“Yes, it is the symbol of the realm you lead, and you are the light-bearer of your people in a time of darkness. Not just the light, but the burning flame that is the spirit of a realm. Our own King Santanara called your first high king such.”

King Jonaeus. Zachary shuddered with the weight of history. Did the Eletians expect too much of him? Jonaeus had not only been a warrior king fighting Mornhavon the Black for decades and, against all odds, leading Sacoridia to victory, but he was also a uniter. He brought the disparate Sacor Clans together to war against Mornhavon instead of one another, and helped form the alliance between Sacoridia, Rhovanny, and Eletia, and the other peoples who had stood against Mornhavon. Whatever the Eletians expected of Zachary, he was dedicated to leading his people to a peaceful existence so they might prosper, but it meant they’d have to weather dark times. A light in the darkness, Enver had said. He shook his head and watched after the Eletian, who strode along the path that led to the hot spring.

Estral then appeared out of the tent shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She dropped wearily to a rock beside him. “Your Green Rider is impatient to heal, and a bit angry. I think she’s been having really bad dreams, but she won’t talk to me about it.”

He could see it was taking a toll on Estral. “Perhaps I can talk to her.”

“Yes please. She will talk to you.”

He wasn’t sure about that, but he set the sword aside and made his way to the tent. Karigan had asked that he not enter, and though he sorely wished to, he honored her request. He sat beside the tent instead.

“Karigan?” he asked. Met with silence, he continued, “How are you doing?”

When she did not immediately answer, he thought she must be asleep. But then she did speak.

“I’m tired. I just want to be my old self now.”

He feared, after what Enver had said, that it would be a long road for her to be back to her old self. “You have been through an ordeal, and recovery will take some time.”

The tent rippled between them and he was not sure if it was her sigh he heard, or the breeze against the silken wall that separated them.

“I want you to be well, too,” he continued. “After my arrow wound, I felt the same as you. I was weak, tired, and, I’ll add, a most uncooperative patient, but the menders were right that I would once more be myself in time.”

There was silence again from within the tent, as though she was considering his words. Then, “I’m—I’m sorry. I must sound like a whiny child.”

“After what you’ve been through, you have every right to ‘whine.’ In fact, I encourage it. During my convalescence, I learned that it is best not to bottle up frustration. It just makes the healing take longer.”

“It does?” she asked with a suspicious edge to her voice.

He smiled to himself. “If your captain were here, she’d say I spoke truth.”

“I think you must be making that up.”

“I am your king. I do not make things up. I leave that to minstrels and politicians.” This elicited a surprised laugh from her, which made his smile broaden. “Estral says you’ve been having bad dreams.”

She did not speak for a time, and when finally she did, she said, “Tell me a story.”

Startled by the change of topic, he replied, “Wouldn’t Estral be better for telling stories?”

“Estral has already told me stories.”

“I’m not sure I can think of any.”

“Tell me about when you were a boy.”

He was so taken aback that he did not reply for some time. She was, of course, trying to change the subject from herself.

“Please,” she said. In her voice was not just the desire to hear some tale told, but a pleading tone and pain. She was, he realized, desperate to have her mind taken off her wounds and dreams, not to have him reminding her of them. He would help if he could, but he was not accustomed to storytelling, especially stories of a personal nature.

“Of course,” he replied. “I am trying to think of something suitable.” He delved back into his boyhood wondering what might prove amusing. Sadly, his training as a young prince had been far from amusing, but then a memory came to him that made him smile. “I will tell you how your captain and I became friends.”

“Good,” came her muffled reply.

“It happened,” he began, “one day when I was hiding from my brother.” He’d often hidden from his brother. “I chose to conceal myself in Rider stables. Most of the Riders, I recall, were out on errands with the fine summer weather. I must have been seven or so.” He crinkled his brow trying to remember, and nodded to himself. “Besides my brother, I also managed to evade the Weapon who was assigned to me. His name was Joss, and I am certain I was responsible for turning him prematurely gray.” Poor Joss, he thought.

“At any rate, I was hiding and sulking, wishing I could be back home in Hillander looking for crabs along the shoreline, or stuffing my mouth full of blueberries instead of being stuck in Sacor City all summer. I hid up in the hayloft and watched as this red-haired Rider walked slowly and unsteadily down the aisle between the stalls. Her arm was in a sling.”

“A sling?”

“Why, yes. She had a dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, and a concussion, but I’ll get to that in a minute. I remember being fascinated as she halted in front of the stall of a blue roan gelding. He poked his nose out to look at her, and I could swear the two of them were locked in some mental battle. The gelding, who I soon came to learn was named Bluebird, stepped backward, his head drooping.