AS THE horses slowly picked their way along the rough, and sometimes indistinct, trail, Michael was still musing over several thoughts in his mind that he was still not satisfied about. At a wider stretch of the trail, he brought his horse up alongside Peter’s.

“About that burned-out farm, Peter: you know, the one Rachel and I are accused of torching—I can only suppose that Yellow-Hair was referring to Katherine’s farm, back home, which I came across when I went out looking for her, totally gutted. So my guess is, he and his mates probably burnt the place down themselves, and then tried to frame us. The bastard!”

“Very likely,” replied Peter. “My guess is, Katherine’s parents tried to shield her, and they ended up paying the ‘ultimate penalty’. Whether they were really burnt alive, or simply shot—who can tell? I think the latter more likely.”

“But Sally’s farm escaped torching, and was still working. Why the difference? I’m now remembering something Sally told us, just before her arrest. She said Jerome Skinner was a friend of her father’s. Was it possible that Sally’s father had a hand in putting the screws on Sally—and Katherine?”

“David’s father, Joseph, by your account, was murderous and tyrannical. He was prepared to hunt down and exterminate his own children. So why not Sally’s father, too?”

“So there is someone still alive to carry on Strorm’s work, it seems. That whole area, around Waknuk and Kentak, seems extremely dangerous, indeed,” continued Michael. “We’re lucky to be well away, even if we are being followed. I only hope Mark and Stephanie got away safely too.

“And speaking of Stephanie—yes it was she—Sophie—who shot the man they found on the southern road. But it was self-defence: he’d have killed us both if we hadn’t acted. He killed our horse—well, as good as. It was so badly injured that I had to shoot it.”

“Your mention of Mark and Stephanie—that’s a good point,” said Peter. “We’re heading south-east now: I’m planning to intersect the Kentak to Rigo road some time. My publisher lives in a small village just south of that road. We could try contacting Mark once again when we reach the road. But my guess is, if they hit no obstacles, they should have reached Rigo weeks ago. They may well be wondering what’s happened to you and Rachel. They may even be on board ship. You could try sending a thought-shape when you get closer to Rigo—but beware! Rigo is safer than Waknuk—but still not entirely safe for thought-shapers.”

They continued along the trail in silence, most of the time in single file. At around midday, they crossed the road which Michael and Rachel had followed from Curkajak—but a good deal further east than where they had left that road. Peter urged caution, insisting that Michael and Rachel hold back, hiding as best they could in a clump of trees, while he and Big Rachel went ahead to reconnoitre.

They soon returned with signs of relief. “Not a soul to be seen anywhere,” announced Peter. “But it’s not safe for us to continue even on this road for too long. About three miles further, there’s another narrow trail leading south. We’ll follow that as far as the Rigo road, where we’ll need to take care again.”

They urged their horses into a gentle trot, for which the horses seemed to be relieved. As Peter had promised, three miles on they came upon the trail to the right. As with the other places where they had left the road, the ground was stony, and there was a stream crossing the road at this point. They had picked their way along the trail for about twenty minutes when Peter pronounced a stop for lunch. There was a small wood behind them, between them and the road, and Peter was fairly certain that they could not be seen from it. But he firmly refused to let them light a fire. “The rising smoke might be seen from the road: we’re not far enough away, and we can’t take any chances.” Even Big Rachel protested at this, saying that she was quite capable of starting a fire making very little smoke, but Peter was adamant. So they had to resort to bread, cheese, and ham, plus some of the few apples they’d brought along with them.

So they continued. The weather had turned colder again, and there were brief flurries of snow, although none of it was settling. In the evening they halted once again in the shelter of a small cliff. Once again Big Rachel demanded that they light a fire: “If we don’t, we’ll freeze to death, and how will that help us?” At length Peter relented: they were further from the road, the smoke wouldn’t be seen once it got dark, and the cliff was between them and the road.

So, in the last of the daylight, Big Rachel managed to down another brace of pigeons with her bow, and they enjoyed a heartier supper than they’d expected. That night they set a watch, and Michael, who once again found it hard to sleep, took Rachel’s watch as well as his own.

They continued in this manner for another three days. At length, in the afternoon of the fourth day, they saw the wider Rigo road ahead. Once again Peter asked Michael and Rachel—and Big Rachel as well, this time—to hold back, while he surveyed the road alone.

At this point they put out a cautious thought-shape, hoping to raise Mark, but without success.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

This time the road was not deserted. There were several travellers making their way in both directions, some with horse and cart, some on horseback, some on foot. It was fully half an hour before Peter came back and pronounced the road safe to cross.

“This time we’ll be going straight across: the trail continues on the other side, thankfully. But it soon turn east and runs parallel to the main road. We’ll have to be specially careful. And, although it leads almost straight to the village we’re aiming for, it’ll be a lot slower than if we continued on the road—but that can’t be helped.”

It was another two days of cheerless picking their way along the difficult trail—for once again Peter forbade the lighting of any fires. At last, as daylight was fading on the third day, they caught site of a cluster of houses and a church ahead, which Peter explained was ‘Palukaat’—the name of the village where his publisher, Samuel, like Peter a widower, lived. Eagerly, they hastened towards the village.

But now they had a setback. Peter knocked on the door of Samuel’s house, and the housekeeper appeared. She explained, apologetically, that Samuel wasn’t there: a few days ago he’d set out to see the printers in Rigo, and he wasn’t expected back for another two weeks.

Peter was now at a loss. He said they couldn’t risk staying—at least, not all four of them—at Palukaat for two whole weeks. He’d been hoping that Samuel, as was his custom, would invite him to stay at the house for a day or two while they went over the manuscript—but that was a favour he couldn’t ask of the housekeeper. There was no inn at Palukaat: even if there had been one, he could not have afforded to stay the whole time. In any case, it had been his intention to send the others on to Rigo without him. He wondered whether to stick to this plan.

At length he made his mind up. “I’ll come along to Rigo, after all. I really do need to catch Samuel, and we can get there in about three days—on the road. Of course it’ll be risky, but if Samuel returns early, that’ll be the way he’ll be coming, and I can’t afford to miss him. We just have to hope against hope that your pursuers followed my suggestion and struck south. If so, good luck to them!” he added, with a smile.

So they retreated along the trail they had come by, until they were out of sight of the village, and made camp. Once again without a fire, and once again they set a watch. The next morning they returned to the village and took the road leading north out of it a short distance, until it joined the main road.

Having no other option, they turned east and urged their horses to a fast trot—which once again the horses seemed to enjoy. Michael and Rachel both guessed that they were in need of the exercise. They passed several travellers on the road, but merely exchanged “Good day”s with them, without a hint of any suspicion. The four of them gave the appearance of being just ordinary travellers, after all. They also passed, from time to time, a Mail-coach: the light Mail, drawn by four horses, or the heavy Mail, drawn by six. The Mail driver of course did not deign to greet them: he merely blew his horn as he approached, signalling to them to leave the road clear for his passage—but he did doff his hat briefly as he passed them.

Of Yellow-Hair and his accomplices, they saw no sign.

They could not, of course, camp on the road itself, so in the evenings they looked for trails leading to either side, along which they could retreat until out of sight of the road, and make camp. For most of the nights they were lucky—and Peter even relented so far as to allow them to light fires. Other travellers on the road would do likewise, he admitted, and a column of smoke, or even the light of a fire itself, wouldn’t be remarked upon. Sometimes they were unable to find a trail and had to force their way across country, often picking their way through dense forest. But they did not have to stray far off the road on these occasions. Each night, as previously, they set a watch, but were undisturbed.

The villages became much more frequent, now, and they had to pause at the shop more than once. They were running low in provisions, and Big Rachel couldn’t exercise her hunting skills very often now. Peter insisted on going into the shops alone: he was known to many of the shopkeepers and wouldn’t have aroused suspicion.

At length they found themselves at the top of a high hill, looking down towards what seemed like an endless lake about two miles off, fading into the distance both to the north-east and the south-west.

“Rigo’s just down there, on the north shore of that lake: in fact it’s a sea inlet, not a lake—although it’s called a lake: Lake Melf,” announced Peter. “It’ll be your first taste of salt water! But you’ll see.

The first thing to do, even before descending to the city, was to try and contact Mark and Stephanie once more. Rachel took upon herself that task, being the one most attached to Mark. But, despite her sending out her strongest possible thought-shape, they detected nothing.

Rachel was close to tears once again, but Michael took her in his arms and tried to comfort her. “Perhaps they haven’t reached Rigo? Perhaps they stayed in Kentak after all? Perhaps it’s just that they’re asleep? We don’t have to fear the worst. Not yet.”

Big Rachel looked a bit uneasy. She waited until Rachel had more or less composed herself once more. Then she announced “This is where I turn back. I don’t really need to come down with you into Rigo itself, especially seeing as you’ve got Peter with you—and I didn’t want to leave Tim on his own for so long. I’m sure you’ll manage fine from now on. I’ll do my best to contact Mark as I travel west. If I do so, I’ll get word sent to you.

“But beware, Rachel and Michael (I don’t need to warn Peter)! Rigo is safer than where you came from, but there are still spies and informers around the city. If you must send thought-shapes, do so with extreme caution. And best of luck!”

The others could only thank Big Rachel profusely for coming so far and for her help. They wished her a safe journey back, a bit fearful for her safety: but she made light of it. “I can go back along the road, no need to cut across country. I should get back much more quickly than we came here. And I know the country pretty well. So good-bye all!”

She re-mounted her horse and rode back along the road until she was out of sight.