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

by Tad Williams

But looming over all stood Green Angel Tower, erected by the undying Sithi long before 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 Kynslagh 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 rolling 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.

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 corner sweeper, and that was that. At a not much greater age, everyone knew, King John had slain the Red Dragon. Simon wrestled 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.

“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 kissed 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.

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 Seoman, and so Simon it was.

One should treasure those humdrum tasks that keep the body occupied but leave the mind and heart unfettered.

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

The Heron King Sulis, called Apostate Fled Nabban, but in Hayholt he met his fate The Hernystir Holly King, old Tethtain Came in at the gate, but not out again Last, Eahlstan Fisher King, in lore most high The dragon he woke, and in Hayholt he died . . .

“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. “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. . . .”

“That’s what Elias is doing: eating his land bite by bite, as surely as did the giant Croich-ma-Feareg once devoured the mountain at Crannhyr.”

“Consider for example,” it continued, “his coming to Erkynland 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 condition; nor did he even think on the Red Worm until he had the better part of a year in our Erkynland . . .”

“Some types of men, Simon, whose minds are very full of thoughts, they are forgetting to speak and act like normal men.”

Drochnathair.”

“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 . . .”