Five weeks have now passed since I was hired by that "Prince Valgridovt of a far-off land" to help guide his family safely to Beauclair. At first I merely suspected it, but now I am certain: our ship is being followed.
We've charted a course for shore. The captain wants to replenish supplies in a small village called Ursten, and then sail up the Pontar. The masts of the ship which sails after us are constantly visible on the horizon.
The worst is upon us. We shall drown. The shore was within our reach when a horrible wind blew us back. The gale tossed our ship against the rocks. We're taking on water. The yard fell and crushed my legs. I don't know what will come to pass now. I have failed them, have failed the heirs to the royal dynasty whom I was charged to escort safely to Beauclair... The sealed letters were in the chest which the sailors tossed overboard when the ship began to sink.
If they ever wash ashore, if anyone ever finds them and this journal, know that they need to be given to a woman answering to the name of Viki. She does not know the local tongue, but if you read the words "Viedhog latrut alame hoire," she will know what to do. I hope she has survived - luckily, she and the child sail in another ship. The elder insisted we travel separate. He was right. I don't know who chases us... I only know that I shall soon die...