They returned to the inn for lunch. Neither Donald nor Kwestor seemed to be very hungry, and they only ate chicken sandwiches, which Muce suspected neither enjoyed fully because they kept talking all the while. Kwestor apparently still wanted to go back to Greatbridge, but Donald wanted to stay or maybe even go to see the Warden monument. Any one of those would be fine with Muce. It seemed a shame they did not want to try the special. The corn chowder and ham croquettes tasted wonderful.
He left them talking at the table. The sounds of market day and a soft afternoon breeze called to him.
He made his way toward the center of town and the ruins of the old forge, which served as the site for the open marketplace. The smells emanating from a barbequed chicken stand traveled straight from his nose to his salivary glands and triggered a Pavlovian torrent, despite the fact he currently felt, oddly enough, rather full. Maybe he would come back and get some in an hour or two after his lunch settled.
Brightly painted carts, colored tents, and tables of all kinds littered the area in uneven rows. He strolled between the impromptu shops, occasionally pausing to examine a shiny bauble, watch a performance, or listen to a minstrel. Half of the town seemed to be there selling things to the other half, and children raced and frolicked everywhere. The joyful, unpretentious chaos appealed to Muce. It reminded him of home.
“Buy a nice scarf for your sweetie?” an old man asked as he passed a booth. The proprietor of the stand waved a flimsy piece of red cloth. “Only two silver-fruit. The ladies love ‘em!”
“No, thank you,” Muce replied, smiling. The price seemed high, and he really did not have a “sweetie,” although there were a few girls back in Dolphin Point with whom he had shared more than a casual acquaintance. One was a student at the Dolphin Point College of the Personal Arts. He had helped her with her assignments once or twice. She was nice. He liked her. She would have her degree soon and might even go into business for herself someday.
His mind wandered aimlessly in pleasant recollections when a withered face seemed to come out of nowhere and cried, “Tell your fortune, sonny? Always need to know your fortune!”
“What?”
The hunched old woman standing before him leaned heavily on a crudely carved cane. Brittle, white hair, hanging in kinks and tangles half way down her back, escaped from a red bandana with white polka dots tied on her head like a hat.
“Your fortune, young man! Wouldn’t you like to know what the future may bring, the name of your true love, your lucky color?”
His fortune? Now that she mentioned it, Muce thought this might be an excellent idea. Perhaps he should have his fortune read. As a companion to a prince, his actions could be far more important than ever before. Knowing what the future held could be very helpful. Still, he knew fortune telling did not always work well, and he did not like wasting money on himself.
The old women’s mouth twitched into a grin as she regarded the vacant look in his eyes. “Tell you what, let me just give you a quick palm reading for free—on the house, as it were. It won’t tell us much, but it should reveal if your fortune is interesting enough to read in detail. That would be all right, wouldn’t it, young fellow?”
“Free? Well, I suppose. Yes, that sounds like a good idea.” After all, he thought, if the palm reading showed nothing important, he would not have wasted anything, and he would know his immediate future should be relatively calm.
“Wonderful! Just come with me, sonny, and we’ll see what we can see, eh?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He followed her to a small red and white striped tent. A white pennant decorated with red stars, crescents and other mystical symbols fluttered from the center pole.
“Come in,” she said, lifting the flap. The sunlight filtering through the cloth of the tent provided more than enough light by which to see. The space seemed just large enough for what it contained. A small table covered with a black cloth and two simple, wooden folding chairs stood near the center pole. The table held nothing other than a deck of worn cards. A woven, wicker trunk with a closed lid sat along one of the walls. She pointed to the chair nearest the tent flap. “Please, sit down.”
The old fortuneteller took the seat on the opposite side of the table. “Now, let’s have your right hand and see what we have here.”
Muce held out the requested appendage. She grasped it in her left hand with surprising strength and probed the palm with the index finger of her right.
“Hmm,” she hummed several times between brief pauses. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“What do you see?” He made no effort to hide either his excitement or his growing interest.
The old woman smiled almost imperceptibly. “It is not completely clear,” she said mysteriously. The palm only provides the most superficial reading, but I see a change in your life. This change may have just happened or it may be happening soon. It is hard to tell. I think it could be very important to your future.”
“That must be my meeting up with Kwestor and the prince. That just happened, and I’d never met a prince before. And now we’re sort of traveling companions, and that’s a change too.”
“A prince, huh? Oh, of course, I see it now. Look here.” She poked a broken fingernail into his palm. “You see this little crosshatch looking mark right next to this interruption in your fate line? Well, that’s a regal squiggle, and it definitely means royalty is involved. I didn’t see it at first. It’s very, very rare. You must be involved in something quite important.”
“Yes, I think I might be. At least, it feels like it could be. What else do you see? What is going to happen? What should I do to prepare?”
“I’m sorry, sonny.” She shook her head and released his hand. “I don’t know. That’s all the palm reading can tell us. I told you, it doesn’t really provide many details.”
“But isn’t there some way you can find out more?” His question almost sounded like a plea.