Free The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams Page B

the Erl-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 Erl-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 Erl-king’s son ... it is better to say nothing.”
    “But why?”
    “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 stern 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 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