Donald woke the next morning with dull aches all over his body, but his head no longer seemed to want to explode. He eased himself out of bed. Those of his two companions were empty. Stepping to the washstand, he found a note from Kwestor resting by the bowl and pitcher. Went down to breakfast.
Donald splashed some water on his bruised face and gingerly patted it dry with a towel. Perhaps Kwestor is right. Maybe he should just go back to Greatbridge and be content with whatever trivial assignment his mother undoubtedly planned for him. His oldest brother Allan would someday be king. Robert already served as an officer in Army Intelligence. However, no such lofty plans existed for Donald, the third son. Supporting social causes could be just as important as anything else, his mother argued. His sister seemed more than satisfied with it.
But she’s a girl, a juvenile thought said. When he tried to squelch it, it fought back. But she is!
He walked downstairs to the common room. A breakfast buffet with steam trays filled with fried potato cakes, sausages, and eggs, both boiled and scrambled, and a large plate of thickly sliced bread lie on a table near the front window. Contemplating his choices, he approached to join a short line of customers when he accidentally bumped someone.
“Why you clumsy clod!” the bumpee yelled, spinning around to confront him even before her plate could reach the floor. Fire burned in her eyes. He once heard an old bit of wisdom warning never to bother a wild animal with food. It might apply to many people, too. Her arm cocked back and her hand balled into a fist. He flinched.
“Miss Trixie! No. You mustn’t!” Three men appeared seemingly out of nowhere just as her plate completed its messy roll with a far too loud clunk. One held her arm, attempting to keep her from punching him.
“Really, Miss Trixie. You mustn’t,” he repeated more calmly.
Gradually, her arm relaxed and the man holding it released her. The fire turned to embers, glaring at Donald.
He blushed. Embarrassed pink highlights accentuated his already too innocent face. He had been clumsy as she so accurately pointed out. But other emotions clamored for attention too. For some reason he very much wanted to change the attractive young woman’s first impression of him as a clod. “I—I—I am so sorry, Miss. Please, let me replace this for you.” He motioned to the floor with his arm—carefully—where a young serving girl already knelt, cleaning away the mess.
The woman the man called Trixie got back in line at the buffet table and filled a new plate without saying a word to him.
“I really am sorry, Miss,” he said for at least the fourth time as she left the buffet. For the fourth time, she ignored him.
Donald’s eyes followed her as she walked away from the buffet table. She appeared to be about his age, maybe a few years older, and looked very—athletic. He waited until she joined her companions at their table, then he filled a plate for himself and joined Kwestor and Muce. He glanced over to where she sat and noticed her looking back at him. He returned a quick, shy smile before taking his seat.
“I see you’ve had another encounter with a commoner,” Kwestor said. “You’re getting better. You’re still conscious.”
Donald chose to ignore this, outwardly in any case, but it stung. He reluctantly agreed with his guide’s assessment. Donald could not even get breakfast on his own without getting in trouble. Whatever made him think he could have adventures anything like those he read about in stories? Nevertheless, he must admit, he found her reaction an oddly exhilarating experience. “What a fascinating girl,” he said quietly to no one in particular. Except for his parents, occasionally, he could not recall anyone ever getting mad at him before—not in a way they showed, anyway. “I don’t suppose either of you have any idea who she is.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before,” replied Muce, lifting his fork and his eyes from the large stack of potato cakes on his plate.
“She’s a messenger.” Kwestor said it as if no profession could be worse, although Donald felt sure he would have used the same tone whether she worked as a seamstress, or a baker, or anything else. Kwestor seemed to regard being human as one of the worst things anyone could be.
“So, you know her?”
“No.”
Donald waited for some elaboration while Kwestor took a bite of bread and then another. He reached for a boiled egg.
“How do you know she’s a messenger?”
“Guild tattoo.” He took a bite of the egg.
Donald peeked back at her table, but with her back to him, he could see little except her long, freshly washed hair as it caught some of the light from the early morning sun.
“Above her left ankle,” Kwestor added.
Donald, unfamiliar with such things, asked the scout to elaborate.
The ranger took a sip of redfruit juice. “The guilds have different symbols. The one for the Messengers’ Guild is a winged foot. There’s one tattooed on her left ankle. It’s a barbaric practice, in my opinion.”
The prince regarded the older man with surprise and appreciation for his knowledge and observational skills, although not for his editorial comment. “Uh, thanks. I wonder why she’s here.”
“She’s carrying messages from the king.”
“Now how can you possibly know that?” the prince asked, not so much in disbelief as with honest curiosity.
“Because the man sitting with her trying not to stare at you is a member of your father’s personal guard.”
The prince responded to the ranger’s clarification with nothing but a cock of his head, hoping some elaboration might follow.
“I’ve seem him before. His name is Reeve.” He took another sip of juice and set his glass on the table. “When the Court sends an important message, they often provide an escort or two. She has three. The one I recognize is from your father’s personal guard, and it’s a good assumption the other two are as well. Since there are three, the message must be considered very important.”
“I wonder what it could be about,” the prince mused. His glance returned to the back of the attractive young messenger’s head.
“It’s about your father’s preparations for war with Gotrox.”
“What!” His hand slapped the table and his rump left his chair. He shouted the one word question loud enough to be audible over the general din in the room. Several heads turned his way including those of the messenger and her escorts.
“How . . .,” he began.
“Who . . .,” he continued.
“What do you . . .,” he concluded before settling back in his seat.
Kwestor looked up from the boiled egg-half in his hand. “This would be better with some salt.”
“I think I have some.” Muce searched through the many pockets in his travel cloak.
Donald’s eyes bounced back and forth between the two of them, his mouth open, as the notso handed the ranger a small packet.
“Thanks,” said Kwestor.
“What makes you think the message is about a war with Gotrox?” the prince asked, collecting his composure and assembling it into one coherent question.
Kwestor sprinkled a little salt on the two remaining eggs on his plate and handed the packet back to Muce. “Last night an officer from the local garrison was in here. He was meeting with the town’s guild masters. They were not overly discreet in their conversation. The officer was negotiating with the merchants to gather logistical supplies and have services available to support a fair number of troops. It sounded like the king would personally be in command, and I can only conclude it’s for a confrontation with Gotrox.”
“A fair number?”
“Ten-thousand foot and five-hundred mounted.”
“You’re sure?”
“Only of what I’ve told you.”
The prince considered the meaning of this response for a moment. “All right, but why would my father be preparing for war with Gotrox?” He now fully expected his guide to pull another informational rabbit out of his proverbial hat.
“I don’t h
ave a clue.”
After the barrage of insight, the prince felt stunned by the admission of ignorance. “You don’t know who she is, but you know she’s a messenger. You haven’t spoken to her, but you know she carries a message from my father. You haven’t seen the message, but you know what it is about. Surely you must have some idea of why my father is preparing for war with Gotrox!”
“None. You’d be surprised at how infrequently the king consults me on such matters.”
The prince stared at him for several seconds. He saw no point in making an issue over the snide comment. “Well, I’d really like to find out.” He leaned back from the table and folded his hands.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to find out? It’s got nothing to do with you, and you couldn’t do anything about it, anyway. Just put it out of your mind. I’m sure the king knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t, but if there’s going to be a war, I need to know about it. I’m going over there to talk to her.” Donald started to get up.
Kwestor placed a restraining hand on the prince’s arm. “Sit down. She won’t know. She’s a guild-certified messenger. They aren’t allowed to read the messages they carry. Even if she knew, she wouldn’t tell you. At the very least, it would cost her job.”
“But I’m a prince.”
“And she’s a messenger. What’s your point? Listen, if the king needed your assistance, that messenger would have a note for you, too. I’m assuming she left Greatbridge less than a week ago, running all the way. The king would have known you’d be here about now, and if he wanted your help, he’d have asked for it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know who I am.”
“She didn’t before, but she does now. Reeve told her.”
“How can you know that?”
“You need to learn to pay attention. I could tell the moment he said it from her reaction. It was just before she turned to look over here.”
“Maybe you could ask the person it was sent to,” Muce suggested.
Kwestor shot him a scathing glance before returning his attention to Donald. “I really think you should just forget it. If you want to know what it’s all about, let’s head back to Greatbridge and you can ask your father.”
Donald could not deny this made sense, but he did not want to go back, not yet, although he could think of no logical reason not to. An illogical reason occurred to him, though, and he grasped at it. This might be his one and only chance to do something—significant. “But we’re already halfway to Gotrox. Maybe there’s something I could do here to help. I wish we could find out who she delivered the message to. You don’t think she’d at least tell me that, do you?”
“No. Besides, it’s too late.” Donald noticed Kwestor looking past him.
The messenger and her three bodyguards rose from their chairs, picked up their gear, and walked toward the exit. Donald caught the messenger direct one final glance his way before they left the inn. His eyes followed them to the door and through the large front window when they passed.
“I bet Randy would know,” said Muce. “He knows everyone in town.”
“That’s a good idea. I bet he would.”
“It’s not a good idea,” Kwestor said. “This isn’t your concern.”
“I’m not saying I have to get involved, necessarily, but I think I should know. I am a prince of this kingdom after all.”
Before Kwestor could object again, Donald pushed away from the table and left to talk to the innkeeper.