She’d forgotten to go to the witch sooner, to refill the spelled oil. Now it might be too late. She had no idea how long it took to prepare the oil, if the witch would have time to make her more before the archery contest. And she was about to leave the protection of Robin’s glamour, leave the hidden glen that might be all that shielded her now from…
Against her will, she thought of the spell inside her, the spell that was strengthened and renewed by the oil. The twinge of magic was so faint, even thinking of it caused the hum of energy to quiet and thin. Marian’s knees trembled and she caught herself on the bedpost, barely keeping her already aching knees from hitting the floor.
Keep hold of yourself, there’s nothing to be done about it now. Get up, get going. Get to the witch.
There was no question of what she had to do now, no second-guessing herself, no going back. She rubbed the oil over her face and neck, biting her lip to keep from crying as she tried to smear it over as much skin as she could, stretch that one pathetic droplet farther than it had any possibility of going. Her nerves were so raw, they ached, and she could barely stop her hands shaking long enough to fasten her quiver onto her back. She stumbled out of the hut and shrieked when she nearly ran into Little John.
The shifter stood there with a horse at his side. The beast was beautiful. Its coat was pale grey, with streaks of white that shifted and moved like sunlight filtered through the water of a crystal clear lake. A silky mane slid over its back as it bowed its head, long, graceful ears flicking forward, as if waiting for a command. Little John gestured at the horse.
“She’s a fey breed, and a good spirit. She’ll be faster for you.”
Marian put a tentative hand on the horse’s shoulder, stroking its smooth coat. A lump rose in her throat. “I’ve cried more these past few days than I have my entire life.”
Little John smiled, a sad, knowing look in his brown eyes. “Love can do that to you.”
She pressed her lips together, refusing to let any sound out lest she start crying in truth and make a fool of herself. The horse waited patiently as she swung herself onto its back, holding on to its mane since there were no reins, nor saddle. Its warm body was oddly comforting, a solid weight in a world that had grown far too shaky. With a final nod to Little John, she squeezed the horse’s sides with her thighs and they were off.
What felt like no more than a few breaths later, they stopped. The woods around them had vanished, thick brown trunks and rustling green leaves melting into rolling grassland, lined with a few rocky walls. A small stone cottage with a freshly-thatched roof sat tucked away beside a beautiful blue lake. The sun didn’t seem to have moved in the sky, but she recognized her surroundings, knew them for the witch’s waterside home. A home that should have taken hours to travel to. Marian’s gaze slid to the horse. The beast swung its head around, blinked watery black eyes at her with a certain…expectant air.
“A fine way to travel if you have the stomach for it. Don’t recommend it to humans though, tends to leave the stomach slightly worse for wear.”
The witch’s voice snapped Marian out of her disoriented stupor. She followed the sound of the voice and saw the witch standing in her open doorway. Mother Hazel was a crone, a very powerful witch with a personality that ranged from maternal to that of a school teacher who’s had to explain the same lesson fifty times, and is weighing the prison sentence of murder against the frustration of making it fifty-one. Her nose was pronounced, leaning out as if ready to have a poke in someone else’s business, and her hands were callused proof that she didn’t use magic to make her life easier. Her brown dress was hiked up to reveal sturdy leather hiking boots, but as she came down the single step from her home, she let the skirt fall back to brush at the well-swept stone path leading down to the dusty road.
Marian had never been so relieved to see someone before in her life. Her heart leapt back into her throat, awe over the horse’s speed evaporating as her earlier panic roared back. She nearly fell off the horse in a mad scramble to dismount, just managing to get her feet under her in time to avoid breaking a leg. The witch arched a grey eyebrow at her as she ran to her side and in a grand show of audacity, grabbed her hand.
“I need more oil,” she gasped. A lock of red hair fell across her forehead, catching on her eyelashes. She ignored it, clinging to the witch’s hand and holding her eyes as if to look away for even a second would put her request at risk.
“Yes, I’d imagine so. Frankly, I expected you days ago.” Suddenly Mother Hazel frowned, dark eyes narrowing as she seemed to look inside Marian, staring through her chest wall as if she were made of glass. When her gaze returned to Marian’s face, there was an intensity there that made Marian squirm and drop her hand.
“Is there something you would like to tell me, Marian?”
“I…I…” Where to start? How could she possibly explain everything that had happened, everything that was still happening?
The witch pursed her lips. “Come inside, then, no use standing out here for gods know who to listen in.”
The nerves in Marian’s arms spasmed and she swiveled her head around, nostrils flaring as she scented the wind for spies she couldn’t see. The door to the cottage started to swing closed behind Mother Hazel and she darted forward to get inside before the spelled wood could shut her out.
Mother Hazel had seated herself in an overstuffed armchair, the sky blue material dotted with daisies looking rather out of place in the cottage stuffed to the rafters with drying herbs, sagging bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, and enough blankets to build a fort for every child in the county. “The spell I put inside you is nearly gone. Have you been talking about it?”
Marian stood just inside the doorway, wringing her hands, eyes bouncing from one knickknack to the other as her brain tried to distract her from the somersaults her stomach was performing. “No, I swear.” She blinked and the lock of hair draped over her forehead tugged at her eyelashes. She swiped at it, realized her hand was trembling, and curled it into a fist.
“Have you told someone the truth of what you are?” The witch picked up a book from the floor beside the chair and began leafing through the weathered pages.
“No! No, no, I haven’t told a soul. But—” Marian grabbed the end of her braid, twisting it as she tried to order her thoughts, to reach for some sort of calm. “I’ve tried not to. I’ve done everything I can. But there’s a man—a sidhe. He’s obsessed with my secret because some witch—no, not a witch, a—”
Mother Hazel glanced up from her book, dark eyes glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. “And is your secret all this sidhe is obsessed with?”
Marian blushed, memories of just how close she and the sidhe had grown painting her cheeks with heat.
The witch nodded and looked back down at her book. “It is over then. I have no more oil for you.”
Marian’s knees gave out and she fell to the floor. The world spun around her, flinging her into a vortex of vertigo, blurring the colors around her until she had to put her hands against the sides of her head just to be sure it hadn’t fallen off to roll across the wooden floor. No more oil. No more spell. It’s over.
“Gracious, child, what’s wrong with you?”
She must have been kneeling on the floor longer than she’d thought, because Mother Hazel was now crouched beside her, one time-ravaged hand resting on her back. Marian’s stomach heaved like a great ocean swell and the words rushed from her mouth. Faster and faster, they flowed, spilling everything that had happened over the past week. The murder of Guy of Gisborne, the eric, the sidhe, the loan. The witch who’d told him of her secret, his attempts to get her to confess. The deal she’d made with him to join his band, the second deal she’d made with him to give him three days. His promise that if she wanted to return home, he would make it so. The sheriff and the archery contest.
Mother Hazel listened intently throughout the entire thing, and when Marian finished, she gave a solemn nod of her head. “It is time
for you to hear the whole story.”
Marian’s lips parted and she watched in dismay as the witch rose to her feet and returned to her daisy chair. “I don’t have time for the whole story! The archery contest starts soon, and I need to be there.”
“Ah, I understand.” The witch waved a hand and settled back into the chair smothering her skirts around her. “I’ll say goodbye then so you can be on your way.”
“You’re not going to help me?” Marian had meant it to sound like an accusation, but her voice came out weak and small, much more of a plea than a demand. She fisted her hands at her sides, then forced herself to relax. One thing she’d learned about Mother Hazel over the years—yelling at her only made her move slower.
“Young lady, I cannot abide shortcuts. If you want my help, you must hear the story first.” She smiled. “Otherwise, you may not recognize my help when I give it.”
Marian’s shoulders fell and she dragged her legs to sit crisscross on the floor in front of the doorway. Her nerves were too raw to stand and find another seat, her legs would likely just give out again. She scratched her fingertips down her pant legs, trying to resign herself to wasting time. Perhaps she could still make it, now that she had the fairy horse.
“Your mother—not the woman who birthed you, but the woman who raised you—once had a run-in with your people.”
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 o
n 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.
The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) Page 26
