~*~
Muce bid the others good night after fetching some paper, ink, and quills for the prince. These made him think about writing another letter to his mother about his recent adventures, and he spent about an hour doing so before retiring. Kwestor and the prince had still not come upstairs.
The next morning, Muce woke early to find that neither of his companions had returned to the room because their bedding had not been rumpled. Through the window, he beheld a sky just beginning to shift from satin black to cotton gray. The sounds of a small town at night—the occasional hoot of an owl or a muffled snore from some other guest, prevailed only to punctuate the silence. First cockcrow remained at least an hour away.
The young man performed his morning ablutions and quickly dressed. Carefully opening the door so he would not disturb anyone in the other rooms, he silently crept down the stairs. He wore the soft-soled shoes the cobbler provided to replace those destroyed and purchased by the prince to get the pieces of scroll they held.
When he reached the dining room, all but one table stood clean and empty. Donald slumped over it with his head resting on his crossed arms, exactly where Muce remembered leaving him at his efforts to translate the scroll the night before. If the sounds coming from him meant anything, he slept soundly. The tabletop still held some paper, an extinguished candle, and an inkwell and quill.
Kwestor stood near the large front window, holding a couple sheets of paper. He seemed to be using the feeble light of the approaching dawn to illuminate them. Without turning, he motioned for the young notso to join him.
“I didn’t hear you come back to the room last night,” Muce whispered when he drew near.
“I didn’t,” the ranger replied.
“Him either?” Muce glanced toward the prince.
“No. He finished this about two hours ago. Here, take a look.” Kwestor handed the other man the papers.
Muce did so. The two sheets held several lines of Donald’s neat handwriting.
When magic threatens, do not fear
When good men cry and bad men cheer
When evil tidings reach your ear
Call upon the Warden
When crops are dry ere harvest comes
When food is naught but moldy crumbs
Or drawing near are heard war drums
Call upon the Warden
When plagues and sickness strike the land
When earthquakes turn the rock to sand
Whenever people need a hand
Call upon the Warden
Protecting those whose need is great
Defying mystic turns of fate
Bringing forth his power great
Ready stands the Warden
He will aid us when we call
Helping one or helping all
Standing straight and standing tall
Standing firm, the Warden
He will listen to our need
Come to life and word will heed
Weak defend or hungry feed
Living is the Warden
Call upon a prince by blood
A virgin man of conscience good
Put upon his head the hood
To call upon the Warden
With Inkhar’s humble hood of red
Upon the prince’s royal head
All will be well when he’s said
The spell to raise the Warden
When equal are the night and day
And time draws near to cut the hay
That is when the prince must say
The words to wake the Warden
At dawn of this most special morn
When first the sun is being born
And the veil of night is torn
‘Tis time to wake the Warden
Find the Warden and draw near
Speaking those words written here
Loud enough for stone to hear
And call upon the Warden
Warden, hear our humble plea
Listen please we beg of thee
Our need is great as it can be
Hearken to us, Warden!
I come at the appointed time
And speak to thee the magic rhyme
With body pure and thoughts sublime
Listen to me, Warden
I release thee from the stone
To become of blood and bone
And follow as the Masters shown
I summon forth the Warden!
Naked to the Warden’s love
The prince must say the words above
With Inkhar’s hood and Lomar’s glove
He’ll then command the Warden
Kwestor watched silently while Muce read and reread the paper.
“That must be some magic statue!” the younger of the two said, handing the pages back.
“And if you believe that, I can sell you a hen that lays golden eggs.”
“You can?”
“Never mind. I imagine His Royal Naiveness will be even more eager to go visit the Warden now, though.”
“That would be great! I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never seen it. Well, I did see a picture postcard of it once. It said ‘Greetings from the Warden’ on it, and it had a picture of a young stoutfolk lady in a pair of shorts with real wide suspenders; they have a special name for them that I don’t remember. Anyway, she was standing next to the statue, well in front really, and she was waving, and she looked real tiny, not just because she was a stoutfolk, because they’re all kind of short, but because the statue is so big. One of the girls at the Lucky Lady sent it when she was on holiday in Gotrox, and she wrote that she was having a good time and wished we were there. She didn’t say much else, though, because there wasn’t a lot of room on the—”
“I got it,” the aging scout interrupted, holding out his hand as though trying to stop the tale from racing down the road to complete irrelevance.
Muce whispered a reply. “Oh, right. Sorry. Don’t want to wake his royal highness.”
As it turned out, Donald’s nap would end soon anyway. A rattling from the kitchen announced the innkeeper preparing the morning breakfast buffet. He emerged in the common room carrying a steam tray and a pitcher.
“Good morning, gentlemen. You’re up early.”
“Late,” replied Kwestor, although not loudly enough to wake the prince.
“I’ll have some breakfast out in a little while.” Randy proceeded to set up the steam table before unbolting the front door. Within minutes, two of the young villagers working for him came in and began helping get the inn ready for another day.
Guests from upstairs and others coming from outside began arriving for breakfast before Donald finally stirred. His eyes fluttered for a moment and he raised his head with a jerk. “What time is it?”
The ranger replied from the seat next to him. “About dawn.”
“I finished the translation. Did you see it?”
Both of his companions nodded affirmatively. Kwestor produced the papers, placing them on the table.
“The original was in rhyme,” continued the young prince, “so I tried to make the translation reflect that as well as I could. I think this captures the spirit of it, anyway.”
“It does sort of rhyme,” Muce agreed.
Donald rose from his chair. “You will have to excuse me for a moment.” He hurried toward the back of the inn.
“He was drinking a lot of tea last night,” Kwestor explained.
When Donald returned, the three served themselves some food. Today the buffet held scrambled eggs, hash brown potatoes, bacon, and bread and butter. Muce topped a thick bed of hash browns with a mound of eggs and half a dozen rashers of bacon.
“From the way you eat, you should weigh four hundred pounds,” Donald commented when he returned to their table.
“My uncle Mel says I don’t because I have a himentalbalism or something like that. I think it’s some kind of worm, but it doesn’t bother me.”