Sure enough, the gang follows the horse. The alchemist, bound and sullen, rides along with them in the back of the wagon. Cang drives it. For eight days they follow the gutted road, eating nothing but dried mussberry and the occasional gikken Shyan manages to bag.
Abia, by turns, holds long conversations with the horse, totally unintelligible to her friends and the alchemist, and passes long silences in steady, unassailable contemplation. Sometimes she speaks with their other mounts, as well, though none are so loquacious as the alchemist’s. Abia keeps the contents of their talks private, other than to share the horse’s name: Larry.
Larry has never heard of Eric Wagon, but he agrees to show Abia where the alchemist was headed.
As they travel, the broad plains to either side of the road grow dense with applebaum trees and neenwood, and by the ninth day, they find themselves in deep forest. Larry halts at the edge of a ragged clearing. At the centre stands a gargantuan puffball mushroom.