Muce located Donald and Kwestor as soon as his eyes adjusted to the relative dimness of the inn’s common room. They still sat at the same table they occupied for lunch. They must have wasted the entire afternoon inside talking. They still were.
“Hi,” said Muce.
“Hello, Muce,” Prince Donald replied, breaking off his dialog with the scout. “Please, join us.”
The young fighter pulled out a chair and sat on it.
“So what have you been up to, Muce?” Donald asked.
“Well, not much really. I went to the market and I had a fortuneteller read my fortune. She said we have a rough road ahead.”
“You don’t need a fortune teller to tell you that,” Kwestor opined. “The road is rough for everyone until it ends. Some are just rougher than others.”
Donald shot the ranger a look of mild exasperation.
“Uh huh. I suppose,” said Muce. “But I’m having my boots fixed up, just in case. You might want to as well, if they need it. You don’t want worn boots on a rough road.”
Both of his companions turned toward him with blank stares. After a second, Kwestor shook his head and rolled his eyes.
Donald smiled. “Having your boots fixed is an excellent idea, Muce.”
The prince and the ranger continued their conversation, which sounded to him like politics or philosophy—things people back at the Lucky Lady sometimes argued about, especially after a few drinks or when they suffered a streak of bad luck. Muce tried to pay attention but found his mind wandering. Eventually, it drifted to thoughts about his new boots and from there to his feet and then on to the soft-soled shoes he wore. From there, it leaped to the vellum linings and the curious writing he noticed on them. He bent over, removed one of the shoes, and peered at the inside, twisting and turning it to see if he could discover what it said. He kept at it for about five minutes before either of his companions seemed to notice.
“Muce, what are you doing?” Donald asked.
“There’s some writing inside this shoe and I’m trying to make out what it says.”
“Writing?”
“Uh huh. The cobbler said he makes these out of bits of scrap, and the inside of this one looks like it’s a sheet with some writing on it, but I can’t read what it says.”
“May I see?” He seemed sincerely curious.
“Sure,” Muce replied, handing him the shoe.
Donald examined it for a while. “I think it’s written in Gotroxian.” He peeked up briefly before looking back into the shoe. “But it’s not exactly like the Gotroxian I learned during my studies back at the castle. This is probably pretty old.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I’m not sure. Something about crops, I think, but it looks like it’s from some kind of poem. Wait a minute.”
Kwestor and Muce watched silently as the prince twisted the shoe around to allow more light to fall on the writing.
“It’s definitely old Gotroxian, but it’s understandable. It says something like, When the crops are dry before the harvest, and the only food you have are bits of old bread, or when the sounds of war can be heard, call on the Warden.”
Donald’s jaw dropped as he continued to gaze into the shoe. When he looked up, both of his companions were staring at him.
“It must be from an ancient scroll about the Warden!” Donald exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
“What an odd thing to make shoes from,” Muce said.
Kwestor’s attention focused on the growing glimmer in the young prince’s eyes as though he knew it spelled trouble. He grumbled something about silly stories and wild adventures but the prince did not appear to hear him.
“Muce, show me the other shoe.”
The young fighter complied. Donald examined the second shoe, eventually turning it inside out.
“This one has a bit more. It says, standing straight, and firm and tall… I can’t really seem to make this part out. It’s out of context. I’d need the rest to be able to translate it. Muce, where did you get these shoes?”
“At a cobbler’s shop. It’s not far. I can take you there, if you want.”
“Yes, most definitely,” Donald said, rising from his chair. “Lead on.”
Muce rose from the table and led the way out the door and toward the cobbler’s shop in his stocking feet. Donald still held his loaner shoes tightly in one hand.
Kwestor followed several steps behind the other two, shaking his head.