Read Online A Feast for Dragons by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: George R. R. Martin
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. . . only a candle of obsidian. He
must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will
try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these
so-called higher mysteries. Often they cut their fingers, for the ridges on the
candles are said to be as sharp as razors. Then, with bloody hands, they must
wait upon the dawn, brooding on their failure. Wiser men simply go to sleep, or
spend their night in prayer, but every year there are always a few who must
try.”
“Yes.” Pate had heard the same stories. “But what’s the use of a candle that casts no light?”
“It is a lesson,” Armen said, “the last lesson we must learn
before we don our maester’s chains. The glass candle is meant to represent truth
and learning, rare and beautiful and fragile things. It is made in the shape of
a candle to remind us that a maester must cast light wherever he serves, and it
is sharp to remind us that knowledge can be dangerous. Wise men may grow
arrogant in their wisdom, but a maester must always remain humble. The glass
candle reminds us of that as well. Even after he has said his vow and donned
his chain and gone forth to serve, a maester will think back on the darkness of
his vigil and remember how nothing that he did could make the candle burn . . .
for even with knowledge, some things are not possible.”
Lazy Leo burst out laughing. “Not possible for you, you
mean. I saw the candle burning with my own eyes.”
“You saw some candle burning, I don’t doubt,” said Armen.
“A candle of black wax, perhaps.”
“I know what I saw. The light was queer and bright, much
brighter than any beeswax or tallow candle. It cast strange shadows and the
flame never flickered, not even when a draft blew through the open door behind
me.”
Armen crossed his arms. “Obsidian does not burn.”
“Dragonglass,” Pate said. “The smallfolk call it
dragonglass.” Somehow that seemed important.
“They do,” mused Alleras, the Sphinx, “and if there are
dragons in the world again . . .”
“Dragons and darker things,” said Leo. “The grey sheep have
closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows
stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and
heroes.” He stretched, smiling his lazy smile. “That’s worth a round, I’d say.”
“We’ve drunk enough,” said Armen. “Morn will be upon us
sooner than we’d like, and Archmaester Ebrose will be speaking on the
properties of urine. Those who mean to forge a silver link would do well not to
miss his talk.”
“Far be it from me to keep you from the piss tasting,” said
Leo. “Myself, I prefer the taste of Arbor gold.”
“If the choice is piss or you, I’ll drink piss.” Mollander
pushed back from the table. “Come, Roone.”
The Sphinx reached for his bowcase. “It’s bed for me as
well. I expect I’ll dream of dragons and glass candles.”
“All of you?” Leo shrugged. “Well, Rosey will remain.
Perhaps I’ll wake our little sweetmeat and make a woman of her.”
Alleras saw the look on Pate’s face. “If he does not have a
copper for a cup of wine, he cannot have a dragon for the girl.”
“Aye,” said Mollander. “Besides, it takes a man to make a
woman. Come with us, Pate. Old Walgrave will wake when the sun comes up. He’ll
be needing you to help him to the privy.”
If he remembers who I am today. Archmaester Walgrave
had no trouble telling one raven from another, but he was not so good with
people. Some days he seemed to think Pate was someone named Cressen. “Not just
yet,” he told his friends. “I’m going to stay awhile.” Dawn had not broken, not
quite. The alchemist might still be coming, and Pate meant to be here if he
did.
“As you wish,” said Armen. Alleras gave Pate a lingering
look, then slung his bow over one slim shoulder and followed the others toward
the bridge. Mollander was so drunk he had to walk with a hand on
must spend the night in darkness, unless he can light that candle. Some will
try. The foolish and the stubborn, those who have made a study of these
so-called higher mysteries. Often they cut their fingers, for the ridges on the
candles are said to be as sharp as razors. Then, with bloody hands, they must
wait upon the dawn, brooding on their failure. Wiser men simply go to sleep, or
spend their night in prayer, but every year there are always a few who must
try.”
“Yes.” Pate had heard the same stories. “But what’s the use of a candle that casts no light?”
“It is a lesson,” Armen said, “the last lesson we must learn
before we don our maester’s chains. The glass candle is meant to represent truth
and learning, rare and beautiful and fragile things. It is made in the shape of
a candle to remind us that a maester must cast light wherever he serves, and it
is sharp to remind us that knowledge can be dangerous. Wise men may grow
arrogant in their wisdom, but a maester must always remain humble. The glass
candle reminds us of that as well. Even after he has said his vow and donned
his chain and gone forth to serve, a maester will think back on the darkness of
his vigil and remember how nothing that he did could make the candle burn . . .
for even with knowledge, some things are not possible.”
Lazy Leo burst out laughing. “Not possible for you, you
mean. I saw the candle burning with my own eyes.”
“You saw some candle burning, I don’t doubt,” said Armen.
“A candle of black wax, perhaps.”
“I know what I saw. The light was queer and bright, much
brighter than any beeswax or tallow candle. It cast strange shadows and the
flame never flickered, not even when a draft blew through the open door behind
me.”
Armen crossed his arms. “Obsidian does not burn.”
“Dragonglass,” Pate said. “The smallfolk call it
dragonglass.” Somehow that seemed important.
“They do,” mused Alleras, the Sphinx, “and if there are
dragons in the world again . . .”
“Dragons and darker things,” said Leo. “The grey sheep have
closed their eyes, but the mastiff sees the truth. Old powers waken. Shadows
stir. An age of wonder and terror will soon be upon us, an age for gods and
heroes.” He stretched, smiling his lazy smile. “That’s worth a round, I’d say.”
“We’ve drunk enough,” said Armen. “Morn will be upon us
sooner than we’d like, and Archmaester Ebrose will be speaking on the
properties of urine. Those who mean to forge a silver link would do well not to
miss his talk.”
“Far be it from me to keep you from the piss tasting,” said
Leo. “Myself, I prefer the taste of Arbor gold.”
“If the choice is piss or you, I’ll drink piss.” Mollander
pushed back from the table. “Come, Roone.”
The Sphinx reached for his bowcase. “It’s bed for me as
well. I expect I’ll dream of dragons and glass candles.”
“All of you?” Leo shrugged. “Well, Rosey will remain.
Perhaps I’ll wake our little sweetmeat and make a woman of her.”
Alleras saw the look on Pate’s face. “If he does not have a
copper for a cup of wine, he cannot have a dragon for the girl.”
“Aye,” said Mollander. “Besides, it takes a man to make a
woman. Come with us, Pate. Old Walgrave will wake when the sun comes up. He’ll
be needing you to help him to the privy.”
If he remembers who I am today. Archmaester Walgrave
had no trouble telling one raven from another, but he was not so good with
people. Some days he seemed to think Pate was someone named Cressen. “Not just
yet,” he told his friends. “I’m going to stay awhile.” Dawn had not broken, not
quite. The alchemist might still be coming, and Pate meant to be here if he
did.
“As you wish,” said Armen. Alleras gave Pate a lingering
look, then slung his bow over one slim shoulder and followed the others toward
the bridge. Mollander was so drunk he had to walk with a hand on
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