In the Hall of the Dragon King Read Online Free

better of his fears, to be sure—over the mysterious communication that was now sewn inside his plain green jerkin. He absentmindedly patted the place where it lay next to his ribs. What could it contain? What could be so important?
    And yet, as intrigued as he was by the enigma he carried, a part of his mind was worrying over another problem like a hound with a gristle bone—an item he did not want to consider in any form at all: his future. He avoided the thought like a pain, yet it gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, never far from remembrance. Quentin delicately pushed the question aside every time it intruded into his thoughts: What are you going to do after you have delivered the letter?
    The lad had no answer for that question, or the hundred others of a similar theme that assailed him at every turn. He felt himself beginning to dread the completion of his mission more with every mile. He wished, and it was not a new wish, that he had never stepped forward—he had regretted it as soon as he had done it.
    But it was as if he had no will of his own. He had felt compelled by something outside himself to respond to the dying knight’s plea. Perhaps the god Ariel had thrust him forward. Perhaps he had merely been caught up in the awful urgency of the moment. Besides, the omens had foretold . . . Ah, but when did omens ever run true?
    Eyes closed, face to the sun, Quentin munched his seed cake, pondering his fate. He suddenly felt a cool touch on his face, as if the sun had blinked. And high above him, he heard the call of a bird. Quentin cracked open one eye and recoiled from the brightness of the light. Squinting fiercely and shading his face with an outstretched arm, Quentin at last determined the source of the call. At the same instant his heart seized like a clenched fist inside his chest.
    There, flying low overhead, was the worst omen imaginable: a raven circled just above him, casting flittering shadows upon him with its wings.

3
    T he blue, cloud-spattered sky had dissolved into a violet dome flecked with orange and russet wisps, and the shadows had deepened to indigo on the white snow before Quentin found his rest for the evening; the rough log hut of Durwin, the holy hermit of Pelgrin Forest.
    The hermit was known among the lowly as one who gave aid to travelers and cared for the peasants and forest folk who often had need of his healing arts. He had once been a priest but had left to follow a different god, so the local hearsay told. Beyond that, nothing much was known about the hermit, except that when his help was required, he was never far away. Some also said he possessed many strange powers and listed among his talents the ability to call up dragons from their caves, though no one had ever seen him do it.
    It seemed strange to Quentin that Biorkis should know or recommend such a person to help him—even if the aid was only a bed for the night. For Biorkis had given him a silver coin to give to the hermit, saying, “Greet this brother in the name of the god, and give him this token.” He had placed the coin in his hand. “That will tell him much. And say that Biorkis sends his greetings”—he paused—“and that he seeks a brighter light.” The priest had turned hurriedly away, adding mostly to himself, “That will tell him more.”
    So Quentin found himself in the fading twilight of a brilliant winter day. The hut was set off the road a short distance but completely hidden from view, surrounded as it was by towering oaks, evergreens, and thick hedges of brambly furze. It took Quentin some time to locate the hut, even with the precise directions he had been given.
    At last he found it, a low, squattish building that appeared to be mostly roof and chimney. Two small windows looked out on the world, and a curious round-topped door closed the entrance. The homely abode was nestled in a hillock at the far end of a natural clearing that gave way to a