Chapter 5 #2
The air thickens with the scent of herbs as they pass a circle of fae crouched over a mortar, grinding something that gleams faintly blue in the light.
The mixture smokes, fragrant and sharp, curling upward like incense.
Beside them, another fae with skin the deep shade of walnut threads silver wire through the spine of a feather longer than Marian’s forearm.
Allen nods toward them as if continuing a lesson. ‘Those are the weavers and menders. They stitch bone, flesh, memory, even magic, when it frays. Menders are who you have to thank for healing you, but none of us would survive long without weavers.’ His tone dips lower, almost reverent.
They cross a bridge strung high between two oaks, the rope swaying gently beneath their weight. A group of grinning fae rush past them, teeth sharpened to a point, both feral and beautiful all at once. Their arms are full of sparkling fruit that seems to glow from within.
‘The earth-marked carry the strength of the roots in their blood. They’re hunters and gatherers.’ Allen chuckles. ‘Or thieves, depending on who you ask. Best not to bargain with them, unless you enjoy being outwitted.’
The bridge sways harder under the laughter of the passing fae, and Marian grips the rope railing until her knuckles start to ache.
‘You make them sound more human than I ever thought possible.’
For a heartbeat, only the groan of rope and the hush of leaves fill the space.
Allen tilts his head, green-gold eyes catching hers.
‘Maybe the problem is that mortals see what they fear, instead of what’s real.
We can be cruel, yes. We can be kind. We argue, we sing, we steal, we love. Just like you.’
Marian turns her gaze to the canopy overhead where dawn light filters, pale and green. If this is what the Church and her father called monsters, what does that make them?
Regardless of the answer, she tucks the details away, alongside everything else she’s observed. Maybe if she gathers enough of these threads – names, truths, weaknesses – she could weave them into something worth more than her father’s debt. More than being bartered as a bride.
‘What can you tell me about this Council of Elders you’re taking me to? Do they work for Robin Hood?’
Allen chuckles. ‘Careful, Mare. Call him that and you might not live long enough to regret it.’ At Marian’s startled expression, he only laughs harder. ‘Lox despises that name.’
‘Lox?’
‘That’s what we call him – the Lord of Sherwood or Robin of Loxleigh, if you want to get formal about it.
Humans added the ‘Hood’ to his name centuries ago, when one of their hunters glimpsed a figure in a red-breasted green cloak and couldn’t think of anything cleverer.
They thought him a thief or a ghost. He’s been correcting them ever since. ’
Marian arches a brow. ‘And this Council of Elders works for him?’
Allen’s grin turns fond. ‘That’s not how Sherwood runs.
We work with him. Every hand, every branch, every blade of grass – equal parts of the same wild thing.
He just happens to be the one forest listens to most.’ He resumes strumming, though the tune is slower as his gaze wanders over the trees.
‘Normally, the decision to let you stay would fall to Lox alone, but the Council has gathered in anticipation of the Greenwake.’
‘Greenwake?’ Marian echoes.
‘Our fete in honour of the equinox. It’s tradition for the nine Elders from each of Sherwood’s villages to gather here in Elswyth, where they settle disputes, trade goods, bless new unions.
And celebrate.’ His voice dips conspiratorially, a rueful quirk to his lips.
‘Between now and the equinox, we’ll have four nights of frivolity, each one meant to strengthen our bond with the forest. But it makes the timing of your abscondment . . . unfortunate.’
‘I didn’t ask to be here,’ she says. ‘If it’s going to be trouble, I’ll be happy to return home with no one the wiser.’
Allen plucks a softer rhythm, ignoring the ridiculousness of her request, and begins whistling a light, playful tune. The walkway bends, and suddenly the village falls away into a clearing dominated by a single, imposing tree. Marian stops short as awe collides with unease in her gut.
It rises so high, the crown vanishes into clouds; the trunk is so wide that a dozen cottages could be tucked beneath its roots.
Veins of glowing amber run through its bark, and the air around it hums with something that makes Marian’s skin prickle.
Rope bridges and platforms spiral up its girth, lanterns swaying in the branches like stars caught in a net.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Allen chimes. ‘Elswyth’s heart tree has stood longer than the kingdoms and crowns you mortals love to endlessly polish. Everything here bends to it. Grows from it.’
Marian swallows, her throat dry. The tree seems to breathe, each shimmer of amber in the bark like a pulse. She can almost feel it in her own blood, thrumming faintly under her skin. She tears her gaze away before the sensation can root deeper.
‘You’re late.’
Will stands at the base of the trunk, arms crossed, knives glinting at their hips. Their russet-toned dreadlocks are pulled back, golden eyes hard as coins.
Allen grins, plucking a minor chord as if the sound might defuse the scorn. ‘Time is a river, my dear Willow. Best to let it meander.’
Will rolls their eyes, muttering something under their breath that Marian doesn’t quite catch, though the tone drips with disdain. They shove off the trunk and lead the way through a gap in the wood that parts like an archway.
Inside, the air smells of resin and earth. They move down a corridor until Will stops at a carved door. ‘Wait in here. Someone will fetch you when the Elders are ready.’
Marian is ushered into a chamber lit by lanterns set in niches, and the door shuts behind her with a gentle click.
She wrings her hands, fingers knotting the hem of her borrowed tunic, as her pulse ticks upward. Roots coil down the walls; the humid air clings to her lungs, honey-sweet yet stifling. Shadows gather in the corners where the lanterns cannot reach, swelling in rhythm with her unease.
Marian paces the length of the room, boots scuffing against the dirt floor.
‘Tricks,’ she mumbles under her breath. ‘Always tricks. They heal with one hand and steal with the other. Kind faces, clever words, anything to lure you deeper, and I’m the fool who walked right into their snare.
’ Her voice cracks, low, brittle. ‘I’ve no choice but to play along.
I’ll smile, I’ll bow, I’ll play the dutiful captive until I can crawl free.
’ She presses her palms together, forcing them still, but the weight of waiting is unbearable.
‘Talking to yourself already?’
A voice cuts through the chamber. Deep, unhurried, touched with an edge of amusement that feels closer to mockery.
Marian jolts, her heart leaping into her throat as she spins to find the chamber still empty. Her pulse ricochets against her ribs. ‘Who’s there?’ she demands, but her voice isn’t steady.
The shadows around the room thicken, weaving tighter as though they conspire to hide him.
‘Who’s there?’ Marian repeats. Her stomach knots, but she lifts her chin, forcing a glare into the murk.
A low chuckle vibrates through the chamber. ‘Names are power, mortal,’ the voice replies, velvety and edged. ‘I’m not one to offer mine so freely; best way to keep from waking tomorrow bound to someone else’s will.’
Marian’s fists clench at her sides. ‘Then keep your name. I don’t want it,’ she snaps, her voice too quick, too thin, betraying the tremor beneath. ‘What are you, the Elders’ guard dog?’
The laughter comes again, closer now.
‘Sharp tongue. Careful, or someone might cut it out. Tell me, is it courage or desperation that makes you speak so boldly?’
‘If you mean to toy with me, know I will not break easily.’
‘I expected simpering. Tears. Maybe a prayer to whatever god mortals cling to. But defiance? That’s almost interesting.’ Another chuckle, softer this time, threaded with dark intrigue.
Her skin prickles, heat rising unwanted in her cheeks. ‘I don’t exist to interest you.’
‘How quaint. A rabbit declaring itself a wolf.’
The air between them tightens, humming with something sharp and dangerous.
‘I didn’t take the fae for cowards,’ she grits out, courage and fury stacking her spine. ‘Hiding in the shadows, taunting a woman trapped in your walls. You’d sooner talk me into fear than dare face me.’
Silence follows, long enough that her bravado curdles into dread.
The shadows peel back at last. Her tormentor steps into the light, and Marian’s breath snags hard in her chest.
He is ruinous.
There’s no other word for him. Not beautiful, not fair, not even divine – though he is all of those things. He has the kind of face that razes kingdoms, turns proud girls foolish and makes men break oaths.