Something like a sigh issued from the trees and stirred the hair on Rennie’s brow. She felt the shadows—or perhaps the spirits—of birds flutter by. Small creatures, and then larger ones, approached and ringed them, felt but unseen. Everything held its breath.
There was a fourth presence
.
Rennie’s entire being leaped in response to it. She felt Sparrow’s fingers clench around hers; Martin’s strength suddenly flared.
And the light grew, spun, brightened, and took form. Rennie opened her eyes.
A figure stood at the center of their circle, tall and still.
Sparrow swore softly in awe. Or perhaps he spoke the god’s name. It was hard to tell.
The Green Man.
The name appeared as if by magic in Rennie’s mind. She blinked, striving to comprehend what she saw. No, not the god but a stag standing upright on its rear legs; a beautiful woman with streaming green hair, who laid her hand on Martin’s heart. No—it was her father, Robin Hood.
He smiled at her, the smile she remembered from her dreams. His eyes glowed blue, picking up the light that surrounded him—radiance that streamed from Sparrow and Martin, and Rennie herself, that mingled and combined to make a circle of power.
Light is love. Love is power
. Rennie knew not who spoke the words. They danced through the air and she inhaled them. They took form in her heart. Magic arose, blinding.
Ah, so this was what Lil had tried to tell her—what she, Geofrey, and Alric shared. This marvel formed the very fabric of Sherwood.
Martin stirred. Rennie felt his spirit rear up in gladness, and for an instant she could not tell what had called him, life or death. At that instant both were one. Or, rather, she saw death for what it was—a mere altering of form.
Lil was there, and Alric—Geofrey also, and a woman with long, tawny hair and eyes the color of Rennie’s.
Mother
.
“Protect us.” Rennie spoke the words aloud. “Confound those who follow us.” She savored the strength that flowed through her. “Save us.”
Her father stepped forward and touched her head. A current of power flowed into her and called upon what she already felt within.
“None shall find you here.” His voice echoed. “Gather yourselves and harbor your power. For the fight is not over. You must return and carry the magic with you. By love shall freedom be won.”
“Martin—”
Behind Robin, two more figures stirred. One, a man with a wild, yellow mane, stepped forward and crouched over Martin’s prone form. He laid a broad hand on Martin’s forehead, even as Robin touched Rennie.
Will Scarlet
. The name appeared in Rennie’s mind an instant before Scarlet raised his gaze and met hers, all iron-gray fire.
And the other—
“Da,” Sparrow choked, beside her. The giant of a man smiled. A wild beard obscured most of his face but did not hide the fierce, gentle strength that suffused him. Like his two companions, he reached out and touched the head of his child.
The brightness flared. It rose like a tower of fire that consumed all doubt and all distinctions between the possible and the impossible. The magic of Sherwood streamed up from the ground, through the trees, and reverberated like the chime of a silent bell.
The past had come again, and the circle stood, triple strong.
“Rest now and heal,” Robin said, “and strength find you in your sleep.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Sparrow, are you awake?”
Wren’s voice called Sparrow from the depths of a sleep so profound it verged on death. He lay for a moment with his eyes opened to the vast darkness of Sherwood, trying to remember his dream. It had contained light and magic, and those gone before him. His father—
Only it had not been a dream.
His heart sped upon the memory, sounding great, deep beats, and he struggled to sort fancy from reality in his mind. The forest lay utterly quiet, the only disturbance Wren’s whisper. Did their entire band sleep? Someone should have stayed on watch. He should have. But nay, surely they lay in safety, here? For a shield of power surrounded and protected them.
“Sparrow.” Wren spoke his name again and moved into his arms, warm and close in the darkness. Sparrow’s entire being rose up in gladness. His arms enfolded her and drew her hard against him.
“Can you feel the magic?” he whispered. It curled all about them the way a mist might, rising from the ground, twisting and twining up through the trees. He lifted his hand before his face. So complete was the dark, he should not be able to see it. Yet his fingers were outlined by faint radiance. Bemused, he turned his eyes on Wren, in his arms. Slivers of faint light slid over the length of her hair, her shoulders, and outlined the curves of her face. It danced from her flesh to his the way distant lightning leaps through the sky both before and after a storm.
Against his cheek, Wren whispered, “We lie in the very womb of Sherwood.” She stretched her body against his and desire rushed at him out of the darkness. “Will you love me?”
“I always love you.” He knew himself helpless in the grip of what he felt for her, caught like a trout in a net, driven by the current of the stream. He loved her with every breath he took, with all his being.
“I mean, will you love me, Sparrow, now? I would have your child. I would have it conceived here.” Her hands moved over him, leaving him no doubt. His senses, already heightened by the magic so lately experienced, responded almost painfully. Yet a question lingered in his mind.
“Martin.” He knew what she felt for Martin, had experienced the edges of it and seen it blazing bright. Aye, she had chosen him, Sparrow. But in the forecourt at Nottingham, had her heart changed?
Wren went very still in his arms. For an instant he was sure she stopped breathing. Then her sigh brushed across his lips like a kiss. “He needs me.”
“I need you.” By every god ever worshipped in the heart of man, he did. His heartbeat required hers, and his existence rested in her hands.
“It is my strength holding him, now.” She hesitated. “My light.”
“Aye.” Sparrow knew that to be true also.
“We are, after all, three,” she told him, beseeching now. “Can I forsake him? Abandonment, Sparrow, is the worst of things.” Her lips moved over his cheek, brushed his jaw. She spoke into his lips. “But I want you. I choose you. I would have your child.”
Sparrow’s heart twisted in his chest. Could he share her? He did not know, yet his hands began to move of their own volition, slid over her body and up under the leather tunic she wore, encountering flesh smooth and warm.
She reared up, outlined by her own radiance. “You heard what my father said. We must take the magic of this place back to those who need it, whatever the cost. But first, Sparrow, please love me.”
****
Darkness, fire, sparks of light flared as warm skin grew hot, sliding against naked flesh. Strength filled Sparrow, along with desire, and birthed in him a profound need to give. He had not missed the significance of Wren’s words—this might be the last time ever he loved her. He meant to make it a precious memory.
She trembled in his arms, all need and yearning and tenderness wrapped together. She touched him everywhere with both fingers and tongue, leaving behind a trail of fire on his skin. Radiance moved about them in the soft dark, little glimmers of magic in two colors—the gold that Wren shed and the deep blue that seemed to come off his own skin. They combined together to make a shower of green, the color of light in Sherwood.
Sparrow had never felt so helpless, or so empowered. He lost his head with the taste of her even as he vibrated with certainty that he had been born for this, and for her. A beginning and an ending came together with their coupling, and he knew time stood still.
Not until the act was complete and he lay with the breath surging in his lungs, and Wren still caught tight against him, did Sparrow glean the true meaning of what had just occurred, and why.
She said she had chosen him—perhaps not as the love of a lifetime, but as a father for her child. She said they must go back and face the danger that awaited them. Sparrow lay on his back and stared with wide eyes, watching the last of their shed radiance settle around them. He knew all too well how Sherwood worked. It took as well as gave, and sometimes took most from those to whom it gave most. He need only count the costs so far—Robin, Marian, Scarlet, his own Da, Lil, Geofrey, and Alric. The hard breath caught in Sparrow’s throat. All these had been called upon to sacrifice themselves. Would he, Sparrow, now be asked to do the same?
The magic of Sherwood dealt in circles. And the next triad had already been founded. Sal carried Martin’s child. And Wren asked for his. He had a sudden, vivid memory of Alric and Lil walking away hand in hand—linked—following Geofrey’s death. Would not Wren go on with Martin, should some ill fate befall Sparrow? She had so surely bonded with both of them.
“What is it?” Wren’s lips brushed across his. “You are very still, and you guard your thoughts from me.” She shifted in his arms, naked flesh abrading naked flesh in incipient delight. Desire curled once more deep in his belly. Aye, Sherwood gave.
“I am but thinking.”
“Do not waste time in thought. Love me.”
“Again?” Even at the suggestion, the desire flared and stretched itself throughout his limbs.
Her long legs tightened around him and her hands slid down his body, finding and caressing every muscle, treating him as if he contained immeasurable worth. Her touch slid ever lower, followed by her mouth.
Still helpless, Sparrow groaned and leaped to life. But he needed something more from her than passion. He wanted something more.
Firmly, he pulled her up into his arms and held her tight. “Speak to me, Wren.”
“This is not the time for words, Sparrow. It is a holy night.”
“I need to know what is in your heart and your mind.”
“Surely you can feel what I feel. I give you all of myself, everything I am.”
Except the part devoted to Martin.
Sparrow swallowed hard. It should not matter. His rivalry with Martin was an old one and mostly good-natured. And the circle itself should be the most important thing.
Only—he was human and he could not deny it did matter.
He raised both hands and caught her face between them. He slid his lips over her lips and spoke into her mouth. “I love you, Wren—forever. No end.”
She trembled. He felt his words course through her, and all about them the magic stirred.
“Forever,” she repeated.
“And whatever is called upon me to do for your sake, I will—unstinting.”
“What should you be called upon to—?” She sounded genuinely puzzled.
Sparrow gave a soft, wry laugh. “Ah, love, you do not know Sherwood and its demands as well as I. For a gift so grand as this, there must be a high price.”
“You do not know that.”
“No?” He drew her still nearer, greedy for ownership of her even if for only this one night. “Just know, Wren, I will not count the cost, even should it prove to be my own life.”
He felt fear spike through her, closely followed by desperation. “No. Not that. There is no reason to think—” Her voice trailed away as her mind strove to plumb the depths of the unknowable. When she spoke again, her voice sounded broken.
“No, Sparrow. It is not fair. I want to live with you peacefully for all the years to come. I want to raise our child with you. Our children. I want your strength and your gentleness, your humor.”
“Surely you know, after what we have experienced, I will always be here with you, in Sherwood.”
“Aye, but I want you—you!” It was a cry of defiance. Her hands gripped and shook him, as if she might keep him with her by force. Sparrow knew, then, how she loved him. And that knowledge must be enough to carry him forward through whatever might come.
“If this is to be the last night ever we have together,” he told her, “I would make it count.”
“Aye.” He felt her strive to master her fear and uncertainty; the defiance remained. “We cannot know what the future brings for good or ill. But I know what I have here, between my hands. You have already loved me well once, Sparrow Little.”
“I have.”
She bent to him and the desire flared once again. “But me, I am still a great believer in the power of three.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“They burnt the village of Oakham to the ground. Sir Lambert is furious, on a rampage. They say he has sworn vengeance and will not rest until he has you in his hands.”
Rennie stood, drooping with weariness, and heard the words repeated yet again—the same story, more or less, recited by every soul they had encountered during their return from the depths of Sherwood. This time it came from a lad not much younger than Simon, one of many who had fled to the forest after his home was destroyed. He wore the shocked look of everyone they had met.
They had found the boy, with a number of others, when they reached the former site of the wolfshead camp. God knew this location probably was not safe, but it seemed to have become a kind of gathering place. People had nowhere else to go. And had not those from Oakham already lost everything except their lives?
She cast a glance at Sparrow, remembering his words when they lay together in the forest—there was always a price to pay. The residents of Oakham had, indeed, paid a high price for their past support of the outlaws.
“And,” the lad went on with relish, “they say the Sheriff teeters on the very edge of death. King John is on his way.”
Aye, Rennie thought, and when King John arrived, Lambert would want to present him with an impressive result, an answer to the current unrest, and proof that he was worthy of his place.
She sighed. She did not know when she had felt so tired; even her bones ached, and her mind moved sluggishly. Only one thing gave her hope: Martin was much improved. Since that night when the spirit of his father had come to him out of the forest, Martin’s strength had steadily increased, and his vigor had begun to return. His injuries, though still horrific, no longer threatened his life.
No, two things gave her hope: Sparrow was still at her side.