Buckthorn took the letters from the wooden box.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “How you spend the rest of your life is your choice, of course, but if you want to continue on to Ravenhurst after I am gone, I think I have come up with a way for that to happen.”

Birch nodded. He hadn’t really considered what he’d do after Buckthorn died. He studied the old man. It was probably because he wasn’t convinced that death would be the interpreter’s immediate fate. The man’s wound was horrific, and he could tell from his pallid skin that he wasn’t well, it’s just that he didn’t sound like a man who was nearing the end.

“This first letter is intended for a man called Pollard. He is a chronicler and he was my closest friend in Ravenhurst. We have known each other since we were children. In the letter, I have explained what happened to me, and, although I haven’t told him all of the details concerning your exile and the skill you have been given, I have let him know that you are keen to start a new life in Ravenhurst as there is nothing left for you back in Eldergrove. Pollard is a kindly sort. I’m sure he will help you settle into the village. You can trust him.”

“Did he know what you were up to with the reinterpreting of people’s marks?”

“No. I kept it to myself. He wouldn’t have said anything to get me in trouble, but I never wanted to burden him with having to keep my secret.”

Buckthorn held up a second letter. “This letter is for Reeve Timber, Ravenhurst’s leader. It contains similar information than is in the letter for Pollard, but it also says that you bear the mark of a chronicler and that you want to pursue that role in Ravenhurst.”

“But I don’t. I don’t want to be a chronicler. And anyway”--he held up his hand—“it doesn’t matter because I don’t have the mark of that profession.” Was Buckthorn losing his mind? Was the infection addling his memory?

“That is where the last letter comes in. This is an official note signed by me in my role of interpreter to say that you do bear the mark of a chronicler but that your hand was injured while trying to put out a blaze that was caused by a rogue spark from our cooking fire. You will have to wear a bandage, of course, but it should allow you to start your training without too much trouble. I have signed the letter so nobody should be able to question its authenticity. If they do, show it to Pollard and he will vouch for you.”

“If nobody is going to see my mark, why can’t I be a hunter or a soldier or an archer? I really can’t see myself working as a chronicler.”

“I just thought it would be easier for you to work alongside Pollard. That way, he’d be able to help you fit in, and he’d be able to speak on your behalf if there are any problems. I also thought you’d be able to start researching your gift. You may truly be the first person in the world to have been given an ability to see the panels, but if there are others, there might be hints of them in the stories of the past.”

Birch nodded. He could see the sense in what Buckthorn was saying, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. Buckthorn was offering him a fresh start. Giving him another chance to make his dreams a reality, and he didn’t want to waste them being shut away in some dusty room poring over old books.

Buckthorn winced. And reached for his leg.

“Are you alright?” Birch hurried over to him and crouched by his side.

“I think I need to change position,” he said. “Here, take these.” He handed Birch the letters. “Place them back in the box, if you wouldn’t mind. Then you’ll know where to find them when you need them.”

Birch did as instructed, and then he helped Buckthorn to lie down on the forest floor. He placed the bundled tunic under his head and carefully repositioned the blanket. For a brief moment, Buckthorn’s injured leg was uncovered. The skin around the wound was puckered and it had turned a deep purple. Lines of red blotches emanated from the splintered bone, spreading up and down his leg like tendrils of vines wrapped around a tree trunk. Between the marks, the skin was pale and waxy. A smell of rotting meat wafted toward Birch’s face.

“Does it really look that bad?” Buckthorn said.

Birch thought he’d managed to keep his face impassive, but he’d obviously failed.

“It doesn’t look good. Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I am.” He glanced over to the fire. “While it’s still light, why don’t you see if you can fetch some more firewood? We’ll want to keep it roaring all night. I’ll be fine here. Just make sure you stay alert. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

Birch was reluctant to leave Buckthorn, but the interpreter was right. They probably didn’t have enough wood to keep the fire going throughout the night.

He emptied Buckthorn’s mug of half-drunk tea, and refilled it with water. Then he placed the mug next to the old man and headed out into the woods.

Walking between the new camp and the old, Birch managed to pick up an armful of fallen branches and thick twigs. He dumped these over by the fire and then returned for more.

He stopped now and then to listen for blood boars, but he couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. The forest felt peaceful, and if it wasn’t for the man dying a stone’s throw from where he stood, Birch might have been able to enjoy the tranquility.

To the right of him was a large log next to the thick trunk of an oak tree. He kicked it. The wood was soft, and a chunk came off under his boot. It smelt like mushrooms, but it didn’t seem to be too soggy. If he could somehow get it back to the camp, it would fuel the fire for hours.

He bent down alongside the log, trying to work out the best way of gripping it. From the corner of his eye, he spotted something attached to a coil of brambles to his left. It looked like a strip of brightly colored cloth. He moved closer. He was right. Ensnared by the bramble’s thorns, a piece of expensive-looking fabric was moving in the breeze. Birch unhooked it and brought it closer to his face. A golden thread had been woven into the dark red cloth. Where had it come from? This hadn’t been here when he’d last collected firewood, had it? Surely he’d have noticed. He looked around. This seemed to be the only piece.

Birch shook his head and placed the cloth in his tunic pocket. Perhaps Buckthorn would know more about it.

Wrapping his arms around the log, he half-lifted and half-dragged it back to camp. He rolled it over to the pile of firewood, stretched his aching arms, and then sat down next to Buckthorn’s bed. The old man was sound asleep, his blanket rising with every shallow breath.

Birch fed the fire with some of the wood he’d collected. He examined the pile. Would there be enough? Maybe not. Better to have too much than too little. One more load would probably do it.

*****

A pitiful moan was followed by a long exhalation of breath. Birch leaped up from his blanket. He’d only been dozing and now he was fully awake. The forest was dark and the moon was mostly hidden by the trees’ branches and the clouds clogging the sky.

“Buckthorn?”

He stoked the fire as he moved past it and knelt at the interpreter's side.

“Buckthorn? Can you hear me?”

There was no response. Birch peered at the man’s face. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but there was something odd about his skin and the stillness of his body.

Birch touched Buckthorn’s wrist. His skin was warm, but no pulse drummed against his fingertips. He moved his ear closer to the man’s mouth. The interpreter wasn’t breathing.

“Buckthorn,” Birch said. But he wasn’t expecting a response. Buckthorn was dead.

Birch took a deep breath, tucked the interpreter's lifeless arm back across his body, and pulled the blanket up so that it covered his head.

What was he going to do now?

Birch added a few more lengths of wood to the fire, and then he sat down next to the old man’s body. He couldn’t just leave him here, but would he be able to take him all the way to Ravenhurst on his own? Perhaps he could bury him here and then come back for the body with some others once he’d made it to Ravenhurst and explained what had happened? At least that way the blood boars wouldn’t get him.

He rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t going to do anything right now. These were questions that could wait until morning.

Birch shifted his position and his leg bumped against Ragwort’s writing box. It was partly open. A ripped piece of paper was poking out, preventing the lid from closing.

He opened the box. He didn’t remember seeing any torn papers earlier, but now there were several, and underneath them were three folded letters. Removing the ripped paper, he pieced them together. They were the letters that Buckthorn had written for him. The ones that would allow him to become a chronicler. The ones that would allow him to start a new life in Ravenhurst.

Why had Buckthorn destroyed them? Why had he sabotaged his plan?

Birch put the torn pieces to one side and reached for the three folded notes. He angled them toward the fire and scanned the words. Buckthorn’s handwriting wasn’t as neat and uniform as it had been in the other letters, but the sentences were still legible. They appeared to be copies of the ripped letters. Every word was identical, except for one thing. The word chronicler had been replaced with archer.

Birch smiled. Buckthorn must’ve quickly made the copies when Birch had been away from camp collecting wood. He must’ve noticed Birch’s disappointment at being made a chronicler, and used the last of his energy to make a change that he knew would make Birch happy.

He placed his hand on Buckthorn’s blanket-covered shoulder.

“Thank you.”

From his deathbed, Buckthorn had somehow given Birch the break he’d been wishing for his whole life. And Birch wasn’t intending to squander it. He’d go to Ravenhurst and he’d do everything he could to prove that Buckthorn’s theory was correct. The Sacred Oak hadn’t given him the mark of an archer, but he was going to become the best archer Verdant had ever seen.

He glanced over to Buckthorn’s body. And he wasn’t going to leave the interpreter here. Somehow he’d find a way of getting him back to his home. He might have been a bribe-taker, but he’d created a path for Birch that led away from him being one of the Markless, and, for this alone, he deserved to be honored.