Chapter Twenty-Three

“Can you hit that mark?” Rennie heard challenge in the question, as well as gentleness and love.

She stood in the forest, green light filtering down through branches high above. Motes of radiance danced around her like magic dust, and she breathed them in effortlessly. Her bow sat on her shoulder, and the man beside her made her feel inexpressibly safe.

“What target? Where?” she asked.

“Dead ahead—the beech tree with the square of fabric pinned to it.”

Wren narrowed her eyes and peered ahead; she could barely see the target, yet she slid her bow from her shoulder and eased an arrow from the quiver on her back, sighted, and shot smoothly.

“Well done. And now the next target, farther on.”

“Where?” But even as she asked, Rennie saw it and loosed her second arrow. It flew true, and found its mark.

“And the next.”

“But I cannot see that target at all.”

The man beside her laughed softly. “That is where faith comes in play. Sometimes, Daughter, we have to trust blindly.”

Rennie lowered her bow and looked at him in surprise.

“Surely you are not shocked to see me,” he smiled. “We have met here before.”

So they had, and her heart quickened with gladness. He was Robin, her father, dead before she entered the world. He was the Green Man himself, god of this place. He was Sherwood.

“And we have met in dreams. You came and spoke to me.”

His smile deepened and reached his eyes. “You are very like me, you know.”

“Am I?” Her gaze, amazed and curious, drank him in. Was this, indeed, how he had appeared at the time of his death? An ordinary-looking man, some might say, yet with nothing ordinary about him: of medium height, not so tall as Sparrow, with hair the exact color of her own streaming over his shoulders, and a narrow, clever face. Did her countenance truly echo his, with its grace and fierce beauty, the humor and wisdom? She feared not. And his eyes were nothing like her golden wild-fox eyes but held a clear sapphire serenity.

She asked, quite reasonably, “Am I dead?”

“No, Daughter.”

“But you are.”

“Am I?” He shook his head and the shaggy hair slapped his back. “I think not.”

“Can you die? Are you just my father, or the god, in truth?”

“Both.” He smiled again and light filled his face, drew her to him. Was this that which allowed him to inspire folk and lead them, sometimes to their deaths? Was it this that kept his legend always alive?

“I am not sure I understand that.”

“But you must be sure, or you will never hit the target.”

“Ah. We no longer speak of arrows, I think.”

“Wren, look around you.” He waved a leather-clad arm. “What do you see?”

“Trees.”

“No.”

“No?”

He laughed again, and the sound made Rennie’s heart rise. “Beyond the trees and inside them.”

Rennie shook her head.

“Life.” He supplied the word. “Endless life. It dwells in every tree, and it dwells in you. It dances like that light, and it cannot be defeated by so small a thing as death.”

“Death, small? How can that be? I have lost to death everyone who should have been there to care for me—”

“Daughter, do you believe in the magic of Sherwood?”

“Well I must, since I stand here speaking with you now. Is this the magic of which you speak?”

“It is. Sherwood is a repository of belief. It is strong because it is a place where old faith dwells, like the great stones to the south, or the sea that surrounds our island. Do you know at one time England was all forest? And when the first men came, it was here they found the magic of being, of life, and called it God. Daughter, you must defend Sherwood because it is so much more than trees. It is a natural fortress of belief in the right of each of us, who shares life, to flourish above oppression. I fought the Normans because of the threat they represented to what makes England—England.”

Rennie wrinkled her brow, struggling to understand. “I am but an ignorant girl, raised in a scullery.”

“Raised by Lil, you mean. Do not forget all she gave you—knowledge of herbs and spells, folk wisdom and history. You are well equipped for the role you must play.”

Rennie did not feel well equipped. Yet reassurance flowed from this man the way radiance flowed through the trees. “And what role is that to be?”

“You must take my place, that of leader, guardian, champion of right and of life.”

Panic struck at Rennie’s heart. “But I thought I was to take Lil’s place while Sparrow and Martin contested over Alric’s and Geofrey’s.”

“The balance has changed. There must be three, aye, forming a circle of power, an inviolable container for the magic that dwells here. Once it was me, your mother, and the Green Man himself, but the power was uneven, and when I died, it all fell apart.”

“My mother gave up.”

“I had carried too much of the burden, and she was ill prepared. Lil, Geofrey, and Alric did a better job of distributing the load, but Alric will not survive long now without them. You, Sparrow, and Martin must find a way to share the weight evenly, and with strength.”

“But Martin—what shall we do about him? He is so angry, and he does not want Alric’s place.”

“Then give him his own place. It is as I tell you, Daughter. With the three of you, the circle now takes new form. It does not matter where you stand, but so long as you do, my legend lives on and I continue to dwell here. Now, shoot your arrow.”

Rennie still could not see the target. She raised her bow, narrowed her eyes and used the knowing inside her to aim, blind except for faith. Loosed, the arrow flew and voices rushed in upon her.

“She wakes.”

“Nay, she only stirs, still senseless.”

“She hears us, she hears my voice.”

“Get back away from her, you great louts, and let her breathe.”

Someone took Rennie’s hand—Sparrow. She would know his touch even blind. Anyway, she could feel his thoughts battering at her—and Martin’s—both close at hand.

She squeezed Sparrow’s fingers and felt his rush of relief. “She lives.”

Rennie stirred; pain fell on her like a stone, searing across her chest. In spite of it, she opened her eyes.

Three faces hovered over her like worried moons. At that instant Rennie knew how dear to her they were—all of them. How strange that only a month ago she had known none of the three, yet now they encompassed her world.

She tried to smile.

Martin leaned closer. To Rennie’s surprise, she saw tears in his eyes. “Wren, I am so sorry. I never meant…”

She reached her free hand to him. He took it, his fingers rough and warm, and Rennie felt the bond become complete, the link forged whole.

She spoke, her voice ugly and thin. “My father says we must learn to share this burden, the three of us together.”

“Your father?” Sparrow looked startled.

“I have just been with him.”

“By the Green Man’s thorn,” Martin breathed, “did I send her over the threshold of death?”

“He is not dead. Alive, here in Sherwood.”

“Poor lass,” said Madlyn, “she is raving.”

“Is it not why we join together,” Rennie whispered, ignoring Madlyn’s opinion, “in order to keep him alive?”

“Aye,” Sparrow murmured, “aye, Wren.”

“We cannot fight amongst ourselves; that will only do the Sheriff’s work for him.” Rennie’s eyes flitted closed against the pain.

She heard Sparrow say, “Martin, give her your strength.”

“Eh?” Martin sounded startled.

“Pour it into her, man. Through your fingers. Do you not see how vitally we need her?”

Rennie tried to open her eyes and found she could not. Yet she felt strength begin to trickle into her, like warmth, through the fingers of both men. Slow at first, and uneven, it steadied until she could almost see, against her closed eyelids, the circle of power that connected them.

She knew, then, the triad had become complete, and she knew why. “Alric,” she mourned.

And Madlyn spoke softly, “I am sorry, my dear; Alric is dead.”