Summer Gate wasn’t really a gate at all. Located to the west of Eldergrove, it was a giant arch formed by two huge ash trees, one on either side of the path, their intertwined upper branches spanning its whole width. Birch struggled to identify where one of the trees began and the other ended.
Standing next to Buckthorn, Birch pulled on the shoulder straps of the pack he’d been given. It contained a change of clothes, some rations, and a waterskin, and a blanket was rolled up and attached with a cord to the bag’s underside.
Flanked by a pair of guardsmen, Reeve Whitebeam stood between the trees, and a few of the villagers had lined up along the path’s edges to witness the proceedings. It wasn’t every day that someone was exiled from Eldergrove.
He scanned their faces. Old Rush was one of those standing closest to the arch. He nodded to Birch when he caught his eye. His face was solemn, and Birch couldn’t tell if the stablemaster was sad to see him go, or whether he was simply here because he thought it was expected of him.
Holly was at the end of the line. She was wearing her healer’s uniform, and her hair was tied back. It was obvious from her red eyes and puffy face that she’d been crying. Birch wanted to go over to her and hug her, and tell her everything would be alright. Tell her that she’d soon forget about him, and it would actually be good for her that he was leaving. But he couldn’t. People would talk. What reason would there be for a Markless to be speaking to an apprentice? It would only make life more difficult for her.
Their eyes met, and Birch smiled. The corners of her lips curled, and she smiled back at him. Birch tried to capture that moment in his mind. If Buckthorn was right about his marks, perhaps one day he’d be able to see her again. One day they might be able to meet as equals.
He looked away. He couldn’t think like that. He’d made the mistake of getting his hopes up before the Marking Ceremony. He couldn’t make that mistake again. He stole another quick look at Holly. This moment was where their paths forked. This was where their lives would diverge. This was the last he was going to see of her. But he would never forget her.
Reeve Whitebeam cleared his throat, and the villagers fell silent.
“I will keep this brief. As reeve of Eldergrove, it is my duty to declare Birch the Markless an exile for a crime of violence committed against Vetch, son of Larch. From the moment he steps through Summer Gate, he will no longer be permitted to return to the village of his birth.”
The reeve gestured to the guardsmen and they moved to stand behind Birch and Buckthorn.
“Birch is to be accompanied on his journey of exile by Buckthorn, the interpreter of Ravenhurst. Two guardsmen of Eldergrove will escort them as far as Toadlock Bridge.”
The leader looked at Birch.
“If you have anything you want to say to me or to the people of Eldergrove, now is the time.”
Birch paused for a moment. There were no words he could utter to alter the reeve’s decision, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to anyway. He shook his head.
“Off you go then.” The voice came from one of the guardsmen behind him. A hand on his pack pushed him forward.
Next to him, Buckthorn started to move too, and the guardsmen followed along just a few paces back.
They headed past Reeve Whitebeam and walked between the pair of giant ash trees.
“Wait!”
Birch whirled around. Holly was now in the middle of the path. She took a step closer.
“Good luck, Birch. You will be in my thoughts. I will not say goodbye because I know that we shall meet again.”
Birch smiled at her and mouthed a thank you. He wished he shared her optimism, but unless she was planning on leaving Eldergrove, it was almost inevitable that this would be the last they saw of each other.
The guardsmen allowed Holly to remain where she was, but they turned Birch around and marched him through Summer Gate.
This was it. This was the last time he’d ever set foot in the village he’d once called home. He nodded to himself and then glanced at Buckthorn.
The old man put a finger to his lips.
“Stay quiet until we are well beyond the bridge. Then we can talk freely.”
*****
Walking in silence, they soon reached Toadlock Bridge.
“This is where you leave us.” The oldest of the two guards raised his voice over the sound of gurgling water. “We will stay here until nightfall. Do not attempt to return.”
“I will make sure young Birch obeys the rules,” Buckthorn said. “We won’t cause you any trouble.”
“Glad to hear it.” The man pointed to the bridge. “Now be on your way.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The Hawfinch River marked the western boundary of the land owned by Eldergrove. It was only three or four yards wide. Trees grew from its banks, their twisted roots bursting through the earth and dipping into the running waters.
Made from thick planks of timber with a simple, waist-height handrail attached to posts along its left side, the Toadlock Bridge wasn’t much to look at, but it seemed sturdy.
“After you.” The old man stepped aside to let Birch pass.
Birch strode across the bridge, and Buckthorn followed.
“I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve left the village? How does it feel?”
Birch shrugged. “Everything’s happened so quickly. I don’t really know how I feel at the moment.”
“I had to work fast,” Buckthorn said. “I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
The old man glanced back at the guardsmen.
“Not here. Let’s follow the path for a while longer. Get out of earshot.”
Walking next to each other, they pushed on in silence. With every step, the forest on either side of the path seemed to get deeper. The familiar sounds of birdsong and the rustling of leaves filled Birch's ears. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his exile than he currently understood.
The path started to veer to the right. Birch looked over his shoulder. He could only just make out the bridge. True to their word, the guards were still standing on the far bank.
“We’ll soon be out of sight.” Buckthorn pointed to a large oak tree in front of them to the right. “Let’s stop there.”
*****
The tree wasn’t as large as the Sacred Oak, but it was bigger than most of the trees around it. Judging by the width of its trunk and its scarred bark, it must’ve been hundreds of years old.
Birch slipped the pack off his shoulders and sat with his back against the tree in a pool of shade provided by its densely-leaved branches. Buckthorn stretched his arms and took a seat next to him.
“What did you mean when you said you had to work fast?” Birch asked. “Did you have something to do with my exile?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Birch narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“If you’d stayed in Eldergrove, all you’d ever be is one of the Markless.”
“That’s what I am,” Birch said.
“That’s what the Green Man declared you to be, but I think we both know that there’s more to you than that. What conclusion did you come to when you studied my book?” Buckthorn reached into his robes and pulled out the black book that Birch had read by lantern light in his cell.
“How did you get that? And how did you know that I’d read it?”
Buckthorn grinned.
“I might be old, but I’m not yet forgetful enough to mislay one of my prized possessions.” He looked away and then turned back to Birch. “I don’t suppose it matters now if you know the truth. When I paid the guard to let me see you I also paid him to allow me to slip you the robe containing the book.”
“Why didn’t you just give it to me?”
“I was running a little experiment. I wanted to see what would happen when you decided to compare your mark to those depicted in here.” He tapped the book. “I didn’t want to interfere with the process.”
“How did you know I’d use it in that way?”
“I didn’t, but I thought there was a very strong possibility. I would’ve done as you did if I’d received a mark like yours.”
“None of the marks in the book are like mine. There’s nothing even close to what I’ve got.”
“No. I didn’t think you’d find any similarities. As I told you before, I’ve never seen a mark like the one you received. But that wasn’t the point of my leaving you the book.”
“Then what was?”
“Did you notice any changes to your panels after you started searching for your mark?”
Birch nodded. “Yes. I received scores for a skill called Mark Interpretation.”
“Excellent.” The old man’s eyes opened a little wider. “And were you surprised by this?”
“Yes.” Birch looked down. “I thought this would be a skill reserved only for interpreters. Surely only people like you should be able to do it.”
Buckthorn didn’t look at all dismayed. “And did you check your total for this skill?”
“Yes.” Birch could clearly remember his rating. “It’s 4.96. But I didn’t start from 0. Somehow, it seems as if I’ve had some experience in this skill before I began to look at the book’s pages. But I’m not sure how this can be right. Apart from noticing people’s marks as you do when you go about your day, I don’t remember ever really trying to compare them before. Except at the Marking Ceremony. I suppose I did look closely at the marks of the other Markless and I saw that they were different from mine.”
“Perhaps that was enough to gain you some points,” Buckthorn said. “But I suspect something else has also happened. You might not have spent much time and effort comparing people’s marks before, but can you think of a time that you’ve really had to look carefully at other things to tell them apart?”
Birch rubbed his face. “The piglets! Whenever a new litter of piglets is born they all look quite similar, but if you look hard enough you can always find ways of telling one from another. I guess I got pretty good at comparing them.”
“Well, perhaps that’s it. Maybe having an experience in one skill can affect your score in another.”
Birch thought about the leaf panels. He had noticed something about them back in his cell. Something just beyond his reach. An impression that the leaf panels were built on top of other panels. Buckthorn might be onto something.
He was about to make the leaf panel for Mark Interpretation appear when something occurred to him.
"You didn’t fully answer my original question. You didn’t tell me how you were involved in my exile.”
“I met with Vetch’s father. I told him that I needed a servant for my return journey, and I suggested to him that if he pressed for your exile, it might suit both of us. He took the idea to Reeve Whitebeam, and the rest you know.”
“But why?”
“Old Rush would never have agreed to let you go if you weren’t exiled.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Why did you want me to leave Eldergrove at all.”
“I told you, all you will ever be in the village is one of the Markless.”
“But that’s all I will be in any of Verdant’s villages. Even Ravenhurst, if that’s truly where we’re headed. You’re forgetting this.” He held up his marked hand. “Unless it can be officially reinterpreted, unless you can identify what my mark represents, I will always be one of the Markless.”
“Not necessarily. I have a—”
Twigs snapped somewhere behind them.
Birch’s head whipped around. He peered into the undergrowth between the trees. Something snorted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Buckthorn said. “It’s just the wind, or a pheasant scrabbling around in the weeds.”
Birch shook his head. The old man was wrong. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot. He’d heard noises like that before. It was the same sound the pigs used to make when they were trying to warn others off their food. But this grunt had been louder and deeper.
“I think it’s a blood boar.”
“Nonsense. They don’t live in this part of the forest.”
The noise repeated. It was a warning. Birch was sure of it.
A panel appeared in front of him.
Animal Identification +0.01
He quickly dismissed it.
“It is a blood boar, I’m now certain. A panel has just confirmed it,” Birch said. “We have to get out of here, but slowly. If it charges us, we’re dead.”