Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 39
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 39 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Recovering some of our previous enthusiasm, we nodded. A stillness fell over the room. I tried not blink. Lightfoot straightened his back, raised his chin, and inhaled deeply through his nose. His chest swelled handsomely. His lips parted. His voice was rich and resonant. Thick and honey-like. It echoed, but it wasn’t loud. And he sang… something like, “Ooooom-waaah…”
He closed his mouth and regarded us eagerly, motionless but for the gleam in his eyes.
“Is that it?” asked Tom.
“Is that it?” Lightfoot chuckled. “Is that it? Why Thomas, my boy—that is magic!”
“But nothing happened.” Stuart frowned. “…Did it?”
“Mister Jenkins,” Lightfoot wagged his finger. “I might’ve expected better from you.”
“Tisk tisk,” admonished Godwyn in a voice devoid of emotion, drifting by overhead.
“Remember what I told you,” Lightfoot said. “Accuracy, will—”
“And intent!” finished Merry.
“Very good, Miss Cadwaladr. Nothing happened because I did not intend it to. Nevertheless, that is the spell. Master it, and you shall be one step closer to becoming bards.”
“How does it work?” asked Merry.
“That depends on the skill of the singer. The Lilt can be both blunt tool and fine instrument. With a strong will, you may send your subject reeling. With finesse, you could avert an argument, alleviate anger in an instant, and your opposite none the wiser. I don’t expect you to master it immediately. I recommend you practice on one another. No need for uncomfortable conversations when you fail. Of course, you may have trade insults beforehand. Kindle the fire, in order put it out.”
This last engendered a round of wary looks between us. Except for Tom. His expression was speculative. And perhaps predatory.
“Now,” Lightfoot said. “Before we move on to the subject of the second trial, I must first a inform you of a single rule regarding spellsongs. You must never, under any circumstances, write them down. The same goes for your bardic tales.”
“Why not?” asked Tom.
“Tradition!” Lightfoot exclaimed. “And training. No song I ever learned, no story I told, can be found anywhere but the hearts of those who heard them, and here, in the vaults of the bardic mind. So it has always been, and so it will remain. We are singers and storytellers, not scribes.”
I hurriedly pulled my sleeve over the names scrawled on my arm.
“Your memories will improve, with exercise. You’re lucky I didn’t start you off with Abbess Reed’s Life-Giving Hymn; a lyrical masterwork requiring half a day to complete. But your capacity for recall will be tested. In fact, you’ll need it if you’re going to find my second standing stone. Now now. You needn’t wear such grim expressions. I’m sure you’ll manage. Besides, if it were easy, it wouldn’t mean all that much, would it? Now listen closely.”
And with those words still ringing in my ears, Lightfoot began to sing.
“With wisdom of Illtud the Knight
A thirsty stone was sent aflight,
To cellar house from Earl’s land,
By kingly arm and saintly hand,
With blood that flowed and carried on
from Caer Lleon to Afallon.
And now it lies at briny brink,
Longing for its Yule drink,
With word for those who wish to sing,
Whose voices shall in glory ring,
A prize for you does here abide:
Charm, disarm, and come inside.”
As the final notes faded, Lightfoot smiled. He gave a wink and a bow. There was a faint tinkling of bells, and the knot beneath him flashed a blinding white. When the light faded, he was gone.
Even as I was coming to terms with his sudden departure, a terrible certainty was forming. I wasn’t cut out to be a bard. Never mind the names scribbled on my arm. I couldn’t recall a single line of Lightfoot’s song save the last, which echoed in my skull.
Then Godwyn was herding us toward the glowing knot. “All right, time to go—show’s over.” He flitted back and forth, and in moments he’d rustled us into a tight circle in the center of the room. “I’ll see you lot at the second stone.” He grinned. “If you can find it.”
He swept out of sight. Iain grunted behind me, then there was a weight on my back. The last thing I saw before the chamber vanished was a string of twinkling stars shining down on Lightfoot’s painted sea.
“Heurr—” I was face down, twig-arms scrabbling uselessly at mud and leaves beneath three—“rnngh!” four of my classmates. I’d been first through, which put me at the bottom, crushed beneath their shifting bodies into a filthy pancake. Amid a chorus of pained grunts and angry muttering, the pressure eased, eased, eased—till suddenly I was unencumbered and a pair of hands under my armpits was hauling me to my feet. I turned to find Iain dusting his palms.
“Maybe I ought to go first from now on,” he said.
“Fine by me.” Tom looked rumpled, but at least he was clean.
“Yeah,” I wiped muck and leaves from my face. “Me too.”
We were back in the bushes surrounding the stone. The rain had stopped, which was a mixed blessing, given the state of my clothes, and though there was still light enough to see by, it was a near thing.
“Hey,” I said, “did y—”
“Shh!” Merry held a finger to her lips. That’s when I heard them. Voices. And footsteps. Coming our way. I spied torchlight through the trees. And then all I could think of was what would happen if we were discovered. They’ll find the stone. It’ll be all over the news. And then—! No one moved. We hardly dared to breathe.
Shuffle shuffle scuffle crunch.
“…and I told her, I am simply not comfortable with him acting as treasurer while his wife sits on the committee!”
“Oh, I know dear. It’s such a scandal. I can only imagine what Fiona had to say.”
“You know as well as I do she isn’t one to mince words. She told me in no uncertain terms that if he had any hope of retaining a shred of dignity, he would decline the nomination. Otherwise, she’d have no choice but to ki…”
The voices passed out of hearing and we breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“That was close,” muttered Iain. “Bloody nice ear, Merry.”
“We’ve got to get out of these bushes,” she said. “Before someone finds us.”
“Did she say kill?” Stuart whispered. We crept single-file toward the pond.
“Just some old ladies out for a stroll,” said Tom.
“Come on.” Iain started for the path leading out of the woods. “Looks suspicious, bunch of kids hanging around. Let’s get back to the bikes.”
I settled in beside Stuart. Tom and Merry weren’t far behind. “Did you catch it?” I asked him. “The clue…?”
Stuart made a face. “I remember some, but…”
I cursed. Stuart winced.
“I remember some too,” Iain said a few steps ahead.
I grimaced. “All right. Maybe if we put our heads together…”
“Can it wait?” asked Merry. “I feel disgusting.”
“We could all use a wash,” Iain peered skyward. “It doesn’t seem that late. Let’s go home, get cleaned up, and reconvene at Merry’s in an hour or two?”
