Discord’s Apple by Carrie Vaughn Page B

creases on his face.
    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 smoothand 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 metalof 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.

     
     
     
     
     
    L
ucinda 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