Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 47
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 47 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
We were in combat—as we so often were on Mynydd Pwll—with a cluster of zombies. Garish had one on his back, gnawing off his ear. The dice were the only thing keeping him alive. “Hey Firth,” Iain scribbled something on his notepad. “My dad says your dad’s a crook, and he sells people rubbish automobiles that hold together just long enough to get off the lot.”
“What’d you say, Lloyd?” Tom seemed surprised as well as angry, but mostly angry. His chair screeched back and he was on his feet, hands curling into fists.
Merry jumped up and interposed herself between Tom and Iain. “Tom, wait!”
“Whoa!” Iain scooted backwards. “Guess he’s back, then.”
“Move.” Tom strained, dragging Merry forward. “Like hell I’m going to let him talk about my father—”
“It was just a test, Tom! He didn’t mean it.” She shot a glance at Stuart, who looked as perplexed as she did. “You got—got whammied.”
“I wha—?” Tom stopped. The significance of what she’d said sank in. He looked back and forth between Merry, Iain, and Stuart. “You’re serious? It worked?”
Merry nodded, then Stuart did—sheepishly—as well.
“Did wonders for your personality,” noted Iain. “Shame it wasn’t permanent.” Merry shot him a glare.
Tom sat down heavily. “It really worked…” he sounded dazed. He looked down at his hands. “I don’t feel any different. But now you mention it, I was acting out of character, wasn’t I?”
“Then you remember?” I asked.
He nodded, looking unnerved. Then he frowned up at Iain. “Was that true? What you said about Dafydd?”
Iain chuckled. “Made it up.”
Tom grunted.
“Stuart,” I said. “How’d you do it? What changed?”
Stuart was gazing down at his hands as though he was afraid lightning might spring at any moment from his fingertips. “I don’t know… I sang, like you’re meant to. And I suppose—I suppose I wanted it? I might’ve even been a little angry. Or… irritated. I just wanted to get on with the game already.” Stuart’s cheeks turned pink.
“So maybe… that’s it,” Iain’s eyes tracked back and forth. “I don’t know about you, but I think I misunderstood what Lightfoot meant about intent. I’ve been wishing for the song to work. Like praying for it? Not to god, but to… something. But perhaps I didn’t want it badly enough.”
Tom snorted. “Come on Lloyd, I thought that was obvious. Of course that’s how it works.”
Iain gave him a flat stare. “Oh sure you know.”
Tom frowned. “I—”
“You two are forgetting one thing,” said Merry. “Strength of will.” She smiled at Stuart. “It looks like you’ve got a pretty strong one.”
Stuart started to protest. “Oh, well I’m sure—”
“I just had my guard down is all,” Tom interrupted. “I focusing on the game. So I didn’t see it coming. But you can be sure, next time I’ll be ready. Your mind tricks don’t work on me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” Iain told Stuart. “You got him fair and square.” His mouth spread into a slow grin. “And now we know how it works, we had all better be on our guards.”
“Do we?” I frowned, stroking my chin.
We did. By the end of the night, Tom had been disarmed twice more. And since Iain refrained from insulting him afterwards, he remained blissfully unaware. Iain got hit twice too. once by Merry and once by Tom. I got Stuart once. And apparently Merry got me, though I only it knew once they told me. Only Merry was left un-ensorcelled. She claimed it was because she had a stronger will than we did. I wasn’t sure she was wrong. In the following weeks, we all became quite reliable at Lightfoot’s Disarming Lilt, with only a fizzle here or there. Our first spellsong, mastered. Never mind that it was a single, short—as far as we could tell, meaningless—word. It was a heady time. There was no denying it. We were on our way to becoming bards.
It was the f—
“Hey, hold on,” said Coira.
I looked down at her. “What is it?”
“I want to try the Lilt,” she said.
I rubbed my chin. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was planning to teach it to you. I was waiting till the time was—”
“Just teach us now,” said Rudy. “We’ve been listening for ages, and I need a break.”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Now,” I raised my trumpet.
“What’s with the horn? I thought this was a song with words.”
“Word.”
“Whatever.”
“I can’t sing, remember? Spellsongs have notes. Even simple ones. If you want this one to work, I need to show you how it goes. And Aeolus has as clear a voice as any.” I patted my pockets for a stick of chalk.
“What’re you doing with that?” asked Rudy when I found one.
“Drying it. Now, do you remember the word?”
“Omwah.”
“Very good. Now sing it like this.” I raised Aeolus and blew.
“Omwah,” sang the two of them together, and I grinned.
“Good! Good, Coira. Rudy, a little higher.” I blew again.
“Omwaaah…”
“Now you’ve got it!” I slapped my knee. “Let’s try it on me. Remember, intent and willpower are just as imp—”
“OMWAH!”
“Detective?”
“Hey. Hello…?” Coira waved a hand in front of me.
The children looked at one another. “D’you think we killed him?”
