Read Online In the Hall of the Dragon King by Stephen Lawhead - Free Book Online Page B

wonderfully carved door and opened it without waiting for a reply. He bowed low and ushered Quentin in. Quentin, not daring to raise his eyes, fell to his knees on the floor.
    â€œYour Majesty, the furrier,” the chamberlain announced, then left at once. The next voice Quentin heard was the queen’s.

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    S o young, our furrier is, and so formal,” Queen Alinea said. Her voice, just as the poets intimated, was like laughing water, Quentin thought. “Rise, young furrier,” she commanded pleasantly. Quentin raised his head uncertainly, half afraid to cast his eyes upon his queen. But then he saw her and could look at nothing else.
    Queen Alinea stood before a window. The afternoon winter sky formed a brilliant azure backdrop that highlighted the auburn beauty of her hair. Her comely form was wrapped in a simple hooded gown of deep turquoise that fell in gentle gathers to the floor. She wore a belt of braided gold and pearls that accented her slim waist, and round her graceful throat a necklace, delicate and dainty, of the same design. Her radiant hair was swept back, revealing a high and noble forehead adorned with a simple golden circlet. The red-brown tresses curled in dark cascades along her slender neck, framing a face at once so open and frank it disarmed the observer. Her eyes glimmered with a good humor that played at the corners of her lovely mouth, threatening always to dissolve her exquisite features into laughter.
    All this Quentin took in as one bereft of his manners, gaping shamelessly, momentarily stricken speechless by this dazzling vision.
    â€œOur 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 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.
    â€œHave 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 that Ronsard had traded his life to bring. The queen detected his tremulous hesitation and asked, “Is something wrong? Why do you tarry so?”
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œNow then,” the queen replied, her hands clasped in front of her, “what is it that begs my private attention?”
    â€œA letter, Your Majesty,” Quentin said and opened his cloak. He took the gold-handled dagger from his belt and sliced a thread that bound the patch concealing the letter to his jerkin.
    â€œThat 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