by Andre Norton
Dancer sat up to look at her eye to eye. Then, as her gaze followed him, he rose on long, graceful hind legs to pat at a portion of the wall.
The girl gaped at him. Was it some sort of secret passage? All Keeps had those, but what would one be doing in a cave halfway up a mountainside? Dancer yowled loudly, patting at the rock.
Aisling hitched herself up a little. Her fingers traced the rock where his paws struck. Something was carved there. So mazed was she by the pain from her ankle that it took several tracings before Aisling realized that the figure beneath her hand was familiar.
She blinked. It felt like her pendant, but the shape was carved as a hollow into the rock. Dancer struck at her in exasperation, his claws stinging her from her daze. His head butted at her; she must take her pack, use her pendant. Gather him to her and now!
Every move a terrible effort, Aisling lifted her hand. If she forced herself to sit up just a little higher she could lay the pendant in the carved hollow, which fitted it. Dancer hurled himself into the crook of her other arm, bringing a gasp of pain from her.
One of the pack straps was over the arm. Well, what was she to do now? She began to slump again, her hand dragging at the pendant.
Within the rock it turned. There came a slow, soft grating as the rock wall revolved. With its turning it swept girl, cat, and pack within. In the dark something flared to light, a warm silvery glow as the inlaid star on which she now curled came to life.
It was too much for Aisling. She fell into darkness in which someone with a quiet, gentle voice questioned her over and over. She swam in limbo, a place not of her world or any other, where all things were possible.
With the questions done it was as if she was sifted, winnowed for judgment. But when the winnower might have rejected her, Dancer was by her side. His voice was insistent, demanding. Was she the only one to be considered? At last amusement came. Since he wished it greatly it should be so. Both should pass through.
After that the sensations were strange. It was as if she was flung back into the pain-filled, exhausted body, then swept away in a whirl. She could not breathe. Chill air beat at her, a feel of fluttering wings about her cringing body. Then she landed with a groan as she felt the rock beneath her once more. Had passage been denied her, after all? Was she to die in the cave?
Aisling woke finally to the cat as he dragged her once more, muffled growls coming through his clenched teeth. The pain was white fire that consumed her as she managed to crawl a little further. Her pack remained. But she herself must move, one last effort.
She obeyed, tumbling over the edge of a shallow saucer into something soft, which gave way under her. She could go no further. She hoped with the last flicker of consciousness that Dancer would be all right here—wherever “here” was. And wherever it was, at least it was no longer the mountain cave. The questioner had granted her that much. She opened her eyes far enough to see Dancer was safe, then she allowed the dark to rise up and take her.
* * *
She roused hungry and thirsty. She would have moved but could not. Fear woke to be dispelled by a soft purr in one ear.
“Dancer?”
The cat purred again, then she felt some vibration as if he tore at her prison. The sounds he made were reassuring; whatever was here Dancer did not fear it. Gradually the stuff encasing her broke away under the impact of eager claws.
Aisling moved to see. Mud. It had been mud that held her. She scrabbled to sit up, peering down at her ankle. There was no longer pain, the flesh showed white, fully healed scars.
The mud appeared to fall away cleanly, none showed on her clothing; but oh, she felt so grimy. Still unsteady, Aisling staggered to her feet. A small call from the cat led her first to her pack laying within the cave where she had arrived, then to a pool. The water was warm, and silky-feeling. She bathed, luxuriating in being fully clean again after so long. Aisling donned clean clothing, then sat on sun-warmed grass to hug her cat.
“I owe you, Wind-Dancer. I’d have just lain down and died in that cave if it hadn’t been for you. Now all I need is someone who can tell me where to go from here. You seem to have found everything else I needed. What about a guide?”
From behind her there came a polite cough. “Will I do, my child?”
Aisling gulped turning quickly to face the speaker. “Who are you?”
He didn’t look dangerous. But then neither had her brother Kirion. She eyed the man. He was of medium height, slender, and fine of bone. He was dressed in gray, and his eyes were kind. Dancer was stretching up to the fingers that caressed his ears. The man spoke gently as if understanding her fear and confusion.
“I am often called Neevor. Call me that if you wish.”
“Neevor. Where am I, how did I get here, is . . . ?”
He held up a hand laughing quietly. “You are where you sought to be. One who holds a gate chose to open it for you in your need. Your third question was going to be, I believe, is there a place for me? That shall depend on you and on what you are. On what you may choose to be.”
Aisling remembered Yvian, Pagar, those who had died in the Horning. This man might distrust her but she would not begin her life here with a lie. Her voice quavered a little as she spoke.
“I’m not wholly of your race. Part of me is from the incomers in Karsten.”
Neevor smiled, and his hand went out to her. “Child, many are accepted here who are not wholly of our kind. The Guardian passed you in.” He reached out to touch the pendant. “It has been so long, but the blood answers the call. There are those who will welcome a daughter in power, teach you what you must know. Come.”
Aisling caught up her pack, and Dancer fell in beside her as she followed her guide. At the top of the small rise she halted staring down the land before her. The wind lifted small tendrils of her hair.
A new land, a new beginning. Behind her lay everything she had ever known: her home, her family, her friends, even her land. She found she was humming Ciara’s song. She’d never been certain, but she’d paid the price. Her dream stretched before her and in that moment she knew. No dream is ever quite ended, there is always another.
She smiled down at Dancer. They would share their dreams.
Below her the land spread out. There would be a new home, new friends, and the learning she craved. She followed Neevor down the slope. She would not forget those behind her, but they had their own dreams, which were different. She must seek her own. With Dancer to help, she would not fail.
She swung down the slope singing softly. Beside her the big cat pranced. He, too, had come full circle. It was good to be home.
Cíara's Song
If the dream is worth the price,
if the singer is worth the song,
let my heart still remember
long after my body is gone.
Let my spirit seek then and find
the place of my dreams apart.
the place I have longed to find
the dearest dream of my heart.
If the price I have paid was enough,
if the song I have sung was so sweet
guide me onto the road
running with eager feet.
For the worker there is an end to work,
to the lover an end to the day.
For the dreamer never an end to the dream
nor an end to the price they’ll pay.
For the dream is worth the price,
the singer is worth the song.
I’ve dreamed and paid, I’ve worked and I’ve loved,
Now I am the dream and the song!
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