At the far wall was a life-size statue of a man who most likely was Saint Bruce the Warrior Poet. What was kind of neat was that, even though his face was carved wood, his armor was real: a plate metal helmet (the visor was up, which was how I saw his face), gauntlets, shin protectors, and a surcoat of mail--thousands and thousands of interlocking circles of metal.
"Wow," I said. "Impressive."
When Feordina didn't say anything, I asked, "Uhm, what does this have to do with me and the ring?"
She waggled her finger at the statue, and my heart sank. "I hid the ring in the 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. But the rightful owner can call it forth."
"Why, by reciting poetry, of course."
"But it has to be a poem of your own making," she said.
"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."