The Dragonbone Chair (Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, #1)

by Tad Williams

They had called their castle Asu’a; if it had a true name, this house of many masters, then Asu’a was that name.

“A sword, small friend, is the extension of a man’s right 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?”

“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, Josua would not be secure upon the throne.”

“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.

An idle mind is the Devil’s seedbed.

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,

the lector promised himself that he would send a trustworthy 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.

“Stupid because . . . because young people are made stupid, I suppose—as tortoises are made with shells, and wasps with stings—it is their protection against life’s unkindnesses.”

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

Morgen— The fires of Stormspike 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. —Jarnauga

Isgrimnur wondered if the old stories were true—was there really Sithi blood in the Hernystiri noble houses?

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.”

‘Make Philosophy your evening guest, but do not let her stay the night.’

A man whose wisdom is true does not sit in waiting for the world to come at him piece by piece for proving its existence!”

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.

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 kingdom.

A timeless instant passed, then the runes began to shimmer once more. They pulled apart and reformed themselves into black silhouettes, 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 sort of five-pointed star. Somewhere, deep in Simon’s self, he recognized this last sword. Somewhere, in a memory black as night, deep as a cave, he had seen such a blade.

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.

“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 . .