“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.”