A Feast for Dragons

believe them.”
    Armen pursed his lips in disapproval. “Marwyn is unsound.
Archmaester Perestan would be the first to tell you that.”
    “Archmaester Ryam says so too,” said Roone.
    Leo yawned. “The sea is wet, the sun is warm, and the
menagerie hates the mastiff.”
    He has a mocking name for everyone, thought Pate, but
he could not deny that Marwyn looked more a mastiff than a maester. As if he
wants to bite you. The Mage was not like other maesters. People said that
he kept company with whores and hedge wizards, talked with hairy Ibbenese and
pitch-black Summer Islanders in their own tongues, and sacrificed to queer gods
at the little sailors’ temples down by the wharves. Men spoke of seeing him
down in the undercity, in rat pits and black brothels, consorting with mummers,
singers, sellswords, even beggars. Some even whispered that once he had killed
a man with his fists.
    When Marwyn had returned to Oldtown, after spending eight
years in the east mapping distant lands, searching for lost books, and studying
with warlocks and shadowbinders, Vinegar Vaellyn had dubbed him “Marwyn the
Mage.” The name was soon all over Oldtown, to Vaellyn’s vast annoyance. “Leave
spells and prayers to priests and septons and bend your wits to learning truths
a man can trust in,” Archmaester Ryam had once counseled Pate, but Ryam’s ring
and rod and mask were yellow gold, and his maester’s chain had no link of
Valyrian steel.
    Armen looked down his nose at Lazy Leo. He had the perfect
nose for it, long and thin and pointed. “Archmaester Marwyn believes in many
curious things,” he said, “but he has no more proof of dragons than Mollander.
Just more sailors’ stories.”
    “You’re wrong,” said Leo. “There is a glass candle burning
in the Mage’s chambers.”
    A hush fell over the torchlit terrace. Armen sighed and
shook his head. Mollander began to laugh. The Sphinx studied Leo with his big
black eyes. Roone looked lost.
    Pate knew about the glass candles, though he had never seen
one burn. They were the worst-kept secret of the Citadel. It was said that they
had been brought to Oldtown from Valyria a thousand years before the Doom. He
had heard there were four; one was green and three were black, and all were
tall and twisted.
    “What are these glass candles?” asked Roone.
    Armen the Acolyte cleared his throat. “The night before an
acolyte says his vows, he must stand a vigil in the vault. No lantern is
permitted him, no torch, no lamp, no taper . . . 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