Chapter Thirty-Nine

“He lives yet.”

Heron met Anwyn at the edge of the encampment and spoke the only words she wanted to hear. Led by Curlew’s grandmother—her own daughter—she had come through the sodden forest to this place where the survivors of the skirmish had retreated. Wren, like those others who had helped her, disappeared into Sherwood then; she knew they did not retreat far.

Now she looked into Heron’s eyes and gasped, “Where?”

“I will take you to him. But before you see him I must tell you”—Heron’s voice faltered abruptly—“it is grave. Diera thinks the arrow pierced his lung. He bleeds from his lips and gasps for air. Oh, and your father is here.”

“Da, here? How?”

“He was the lone survivor of the Nottingham party, following that last skirmish. Havers—?”

“Dead,” Anwyn said shortly. “Is my Da being held prisoner?”

Heron shook his head. “To speak true, I have not been able to consider what should be done about your father, or aught else. All I can think on is him.”

Anwyn nodded; she grasped Heron’s arm and felt his emotions rise. “I cannot endure it, Heron. I cannot lose him again.”

“I know. Come.”

Heron led her quickly across the rough encampment. They passed Anwyn’s father as they went; he leaped to his feet and called, “Anwyn, lass!”

“I will speak with you anon,” she told him.

Heron shot her a look. “How did Havers perish? Did you kill him?”

“Nay, Sherwood finished it,” she said briefly.

Heron nodded, though Anwyn barely noticed. For she could see Curlew now, stretched on the ground with a number of people gathered near. Diera bent over him with her black hair hanging down and his blood smeared on her hands.

Anwyn’s step faltered. For an instant time itself shuddered and she saw two scenes, one overlaying the other: Robin lying awash with blood and Lil bent over him; Curlew bleeding, bleeding his life away.

Terror, stark, fierce, and crippling, arose and threatened to destroy her hard-won courage. All her life had she feared this. And so it had come to her, inevitable as the turning of the seasons. At this moment, she had but one chance, one choice between the weakness of fear and the strength of love.

She saw now that the love never changed, only her response to it: she could admit the light or she could shut it away.

What was it Curlew said? Sherwood was all about light, and all about love.

“Anwyn?” Heron touched her arm and looked at her askance.

She told him, “Come.”

She reached the place and fell to her knees at Curlew’s side. Diera looked up, her face set and streaked with tears. The others who were gathered, three villagers from Oakham, stepped back. Anwyn barely saw them go.

She looked into Curlew’s face—so still!—and her heart convulsed. His eyes were closed; lashes thick and brown shielded all the bright radiance she loved. Blood—his own—spattered his cheeks and chin.

They had hauled open his tunic and the shirt beneath, yet she could not see the wound or any bandaging for the blood. Worst of all, she could hear the wound; it whistled with every painful breath he drew—slow, labored breaths in, and each exhalation marked by a little froth of blood at his lips.

Oh, my love.

The darkness rose and threatened to swamp her again. Seeing him so knocked her back on her heels, back in time.

Do not leave me. Do not dare leave me!

No response. Aye, he was there—the hum that had vibrated between them continuously since first their circle forged now throbbed very low but endured yet.

“It is bad, you can see,” Diera’s red hands fluttered. “We removed the arrow, but that did not help much. You hear how he breathes, and the blood just comes. I have tried—” Diera’s voice broke.

“Only one thing can save him.” And that, Anwyn knew with blinding conviction, was not doubt but certainty, the undying certainty of their love.

She reached up and seized Heron’s hand. He sank to his knees so they knelt facing each other, Curlew between them. She gazed demandingly into Heron’s golden eyes.

“Thank the Green God I have come in time. Take his hand. You, I, and the circle will save him.”

Heron said with regret, “Even that power may not be enough to hold him now.”

“’Tis the only thing that can. Always, always he has been my strength. Now I will be his. This time I will not leave go of him.”

****

He lay in darkness and peace, floating as if on the swells of a gentle river. The dark, not complete, was marked by little shards of brightness that tailed away to the corners of his vision and gave glimpses of things: the glint of light on green leaves, the white gleam of a hart’s hide, the warm beauty of Marian’s eyes.

Marian.

He could feel her still, the constancy of her presence, her love like faint music. Regret touched him once more and ruffled the peace.

I did not want to go from you.

Did she hear? Ah, but he could feel her emotions striking at him the way the arrow had, reaching through the intervening formlessness. Almost he thought he could feel the touch of her hand on his.

And the circle.

Matchless magic of Sherwood.

But he did not lie alone, here. Others as formless as he rustled and gathered all around him, those with whom he shared the love of this place, those who cared deeply for it and for him. They shared his peace, and thought flowed effortlessly among them the way light might through Sherwood, and comfort like that he felt in his lady’s touch.

His lady.

A great force pulled at him like memory, like desire, like the need to breathe. His darkness, so very harmonious, no longer felt complete. Light flared, seared him, and formed a circle.

It glowed and shimmered with power that possessed sound as well as brightness. It flowed from his hand to hers and thence to that of he who carried inside him the very spirit of Sherwood—nay, not from her hand but from her heart.

It sparked with demand. The sound—that of many blended voices—became one.

I will not let you go. Do you hear? Heed me! I will not let go of you this time.

The dark all around him convulsed in response to her call. His very being quivered to it. The circle of power gripped him still more surely.

Come my lord, my love, my heart. It is not over. There is yet work to be done. Return to me and I promise I will walk not behind you but at your side.

The circle flamed once more, became so intensely bright it hurt the eyes he no longer possessed. Surely it must burn all else away.

Even fear.

Yet he had drifted so far, and the flesh to which he must return lay so damaged. The threads that bound him to it had frayed and very nearly broken. Even for love of her, he did not know if he had the strength.

Then take my strength. Her grip on his hand tightened until it filled him, anchored him. Her very touch became love. I have enough for both of us.

Joy stirred inside him, took hold, and then arose like a shout of laughter. He rose with it, spirit spiraling up in answer to her call, irresistible. For, as it had ever been, joy could only flow to joy, plenty to plenty, and love to love.

He broke the surface into life even as the brightness of daylight erupted all around him. Pain came with it, where there had been none, and the staggering need to breathe. But so did the beloved sight of his Marianwyn’s face, contorted not by terror but transfigured by certainty. He gazed into her eyes and his world tumbled into place around him. The magic gleamed bright, even as he strained for breath.

One breath taken in shattering pain. Her strength and that of Heron, solid as bedrock, upheld him.

A second breath that tasted less of fire and more of the sweet air of Sherwood. Strength flowed not only through Marianwyn’s and Heron’s hands but up from the soil at his back, pounding in time with his heartbeat, from the light and the raindrops shimmering on the leaves, from the fire that endured, always.

A third breath came easier; it filled him with magic that sang through him, even as he heard Lil—or was it Diera?—say, “Look, only look how his flesh knits! Ah, by the blood of the Green Man—”

“He is the Green Man”—Heron’s voice—“now and forever more.”