The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (34 page)

Marian tensed, but the witch didn’t elaborate on “her people.”

“She was a hunter, you know. Always scampering about the forest with a bow and arrow. She provided most of the meat for her family, shamed the men who thought they could best her.” She shook her head. “I always thought it was a pity that she let that one experience frighten her out of the woods. But then, she found her happiness. Working the land brought her a lot of joy, and she found a good man to share that joy with her. All’s well that ends well.”

“She was a hunter?” The knowledge should have made Marian feel a closeness, a deeper connection to her foster mother, but instead, all she felt was a fresh swell of pain. If what the witch said was true, her mother had known the joy Marian felt when she hunted—known it intimately. And still she had…

“I’ve never been one to believe any race is born to serve,” the witch continued. “Yes, there are those races whose temperament and social systems lead them to find pleasure or comfort in service, but that is not the same thing.” She looked at Marian. “That being said, when your mother came to me, holding you in her arms, just a wee babe in a blanket, and begged me to help her save you, I saw your future split into two paths. One path saw you with your people. The Marian who followed that path was fierce, mighty, and alone. That Marian would be as renowned for her hunting skills as she was feared for her intensity, her single-minded focus on the hunt.

“The other path saw you with your foster parents. Your hunting skills remained, as would your intensity, but you would have a broader view of the world. You would not be alone, you would care for others, and that care would give you a more balanced perspective on life.” She leaned forward, dark eyes sharpening. “What is more, the Marian who followed the second path had a choice.” The smile on her face grew cunning, a spark of satisfaction in her dark eyes. “I am quite a fan of choices.”

Marian opened her mouth, but the witch held up a finger, cutting her off.

“Both of those paths still exist. Contrary to what you seem to believe, Marian, I have not hidden you all these years to save you, to protect your freedom, your right to live a non-violent life. I have hidden you all these years because I wanted to give you the opportunity to save yourself.”

Marian’s brow furrowed as she tried to follow what the witch was saying. “Save myself from what?”

“From yourself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

Marian shot to her feet, her anger flooding her, forcing her hands up, filling her with a need to do something with this anger, this frustration, this
fear.
The spell inside her quivered, thinned…
snapped.

The witch pointed at Marian with one wizened finger. Her eyes burned with a fire that gave no light, only heat and Marian found herself going still, staring.

“That temper you feel, that fury that roars inside of you like a summer storm? That is the part of you that your people would have fed. They would have nurtured that, coaxed you to embrace it, to live it, to let it shape your life. My spell did not make it go away, nor should it. It is part of you. And if you choose to let it rule you now, then I will not stop you. But think of why you came here. Think of what you want. This is the choice, Marian, the choice I’ve worked so hard to make certain you would have. Choose wisely.”

Marian’s knees trembled, the adrenaline burning her veins, held impotent with nowhere to go. Her vision clouded as her thoughts turned inward. For the first time in her life, she thought of the fate she’d hidden from and didn’t fight it. She let it play out in her mind, let the images she’d only seen in nightmares rise. Looked at them, really looked at them.

“I wouldn’t be a servant?” she whispered.

The witch lifted a shoulder. “It is a matter of perspective. You would have a king, and this particular king is not an idle one. He would want you to fulfill your role, and he has the power to see that you do. But you are strong, Marian. If you want to fight him, that is within your power.”

“So I would be fighting forever?”

“Or you would give in.”

“Those are my choices? A lifetime of constantly fighting for my freedom or giving in and choosing a life of servitude?”

The witch narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips into a thin line. “You have not been paying attention.” She looked behind Marian, out the open door. “Time waits for no woman. The deadline to make your choice approaches.”

Desperation threatened to close Marian’s throat. “I need more time. I have to go to this archery contest. I can’t let the sheriff take that land.” She went to the witch, knelt on the floor, grabbed her hand. “Help me save it. I just need a little more of that oil, just enough to hide me for one more day.”

“I have no more oil for you,” the witch said gently. “I have given you all the help I can. It is time, child.” She lowered her head, looked Marian in the eye. “And one more thing. A
sidhe
never breaks his word.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Robin, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Little John’s voice was gentle, but it grated over Robin’s raw nerves like rusted iron over silk. His fingers curled into claws, but he refused to clench his hands into fists again. It made him think too much of punching something. Or someone. And he didn’t need the encouragement to violence. Not today.

“I gave her my word, Little John.” His voice was tight, almost painful as he forced it past the thickness in his throat. “I told her if she gave me three days, then she could go back to her old life if she wanted to.”

“It hasn’t been three days.”

The anger grew hotter, scalded his veins. “Do not pretend ignorance, Little John, it does not become you. You know full well if the sheriff gives away her land—or worse, keeps it for himself—then she will not be able to return to her old life. The choice will be taken away from her—the choice I
promised
her she would have.”

The shifter shared a look with the spriggan walking on the other side of him. They hadn’t reached the site of the tournament yet, were still at least a mile away and alone on the dirt road that wound through the trees, but the two were already painted in glamours to hide their true appearances.

Little John was a pale, stocky man who still held a memory of baby fat in his face. He wore an off white shirt under a long vest the color of polished oak, loosely laced across his stomach. His tan pants were loose-fitting, his dark brown boots covering his knees and folding down. Will was a slender youth in peasant shoes, baggy brown pants, a long tunic the shade of fresh mustard, and a brown hood that draped over his shoulders and tied at the neck. Despite their changed appearances, the concern on their faces was clear.

“It’s not your fault the sheriff seized her land.” Will spoke with an uncharacteristic hesitancy, his usual giggle completely absent from his voice.

Robin’s jaw tightened and he pulled his own dark brown hood farther over his forehead. “It is, actually. Marian was right, I never should have insisted on coming with her. It’s possible she could have explained the four hundred pounds. My presence made her interesting. And it was my presence at her house, my
behavior
at her house that cemented the connection between us in the sheriff’s mind. It’s my fault he’s using her now.”

“You know if you win the tournament, the sheriff will find some reason to get you out of the public eye and that will be the last we see of you.” Little John’s walking stick creaked in his grip. “He’ll have irons ready. And he hates you, Robin. He really, truly hates you.”

“So kind of you to remind me.” Robin ran a hand over his midnight blue shirt, feeling a strange mourning for his green vest and pants. If he was going to his death, it would be a comfort to at least face it in his own clothes. “Yes, Little John, I’m aware. But as soon as I’ve won the contest, I’ll be signing over the property back to Marian. As she said, once the land is awarded as a prize in the contest, it is no longer subject to seizure for the same crime for which it was taken as payment. She’ll own it again, free and clear.”

Little John made a small sound of frustration in his throat. “But having her land back will not restore her choice to her. The sheriff has made his move with this contest, has as good as declared war on Marian. You have to know that she can never come back to this life.”

“She can if the sheriff is dead,” Will said quietly.

Little John stiffened, his steps faltering as he stared at Robin with a sudden and very uncomfortable intensity. “You’re planning to kill the sheriff.”

Robin didn’t look at him, didn’t respond. Another knot tightened in his stomach, the bile rising a little higher to splash against his throat. Killing was necessary sometimes, he knew that. But it should not have been necessary now. It was his failure to think through the consequences of his actions that had created this situation. It was his fault he had left himself with no choice.

“You knew that when you told her she could go home if she wanted to.” Little John’s voice was almost a whisper, his sudden understanding stealing the usual confidence from his tone. “When you promised her you would find a way to make it happen if that’s what she wanted.”

“Yes, such an arrogant braggart I am.” Robin laughed then, but there was more cruelty than humor in the sound. “I was so sure. So absolutely certain that she would stay, that she would never leave. That it would never come to this.”

“You love her,” Will said softly.

“Your observation is as unwanted as it is ill-timed.”

“She loves you back.”

The bow was in his hand, the string screaming with the tension of the arrow nocked and ready to fly at the spriggan’s throat.

Will stared at him down the shaft of that arrow, his glamoured eyes calm. “Let me kill him, Robin.”

The bow dipped, his heartbeat so loud in his ears he was certain he’d heard wrong. “What?”

The half-spriggan, half-goblin crouched down, the position looking stranger with the human glamour he wore, wrong somehow without his thin, spindly legs. He looked up at Robin, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of a king looking down at a begging peasant.

“You are not a killer, Robin. I’ve seen you conjure glamours that made even my blood run cold, heard you elicit screams from humans and other creatures that would be at home in any nightmare, witnessed creativity that would make your foster mother swell with pride. But you don’t kill. It is a line you drew yourself, not because you can’t, but because you choose not to.” Will smiled. “As in all things, you made the choice for yourself and you rejoice in it, are confident in it. It is part of what makes you who you are. A big part of the reason we follow you.”

He grew serious then, and some of the light leaked from his eyes. “Let me kill the sheriff. It would be nothing for me. But I think… I think it will change you. You may not be the man she loves afterward.”

Robin sank to the ground, unable to bear looking down at his friend, even in a purely physical sense, not right now. He replaced his bow and the arrow on his back and put his hands on the spriggan’s shoulders.

“Will, you are such a good man, and I don’t think you believe it. Someday I will prove it to you, but until then, I can only thank you. Thank you for your friendship and your willingness to be the friend I need.” He shook his head. “But I must do this. Do you understand? I gave her my word.”

“She wouldn’t want you to keep it this way,” Little John insisted.

Robin looked back at the shifter, but this time he felt no anger. Just a deep…sadness. And resignation. “If I don’t do this, then I’ll never know.”

“Never know what?”

“Why she stayed,” he whispered. “If she stays—
when
she stays—I need to know it’s because she wanted to. I need to know…” He shook his head. “I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering if she would have left me if she could.”

It wasn’t until after the words had left him that he realized what he’d said. What he’d meant. A minute dragged by, heavy with silence. Slowly Will stood and by some silent understanding, they all started forward again. None of them spoke the rest of the way.

If it hadn’t already been a certain thing that the sheriff was up to something, it would have become crystal clear as they arrived at the area designated for the contest. Instead of holding it in the main county where such festivities were usually held, the sheriff had ordered everything to be set up in a large meadow. The grass was knee high, and the entire area was surrounded by thick forest. The targets were mounted higher than normal, propped up on bales of hay to make them visible over the reaching blades of grass and wildflowers. A few benches had been set up for spectators—what few had braved the wild to watch, and the meadow was trying to swallow them whole. Still, the prize was of ridiculous value, and there were hundreds of contestants turning the meadow into a mob.

“Is no one questioning why he arranged for the tournament to be held in the middle of the woods?”

Will’s question hung in the air, seeming awkward after the long silence between them.

Robin ran his thumb under the strap of his quiver, settling it more firmly on his back. “No one will question him. No one will want to draw his attention.”

“And who could blame them?”

Little John spoke under his breath, managing to gesture at the sheriff without looking in his direction. Robin pretended to inspect his bow, raising it to give him an excuse to look where Little John had indicated. His throat went dry.

The sheriff was not a well man. His black hair was unwashed, greasy and twisted into thick tendrils that suggested he’d been pulling at it. His eyes were too bright, darting about the meadow like a cat searching for an injured mouse that had somehow limped off. A thick cloak—far too thick for the warm day—hid his body completely. Something about the way the material hung spoke of things hidden beneath the folds, as if the good sheriff was carrying more than his usual sword with him. He turned and the cloak gaped at the chest, something shiny catching the sunlight, throwing it into Robin’s eyes.