They ate dinner that night with the family, with Coran and Liria and the four younger Leahs. The children spent the meal clamoring for details about their adventures, especially the boar hunt. Quentin made it all sound much more exciting than it really was, accommodating his younger brothers and sisters with a wild and lurid tale about how they barely escaped death on the tusks and under the hooves of a dozen rampaging boars. Coran shook his head and Liria smiled, and any discussion of Walker’s unexpected appearance and proposed journey was postponed until later.
When dinner was finished and Liria had taken the younger children off to bed, Bek left Quentin to speak alone with his father about the Druid and took a long, hot bath to wash off the dirt from their outing. He gave himself over to the heat and damp, letting go of his concerns long enough to close his eyes and soak away his weariness. On finishing, he went to Quentin’s room and found his cousin sitting on the bed holding the old sword and studying it thoughtfully.
Quentin looked up as he entered. “Father says we can go.”
Bek nodded. “I never thought he wouldn’t. Walker wouldn’t be foolish enough to lie to us about something like that.” He brushed a lock of damp hair off his forehead. “Did he tell you why he’s had this change of heart about our leaving?”
“I asked. He said he owed the Druid a favor for something that happened a long time ago. He wouldn’t say what. Actually, he changed the subject on me.” Quentin looked thoughtful. “But he didn’t seem disturbed about our going or about Walker’s appearance. He seemed more . . . oh, sort of determined, I guess. It was hard to read him, Bek. He was very serious about this matter—calm, but intense. He made sure I knew to take the sword.”
He looked down at the weapon in his hands. “I’ve been sitting here looking at it.” He smiled. “I keep thinking that if I look hard enough, I’ll discover something. Maybe the sword will speak to me, tell me the secret of its magic.”
“I think you have to do what Walker said. You have to wait until there’s a need for it before you learn how it works.” Bek sat down on the bed next to him. “Walker was right. The sword is perfect. Not a mark on it. Hundreds of years old and in mint condition. That’s not something that could happen if magic wasn’t warding it in some way.”
“I suppose not.” Quentin turned the blade over and back again, running his fingers along the smooth, flat surface. “I feel a little strange about this. If the blade is magic and I’m to wield it, will I know what to do when it’s time?”
Bek chuckled. “When did you ever not know what to do when it was time? You were born ready, Quentin.”
“And you were born twice as smart and a lot more intuitive than I was,” his cousin replied, and there was no joking or laughter in his response. His steady, open gaze settled on Bek. “I know my strengths and weaknesses. I can be honest about them. I know I rush into things, the way I did the chance to go on this expedition. Sometimes that’s okay, and sometimes it isn’t. I rely on you to keep me from wandering too far astray.”
Bek shrugged. “Always happy to bring you back into line.” He grinned.
“You remember that.” Quentin looked back down at the sword. “If I don’t see what needs doing, if I miss the right and wrong of things, I’m counting on you not to. This sword,” he said, hefting it gently, “maybe it is magic and can do wonderful things. Maybe it can save lives. But maybe it’s like all magic and can be harmful, as well. Isn’t that the nature of magic? That it can work both ways? I don’t want to cause harm with it, Bek. I don’t want to be too quick to use it.”
It was a profound observation for Quentin, and Bek thought his cousin did not give himself nearly enough credit. Nevertheless, he nodded in agreement. “Now go take a bath,” he ordered, standing up again and moving toward the door. “I can’t be expected to think straight when you smell like this!”