At his own suite he dismissed his squire and stood before the open windows, looking down at his mother’s gardens below. He’d done what he’d promised himself he’d do: ease his father’s worries so he could die in peace. Zehava no longer feared for his son or his lands. It would be a long time before his son stopped fearing for himself.
Stronghold was hushed, and would remain so until Zehava was dead and his pyre extinguished. Rohan felt he was living in a silent shadow-world, alone and not quite real. The only reality was in fire—the dying blaze of his father’s life, the flames that would engulf Zehava’s remains, the light in the Flametower that would be quenched and then relit, and the face he had seen framed in burning red-gold hair. Himself a wraith wrapped in shadows, he could think of those fires but not be lit by them. Flames would make him prince, husband, and—he hoped—lover. But right now they had no power to illumine those future selves.
He listened to the quiet and watched the patterns of shadow play over the trees below. He should be thinking of the time when his own light would kindle and spread across the Desert with a very different blaze than his father’s. He should be thinking about his bride’s arrival, his mother’s anguish, his sister’s and nephews’ inheritances from Zehava. The hundred details of death and the million more of life ongoing should be occupying his mind. But Rohan inhabited the shadows of Stronghold, waiting for the fire.
Legend had it that long ago when the world was very young, the first Sunrunners had learned from the Goddess how to weave light. Fire, pleased to be the source of their weavings, struck bargains with her brothers Earth and Air so that faradh’im might work their magic unmolested. But their sister Water proved recalcitrant, being Fire’s natural enemy; though she could not interfere with Sunrunners gliding over her on light, she proved remarkably resourceful when they attempted to cross her in person. Placid Earth did not much care what happened above him, being constantly busy with his own concerns, but whimsical Air sometimes gave Water a little help, blowing up fearful gusts whenever a faradhi was foolish enough to sail on the open sea. Help or not, Water enjoyed herself every time a Sunrunner so much as rowed across a stream.
Thus the ten Sunrunners in Sioned’s bridal party looked in dismay at the wide expanse of the Faolain River and gulped. Camigwen reined in her horse, staring at the rushing river. “I am not looking forward to this,” she stated.
Ostvel laughed at her. “It’s only one little river.”
“Little?”
“We went a hundred measures out of our way to avoid the wider crossings,” he reminded her.
Sioned sighed. “A good thing, too, or I’d arrived at Stronghold not fit to speak with.”
When Ostvel laughed again, Cami chided, “Oh, stop it! You don’t know what it’s like to look at that river and know you’re going to be deathly ill!”
“Ah, but you don’t know what it’s like to set sail to Kierst-Isel, the sun overhead and the wind at your back, sails tight and deck swaying beneath your feet—”
“Ostvel, please!” Sioned begged.
He winked at her. “You’re definitely going to the right country,” he teased, then tossed his reins to Cami and swung down off his horse. “Here, hold onto these while I bargain with the riverman for a decent passage fee.”
Camigwen gave the water another nervous glance and muttered, “Why don’t they just build a bridge?”
“Too easy,” Sioned answered with another sigh. “Ostvel says he’ll send us across first and leave the baggage for last. Nice of him to give us some time to recover.”
“And there’s this monster to cross again on the way back,” Cami moaned. “I might stay with you in the Desert forever! Just look at that flimsy raft!”
“It doesn’t look so bad,” Sioned replied, trying to sound confident but not at all sure herself about the manner of their crossing. She dismounted, wanting nice, firm ground beneath her feet for as long as possible, and helped Meath organize the line of horses to be loaded. All the faradh’im were already green beneath their tans.
When Ostvel returned with the riverman, Cami demanded of the latter, “Why isn’t there a bridge?”
“Across this water, lady? How do you propose we span that?” He pointed proudly to the river. “She swells up in the spring like a pregnant doe to the very