Oliver Hayes's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The stranger slept by the hearth. Oliver sat near him through the morning, watching the brand on his shoulder. He did not know the mark. He did not know who had cut the man or why. Until he learned that, any knock at the door could be a friend or a killer. He could not tell them apart. So he waited, and dreaded every sound in the lane. Rowan Oakwhisper returned at noon with fresh leaves. The small druid set them by the fire and crouched to check the wound. The raccoon slid off their shoulder and sniffed the man's boots. Oliver trusted Rowan now. Together they had kept this stranger alive all night. "I don't know who did this," Oliver said. "If they come, I won't know to hide him or welcome them." Rowan touched the brand again. Their face went still. "I've seen this shape before," they said. "Not on a man. On a tree." They led Oliver out of the inn and through the woods. Oliver carried the lantern though it was day. Rowan walked fast on bare feet, pushing branches aside. At last they reached a clearing. A great willow stood there, its leaves a shimmering pink, its branches trailing to the grass. Sparks of light drifted through them. Rowan parted the pink branches and pointed at the trunk. The same mark was carved deep into the bark. Old sap had dried black inside the lines. "The hunters mark this tree," Rowan said. "They meet here. They cut their quarry, then burn the same shape into the skin. A trophy. A claim." They traced the carving. "I've watched them gather under these branches. They come from the north road. They wear gray. They carry curved knives." Oliver stared at the mark. His fear had a shape now. He knew the sign. He knew the road. He knew the color and the blades. The faceless danger had become a thing he could watch for. "Then I can tell them," he said. "If a man in gray comes to my door, I turn him away. Anyone else, I can let in." Rowan plucked a sprig of silvery leaves from a low plant near the roots. They pressed it into Oliver's hand. "Chew this if your heart races," they said. "It steadies the nerve. You will need steady nerves." They walked back together. Oliver felt lighter and heavier at once. He knew his enemy now. But knowing meant they were real, and they were coming. That evening, Oliver stood at the window of the inn. A rider crossed the far end of the lane. The man wore gray. He rode slow, scanning each doorway. A curved knife hung at his hip. Oliver's hand tightened on the silver sprig. The hunters had found the road to Moonfell. Now he had to decide what a man of shelter did when the hunter reached his step.