The Warden Threat
~*~
A cold and dreary day hung over Donald and his two companions when they arrived in Greatbridge. The rain did not fall heavily, but it had fallen steadily since morning, creating small rivers and miniature lakes among the cobbles of the paved roads leading to Westgrove’s capital city. The three men passed a few tarp-covered wagons, but they came upon very little other traffic. They had all donned their hooded rain ponchos before they set out, and these did a fair job of keeping them dry from the knees up.
Despite the weather, Donald displayed a very good mood. He eagerly looked forward to his return to the castle and imagined, in some detail, how he would present his evidence and conclusions about the Warden to the king. The delivery would be very dramatic. His father would be shocked, then curious, then relieved, and finally very proud of his youngest son. Donald’s daydreams about how profusely his father would congratulate and thank him and about how grandly he would be honored and rewarded developed almost a life of their own. He imagined how it would all play out several times while trekking the dull roads toward Greatbridge the last several days, refining bits and adding details until it played like a scene from an adventure novel in which the young and devastatingly handsome, competent, and immensely popular hero saves the day.
They passed through the southeastern side of the city and straight past the granite gond guardians of the stone bridge over to the Mound without pausing. Kwestor suggested making a slight detour and stopping in at the Bird in Hand, the popular inn at the eastern edge of the city, for a short rest and a bite to eat. Muce soon put his second to the motion but Donald vetoed it, anxious to deliver his news.
When they got to the main gate of the castle complex, two young guards standing duty stopped them with crossed pikes. “State your business,” said one in a cracking voice. Neither he nor his companion could have yet reached their full growth. Their beards certainly had not. Their fresh faces still proclaimed them at the awkward and confusing transitional state between boy and man. They both had probably entered the army recently for the imagined glory of it or in the hope of impressing a girl—any girl. Instead, they found themselves with decidedly unimpressive and none too glorious castle guard duty made more tedious and miserable by the rain dripping down the nose guards of their bullet-shaped helmets and onto their waterlogged boots.
“I am Prince Donald of Westgrove. I have returned from my survey of the kingdom.”
The guard who initially challenged them glanced at the other. He responded with a shrug. “I’m afraid I need to ask you to wait just a few moments, uh, Your Highness,” apologized the young guard. “I need to, um, notify my sergeant of your arrival.” He nodded to the other young soldier who pulled on a rope near at hand, and a bell mounted on the wall above them rang twice.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is, sir. It’s my orders, see? If I don’t know, I mean, if, well, I just need to tell him before I can let you pass. I hope you don’t mind—really.”
Was there something devious going on here? No, he dismissed the idea. Obviously, neither guard recognized Donald, nothing more than this, but he found their lack of recognition irritating. He was a prince! The fact he did not recognize either of the young guards fell completely beside the point and did not invalidate his presumption that they should have recognized him.
“Oh, go ahead then. We can wait.”
“Yes,” mumbled Kwestor behind him. “I like waiting in the rain, especially when it’s cold like this. It’s really good for me.”
The nervous young guard who denied them passage smiled back sheepishly when the ranger’s eyes locked on him with an accusatory glare.
Before long, a liveried page arrived. The guard spoke a few words to him, and the page rushed back toward the castle.
“It won’t be much longer now. I’m sorry for the wait, uh, Your Highness.”
Donald just scowled in reply. This would delay his anticipated grand entrance.
True to the young guard’s prediction, little time passed before another man arrived at a brisk march, this one wearing a soldier’s black rain poncho with the rank markings of a sergeant. Donald recognized the face, although he could not put a name to it.
“Why, it is you, Your Highness,” the new arrival said as he approached. He whispered something to the page trying to keep pace behind him who then turned and raced back toward the keep.
The guard Donald first spoke to shot his sergeant an anxious look, which he answered with a nod and a brief wink. Donald interpreted the gesture as a way to let the young guard know he would not be blamed for detaining the prince, and that he did right following orders to wait for confirmation of their visitors’ identity.
“Hello, um, Sergeant,” Donald greeted the vaguely familiar noncom.
“It is good to see you, Your Highness. Welcome back.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be home. I need to see my father as soon as possible. Do you know where he is right now?”
“I’m sorry, no. But I’m sure Her Majesty the Queen would be overjoyed to see you. I believe she’s in the nursery. She’s been spending a lot of time there, recently.”
“No.” Please, no, he thought. “I can see her later. I have some news I really must present to the king right away.”
“As you wish, Your Highness. You might try his conference room. He’s been holding an uncommon number of meetings recently.”
The sergeant excused himself and turned to go back to his other duties with a look of mild confusion as though an inherent incongruity existed between the prince and the concept of important news.
Donald began to jog across the paved courtyard toward the wide staircase leading to the sturdy wooden doors of the main entrance of the central keep.
“Hurry,” he called to his traveling companions. The thought of going on alone never occurred to him. He wanted them with him when he spoke to the king to confirm what he planned to tell him. He also wanted the moral support. His father could be a rather imposing presence, one Donald always addressed as boy to man, son to father, or subject to sovereign before, but never as man to man as he hoped to now. “I want to find my father before my mother finds me.”
He grabbed the handle of a large, oak door and pulled it open. The main corridor appeared empty. So far, so good.
“Why?” asked Muce. “Don’t you want to see her?”
“No! I mean, yes, of course. But not right now.” Donald feared the fragile self-image he struggled to create of an independent, competent adult on a serious mission would fall apart as soon as she called him, Donny, honey.
Their rapid boot steps echoed hollowly and left tiny puddles on the scrubbed and polished tiled floor.
“Really?” asked Muce. “I always like to see my mom first thing if I can whenever I’m back in Dolphin Point. She always makes a big fuss and cooks up—”
“Not now, Muce!”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Donny, honey! You’re home!”
“Oh, shit,” the prince muttered under his breath.
From a side corridor emerged her Royal Majesty, Queen Patricia of Westgrove, loving wife of King Leonard and doting mother of Prince Donald. The not so regal raiment she currently wore resembled the garb of a common servant. It included a recently used baby’s burp towel draped over one shoulder and apron pockets holding nipple-topped bottles, safety pins, and a few other less readily identifiable items. She stood four inches shorter than her slim, youngest son, but she may have weighed about the same. Her appearance gave the impression more of an involved schoolmarm than of a pampered monarch.
“How’s my good little boy?” Her light brown eyes examined his face as she pinched his cheek.
“I’m fine, but I really need to see—”
“Did you have a nice trip? You were gone so long. You know how I worry,” she admonished, holding out her arms to invite a hug.
“It was fine, Mother.” He accepted her maternal embrace with stiff resolve.
“Oh, how formal, we are,” she observed, glancing over his shoulder knowingly to the two other men. “So, dear, are you going to introduce me to your friends?”
The prince disengaged and stepped back to allow a more comfortable expanse of personal space.
“Kwestor, I believe you know,” he said, motioning toward the ranger.
Yes, of course. The gentleman your father hired to escort you.”
Kwestor nodded, acknowledging the honor of being remembered.
“Father hired? No, I…,” he began to protest before a suspicious thought struck him. The king may very well have heavily influenced the ranger’s selection. His father did make a special effort to introduce the two after Donald indicated his desire to tour the kingdom. Kwestor may have indeed been hired before Donald ever offered him the job. He experienced a twinge of resentment at the idea of being manipulated. No, his mother’s interpretation must be incorrect. After all, he paid the ranger out of his own pocket, so, regardless of how they came to meet, Donald did the actual hiring.
“But I don’t believe I’ve met your other friend,” she prompted.
“Uh, no. I don’t think so. Muce, this is my mother, Queen Patricia of Westgrove. Mother, this is Muce. He’s sort of our bodyguard, I suppose.”
“You hired a bodyguard? Oh, what a marvelous idea! Your father, bless his heart, didn’t want to send any of the King’s Personal Guard with you. Some silliness about how you had to feel independent or something, but I have to admit, I was very worried. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try to harm my little boy, mind you, but accidents can happen. And what a strapping young fellow he is, too!”
Muce beamed at the queen’s praise. “Thank you, uh, Your Majesty. But, I don’t really know as I can say that your son actually hired me. We sort of just met, and, well, one thing led to another. Actually, it was sort of a misunderstanding at first. You see, I was—”
“I don’t think we need to go into all of that now, Muce,” Kwestor advised sternly.
Or ever, thought Donald. He could all too easily imagine his mother’s reaction at learning he had gotten into a swordfight, brief as it may have been, or that the fight had ended with him laid out unconscious and that he now traveled with the person who beat him. Now, taking a moment to think about it, it seemed odd to him, too. It certainly would have if it were anyone else. Muce was different, though—very, very different.
“Anyway, we don’t have time right now, Mother. I need to see Father right away.”
“Of course, Donny, honey. Your father will be overjoyed that you’re finally home. I’m sure he’s been looking forward to it almost as much as I have myself. Let’s get you cleaned up and have some good warm food in you first though, huh? Then we’ll see about meeting your father.”
“No, Mother. Now!” It did not come out beaming of determination and authority as he intended. He feared, in fact, it might have appeared more like a juvenile temper tantrum. At least he resisted the urge to stamp his foot.
“Now? Don’t be silly. For one thing, you’re dripping wet. And chilled to the bone, I don’t doubt. It has been absolutely miserable outside, and I imagine you and your friends have been walking out there all day, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes. I was anxious to get back. There’s something very important I need to tell Father.”
“Well, there you go,” she said as though he never uttered his second sentence. “Wet and chilled to the bone, just as I said. You’ll catch your death if you walk around like that. And, if a boy’s mother might be so bold, you do look a fright. You can’t see your father like that. Think of how it would look.”
It seemed a good place for her to take a breath. How she continued without one struck him as something of a minor mystery.
“Have you been getting enough sleep? How long has it been since you had a nice bath or washed those clothes? And when was the last time you had a really good meal?”
“About four days ago, Your Majesty,” answered Muce. It must have been an involuntary response because he seemed surprised he voiced it.
Donald shot him a glare like thrown steak knives.
“Well, it was!” the blonde fighter said defensively. “Remember, it was at that inn we stopped at that had that cheese and potato—”
“Muce,” Kwestor whispered.
“What?”
“Shut up, Muce.”
The blonde fighter’s unexpected reply did seem to halt the queen’s barrage of questions, however. Or maybe she just ran out of them. It did not stop her monologue though. It just diverted it along an adjoining track.
“He can’t see you right now, anyway. He’s meeting with his advisers. It’s all this nonsense about that new Gotrox threat.”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I need to speak with him about!” Donald attempted.
“Oh, you don’t need to talk to him about that.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He knows all about it. Heck, everyone here has been bustling about it for weeks now. I doubt you can tell him anything he hasn’t already heard several times.”
Donald wondered if this might be true.
“Besides, you’ve been gone sixty-two days.”
Oh gods! She counted. She probably marked them off on a calendar.
“What difference can one more make?”
“I…I’m not sure.”
“Well then, that settles it,” she said, taking him by the arm and leading him back along a side hallway. “First, it’s off to have a bath.” With a quick glance at her son’s traveling companions, she added, “I’m sorry—baths. We’ll find rooms for your friends too, of course. Then, some nice clean clothes and a good meal, and afterward, we can visit for a while and you can tell me all about your adventures. Now won’t that be nice?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Donald mumbled noncommittally. Events were not unfolding at all the way he had imagined. He hoped to have more control, for one thing, but this seemed impossible in the presence of his mother.
As they made their unhurried way through the corridors connecting the various sections of the castle complex, the queen commandeered servants and gave orders regarding accommodations and meals with military efficiency. By the time they got to the guest wing of the palace, they found servants already preparing and airing out two rooms for Muce and Kwestor. Donald would be occupying his old bedroom in another nearby wing.
The prince could not deny he welcomed the hot bath drawn for him. The soaped and scented water not only cleaned the grime from his skin but also soothed the strain in his muscles. He fought to avoid becoming too relaxed. He could feel his sense of urgency waning because of the comfort and familiarity of his room. He needed to stay focused. He carried important news his father must hear as soon as possible.
When he finally emerged from his bath gone tepid, the cold tile floor on his feet helped rouse him and encouraged him to dress quickly. He chose a simple white cotton shirt, beige pants and low, soft shoes. Since the palace felt chilly, typical for season, he slipped a tan cardigan over the shirt. Presentable, he thought, but also comfortable and casual. He might still be able to see his father tonight.
While assessing his appearance in his vanity mirror, he heard a knock at his door. One of the household servants came to announce the arrival of dinner.
They met in one of the smaller dining rooms. Muce and Kwestor beat him there. They looked surprisingly presentable, washed, groomed, and outfitted in clean clothes. He did not know where the clothing came from, but the original owner of the shirt Muce wore obviously required tailoring for far narrower shoulders.
His mother sat at the head of the table. She too appeared freshly scrubbed, and she had changed from her casual work frock, burp towel, and apron into a floor-length, dark green dress with long sleeves and a high collar. Princess Chastity sat to her left. Of the queen’s four children, Chastity was the closest to Donald in age, being just two years his senior.
Donald took the seat to the queen’s right, nodding greetings to everyone there. The
meal arrived shortly thereafter in covered serving bowls from which a servant filled five identical plates, one for each of the diners. Muce seemed especially taken with the ham, broccoli, and cheese stuffed potatoes and asked for seconds at least three times. The prince found himself confused once again by how the man stayed so trim. Donald ate distractedly. He needed to see his father, and all of these social niceties just delayed things.
“Donald, honey. Stop fidgeting.”
“Sorry, Mother. But I really do need to see Father as soon as possible.”
“Well, I’m afraid he’s been very busy. I’m sure he’ll see you as soon as he can. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about it?”
Donald, eager to share what he had learned with someone, related a tale of his experiences, omitting anything even remotely exciting, potentially dangerous, or embarrassing. This left out almost everything except a much-edited version about their discovery of the scroll in Muce’s loaner shoes and Donald’s conversation with the Warden Museum curator, which, he said, proved the Warden could not be the threat the rumors suggested. The queen seemed less certain but agreed her husband should hear what Donald discovered and about his conclusions as well.
Kwestor remained quiet throughout the informal feast and Chastity only slightly less so. Donald did notice her glance at Muce several times with an appraising look, not unlike one Muce might give to a bowlful of au gratin potatoes. He either did not notice or thought nothing of it if he did.
Donald’s older brothers both stopped by later for tea and pie, no doubt at his mother’s request. His oldest brother brought the news Donald waited for. Their father would be busy until late at night, but he set aside an hour the next day for Donald to see him. Unfortunately, the meeting would be between just Donald and his father. The prince’s two traveling companions were not included in the appointment.
This made Donald uncomfortable. Despite his internal pep talks and imagined scenarios, a corner of self-doubt remained. Telling his father what he had discovered about the Warden would be much easier if Kwestor and Muce could be there to add their support or corroboration. The certainty he had felt this morning seemed like a half remembered dream now.
Back in his room, Donald spent several hours before going to bed trying to regain his self-confidence, eventually convincing himself his original plan, with some modification, remained viable. In his mind, he replayed the scenario he had crafted about how the meeting with the king would go with all of his confidence and resolve back in place. His dreams, when he finally fell asleep, however, played him a somewhat different scene.