Here begins book 8 of the series, following directly on from the end of book 7, The Foundling of Snawbyr Crygg.

One hour to dawn, they mustered: Feyrwarl, Vala, Hanselor, and two dozen fellow-pilgrims. Yul Kinta journeying back to the ruins of their old home. Their baggage stowed, they mounted their horses and rode swiftly like fleeting shadows from their fastness by the High Vargue’s edge, heading west.

Chorl in the mountain! And not through the Main Gate. There was only one other way in and that was by the flood gate down in the roots of the mountain that had not been opened in an age. How? And why? Wycan saw and groaned aloud.

The barracks passages swarmed with guards in full fighting gear. While some were racing up to man the upper levels, more were streaming down. Keeping close to the wall, Wycan watched and listened, and understood at last:

Wycan looked around warily, scanning for signs of deeper shadows moving over the mountain face. “Are we safe now?” he said, as they passed the first rock shelf.

Wait, Ythac had told him. Wait, wait by the fox and I’ll find you.

The captain . . . laughed. "You youngsters. You know it all. Or . . . you think you do. What have you heard about chorl?”

(Wycan) breathed in the smell of rich moist loam. He never wanted to go back up into that mountain, never. In fact— . . . He didn’t have to. Thanks to Ythac, he would make his break that very day—maybe within the hour!

-ii  Some way farther down, the track split into two. . . . another, narrower ridge curved off eastwards . . .

A pace or two beyond the gate, Wycan stopped. Before him was blind, black space. To either side, ragged torch flames fluttered in the wind. Behind them, the gate ground shut and its bars clanked into place.

When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed she was smiling down on him—her hair blew freely in the wind, he felt it brush his face—while above her, deep blue sky peeked through a dome of rich green leaves. . . .