The horns sound again, closer. They hear the barking of dogs. They look at each other.

“I think we can get across if we are careful where we step,” says El.

“They’ll just follow us.”

“Only if they think of doing it. If they want to take the risk. And their dogs and horses can’t be as careful as we can be. The soldiers would have to leave the dogs and horses and walk across. I don’t think they’ll do it.”

Ao gulps several times, wipes tears from her cheeks, and nods. “All right. Why not? If Spore gets me, kill me. Do you promise, El? Promise!”

“I promise.”

Spore doesn’t get them. Years of walking as atoners has made them keen observers. The threads wind in patterns, perhaps avoiding subsurface concentrations of water. Rocks provide safe stepping stones. The big brick pillars hold them up above the fog for gasps of rest. A pale haze over the dry riverbed doesn’t lift, but when they get far enough across, they clearly see the continuation of the road. From behind they hear shouting and arguing, but the haze hides the girls, and the sounds fade.

The pursuers have turned back, believing the criminal atoners have met their ordained end, by the command of the white-haired god. No one can survive who enters the White Sea.

The girls reach the new section of road and climb up to the roadbed. Safe. For now.

They walk south as the sun sets and the moon rises, and as the moon sets and the sun rises, and the moon sets again, full and bright. Another day and night pass. They run out of cider but, miraculously, reach a swift-flowing river running beneath the White Sea’s blanket of deadly mist. Amazingly, the bridge crossing this river is intact. The White Sea does not enter water, and the embankment beneath the first pier runs right down into the river. El crawls down the embankment. While she is filling the flasks, a broken yew branch floats past on the current, wrapped in a vine studded with lantern-berries. She snags it, dragging it back to shore.

“Do you think this is from Eelwise Ford?” Ao asks as they pick the berries off one by one, savoring this unexpected delight.

“River water has to come from somewhere,” says El. “All the rivers and streams we cross with the lady flow south into the White Sea. Maybe they flow into this river?”

Thus fortified, they walk on for another day and another night, and yet one more, dividing the remaining food into ever smaller portions to make it last longer. But their pace slows. They stop to rest more and more often, and they sleep through the hottest part of the day. They mostly walk at night now and through the early morning, when it’s cooler. The world is eerily silent except, once, when a wide-winged bird sails past above, croaking.