Free In the Hall of the Dragon King by Stephen Lawhead

contained, did not know what to expect. He watched her face for a clue to the letter’s contents, remembering that one man had 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, he, Quentin, would set it right. Or if it was 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 he dared not 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.
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œRonsard—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 . . .”
    â€œAnd 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 doing so 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 that 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.
    â€œI 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 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