragon, the mother of all worms, but in them
she was called Drochnathair."

Jamauga nodded, as a master at a pupil. "That was her name
among the first men in the west, long before Hem built the Taig at
Hemysadharc. Thus do bits and pieces of older truth survive in the
stories children hear in their beds, or soldiers and hunters share
around a campfire. But Hidohebhi was her Sithi name, and she was
more powerful than either of her children. In the killing of her,
which itself became a long and famous story, Ineluki's brother

532 Tad Williams

Hakatri was horribly wounded, burned by the worm's terrible fires.
There was no cure for his injuries or their unending pain in all of
Osten Ard, but neither did he die. At last the king had him put in a
boat with his most trusted servant, and they passed away over the
ocean toward the West, where the Sithi hoped there was a land
beyond the setting sun, a place without pain, where Hakatri might
be whole again.

"Thus Ineluki, despite the great deed of slaying Hidohebhi, be-
came his father's heir under the shadow of Hakatri's fall. Blaming
himself, perhaps, he spent long years in the pursuit of knowledge
that likely should have been barred to man and Sithi alike. At first
he may have thought that he could make his brother well, bring him
back from the uncharted west . . . but as with all such quests, soon
the search became its own reason and reward, and Ineluki, he whose
beauty had once been the silent music of the palace of Asu'a, became
more and more a stranger to his people, a searcher in dark places.

'"So it was that when the men of the north rose up, pillaging and
slaying, to encircle Asu'a at last in a ring of poisonous iron, Ineluki
was the one who set his mind to defeating the trap.

"In the deep caverns below Asu'a, lit by cunning mirrors, grew
the witchwood gardens, the place where the Sithi tended the trees
whose strange wood they used as the southern men used bronze, and
as the northerners used iron. The witchwood trees, whose roots,
some say, reached down into the very center of the earth, were
tended by gardeners as sacred as priests. Every day they spoke the
old spells and performed the unchanging rituals that made the
witchwood thrive, as the king and his court in the palace above sank
more and more into despair and forgetfulness.

"But Ineluki had not forgotten the gardens, nor had he forgotten
the dark books he had read, and the shadowy paths he had walked
in search of wisdom. In his chambers, where none of the others
came anymore, he began a task that he thought would be the saving
of Asu'a and the Sithi.

"Somehow, causing himself great pain, he procured black iron,
which he gave to the witchwood trees as a monk waters his vines.
Many of the trees, no less sensitive than the Sithi themselves, sick-
ened and died, but one survived.

"Ineluki wove this tree 'round with spells, with words older per-
haps than the Sithi, and charms that reached down farther even than

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              533

the witchwood's roots. The tree grew strong again, and this time
poisonous iron ran through it like blood. The caretakers of the sa-
cred garden, seeing their charges blighted, fled. They told lyu'uni-
gato the king, and he was concerned, but seeing as he did the end of
all things, would not stop his son. What use was witchwood now,
with bright-eyed men all around, and deadly iron in their hands?

*The growing of the tree sickened Ineluki, even as it did the
gardens themselves, but his will was stronger than any illness. He
persevered, until at last it was time to reap the sought-for harvest.
He took his dreadful planting, the witchwood all shot through with
baleful iron, and went up into the forges of Asu'a.

"Haggard, sick to madness, yet full of grim resolve, he watched
the master smiths of Asu'a flee before him and did not care. By
himself he heated the forge fires hotter than they had ever been;

alone he chanted the Words of Making, all the while wielding the
Hammer That Shapes, which none but the High Smith had ever held
before.

"Alone in the red-lit depths of the forge he made a sword, a
terrible gray sword whose very substance seemed to breathe dismay.
Such hideous, unholy magics did Ineluki call up during its forging
that the very air of Asu'a seemed to crackle with heat, and the walls
swayed as though struck by giant fists.

"He took the new-forged sword, then, into his father's great hall,
thinking to show his people the thing that would save them. Instead,
so terrible was his aspect, and so distressing was the gray sword,
shining with an almost unbearable light, that the Sithi ran in horror
from the hall, leaving only Ineluki and his father lyu'unigato."

In the deepening hush that surrounded Jamauga's words, a quiet
so profound that even the fire seemed to have stopped sputtering, as
though it, too, held its breath, Simon felt the hairs on his neck and
arms stand upright, and a strange dizziness creep though him.

A . . . sword! A gray sword! I can see it so clearly! What does it
mean? Why does the thought stick in my head? He scratched hard at
his scalp with both hands, as though in his pain he might shake the
answer loose.

"When the Eri-king at last saw what his son had made, he must
have felt his heart turn to ice in his chest, for the blade Ineluki held

534 Tad Williams

was no mere weapon, but a blasphemy against the earth that had
yielded both iron and witchwood. It was a hole in the tapestry of
creation, and life leaked away through it.

" 'Such a thing should not be,' he told his son. 'Better that we
should go into the forgetful void, better that the mortals gnaw on
our bones -- better even that we had never lived at all than such a
thing should ever be made, let alone used.'

"But Ineluki was maddened with the power of the thing, and
horribly tangled in the spells that created it. 'It is the one weapon
that will save us!' he told his father. 'Otherwise these creatures, these
insects, will swarm over the face of the land, destroying as they go,
obliterating beauty they cannot even see or comprehend. It is worth
any price to prevent thati*

" 'No,' said lyu'unigato, 'No. Some prices are too great. Look at
you! Even now it has worn your mind and heart away. I am your
king, as well as your sire, and I command you to destroy it, before it
devours you utterly.'

"But to hear his father demand such a thing, the unmaking of
what he had nearly died a-forging -- and only done, as he thought, to
save his people from final darkness -- drove Ineluki past all caring. In
that moment he lifted the sword and struck his father down, killing
the king of the Sithi.

"Never before had such a thing been done, and when Ineluki saw
lyu'unigato lying before him he wept and wept, not only for his
father, but also for himself, and his people. At last he lifted the gray
sword up before his eyes. 'From sorrow have you come,' he said,
*and sorrow you have brought with you. Sorrow shall be your
name.' Thus he named the blade Jingizu, which is the word in Sithi-
tongue."

Sorrow -- a sword named Sorrow . . . Simon heard it in his mind
as an echo, bouncing back and forth through his thoughts until it
seemed it would drown out Jamauga's words, the storm outside,
everything. Why did it sound so terribly familiar? Sorrow . . .
Jingizu . . . Sorrow . . .

"But the story does not end there," the northerner said, his voice
gaining strength even as its spell flung a pall of unease over the
listening company. "Ineluki, more maddened than ever by what he

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             535

had done, nevertheless took up his father's crown of white
birchwood and proclaimed himself king. So stunned were his family
and folk by the murder that they had no stomach to resist him.
Some actually welcomed the change in secret, five in particular who,
like Ineluki, had been angered by the idea of passive surrender to the
surrounding mortals.

"Ineluki, with Sorrow in his hand, was a force unbridled. With his
five servants -- whom the terrified and superstitious northerners
named the Red Hand for their number and fire-colored cloaks -- 
Ineluki took the battle outside the walls of Asu'a, for the first time in
almost three years of siege. Only the sheer numbers, the iron-wield-
ing thousands of FingiTs horde, prevented the night-terror that In-
eluki had become from breaking the siege. As it was, if the other
Sithi had rallied behind them it could be that Sithi kings would still
walk the battlements of the Hayholt.

"But Ineluki's people had no will left to fight. Frightened of then-
new king, horrified by his murder of lyu'unigato, they instead took
advantage of the mayhem caused by Ineluki and his Red Hand to
flee Asu'a, led by Amerasu the queen and Shima'onari, son of In-
eluki's dragon-doomed brother Hakatri. They escaped into the dark
but protective ways of Aldheorte forest, hiding from the blood-mad
mortals and their own king.

"Thus it was that Ineluki found himself left with little more than
his five warriors in the guttering skeleton of Asu'a. Even bis power-
ful magics had proved too little at the end to withstand the sheer
numbers ofFingiTs army. The northern shamans spoke their weirds,
and the last protective magics fell away from the age-old walls. With
pitch and straw and torches the Rimmersmen set the delicate build-
ings to burning. As the smoke and licking flames rose, the northern-
ers routed out the last of the Sithi -- those who had been too weak or
timid to flee, or who had felt too much loyalty to their immemorial
home. In those fires Fingil's Rimmersmen did terrible deeds; the
remaining Sithi had little strength left to resist. Their world had
come to an end. The cruel murders, the heartless tortures and rav-
ishings of unresisting victims, the laughing destruction of a thousand
exquisite and irreplaceable things -- with all these Fingil Redhand's
army put his crimson stamp on our history, and left a stain that can
never be removed. Doubtless those who had fled to the forest heard
the screams and shuddered, and wept to their ancestors for justice-

536 Tad Williams

"In this last, most fatal hour Ineluki took his Red Hand and
climbed to the summit of the tallest tower. He had decided, it seems
clear, that what the Sithi could no longer inhabit would never be the
home of men.

"That day he spoke words more terrible than any he had spoken
before, more baleful by far than even those which had helped bind
the substance of Sorrow. As his voice boomed out above the confla-
gration, Rimmersmen fell screaming in the courtyard, faces blacken-
ing and with blood running from their eyes and ears. The chanting
rose to an intolerable pitch, and then became a vast scream of agony.
A huge flash of light turned the sky white, followed a moment later
by a darkness so complete that even Fingil, in his tent a mile away,
thought he had been struck blind.

"But, in some way, Ineluki had failed. Asu'a still stood, and still
burned, although now much of FingiPs army lay waning and dying
on the ground at the tower's base. In the tower top itself, strangely
untouched by smoke or flame, the wind sifted six piles of gray ash,
scattering them slowly across the floor."

Sorrow . . . Simon's head was whirling, and he had difficulty
drawing breath. The torchlight seemed to be flickering wildly. The
hillside. I heard the wagon wheels . . . they brought Sorrow/ I re-
member it was like the Devil in a box . . . the heart of all sorrow.

"So Ineluki died. One of FingiTs lieutenants, as he breathed his
last breath minutes later, swore that he had seen a great form billow-
ing out of the tower, crimson as coals in a fire, writhing like smoke,
grasping at the sky like a huge red hand ..."

"Nooooo!" Simon shouted, leaping up. A hand reached up to re-
strain him, then another, but he shook them off as though they were
cobwebs. "They brought the gray sword, the horrible sword! And
then I saw him! I saw Ineluki! He was ... he was . . . '

The room was wobbling back and forth, and staring faces -- Is-
grimnur, Binabik, the old man Jamauga -- loomed up before him
like fish leaping in a pond. He wanted to say more, to tell them all
about the hillside and the white demons, but a black curtain was
being pulled before his eyes, and something was roaring in his
ears. . . .

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             537

*

Simon ran in dark places, and his only companions were words in
the emptiness.

Mooncalf! Come to us! There is a place here prepared for you!

A boy! A mortal child! What did it see, what did it see?

Freeze his eyes and carry him down into shade. Cover him with
clinging, stinging frost.

A shape loomed before him, an antler-headed shadow massive as
a hill. It wore a crown of pale stones, and its eyes were red fires. Red
was its hand, too, and when it clutched and lifted him the fingers
burned like fiery brands. White faces flickered up all around, waver-
ing in the darkness like candle flames.

The wheel is turning, mortal, turning, turning . . . Who are you
to stop it?

A fly he is, a little fly . . .

The crimson fingers squeezed, and the fiery eyes glowed with dark
and infinite humor. Simon screamed and screamed, but was an-
swered only by pitiless laughter.

He awoke from a strange swirl of chanting voices and clutching
hands to find his dream mirrored in the circle of faces that bent over
him, pale in the torchlight as a fairy ring of mushrooms. Beyond the
blurry faces the walls seemed lined with points of glinting light,
mounting up into the darkness above.

"He's waking up," a voice said, and suddenly the glimmering
points came clear as rows of pots hanging on racks. He was lying on
the floor of a pantry.

"Doesn't look good," said a deep voice nervously. "I'd best get
him some more water."

"I'm sure he'll be fine if you want to go back inside," the first
voice replied, and Simon felt himself squinting and goggling until
the face that went with it was no longer a blur. It was Marya -- no, it
was Miriamele, kneeling beside him; he couldn't help noticing how
the hem of her dress lay crumpled beneath her on the dirty stone
floor.

"No, no," the other said: Duke Isgrimnur, pulling nervously at
his beard.

"What . . . happened?" Had he fallen and struck his head? He

538

Tad Williams

reached up to fell gingerly around, but the soreness was general, and
there was no lump.

"Keeled over, you did, boy," Isgrimnur grunted. "Shouting about
- . . about things you saw. I carried you out here, fair busted a gut

doing it, too."

"And then stood there staring at you lying on the floor," said
Miriamele, her voice stem. "It's a good thing I was coming in." She
looked up at the Rimmersman. "You fight in battles, don't you?
What do you do when somebody's wounded -- stare at them?"

"That's different," the Duke said defensively- "Bandage 'em if
they're bleeding. Carry 'em back on their shields if they're dead."

"Well, that's clever," Miriamele snapped, but Simon saw a secret
smile tug at her lips. "And if they're not bleeding or dead, I suppose
you just step over them? Never mind." Isgrimnur closed his mouth
and tugged at his beard.

The princess continued to wipe Simon's forehead with her damp-
ened handkerchief. He couldn't imagine what good it was doing, but
for the moment he was content to just he back and be tended to. He
knew that soon enough he would have to explain himself to some-
body.

"I ... I knew I recognized you, boy." Isgrimnur said at last.
"You were the lad at Saint Hoderund's, am I right? And that troll
... I thought I saw . . ."

The pantry door opened wider. "Ah! Simon! I hope you are feel-
ing more of yourself now."

"Binabik," Simon said, straining to sit up. Miriamele gently but
firmly leaned on his chest, forcing him back down. "I did see it, I
did! That was what I couldn't remember! The hillside, and the fire,
and . . . and . . ."

"I know, friend Simon, I was understanding many things when
you stood up -- not all things, however. There is still much unex-
plained in this fiddle."

"They must think I'm a madman," Simon groaned, pushing the
princess' hand away, but nevertheless enjoying the moment of con-
tact. What was she thinking? Now she was looking at him like a
grown girl looked at a troublesome younger brother. Damn girls and
women both!

"No, Simon," Binabik said, crouching down beside Miriamele to
look him over carefully. "I have been telling many stories, our ad-

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             539

venturing together not least among them. Jamauga has confirmed
much that my master was hinting at. He also received one of
Morgenes' last messages. No, you are not thought mad, although I
think still many are doubting the real danger. Baron Devasalles
especially, I am thinking."

"Ummm," Isgrimnur scuffed a boot on the floor. "If the lad's
hale, I think I'd better go back in. Simon, was it? Yes, well . . . you
and I, we'll talk more." The duke maneuvered his considerable bulk
out of the narrow pantry and clumped off down the hall.

"And I will be going in, too," Miriamele said, briskly chasing the
worst of the dust from her dress. "There are things that should not
be decided before I have been heard, whatever my uncle thinks."

Simon wanted to thank her, but could think of nothing to say
while lying on his back that would not make him feel more ridicu-
lous than he presently did. By the time he decided to throw over bis
pride, the princess had gone in a swirl of silks.

"And if you are recovered to sufficiency, Simon," Binabik said,
extending a small, blunt hand, "then there are things we must hear
in the council hall, for I am thinking Naglimund has never seen a
Read quite the like of this one."

"First of all, young one," Jamauga said, "while I believe all that
you have told us, you must know that it was not Ineluki you saw on
that hillside." The fires had burned down to dreaming coals, but not
a soul had left the hall. "If you had seen the Storm King, in the form
he must now wear, it would have left you a blasted, mindless shell
lying beside the Anger Stones. No, what you saw -- beside the pale
Norns and Elias and his liegemen -- was one of the Red Hand. Even
so, it seems miraculous to me that you came away from such a
night-vision whole in heart and mind."

"But . . . but . . ." As he began to remember what the old man
had been saying just before the wall of forgetfulness had crumbled,
spilling the memories of that horrible night -- Stoning Night, the
doctor had called it -- Simon was again puzzled and confused. "But I
thought you said Ineluki and his ... Red Hand . . . were dead?"

"Dead, yes; their earthly forms burnt away utterly in the last
scorching moments. But something survived: there was someone or
something that was able to recreate the sword Sorrow. Somehow -- 
and it did not need your experience to tell me, for this is indeed why

540

Tad Williams

the League of the Book was made -- Ineluki and his Red Hand sur-
vived: as living dreams or thoughts, perhaps, shades held together
only by hate, and by the terrible runes of Ineluki's last casting. But
somehow the darkness that was Ineluki's mind at the very ending
did not die-

"King Ealhstan Fiskeme came three centuries later to the
Hayholt, the castle that stood upon the bones of Asu'a. Ealhstan
was wise, and a seeker after knowledge, and he found things in the
ruins beneath the Hayholt that made him aware that Ineluki had not
been completely unmade. He formed the League of which I am a
member -- and we are dwindling fast now, with the loss of Morgenes
and Ooqequk -- so that old knowledge would not be lost. Not only
knowledge of the Sithi's dark lord, but other things, too, for those
were evil times in the north of Osten Ard. Over the years it was
discovered, or rather guessed at, that somehow Ineluki, or his spirit
or shade or living will, had become manifest again among the only
ones who might welcome him."

"The Noms!" Binabik said, as if suddenly a bank of fog had been
swept away before him.

'The Noras," Jaraauga agreed. "I doubt that at first even the
White Foxes knew what he had become, but soon his influence in
Sturmrspeik was doubtless too great for anyone to say him nay. His
Red Hand, too, has come back with him, although in no form seen
before on this earth."

"And we had thought that the Loken worshiped by the Black
Rimmersmen was only our own fire god, from heathen days," said
Isgrimnur, wondering. "If I had known how far they had strayed
from the path of light . . ." He brushed his fingers against the Tree
that hung upon his neck. "Usires!" he breathed softly.

Prince Josua, who had been listening silently for a long while,
leaned forward. "Buy why, if it is indeed this demon out of the past
who is our truest enemy, does he not show himself? Why does he
play at cat's-paw with my brother Elias?"

"Now we are coming to the place where my long years of study
atop Tungoldyr cannot be helpful," Jarnauga shrugged. "I watched,
and I listened, and I watched, for that was what I was there to do -- 
but what goes on in the mind of such as the Storm King is more
than I can guess at."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

541

Ethelferth of Tinsett stood and cleared his throat. Josua nodded
for him to speak.

"If all this is true . . . and my head is a-swimming with it all, I
tell you ... then maybe . . . / can guess at the last." He looked
around, as though expecting to be shouted down for his presump-
tuousness, but seeing in the faces around him only worry and confu-
sion, he cleared his throat again and went on. "The Rimmersman,"
he tilted his head toward old Jarnauga, "said that it was our own
Ealhstan Fiskeme who was first a-noticing that this Storm King had
come back. That was three hundred years after Fingil took the
Hayholt -- or whatever was its name then. It's been nigh two hun-
dred year since. It sounds to me as though this . . . demon, I sup-
pose, has taken a long time to get strong again.

"Now," he continued, "we all know, we men that've held land in
the midst of greedy neighbors," he snuck a sly look over at
Ordmaer, but the fat baron had gone quite pale some time before,
and seemed insensible to innuendo, "that the best way to keep your-
self safe, and purchase yourself time to grow strong, is to have your
neighbors fight each other. Seems to me that's what's going on here.
This Rimmersgard demon gives Elias a present, then gets him
a-fighting with his barons and dukes and such." Ethelferth looked
around, hitched his tunic and sat down.

"It's not a 'Rimmersgard demon,'" Einskaldir growled. "We're
shriven Aedonite men."

Josua ignored the northerner's comment. "There is truth to what
you say. Lord Ethelferth, but I think those who know Elias will
agree that he also has designs of his own."

"He didn't need any Sithi demon to steal my land," Isgrimnur
said bitterly.

"Nevertheless," Josua continued, "I find Jarnauga, and Binabik of
Yiqanuc . . . and young Simon, who was Doctor Morgenes' ap-
prentice ... all too uncomfortably trustworthy. I wish I could say
I did not believe these tales, I am not sure yet what I believe, but
neither can I discount them." He turned to Jarnauga again, who was
prodding at the nearest fire with an iron poker. "If these dire warn-
ings you bring are true, then tell me one thing: what does Ineluki
want?"

The old man stared into the fire, then poked it again vigorously.
"As I said. Prince Josua, my task was to be the League's eyes. Both

542

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Morgenes* and young Binabik's master knew more than I of what
might lurk in the mind of the Master of Stormspike." He raised a
hand as if to ward off more questions. "If I had to guess, it would be
to say this: think of the hatred that kept hieluki alive in the void,
that brought him back from the fires of his own death . , ."

"What Ineluki wants then," Josua's voice fell heavily in the dark,

breathing hall, "is revenge?"

Jarnauga only stared into the embers.

**There is much to think on," the master of Naglimund said, "and
no decisions to be lightly made." He stood up, tall and pale, slender
face a mask before his hidden thoughts. "We shall return here to-
morrow sunset." He went out, with a gray-cloaked guard on either

side.
In the hall men turned to look at each other, then rose, clustering

in small silent groups. Simon saw Miriamele, who had never had her
chance to speak, go out between Einskaldir and the limping Duke

Isgrimnur.
"Come, Simon," Binabik said, tugging at his sleeve. "I think I will

be letting Qantaqa run, now the rains have gentled some. Of such
things we must take advantage. At this point I have still not been
robbed of my liking for thinking as I walk with wind in my face
. . . and there is much that I should be thinking."

"Binabik," Simon said at last, the shocking wearying day sitting
heavily upon him. "Do you remember the dream I had ... we all
had ... in Geloe's house? Stormspike . . . and that book?"

"Yes," said the little man gravely. "That is one of the things I am
worrying with. The words, the words you saw, they catch at me. I
am fearing there is a dreadfully important riddle in them."

"Du . . . Du Swar . . ." Simon struggled with his muddled

memories. "Du . . ."

"Du Svardenvyrd, it was," Binabik sighed. "The Weird of the

Swords.

The hot air beat painfully on Pryrates' hairless and unprotected
face, but he would allow no discomfort to show on his features. As
he strode across the foundry floor, robes flapping, he was gratified to

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              543

see the workmen, themselves masked and heavily cloaked, stare and
flinch at his passing. Buoyant in the pulsing forge light, he chuckled
as he briefly fancied himself an arch-demon striding the tiles of Hell,
petty underdevils scattering before him.

A moment later the mood fell away, and he scowled. Something
had happened to that little wretch of a wizard's boy -- Pryrates knew
it. He had felt it as clearly as if someone had jabbed him with some
sharp thing. There was some strange, tenuous bond still between
them from Stoning Night; it bit at him, and gnawed at his concen-
tration. That night's business had been too important, too dangerous
to bear any kind of interference. Now the boy was thinking of that
night again, probably telling all he knew to Lluth, or Josua, or some-
one. Something serious needed to be done about that nasty, prying
boy.

He stopped before the great crucible and drew himself up, arms
folded upon his chest. He stood that way for no little while, already
angry, growing angrier at the wait. At last one of the foundrymen
hurried up and clumsily bent a thick-breeched knee before him.

"How can we serve you. Master Pryrates?" the man said, voice
muffled by the damp cloth wrapped across his lower face.

The priest stared silently long enough to change the man's par-
tially-revealed expression from discomfort to real fear.

"Where is your overseer?" he hissed.

"There, Father." The man pointed to one of the dark openings in
the foundry-cavern wall. "One of the crank wheels be gone on the
winch . . . your Eminence."

Which was gratuitous, since he was still officially no more than a
priest, but the sound of it was not mhannonious-

"Well . . . ?" Pryrates asked. The man did not respond, and
Pryrates kicked him hard on his leather-clad shin. "Get him, then!"
he shrilled.

With a head-wagging bow the man limped off, moving like a tod-
dling child in the padded clothes. Pryrates was aware of the beads of
sweat forming on his brow, and of the mmace-spewed air that
seemed to bake his lungs from the inside, but nevertheless a brief
grin stretched his spare features. He had felt worse things: God . . .
or Whoever . . . knew he had faced worse.

At last the overseer came, huge and deliberate. His height, when

544 Tad Williams

he finally shambled to a halt and stood looming over Pryrates, was
almost enough in itself to be regarded as an insult.

"I suppose you know why I've come?" the priest said, black eyes
glittering, mouth taut with displeasure.

"About the engines," the other replied, voice quiet but childishly
petulant.

"Yes about the siege engines!" Pryrates snapped. *Take off that
damned mask, Inch, so I can see you when I speak to you."

The overseer reached up a bristle-haired paw and peeled back the
cloth. His ruined face, rippled with bum scars around the empty
right eye socket, reinforced the priest's sensation that he stood m
one of the anterooms of the Great Inferno.

"The engines are not finished," Inch said stubbornly. "Lost three
men when the big one collapsed Drorsday-last. Slow going."

"I know they're not finished. Get more men. Aedon knows there
are enough slagging about the Hayholt. We'll put some of the nobles
to work, let them get a few blisters on their fine hands. But the king
wants them finished. Now. He's going into the field in ten days. Ten
days, damn youl"

Inch's one eyebrow slowly rose, like a drawbridge. "Naglimund.
He's going to Naglimund, isn't he?" There was a hungry light in his
eye.

"That's not for such as you to worry about, you scarred ape,"
Pryrates said contemptuously. "Just have them finished! You know
why you were given this loftier place -- but we can take it
back. . . ."

Pryrates could feel Inch's stare on him as he walked away, could
feel the man's stonelike presence in the smoky, nickering light. He
wondered again whether it had been wise to let the brute live, and if
not, whether he should rectify the error.

The priest had reached one of the broad stairheads, with hallways
leading left and right, and the next flight of steps ahead, when a dark
figure abruptly slid from the shadows.

"Pryrates?"

The priest, whose nerves were such that he might not have cried
out if struck with an axe, nevertheless felt his heart quicken.

"Your majesty," he said evenly.

Elias, in unintended mockery of the foundrymen below, wore his

THE DRAOONBONE CHAIR             545

black cloak-hood pulled close around his face. He went that way
always these days, at least when he left his chambers -- just as he
always wore the scabbarded sword. The gaining of that blade had
brought the king power such as few mortals had ever had, but it had
not come without a price. The red priest was wise enough to know
that the reckoning of such bargains was a very subtle science.

"I ... I cannot sleep, Pryrates."

"Understandable, my king. There are many burdens on your
shoulders."

"You help me ... with many. Have you been seeing to the siege
engines?"

Pryrates nodded, then realized the hooded Elias might not see it
in the dark stairwell. "Yes, sire. I would like to roast Inch, that pig
of an overseer, over one of his own fires. But we will have them, sire,
somehow."

The king was silent for a long while, stroking the hilt of the
sword. "Naglimund must be crushed," Elias said at last. "Josua
defies me."

"He is no longer your brother, sire, he is only your enemy,"
Pryrates said.

"No, no . . ." Elias said slowly, thinking deeply. "He is my
brother. That is why he cannot be allowed to defy me. That seems
obvious to me. Is it not obvious, Pryrates?"

"Of course, your Majesty."

The king pulled his cloak tighter around him, as though to keep
out a cold wind, but the air that billowed up from below was thick
with the heat of the forges.

"Have you found my daughter yet, Pryrates?" Elias asked sud-
denly, looking up. The priest could faintly see the eye-gleam and
shadow of the king's face in the cavern of his hood.

"As I told you, sire, if she is not gone to Nabban, to her mother's
family there -- and our spies do not think so -- then she is at Nag-
limund with Josua."

"Miriamele." The exhaled name drifted down the stone stairwell.
"I must have her back. I must!" The king extended an open hand,
slowly closing it into a fist before him. "She is the one piece of good
flesh I shall save from the broken shell of my brother's house. The
rest I shall tread into dust."

546 Tad Williams

"You have the strength now, my king," Pryrates said. "And you
have powerful friends."

"Yes." The High King nodded slowly. "Yes, that is true. And
what of the huntsman Ingen Jegger? He has not found my daughter,
but neither has he returned. Where is he?"

"He still hunts the wizard's boy, Majesty. It has become some-
thing of a . . . grudge," Pryrates waved his hand, as though trying
to banish the uncomfortable memory of the Black Rimmersman.

"A great deal of effort, it seems to me, has been spent trying to
find this boy who you say knows a few of our secrets." The king
frowned and spoke harshly. "I wish as much trouble had been ex-
pended on my own flesh and blood. I am not pleased." For a mo-
ment his shadowed eyes glinted angrily. He turned to go, then

stopped.

"Pryrates?" The king's voice had changed again.

"Yes, sire?"

"Do you think I shall sleep better . . . when Naghmund is
thrown down, and I have my daughter back?"

"I am sure, my king."

"Good. I shall enjoy it even more, knowing that."

Elias slipped away, up the shadowed corridor. Pryrates did not
move, but listened as the king's retreating footsteps blended with the
hammers of Erkynland, whose clangor sounded monotonously in
the deeps below.

34

Forgotten Swords

VORZHEVA was angry. The brush trembled in her hand, and the red
line trailed onto her chin.

"See what I have done!" she said, irritation thickening her heavy
Thrithings accent. "You are cruel to rush me." She blotted her
mouth with a kerchief and began again.

"By the Aedon, woman, there are more important matters afoot
than your lip-painting." Josua stood up and resumed his pacing.

"Do not speak so to me, sir! And do not walk like that behind
me . . ." she waved her hand, searching for words, ". . . to and
fro, to and fro. If you must throw me out into the corridor like a
camp follower, at least I will first make myself ready."

The prince picked up a fire iron, then stooped to poke at the coals.
"You are not being 'thrown into the corridor,* my lady."

"If I am your lady," Vorzheva scowled, "then why may I not
stay? You are ashamed of me."

"Because we will speak of things that are not your concern. If you
have not noticed, we are preparing for war, I'm sorry if that incon-
veniences you." He grunted and stood, laying the poker carefully
back against the hearth. "Go speak with the other ladies. Be glad
you do not have to carry my burdens."

Vorzheva spun to face him. "The other ladies hate me!" she said,
eyes narrowed, a lock of black hair dangling loose across her cheek.
"I hear them whispering about Prince Josua's slut from the grass-
lands. And / hate them -- the northern cows! In my father's march-
land they would be whipped for such . . . such . . ." she struggled
with the still unfamiliar tongue, ". . . such disrespect!" She took a
breath to still her trembling.

"Why are you so cold to me, sir?" she asked at last. "And why did
you bring me here, to this cold country?"

The prince looked up, and for a moment his stern face softened.

548

Tad Williams

"I sometimes wonder." He slowly shook his head. "Please, if you
despise the company of the other court ladies, then go and have the
harper sing for you. Please. I will not have an argument tonight."
"Nor any night," Vorzheva snapped. "You do not seem to want
me at all -- but old things, yes, yes, those you are interested in! You

and your old books!"

Josua's patience was wearing thin. *The events we will speak of
tonight are old, yes, but their importance is to our current struggle.
Damnation, woman, I am a prince of the realm, and cannot evade

my responsibilities!"
"You do better at that than you think, Prince Josua," she replied

frostily, throwing her cape about her shoulders.

When she reached the doorway, she turned. "I hate the way you
think only of the past -- old books, old battles, old history . . ." her

lip curled, "old loves."
The door swung closed behind her.

^

"Thanks to you, Prince, for admitting us to your chambers,"
Binabik said. His round face was troubled. "I would not have been
making such a request had I not thought this important."

"Of course, Binabik," the prince said. "I, too, prefer to talk in

more quiet surroundings."

The troll and old Jamauga had pulled up hard wooden stools to
sit beside Josua at his table. Father Strangyeard, who had accompa-
nied them, was walking quietly around the room looking at the
tapestries. In all his years at Naglimund it was the first time he had
been in the prince's private chambers.

"I am still reeling from the things I heard last night," Josua said,
then gestured at the sheets of parchment Binabik had strewn before
him. "Now you say there is even more I must know?" The prince
gave a small, rueful smile. "God must be chastising me, taking my
nightmare of having to command a castle at siege and then compli-
cating it with all this."

Jamauga leaned forward. "As long as you remember. Prince
Josua, that it is no nightmare we speak of, but a dark reality. We
cannot any of us afford the luxury of thinking this a fantasy."

549

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"Father Strangyeard and I have been at days of searching in the
castle archives," Binabik said, "since first I came, trying to find the
meaning of the Weird of the Swords."

"The dream, you mean, that you told me of?" Josua asked, idly
thumbing through the pages of writing on the table. 'The one that
you and the boy had in the witch woman's house?"

"And not them alone," Jamauga declared, his eyes sharp as chips
of blue ice. **The nights before I left Tungoldyr I, too, dreamt of a
great book. Du Svardenvyrd was written upon it in letters of fire."

"I have heard of the priest Nisses' book, of course," the prince
said, nodding, "when I was a young student with the Usirean broth-
ers. It was infamous, but it no longer exists. Surely you are not going
to tell me you have found a copy here in our library?"

"Not for the lack of our searching," Binabik replied. "If it had
been anywhere but perhaps the Sancellan Aedonitis, here it would
be. Strangyeard has been assembling a library of great wonder."

"Very kind," the archivist said, facing the wall as though studying
a tapestry so that his unseemly blush of pleasure would not imperil
his reputation as a levelheaded historian.

"In fact, for all of Strangyeard's and my hunting, it was Jamauga
who has been partway to solving our problem," Binabik continued.

The old man leaned forward and tapped a skinny finger on the
parchment. "It was a stroke of good fortune which I hope bodes well
for us all. Morgenes had sent once to ask me questions about Nisses

 -- who was, of course, a Rimmersman like myself -- to help fill in
some empty spots in his written life of your father. King John. I was
of little help, I'm afraid. I told him what I knew. But I remembered
his asking."

"And," Binabik said, excited, "another stroke of luckiness: the
one thing young Simon saved from the destruction of Morgenes'
chambers was . . . this book!" He grabbed a sheaf in his stubby
brown hand and waved it. " "The Life and Reign of King John
Presbyter, by Morgenes Ercestres' -- Doctor Morgenes of Erchester.
In another way still, the doctor is with us here!"

"We owe him more than we can say," Jamauga pronounced sol-
emnly. "He saw the dark days coming, and made many preparations

 -- some we still do not know of."

"But the most important to this current moment," the troll burst
in, "is this; his life of Prester John. Look!" He thrust the papers into

550

Tad Williams

Josua's hand. The prince leafed through them, then looked up, smil-
ing faintly.

"Reading Nisses' tangled and archaic language puts me in mind
of my student days, prowling the archives of the Sancellan
Aedonitis." He shook his head regretfully. "This is fascinating, of
course, and I pray that I have the time some day to read Morgenes'
full work, but I still do not understand." He held up the page he had
been reading. "Here is a description of the forging of the blade
Sorrow, but I see no information that Jamauga has not already
given to us. What help will this be?"

Binabik, with Josua's permission, took back the manuscript. "We
must be looking closer. Prince Josua," he said. "Morgenes quotes
from Nisses -- and the fact that he actually read at least some of Du
Svardenvyrd only confirms for me Morgenes' resourcefulness -- he
quotes Nisses as speaking of two other 'Great Swords.' Two more
besides Sorrow. Here, let me read what Morgenes tells us are Nisses'

own words."

Binabik cleared his throat and began.

"The first Great Sword came, in its form original, from out of
the Sky one thousand years agone.

"Usires Aedon. Whom we of Mother Church call the Son and
Avatar of God, had hung for nine days and nights, nailed by His
Hands and Feet to the Execution Tree in the square before the
Temple of Yuvenis in Nabban. This Yuvenis was the heathen god
of Justice, and the Nabbanai imperator was wont to hang such
ayverse criminals as his courts convicted from the mighty
branches of Yuvenis' Tree. So hung Usires of the Lake, guilty of
sacrilege and rebellion for proclaiming the Single God. Heels
above Head like a carcase of Beef.

"There came, that Ninth night, a great Roaring and a streak
of fire, and a hurtling Bolt from the Heavens flew down from the
sky and smote the Temple into a thousand shards, killing all the
heathen judges and priests within. When the reek and fumes
were dispersed, the Body of Usires Aedon was gone, and a great
shout went up that God had restored Him to Heaven and pun-
ished His enemies, although others said that Usires'patient disci-
ples had cut down His body and escayped in the Confusion.
These naysayers were quickly made silent, and the Word of the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             551

miracle spread throughout all the quarters of the City. Thus
began the downfall of the pagan gods of Nabban.

"In the smoaking rubble of the Temple there now lay a great
and steaming Stone. It was proclaimed by the Aedonites that
here was the heathen altar, melted by the vengeful Fires of the
One God.

"I, Nisses, believe instead that this was a flaming Star of the
heavens fallen to Earth, as happens on Occasion.

"Now, from this molten wrack was taken a great piece, and
the Imperator's swordwrights found it Workable, and the sky-
metal was hammered into a great Blade. In mind of the scourg-
ing branches which hadflaid Usires' Back, the star-sword -- as I
suppose it to be -- was named THORN, and a mighty power there
was in it . . ."

"Thus," Binabik said, "the sword Thorn, being passed down
through the line of Nabbanai rulers, came at last to . . ."

"To Sir Camaris, my father's most beloved friend." Josua finished.
"The stories of Camaris' sword Thorn are many, but I had not
known before today where it came from ... if Nisses is to be be-
lieved. This passage has somewhat the smack of heresy."

"Those of his assertions which can be measured against truth
measure well, your Highness," Jamauga said, stroking his beard.

"Still," said Josua, "what does it mean? Camaris' sword was lost
when he drowned."

"Allow me to share more of Nisses' writing," Binabik replied-
"Here, where he is speaking of the third part of our puzzle."

"The second of the Great Swords came from the Sea, traveling
across the salt ocean from the West to Osten Ard.

"For some years the Sea-Raiders had come seasonally to this
land from the far, cold Country they called Ijsgard, only to re-
turn across the waves when their pillaging was done.

"Then it was, some Tragedy or dire Happening in their native
place caused the men of Ijsgard to abandon that land and bring
their families in boats to Osten Ard, to settle in Rimmersgard in
the North, the land of my Own far more recent birth.

"When they had landed, their King Elvrit gave thanks to
Udun and their other Heathenish gods, and commanded that the

552 Tad Williams

iron keel of his Dragon-boat should be made into a sword to
protect his People in their new land.

"Thus it went that the keel was given to the Dvemings, a
Secretive and crafty race, and they separated out the Pure and
Significant metal by means unknown, and smithied a long and
shining blade.

"But in the haggling over the payment King Elvrit and the
master of the Dvemings fell out, and the king did slay the smith
and took the sword unpayed-for, which was the cause of much
later Woe.

"In thought of their coming to this New country, Elvrit named
the sword MINNEYAR, which means 'Year of Memory.'"

The troll finished, and walked to the table to drink from the wa-
ter-ewer there.

"So, Binabik ofYiqanuc, two powerful swords," Josua said. "Per-
haps this dreadful year has softened my mind, but I cannot think
what significance they have to us."

"Three swords," Jamauga offered, "counting Ineluki's Jingizu -- 
what we call Sorrow. Three great swords."

"You must read this last part of Nisses' book that Morgenes cited,
Prince Josua," Strangyeard said, joining them at last. He picked up
the parchments that Binabik had laid on the table. "Here, please.
This bit of rhyme from the end of the madman's writings."

"When frost doth grow on Cloves' bell . . ."
Josua read aloud,

"And Shadows walk upon the road
When water blackens in the Well
Three Swords must come again.

"When Sukken from the Earth do creep
And Hunen from the heights descend
When Nightmare throttles peaceful Sleep
Three Swords must come again.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             553

"To turn the stride of treading Fate
To clear the fogging Mists of Time
If Early shall resist Too Late
Three Swords must come again ..."

"I think ... I think I understand," the prince said, with mount-
ing interest. 'This almost appears to be a prophecy of our own day
 -- as if Nisses somehow knew that Ineluki would someday return."

**Yes," Jamauga said, combing his beard with his fingers as he
looked over Josua's shoulder, "and apparently, if things are to be
made right, Three swords must come again.'"

"Our understanding, Prince," Binabik said, "is that if somehow
the Storm King can be defeated, it is by our finding the three
swords."

*The three swords of which Nisses speaks?" Josua asked.

"So it would seem."

"But, if what the boy Simon saw is correct. Sorrow is already in
the bands of my brother." The prince frowned, his pale brow
creased with the lines of his thought. "If it were a simple thing to go
and take it from him in the Hayholt, we would not be cowering here
in Naglimund."

"We shall worry about Sorrow last. Prince," Jamauga said. "We
must move now to secure the other two. I am named for my eyes
and my trained sight, but even / cannot see the future. Perhaps a
way will come for us to take Sorrow from Elias. or perhaps he will
make some mistake. No, it is Thorn and Minneyar we must now
find."

Josua leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other
and pressing his fingers on his lidded eyes. "This is like a children's
story!" he exclaimed. "How are mere men to survive such times?
Chill winter in Yuven-month ... the risen Storm King who is a
dead Sithi prince . . . and now a desperate search for long-forgot-
ten swords -- madness! Folly!" He opened his eyes and sat up. "But
what can we do? I believe it all ... so I must be mad, too."

The prince stood up and began to pace. The others watched him,
grateful that despite the slenderness of their hope they had at least
convinced Josua of the grim, strange truth.

"Father Strangyeard," he said at last, "would you go and find

554 Tad Williams

Duke Isgrimnur? I sent my pages and all others away so we would
have privacy."

"Certainly," the archivist said, and hurried from the room, robes
flapping on his lanky frame.

"No matter what happens," Josua said, "I will have much to
explain at tonight's Read. I would have Isgrimnur beside me. The
barons know him as a practical man, where I am still somewhat
suspect for my years in Nabban and my odd ways." The prince
smiled wearily. "If these mad things are true, then our task is more
complex than even it was. If the Duke of Elvritshalla will stand
behind me, then I think the barons will too -- although I do not think
I will share this latest bit of information, even if it does represent a
thin shard of hope. I mistrust the ability of some of the lords to keep
such amazing things a secret."

The prince sighed. "It was bad enough to have Elias alone for an
enemy." He stood, staring at the blazing hearth. His eyes glinted, as
if full of some reflecting moisture. "My poor brother."

Binabik looked up, startled by the prince's tone.

"My poor brother," Josua said again. "He must be riding the
nightmare now in earnest -- the Storm King! The White Foxes! I
cannot think he knew what he was doing."

"Somebody had knowledge of what they did, Prince," the troll
declared. "Stormspike's master and his minions do not, I am think-
ing, go dancing house to house like peddlers, a-selling of then-
wares."

"Oh, I doubt not that Pryrates reached out to them somehow,"
Josua said. "I know him and his unholy thirst for forbidden knowl-
edge from the old days, in the seminary of the Usirean brothers." He
shook his head sorrowfully. "But Elias, although brave as a bear,
was always mistrustful of secrets in old books, and scornful of schol-
arship. He also feared talk of spirits or the demonic. He became
worse after . . . after his wife died. I wonder what he thought
worth the terror he must reap for this bargain. I wonder if he now
regrets it -- what terrible allies! Poor, foolish Elias. ..."

It was raining again, and when Strangyeard came back with the
duke, they were both soaked from their trip across the long court-
yard. Isgrimnur stood in the doorway of Josua's chambers stamping
like a nervous horse.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

555

"I was just seeing to my wife," he explained. "She and the other
women left ahead of Skali's arrival, and went to Thane Tonnrud, her
uncle. She has brought half a dozen of my men and a score of
women and children. She's got the frostbite in her fingers, poor
Outrun."

"I am sorry to call you away from her, Isgrimnur, especially if she
is injured," the prince apologized, rising and clasping the old duke's
hand.

"Ah, there's not much I can do. She has our girls to help her." He
frowned, but there was pride in his voice. "She's a strong woman.
She made strong sons for me."

"And we shall bring help to Isom, your eldest, never fear." Josua
led Isgrimnur to the table and handed him Morgenes' manuscript.
"It may be, though, that we shall be fighting more than one battle.'*

When the duke had read of the Weird of the Swords, and asked
some few questions, he read the pages again.

"This bit of rhyme, then?" he asked at last. "You think that's the
key to the whole thing?"

"If you mean the sort of key that locks a door," Jamauga said,
**yes, we hope so. For that is what we must do, it seems: find the
swords of Nisses* prophecy, swords that will keep the Storm King at
bay."

"But your boy claimed Elias has the Sithi one -- and in fact I saw
him wearing an unfamiliar sword when he told me I could leave for
Elvritshalla. A great, strange-looking thing it was."

"This we know, Duke," Binabik chimed in. "It is the other two
we must first find."

Isgrimnur squinted suspiciously at the troll. "And what do you
want from me, little man?"

"Only your help, in any way you can render it," Josua said, reach-
ing out to pat the Rimmersman's shoulder. "And Binabik of
Yiqanuc is here for the same reasons."

"Have you heard aught of the fate ofAfinneyar, Elvrit's sword?"
Jamauga asked. "I confess I should know, since it is the purpose of
our League to gather such wisdom, but Minneyar has gone out of
the tales we know."

"I know this from my grandmother, who was a storyteller,'* Is-
grimnur said, chewing his mustache as he remembered. "It went
through Elvrit's line to Fingil Redhand, and from Fingil to his son

556 Tad Williams

Hjeldin, and then when Hjeldin fell from the tower -- with Nisses
dead on the floor behind him -- Hjeldin's lieutenant Ikferdig took it,
along with Fingil's crown of the Rimmersmen, and the mastery of
the Hayholt."

"Ikferdig died in the Hayholt," Strangyeard said shyly, warming
his hands at the hearth. " The Burned King,' he is called in my
books."

"Dead by the dragon-fire of red Shurakai," Jamauga said.
"Roasted in his throne room like a coney."

"So . . ." Binabik said thoughtfully, while gentle Strangyeard
shivered at Jamauga's words, "Minneyar is either within the walls
of the Hayholt somewhere ... or it has been unmade by the red
dragon's fiery breathing."

Josua stood up and walked to the fireplace, where he stood staring
into the wavering flames. Strangyeard inched away so as not to
crowd his prince.

"Two confounding and unhappy alternatives," Josua said, and
grimaced, turning to Father Strangyeard. "You have brought me no
good news today, you wise men." At this, the archivist looked mo-
rose. "First you tell me our only hope is to find this trio of legendary
blades, and now you say that two of them are in the stronghold of
my enemy brother -- if they exist at all." The prince sighed in dis-
may- "What of the third? Does Pryrates use it to cut his beef at
table?"

"Thorn," Binabik said, climbing up to perch on the table's edge.
"The sword of the great knight who was Camaris."

"Made from the star-stone which destroyed the temple ofYuvenis
in old Nabban," Jamauga said. "But surely it went into the sea with
great Camaris, when he was swept overboard in the Bay of Firan-
nos."

"You see!" spat Josua. "Two held by my brother, and the third in
the even tighter grip of the jealous ocean. We are cursed before we
begin."

"It no doubt would have also seemed an impossible chance that
Morgenes' work would have survived the destruction of him and his
chambers," Jamauga said, and his voice was stem, "and then would
come safely through danger and despair to us here, so we could read
Misses' prophecy. But it did survive. And it did reach us. There is
always hope."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               557

"Excuse me. Prince, but there seems only one thing to do,"
Binabik said, nodding sagely atop the table. "It is back to the
archives and searching again, until we find the answer to the riddle
of Thorn and the other blades. And we must be finding it soon."

"Soon indeed," said Jamauga, "for we are wasting diamond-pre-
cious time."

"By all means," said Josua, pulling his chair over by the hearth
and slumping down into it, "by all means make haste, but I deeply
fear that our time has already run out."

^

"Damn and damn and damn," Simon said, hurling yet one more
rock from the battlement into the teeth of the wind. Nagumund
seemed to stand in a great expanse of soapy gray nothingness, a
mountain sprouting from a sea of swirling rain. "Damn," he added,
as he bent to search for another on the wet stone wall.

Sangfugol looked over, his fine cap a limp, sodden mass on his
head. "Simon," he said crossly, "you cannot have it both ways. First
you curse them all for dragging you along behind them like a ped-
dler's sack, then you blaspheme and hurl stones because you are not
invited to the afternoon's deliberations."

"I know," Simon said, sending another projectile down from the
castle walls. "I don't know what I want. I don't know anything."

The harper scowled. "What I would like to know is: what are we
doing up here? Are there not better places to feel miserable and left
out? It is cold as a well digger's privy parts on these battlements."
He allowed his teeth to chatter for a moment, hoping to inspire pity.
"Why are we up here?"

"Because it clears a man's head, a little wind and rain," Towser
called, making his way back along the battlement toward his two
companions. "There is no better cure for a night of drinking." The
little old man winked at Simon, who guessed that Towser would
have gone down long ago, but for the enjoyable sight of Sangfugol
shivering in his beautiful gray velvet robe.

"Well," the harper growled, miserable as a soaked cat, "you drink
like a man in his youth, Towser -- or in his second childhood -- thus,

558 Tad Williams

I suppose it is no surprise to see you prance on the walls for fun, just
like a rascally boy."

"Ah, Sangfugol," Towser said with a wrinkly smile, watching an-
other of Simon's missiles send up a gout of water from the rain-
pocked pond that eddied where the commons yard had been, "you
are too . . . Ho!" Towser pointed. "Is that not Duke Isgrimnur? 1
had heard he was returned. Ho. Duke!" The jester shouted and
waved at the stout figure. Isgrimnur, squinting against the slanting
raindrops, looked up. "Duke Isgrimnur! It's Towser!"

"Is that who it is?" the Duke cried. "Damn me, it is, you old
whoresoni"

"Come up, come up!" Towser said. "Come and tell me what is the
news!"

"I shouldn't be amazed," Sangfugol said sardonically as the duke
ankled across the submerged commons toward the curling staircase
in the wall. "The only person beside an old madman who would
come up of his free will would be a Rimmersman. It's probably even
too warm for him, since it's not actually sleeting or snowing."

Isgrimnur had a tired smile and a nod for Simon and the harper,
then turned and clasped the jester's veined hand and gave him a
comradely smack on the shoulder. He was so much taller and bulk-
ier than Towser that he looked like a mother bear cuffing her cub.

While the duke and the jester exchanged tidings, Simon threw
stones and listened, and Sangfugol stood with a look of patient,
hopeless suffering. Soon, unsurprisingly, the Rimmersman's talk
came around from mutual friends and homely things to darker top-
ics. As Isgrimnur spoke of the gathering threat of war, and the
shadow m the north, Simon felt the cold that the chill winds had -- 
strangely -- helped dispel for a while come shouldering back. When
the duke began to speak in hushed tones of the Ruler of the North,
then sheared off, saying some things were too fear-fraught to speak
of openly, the cold seemed to slide further into Simon's being. He
stared out into the murky distance, at the dark fist of storm that
hovered beyond the rain on the northern horizon, and felt himself
slipping back into his journey on the dream-road . . .

. . . The naked thrust of the stone mountain, its halo of indigo
and yellow flames. The silver-masked queen in her icy throne, and the
chanting voices in the rocky fastness . . . Black thoughts pressed
down on him, crushing him like the rim of a broad wheel. It would

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             559

be so easy, he was sure, to go forward into the darkness, into the
warmth beyond the storm's chill . . .
. . . It's so close . . . so close . . .

"Simon!" a voice said in his ear. A hand grasped his elbow. He
looked down, startled, to see the edge of the battlement inches from
his foot, and the wind-lashed water of the courtyard directly below.

"What are you doing?" Sangfugol asked, giving his arm a shake.
"If you went over this wall, you would have more than broken
bones."

"I was . . ." Simon said, feeling a dark mist still clouding his
thoughts, a mist that was slow to clear, "I . . ."

"Thorn?" Towser said loudly, responding to something Isgrimnur
had said. Simon turned to see the little jester tugging at the Rim-
mersman's cloak like an importunate child. "Thorn, did you say?
Well, then, why did you not come to me immediately? Why not
come to old Towser? I know all there is to know, if anybody does!"

The old man turned to Simon and the harper. "Why, who was
with our John longer than anyone? Who? I was, of course. Joked
and tumbled and played for him sixty years. And the great Camaris,
too. I saw him come to the court." He turned back around to face
the duke, and there was a light in his eyes that Simon had not seen
before. "I am the man you want," Towser said proudly. "Quick!
Take me to Prince Josua."

The bandy-legged old jester almost seemed to dance, so light were
his steps as he led the somewhat dumbfounded Rimmersman toward
the stairs.

"Thank God and His angels," said Sangfugol, watching them go.
"I suggest we go immediately to pour something inside us -- a wet-
ness within to make up for the wetness without."

He led Simon, who was still shaking his head, down from the
rainy battlements into the echoing, torch-lit stairwell, out of the
northern winds for a little while and into the warmth.

^

"We understand your place in these events, good Towser," Josua
said impatiently. The prince, perhaps to ward off the all-pervasive

560

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chill, had wrapped a woolen scarf tightly around his throat. The tip
of his slender nose was pink.

"I'm just setting the place, so to speak, your Highness," Towser
said complacently. "If I might have a cup of wine to help ease the
talk, I will get to the main course directly."

"Isgrimnur," Josua groaned, "would you be good enough to find
our venerable jester something to drink, or I fear we shall be here
until Aedontide waiting for the rest of the story."

The duke of Elvritshalla went to the cedar cabinet beside Josua's
table and found a ewer of red Perdruin wine. "Here," he said, hand-
ing a filled flagon to Towser, who sipped and smiled.

It's not the wine he's wanting, the Rimmersman thought, it's the
attention. These are grim enough days for the young and useful, let
alone for an old trickster whose master is two years dead.

He stared at the jester's seamed face, and for a moment thought
he saw the child's countenance trapped beneath, as behind a thin
curtain.

God grant me a quick honorable death, Isgrimnur prayed, and
never let me be one of those old fools who sits by the campfire telling
the young men that things will never be as good as they once were.
Still, he thought as he moved back to his chair, listening to the
lupine howling of the winds outside, still, it may be true this time.
Maybe we have seen the better days. Maybe there is nothing left now
but a losing battle against creeping darkness.

"You see," Towser was saying, "Camaris' sword Thorn didn't go
with him into the ocean. He had given it over for safekeeping to his
squire, Colmund of Rodstanby."

"Gave away his sword?" Josua said, puzzled. "That accords with
none of the stores I have ever heard of Camaris-sa-Vinitta."

"Ah, but you did not know him that last year ... and how
could you, since you had only just come into the world?" Towser
took another swig and stared meditatively up at the ceiling. "Sir
Camaris grew strange and fell after your mother Queen Ebekah
died- He was her special protector, you know, and he worshiped the
very tiles she trod upon -- as if she were Elysia the Mother of God
herself. I always thought he blamed himself for her death, as though
he could somehow have cured her ill-health by force of arms, or by
the purity of his heart . . . poor idiot."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              561

Seeing Josua's impatience, Isgrimnur leaned forward. "So he gave
the star-sword Thorn to his squire?"

"Yes, yes," said the old man testily, not liking to be rushed.
"When Camaris was lost in the sea off Harcha-island, Colmund took
it for his own. He went back and reclaimed his family's lands at
Rodstanby in the Frostmarch, and became the baron of a good-sized
province. Thorn was a famous weapon through all the world, and
when his enemies saw it -- for it was unmistakable, all shiny black
but for the silver hilt, a beautiful, perilous thing -- they would none
of them face him. He seldom even had to draw it from its scabbard."

"So it is then at Rodstanby?" Binabik said excitedly from the
comer. "That is near within two days' ride from where we are now
sitting!"

"No, no, no," growled Towser, waving his flagon for Isgrimnur to
fill again. "If you would only wait, troll, I will tell you all."

Before Binabik or the prince or anyone else could respond,
Jamauga stood up from his crouch by the fire and leaned toward the
little jester. "Towser," he said, and his voice was as hard and cold as
ice in the roof thatches, "we cannot wait on your pace- There is a
grave darkness spreading from the north, a cold and fatal shadow.
We must have the sword, do you understand?" He brought his sharp
face even closer to Towser's and the little man's tufted eyebrows
shot upward in alarm. "We must find Thorn, for soon the Storm
King himself will be knocking at our door. Do you understand?"

Towser gaped as Jamauga dropped back into his long-limbed
squat beside the hearth.

Well, Isgrimnur mused, ;/ we wanted the latest news shouted all
over Naglimund, now we'll have it done. Still, it does look as though
he's put a bit of a burr under Towser's saddle.

It took a few moments for the jester to be able to tear his startled,
fascinated eyes from the glare-eyed northerner. When he turned, he
no longer looked to be enjoying his status quite as much.

"Colmund," he began, "Sir Colmund heard traveler's tales of the
dragon Igjarjuk's legendary hoard, in the heights of the mountain
Urmsheim. It was a treasure said to be richer than any other in the
wide world."

"Only a flatlander would be thinking of searching out a mountain
dragon -- and for gold!" Binabik said disgustedly. "My people have

562 Tad Williams

long lived near Urmsheim, and we are living long because we are not
going there."

"But you see," old Towser said, "the dragon has been only a story
for generations. No one has seen it, no one has heard of it ...
except for snow-maddened wanderers. And Colmund had the sword
Thorn, a magic sword to lead him on a quest for a magic dragon's
hoardi"

"But what idiocy!" Josua said. "Did he not have everything he
wanted? A powerful barony? The sword of a hero? Why should he
go rabbiting off after such a madman's vision?"

"Damn me, Josua," Isgrimnur swore, '^vhy do men do any of the
things they do? Why did they hang Our Lord Usires topsides-down
from the Tree? Why should Elias imprison his brother and make
bargains with demons when he is already High King of all Osten
Ard?"

"There are indeed things in men and women that make them
reach for what is beyond their grasp," Jamauga said from his hearth
comer. "Sometimes the things they seek lie beyond the bounds of
understanding."

Binabik jumped lightly to the floor. "Too much talk is this of
things we can never know," he said. "Our question still is: where is
the sword? Where is Thorn?9'

"Lost in the north, I'm sure," Towser said. "I have never heard
that Sir Colmund came back from his quest. One traveler's tale was
that he had made himself a king of the Hunen, and lives there still in
a fortress of ice."

"It sounds as though his story has been muddied and mixed with
old memories of Ineluki," Jamauga said thoughtfully.

"He made it as far as the monastery of Saint Skendi at
Vestvennby," Father Strangyeard piped up unexpectedly from the
back of the room. He had gone out quickly and come back without
anyone's noticing; he wore a faint flush of pleasure high on his thin
cheeks. "Towser's words sparked a memory. I thought I had some of
the monastic books of Skendi's order, salvaged from its burning
during the Frostmarch wars. Here is the household ledger for the
Founding-year 1131. See, it lists the outfitting ofColmund's party."
He passed it proudly to Josua, who held it up to the firelight.

"Dried meat and fruits," Josua read, straining to make out the
faded words. "Wool cloaks, two horses . . ." He looked up. "It says

563

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

here a party of a 'dozen and one* -- thirteen." He passed the book on
to Binabik, who took it back to pore over with Jamauga by the fire.

"Then they must have run into bad luck," Towser said, refilling
his flagon. "The stories I heard said he set out from Rodstanby with
over two dozen of his hand-picked best."

Isgrimnur was staring after the troll. He's certainly clever enough,
the Rimmersman thought, although I don't trust him or his kind
much. And what's his hold on that boy? I'm not sure I like that either,
although I think the stories they both tell are largely true.

"What good is all this to us now?" he said aloud. "If the sword is
lost, it is lost, and we must simply make the best of our defenses
here."

"Duke Isgrimnur," Binabik said, "you are not understanding,
perhaps; there is no choice for us. If indeed the Storm King is our
greater enemy -- as I think we are all agreeing, now -- then the only
thing for hope, it seems, is that we acquire the three swords. Two are
for now denied from us. That leaves Thorn, and we must find it -- if
finding is possible."

"Don't instruct me, little man," Isgrimnur growled, but Josua
waved his hand wearily to forestall their argument.

"Quiet now," the prince said. "Please let me think. My brain is
fevered with so many madnesses heaped one atop the other. I need
some moments of quiet."

Strangyeard, Jamauga, and Binabik pored over the monastery
ledger and Morgenes' manuscript, talking in whispers; Towser fin-
ished his wine, Isgrimnur sipping moodily beside him. Josua sat
staring into the fire. The prince's weary features looked like parch-
ment pulled over bone; the Duke ofElvritshalla could hardly bear to
look at him.

His father looked no worse in his last dying days, Isgrimnur
brooded. Has he the strength to lead us through a siege, as it looks to
come to soon? Has he even the strength himself to survive? He has ever
been a thinker, a worrier . . . although, in fairness, he is no slouch
with sword and shield. Without thinking he got up and stumped over
to the prince's side, laying an ursine paw on Josua's shoulder.

The prince looked up. "Can you spare me a good man, old friend?
Do you have one who knows the northeast country?"

Isgrimnur looked thoughtful. "I have two or three. Frekke,
though, is too old for a journey such as I imagine you are thinking

564 Tad Williams

of. Einskaldir would not leave my side unless I pushed him out the
gate of Naglimund at spear-point. Besides, I have a mind we will
need his fierceness here, when the fighting grows hot and bloody. He
is a badger: fierce-blooded, and best when he is backed into a hole."
The duke mused. "Of the rest, I would give you Sludig. He is young
and fit, but he is also clever. Yes, Sludig will be the man for you."

"Good." Josua nodded his head slowly. "I have some three or
four I will send, but a small party is better than a large."

"For what, exactly?" Isgrimnur looked around the room, at its
sparse solidity, and wondered again whether they were chasing
phantoms, whether the wintry weather had somehow chilled their
better judgement.

"To search for Camaris' sword, Uncle Bear-skin," the prince said
with a ghost of a smile. "It is doubtless madness, and we have noth-
ing better to go on than old stories and a few faded words in old
books, but it is not a chance we can afford to ignore. It is storm-
fraught winter in the summer month of Yuven. None of our doubts
can change that." He looked around the room, mouth pursed in
thought.

"Binabik of Yiqanuc," he called at last, and the troll hurried over.
"Will you lead a party on the trail ofThom? You know the northern
mountains better than anyone here except perhaps Jarnauga, who I
hope will go, too."

"I would be full of honor, Prince," Binabik said, and dropped to
one knee- Even Isgrimnur was forced to grin.

"I am honored, too. Prince Josua," Jarnauga said, rising, "but I
think it is not to be. Here at Naglimund I will best serve. My legs are
old, but my eyes are still keen. I will help Strangyeard in the
archives, for there are many questions still to answer, many riddles
behind the story of the Storm King, and the whereabouts of FingiTs
sword Minneyar. And there may yet be other ways I can serve, as
well."

"Your Highness," Binabik asked, "if there is a place unfilled, may
I have your permission to take young Simon? Morgenes was asking
as his last wish that the boy be watched over by my master. With
Ookequk's death I am master now, and would not be shirking this
watching-over,"

Josua looked skeptical. "And you would look after him by taking
him on a mad expedition into the unmapped north?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             565

Binabik raised an eyebrow. "Unmapped by big people, perhaps. It
is the commons yard of my Qanuc-folk. Also, is it more safe to leave
him shut up in a castle set for warring with the High King?"

The prince brought his long hand up to his face, as though his
head pained him. "You are right, I suppose. If these slender threads
of hope come to naught, there will be no safe places for those who
have sided with the Lord of Naglimund. If the boy wishes to go, you
may take him." He brought his hand down and clasped Binabik's
shoulder. "Very well, little man -- little but brave. Go back to your
books, and I shall send you three good Erkynlanders and Is"
grimnur's man Sludig in the morning."

"My thanks, Prince Josua," Binabik nodded. "But I think it is at
night tomorrow we should be leaving. We will be a small party, and
our best hope is in not attracting evil attention."

"So be it," said Josua, rising and lifting his hand as though in
benediction. "Who knows if this is some fool's errand or the rescue
of us all? You should be going out amid trumpets and applause.
Instead necessity must override honor, and stealth must be the
watchword. Know that our thoughts are with you."

Isgrimnur hesitated, then leaned forward and clasped Binabik's
small hand. "Damned strange this is," he said, "but God be with
you. If Sludig should get contentious, be forgiving. He is high-spir-
ited, but his heart is good and his loyalty strong."

"Thank you, Duke," the troll said seriously. "May your god be
blessing us indeed. We go into unknown places."

"As do all mortals," Josua added. "Sooner or later."

^

"What! You told the prince and everyone I would go where?"
Simon balled his fists in anger. "What right did you have to do
that?!"

"Simon-friend," Binabik calmly responded. "You are under no
order to go. I was only asking Josua's permission for your being on
this search, and it was granted. The choosing is for you."

"S'bloody Tree! What else can I do now? If I say no, everyone will
think I'm a coward!"

"Simon." The little man put on a look of patience. "First, please

566 Tad Williams

do not be using your new-learned soldier curses on me. We Qanuc
are a courteous folk. For second, it is not good worrying so on
other's opinions. Anyway, staying at Naglimund will certainly not
be for cowards."

Simon hissed a great frosty cloud of breath and hugged himself.
He stared up at the murky sky, at the dull blur of sun secreted
behind the clouds.

Why are people always making decisions for me without asking
first? Am I a child?

He stood for some moments, red-faced from more than the chill,
until Binabik reached out a small, gentle hand.

"My friend, I am sorrowful this was not the honor I was hoping it
to be -- an honor of dreadful, dreadful danger, of course, but an
honor. I have explained of what importance we think this quest, of
how the fate of Naglimund and all the north may hang on its accom-
plishing. And, of course, that all may be perishing without fame or
song in the white northern waste." He patted Simon's knuckles sol-
emnly, then reached into the pocket of his fur-lined jacket. "Here,"
he said, and put something hard and cold into Simon's fingers.

Momentarily distracted, he opened his hand to look. It was a ring,
a plain, thin circlet of some golden metal. On it was inscribed a
simple design: a long oval with a tipped triangle at one end.

"The fish sign of the League of the Scroll," Binabik said.
"Morgenes tied this thing to the sparrow's leg, along with the note
of which I was speaking before. The end of the note told this was for
you."

Simon held it up, trying to catch a gleam of the dull sunlight. "I
never saw Morgenes wear it," he said, a little surprised that it star-
tled up no memories. "Do all the League members have one? Be-
sides, how could I be worthy to wear it? I can hardly read. My
spelling isn't very good, either."

Binabik smiled. "My master did not have such a ring, or at least I
never was seeing it. As for the other: Morgenes was wanting you to
have it, and that is permission enough, I have sureness."

"Binabik/* Simon said, squinting, "it has writing on the inside."
He held it up for the troll to inspect. "I can't read it."

The troll narrowed his eyes. "It is writing in some Sithi tongue,"
he said, turning the ring to peruse its inner rim, "hard to read for

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             567

being very small, and in a style I do not know." He studied it a
moment longer.

" 'Dragon,' that character means," Binabik read at last. "And this
one means, I believe, 'death' . . . 'Death and the Dragon'? . . .
'Death of the Dragon'?" He looked up at Simon, grinned and
shrugged. "What it might be meaning, I have no idea. My knowl-
edge is not deep enough. Some conceit of your doctor's, is my guess-
ing -- or perhaps a family motto. Perhaps Jarnauga could read it
with more ease."

It slid easily on the third finger of Simon's right hand, as though it
had been made for him. Morgenes had been so smalll How could he
have worn this?

"Do you think it's a magic ring?" he asked suddenly, narrowing
his eyes as though he might detect spells swarming around the
golden circle like minuscule bees.

"If so," Binabik said, mock-somberly, "Morgenes included no
grammarye for explaining its using." He shook his head. "I think it
is not a likelihood. A keepsake, from a man who was caring for
you."

"Why are you giving it to me now?" Simon asked, feeling a cer-
tain sorrowful tightness behind his eyes that he was determined to
resist.

"Because I must be leaving tomorrow night to go north. If you
decide for remaining here, we might not have opportunity to meet
again."

"Binabiki" The tightening increased. He felt like a small child
pushed back and forth between bullying elders.

"The truth it is, only." The troll's round face was entirely serious
now. He raised his hand to forestall more protests and questions.
"Now you must be deciding, my good friend. I go into the snow and
ice country, on an errand that may be foolishness, and which may
claim the lives of the fools who are following it. Those who remain
are facing the anger of a king's army. An evil choosing, I fear."
Binabik nodded his head gravely. "But, Simon, whichever it is for
you, going north or staying to fight for Naglimund -- and princess -- 
we will be the best of comrades still, yes?"

He stood on tiptoe to clap Simon on the upper arm, then turned
and walked away across the courtyard toward the archives.

568 Tad Williams

*           *

Simon found her standing alone, tossing pebbles into the castle
well. She wore a heavy traveling cloak and hood against the cold.

"Hello, Princess," he said. She looked up and smiled, sadly. For
some reason she seemed much older today, like a grown woman.

"Welcome, Simon." Her breath made a halo of mist about her
head.

He began to bend his knee in a bow, but she was no longer look-
ing. Another stone rattled down the well. He considered sitting
down, which seemed the natural thing to do, but the only place to sit
was the edge of the well, which would either put him uncomfortably
close to the princess or leave him facing in the wrong direction. He
decided to remain on his feet. "And how have you been?" he said at
last. She sighed.

"My uncle treats me as though I am made of eggshells and cob-
webs -- like I would shatter if I lifted anything, or if anyone bumped
into me."

"I'm sure ... I'm sure that he is only worried for your safety,
after the dangerous journey you had to get here."

"The dangerous journey we had, but nobody's following you
around to make sure you don't skin your knee. They're even teach-
ing you how to fight with a sword!"

"Miri . . . Princess!" Simon was more than a little shocked.
"You don't want to fight with swords, do you?!"

She looked up at him, and their eyes met. For an instant her stare
burned like the noonday sun with some inexplicable longing; a mo-
ment later she wearily dropped her gaze again.

"No," she said, "I suppose not. But, oh, I do wish to do some-
thing!"

Surprised, he heard the real pain in her voice, and in that moment
remembered her as she had been on the flight up the Stile, uncom-
plaining and strong, as good a companion as could be wished.

"What . . . what do you want to do?"

She looked up again, pleased by the serious tone of his question.
"Well," she began, "it's no secret that Josua is having trouble con-
vincing Devasalles that his master Duke Leobardis should support
the prince against my father. Josua could send me to Nabban!"

"Send you . . . to Nabban?"

"Of course, you idiot." She frowned. "On my mother's side I am

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             569

of the Ingadarine House, a very noble family of Nabban. My aunt is
married to Leobardis! Who better to go and convince the dukel?"
She clapped her gloved hands for emphasis.

"Oh , . ." Simon was unsure of what to say. "Perhaps Josua
thinks that it would be ... would be ... I don't know." He con-
sidered. "I mean to say, should the High King's daughter be the one
to ... to arrange alliances against him?"

"And who knows the High King's ways better?" Now she was
angry.

"Do you . . ." He hesitated, but his curiosity won out. "How do
you feel toward your father?"

"Do I hate him?" Her tone was bitter. "I hate what he has be-
come. I hate what the men around him have put him up to. If he
would suddenly find goodness in his heart, and see the error of his
ways . . . well, then I would love him again."

A whole procession of stones went down the well as Simon stood
uncomfortably by.

"I'm sorry, Simon," she said at last. "I have become very bad at
talking with people. My old nurse would be shocked at how much I
have forgotten, running around in the forest. How are you, and what
have you been doing?"

"Binabik has asked me to go with him on a mission for Josua," he
said, bringing the subject up more abruptly than he had meant to.
"To the north," he added significantly.

Instead of showing the expressions of worry and fear he had ex-
pected, the princess* face seemed to light up from within; although
she smiled at him, she did not truly seem to see him. "Oh, Simon,"
she said, "how brave. How fine. Can you . . . when do you leave?"

"Tomorrow night," he said, dimly aware that somehow, by some
mysterious process, asked to go had become going. "But I haven't
decided yet," he said feebly. "I thought I might be more needed
here, at Naglimund -- to wield a spear on the walls." He tacked on
the last just in case there was any possibility she thought he might be
staying behind to work in the kitchens, or something like.

"Oh, but Simon," Miriamele said, reaching up suddenly to take
his cold hand in her leather-gloved fingers. "If my uncle needs you
to do it, you must! We have so little hope left, from all I have heard."

She reached up to her neck and quickly unfastened the sky-blue
scarf she wore, a slender gauzy strip; she handed it to him. 'Take

570 Tad Williams

this and bear it for me," she said. Simon felt the blood come roaring
up into his cheeks, and struggled to keep his lips from stretching
into a shocked, mooncalfish grin.

"Thank you . . . Princess," he said at last.

'*If you wear it," she said, standing up, "it will be almost as
though I were there myself." She did a funny little dance step, and
laughed.

Simon was trying without success to understand what exactly had
happened, and how it had happened so fast. "It will be, princess," he
said. "Like you were there."

Something in the way he said it tripped up her sudden mood: her
expression turned sober, even sad. She smiled again, a slower, more
rueful smile, then quickly stepped forward, startling Simon so that
he almost raised a hand to ward her off. She brushed his cheek with
her cool lips.

"I know you will be brave, Simon. Come back safely. I shall pray
for you."

Immediately she was gone, running across the courtyard like a
little girl, her dark cape a smoky swirl as she disappeared into the
twilit archway. Simon stood holding her scarf. He thought of it, and
her smile when she kissed his cheek, and he felt something smolder
into flame inside of him. It seemed, in some way he did not fully
understand, that a single torch had been lit against the vast gray
chill looming in the north. It was only a single point of brightness in
a dreadful storm . . . but even a lone fire could bring a traveler
home safe.

He rolled the soft cloth into a ball and slipped it into his shirt.

^

"I am glad you have come so quickly," Lady Vorzheva said. The
brilliance of her yellow dress seemed reflected in her dark eyes.

"My lady honors me," the monk replied, his eyes straying about
the room.

Vorzheva laughed harshly. "You are the only one who thinks it
honorable to visit me. But no matter. You understand what it is you
must do?"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             571

"I am sure that I have it correctly. It is a matter difficult in
execution, but easily grasped in concept." He bowed his head.

"Good. Then wait no longer, for the more wait, the less chance of
success- Also more chance for tongues to wag." She whirled away to
the back chamber in a rush of silks.

"Uh ... my lady?" The man blew on his fingers. The prince's
chambers were cold, the fire unlit. "There is the matter of ...
payment?"

"I thought you did this as honor for me, sir?" Vorzheva called
from the back room.

"Welladay, madam, I am but a poor man. What you ask will take
resources." He blew on his fingers again, then thrust his hands deep
into his robe.

She came back bearing a purse of shiny cloth. "That I know.
Here. It is in gold, as I promised -- half now, half when I receive
proof that your task is completed." She handed him the purse, then
drew back. "You stink of wine! Is that the sort of man you are,
trusted with this grave task?"

"It is the sacramental wine, my lady. Sometimes on my difficult
road it is the only thing to drink. You must understand." He favored
her with a diffident smile, then made the sign of the Tree over the
gold before stowing it in the pocket of his robe. "We do what we
must to serve God's will."

Vorzheva nodded slowly. "That I can understand. Do not fail me,
sir. You serve a great purpose, and not just for me."

"I understand. Lady." He bowed, then turned and left. Vorzheva
stood and stared at the parchments strewn on the prince's table and
let out a deep breath. The thing was done.

Twilight of the day after he spoke to the princess found Simon in
the chambers of Prince Josua, preparing to say farewell. In a sort of
daze, as though he had just awakened, he stood listening as the
prince had his final words with Binabik. The boy and the troll had
spent the whole of the dark day preparing their kit, obtaining a new
fur-lined cloak and helmet for Simon, along with a light mail shirt to
wear beneath his outer clothing. The coat of thin ringlets, Haestan

572 Tad Williams

had pointed out, would not save him from a direct sword blow or an
arrow to the heart, but would stand him in good stead in the case of
some less than deadly assault.

Simon found the weight of it reassuring, but Haestan warned him
that at the end of a long day's journey he might not feel so cheerful
about it.

"Y'r soldier carries many burdens, boy," the big man told him,
"an' sometimes keepin' alive's th'hardest one."

Haestan himself had been one of the three Erkynlanders to step
forward when the captains had called for men. Like his two com-
panions, Ethelbeam, a scarred, bushy-mustached veteran nearly as
big as Haestan, and Grimmric, a slender, hawkish man with bad
teeth and watchful eyes, he had spent so long preparing for siege
that any sort of action was welcome, even something as dangerous
and mysterious as this quest looked to be. When Haestan found out
Simon was going too, he was even more adamant in his desire to join
them.

"T'send such a boy's madness," he growled, *' 'special when he's
not finished learning t'swing sword or shoot arrow. I'd best go an'
keep at teachin' 'im."

Duke Isgrimnur's man Sludig was also there, a young Rim-
mersman attired like the Erkynlanders in furs and conical helmet. In
place of the longsword the others carried, blond-bearded Sludig had
two notch-bladed hand axes thrust in his belt. He grinned cheerfully
at Simon, anticipating his question.

"Sometimes one gets stuck in a skull or rib cage," the Rimmers-
garder said. He spoke the Westerling tongue nimbly, with almost as
little accent as the duke. "It is nice to have another to use until you
get the first one out."

Nodding, Simon tried to smile back.

"Well met again, Simon." Sludig extended a callused hand.

"Again?"

"We met once before, at Hoderund's abbey," Sludig laughed. "But
you spent the journey arse-end-up across Einskaldir's saddle. I hope
that is not the only way you know how to ride."

Simon blushed, clasped the northerner's hand, then turned away.

"We have turned up little to help you on your way," Jamauga was
regretfully telling Binabik. "The Skendian monks left scant word

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             573

about Colmund's expedition besides the transactions of its outfitting.
They probably thought him a madman."

"Most likely they had it correctly," the troll observed. He was
burnishing the bone-handled knife he had carved to replace the
missing piece of his staff.

"We did find one thing," said Strangyeard. The priest's hair stood
up in wild tufts, and his eye patch sat a little off-center, as though he
had come straight from spending an entire night poring over his
books . . . which he had. "The abbey's book-keeper wrote: *the
Baron does not know how long his journeying to the Rhymer's Tree
shall last . . .'"

"It is unfamiliar," Jamauga said, "in fact, it is probably some-
thing the monk misheard, or got third hand . . . but it is a name.
Perhaps it will make more sense when you reach the mountain Unn-
sheim."

"Perhaps," said Josua thoughtfully, "it is a town along the way, a
village at the mountain's foot?"

"Perhaps," Binabik answered doubtfully, "but from what I am
knowing of those places, there is nothing lying between the ruins of
the Skendi monastery and the mountains -- nothing there is but ice,
trees, and rocks, of course. Plenty of those things there are."

As final farewells were spoken, Simon heard Sangfugol's voice
drift out from the room in back, where he was singing for the Lady
Vorzheva.

". . . And shall I go a-wandering
Out in the winter's chill?
Or shall I come now home again?
Whate'er thou sayest, I will ..."

Simon picked up his quiver and looked for the third or fourth
time to make sure the White Arrow was still there. Bewildered, as
though caught in some slow and clinging dream, he realized that he
was setting off on a journey once more -- and again he was not quite
sure why. His time at Naglimund had been so brief. Now it was
over, at least for a long while. As he touched the blue scarf tied
loosely at his throat he realized he might not see any of the others in
this room again, anybody at Naglimund . . . Sangfugol, old
Towser, or Miriamele. He thought he felt his heart trip for a mo-

574 Tad Williams

ment, the beat stuttering like a drunkard, and was reaching for
something to lean on when he felt a strong hand clasp his elbow.

"There you be, lad." It was Haestan. "Bad enow that ye've no
leamin' with the sword an' bow, now we're goin' t'put you t'horse-
back."

"Horseback?" Simon said. "I'll like that."
"No y'won't," Haestan smirked. "Not for month or two."
Josua said a few words to each one of them, and then there were
warm, solemn handclasps all around. A short while later they were
in the dark, cold courtyard where Qantaqa and seven, stamping,
steaming horses awaited them, five for riding and a pair for carrying
heavy gear. If there was a moon, it was hidden like a sleeping cat in
the blanket of clouds.

"Good it is that we have this darkness," Binabik said, swinging up
into the new saddle on Qantaqa's gray back. The men, seeing the
troll's steed for the first time, exchanged wondering looks as Binabik
clicked his tongue and the wolf sprang out before them. A group of
soldiers quietly raised the oiled porticullis, and they were out under
the broad sky, the field of shadowy nails spread around them as they
made for the close-looming hills.

"Good-bye, everyone," Simon said quietly. They started up the
sloping path.

High above on the Stile, at the crest of the hill overlooking Nag-
limund, a black shape was watching.

Even with his keen eyes, Ingen Jegger could make out little more
in the moonless murk than that someone had left the castle by the
eastern gate. That, however, was more than enough to raise his
interest.

He stood, rubbing his hands, and considered calling one of his
men to go down with him and get a better look. Instead he lifted his
fist to his mouth and hooted like a snow owl. Seconds later a huge
shape appeared from the scrub growth and leaped onto the Stile
beside him. It was a hound, bigger even than the one killed by the
troll's tame wolf, shining white in the moonlight, its eyes twin pearl
slots in a long, grinning face. It growled, a deep, cavernous rumble,
and swiveled its head from side to side, nostrils wrinkling.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             575

"Yes, Niku'a, yes," Ingen hissed quietly. "It is time to hunt once
more."

A moment later the Stile was empty. The leaves rattled ever so
gently beside the ancient tiles, but no wind was blowing.

35

The Raven
and the Cauldron

^

MAEGWIN winced as the clanging began again, the doleful clatter
that signified so much -- and none of it good. One of the other girls, a
small, fair-skinned beauty that Maegwin had assessed at first glance
as a quitter, let go of the bar they were all pushing to cover her ears.
The heavy piece of fencing meant to hold the gate closed nearly
tumbled free, but Maegwin and the two other girls clung on grimly.

"Bagba's Herd, Cifgha," she snarled at the one who had let loose,
"are you mad?! If this had fallen, someone might have been crushed,
or at least broken a foot!"

"I'm sorry, I am, my lady," the girl said, cheeks flushed, "it's just
that loud noise ... it frightens me!" She stepped back to take her
place again, and they all pushed, trying to get the massive oak bar
over the top and into the notch that would hold the paddock closed.
Inside the restraining fence a close-packed congregation of red cattle
grunted, as unsettled as the young women by the continual din.

With a scrape and thump the log fell down into place, and they all
turned, panting, to slump with their backs against the gate.

"Merciful are the gods," Maegwin groaned, "my spine is break-
ing!"

"It's not right," Cifgha opined, staring ruefully at the bleeding
scratches on her palms. "It's men's work!"

The metallic clamor stopped, and for a moment the very silence
seemed to sing. Lluth's daughter sighed and took in a deep breath of
frosty air.

"No, little Cifgha," she said, '"what the men are doing now is
men's work, and whatever is left to do is women's work -- unless you
want to carry a sword and spear."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             577

"Cifgha?" one of the other girls said, laughing. "She won't even
kill a spider."

"I always call Tuilleth to do it," Cifgha said, proud of her fastidi-
ousness, "and he always comes to me."

Maegwin made a sour face- "Well, we had better get used to deal-
ing with our own spiders. There will not be many menfolk around in
the days to come, and those who remain will have much else to do."

"It's different for you. Princess," Cifgha said. "You're big and
strong."

Maegwin stared hard at her but did not answer.

"You don't think the fighting will go on all summer, do you?"
asked another girl, as if speaking of a particularly dreary chore.
Maegwin turned to look at them all, at their sweat-dampened faces
and their eyes already roaming, looking for something more interest-
ing to talk about. For a moment she wanted to shout, to frighten
them into realizing that this was not a tournament, not a game of
some sort, but deadly serious.

But why nib their faces in the mud now? she thought, relenting.
Soon enough we will all of us get more than we need of it.

"I don't know if it will last that long, Gwelan,** she said, and
shook her head. "I hope not. I truly hope not."

As she made her way down from the paddocks toward the great
hall, the two men again started to beat the huge bronze cauldron
that hung upside down in its frame of oaken poles before the Taig*s
front doors. As she trotted past, the noise of the men furiously
ringing the cauldron with iron-tipped cudgels was so loud that she
had to cover her ears with her hands. She wondered again how her
father and his advisors could think, let alone plan life-and-death
strategy with this awful ruckus just outside the hall. Still, ifRhynn's
Cauldron was not rung, it would take days to warn each of the
outlying towns one by one, especially those that clung to the slopes
of the Grianspog. This way those villages and manor halls within
earshot of the cauldron would send riders to those beyond. The lord
of the Taig had rung the cauldron in times of danger since long
before the days when Hem the Hunter and Oinduth his mighty
spear had made of their land a great kingdom. Children who had
never heard it sounded still recognized it instantly, so many stories
of Rhynn's Cauldron were told.

578 Tad Williams

The Taig's high windows today were shuttered against the chill
wind and mists. Maegwin found her father and his counselors in
earnest discussion before the fireplace.

"My daughter," Lluth said, standing. He expended visible effort
to produce a smile for her.

"I took some women and got the last of the cattle into the big
paddock," Maegwin reported. "I don't think it's right to squeeze
them ail so tightly. The cows are miserable."

Lluth waved a dismissive hand. "Better we lose some few now
than have to try and round them up if we must fall back to the hills
in a hurry."

At the far end of the hall the door opened, and the sentries banged
their swords against their shields once, as though to echo the pierc-
ing noise of the Summons of the Cauldron. "I do thank you,
Maegwin," the king said, turning from her to greet the new arrival.

"Eolair!" he called out as the count strode forward, still dressed in
travel-stained clothes. "You are swift in returning from the healers.
Good. How are your men?"

The Count of Nad Mullach approached, dropped briefly to one
knee, then stood again at Lluth's impatient gesture- "Five are able-
bodied; the two wounded do not look well. The other four I shall
call Skali to account for personally." He saw Lluth's daughter at last
and smiled his broad smile, but his brow remained knitted in a
weary, troubled study. "My Lady Maegwin," he said, and bowed
again, kissing her long-fingered hand, which, she was embarrassed to
notice, was smudged with dirt from the paddock fence.

"I heard you were back, Count," she said. "I only wish it were in
happier circumstances."

"It's a terrible shame about your brave Mullachi, Eolair," the
king said, returning to sit with old Craobhan and his other trusted
men. "But thanks be to Brynioch and Murhagh One-arm that you
stumbled on to that scout party. If not, Skali and his bastard north-
erners would have been on us unawares. After the skirmish with
your men gets back to him, he'll make a much more cautious ap-
proach, I'm sure -- he may even change his mind altogether."

"I wish that were true, my king," Eolair said, shaking his head
sadly. Maegwin's heart softened to see how bravely he bore his wea-
riness; she silently cursed her childish emotions. "But," he contin-

579

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

ued, "I fear it is not. For Skali to make such a treacherous attack so
far from his home he must feel sure the odds are leaning his way."

"Why, though, why?" Lluth protested. "We have been at peace
with the Rimmersmen for years!"

"I think, sire, that has little to do with it." Eolair was respectful
but unafraid to correct his king. "If old Isgrimnur still rules in
Elvritshalla, you would be right to wonder, but Skali is Elias' crea-
ture entirely, I think. Rumor in Nabban said Elias will go into the
field against Josua any day. He knows we have refused Guthwulf's
ultimatum, and he fears to have the Hemystiri unencumbered at his
back when he moves against Naglimund."

"But Gwythinn is still there!" said Maegwin, frightened.

"And with half a hundred of our best men, worse luck," old
Craobhan growled from beside the fireplace.

Eolair turned to give Maegwin a kind look, the condescending
sort, she felt sure. "Your brother is doubtless safer behind the thick
stone walls of Josua's castle then he would be here in Hemysadharc.
Also, if he hears of our plight and can ride out,- his fifty men will be
at Skali's back, to our advantage."

King Lluth rubbed his eyes as though to wring out the dismay
and worry of the last day. "I do not know, Eolair, I do not know. I
have a bad feeling about this all. It takes no soothsayer to see an ill-
omened year, which this has been from its first instant."

"I'm still here, father," Maegwin said, and went forward to kneel
beside him. "I will stay with you." The king patted her hand.

Eolair smiled and nodded at the girl's words to her father, but his
mind was obviously on his two dying men, and on the vast force of
Rimmersmen moving down the Frostmarch into the Inniscrich, a
great wave of sharp, sentient iron.

"Those who stay will perhaps not thank us," he said beneath his
breath.

Outside the brazen voice of the cauldron sang out across
Hemysadharc, shouting ceaselessly to the hills beyond: Beware . . .
Beware . . . Beware . . .

^

580 Tad Williams

Baron Devasalles and his small Nabbanai contingent had some-
how contrived to make their row of chambers in Naglimund's drafty
east wing into a little bit of their southern home. Although the
freakish weather was too cold to allow the wide-open windows and
doors so prevalent in balmy Nabban, they had covered the stone
walls with bright green and sky-blue tapestries and filled every avail-
able surface with candles and guttering oil lamps so that the shut-
tered rooms bloomed with light.

It's brighter in here at noon than it is outside, Isgrimnur decided.
But it's like old Jamauga said -- they won't be able to make every-
thing else go away so easy as they have the wintry dark, not by half.

The duke's nostrils twitched like those of a frightened horse.
Devasalles had set out pots of scented oils everywhere, some afloat
with lighted wicks like white worms, filling the chamber with the
thick smells of island spices.

/ wonder if it's the smell of everyone's fear he doesn 't like, or that of
good honest iron? Isgrimnur grunted in distaste and slid his chair
over by the hallway door.

Devasalles had been surprised to find the duke and Prince Josua
at his door, unannounced and unexpected, but had quickly invited
them in, throwing aside some of the multicolored robes that draped
the hard chairs so his guests could seat themselves.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Baron," Josua said, leaning forward to
rest his elbows on his knees, "but I wished to speak to you alone
before we conclude the Raed tonight."

"Of course, my prince, of course," Devasalles nodded encourag-
ingly. Isgrimnur, disdainfully observing the man's shining hair and
the glinting baubles he wore at neck and wrist, wondered how he
could be the deadly swordsman his reputation declared him.

Looks like he might catch a hilt on his own necklaces and hang
himself.

Josua hurriedly explained the events of the last two days, which
were the real reason the Raed had not continued. Devasalles, who,
like the rest of the assembled lords, had doubted but accepted the
prince's claim of illness, raised his eyebrow but said nothing.

"I could not talk openly; I still cannot," Josua amplified. "In the
mad crush, the muster of local forces, the comings and goings, it
would be only too easy for someone of bad faith or one of Elias' spies
to take the news of our fears and plans to the High King."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             581

"But our fears are known to all," Devasalles said, "and we have
made no plans -- yet."

"By the time I am ready to speak of these things to all the lords, I
will have made the gates secure -- but you see. Baron, you do not yet
know all the story."

With that the prince proceeded to tell Devasalles all the latest
discoveries, of the three swords and the prophetic poem in the mad
priest's book, and how these things matched with the dreams of
many.

"But if you will tell all your liegemen this soon enough, why tell
me now?" Devasalles asked. By the doorway Isgrimnur snorted; he,
too, had wondered this same thing.

"Because I need your lord Leobardis, and I need him now!" Josua
said. "I need Nabban!" He stood and began a circuit of the room,
facing the walls as though he studied their hangings, but his gaze
was focused on a point somewhere leagues beyond the stone and
woven cloth.

"I have needed your duke's pledge from the beginning, but I need
him more now than ever I did. Elias has given Rimmersgard, for all
practical purposes, to Skali and his Kaldskryke Raven-clan. Thus he
has put a knife against King Lluth's back; the Hemystiri will be able
to send me many fewer men, forced as they will be to keep a quan-
tity back to defend their lands. Already Gwythinn, who a week ago
was chafing to be at Elias, is anxious to return and help his father
defend Hemysadharc and its outlands."

Josua whirled to stare Devasalles in the eyes. The prince's face
was a mask of cold pride, but his hand twisted at his short-front,
something neither Isgrimnur or the baron failed to notice. "If Duke
Leobardis ever hopes to be more than a lackey to Elias, he must
throw in his lot with me now."

"But why do you tell this to me?" Devasalles asked. He looked
honestly puzzled. "I know all of this last, and the other things -- the
swords and the book and all -- make no difference."

"Damn it, man, they do!" Josua snapped back, his voice rising
almost to a shout. "Without Leobardis, and with Hernystir under
the northern threat, my brother will have us as snug as if we were
nailed in a barrel, and also he is dealing with demons -- and who can
know what dread advantage that means?! We have made some small,
feeble attempt to counter those forces, but what good will come of it

582 Tad Williams

 -- even if it succeeds, against all likelihood -- if all the freeholds have
been already thrown down?! Neither your duke nor anyone else will
ever answer King Elias with anything but 'yes, master,' from now
on!"

The baron shook his head again, and his necklaces chinked gently.
"I am confused, my lord. Can it be that you do not know? I sent a
message to the Sancellan Mahistrevis in Nabban by my fastest rider
the night before yesterday, telling Leobardis I believed you would
fight, and that he should move to put his men into the field in your
support."

"What?" Isgrimnur leaped up, his astonishment echoing the
prince's. They both stood swaying over Devasalles, their expressions
those of men ambushed by night.

"Why have you not told me?" Josua demanded.

"But my prince, I did tell you," Devasalles sputtered, **or at least,
since I was advised you might not be disturbed, I sent a message to
your chambers with my seal on it. Surely you read it?"

"Blessed Usires and his Mother!" Josua smacked his open left
hand against his thigh. "I have only myself to blame, for it sits even
now on my bedside table. Deomoth brought it to me, but I was
waiting for a quieter moment. I suppose I forgot. Still it is no harm
done, and your news is excellent."

"You say Leobardis will ride?" Isgrimnur asked suspiciously.
"How are you so sure? You seemed to have more than a few doubts
yourself."

"Duke Isgrimnur," Devasalles* tone was frosty, "surely you real-
ize I was only fulfilling my duty. In truth, Duke Leobardis has long
been in sympathy with Prince Josua. Likewise, he has feared Elias is
becoming overbold. The troops have been on alert for weeks."

*Then why send you?" Josua asked. "What did he think to dis-
cover that he did not have already from me, through my messen-
gers?"

"He sought nothing new," Devasalles said, "although there has
been far more learned here than I think any of us bargained for. No,
he sent my embassy more to make a show for certain others in
Nabban."

"There is resistance among his liegemen?" Josua asked, eyes
bright.

"Of course, but that is not unusual . . . nor is it the source of my

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              583

mission. It was to undermine resistance from a closer source." Here,
although the smallish chamber was obviously empty but for the
three of them, Devasalles darted a look on all sides-

"It is his wife and son who resist most strongly his making com-
mon cause with you," Devasalles said at last.

"You mean the eldest, Benigaris?"

"Yes, else he or one of Leobardis' younger sons should have been
here in my stead." The baron shrugged. "Benigaris sees much he
likes in Elias' rule, and the Duchess Nessalanta . . ." The Nab-
banai emissary shrugged again.

"She, too, favors the High King's chances," Josua smiled bitterly.
"Nessalanta is a clever woman. Too bad that now she will be forced,
willy-nilly, to support her husband's choice of allies. She might well
be correct in her misgivings."

"Josua!" Isgrimnur was shocked.

"I only jest, old friend," the prince said, but his expression belied
him. "So the duke will go into the field then, good Devasalles?"

"As soon as possible, Prince Josua. With ttie cream of Nabban's
knights in his train."

"And a strong dollop of pikemen and archers as well, I hope.
Well, Aedon's grace on us all. Baron."

He and Isgrimnur said their farewells and went out into the dark
corridor, the bright colors of the baron's chamber left behind them
like a dream abandoned at the lip of awakening.

"One person I know will be very glad of this news, Isgrimnur."

The duke raised a questioning eyebrow.

"My niece. Miriamele was very upset when she thought Leobardis
might not come over. Nessalanta is her aunt, after all. She'll be glad
of this news, indeed."

"Let us go tell her," Isgrimnur proposed, taking Josua's elbow
and guiding him out toward the courtyard. "She may be with the
other court ladies. I'm tired of looking at whiskery soldiers. I may be
an old man, but I still like to look on a lady or two from time to
time."

"So be it." Josua smiled, the first unforced example Isgrimnur had
seen in several days. "Then we'll go by and visit your wife, and you
may tell her about your undiminished love of the ladies."

"Prince Josua," the old duke said carefully, "you'll never be too

584 Tad Williams

damn old or exalted that I can't knuckle your ears, just you see if I

can't."

"Not today, Uncle," Josua smirked. "I'll need 'em to appreciate
just what Outrun has to say to you."

^

The wind soughing in off the water carried the smell of cypress.
Tiamak, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, gave silent thanks to
He Who Always Steps on Sand for the unexpected breeze. Coming
back from checking his trap line he had felt the storm-charged air
descend on the Wran: hot, angry air that came and would not go
away, like a marsh crocodile circling a leaking skiff.

Again Tiamak wiped his forehead dry, and reached for the bowl
ofyellowroot tea steeping on the firestone. As he sipped, not without
some pain to his cracked lips, he worried over what he should do.

It was Morgenes' strange message that disturbed him. For days its
ominous words had rattled in his head like pebbles in a dry gourd as
he poled his boat through the byways of the Wran, or made his way
to market in Kwanitupul, the trading village that crouched along
the outlet stream from lake Eadne. He made the three-day flatboat
trip to Kwanitupul once every new moon, putting his unusual
schooling to good advantage at the marketing stalls, helping the
smaller Wrannamen merchants to bargain with the Nabbanai and
Perdruinese traders who worked the Wran's coastal villages. The
taxing journey to Kwanitupul was a necessity, if only to earn a few
coins and perhaps a bag of rice. The rice he used to supplement that
occasional crab too stupid or too cocksure to avoid his traps. There
were not many crabs so obliging, however, which was the reason
Tiamak's usual table fare was fish and roots.

As he crouched in his tiny, banyan-perched cabin, anxiously turn-
ing over Morgenes' message for the hundredth time, he thought
back to the bustling, hilly streets of Ansis Pelippe, Perdruin's capi-
tal, where he and the old doctor had first met.

As much as the clamor and spectacle of the vast trading port, a
hundred, no, many hundreds of times the size of Kwanitipul -- a fact
that his fellow Wrannamen would never believe, provincial, sand-
scuffing louts that they were -- it was the smells Tiamak remembered

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              585

most strongly, the million shifting scents: the dank salt smell of the
wharves, spiced with the tang of the fishing boats; the cook fires in
the street where bearded island men offered skewers of bubbling,
charred mutton; the musk of sweating, champing horses whose
proud riders, merchants and soldiers cantered boldly down the mid-
dle of the cobbled streets, letting the pedestrians scatter where they
might; and of course, the swirling odors of saffron and quickweed, of
cinnamon and mantinges, that eddied through the Spice District like
fleeting, exotic solicitations.

Just the memories made him so hungry he almost wanted to weep,
but Tiamak steeled himself. There was work to be done, and he
could not be distracted by such fleshly obsessions. Morgenes needed
him, somehow, and Tiamak had to be ready.

In fact, it had been food that had brought him to Morgenes'
attention, all those years ago in Perdruin, The doctor, on some kind
of apothecarical search through the trading districts of Ansis Pel-
lipe, had bumped into and almost knocked over the Wrannaman
youth, so intently was young Tiamak eyeing an array of marchpane
on a baker's table. The doctor was amused and intrigued by the
marsh lad so far from home, whose apologies to the older man were
so full of carefully -learned Nabbanai idiom. When Morgenes learned
that the boy was in Perdruin's capitol to study with the Usirean
Brothers, and was the first of his village to leave the swampy Wran,
he bought him a large square of marchpane and a cup of milk. From
that moment on Morgenes was as a god to the astounded Tiamak.

The smudged sheet of parchment before him, even though itself a
copy of the original message that had fallen to pieces from handling,
was nevertheless becoming hard to read. He had stared at it so many
times, however, that it no longer mattered. He had even placed it
back into its original ciphers and retranslated it, just to make sure he
had not missed some subtle but important detail.

"The time of the Conqueror Star is surely upon us . . ." the doc-
tor had written, in the course of warning Tiamak this would likely
be his last letter for a long while. Tiamak's help would be needed.
Morgenes assured him, ". . . if certain dreadful things which -- it is
said -- are hinted at in the infamous lost book of the priest
Nisses ..." were to be avoided.

The first time he had gone to Kwanitupul after receiving

586 Tad Williams

Morgenes' sparrow-borne message, Tiamak asked Middastri, a Per-
druinese merchant with whom he sometimes drank a bowl of beer,
what dreadful things were happening in Erchester, the city where
Morgenes lived in Erkynland. Middastri said he had heard of strife
between the High King Elias and Lluth of Hemystir, and of course
everyone had been talking about the falling out between Elias and
his brother Prince Josua for months, but beyond that the merchant
could think of nothing special. Tiamak, who from Morgenes' mes-
sage had feared danger of a vaster and more immediate sort, had felt
a little better. Still, the import of the doctor's message tugged at him.

"The infamous lost book ..." How had Morgenes known the
secret? Tiamak had not told anyone; he had wanted to surprise the
doctor with it on a visit he had planned to make next spring, his first
time ever north of Perdruin. Now it appeared Morgenes already
knew something of his prize -- but why didn't he say so? Why should
he instead hint and riddle and suggest, like a crab carefully poking
the fish head out of one of Tiamak's traps?

The Wrannaman set down his bowl of tea and moved across the
low-ceilinged room, hardly rising from his bent-kneed crouch. The
hot, sour wind began to blow a little more strongly, rocking the
house on its tall stilts, lifting the thatch with a serpentine hiss. He
searched in his wooden chest for the leaf-wrapped thing, carefully
hidden below the stack of parchment that was his own rewriting of
Sovran Remedys of the Wranna Healers, what Tiamak secretly liked
to think of as his "great work." Finding it at last he brought it out
and unwrapped it, not for the first time in the last fortnight.

As it lay beside his transcription of Morgenes' message, he was
taken by the contrast. Morgenes' words were painstakingly copied in
black root-ink on cheap parchment, beaten so thin a candle flame
held a handsbreadth away might puff it into flame. The other, the
prize, was scribed on a sheet of tight-stretched skin or hide. The
reddish brown words trailed crazily across the page, as though the
writer had been a-horseback, or sitting at the table during an earth
tremor.

This last was the jewel of Tiamak's collection -- indeed, if he was
right about what it was, would be the crowning gem of anyone's
collection. He had found it in a great pile of other used parchments a
trader in Kwanitupul was selling for scribing practice. The trader
had not known who the chest of papers had belonged to, only that

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             587

he had gotten it as part of a blind lot of household goods in Nabban.
Fearing that his good fortune might evaporate, Tiamak had stifled
the urge to question further and bought it on the spot -- along with a
sheaf of other parchments -- for one shiny Nabbanai quinis-piece.

He stared at it again -- although he had read this more times even
that Morgenes' message, if such was possible -- and especially at the
top of the parchment, not so much torn as gnawed, whose disfigure-
ment ended with the letters ". . . ARDENVYRD."

Was not Nisses' famous, vanished volume -- some even called it
imaginary -- named Du Svardenvyrd? How had Morgenes known?
Tiamak had not yet told anyone of his lucky find.

Beneath the title the northern runes, smeared in some places,
flaking away into rust-colored powder in others, were nevertheless
quite readable, written in the archaic Nabbanai of five centuries
gone.

*'. . . Bringe from Nuanni's Rocke Garden
The Man who tho' Blinded canne See '
Discover the Blayde that delivers The Rose
At thefoote of the Rimmer's greate Tree
Find the Call whose lowde Claime
Speakes the Call-bearer's name
In a Shippe on the Shallowest Sea -- 

 -- When Blayde, Call, and Man

Come to Prince's right Hande

Then the Prisoned shall once more go Free . . ."

Below the strange poem a single name was printed in large, awk-
ward runes "NISSES."

Although Tiamak stared and stared, inspiration still remained
anguishingly distant. At last, sighing, he rolled the ancient scroll
back in its jacket of preservative leaves and tucked it into his
burrwood chest.

What, then, did Morgenes want him to do? Bring this thing to the
doctor himself at the Hayholt? Or should he instead send it to an-
other wise one, like the witch woman Geloe, fat Ookequk up in
Yiqanuc, or the fellow in Nabban? Perhaps the wisest plan was
merely to wait for Doctor Morgenes' further word, instead of hurry-
ing off foolishly without full understanding. After all, from what

588 Tad Williams

Midda-stn had told him, whatever Morgenes feared must still be a
long way off; there was certainly time to wait until he knew what it
was that the doctor wanted.

Time and patience, he counseled himself, time and patience . . .
Outside his window the cypress branches groaned, suffering be-
neath the wind's rough handling.

The chamber door flew open. Sangfugol and the lady Vorzheva
leaped up guiltily, as if they had been caught in some impropriety,
although the length of the chamber separated them. As they looked
up, wide-eyed, the minstrel's lute, which had been propped against
his chair, tilted and fell over at his feet. He hurriedly caught it up
and held it against his breast as though it were an injured child.

"Damn you, Vorzheva, what have you done!?" Josua demanded.
Duke Isgrimnur stood behind mm in the doorway wearing a worried
look.

"Be calm, Josua," he urged, tugging at the prince's gray Jerkin.

"When I have the truth from this . . . this woman," Josua spat.
"Until then, stay out of this, old friend."

Color was returning fast to Vorzheva's cheeks.

"What is your meaning?" she said. "You knock in doors like a
bull, and shout questions. What is your meaning?"

"Do not seek to gull me. I have Just come from speaking to the
gate-captain; I am sure he wishes I had never found him, so angry I
was. He told me that Miriamele went out yesterday forenoon with
my permission -- which was no permission, but instead my seal at-
tached to a false document!"

"And why do you shout at me?" the lady asked haughtily.
Sangfugol began to sidle toward the chamber door, still clutching his
wounded instrument.

"That you know full well," Josua growled, the flush finally begin-
ning to fade from his pale features, "and stay where you are, harper,
for I am not done with you. You have been much in my lady's
confidence of late."

"At your command. Prince Josua," Sangfugol said haltingly, "to
ease her loneliness. But of the Princess Miriamele I swear I know
nothing!"

Josua moved forward into the chamber, swinging the heavy door

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             589

shut behind him without a look back. Isgrimnur, nimble despite his
years and girth, skipped out of its way.

"Good Vorzheva, do not treat me as though ? were one of the
wagon boys you grew up with. All I have heard from you is how the
poor princess is sad, the poor princess is missing her family. Now
Miriamele is gone out of the gate with some villain, and some other
confederate has used my seal ring to give her safe passage! I am no
fool!"

The dark-haired woman returned his stare for a moment, then her
lip began to tremble. Angry tears started in her eyes as she sat back
down, long skirts rustling.

"Very well. Prince Josua," she said, "cut my head off if you like. I
have helped the poor girl to go away to her family in Nabban. If you
were not so heartless, you would have sent her yourself, with armed
men to escort. Instead, all she has for company is a kind monk." She
pulled a kerchief from the bosom of her dress and dabbed her eyes.
"Still, she is happier that way, than to be cooped up here like a bird
in a cage."

"Tears ofElysia!" Josua swore, throwing his hand in the air. "You
foolish woman! Miriamele wanted only to play at being an emissary
 -- she thought to find glory by bringing her Nabbanai relatives into
this struggle on my side."

"Perhaps it is not fair to say 'glory,' Josua," Isgrimnur cautioned.
"I think the princess honestly means to help."

"And what is wrong with that?!" asked Vorzheva defiantly. "You
need the help of Nabban, do you not? Or are you too proud?"

"God help me, the Nabbanai are with us already! Do you under-
stand? I have just seen Baron Devasalles an hour gone. But now the
High King's daughter is out needlessly wandering the land some-
where, with all of her father's troops about to go into the field, and
his spies swarming everywhere like maggot-flies."

Josua waved his arms in frustration, then slumped into his chair,
long legs stretched before him.

"It is too much for me, Isgrimnur," he said wearily. "And you
wonder why I do not declare myself a rival for Elias' throne? I
cannot even keep a young girl safely under my roof."

Isgrimnur smiled dolefully. "Her father didn't have much luck in
keeping her either, as I recall."

590 Tad Williams

"Still." The prince brought his hand up to knead his brow.
"Usires, my very head throbs with it all."

"Now, Josua," the duke said, casting a look at the others to warn
them to keep silence, "all is not lost. We must simply put a troop of
good men out to beat the bushes for Miriamele and this monk, this
. . . Cedric or whatever ..."

"Cadrach," said Josua tonelessly.

"Yes, then, Cadrach. Well, a young girl and a holy friar cannot
move that quickly afoot. We shall simply put some men to horse and
get after them."

"Unless the Lady Vorzheva here has hidden horses for them as
well," Josua said sourly. He sat up. "You haven't, have you?l"

Vorzheva could not meet his gaze.

"Merciful Aedon!" Josua swore. "That is the final trick! I shall
send you back to your barbarian father in a sack, you wildcat!"

"Prince Josua?" It was the harper. When he got no response he
cleared his throat and tried again. "My prince?"

"What?" Josua said irritably. "Yes, you may go. I will have words
with you later. Go."

"No sir ... that is, did you say the monk's name was . . .
Cadrach?"

"Yes, so the gate-captain said. He spoke with the man a bit. Why,
do you know him, or know his haunts?"

"Well, no, Prince Josua, but I think the boy Simon met him. He
told me much of his adventures, and the name sounds quite familiar.
Oh, sir, if it is him, the princess may be in some danger."

"What do you mean?" Josua leaned forward.

"The Cadrach Simon told me of was a rogue and a cutpurse, sir.
That one also went in the guise of a monk, but he was no Aedonite
man, that's sure."

"It cannot be!" Vorzheva said. The kohl around her eyes had run
onto her cheeks. "I have met this man, and he quoted me from the
Book of Aedon. He is a good, kind man. Brother Cadrach."

"Even a demon can quote the Book," Isgrimnur said, shaking his
head sorrowfully.

The prince had sprung to his feet, and was moving to the door.

"We must put men out at once, Isgrimnur," he said, then stopped
and turned back, taking Vorzheva by the arm. "Come, lady," he
said brusquely. "You will not undo your damage, but you may at

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             591

least come along and tell us all you know, where you have hid the
horses and all such." He pulled her to her feet.

"But I cannot go out!" she said, shocked. "Look, I have been
weepingi My face, it is terrible."

"For the hurt you have done to me, and maybe to my foolish niece
as well, it is a small enough penalty. Come!"

He hurried her before him out of the chamber, Isgrimnur follow-
ing. Their arguing voices echoed down the stone corridor.

Sangfugol, left behind, looked sorrowfully down at his lute. There
was a long crack twisting the length of its curved, ashwood back,
and one of the strings hung loose in a useless curl.

"Scant music but sour will be made tonight," he said.

^

It was still an hour before dawn when Lluth came to her bedside.
She had not been able to sleep all night, stretched, tight inside with
worry for him, but as he bent over to touch her arm she pretended
sleep, wanting to spare him the only thing left from which she could
spare him: the knowledge of her own great fear.

"Maegwin," he said softly. Her eyes shut fast, she fought the urge
to reach up and hug him tight. Full-armored but for his helmet, as
she knew from the sound of his walk and the scent of polishing oil,
he might have trouble straightening up again if she pulled him down
so close. Even the parting she could stand, bitter though it was. The
thought of him showing his weariness and his age this night of all
nights, she could not.

"Is that you. Father?" she said at last.

"It is."

"And are you going now?"

"I must. The sun will be up soon, and we hope to reach the edge
of the Combwood by midmommg."

She sat up. The fire had burned out, and even with her eyes open
she could not see much. Faintly, through the walls, she could hear
the sound of her stepmother Inahwen sobbing. Maegwin felt a
twinge of anger at such a display made of grief.

"Brynioch's Shield over you, father," she said, reaching out a

592 Tad Williams

blind hand to find his battered face. "I wish I was a son, to fight at
your side."

She felt his lips curl beneath her fingers. "Ah, Maegwin, you were
ever a fierce one. Have you not duty enough here? It will not be easy
being mistress of the Taig while I am gone."

"You forget your wife."

Lluth smiled again in the dark. "I do not. You are strong,
Maegwin, stronger than she. You must lend her some of your
strength."

"She usually gets what she wants."

The king's voice was gentle, but he caught her wrist in a firm
hand. "Don't, daughter. Along with Gwythinn, you are the three I
love most in all the world. Help her."

Maegwin hated to cry. She pulled her hand from her father's
grasp and rubbed her eyes fiercely. "I will," she said. "Forgive me."

"No forgiveness necessary," he answered, then took her hand
once more and squeezed. "Farewell, daughter, until I come back
again. There are cruel ravens in our fields, and we have work to do
chasing them out again."

She was up and out of bed then, and threw her arms around him.
A moment later the door opened and closed, and she heard his steps
going slowly up the hall, the clink of spurs like sad music.

Later, when she cried, it was with the blankets over her head so
that no one would hear.

36

Fresh Wounds
and Old Scars

THE HORSES were more than a little afraid of Qantaqa, so Binabik
rode the great gray wolf well ahead of Simon and the others, carry-
ing a hooded lamp to show the way in the blanketing darkness. As
the tiny caravan made its way along the skirt of the hills the shud-
dering light bobbed before them like a corpse-candle.

The moon cowered within its nest of clouds, and their progress
was slow and cautious. Between the gentle, jogging rhythm of the
horse beneath him, and the feel of its warm, broad back, Simon
nearly fell asleep several times, only to be startled awake by thin,
scrabbling fingers at his face: the branches of close-hovering trees.
There was little talk. From time to time one of the men whispered a
word of encouragement to his mount, or Binabik called back softly
to warn of some upcoming obstacle; but for those sounds, and the
muffled percussion of hoofbeats, they might have been a gray pil-
grimage of lost souls.

When the moonlight finally began to seep through a rent in the
cloud ceiling, not long before dawn, they stopped to make camp.
Vaporous breath caught the moon's glow, making it seem they ex-
haled silver-blue clouds as they tied up their mounts and the two
packhorses. They lit no fire. Ethelbeam took first watch; the others.
wrapped in their heavy cloaks, curled up on the damp ground to
snatch what sleep they could.

Simon awoke to a morning sky like thin gruel, and nose and ears
that seemed to have magically turned to ice in the night. As he
crouched by the small fire chewing the bread and hard cheese
Binabik had doled out, Sludig sat down beside him. The young Rim-
mersman's cheeks were polished red by the brisk wind.

"This is like our early spring weather, back in my home," he

594

Tad Williams

grinned, skewering a heel of bread on the long blade of his knife and
holding it over the flame. "It makes a man of you quick, you will

see."

"I hope there are other ways of becoming a man besides freezing
to death," Simon grunted, rubbing his hands together.

"You can kill a bear with a spear," Sludig said. "We do that,

also."

Simon could not tell whether he was joking.

Binabik, who had just sent Qantaqa off to hunt, came over and sat
down cross-legged. "Well, the two of you, are you ready to be at
hard riding today?" he said. Simon did not respond, since his mouth
was full of bread; when a moment later Sludig had not answered
either, Simon looked up. The Rimmersman was staring straight into
the fire, his mouth in a set, straight line. The silence was uncomfort-
able.

Simon swallowed. "I suppose so, Binabik," he said quickly. "Do
we have far to go?"

Binabik smiled blithely, as though the Rimmersman's silence were
perfectly natural. "We will be going as far as we shall wish. Today it
seems good to ride long, since the skies are clear. Sooner than we are
wishing we may be found by rain and snow."

"Do we know where we're headed?"

"In part, friend Simon." Binabik took a length of twig from the
outskirts of the firepit and began to scratch lines in the moist earth.
"Here is standing Naglimund," he said, drawing a rough circle. He
then made a line of scallop shapes starting at the circle's right flank
and extending up for some distance. "That, the Wealdhelm. This
cross is being us here." He made a mark not far past the circle. Then
in quick succession he drew a large oval near the far end of the
mountains, a few smaller circles scattered around its rim, and what
seemed to be another line of hills out beyond.

"So, then," he said, hankering down close over his furrowed
patch of ground. "Soon it is we shall be approaching this lake," he
indicated the large elliptical shape, "which is called Drorshull."

Sludig, who seemingly against his will had leaned over to look,
straightened up. "Drorshullvenn -- the Lake ofDror's Hammer." He
frowned and tilted forward once more, making a dot with his finger
along the lake's western rim. "There is Vestvennby -- the thaneland
of that traitor, Storfot I would like very much to pass through there

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             595

by night." He wiped the breadcrumbs from the blade of his dagger
and held it up to catch the weak firelight.

"We will not, however, be going to there," Binabik said sternly,
"and for you revenge must wait. We are passing to the other side,
past Hullnir to Haethstad, nearby where is the Abbey of Saint
Skendi, then most likely up across the plain of the north, toward the
mountains. No stopping before for cutting of throats." He pushed
his stick up beyond the lake toward the row of rounded shapes.

"That is because you trolls do not understand honor," Sludig said
bitterly, staring at Binabik from beneath his thick blond eyebrows.

"Sludig," Simon said pleadingly, but Binabik did not respond to
the man's baiting.

"We are having a task to perform," the troll responded calmly.
"Isgrimnur, your duke, wishes it, and his will is not served with
faithfulness by creeping off at nighttimes to slit the throat of Storfot.
That is not a troll's lack of honor, Sludig."

The Rimmersman looked hard at him for a moment, then shook
his head. "You are right." There was, to Simon's surprise, no sullen-
ness remaining in his voice. "I am angry, and my words were poorly
chosen." He got up and walked away toward where Grimmric and
Haestan stood reburdening the horses; as he went he flexed his sup-
ple, muscular shoulders as though to loosen knots. Simon and the
troll stared after him for a moment.

"He apologized," Simon said.

"All Rimmersmen are not being that cold one Einskaldir," his
friend replied. "But, also, all trolls are not either being Binabik.**

It was a very long day's ride, up along the flank of the hills under
the cover of the trees. When they finally stopped for their evening
meal, Simon knew for certain the truth of Haestan's earlier warn-
ings: although his horse walked slowly, and their march had been
over mild terrain, his legs and crotch felt as though he had spent the
day attached to some dreadful torture device. Haestan, not without
a grin, kindly explained to him that after a night's stiffening the
worst would be yet to come; he then offered him as much of the
wineskin as he cared to drink. When Simon eventually curled up
that evening between the humped and mossy roots of a nearly leaf-
less oak tree he was feeling a little better, although the wine made
him think he heard voices singing strange songs on the wind.

596 Tad Williams

When he woke up in the morning it was to discover that not only
was everything Haestan had claimed true tenfold, but snow was
swirling down as well, covering Wealdhelm Hills and travelers alike
in a cold, clinging white coverlet Even shivering in the weak Yuven
daylight he could still hear the wind-voices What they were saying
was clear they mocked calendars, and fleered at travelers who
thought they could walk with impunity into winter's new kingdom

^

The Princess Minamele stared with horror at the scene spread
before her What had been since the beginning of the morning's nde
a not of colors and black smoke on the horizon now lay clear as she
and Cadrach stood on the hillside overlooking the Inmscnch. It was
a tapestry of death, woven in flesh and metal and shredded earth

"Merciful Elysia," she gasped, reining in her shying horse, "what
has happened here! Is this my father's work9"

The small round man squinted, mouth working for a moment in
what the princess took for silent prayer "Most of the dead are
Hemystm, my lady," he said at last, "and I'm guessing the others
are Rimmersmen, from the look of them " He frowned on the scene
below as a group of startled ravens all leaped up at once like a clutch
of flies, circled, then settled again "It appears the battle, or the
retreating part of it, has moved away west"

Minamele found her eyes filling with frightened tears, and
reached up a fist to scour them away "The survivors must be falling
back to Hemysadharc, to the Taig Why has this happened^ Has
everyone gone mad?"

"Everyone was mad already, my lady," Cadrach said with a
strange, sorrowful smile. "It is merely that the tunes have brought it
out m them "

They had ndden swiftly for the first day and a half, pushing the
Lady Vorzheva's horses to their gasping limit until they reached and
crossed the Greenwade River at its upper fork, some twenty-five
leagues southwest of Nagumund They then slowed their pace, giv-
ing the horses a chance to rest in case they should again need to nde
m haste

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             597

Minamele rode well m the manly style, which was appropriate to
the garments she wore, the breeches and jerkin m which she had
disguised herself in her escape from the Hayholt Her shorn hair was
again black-dyed, although little of it showed beneath the traveling
hood worn as much against the cold as against discovery; Brother
Cadrach nding beside her m his travel-stained gray habit was no
more likely than she to attract notice. In any case, there were few
other travelers on the nver road m such discouraging weather, and
in the midst of such perilous times. The princess had begun to feel
quite confident that their escape was safely effected.

Since the middle of the day before they had ndden along the dike
road above the wide, swollen nver with the braying of distant trum-
pets in their ears, shnll brazen voices that outstripped even the
moan of the ram-laden wind- At first it was frightening, raising the
specter of some vengeful troop of her uncle's or her father's at their
heels, but soon it became apparent that she and Cadrach were ap-
proaching the source of the clamor, rather than the reverse. Then,
this morning, they had seen the first signature of battle: lonely trails
of black smoke inking the now-calm sky.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Minamele asked, dismounted
and standing beside her gently blowing horse. But for the birds the
scene below them was as motionless as if carved m gray and red
stone.

"And what might we do, my lady9" Cadrach asked, still a-saddle.
He took a swig from his wineskin

"I don't know You're a pnest! Mustn't you say a mansa for their

SOU1S'?"

"For whose souls, princess? Those of my pagan countrymen, or
those of the good Aedomtes from Rimmersgard who have come
down to pay this call on them?" His bitter words seemed to hang
like smoke.

Minamele turned to stare at the little man, whose eyes now
seemed quite unlike those of the jocular companion of the last few
days When he told stories or sang his Hernystiri nding and drink-
ing songs, he fairly glittered with cheer Now he looked like a man
savonng the doubtful victory of a dire prophecy fulfilled.

"All Hernystm are not pagans!" she said, angry with his strange
mood "You yourself are an Aedonite monk!"

598 Tad Williams

"Should I go down, then, and ask who is pagan and who is not?"
He waved a plump hand at the unmoving spectacle of carnage. "No,
my lady, the only work still to be done here will be done by scaven-
gers." He prodded his horse with his heels and rode ahead a short
distance.

Miriamele stood and stared, pressing her cheek against the horse's
neck. "Surely no religious man could stand by and see such a scene
unmoved," she called after him, "even that red monster PryratesF
Cadrach hunched at the mention of the king's counselor as if struck
in the back, then rode a few more paces before stopping to sit for a
while in silence.

"Come, lady," he said at last over his shoulder. "We must get
down from this hillside, where we are in such plain view. Not all
scavengers are feathered, and some go on two legs."

Dry-eyed now, the princess shrugged wordlessly and clambered
back into the saddle, following the monk down the forested slope
that ran beside the bloodied Inniscrich.

^

As he slept that night in their camp on the hillside above the flat,
white, treeless expanse of Drorshull lake, Simon dreamed again of
the wheel.

Once more he found himself snagged helplessly, tossed about like
a child's doll of rags, lifted aloft on the wheel's vast rim. Cold winds
buffeted him, and shards of ice scored his face as he was drawn up
into freezing blackness.

At the summit of the ponderous revolution, wind-ripped and
bleeding, he saw a gleam in the darkness, a luminous vertical stripe
that reached from the impenetrable blackness above to the equally
murky depths below. It was a white tree, whose broad trunk and
thin branches glowed as though stuffed with stars. He tried to pull
himself free from the wheel's grip, to leap out toward the beckoning
whiteness, but it seemed he was held fast. With one great, final effort
he tore loose and jumped.

He plunged downward through a universe of glowing leaves, as
though he flew among the lamps of the stars; he cried out for blessed

599

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Usires to save him, for God's help, but no hands caught at him as he
plummeted through the cold firmament. . . .

Hullnir, at the slowly-freezing lake's eastern rim, was a town
empty of even ghosts. Half-buried beneath the drifting snows, its
houses unroofed by wind and hail, it lay like the carcass of a starved
elk beneath dark, indifferent skies.

"Have Skali and his ravens so soon wrung the life from all the
northland?" Sludig asked, his eyes wide.

"As like they all fled th'late frost," Grimmric said, pulling his
cloak tight beneath his narrow chin. "Too cold here, too far away
from th'few roads open."

"It is probable Haethstad will be the same," Binabik said, urging
Qantaqa back up the slope. "Good it is that we had no plan to find
supplies on our way."

Here at the lake's far end the hills began to fade, and a great arm
of the northern Aldheorte reached out to cloak their last, low slopes.
It was different than the southern part of the forest Simon had seen,
and not only because of the snow that now carpeted the forest floor,
stealing away the very sound of their passage. Here the trees were
straight and tall, dark green pines and spruce that stood like pillars
beneath their white mantles, separating wide, shadowy corridors.
The riders moved as through pale catacombs, snow sifting down
from above like the ash of ages.

^

"There is someone there, Brother Cadrach!" Miriamele hissed.
She pointed. "There! Can't you see the gleam -- it's metal!"

Cadrach lowered the wineskin and stared. His mouth was stained
purplish red at the comers. He scowled and squinted, as if to satisfy
a whim of hers. A moment later the frown deepened.

"By the Good God, you are right. Princess," he whispered, draw-
ing back on his reins. "There is something there, sure enough." He
handed the traces to her and slipped down onto the thick green
grass, then, with a gestured admonition to silence, he crept forward;

using a broad tree trunk to shield his almost equally stout form, he
moved to within a hundred paces of the glimmering object, craning

600 Tad Williams

his neck around to peer at it like a child playing hide-and-seek. After
a moment he turned back and beckoned. Miriamele rode forward,
bringing Cadrach's horse beside her own.

It was a man who lay half-propped against the sprawling base of
an oak tree, clad in armor that still shone in a few spots, despite the
fearful battering it had taken. Lying in the grass at his side was the
hilt of a shattered sword, and a broken pole and green pennant
which bore the blazoned White Stag of Hemystir.

"Elysia Mother of Godt" Miriamele said as she hurried forward.
"Is he stiU alive?"

Cadrach quickly tied the horses up to one of the oak's arching
roots and then moved to her side. "It doesn't look likely."

"But he is!" the princess said, "Listen ... he is breathing!"

The monk kneeled down to look at the man whose breath indeed
sounded haltingly within the chamber of his half-open helmet.
Cadrach tilted up the mask beneath the winged crest to expose a
mustached face almost hidden by runnels of dried blood.

"Hounds of Heaven," Cadrach sighed, "it is Arthpreas -- the
Count of Cuimhne."

"You know him?" Miriamele said, searching in her saddlebag for
the waterskin. She found it, and moistened a piece of cloth.

"Know of him, really," Cadrach said, and gestured at the two
birds stitched on the knight's tattered surcoat. "He's the liege-lord
of Cuimhne, near Nan Mullacb, he is. His sign is the twin meadow-
larks."

Miriamele dabbed at Arthpreas' face while the monk gingerly
explored the bloodied rents in his armor. The knight's eyes fluttered.

"He's awakening!" the princess said, breathing in sharply.
"Cadrach, I think he will live!"

"Not long. Lady," the small man said quietly. "There is a wound
here in his belly as wide as my hand- Let me give him the last words,
and he can die in peace."

The count groaned and a little blood ran over the rim of his lip.
Miriamele tenderly wiped it from his chin. His eyes trembled open.

"E gundhain sluith, ma connalbehn . . ." the knight muttered in
Hemystiri. He coughed weakly, and more blood bubbled onto his
lips. "There's a good . . . lad. Did they . . . take the Stag?"

"What does he mean?" Miriamele whispered. Cadrach pointed to
the torn banner on the grass beneath the count's arm.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             601

"You rescued it. Count Arthpreas," she said, holding her face
close to his. "It's safe. What happened?"

"Skali's Raven-warriors . . . they were everywhere." A long
cough, and the knight's eyes opened wider. "Ah, my brave boys
. . . dead, all dead . . . hacked up like, like . . ." Arthpreas gave
a painful, dry sob. His eyes stared up at the sky, moving slowly as if
tracing the movements of clouds.

"And where is the king?" he said at last. "Where is our brave old
king? The goirach northerners were all around him, Brynioch rot
them, Brynioch na ferth ub . . . ub strocinh ..."

"The king?" Miriamele whispered. "He must mean Lluth."

The count's eyes suddenly lit on Cadrach, and for a moment were
kindled as though by an inner spark. "Padreic?" he said, and lifted a
shaking, bloodied hand to lay it on the monk's wrist. Cadrach
flinched and made as though to draw away, but his eyes seemed
caught, lit by a strange gleam. "Is it you, Padreic feir? Have you
. . . come back . . . ?"

The knight stiffened then, and gave vent to a long, racking cough
which brought the red flow up like an underground spring, A mo-
ment later his eyes rolled up beneath his dark lashes.

"Dead," Cadrach said after a moment, a harsh note in his voice.
"Usires save him, and God comfort his soul." He made the sign of
the tree over Arthpreas' unmoving breast and stood up.

"He called you Padreic," Miriamele said, staring abstractedly at
the cloth she held, now entirely crimson.

"He mistook me," the monk said. "A dying man looking for an
old friend. Come. We have no shovels for digging a grave. Let us at
least find stones to cover him. He was ... I am told he was a good
man."

As Cadrach walked away across the clearing, Miriamele carefully
pulled the armored gauntlet from Arthpreas' hand, then wrapped it
in the torn green banner.

"Please come and help me, my lady," Cadrach called. "We cannot
afford to be spending much time here."

"I will come," she said, slipping the bundle into her saddlebag.
"This much time we can afford."

^

602 Tad Williams

Simon and his companions made their way slowly around the
long circumference of the lake, along a peninsula of tall trees and
drifting snow. On their left lay the frozen mirror of Drorshull; the
white shoulders of the upper Wealdhelm loomed on the right. The
song of the wind was loud enough to drown all conversation softer
than a full shout. As Simon rode, watching Haestan's wide, dark
back jounce along before mm, it seemed they were all solitary is-
lands in a cold sea; in constant sight of each other, but separated by
untrafficked expanses. He found his thoughts turning inward, lulled
by the monotonous pacing of his horse.

Strangely, in his mind's inlooking eye, the NagUmund they had
just left seemed as insubstantial as a distant memory of childhood.
Even the faces of Miriamele and Josua were hard to recapture, as
though he tried to summon the features of strangers whose impor-
tance had not been discovered until long after they were gone. In-
stead, he found vivid memories of the Hayholt . . . of long summer
evenings in the commons yard, itchy with mown grass and insects,
or of breezy spring afternoons climbing on the walls, when the
heady scent of the rose hedges in the courtyard pulled at him like
warm hands. Remembering the slightly damp odor of the walls
around his tiny cot, pushed into a comer in the servant's quarters,
he felt himself a king in exile, as though he had lost a palace to some
foreign usurper -- as, in a way, he had.

The others seemed just as enfolded in their own thoughts; but for
Grimmric's whistling -- a thin trill of music that only occasionally
rose above the wind, but seemed nevertheless constant -- the trip
around Drorshull Lake was made in silence.

Several times, when he could make her out through the fluttering
snowflakes, he thought he saw Qantaqa stop and tilt her head as
though to listen. When they finally made camp that night, with the
main body of the lake now lying behind them to the southwest, he
asked Binabik about it.

"Does she hear something, Binabik? Is there something ahead of
us?"

The troll shook his head, extending his now unmittened hands
closer to the small fire. "Perhaps, but things that are before us, even
in such weather, Qantaqa smells them -- it is into the wind that we
are walking. More likely it is she hears a sound from behind or to
either side."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             603

Simon thought about that for a moment. Certainly nothing had
followed them from barren Hullnir, devoid even of birds.

"Someone is behind us?" he said.

"I am doubting. Who? And for what reason?"

Nevertheless, Sludig, bringing up the rear of the column, had also
noticed the wolf's seeming uneasiness. Although he still was not
entirely comfortable with Binabik, and certainly was not ready to
trust Qantaqa -- he rolled his sleeping cloak at the far side of camp
when he slept -- he did not doubt the gray wolf's keen senses. As the
others sat eating hard bread and dried venison, he had taken out his
whetstone to sharpen his hand axes.

"Here between the Dimmerskog -- the forest north of us -- and
Drorshullven," Sludig said frowning, "it has always been wild coun-
try, even when Isgrimnur or his father ruled in Elvritshalla and
winter knew its place. These days, who knows what walks the white
waste, or the Trollfells beyond?" He scraped rhythmically.

'Trolls, for one thing," said Binabik sardonically, "but I can be
assuring you there is scant fear of troll-folk descending upon us in
the night for killing and plunder."

Sludig grinned sourly and continued sharpening his axe.

"Th'Rimmersman speaks sense," Haestan said, giving Binabik a
displeased look. "An' tis not trolls I'm fearin' myself."

"Are we near to your country, Binabik?" Simon asked. "To
Yiqanuc?"

"We will be approaching with more closeness when we reach the
mountains, but the place of my birth is in actuality, I think, east of
where it is we are heading."

"You think?"

"Do not be forgetting, we are still not sure with exactness where
we go. The Rhymer's Tree' -- a tree of rhymes? I know the moun-
tain called Urmsheim, where it is supposed this Colmund went, is
standing somewhere to the north, between Rimmersgard and
Yiqanuc, but a big mountain it is." The troll shrugged. "Is the tree
on it? Before it? Or somewhere else all together? I cannot know at
this time."

Simon and the others stared glumly into the fire. It was one thing
to undertake a perilous mission for your sovereign, it was another
thing to search blindly in the white wilderness.

The flames hissed as they bit at the damp wood. Qantaqa rose

604 Tad Williams

from where she stretched on the naked snow and cocked her head-
She walked purposefully to the edge of the clearing they had chosen.
in a grove of pines on the low hillside. After a suspensefiu interval
she walked back and lay down again. No one said a word, but a
moment of tension had passed, leaving their hearts a little lighter
once more.

When they had all finished eating, more logs were fed onto the
blaze, which popped and steamed in cheerful spite of the flurrying
snow. As Binabik and Haestan talked quietly, and Simon used
Ethelbearn's whetstone on his own sword, a thin melody rose up.
Simon turned to see Grimmric whistling, Ups pursed, eyes fixed on
the wavering flames. When he looked up and saw Simon staring at
him, the wiry Erkynlander gave him a snaggle-toothed smile.

"Put me fmind of somethin*," he said. "N'old winter song, it
was."

"What then?" Ethelbearn asked. "Sing it, man. No harm in quiet
song."

"Yes, go ahead," Simon seconded.

Grimmric looked over to Haestan and the troll, as if fearing an
objection from that quarter, but they were still enmeshed in their
discussion. "Well, then," he said. "Suppose there's no harm in*t."
He cleared his throat and looked down, as if embarrassed by the
sudden attention. "S'just a song my old father'd sing when we'd go
out of a Decander afternoon t'cut wood." He cleared his throat. "A
winter song," he added, then cleared his throat again and sang, in a
scratchy but not untuneful voice.

"Ice is a-growin' in th' thatch
And snow is upon th' sill.
Someone's a-knockin' at th' door
Out in th1 winter's chill.

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

Fire is a-bumin' in th' grate
Shadows is on th' wall.
Pretty Arda, she answers up
Inside her latchlocked halt

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             605

Comes then a voice from winter-dark,
'Open up your door.
Let me in for to share your fire
An' to warm my hands before.'

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

Arda, chaste an' chary maid
She answers. 'Tell me, sir-o,
Who can you be. who walks abroad
When nought outside should stir-o?'

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

'A holy man.' th' voice replies,
'Who has not food nor shelter.'
Th' words all spoke so piteous
If she were ice, 'twould melt her.

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

'Then I will let you in, good Father,
Old bones will soon be warmer.
A maid can trust a man o' God
That he will never harm her'.

Sing you hey-a-ho, an' who can it be?

Open th' door an' who stands there?
A man who's nothin' holy.
Old One-Eye with his cloak an' staff.
An' his wide-brim hat pulled lowly.

"I lied, I lied, t'get inside,'
Old One-Eye grins and dances,
"Th'frost's my home, but I love t'roam
An' a maid is worth th' chances' ..."

"Holy Usires, are you mad?!" Sludig leaped up, startling every-
body. His eyes wide with horror, he made the sign of the Tree
broadly before him, as though to fend off a charging beast. "Are you
mad?" he asked again, staring at the dumbfounded Grimmric.

The Erkynlander looked around at his other companions, shrug-

606 Tad Williams

ging helplessly. "What's wrong with this Rimmersman, troll?" he
asked.

Binabik squinted up at Sludig, who was still standing. "What is
the wrongness, Sludig? We are none of us understanding."

The northerner looked around at the uncomprehending faces.
"Are you all without your senses?" he asked. "Do you not know of
who you are singing?"

"Old One-Eye?" Grimmric said, eyebrow cocked in puzzlement.
"S'just a song, northman. Learned it from m'father."

"That is Udun One-Eye you sing of -- Udun Rimmer, the black
old god of my people. We worshiped him in Rimmersgard when we
were sunk in our heathen ignorance. Do not call up Udun Skyfather
when you walk in his country, or he will come -- to your grief."

"Udun the Rimer . . ." Binabik said wonderingly.

"If you don't believe in him any more," Simon asked, "why are
you afraid to speak of him?"

Sludig stared, his mouth still taut with worry. "I did not say I did
not believe in him . . . Aedon forgive me ... I said we Rhn-
mersmen no longer worship him." After a moment he lowered him-
self back to the ground. "I am sure you think me foolish. Better that
than we call down jealous old gods on ourselves. We are in his
country now."

"S'just a song," Grimmric said defensively. "I wasna callin' down
anythin'. S*just a bloody song."

"Binabik, is that why we call it 'UdensdayT* Simon began, then
broke off when he saw the troll was not listening. Instead, the little
man wore a broad, cheerful grin, as though he had just swallowed a
draught of some pleasing liquor.

"That is it, certainly!" the little man said, and turned to pale,
stem-faced Sludig. "You have thought of it, my friend."

"What are you talking about?" the blond-bearded northman
asked with some irritation. "I do not understand you."

"What we are looking for. The place where Colmund was going:

The Rhymer's Tree. Except we were at thinking 'rhyme' like poetry,
but you have now said it. 'Udun Rimmer' -- Udun the Rimer. 'Rime'
meaning 'frost.* It is a Rimer's Tree we are searching for."

Sludig retained his blank look for a moment, then slowly nodded
his head. "Blessed Elysia, troll -- the Uduntree. Why did I not think
of it? The Uduntree!"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             607

"You know the place Binabik is talking about?" Simon was slowly
catching on.

"Of course. It is an old, old legend of ours -- a tree entirely of ice.
The old tales say that Udun made it grow so he could climb to the
sky and make himself king over all the gods."

"But what good is legend t'us?" Simon heard Haestan ask, but
even as the words came to his ears he felt a strange, heavy chill
folding around him like a blanket of sleet. The icy, white tree . . .
he saw it again: the white trunk stretching up into the darkness, the
impenetrable white tower, a great, looming pale stripe against the
blackness ... it stood squarely in the track of his life, and some-
how he knew there was no path around it ... no way around the
slender, white finger -- beckoning, warning, waiting.

The white tree.

"Because the legend tells where it is, too," a voice said, echoing as
if down a long corridor. "Even if there is no such thing, we know
that Sir Colmund must have gone where the legend points -- the
northern face of Urmsheim."

"Sludig is correct," someone said . . . Binabik said. "We are
needing only to go where Colmund was going with Thorn -- nothing
else is having importance." The troll's voice seemed very far away.

"I think I ... I have to go to sleep," Simon said, his tongue
thick. He got up and stumbled away from the fire, practically unno-
ticed by the others, who were talking animatedly of riding distances
and mountain travel. He curled up in his thick cloak and felt the
snowy world revolve dizzyingly around him. He shut his eyes and,
though he still felt every pitch and yaw, at the same time he began
sliding heavily, helplessly down into dream-thick sleep.

All the next day they continued along the forested bight of snow
between the lake and the settling hills, hoping to make Haethstad at
the lake's northeastern tip by late afternoon. If its inhabitants had
not fled the harsh winter and headed west, the companions decided,
Sludig could go down by himself and restock some of their stores.
Even if it lay deserted, they could perhaps take shelter in an aban-
doned hall for the night and dry out their things before the long trip
across the waste. Thus, it was with some anticipation they traveled,
making good time along the lakeshore.

Haethstad, a village of some two dozen longhouses, stood on a

608 Tad Williams

promontory of land scarcely wider than the town itself; seen from
the hillside above, the village seemed to sprout from the frozen lake.

The cheering effect of their first glimpse lasted only about halfway
down the sloping road into the vale. It became increasingly obvious
that although the buildings stood, they were no more than burned-
out shells.

"Damn my eyes," Sludig said angrily, "this is not just a village
abandoned, troll. They were driven out."

"If they were lucky enow t'get out at all," Haestan muttered.

"I think I must be agreeing with you. Sludig," Binabik said. "Still
we must go and look there, to see how recent this burning is."

As they rode down to the bottom of the glen, Simon stared at the
scorched remains ofHaethstad, and could not help remembering the
calcined skeleton of Saint Hoderund's abbey.

The priest at the Hayholt always used to say fire purifies, he
thought. If that's true, then why does fire, does burning, frighten
everyone? Well, by the Aedon, I suppose no one wants to be purified
that thoroughly.

"Oh, no," Haestan said. Simon almost ran into him as the big
guardsman reined up. "Oh, the good God," he added.

Simon peered around him to see a line of dark shapes filing out of
the trees near the village, moving slowly into the snowy road not a
hundred ells before them -- men on horseback. Simon counted them
as they made their way out into the open . . . seven, eight, nine.
They were all armored. The leader wore a black iron helm shaped
like a hound's head, showing the profile of the snarling muzzle as he
turned to give orders. The nine started forward.

"That one -- the dog-headed one." Sludig pulled his axes out and
pointed at the approaching men. "He is the one who led the ambush
on us at Hoderund's. He is the one I owe for young Hove, and the
monks at the abbey!"

"Never'll we take 'em," Haestan said calmly. *They*ll carve us up
 -- nine men t'six, and two of us a troll and boy."

Binabik said nothing, but calmly unscrewed his walking stick,
which had been thrust beneath the cinch strap of Qantaqa's saddle.
As he reassembled it, a matter of instants only, he said: *'We must
run."

Sludig was already spurring his horse forward, but Haestan and
Ethelbeam reached him within a couple of paces and caught at his

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             609

elbows. The Rimmersman, who had not even donned his helmet,
tried to shake them off; he had a distant look in his blue eyes.

"God damn't, man," Haestan said, "come onl At least we've got
chance in 'mong th' trees!"

The leader of the approaching riders shouted something, and the
others kicked their horses into a trot. White mist flurried up from
the horses' hooves as though they ran on sea foam.

*"I\im *im!" Haestan shouted to Ethelbeam, grabbing the reins of
Sludig's horse as he himself wheeled about; Ethelbeam gave a smart
smack with his sword hilt to the flank of the Rimmersman's mount
and they spun away from the oncoming riders, who were bowling
along at full gallop now behind them, waving axes and swords. Si-
mon was trembling so that he feared he might fall from his saddle.

"Binabik, where?" he shouted, his voice cracking.

"The trees," Binabik called back, as Qantaqa jumped forward.
"Death it would be to climb back up the road. Ride, Simon, and stay
to me nearly!"

Now the horses of his companions were rearing and kicking on all
sides as they headed off the wide path, away from the blackened
ruins of Haethstad. Simon managed to slide his bow from where it
hung over his shoulder, then leaned his head down over his horse's
neck and dug in the spurs. With a bone-jarring surge they were
suddenly leaping over the snow and into the ever-thickening forest.

Simon saw Binabik's small back, and the bobbing gray of
Qantaqa's hindquarters as the trees loomed up dizzyingly on all
sides. Shouts echoed from behind, and he looked back to see his
other four companions in a close knot, with the dark mass of their
pursuers beyond, fanning out through the forest. He heard a sound
like the tearing of parchment, and for a brief moment saw an arrow
quivering in a tree trunk just before him.

The muffled drumfire of hoofbeats was everywhere, filling his ears
even as he clung for his life to the pitching saddle. A whistling black
thread was suddenly drawn out and snapped before his face, and
then another: the pursuers were outflanking them, loosing their ar-
rows almost broadside. Simon heard himself scream something at
the plunging shapes flashing along beyond the nearer trees, and sev-
eral more of the hissing darts snapped past. Clinging to his pommel,
he reached the hand that held the bow back to draw an arrow from
his jouncing quiver, but when he brought it forward he saw it flash

610 Tad Williams

pale against his horse's shoulder. It was the White Arrow -- what
should he do?

In a split instant that seemed much longer he pushed it back over
his shoulder into the quiver, pulling out another. A mocking voice
somewhere in his head laughed to see him picking and choosing
arrows at such a moment. He almost lost bow and arrow both as hie
horse lurched around a snow-spattered tree that seemed to leap up
in their path. A moment later he heard a shout of pain and the
terrified, terrifying scream of a falling horse. He darted a look over
his shoulder to see only three of his companions behind him, and -- 
farther behind every moment -- a thrashing tangle of arms and kick-
ing horselegs and roiling snow. The pursuers went over and around
the downed rider, undeterred.

Who was it? was his brief, flickering thought.

"Up the hill, the hilll" Binabik shouted hoarsely from somewhere
to Simon's right. He saw the flag of Qantaqa's tail as the wolf leaped
up an incline into heavier trees, a thick clot of pines that stood like
uncaring sentinels as the shouting chaos slashed past them. Simon
yanked hard on his right-hand rein, having no idea if the horse
would pay him any heed at all; a moment later they canted to the
side and bolted up the slope behind the bounding wolf. The other
three companions rushed past him, pulling up their steaming horses
within the sparse shelter of a crown of staff-straight trunks.

Sludig still wore no helmet, and the thin one was surely Grimm-
ric, but the other man, bulky and helmeted, had gone a short way up
the slope; before Simon could turn to see who it was he heard a
hoarse shout of triumph. The riders were upon them.

After a frozen moment he nocked his arrow and lifted the bow,
but the whooping attackers were moving in and out among the trees
so quickly that his shot flew harmlessly over the head of the nearest
man and disappeared. Simon let fly a second arrow, and thought he
saw it strike the leg of one of the armored riders. Somebody shouted
in pain. Sludig, with an answering howl, spurred his white horse
forward, pulling his helm down over his head. Two of the attackers
peeled off from the pack and angled toward him. Simon saw him
duck the sword swipe of the first and, turning, crash his axe-blade
into the man's ribs as he swept past, bright blood rilling from the
gash in the man's armor. As he turned from the first man the second
nearly caught him; Sludig had time only to deflect the man's swing

611

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

with his other axe, but still took a clanging blow to the helmet.
Simon saw the Rimmersman wobble and almost fall as the attacker
wheeled around.

Before they came together again Simon heard an ear-piercing
screech and pivoted to see another horse and rider stagger toward
him, a troll-less Qantaqa teeth-clinging to the man's unarmored leg,
scrabbling with her claws at the shrilling horse's side. Simon pulled
his sword from the scabbard, but as the rider struck helplessly at the
wolf his reeling steed plunged into Simon's own mount. Simon's
blade spiraled away, then he, too, was briefly without weight or
tether. A long instant later the air was thumped from him as though
by a giant's fist. He skidded to a face-down halt a short way from
where his horse struggled with the other in a panicked, whinnying
knot. Through a biting mask of snow, Simon saw Qantaqa pull her-
self out from beneath the two horses and sprint away. The man,
caught shrieking beneath, could not escape.

Climbing painfully to his feet, spitting icy grit, Simon snatched at
his bow and quiver lying nearby. He heard the sounds of combat
move away up the hill and turned to follow on foot.

Somebody laughed.

Not twenty paces below him, seated astride a motionless gray
horse, was the man in the black armor who wore the head of a
ravening hound. A stark, pyramidal shape was blazoned in white on
his black jerkin.

"There you are, boy," Dog-face said, deep voice tolling inside his
helmet. "I have been looking for you."

Simon turned and dug up the snowy hill, stumbling, sinking into
the knee-high drifts. The man in black laughed happily and fol-
lowed.

Picking himself up yet again, tasting his own blood from his torn
nose and lip, Simon stopped at last, backed against a leaning spruce.
He grabbed at an arrow and let the quiver drop, then nocked it and
pulled back the bowstring. The man in black stopped, still half a
dozen ells below, tilting his helmeted head to one side as if imitating
the hound he resembled.

"Now kill me, boy, if you can," he mocked. "Shoot!" He spurred
his horse up the hill toward where Simon stood shivering.

There was a hiss and a sharp, fleshy slap. Suddenly the gray horse
was rearing up, up, mane-flinging head thrown back, an arrow shud-

612 Tad Williams

dering in its breast. The dog-faced rider was thrown down hard into
the snow; he lay as if boneless, even as his twitching horse fell to its
knees and rolled heavily onto him. Simon stared with fascination. A
moment later he was staring with even more surprise at the bow he
still held in his outstretched arm. The arrow had not left the string.

"H-Haestan . . . ?" he said, turning to look up the slope. Three
figures stood there, in a gap between the trees.

They were none of them Haestan. They were none of them men.
They had bright, feline eyes, and their mouths were set in hard lines.

The Sitha who had shot the arrow nocked another and lowered it
until its delicately quivering head came to a halt pointed at Simon's
eyes.

"re/m t'sf. Sudhoda'ya', "he said, his small, newly-formed smile
as cold as marble. "Blood ... as you say ... for blood."

37

Jiriki's Hunt

SIMON STARED helplessly at the black arrowhead, at the trio of thin
faces. His jaw trembled.

"Ske'i! Ske'i!" a voice cried, "Stopi"

Two of the Sithi turned to look up the hill to their right, but the
one coolly holding the bent bow never wavered.

"Ske'i, ras-Zida'ya!" the small figure shouted, and then, leaping
forward, fell into a snow-chunung roll to stop at last in a flurry of
gleaming powder a few paces from Simon,

Binabik got slowly to his knees, coated in snow as though he had
been floured by a hurrying baker,

"W-What?" Simon forced his numb lip to shape words, but the
troll signaled him to silence with an urgent flutter of his squat fin-
gers.

"Shhhh. Slowly be putting down the bow you are holding -- 
slowly!" As the boy followed this direction, Binabik spouted another
rush of words in the unfamiliar language, waving his hands implor-
ingly at the unblinking Sithi.

"What . . . where are the others . . ." Simon whispered, but
Binabik silenced him again, this time with a small but violent head-
shake.

"No time is there, no time ... for your life we are fighting."
The troll raised his own hands in the air, and Simon, having
dropped the bow, did the same, turning his palms outward. "You
have not, I am hoping, lost the White Arrow?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Daughter of the Mountains, I must hope not. Slowly drop your
quiver. There." He sputtered out a little bit more of what Simon
took to be Sithi-tongue, then kicked at the quiver so that the arrows
scattered across the broken snow like dark jackstraws ... all but

614 Tad Williams

one. Only its triangular tip, pearl-blue like a liquid drop of sky,
stood out against the surrounding whiteness.

"Oh, praise to the High Places," Binabik sighed. "Staj'a Ame
inef" he called to the Sithi, who watched like cats whose avian
quarry has chosen to turn and sing instead of fly away. "The White
Arrow! You cannot be in ignorance of this! Im sheyis tsi-keo'su d'a
Yana o Lingit!"

"This is ... rare," the Sitha with the bow said, lowering it
slightly. His accent was odd, but his command of the Western
Speech very good. He blinked. "To be taught the Rules of Song by a
troll." His cold smile returned briefly. "You may spare us your ex-
hortations . . . and your crude translations. Pick up your arrow
and bring it here to me." He hissed a few words to the other two as
Binabik bent to the quiver. They looked back once more at Simon
and the troll, then dashed up the hill with startling speed, seeming to
barely dimple the snow as they went, so quick and light were their
steps. The one remaining behind kept his arrow trained in Simon's
general direction as Binabik went trudging forward.

"Hand it toward me," the Sitha directed. "Feathers first, troll.
Now, step back toward your companion."

He eased up on the bow to examine the slender white object,
allowing the arrow to slide forward until the string was almost slack
and he could hold the nocked arrow and bowstave in one hand.
Simon was aware for the first time of the shallow rasp of his own
rapid breathing. He lowered his shaking hands a bit as Binabik
crunched to halt nearby.

"It was given to this young man for a service he was rendering,"
Binabik said defiantly. The Sitha looked up at him and cocked a
slanting eyebrow.

He seemed, at Simon's first glance, much like the first one of his
kindred Simon had seen -- the same high-boned cheeks and strange,
birdlike movements. He was dressed in pants and jacket of shim-
mery white cloth, dotted at shoulders, sleeves and waist with slender
dark green scales. His hair, almost black, but also with a strange
greenish tinge, he wore in two complicated braids, one falling before
each ear. Boots, belt, and quiver were of soft milk-hued leather.
Simon realized that it was only the Sitha's position unslope, and
silhouetted against the drab sky, that allowed him to be clearly seen:

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              615

if the Fair One were to stand against the snow, in a copse of trees, he
would be as invisible as the wind.

"Isi-isi'ye!" the Sitha muttered feelingly, and turned to hold the
arrow to the shrouded sun. Lowering it, he stared wonderingly at
Simon for a moment, then narrowed his eyes.

"Where did you find this, Sudhoda'ya?" he asked harshly. "How
did one such as you come by such a thing?"

"It was given to me!" Simon said, color coming back into his
cheeks and strength to his voice. He knew what he knew. "I saved
one of your people. He shot it at a tree, then ran away."

The Sitha again looked him over carefully, and seemed about to
say something more. Instead, he turned his attention up the hillside.
A bird whistled a long, complex call, or so Simon thought at first,
until he saw the small movements of the white-clad Sitha's Ups. He
waited, still as a statue, until there came an answering trill.

"Go now, before me," he said, swinging around to gesture with
his bow at the troll and boy. They walked with difficulty up the steep
slope, their captor moving lightly behind them, slowly turning the
White Arrow over and over in his slender fingers.

Within the space of a few hundred heartbeats they reached the
rounded top of the knoll and started down the other side. There,
four Sithi crouched around a tree-rimmed, snow-blanketed gully,
the two Simon had already seen, recognizable only by the bluish tint
to their braided hair, and another pair whose tresses were smoky
gray -- although, like the others, their golden faces were unwrinkled.
At the gully's bottom, beneath the menacing quadrangle of Sithi
arrows, sat Haestan, Grimmric, and Sludig. They were each one
bloodied, and wore the hopelessly defiant expressions of cornered
animals.

"Bones of Saint Ealhstan!" Haestan swore when he saw the new
arrivals. "Ah, God, boy, 'was hopin' y'got away." He shook his
head. "Still, better than bein' a dead'un, I suppose."

"Do you see, troll?" Sludig said bitterly, his bearded face smeared
with red. "Do you see what we have called on ourselves? Demons!
We should never have mocked . . . that dark one."

The Sitha who held the Arrow, seemingly the leader, said a few
words in his language to the others and gestured for Simon's com-
panions to climb from the pit.

"Demons they are not," Binabik said as he and Simon braced

616 Tad Williams

their legs to help the others scramble up, a difficult task on the
shifting snow. "They are Sithi, and they will do us no harm. It is,
after all is said, their own White Arrow that is compelling them."

The Sithi's leader gave the troll a sour look but said nothing.
Grimmric came gasping up onto level ground. "Sith - . . Sithi?" he
said, struggling for breath. A cut just below his scalp had painted his
forehead with a solid swath of crimson. "Now we've gone walkin'
into old, old stories, an' that's sure. Sithi-folk! May Usires th' Aedon
protect us all." He made the sign of the Tree and wearily turned to
help the staggering Sludig.

"What happened?" Simon asked. 'How did you . . . what hap-
pened to . . . ?"

"The ones who pursued us are dead," Sludig said, sagging back
against a tree trunk. His byrnie was slashed in several places, and his
helmet, which dangled from his hand, was scraped and dented like
an old pot. "We did for some ourselves. The rest," he napped a limp
hand at the Sithi guards, "fell with bodies full of arrows."

"They'd shot us too, sure, if the troll hadna spoken in their
tongue," Haestan said. He smiled faintly at Binabik. "We didna
think bad of ye when y'ran, Prayin' for ye, we were."

"I went for finding Simon. He is my charge," Binabik said simply.

"But . . ." Simon looked around, hoping against hope, but saw
no other prisoner. "Then . . . then that was Ethelbeam who fell.
Before we reached the first hill."

Haestan nodded slowly. " Twas."

"Damn their souls!" Grimmric swore. "Th'were Rimmersmen,
those murd'rin' bastards!"

"Skali's," Sludig said, eyes hard. The Sithi began making gestures
for them to get up. "Two of them wore the Kaldskryke raven," he
continued, rising. "Oh, how I am praying to catch him with nothing
between us but our axes."

"You are waiting with a host of many others," Binabik said.

"Wait!" Simon said, feeling terribly hollow: this was not right. He
turned to the leader of the Sithi company. "You have been looking at
my arrow. You know my story is true. You cannot take us anywhere,
or do anything, until we see what has happened to our companion."

The Sitha looked at him appraisingly. "I do not know your story
is true, manchild, but we will find out soon enough. Sooner than you
might wish. As to the other . . ." He took a moment to survey

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             617

Simon's ragged party. "Very well. We shall allow you to see to your
other man." He spoke to his comrades, and they followed the men
down the hill. The quiet company passed the arrow-plumed corpses
of two of their attackers, eyes wide and mouths agape. Snow was
already sifting back over their still forms, covering the scarlet stains.

They found Ethelbeam a hundred ells from the lake road. The
broken shaft of an ashwood arrow stood out from the side of his
neck below his beard, and his splayed, twisted posture told that his
horse had rolled over him in its death throes.

"He wasna long a-dyin'," Haestan said, tears standing in his eyes.
"Aedon be praised, 'twas quick."

They dug a hole for him as best they could, hacking at the hard
ground with swords and axes; the Sithi stood by, unconcerned as
geese. The companions wrapped Ethelbeam in his thick cloak and
lowered him into the shallow grave. When he was covered over,
Simon pushed the dead man's sword into the earth as a marker.

"Take his helmet," Haestan said to Sludig, and-Grimmric nod-
ded.

"He'd not want it t*go unused," the other Erkynlander agreed.

Sludig hung his own ruined helm on the pommel of Ethelbeam's
sword before taking the one held out to him. "We will avenge you,
man," the Rimmersgarder said. "Blood for blood."

Silence settled over them. Snow filtered down through the trees as
they stood regarding the patch of naked ground. Soon it would all be
white again.

"Come," the Sitha chief said at last. "We have waited for you long
enough. There is someone who will want to see this arrow."

Simon was last to move. / scarcely had time to know you,
Ethelbeam, he thought. But you had a good loud laugh. I will re-
member that

They turned and headed back into the cold hills.

^

The spider hung motionless, like a dull brown gem in an intricate
necklace. The web was complete, now, the last strands laid deli-
cately in place; it stretched from one side of the ceiling comer to the

618 Tad Williams

other, quivering gently in the rising air as though strummed by
invisible hands.

For a moment Isgrimnur lost the thread of talk, important talk
though it was. His eyes had drifted from the worried faces huddled
near the fireplace in the great hall, roving up to the darkened comer,
and to the tiny builder at rest.

There's sense, he told himself. You build something and then you
stay there. That's the way it's meant to be. Not this running here,
running there, never see your blood-family or your home roofs for a
year at a time.

He thought of his wife: sharp-eyed, red-cheeked Outrun. She had
not offered him a solitary word of rebuke, but he knew it angered
her that he had been gone so long from Elvritshalla, that he had left
their oldest son, the pride of her heart, to rule a great duchy . . .
and to fail. Not that Isom or anyone else in Rimmersgard could
have stopped Skali and his followers, not with the High King behind
him. Still, it had been young Isom who had been master while his
father was gone, and it was Isom who would be remembered as the
one who had seen the Kaldskryke clan, traditional enemies of the
Elvritshallamen, strut into the Longhouse as masters.

And I was looking forward to coming home this time, the old duke
thought sadly. It would have been nice to tend to my horses and cows,
and settle a few local disputes, and watch my children raise their own
children. Instead, all the land is being torn up again like leaky
thatch. God save me, I had enough of fighting when I was younger
. . . for all my talk.

Fighting was, after all, mostly for young men, whose grip on life
was light and careless. And to give the old men something to talk
about, to remember when they sat warm in their halls with winter
moaning outside.

A damned old dog like me is just about ready to lie down and sleep
by the fire.

He plucked at his beard, and watched the spider scramble toward
the darkened roof comer, where an unwary fly had made an unex-
pected stop.

We thought John had forged a peace that would last a thousand
years. Instead, it has not survived his death by two summers. You
build and you build some more, laying strand over strand like that

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             619

little fellow up there, only to have a wind come along and blow every-
thing to pieces.

". . . and so I have near-crippled two horses to bring these tid-
ings as fast as I could. Lord," the young man finished as Isgrimnur
turned his ear back to the urgent discussion.

"You have done magnificently, Deomoth," Josua said, "Please
rise."

His face still damp from his ride, the lank-haired soldier stood,
wrapping himself more tightly in the thick blanket the prince had
given him. He looked much as he had that other time, when, garbed
in the costume of the holy monk for the Saint Tunath's Day festivi-
ties, he had brought the prince news of his father's death.

The prince laid his hand upon Deomoth's shoulder. "I am glad to
have you back. I feared for your safety, and cursed myself for having
to send you on such a dangerous errand." He turned to the others.
"So. You have heard Deornoth's report. Elias has at last gone into
the field. He is bound for Naglimund with . . . Deomoth? You
said . . . ?"

"Some thousand knights and more, and near ten thousand foot,"
the soldier said unhappily. "That averages the different reports in a
way that seems most reliable."

"I'm sure," Josua waved his hand. "And we have perhaps a fort-
night at most until he is at our walls."

"I should think so, sire," Deomoth nodded.

"And what of my master?" Devasalles asked.

"Well, Baron," the soldier began, then clenched his teeth until a
fit of shivering had passed, "Nad Mullach was in a mad uproar -- 
understandably, of course, with what is happening to the west . . ."
he broke off to look over to Prince Gwythinn, who sat a short way
off from the rest, staring miserably at the ceiling.

"Go on," said Josua calmly, "we will hear it all."

Deomoth turned his gaze away from the Hemystirman. "So, as I
said, good information was hard to come by. However, according to
several of the rivermen up from Abaingeat on the coast, your Duke
Leobardis has set sail from Nabban, and is even now on the high
seas, probably to make landfall near Crannhyr."

"With how many men?" Isgrimnur rumbled.

Deomoth shrugged. "Different people say different things. Three
hundred horse, perhaps, two thousand or so foot."

620 Tad Williams

"That sounds correct. Prince Josua," Devasalles said, lips pursed
contemplatively. "Many of the liege-lords doubtless would not go
along, frightened as they are of crossing the High King, and the
Perdruinese will stay neutral, as they usually do. Count Streawe
knows he will do better helping both sides, and saving his ships to
haul goods."

"So we may still hope for Leobardis' strong help, although I
might have wished it stronger still." Josua looked around the circle
of men.

"Even if these Nabbanai should beat Elias to the gate," Baron
Ordmaer said, fear poorly hidden on his plump features, "still Elias
will have three times our numbers."

"But we have the walls, sir," Josua replied, his narrow face stem.
"We are in a strong, strong place." He turned back to Deomoth, and
his expression softened. "Give us the last of your news, my faithful
friend, and then you must sleep. I fear for your health, and I will
need you strong in the days ahead."

Deomoth mustered a faint smile. "Yes, sire. The ridings that are
left are not happy ones either, I fear. The Hemystiri have been
driven from the field at Inniscrich." He started to glance at the place
where Gwythinn sat, but instead dropped his eyes. "They say King
Lluth has been wounded, and his armies have fallen back into the
Orianspog Mountains, the better to harry Skali and his men,"

Josua looked gravely over to the Hemystiri prince. "So. It is at
least better than you feared, Gwythinn. Your fattier yet lives, and
continues the fight."

The young man turned. His eyes were red. "Yes! They continue
the fight, while I sit here inside stone walls, drinking ale and eating
bread and cheese like a fat townsman. My father may be dying! How
can I stay here?"

"And do you think you can beat Skali with your half-hundred
men, lad?" Isgrimnur asked, not unkindly. "Or would you seek a
quick, glorious death, rather than wait to see what is the best pol-
icy?"

"I am not so foolish as that," Gwythinn replied coldly. "And,
Bagba's Herd, Isgrimnur, who are you to be saying such to me?
What of that 'foot of steel' you are saving for Skali's guts?'"

"Different," Isgrimnur muttered, embarrassed. "I did not speak
of storming Elvritshalla with my dozen knights."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             621

"And all I mean to do is steal around the flank of Skali's ravens,
and go to my people in the mountains."

Unable to meet Prince Gwythinn's bright, demanding stare, Is-
grimnur let his eyes slide back up to the roof corner, where the
brown spider was industriously wrapping something in clinging silk.

"Gwythinn," Josua said soothingly, "I ask only that you wait
until we can speak more. One or two days will make little differ-
ence."

The young Hernystirman stood up, his chair scraping against the
stone flags. "Wait! That is all that you do is wait, Josua! Wait for the
local muster, wait for Leobardis and his army, wait for - , - wait
for Elias to climb the walls and put Naglimund to the torch! I am
tired of waiting!" He raised an unsteady hand to forestall Josua's
protests. "Do not forget, Josua, I am a prince, too! I came to you out
of the friendship of our fathers. And now my father is wounded, and
harried by northern devils. If he dies unsuccored, and I am become
king, will you order me then? Will you still think to hold me back?
Brynioch! I cannot understand such craven reluctance!"

Before he reached the door he turned. "I will tell my men to
prepare for our departure tomorrow at sunset. If you think of some
reason why I should not go, one that has escaped me, you know
where I may be found!"

As the prince flung the door shut behind him, Josua rose to his
feet.

"I think there are many here who . . ." he paused and shook his
head wearily, "who feel the need of some food and drink -- you not
least, Deornoth- But I ask you to remain a short moment while these
others go ahead, so I may ask you of some private matters." He
waved Devasalles and the rest off to the dining hall, and watched
them snuffle out, talking quietly among themselves. "Isgrimnur," he
called, and the duke stopped in the doorway to look back inquir-
ingly. "You stay also, please."

When Isgrimnur had settled himself in a chair again, Josua looked
expectantly to Deornoth.

"And have you other news for me?" the prince asked. The soldier
frowned.

"If I had aught else of good tiding, my prince, I would have told
you first, before the others arrived. I could find no trace of your
niece or the monk who accompanies her, but for one peasant farmer

622

Tad Williams

near the Greenwade fork who saw a pair of their description fording
the river there some days ago, heading south."

"Which is no more than what we knew they would do, as the
Lady Vorzheva told us. But by now they are well into the Inniscrich,
and the Blessed Usires alone knows what may happen, or where
they will go next. Our only luck is that I am sure my brother Elias
will march his army up the skirt of the hills, since in this wet season
the Wealdhelm Road is the only safe place for the heavy wagons."
He stared at the wavering flames of the fire. "Well, then," he said at
last, "my thanks, Deomoth. If all my liegemen were such as you
then I could laugh at the High King's threat."
*The men are a good lot, sire," the young knight said loyally.
"Go on, now." The prince extended his hand to pat Deomoth's
knee. "Get some food, and then some sleep. You will not be needed

for duty until tomorrow."

"Yes, sire." The young Erkynlander threw off his blanket and
stood, his back straight as a gatepost as he walked from the room-
After he was gone, Josua and Isgrimnur sat in silence.

"Miriamele gone God knows where, and Leobardis racing Elias to
our gates." The prince shook his head and kneaded his temples with
his hand. "Lluth wounded, the Hemystiri in retreat, and Elias* tool
Skali master from the Vestivegg to the Grianspog. And atop all else,
demons out of legend walking the mortal earth." He showed the
duke a grim smile. "The net grows tighter. Uncle."

Isgrimnur tangled his fingers in his beard. "The web is swaying in
the wind, Josua. A strong wind."

He left the remark unexplained, and silence crept back into the

high hall.

^

The man in the hound mask cursed weakly and spat another
gobbet of blood onto the snow. Any lesser man, he knew, would now
be dead, lying in the snow with his legs crushed and ha ribs col-
lapsed, but the thought was only faintly gratifying. All the years of
ritual training and hardening toil that had saved his life when the
dying horse rolled over him would be for naught unless he could

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             623

reach somewhere sheltered and dry. Another hour or two of expo-
sure would finish the work his dying steed had begun.

The damnable Sithi -- and their unexpected involvement was noth-
ing short of astonishing -- had led their human captives within a few
feet of where he had lain hidden, buried under a half-foot of snow.
He had summoned all his reserves of strength and courage to stay
pretematurally still while the Fair Folk had scanned the area. They
must have concluded he had crawled away somewhere to die -- 
which, of course, he had hoped they would -- and a few moments
later they had continued on their way-
Now he huddled shivering where he had dug out from beneath
the obscuring white blanket, summoning his strength for the next
move. His only hope was to somehow get back to Haethstad, where
a pair of his own men should now be waiting. He damned himself a
hundred times for ever trusting those louts of Skali's -- drunken pil-
lagers and woman-beaters that they were, unfit to polish his boots. If
only he had not been forced to send his own off on another mission.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it of the swirling, jiggling
specks of light that floated against the gradually darkening sky, then
pursed his cracked lips. The hoot of a snow owl issued incongru-
ously from the snarling hound muzzle. While he waited he tried
once more, impossibly, to stand -- even to crawl. It was no use:

something was gravely wrong with both legs. Ignoring the scalding
pain from his cracked ribs, he used his hands to drag himself a little
farther toward the trees, then had to stop, laid flat out and panting.

A moment later he felt hot wind, and lifted his head. The black
muzzle of his helmet was doubled, as though in some queer mirror,
by a grinning white snout only inches away.

"Niku'a," he gasped, in a language quite unlike his native Black
Rimmerspakk. "Come here, Udun damn you! Come!"

The great hound took another step closer, until he loomed over
his injured master.

"Now . . . hold," the man said, reaching up strong hands to
clasp the white leather collar. "And pull!"

A moment later he groaned in agony as the dog did pull, but he
hung on, teeth clenched and eyes bulging behind the unchanging
canine features of the helmet. The hammering, tearing pain almost
pushed him over into insensibility as the hound drew him bumping
across the snow, but he did not relax his grip until he had reached

624 Tad Williams

the cover of the trees. Only then did he at last let go, let everything
go. He slid down into darkness, and brief surcease to pain.

When he awoke the gray of the sky had gone several shades
darker, and the wind had swept a powdery layer of snow across him
like a blanket. The great hound Niku'a still waited, unconcerned
and unshivering despite his short fur, as though lounging before a
blazing hearth. The man on the ground was not surprised: he well
knew the icy black kennels of Stunnrspeik, and knew how these
beasts were raised. Looking at Niku'a's red mouth and curving
teeth, and the tiny white eyes like drops of some milky poison, he
was again grateful that it was he who followed the hounds, and not
the other way around.

He pulled off the helmet -- not without effort, since the fall had
changed its shape -- and pitched it into the snow at his side. With his
knife he cut his black cloak into long strips; soon after he began
laboriously sawing down some of the slenderest young trees. It was
horrible work on his agonized ribs, but he did his best to ignore the
flashing pain and go on. He had two excellent reasons to survive: his
duty to tell his masters of the unexpected attack by the Sithi, and his
own heightened desire for revenge on this ragtag lot who had
thwarted mm too many times.

The moon's blue-white eye was peering curiously through the
treetops when he at last finished cutting. He used the strips of his
cloak to bind a number of the shorter staves tightly to each leg as
splints; then, sitting with his legs stiffly before him like a child play-
ing noughts and crosses in the dirt, he bound short crosspieces to the
tops of the two long staves remaining. Clutching them carefully he
grabbed again at NikuVs collar, letting the long, corpse-white dog
drag him up onto his feet where he swayed precariously until he
could get the new-made crutches under his arms.

He took a few steps, swiveling awkwardly on his unbending legs.
It would do well enough, he decided, wincing at the sickening pain
 -- not that he had any choice.

He looked at the snariing-mouthed helmet lying in the snow,
thinking of the effort it would take to reach it, and the now-useless
weight of the thing. Then he leaned down, gasping, and picked it up
anyway. It had been given him in the sacred caverns of Stunnrspeik,
by Herself, when She named him Her sacred hunter -- he, a mortall

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             625

He could no more leave it lying in the snow than he could leave his
own beating heart. He remembered that impossible, heady moment,
the blue lights flickering in the Chamber of the Breathing Harp,
when he had knelt before the throne, before the serene shimmer of
Her silver mask.

His excruciating pain lulled for a moment by the wine of memory,
Niku'a silently padding at his heels, Ingen Jegger moved haltingly
down the long, tree-covered hill, and began to think carefully about
revenge.

^

Simon and his companions, now lessened by one, did not have
much stomach for talk, nor did their captors encourage any. They
trudged silently and slowly through the snow-carpeted foothills as
gray afternoon edged into evening.

Somehow the Sithi seemed to know exactly where they wanted to
go, although to Simon the pine-spotted slopes were featureless, one
spot indistinguishable from another. The leader's amber eyes were
always moving in his masklike face, but he never seemed to be
searching for anything; rather he gave the impression that he read
the subtle language of the terrain as knowledgeably as Father
Strangyeard surveyed his bookshelves.

The only time the Sitha leader displayed any reaction was early in
their march, when Qantaqa came trotting down an incline and fell in
at Binabik's side, nose twitching as she sniffed his hand, tail ner-
vously tucked. The Sitha raised a half-curious eyebrow, then looked
around to catch the glances of his fellows, whose narrow eyes had
narrowed further. He made no sign that Simon could distinguish,
but the wolf was allowed to pace along unhindered.

Daylight was fading when the strange walking-party turned north
at last, and within a short time they were slowly circling the base of
a steep slope whose snowy flanks were studded with jutting, naked
stone- Simon, shock and numbness worn off enough to make him all
too aware of his achingly cold feet, gave silent thanks as the chief of
their captors waved them to a halt.

"Here," he said, gesturing to a large outcropping that thrust up
high above their heads. "At the bottom." He pointed again, this

626 Tad Williams

time to a wide, waist-high fissure in the face of the stone. Before any
of them could say a word, two of the Sithi guards slipped nimbly
past them and slid themselves headfirst into the opening. In a mo-
ment they had vanished.

"You," he said to Simon. "Go after."

There were angry mutters from Haestan and the other two
soldiers, but Simon, despite his unusual situation, felt strangely con-
fident. Kneeling, he poked his head through the opening.

It was a slender, shining tunnel, an ice-lined tube that twisted
steeply up and away from him, seemingly hollowed from the very
stone of the mountain. He decided that the Sitha who had gone
before him must have climbed up beyond the next bend. There was
no sign of them, and no one could hide in this glass-smooth, narrow
passage, barely wide enough to allow him to raise his arms.

He ducked back out into the chill open air.

"How can I go through it? It's almost straight up, and it's covered
in ice. 1*11 just slide back down."

"Look above your head," the chief Sitha replied. "You will under-
stand."

Simon reentered the tunnel, pushing in a little farther so that his
shoulders and upper body were inside too, and he could turn on his
back to look up. The ice of the tunnel ceiling, if one could call
something half an arm's length away a ceiling, was scored with a
regular series of horizontal cuts that extended the visible length of
the passage. Each was a few inches deep, and wide enough to hold
both hands comfortably side by side. He realized after some thought
that he was intended to pull himself up with his hands and feet,
bracing his back against the floor of the tunnel.

Viewing the prospect with some dismay, since he had no idea how
long the tunnel might be, or what else might conceivably be sharing
it with him, he considered backing out of the narrow passageway
once more. After a moment he changed his mind. The Sithi had
shinnied up before him as quickly as squirrels, and for some reason
he felt the urge to show them that, if not as nimble as they, he was
still bold enough to follow without coaxing.

The climb was difficult, but not impossibly so. The tunnel turned
often enough that he could make frequent stops to rest, bracing his
feet against the bends in the passage. As he slowly grabbed, pulled
and braced, time after muscle-cramping time, the advantage of such

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             627

an entrance tunnel -- if this was, as it seemed, an entrance -- became
obvious; it was difficult going to clamber up, and would be near-
impossible for any animal but a two-legged one; anyone who needed
to get out could slide down it as swiftly as a snake.

He was just considering stopping for another rest when he heard
voices speaking the liquid Sithi language just beyond his head. A
moment later strong hands reached down, grasping him by the har-
ness-straps of his chain mail and pulling him upward. He popped
out of the tunnel with a gasp of surprise and tumbled onto a warm
stone floor puddled with snowmelt. The two Sithi who had dragged
him out crouched by the passage mouth, faces obscure in the near-
darkness. The only light in the room -- which was not really a room
so much as a rock cavern carefully swept clean of debris -- came
from a door-sized crevice in the opposite wall. Through this gap
spilled a yellow gleam, painting a bright swath on the cavern floor.
As Simon pulled himself to his knees he felt a slender, restraining
hand laid on his shoulder. The dark-haired Sitha beside him pointed
up at the low ceiling, then made a waving motton and gestured at
the tunnel mouth.

"Wait," he said calmly, his speech not as fluent as his leader's.
"We must wait."

Haestan was next up, grumbling and cursing. The two Sithi had
to worry his bulky form out of the opening like a cork from a wine
jug. Binabik appeared on his heels -- the nimble troll had easily
caught up with the Erkynlander -- followed within a short while by
Sludig and Grimmric. The three remaining Sithi clambered lithely
up behind them.

No sooner had the last of the Fair Ones issued from the tunnel
than the party went forward again, passing through the rock door-
way and into a short passage beyond where they could at last stand
upright. Lamps of some kind of milky golden crystal or glass had
been set into niches in the wall, and their flickering light was enough
to mask the glow of the door at the far end until they were almost
upon it. One of the Sithi stepped to this gap in the stone, which
unlike the last was shrouded with a hanging of dark cloth, and
called out- An instant later two more of their kindred pushed past
the cloth. Each of them held a short sword made of what looked to
be some dark metal. They stood silently alert, betraying no surprise
or curiosity, as the leader of the captors spoke.

628 Tad Williams

"We will bind your hands." As he said this the other Sithi pro-
duced coiled lengths of shiny black cord from beneath their cloth-
ing.

Sludig stepped back a pace, bumping into one of the guards, who
made a quiet hissing noise but offered no violence.

"No," the Rimmersman said, his voice dangerously tight, "I will
not let them. No man will bind me against my will,"

"Nor me," Haestan said.

"Don't be foolish," Simon said, and stepped forward, offering his
own crossed wrists. "We will probably get out of this with our skins,
but not if you start a fight."

'*Simon is speaking rightly," Binabik said, "I, too, will let them tie
me. You are not having sense if you do otherwise. Simon's White
Arrow is genuine. It is being the reason they did not kill us, and why
they brought us here."

"But how can we . . .*' Sludig began.

"Also," Binabik cut him off, "what would you plan for doing?
Even if these folk here you fought and overcame, and the others who
most likely wait beyond, what then? Should you slide downward
through the tunnel you would no doubt be crashing onto Qantaqa.
who waits at the bottom. I think such a startling thing would give
you little chance to tell her you were no enemy."

Sludig looked down at the troll for a moment, plainly thinking of
the possibilities attendant on being mistaken by a frightened
Qantaqa. At last he called up a weak smile.

"Again you win, troll." He put his hands forward.

The black cords were cool and scaly like snakeskin, but flexible as
oiled leather thongs. Simon found that a couple of loops held his
hands as immobile as if they had been caught in an ogre's fist. When
the Sithi had finished with the others, the group was led forward
once more, through the cloth-covered door and into a dazzling wash
of light.

It seemed, when Simon tried to remember it later, as though they
had stepped through the clouds and into a brilliant, shining land -- 
some nearer neighbor to the sun- After the bleak snows and the
featureless tunnels, the difference was like the wild carousal of the
Ninth Day festival after the eight gray days that preceded.

Light, and its handmaiden color, was everywhere. The room was
a rock chamber less than twice a man's height but very wide. Tree

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             629

roots twined graspingly down the walls. In one comer, thirty paces
away, a glinting stream of water ran down a grooved stone to arch,
splashing, into a pond cupped in a natural basin of stone. The deli-
cate chime of its fall wound in and out of the strange, subtle music
that filled the air.

Lamps like the ones that lined the stone hallway were everywhere,
casting, according to their making, beams of yellow, ivory, pale
chalky blue or rose, painting the stone grotto with a hundred differ-
ent hues where they ran against each other. In the center of the
floor, not far from the edge of the rippling pool, a fire was animal-
ediy ablaze, the smoke vanishing into a crevice above.

"Elysia, Mother of the Holy Aedon," Sludig said, awed.

"Never know there was a rabbit hole here," Grimmric shook his
head, "an' they got a palace."

Perhaps a dozen Sithi, all male as far as Simon could tell on brief
inspection, were ranged about the chamber. Several of them sat
calmly before another pair seated on a high stone. One held a long
flutelike instrument and the other was singing;-the music was so
strange to Simon that it took him a few moments before he could
separate voice from flute, and the continuing melody of the waterfall
from either. Still, the exquisite, quavering song they played tugged
achingly at his heart even as it lifted the short hairs on the back of
his neck. Despite the unfamiliarity there was something in it that
made him want to sink down on the spot, never to move again while
such gentle music lasted.

Those not gathered around the musicians were talking quietly, or
merely lying on their backs staring upward, as if they could gaze out
through the solid stone of the hillside and into the night sky beyond.
Most turned briefly to survey the captives at the chamber's entrance,
but in the manner, Simon felt, that a man listening to a good story
might lift his head to watch a cat walk past.

He and his companions, who had been quite unprepared for this,
stood gaping. The leader of their guards crossed the room toward
the far wall where two more figures sat facing each other over a table
that was a tall, flattened knob of shiny white stone. Both stared
intently at something on the tabletop, lit by another of the strange
lamps set in a niche in the rock face close by. The warder stopped
and stood quietly a short distance away, as though waiting to be
recognized.

630 Tad Williams

The Sitha who sat with his back to the companions was dressed in
a beautiful high-collared jacket of leaf-green, with pants and high
boots of the same shade. His long, braided hair was of a red even
more fiery than Simon's, and his hands, as he moved something
across the tabletop, glittered with rings. Across from him, watching
the movements of his hand intently, sat one wrapped in a loose
white robe rucked up around his braceleted forearms, his hair a pale
shade of heather or blue. A crow's feather, shiny black, hung down
before one ear. Even as Simon watched, the white-gowned Sitha
flashed his teeth and spoke to his companion, then reached out to
slide some object forward. Simon's stare grew more intense; he
blinked.

It was the very Sitha-man he had rescued from the cotsman's
trap. He was positive.

"That's him!" he whispered excitedly to Binabik. "The one whose
arrow it is!"

Even as he spoke, their warder approached the table, and the one
Simon recognized looked up. The warder quickly said something,
but the white-robed one only flicked a glance over toward the pris-
oners and waved a dismissive hand, returning his attention to what
Simon had at last decided was either some kind of map or gaming
board. His red-haired companion never turned, and a moment later
their captor came back.

"You must wait until Lord Jiriki has finished." He brought his
expressionless gaze to bear on Simon. "Since the arrow is yours, you
may go unbound. The others may not."

Simon, only a stone's throw from the one who had made the debt-
pledge but still being ignored, was tempted to push forward and
confront the white-robed Sitha -- Jereekee, if that was his name.
Binabik, who felt his tension, bumped him in warning.

"If the others must remain tied, then so will I," Simon said at last.
For the first time he thought he saw something unexpected slide
across his captor's face: a look of discomfort-

"It is a White Arrow," the guard leader said. "You should not be
prisoned unless it is proven you have come by it through foul means,
but I cannot free your companions."

"Then I will stay tied," Simon said firmly.

The other stared at him for a moment, then shuttered his eyes in a
slow, reptilian blink, reopening them to smile unhappily.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             631

"So it must be," he said. "I do not like binding a bearer of the
Staj'a Ame, but I see little choice. On my heart it will be, right or
wrong." Then, strangely, he bobbed his head in an almost respectful
manner, fixing his luminous eyes on Simon's. "My mother named
me An'nai," he said.

Caught off balance, Simon let a long moment pass until he felt
Binabik's boot grinding on his toe. "Oh!" he said, "I am ... my
mother named me Simon . . . Seoman, actually." Then, seeing the
Sitha nod, satisfied, he hurriedly added: "and these are my compan-
ions -- Binabik of Yiqanuc, Haestan and Griromric of Erkynland,
and Sludig of Rimmersgard."

Perhaps, Simon thought, since the Sitha had seemed to place such
importance on the sharing of his name, this forced introduction
would help protect his companions.

An'nai bobbed his head again and glided off, once more taking up
a position near the stone table. His fellow guards, after lending sur-
prisingly gentle help to the bound companions so that they could sit
down, dispersed around the cavern.

Simon and the others talked quietly for a long while, hushed by
the strange twining music more than their situation.

"Still," said Sludig at last, after complaining bitterly about the
treatment they had received, "at least we are alive. Few who encoun-
ter demons are so lucky."

"Y'r a top, Simon-lad!" Haestan laughed. "A spinnin' top! Got
the Fair Folk bowin' and scrapin'. Let's be sure t'ask for bag o' gold
'fore we go on our way."

"Bowing and scraping!" Simon smirked in unhappy self-mockery.
"Am I free? Am I unbound? Am I eating supper?"

"True." Haestan shook his head sadly. "A bit'd go down nice.
And a jar or so."

"I am thinking we will receive nothing until Jiriki sees us,"
Binabik said, "but if he is indeed the person that Simon rescued, we
may yet be eating well."

"Do you think he's important?" Simon asked. "An'nai called him
'Lord Jiriki.'"

"If there is not more than one living of that name . . ." Binabik
began, but was interrupted by An'nai's return. He was accompanied
by the selfsame Jiriki, who clutched in his hand the White Arrow.

"Please," Jiriki called two of the other Sithi over, "untie them

632 Tad Williams

now." He turned and said something rapid in his flowing tongue.
The musical words somehow had the sound of a reproach. An'nai
accepted Jiriki's admonishment expressionlessly, if such it was, only
lowering his eyes.

Simon, carefully watching, was certain that minus that effects of
hanging in a trap, and the bruises and gashes of the cotsman's at-
tack, this was the same Sitha.

Jiriki waved a hand and An'nai walked away. Because of his con-
fident movements, and the deference that those around him showed,
Simon had at first taken him to be older, or at least of an age with
the other Sithi. Now, despite the strange timelessness of their golden
faces, Simon suddenly felt that the Lord Jiriki was, by Sithi stan-
dards anyway, still young.

As the newly freed prisoners rubbed feeling back into their wrists,
Jiriki held up the arrow. "Forgive the wait. An'nai misjudged, be-
cause he knows how seriously I take the playing of shent." His eyes
moved from the companions to the arrow and back again. "I never
thought to meet you again, Seoman," he said with a birdlike chin
tilt, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "But a debt is a
debt . . . and the Staj'aAme is even more. You have changed since
our first meeting. Then you looked more like one of the forest ani-
mals than like your human kindred. You seemed lost, in many
ways." His gaze burned brightly.

"You've changed, too," Simon said.

A shadow of pain crossed Jiriki's angular face. "Three nights and
two days I spent hanging in that mortal's trap. Soon I would have
died, even if the woodsman had not come -- from shame, that is."
His expression changed, as if he had shut his hurt beneath a lid.
"Come," he said, "we must give you food. It is unfortunate, but we
cannot feed you as well as I would like. We bring little with us to
our," he gestured around the chamber while searching for the
proper word, "hunting lodge." Although he was far more fluent
with the Westerling speech than Simon would ever have dreamed at
their first meeting, still there was something halting yet precise in his
manner that indicated how alien that tongue was to him.

"You are here to ... hunt?" Simon asked as they were led for-
ward to sit before the fire. "What is it you hunt? The hills seem so
barren now."

"Ah, but the game we seek is more plentiful than ever," Jiriki

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

633

said, walking past them and toward a row of objects draped with a
shimmering cloth, set along one wall of the cavern.

The green-clad, red-haired one stood up from the gaming table,
where Jiriki's place had been taken by An'nai, and spoke in tones
both questioning and perhaps angry, all in the Sithi-speech.

"Only showing our visitors the fruits of our hunt. Uncle Khen-
draja'aro," Jiriki said cheerfully, but again Simon felt something
missing from the Sitha's smile.

Jiriki crouched gracefully beside the row of covered objects,
alighting like a sea bird. With a flourish he pulled the shroud away,
revealing a row of half a dozen large, white-haired heads, dead fea-
tures frozen in expressions of snarling hatred.

"Chukku's Stones!" Binabik swore as the others gasped.

It took Simon a shocked instant to recognize the leathery-skinned
faces for what they were.

"Giantsl" he said at last. "Hunen!"

"Yes,** Prince Jiriki said, then turned. There was a flash of danger
in his voice. "And you, trespassing mortals . . . what do you hunt
in my father's hills?"

38

Songs of the Eldest

DEORNOTH WOKE in chill darkness, sweating. The wind hissed and
wailed outside, clawing at the shuttered windows like a flight of the
lonely dead. His heart leaped as he saw the dark shape looming over
him, silhouetted by the embers in the fireplace.

"Captain!" It was one of the men, voice a panicked whisper.
"There's someone comin' down on th' gate! Armed men!"

"God's Tree!" he cursed, struggling into his boots. Shrugging his
mailshirt over his head, he snatched up his scabbard and helmet and
followed the soldier out.

Pour more men were huddled on the top platform of the gate-
house, hunkered down behind the rampart. The wind pushed him
staggering, and he quickly dropped into a crouch.

"There, Captain!" It was the one who had awakened him.
"Comin' up th' road through th' town." He leaned past Deomoth to
point.

The moonlight, shining through the streaming clouds, silvered the
shabby thatching of Naglimund-town's huddled roofs. There was
indeed movement on the road, a small company of horsemen, per-
haps a dozen in number.

The men on the gatehouse watched the riders* slow approach.
One of the soldiers groaned quietly. Deomoth, too, felt the ache of
waiting. It was better when the horns were shrilling, and the field
was full of shouting.

It is this waiting that has unmanned us all, Deomoth thought.
Once we have been blooded again, our Naglimunders will do proudly.

"There must be more, a-hidin'l" one of the soldiers breathed.
"What should we do?" Even with the crying of the wind, his voice
seemed loud. How could the approaching riders not hear?

"Nothing," Deomoth said firmly. "Wait."

The waiting seemed to last days. As the horsemen drew nearer,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             635

the moon picked out shining spearpoints and the gleam of helmets.
The silent riders reined in before the massive gate, and sat as if
listening.

One of the gatemen stood, drawing his bow and sighting on the
breast of the leading rider. Even as Deomoth leaped toward him,
seeing the straining lines on the guardsman's face, his desperate eye,
there came a loud pounding from below. Deomoth caught the bow
arm and forced it up; the arrow spat forth and out into the windy
darkness over the town.

"By the good God, open your doorl^ a man shouted, and once
more a spear-butt was thumped against the timbers. It was a Rim-
mersman's voice, with an edge almost, Deomoth thought, of mad-
ness. "Are you all asleep?! Let us in! I am Isom, Isgrunnur's son,
escaped from the hand of our enemies."

^

"Look! See how the clouds break! Don't you think that is a hope-
ful sign, Velligis?"

As he spoke. Duke Leobardis swung his pointing hand in a broad
arc to the cabin's open window, nearly smacking his mailed arm
against the head of his sweating squire in the process. The squire
ducked, swallowing a silent oath as he juggled the duke's greaves,
and turned to cuff a young page who had not gotten out of his way
fast enough. The page, who had been trying to make himself as
unobtrusive as possible in the ship's crowded cabin, renewed his
desperate efforts to shrink out of sight entirely.

"Perhaps we are, in some way, the thin end of the wedge that will
put an end to this madness." Leobardis clanked to the window, his
squire scrambling along the floor behind him, struggling to hold a
half-fastened greave in place. The gravid sky did indeed show long,
rippled streaks of blue, as if Crannhyr's dark and bulky cliffs, loom-
ing over the bay where Leobardis' flagship Emettin 's Jewel rolled at
close anchor, caught and tore at the lowering clouds.

Velligis, a great round man in golden escritorial robes, stumped to
the window to stand at the duke's side.

"How, my lord, can throwing oil on the fire help to extinguish it?
It is, if you will pardon my forwardness, folly to think so."

636 Tad Williams

The hammering of the muster-drum echoed across the water. Le-
obardis brushed lank white hair out of his eyes. "I know how the
lector feels," he said, "and I know he directs you, beloved Escritor,
to try and persuade me out of this. His Sacredness' love of peace
. . . well, it is admirable, but it will not come about by talking."

VeUigis opened a small brass casket and shook out a sugar-sweet,
which he delicately placed on his tongue. "This is perilously close to
sacrilege. Duke Leobardis. Is prayer 'talking'? Is the intercession of
His Sacredness the Lector Ranessin somehow of less validity than
the force of your armies? If that is so, then our faith in the word of
Usires, and of his first acolyte Sutrines, is a mockery." The escritor
sighed heavily, and sucked.

The duke's cheeks pinkened; he waved the squire away, bending
creakily to fasten the last buckle himself, then waved for his surcoat
of rich blue with the Benidrivine kingfisher gold-blazoned on the
chest.

"God bless me, VeUigis," he said testily, "but I haven't the mind
for arguing with you today. I have been pushed too far by the High
King Elias, and now I must do what is needed."

"But you do not go into battle by yourself," the large man said,
speaking with some heat for the first time. "You lead hundreds, nay,
thousands of men -- of souls -- and their well-being is in your care.
The seeds of catastrophe are fluttering in the wind, and Mother
Church has a responsibility to see they do not find fertile soil."

Leobardis shook his head sadly as the small page shyly lifted his
golden helmet, with its crest of blue-dyed horsehair.

"Fertile soil is everywhere these days, VeUigis, and catastrophe is
already growing -- if you'U forgive my theft of your poetic words.
The thing is, we must try and nip it while it is budding. Come." He
patted the escritor's fleshy arm. "It is time to go down to the land-
ing-boat. Walk with me."

"Certainly, my good Duke, certainly." VeUigis turned slightly to
the side to ease through the narrow doorway. "You will forgive me if
I do not accompany you ashore just yet. I have been somewhat
unsteady on my legs of late. I am getting old, I fear."

"Ah, but your rhetoric has not lost its vigor," Leobardis replied as
they moved slowly across the deck. A small figure wrapped in a dark
robe crossed his path, pausing to nod briefly, hands folded on its

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              637

breast. The escritor frowned, but Duke Leobardis returned the nod
with a smile.

"Nin Reisu has been with Emettin's Jewel a long time," he said,
"and she is the finest of seawatchers. I forgive her the formalities -- 
Niskies are strange folk anyway, VeUigis, as you would know if you
were a sailing man. Come, my boat is this way."

The harbor wind made of Leobardis' cloak a saU, billowing blue
against the uncertain sky.

Leobardis saw his youngest son VareUan waiting at landfall, look-
ing too smaU to fill out his gleaming armor. His thin face peered
anxiously from the hoUow of his helmet whUe he surveyed the gath-
ering Nabbanai forces, as if his father might hold him responsible for
any slipshod formations among the milling, swearing soldiers. Sev-
eral of them pushed past him as unconcernedly as if he were the
drummer boy, cursing cheerfuUy at a pair of horses who, frightened
by the confusion, had leaped off the gangplank into the shallow
water, taking their handler with them. VareUan backed away from
the splashing, whinnying chaos, his forehead wrinkled in a frown
that did not go away even when he saw the duke step from the
grounded boat and wade the last few paces to the rocky shore of
Hemystir's south coast.

"My lord," he said, and hesitated; Leobardis guessed he was won-
dering whether to climb down from his horse and bend a knee. The
duke had to restrain a scowl. He blamed Nessalanta for the boy's
timidity, since she had hung on to him as a drunkard to his jug,
unwilling to admit that the last of her children was grown. Of
course, he perhaps owned some responsibility himself. He should
never have poked fun at the boy's half-formed interest in the priest-
hood. Still, that had been years ago, and there was no turning the
boy's path now; he would be a soldier if it killed him-

"So, VareUan," he said, and looked around. "WeU then, my son, it
looks as though all is in good order."

Although the evidence of his eyes told him his father was either
mad or overkind, the young man flashed a grateful smUe. "We shaU
be unshipped in two hours, I would say. WU1 we march tonight?"

"After a week at sea? The men would kiU us both and find a new
ducal family. Although I suppose they would have to dispatch Beni-

638 Tad Williams

garis, too, if they wanted to finish the line. Speaking of your brother,
why is he not here?"

He spoke lightly, but he found the absence of his eldest child
irritating. After weeks of bitter argument over whether Nabban
should cling to neutrality, and a stormy reaction to the duke's deci-
sion to support Josua, Benigaris had turned his coat and announced
his desire to ride with his father and the armies. Benigaris could not
give up an opportunity to lead the Legions of the Kingfisher in
battle, the duke felt sure, even if it meant giving up a chance to rest
his hocks for a short while on the throne of the Sancellan Mahis-
trevis.

He realized he was woolgathering. "No, no, Varellan, we must
give the men a night in Crannhyr, although merrymaking may prove
scarce with Lluth's war gone so poorly to the north. Where did you
say Benigaris was?"

Varellan colored. "I didn't, my lord. I'm sorry. He rode up to the
town with his friend Count Aspitis Preves."

Leobardis ignored his son's discomfort. "By the Tree, I would not
have thought it too much to expect my son and heir to meet me.
Well, so, let us go and see how things are with our other com-
manders." He snapped his fingers and the squire brought the duke's
horse up, harness bells jingling.

They found Mylin-sa-Ingadaris underneath his house's white and
red albatross banner. The old man, who had been Leobardis' cordial
enemy for years, hailed the duke over. He and Varellan sat watching
as Mylin oversaw the final unloading of his two carracks, then joined
the old earl in his striped tent for a flagon of sweet Ingadarine wine.

After talking marching squares and fewtering -- and putting up
with Varellan's half-successful attempts to join in -- Leobardis
thanked Earl Mylin for his hospitality and went out, youngest son
trailing behind. Taking the reins back from their squires, they con-
tinued on through the bustling encampment, paying brief courtesy
visits to the camps of some of the other nobles.

The pair had just turned about to ride back up the strand when
the duke caught sight of a familiar figure on a big-chested roan
charger, sauntering down the road from town with another rider at
his side.

Benigaris' silver armor, his most cherished possession, was so

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             639

thick with engravings and costly tracings of ilenite inlay that light
declined to reflect from it properly, making it appear almost gray.
Corseted by his breastplate, which corrected the overabundancy of
his figure, Benigaris looked every inch a brave and doughty knight.
Young Aspitis beside him also wore armor of beautiful workman-
ship: the family osprey crest had been inlaid on his breastplate in
mother of pearl. He wore no surcoat that might cover it up, but
went, like Benigaris, plated all over like a gleaming crab.

Benigaris said something to his companion; Aspitis Preves
laughed, then rode away. Benigaris came down the road, crunching
across the gravelly beach toward his father and younger brother.

"That was Count Aspitis, was it not?" Leobardis asked, trying to
keep the bitterness he felt in the back of his throat from his voice.
"Is the Prevan House now become our enemy, that he cannot come
and salute his duke?"

Benigaris leaned over in his saddle and patted his horse's neck.
Leobardis could not see if he looked up through his thick, dark
brows. "I told Aspitis that you and I would speak privately, Father.
He would have come, but I sent him away. He went out of respect
for you." He turned to Varellan, who looked aswim in his bright
armor, and gave the boy a brief nod.

Feeling slightly overbalanced, the duke changed the subject.
"What took you to town, my son?"

"News, sire- I thought Aspitis, since he has been here before,
might help me to gather useful tidings.'*

"You were gone a long time." Leobardis could not summon the
strength to be angry. "What did you find, Benigaris -- anything?"

"Nothing we had not already heard from the Abaingeat boats.
Lluth is wounded and has fallen back to the mountains. Skali con-
trols Hemysadharc, but has not the armies to extend himself any
farther, not until the Hemystirmen in the Grianspog have been sub-
dued. So the coast is yet free, and all the ground this side of the Ach
Samrath -- Nad Mullach, Cuimhne, all the river lands up to Innis-
crich."

Leobardis rubbed his head, squinting at the glaring streak the sun
made on the surface of the ocean. "Perhaps we could best serve
Prince Josua if we were to break this nearer siege. If we were to
bring our two thousand men against Skali Sharp-nose's back,

640 Tad Williams

Uuth's armies would be freed up -- what's left of them -- and Elias'
back would be naked as he lays siege to the Naglimund."

He weighed the plan and liked it. It seemed to him something his
brother Camaris might have done: swift, forceful, a stroke like a
snapping whip. Camaris had always approached warfare like the
pure weapon he was, as straightforward and unhesitating as a shin-
ing hammer.

Benigaris was shaking his head, something like real alarm on his
face. "Oh, no, sirel Nol Why, if we were to do that, all Skali would
have to do is melt into the Circoille, or climb up into the same
Grianspog mountains. Thea we would be pegged down like a
stretched hide, waiting for the Rimmersmen to come out. Mean-
while Elias would reduce Naglimund and be free to turn on us. We
would be cracked like a hazelnut between the High King and the
Raven." He shook his head emphatically, as if the idea frightened

him.

Leobardis turned away from the dazzling sun. "I suppose you
make good sense, Benigaris . . . although I seem to remember you
arguing differently not long ago."

*That was until you made your decision to put the army in the
field, my lord." Benigaris lifted his helmet and rolled it in his hands
for a moment before hanging it back on his pommel. "Now that we
are committed, I am a Nascadu lion."

Leobardis took a deep breath. The tang of war was in the air, and
it was a scent that filled him with unease and regret. Still, the sun-
dering of Osten Ard after the long years of John's peace -- the High
King's Ward -- seemed to have brought his headstrong son back to
his side. It was something for which to be grateful, however insignifi-
cant in the tide of greater events. The Duke of Nabban offered a
silent prayer of thanks to his confusing but ultimately beneficent
God.

^

"Praise Usires Aedon for bringing you back to us!" Isgrimnur
said, and felt tears coming again. He leaned over the bed and gave
Isom's shoulder a rough, joyful shake, earning a sharp glance from

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             641

Outrun, who had not left her grown son's side since he had come in
the night before.

Isom, no stranger to his mother's stem ways, grinned weakly up
at Isgrimnur. He had the duke's blue eyes and broad features, but
much of the sheen of youth seemed to have vanished since his father
had seen him last: he was drawn, shadowed. Something seemed to
have been drained from him, for all his stock-shouldered bulk.

It's just hardship and worry that's been at him, the duke decided.
He's a strong boy. Look at him. how he puts up with his mother's
fussing. He'll be a fine man -- no. He is a fine man. When he's duke
after me ... after we send Skali shouting down to Hell . . .

"Isom!" A new voice sent the errant thought fluttering away. "It
is a miracle to have you back among us." Prince Josua leaned for-
ward and clasped Isorn's hand with his own left hand. Outrun nod-
ded approvingly. She did not rise to curtsy to the prince, mother-
hood apparently overriding manners on this occasion. Josua did not
seem to mind.

"The devil it's a miracle," Isgrimnur said gruffly, and frowned to
keep his swelling heart from causing him any embarrassment. "He
got 'em out through wits and courage, and that's Ood's truth."

"Isgrimnur . . ." Outrun warned him. Josua laughed.

"Oh course. Let me say then, Isom, that your courage and wit
were miraculous."

Isom sat higher in the bed, readjusting the bandaged leg that lay,
pillowed atop the coverlet like the relic of a saint. "That's far too
kind, Your Highness. Had not some ofSkali's Kaldskryke-men been
without the stomach for torture of their fellows, we would be there
still -- as ice-stiffened corpses."

"Isom!" his mother said, annoyed. "Do not speak of such things.
It flies in the face of God's mercy."

"But it's true. Mother. Skali's own Ravens gave us the knives that
permitted our escape." He turned to Josua. "There are dark things
afoot in Elvritshalla -- over all of Rimmersgard, Prince Josua! You
must believe me! Skali is not alone. The town was full of Black
Rimmersmen out of the lands around Stormspike. It was them that
Sharp-nose left to guard us. It was those Ood-cursed monsters who
tortured our men -- for nothing! We had nothing to hide from them!
They did it for pleasure, if such a thing can be imagined. Nights we

642 Tad Williams

went to sleep hearing the cries of our fellows, wondering who they
would take next."

He moaned softly and lifted his hand from Gutrun's restraining
grasp to rub at his temples, as if to scour the memory. "Even Skali's
own men found it sickening. I think they are beginning to wonder
what their thane has gotten them into."

"We believe you," Josua said gently; the look he lifted to standing
Isgrimnur was etched with worry.

"But there were others, too -- ones who came by night, hooded in
black. Even our guards did not see their faces!" Although Isom*s
voice remained quiet, his eyes were round in the remembering.
'They did not even move like men -- the Aedon be my witness! They
were out of the cold wastes beyond the mountains. We could feel the
chill of them as they passed our prisoni We were more frightened of
being near to them than of all the Black Rimmersmen's hot irons."
Isom shook his head and lay back on the pillow. "I am sorry, Father
. . . Prince Josua. I am very tired."

"He is a strong man, Isgrimnur," the prince said as they walked
up the puddled corridor. The roof here was leaking, as so many were
in NagUmund after a winter of hard weather, and a spring and
summer of the same.

"I only wish I had not left him alone to face that whoreson Skali.
Be-damned!" Skidding on the wet stone, Isgrimnur cursed his age
and clumsiness.

"He did all that could be done, Uncle. You should be proud of
him."

"I am."

They walked on for a while before Josua spoke. "I must confess,
having Isorn here makes it easier for me to ask of you . . . what I
must ask."

Isgrimnur tugged at his beard. "And what is that?"

"A boon. One that I would not beg if . . ." He hesitated. "No.
Let us go to my chamber. This is a thing that should be discussed in
solitude," He hooked his right arm through the duke's elbow, the
leather-capped stump on his wrist a mute reproach in advance of
any rejection.

Isgrimnur tugged at his beard again until it hurt. He had a feeling

643

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

he would not like what he was about to hear. "By the Tree, let's get
a jug of wine to take with us, Josua. I sorely need it."

"For the love ofUsires! By the crimson mallet ofDror! The bones
of Saint Eahlstan and Saint Skendi! Are you mad?! Why should I
leave Naglimund?" Isgrimnur trembled in surprise and anger.

"I would not ask it if there was any other way, Isgrimnur." The
prince spoke patiently, but even through the mist of his rage the
duke could see the anguish Josua felt. "I have lain awake two nights
without sleep, trying to think of another way. I cannot. Somebody
must find the Princess Miriamele."

Isgrimnur took a long swallow of wine, feeling some dribble down
his beard, but not caring. "Why?" he said at last, and set the jar
down with a table-rattling thump. "And why me. God damn it all?
Why me?"

The prince was all strained patience. "She must be found because
she is vitally important ... as well as my only niece. What if I die,
Isgrimnur? What if we hold off Elias, break the siege, but I stop an
arrow, or tumble from the castle wall? Who will the people rally
behind -- not just the barons and the warlords, but the common peo-
ple, those who came nocking into my walls for protection? It will be
hard enough to fight Elias with me at your head -- strange and fickle
as I am thought -- but what if I die?"

Isgrimnur stared at the floor. "There is Lluth. And Leobardis."

Josua shook his head harshly. "King Lluth is wounded, maybe
dying. Leobardis is the Duke of Nabban -- at war with Erkynland
within the memory of some. The Sancellan itself is a reminder of a
time when Nabban ruled all. Even you, Uncle, good and much-
respected man as you are, could not hold a force together that would
stand against Elias. He is a son ofPrester John! He was raised to the
Dragonbone Chair by John himself. For all his wicked deeds, it will
take someone from the family to unseat him . . . and you know it!"

Isgrimnur's long silence was his answer.

"But why me?" he said at last.

"Because Miriamele would not come back for anyone else I could
send. Deornoth? He is as brave and as loyal as a hunting hawk, but
he would have to carry the princess back to Naglimund in a sack.
Beside myself, you are the only one who could ever bring her un-
resisting, and she must come willingly, for it would be disaster if you

644 Tad Williams

were found out. Soon enough Elias may discover she is gone, and
then he will set the south afire to find her."

Josua walked to his desk and absently ruffled a stack of parch-
ments. "Think carefully, Isgrimnur. Forget for a moment that it is
yourself we speak of. Who else has traveled as far, and has as many
friends in strange places? Who else, if you will forgive me, has seen
the wrong end of so many dark alleys in Ansis Pelippe and Nab-
ban?"

Isgrimnur grinned sourly, in spite of himself. "But still it makes
no sense, Josua. How can I leave my men, with Elias coming against
us? And how could I hope to perform such a secret thing, well
known as I am?"

"For the first, that is why it seems to me a sign from God that
Isom has come. Einskaldir, we both would agree, has not the re-
straint to command. Isorn does. Anyway, Uncle, he deserves the
chance to make good. Elvritshalla's fall has battered his young
pride."

"It's battered pride that makes a boy a man," the duke growled.
"Go on."

"As to the second, well, you are well-known, but you have been
seldom south of Erkynland in twenty years. In any case, we shall
disguise you."

"Disguise?" Isgrimnur pawed distractedly at the braids of his
beard as Josua walked to his chamber door and called out. The duke
had a strange, heavy feeling around his heart. He had been dreading
the fighting, not so much for himself as for his people, his wife . . .
now his son was here, too, giving him another stone of worry to
carry. But to leave, even riding into danger as great as he left behind
... it seemed unsupportably like cowardice, like treason.

But I was sworn to Josua's father -- my dear old John -- how can I
not do what his son asks? And his arguments make all too much be-
damned sense.

"Here," the prince said, stepping away from the door to allow
someone in. It was Father Strangyeard, his pink, eye-patched face
creased in a shy smile, tall frame stooped over his burden: a bundle
of dark cloth.

"I hope it fits," he said. "They seldom do; I don't know why, just
another gentle reminder, another of the Master's little burdens." He
trailed off, then seemed to find the thread again. "Eglaf was most

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             645

kind to lend it. He is about your size, I think, although not quite so
tall."

"Eglaf?" Isgrimnur said, mystified. "Who is Eglaf? Josua, what is
this nonsense?"

"Brother Eglaf, of course," Strangyeard explained.

"Your disguise, Isgrimnur," Josua amplified. The castle archivist
shook out the bundle, revealing a woolen set of black priestly vest-
ments. "You are a devout man, Uncle," the prince said. "I am sure
you will be able to carry it off." The duke could have sworn Josua
was resisting a smile.

"What? Priest's robes?" Isgrimnur was beginning to see the out-
lines of the thing, and he was not pleased.

"How better to pass unnoticed in Nabban, where Mother Church
is queen, and priests of every stripe nearly outnumber the rest of the
citizens?" Josua was smiling.

Isgrimnur was furious. "Josua, I feared for your wits before, but
now I know you have lost them completely' This is the maddest
scheme I have ever seeni And on top of everything else, who ever
heard of an Aedonite priest with a beard?" He snorted scornfully.

The prince -- with a warning glance to Father Strangyeard, who
put the robes down on a chair and backed toward the door -- walked
to his table and lifted a cloth, revealing ... a basin of hot water,
and a gleaming, fresh-stropped razor.

Isgrimnur's eruptive bellow rattled the very crockery in the castle
kitchen below.

^

"Speak, mortal men. Do you come to our hills as spies?"
A chilly silence followed Prince Jiriki's words. From the comer of
his eye Simon watched Haestan reach backward, feeling along the
wall for something to use as a weapon; Sludig and Grimmric glared
at the Sithi who surrounded them, certain that any moment they
would be set upon.

"No, Prince Jiriki," Binabik said hastily. "Surely you are seeing
we had no expectations of finding your people here. We are from
Naglimund, Prince Josua's sending, on an errand of terrible import.
We are seeking . . ."

646 Tad Williams

The troll hesitated, as though afraid to say too much. Finally,
with a shrug, he continued.

"We got to the dragon-mountain for searching Camaris-sa-Vuiit-
ta's sword Thorn."

Jirild narrowed his eyes, and behind him the green-clad one he
had called his uncle let out a thin whistle of breath.

"What would you do with such a thing?" Khendraja'aro de-
manded.

Binabik would not answer this, but stared unhappily at the cavern
floor. The very air seemed to thicken as the moments passed.

"It's to save us from Ineluki the Storm King!" Simon blurted out.
None of the Sithi moved a muscle except to blink. No one said a
word.

"Speak more," Jiriki said at last.

"If we must," Binabik said. "It is part of a story near as long as
your Ua'kiza Tumefai nei-R'i'anis -- the Song of the Fall of
Tumet'ai. We will try for telling you what we can."

The troll hurriedly explained the main facts. It seemed to Simon
that he deliberately omitted many things; once or twice in the telling
Binabik looked up and caught his eye, seemingly warning him to
silence.

Binabik told the silent Sithi of Naglimund's preparations and the
crimes of the High King he explained the words of Jamauga, and
the book of Nisses, reciting the rhyme that led them on toward
Urmsheun.

The finish of the story left the troll facing Jiriki's bland stare, the
uncle's more skeptical expression, and a silence so complete that the
ringing echo of the waterfall seemed to swell until it filled the whole
world with noise. What a place of madness and dreams this was, and
what a mad story they were suddenly living in! Simon felt his heart
racing, but not from fear alone.

"This is hard to credit, son of my sister," Khendraja'aro said at
last, spreading his beringed hands in an unfamiliar gesture.

"It is. Uncle. But I think this is not the time to speak of it."

"But the other one the boy spoke of . . ." Khendraja'aro began,
his yellow eyes troubled, his voice full of building anger. 'The black
one below Nakktga ..."

"Not now." There was an edge to the Sithi prince's voice. He
turned to the five outsiders. "Apologies are called for. It is not good

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             647

that we should discuss such things while you still have not eaten,
You are our guests." Simon felt a wave of relief at these words and
swayed a little, his knees suddenly weak.

Noticing this, Jiriki waved them toward the fire. "Sit down. We
must be forgiven for our suspicion. Understand, although I owe you
blood debt, Seoman -- you are my Hikka Sta'ja -- your race has done
ours little kindness."

"I must be disagreeing with you in a part, Prince Jiriki," Binabik
replied, seating himself on a flat rock near the fire. "Of all Sithi, your
family should be knowing that we Qanuc have never brought you
any harm."

Jiriki looked down on the little man, and his taut features relaxed
into an expression almost of fondness. "You have caught me in un-
graciousness, Binbiniqegabenik. After only the Western men, whom
we knew best, we once loved the Qanuc well."

Binabik lifted his head, a look of astonishment on his round face.
"How are you knowing my full name? I have not given mention of
it, and my companions have not been either."

Jiriki laughed, a hissing sound, but strangely cheering, with not a
him of insincerity. In that moment Simon felt a fierce, sudden liking
for him.

"Ah, troll," the prince said, "someone as traveled as you are
should not be surprised that your name is known. How many Qanuc
beside your master and yourself are ever seen south of the moun-
tains?"

"You are knowing my master? He is dead now." Binabik pulled
off his gloves and flexed his fingers. Simon and the others were
finding seats of their own.

"He knew us," Jiriki said. "Did he not teach you to speak our
language? You said the troll spoke to you, An'nai?"

"He did, my prince. Mostly correctly."

Binabik flushed, pleased but embarrassed. "Ookequk was teaching
me some, but he never told me where he had been learning it. I had
the thought perhaps his master had given it to him."

"Sit now, sit," said Jiriki, gesturing for Haestan, Sludig and
Grimmric to follow Simon and Binabik's example. They came like
dogs who fear a beating and found themselves places near the fire.
Several of the other Sithi approached bearing salvers of intricately
carved and polished wood, high-laden with all manner of things:

648 Tad Williams

butter and dark brown bread, a wheel of pungent, salty cheese, small
red and yellow fruits that Simon had never seen before. There were
also several bowls of quite recognizable berries, and even a pile of
slow-dripping honeycombs. When Simon reached and took two of
the sticky combs, Jiriki laughed again, a quiet sibilance like a jay in a
distant tree.

"Everywhere is winter," he said, "but in the sheltered fastnesses
ofJao e-Tinukai'i, the bees do not know it. Take all you like."

Captors-tumed-hosts now served the companions an unfamiliar
but potent wine, filling their wooden goblets from stone ewers. Si-
mon wondered if some prayer might be said before starting, but the
Sithi had already begun to eat. Haestan, Sludig, and Grimmric were
looking around miserably, wanting to begin but still full of fear and
distrust. They watched intently as Binabik broke bread and took a
mouthful of buttered crust- Some moments later, when he was not
only still alive but eating merrily, the men felt safe to attack the Sithi
fare, which they did with the vigor of reprieved prisoners.

Dabbing honey from his chin, Simon paused to watch the Sithi.
The Fair Folk ate slowly, sometimes staring at a berry between their
fingers for long instants before lifting it to their mouths. There was
little speech, but when one of them made some remark in their
liquid tongue, or gave voice to a brief trill of song, all the others
listened. Most often there was no response, but if one of them had
some answer they all listened to that, too. There was much quiet
laughter, but no shouting and no arguing, and Simon never heard
anyone interrupt while another was speaking.

An'nai had moved over to sit near Simon and Binabik. One of the
Sithi made a solemn statement that drew a laugh from the others-
Simon asked An'nai to explain the joke.

The white-jacketed Sitha looked slightly uncomfortable.
"Ki'ushapo said that your friends eat as though they fear their food
might run away." He gestured to Haestan, who was pushing food
into his mouth with both hands.

Simon was not sure what An'nai meant -- surely they had seen
hungry people before? -- but he smiled anyway.

As the meal wore on, and a seemingly inexhaustible river of wine
replenished the wooden goblets, the Rimmersman and the two
Erkymandish guardsmen began to enjoy themselves. At one point
Sludig stood, tumbler sloshing in his hand, and proposed a hearty

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             649

toast to his new Sithi friends- Jiriki smiled and nodded, but Khen-
draja'aro stiffened; when Sludig swung into an old northern drinking
song, the prince's uncle slipped quietly off to the corner of the broad
cavern to stare into the rippling, lamplit pond.

The other Sithi at table laughed as Sludig sang the choruses in his
braying voice, and swayed to his tipsy rhythm, whispering occasion-
ally among themselves. Sludig and Haestan and Grimmric seemed
quite happy now, and even Binabik was grinning as he sucked on a
pear rind -- but Simon, remembering the enthralling music he had
heard the Sithi play, felt a glow of shame for his companion, as
though the Rimmersman were a festival bear dancing for crumbs in
Main Row.

After watching for some while he got up, wiping his hands on his
shirtfront. Binabik rose, too, and after asking Jiriki's permission
went down the covered passageway to have a look after Qantaqa.
The three soldiers were all laughing uproariously among themselves,
telling, Simon had no doubt, drunken soldier jokes. He walked to
one of the wall niches to examine the strange lamps. Abruptly he
was reminded of the glowing crystal Morgenes had given him -- 
could it have been Sithi-work? -- and felt a cold, lonely tug at his
heart. He lifted one of the lamps and saw a faint shadow of the bones
in his hand, as though the flesh was only muddied water. Stare as he
might, he could not fathom how the flame had been introduced to
the inside of the translucent crystal.

Sensing someone watching, he turned. Jiriki was staring, cat-eyes
agleam on the far side of the fire circle. Simon started, surprised; the
prince nodded.

Haestan, the wine gone to his shaggy head, had challenged one of
the Sithi -- the one An'nai had named Ki'ushapo -- to wrist-wrestle.
Ki'ushapo, yellow-braided, dressed in black and gray, was receiving
drunken advice from Grimmric. It was clear why the skinny guards-
man thought his aid well-directed: the Sitha was a head shorter than
Haestan, and looked to be barely more than half his weight. As the
Sitha, with a bemused expression, leaned forward across the smooth
stone to clasp Haestan's broad hand, Jiriki stood up and edged past
them, making his graceful way across the chamber toward Simon.

It was still difficult, Simon thought, to reconcile this confident,
clever being with the maddened creature he had found in the
cotsman's wire. Still, when Jiriki turned his head a certain way, or

650 Tad Williams

flexed his long-jointed fingers, it was possible to see again the wild-
ness that had frightened and fascinated. And whenever the firelight
caught the prince's gold-flecked amber eyes, they shone ancient as
jewels from the black soil of the forest.

"Come, Seoman," the Sitha said, "I will show you something."
He slid his hand under the youth's elbow and steered him toward
the pool where Khendraja'aro sat trailing his fingers in the water. As
they passed the fire, Simon saw that the wrist-wrestling contest was
at full heat. The opponents were locked in struggle, neither with an
advantage yet, but Haestan's bearded face was clenched in a lock-
toothed grin of strain. The slender Sitha, by contrast, showed little
effect from the standoff, except his gray-clad arm quivering with the
tension of their striving. Simon did not think this boded well for
Haestan's chances. Sludig, watching the small frustrate the large, sat
open-mouthed.

Jiriki fluted something to his uncle as they approached, but Khen-
draja'aro did not respond: his ageless face seemed closed, shut like a
door. Simon followed the prince past him along the cavern wall. A
moment later, before his astonished eyes, Jiriki disappeared.

He had only stepped into another tunnel, one that hooked around
behind the stone sluice of the little waterfall. Simon went in after
him; the tunnel curled upward in rough stone steps, lit by a row of
lamps.

"Follow me, please," Jiriki said, and began to climb.

It seemed they mounted far up into the hill, spiraling around and
around for some time. At last they passed the last lamp, and traveled
a careful way in near-darkness, until finally Simon became aware of
the gleam of stars before him. A moment later the passageway wid-
ened into a small cave, one end of which was open to the night sky.

He followed Jiriki to the cavern's edge, which was a waist-high lip
of stone. The rock face of the hill dropped away below: ten bare
cubits down to the tops of the tall evergreens, fifty more to the snow-
matted ground. The night was clear, the stars shining fiercely
against the blackness, and the forest was all around, like a vast
secret.

After they had stood some while, Jiriki said: "I owe you a life,
manchild. Do not fear I will forget."

Simon said nothing, afraid to speak in case he should break the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             651

spell that allowed him to stand in the very midst of the forest night,
a spy in God's dark garden. An owl called.

There passed another interval of silence, then the Sitha lightly
touched Simon's arm and pointed out above the silent ocean of trees.

"There. To the north, beneath Lu'yasa's Staff . . ." He indicated
a line of three stars in the lowest part of the velvety sky. "Can you
see the outline of the mountains?*'

Simon stared. He thought there might be a faint luminescence on
the murky horizon, the barest hint of some great white shape so far
away as to seem out of reach of the same moonlight that glowed on
trees and snow beneath them- "I think so," he said quietly.

'That is where you go. The peak men call Urmsheim is in that
range, although you would need a clearer night to see it well." He
sighed. "Your friend Binabik tonight spoke of lost Tumet'aL Once it
could be seen from here, away there in the east," he pointed into
darkness, "from this very perch, but that was in my great-grandfa-
ther's day. In dayUght the Sem^nz/'t'n . . . the Tower of the Walk-
ing Dawn . . . would catch the rising sun in its roofe of crystal and
gold. They say it was like a beautiful torch burning on the morning
horizon . , ."

He broke off, turning his eyes finally to Simon, the rest of his face
obscured by nightshadow.

"'Himet'ai is long buried," he said, and shrugged. "Nothing lasts,
not even the Sithi . . . not even time itself."

"How . . . how old arc you?"

Jiriki smiled, teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Older than you,
Seoman. Let us go down now. You have seen and survived many
things today, and no doubt you need sleep."

When they got back to the firelit cavern, the three guardsmen
were wrapped in their cloaks, snoring lustily. Binabik had returned,
and sat listening as several Sithi sang a slow, mournful song that
droned like a beehive and ran like a river, and seemed to fill the cave
like the thick scent of some rare, dying flower.

Curled in his own cloak, watching the firelight flicker on the
stones above him, Simon was lulled to sleep by the strange music of
Jiriki's tribe.

39

High King's Hand

SIMON AWAKENED to find the cavern light changed. The fire still
burned, thin yellow flames among the white ashes, but the lamps
had been extinguished. Daylight filtered down through crevices in
the ceiling that had been invisible the night before, transforming the
stone chamber into a pillared hall of light and shadow.

His three soldier companions still slept, tangled in their cloaks
snoring, sprawled like battle casualties. The cavern was otherwise
empty but for Binabik, who sat cross-legged before the fire tootling
absently on his walking-stick flute.

Simon sat up groggily. "Where are the Sithi?"

Binabik did not turn, but piped a few more notes. "Greetings,
good friend," he said at last. "Was your sleep satisfying?"

"I suppose," Simon grunted, rolling back over to stare at the dust
flecks shimmering near the cavern's roof. "Where did the Sithi go?"

"Out for hunting, as it were. Come and raise yourself. I need your
assistance."

Simon groaned, but dragged himself up into a sitting position-

"Hunting for giants?" he asked a short while later through a
mouthful of fruit. Haestan's snores were becoming so loud that
Binabik had put his flute down in disgust.

"Hunting whatever is threatening to their borders, I suppose."
The troll stared at something before him on the stone cavern floor.
"Kikkasut! This is making no good sense. I am not liking it one least
bit."

"What doesn't make sense?" Simon lazily surveyed the rock
chamber. "Is this a Sithi house?"

Binabik looked over, frowning. "I suppose it is good you have
regained your ability for the asking of many questions at once. No,
this is not a Sithi house, as such. It is, I am thinking, what Jiriki
called it: a hunting lodge, a place for their hunters to stay while

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             653

roaming afield. As for your other question, it is these bones that are
nonsensical -- or rather, too much sense they make."

The knucklebones lay in a heap before Binabik's knees. Simon
looked them over. "What does that mean?"

"I will tell you. Perhaps it would be good your using this time to
wash the dirt and blood and juice of berries from your face." The
troll flashed a sour yellow grin, pointing to the pool in the comer.
"There is suitable for washing."

He waited until Simon had ducked his head once in the bitingly
cold water.

"Aaah!" the youth said, shivering. "Coldl"

"You may be seeing," Binabik resumed, unperturbed by Simon's
complaints, "that I have been at throwing my bones this morning.
What they are saying is this; The Shadowed Path, Unwrapped Dart,
and Black Crevice. Much confusion and worry this is causing me."

"Why?" Simon splashed more water on his face and rubbed it off
with his jerkin sleeve, which was itself none too clean.

"Because I was casting the bones before we left Naglimund,"
Binabik said crossly, "and the same figures I was getting! Exactly!"

"But why should that be bad?" Something bright lying at the
pool's edge caught his eye. He picked it up carefully, and discovered
it was a round looking glass set in a splendidly carved wooden
frame. The rim of the dark glass was etched with unfamiliar charac-
ters.

"Bad it often is when things are always the same," Binabik an-
swered, "but with the bones it is more than that. The bones to me
are guides to wisdom, yes?"

"Mmm-hmmh." Simon polished the mirror on his shirtfront.

"Well, what if you were opening your Book of the Aedon to dis-
cover that all its pages suddenly were having only one verse -- the
same verse, over then over?"

"Do you mean a Book I had already seen? That hadn't been like
that before? I suppose it would be magic."

"Well, then," Binabik said, mollified, "there you are seeing my
problem. There are hundreds of ways the bones can find themselves.
To be the same cast six times in running -- I can only think it bad.
Much as I have studied, still I am not liking the word *magic' -- but
some force there is gripping the bones, as a powerful wind is pushing
all flags the same way . . . Simon? Are you listening?"

654 Tad Williams

Staring fixedly at the mirror, Simon was astonished to find an
unfamiliar face looking back. The stranger had an elongated, large-
boned face, blue-shadowed eyes, and a growth of red-gold whiskers
on chin, cheeks and upper lip. Simon was further amazed to realize
that -- of course! -- he was only seeing himself, thinned and weath-
ered by his travels, the first growth of man's beard darkening his
jaws. What kind of face was this, he suddenly wondered? He still
had not a man's features, worn and stem, but he fancied that he had
sloughed off some of his mooncalflshness. Nonetheless, he found
something disappointing in the long-chinned, shock-haired youth
who stared back at him.

Is this what I looked like to Miriamele? Like a farmer's son -- a
ploughboy?

And even as he thought of the princess, it seemed that he saw a
flash of her features in the glass, almost growing out of his own. For
a dizzy instant they were meshed together, like two cloudy souls in
one body; an instant later it was Miriamele alone whose face he saw
 -- or Malachias, rather, for her hair was short and black, and she
wore boy's clothes. A colorless sky lay beyond her, spotted with
dark thunderheads. There was another, too, who stood just behind,
a round-faced man in a gray hood. Simon had seen him before, he
was sure, so sure -- who was he?

"Simon!" Binabik's voice splashed him like the cold pool-water,
just as the elusive name flitted within reach. Startled, he juggled the
mirror for a moment. When he clutched it tight again, no face was
there but his own.

"Are you turning sick?" the troll asked, worried by the slack,
puzzled expression Simon turned toward him.

"No ... I don't think so ..."

"Then if you are washed, come to help me. We shall go to speak-
ing of the auguries later, when your attention is not so delicate."
Binabik stood, dropping the knucklebones back into their leather
sack.

Binabik went first down the ice chute, warning Simon to keep his
toes pointed and his hands close to his head. The headlong seconds
rushing down the tunnel were like a dream of falling from a high
place, and when he thumped down into the soft snow beneath the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             655

tunnel mouth, bright, chill daylight in his eyes, he was content to sit
for a moment and enjoy the feel of his heart's rapid beating.

A moment later he was bowled over by a surprising clout on the
back, followed by the smothering descent of a mountain of muscle
and fur.

"QantaqaT he heard Binabik shout, laughing. "If it is your
friends who are receiving such treatment, I am glad I am no en-
emy!"

Simon pushed the wolf away, gasping, only to face a renewed,
rough-tongued assault on his face. At last, with Binabik's aid, he
rolled free. Qantaqa sprang to her feet whining excitedly, circling
the youth and troll once, then sprang away into the snowy wood.

"Now," Binabik said, brushing show from his black hair, '^we
must be finding where the Sithi have been putting up our horses."

"Not far, Qanuc-man."

Simon jumped. He turned to see a line of Sithi file silently out of
the trees, Jiriki's green-jacketed uncle at its head. "And why do you
seek them?"

Binabik smiled. "Certainly not for escaping you, good Khen-
draja'aro. Your hospitality is too lavish for us to hurry away from it.
No, there are certain things only I wish to make sure we still have,
things I was obtaining with some trouble at Naglimund that we will
need on the roads ahead."

Khendraja'aro looked down on the troll expressionlessly for a
moment, then signaled to two of the other Sithi. "Sijandi, Ki'ushapo
 -- show them."

The yellow-haired pair walked a few steps along the hillside, away
from the tunnel-mouth, then stopped, waiting for Simon and the
troll to follow. When Simon looked back he saw Khendraja'aro still
watching, an unreadable expression in his bright, narrowed eyes.

They found the horses put up a few furlongs away, in a small
cavern hidden by a pair of snow-laden pine trees. The cave was snug
and dry; all six horses were contentedly chewing away at a pile of
sweet-smelling hay.

"Where did all this come from?" Simon asked, surprised.

"We often bring our own horses," Ki'ushapo replied, speaking the
Western tongue carefully. "Does it surprise you to find we have a
stable for them?"

As Binabik rooted around in one of the saddlebags, Simon ex-

656 Tad Williams

plored the cavern, noting the light spilling through a crevice high in
the wall, and a stone trough filled with clean water. Propped against
the far side was a pile of helmets, axes and swords. Simon recog-
nized one of the blades as his own, from the armory of Naglimund.

"These are ours, Binabik!" he said. "How did they get here?"

Ki'ushapo spoke slowly, as though to a child. "We put them here
after we took them from you and your companions. Here they are
safe and dry."

Simon looked at the Sitha suspiciously. "But I thought that you
couldn't touch iron -- that it was poison to you!" He stopped short,
fearful that he had ventured onto forbidden ground, but Ki'ushapo
only exchanged a glance with his silent companion before replying.

"So, you have heard tales of the Days of Black Iron," he said.
"Yes, it was once thus, but those of us who survived those days have
learned much. We know now what waters to drink, and from which
certain springs, so that we can handle mortal iron for a little time
without harm. Why did you think we allowed you to keep your coat
of mail? But, of course, we have no liking for it, and do not use it
... or even touch it when there is no need." He looked over to
Binabik, who was still rummaging intently in the traveling bags.
"We shall leave you to finish your search," the Sitha said. "You will
find nothing missing -- at least nothing you had when you came into
our hands."

Binabik looked up. "Of course," he said. "I am only in worry over
things that may have been lost during the fighting of yesterday."

"Of course," Ki'ushapo replied. He and the quiet Sijandi went out
beneath the branches of the entrance.

"Ah!" Binabik said at last, holding up a sack that clinked like a
purse full of gold Imperators. "A worry eased, this is." He dropped
it back in the saddle bag.

"What is it?" Simon asked, irritated to be asking another ques-
tion.

Binabik grinned wickedly. "More Qanuc tricks, ones that will be
found very useful soon- Come, we should be returning. If the others
wake up, stiff with drink and alone, they may have fright and be
doing something foolish."

Qantaqa found them on their short journey back, her mouth and
nose daubed with the blood of some luckless animal. She bounded
several times around them, then stopped, hackles lifting as she

657

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

sniffed at the air. She lowered her head and sniffed again, then went
loping ahead.

Jiriki and An'nai had joined Khendraja'aro. The prince had shed
his white robe for a jacket of tan and blue. He held a tall bow,
unstrung, and wore a quiver full of brown-fletched arrows.

Qantaqa circled the Sithi, growling and sniffing, but her tail
waved in the air behind her as though she greeted old acquaintances.
She lunged forward toward the blithe Fair Folk, then dodged back,
rumbling deep in her throat and shaking her head as though snap-
ping the neck of a rabbit. When Binabik and Simon joined the circle,
she came forward long enough to touch Binabik's hand with her
black nose, then danced away again and resumed her nervous cir-
cling.

"Did you find all your possessions in good order?" Jiriki asked.

Binabik nodded. "Yes, with certainty. Thanks to you for seeing to
our horses."

Jiriki negligently waved his slender hand. "And what now to do?"
he asked.

"I am thinking we should be on our road soon," the troll re-
sponded, shading his eyes to look at the gray-blue sky.

"Surely not this day," Jiriki said. "Rest this afternoon, and eat
with us again. We still have much to speak of, and you can leave
tomorrow by dawn light."

"You . . . and your uncle . . . show much kindness to us,
Prince Jiriki. And honor." Binabik bowed.

"We are not a kind race, Binbiniqegabenik, not as we once were,
but we are a courteous one. Come."

After a splendid lunch of bread, sweet milk, and a wonderfully
odd, tangy soup made from nuts and snowflowers, the long after-
noon was spent by Sithi and men alike in quiet talk and singing and
long naps.

Simon slept shallowly, and dreamed of Miriamele standing atop
the ocean as though it were a floor of uneven green marble, beckon-
ing him to come to her. In his dream he saw furious black clouds on
the horizon, and called out, trying to give warning. The princess did
not hear over the gathering wind, only smiled and beckoned- He
knew he could not stand on the waves, and dove in to swim toward

658 Tad Williams

her, but he felt the cold waters, pulling him down, tugging him
under. . . .

When he fought free of the dream at last, it was to awaken in
dying afternoon. The pillars of light had dimmed, and leaned as
though drunken. Some of the Sitha were setting the crystal lamps in
their wall niches, but even watching the process gave Simon no
better understanding of what lit them: after being put in place they
simply, slowly, began to glow with gentle, suffusive light.

Simon joined his companions at the stone circle around the fire.
They were alone: the Sithi, although hospitable and even friendly,
nevertheless seemed to prefer their own company, sitting in small
knots around the cavem-

"Boy," Haestan said, reaching up to clap his shoulder, "we feared
ye'd sleep all th* day."

"I would sleep too, if I ate as much bread as he," Sludig said,
cleaning his nails with a sliver of wood.

"All here were agreeing on an early leave-taking tomorrow,"
Binabik said, and Grimmric and Haestan nodded- "There is no cer-
tainty this mildness of weather will continue long, and it is far we
must still go."

"Mild weather?" said Simon, frowning at the stiflhess in his legs
as he sat down. "It's snowing like mad."

Binabik chuckled deep in his throat. "Ho, friend Simon, talk to a
snow-dweller if you are wanting to know cold weather. This is like
our Qanuc spring, when we play naked in the snows of Mintahoq.
When we are reaching the mountains, then, I am sorry to say, you
will be feeling real coldness."

He doesn 't look very sorry at all, Simon thought. "So when do we
start out?"

"First light in the east," Sludig said. "The sooner," he added
significantly, looking around the cavern at their unusual hosts, "the
better."

Binabik eyed him, then turned back to Simon. "So we shall be at
putting things in order tonight."

Jiriki had appeared as though from thin air to join them at the
fireside. "Ah," he said, "I wish to speak to you about just these
matters."

"Surely there is no problem had with our leaving?" Binabik asked,

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             659

his cheerful expression not entirely masking a certain anxiousness.
Haestan and Grimmric looked worried, Sludig ever-so-faintly re-
sentful.

"I think not," the Sitha replied. "But there are certain things I
wish to send with you." He reached a long-fingered hand into his
robe with a fluid gesture, producing Simon's White Arrow.

"This is yours, Seoman," he said.

"What? But it ... it belongs to you. Prince Jiriki."

The Sitha lifted his head for a moment, as though listening to
some distant call, then lowered his gaze once more. "No, Seoman, it
is not mine until I earn it back -- a life for a life." He held it up
between his two hands, like a length of string, so that the slanting
light from above burnished the minute and complicated designs
along its length.

"I know you cannot read these writings," Jiriki said slowly, "but I
will tell you that they are Words of Making, scribed on the arrow by
Vindaomeyo the Fletcher himself -- deep, deep in the past, before we
of the First People were torn apart into the Three Tribes. It is as
much a part of my family as if it were made with my own bone and
sinew -- and as much a part of me. I did not give it lightly -- few
mortals have ever held a Sta'ja Ame -- and I certainly could not take
it back until I had paid the debt it signifies." So saying, he handed it
to Simon, whose fingers trembled as they touched the arrow's
smooth barrel.

"I ... I didn't understand . . ." he stammered, feeling as if he
were the one suddenly under obligation. He shrugged, unable to say
more.

"So," Jiriki said. turning to Binabik and the others. "My destiny,
as you mortals might have it, seems strangely bound with this
manchild. You will not then find it too surprising when I tell you
what else I would send along with you on your unusual and proba-
bly fruitless errand."

After a moment, Binabik asked "And what is that being, Prince?"

Jiriki smiled, a feline, self-satisfied smile. "Myself," he answered.
"I will go with you."

660 Tad Williams

The young pikeman stood long seconds, unsure of whether to
interrupt the prince's thoughts. Josua was staring out into the mid-
dle distance, knuckles white as he clutched the parapet of Nag-
limund's western wall.

At last the prince seemed to notice the foreign presence. He
turned, revealing a face so unnaturally pale that the soldier took a
half step back.

"Y'r Highness . . . ?" he asked, finding it hard to look into
Josua's eyes. The prince's stare, the soldier thought, was like that of
the wounded fox he'd once seen the hounds take, and tear before it
was dead.

"Send me Deornoth," the prince said, and forced himself to smile,
which the young soldier thought the most horrible thing of all.
"And send me the old man Jamauga -- the Rimmersman. Do you
know him?"

"I think so, Y'r Highness. With th'one-eyed father in book-
room."

"Good man." Josua's face tilted toward the sky, watching the
mass of inky clouds as though they were a book of prophecy. The
pikeman hesitated, unsure of whether he was dismissed, then turned
to sidle off.

"You, man," the prince said, stopping him in midstep.

"Y'r Highness?"

"What is your name?" He might have been asking the sky.

"Ostrael, Highness . . . Ostrael Firsfram's son. Lord ... out
Runchester."

The prince looked over briefly, then his gaze flicked back to the
darkening horizon as though irresistibly drawn. "When were you
last home in Runchester, my good man?"

"Elysiamansa 'fore last, Prince Josua, but I send *em half my
gettin's. Lord."

The prince pulled his high collar closer, and nodded his head as
though at great wisdom. "Very well, then . . . Ostrael Firsfram's
son. Go and send Deomoth and Jarnauga. Go now."

Long before this day the young pikeman had been told that the
prince was half-mad. As he clomped down the gatehouse stairs in
his heavy boots, he thought of Josua's face, remembering with a
shiver the bright, ecstatic eyes of painted martyrs in his family's

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             661

Book of the Aedon -- and not only the singing martyrs, but also the
weary sadness ofUsires Himself, led in chains to the Execution Tree.

"And the scouts are certain, Highness?" Deomoth asked care-
fully. He did not want to give offense, but he sensed a wildness in the
prince today that he did not understand.

"God's Tree, Deornoth, of course they are certain! You know
them both -- dependable men. The High King is at the Greenwade
Ford, less than ten leagues away. He'll be before the walls by tomor-
row morning. With considerable strength."

"So Leobardis is too slow." Deornoth squinted his eyes, looking
not south where Elias' armies crept inexorably nearer, but west,
where somewhere beyond the late-moming mist the Legions of the
Kingfisher were laboring across the Inniscrich and the southern
Frostmarch.

"Barring a miracle," the prince said. "Go to, Deornoth. Tell Sir
Eadgram to hold all in readiness. I want every spear sharp, every
bow right-strung, and not a drop of wine in the gatehouse ... or in
the gatekeepers. Understood?"

"Of course, Highness," Deornoth nodded. He felt a quickening of
his breath, a slightly sickening thrill of anticipation in his stomach.
By the Merciful God, they would give the High King a taste of
Naglimund honor -- he knew they would!

Someone cleared his throat wamingly. It was Jamauga, scaling
the stairs up to the broad walkway as effortlessly as a man half his
age. He wore one of Strangyeard's loose black robes, and had tucked
the end of his long beard under the belt.

"I answer your summons. Prince Josua," he said, stiffly courte-
ous-

"Thank you, Jamauga," Josua replied. "Go on, Deomoth. I will
talk with you at supper."

"Yes, Highness." Deomoth bowed, helmet in hand, then was gone
down the stairway two steps at a time.

Josua waited some moments after he was gone to speak.

"Look there, old man, look," he said at last, sweeping his arm out
over the clutter of Naglimund-town and the meadows and farmland
beyond, the greens and yellows dark-painted by the glowering sky.
"The rats are coming to gnaw at our walls. We will not see this
untroubled view for a long time, if ever."

662 Tad Williams

"Elias' approach is the talk of the castle, Josua."

"As it should be." The prince, as if he had drunk his fill of the
sights before him, turned his back to the parapet and fixed the
bright-eyed old man with his own intent stare, "Did you see Is-
grimnur off?"

"Yes. He was not pleased to be leaving in secret, and before
dawn."

"Well, what else could be done? After we put about the story of
his mission to Perdruin, it would have been difficult if anyone had
seen him go in priest's robes -- and as beardless as when he was a boy
in Elvritshalla." The prince forced a grim, clench-jawed smile. "God
knows, Jamauga, though I made sport of his disguising himself, it is
a knife in my guts to have pulled that good man from his family and
sent him out to try and recover my own failing."

"You are master here, Josua; sometimes being master means less
of some kinds of freedom than that given to the meanest serf."

The prince tucked his right arm into his cloak. "Did he take
Kvalnir?"

Jarnauga grinned. "Sheathed beneath his outer robe. May your
God save the one who tries to rob that fat old monk."

The prince's tired smile widened for a moment. "Even God Him-
self won't be able to help them, in the mood Isgrimnur's in." The
smile did not outlast the moment. "Now, Jamauga, walk with me
here on the battlements. I need your good eyes and wise words."

"I can indeed look farther than most, Josua -- so my father taught
me, and my mother. That is why I am named "Iron-eyes" in our
Rimmerspakk: I was taught to see through veils of deception as
black iron cuts spells. But as to the other, I can promise no wisdom
worthy of the name at this late hour."

The prince made a dismissive gesture. "You have helped us al-
ready, I suspect, to see much we would not have. Tell me of this
League of the Scroll. Did they send you to Tungoldyr to spy on
Stormspike?"

The old man fell in at Josua's side, his sleeves fluttering like black
pennants. "No, Prince, that is not the League's way. My father, too,
was a Scrollbearer." He lifted a golden chain out of the neck of his
vestments, showing Josua a carved quill and scroll that hung upon
it. "He raised me to take up his place, and I would have done no less

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             663

to please him. The League does not compel; it asks only that one
does what one can do."

Josua walked silently, thinking. "If only a land could be so ruled,"
he said at last. "If only men would do what they should." He turned
his thoughtful, gray-eyed stare to the old Rimmersman. "But things
are not always so easy -- the wrong and right not always so apparent.
Surely this League of yours must have its high priest, or its prince?
Was that Morgenes?"

Jamauga quirked his lips. "There are indeed times when it would
benefit us to have a leader, a strong hand. Our woeful unprepared-
ness for these events shows that." Jamauga shook his head. "And
we would have granted such leadership to Doctor Morgenes in an
instant if he had asked -- he was a man of incredible wisdom, Josua; I
hope that you appreciated him when you knew him. But he would
not have it. He wanted only to search, and to read, and to ask
questions. Still, thank whatever powers that we had him as long as
we did. His foresight is, at this moment, our only shield."

Josua stopped, leaning with his elbows on the parapet. "So this
League of yours has never had a leader?"

"Not since King Eahlstan Fiskeme -- your Saint Eahlstan -- 
brought it together . . ." He paused, remembering. "There almost
was one, and within my time. He was a young Hemystirman, an-
other of Morgenes' discoveries. He had nearly Morgenes' skill, al-
though less caution, so that he studied things Morgenes would not.
He had ambitions, and argued that we should make ourselves more
of a force for good. He might have one day been the leader you
speak of, Josua: a man of great wisdom and strength. . . ."

When the old man did not continue, Josua looked over to see
Jamauga's eyes fixed on the western horizon. "What happened?" the
prince asked. "Is he dead?"

"No," Jamauga answered slowly, eyes still drawn out across the
rolling plain, "no, I do not think so. He ... changed. Something
frightened him, or hurt him, or ... or something. He left us long
ago."

"So you do have failures," Josua said, starting to walk again. The
old man did not follow.

"Oh, certainly," he said, lifting his hand as if to shade his brow,
staring out into the dim distance. "Pryrates was one of ours once,
too."

664 Tad Williams

Before the prince could reply to this he was interrupted.

"Josua!" someone cried from the courtyard. The lines around the
prince's mouth tightened.

"Lady Vorzheva," he said, turning to look down to where she
stood indignantly in a dress of gleaming red, hair aswirl in the wind
like black smoke. Towser skulked uncomfortably at her side. "What
would you of me?" the prince demanded. "You should be in the
keep. As a matter of fact, I order you to the keep."

"I have been there," she called crossly. Lifting the hem of her
dress she ankled toward the stairway, talking as she went. "And I
will soon go back, do you not worry. But first, I must one time more
see the sun -- or would you rather keep me in a black cell?"

Despite his exasperation, Josua was hard-pressed to keep his face
entirely stem. "Heaven knows that there are windows in the keep,
Lady." He lowered his frown to Towser. "Can you not at least keep
her off the walls, Towser? Soon we are at siege."

The little man shrugged and limped up the stairs after Vorzheva.

"Show me the armies of your terrible brother," she said, a little
breathless as she reached the prince's side.

"If his armies were here, you would not be," Josua said irritably.
'There is nothing to see, yet. Now please go down."

"Josua?" Jarnauga was still squinting into the cloudy west. "I
think there is perhaps something to see."

"What?!" In an instant, the prince was beside the old Rim-
mersman, his body pitched awkwardly against the parapet as he
strained to find what the man saw. "Is it Elias? So soon? I see
nothing!" He slapped his palm on the stone in frustration.

"I doubt it is the High King, coming from so westerly a direc-
tion," Jarnauga said. "Do not be surprised you do not see them. As I
told you, I was trained to look where others could not. Nevertheless,
they are there: many horses and men -- too far away still to guess
how many -- coming toward us. There." He pointed.

"Praise Usires!" Josua said, excited. "You must be right! It can
only be Leobardis!" He straightened up, suddenly full of life, even as
his face clouded with worry. "This is delicate," he said, half to
himself. "The Nabbanai must not come too close, else they will be
useless to us, caught between Elias and the walls of Naglimund.
Then we shall have to bring them in, where they will be just more
mouths to feed." He strode for the stairs. "If they stay too far, we

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             665

will not be able to protect them when Elias turns on them. We must
send riders!" He went down the stairs at a bound, shouting for
Deomoth and Eadgram, the Lord Constable of Naglimund.

"Oh, Towser," Vorzheva said, her cheeks flushed with the wind
and the pace of events, "we shall be saved after all! Everything will
be better."

"Just as well with me, my lady," the jester responded. "I've been
through this all before with my master John, you know . . . and
I'm not anxious to do it again."

Soldiers were cursing and shouting now in the castle courtyard
below. Josua stood on the rim of the well, his slender sword in his
hand, calling instructions. The sound of metal on metal, as spear
buns clanged on shields, and helmets and swords were hurriedly
taken from the comers where they had been laid, rose past the walls
like an invocation.

^

Count Aspitis Preves exchanged a few terse words with Benigaris,
then pulled his horse up beside the duke's, matching him stride for
stride through the high, dewy grass. The dawn sun was a shining
smudge above the gray horizon.

"Young Aspitis!" Leobardis said heartily. "What news?" If he and
his son were to be on better terms, he must try to show kindness to
Benigaris' intimates -- even to Aspitis, whom he considered one of
the Prevan House's less impressive products.

"The scouts have just rejoined us, my lord Duke." The Count, a
handsome, slender youth, was quite pale. "We are less than five
leagues from the walls of Naglimund, my lord."

"Good! With luck we shall be there in early afternoon!"

"But Elias is ahead of us." Aspitis looked over to the duke's son,
who shook his head and cursed beneath his breath.

"He has already laid the siege in strength?" Leobardis asked, sur-
prised. "How? Has he learned to make his armies fly?"

"Well, no, lord, it is not Elias," Aspitis hurried to amend himself,
"it is a large force riding beneath the flag of the Boar and Spears -- 
Earl Guthwulf of Utanyeat's banner. They have a half a league or so
on us, and will keep us from the gates."

666 Tad Williams

The duke shook his head, relieved. "How many does Guthwulf

have?"

"Perhaps a hundred horse, my lord, but the High King cannot be
too far behind."

"Well, little should we care," Leobardis said, reining up at the
edge of one of the many small streams that crisscrossed the meadow-
lands east of Greenwade. "Let the High King's Hand and his troop
languish there. We are more use to Josua at a short distance, where
we can harry the besiegers, and keep the lines of supply open." With
a splash he rode down into the ford. Benigaris and the count spurred
after him.

"But father," Benigaris said, catching up, "think now! Our scouts
say Guthwulf has moved ahead of the king's army, and with only a
hundred knights." Aspitis Preves nodded confirmation, and Beni-
garis drew his dark brows together in a frown of eamestness. "We
have thrice that, and if we send fast riders ahead we can muster
Josua's forces, too. We could smash Guthwulf against Naglimund's
walls as between hammer and anvil." He grinned, and clapped his
father's armored shoulder. "Think how that would sit with King
Elias -- make him think twice, wouldn't it?"

Leobardis rode silently for a long minute. He looked back at the
rippling banners of his legions stretching back several furlongs
across the meadows. The sun had, for a moment, found a thinner
spot in the overcast, bringing color to the wind-bowed grass. It re-
minded him of the Lakelands east of his palace.

"Call the trumpeter," he said, and Aspitis turned and shouted an
order.

"Hea! I'll send riders ahead to Naglimund, father," Benigaris
said, smiling almost with relief. The duke could see how much his
son longed for glory, but it would be Nabban's glory, too.

"Pick your fastest riders, my son," he called as Benigaris rode
back through the lines. "For we shall move more swiftly than any-
one dreams we can'" He raised his voice to a great shout, turning
heads all through the field. "The legions shall ride! For Nabban and
Mother Church! Let our enemies beware!"

Benigaris returned shortly to pronounce the messengers dis-
patched. Duke Leobardis let the trumpets ring out, then sound
again, and the great army set out at speed. Their hoofbeats sounded,
rolling like rapid drumbeats in the meadow-dells as they passed out

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             667

of the Inniscrich. The sun rose in the muddy morning sky, and the
banners streamed blue and gold. The Kingfisher flew to Naglimund.

^

Josua was still pulling on his unadorned, bright-polished helm as
he went through the gate at the head of two-score mounted knights.
The harper Sangfugol ran alongside, holding something up to him;

the prince reined in and slowed his horse to a walk.

"What, man?" he asked impatiently, scanning the misty horizon.

The harper struggled for breath. "It is ... your father's banner,
Prince Josua," he said, passing it up. "Brought ... out of the
Hayholt. You carry no standard but Naglimund's gray Swan -- what
better one for yourself could you wish?"

The prince stared at the red and white pennant, half-unfolded in
his lap. The firedrake's eye glared sternly, as if some interloper
threatened the sacred Tree about which it had-enwrapped itself.
Deomoth and Isom, with a few of the other knights nearby, smiled
expectantly.

"No," said Josua, handing it back. His look was cold. "I am not
my father. And I am no king."

He turned, wrapping the reins around his right arm, and lifted his

hand.

"Forward!" he shouted. "We go to meet friends and allies!"
He and his troop rode down through the sloping streets of the
town. A few flowers, thrown by well-wishers from atop the castle
walls, fluttered into the churned, muddy roadway behind them.

^

"What do you see there, Rimmersman?" Towser demanded,
frowning. "Why are you mumbling so?"

Josua's small force was now only a colorful blur, fast disappearing
in the distance.

"There is a troop of mounted men coming along the nm of the
hills to the south," Jarnauga said. "It looks from here not a large
army, but they are still distant." He closed his eyes for a moment as

668 Tad Williams

if trying to remember something, then reopened them, staring into
the distance.

Towser reflexively made the sign of the Tree; the old Rim-
mersman's eyes were so bright and shone so fiercely, like lamps of
sapphire!

"A boar's head on crossed spears," Jarnauga hissed, "whose is
it?"

"Guthwulf," Towser said, confused. The Rimmersman might
have been watching phantoms, for all the horizon revealed to the old
jester. "Earl of Utanyeat -- the King's Hand." Farther down the wall
the Lady Vorzheva stared wistfully after the prince's vanishing
horsemen.

"He comes from the south, then, ahead of Elias' full army. It
looks as though Leobardis has seen him: the Nabbanai have turned
toward the southern hills, as though to engage him."

"How many . . . how many men?" Towser asked, feeling ever
more muddled. "How can you see such a thing, now? I see nothing,
and my sight's the one thing that hasn't . . ."

"A hundred knights, perhaps fewer," Jamauga interrupted.
"That's what is troubling: why are they so few . . . ?"

^

"Merciful God! What is the duke up to?" Josua swore, rising in
his stirrups to gain better vantage. "He has turned east and is gallop-
ing full tilt toward the southern hills! Has he lost his wits?!"

"My lord, look!" Deornoth shouted across to him. "Look there,
on the skins of Bullback Hill!"

"By the love of the Aedon, it's the king's army! What is Leobardis
doing? Does he think to attack Elias unsupported?" Josua slapped
his horses neck and spurred forward.

"It looks a small force only, Prince Josua," called Deornoth. "An
advance party, perhaps."

"Why didn't he send riders?" the prince asked plaintively. "Look,
they will try and push them toward Naglimund, to trap them
against the wall. Why in God's name did Leobardis not send riders
to me?I" He sighed and turned to Isom, who had pushed his father's

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               669

bear-helm back from his brow to better scan the horizon. "Now we
will have our mettle tested after all, friend."

The inevitability of fighting seemed to have drawn serenity over
Josua like a mantle. His eyes were calm, and he wore an odd half-
smile. Isom grinned over at Deornoth, who was loosening his shield
from his saddle pommel, then looked back to the prince.

"Let them test it, Lord," said the duke's son.

"Ride on!" the prince shouted. "The despoiler of Utanyeat is be-
fore us! Ride!" So crying, he spurred his piebald charger into a
gallop, making the sod spun beneath the horse's hooves.

"For Naglimund!" Deornoth shouted, lifting his sword high. "For
Naglimund and our prince!"

^

"Guthwulf is standing fast!" Jamauga said. "He holds on the
hillside, even as the Nabbanai come against him. Josua has turned to
meet them."

"They are fighting?" Vorzheva asked, frightened. "What is hap-
pening to the prince?"

"He has not reached the battle -- there!" Jamauga was striding
down the wall toward the southwestern turret. "Guthwulf *s knights
take the first charge of the Nabbanai! It is all confusion!" He
squinted and knuckled his eyes.

"What?! What?!" Towser put a finger in his mouth, staring and
gnawing. "Do not go silent on me, Rimmersman!"

"It is hard to make out what happens from this far," said
Jamauga, unnecessarily, for neither of his two companions, nor any-
one else on the castle walls could see anything but a faint smear of
movement in the shadow of misty Bullback Hill. "The prince bears
down on the fighting, and Leobardis' and Guthwulf's knights are
scattered along the hillslopes. Now . . . now . . ." He trailed off,
concentrating.

"Ah!" said Towser in disgust, slapping his skinny thigh. "By Saint
Muirfath and the Archangel, this is worse than anything I can think
of. I might as well read this in ... in a book! Damn you, man -- 
speak!"

670 Tad Williams

^

Deomoth found it all unfolding before him as in a dream -- the
murky shimmer of armor, the shouting and the muffled crash of
blade on shield. As the prince's troop bore down on the combatants,
he saw the faces of the Nabbanai knights come slowly up, and the
Erkylanders' too, an eddy of surprise rippling out through the battle
at their approach. For a timeless instant he felt himself a fleck of
shining foam, prisoned at the crest of a hanging wave. A moment
later, with a shocking roar and clash of arms, the battle was all
around them, as Josua's knights came full against the flank of
Guthwulf's Boar and Spears.

Abruptly there was someone before him, a blank, helmeted face
above the rolling eyes and red mouth of a war-charger. Deomoth
felt a blow to his shoulder that rocked him in his saddle; the knight's
lance struck his shield and slid away. He saw the man's dark surcoat
before him for an instant, and swung his sword with both hands,
feeling a shivering impact as it caromed past the shield and struck
the knight's chest, toppling him from his steed down into the mud
and bloodied grass.

For a moment he was clear; he looked around, trying to find
Josua's banner, and felt a distant throb in his shoulder. The prince
and Isom Isgrimnur's son were fighting back to back in the midst of
a swirling surge of Guthwulf's knights. Josua's swift hand darted
out, and Naidel pierced the visor of one of the black-crested horse-
men. The man's hands flew to his metal-clad face, covered in an
instant with red, then he was yanked down out of sight as his
reinless horse reared.

Deomoth saw Leobardis, the duke of Nabban, sitting his horse at
the farthest southeastern edge of the battle beneath his billowing
kingfisher flag. Two knights held their balking horses close by, and
Deornoth guessed the large one in the chasework armor to be his
son, Benigaris. Damn the man! Duke Leobardis was old, but what
was Benigaris doing on the fringe of things?! This was war!

A shape loomed before him, and Deomoth spurred left to dodge a
downrushing battleaxe. The rider blew past, untuming, but was fol-
lowed by another. For a while all was swept from his head but the

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             671

dance of stroke on stroke as he traded blows with the Utanyeater;

the clangor of the field seemed to subside to a dull rush, like the
sound of falling water. At last he found an opening in the man's
guard and crashed a swordstroke against his helm, crumpling it in at
the visor-hinge. The knight toppled sideways and off, his foot caught
in the stirrup so that he hung like a butchered hog in a pantry. His
maddened horse dragged him away.

Earl Guthwulf, black-mantled and black-helmeted, was now only
a stone's throw away, dealing blows left and right with his great
broadsword, holding off two blue-coated Nabbanai horsemen as if
they were boys. Deomoth leaned down in his saddle to spur toward
him -- what glory, to trade blows with the Monster of Utanyeat! -- 
when a toppling horse beside him spun his own mount around.

Pausing, still as muddled as if he dreamed, he found he had been
driven down the hill toward the outer edge of the battle. The blue
and gold banner of Leobardis was before him; the duke, white hair
streaming from beneath his helm, stood high in the stirrups shouting
exhortations at his men, then pulled his visor down over his bright
eyes, preparing to spur forward into the fray.

The dream turned to nightmare as Deomoth watched. The one
whom he took for Benigaris, moving so slowly that Deomoth almost
felt he could reach out a hand and stop him, pulled back his long
blade and carefully, deliberately, pushed it into the back of the
duke's neck under the helm. In the milling crowd, with the battle
crashing all around them, it seemed that no one but Deomoth saw
this terrible act. Leobardis arched his back as the blade was with-
drawn, scarlet-streaked, and brought trembling, gauntleted hands up
to his throat, holding them there for a moment as if trying to speak
through some all-swaying grief. A moment later the duke sagged
forward in his saddle, leaning into his horse's white neck and smear-
ing the mane with his unprisoned blood before rolling off his saddle
to the ground.

Benigaris looked down for a moment, as if contemplating a bird
tumbled from its nest, then tugged his horn to his lips. For a mo-
ment, with shouting chaos on every side, Deomoth thought he saw a
gleam in the black slot of Benigaris' helmet, as if the duke's son
caught his eye across the heads of all the fighting men between them.

The horn sounded, long and harsh, and many heads turned.

"Tambana Leobardis eis!" Benigaris bellowed, his voice a dread-

672 Tad Williams

fill thing, ragged and sorrowful. "The Duke is downl My father is
killed! Fall back!"

He sounded the horn again, and even as Deomoth stared in unbe-
lieving horror there came another hom call from the hillside above
them. A line of armored horsemen sprang out of the shadowed con-
cealment of the trees.

^

"Lights of the North!" Jarnauga groaned, sending Towser into
another paroxysm of frustration.

'Tell us! How goes the battle!?"

"I fear it is lost," the Rimmersman said, his voice a hollow echo.
"Someone has fallen."

"Oh!" Vorzheva gasped, tears standing in her eyes. "Josua! It is
not Josua?!"

"I cannot tell. I think it may be Leobardis. But now another force
of men comes down the hillside, out of the trees. Red-coated, on
their banner ... an eagle?"

"Falshire," Towser groaned, and pulling off his belled hat flung it
clattering onto the stone. "Mother of God, it is Earl Fengbald! Oh,
Usires Aedon, save our prince! The whoreson bastards!"

"They ride down on Josua like a hammer," Jamauga said. "And
the Nabbanai are confused, I think. They . . . they . . ."

^

"Fall back!" Benigaris shouted, and Aspitis Proves at his side
plucked the banner from the stunned arms of Leobardis' squire,
riding the young man down beneath his horse's hooves.

"They are too many!" Aspitis cried. "Retreat! The duke is dead!"

Deomoth pulled his horse around and plunged back through the
melee toward Josua.

"A trap!" he shouted. Fengbald's knights were thundering down
the hillside, lances agleam. "It is a trap, Josua!"

He cut his way through two ofGuthwulf's Boars who would have
blocked his path, taking hard blows on his shield and helm, running
the second man straight through the throat and almost losing his

673

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

sword as it stuck in the spine. He saw a rill of blood run past his
visor, and did not know if it was some other's or his own.

The prince was calling back his knights, Isom's hom blaring
above the screaming and clashing of arms.

"Benigaris has killed the duke!" Deomoth cried. Josua looked up,
startled, as the blood-stained figure bore down on him. "Benigaris
has stabbed him in the back! We are trapped!"

For a brief instant the prince hesitated, lifting his hand as though
to raise his visor and look around. Fengbald and his Eagles had
pitched toward the Naglimunders* flank, trying to cut them off from
their retreat.

A moment later the prince raised his rein-wrapped shield arm.
"Your hom, Isom!" he shouted. "We must cut our way out! Back!
Back to NagUmund! We are betrayed!"

With a blast of the hom and a great cry of anger, the prince's
knights surged forward, directly into Fengbald's wide-strung crim-
son line. Deomoth goaded his horse forward, trying to reach the
front, and watched as Josua's whirling blade snaked through the
guard of the first Eagle, striking serpentlike beneath the man's arm,
in and out. A moment later Deomoth found a host of red-surcoats
before him. He swung his blade, and cursed; although he did not
know it, beneath his helm his cheeks were wet with tears.

Fengbald's men, startled by the ferocity of their attackers,
wheeled slowly about, and in that instant the Naglimunders broke
through. Behind them the Nabbanai legions were in full retreat,
flying brokenly back toward the Inniscrich. Guthwulf did not pur-
sue them, but rather sent his troops to join Fengbald in pursuit of
Josua's fleeing knights.

Deomoth hugged his charger's neck. He could hear its breath
rasping as they galloped full out, back across the meadows and fal-
low farmland. The sound of pursuit gradually fell away as the walls
of Naglimund rose ahead.

The gate was raised, a black, open mouth. Staring at it, his head
throbbing like a beaten drum. Deomoth suddenly wanted very
much to be swallowed -- to go sliding down into deep, lightless obliv-
ion, and never come out again.

40
The Green Tent

"No, PRINCE JOSUA. We cannot allow you to do such a foolish
thing." Isom sat down heavily, favoring his leg.

"Cannot?" The prince lifted his gaze from the floor to the Rim-
mersman. "Are you my keepers? Am I a child-regent or an idiot,
that I should be told what to do?"

"My prince," Deomoth said, resting a hand on Isom's knee to
urge him to silence, "you are master here, of course. Do we not
follow you? Have we not all sworn our allegiance?" Heads around
the room nodded somberly. "But you ask much of us, you must
know that. After such treachery as has been done to us, do you
really think you can trust the king at all?"

"I know him as none of you do," Josua, as if bumed by some
inner fire, leaped up from his chair and paced to his table. "He
wants me dead, certainly, but not this way. Not so dishonorably. If
he swears safe conduct -- and if we avoid obvious stupidity -- then I
will return unharmed. He still wants to act the High King, and the
High King does not slay his brother unarmed beneath a flag of
truce."

"Then why did he throw you in th'cell you told of?" asked
Ethelferth of Tinsett, scowling. "Are you thinkin' that's proof of
honor?"

"No," Josua replied, "but I don't think that was Elias' idea. I see
no other hand but Pryrates' there -- at least until after the deed was
done. Elias has become a monster -- God help me, for he was my
brother once in more than blood -- but he still has a queer sense of
honor, I think."

Deomoth hissed air. "Such as he showed to Leobardis?"

"The honor of a wolf, who slays the weak and flees the strong,"
Isom sneered.

"I think not." Josua's patient grimace was stretched tighter.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             675

"Benigaris' patricide has the feeling of a grudge, to me. I suspect
that Elias . . ."

"Prince Josua, with your pardon ..." Jamauga interrupted,
raising eyebrows around the room. "Do you not think you are
stretching to find excuses for your brother? These are useful con-
cerns that your liegemen have. Just because Elias asks for parley
does not mean you are bound to go to him. No one will question
your honor if you do not."

"Aedon save me, man, I care not a whit for what anyone thinks of
my honor!" the prince snapped. "I know my brother, and I know
him in ways none of you can understand -- and don't tell me he has
changed, Jamauga," he glared, forestalling the old man's words,
"for no one knows that better than I do. But nevertheless I will go,
and I need not explain any more. I wish you all to leave me, now. I
have other matters to think on."

Turning from the table, he waved them from the room.

"Has he gone mad, Deomoth?" Isom asked, his wide face heavy
with apprehension. "How can he walk into the king's bloody hands
this way?"

"Stubbornness, Isom -- oh, who am I to say? Perhaps he does
know what he speaks of." Deornoth shook his head. "Is that
damned thing still there?"

"The tent? Yes. Just out of bowshot from the walls -- also well out
of range of Elias' encampment, as well."

Deomoth walked slowly, allowing the young Rimmersman to set
the pace his wounded leg demanded. "God save us, Isom, I have
never seen him like this, and I have served him since I was old
enough to draw a sword. It is as if he seeks to prove Gwythmn
wrong, who called him 'reluctant.' " Deomoth signed. "Welladay, if
there is no stopping him, we must then do our best to protect him.
The king's herald said two guards, no more?"

"And for the king the same."

Deomoth nodded, thinking. "If this arm of mine," he indicated
the white linen sling, "is movable by the day past tomorrow, then no
force on earth will keep me from being one of those guards."

"And I shall be the other," Isom said.

"I think better you should be inside the walls with a score or so
mounted men. Let us speak to the Lord Constable Eadgram. If there

676 Tad Williams

is an ambush -- if even a sparrow is seen to fly from the king's camp
toward that tent -- you can be there in a few heartbeats."

Isom nodded. "I suppose. Perhaps we can talk to the wise man
Jamauga, ask him to give Josua some charm to protect him."

"What he needs, and it hurts me to say it, is a spell to protect him
against his own rashness." Deomoth stepped over a large puddle.
"Anyway, no charm is proof against a dagger in the back."

^

Lluth's lips were in constant, silent movement, as though offering
an endless series of explanations. His mumbling had supped over
into soundlessness the day before; Maegwin cursed herself for not
having taken note of his last words, but she had been sure he would
find voice again, as he had many times before since his wounding.
This time, she could sense, he would not.

The king's eyes were closed, but his wax-pale face worked cease-
lessly through changing expressions of fear and sorrow. Touching
his burning forehead, feeling the muscles flexing weakly in the unful-
filled rhythms of speech, she again felt as though she must cry, as
though the tears welling inside her, unshed, would eventually force
their way out through her very skin. But she had not wept since the
night her father had led the army out into the Inniscrich -- not even
when they had brought him back in a litter, maddened by pain, the
yards of cloth bandaging his stomach soggy with dark blood- If she
had not cried then, she never would again. Tears were for children
and idiots.

A hand touched her shoulder. "Maegwin. Princess." It was Eo-
lair, his clever face folded in grief as neatly as a summer robe stored
for the winter. "I must speak to you outside."

"Go away, Count," she said, looking back to the rough bed of
logs and straw. "My father is dying."

"I share your grief, Lady." His touch was heavier, like an animal
nosing blindly in the dark. "Believe me, I do. But the living must
live, the gods know, and your people have need of you this mo-
ment." As if he felt his words too cold, too proud, he gave her arm a
brief squeeze and let go. "Please. Lluth ubh-Llythinn would not
want it any other way."

THE DRAQONBONE CHAIR             677

Maegwin bit back a bitter rejoinder. He was right, of course. She
stood, her knees aching from the stone cavern floor, and followed
him past her silent stepmother Inahwen, who sat at the foot of the
bed staring at the guttering torches on the wall.

Look at us, Maegwin thought, wonderingly. It took the Hemystiri
a thousand, thousand years to crawl out of the caves into the sunlight.
She ducked her head to pass beneath the low spot of the cavern
ceiling, squinting her eyes against the gritty torchsmoke. And yet, it
has taken less than a month to drive us back in again. We are becom-
ing animals. The gods have turned their backs on us.

She lifted her head up again as she emerged into daylight behind
Eolair. The clutter of the daytime camp was all around her; care-
fully-watched children playing on the muddy ground, court women
 -- many in the tatters of their best clothing -- on their knees prepar-
ing squirrel and hare for the stew pot and grinding grain on flat
stones. The trees growing close all around on the rock-studded slope
of the mountain bent grudgingly to the wind.

The men were nearly all gone; those not dead on the Inniscrich or
having their wounds tended in the honeycomb of caves were out
hunting, or guarding the lower slopes against any move by Skali's
army to finally crush Hemystir's battered resistance.

All we have left are memories, she thought, looking down at her
own stained and ragged skirt, and the hiding holes of the Grianspog.
We are treed like a fox. When Elias the master comes to take the prey
from his hound Skali, we are finished.

"What is it you want, Count Eolair?" she asked.

"It is not what I am wanting, Maegwin," he said, shaking his
head. "It's Skali. Some of the sentries came back to say he's been
down at the bottom of the Moir Brach all morning, shouting for
your father."

"Let the pig shout," Maegwin scowled. "Why doesn't one of the
men put an arrow into his dirty hide?"

"He's not near in bowshot, princess. And he has half a hundred
men with him. No, I think we should go down and listen to him -- 
from cover, of course, out of sight."

"Of course," she said scornfully. "Why should we care what
Sharp-nose has to say? Come to demand surrender again, I don't
doubt."

"Possibly.'' Count Eolair lowered his eyes, thinking, and

678 Tad Williams

Maegwin felt a rush of sorrow for him, that he should have to bear
up under her ill will. "But I think there is something else here. Lady.
He has been there an hour and more, the men say."

"Very well," she said, wanting to get away from Lluth's dark bed,
and hating herself for the wish. "Let me put on my shoes and I will
come with you."

It took the better part of an hour to climb down the forested
mountain side. The ground was wet and the air was chilly;

Maegwin's breath rushed out in little clouds as she picked her way
down the gullies after Eolair. The gray cold had driven the birds out
of the Circoille, or numbed them into silence. No sound accompa-
nied their passing but the shivering murmur of wind-raked
branches.

Watching the Count of Nad Mullach making his nimble way
through the undergrowth, so like a child with his slender back and
shiny tail of hair, with his movements so quick and unthinking,
Maegwin was again filled with a dull, hopeless love for him. It
seemed such a ridiculous way for her to feel -- tall, gawky child of a
dying man -- that it turned into a kind of anger. When Eolair turned
back to help her over a jutting stone, she frowned as if he had offered
her insult instead of his hand.

The men huddled in the copse of trees overlooking the long ridge
called Moir Brach looked up in startlement at the approach of Eo-
lair and Maegwin, but quickly lowered their bows again and beck-
oned the pair forward. Peering through the bracken down the finger
of stone for which the ridge was named, she saw a milling crowd of
antlike shapes at the bottom, some three furlongs away.

"He just stopped speaking a moment ago," one of the sentries
whispered -- a young boy, eyes wide with nervousness. "He'll start
again. Princess, you'll see."

As if in planned confirmation, one of the figures strode out from
the throng of men in helmets and capes who surrounded a wagon
and team of horses. The figure raised his hands to his mouth and
stood facing slightly to the north of the watchers' hiding-place.

". . . the last time . . ." his voice drifted up, muffled by dis-
tance. "I offer you . . . hostages . . . return for . . ."

Maegwin strained to make out the words. Information?

". . . about the wizard's boy, and . . . princess."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             679

Eolair snapped a glance over to Maegwin, who sat stock-still.
What did they want with her?

"If you do not tell ... where . . . princess is ... we will
. . . these hostages."

The man who spoke -- and Maegwin was sure in her heart it was
Skali himself, just from the wide-legged stance, and the sour, mock-
ing tone that even distance could not wholly obscure -- waved an
arm, and a struggling figure in a rag of light blue was taken from the
wagon and brought to where he stood. Maegwin stared, feeling an
ugly pressure on her heart. She was sure that light blue dress be-
longed to Cifgha . . . little Cifgha, pretty and stupid.

". . . If you do not tell us ... you know ... the princess
Miriamele, things . . . poorly for these . . ." Skali gestured and
the kicking, thinly crying girl -- who might not really be Cifgha,
Maegwin tried to tell herself -- was thrown back onto the wagon,
amidst other pale captives, lying in a row on the wagon bed like
fingers.

So, it was the princess Miriamele they sought, she marveled -- the
High King's daughter! Had she run away? Been stolen?

"Can't we do anything?" she whispered to Eolair. "And who is
*the wizard's boy'?"

The count shook his head roughly, frustration in every line of his
face. "What could we do, princess? Skali'd like nothing more than to
have us come down. He has ten times the men we havel"

Long minutes passed in silence as Maegwin watched, fury tugging
at her emotions like a demanding child. She was thinking of what
else to say to Eolair and these others -- how she'd tell them that if
none of the men wanted to go with her, she'd go down to the Taig
herself and rescue Skali's captives ... or, more likely, die bravely
in the attempt -- when the thickset figure below, helmet off now,
showing the tiny yellow smudge that was his hair and beard, walked
back out to the base of the Moir Brach.

"Very well!" he roared. ". . . And Loken curse . . . stiff backs!
We ... and take these with . . ." The little figure pointed at the
wagon. "But . . . leave you a gift!" Something was untied from
one of the horses, a dark bundle, and dumped at Skali Sharp-nose's
feet. "Just in case - . . waiting for help! . . . Little use against
. . . Kaldskryke!"

A moment later he mounted his horse, and with the harsh rasp of

680 Tad Williams

a horn he and his Rimmersmen clattered off up the valley toward
Hemysadharc, the wagon bumping along behind them.

They waited an hour before making their way cautiously down
the bank, moving as watchfully as a doe crossing a clearing. Reach-
ing the bottom of the Moir Brach, they scuttled to the black-
wrapped bundle Skali had left behind.

When it was opened the men cried out in horror and wept, great
racking sobs of helpless grief ... but Maegwin did not shed a tear,
even when she saw what Skali and his butchers had done to her
brother Gwythinn before he died. When Eolair put an arm around
her shoulders to help her away from the blood-soaked blanket she
shook him off angrily, then turned and slapped hard at his cheek. He
did not protect himself, but only stared at her. The tears that filled
his eyes, she knew, were not from the blow -- and in that moment it
made her hate him all the more.

But her own eyes remained dry.

^

Flakes of snow filled the air -- confusing vision, weighting gar-
ments, chilling fingers and ears to a painful tingle -- but Jiriki and his
three Sithi companions seemed not to mind it much. As Simon and
the others plodded along on their horses, the Sithi walked jauntily
ahead, often stopping to wait for the riders to catch up, patient as
well-fed cats, an indecipherable serenity behind their luminous eyes.
Walking all day from sunrise to twilight, Jiriki and his fellows never-
theless seemed as lightfooted around the camp that night as they
had at dawn.

Simon hesitantly approached An'nai while the others hunted
deadwood for the evening's fire.

"May I ask you some questions?" he asked.

The Sitha lifted his imperturbable stare. "Ask."

"Why was Prince Jiriki's uncle angry that he decided to come
with us? And why did he bring you three along?"

An'nai brought a spidery hand up to his mouth as though to cover
a smile, although no smile had been present. A moment later he
lowered it again, revealing the same impassive expression.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             681

"What passes between the prince and S'hue Khendraja'aro is not
mine to hold, so I cannot share it, either." He nodded once, gravely.
"As to the other, perhaps he can best answer it himself . . . yes,
Jiriki?"

Simon looked up, startled, to find the prince standing behind him,
thin Ups taut in a smile.

"Why did I bring these?" Jiriki asked, making a sweeping gesture
from An'nai to the other two Sithi, returning from a search around
the thickly-forested perimeter of the camping-place. "Ki'ushapo and
Sijandi I brought because someone must look after the horses."

"Look after the horses?"

Jiriki raised an eyebrow, then snapped his fingers- "Troll," he
called over his shoulder, "if this manchild is your student, then you
are a poor teacher indeed! Yes, Seoman, the horses -- or did you
expect to see them climb the mountains beside you?"

Simon was flummoxed. "But . . . climb? The horses? I didn't
think about ... I mean to say, couldn't we just leave them. Let
them go?" It did not seem fair; he had never felt.much more than a
dangling tassel on his journey -- except, of course, for the White
Arrow -- and now the Sitha was holding him accountable for the
horses!

"Let them go?" Jiriki's voice was harsh, almost angry, but his face
was bland. "Leave them to perish, you mean? Once they have been
ridden far beyond where they would themselves go, we should free
them to struggle back across the snowy wastes or die?"

Simon was about to protest, to point out that it wasn't his respon-
sibility, but decided it was not worth arguing.

"No," he said instead. "No, we should not leave them alone to
die."

"Beside," Sludig said, walking by with an armload of wood, "how
then would we get back across the wastes ourselves?"

"Exactly," said Jiriki, his smile stretching; he was pleased. "So I
bring Ki'ushapo and Sijandi. They will tend the horses and prepare
things for my ... for our return." He brought the tips of his two
index fingers together, as if to indicate some kind of completion.
"Now, An'nai," he continued, "is a more complex matter. His rea-
son for being here is more like mine." He looked down at the other
Sitha.

"Honor," An'nai said, eyes downcast, staring at his own inter-

682 Tad Williams

laced fingers. "I bound the Hikka Sta'ja -- the Arrow-Bearer. I did
not show proper respect for a ... sacred guest. Thus, I come to
atone."

"A small debt," Jiriki said softly, "when compared with my great
one, but An'nai will do what he must."

Simon wondered if An'nai had decided on his own, or if Jiriki had
somehow forced him to join them. It was hard to know anything
about these Sithi, how they thought, what they wanted. They were
so damnably different, so slow and so subtle!

"Come now," Binabik announced. A tiny streamer of flame wa-
vered before him, and he fanned it with his hands. "Now we are
starting a fire, and I am sure you will all be interested in a little food
and wine, for the warming of inner spaces."

In the next few days' riding they left the northern Aldheorte be-
hind, coming down off the last decrement of the Wealdhelm hills
onto the flat, snow-swept waste.

There was always cold, now, every long night, every dreary white
day -- bitter, biting cold. The snow flew continuously into Simon's
face, stinging his eyes, burning and cracking his lips. His face red-
dened painfully, as if he had gone too long in the sun, and he coutd
hardly hold the reins of his horse for shivering. It was like being
thrown out of doors forever, a punishment that had gone on too
long. Still, there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation but
offer silent prayers to Usires each day for the strength to last until
camp was made.

At least, he reflected sadly, his ears stinging even beneath the
hooded cloak, at least Binabik is having a good time.

The troll was, indeed, in his very element -- riding ahead, urging
his companions on, laughing from time to time for sheer pleasure as
he and Qantaqa leaped along the mounting drifts. Long evenings
around the fire, while the other mortal companions shivered and
oiled their sleet-saturated gloves and boots. Binabik detailed the dif-
ferent types of snow, and the various signals portending avalanches,
all to prepare them for the mountains that loomed implacably on the
horizon before them, stern and judgmental as gods in their crowns
of white snow.

Every day the great range before them seemed larger without ever
seeming a foot closer, no matter how far they rode. After a week in

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              683

the warmthless, featureless wastes, Simon began to long for the ill-
rumored Dimmerskog forest, or even the wind-lashed heights of the
mountains themselves -- anything but this endless, bone-chilling
plain of snow.

They passed the ruins of Saint Skendi's abbey on the sixth day. It
was nearly covered in snowdrifts: only the spire of the chapel pro-
truded more than a short distance above the surface, an iron Tree
encircled by the coils of some serpentine beast crowning its rotting
roof. Rising up through the frost-laden mist before them, it might
have been a ship near-sunken in a sea of purest white.

"Whatever secrets it may be holding -- whatever it knows of
Colmund or the sword Thorn -- it is holding them too tightly for
us," Binabik said as their horses trudged past the drowning abbey.
Sludig made a Tree on his forehead and heart, his eyes troubled, but
the Sithi circled slowly, staring as though they had never seen any-
thing quite so interesting.

As the travelers huddled around the campfire that night, Sludig
demanded to know why Jiriki and his comrades had spent so much
time examining the lost monastery.

"Because," the prince said, "we found it pleasing."

"What does that mean?" Sludig asked in irritated puzzlement,
looking to Haestan and Grimmric as if they might know what the
Sitha meant.

"It is better not to speak of these things, perhaps," said An'nai,
making a flattening gesture with his spread fingers. "We are compan-
ions at this fire."

Jiriki looked solemnly into the fire for a moment, then his face
split in an odd, mischievous grin. Simon marveled; sometimes it was
hard to think of Jiriki as being any older than himself, so young and
reckless did his behavior occasionally seem. But Simon also remem-
bered the cavern overlooking the forest. Youth and great age mixed
confusedly together; that was what Jiriki was like.

"We stare at things that interest us," Jiriki said, "just as mortals
do. It is only the reasons that are different, and ours you would
probably not understand." His wide smile seemed completely
friendly, but now Simon detected a discordant note, something out
of place.

684 Tad Williams

"The question, northman," Jiriki continued, "is why should our
staring offend you so?"

For a moment silence descended over the fire circle as Sludig
stared hard at the Sithi prince. The flames popped and sputtered on
the damp wood, and the wind hooted, making the horses shift ner-
vously.

Sludig lowered his eyes. "You may look at what you please, of
course," he said, smiling sadly; his blond beard was flecked with
melting snow. "It is only that it reminded me of Saegard -- of the
Skipphawen. It was as if you mocked something dear to me."

"Skipphawen?" Haestan rumbled, sunk in his furs. "Never heard
oft. Is't a church?"

"Boats . . ." Grimmric said, screwing up his narrow face in re-
membrance. "There's boats there."

Sludig nodded, face serious. "You would say Ship-haven. It is
where the longships of Rinunersgard lie."

"But Rimmersmen dunna' sail!" Haestan was surprised. "In all
Osten Ard, no other race be so landbound!"

"Ah, but we did." Sludig's face glowed with reflected firelight.
"Before we came across the sea -- when we lived in Ijsgard, in the
lost West -- our fathers burned men and buried ships. At least, that is
what our tales say."

"Burned men . . . ?" Simon wondered.

"The dead," Sludig explained. "Our fathers built death-ships of
new ashwood and put the dead to flame on the water, sending then-
souls up with the smoke. But our great longships, those that carried
us on the world's oceans and rivers -- the ships that were our lives as
surely as a cotsman's acre or a shepherd's flock -- those we buried in
the ground when they were too old to be seaworthy, so that their
souls would go into the trees, and make them grow straight and tall
to become new ships."

"But that was across th'ocean y'said -- long ago," Grimmric
pointed out. "Saegard is here is't not? In Osten Ard?"

The Sithi around the fire were silent and unmoving, watching
intently as Sludig answered.

"It is. That is where the keel of Elvrit's boat first touched land,
and where he said; 'We have come across the black ocean to a new
home.'"

Sludig looked around the circle. "They buried the great longsbips

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             685

there. 'Never will we go back across that dragon-haunted sea,' Elvrit
said. All along the valley floor of Saegard at the mountains' feet lie
the mounds of the last ships. On the headland at the water's edge,
beneath the biggest howe, they buried Elvrit's ship Sotfengsel, leav-
ing only its tall mast thrusting up from the earth like a tree with no
branches -- it was that I saw in my mind when I saw the abbey."

He shook his head, eyes bright with memories. "Mistletoe grows
on Sotfengsel's mast. Every year, on the day of Elvrit's death, the
white berries of the mistletoe are gathered by young maidens of
Saegard, and taken to the church . . ."

Sludig trailed off. The fire hissed.

"What you do not tell," Jiriki said after a while, "is how your
Rimmersgard people came to this land only to drive others from it."

Simon breathed in sharply. He had sensed something like this
beneath the prince's placid surface.

Sludig replied with surprising mildness, perhaps still thinking of
the pious maidens of Saegard. "I cannot undo what my ancestors
have done."

"There is truth to that," Jiriki said, "but neither will we Zida'ya
 -- we Sithi -- make the same mistake our kin made before us." He
turned his fierce stare on Binabik, who met it solemnly. "Some
things should be made clear between us all, Binbiniqegabenik. I
spoke only truth when I gave my reasons for accompanying you:

some interest that I have in where you go, and a frail, unusual bond
between the manchild and myself. Do not for a moment believe that
I share your fears or struggles. As far as I am concerned, you and
your High King may grind each other to dust."

"With respectfulness, Prince Jiriki," Binabik said, "you are not
examining the full truth. If it was only the struggling of mortal kings
and princes that concerned us, we would all of us be defending
Naglimund. You know that we five, at least, are having other goals."

"Then know this," Jiriki said stiffly. "Though the years that have
passed since we were sundered from the Hikeda'ya -- those you call
the Noms -- are as numerous as snowflakes, still we are one blood.
How could we take the side of upstart men against our kin? Why
should we, when once we walked together beneath the sun, coming
out of the ultimate East? What allegiance could we possibly owe to
mortals, who have destroyed us as eagerly as they destroy all else
. . . even themselves?

686 Tad Williams

None of the humans but Binabik could meet his cold gaze. Jiriki
lifted a long finger before him. "And the one you whisperingly call
the Storm King ... he whose name was Ineluki . . ." He smiled
bitterly as the companions stirred and shivered- "Ah, even his name
is fearsomel He was the best of us once -- beautiful to see, wise far
beyond the understanding of mortals, bright-burning as a flame! -- if
he is now a thing of dark horror, cold and hateful, whose is the
fault? If now, bodiless and vengeful, he schemes to brush mankind
from the face of his land like dust from a page -- why should we not
rejoice? It was not Ineluki who drove us into exile, so that we must
hide among Aldheorte's dark trees like deer, wary always of discov-
ery. We strode Osten Ard in the sunlight before men came, and the
works of our bands were beautiful beneath the stars. What have
mortals ever brought to us but suffering?!**

No one could make reply, but in the stillness after Jiriki's words a
plaintive, quiet sound arose. It hovered in the darkness, full of un-
known words, a melody of spectral beauty.

When he had finished singing, An'nai looked to his silent prince
and his Sithi companions, then to those who faced them across the
dancing flames.

"It is a song of ours that mortals once sang," he murmured. "The
western men loved it of old, and gave it words in their tongue. I will
... I will try to give it words in yours."

He looked up into the sky as he thought. The wind was slowing,
and as the snow flurries died the stars shone through, cold and
remote.

"Moss grows on the stones of Sent Q/hisd."

An'nai sang at last, the clicks and liquid vowels of Sithi speech
muted.

"The shadows are lingering, still as I/listening

The trees have embraced Da'ai Chikiza's bright towers

The shadows all whispering, dark on the leaves.

Long grass is waving above Enki-e-Sha'osaye
The shadows are growing, upon the sward lengthening

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               687

The grave ofNenais'u wears a mantle of flowers
The shadowed brook silent, and no one there grieves.

Where are they gone?

Now the woods are all silence.

Where are they gone?

The song vanished away.

Why will they come no more

Dancing at twilight?

Their lamps the stars' messengers

At ending of day . . .

As An'nai's voice rose, caressing the mournful words, Simon felt a
longing such as he had never felt -- a homesickness for a home he
had never known, a sense of loss over something that had never
belonged to him. No one spoke as An'nai sang. No one could have.

"Sea beats above the dark streets of Jhind-T'senei
The shadows are hiding, in deep grottoes slumbering
Blue ice freezes Tumet'ai, entombs its sweet bowers
The shadows have stained all the pattern Time weaves.

Where are they gone?

Now the woods are all silence.

Where are they gone?

The song vanished away.

Why will they come no more

Dancing at twilight?

Their lamps the stars' messengers

At ending of day ..."

The song ended. The fire was a solitary bright spot in a wasteland of
shadows.

^

The green tent stood by itself in the damp emptiness of the plain
before the walls of Naglimund. Its sides heaved and rippled in the

688 Tad Williams

wind, as though it alone, of all the other things that might move
unseen in that vastly open place, was breathingly alive.

Gritting his teeth against a superstitious shiver, although the
dank, knifelike wind was reason enough to let them go a-chattering,
Deomoth looked over to Josua, riding slightly ahead.

Look at him, he thought. It's as though he saw his brother already
 -- just as if his eyes could see right through the green silk and the
black dragon crest, right into Ellas' heart.

Gazing back to the third and last member of their party, De-
omoth felt his heavy heart sink further. The young soldier whom
Josua had insisted on bringing -- Orstrael, his name was -- looked
ready to faint from pure fright. His blunt, square features, their sun-
reddening faded now by the sunless weeks of spring, were screwed
tight in barely-suppressed terror.

Th 'Aedon save us if he's got to be any use. Why on earth did Josua
pick him?

As they slowly approached, the tent flap parted. Deornoth tensed,
ready to grab for his bow. He had an instant to curse himself to
allowing his prince to do such a foolish, foolish thing as this, but the
green-cloaked soldier who emerged only looked up at them incuri-
ously, then stepped to the side of the door, holding the flap open.

Deomoth signed respectfully for Josua to wait and spurred his
horse into a quick circuit of the green tent. It was large, a dozen
paces or more on each side, and the guy ropes thrummed with the
wind-buffeted weight of it, but the flattened grass all around was
empty of ambushers.

"Very well, Ostrael," he said, returning, "you will stand here, next
to this man," he indicated the other soldier, "with at least one of
your shoulders visible in the doorway at all times, yes?"

Taking the young pikeman's sickly smile for an affirmative, De-
ornoth turned to the king's guard. The man's bearded face was fa-
miliar; doubtless he had seen him at the Hayholt. "If you, too,
would stand near the doorway, it would be better for all concerned."

The guard showed him a curled lip, but edged a step nearer the
entrance.

Josua had already dismounted and moved to the door, but De-
omoth stepped quickly through ahead of him with one hand resting
lightly on his sword hilt.

"There is scarcely need for such caution, Deomoth," a soft but

689

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

penetrating voice said, "that is your name, is it not? After all, we are
all gentlemen here."

Deomoth blinked as Josua stepped in behind him. It was bitingly
cold inside, and dark. The walls glowed faintly, letting in only a
green fraction of the light outside, as though the tent's occupants
floated inside a huge but imperfectly-cut emerald.

A pale face loomed before him, the black eyes pinpoint holes into
nothingness. Pryrates' scarlet robe was rusty brown in the green
murk, the color of dried blood. "And Josua!" he said, horrible levity
in his voice. "We meet again. Who would ever have thought so many
things would have happened since our last conversation . . . ?"

"Shut your mouth, priest -- or whatever you are," the prince
snapped back. There was such cold strength in his voice that even
Pryrates blinked in surprise, like a startled lizard. "Where is my
brother?"

"I am here, Josua," a voice said, a deep, cracked whisper that
seemed to echo the wind.

A figure sat in a high-backed chair in the comer of the tent, a low
table resting nearby, another chair before it -- the only furniture in
the huge, shadowy tent. Josua moved closer. Deornoth pulled his
cloak tighter, and followed, more from an urge not to be left with
Pryrates than any hurry to see the king.

The prince took the chair facing his brother. Elias, sat, strangely
stiff, his eyes bright as gems in his hawkish face, his black hair and
pale brow bound by the iron crown of the Hayholt. Propped be-
tween his legs was a sword, scabbarded in black leather. The High
King's powerful hands rested on the pommel, above the strange
double hilt. Although he stared for a moment, Deomoth's eyes did
not want to rest on the sword; it gave him a queasy, unwell feeling,
like glancing down from some great height. Instead he looked back
up to the king, but this was scarcely better: in the freezing cold of
the tent, the air so chill that a mist of breath hung before Deomoth's
own eyes, Elias wore only a sleeveless jerkin, his white arms bare to
his heavy bracelets, the sinews pulsing beneath the skin as though
they had a life of their own.

"So, brother," the king said, baring his teeth in a smile, "you are
looking well."

"As you are not," Josua said flatly, but Deomoth could see the
worried pinch of his eyes. Something was terribly wrong here; any-

690 Tad Williams

one could sense it. "You called for the parley, Elias. What do you
want?"

The king narrowed his eyes, masking them in green shadow, and
waited a long while before he replied. "My daughter. I want my
daughter. There is another, too ... a boy -- but he is less impor-
tant. No, it is Miriamele I chiefly want. If you hand her over to me, I
will give my word of safe conduct to all children and womenfolk in
Naghmund. Otherwise, all who hide behind its walls and thwart me
. . . will die."

He said this last with such casual lack of malice that Deomoth
was startled by the hungry look that flitted nakedly across his face.

"I do not have her, Elias," Josua replied slowly.

"Where is she?"

"I do not know."

"Liar!" The king's voice was so full of anger that Deomoth al-
most drew his sword, expecting Elias to leap from his chair. Instead,
the king remained nearly motionless, only gesturing for Pryrates to
refill his goblet from a ewer full of some black fluid.

"Do not think me a bad host for not offering you any," Elias said
after he had taken a long swallow; he smiled grimly. "I fear this
liquor would not agree with you." He handed the cup to Pryrates,
who took it gingerly between his fingertips and lowered it to the
table. "Now," Elias resumed, his tone almost reasonable, "can we
not spare ourselves this useless byplay? I want my daughter, and I
will have her." His tone turned grotesquely plaintive. "Does not a
father have a right to the daughter he loved and raised?"

Josua took a deep breath. "What rights you have are between you
and her. I do not have her, and I would not give her unwilling to
you if I did." He continued hastily, before the king could respond.
"Come, Elias, please -- you were my brother once, in all things. Our
father loved us both, you more than me, but he loved this land more.
Can you not see what you are doing? Not just with this struggle -- 
Aedon knows this land has seen war a-plenty. But there is something
else here. Pryrates knows what I speak of. He it was that guided
your first steps down the path, I do not doubt!"

Deomoth saw Pryrates turn, spewing a surprised cloud of breath
at the prince's words.

"Please, Elias," Josua said, his stem face full of woe. "Turn back
only from the course you have chosen, send that cursed sword back

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THE DRACONBONE CHAIR

to those unholy ones who would poison you and Osten Ard . . .
and I will lay my life in your hands. I will open Naglimund's gates
to you as a maiden unshuts her window for a lover! I will turn every
stone in heaven and earth to find Miriamele! Throw away the sword,
Elias! Throw it away! Not by accident was it named Sorrow!"

The king stared at Josua as if stunned. Pryrates, muttering,
rushed forward, but Deomoth leaped and caught him. The priest
squirmed beneath his restraining arm like a snake, and his touch was
horrible, but Deomoth held fast.

"Do not move!" he hissed in Pryrates' ear. "Though you blast me
with a spell, still I will cut the life from you before I die!" He
prodded the side of the scarlet robe with his drawn dagger, just far
enough to touch cloaked flesh. "You have no place in this -- neither
do I! This is between brothers."

Pryrates became quiet. Josua was leaning forward, staring at the
High King. Elias looked on, as though he had trouble seeing what
was before him.

"She is beautiful, my Miriamele," he half-whispered. "In her I
sometimes see her mother Hylissa -- poor, dead girl!" The king's
face, frozen a moment before in malice, collapsed into confusion.
"How could Josua have let it happen? How could he? She was so
young. ..."

Groping, his white hand reached out. Josua held his own out too
late. Instead of catching it, the king's long, cold fingers alighted on
the leather-bound stump of the prince's right wrist. His eyes flared
into life, and his face stiffened into a mask of rage.

"Go to your hiding-hole, traitor!" he snarled as Josua snatched
his arm away. "Liar! Liar! I will shake it down around your ears!"

Such hatred beat out from the king that Deomoth staggered back,
letting Pryrates wriggle free.

"/ will ruin you so completely," Elias thundered, squirming in his
chair as Josua walked to the tent door, "that God All-powerful will
search a thousand years and never find even your soul!"

The young soldier Ostrael was so terrified by the faces of Deomoth
and the prince that he wept silently all the wind-wracked way back to
Naglimund's brooding walls.

Cold Fire and
Grudging Stone

^

THE DREAM gradually receded, melting like mist, a terrifying dream
in which he was surrounded by choking green sea. There was no up
or down, only sourceless light all around, and a host of slicing shad-
ows, sharks, each one with the lifeless black eyes of Pryrates.

As the sea slid away, Deomoth broke surface, nailing up out of
sleep into bleary half-wakefulness. The walls of the guard barracks
were spotted with cold moonlight, and the steady breathing of the
other men was like the wind pushing through dry leaves.

Even as his heart fluttered swiftly in his breast he felt sleep reach-
ing out again to reclaim his exhausted soul, soothing him with feath-
ery fingers, whispering voicelessly in his ear. He began to slide back,
the tidal pull of dream gentler than before. This time it carried him
toward a brighter place, a place of morning damp and gentle noon-
time sun: his father's freeholding in Hewenshire, where he had
grown up working in the fields beside his sisters and older brother.
A pan of him had not left the barracks -- it was before dawn, he
knew, the ninth day of Yuven -- but another part had fallen back into
the past. Again he smelled the musk of turned earth, and heard the
patient creaking of the plow traces and the measured chirp of cart
wheels as the ox pulled the wagon down the road toward market.

The creaking became louder, even as the pungent, muddy smell of
the furrows began to fade. The plow was coming closer; the wain
sounded to be just behind. Were the ox-drivers asleep? Had someone
let the oxen wander trampling into the fields? He felt a childish
horror.

My Da'll be right mad -- was't me? Was I s'posed to watch 'em? He
knew how his father would look, the puckered, rage-mottled face
that would hear no excuse, the face, young Deomoth had always

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR               693

thought, of God sending a sinner down to Hell. Mother Elysia. Da's
goin' t' get th' strop to me, sure, . . .

He sat upright on his pallet, breathing hard. His heart was stum-
bling as badly as after the shark-dream, but it began to slow as he
looked around the barracks.

How long have you been dead. Father? he wondered, wiping the
swiftly-cooling sweat from his forehead with his wrist. Why do you
haunt me still? Have not the years and prayers . . . ?

Deomoth suddenly felt a cold finger of fear trace his spine. He
was awake now, was he not? Then why hadn't the remorseless
creaking noise disappeared with his half-dream?

He was on his feet in a moment, shouting, dead father's ghost
blown out like a candle-

"Up, men, up! To arms! The siege is begun!"

Struggling into his mailcoat he went down the line of cots, kicking
wakefulness into the groggy and wine-addled, calling instructions to
those whom his first cry had brought suddenly to life. There were
shouts of alarm from the gatehouse above, and the ragged bleat of a
trumpet.

His helmet sat askew on his head, and his shield thumped his side
as he trotted out the door struggling with his sword belt. Poking his
head into the other barracks room he saw the denizens already up
and swiftly arming themselves.

"Ho, Naglimunders!" he called, waving a fist while he held the
belt closed with the other. "Now the test. God love us, now the
test!"

He smiled at the ragged shout that answered him and headed for
the stairs, straightening his helmet.

The top of the Greater Gatehouse, in the western curtain wall,
looked strangely misshapen by the light of the half-moon overhead:

the hoardings had been finished only days before, wooden walls and
roof that would protect the defenders from arrows. Already the top
of the gatehouse was swarming with partially-dressed guards, flitting
forms weirdly banded by the moonbeams that bled past the hoard-
ing-walls.

Torches bloomed along the wall as archers and pikemen took
their positions. Another trumpet squalled, like a rooster who had
despaired of dawn's arrival, summoning more soldiers out to the
courtyard below.

694 Tad Williams

The shrill protest of wooden wheels grew louder. Deomoth stared
out across the denuded, down-sloping plain before the town wall,
looking for the source of the nose -- knowing what it would be, but
still unprepared for the actual sight.

"God's Bloody Tree!" he swore, and heard the man beside him
repeat the oath.

Moving toward them as slowly as hobbled giants, taking form out
of the predawn shadows, were six great siege towers, their wooden
summits fully as high as Naglimund's mighty curtain wall. Hung all
over in dark hides, they slouched forward like tree-tall, square-
headed bears; the grunts and cries of the hidden men who pushed
them, and the screech of the wheels, big as houses, seemed the voices
of monsters unseen since the Eldest Days.

Deomoth felt a not-unpleasant rush of fear. The King had come
at last, and now his army was at their door. By the Good God,
people would sing of this someday, whatever happened!

"Save your arrows, fools'" he shouted, as a few of the defenders
launched wild shots into the darkness, the missiles falling far short
of their still-distant targets. "Wait, wait, wait' Soon enough they will
be closer than you'll like!"

Elias's army, in response to the flowering of fire on Naglimund's
walls, let their drums thunder out through the darkness, a great
rolling rumble that gradually resolved into a plodding two-part
tread, as of titan footsteps. The defenders blew horns from every
tower -- a faint and tinny sound against the crash of the drums, but
one that nonetheless betokened life and resistance.

Deomoth felt a touch at his shoulder and looked up to see two
armored shapes beside him: bear-helmed Isom, and glowering Eink-
skaldir in a cap of steel unadorned but for a metal beak that hooked
down over the nose. The dark-bearded Rimmersman's eyes burned
like the torchlight as he laid a firm hand on his master Isgrimnur's
son, moving Isom carefully but forcibly out of the way so he could
stride to the parapet. Staring out into the dimness, Einskaldir
growled doglike under his breath.

"There," he snarled, pointing to the bases of the siege towers, "at
the big bears* feet. The stone-chuckers and the ram," He indicated
other large engines moving in the wake of the towers. Several were
catapults, long, strong arms cocked back like the heads of startled
snakes. Others seemed merely hide-covered boxes, their workings

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             695

hidden by their armor, designed to come safely like hard-shelled
crabs through the arrows and stones to the wall, where they would
perform whatever tasks they had been assigned.

"Where is the prince?" Deomoth asked, unable to tear his eyes
from the crawling engines.

"Coming," Isom replied, standing on his toes to try to look over
Einskaldir. "He has been with Jarnauga and the archive-master
since you returned from the parley. I hope they are preparing some
wondrous device to give us strength, or to sap the king's. S'truth,
Deomoth, look at them all." He pointed at the dark, swarming
shapes of the king's army, numerous as ants behind the slow-rolling
towers. "They are so damnably many."

"Aedon's wounds," Einskaldir snarled, and turned a red eye back
on Isom. "Let them come. We will eat them and spit them out."

"There," said Deomoth, and hoped he had made a smile come to
his face, as he intended. "With God, the prince, and Einskaldir,
what have we to fear?"

The king's army came onto the flatlands in the trail of siege en-
gines, swarming over the mist-soaked meadows like flies on a green
appleskin. Tents seemed to push up everywhere from the moist earth
like angular mushrooms.

Dawn came quietly as the besiegers moved into place. The hidden
sun peeled away only a single layer of night's darkness, leaving the
world suspended in directionless gray light.

The great siege towers, which had stood in place for a long hour,
like dozing sentries, suddenly moved forward again. Soldiers dodged
in and out among the mighty wheels, heaving on the guy ropes as
the massive engines rolled laboriously uphill. At last they came
within range; the archers on the walls let fly, shouting with terrified
joy when the arrows went hissing out, as though they let go the tight
tethers on their hearts with the bowstrings. After the first wobbly
barrage they began to find the range; many of the king's men
dropped dead in their tracks, or lay wounded as the remorseless
wheels of their own engines ground them screaming into the turf.
But for every one who fell, arrow-pierced, another of the helmeted
and blue-jacketed engineers leaped forward to take up his guy rope-
The siege towers rumbled on toward the walls, undeterred.

Now the king's archers on the ground were close enough to return

696 Tad Williams

fire. Arrows flickered back and forth between the walls and the earth
below like maddened bees. As the engines rattled and creaked to-
ward the curtain wall the sun broke through for a short moment;

already the battlements were red-sprinkled in places, as if with a
gentle rain.

"Deomoth!" The soldier's white face, dirt-streaked, shone within
his helmet like a full moon. "Grimstede bids you come, and soon!
They have brought ladders against the wall below Dendinis' Tower!"

"STree!" Deomoth clenched his teeth in frustration and turned to
look for Isorn. The Rimmersman had taken a bow from a wounded
guardsman and was helping to keep clear the last few ells of ground
between the nearest siege tower and the wall, skewering any soldier
fool enough to come out from the stalled tower's protective skirts
and try and take up the loose guy ropes fluttering in the wind.

"Isorn!" Deomoth shouted, "while we keep the towers at bay,
they bring ladders to the southwest wall!"

"Go then!" Isgrimnur's son did not look up from his arrow tip. "I
will join you when I may!"

"But where is Einskaldir?!" From the comer of his eye he saw the
messenger jigging up and down in fearful impatience.

"God knows!"

Cursing again under his breath, Deomoth lowered his head and
ran clumsily along behind Sir Grimstede's messenger. He gathered
half a dozen guardsmen as he went, tired men who had slumped
down for a moment in the lee of the battlement to catch their breath.
Summoned, they shook their heads regretfully, but donned their
helms and followed; Deomoth was weU-trusted; many called him
the Prince's Right Hand.

But Josua had poor luck with his first right hand, Deomoth
thought sourly as he hunched along the walkway, sweating despite
the cold gray air. / hope he keeps this one longer. And where is the
prince, anyway? Of all times he should be seen . . .

Rounding the great bulk of Dendinis1 Tower, he was shocked to
see Sir Grimstede's men falling back, and the swarming red-and-
blue colors of Baron Godwig's Cellodshiremen pouring over the
battlement onto the curtain wall.

"For Josua!" he shouted, leaping forward. The men behind him
echoed his cry. They came against the besiegers with a tinny crash of

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             697

sword on sword, and for a moment pushed the Shiremen back. One
toppled from the walls, shrieking, windmilling his arms as though
the chill wind might bear him up. Grimstede's men took heart and
pushed forward. While the enemy was engaged again, Deomoth
pulled a pike from the stiff grasp of a sprawled corpse, suffering a
hard blow to his body from a stray spear butt, and pushed the first of
the tall ladders away from the wall. A moment later two of his
guardsmen had joined him, and together they levered the ladder out;

it went shivering into open space as the besiegers on it clung and
cursed, their mouths gaping like black empty holes. For a moment it
stood free, halfway between earth and heaven and perpendicular to
both; then the ladder overbalanced backward toward the ground
below, shedding soldiers like fruit from a shaken branch.

Soon all but a pair of the red-and-blue lay in their blood on the
walkway. The defenders pushed the remaining three ladders away,
and Grimstede had his men roll up one of the large stones they had
not had time to move at the assault's beginning. They tipped it over
the low spot on the wall so that it went crashing down on the top-
pled ladders, splintering them like kindling and killing one of the
laddermen who sat where he had tumbled, staring idiotically as the
great stone rolled down upon him.

One of the defending guardsmen -- a bearded young fellow who
had diced with Deomoth once -- lay dead, his neck broken by the
edge of a shield. Four of Sir Grimstede's men had also fallen, crum-
pled like wind-toppled scarecrows among seven men of Cellodshirc
who had also not survived the failed assault.

Deomoth was feeling the blow of his stomach, and stood panting
as gap-toothed Grimstede limped over to stand beside him, a ragged,
bloody hole in the calf of his boot.

" Tis seven here, an' half-dozen more toombled off th' ladder,"
the knight said, staring down with satisfaction on the writhing bod-
ies and wreckage below. "All down th' wall it's th' same. Losin' far
more than we, King Elias is, far more."

Deomoth felt ill, and his wounded shoulder throbbed as though a
nail had been driven into it.

"The king has ... far more than we do," he replied. "- . - He
can . . . toss them away like apple peelings." Now he knew he
would be sick, and moved toward the edge of the wall.

698 Tad Williams

"Apple peelings . . ." he said again, and leaned over the parapet,
too pained to feel shame.

^

"Read it again, please," Jamauga said quietly, staring at his knit-
ted fingers.

Father Strangyeard looked up, his weary mouth open to form a
question. Instead, a bone-jarring thump from outside brought a look
of panic to the one-eyed priest's face, and he quickly traced a Tree
on the breast on his black robe.

"Stones'" he said, his voice shrill. "They are ... they are throw-
ing stones over the wall! Shouldn't we ... isn't there . . . ?"

"The men fighting atop the walls are in danger too," the old
Rimmersgarder said, his face stem. "We are here because we best
serve here. Our comrades search for one sword in the white north,
against lethal odds. Another is in the hands of our enemy already,
even as he besieges our walls. What little hope there is of discovering
what happened to Fingil's blade Minneyar lies with us." His expres-
sion softened as he regarded the worried Strangyeard. "The few
stones that reach the inner keep must come over the high wall be-
hind this room. We are at little risk. Now please, read that passage
again. There is something in it I cannot quite touch, but that seems
important."

The tall priest stared down at the page for some moments, and as
the room fell into silence a wave of cries and exhortations, muffled
by distance, stole through the window like a mist. Strangyeard's
mouth twitched.

"Read," suggested Jamauga.

The priest cleared his throat.

"'. . , And so John went down into the tunnels beneath the
Hayholt -- steaming vents and sweating passageways alive with
the breath ofShurakai. Unarmed but for a spear and shield, his
very boot-leather smoking as he neared the firedrake's den, he
was, there is little doubt, as frightened as he ever would be in his
long life . . .' "

699

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

*     *

Strangyeard broke off. "What use is this, Jamauga?" Something
thudded into the soil a short distance away with a sound like the fall
of a giant's hammer. Strangyeard stoically ignored it. "Do ... do
you want me to go on? Through all King John's battle with the
dragon?"

"No." Jamauga waved a gnarled hand. "Go to the ending pas-
sage."

The priest carefully turned a few leaves.

" '. . , Thus it was that he came out again, into the light, be-
yond any hope of return. Those few who had remained at the
cave mouth -- this itself an indication of great bravery, for who
could know what might happen at the door of an angered drag-
on's tunnel? -- swore great oaths of joy and astonishment; joy,
when they saw John of Warinsten come up alive from the worm 's
den, and astonishment at the massive claw, crimson-scaled and
hook-taloned, that he bore upon his bloody shoulder. As they
went shouting down the road before him, leading his horse trium-
phantly through the gates of Erchester, the people came gaping to
their windows and into the streets. Some say that those who had
loudest prophesied John's horrible death, and the dire conse-
quences to themselves of the young knight's actions, were now
most audible in their acclaim of his great deed. As word spread,
the rows were quickly lined with clamoring citizens who threw
flowers before John as he rode, Bright-Nail lifted high before him
like a torch-flame, through the city that was now his own . . .' "

Sighing, Strangyeard gently put the manuscript pages back into
the cedar box he had found to house them. "A lovely and frighten-
ing story, I would say, Jamauga, and Morgenes, hmmmm, yes, he
puts things wonderfully -- but what use to us? -- no disrespect, you
understand."

Jamauga squinted at his own prominent knuckles, and frowned.
"I do not know. Something, there is something there. Doctor
Morgenes, whether he wished to or no, put something there. Sky
and clouds and stones! I can almost touch it! I feel blind!"

Another wash of noise came through the window: loud, worried

700 Tad Williams

shouts and the weighty chink of armor as a troop of guards jogged
past in the commons outside.

"I do not think we have long to ponder, Jamauga," Strangyeard
said finally.

"Nor do I," said the old man, and rubbed his eyes.

^

All through the afternoon the tide of King Ellas' army dashed
itself against Naglimund's stony cliffs. The weak sunlight struck
glinting shards of reflection from polished metal as wave after wave
of mailed and helmeted soldiers swarmed up the ladders, only to be
repelled by the castle's defenders. Here and there the king's forces
found a momentary breach in the ring of stem men and grudging
stone, but they were always pushed back. Fat Ordmaer, baron of
Uttersall, held one such gap alone for long minutes, battling hand to
hand with the scaling-soldiers mounting the ladders from below,
slaying four of them and keeping the rest at bay until help arrived,
although he got his own deathwound in the fighting.

It was Prince Josua himself who brought up a troop of guards,
securing the length of wall and destroying the ladder. Josua's sword
Naidel was a ray of sunlight flickering through leaves, snicking
swiftly in and out, making dead men from living while his attackers
swung clumsy broadswords or inadequate daggers.

The prince cried when Ordmaer's body was found. There had
been no love lost between the baron and himself, but Ordmaer's
death had been a heroic one, and in the pulse of battle his fall
suddenly seemed to Josua representative of all the others -- all the
pikemen and archers and foot-soldiers on both sides, dying in their
own blood beneath cold, cloudy skies. The prince ordered that the
baron's great, limp bulk be carried down to the castle chapel. His
guardsmen, cursing silently, complied.

As the reddening sun crawled toward the western horizon. King
Ellas' army seemed to sag, to let up: their attempts to push the siege
engines against the curtain wall in the hissing face of arrow-fire grew
half-hearted, and the sealers began to abandon their ladders at the
first resistance from the heights above. It was hard for Erkynlander
to kill Erkynlander, even at the High King's command. It was

701

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

harder still when those brother Erkynlanders fought like denned
badgers.

As sunset came on a mournful horn blast floated across the field
from the lines of tents, and Elias' forces began to fall back, dragging
the wounded and also many of the dead, leaving the hide-covered
siege towers and miner's frames where they stood awaiting the next
morning's assault. As the hom sounded again the drums beat
loudly, as though to remind the defenders that the king's great
army, like the green ocean, could send waves forever. Eventually,
the drums seemed to say, even the stubbomest stone would crumble.

The siege towers, standing like solitary obelisks before the walls,
were another obvious reminder of Elias' intent to return. The damp
hides hung upon them permitted no mere flaming arrow to do dam-
age, but Eadgram the Lord Constable had been pondering all day.
After seeking some advice from Jamauga and Strangyeard, he had
at last devised a plan.

Silently, even as the last of the king's men limped down the slope
toward their encampment, Eadgram bade his men load oil-filled
winesacks onto the throwing arms of Naglimund's two small sling-
stones. Then the arms were released, and oilsacks whistled across
the open distance beyond the wall to splatter over the towers' leather
mantling. This done, it was a simple matter to send a few fiery pitch-
tipped arrows streaking through the blue twilight; within moments
the four huge towers had become billowing torches.

There was nothing the king's men could do to quell the blaze. The
defenders on the walls clapped their hands together and stamped
and shouted, weary but heartened, as orange light danced on the
battlements.

When King Elias rode out from the camp, wrapped in his great
black cloak like a man of shadows, Naglimund's defenders jeered.
When he lifted his strange gray sword, and shouted like a madman
for rain to fall and quench the fiery towers, they laughed uneasily. It
was only after a while, as the king rode back and forth, crow-black
cape flapping in the cold wind, that they began to understand from
the horrible anger in Elias' echoing voice that he truly expected rain
to come at his summoning, and that he was outraged it had not. The
laughter faded into a fearful silence. Naglimund's defenders, one by
one, left off their celebrating and climbed down from the walls to

702 Tad Williams

tend their wounds. The siege, after all, had barely begun. There was
no respite in view, and no rest this side of Heaven.

"I've been having strange dreams again, Binabik."

Simon had ridden his horse up alongside Quantaqa, some yards
ahead of the rest of the company. It was clear but terribly cold, this
their sixth day riding across the White Waste.

"Dreams of what sort?"

Simon readjusted the mask the troll had made him, a strip of hide
with a slit cut in it, to mask the fierce glare of the snow. "Of Green
Angel Tower ... or some tower. Last night I dreamed that it was
running with blood."

Binabik squinted behind his own mask, then pointed to a faint
band of gray running along the horizon at the base of the mountains.
"That, I am sure, is the edge of the Dimmerskog -- or the Qilakitsoq,
as my folk properly name it: the Shadow-wood. We should be upon
it with another day or so."

Staring at the dreary strip, Simon felt his frustrations boiling up.

"I don't care about the damnable forest," he snapped, "and I'm
sick to death of ice and snow, ice and snow! We shall freeze and die
in this awful wilderness! What about the dreams I'm having?!"

The troll bobbed along for a moment as Qantaqa had her way
over a series of small drifts. Through the song of the wind Haestan
could be heard shouting something to someone.

"I am already full of sorrow." Binabik spoke measuredly, as if
matching his speech to the cadence of their progress. "Awake I lay
two nights in Naglimund, worrying what harm I would do in bring-
ing you along for this journey. I have to knowledge of what your
dreams mean, and the only way for finding it would be to walk the
Road of Dreams."

"As we did at Geloe's house?"

"But I am having no faith in my unaided powers for that -- not
here, not now. It is possible your dreams could give us aid, but still I
do not find it wise to walk the dream-road now. Here we are all,
then, and this is what our fate will be. I can only say I have been
doing what seemed best."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             703

Simon thought about this and grunted.

Here we all are. Binabik is right; here we all are, too far in to turn
back.

"Is Inelu . . ." he made the sign of the Tree with fingers trem-
bling from more than chill, ". . . is the Storm King ... the
Devil?" he asked at last.

Binabik frowned deeply.

"The Devil? The Enemy of your God? Why are you asking that?
You have heard Jamauga's words -- you know what Ineluki is."

"I suppose." He shivered. "It's just that ... I see him in my
dreams. I think it's him, anyway. Red eyes, that's all I see, really,
and everything else black . . . like bumed-up logs with the hot
places still showing through." He felt ill just remembering.

The troll shrugged, hands caught up in the wolf's neck ruff. "He
is not your Devil, friend Simon. He is evil, though, or at least I am
thinking that the things he wants will be evil for the rest of us. That
is evil enough."

"And ... the dragon?" Simon said hesitantly a moment later.
Binabik turned his head sharply, presenting his strange, slitted gaze.

"Dragon?"

'The one who lives on the mountain. The one whose name I can't
say."

Binabik laughed explosively, his breath a cloud. "Igjaijuk is its
name! Daughter of the Mountains, you are having many worries,
young friend! Devils! Dragons'" He caught one of his own tears on
the finger of his glove and held up. "Look!" he chuckled. "As if
there was need of making more ice."

"But there was a dragon!" Simon answered hotly. "Everyone said
so!"

"Long ago, Simon. It is an ill-omened place, but that is being as
much for its isolation as anything else, is my guessing. Qanuc leg-
ends tell a great ice-worm lived there once, and my people do not go
there, but now I think it to be more likely a haunt of snow leopards
and such creatures. Not that there will not be things of danger. The
Hunen, as we are well-knowing, range far afield these days."

"So then, truly I have little to fear? The most terrible things have
been running through my head at night."

"I was not saying you had little to fear, Simon. We must never be

704 Tad Williams

forgetting that we have enemies; some, it would seem, are very pow-
erful indeed."

Another frigid night in the Waste; another campfire in the dark
emptiness of the surrounding snowfields. Simon would have liked
nothing better in the entire world than to be curled up in a bed at
Naglimund, covered in blankets, even if the bloodiest battle in the
history of Osten Ard raged just outside his door. He was sure that if
just now someone offered him a warm, dry place to sleep, he would
lie or kill or take Usires' name in vain to get it. He was positive, as
he sat wrapped in his saddle blanket trying to keep his teeth from
chattering, that he could feel his very eyelashes freezing on his lids.

Wolves were yipping and wailing in the unending darkness beyond
the faint firelight, carrying on long and mournfully intricate conver-
sations. Two nights before, when the companions had first begun to
hear their singing, Qantaqa spent the entire evening pacing ner-
vously around the campfire circle. She had since grown used to the
night cries of her fellows, and only responded with an occasional
uneasy whimper.

"Why dunna she talk b-b-back at 'em?" Haestan asked worriedly.
A plainsman of the Erkynlandish north, he had no more love for
wolves than did Sludig, although he had grown almost fond of
Binabik's mount. "Why dunna she tell *em t'go p-plague someone
else?"

"Like men, not all tribes ofQantaqa's kind are at peace," Binabik
replied, setting no one's mind at ease.

Tonight the great she-wolf was doing her stalwart best to ignore
the howling -- pretending sleep, but giving herself away as her
pricked ears swiveled toward the louder cries. The wolfsong, Simon
decided as he huddled deeper in his blanket, was about the loneliest
sound he had ever heard.

Why am I here? he wondered. Why are any of us here? Searching
through this horrible snow for some sword no one has even thought
about in years. Meanwhile, the Princess and all the rest of them are
back at the castle waiting for the king to attack! Stupid! Binabik grew
up in the mountains, in the snow -- Grimmric and Haestan and
Sludig are soldiers -- the Aedon alone knows what the Sithi want. So
why am I here? It's stupid!

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             705

The howling quieted. A long forefinger touched Simon's hand,
making him jump.

"Do you listen to the wolves, Seoman?" Jiriki asked.

"It's hard n-not to."

"They sing such fierce songs." The Sitha shook his head. "They
are like your mortal kind. They sing of where they have been, and
what they have seen and scented. They tell each other where the elk
are running, and who has taken whom to mate, but mostly they are
merely crying 7 am! Here I am!'" Jiriki smiled, veiling his eyes as
he watched the dying fire.

"And th-thafs what you think we ... we m-m-mortals are say-
ing?"

"With words and without them," the prince responded. "You
must try to see things with our eyes: to the Zida'ya, your folk often
seem as children. You see that the long-lived Sithi do not sleep, that
we stay awake throughout the long night of history. You men, like
children, wish to remain at the fire with your elders, to hear the
songs and stories and watch the dancing." He gestured around, as
though the darkness was peopled with invisible revelers.

"But you cannot, Simon," he continued kindly. "You may not. It
is given to your folk to sleep the final sleep, just as it is given to our
kind to walk and sing beneath the stars the night long. Perhaps there
is even a richness in your sleeping dreams that we Zida'ya do not
understand."

The stars hanging in the black-crystal sky seemed to slide away,
to sink deeper into the vast night. Simon thought of the Sithi, and of
a life that did not end, and could not make himself understand what
it might be like. Chilled to the bone -- even, it seemed, to his soul -- 
he leaned close to the fire, pulling off his damp mittens to warm his
hands.

"But the Sithi can d-die, c-c-can't they?" he asked cautiously,
cursing his frozen stuttering speech.

Jiriki leaned close, his eyes narrowing, and for a frightening mo-
ment Simon thought the Sitha was going to strike him for his temer-
ity. Instead, Jiriki took Simon's trembling hand and tilted it.

"Your ring," he said, staring at the fish-shaped curlicue, "I had
not seen it before. Who gave you this?"

"My ... my master, I su . . . suppose he was," Simon stam-
mered. "Doctor Morgenes of the Hayholt. He sent it after me, to B-

706 Tad Williams

B-Binabik." The cool, strong clutch of the Sithi prince's hand was
unsettling, but he dared not pull away.

"So you are one of your kind who knows the Secret?" Jiriki asked,
watching him intently. The depth of his golden eyes, rust-tinged by
the fire's reflection, was frightening.

"S-Secret? N-N-No! No, I don't know any secret!"

Jiriki stared at him for a moment, holding him still with his eyes
as surely as if he had grasped Simon's head in both hands.

"Then why should he give you the ring?" Jiriki asked, mostly to
himself, shaking his head as he released Simon's hand. "And I my-
self gave you a White Arrow! The Ancestors have made for us a
strange road indeed." He turned back to stare at the wavering fire,
and would not answer Simon's questions.

Secrets, Simon thought angrily, more secrets! Binabik has them.
Morgenes had them, the Sithi are full of them! I don't want to know
about any other secrets! Why have I been picked out for this punish-
ment? Why is everyone forever forcing their horrible secrets on me?!

He cried silently for a while, hugging his knees and shivering,
wishing for impossible things.

They reached the eastern outskirts of the Dimmerskog on the
afternoon of the next day. Although the forest was covered in a
thick blanket of white snow, it nevertheless seemed, as Binabik had
named it, a place of shadows. The company did not pass beneath its
eaves, and might have chosen not to even had their path lain that
way, so thick with foreboding was the wood's atmosphere. The trees,
despite their size -- and some of them were huge indeed -- seemed
dwarfish and twisted, as though they squirmed bitterly beneath their
burden of needled branches and snow. The open spaces between the
contorted trunks seemed to bend away crazily like tunnels dug by
some huge and drunken mole, leading at last to dangerous, secretive
depths.

Passing in near silence, his horse's hooves crunching softly in the
snow, Simon imagined following the gaping pathways into the bark-
pillared, white-roofed halls of Dimmerskog, coming at last to -- who
could guess? Perhaps to the dark, malicious heart of the forest, a
place where the trees breathed together and passed endless rumors
with the scaly rub of branch on branch, or the malicious exhalation
of wind through twigs and frozen leaves.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             707

They camped that night in the open again, even though the Dim-
merskog crouched only a short distance away like a sleeping animal.
None of them wanted to spend a night beneath the forest's branches
 -- especially Sludig, who had been raised on stories of the ghastly
things that stalked the wood's pale corridors. The Sithi did not seem
to care, but Jiriki spent part of the evening oiling his dark
witchwood sword. Again the company huddled around a naked fire,
and the east wind razored past them all the long evening, sending
great powdery spouts of snow whirling all around, and sporting
among the Dimmerskog's upper reaches. When they lay down that
night to sleep it was to the sound of the forest creaking, and the
wind-ridden branches sawing one against the other.

Two more days of slow riding brought them around the forest and
across the last stretch of open, icy land to the foothills of the moun-
tains. The landscape was bleak, and the daylight glared off the snow-
crust until Simon's head throbbed from squinting, but the weather
seemed a little warmer. The snow still fell, but the harrying wind did
not drive past cloak and coat as it did out of the'mountains' broad
lee.

"Look!" Sludig cried, pointing away up the sloping apron of the
foothills.

At first Simon saw nothing but the ubiquitous snowcapped rocks
and trees. Then, as his eye slid along the line of low hills to the east,
he saw movement. Two strangely-shaped figures -- or was it four,
oddly commingled? -- were silhouetted on the ridgetop a furlong
away.

"Wolves?" he asked nervously.

Binabik rode Qantaqa out from the party until they stood clear,
then cupped his gloved hands in his mouth. "Yah aqonik mij-ayah
nu tutusiq, henimaatuq?" he called. His words echoed briefly and
then died amid the shrouded hills. "In truth there should be no
shouting," he whispered to a puzzled Simon. "Higher up it might be
the causing of snowslides."

"But who are you . . . ?"

"Sshhh." Binabik waved his hand. A moment later the two shapes
moved down the ridge a short way toward the companions. Now
Simon could see that the pair were small men, each astride a shaggy,
twist-horned ram. Trolls!

708 Tad Williams

One of them called out. Binabik, after listening intently, turned
with a smile to his comrades.

"They wish for knowing where we go, and if that is not being a
flesh-eating Rimmersman is our midst, and is he a prisoner?"

"The devil take them!" Sludig growled. Binabik's smile widened,
and he turned back to the ridge.

"Binbiniqegabenik ea sikka!" he shouted. "Uc sikkan mo-hinaq
da Yijafjuk!"

The two round fur-hooded heads regarded them blankly for a
moment, like sunbamed owls. A moment later one rapped his chest
with his hand, and the other waved his mittened arm in a wide circle
as they turned their mounts and rode off up the ridge in a cloud of
powdery snow.

"What was all that?" Sludig asked, nettled.

Binabik's grin seemed strained. "I told them we were to go to
Urmsheim," he explained. "One gave the sign to ward off evil, the
other was using a charm against madmen."

After making their way up into the hills, the company made camp
in a rocky dale gouged into the hem of Urmsheim's mantle.

"Here it is we should leave the horses, and those things we need
not be carrying," Binabik said as he surveyed the sheltered site.

Jiriki strode to the mouth of the dale and leaned backward, star-
ing up toward Urmsheim's craggy, snowcapped head, pink-tinged
on its westerly face by the setting sun. The wind billowed his cloak
and blew his hair up around his face like wisps of lavender clouds.

"It has been long since I have seen this place," he said.

"Have you climbed this mountain before?" Simon asked, strug-
gling with his horse's cinch buckle.

"I have never seen the peak's far side," the Sitha answered. "This
will be something new for me -- to see the easternmost realm of the
Hikeda'ya."

"The Morns?"

"Everything north of the mountains was ceded to them long ago,
at the time of the Parting." Jiriki strode back up the gulley.
"Ki'ushapo, you and Sijandi must prepare a shelter for the horses-
See, there is some scrub growing here, under the leaning rocks, that
may be a boon if you run short of hay." He lapsed over into the Sithi
tongue, and An'nai and the other two began to set up a campsite

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             709

more permanent than any the company had enjoyed since leaving
the hunting lodge.

"Here, Simon, see what I have brought!" Binabik called.

The youth made his way past the three soldiers, who were split-
ting the small trees they had felled into firewood. The troll was
squatting on the ground pulling oilskin-wrapped bundles from his
saddlebag.

"The blacksmith at Naglimund thought me as mad as I am
small," Binabik smiled as Simon approached, "but he made for me
the things I was wanting."

Unlaced, the pouches disgorged all kinds of strange objects -- 
spike-covered metal plates with straps and buckles, odd hammers
with pointy heads, and harnesses that looked as though they might
be made to fit very small horses.

"What are all these things?"

"For the wooing and winning of mountains," Binabik smirked.
"Even the Qanuc, with all our nimblefootedness, do not go climbing
to the highest reaches unprepared. See, these are for wearing on
boots," he indicated the spiked plates, "and these are ice-axes -- very
useful they are. Sludig will have seen them, no doubt."

"And the harnesses?"

"So we may be roping ourselves together. Thus, if the sleet is
blowing, or we are on dragon-snow or too-thin ice, when one falls
the others can then be bearing up his weight. If there had been the
time, I would have made preparation of a harness for Qantaqa, too-
She will be upset at staying behind, and we will have a sad parting."
The troll hummed a quiet tune as he oiled and polished.

Simon stared silently at Binabik's tools. Somehow he had thought
climbing the mountain would be something like climbing the stairs
of Green Angel Tower -- steeply uphill, but essentially no more than
a difficult hike. This talk of people falling, and thin ice ...

"Ho, Simon-lad!" It was Grimmric. "Come make y'rself useful.
Pick up some of th' chippings. We'll have one last good blaze 'fore
we go ('killing ourselves up-mountain."

The white tower again loomed in his dreams that night. He clung
desperately to its blood-slickened sides as wolves howled below him,
and a dark, red-eyed shape rang the baleful bells above.

710 Tad Williams

^

The innkeeper looked up, mouth open to speak, then stopped. He
blinked and swallowed, like a frog.

The stranger was a monk, robed and hooded in black, his garb
spattered in places with the mud of the road. What was arresting
was his size; he was fairly tall but broad as an ale barrel, wide
enough that the tavern room -- not the brightest to begin with -- had
perceptibly darkened when he pushed through the doorway.

"I ... I'm sorry. Father." The innkeeper smiled ingratiatingly.
Here was a man of the Aedonite God who looked as though he
could squeeze the sin right out of you if he chose. "What were you
asking?"

"I said I've been to every inn on every street in the wharf district,
and I've had no luck. My back aches. Give me a mug of your best."
He stumped over to a table and lowered his bulk onto a creaking
bench. "This damnable Abaingeat has more inns than it has roads."
His accent, the innkeeper noted, was a Rimmersman's. That ex-
plained the raw, pink look of his face: the innkeeper had heard it
said that the men of Rimmersgard had such thick beards they had to
shave thrice daily -- those few who didn't just let them grow.

"We are a harbor town, Father," he said, setting a healthy flagon
down before the scowling, rumpled monk. "And with the things that
are going on these days -- " he shrugged and made a face, "well,
there are plenty of strangers wanting rooms."

The monk wiped foam from his upper lip and frowned. "I know.
A damnable shame. Poor Lluth . . ."

The innkeeper looked around nervously, but the Erkynlandish
guardsmen in the comer were paying no attention. "You said you
have had no luck, Father," he said, changing the subject. "Might I
be asking what you're seeking?"

"A monk," the big man growled, "a brother monk, that is -- and a
young boy. I have scoured the wharf from top to bottom."

The tavemmaster smiled, polishing a metal flagon with his apron.
"And you came here last? Begging your pardon. Father, but I think
your God's seen fit to test you."

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             711

The big man grunted, then looked up from his ale- "What do you
mean?"

"They were here, they were -- if it's the same two."

His satisfied smile froze on his face as the monk lurched up from
the bench. His reddened face was inches from the innkeeper's own.

"When?"

"T-two, three d-days ago -- I'm not sure . . ."

"Are you really not sure," the monk asked menacingly, "or do
you just want money?" He patted his robe. The innkeeper did not
know if it was a purse or a knife this strange man of God was patting
for; he had never much trusted Usires' followers anyway, and living
in Hemystir's most cosmopolitan town had not improved his opin-
ion of them.

"Oh, no. Father, truly! They . . . they were in a few days past.
Asked after a boat going down-coast to Perdruin- The monk was a
short fellow, bald? The lad thin-faced, black hair? They were here."

"What did you tell 'em?"

"To go see Old Gealsgiath down by the Eirgid. Ramh -- that's the
tavern with the oar painted on the front door, down near land's
end!"

He broke off in alarm as the monk's huge hands folded over his
shoulders. The innkeeper, a reasonably strong man, felt himself
clasped as securely as a child. A moment later he was reeling from a
rib-crushing hug, and could only stand wheezing as the monk
pressed a gold Imperator into his hand.

"Merciful Usires bless your inn, Hernystirman!" the big man bel-
lowed, turning heads clear out in the street. "This is the first piece of
luck I have had since I began this God-cursed search!" He crashed
out through the doorway like a man leaving a burning house.

The innkeeper took a painful breath, and clutched the coin, still
warm from the monk's great paw.

"Mad as a mooncalf, these Aedonites," he told himself.
"Touched."

^

She stood at the railing and watched Abaingeat sliding away,
drawing back into the fog. The wind ruffled her close-cropped black
hair.

712 Tad Williams

"Brother Cadrach!" she called. "Come here. Is there anything so
glorious?" She gestured at the growing strip of green ocean that
separated them from the misty shoreline. Gulls wheeled and
screeched above the boat's foaming wake.

The monk waved a limp hand from where he crouched beside a
clutch of lashed-down barrels. "You enjoy yourself . . . Malachias.
I have never been much of a seafarer. God knows, I do not think this
voyage will change that." He wiped spray -- or sweat -- from his fore-
head. Cadrach had not touched a drop of wine since they had set
foot on shipboard.

Miriamele looked up to see a pair of Hemystiri sailors watching
her curiously from the foredeck. She dipped her head and walked
over to seat herself next to the monk.

"Why did you come with me?" she asked after a while. "That is
something I still do not understand."

The monk did not look up. "I came because the lady paid me."

Miriamele pulled her hood forward. "There is nothing like the
ocean to remind you of what is important," she said quietly, and
smiled. Cadrach's returned smile was weak.

"Ah, by the Good Lord, that's true," he groaned. "I am reminded
that life is sweet, that the sea is treacherous, and that I am a fool."

Miriamele nodded solemnly, staring up at the bellying sails.
"Those are good things to remember," she said.

42
Beneath the Uduntree

"THERE'S NO hurrying it, Elias," Guthwulf growled. "No hurrying.
Naglimund's a tough nut . . . tough -- you knew it'd be ..." He
could hear himself slurring his words; he had needed to get drunk
just to face his old companion. The Earl of Utanyeat no longer felt
comfortable around the king, and felt even less so bringing him bad
news.

"You have had a fortnight. I have given you everything -- troops,
siege engines -- everything!" The king pulled at the skin of his face,
frowning. He was drawn and sickly, and had not yet met
Guthwulf's eyes. "I can wait no longer. Tomorrow is Midsummer's
Eve!"

"And why should that matter?" Guthwulf, feeling chilled and
sick, turned away and spit out the now-tasteless lump of citril root
he had been chewing. The king's tent was as cold and dank as the
bottom of a well. "No one has ever taken one of the great houses in a
fortnight except by treachery, even if they were poorly defended -- 
these Naglimunders have fought like cornered animals. Be patient,
Highness; patience is all we need. We can starve them out in a
matter of months."

"Months!" Elias' laugh was hollow. "Months, he says, Pryratesi"

The red priest offered a skeletal smile.

The king's laughter abruptly ceased, and he lowered his chin until
it almost touched the pommel of the long gray sword propped be-
tween his knees. There was something about that sword that
Guthwulf did not like, although he knew it was foolish to have such
thoughts about a mere thing. Still, everywhere that Elias went these
days the sword was with him, like some pampered lapdog. 'Today is
your last chance, Utanyeat." The High King's voice was thick and
heavy. "Either the gate is opened, or I must make . . . other ar-
rangements."

714 Tad Williams

Guthwulf stood, swaying. "Are you mad, Elias? Are you mad?
How can we possibly ... the miners have scarcely dug half-
way . . ." He trailed off dizzily, wondering if he'd gone too far.
"Why should we care whether tomorrow is Midsummer's Eve?" He
dropped to a knee again, imploring. "Talk to me, Elias."

The Earl had feared an explosive response from his angry king,
but he had also, distantly, hoped for some faint return of their old
camaraderie. He got neither.

"You cannot understand, Utanyeat," Elias replied, and his staring
red-rimmed eyes were fixed on the tent wall, or empty air. "I have
. . . other obligations. Tomorrow everything will change."

^

Simon had thought he had gained an understanding of winter.
After the trek across the desolate blankness of the Waste, the endless
white days of wind and snow and stinging eyes, he had been sure
there were no further lessons winter could teach him. After the first
few days on Urmsheim he was amazed by his former innocence.

They traveled along the slender ice paths roped in file, digging in
carefully with toe and heel before taking each step. At times the
rising wind plucked at them as though they were tree leaves, and
they had to shrink back against the Umisheim's icy side and cling
until the wind subsided. The footing, too, was treacherous; Simon,
who had thought himself quite a climber as master of the Hayholt's
high places, now found himself skidding and clinging on narrow
trackways barely two cubits from wall to precipice, a whirling cloud
of powdery snow the only thing between the path and the distant
earth. Looking down from Green Angel Tower, which had once
seemed the world's summit, now seemed as childish and comforting
as standing atop a stool in the castle kitchen.

From the mountain path he could soon see the tops of other
peaks, and clouds eddying about them. The northeast of Osten Ard
lay spread before him, but so distant he turned away from the view.
It would not do to stare down from such heights. It made his heart
race and the breath catch in his throat. Simon wished with all his
heart he had remained behind, but now his only hope to come down
again was to keep climbing.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR              715

He found himself often in prayer, and hoped that the loftiness of
their location would speed his words to Heaven all the faster.

The sickening heights and his own fast-failing confidence were
terrifying enough, but Simon was also connected by the cord around
his waist to all the rest of the party but the unbound Sithi. Thus,
there were not just his own mistakes to worry over: misstep by one
of the others could pull them all down, like a weighted fishing line,
and send them plunging into the limitless, vertiginous depths. Their
progress was painfully slow, but no one, Simon least of all, wanted it
otherwise.

Not that all the lessons of the mountain were painful ones. Al-
though the air was so thin and achingly cold that he sometimes felt
another breath might turn him to frozen stone, the very iciness of
the atmosphere brought with it an odd exaltation, a sensation of
openness and insubstantiality, as though a startling wind blew right
through him.

The icy mountain face itself was a thing of painful beauty. Simon
had never dreamed that ice might have color; the tame variety he
knew, that which festooned the roofs of the Hayholt at Aedontide
and shrouded the wells in Jonever, was diamond-clear or milky
white. By contrast, the icy armor of Urmsheim, warped, twisted,
and buckled by wind and the seemingly distant sun, was a dream-
forest of colors and strange shapes. Great ice-towers shot through
with veins of sea-green and violet leaned out above the heads of the
toiling party. Elsewhere the ice cliffs had cracked and fallen in crys-
talline chunks, gemlike raw edges etched in stormy blue, crumbling
into tesselate confusion like the abandoned blocks of some giant
architect.

In one place the black bones of two frozen, long-dead trees stood
like abandoned sentinels before the rim of a white-misted crevice.
The ice sheet that stretched between them had been melted parch-
ment-thin by the sun; the mummified trees seemed the gateposts of
Heaven, the ice between them a shimmering, evanescent fan that
shattered the dayshine into a glowing rainbow of ruby and nectarine
light, into swirls of gold and lavender and pale rose that -- Simon felt
sure -- would make even the famous windows of the Sancellan
Aedonitis seem dull as pondwater and candle-drip.

716 Tad Williams

*

But even as its brilliant skin beguiled the eyes, the mountain's
cold heart schemed against its unwanted guests. Late in the after-
noon of the first day, even as Simon and his mortal comrades were
trying to grow used to the strange and deliberate pace forced upon
them by Binabik's shoe-spikes -- the Sithi, who disdained such de-
vices, nevertheless climbed almost as slowly and carefully as the
others -- darkness overtook the sky as suddenly and thoroughly as
ink spilled upon a blotter.

"Lie downl" Binabik yelled, even as Simon and the two Erkyn-
landish soldiers were staring up curiously at the spot where, mo-
ments before, the sun had hung in the heavens. Behind Haestan and
Orimmric, Sludig had already flung himself down onto the hard
snow. "Down to the ground!" the troll shouted. Haestan pulled Si-
mon down.

Even as he was wondering if Binabik had seen something danger-
ous on the trail ahead -- and if so what the Sithi were doing, since
they had disappeared where the path bent around part of Urm-
sheim's southeastern flank -- Simon heard the pitch of the wind,
which had been a low, steady whistle for hours, rise to a shriek. He
felt a tug, then a hard pull, and dug his fingers through the powdery
snow into the icy pack beneath. A moment later a crash of thunder
banged painfully in both his ears. Even as the first drumbeat was
echoing down the valley below, another shook him as Qantaqa
might a captured rat. He whimpered and clung to the ground as the
wind raked him with bony fingers, and the thunder crashed again
and again, the mountain they clung to an anvil for some gargantuan
and terrible blacksmith.

The storm halted as abruptly as it had descended. Simon
crouched in place for long moments after the wind's scream had
subsided, his forehead pressed against the freezing ground. When he
sat up at last, his ears ringing, the white sun was emerging from the
inksplatter of clouds. Beside him Haestan was sitting up like a baf-
fled child, his nose bleeding and his beard full of snow.

"By th'Aedon!" he swore. "By th' sufierin', bleedin', sorrowful
Aedon and God th'Highest." He wiped his nose with the back of his
hand and stared stupidly at the red streak left on his fur glove.
"What . . . ?"

"Lucky we are we stood on a wide pan of the path," Binabik said,

717

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

climbing to his feet. Although he, too, was covered in clinging snow,
he looked almost cheerful. "Here the storms come fast."

"Fast . . ." Simon muttered, looking down. He had pierced the
ankle of his right boot with the spikes strapped to the left, and the
way it stung he was sure he had drawn blood.

A moment later Jiriki's slender form appeared at the bend of the
trail.

"Have you lost anyone?" he shouted. When Binabik called back
that all were safe, the Sitha gave a mocking salute and vanished
again.

"I don't see any snow on him," Sludig remarked sourly.

"Mountain storms are moving quickly," the troll replied. "But so
are Sithi."

The seven travelers spent the first night together against the back
wall of a shallow ice cave on the mountain's eastern face, with the
far edge of the narrow path only five or six cubits away, the black
abyss waiting below. As he sat shivering in the penetrating cold,
comforted but unwarmed by the quiet singing of Jiriki and An'nai,
he remembered something Doctor Morgenes had once told him in
the heart of a drowsy afternoon, when Simon had complained about
living in the crowded, unprivate servant's quarters.

"Never make your home in a place," the old man had said, too
lazy in the spring warmth to do more than wag a finger. "Make a
home for yourself inside your own head. You'll find what you need to
furnish it -- memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other
such things." Morgenes had grinned. "That way it will go with you
wherever you journey. You'll never lack for a home -- unless you lose
your head, of course ..."

He was still not quite sure what exactly it was that the doctor had
meant; more than anything, he felt sure, he wanted a home to call
his own once more. Father Strangyeard's bare room at Naghmund
had begun to feel like one in only a week. Still, there was a sort of
romance to the idea of living free on the road, making your home
wherever you stopped, like a Hyrka horsetrader. But he was ready
for other things. It began to seem as though he himself had been on
the move for years -- how long had it been, anyway?

As he counted carefully back by the changes of the moon, with
help from Binabik where he had trouble remembering, he was

718 Tad Williams

dumbfounded to realize that it had been . . . less than two monthsl
Astonishing, but true: the troll confirmed his guess, that three weeks
ofYuven had passed, and Simon knew for a fact that his journey had
begun on ill-fated Stoning Night, the last hours of Avrel. How the
world had changed in seven weeks! And -- he reflected dully, as he
tumbled toward sleep -- mostly for the worse.

In late morning the company was climbing a massive slab of ice
that had slid down from the mountain's shoulder to lie athwart the
path like a vast, discarded package, when Urmsheim struck again.
With a horrifying, grating sound a long wedge of the icy slab crack-
led from blue-gray to white and broke loose, sliding away beneath
Grimmric's feet to plunge, crumbling, down the mountainside. The
Erkynlander had time only for a brief surprised shout; a moment
later he had tumbled out of sight into the gash the wedge had left
behind. Before he could think, Simon felt himself jerked ahead by
Grimmric's fall. He tumbled forward, flinging out a desperate hand
to catch at the ice-wall; the black crevice came ever closer. Help-
lessly horrified, he saw a thin slice of empty air through the crack in
the path, and beyond that the dim form of the crags half a league
below. He screamed and felt himself skid forward, his fingers clutch-
ing fruitlessly at the slippery path.

Binabik was leading the rope, and his experienced swiftness al-
lowed him to dive forward when he heard the shattering ice; he
sprawled face down, clutching the ice with one gloved hand, digging
his axe and spikes in as deeply as he could. Haestan's broad band
now caught at Simon's belt, but even the bearded guardsman's bulk
could not halt their inexorable slide. Grimmric's hidden weight
pulled them down, even as he cried piteously below the crevice-edge
and swung from side to side, suspended by the rope above snow-
swirling nothingness. At the back of the line Sludig dug in, tempo-
rarily halting Simon and Haestan's movement, and shouted anx-
iously for the Sithi.

An'nai and Prince Jiriki came pelting back along the mountain
path, touching as lightly on the powdery surface as snow hares.
They quickly dug their own axes deep into the ice and lashed them
to the end of Binabik's rope with swift knots. The troll, thus freed,
edged around the crevice with the two Sithi, and back to help
Sludig.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             719

Simon felt the tug on his belt strengthen, and the crevice slowly
began to recede. He was sliding backward. He wasn't going to die! -- 
at least, it seemed, not this moment. As he regained his footing he
bent to snatch up one of his fallen mittens, and his head pounded.

With all the party now heaving at the ropes, they at last brought
Grimmric -- senseless now, his face gray within his hood -- back up
through the gap in the ice where he could be dragged to safety. It
was long minutes after he awoke before Grimmric could recognize
his companions, and he was shaking as with a deadly fever. Sludig
and Haestan rigged a sling from two fur cloaks to carry him until
they could stop and made camp.

When they found a deep cleft that ran back into the mountain
until it reached actual stone, the sun was only slightly past the mid-
point of the sky, but they had no choice except to make early camp.
They lit a small fire, scarcely more than knee-high, with kindling
they had scavenged at Urmsheim's feet and carried up into its
heights for just such a reason. Shuddering Gremmric lay beside it,
teeth a-chatter, waiting for the troll-draught that Binabik, mixing
herbs and powders from his pack with snowmelt, was laboring to
prepare. No one begrudged Grimmric the precious heat.

As the afternoon progressed, and the narrow sliver of sun that
arrowed down into the cleft rose up the blue walls and then disap-
peared, an even deeper and more agonizing chill set in. Simon, his
muscles trembling like lute strings, ears aching despite his fur hood,
felt himself sliding -- as precipitously and helplessly as he had slid
toward the naked emptiness of the crevice -- toward a waking dream.
But instead of the bleak cold he expected, his dream reached out to
welcome him with warm and fragrant arms.

It was summer again -- how long had it been! No mind, for the
seasons had swung around at last, and the hot, expectant air was full
of the sizzle of bees. The spring's flowers now hung swollen and over-
ripe, crisping brown at the edges like Judith's mutton pies baking in
the castle ovens. In the fields below the Hayholt's walls the grass was
turning yellow, beginning the alchemical transformation that would
end in Autumn, when it would be piled in golden, fragrant ricks,
dotting the land like tiny cottages.

Simon could hear the shepherds singing drowsily, echoing the bees
as they led their bleating charges across the meadows. Summer! Soon,

720 Tad Williams

he knew, would come the festivals . . . Saint Sutrin 's, Hiafmansa -- 
but first his own favorite. Midsummer's Eve . . .

Midsummer's Eve, when everything was different and all was dis-
guised, when bemasked friends and costumed enemies mingled un-
knowing in the breathless darkness . . . when music played all
through the sleepless night, and the Hedge Garden was festooned with
silver ribbons, and laughing, leaping shapes populated the Moon's
flours . . .

"Seoman?" A hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking. "Se-
oman, you are weeping. Wake up."

"The dancers ... the masks . . ."

"Wake up!" The hand shook him again, more vigorously. He
opened his eyes to see Jiriki's narrow face, all forehead and cheek-
bones in the dim, angled light.

"You seemed to be having a frightening dream," the Sitha said as
he sank into a crouch at Simon's side.

"But . . . but it wasn't really." He shivered. "It was s-summer
... it was Midsummer's Eve . . ."

"Ah." Jiriki raised an eyebrow, then shrugged sinuously. "I think,
perhaps you have been wandering in realms where you should not
go."

"What could be bad about summer?"

The prince of the Sithi shrugged again, then produced from inside
his cloak -- with a gesture like a favorite uncle producing a toy to
distract a sniffling child -- a shiny object in a delicately-carved
wooden frame.

"Do you know what this is?" Jiriki asked.

"A ... a mirror . . ." Simon was unaware of what the Sitha
was asking. Did he know Simon had handled it in the cave?

Jiriki smiled. "Yes. A very special mirror, one that has a very long
history. Do you know what can be done with such a thing? Besides
shaving the face as men do?" he reached over and tapped a cool
finger on Simon's furry cheek. "Can you guess?"

"S-s-see things that are f-far away?" he replied after a moment's
hesitation, then waited for the explosion of temper he was sure
would come.

The Sitha stared- "You have heard of the mirrors of the Fair
folk?" he said at last, wondering. "Still they are the subject of tales
and songs?"

THE DRACONBONE CHAIR             721

Now Simon had a chance to slide away from the truth. Instead, he
surprised himself.

"No. I looked at it when we were in your hunting lodge."

Even more surprisingly, this admission only widened Jiriki's eyes.
"You saw other places in it? More than reflection?"

"I saw ... I saw Princess M-Miriamele -- my friend," he nod-
ded, and patted her blue scarf where it wound about his neck. "It
was like a dream."

The Sitha scowled down at the mirror, not angrily, but as if it
were the surface of a pool beneath which darted an elusive fish he
wished to locate.

"You are a strong-willed young man," Jiriki said slowly,
"stronger than you know -- either that or you are touched by other
powers, somehow . . ." He looked from Simon back to the mirror,
and was silent for a time.

"It is a very old thing, this mirror," he said at last. "It is said to be
a scale of the Greater Worm."

"What does that mean?"

"The Greater Worm, the one that many stories say encircles the
world. We Sithi, though, see the Worm as circling all worlds at once,
those of waking and those of dreaming . . . those that were, and
those that will be. His tail is in his mouth, so he has no end or
beginning."

"A worm? Do you mean a d-d-dragon?"

Jiriki nodded once, an abrupt motion like a bird pecking grain. "It
is also told that all dragons are descended from the Greater Worm,
and that each is less than the ones that went before. Igjarjuk and
Shurakai were less great than their mother Hidohehbi, as she in turn
was not as great as her parent Khaerukama'o the Golden. Someday,
if all this is true, the dragons will disappear altogether -- if they have
not already."

"That w-would be good," Simon said.

"Would it?" Jiriki smiled again, but his eyes were cold, shiny
stones. "Men grow while the great worms - . . and others ... di-
minish. That seems to be the way of things." He stretched, with the
shuddering, slippery grace of a new-wakened cat. "The way of
things," he repeated. "Still, I brought out this scale of the Greater
Worm to show you something. Would you like to see, manchild?"

Simon nodded.

722 Tad Williams

"This has been a difficult journey for you." Jiriki flicked a glance
over his shoulder to where the others were gathered around Grimm-
ric and the tiny campfire. Only An'nai glanced up, and some un-
readable communication flickered between the two Sithi. "Look,"
said Jiriki a moment later.

The looking glass, cupped in his hands like a precious drink of
water, seemed almost to ripple. The darkness it held -- split by a
jagged slash of light gray, the reflection of the sky above their crev-
ice -- seemed to slowly sprout points of green light, like strange vege-
table stars germinating in the evening sky. "I will show you a true
summer," Jiriki said softly, "truer than any you have known."

The flecks of shining green began to flutter and coalesce, sparkling
emerald fishes rising to the surface of a shadowy pond. Simon felt
himself sinking into the mirror, although he did not move from
where he leaned above it. The green became many greens, as many
shades and tints as ever were. In a moment they had resolved them-
selves into a startling confusion of bridges and towers and trees: a
city and a forest grown together, sprouting as one in the midst of a
grassy plain -- not a city a forest had grown over, like Da'ai Chikiza,
but a thriving, living amalgam of plant and polished stone, mrytle,
jade, and viridian.

"Enki-e-Shao'saye," Jiriki whispered. The grass on the plain bent
luxuriantly before the wind; scarlet, white, and sky-blue pennants
fluttered like blossoms amid the city's branching spires. "The last
and greatest city of the Summer."

"Where ... is . . . it . . . ?" Simon breathed, astonished and
bewitched by its beauty.

"Not so much where, manchild, as when. The world is not only
vaster than you know, Seoman, it is also far, far older. Enki-e-
Shao'saye is long crumbled now. It lay east of the great forest."

"Crumbled?"

"It was the last place where Zida'ya and Hikeda'ya lived together,
before the Parting. It was a city of great craft and greater beauty; the
very wind in the towers made music, and the lamps of night shone
bright as stars. Nenais'u danced under moonlight by her forest pool,
and the admiring trees leaned down to watch." He shook his head
slowly. "All gone. Those were the summer-days of my people. We
are now far into the Autumn ..."

"Gone . . . ?" Simon could still not grasp the tragedy. It seemed

723

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

as though he could reach into the mirror, touch one of the needle-
sharp towers with his finger. He felt tears struggling to break free.
No home. The Sithi had lost their homes . . . they were lonely and
homeless in the world.

Jiriki passed his hand over the glass, and it clouded. "Gone," he
said. "But as long as there is memory, Summer remains. And even
Winter passes." He turned and looked long at Simon, and the ago-
nized expression on the youth's face at last brought a small, careful
smile to his own.

"Do not mourn so," he said, and patted Simon's arm. "Brightness
is not completely erased from the world -- not yet. And not all beau-
tiful places have fallen to ruin. Still there is Jao e-Tinukai'i, the
dwelling of my family and people. Perhaps someday, if we both
come down safely from this mountain, you will see it." He grinned
his strange grin, thinking of something. "Perhaps you will . . ."

The rest of the climb up Urmsheim -- three more days on narrow,
dangerous pathways scarcely more than ice-ribbons, over sheer,
glassy sheets by laboriously hacked hand and footholds; two more
nights of evil, teeth-grinding cold -- passed by Simon like a fleeting
but painful dream. Through the terrible weariness that beset him he
held onto Jiriki's gift of summer -- for it was a gift, he knew -- and
was comforted. Even as his numb fingers struggled to cling, and his
numb feet to stay on the path, he thought that somewhere there
would be warmth again, and something like a bed and clean clothes
 -- even a bath would be welcome! All those things were out there
somewhere, if he could just keep his head down and get off the
mountain alive.

When you stopped to think about it, he reflected, there weren't
many things in life one truly needed. To want too much was worse
than greed: it was stupidity -- a waste of precious time and effort.

The company slowly worked their way around the body of the
mountain until the sun rose each morning to shine over their right
shoulders. The air was growing painfully thin, forcing frequent halts
for the catching of breath; even hardy Jiriki and uncomplaining
An'nai were moving more slowly, limbs weighted as though by
heavy garments. The human companions, except for the troll, posi-
tively dragged. Grimmric had revived, thanks to the potency of
Binabik's Qanuc elixir, but shivered and coughed as he climbed.

724 Tad Williams

From time to time the wind increased, sending the clouds that
hugged Urmsheim's shoulders flying like tattered ghosts. The moun-
tain's silent neighbors would slowly materialize, jagged peaks hold-
ing lofty convention far above the surface of Osten Ard, indifferent
to the sordid and minuscule landscape at their feet. Binabik, as com-
fortable breathing the insubstantial air of the Roof of the World as
he had been sitting in Naglimund's pantry, pointed out wide, craggy
Mintahoq in the east to his gasping companions, as well as several of
the other mountains compassing the troll-fells of Yiqanuc.

They came upon it suddenly, while fully half the mountain's
height still towered above them. Struggling over a rocky outcrop-
ping, the rope pulled taut as a bowstring between them, every breath
burning their lungs, they heard one of the Sithi -- who had climbed
ahead and out of sight -- let out a strange, whistling cry. The com-
panions scrambled toward the top with all possible haste; the ques-
tion of what they were hurrying toward dangled unspoken. Binabik,
leading the line, stopped on the hillcrest; he swayed a little to keep
his balance.

"Daughter of the Mountains!" the troll gasped, a plume of vapor
rising from his mouth. He stood and did not move for long mo-
ments. Simon carefully mounted the last few steps.

At first he saw nothing before him but another wide valley of
snow, its white wall rising across from them, open on the right to the
air and sky and a succession of snowy cliffs that dropped away down
the side of Urmsheim. He turned to Binabik to ask what had made
him cry out. The question died on his lips.

On the left hand the valley dug deep into the mountain's face, the
valley floor sloping up as its high walls gradually angled together. At
their apex, stretching up from the ground to the triangle of gray-blue
sky, loomed the Uduntree.

"Elysia Mother of God!" Simon said, his voice cracking. "Mother
of God," he repeated.

At first, confronted by the vast, mad, implausibility of the thing,
he thought it was a tree -- a titanic tree of ice a thousand feet tall,
myriad branches sparkling and coruscating in the noonday sun,
shadowed at its impossible summit by a halo of mist. It was only as
he finally convinced himself it was real -- that such a thing could
exist in a world that also contained such mundane objects as pigs

THE DRAGON BONE CHAIR               725

and fences and mixing-bowls -- that he began to understand what it
was: a frozen waterfall, the accumulation of years of icy snowmelt
captured in a million icicles, a crystalline tracery down the jagged
stone-spine that formed the Uduntree's trunk.

Jiriki and An'nai stood transfixed a few ells below the valley floor,
staring up at the tree. Simon, following Binabik, began struggling
down the slope toward them, feeling the rope around his waist grow
tense as Grimmric reached the summit and was himself struck mo-
tionless; Simon then waited patiently as the process was repeated
two more times for Haestan and Sludig. At last they all made their
stumbling, preoccupied way down to the deep snow of the valley
floor. The Sithi were quietly singing, and paid no heed to the arrival
of their human companions.

For a long while no one spoke. The majesty of the Uduntree
almost seemed to suck the breath from their bodies, and for a great
span of time the companions just stood and stared, feeling emptied.

"Let us be going forward," Binabik said at last. Simon started
resentfully. The troll's voice seemed a rude intrusion.

"Tis th' d-d-damnedest sight my eyes have ever h-held," Grimm-
ric stuttered.

"Here old black One-Eye climbed to the stars," Sludig said qui-
etly. "God save me from blasphemy, but I can feel his presence
still."

Binabik started out across the open valley floor. The others fol-
lowed after a few moments, tugged along by the troll's harness rope-
The snow was thigh-deep and slow going. After they had moved
some thirty difficult steps, Simon finally tore his eyes from the spec-
tacle to look back. An'nai and Jiriki had not joined them; the two
Sithi still stood side by side, as if waiting for something.

They moved forward. The valley walls leaned ever closer above
their heads as though fascinated by these rare travelers. Simon could
see that the base of the ice-tree was a huge, jumbled, hole-dotted
rockery sheltered beneath the arching lower branches -- not true
branches, but rather layer upon spreading layer of melted and
refrozen icicles, each one wider than the one above, so that the
bottommost branches made a ceiling half as wide as a tourney field
over the strew of boulders.

They had come close enough that the great ice-pillar seemed to
extend through the very roof of the sky. As he bent his neck pain-

726 Tad Williams

fully for one last glimpse at the near-vanished peak of the tree, a
rush of surprise and fear ran over him, blackening his sight for a
moment.

The tower! From my dreams, the tower with branches! Stunned, he
tripped and tumbled into the snow. Haestan reached down a broad
hand and lifted him without a word. Simon chanced another look
up, and a frightening sensation that was more than mere dizziness
sluiced over him.

"Binabiki" he cried. The troll, just passing into the violet darkness
of the Uduntree's shadow, turned swiftly.

"Quiet, Simon!" he hissed. "We have no knowing if we may knock
sharp ice loose, much to our regret."

Simon made his way forward through the clinging snow as
quickly as he could.

"Binabik, this is the tower I dreamed -- a white tower with
branches like a tree! This is it!"

The troll surveyed the clutter of huge boulders and shattered rock
in the tree's dark underside. "I thought it was your belief you saw
Green Angel Tower, from the Hayholt?"

"I did -- that is to say, it was part of both. But since I'd never seen
this before, I didn't know that some of it was some of this! Do you
understand?!"

Binabik cocked a bushy black eyebrow. "When we are next find-
ing time, I will cast the bones. Now we have a mission still unper-
formed."

He waited until the others had straggled up before speaking again.
"It is my thought," he said at last, "that we should be soon making a
camp. Then we can spend the last hours of daylight hunting for
some sign of Colmund's company, or the sword Thorn."

"Are them . . ." Haestan indicated the now-distant Sithi,
". . . goin' t'help?"

Before Binabik could voice an opinion, Grimmric whistled excit-
edly and pointed up at the jumble of rocks. "Look, you!" he said, "I
think there's been someone stayin' here before. Look at th' rocks
there!"

Simon followed the soldier's finger to a spot farther up the sloping
pile of rocks, where several rows of stones had been piled in the
mouth of one of the cavelike holes.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             727

"Y'r right!" Haestan exiaimed. "He's right! Sure as Tunath's
Bones lie north t'south, someone made th'selves a camp there."

"Careful!" Binabik said urgently, but Simon had already shed his
harness and was making his way up the scree, setting off tiny
avalanches where he stepped in cautiously. He reached the cave in
short moments, and stood, teetering on a loose stone.

"This wall was made by men, that's certain!" he called back excit-
edly. "The cavern mouth was perhaps three ells wide, and somebody
had hurriedly but not unskillfully set rock to rock across the front -- 
to keep in warmth, perhaps? To keep out animals?"

"Kindly do not shout, Simon," Binabik said. "We will be up di-
rectly with you."

Waiting impatiently, all thoughts of thin air and killing cold in
abeyance, Simon watched the company climb after him. Even as
Haestan began his clamber up the pile, the two Sithi appeared be-
neath the eaves of the Uduntree. After taking in the scene for a
moment they mounted up to the cave as nimbly as branch-leaping
squirrels.

It took a moment for Simon's eyes to adjust to the more profound
darkness inside the low cavern. When he could finally see, it took
only a moment more for his eyes to widen with shock.

"Binabik! It's . . . they're . . ."

The troll, able to stand upright at his side where Simon crouched,
brought the heel of his hand against his breastbone.

"Qinkipa . . . !" he said. "They have been waiting for our com-
ing."

The cave was scattered with the brown bones of men. The skele-
tons, naked but for fittings and jewelry of corroded black and green
metal, sat propped against the cavern's walls. A thin layer of ice
covered everything, like preserving glass.

"Is it Colmund?" Simon asked.

"Usires save us," Sludig choked behind him, "get out, the air
must be poison!"

"There is no poison here," Binabik chided him. "As to whether it
is Sir Colmund's party -- the chances seem to me good."

"It is interesting to wonder how they might have died," Jiriki's
voice was startingly resonant in the small cavern. "If they froze, why
did they not huddle together for warmth?" He indicated the scatter-
ing of the bodies about the chamber. "If they were killed by some

728 Tad Williams

animal -- or each other -- then why are the bones arranged so care-
fully, as if each lay down to due in turn?"

"There are mysteries here worth much talking someday," the troll
responded, "but we have other duties, and light is failing fast."

"All of you," Sludig said, his voice strained with some terrible
urgency, "come here! Here!"

He stood over one of the skeletons. Although the bones had col-
lapsed into a madder-colored heap, still it had the look of someone
caught in the act of prayer, kneeling with arms outstretched. Be-
tween the bones of its two hands, which lay half-submerged in ice
like stones in a bowl of milk, was a long bundle wrapped in frosted,
rotting oilcloth.

All the air suddenly seemed (o leak out of the cavern. A taut,
deadening silence fell on the company. The troll and the Rim-
mersman kneeled, as if in imitation of the ancient bones, and began
chipping away at the frozen bundle with their ice-axes. The oilcloth
came away in chips, like bark. A long strip splintered away to reveal
a profound blackness beneath.

"It's not metal," said Simon in disappointment.

"Nor is Thorn made of metal," Binabik grunted, "or of no metal
you have ever been seeing."

Sludig was able to wiggle the point of his axe in beneath the
petrified cloth, and with Haestan's straining help they tore loose
another strip. Simon gasped. Binabik was right: this thing emerging
like a jet-black butterfly from its prisoning chrysalis was not only a
sword, it was a sword like no other he had ever seen: long as a man's
arms spread wide, fingertip to fingertip, and black. The purity of its
blackness was unmarred by the colors that sparkled on its edge, as
though the blade was so supematurally sharp that it even sliced the
dim light of the cavern into rainbows. Had it not been for the silver
cord wrapped around the hilt as a handgrip -- leaving the uncovered
guard and pommel as pitchy as the rest of its length -- it would have
seemed to bear no relationship to mankind at all. Rather, despite its
symmetry, it would have seemed some natural growth, some pure
essence of nature's blackness extruded by chance in the form of an
exquisite sword.

"Thorn," Binabik whispered, a sort of reverence coloring his satis-
faction.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             729

"Thom," Jiriki repeated, and Simon could not even try to guess
the thoughts behind his naming of the thing.

"So this is it, then?" Sludig said at last. "It is a beautiful thing.
What could kill them with such a blade in their possession?"

"Who can know what happened to Colmund?" Binabik said. "But
even a sword like Thom you cannot eat when there is being no

food."

They all continued to stare at the blade. Grimmric, who was clos-
est to the cave mouth, at last straightened out his crouch, hugging
himself with thin arms.

"As th'troll says, y'can't eat swords. Fin goin' t'make fire for
th'night." He stepped outside the cavern and stood, stretching. He
whistled a little; the tune, weak at first, grew stronger.

"There is scrub brush in the rock crevices that might bum with
our kindling," Sludig called after him.

Haestan leaned forward, then touched the black blade with a cau-
tious finger. "Cold," he smiled. "No surprise that, is't?" He turned
to Binabik, oddly diffident. "May I lift it?"

The troll nodded. "Carefully."

Haestan slipped his fingers gently under the cord-wrapped hilt
and pulled, but the sword did not move. "Frozen," he guessed. He
tugged again, harder, with no better result. "Frozen up hard, 'tis,"
he panted, pulling now with all his might. His breath rose in a cloud.

Sludig leaned over to help him. Grimmric, outside the cavern,
stopped whistling and said something unintelligible.

As the Rimmersman and the Erkynlander both heaved, the black
sword at last began to move, but rather than snapping free of prison-
ing ice the blade merely slid a little to one side, then stopped.

"It is not frozen," Sludig gasped. "It is as heavy as a millstone. We
two together can barely move it!"

"How will we get it down the mountain, Binabik?" Simon asked.
He wanted to laugh. It was all so silly and strange -- to find a magic
sword and then not be able to carry it away! He reached his own
hand forward and felt the deep, cool weight of the thing -- and some-
thing else. A warming? Yes, some indefinable life beneath the cold
surface, like a sleeping serpent stirring into wakefulness -- or was he
imagining things?"

Binabik stared at the immobile blade and scratched his shaggy
hair, thinking. A moment later Grimmric appeared in the cavern,

730 Tad Williams

waving his arms. As they turned to look at him, he slumped to his
knees, then toppled over, limp as a sack of meal.
A black arrow, a thorn of a different sort, quivered in his back.

^

Blue light bathed the silver mask, touching its contours with pale
fire. The face beneath had once been the model for its sculpted,
inhuman beauty, but what the mask now covered no living creature
could say. The world had made uncountable revolutions since the
face of Utuk'ku had disappeared forever behind its gleaming lines.

The blue-brushed mask turned and surveyed the giant, many-
shadowed stone hall, eyeing her scurrying servitors as they labored
to do all that she had bid them. Their voices were raised in songs of
praise and remembrance; their white hair fluttered in the eternal
winds of the Chamber of the Harp. She listened with approval as the
clatter of witchwood hammers echoed through the endless maze of
corridors riddling frozen Nakkiga, the mountain the Noms called
Mask of Tears. The mortals called her home Stormspike, and
Utuk'ku knew that it haunted their dreams ... as it should. The
silver face nodded, satisfied. All was in readiness.

Suspended in the mist that crowned the Great Well, the Harp
suddenly moaned, a desolate sound like wind in the high passes. The
Nom Queen knew it was not His voice -- not He who could make the
Breathing Harp sing and howl, not He whose wrathful song sent the
entire well-chamber thundering with impossible musics. Some lesser
voice was crawling through the Harp, trapped in its infinite com-
plexities like an insect in a sealed maze.

She lifted a silver-and-white-gloved finger mere inches above the
black stone of her chair and made a small gesture. The moan became
louder, and something quivered into substantiality in the fog above
the Well -- the gray sword Jingizu, pulsing with painful light. Some-
thing held it: a shadowy figure, its hand a formless knot around
Jingizu's hilt.

Utuk'ku understood. She did not have to see the supplicant; the
sword was there, far more real than any mortal temporarily allowed
to possess it.

731

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Who comes before the Queen of the Hikeda "ya? she asked, know-
ing the answer full well.

Elias, High King ofOsten Ard, the shadowy figure replied. / have
decided to accept the terms of your master.

The word "master" nettled her. Mortal, she said at last, with
queenly languor, what you wish will be given to you. But you have
waited long . . . almost too long.

There were . . . The shadowy thing holding the sword swayed,
as if weary. How fleshy, how weak these mortals were! How could
they have caused such damage? / thought, it continued, . . . that
things would be . . . different. Now I submit.

Of course you do. And you shall receive what was promised to you.

Thank you, 0 Queen. And I shall give you what I have promised in
return . . .

Of course you will.

She lowered her gloved fingers, and the apparition vanished. Red
light bloomed deep in the Well as He came. As He took possession of
it, the Harp vibrated to a note of perfect triumph.

^

"I ... don't want t'die . . . !" Grimmric wheezed. A froth of
blood on his chin and cheek, his crooked teeth standing in his gaping
mouth, he looked like a hare caught and savaged by hounds. "It's
. . . it's so bloody cold," he shivered.

"Who did it?" Simon squeaked, losing control of his voice in
shock and panic.

"Whoever," Haestan muttered, ashen-faced as he bent over his
stricken countryman, "they got us like coney up a plug-hole."

"We must get out!" Sludig snapped.

"Wrap cloaks around arms," Binabik said, assembling his blow-
pipe from the pieces of his walking stick. "We are having no shields
against arrows, but that will be some help."

Without a word Jiriki stepped over Haestan and the fallen
Grimmric, moving toward the mouth of the cave. An'nai, tight-
lipped, followed.

"Prince Jiriki . . . ?" Binabik began, but the Sithi paid no heed.

732 Tad Williams

"Come then," Sludig said, "we cannot let them go out alone." He
snatched up his blade from the cloak where he had set it.

Even as the others followed the Sithi to the cave mouth, Simon
looked down at the black sword Thorn. They had come such a long
way to find it -- were they to lose it now? What if they escaped, but
were cut off from the cavern and could not come back? He put his
hand on its hilt and again felt the strange, thrumming sensation. He
tugged, and to his amazement it came up in his hand. The weight of
it was tremendous, but using two hands he was able to lift it off the
frozen cave floor,

What was happening here? He was dizzied. Two strong men
could not lift it, but he could. Magic?

Simon cautiously carried the long, achingly heavy blade to where
his companions stood. Haestan untied his cloak, but instead of
wrapping it around his arm for protection he laid it gently over
Grimmric. The wounded man coughed, bringing up more blood.
Both Erkynlanders were crying.

Before Simon could say a word about the sword, Jiriki strode
from the cave mouth onto the rocky porch, cocky as a juggler.

"Stand forward!" he shouted, and the icy walls of the valley sent
the echoes tumbling back. "Who attacks the company of Prince
Jiriki i-Sa'onserei, son of Shima'onari and scion of the House of
Year-Dancing? Who would war on the Ziday'a?"

In answer a dozen figures clambered down the sloping valley walls
and stood, a hundred ells from the base of Uduntree. All were
armed, all wore glare-masks and hooded white cloaks, and each bore
on his breast the triangular badge of Stormspike.

"Noms?" Simon gasped, forgetting for an instant the strange ob-
ject cradled in his arms.

"These are not Hikeda'ya," said An'nai shortly. "They are
mortals who do Utuk'ku's bidding."

One of the cloaked men took a limping, stiff-legged pace forward.
Simon recognized the sunburned skin and pale beard. "Go away,
Ziday'a," Ingen Jegger said. His voice was slow and cold. "The
Queen's Huntsman has no quarrel with you. It is those mortals
cowering behind who have thwarted me, and who cannot be allowed
to leave this place."

"They are under my protection, mortal man." Prince Jiriki patted

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             733

his sword. "Go back and sit beneath Utuk'ku's table -- you will get
no scraps here."

Ingen Jegger nodded. "So be it." He waved a negligent hand and
one of his huntsmen swiftly drew his bow and fired. Jiriki sprang
aside, pulling Sludig along, who had stood just at his back. The
arrow shattered on a rock beside the cave mouth.

"Down!" the prince shouted, even as An'nai let fly an arrow in
return. The huntsmen scattered, leaving one of their company face
down in the snow. Simon and his companions went skittering down
the slippery rocks to the base of the ice-tree as arrows hummed past.

Within minutes both sides' meager ration of arrows had been
exhausted, but not before Jiriki had feathered another of Ingen's
raiders, putting a barb in the running man's eye as neatly as shooting
an apple balanced on a stone wall. Nearby, Sludig was stricken in
the fleshy part of his thigh, but the arrow had caromed off a stone
first and the Rimmersman was able to pluck the head out and limp
to shelter.

Simon crouched behind a stone promontory, part of the Udun-
tree's trunk, cursing himself for leaving his bow and precious arrows
in the cave. He watched as An'nai, his own quiver exhausted, cast
bow aside and pulled his slender dark sword from it sheath; the face
of the Sitha was as implacable as if he had been mending fences.
Simon was sure his own must be a mirror of his overwhelming inner
fear, of his tripping heart and hollow stomach. He looked down at
Thorn, and felt a pulse of life in it. The heaviness had become differ-
ent somehow, animate, as though it were full of rattling bees; it
seemed a bound animal, stirring as it breathed the enticing scents of
freedom.

A short way to his left, on the far side of the stone trunk, Haestan
and Sludig were slinking forward, using the great curving branches
of ice for cover. Safe now from arrows, Ingen was gathering his
huntsmen for a charge on the valley floor.

"Simon!" a voice hissed. Startled, he turned around to see Binabik
crouching on the stone prominence above his head.

"What will we do?" Simon asked, trying to keep his voice level
but not succeeding. The troll, however, was staring down at the
black length of Thorn, nestled in Simon's arms like a child.

"How . . . ?" Binabik asked, his round face full of surprise.

734 Tad Williams

"I don't know, I only picked it up! I don't know! What are we
going to do?"

The troll shook his head. "You are now to stay right here. I am
going to help with what I can. I wish that I had a spear." He sprang
down lightly, his heel spattering Simon with a flirt of gravel as he
bounded past.

"For Josua Lackhand!" Haestan shouted, and charged out from
the eaves of the Uduntree onto the white valley floor, Sludig limping
purposefully behind. As soon as they reached the deep snow they
slowed as if running in treacle. Ingen's huntsmen slogged toward
them, performing the same halting, deadly dance.

Haestan swung up his heavy sword, but before he even reached
the attackers the first white-cloaked figure fell, clutching his throat.

"Yiqanuc!" Binabik shouted in triumph, then crouched to reload
his blowpipe.

The clang of swords reverberated as the first of Ingen's men
reached Haestan and Sludig. The Sithi were there a moment later,
moving nimbly over the snow, but still the companions were far
outnumbered. A moment later tall Haestan caught the flat of a blade
on his hooded skull and went down in a puff of snow. Only An'nai
leaping forward to stand over him prevented his being skewered on
the spot.

Blades shimmered in the thin sunlight, and cries of pain and rage
almost drowned the clash of metal. Simon saw with a sinking heart
that Binabik, whose remaining dans had proved useless against the
thick cloaks of huntsmen, was pulling his long knife from his belt.

How can he be so brave? He's too small -- they'll kill him before he
can get close enough to use it!

"Binabik!" he shouted, and climbed to his feet. He lifted the heavy
black sword over his head, feeling its great weight dragging at him
even as he stumbled forward.

The ground suddenly pitched beneath his feet. He staggered,
spread-legged, and then felt the very mountain seem to sway. A
rumbling screech pierced his ears, like the sound of a heavy stone
dragged across a quarry. The combatants stopped, dumbfounded,
and stared down at their feet.

With another horrible shriek of tortured ice the ground began to
bulge. In the center of the valley floor, only a few cubits from where
Ingen Jegger stood gaping in horrible confusion, a great slab of ice

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             735

pushed upward, cracking and buckling as it came, snow sliding off in
great drifts.

Propelled by the sudden shifting of the ground beneath him, Si-
mon tripped and tumbled forward, holding tightly onto Thorn, and
came to a stop virtually in the middle of the combatants. No one
seemed to notice him: they were all frozen in place as if the very ice
of the Uduntree had turned their blood to immobilizing frost, gog-
gling at the impossible thing pushing its way up from beneath the
snow.

The ice dragon.

A snakelike head as long as a man thrust out of the new-formed
crevice, white-scaled above a toothy mouth, and staring eyes blue
and occluded. It waved sinuously from side to side on its long neck,
as though curiously observing the minute creatures who had awak-
ened it from years-long slumber. Then, terrifymgly swift, it darted
out and caught one of the huntsmen in its jaws, biting him in half
and swallowing his legs. His crushed, bloodied torso fell into the
snow like a discarded rag.

"Igjarjuk! -- it is Igjarjuk!" came Binabik's thin shout. The gleam-
ing ivory head snapped up another shrieking, white-cloaked morsel.
As the rest scattered, their faces emptied by unthinking horror,
splay-clawed white feet gripped the crevice's rim, and the dragon's
long body, back covered with strange, pale fur, yellowed as old
parchment, humped slowly up from below. A whiplike tail, long as a
jousting run, swept two of the huntsmen wailing into the pit.

Simon sat stunned upon the snow, unable to force belief in the
monstrous thing that crouched on the rim of the ice-crevice like a
cat on a chairback. The long-snouted head dipped to regard him,
and the murky, unblinking blue eyes fixed his with calm, ageless
malice. His head throbbed, as though he tried to stare through water
 -- those eyes, hollow as glacial crevices! It saw him, it knew him in
some way -- it was as old as the bones of the mountains, as wise and
cruel and uncaring as Time itself.

The jaws parted and a sliver of black tongue knifed out, tasting
the air. The head bobbed closer.

"Ske'i, spawn of Hidohebhi!" a voice shouted. An instant later
An'nai had vaulted onto the creature's hindquarters, grasping the
thick fur for support. Singing, he lifted his sword and hacked at a
scaly leg. Simon got to his feet and stumbled back, even as the

736 Tad Williams

dragon brought up its tail and smashed the Sitha away; An'nai flew
fifty cubits to land crumpled in the snow at the valley*s exposed rim,
nothing beyond him but mist. Jiriki ran after with a cry of anger and
despair.

"Simon!" the troll shouted, "Run! We can do nothing!"

Even as he spoke the mist that had enshrouded Simon's wits be-
gan to clear. In a moment he was on his feet, flying after Jiriki.
Binabik, who had been perched on the crevice's far rim, flung him-
self backward as the dragon lashed out, and the great jaws snapped
shut on nothing with a sound like an iron gate. The troll fell into a
rift in the ice and disappeared.

Jiriki huddled over the body of An'nai, motionless as a statue.
Pelting toward him, Simon looked back over his shoulder to see
Igjariuk slithering down from the broken battlement of ice and mov-
ing across the little valley, short legs gripping the ice as it wound
along the ground, quickly narrowing the distance between itself and
its stumbling prey.

Simon tried to shout Jiriki's name, but his throat caught; all that
came out was a strangled grunt. The Sitha turned around. His am-
ber eyes were bright. He climbed to his feet beside the body of his
comrade, holding his long, rune-carved witchwood sword up before
him.

"Come, Old One!" Jiriki cried. "Come to me and taste Indreju,
you bastard child of Hidohebhil"

Simon grimaced as he dug toward the prince. No need to shout -- 
the dragon was coming of its own accord.

"Get behind . . ." Jiriki started to say as Simon reached him,
then the Sitha abruptly pitched forward; the snow beneath him had
fallen away. Jiriki skidded backward toward the valley's edge and
the empty distance beyond. Desperately, he reached out to grab at
the snow. He stopped, clinging, his feet dangling over nothingness.
An'nai, a bloodied tangle, lay undisturbed a cubit away.

"Jiriki . . . !" Simon stopped. There was a noise like thunder
behind. He whirled to see the vast white bulk of Igjariuk bearing
down, head flailing from side to side with the motion of the driving
legs. Diving to one side, away from Jiriki and An'nai, he rolled and
came up on his feet. The blue saucer-eyes tracked him, and the
creature, now only a hundred paces away, swerved to follow.

Simon realized he was still carrying Thorn. He lifted it up; it was

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             737

suddenly light as a willow-wand, and seemed to sing in his hands,
like a wind-sawed rope. He glanced back over his shoulder: a few
paces of ground was all, then empty air. One of the distant peaks
hovered in the swirling mists across the chasm -- white, quiet, serene.

Usires save me, he wondered, why doesn't the dragon make a
sound? His mind seemed to float loose inside his body. One hand
stole up to Miriamele's scarf at his throat, and then he grasped the
silver-wrapped hilt once more. Igjarjuk's head loomed, the gullet a
black pit, the eye a blue lantern. The world seemed constructed of
silence.

What should he shout at the last?

He remembered what Jiriki had once said of mortals, even as the
frosty musk of the dragon blew down on him, a stench like sour cold
earth and west stones.

"Here I am!" he cried, and brought Thom whistling toward the
baleful eye. "/ am ... Simon!"

Something caught at the blade, and a gout of black blood spat at
him, burning like fire, like ice, searing his face even as a great white
something crashed through and carried him down into darkness.

43

The Harrowing

THE ROBIN, orange breast glinting like a fading ember, lighted on
one of the elm's low branches. He turned his head slowly from side
to side surveying the herb garden, and chirped impatiently, as if
displeased to find everything in such poor order.

Josua watched him fly away, dipping over the garden wall, then
arching sharply upward to speed past the battlements of the inner
keep. Within a moment he was a speck of black against the bright
gray dawn.

"The first robin I have seen in a very long time. Perhaps it is a
hopeful sign in this dark Yuven."

The prince turned, surprised, to see Jamauga standing on the
path, eyes fixed on the spot where the bird had disappeared. The old
man, apparently unmindful of the cold, wore only breeches and a
thin shirt; his white feet were bare.

"Good momingtide, Jamauga," Josua said, pulling the neck of his
cloak a little tighter, as if the Rimmersman's unsusceptibility in-
creased his own chill. "What brings you out to the garden so early?"

"This old body needs very little sleep, Prince Josua," he smiled.
"And I might ask you the same in turn, but I think I know the
answer."

Josua nodded morosely. "I have not slept well since I first entered
my brother's dungeons. While my comfort has improved since then,
worry has taken the place of hanging in chains as a denier of rest."

"There are many kinds of imprisonment," Jamauga nodded.

They walked quietly for a while through the maze of walkways.
The garden was the lady Vorzheva's onetime pride, set out to her
meticulous guidelines -- for a girl born in a wagon, the prince's
courtiers whispered, she was certainly a stickler for elegance -- but
had now been allowed to deteriorate due to poor weather, as well as
an abundance of more pressing concerns.

739

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"Something is amiss, Jamauga," Josua said at last. "I can sense it.
I can almost feel it, as a fisherman feels the weather. What is my
brother doing?"

"It seems to me he is doing his best to kill us all," the old man
replied, a tight grin creasing his leathery face. "Is that what is
'amiss'?"

"No," the prince said seriously. "No. That is just the problem. We
have held him off for a month, with bitter losses -- Baron Ordmaer,
Sir Grimstede, Wuldorcene of Caldsae, as well as hundreds of stout
yeomen -- but it has been nearly a fortnight since he has mounted a
serious assault. The attacks have been . . . cursory. He is going
through the motions of a siege. Why?" He sat down on a low bench,
and Jamauga sat beside him. "Why?" he repeated.

"A siege is not always won by force of arms. Perhaps he is plan-
ning to starve us out."

"But then why bother to attack at all? We have inflicted terrible
losses on them. Why not just wait? It is as though he seeks only to
keep us inside, and himself outside. What is Elias doing?"

The old man shrugged. "As I have told you; I can see much, but
the insides of men's hearts are beyond my vision. We have survived
so far. Let us be thankful."

"I am. But I know my brother. He is not the type to sit patiently
and wait. There is something in the wind, some plan . . ." He
trailed off into silence and sat staring at an overgrown bed of
mockfoil. The flowers had never opened, and weeds stood insolently
among the twining stems like carrion-eaters mingling with a dying
herd.

"He could have been a magnificent king, you know," Josua said
suddenly, as if in answer to some unspoken question. "There was a
time when he was just strong, and not a bully. That is to say, he was
sometimes cruel when we were younger, but it was only that inno-
cent sort of cruelty that big boys show to the smaller ones. He even
taught me some things -- swordplay, wrestling. I never taught him
anything. He was not very interested in the things I knew about."

The prince smiled sadly, and for a moment a child's fragile look
seemed to shine through his close-pared features.

"We might even have been friends . . ." The prince knitted his
long fingers and blew warm breath into them. "If only Hylissa had
lived."

740 Tad Williams

"Miriamele's mother?" Jamauga asked quietly.

"She was very beautiful -- southern, you know -- black hair, white
teeth. She was very shy, but when she smiled it was as though a
lamp had been lit. And she loved my brother -- as best she could. But
he frightened her: so loud, so big. And she was very small . . . slim
like a willow, jumped if one only touched her shoulder . . ."

The prince said no more, but sat lost in thought. Watery sunshine
broke through the clouds on the horizon, bringing a little color to
the drab garden.

"You sound as though you thought much of her," the old man
said gently.

"Oh, I loved her." Josua's voice was matter-of-fact, his eyes still
firmly fixed on the tangled mockfoil. "I burned for love of her. I
prayed to God to take the love away, even though I knew that I
would be but a husk, the living core of me scooped out. Not that my
prayer did any good. And I think she loved me, too; I was her only
friend, she often said. No one else knew her as I did."

"Did Elias suspect?"

"Of course. He suspected anyone who as much as stood near her
at court pageants, and I was with her constantly. But always honor-
ably," he added hurriedly, then stopped. "Why should I be so ear-
nest about that, even now? Usires forgive me, I wish we had be-
trayed him!" Josua's teeth were clenched. "I wish she were my dead
lover, instead of only my brother's dead wife." He stared accusingly
at the knob of scarred flesh protruding from his right sleeve. "Her
death lies on my conscience like a great stone -- it was my fault! My
God, we are a haunted family."

He broke off at the clatter of footsteps on the path.

"Prince Josua! Prince Josua, where are you?"

"Here," the prince called distractedly, and a moment later one of
his guards stumbled into view around a hedge-wall.

"My prince," he gasped, bending a knee, "Sir Deomoth says you
must come at once!"

"Are they onto the walls again?" Josua asked, standing and shak-
ing dew from his wool cloak. His voice still sounded distant.

"No, sire," the guard said, his mustached mouth opening and
closing in excitement as though he were a whiskered fish. "It's your
brother -- 1 mean the King, sire. He's pulling back. The siege is end-
ing."

741

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

The prince gave Jamauga a puzzled, worried glance as they hur-
ried up the path behind the excited guard.

"The High King has given over!" Deomoth shouted as Josua
made his way up the steps, cloak billowing in the wind. "See! He
turns tail and runs!"

Deomoth turned and gave Isom a comradely smack on the shoul-
der. The duke's son grinned, but Einskaldir beside him glared
fiercely at the young Erkynlander, lest he should think to try any-
thing so foolish on him.

"What now, what?" Josua said, pushing up beside Deomoth on
the sagging curtain wall. Directly below them lay the shattered ruins
of a miner's box, evidence of a futile attempt to drop the curtain wall
by tunneling beneath it. The wall had dipped a few feet, but held:

Dendinis had built for the ages. The miners, even as they had set fire
to the wooden pillars shoring their tunnel, had been felled by the few
stones they had themselves shaken loose.

In the distance lay Elias' camp, an anthill of scurrying activity.
The remaining siege-engines had been toppled and shattered so that
they would benefit no one else; the rows and rows of tents had
vanished, as if swept up and carried away by gale winds. Thin
sounds -- the distant cry of drovers, the crack of whips -- floated up
as the High King's wagons were loaded.

"He is retreating!" Deomoth said happily. "We have done it!"

Josua shook his head. "Why? Why should he? We have whittled
away a bare fraction of his troops."

"Perhaps he realizes now how strong Naglimund is," Isom said,
squinting.

"Then why not wait us out?" the prince demanded. "Aedon!
What goes on here? I can believe Elias himself might go back to the
Hayholt -- but why not leave even a token siege in place?"

"To lure us out," Einskaldir said quietly. "Onto open ground."
Scowling, he rubbed a rough thumb over the blade of his knife.

"It could be," the prince said, "but he should know me better."

"Josua . . ." Jarnauga was looking out beyond the decamping
army, into the morning haze cloaking the northern horizon. "There
are strange clouds away to the north."

The others stared, but could see nothing but the dim beginnings of
the Frostmarch.

742 Tad Williams

"What sort of clouds?" the prince asked at last.
"Storm clouds. Very strange. Like none I have ever seen south of
the mountains."

^

The prince stood at the window listening to the murmur of the
trailing wind, his forehead pressed against the cold stone frame. The
spare courtyard below was moonpainted, and the trees swayed.

Vorzheva extended a white arm from beneath the fur coverlet.

"Josua, what is it? It is cold. Shut the window, and come back to
your bed."

He did not turn. "The wind goes everywhere," he said quietly.
"There is no keeping it out, and there is no staying it when it wishes
to depart."

"It is too late at night for your riddles, Josua," she said, yawning
and running fingers through her inky hair, so that it spread upon the
sheet like black wings.

"It is perhaps too late for many things," he replied, and went to
sit on the bed beside her. His hand gently stroked her long neck, but
still he looked out toward the window. "I am sorry, Vorzheva. I am
, . , confusing, I know. I have never been the right man -- not for
my tutors, not for my brother, or my father . . . and not for you. I
sometimes wonder if I was bom out of my time." He lifted his finger
to trace her cheek, and her warm breath was on his hand. "When I
see the world as it has been presented to me, I feel only a deep
loneliness."

"Lonely!?" Vorzheva sat up. The fur robe fell away; her smooth
ivory skin was banded in moonlight. "By my clan, Josua, you are a
cruel man! Still you punish me for my mistake in trying to help the
princess. How can you share my bed and call yourself lonely? Go
away, you moping boy, go sleep with one of those cold northern
girls, or in some monk's den. Go then!"

She struck at him, and he caught her arm. She was strong despite
her slendemess, and she slapped him twice with her other hand
before he could roll atop her and pinion her.

"Peace, lady, peace!" he said, and then laughed, although his face
stung. Vorzheva scowled and struggled. "You are right," he said. "I

743

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

have done you insult, and I ask your apology. I sue for peace." He
leaned down and kissed her on the neck, and then again on her
anger-reddened cheek.

"Come nearer and I will bite you," she hissed. Her body trembled
against his. "I was frightened for you when you went to battle,
Josua. I thought you would die."

"I was no less frightened, my lady. There is much in the world to
fear."

"And now you feel you are alone."

"One can be lonely," the prince said, offering his Up to be bitten,
"in the highest and best of company."

Her arm, now free, closed around his neck to pull him closer. The
moonlight silvered their intertwined limbs.

^

Josua dropped his bone spoon back into the soup bowl, and an-
grily watched the small eddies wash back and forth across the sur-
face. The dining hall hummed with the rush of many voices.

"I cannot eat. I must know!"

Vorzheva, eating in silence, but with her usual good appetite, shot
him a disquieted glance down the table.

"Whatever is happening, my prince," Deornoth said shyly, "you
must have your strength."

"You will need it to speak to your people. Prince Josua," Isom
commented around a mouthful of bread. "They are upset and puz-
zled. The king is gone. Why no celebration?"

"You know damnably well why not!" Josua snapped, then raised
his hand to his temple in pain. "Surely you can see it is some trap -- 
that Elias would not give up so easily?"

"I suppose," said Isom, but did not seem convinced. "That does
not mean the people who have been crowded in the inner keep like
cattle -- " he gestured with a large hand at the milling folks pressed
around the prince's table on all sides, most sitting on the floor or
against the walls of the dining halls, chairs too precious for any but
the noblest,  -- "that they will understand. Take it from one who
spent a hellish winter snowbound in Elvritshalla." Isom bit off an-
other great hunk of bread.

744 Tad Williams

Josua sighed and turned to Jamauga. The old man, his serpent
tattoos strangely mobile in the lantemlight, was deep in conversa-
tion with Father Strangyeard.

"Jamauga," the prince said quietly. "You said you wished to talk
to me of a dream you had."

The old Rimmersgarder excused himself from the priest. "Yes,
Josua," he answered, leaning close, "but perhaps we should wait
until we might speak privately." He cocked an ear to the clamor of
the dining hall. "Then again, no one could eavesdrop in here even if
he sat under your chair." He showed a frosty smile.

"I have had dreams again," he said at last, eyes jewel-bright be-
neath his brows. "I have no power to summon them, but they some-
times come unbidden. Something has happened to the company sent
to Urmsheim."

"Something?" Josua's face was shadowed, slack.

"I only dreamed," Jamauga said defensively, "but I felt a great
rupture -- pain and terror -- and I felt the boy Simon calling out ...
calling out in fear and anger . . . and something else ..."

"Could what has happened to them be the cause of the storm you
saw this morning?" the prince asked leadenly, as if hearing bad news
long expected.

"I do not think so. Urmsheim is in a range farther east, behind
Drorshull lake and across the Wastes."

"Are they alive?"

"I have no way of knowing. It was a dream, and a short, strange
one at that."

They walked later in silence on the high castle walls. The wind

had rolled the clouds away, and the moon turned the deserted town

below to bone and parchment-
Staring out in to the black northern sky, Josua exhaled steamily.

"So even the faint hope of Thom is gone."
"I did not say so."
"You had no need. And I suppose you and Strangyeard are no

nearer to discovering what has become of Fingil's sword Min-

neyar?"

"Sadly, no."
"Then what more needs to be done to assure our downfall. God

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             745

has played a cruel joke on . . ." Josua broke off as the old man
clenched his arm.

"Prince Josua," he said, gazing squint-eyed at the horizon, "you
convince me never to taunt the gods, even those who are not your
own." He sounded shaken, old for the first time.

"What do you mean?"

"You asked what more could be done to us?" The old man
snorted in bitter humor. "The storm clouds, that black storm in the
north? It is moving toward us -- and very swiftly, too."

^

Young Ostrael of Runchester stood shivering on the curtain wall
and reflected on what his father had once said.

" 'Tis good fserve thy prince. Tha 'II see a bit o'th' world as soldier,
boy." Firsfram had told him, folding his leathery farmer's hand over
his son's shoulder, even as his mother, red-eyed, silently watched.
"Maybe an' tha'll go t'Southern Islands, or down Nabban-way, an'
get thasel' out o' this be-damned Frostmarch wind."

His father was gone now. He'd disappeared last winter, dragged
off by wolves during that terrible cold Decander . . . wolves or
something else, for no trace of him was ever found. And Firsfram's
son, the southern life still untasted, stood on a wall in the freezing
wind, and felt the cold penetrating his very heart.

Ostrael's mother and sisters huddled below, with hundreds of the
other dispossessed, in makeshift barracks inside Naglimund's heavy
stone keep. The walls of the keep provided far better shelter from
the wind than did Ostrael's high perch, but even stone walls, no
matter how thick, could not keep out the dreadful music of the
approaching storm.

His eyes were drawn, fearfully but irresistibly, up to the dark blot
roiling on the horizon, spreading as it came like gray ink poured into
water. It was a smear, a blank space, as if something had rubbed
away the stuff of reality. It was a spot where the very sky seemed to
tilt, fimneling the clouds downward into a slow-swirling mass like
the tail of a whirlpool. From time to time bright prickles of lightning
leaped across the top of the storm. And always, always, there was

746 Tad Williams

the horrible sound of drumming, distant as a spatter of rain on a
thick roof, insistent as the chattering of OstraePs teeth.

The hot air and fabled sun-dotted hills of Nabban seemed more
and more to Firsfram's son like the Book-stories told by priests, a bit
of imaginary comfort to drag one along, to hide the terror of ines-
capable death.

The storm came on, throbbing with drums like a hive of wasps.

^

Deomoth's lantern guttered in the stiff wind and nearly flickered
out; he shielded it with his cloak until the flame grew steady once
more. Beside him, Isorn Isgrimnurson stared out into the cold, light-
ning-scratched darkness.

"God's Tree! It's black as night," Deomoth groaned. "Just past
noon, yet I can scarcely see at all."

Isom's mouth opened, a dark slash in his pale, lantern-lit face, but
no sound came out. His jaw worked.

"All will be well," Deomoth said, frightened himself by the
strong young Rimmersman's fear. " 'Tis just a storm -- some evil,
petty trick of Pryrates* . . ." Even as he said it he felt sure it was a
he. The black clouds that masked the sun, dragging night to the very
gates of Naglimund, brought with them a dread that pressed on his
very being like a weight, like the stone lid of a casket. What magi-
cian's summoning was this, what mere wizardry, that could push an
icy spear of horror right into his very guts?

The storm trudged toward them, a clot of darkness spreading far
beyond the castle walls on either side, looming above the highest
battlements, shot through with the blue-white flicker of lightning.
The huddled town and countryside leaped into relief for a moment,
then vanished again in the murk. The throbbing of drumbeats ech-
oed against the curtain wall.

As the lightning flashed once more, momentarily counterfeiting
the stolen daylight, Deomoth saw something that caused him to
turn and grasp Isom's broad arm so tightly the Rimmersman
winced.

"Get the prince," Deomoth's voice was hollow.

Isorn looked up, his superstitious fear of the storm overcome by

747

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

the strangeness of Deomoth's manner. The young knight's face had
gone slack, empty like a meal bag, even as his fingernails drew an
unnoticed rill of blood from Isom's arm.

"What . . . what is it?"

"Get Prince Josua," Deomoth repeated. "Go!"

The Rimmersman, with a backward glance at his friend, made the
sign of the Tree and staggered along the battlement toward the
stairs.

Numb, heavy as lead, Deomoth stood and wished that he had
been killed at Bullback Hill -- even that he had died in disgrace -- 
rather than see what was before him.

When Isom returned with the prince and Jamauga, Deomoth was
still staring. There was no need to ask what he saw, for the lightning
illuminated all.

A great army had come to Naglimund. Within the storm's
swirling mist stood a vast forest of bristling spears. A galaxy of
bright eyes gleamed in the darkness. The drums rolled again, like
thunder, and the storm settled over castle and town, a great, billow-
ing tent of rain and black clouds and freezing fog.

The eyes gazed up at the walls -- thousands of shining eyes, all full
of fierce anticipation. White hair streamed in the wind, narrow white
faces turned upward in their dark helms, staring at the walls of
Naglimund. Speartips glinted blue in another flash of skyfire. The
invaders peered silently upward like an army of ghosts, pale as
blindfish, ethereal as moonsheen. The drums pulsed. In the mist,
other, longer shadows stalked: giant shapes cloaked in armor, carry-
ing great gnarled clubs. The drums pulsed again, then fell silent.

"Merciful Aedon, give me rest," Isom prayed. "In Your arms will I
sleep, upon Thy bosom ..."

"Who are they, Josua?" Deomoth asked quietly, as if merely curi-
ous.

"The White Foxes -- the Noms," the prince answered. "They are
Elias' reinforcements." He lifted his hand wearily, as if to block the
spectral legion from his sight. "They are the Storm King's chil-
dren."

Vfr

748 Tad Williams

"Your Eminence, please!" Father Strangyeard tugged at the old
man's arm, gently at first, then with increasing force. The old man
clung to the bench like a whelk, a small shape in the darkness of the
herb garden.

"We must pray, Strangyeard," Bishop Anodis repeated stub-
bornly. "Get you down on your knees."

The throbbing, percussive sound of the storm intensified. The
archive-master felt a panicky urge to run -- somewhere, anywhere.

"This is ... it is no natural twilight. Bishop. You must come
inside, now. Please."

"I knew I should not have stayed. I told Prince Josua not to resist
the rightful king," Anodis added plaintively. "God is angry with us.
We must pray to be shown the rightful path -- we must remember
His martyrdom on the Tree . . ."He waved his hand convulsively,
as though swatting at flies.

"This? This is not God's doing," Strangyeard replied, a scowl on
his usually pleasant face. "This is the work of your 'rightful king' -- 
he and his pet warlock."

The bishop paid him no need. "Blessed Usires," he babbled,
crawling away from the priest toward the shadowy tangle of the
mockfoil bed, "Your humble supplicants repent of their sins. We
have thwarted Your will, and in doing so have drawn Your just
wrath ..."

"Bishop Anodisi" cried Strangyeard in nervous exasperation, tak-
ing a step to follow him, then halting in surprise. A dense, swirling
cold seemed to descend over the garden. A moment later, as the
archive-master shuddered in the deepening chill, the sound of drum-
ming stopped.

"Something ..." A frosty wind napped Strangyeard's hood in
his face.

"0, yea, we have sinned m-m-mightily in our haughtiness, we
puny men!" Anodis sang out, rattling through the mockfoil. "We p-
pray ... we ... p-p-pray . . . ?" he trailed off, his voice rising
curiously.

"Bishop?"

There was a shudder of movement in the depth of the mockfoil.
Strangyeard saw the old man's face appear, mouth agape. Something
seemed to catch at him; dirt began to gout up all around, further

749

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

obscuring events in the shadowy vegetation. The bishop screamed, a
thin, keening sound.

"Anodis!" Strangyeard shouted, plunging into the mockfoil.
"Bishop!"

The screaming stopped. Strangyeard halted a moment later,
standing over the bishop's huddled form. Slowly, as if the old man
were revealing the end of some elaborate trick, the bishop rolled to
one side.

Part of his face was a wash of red blood. A black head sat on the
ground beside him, like a doll thrown aside by a forgetful child. The
head, chewing rapidly, turned grinning toward Strangyeard. Its tiny
eyes were white as bleached currants, the scraggly whiskers shiny
with the bishop's blood. As it reached a long-fingered hand out of
the hole to pull the bishop closer, two more heads popped from the
ground on either side. The archive-master took a step backward. A
scream lodged in his throat like a stone. The ground convulsed again
 -- here, there, on all sides. Thin black hands wriggling like mole-
snouts pushed up through the soil.

Strangyeard stumbled backward and fell, dragging himself toward
the path, certain that any moment a clammy hand would close on
his ankle. His mouth was stretched wide in a rictus of fear, but no
sound came. He had lost his sandals in the undergrowth, and he
lurched up the path toward the chapel on noiseless bare feet. The
world seemed damply blanketed in silence; it choked him, and
squeezed at his heart. Even the crash of the chapel door behind him
seemed muffled. As he fumbled the bolt home a curtain of feature-
less gray came down before his eyes, and he fell into it gratefully,
like a soft bed.

^

The flames of countless torches now rose among the Norns like
blossoms in a poppy field, throwing the horridly beautiful faces into
scarlet half-silhouette, adding grotesquely to the stature of the bat-
tle-garbed Hunen lurking behind. Soldiers clambered up onto the
castle walls, only to stare down in shocked silence.

Five ghostly figures on horses pale as spider silk rode out into the
open space before the curtain wall. The torchlight played on their

750 Tad Williams

hooded white cloaks, and the red pyramid of Stormspike glimmered
and pulsed on their long rectangular shields. Fear seemed to sur-
round these hooded ones like a cloud, reaching out into the hearts of
all who saw them. The watchers on the walls felt a terrible, helpless
weakness fall upon them.

The lead horseman lifted his spear; the four behind him did the
same. The drums sounded three times.

"Where is the master of Ujin e-d'a Sikhunae -- The Snare That
Traps the Hunter?" The first horseman's voice was a mocking, echo-
ing moan, like wind blowing down a long canyon. "Where is the
master of the House of a Thousand Nails?"

The hovering storm breathed for long moments before the reply
came.

"I am here." Josua stepped forward, a slender shadow atop the
gatehouse. "What does such a strange band of travelers want at my
door?" His voice was calm, but there was in it a faint quaver.

"Why . . . we have come to see how the nails have rusted, while
we have grown strong." The words came slowly, forced out in a hiss
of air, as if the horseman was unused to speech. "We have come,
mortal, to have a little of our own back. This time it is man-blood that
will spill on the soil ofOsten Ard. We have come to pull your house
down about your ears."

The implacable power and hatred of the hollow voice was such
that many of the soldiers cried out and began to scramble down the
walls back into the castle below. As Josua stood on the gate, un-
speaking, a cry shrilled above the groans and frightened whispers of
the Naglimunders.

"Diggers! There are diggers within the walls'"

The prince turned at a movement close by. It was Deomoth,
climbing up on unsteady legs to stand at his side.

"The gardens of the keep are full of Bukken," the young knight
said. His eyes were wide as he looked down on the white horsemen.

The prince took a step forward. "You speak as though of re-
venge," he shouted to the pale multitude below. "But that is a liet
You come at the bidding of the High King Elias -- a mortal. You
serve a mortal, as a tickbird does a cockindrill. Come then. Do your
worst! You will find that not all the nails of Naglimund are rusted,
and that there is iron here that can still deal death to the Sithi!"

751

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

A ragged cheer went up from those soldiers still atop the walls.
The first rider spurred his horse forward a pace.

"We are the Red Hand!" His voice was cold as the grave. "We
serve no one but Ineluki, the Lord of Storms. Our reasons are our own
 -- as your death will be your own!"

He waved his spear above his head, and the drums burst out
again. Shrill horns wailed.

"Bring up those wagons!" Josua shouted from the gatehouse roof.
"Block the way! They will try and throw down the gate!"

But instead of bringing up a ram to try and shatter the heavy steel
and stout timbers of the gate, the Noms stood silent, watching as the
five horsemen rode unhurriedly forward. One of the guards atop the
wall loosed an arrow. It was followed by a score of others, but if
they struck the riders it was only to pass through them: the pale
horsemen faltered not a step.

The drums beat furiously, the pipes and strange trumpets groaned
and shrieked. Dismounting, the riders appeared and disappeared in
flashes of lightning as they strode the last few steps to the gate.

With dreadful deliberateness, the leader reached up to pull open
his hooded cloak. A scarlet light seemed to spill forth. As he tore it
away, it was as though he turned inside-out; suddenly he was all
formlessness and smoldering red glare. The others did the same.
Five beings of shifting, flickering lines grew and stood revealed -- 
larger than before, each tall as two men, faceless, billowing like
burning vermilion silk-

A black mouth opened in the leader's eyeless face as he lifted his
arms to the gate and placed his burning hands against it.

"Death!" he bellowed, and his voice seemed to shake the very
fundament of the walls. The iron hinges began to glow a dull orange.

"Hei ma'akajao-zhaf" The massive spars blackened and smoked.
Josua, tugging frantically at the dumbstruck Deomoth's arm, leaped
down to the top of the wall.

"T'si anh pra INELUKI/"

As the prince's soldiers dove shrieking down the staircases there
was a burst of light, a deafening crack louder than drums or thun-
der, and the mighty gate burst into steaming, sparkling finders. The
shards hissed down in a deadly rain as the wall collapsed on either
side, crushing men beneath it even as they tried to flee.

Armored Noms leaped into the smoking gap in the walls. Some

752 Tad Williams

lifted long tubes of wood or bone, touching them at the end with
naming brands. Horrible gouts of fire leaped out of the pipes, turn-
ing fleeing soldiers into jigging, wailing torches. Great dark shapes
pushed through the rubble: the Hunen, swinging long iron-studded
clubs in their shaggy hands, howling like maddened bears as they
crushed all in their path. Shattered bodies flew before them like
ninepins.

Some of the soldiers, courageously resisting the choking fear,
turned to fight. A giant went down with two spears in its guts, but a
moment later the spearmen were dead, feathered with white-fletched
Nom arrows. The pallid Norns were pushing through the fuming
breach in the wall like maggots, shouting as they came.

Deomoth pulled a stumbling Josua toward the inner keep. The
prince's soot-blackened face was wet with tears and blood.

"Elias has sown the dragon's teeth," Josua choked as Deornoth
pulled him past a gurgling soldier. Deomoth thought he recognized
the young pikeman Ostrael, who had stood sentry at the king's par-
ley, buried beneath the squirming black bodies of a score of diggers.
"My brother has planted seeds for the death of all men!" Josua
railed. "He is mad!"

Before Deomoth could reply -- and what reply, he briefly won-
dered, could he possibly make? -- two Nom soldiers, eyes fire-gleam-
ing within the slits of their helms, rounded the corner of the inner
keep dragging a shrieking girl. Spotting Deomoth, one hissed some-
thing, then reached down with his dark, slender sword and dragged
the blade across the girl's throat. She dropped twitching to the earth
behind them.

Deomoth felt the bile rising in his throat as he threw himself
forward, sword upraised. The prince was there even before him,
Naidel flickering like the lightning that etched the black sky -- after-
noon, it was only afternoon!

This is the hour at last, then, he thought wildly. Steel rang on
polished witchwood. There must be honor, the thought was desper-
ate. Even if there is no one to see it . . . God will see . . .

The white faces, hateful and hating, swam before his sweat-sting-
ing eyes.

^

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             753

No dream of Hell, no woodcut in any of his many books, no
warning of any of his Aedonite teachers could prepare Father
Strangyeard for the howling inferno Naglimund had become. Light-
ning sizzled across the sky, thunder roared, and the voices of slayers
and victims alike rose to the heavens like the babble of the damned.
Despite the wind and driving rains, fires were leaping up everywhere
in the darkness, killing many who thought to hide behind stout
doors from the madness outside.

Limping along in the shadows of the inner hallways, he saw
Norns clambering in through the shattered windows of the chapel,
and stood helplessly by while they caught poor Brother Eglaf, who
was kneeling in prayer before the altar. Strangyeard could no more
stay to watch the horror to come than he could do anything to help
his fellow man of God. Slipping outside with his eyes full of blinding
tears and his heart heavy as lead in his breast, he headed for the
inner keep and the prince's rooms.

Hiding in the black depths of a hedge he saw stout Ethelferth of
Tinsett and two of his guardsmen smashed to a red pulp beneath the
cudgel of a barking giant.

He watched trembling as Lord Constable Eadgram bled to death
standing upright, swarmed by squeaking diggers.

He saw one of the court ladies ripped limb from limb by another
of the shaggy Hunen while another woman crouched on the ground
nearby, face black with madness.

All through the shattered freehold these tragedies were mirrored a
thousandfold, a nightmare seemingly without end.

Weeping out a prayer to Usires, certain that God's face was
turned away from Naglimund's death throes but praying neverthe-
less in desperate, passionate reflex, he staggered around to the front
of the inner keep. Two scorched, unhelmeted knights stood there in
a tangle of corpses, eyes showing hunted-animal white. It was a long
moment until he recognized Deornoth and the prince, and another
heart-freezing wait before he could convince them to follow him.

It was quieter in the residence's maze of hallways. The Norns had
broken in; a few bodies lay crumpled against the walls or splayed out
on the stone flags, but most of the people had fled toward the chapel
or the dining hall, and the Noms had not stayed to search. That
would come later.

754 Tad Williams

Isom unbarred the door at Josua's shouted command. Is-
grimnur's son, with Einskaldir and a handful of Erkynlander and
Rimmersman soldiers, stood guard over the Lady Vorzheva and the
Duchess Outrun. A few other courtiers were huddled there as well,
Towser and the harper Sangfugol among them.

While the prince pulled himself coldly from Vorzheva's weeping
embrace, Strangyeard discovered Jamauga lying on a pallet in the
comer; a blood-soaked bandage was twined haphazardly around his
head.

"The roof of the library fell," the old Rimmersman said, smiling
bitterly. "The flames, I fear, have taken nearly all."

For Father Strangyeard this was, in some way, the worst blow of
all. He burst out in fresh weeping, tears even trickling down from
beneath his eye patch.

"Worse ... it could be worse," he gulped finally. "You might
have gone with them, my friend."

Jamauga shook his white head and winced. "No. Not quite yet.
Soon, though. I did save one thing." He pulled from out of his robe
the battered parchment of Morgenes' manuscript, the top page now
ribboned with blood. "Carry it safe. It will be of some use still, I
hope."

Strangyeard took it carefully, tying it with a cord from Josua's
table and slipping it into the inner pocket of his cassock. "Can you
stand?" he asked Jamauga.

The old man nodded carefully, and the priest helped him to his
feet.

"Prince Josua," Strangyeard said, holding Jamauga's elbow. "I
have thought of something."

The prince turned from his urgent conferral with Deomoth and
the others to stare impatiently at the archive-master.

"What is it?" His eyebrows singed away, Josua's forehead seemed
more prominent than ever, a pale lunar bulge beneath his close-
cropped hair. "Do you wish me to build a new library?" The prince
sagged wearily against the wall as the clamor built outside. "I am
sorry, Strangyeard. That was a foolish thing to say. What has come
to your mind?"

"There is a way out."

Several of the dirt-streaked, desperate faces turned toward him.

755

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"What?" Josua asked, bending forward to stare intently. "Shall
we march out through the gate? I hear it has been opened for us."

Strangyeard's sense of urgency gave him the strength to stare the
prince down. "There is a hidden passageway leading out of the
guardroom to the Eastern Gate," he said. "I should know -- you
have had me staring at Dendinis' castle plans for months in prepara-
tion for the siege." He thought of the rolls of irreplaceable brown
parchment, covered in the fading ink of Dendinis1 careful notes,
ashes now, charred in the rubble of the library. He fought down
more tears. "If ... if we c-can get there we may escape up the Stile
into the Wealdhelm Hills."

"And from there what?" Towser asked querulously. "Starve in the
hills? Eaten by wolves in the Oldheart Forest?"

"Would you rather be eaten here and now, by less pleasant
things?" Deomoth snapped. His heart had sped at the priest's
words; the faint return of hope was almost too painful, but he would
hear anything to get his prince to safety.

"We will have to fight our way out," Isom said. "Even now I can
hear the Norns filling the residence. We have women and some chil-
dren."

Josua stared around the room at nearly a score of weary, fright-
ened faces.

"Better to die outside than to be burned alive here, I suppose," he
said at last. He lifted his hand in a gesture of benediction or resigna-
tion. "Let us go swiftly."

"One thing. Prince Josua." Hearing him, the prince came to
where the priest was aiding struggling Jarnauga. "If we can make
our way to the Tunnel Gate," Strangyeard said quietly, "we have
still another problem to solve. It was built for defense, not escape. It
can be as easily opened as closed from the inside."

Josua wiped ash from his brow. "You are saying that we must find
some way to block it behind us?"

"If we are to have any hope of escape."

The prince sighed. A cut on his lip dripped blood onto his chin.
"Let us reach the gate at all, then we shall do what must be done."

They burst through the door in a pack, surprising a pair of Norns
who waited in the corridor. Einskaldir crashed his axe through the
helmet of the nearest, throwing sparks in the darkened hallway.

756 Tad Williams

Before the other could do more than raise his short sword, he had
been skewered between Isom and one of the Naglimund guardsmen.
Deornoth and the prince quickly herded the courtiers out.

Much of the din of slaughter had died away. Only an occasional
scream of pain or rising chant of triumph floated through the empty
hallways. Eye-stinging smoke, licking flames, and the mocking songs
of the Noms gave the residence the look of some terrible under-
world, some labyrinth on the edge of the Great Pit.

In the savaged ruins of the castle gardens they were set on by
cluttering diggers. One of the soldiers fell dead with a jagged Buk-
ken knife in his back, and as the rest of the company fought off the
others, one of Vorzheva's maidservants was dragged squealing down
into a gash in the black earth. Deomoth leaped forward to try and
save her, impaling a squirming, whistling black body on the end of
his sword, but she was gone. Only her delicate slipper lying in the
rain-spattered mud showed she had even existed.

Two of the immense Hunen had discovered the wine cellars, and
were fighting drunkenly over the last barrel before the inner keep's
guardhouse, clubbing and scratching each other in roaring fury. One
giant's arm hung limp at his side, and the other had gotten such a
terrible wound to his head that a flap of skin hung free, and his face
was a sheet of blood. Still they tore at each other, snarling their
incomprehensible language in the wreckage of shattered casks and
the crushed bodies of Naglimund's defenders.

Crouched in the mud at the edge of the gardens, Josua and
Strangyeard squinted against the driving rain.

"The guardroom door is closed," Josua said. "We might be able to
get across the open yard, but if it has been bolted from the inside we
are doomed. We would never burst it open in time."

Strangyeard shivered. "Even if we did, we would not then . . .
not then be able to bolt it behind us."

Josua looked at Deornoth, who said nothing.

"Still," the prince hissed, "it is what we came for. We shall run."

When they had formed up the small company, they set out at a
stumbling dash. The two Hunen, one of them with his great teeth
fastened in his fellow's throat, were rolling on the ground, locked
still in howling battle like gods of the primordial past. Oblivious to
the humans passing by, one of them threw out a massive leg in a
paroxysm of pain and knocked the harper Sangfugol sprawling.

757

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Isom and old Towser hurriedly turned back and picked him up; as
they did so a shrill, excited shout came from across the courtyard.

A dozen Noms, two of them on tall white horses, turned at their
fellow's call. Seeing the prince's party they gave a great cry and
spurred forward, galloping past the now-senseless giants.

Isorn reached the door and pulled. It sprang open, but even as the
terrified company began to push inside the first rider was upon
them, a high helm upon his head, a long spear poised in his hand.

Dark-bearded Einskaldir dashed forward with a snarl like a cor-
nered dog, ducking the serpentine strike of the lance, then leaping
and throwing himself against the Norn's side. He caught the Norn's
flapping cloak in his hand and pushed away, tumbling to the ground
and bringing his enemy down after him. The riderless horse skidded
on the wet cobbles. Kneeling over the fallen Norn, Einskaldir
brought his axe down hard, then crashed it down again. Blind to all
around him, he would have been pierced by the spear of the second
Norn rider, but Deornoth hefted and threw the lid of a broken
barrel, knocking the rider off his horse and into one of the hedges.
The howling foot-troops were bearing down fast as Deornoth pulled
the foaming Einskaldir off the Norn's hacked corpse.

They drove through the door moments ahead of the attackers,
and Isorn and two of the other pursuers rammed it shut. Spears
crashed against the heavy wood; a moment later one of the Norns
called out in a high-pitched, clicking voice.

"Axes!" Jarnauga said. "I know that much of the Hikeda'ya
tongue. They are going for axes.

"Strangyeard!" Josua shouted, "where is the damned passage-
way?"

"It's . . . it's so dark," the priest quavered. Indeed, the room
was lit only by the inconstant light of orange flames beginning to
burn through the roofbeams. Smoke was gathering beneath the low
ceiling. "I ... I think it is on the south side . . ." he began. Ein-
skaldir and several others sprang to the wall and began pulling down
the heavy arrases.

"The door!" Einskaldir barked. "Locked," he added a moment
later.

The keyhole in the heavy wooden door was empty. Josua stared
for a moment, even as a sliver of axe-blade crashed through the door

758 Tad Williams

from the courtyard outside. "Break it down," he said. "You others,
pile what you can before the other door."

In a matter of moments Einskaldir and Isorn had hacked the bolt
right out of the jamb, while Deomoth lifted an unlit torch to the
smoldering ceiling. An instant later the door was knocked off its
hinges and they were through, fleeing up the sloping corridor. An-
other piece splintered out of the door behind them.

They ran for several furlongs, the stronger helping the weaker.
One of the courtiers at last fell weeping to the ground, unable to go
farther. Isom went to pick him up, but his mother Outrun, herself
staggeringly tired, waved him off.

"Leave him lie," she said. "He can keep up."

Isom looked hard at her, then shrugged. As they continued up the
slanting stone pathway, they heard the man struggle to his feet,
cursing them, and follow.

Even as the doors loomed before them, swart and solid in the light
of the solitary torch, extending from the floor of the passageway to
the roof, the sound of pursuit came echoing up behind them. Fearing
the worst, Josua stretched out his hand to one of the iron rings and
pulled. The door swung inward with a soft groan of its hinges.

"Usires be praised," Isom said.

"Get the women and others through," Josua ordered, and a mo-
ment later two of the soldiers had led them well up the passageway
beyond the mighty doors.

"Now we come to it," Josua said. "Either we must find some way
to seal this door, or else we must leave enough men behind to slow
our pursuers.

"I will stay," Einskaldir growled. "I have tasted faerie-blood to-
night. I would not mind more." He patted his hilt.

"No. It is for me, and me alone." Jamauga coughed and sagged
on Strangyeard's arm, then straightened. The tall priest turned to
look at the old man, and suddenly understood.

"I am dying," Jamauga said. "I was not meant to leave Nag-
limund. I always knew that. You need only leave me a sword."

"You have not the strength!" Einskaldir said angrily, as if disap-
pointed.

"I have enough to close this door," the old man said gently.
"See?" He pointed to the great hinges. "They are wrought very fine.

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             759

Once the door is shut, a blade broken off in the hinge-crevice will
balk the stoutest pursuer. Go."

The prince turned as if to object; a clicking shout reverberated up
the passageway. "Very well," he said softly. "God bless you, old
man."

"No need," Jamauga said. He pulled something shiny from
around his neck and pressed it into Strangyeard's hand. "Strange to
make a friend at the very last," Jamauga said. The priest's eye filled
with tears, and he kissed the Rimmersman's cheek.

"My friend," he whispered, and went through the open door.

The last they saw was Jamauga's bright gaze catch the torchlight
as he put his shoulder to the door. It swung closed, damping the
sounds of pursuit. The bolts inside slid solidly into place.

After climbing a long stairway they emerged at last into the
windy, ram-lashed evening. The storm had thinned, and as they
stood on the naked hillside below the wooded Stile they could see
fire flickering in the ruins of Naglimund below, and black, inhuman
shapes dancing among the vaulting flames.

Josua stood and stared for a long while, sooty face streaked by the
rain. His small party huddled trembling behind him, waiting to take
to the path once more.

The prince raised his left fist.

"Elias!" he shouted, and the wind whipped the echoes away. "You
have brought death and worse to our father's kingdom! You have
raised an ancient evil, and shattered the High King's Ward! You
have unhoused me, and destroyed much that I loved." He stopped
and fought back tears. "Now you are king no longer! I will take the
crown from you. / will take it, I swear!"

Deomoth took his elbow and led him away from the pathway's
edge. Josua's subjects stood waiting for him, cold and frightened,
homeless in the wild Wealdhelm. He bowed his head for a moment,
in weariness or prayer, and led them into the darkness.

44

Blood and the
Spinning World

^

THE DRAGON'S black blood had spilled over him, burning like afire.
In the instant of its touch he had felt his own life subdued. The
dreadful essence coursed through him. scalding away his spirit, and
leaving only dragon-life. It was as if he had himself become -- in the
failing moment before darkness came -- the Worm's secret heart.

Ifgarjuk's smolderingly slow and intricate life captured him. He
spread; he changed, and the changing was as painful as both death
and birth.

His bones became heavy, solid as stone and curvingly reptilian. His
skin hardened into gemlike scales, and he felt his pelt sliding on his
back like a mailshirt of diamonds.

The dragon's heartblood now moved powerfully in his breast, pon-
derous as the movement of a dark star in the empty night, strong and
hot as the very forge-fires of the earth. His claws sank into the world's
stony skin, and his age-old heart pulsed . . . and pulsed . . . and
pulsed . . . He grew into the brittle, ancient cleverness of the drag-
onfolk, feeling first the birth of his long-lived race in the earth's infant
days, then the weight of uncountable years pressing upon him, dark
millennia rushing by like roiling waters. He was one of the Eldest of
all races, one of the cooling earth's firstborn, and he lay coiled be-
neath the world's surface as the least of worms might lie hidden in the
rind of an apple . . .

The old black blood raced through him. Still he grew, and he
perceived and named all things of the spinning world. Its skin. the
earth's skin, became his own -- the crawling surface of which all living
things were born, where they struggled and failed, surrendering at last
to become a part of him once more. Its bones were his bones, the rocky

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             761

pillars on which all things stood, and through which he felt every
tremor of breathing life.

He was Simon. Yet he was the serpent. And he was nevertheless the
very earth in its infinitude and detail. And still he grew, and growing,
felt his mortal life slipping away . . .

In the sudden loneliness of his majesty, fearing that he would lose
everything, he reached out to touch those he had known. He could feel
their warm lives, sensing them like sparks in a great, windy darkness.
So many lives -- so important, so small . . .

He saw Rachel -- bent, old. She sat on a stool in an empty room,
holding her gray head in her hands. When had she become so small?
A broom lay at her feet, an orderly mound of dust beside it. The castle
room was fast darkening.

Prince Josua stood on a hillside, looking down. A faint flame-hued
light painted his grim face. He could see Josua's doubt and pain; he
tried to reach out and give him reassurance, but these lives were only
to see, not to touch.

A small brown man he did not know poled his fiat boat up a
stream. Great trees dangled their branches in the water, and clouds of
midges hovered. The little man patted protectively at a sheaf of parch-
ment tucked into his belt. A breeze rattled the trailing branches, and
the little man smiled gratefully.

A large man -- Isgrimnur? Where was his beard? -- paced on a
weather-warped pier and stared out at the darkening sky, at the wind-
lashed ocean.

A beautiful old man, his long white hair tangled, sat playing with a
crowd of half-naked children. His blue eyes were mild, distant, wrin-
kled in a happy squint.

Miriamele, hair close-cropped, looked out from the rail of a ship at
the heavy clouds massing on the horizon. The sails snapped and rip-
pled above her head. He wanted to watch her for a longer time, but
the vision whirled away like a falling leaf.

A tall Hemystiri woman dressed in black kneeled before two cairns
of stones in a grove of slender birch trees, high on the side of a wind-
swept mountain.

King Elias stared into the depth of a wine cup, eyes red-rimmed.
Sorrow lay across his knees. The gray sword was a wild thing feigning
sleep . . .

762

Tad Williams
*   *   *

Morgenes suddenly appeared before him, crowned in flame; and
the sight drove an icy spear of pain even into his dragon's heart. The
old man was holding a great book, and his lips moved in anguished.
silent cries, as though he shouted a warning . . . beware the false
messenger . . . beware . . .

The faces slipped away, but for one last ghost.

A boy, thin and awkward, made his way through dark tunnels
beneath the earth, crying and crawling through the labyrinth like a
trapped insect. Every detail, every twist and turn unwound tortuously
before his eyes.

The boy stood on a hillside beneath the moon. staring in horror at
white-faced figures and a gray sword, but a dark cloud covered the
boy in shadow.

The same boy, older now, stood before a great white tower. A golden
light flashed on his finger, although the boy stood in deep and darken-
ing shadow. Bells were tolling, and the roof had burst into
flames . . .

Darkness was engulfing him now, pulling him away toward other,
stranger places -- but he did not wish to go on to those places. Not until
he remembered the name of that child, that gawky boy who labored in
ignorance. He would not go on; he would remember . . .

The boy's name was , . . the boy's name was . . . Simon!

Simon.

And then his sight faded . . .

^

"Seoman," the voice said, quite loud now; he realized it had been
calling him for some time.

He opened his eyes. The colors were so intense he quickly shut
them, blinded. Spinning wheels of silver and red danced before the
darkness of his closed lids.

"Come, Seoman, come and rejoin your companions. There is need
of you here."

He unlidded halfway, letting himself grow used to the light. There

763

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

were now no colors at all -- everything was white. He groaned, trying
to move, and felt a terrible weakness, as though some heavy thing
pressed down on him all around; at the same time he felt himself as
transparent and fragile as if he were spun from pure glass. Even with
closed eyes he thought he could feel light passing through him,
filling him with a radiance that brought no warmth.

A shadow crossed his sensitive face, seeming almost to have tangi-
ble weight. Something wet and cold touched his lips. He swallowed,
felt a bite of pain, coughed, and drank again. It seemed he could
taste everywhere the water had ever been -- the icy peak, the swollen
rain cloud, the stony mountain sluice.

He opened his eyes wider. All was indeed overwhelmingly white,
except for the golden face of Jiriki looming nearby. He was in a cave,
the walls pale with ash but for the traces of faint lines; furs and
wooden carvings and decorated bowls were stacked along the edge
of the stone floor. Simon's heavy hands, numb yet strangely acute,
clutched at the fur coverlet and probed weakly at the wooden cot on
which he lay. How . . . ?

"I . . ." He coughed again.

"You are sore, you are tired. That is expected." The Sitha
frowned, but his luminous eyes did not change expression. "You
have done a very terrible thing, Simon, do you know? You have
saved my life twice."

"Mmmmm." His head was responding as slowly as his muscles.
What exactly had happened? There had been the mountain . . .
the cave . . . and the ...

"The dragon!" Simon said, choking, and tried to sit up. As the fur
robe slid down he felt the chill of the room in earnest. Light was
leaking past a skin hanging at the room's far end. A wave of dizzi-
ness left him limp, and set his head and face to throbbing. He sagged
back.

"Gone," Jiriki said shortly. "Dead or not I do not know, but
gone. When you struck, it tumbled past you and down into the
abyss. I could not mark where it fell in the snows and ice of the great
deeps. You wielded the sword Thorn like a warrior true, Seoman
Snowlock."

"I . . ." He took a shaky breath and tried again. Talking made
his face hurt. "I don't think ... it was me. Thorn . . . used me.

764 Tad Williams

It ... wanted to be saved, I think. That must sound foolish,
but . . ."

"No. I think you may be correct. Look." Jiriki pointed to the cave
wall a few feet away. Thorn lay cushioned there on the prince's
cloak, black and remote as the bottom of a well. Could such a thing
have ever felt alive in his hand? "It was easy enough to carry here,"
Jiriki said, "perhaps this was a direction it wished to go."

The Sitha's words set in motion a slow wheel of thought in
Simon's mind.

The sword wanted to come here -- but where is here? And how did
we get . . . Oh, Mother of God, the dragon . . . !

"Jiriki!" he gasped, "the others! Where are the others?"

The prince nodded gently. "Ah, yes. I had hoped to wait longer,
but I see I have no choice." He closed his wide, bright eyes for a
moment.

"An'nai and Grimmric are dead. They have been buried on the
mountain Urmsheim." He sighed, and made a complicated gesture
with his hands. "You do not know what it means to bury a mortal
and a Sitha together, Seoman. It has been seldom done, and never in
five centuries. An'nai's deeds will live until world's end in the Dance
of Years, the annals of our people, and Grimmric's name will now
live with his. They will lie forever beneath the Uduntree." Jiriki
closed his eyes and sat for a silent moment. "The others . . . well,
they have all survived."

Simon felt a clutch at his heart, but pushed away thoughts of the
fallen pair for later. He stared at the ash-painted ceiling, and saw
that the lines were faint scribings of great serpents and long-tusked
beasts, winding all across the roof and walls. The blank eyes of the
creatures troubled him: when he looked too long, they seemed to
move. He turned back to the Sitha.

"Where's Binabik?" he asked. "I want to speak to him. I had the
strangest dream . . . the strangest dream ..."

Before Jiriki could speak, Haestan poked his head in through the
cave mouth. "Th'king doesna want t'talk," he said, then saw Simon.
"Y'r up, lad!" he crowed. "That's fine!"

"What king?" Simon asked, confused. "Not Elias, I hope?"

"No, lad," Haestan shook his head. "After . . . after what hap-
pened up on the mountain, th'trolls found us. You were sleepin' for
some days. We're on Mintahoq, now -- the troll-mountain."

765

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

"And Binabik is with his family?"

"Not quite." Haestan looked at Jiriki. The Sitha nodded.
"Binabik -- Sludig, too -- th'king's holdin' them for prisoners. Under
sentence o' death, some say."

"What!? Prisoners?!" Simon exploded, then sagged back down as
a band of pain tightened cruelly around his head. "Why?"

"Sludig because he is a hated Rimmersman," Jiriki said.
"Binabik, they say, has committed some terrible crime against the
troll-king. We do not know yet what it is, Seoman Snowlock."

Simon shook his head in amazement. "This is madness. I've gone
mad, or I'm still dreaming." He turned accusingly to Jiriki. "And
why do you keep calling me that name?"

"Don't . . ," Haestan began, but Jiriki ignored him, producing
instead from within his jacket the looking glass. Simon sat up and
took it, the fine carvings on its frame rough to his sensitive fingers.
The wind howled outside the cave, and cold air crept in below the
door-cloth.

Was all the world covered with ice, now? Would he never again
escape the winter?

In other circumstances he would have been quite taken with the
reddish golden whiskers which were coming in thickly all over his
face, but his attention was captured by the long scar running up
from his jaw, over his cheek and past his left eye. The surrounding
skin was livid and new-looking. He touched it and winced, then slid
his fingers up to his scalp.

A long swath of his hair had turned as white as the Urmsheim
snows.

"You have been marked, Seoman." Jiriki reached out and touched
his cheek with a long finger. "For better or for worse, you have been
marked."

Simon let the mirror drop, and covered his face with his hands.

Appendix

^

PEOPLE

ERKYNIANDERS

Bamabas -- Hayholt chapel sexton

Beomoth -- one of Jack Mundwode's mythical band

Breyugar -- Count of the Westfold, Lord Constable of the Hayholt

under Elias

Caleb -- Shem Horsegroom's apprentice
Colmund -- Camaris' squire, later baron of Rodstanby
Deorhelm -- soldier at Dragon and Fisherman
Deomoth, Sir -- Josua's knight, sometimes called "Prince's Right

Hand"

Dreosan, Father -- chaplain of Hayholt
Eadgram, Sir -- Lord Constable of Naglimund
Eahlferend -- Simon's fisherman father, husband of Susanna
Eahlstan Fiskerne -- Fisher King, first Erkynlandish master of

Hayholt

Eglaf, Brother -- Naglimund monk, friend of Strangyeard
Elias -- Prince, Prester John's elder son, later High King
Elispeth -- midwife at Hayholt
Ethelbeam -- soldier, Simon's companion on journey from Nag-

limund

Ethelferth -- Lord of Tinsett
Fengbald -- Earl of Falshire

Freawaru -- innkeeper, master of Dragon and Fisherman in Flett
Godstan -- soldier at Dragon and Fisherman
Godwig -- Baron of Cellodshire
Grimmric -- soldier, Simon's companion on journey from

Nagilmund
Grimstede, Sir -- Erkylandish noble, supporter of Josua

770 Tad Williams

Outhwulf -- Eari of Utanyeat, High King's Hand

Haestan -- Naglimund guardsman, Simon's companion

Heahferth -- Baron of Woodsall

Heanfax -- innkeeper's boy

Helfcene, Father -- Chancellor of Hayholt

Hepzibah -- castle chambermaid

Hruse -- Jack Mundwode's wife in song

Inch -- Doctor's assistant, later foundry-master

Isaak -- page

Jack Mundwode -- mythical forest bandit

Jael -- castle chambermaid

Jakob -- castle chandler

Jeremias -- chandler's boy

John -- King John Presbyter, High King

Josua -- Prince, John's younger son, lord of Naglimund, called

"Lackhand"

Judith -- Cook and Kitchen Mistress
Langrian -- Hoderundian monk
Leieth -- Miriamele's handmaiden
Lofsunu -- soldier, Hepzibah's intended
Lucuman -- stable-worker at Naglimund
Malachias -- castle boy
Marya -- Miriamele's servant
Miriamele -- Princess, Elias' only child
Morgenes, Doctor -- Scrollbearer, King John's castle doctor,

Simon's friend
Noah -- King John's squire
Ordmaer -- Baron of Utersall
Osgal -- one of Mundwode's mythical band
Ostrael -- pikeman, son of Firsfram of Runchester
Peter Gilded-Bowl -- Seneschal of Hayholt
Rachel -- Mistress of Chambermaids
Rebah -- castle kitchen maid
Ruben the Bear -- castle smith
Sangfugol -- Josua's harper
Sarrah -- castle chambermaid
Scenesefa -- Hoderundian monk
Shem Horsegroom -- castle groom
Simon (Seoman) -- a castle scullion

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Sophrona -- Linen Mistress

Strangyeard, Father -- Archivist of Naglimund

Susanna -- Simon's chambermaid mother

Tobas -- castle houndmaster

Towser -- jester (original name: Cruinh)

Wuldorcene -- Baron of Caldsae

771

HERNYSTIRI

Arthpreas -- Count of Cuimnhe

Bagba -- Cattle God

Brynioch of the Skies -- Sky God

Cadrach-ec-Crannhyr, Brother -- monk of indeterminate Order

Cifgha -- young lady of Taig

Craobhan -- old knight, advisor to King Lluth

Cryunnos -- a God

Dochais -- Hoderundian monk

Efiathe -- original name of Queen Ebekah of Erkynland, called

"Rose of Hernysadharc"
Eoin-ec-Cluias -- legendary poet
Eolair -- Count of Nad Mullach, emissary of King Lluth
Fiathna -- Gwythinn's mother, Lluth's second wife
Gealsgiath -- ship's captain, called "Old"
Gormhbata -- legendary chieftain
Gwelan -- young lady of Taig

Gwythinn -- Prince, Lluth's son, Maegwin's half brother
Hem -- Founder of Hemystir
Inahwen -- Lluth's third wife
Lluth-ubh-Llythinn -- King of Hemystir
Maegwin -- Princess, Lluth's daughter, Gwythinn's half sister
Mircha -- Rain Goddess, wife of Brynioch
Murhagh One-Arm -- a God

Penemhwye -- Maegwin's mother, Lluth's first wife
Red Hathrayhinn -- character in Cadrach story
Rhynn -- a God
Sumach -- Prince, Battle of Knock war-leader

772 Tad Williams

Tethtain -- King, only Hemystiri master of Hayholt, called "Holly

King"
Tuilleth -- young Hemystiri knight

RIMMERSMEN

Bindesekk -- Isgrimnur's spy

Dror -- Ancient War God

Einskaldir -- Rimmersgard chieftain

Elvrit -- First Osten Ard king of Rimmersmen

Fingil -- King, first master of Hayholt, "Bloody King"

Frayja -- Ancient Harvest Goddess

Frekke -- old soldier

Outrun -- Duchess of Elvritshalla

Hani -- young soldier killed by Bukken

Hengfisk -- Hoderundian priest

Hjeldin -- King, Fingil's son, "Mad King"

Hoderund, Saint -- priest from Battle of Knock

Hove -- young soldier, relative of Isgrimnur

Ikferdig -- King, Hjeldin's lieutenant, "Burned King"

Ingen Jegger -- Black Rimmersman, master of Nom hounds

Isbeom -- Isgrimnur's father, first Rimmersgard duke under John

Isgrimnur -- Duke of Elvritshalla

Isom -- Isgrimnur and Gutrun's son

Ithineg the Harper -- character in Cadrach story

Jamauga -- Scrollbearer from Tungoldyr

Jormgrun -- King of Rimmersgard, killed by John at Naarved

Loken -- Ancient Fire God

Memur -- Ancient Wisdom God

Nisse -- (Nisses) Hjeldin's priest-helper, writer of Du Svardenvyrd

Sigmar -- young Rimmerswoman courted by Towser

Skali -- Thane of Kaldskryke, called "Sharp-nose"

Skendi -- Saint, founder of abbey

Sludig -- young soldier, Simon's companion

Storfot -- Thane of Vestvennby

Thrinin -- soldier killed by Bukken

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Tonnrud -- Thane of Skoggey, Duchess Gutrun's uncle

Udun -- Ancient Sky God

Ute -- of Saegard, soldier killed by Bukken

NABBANAI

Aeswides (probably Nabbanization ofErk. name) -- first lord ofNag-

limund

Anitulles -- former Imperator

Antippa, Lady -- daughter of Leobardis and Nessalanta
Ardrivis -- last Imperator, uncle of Camaris
Aspitis Proves -- count ofEadne, master ofPrevan House, Benigaris'

friend

Benidrivine -- Nabbanai noble house, kingfisher crest
Benidrivis -- first duke under John, father of Leobardis and Camaris
Benigaris -- son of Duke Leobardis and Nessalanta
Camaris-sa-Vinitta -- brother of Leobardis, friend of Prester John
Clavean -- Nabbanai noble house, pelican crest
Claves -- former Imperator
Crexis the Goat -- former Imperator
Dendinis -- architect of Naglimund
Devasalles -- Baron, intended of Lady Antippa
Dinivan -- Lector Ranessin's secretary
Domitis -- Bishop of Saint Sutrin's cathedral in Erchester
Elysia -- mother of Usires
Emettin -- legendary knight
Enfortis -- Imperator at time of Fall of Asu'a
Fluiren, Sir -- famous Johannine knight of disgraced Sulian House
Gelles -- soldier at market

Hylissa -- Miriamele's late mother, Ellas' wife, Nessalanta's sister
Ingadarine -- noble family, albatross house-crest
Leobardis -- Duke of Nabban, father of Benigaris, Varellan, Antippa
Mylin-sa-Ingadaris -- Earl, master of Ingadarine House, Nessalanta's

brother
Nessalanta -- Duchess of Nabban, Benigaris' mother, Miriamele's

aunt

774 Tad Williams

Nin Reisu -- Niskie aboard Emettin 's Jewel

Nuanni (Nuannis) -- ancient sea god of Nabban

Pelippa -- noblewoman from Book of Aedon, Saint, called "of the

Island"

Plesinnen Myrmenis (Plesinnen of Myrme) -- philosopher
Prevan -- noble family, osprey house-crest
Pryrates, Father -- priest, alchemist, wizard, Ellas' counselor
Quincines -- Abbot of Saint Hoderund's
Ranessin, Lector -- (born Oswine of Stanshire, an Erkynlander)

Head of Church

Rhiappa -- Saint, called "Rhiap" in Erkynland
Sulis -- Rogue noble, former master of Hayholt, "Heron King"
Tiyagaris -- first Imperator
Turis -- soldier at market

Usires Adeon -- Aedonite religion's Son of God
Varellan -- Duke Leobardis' youngest son
Velligis -- Escritor
Vilderivis -- Saint
Yuvenis -- ancient chief god of Nabban

SITHI

Amerasu -- Eri-queen, mother of Ineluki and Hakatri

An'nai -- Jiriki's lieutenant, hunting companion

Finaju -- Sithi-woman in Cadrach story

Hakatri -- Ineluki's elder brother, gravely wounded by Hidohebhi

Ineluki -- Prince, now Storm King

Isiki -- Sithi Kikkasut (Bird God)

Iyu*unigato -- Eri-king, Ineluki's father

Jiriki, (i-Sa'onserei) -- Prince, son of Shima'onari

Kendharaja'aro -- Jiriki's uncle

Ki'ushapo -- Jiriki's hunting companion

Mezumiiru -- Sithi sedda (Moon Goddess)

Nenais'u -- Sithi woman from An'nai's song, lived in Enki

e-Shaosaye
Shima'onari -- King of Sithi, Jiriki's father, son of Hakatn

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR             775

Sijandi -- Jiriki's hunting companion

Utuk'ku -- Queen of the Noms, mistress of Nakkiga

Vindaomeyo the Fletcher -- ancient Sithi arrow-maker of Tumet'ai

OTHERS

Binabik (QANUC) -- (Binbimqegabenik) Ookequk's apprentice,
Simon's friend

Chukku (QANUC) -- legendary troll hero

He Who Always Steps on Sand (WRAN) -- god

Kikkasut (QANUC) -- king of birds

Lingit (QANUC) -- legendary son of Sedda, father of Qanuc and
men

Lost Piqipeg -- legendary troll hero

Middastri (PERDRUINESE) -- trader, friend of Tiamak

Ookequk (QANUC) -- Singing Man of Mintahoq tribe, Binabik's
master

Qinkipa of the Snows (QANUC) -- snow and cold goddess

Roahog (WRAN) -- potter

Sedda (QANUC) -- moon goddess

She Who Birthed Mankind (WRAN) -- goddess

Steawe (PERDRUINESE) -- Count of Ansis Pelippe

Tallistro, Sir (PERDRUINESE) -- famous knight of Johannine Ta-
ble

Tiamak (WRAN) -- scholar, correspondent of Morgenes

Tohuq (QANUC) -- sky god

Vorzheva (THRITHINGS> -- Josua's companion, daughter of a
Thrithings-chief

Yana (QANUC) -- legendary daughter of Sedda, mother of Sithi

776 Tad Williams

PLACES

Ce/todsAw -- Erkynlandish barony west of Gleniwent
Da'ai Chikiza (Sithi; "Tree of the Singing Winds") -- abandoned

Sithi city on east side of Wealdhelm, in Aldheorte
Eirgid Ramh (Hemystiri) -- Abaingeat tavern, haunt of Old

Gealsgiath

Enki-e-Shaosaye (Sithi) -- "Summer-city" east of Aldheorte, long-
ruined
Ereb IrigH (Sithi: "Western Gate") -- the Knock; in Rimmerspakk:

Du Knokkegard

Hewenshire -- northern Erkynlandish town east of Naglimund
Hullnir -- eastern Rimmersgard village on northeast rim of Dror-

shullven
Jao e-Tinukai'i (Sithi: "Boat on [the] Ocean [of] Trees") -- Only

thriving Sithi settlement, in Aldheorte
Jhina-T'senef (Sithi) -- city of An'nai's song, now beneath ocean
Little Nose -- mountain in Yiqanuc where Binabik's parents died
Moir Brack (Hernystiri) -- long, finger-shaped ridge off Grianspog

Mountains

Nakkiga (Sithi: Mask of Tears) -- Stormspike, Stunnrspeik (Rim-
merspakk)

Qilakitsoq (Qanuc: Shadow-wood) -- Troll name for Dimmerskog
Runchester -- northern Erkynlandish town on Frostmarch
Sent Anzi'in (Sithi; Tower of the Walking Dawn) -- Tumet'ai's great

tower

Sent Q/hisd (Sithi) -- cited in An'nai's song
Skoggey -- central Rimmersgard freehold east of Elvritshalla
Tsi Suhyasei (Sithi: "Her Blood is Cool) -- river running through

Da'ai Chikiza; in Erkynlandish: Aelfwent
Tan'ja Stairs -- (great Asu'a stairs, formerly centerpiece of Asu'a
Tumet'ai (Sithi) -- northern city buried under ice east of Yiqanuc

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Ujin e-d'a Sikhunae (Sithi: "Trap that captures the Hunter") -- Sithi

name for Naglimund
Woodsall --  barony between Hayholt and southwestern Aldheorte

CREATURES

Aeghonwye -- Maegwin's brood sow

Atarin -- Camaris' horse

Croich-ma-Feareg -- legendary Hernystiri giant

Greater Worm -- Sithi-myth, original dragon from which all others

are descended
Hidohebhi -- Black Worm, mother of Shurakai and Igjarjuk, slain by

Ineluki; in Hernystir: Drochnathair
Igiarjuk -- Ice-worm of Urmsheim
Khaerukama'o the Golden -- dragon, father of Hidohebhi
Kiku'a -- Ingen Jegger's lead hound
One-Eye -- Ookekuq's ram
Qantaqa -- Binabik's wolf companion
Rim -- plow horse
Shurakai -- Firedrake slain beneath Hayholt, whose bones are

Dragonbone Chair

THINGS

Boar and Spears -- emblem of Guthwulf of Utanyeat
Bright-Nail -- sword of Prester John, containing nail from the Tree,

and finger bone of Saint Eahlstan Fiskerne
Citril -- sour, aromatic root for chewing
Ciyan -- a Nabbanai fruit shrub, very rare

778 Tad Williams

Fire Drake and Tree -- emblem of King John

Ilenite -- a costly, shimmery metal

Indreju -- Jiriki's witchwood sword

Kvalnir -- Isgrimnur's sword

Lu'yasa's Staff -- line of three stars in the sky's northeast quadrant

early Yuven
Mantinges -- a spice

Mezumiiru 's Net -- star cluster; to Qanuc: Sedda's Blanket
Minneyar -- iron sword of King Fingil, inherited through line of El-

vrit

Mock/oil -- a flowering herb
Naidel -- Josua's sword
Oinduth -- Hern's black spear
Quickweed -- a spice

Pillar and Tree -- emblem of Mother Church
Rhynn 's Cauldron -- Hemystiri battle-summoner
Shent -- Sithi game of skill
Sorrow -- sword of iron and witchwood smithied by Ineluki, gift to

Elias (Sithi: Jingizu)

Sotfengsel -- Elvrit's ship, buried at Skipphavven
Thorn -- star-sword of Camaris
Tree -- the Execution Tree, on which Usires was hanged upside down

before temple of Yuvenis in Nabban, now sacred symbol of

Aedonite religion

Knucklebones -- Binabik's auguring tools;

Wingless Bird
Fish-Spear

The Shadowed Path
Torch at the Cave-Mouth
Balking Ram
Clouds in the Pass
The Black Crevice
Unwrapped Dart

Holidays
Feyever 2 -- Candlemansa

779

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Marris 25 -- Elysiamansa
Avrel I -- All Fool's Day
Avrel 30 -- Stoning Night
Maia 1 -- Belthainn Day
Yuven 23 -- Midsummer's Eve
Tiyagar 15 -- Saint Sutrin's Day
Anitui 1 -- Hiafmansa
Septander 20 -- Saint Grams' Day
Octander 30 -- Harrows Eve
Novander 1 -- Soul's Day
Decander 21 -- Saint Tunath's Day
Decander 24 -- Aedonmansa

Months
Jonever, Feyever, Marris, Avrel, Maia, Yuven, Tiyagar, Anitui,

Septander, Octander, Novander, Decander
Days of the Week
Sunday, Moonday, Tiasday, Udunsday, Drorsday, Frayday, Sat-

rinsday

A GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION

ERKYNLANDISH

Erkynlandish names are divided into two types. Old Erkynlandish
(O.E.) and Warinstenner. Those names which are based on types
from Prester John's native island of Warinsten (mostly the names of
castle servants or John's immediate family) have been represented as
variants on Biblical names (Elias -- Elijah, Ebekah -- Rebecca, etc.)
Old Erkynlandish names should be pronounced like modem En-
glish, except as follows:

780 Tad Williams

a -- always ah, as in "father"

ae -- ayof "say"

c -- k as in "keen"

e -- ai as in "air," except at the end of names, when it is also
sounded, but with an eh or uh sound, i.e., Hruse -- "Rooz-uh"

ea -- sounds as a in "mark," except at beginning of word or name,
where it has the same value as ae

g -- always hard g, as in "glad"

h -- hard h of "help"

i -- short / of "in"

j --  hard j of "jaw"

o -- long but soft o, as in "orb"

y -- oo sound of "wood," never yoo as in "music"

HERNYSTIRI

The Hemystiri names and words can be pronounced in largely the
same way as the O.E., with a few exceptions:

th -- always the th in "other," never as in "thing"

ch -- a guttural, as in Scottish "loch"

y -- pronounce yr like "beer," ye like "spy"

A -- unvoiced except at beginning of word or after t or c

e -- ay as in "ray"

// same as single /; Lluth -- Luth

RIMMERSPAKK

Names and words in Rimmerspakk diner from O.E. pronunciation
in the following:

j. -- pronounced y: Jamauga -- Yamauga; Hjeldin -- Hyeldin (H
nearly silent here)
ei -- long / as in "crime"
e -- ee, as in "sweet"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

781

o -- oo, as in coop
au -- ow, as in "cow'

NABBANAI

The Nabbanai language holds basically to the rules of a romance
language, i.e., the vowels are pronounced "ah-eh-ih-oh-ooh," the
consonants are all sounded, etc. There are some exceptions.

i -- most names take emphasis on second to last syllable; Ben-i-
GAR-is. When this syllable has an i, it is sounded long (Ardrivis:

Ar-DRY-vis) unless it comes before a double consonant (Antippa:

An-TIHP-pa)

e -- at end of name, es is sounded long: Gelles -- Get-leez

y -- is pronounced as a long i. as in "mild"

QANUC

Troll-language is considerably different than the other human lan-
guages. There are three hard "k" sounds, signified by: c, q, and k.
The only difference intelligible to most non-Qanuc is a slight cluck-
ing sound on the q, but it is not to be encouraged in beginners. For
our purposes, all three will sound with the k of "keep." Also, the
Qanuc u is pronounced uh, as in "bug." Other interpretations are up
to the reader, but he or she will not go far wrong pronouncing
phonetically.

SITHI

Even more than the language of Yiqanuc, the language of the
Zida'ya is virtually unpronounceable by untrained tongues, and so is
easiest rendered phonetically, since the chance of any of us being

782 Tad Williams

judged by experts is slight (but not nonexistent, as Binabik learned).
These rules may be applied, however.

i -- when the first vowel, pronounced ih, as in "clip." When later
in word, especially at end, pronounced ee, as in "fleet": Jiriki -- Jih-
REE-kee

ai -- pronounced like long ;, as in "time"

* (apostrophe) -- represents a choking sound, and should not be
voiced by mortal readers.

EXCEPTIONAL NAMES

Geloe -- Her origins are unknown, and so is the source of her name.
It is pronounced "Juh-LO-ee" or "Juh-LOY." Both are correct.

Ingen Jegger -- He is a Black Rimmersman, and the "J" is Jegger is
sounded, just as in "jump."

Miriamele -- Although bom in the Erkynlandish court, hers is a
Nabbanai name that developed a strange pronunciation -- perhaps
due to some family influence or confusion of her dual heritage -- the
sounds as "Mih-ree-uh-MEL."

Vorzheva -- A Thrithings-woman, her name is pronounced "Vor-
SHAY-va," with the zh sounding harshly, like the Hungarian zs.

WORD AND PHRASES

NABBANAI

Aedonis Fiyellis extulanin mei -- "Faithful Aedon save me'
Cansim Felis -- "Song of Joy"

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Cenit -- 'Dog," "Hound"
Cuelos -- "Death"
Duos wulstei -- "God willing"

Escritor -- "Writer": one of group of advisors to Lector
Hue Fauge -- "What's going on"
Lector -- "Speaker": head of Church
Mansa sea Cuelossan -- "Mass for the Dead"
Mulveiz nei cenit drenisend -- "Let sleeping hounds lie"
Oveiz mei -- "Hear me"

Sa Asdridan Condiquilles -- "The Conqueror Star"
Tambana Leobardis eis -- "Leobardis is (has) fallen"
Timior cuelos exaltat mei -- "Fear of death lift me"
Vasir Sombris, feata concordin --  "Shadow-father, accept this bar-
gain"

HERNYSTIRI

Bynioch na ferth ub strocinh . .

away . . ."
E gundhain sluith, ma connalbehn . .

one . . ."

Feir -- "Brother" or "Comrade"
Goirach -- 'Mad" or "Wild"
Sithi -- "Peaceful Ones"

. -- "Brynioch has turned
. -- "We fought well, my dear

RIMMERSPAKK

Im todsten-grukker -- "A grave-robber"

Vaer -- "Beware"

Vawer es do iikunde? -- "Who is this child?"

784 Tad Williams

QANUC

Aia -- "Back" (Hinik Aia -- get back)
Bhojujik mo qunquc -- (idiom) "If the bears don't eat you, it's

home."
Binbiniqegabenik ea sikka! Uc Sikkam mo-hinaq da Yijarjuki -- "I

am (Binabik)! We are going to Urmsheim!"
Boghanik -- "Bukken"
Chash -- 'True" or "Correct"
Chok -- "Run"

Croohok -- "Rimmersmen"
Hinik -- "Go" or "Get away"
Ko muhuhok na mik aqa nop. -- "When it falls on your head, then

you know it's a rock."
Mikmok hanno so gijiq -- (idiom) "If you want to carry a hungry

weasel in your pocket, it's your business."
Nihut -- "Attack"
Ninit -- 'Come"
Sosa -- "Come" (imperative)
Ummu -- "Now"
Yah aqonik mij-ayah nu tutusiq, henimaatuq. -- "Ho, brothers, stop

and speak with me."

SITHI

Ai Samu'sithech'a -- "Hail Samu'sitech'a

Asu'a -- "Looking eastward"

Hei ma'akajao-zha -- "Bring it (the castle) down"

Hikeda'ya --  "Children of Cloud": Noms

Hikka -- "Bearer"

Im sheyis t'si keo'su d'a Yana o Lingit -- "For the shared blood of

our Ancestors (Yana and Lingit)"
Ine -- "It is"

THE DRAGONBONE CHAIR

Isi-isi'ye -- "It is (indeed) that"

Ras -- term of respect "sir" or "noble sir"

Ruakha -- "Dying"

S'hue -- 'Lord"

Skei' -- "Stop"

Staja Ame -- "White Arrow"

Sudhoda'ya -- "Sunset-children": Mortals

Tsi anh pra Ineluki! -- "By Ineluki's blood!"

T'si e-isi'ha as-irigu! --  "There is blood on the eastern gate'"

T'si im T'si -- "Blood for blood"

Ua'kiza Tumefai nei-R'i'anis -- '^ong of the Fall of Tumefai"

Zida'ya -- "Children of Dawn": Sithi