Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 44
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 44 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Chapter Thirteen:
Saints, Knights, Paladins and Kings
“I don’t get what she sees in him.” Iain gazed out the window, the plate before him empty but for crumbs and a daub of mustard.
“She’s been blinded by his good looks,” I said. “His pointy chin, athletic figure, silky—” Iain gave me a flat stare. “I mean to say, she’s been blinded to the fact that he’s a total git.”
Iain nodded and went back to gazing. He, Stuart, and I sat at a booth at Hanbury’s, where we’d met for an afternoon snack after his daily cleaning of the music shop storeroom. Hanbury’s was a little cafe in the center of town we liked because its wide hearth, plaster walls, rough wooden furniture, and shadowy corners made it feel like an old tavern. Plus, drinks came in steins.
“Total git,” Stuart agreed.
“You know,” I said, “I really thought he got you with that spell.”
Iain’s eyes wrinkled. “That was good, wasn’t it?
“I thought so too,” said Stuart. “We all did. That’s why Merry was so angry. You scared her.”
Think so?” Iain sighed wistfully.
“Did you feel anything?” Stuart asked.
Iain snorted. “No.” He wiggled his fingers mystically. “Omwah!”
We laughed. “Idiot,” I said, and we fell into companionable silence.
Gradually the amusement faded from Iain’s face, replaced by his earlier preoccupation. “How long d’you think she’ll stay mad?”
“She’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s Merry. She has a temper, but next time you see her, she’s forgotten she was ever cross.”
“But… maybe you should try to play nice with Tom,” said Stuart. “If she thinks you’re trying to sabotage their… relationship,” he coughed, “she might blame you when it fails.”
“Instead of him.” Iain’s eyes were wide. “Good point.”
“It won’t be easy,” I warned. “He’ll test your patience. But you have to let it slide off you, like water off oilskin.”
“Oilskin, huh. But you’re right. From now on, the rope Tom Firth hangs himself with will be his own. Having him around will be useful, though.”
“How so?”
“Well, we’re going to need someone to practice the Lilt on. And I for one am not going to anger Merry intentionally.”
“If it fizzled, she might actually murder you,” Stuart murmured.
We shuddered.
“We do need practice,” I said. “Yesterday was bloody embarrassing. Getting shown up by Tom is bad enough. But if I can’t sing, how can I ever hope to become a real bard?”
“We couldn’t have done any better,” said Iain.
“Yeah,” said Stuart. “Don’t get down on yourself.”
“But that’s my point! The three of us are absolutely useless at this stuff!”
“Now, sure. But with prac—”
“I think we should join choir.”
They looked at me, then Stuart sighed. “Yeah. Me too.”
“What about violin?” asked Iain.
“My parents might go for a private tutor, if I sell it right…”
“I think we should keep learning instruments,” I said. “I know what Lightfoot said about instrumentalists, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be useful someday.”
Iain tapped a rhythm on the tabletop. “As long as my dad doesn’t think I’ve given up. He still complains about how much my drum set cost.”
“If you tell him it’s for a girl, I bet he’d give you money for flowers,” I smirked.
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve spent too much time around my dad.”
Stuart and I grinned. “It’s settled then. We’ll break the news to Ms. Evans Monday morning. I was thinking too… If I can find the money, I might get a trumpet.”
“If only bards played tubas, eh?”
“Lightfoot has a horn,” said Stuart. “It’s not a trumpet, obviously, but still.”
“You guys ever wonder what other kinds of magic might be out there? I mean if this is real, could we become wizards instead of bards? Or—” A corner of Iain’s mouth curled upward, “…paladins?”
I snorted. “Well, that would require you learn how to sword fight.”
“And go to church,” Stuart added.
“I never said a Christian paladin.”
“We’ll you’d have to go to some kind of church, wouldn’t you?”
Iain placed a fist over his heart and looked skyward. “I will find a worthy patron.” Eventually his gaze shifted back to us. “Lightfoot might teach us sword fighting. It sounded like one of the trials might be physical.”
Stuart hummed. “I think, given the choice, I’d like to be a wizard… I wonder if Lightfoot knows any.”
“If he does, they’re probably dead,” said Iain.
“Oh. Right.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t introduce you though,” I noted. “Being dead himself.”
Stuart chewed his lip. “I wonder if he’d be offended if I asked…”
“This conversation is starting to sound awfully familiar,” Iain smiled. “People trying to change classes mid-game.”
I shook him by the arm. “That’s the thing, though! This isn’t a game! It’s all real! I can still hardly believe it…”
After lunch, we made our way over to Swansea Central Library, a beautiful old building of stone and red brick at the corner of Pleasant Street and Alexandra Road. Somehow unsurprisingly, Stuart and the librarian—Marion—were on first name terms.
“I don’t suppose you have anything on … a person called Illtud the Knight?” he asked her.
“Ah,” she nodded knowingly. “Him.”
We blinked at her. “You know who he is?”
“Oh yes. My brother got married at his church in Neath. We do have a number of books regarding Saint Illtud. But I’m afraid we’ve just been cleared out.”
“Cleared out?” Iain repeated. “By who?”
“Whom. There was a young lady in here just this morning. She asked for everything we had on Illtud, then took the lot.”
“This girl,” I asked. “She was our age? About… this tall?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
We looked at one another. “Merry.”
“And she took everything?”
Marion nodded. “It wasn’t as though we had a wealth of resources to begin with. I—” Somewhere a bell tinkled, and she glanced over her shoulder. “You appear to know one another. Perhaps you can study together. If there’s nothing else.”
“King Arthur!” said Stuart. “Anything you have. Please.”
She pursed her lips and nodded once. “Him we have aplenty. Follow me.” She led us through the stacks to a shelf near the back. “Here you are, gentlemen. Enjoy.” We thanked her and she hurried off.
“She beat us to it,” I said, when she was gone.
“It’s not a competition,” Iain said. “We’ll just have to ask her on Monday… Assuming she’s talking to us.”
“At least we know there are books on Illtud.”
“Not just Illtud,” said Stuart. “Saint Illtud.”
Iain frowned. “Lightfoot said ‘Illtud the Knight.’ How can he be a knight and a saint?”
“It’s a thing. Like Saint George,” Stuart said, earning blank looks.
“You know. Saint George and the dragon? No?” Stuart scratched his head, glancing round the shelves. “Well, he was a Roman, sometime in the first few centuries CE—”
“CE?”
“Common Era. AD. Post-Jesus. There was a city in… northern Africa, I think. And a dragon was eating people. Or—no. It was going to eat people, but they offered it sheep instead. When it got tired of sheep, they had to feed it people, or it would destroy the city. Till one day it wanted to eat the princess. They asked for someone to take her place, but everyone refused, and the king prayed for a hero. That’s when George appeared. You’ll always see him as a knight on horseback, with a spear. George slew the dragon, and saved the princess. So they made him a saint. Saint George.”
“You seem real sure about that, Stu,” I said.
“It’s just been a while since I read it. Anyway, the point is, there are definitely knights who are saints. Loads, probably. Especially ones who killed important things…” Stuart trailed off, a curious expression on his face.
“What?”
“Does this mean there are dragons, too?”
“That… is a good question,” Iain said.
“Ugh, I hope so,” I said. “That would be amazing!”
“And now we’ve got that settled,” Iain patted me on the shoulder, “let’s see what we’ve got here.”
We huddled around the shelf, passing books back and forth. “It seems to me the older books are more likely to be useful.” Stuart paged through one of two editions of Le Mort D’arthur, written by Thomas Malory in 1485.
“And harder to read.” Iain handed me the second. “This looks a little dense for my taste.” Instead, he took a worn paperback of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was only around sixty pages.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “I hope you aren’t just taking that. It doesn’t even look like it’s about Arthur.”
“I have this too.” Iain held up a copy of T.H. White’s The Once and Future King.
“I’ve got that one at home,” I said.
“When was that written?” asked Stuart.
Iain checked. “1958.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“It’s fine. I just think it’s probably too recent. What else is there?”
“The Arthur of the Welsh,” I hefted a thick red book.
“I’ll read that,” Stuart took it eagerly. “It’s got chapters on the ‘historical’ Arthur. And Welsh-language versions of Arthurian legend… ” He looked like he might sit down right there in the aisle.
The only book left was little beige volume. “I’ll take this one, then.” I looked it over. “The Real Camelot, by John Darrah. What d’you think the odds are I’ll find two books about real magic in the same month?”
“Pretty slim,” said Iain. “By the way—what exactly are we looking for?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. Frowned. “…Stu?”
He looked up from his reading. “Anything mentioned in the riddle. Caer Lleon. The cellar house…”
“Thirsty stones,” said Iain.
“Exactly. Keep an eye out for Saint Illtud too.”
“Right.” Iain glanced at his watch, then at the window. “I think I’m gonna to head home and get dinner.”
“You just ate.”
Iain shrugged. “Growing boy.”
“At least we’ve got plenty to keep us occupied.” Stuart looked almost giddy.
“You two go on,” I said. “There’s one more thing I want to check out.”
“Let us know if you find anything,” Iain said, and the two of them headed for the front. I hid among the shelves till I was sure they were gone, then tracked down the librarian. “I was wondering,” I asked her, “if you had any books on singing…”
