Chapter Two

“Did you see her? What is she like?”

The questions assaulted Sparrow as he slipped through the trees, silent as a shadow, and entered the outlaws’ camp. Night always meant life to Sparrow, in Sherwood. At home here since birth, he knew the animals who stirred only under cover of darkness—and the men.

Now one of those appeared before him as if by magic, and blocked his way. Sparrow sensed others beyond, but the bulk of emotion came from Martin, who hovered threateningly, demand in his every line.

“Peace,” Sparrow said, though Martin never seemed to find much of that.

What a curse it was to be able to feel others’ emotions the way Sparrow felt the warmth of the air or the breeze on his cheek! He did not want to be assailed by Martin’s unstable brew, especially now when his own head still spun. He pushed at Martin in order to pass, but, stubborn as always, Martin stood firm.

“You can give me an answer,” he growled. “That is simple enough.”

“Aye.” Sparrow’s anger, a rare commodity, flared. “You always think everything simple, do you not?”

Martin scowled; even in the soft, dim light Sparrow could see his expression. Or maybe he did not need to see it.

“I still say I should have been the one to go to Nottingham. I would have brought her back with me. We need her here. How dare the old woman contrive to keep her from us?”

“Would you drag her away from her home, and she not knowing who—and what—she is?”

Martin nodded his shaggy, fair head. Whipcord strong and but a few inches shorter than Sparrow, Martin displayed the old Saxon blood, run true. With an often-murderous expression in his iron-blue eyes, he always looked like he should have a sharp axe in his hands.

“It is time, and past time,” he grumbled.

Someone moved behind Martin, a far more soothing presence: Alric.

“Come, sit down,” he told both men. “We have much to discuss.”

“Words!” Martin tossed his head in rampant frustration. But he listened to Alric as to no one else.

A small fire burned, releasing the sweet smell of ashwood into the air. With a hand on each man’s forearm, Alric led them there, nodding to Martin’s mother, Madlyn, in passing.

Madlyn—the only resident woman in camp—had played nursemaid and mother to them all over the years. Other females came and went; members of the outlaw band brought their lovers and wives from time to time. But few stayed long. Life in Sherwood always proved too risky, too difficult, and too dark. Madlyn, like Martin, was made of sterner stuff.

She nodded at Sparrow now, looking serious. They all knew how much rode upon the lass at Nottingham—the protection of Sherwood, their very lives.

The trouble was, Sparrow thought as he sat within reach of Alric’s hand, he and Martin had differing opinions about how to move forward now that everything needed to change. And Martin rarely backed down.

Aye, well, Sparrow determined, neither would he, this time.

“Someone needs to be in charge here.” Martin spoke almost before his rump hit the ground.

“I think it should be me, do you not?” Alric might be ancient, but there was no weakness in him. Though the old hermit appeared humble, power simmered in his blood, and he could split rock—or a man’s will—with one glance from his pale eyes. He wore his white hair long, half-braided, and it shone now in the graying light.

To Martin, he said, “What we must do here is too important to allow for argument. You must stand together as never before.”

Martin, predictably, scowled. He drew his short knife from his belt and began to play with it.

Alric turned his compelling gaze on Sparrow. “How did you find the lass?”

Martin also raised his eyes to Sparrow’s face, awaiting his answer.

Sparrow smiled slightly and shrugged. “She is a wild thing, trapped. I do not know how Lil has held her so long.”

“The power stirs. It calls to her. No doubt she can feel the coming change.” Alric spoke softly.

“She is no weakling, then?” Martin asked. “No shrinking miss?”

Sparrow shook his head. “She has been raised in a scullery. I doubt she is troubled by fine manners.”

“Lil will have coaxed some manners into her,” Alric said. “And there is good blood behind her.” He stared into the fire for a moment.

Martin leaned forward. “She is Robin, to all purposes. ’Tis well she has some iron in her.”

“She carries a third of the magic. Sparrow, how did you find Lil?”

“Same as ever, save grieved at Geofrey’s passing. Why do you ask?”

“Because, aye, Geofrey is dead, and I grow weary. My own time is not far off.”

Both young men stared at him in dawning horror.

“Do not say that,” Sparrow breathed.

“Why not, lad, if it is true? The Sheriff, my old enemy, dies also, by inches. It shall be a contest to see which of us passes first.” His bright gaze defied his words. “Then shall two parts of the circle fail. Before that happens, you three must be prepared. Matters grow urgent.”

Martin waved his knife at Sparrow. “I keep telling him that. But Sparrow would not stir himself if his toes were on fire.” He leaned toward Alric. “Sherwood must be protected, and our fight must continue. The magic must be kept whole. You agree?”

The old man nodded.

“Then,” Martin continued, “put me in charge. Give me leadership, if you would see anything done.”

Alric gave Martin a long look. “No one is in command, lad. It is a balance. If you cannot see that, we have strayed farther afield than I thought.”

“I do see,” Martin retorted. “But there must be a leader, else folk will mill about like sheep. We are no sheep, but wolfsheads.”

Sparrow spoke. “What makes you think she is not meant to lead us? Her father did.”

“Her father was Robin-fecking-Hood! She is a scullery maid who has scarcely been away from Nottingham. Who carried the fight all these years in Robin’s name, letting folk believe Robin was still alive? Our fathers, that is who—yours and mine—and ourselves, after them. Nay, Alric, if you would have us stand strong, leave it in my hands.”

Alric shook his head and got to his feet with a grunt. “The two of you are not meant to compete but to work in harmony. I have failed to teach you that, as did Geofrey before me. If you cannot learn that lesson, we are doomed.”

He stalked off, and Sparrow eyed Martin doubtfully. For as long as he could remember, all during their years spent growing in the forest, they had vied with one another for position: who was taller, who cleverer, who the better shot. Aye, raised together they might have been, but they thought very differently. Sparrow favored consideration; Martin was all fire and purpose.

Now Martin asked, in Alric’s wake, “When does she come, the wolfshead’s daughter?”

Sparrow shrugged. “That is up to Lil.”

Martin leaned toward Sparrow and his eyes glowed cold as the blade of the knife in his hands. “She will have to choose one of us, you know—me, or you. That is how it works. Just so you know, pup, it will not be you.”

Sparrow felt his own rage gather and simmer. “Only let her come, and we shall see about that!”