In the Hall of the Dragon King

9781595543790

1595543791

Chapter One The snow lay deep and undisturbed beneath the silver light of a dawning sky. Overhead, a raven surveyed a silent landscape as its black wings feathered the cold, thin air. The bird's rasping call was the only sound to be heard for miles, breaking the frozen solitude in irregular staccato. All around, the land lay asleep in the depths of winter. Every bear, every fox, hare, and squirrel was warm in its rustic nest. Cattle and horses stood contented in their stalls, heads drooping in slumber or quietly munching the first of the day's provender. In the country, smoke drifted from peasant huts into the windless sky from rough-hewn chimneys, sent aloft from hearth fires tended through the night. The village, clustered close about the mighty walls of Askelon Castle, slept in pristine splendor, a princess safe in the arms of her protector. All through the land nothing moved, nothing stirred, save the raven wheeling slowly overhead. ----- Quentin lay shivering in his cell, a huddled ball topped by a thin woolen blanket that he clasped tightly around his ears in a resolute effort to keep out the night chill. He had been awake, and cold, long before the sullen sky showed its drab gray through the lone slit of a window high up in his cell. Now the gloom had receded sufficiently to make out the dim outlines of the simple objects that furnished his bare apartment. Next to the straw pallet where he slept stood a sturdy oaken stool, made by the hand of a local peasant. A table of the same craft stood against the wall opposite his bed, containing his few personal articles: a clay bowl for his supper, a candle in a wooden holder, a small bell for his prayers, and a parchment scroll on which were written all the rules and observances of his acolyte's office, which, after almost three years, Quentin was still struggling to memorize. From somewhere in the inner recesses of the temple, the chime of a bell sounded. Quentin groaned, then jumped up in bed, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. Today was the day, he remembered. The day of great change. He wondered what it would be, for as closely as he had followed the portents he could not guess it. All the omens had pointed to a change: the ring around the moon for three nights before the snow, the storm itself coming on his name day, a spider he'd seen busily constructing a web across his door (although that had been some time ago, he hadn't forgotten). There was no doubt--a change was forecast. Its exact nature remained a mystery, but such was often the pleasure of the gods to leave part of the prophecy hidden. He had at last deduced the date of the change by a dream in which he had climbed a high mountain and then had leaped from its very pinnacle and sailed out into space, not falling but flying. Flying dreams were always lucky. His lucky day was always a holy day, and this day, the feast of Kamali--admittedly a minor holy day--was the first holy day to have fallen since his dream. Today, without question, was the eventful day; the tokens were indisputable. Quentin reviewed them in his mind as he hurriedly threw his coarse, heavy acolyte's robe over his head of close-cropped brown hair. He stuffed his feet into baggy stockings and laced the thongs of his sandals around them tightly. Then, grabbing his prayer bell, he dashed out of the cubicle and into the dark, chilly corridor beyond. Quentin was halfway down the high-arched passageway when another bell sounded. A deep, resonant peal rang out in three short intervals. A brief pause. And then three again. Quentin puzzled over the meaning of this bell; he had not heard it before that he could remember. Suddenly it came to him. Alarm! He stopped, confused. As he turned to run toward the sound of the bell, he collided blindly with the round, fully padded form of Biorkis, one of the elder priests. <