All this Quentin took in as one bereft of his manners, gaping shamelessly, momentarily stricken speechless by this dazzling vision.
“Our young visitor seems to be enchanted by your beauty, Bria,” the Queen remarked, and Quentin saw the girl whom he had met that morning sitting next to the Queen with an embroidery hoop in her lap. The Queen had been instructing her in some finer technique of needlepoint. “Rise, I say,” the Queen repeated, stepping down from the dais and coming close to Quentin, who jumped quickly to his feet and bowed as she approached.
“Have you brought something to show me, young sir,” the Queen asked amiably, “or would you have me describe my fancies for you that I may be surprised by your master’s art?”
Quentin suddenly remembered with a start that he was not the furrier, or even the furrier’s apprentice; he didn’t even know the furrier’s name. His trembling hand sought the letter which Ronsard had traded his life to bring. The Queen detected his tremulous hesitation and asked, “Is something wrong? Why do you tarry so?”
“Your Majesty… I am not the furrier’s assistant,” Quentin managed to stammer. And to her look of mild inquiry he added, “But I have brought you something more valuable than you know. It is…” he broke off, glancing at the Queen’s companion. “I think you may wish to receive it alone.”
The Queen smiled at this conspiracy, but nevertheless nodded to Bria, who removed herself with a sharp, disapproving look to Quentin.
“Now then,” the Queen replied, her hands clasped in front of her, “what is it that begs my private attention?”
“A letter, Your Majesty,” Quentin said and opened his cloak. He took the gold-handled dagger from his belt and sliced a thread which bound the patch concealing the letter to his jerkin.
“That dagger… let me see it,” the Queen said with sudden interest.
She took it from Quentin’s hand and turned it over, examining the golden handle carefully. “I have seen this knife on occasion,” she declared at length. “I cannot say where.”
Quentin had finished freeing the parchment scrap from its pouch and produced it without hesitation, saying, “He who owns that knife sends this in his stead.” He watched as she took the knife and broke the seal of the letter. She unfolded the crackly parchment and read. Quentin, not knowing what the epistle contained, knew not what to expect. He watched her face for a clue to the letter’s contents, remembering that one man prized its contents with his life.
To Quentin it seemed that the effect of the message upon its reader was absorbed only slowly, yet it must have been instantaneous. The Queen’s face drained of color and she let fall the dagger which clattered to the floor. Her eyes seemed to grow cold and filled with terror as she thrust the letter away from her. “My King,” she murmured.
Quentin stood, a granite statue, not daring to move lest he intrude in some way upon the Queen’s distress. The beautiful monarch’s arms fell limp to her sides as if the strength had gone out of them; her chin came to rest upon her bosom. Quentin quaked inside to see this gentle woman thrown so cruelly into such distraction. In that instant he vowed that whatever had caused his Queen’s calamity that he, Quentin, would set it right. Or if it be too late for that, he would avenge her grief.
He stepped close to her, his own heart rending for her. Instinctively she reached out for his arm and clutched it. Her eyes were scanning the letter once again. She was silent for some moments. Quentin thought to run to the adjoining anteroom and summon aid, but dared not to leave her. So he stood, offering his arm, as at that moment he would have offered his life.
Presently she spoke again, though her voice was much changed from what Quentin had recognized only shortly before. “Do you know what this letter contains?” she asked. Quentin said nothing. “Then tell me how you came by it, for I fear it is no jest. I know the signature too well. And the poniard upon the floor is proof enough besides.”
“I am Quentin, an acolyte in the high temple of Ariel. Three days ago a wounded knight came to the temple asking our help. He said his errand was most important to the realm-a message from the King. He did not fear death, only that it would come too soon and he would not be able to deliver his message to you. He wrote it then; you have it in your hand.”
“Ronsard-brave Ronsard-sent you in his place? A temple acolyte?” The Queen looked upon Quentin with wonder that a boy would volunteer for such a mission. Quentin, however, mistook the Queen’s question.
“He did not wish me to come, my Lady. But, there was none else…”
“And what of Ronsard?” The Queen turned her head away as if to avoid the impact of the answer. “Dead?” Quentin again remained silent, lacking the heart to tell her.
At this the Queen drew herself up, her shoulders straightened, her head lifted. When she turned again to Quentin she was remarkably composed, revealing her singular inner strength. “He trusted you, and in so doing placed the safety of the King and the future of the kingdom in your hands. I can do no less than trust you, too.”
She moved to a large cushioned chair which had been drawn up near the window. The sky beyond, so recently clean and fair, now appeared cold and far away; dimmed, as if a veil had been drawn over it.
Alinea seated herself and motioned for Quentin to follow. When he had perched himself upon the window bench nearby, she said, “Quentin, this letter portends dire events for all who know its secret. Our kingdom is in peril. The King is a prisoner of Nimrood the Necromancer-held by the treachery of his own brother, Prince Jaspin, who would sit upon the throne. More than that the letter does not say, but the consequences can readily be guessed.”
“I have been as one blind these years. While I watched abroad the foreign wars, the King’s power at home diminished in his absence, plundered by Jaspin and his hired thieves. I became aware too late-I myself am made prisoner in my own castle. My only hope was that the King’s return would strike fear into their craven hearts, and, once restored, the King would settle their accounts.”
“That will not likely happen now. I fear our cause is lost before we have sounded the alarm.” The Queen turned to gaze out the window, but her eyes saw nothing of the scene before them.
Quentin, feeling at once great pity for the Queen and even greater anger at Jaspin, spoke with quiet resolve. “Then we must save the King.” The Queen turned her head and smiled sadly. “A true man you are. Ronsard was right to trust you. But, were I able to raise a force the King would forfeit his life. You see, Jaspin would know in an instant. His spies are everywhere; not a leaf drops in Pelgrin Forest that he does not know about.”
“I have friends,” Quentin offered. “It may be that a few can do what many cannot.” How few, Quentin had not stopped to consider-the only people he counted friends in all the world, besides Bjorkis, were Theido and the hermit Durwin.
“You would go to save your King? You and your friends alone?” The Queen Alinea seemed about to gainsay Quentin’s offer, but then hesitated. She looked at Quentin shrewdly, her head held to one side as if appraising him for a suit of clothes. “It sounds very like madness, but your words may be wise beyond your knowing. Who are these friends of yours?”
At the question Quentin blanched, realizing that his list was a short one, and without a solitary knight’s name on it. But he answered with all the conviction he could muster.
“Only Durwin, the holy hermit of Pelgrin, and one called Theido.” He was embarrassed by his lack of fellowship, but a light came into the Queen’s deep green eyes.
She exclaimed, “Lucky is the man who counts noble Theido his friend. Do you know where he can be found?”
The question posed a problem for Quentin. He did not know where Theido was; in fact he scarcely knew anything beyond the fact that Theido had been captured by men early that very morning-a detail he’d forgotten until just that moment. He did not know how to answer, but as he opened his mouth to admit his ignorance, the Queen continued. “It has been some time since anyone has seen Theido. He was one of the
King’s best knights and a nobleman, too. The death of his father occasioned his return from the wars. But on his homecoming he was falsely branded a traitor by Jaspin and his brigands, and his castle and lands were confiscated. He escaped their trap and has lived the life of an outlaw ever since.”
The Queen stood and turned away from the window, gazing down upon Quentin with a sudden warmth. “He also would I trust with my life. I know not of this holy hermit Durwin, but if he is a friend of yours, and of Theido’s, he will not be less my friend.”
“But why do you look so? Is something amiss?” the Queen asked suddenly, noticing Quentin’s fallen countenance.
“My Lady,” Quentin groaned, forcing the words out, “Theido was taken this morning by men who lay in ambush for him. I escaped to come here, but I do not know what has become of Theido, or where they might have taken him.”
The Queen’s answer to this seemingly doom-filled pronouncement astonished Quentin and enormously cheered him. “That is a mystery easily solved,” she said, a tone of rancor coloring her reply. “For there is only one person who so oppresses the King’s innocent subjects in broad daylight-deeds for which even the most impudent rogues seek the cover of blackest night. Prince Jaspin has kidnapped our friend. There is no mistake there.” She thought for a moment. “Such arrogance would not shrink from bringing the prize within these very walls.”
The Queen swiftly crossed the room and threw open the door to her chamber and called for the chamberlain who appeared in a trice. They talked in whispers in the doorway across the room and the chamberlain hurried off again.
“We will soon know the fate of friend Theido. I have sent Oswald to inquire discreetly of the dungeon keeper whether a new prisoner was remanded to his keeping this morning. We shall see if I guess aright.”
They waited for the chamberlain’s return. Quentin fidgeted with nervous frustration. He wanted to run to the dungeon, wherever it may have been, and look for himself, then and there to grant his friend liberty. The Queen, for her part, bore the waiting with regal calm. Whatever emotions she felt were of a more determined kind, Quentin thought; they seemed to simmer beneath her placid exterior.
At last the chamberlain, Oswald, returned. He bowed low as he quickly approached the Queen, saying, “An outlaw was imprisoned this morning, Your Majesty. The keeper knows nothing else, only that he was instructed by the knight in charge to allow no one to see him and that no record was to be made of the prisoner’s presence.”
“The knight’s identity was known to the dungeon keeper?”
“It was Sir Bran,” Oswald replied. The Queen thanked her chamberlain and dismissed him. She turned once more to Quentin and said, “I think we have solved our riddle. But now another arises which will not be answered as easily: how are we to set the captive free?”
NINE
THE AFTERNOON sun had set too swiftly, it seemed to Quentin. The Queen’s apartment was growing dim; any minute servants would begin lighting the many candles which stood round the Queen’s private chamber. The day had been a rush of activity, especially the last few hours.
Now, however, all was in readiness and they waited. “You appear anxious, young sir.” The Queen crossed the room to where Quentin was maintaining his vigil upon the window bench. She had been seeing to last-minute details and had just returned. “Do not be troubled, Quentin.” He smiled weakly and turned his eyes slowly away from the window, from where he had spent most of the late afternoon watching servants scurry across the courtyard in the snow on furtive business for the Queen.
“I am not afraid,” Quentin lied, “only a little.” He looked at the beautiful Alinea in the dying light. She had vastly changed since he had last seen her. Where only a short while before she had been arrayed in regal finery, the fairest of the fair, now she stood before him in plainer trappings, a dark green tunic-not unlike his own-with a purple cloak, very heavy, but finely made. She wore a man’s wide leather belt at her waist and trousers; tall riding boots completed her wardrobe. “So, you approve of your Queen’s attire?” she laughed, trying to put Quentin at ease. “We have the same tailor, you and I.”
Quentin forced a laugh and stood. “When will we be going? The sun is well down… will it be long?”
“No, not long,” the Queen reassured. “Oswald will summon us when all is made ready. We need not fret. Our preparations are in good care.”
Quentin was now more uneasy than he had been previously. He had had a taste of the danger of his mission, and had witnessed its effects in Theido’s case. And that danger had been heightened and multiplied by all that had taken place in the last several hours: Ronsard’s message, the hastily conspired plot to free Theido, the feverish preparations for their journey-and now the waiting.
In the waiting Quentin found time to think about all that had gone before, to doubt his newly discovered bravery, to question again his omens and wish a thousand times that he’d never left the temple and to curse the blind impetuosity that had propelled him into the midst of this dark adventure.
Quentin turned glumly once more to stare out the window; the courtyard below lay deep in violet shadow and a single star blazed bright as a beacon fire above one of the southern turrets. A good token, thought Quentin, and was himself brightened somewhat.
A quick knock sounded upon the Queen’s chamber door and Oswald entered at once. Quentin had trouble recognizing him, for he was dressed not as the Queen’s chamberlain, but as someone of much higher rank, although Quentin could not say who; he looked like a nobleman.
“You look a fine prince, Oswald,” said the Queen. “Are you ready to play the part?” Oswald bowed again; turning his back to them he shouted thickly, “You may go! Leave!” He turned again and asked blandly, “Would you say that was sufficient for our purpose?” There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and Quentin realized with a start that Oswald was playing the part of the mysterious Jaspin.
“I think you will do nicely… I only hope I do not lose my chamberlain. He might like it as a prince-though not a rogue such as Jaspin, surely.”
With that, Oswald withdrew into the anteroom. Quentin heard the hollow echo of his summons to the warder. The Queen turned to Quentin and said, “It is time to go. Follow the warder and he will lead you to the postern gate. The horses are waiting there with our provisions. We will come along as soon as may be. Go quickly now.”
Quentin followed the warder, a short, thick bull of a man with black eyes and curly black hair. He looked every inch the soldier that he had once been. Quentin bobbed along in the man’s wake as they made their way along the back ways and little-used passages of the castle.
They walked quickly, stopping to look neither right nor left, although Quentin’s eyes caught flashing glimpses of rooms opulent and luxurious beyond his simple imaginings. He ached to be able to just stand and gaze upon them from the corridors. They passed various apartments, the armory, anterooms, and chambers. At one point they passed a great open entranceway with two huge carved oaken doors thrown wide in welcome. Inside a double colonnade supported an immense vaulted ceiling of concentric arches above a vast open room that seemed to contain the treasures of the whole kingdom. Quentin had never seen anything like it; the room seemed large enough to have swallowed the temple of Ariel whole. Trenn, the warder, saw Quentin’s eyes grow round as they passed the room and explained, “That is the Great Hall of the Dragon King. There is none like it in all the world.”
Quentin believed him.
No sooner had the warder spoken than he turned like lightning upon Quentin and seized him by the tunic at the back of the neck. Quentin was surprised and shocked. He jerked like a loosely strung puppet and struck out at the man with arms and legs flailing. “Come along, ruffian, or I’ll feed you to the dogs!” the warder roared.
“Do you require assistance, Trenn?” Quentin heard a voice behind him. He spun around and saw two men, richly dressed and proceeding into the great hall. One looked to be a knight by his armor, but he was no knight
like Quentin had ever seen. His armor was silver and burnished to a glittering brightness, his cloak was crimson and lined with sable, as were his gloves and boots.
The man standing next to the knight wore a richly brocaded cloak of silk with gold drawn into fine thread and woven into the fabric. His tunic was royal purple, and he wore a large golden collar from which hung his insignia: a vulture with two heads, one facing right and the other left.
Quentin guessed it was the knight who had spoken, though he had no way of knowing. “I can manage, my Lord,” said Trenn, dipping his head curtly. “We caught this one in the larder, stuffing his pockets.”
“Well, give him a taste of your strap,” said the nobleman impatiently. Both men turned away and Trenn yanked Quentin behind one of the great doors, clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth.
“Quiet, young master!” he whispered hoarsely. “We dare not be seen lurking hereabouts.” Then he removed his hand with an additional caution not to cry out.
“Who were they?” Quentin whispered. Trenn rolled his eyes upward.
“Orphe, help us! It was Prince Jaspin and one of his nobles, Sir Grenett-a more foul gentleman I never want to meet.”
“Then let us get away!” said Quentin, seeing no good reason to linger in the vicinity any longer.
“We cannot-any moment Oswald will walk into a trap unaware! We must do something to prevent it.”
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