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?”

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.