Free In the Hall of the Dragon King by Stephen Lawhead Page B

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 might have been, and look for himself, then and there to grant this 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.”
    â€œThe knight’s identity was known to the dungeon keeper?”
    â€œIt 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 so easily: how are we to set the captive free?”

9
    T he 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 that 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.
    â€œI 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 purple cloak, very heavy, but finely made. She wore trousers with a man’s wide leather belt at her waist; tall riding boots completed her wardrobe. “So you approve of the 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?”
    â€œNo, 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 of 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