The stone was rough and fairly broken, and Ciaran had climbed mountains before. He crawled upward, through the sick light and the cold wind that screamed and fought him harder the higher he got. He retained no very clear memory of the climb. Only after a long, long time he fell inward over the wall of a balcony and lay still.
He was bleeding from rock-tears and his heart kicked him like the heel of a vicious horse. But he didn’t care. The balcony was man-made, the passage back of it led somewhere—and the light had come back in the sky.
It wasn’t quite the same, though. It was weaker, and less warm.
When he could stand up he went in along the passage, square-hewn in the living rock of Ben Beatha, the Mountain of Life.
It led straight in, lighted by a soft opaline glow from hidden light-
