At the far western tip of frigid Shazabba, in an abandoned village built on stilts at the centre of a partly frozen lake, Sulien watched the Whelm gather on the grey pine boards.

Every day on the long journey west, then the wild boat trip south down the west coast of Meldorin to Shazabba, and every day since their arrival here, they had formed their sensing and scrying circle.

It was the only time she ever had to herself. The only time she was free of the endless work, the harsh, cold treatment and her daily punishment. She sat on the edge of the deck, shivering and gazing north towards home. Would she ever see Gothryme again, and Mummy and Daddy and dear old Rachis? Sulien did not think so. Karan had not answered her last, despairing call.

Had she forgotten her? Or were she and Llian dead? Was Sulien condemned to spend the rest of her life with the hideous Whelm, trapped at the bitter end of Santhenar? She was one of them now. They had initiated her and she did not think they would ever let her go.

Their chanting grew louder. It was horrible, like everything about them. They sounded like a flock of evil crows. The Whelm were searching for the one thing that could complete them – a master they could serve and obey without question. They had sought in vain since the death of Rulke, their perfect master, ten years back.

But when Sulien had made that desperate link to blind the magiz and save Karan’s life, it had revealed Gergrig to the Whelm, and this had changed everything. They were desperate to see him again; they no longer scried in despair, but in a fervid ecstasy.

Only Idlis, who had sworn to protect Sulien with his life, abstained from the circle, though she could see the yearning in his black eyes too. How long could he hold out?

Karan had told her to run but Sulien had no money, she did not know the land, and the long southern winter had already begun. She had nowhere to go.

Suddenly, in her inner eye, something flashed crimson, black, crimson, then black again – a seeing. Karan’s seeing?

“Mummy!” she cried. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

No answer, but the Whelm’s cawing cries swelled to a roar, and she saw, projected on the icy lake, the red-tinged shadow of two standing stones with a third across their tops. The shadow looked like a gate, and through it she saw the waiting Merdrun army. Their leader raised his sword.

A handsome woman with glowing eyes said, Gergrig, is it time?

This is the hour! he roared. He thrust the sword forward and the army charged the gate.

The cries of the Whelm cut off, then into the silence soared a single high voice, Yetchah’s voice.

“Our perfect master! Yes, yes, yes!”

Karan did not know what to do. Join Malien in a desperate attempt to locate the invading Merdrun, though she had no idea where to begin?

Give the war up as lost and try to find Llian, who was probably dead?

Or race all the way to Shazabba – a month’s hard riding – and try to hide Sulien from the most vicious warmongers the void had ever spawned?

Mummy, the Whelm have gone crazy.

Karan’s skin crawled at the image Sulien had sent her. Yetchah’s thin arms were outstretched towards Gergrig and her eyes were alight with longing. Our perfect master! she cried. Yes, yes, yes!

She turned to the other Whelm. Gergrig wants the child. If we give her to him, he will surely agree to be our master. Take her!

That was all Karan saw. “Sulien, run!” she screamed. “Anywhere! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

But then the adverse consequences Malien had warned her about, the consequences of Karan getting back her gift for the Secret Art, became horribly apparent. She could no longer send to Sulien, nor could she link to her.

Karan could not warn her in any way.

There was only one thing to do and she did it without a second’s thought. She bolted down through the forest to the little glade where Malien’s sky ship was moored. Karan cast off all but one of the ropes and, as the craft lifted, ran up the ladder. She was about to cut the last rope when Yggur appeared below her.

“You’re not stopping me,” said Karan.

“You don’t have the power to fly it.”

She slumped. He was right, of course. How could any novice operate such a craft, which was driven by subtle aspects of the Secret Art?

“Then Sulien will die and the Merdrun will win,” she wailed.

“But I can fly it.” Yggur sprang up the ladder, took the control levers and said, “Which way?”

She had never liked Yggur, and he frightened her. How could she possibly trust him?

Half a dozen Aachim raced into the glade, led by a red-faced, furious Malien. “How dare you! Get out!”

“To Shazabba,” said Karan, and slashed the last rope.

The story continues in

Book 2: The Fatal Gate.