The Salt Road unfurled before them, a dusty, ochre ribbon stitched across a landscape slowly shedding the marsh's damp embrace. It wound through rolling hills carpeted in tough, wind-bent grasses the colour of faded gold, dotted with stands of gnarled, silver-barked trees that whispered secrets to the constant western breeze. Following Henge's advice and spending a handful of their hard-earned Kelp's Watch coin, Ash and Preston had secured passage with the "Silas's Folly" caravan – a name that drew a shared, grimly amused glance between them.
It wasn't luxury. They travelled perched atop a creaking, canvas-covered wagon laden with bales of pungent, dried kelp and sacks of coarse sea salt, their domain shared with barrels of pickled fish that perfumed the air. The wagon master, a wiry, sun-leathered man named Borin with eyes perpetually squinted against the dust, ran a tight operation. Guards – a mix of hardened veterans and younger, watchful men – rode flank on sturdy marsh ponies. Other travellers included a taciturn fur trader, a family of potters heading west to establish a kiln, and a pair of musicians whose instruments remained silent save for the mournful tune of the wind whistling through their cases.
The rhythm of the caravan was a new kind of survival. Dawn brought the clatter of pots, the lowing of the draught oxen, and Borin's rasping calls to move out. Days were measured in the slow sway of the wagon, the crunch of wheels on grit, and the vast, changing panorama. Ash spent hours scanning the horizons, not just for Proudmorth pursuit, but for the subtle signs Borin's guards taught him – dust plumes indicating other travellers, the unnatural stillness that might signal an ambush, the flight patterns of birds disturbed. His magic remained dormant, a coiled spring resting deep within his hollowed core, unnecessary amidst the caravan's collective vigilance.
Preston, shedding Perry fully now amidst strangers who only knew her as "the lad travelling with Ash," embraced the observational role. She listened intently to the guards' banter, learning the names of landmarks – the "Weeping Sisters" rock formation, "Thirsty Man's Gulch" (where the water was brackish but drinkable). She watched the potter's wife, Marta, expertly build cooking fires that burned hot and fast with minimal smoke, a trick Preston quickly adopted. She even struck up a tentative conversation with Evelyn, the fur trader's sharp-eyed daughter, learning about the different pelts they sought further west – snow hares, ice foxes, creatures of a colder clime.
One afternoon, as the caravan halted by a shallow, surprisingly clear stream cutting through the golden grass, Preston nudged Ash. "Watch Borin," she murmured, nodding towards the wagon master who was meticulously filling his pipe.
Borin didn't use Kelp's Own. His tobacco was a sun-bleached golden brown, finer cut, smelling faintly of honey and dried grass. He packed it with ritualistic care into a long-stemmed pipe carved from a single piece of pale wood. Lighting it with an ember from the cookfire, he took a deep, slow pull, exhaling a fragrant, sweet-smelling smoke that hung lazily in the still air. A look of profound contentment settled over his weathered features.
"Sunleaf," Evelyn supplied, noticing Preston's interest. She was mending a leather harness nearby. "Grows wild on the high plains further west. Smooth as silk. Calms the nerves after a dusty day. Borin's been smoking it since before the road was called the Salt Road." She offered a rare smile. "Harder to find good patches now. Too many traders stripping it bare."
Ash watched Borin. The man's usual tense vigilance eased visibly with each puff. It wasn't the deep, briny introspection of Kelp's Own; this was a golden warmth, a softening of hard edges. It spoke of distance travelled, burdens carried, and small, earned comforts. Ash felt a pang of something unfamiliar – not envy, but a recognition of a simple peace he couldn't yet grasp.
Later, while gathering firewood with Preston, Ash paused near a patch of tall, sun-drenched grasses. He crushed a dry seed head between his fingers. A faint, sweet, hay-like scent, reminiscent of Borin's smoke, rose from the crushed fibres. He held it out to Preston.
"Sunleaf?" she guessed, sniffing. "Smells… gentle."
Ash nodded. "Different from the cliffs. Different from the Fens." It was a statement about more than just tobacco. This land, the Salt Road, offered a different flavour of existence – harsh, vast, but potentially kinder than the cloying oppression of Proudmorth or the sucking dread of the marshes.
Days blended into a week. The hills grew steeper, the air drier and thinner. The golden grasses gave way to sparse, silvery shrubs and outcrops of rust-coloured rock. The caravan's pace slowed with the incline. Preston, unused to the relentless walking combined with wagon-jostling, developed blisters that she stubbornly ignored until Ash, noticing her slight limp, wordlessly handed her a small pot of rendered fat and bog myrtle from their supplies – good for soothing and preventing infection. She accepted it with a curt nod, the gratitude evident only in the slight relaxation of her shoulders later that evening.
They took turns walking beside the wagon, stretching their legs, falling into step with different members of the caravan. Ash found himself walking alongside Kael, the oldest guard, a man whose face was a roadmap of scars and squint lines. Kael spoke little, but his eyes missed nothing. He pointed out a circling hawk. "Messenger hawk," he grunted. "Trained. See the jess? Belongs to the Sky Sentinels. Watchtower must be near." He spat. "Costly to send a bird. Means news worth paying for."
Ash filed the information away. Sky Sentinels. Watchtowers. A network he hadn't known existed. Proudmorth's reach was long, but out here, other powers watched too.
Preston often walked with Marta, the potter's wife. Marta, a woman of endless practical energy and a surprisingly bawdy laugh, taught Preston how to identify edible tubers hidden beneath the tough shrubs ("Look for the crinkled leaves, lad, like an old man's forehead!") and how to weave sturdy grass baskets to carry their finds. Preston, in turn, shared her knowledge of marsh plants and their uses, earning Marta's genuine respect. "Sharp eyes you got, Perry," Marta remarked one day as Preston spotted a cluster of edible berries Marta had missed. "Useful on the road."
One evening, camped in the lee of a massive, wind-sculpted sandstone formation known as the "Old Man's Chin," Borin offered his pipe around the central fire after supper. "Sunleaf," he announced, his voice carrying easily in the quiet of the high plains night. "Calms the dust from your throat and the road from your bones."
He passed the pipe first to Kael, who took a slow, appreciative pull, exhaling with a sigh that seemed to ease decades of tension. It went to the fur trader, then to Marta's husband. When it reached Ash, he hesitated only a moment. He mimicked Borin's slow draw. The smoke was indeed smooth, sweet but not cloying, carrying the warmth of the sun-baked plains. It spread through him like liquid gold, soothing the deep ache of constant vigilance without dulling his senses. It was profoundly different from Kelp's Own's briny intensity; this was the taste of open sky and distance. He passed it to Preston.
She took it, her expression serious. She inhaled carefully, held it, and exhaled a thin stream of fragrant smoke. Her eyes widened slightly. "It tastes… like sunlight feels," she murmured, her voice soft with wonder, momentarily forgetting Perry's gruffness. She passed the pipe on, a thoughtful look on her face.
As the pipe made its rounds, stories began to flow, loosened by the Sunleaf's gentle warmth and the shared fire. Kael spoke sparingly of a skirmish with desert raiders years ago. Marta told a hilarious, slightly scandalous tale about a goat that ate an entire batch of unfired pots. Even the usually silent fur trader shared a brief, poignant story about finding a lost snow fox kit in the northern wastes.
Ash and Preston listened, adding nothing of their own pasts, but absorbing the tapestry of lives lived along the Salt Road. The firelight painted their faces, the fragrant smoke weaving a fragile sense of community. Preston caught Ash's eye across the flames. In his ash-silver gaze, she saw a reflection of her own feeling – not peace, not yet, but a profound sense of distance. Distance from Proudmorth's shadow, distance from the immediate terror of pursuit. They were adrift, yes, but adrift in a vastness that offered anonymity, and perhaps, a strange kind of belonging to the rhythm of the road itself.
Later, as they settled into their bedrolls under the wagon for shelter, the vast canopy of stars blazing cold and bright above the high plains, Preston spoke into the darkness, her voice barely a whisper. "Sky Sentinels… Do you think they watch for people like us?"
Ash was silent for a long moment, watching the slow wheel of the stars. "They watch for trouble," he finally replied, his voice low. "We just need to not look like trouble." He paused. "The Sunleaf… it was good."
A soft sound, almost like a chuckle, came from Preston's bedroll. "Gentler than Kelp's crab bite, that's for sure." A beat of silence. "Marta showed me how to weave a proper water basket tomorrow. Useful."
"Good," Ash acknowledged. The simple exchange, the shared experience of the pipe, the stories, the vast, indifferent beauty of the starlit plains – it knitted another thread in the complex bond between them. They weren't just fugitives sharing a path; they were becoming partners navigating the same vast, uncertain wilderness, learning its flavours, one campfire, one puff of unfamiliar smoke, at a time. The Salt Road stretched west, a path of dust and whispers, and for now, it was enough.