Chapter Twenty-Three

“I do not understand,” said Curlew, and not for the first time. He stood at the edge of his parents’ encampment deep in Sherwood, that which they had always called the hermitage, and wondered if he were losing his senses, or if he might have lost his way in Sherwood for the first time in his life. But nay, this was the place. There lay the ruins of the shelter his parents had shared for so long, all boughs and wattle work, not wrecked but dismantled. And there the great gray stone his mother had used for her altar. There the dead tree his father had used for a target when he practiced with the bow. And there, reaching above it all, clothed in gold, the central ash tree, taller than all those around it. He could not mistake the place.

Yet everything, each living remnant of his parents, was gone.

He stood stricken and stupid, unable to comprehend it. Beside him, the lass, Anwyn, shook her head.

“What is it? What is amiss?”

“They should be here. They are not.”

“This is the right place?”

“Aye. There—there she lay the last time I was here with her. There he sat with his head in his hands.”

“Could he have moved her somewhere else?”

It made no sense. Why would his father subject her to a move when she lay so ill? And could he have moved her on his own? Perhaps she had recovered and they had started back for Oakham by another route.

But then why take apart the shelter that had stood so long? Why, unless Gareth believed they would never return?

Had his mother died and his father gone mad with sorrow? Had he buried her somewhere nearby and gone off into the forest to end his own life? But Gareth Champion was not a cruel man, and never to his children.

Aye, and likely Robin’s Marian had not been cruel either, yet she had turned her back on Robin’s folk and abandoned their child. Grief caused people to do impossible things.

Anwyn laid her fingers on his arm. “Steady on; they may be somewhere nearby. Let us search.”

He looked into her eyes and calmed. “You are right. You wait here; I will go up along the stream a short distance. He may well have taken her to the pool that lies there.”

He went slowly, calling for his father, and dread gathered on his heart even though he encountered only a sense of peace. Birds fluttered up at his approach, and the trees rustled, whispering overhead.

All at once he caught a swift movement from the corner of his eye. On the far bank of the stream he saw a hart and hind, their coats shining white in the uncertain light beneath the trees. At his approach they turned their heads to look at him—the eyes of the hind were his mother’s eyes. He caught his breath even as the deer moved off quickly, together.

And at that moment he knew the truth. Grief and gladness together filled him. At least his father would not have to live without her. The deep magic of Sherwood had given Gareth fair repayment for all his years of faithful service and love.

When he returned to the clearing, he saw Anwyn waiting beneath the great ash, her hair half braided and hanging down, looking so much a part of the place he could scarcely believe she was not born of it. No matter, though, for she had come to them, and just in time.

She took one look at his face and distress flooded her eyes. She hurried to clasp his hands.

Hers, he had learned, was not a quiet spirit, yet he sensed in her now only support and strength.

“You have not found them.”

“I will not. They are free now in Sherwood. It is our turn to take up this burden.”

“Oh, lad.” She wrapped both arms about him and pulled his head down to her shoulder in an immediate offer of comfort. He accepted it gladly, let the pain he felt rise and flow into her, the ache of it shared. She spoke no words, made no sound, but merely absorbed his hurt. The birds darted and flickered around them, the trees swayed softly as if to an ancient music, and Curlew’s heart eased. Whatever he faced, at least he did not have to face it alone.

Anwyn’s fingers caressed his cheek and then cradled his head, pressing him closer. He felt the bonds between them flex and strengthen, and when her lips brushed his face he turned so his lips met them.

The kiss held much comfort and very little passion. He drank from her long, and when he paused she said, “There is nothing I would not do for you, Curlew Champion. I would take your every sorrow. I would accept your every pain. I do not understand this magical burden you have inherited, but I will gladly take it up with you.”

He looked into her eyes, green as new leaves on a spring morning, and asked, “Why? You barely know me yet. My troubles are not yours.”

“I know you. And they are my troubles just because they are yours.”

Something like a sob came from his throat. “Anwyn—”

“Hush. Would you refuse what I offer? Do you not need me?”

“I need you,” he said helplessly.

The pricks of gold in her eyes warmed. For an instant he saw glimmers of the light that had consumed her when they saved Heron.

“But,” he said carefully, “you must know what you are taking on. There is no going back from this. Guardianship is a grave and heavy duty, and you see how it ends.”

“I have never taken on any duty so dear to my heart. Do you doubt? Please, Curlew, do not doubt me.”

She kissed him again, and this time the passion came surging. It built inside him, all tangled with his need and her devotion. It flared like the magic of Sherwood and nearly took him to his knees.

He caught her face between his hands. “Stay with me, lie with me here tonight.”

“I will stay with you anywhere.”

“This is a holy place.” And if he loved her here, claimed her here, would she not remain his for all time?

****

“You need not fear for your parents, child.”

The words might have been part of a dream, only they roused Curlew from sleep as no dream ever could. He opened his eyes and fought against memory and imagining. He lay in the eternal forest with the woman he loved. Her name—?

Anwyn, of course. She snuggled close against him, one arm curled about his chest, still fast asleep. They had used their clothing for blankets and so lay naked beneath it. The taste of her remained, ripe and sweet, in his mouth.

He tore his gaze from her and blinked, then blinked again. A spirit sat beside him, faintly outlined in radiance, a dim aura of gold. He did not require the moonlight filtering through the autumn leaves to see her.

“Well, then, do you know me?” she asked.

Struck nearly dumb, he did not reply. She had long, brown hair liberally streaked with gray, a strong face, severe and beautiful, and Aunt Lark’s eyes.

“Knowing,” she said comfortably, “is a curious thing, is it not, lad? There is the knowing you feel down in your gut, the knowing you pick up on your way through life—then there is the knowing that precedes it all. Life is funny, too. It is like a giant wheel that goes round again and again. A circle has no beginning and no end. Your grandfather taught me that.”

“You are Robin’s daughter, Wren.”

She nodded, as if pleased with him. “Robin’s daughter and Marian’s. It took me a long time to forgive her, you know. But understanding comes more easily when we are not confined to the flesh. We remember so much more about beginnings and endings.”

“Grandmother.” He had never met her in life. She and her husband, Sparrow, had disappeared into Sherwood before he was born.

“Aye, lad, and is that not why I have come? I would not have you fret and fear for them. They follow a path even I have taken.” She raised her hands. “And am I not well?”

Curlew tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He hoped Anwyn did not wake and take fright.

“No worry, Curlew—she sleeps sound.”

“You can hear my thoughts?”

“Let me explain to you something of life—and death. Death first of all: it does not exist, save in our minds. All life is in your mind, come to that. Pure illusion. You know that as well as I do, but it is one of those things you have forgotten.”

Curlew shook his head.

She leaned toward him. “What if I were to tell you everything that has happened since Robin’s death—everything—was meant to bring you to this? You, and her.” She gestured at Anwyn. “Would you then remember who you are and who she is?”

“Nay, Grandmother, I do not understand.”

“Put your head to work on it. Generations of folk have bequeathed you a rare intelligence. Use it now. Use all the power that comes to you.” Her gaze softened slightly. “For the past must be healed and the future won.”

“What am I to remember? And if ’tis so important, why do I fail to recall it?”

“Ah, lad, ’tis a mercy we forget, for if the memories of so many lifetimes descended upon you, you would go mad. But I will give you a hint.”

She leaned still closer and whispered into his ear, “You are the most important person ever born in Sherwood. Now do you know?”