“I’ll explain at a suitable occasion,” Scharley said, stopping. “In the meantime, though, I suggest we address a slightly more pertinent matter. Namely, that I haven’t got a clue where we are. I’ve lost my way in this lousy fog.”

Reynevan looked around and then up at the sky. Indeed, the pale disc of the sun peeping through the fog, which a moment before had been visible and acting as a signpost, had vanished completely. The thick fog hung so low that even the tops of the tallest trees were disappearing in it. At ground level, the blanket of fog was so thick that the ferns and bushes seemed to be protruding from an ocean of milk.

“Instead of being distressed regarding the fate of poor beggars and having moral dilemmas,” the penitent said, “why don’t you use your talents to find the road?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stop playing the innocent. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Reynevan also thought that talismans would be indispensable, but he didn’t dismount, prevaricating. He was cross at the penitent and wanted him to know it. The horse snorted, tossed its head, and stamped its forehooves, and the sound of the stamping spread through the fog-shrouded forest.

“I can smell smoke,” Scharley suddenly announced. “A fire’s burning somewhere around here. It’s either woodcutters or charcoal burners. We can ask them for directions and save your magical talismans for another day. And your moods.”

He set off so swiftly, Reynevan could barely keep up with him. His horse shuffled about constantly, resisting, snorting nervously, crushing toadstools under its hooves. The ground, lined with a thick carpet of rotten leaves, suddenly began to incline downwards, and before they knew it, they were in a deep ravine. The walls of the ravine were covered with sloping, misshapen trees shrouded in lichen, their roots—exposed by the subsiding earth—like monstrous tentacles. Reynevan felt shivers running down his back and huddled in the saddle. His horse snorted.

He heard Scharley cursing in the mist in front of him. The penitent was standing at a point where the ravine divided into two branches.

“That way,” he finally said with conviction, resuming his march.

The ravine kept dividing; they were in a veritable labyrinth of ravines, while the smell of smoke, Reynevan thought, was coming from every direction at the same time. Scharley walked straight ahead and confidently, then speeded up and even began to whistle. And stopped as soon as he had begun.

Reynevan understood why. As bones began to crunch under his horse’s hooves.