“This is lovely,” the woman said. “You are generous.”
“I wish I had more. Some meat or fish. This must seem like peasant fare to you.”
The woman closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, never think that. How many stories have you heard of the simple gifts given to witches by the roadside? The small gift, honestly given, is more valuable than the riches of kings.”
Lucinda lowered her gaze, abashed at the woman’s intensity.
The woman’s eyes creased, searching her. “You seem young to be the Keeper of this place.”
“My father died suddenly.” He’d fallen while searching for a lost sheep. The shock and pain of all his knowledge, the weight of all his responsibility crashing into her still ached.
“And you are his heir?”
She nodded.
“Then I will give you this.” The woman pulled the cloth away to reveal a sword. She pulled the weapon from its scabbard and lay it on the table.
It was a beautiful piece, well wrought and shining, simple and functional. It seemed to catch the light from the fire, take it into itself and glow. The grip was stained dark, where a hand had carried it for many years. Lucinda started to touch it, but hesitated, as if something held her back.
“His name is Excalibur,” said the woman, who ran a finger tenderly along the pommel. “He belongs to a king, who will return to claim him one day.”
“When?”
The woman’s gray eyes glinted. “I do not know. It could be many years.”
“It—he—is very powerful, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Can you keep him safe?”
With a conviction that wasn’t her own, but had followed her family for generations, she said, “Yes.”
Lucinda took hold of Excalibur and replaced it in its scabbard. “Good-bye,” the woman whispered as Lucinda went down into the cellar. She put the sword on a shelf cut into the earth, among the other boxes and sacks stored there. She felt its power, a tingle in her arm. But it slept peacefully in the place she had given it.
He must be a great king, to wield such a sword.
When she emerged aboveground, the old woman stood by the doorway.
“I took the bread and cheese—I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I’m afraid I must travel now. I can’t stay.”
“All right.”
“Will you let me bless your child?”
A flush spread across Lucinda’s cheek. “Yes, please. I would be honored.”
And so the woman placed her hands on Lucinda’s rounded belly, where the heir of the family grew, and whispered words of strength and courage.
Then she turned away. With every step she took across the field—Lucinda’s cottage was far from any villages—she seemed more bent, more aged, and when Lucinda lost sight of her, she was like the witches of the stories.
Which she was, Lucinda supposed.
8
Apollo woke Sinon. When he spoke, his tone was serious, incongruous with the god’s usual demeanor. “If you keep quiet and act the part, you will see a thing few mortals have witnessed. A Council of the Gods.”
Sinon sat up, holding the coverlet around himself.
“Oh, look—is that a flash of curiosity in your eyes? Athena has called us to discuss your friend Odysseus. I would have you there to consult, since you know him. You can come as my servant if you promise to behave yourself. No tricks, no petty rebellions. I assure you, many of my colleagues are not as good-humored as I am. They’ll toss you off Olympus if they find you the least bit offensive. Do you promise?”