Chapter Seventeen

“I did manage to reach her when last I came,” Curlew said hoarsely. “I felt her where she lies, held by many spirits. Her flame burns low and steady. But I could not bring her forth.”

Heron nodded, his face tensed in concentration. They sat one on either side of Linnet’s still form, with their hands linked.

Not far from them Heron’s father, Falcon Scarlet, paced. He looked tired, aged in a matter of days, his eyes wild and his hair mussed as if he had pulled at it.

Curlew could almost taste his pain. The first thing he had said upon their arrival was, “We cannot bring her; she still will not come back with us.”

“We have tried everything we may,” Lark added. She did not look quite as distressed as her husband, but pain shone in her golden eyes. Twin to Curlew’s mother and doubly bonded with Linnet through the ties of the guardianship, she must feel this loss full well. But Lark Scarlet had fierce hold of her emotions.

And Curlew’s father? He sat, even now, not four feet away from his wife, his head bent and his hair, golden-silver, spilling over his knees. Curlew could not tell but thought he might be praying.

“Come”—Heron’s eyes caught at Curlew’s—“let us do our best.”

Curlew’s heart struggled and then rose. Heron possessed a deep affinity for magic and had the strongest ties to Sherwood of anyone he knew, including his Aunt Lark. If anyone could return Ma to their arms, surely ’twould be Heron, with Curlew’s own assistance.

Heron bowed his head and Curlew closed his eyes. Heron whispered a prayer, the ancient words flowing from him, invoking the powers that ruled life and all things it contained: air that moved the spirit of man, fire that burned in his heart, water that washed through him in eternal renewal, and earth that anchored him and gave him strength. Curlew felt the power come in response to Heron’s call, felt it twine and swirl and begin to rise.

Ah, and by all that was holy, it came strong. Curlew rejoiced as it possessed him and danced against his closed eyelids—the amber gold that seemed always to stream from Heron and, a bit more slowly, the deep hunter green that seemed to reflect his own light. They met and fountained up into a blinding glow of bright green.

Curlew fell—or, nay, he flew, weightless—his only anchor the hard grip of Heron’s hands. Together they rose, and he strove to make sense of what he saw. Sherwood lay spread beneath him, not green, no, but a pattern of autumn brown and gold. A tunnel of light closed round him and he saw a succession of things, so quick they flickered: his grandfather Sparrow and his grandmother Wren, who touched his hand with hers. A man covered in a welter of blood, swinging from a wooden frame in what looked like the forecourt of Nottingham Castle. His father looking young and strong, facing a youthful Falcon Scarlet in a green field, both with bright swords in their hands. A hart with steaming flanks—but nay, it was a man with a tumble of brown hair and blue eyes so bright they burned. The man’s lips moved—he spoke—but Curlew could not hear what he said.

And then everything abruptly stopped and centered upon one scene. Curlew blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he saw.

He lay on his back very much the way his mother did now, with the eternal, beloved green of Sherwood arching above him. He burned with pain that reached down into his soul—he knew he had taken mortal wounds, many of them. He was dying. Yet Sherwood held out her arms to him and he would rest there, as enduring as the forest itself.

But someone wept. As if her heart broke she sobbed, and he knew it was for him. Against the weight of eternity, he opened his eyes, for she had the ability to call him from anywhere—even hold him a few precious moments from death.

She bent above him, her auburn hair loosed and hanging down. Her face, beloved to him, had showed him many moods during their time together: love, merriment, mischief, desire, devotion—even the light of worship. He had never seen an expression such as he now beheld: sheer, desperate need and terror so stark it left her white as bone.

“Do not leave me. Robin, you cannot.”

He tried to speak, but the flowing blood had stolen the ability. His blood covered her hands that clutched at him in demand and supplication. He knew his blood would flow back into the soil of Sherwood where it belonged.

“Please.” Hot tears struck his face. “You must stay with me. You must stay and see your child.”

Aye, and she was great with the love they shared—she carried the future. His heart struggled to beat for her, for both of them.

So beautiful, you are so beautiful, he tried to tell her, and knew she heard in her mind. And she was, despite her visible agony—all amber like the light he loved. From the first moment I saw you. Stay strong. Stay strong for me, Marian.

She gasped like a drowning woman. I cannot. My love, my love, my love, you are my strength! You are all my world. I need you to keep my heart beating.

I do not go far. Watch for me, listen for me. I do not leave you. Inevitable as the setting sun, his eyes closed.

She wailed. He felt her pain rise up in a wall of agony and protest. He knew it kept her from understanding what he said: that they could not truly be parted, that his love would surround her every day of her life, and that one day they would be together again.

I need you, Robin! I need your touch, your warmth, your presence. I need your strength. Oh, please, my love, do not go from me.

He sank and flowed away from her with his blood, into the earth of Sherwood and thence into its waters below and then burning, burning up through the trees themselves and, like radiance, into the holy air.

But she did not see. In her vast pain, she could not see him.

All the radiance behind Curlew’s eyelids died to a small, steady flame—his mother’s essence still burning. And he heard her voice in his blood and bones.

I cannot come with you. But do not doubt all love lasts forever. Go to her, son—she needs you now even as she did then.

At once he flew backwards through darkness. His mother’s flame grew more distant. He felt only the grip of Heron’s tensed hands.

Grief accompanied him from the vision, both that felt by she whom he had seen weeping and his own, caused by the knowledge he would not be able to fulfill his father’s greatest wish. He came to himself with a sob in his throat and tears blurring his eyes. Heron’s face swam before him, as did that of his mother, so still.

Heron released Curlew’s hands. Curlew did not know if Heron had seen the same terrible vision as he. Blinking rapidly, he observed that his cousin’s expression looked grave and grim. Gracefully, Heron arose, turned to Curlew’s father, and placed both hands on his head.

“Uncle, I am sorry.”

****

“I did reach her you know, Pa,” Curlew said awkwardly. He and his father sat together beside the fire, not far from his mother’s quiet form. Gareth fretted about keeping her warm enough, with the chill night coming on. How to explain that his mother would not return to the man she loved and who loved her so well? “She gave a message.”

His father raised his ravaged face. A handsome man, save for the old, thin scar that snaked down his left cheek, he now showed his age for the first time.

“What message?”

“She said to never doubt that love lasts forever.”

Gareth gave a hard laugh. “I knew that already. It does not keep my heart from breaking each time I look at her.”

Still more awkwardly, Curlew said, “You are strong, Pa. None stronger. You can endure this.”

Slowly, Gareth shook his head. He spread his hands. “I cannot.”

“Do not despair, for she lives yet.”

“Aye, son, so she does.”

“Let us carry her back to Oakham. You stay there with us. I do not like to think of you here on your own.”

Gareth’s gray eyes met Curlew’s. “That is what your aunt suggested. She and Falcon must go back to deal with this new threat from Nottingham. But if I come…” Gareth corrected softly, “If we come, then my choices will not be my own.”

“Choices? Of what do you speak?”

His father did not answer.

“Pa?”

“I must be free to choose, Lew, to not go on without her.”

Horror twisted through Curlew’s heart. He thought of the woman in his vision—Marian, his own great-grandmother and wife to Robin Hood—and her despair as her husband lay dying. She had not grasped how Robin’s essence had become part of the air itself, so that as long as she kept breathing he remained with her.

He bade his father, “Do not make the mistake others have made in the past.” Surely he had received that vision just so he could bring this warning. “What of the rest of us, should both of you perish? Please come back to Oakham with me.”

“You are a good son.” Gareth’s hand, scarred from many battles, came out and cupped the side of Curlew’s face. “But I am where I need to be.”

“Can you not speak to her?” Curlew knew his parents communicated by thought far more frequently than in words.

Gareth shook his head. “I speak. I do not know if she hears.”

“She hears you, Pa, always.”

“Sherwood gives,” Gareth said heavily, “and it takes much. Go home, son, and leave me to my vigil.”