Free The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams

Vistrils was I... ? Oh, 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 similar, 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 nonagenerian 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 resembling a sheep; he stopped from time to time to eye it appraisingly. An itch of boredom made itself known at the back 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 Erl-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 precious stones from the Grianspog Mountains in Hernystir; in return they received beautiful things from the Erl-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 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 outposts found themselves entirely deserted, left behind to join the oncoming 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