Chapter Twenty-Six

“I received a visit from our grandmother, Wren, while Anwyn and I were in the forest.”

Heron’s head came up at Curlew’s words, and their gazes met. Interest glinted in Heron’s eyes and his agile mind leaped ahead with ease.

“Whatever she told you has troubled you. Or are you just missing Anwyn?”

Curlew shook his head. They sat together beside a smoldering fire in Heron’s hut. Outside, an autumn rain poured down, its chill matching the bleak cold in Curlew’s heart.

Only two things gladdened him—Heron’s swift and steady recovery from his dire wound and Falcon’s return from Nottingham earlier that day. Asslicker had kept his word, at least. Now Curlew had but to get Anwyn back with him where she belonged.

“Both,” he admitted.

“She is for you, then,” Heron confirmed without bitterness, “and me for the forest, as I said before. I do not mind. She is a lovely, willful thing, but one only has to see how she looks at you to tell what is in her heart. You will have your hands full there, Lew, but I do not doubt ’twill be worth it.”

Anwyn’s presence in his life was worth anything, Curlew knew that. Yet he could scarcely get his mind around the wonder of it all.

He searched Heron’s eyes, rueful and tentative. “You know me, Heron. I think I can safely call myself a humble man. There is naught special about me, save certain pronouncements made before my birth and my place in our triad. You are the one who carries the magic about with you, visible as a cloak. So—why me?”

The amusement in Heron’s eyes deepened. He made a graceful gesture with his hands. Gently ironic, he said, “Indeed, there must be something we can none of us see.”

“So it would seem, if I can believe what Grandmother Wren implied.”

Heron shifted where he sat. The dim light of the room washed over his hair and made a stark line of the wound at his throat, now uncovered to the air. Curlew’s heart trembled within him; he had nearly lost Heron. Or had he? Could it be, as Wren had said, that all loss was a lie, an illusion?

“You had better share with me what she told you.”

“It sounds mad, and as if I think too much of myself.”

“Cousin, I know you. As you just said, you are a humble man. As for madness, well, I think we are all of us a bit mad, in a good way.”

“Very well.” Curlew drew a breath. “What do you know about those who have lived in the past returning to live again?” At Heron’s look of surprise he added hastily, “No, I do not mean resurrection, but rather a spirit finding a home in new flesh. I explain it badly.”

Emotions chased one another through Heron’s eyes: astonishment, realization, and understanding. “Is that what Grandmother Wren said to you?”

“In part.” Curlew’s heart quailed within him. “And I have been catching glimpses of a past not my own. Or perhaps my own, after all...”

Heron drew a breath. “Aye well, Lew, you know there is no end in death. We have encountered spirits enough in Sherwood to believe the truth of that. All life is circular and as such has no beginning and no end. The ancients who first came here believed we don many cloaks of flesh over many lifetimes.”

“If such a thing might be so—and I am not saying it is—then how could we fail to remember?” Beyond brief flashes—hot tears raining down onto his face—and familiar feelings.

Heron smiled wryly. “You speak of madness. Surely it would lie that way, indeed. Only think of the memories of several, or many, lifetimes crowding our minds, the pain of old wounds and losses, the crippling fear. If such a thing be true, our failure to remember must be a mercy.”

“That is what Grandmother said, more or less.” Curlew frowned. “Yet if two souls who knew one another before, and meant much to each other, should don new flesh and come back into this world from that other to meet again—could they fail to know each other by feel, by longing?”

Interest flickered still more brightly in Heron’s eyes, but he did not ask the question Curlew half expected. Instead he offered kindly, “I believe they could not fail to so know each other, Cousin.”

Gladness surged in Curlew’s heart, along with doubt and another, stronger rush of humility. If what Wren suggested were true, he, Curlew, did not deserve this shocking and miraculous identity.

Moreover, he was not sure he wanted it. Yet he wanted her. And he wished a chance to heal her pain even if it meant reliving all the loss and terror over again.

“Lew…” Heron touched his arm lightly. “I know what was said of you before your birth, what the spirits whispered—that you would be the most important person ever born in Sherwood.”

“Yet I am scarcely that, Heron. Look at me! Four and twenty, and I have done nothing of note. I have merely lived my life, tried to look after those around me, and searched for the missing third of our triad.”

“And spoken always for justice, and been a loving steward of Sherwood. And”—Heron smiled like sunshine in the dim room—“saved my life, you and she together.”

Together. So he must believe they were meant to be. “I want her back with me, Heron.”

“Aye.”

Would she come tomorrow? He wished he could find her with his mind, but he had searched and caught only the barest whispers, which he attributed to imagining. How could he know what was dream and what truth? How tell reality from the product of pure wishing?

“Miracles surround us,” Heron told him in his new, husky voice. “Your parents now exist together in Sherwood’s sanctity. Mine speak even when apart, between their minds. Should we doubt that those who lived and died for this place should be given the gift of living for it again?”

“You are a wise man, Heron Scarlet.”

“Wise enough to wed myself to Sherwood and lie with the Lady always?”

“It need not be that way. Not since Alric, who shared the power taken up when Robin died, has there been any among the triad who lived the life of the hermit.”

“Alric—aye, an intriguing figure, is he not? A deeply holy man.”

“Like you.”

“Who by all accounts lost out when Lillith chose the warrior-headman Geofrey over him. Sounds familiar, does it not?”

“There is no need for you to be alone.”

“Even though Anwyn has chosen you?”

“Nay, but it is all about keeping the balance. For the last three generations it has seemed to poise between the leader, the warrior, and the healer, though they came in many guises. Your parents—warrior and leader—bonded together, but my mother was not left to live alone. Sherwood proved kinder than that.”

Heron said ruefully, “Aye, Sherwood handpicked Gareth. And he had only to prove himself under threat of death.”

“I am trying to tell you there is one who would take you to her heart even as the Green Man’s Lady has done.”

Heron quirked an eyebrow. “What is this you say?”

“Well, and I am not at liberty to say, but your quick and clever mind should be able to tumble to it. She is close at hand and she loves you more than her own breath.”

As if conjured by magic, a knock sounded on the door. Diera’s voice called, and an instant later her dark head poked in.

“I just wanted to say good night, lads,” she told them.

Curlew shot Heron a look before he gave Diera a mischievous smile. “You braved this foul rain for that?”

“So I did—I cannot imagine why.” Her gaze moved to Heron. “I wished, also, to be sure you have all you need before I go to bed.”

Heron’s eyes seemed to appraise her. “Come, sit and warm yourself.”

“I suppose I might stay a moment or two; Grandmother is asleep and likely to remain so.”

She chose a place at Curlew’s side, which surprised him until he realized it afforded her a fine view of Heron with the firelight awash over him.

“You know, lass,” Heron said to her gently, “you need not keep on fussing over me. I am well enough now. Even the bandages are gone.”

She gave him an uncertain look and tears flooded her eyes. A strong woman and one who battled hard, she did not give in to tears easily, Curlew knew.

In a broken voice she said, “I nearly lost you. Had that strike taken you a hair higher—or a hair deeper—you would not be here now.”

Heron’s expression softened. Compassion came readily to him, always. “I am not so easy to kill as that, Diera. But aye, I am grateful for the tender care you gave me. And,” he added, as if teasing, “all the attention since.”

Diera’s gaze, still locked on his, remained serious. “Can I help but come just to see you? To assure myself you breathe yet?”

“Peace, love. I am not going anywhere, not for a long while. There is too much work to be done.”

Fool, Curlew thought. Could he not see? Was Heron so close to Diera he could not interpret what shone even now from her eyes, when he had no difficulty picking up on other signs and portents?

“Aye, well,” he said weightily, “the heart cannot help but worry when it cares so deeply.”

Heron’s eyes flew to his and thence to Diera’s face, where they lingered in sudden, rapt attention. At last, Curlew gloried inwardly.

Diera did not seem to notice; her gaze was fixed on her hands, which twisted together in her lap as she strove to keep Heron from seeing what she believed he did not welcome.

Foolish children, Curlew thought with deep affection. He loved them both, and in that moment almost thought he could see the ties that linked them all, like threads of glowing light, heart to heart: Diera to Heron, all of them to each other, the faithful to Sherwood itself. He even thought he could catch echoes of beauty, like music, coming from the now-darkened hut where Lark and Falcon lay together, she taking him to her once again following his return.

In that moment Curlew saw it all as a pattern, and each of them distinct pieces making up the whole, the very heart of Sherwood. If only, he thought, he could protect it all forever.

Aye, and he would give his very life to do so, without reservation, even though among the many trails of light he could see one leading away from his own heart, straight to Nottingham.

He came back to himself and realized Heron and Diera spoke together in hushed voices, their heads bent, no longer aware of him. Ah, and he did not belong here; better to leave them alone.

And if he did, would Diera have her heart’s desire at last? Was there also an old magic linking these two, an ancient question long asked and now answered?

He got to his feet and bade them good night; they barely heard.

He stepped out into the pounding rain and lifted his face to the sky.

Come to me please, he begged her in his mind. But the only answer he heard was the voice of the rain.