The Warden Threat

“It’s a what?” Donald asked for about the fourth time.

  “It’s a page from an old fairytale,” the short cleaning woman said for about the fifth time. “Listen, I don’t really know much about it, but there’s a copy in a glass case in the museum. I’ve seen it. It’s in better shape than the one you have, but it’s the same page. There’s a little card next to it that says it’s from some children’s story from a long time ago. If you want, you can talk to the curator. He could probably tell you all about it. He’ll be here in about an hour, if you want to hang around.”

  The prince did not believe it. He knew the Warden was magical. It had to be. All the rumors about the Gotroxians using it for a weapon certainly indicated they thought so, and he felt certain fate brought him here to raise it before they could.

  Stories are often based on facts, or so he had heard. Maybe he had made a mistake about the scroll, but this did not mean he could not find some other way to activate the magic. If anyone understood what it might be, the museum curator should, or at least he would have some ideas. Donald needed to speak with him.

  “Yes, I would definitely like to see him,” he told her. Turning to the other two men, he said in his native tongue, “We’ll be staying a little longer; I need to talk to the curator of the Warden Museum.”

  “Could we get something to eat first?” asked Muce.

  “No—I don’t know—maybe,” replied Donald definitively. How could anyone be thinking about food at a time like this? Switching back to his uniquely accented Gotroxian, he turned to the cleaning woman. “What time do the food-vendors open up?”

  “Oh, not for a few hours yet. You should have had something to eat before you came,” she said, shaking her finger at him admonishingly. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.” From the way she said it, he just knew she mothered a dozen children and gave the same lecture to each of them hundreds of times over the years.

  Donald glanced behind him to see if Muce understood what she said. He did not seem to, and he hoped Kwestor would not translate for him. Donald already felt foolish and could not bear it if the simplest member of his little group said, ‘I told you so.’

  “She said the food vendors aren’t selling yet,” Donald said to the young fighter. “But there’s really no reason for you to stay here. You and Kwestor can go back to the inn.” He felt guilty about everything he put them through to get to this point, apparently without need. “I’ll join you later when I’m done here.”

  “Muce can go. I have to stay with you, Your Highness,” the scout said. “It’s part of the job. I can eat later. Maybe this evening. Tomorrow at the latest. Don’t worry about me.”

  “If you two are staying, then I’m staying,” said Muce with conviction. “Then, when everything is taken care of like you want, we’ll all have a real big lunch to celebrate.”