Part 24 of Rob Donovan’s free serialised story set in the same world of Frindoth as his newly released book “Ritual of the Stones”. In this story we follow the journey of Pewtory the Lesser bard as he travels to Lilyon to witness the Ritual.
Pewtory the Lesser Bard part 24 – Camp fire of lies
Pewtory felt Arthur Brookman’s eyes on him the whole time he unpacked his belongings. The old man was definitely an ex-soldier of some sort. After a brief introduction where Elsie had taken the initiative and provided Pewtory with both their names, the conversation had stalled whilst Pewtory settled.
Elsie had contented herself with roasting the rabbit they had caught, but Arthur had sat with his sword resting across his knees, a look of utter disdain on his face. Pewtory wracked his brain for a reason the two would be travelling to Boscalt. The large town was on the way to Lilyon but it was far from the most direct route. Stoneholders were supposed to travel straight to Lilyon without delay. It was their duty to the realm, to announce themselves to the King at the earliest opportunity. If only to put the rest of the people in Frindoth at ease that everyone had been accounted for.
Boscalt was the home of Baron Decker, a gregarious noble who had a penchant for throwing elaborate parties. Every year he hosted a ball that was renowned for their outrageousness as much for the exclusive guest list. The honour of being invited to prestigious occasion belonged to other nobles or heroes that had accomplished significant feats of bravery. It usually meant that there was a mixture of upper class snobs and uncomfortable warriors trying to fit in. He hardly thought Elsie and Arthur would fit the profile of the few members that were lucky enough to be invited.
Pewtory unfurled his blanket and was surprised to see his hands trembled under Arthur’s intense scrutiny. He tried to act as nonchalant as he could, but he knew the old man was not convinced.
“Why are you travelling to Boscalt?” Arthur said.
Pewtory did not look up as he replied. “I am performing at a function there,”
“What function?”
“Arthur!” Elsie said, appalled at her husband’s directness.
Pewtory chuckled to show he was not offended. He was unnerved by the man though. He had not expected this. From a distance the couple looked frail. He thought the toughest thing he would have to overcome would be his guilt at killing an old lady.
Pewtory froze, shocked at himself. Had he really already decided to kill her? All he needed to do was to prevent her from attending the Ritual. There was no need to commit murder. What difference does it make? Once the Ritual is interfered with, everyone will die anyway. The voice inside his mind came to him unbidden. He recognised his voice but not the hardness in them. Had he really travelled so far down this dark path?
“You have unsettled our guest now,” Elsie said.
The old lady’s words distracted him from his thoughts.
“Hmm? No of course not. Arthur is right to be suspicious. The Ritual has got us all skittish,” Pewtory said. He saw Arthur flinch at the mention of the Ritual; the man could not resist a glance at his wife. The bard pretended not to notice. “I am performing for a man called Baron Decker.”
“You are attending the masker’s ball?” Elsie said clearly delighted. She beamed at Pewtory to reveal yellow teeth.
“Have you heard of it?” Pewtory said. He had no idea it was called that but decided to improvise.
“Heard of it?” Elsie laughed. It was a light titter that made Pewtory smile despite himself. “Arthur and I have wanted to attend for years. We have decided to finally make that happen. Look, we have masks and everything.”
She rummaged in a sack and produced two clay masks. They were painted white with large red lips plastered under the elongated noses. The cheeks were decorated with a lilac, swirly pattern that glittered with gold flecks. The patterns differed subtly between the two masks but the only distinguishing feature to indicate whether the mask was masculine or feminine were the colours of the eye shadow around the slits to see through: pink for Elsie and green for Arthur.
“They are truly magnificent,” Pewtory said and genuinely meant it. The masks were old, but the details were exquisite. They had obviously been touched up recently.
“I thought Kallum was performing this year?” Arthur said his face as impassive as the masks Elsie held.
“Arthur what has got into you?”
Pewtory winced. Kallum had built a reputation as an outstanding bard. It was not a surprise that he would be performing at the masker’s ball. Baron Decker would require only the best.
“Kallum has fallen ill. I was contacted to take his place,” Pewtory said. He tried to keep his response as short as possible. The less he said the less he was forced to lie.
“What did you say your name was again?” Kallum said, ignoring the shake of his wife’s head.
“Pewtory the lesser,”
“Strange, that I have not heard of you. If Kallum fell ill and I had to replace him, I would find a more famous substitute. Bob o’ Bells or Plutarque for instance. At the mention of the fellow bards, Pewtory felt the hackles on his neck rise.
“Arthur that is enough,” Elsie said.
“Yet,”
“Sorry?” Arthur said.
“You haven’t heard of me yet,” Pewtory said. He wanted to desperately add, ‘and soon everyone will know my name,’ but managed to catch himself in time.
The two men stared at each other neither breaking eye contact. Pewtory saw that although there were wrinkles in Arthur’s face, he was not as old as his wife. The stoop in his posture was gone as he drew himself up to full height. The man’s lip twitched and his eyes narrowed. Elsie watched the two and then threw her hands up in frustration,
“Men” she said.
The change in the dynamic was sudden and took Pewtory by surprise. Arthur’s shoulders suddenly sagged. He tried to cover the lapse by returning to sit next his wife but the weakness was evident. The man may have once been a strong warrior and perhaps still possessed notable strength, but his body had begun to betray him.
When Pewtory joined them by the fire, Arthur stared at the flames for a long time, when he eventually dragged his eyes up to look at Pewtory, the bard saw shame in them. He looked like an aggressive dog that had just been disciplined by his master.
Pewtory enjoyed the sense of power.
