Page 79 of Wench

It is Maelia who finally breaks the circle of voices, blossoms quivering in her dark curls.

‘Why not end this game and give the Sheriff what he wants!’ Her words fall with deceptive sweetness, smooth as honey but sharp as a thorn beneath. ‘Hand the girl over and perhaps his eye will turn elsewhere.’

The words are an axe to Marian’s gut. A silence spreads across the table, heavier than any argument.

‘You think that will quench his hunger?’ Marian’s voice cuts through the chamber. Her throat burns, but she does not falter. ‘Whether you strike or not, whether you keep me here or cast me out, the Sheriff will keep burning Sherwood. He’ll call it protection; he’ll tell the people of Nottingham they are safer, while every coin he pries from their coffers feeds the very forge that cleaves into your flesh.’

The Elders shift, some bristling, some unreadable. Marian feels their stares niggling under her skin as Rían gives her a sharp-toothed grin.

‘He will find a way to exterminate you like the pests he thinks you are,’ she finishes.

Onóra leans forward, frost-threaded braid swaying, her gaze cutting across the circle. ‘Then let us cease this endless circling. Cast your votes to decide whether we are to go to war, and let Sherwood’s will speak through us.’ Her eyes flit toward Marian before falling. ‘Nay. We have endured since the burning of Albion’s first pyres. We will endure still.’

‘The forge feeds on Sherwood’s marrow,’ Cern grumbles. ‘If we do not sever its hand, the roots will rot faster than we can heal. I vote aye.’

Rían’s feral-fanged smile stretches. ‘Aye. Blood for blood. The Sheriff’s wagons are fat and slow, and I hunger to see them and his men burn.’

Aife swallows. ‘Marian speaks truth; we cannot keep waiting. I vote aye.’

‘It is not guilt that blinds her, but shame,’ Corven crows. ‘She would have us risk our lives on her chagrin. If we become the cruelty we hate, then the Sheriff has already won. I vote nay.’

Lyss steeples their fingers in front of them. ‘Agreed. Mercy must be our marrow, else Sherwood becomes only bone and blood. Nay.’

‘Nay.’ Dáin shakes his head. ‘To war openly is folly. Our snares, our shadows, our thorns . . . These must hold until the king returns.’

‘Aye,’ Maelia votes, giving no reason. Four against four.

All eyes fall to Lox, just as they had when Marian first arrived.

Sickness twists low in her gut as she realizes how much has changed in mere weeks. Back then she was a baron’s bartered daughter who stood before a council of fae, waiting for her fate to be decided by the same antler-crowned lord who had held her chin like she was nothing. And now, Marian is desperate to protect them, to be one of them, demanding to be heard, even if they brand her reckless for it.

‘Nay,’ Lox finally answers. Murmurs ripple around the table, some expressing relief, others disdain, but they quiet quickly.

‘But—’ Marian starts.

‘I am Sherwood’s shield,’ he interrupts, rising to his full height. ‘And a shield must hold until the storm passes. The king’s word is binding. He promised clemency upon his return, so until then, we will weather what comes. If we rush into war now, we risk not only Sherwood’s ruin, but all of England’s.’

Marian’s breath rushes out of her. Her throat scorches with words unsaid, but they tear free anyway.

‘Your people are being hunted, burned, slaughtered, and you want them to wait for peace while others are hell-bent on bloodshed?’ Her fingers rake through her hair as fury shoots through her bones. ‘Persecuted creatures cannot wait for a peace that will come by the sacrifice of those in power! If you do not strike, then the Sheriff has already won?—’

The crack of Lox’s fist on the table is louder than thunder. Around them, the walls groan as though Sherwood itself startles at his loss of restraint, every Elder frozen by the violence of it.

‘The Council has spoken,’ Lox hisses. ‘Their will is that of Sherwood’s and my vote seals it. This matter is decided. Clear the chamber!’

The Elders rise in silence, some relieved, others with venom flickering behind their eyes, but none dare defy his command. One by one, they pass beneath the arch of living root, until only Lox and Marian remain, the air between them thick as pitch.

She reels, fury vibrating through her.

‘You damn your people with your patience,’ she spits, stepping closer. ‘Every day that you wait, more of Sherwood dies. A shield does not save if it never strikes back!’

‘And what would you have me do?’ His golden eyes are no longer calm seas but turbulent ones. ‘Send them to slaughter so that you can prove you are not your father’s daughter? Do you think bleeding beside us will absolve you? That if your body lies among our dead, the Sheriff will finally see the difference?’

Her chest seizes. An ugly, frightened part of her knows he isn’t entirely wrong. Still, she bares her teeth. ‘You hide behind your walls and call it prudence. Tell me how that is different from what my father called protection within the manor’s walls. Or what the Sheriff calls order from behind his hangman’s cap. Every man who holds a key names the cage a mercy.’

‘I am not free to spend lives to ease your shame.’

‘Do not mistake my ire for guilt,’ she snarls. ‘I am furious because I am finally choosing something that isn’t survival, and you would have me run away from it.’