Read Online Heir Apparent by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online Page B

coat of mail." She smiled apologetically, showing little brown teeth, and I winced, not for the teeth but because I saw what was coming. "I wish I could remember where."
    I ran my fingers over the metal, but nothing came loose. "Any hints?" I asked. "Arms? Shoulders? Back?"
    She just shook her head. "But the rightful owner—and according to you, that's you—can call it forth."
    "How?"
    "Why, by reciting poetry, of course."
    Of course.
    I asked, "You mean like"—I paused to remember—"'Listen, my children and you shall hear/Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere'?"
    "Cute," she said, "though a bit short."
    "No, that wasn't the whole thing." I started panicking because I didn't
know
the whole thing. I'd just said all I remembered. Did I know any poem in its entirety?
    No matter, for she said, "But it has to be a poem of your own making."
    "Oh," I said. How hard could that be?
    "Of course," Feordina said, "if Saint Bruce doesn't like your poem, he chops your head off."

CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Poem Can Be a Home to Those Who Roam (Or, Like, Whatever)
    If Saint Bruce didn't like my poetry, he got to chop my head off? That was even stiffer than my teacher Mrs. Kascima, who isn't satisfied with the quality of her quizzes unless half the class fails.
    "I don't know," I said, though a moment before, I'd been convinced this ring was my only chance to succeed in the game—or at least to succeed in
starting
the game.
    Feordina folded her arms across her chest and sighed. "That's all right; don't worry about me," she said in a tone that was just the slightest bit insincere. "Take your time; think it over." As though I couldn't hear, she muttered, presumably to Saint Bruce, "Like she's got a choice in the matter." She smiled brightly at me, then a moment later heaved another sigh.
    "What, exactly, does this ring do?" I asked.
    "I'm not going to answer that question at this point," she said, "not until I know it's really you."
    Well, it wasn't like getting killed would be a new experience for me. "All right," I said. "Any rules I should know about?"
    "Nope," Feordina said. "Just so long as it's your own poem." She considered before adding, "And Saint Bruce was very well-read, and was known for his incredible memory."
    Which sounded like she was saying I looked like a cheater. I was offended but suspected it wasn't worthwhile defending myself to her.
    "And he chops people's heads off," I asked for clarification, "if he suspects the poem is somebody else's...?" I drifted off, hoping that was the extent of it.
    "Or if the poem stinks," Feordina finished for me. "You wouldn't believe the number of people who come in here with stinky poems. What a mess. Speaking of which, I should probably get the mop and bucket out now. Well, never mind, we'll see." She gave me that bright smile again. "Did I forget to mention there's a time limit?"
    "You most certainly did." Could things get any worse? Silly question: Things can
always
get worse. "You mean there's a limit to how long the poem can be?"
    "I mean there's a limit to how long you can wait between entering the shrine and starting—
and ending
—the poem. Bruce doesn't like a lot of dithering, you know."
    Before I had time to throttle her, she added: "I'd say your time's probably ... oh, about half gone."
    Which didn't give me enough time to throttle her
and
think up a poem. "Any particular subject or type of poem he prefers?"
    I figured she'd say he wanted a
rondel
or a
sonnet
or some other kind of poem I could name but not remember how to structure; I also feared that he might be especially fond of deep, meaningful, symbolic poetry. But she just shook her head. And glanced warily at that sword the statue held aloft, as though revising her estimate of how much time I had left.
    Did I detect a smear of red along its length, or was that just the light from the torches?
    All right. What, exactly did I have to lose? I announced: "An Ode to Saint Bruce." He had to like a poem praising him—didn't he?
    No