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  Her father stood before a lumpy boulder that lay in the center of an otherwise flat stretch of dried-out lawn. It was as tall as his waist, as big around as an ottoman, weathered smooth and covered with gray lichens. Part of why the house had been built here was because no one had found a way to move the rock and clear the space for plowing. When Evie was little, she’d played mountain climbing on it, and pretended it was her throne. It had been one of her favorite things about going to her grandparents’ house.

  Using both hands, Frank reversed the sword and placed the point on the top of the boulder. Then, taking a deep breath, he pushed. The sword went through the rock like it was snow, until only a handsbreadth of blade below the hilt remained exposed.

  The sword in the stone. It was real, and it was in the Walkers’ backyard. Evie almost had to sit down.

  The stranger drew a sharp breath. Alex’s eyes lit up. He was grinning.

  “There,” Frank said, brushing off his hands. “It’s his sword, you say. Bring him here and let him take it.”

  “Damn.” Disbelieving, the stranger blinked. “Didn’t see that coming.”

  Frank stared at him. “Really?”

  Alex went to the stone and paced around it, circling closer like a shark to meat. “May I?” he said, pointing at the hilt and turning to Frank.

  “Sure.”

  Alex closed his hands around the hilt and pulled. And pulled and pulled, but the sword didn’t even jiggle in its nest. Laughing, he said, “This is marvelous!”

  The stranger, Merlin, looked at her father. “This is fair. I can’t complain. Events must run their course—I, of all people, understand that. But I will return. And I will bring the lad.”

  “We’ll be here,” her father said.

  The man stalked off, disappearing around the corner of the house.

  Evie reached and let her fingertips skim the smooth metal of the cross guard, then slide down the flat of the blade, at least the few inches before it sank into the stone. The steel was warm to the touch and seemed to hum. The skin on the back of her neck tingled. The sword in the stone was real, Merlin had just marched away, those glass slippers—and Hera. The goddess, Queen of Olympus, who wanted the golden apple.

  Before Evie could say a word to speak any of this out loud, to make it real in her own ears, her father doubled over, grunting as he collapsed against the rock.

  Evie was at his side in a moment; Alex joined her.

  “Dad, what’s wrong? Dad—”

  “I’m—I’ll be fine. Just . . . help me get inside.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance—”

  “No, no,” he said, his jaw clenched, his voice taut. “Dad—”

  “Evie, do as he says,” Alex said grimly. He pulled her father’s left arm over his shoulder. Evie followed his lead with his right arm.

  Mab whined, shoving at Evie’s hip with her nose the whole slow walk to the house.

  Lucinda put her hand on her pregnant belly, pushed back the cloth draped over the doorway to her hut, and found an old/young woman standing before her. She looked old, with silver hair and creased eyes, but seemed young in the way she smiled and the straight way she held herself.

  “Salve,” the woman said. “I’ve heard that this is a place where objects may be safely stored.” She was holding a long slender bundle in black oilskin.

  “Yes,” Lucinda said, and stepped aside. “Come in. May I offer refreshment? I have bread if you like, and some wine.”

  “Thank you.” The woman entered and settled on one of the simple wooden chairs at the table by the hearth fire. The hut also contained a rope bed, a cupboard, and a door leading down to a root cellar.

  Lucinda wished suddenly for finer surroundings, for silver dishes instead of ones of wood and clay, for a tiled floor instead of dirt. The woman was so regal, she might have been noble, certainly used to the Roman ways of more civilized regions. She didn’t feel ashamed for her surroundings—Anthony worked hard to keep them comfortable. But she wanted to do more.

  “When is the baby due?” the woman asked.

  Lucinda smiled. “Any day, I think.” Or rather, she hoped. She felt as ponderous as a mountain.

  She set a clay plate before the woman and placed on it a portion of bread, cheese, and a sliced apple.

  “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?”

  He nodded quickly. News of Odysseus! And to see Olympus.

  “I must hear the words. Say it.”

  “I promise.”


  Apollo straightened, his arrogant smile returning. “Good.”

  Phoebus Apollo dressed in gold, shimmering like the sun, and wore a circlet that gleamed with its own intense light. He garbed Sinon in a white silk chiton pinned with gold brooches, leaving much of his muscular chest and arms exposed. His beard was closely trimmed, his hair tied back with a gold ribbon. Apollo brought him to a doorway. Sinon had always thought it led to a closet, but Apollo slid back the screen, and beyond the door lay nothing, a shadow, featureless space.

  “You will stand behind my chair and keep my goblet filled. Deliver messages if I need you to. Keep your head bowed, and keep your thoughts to yourself. Think of wool or fog if you must think of something. They won’t be able to read you so easily. Do not speak unless I give you permission, not even if Zeus himself asks you a question.”

  “Zeus will be there?” Sinon blinked, feeling suddenly ill.

  Apollo smirked. “Of course. Now remember, behave yourself.”

  They stepped through the doorway. For a lurching moment, Sinon thought he had stepped off a cliff: his stomach turned, his mind felt dizzy, his feet tumbled over his head—But he took a second step and felt stone under his feet. He opened his eyes.

  The stories told of a lofty palace, vast spaces capable of holding the heavens and filled with the blinding light of the gods, overwhelming to the eyes of mortals, inducing awe and madness.

  In fact, Sinon walked on the stone base of a great bowl that had been cut out of the side of a hill. Tiers made of cracked and weathered stone, shining in the sun, had been built up one side, forming a hundred rows of benches that curved around and looked down upon the central floor. Every seat had a vantage, and the depression trapped sound. Footsteps echoed. A grove of trees closed in the other half of the circle. Sinon couldn’t see beyond to look for landmarks on the chance he might recognize the place. The sky above was blue, flecked with clouds, and he smelled the ocean on a slight breeze.

  “What is this place?” Sinon asked breathlessly.

  “An amphitheater. Athena’s design. In another five hundred years, I imagine they’ll be littered all over Greece.”

  Without a second glance, Apollo strode forward into the plaza. Sinon followed, trying to show indifference.

  On the central floor—the stage—a dozen chairs, gleaming white, made of ivory perhaps, sat in a circle. Beside each chair was a small table with a silver goblet and pitcher, and a tray of delicacies. Several people, dressed much like Sinon was, their gazes downcast, went from table to table, filling pitchers and trays with wine and food. Others stood by the chairs, meek and unmoving. Servants. Slaves. All mortal, Sinon thought.

  He watched the people who weren’t servants. They stood apart, in twos or threes, studying each other across the room, talking quietly. They were regal, garbed in the richest fabric and jewels, their hair oiled and perfectly arranged, tied with strings of pearls and lapis. The men were broad of shoulder, proud of mien; the women slim, curved, gleaming with marble beauty. Imperious. The gods and goddesses of Olympus.

  Their gazes turned to Apollo when he and Sinon came into view. Sinon hung back, not wishing to draw attention to himself—willing, for once, to defer to Apollo. Apollo nodded to the others, who nodded in return. Sinon felt some of their gazes pass over him, a pricking as his hair stood on end.

  Think of nothing. Wool. Fog.

  “Greetings, Brother. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” A woman in a short tunic belted with silver, wearing silver-laced sandals bounded up to Apollo like a young girl, or a deer. Where Apollo was light, she was dark, black hair tied with silver chains, her skin olive, her eyes intense.

  “Greetings, Sister. It has been far too long.” Apollo touched her face and leaned in to kiss her cheek lightly. His smile seemed genuine. “Tell me, what’s the mood?”

  “Everyone’s still cranky about Troy.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s why we should put men and women on different continents and have visiting days only once a year. Men and women together cause such problems.”

  “That would not please some of our brethren as much as it would please you,” Apollo said.

  Artemis pointedly looked Sinon up and down, studying him. Sinon kept his gaze on his toes. “He’s new, isn’t he? Very nice.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Sinon was afraid he was blushing. He lifted his gaze enough to see Artemis wink at him before she went away. He let out a sigh.

  Apollo glanced at him and chuckled. “My twin sister. Lovely, isn’t she? Don’t get any ideas. She’d eat you alive.”

  Sinon snorted. “I’m only thinking about wool and fog, my lord, as you commanded.”

  Apollo laughed.

  One of the chairs was larger than the others. It had thick armrests and shimmering upholstery, and stood on a dais. An old man with gray hair and beard, a stern gaze, and heavy shoulders emerged from the grove of trees and moved to the chair. He drew attention to him—he was like the North Star pulling lodestones, the way everyone fell silent and looked at him. He stepped up on the dais and rested on his throne.

  This was Zeus.

  Sinon had an urge to prostrate himself before that throne, to pray as he never had in his life, not even in battle. He clenched his fists.

  Apollo turned to him and whispered, “You’d bow to Zeus but not to me?”

  Sinon nodded. His voice shook. “He’s Zeus. The Father.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  When Zeus sat, the others took the signal to make their way to their own chairs. The servants disappeared, except for the personal slaves of each of the gods, who lurked unobtrusively behind the chairs. Most of the gods had servants. A pair of girls waited on Artemis. Aphrodite had an army of maidens. (Sinon knew she was Aphrodite—he could barely look at her, she shone so brightly.) Hermes, the man with wings on his sandals, didn’t have any. Nor did Zeus himself.

  Sinon tried to name them all: Hephaestus, who slumped in his chair over a twisted leg; Athena, the regal woman with the gray eyes and piercing gaze; Ares, who snarled at everyone around him.

  The minor deities sat on the stone benches carved into the hill, around the outside of the circle. One of the chairs of the inner circle was empty.

  The goddess who sat closest to Zeus was not the most beautiful, but she was striking. Sinon looked past her once, but found himself drawn back to her, until he could look at no one else. There was a gravity to her, much like the aura of authority that clung to Zeus. Her dark curling hair was piled on her head in a queenly fashion, respectable, admirable. Her gown was elegant, her jewels tasteful. This, then, was Hera.

  Zeus spoke. Sinon expected his voice to break the silence like thunder. Instead, it was calm. It held the weight of authority without the storm.

  “Athena, speak your grievance.”

  Athena stood. She was tall—taller than Sinon. He remembered she was a warrior goddess. She looked like she feared nothing.

  “I come to plead on behalf of Odysseus the Ithacan. For ten long years, he has been the plaything of our anger, our rivalries. We should have been done with such pettiness at Troy. Instead, our bickering continues, scattering the Greeks across the oceans. Ten years have passed since Odysseus left Troy. It is time for him to return home. I would enlist your help to make this so.”

  Ten years.

  He had been enslaved to Apollo for ten years. But he didn’t feel any different than he had that night in Agamemnon’s tent, when they planned the horse—

  He crouched and whispered in Apollo’s ear. “Ten years? It’s been ten years?”

  Apollo said, “Yes. And every one of Odysseus’s men has died on the journey home. I saved your life, enslaving you. Now be quiet.”

  Athena continued. “He is being held captive by the nymph Calypso. My King Zeus, one word from you, and she would release him. He could go home, after all this time.”

  Odysseus, also held captive. And all his men dead. Sinon nearly wept for his friend. Odysseus would have taken to hea
rt every one of those deaths.

  Hera leaned forward, smiling sweetly. “I observe that you petition us now, when Poseidon is absent.” She nodded at the empty chair.

  “An astute observation, my lady. It’s no secret, he hates Odysseus and would never consent to easing his path home. But he cannot oppose a decision that we all agree to. So I ask for aid now.”

  Ares stood. “He is a Greek. I oppose them on principle.”

  Athena raised an eyebrow, looking like she was exercising patience. “That was a long time ago. Troy is gone now.”

  “Because of Odysseus. Why should I help him?”

  “You don’t have to help him. Just don’t hinder him any longer.”

  A pleasant soft-featured woman with hair the color of wheat—Demeter?—leaned forward. “Is he in any danger? Is Calypso mistreating him?”

  “Only by keeping him prisoner.”

  “Then why not let him be? Why interfere?”

  “Because he longs for home more than anything. Have pity on him!” Athena said, pleading with a closed fist.

  Aphrodite laughed, a sound like bells. “It’s true, isn’t it? You do love him! The one man you’ve ever encountered who might actually be cleverer than you!”

  Athena scowled.

  Ares said, “Abandon him, Athena. He’s just a mortal. Let him free himself, if he wants. I’m betting he’ll just give up and live out his days in Calypso’s arms.”

  Athena’s lips thinned. “A bet? How much?”

  “My finest war stallion.”

  Athena gave a full-blown smile. “Anyone else? I’ll wager a golden lyre that he fights for freedom until he reaches his home.”

  Hermes hopped up so he crouched on the seat of his chair. “A bottle of wine from each of the four corners of the world says that he reaches home.”

  Aphrodite: “A casket of pearls that he surrenders.” She and Ares exchanged a glance.

  Apollo gestured for Sinon, who crouched by his master’s chair. “It’s terrible. Half of us admire Odysseus’s persistence. The other half want to see how much he’ll take before he gives up. What do you say? What will Odysseus do?”