In the center of the Green, in the very spot where we were wont to hold our bonfires, a somber structure has grown. Six great logs are stacked form a sort of crib, which has been stuffed with dry brush and kindling. The left-overs from our Beltaine bonfire, the nine sacred woods, have been added to the collection. Nevvyn and I stand in the doorway of the Great Hall, watching as the finishing touches are applied.

The body of our Rian Flidais has been prepared by her handmaids. She is dressed in her finest robe. Her hair, a bit paler than it once was, has been braided and pinned atop her fine head. Her eyes are closed and no longer show the pain of this past winter. The Niafer Owl pendant rests at the hollow of her throat. The Old Wizard and I join the gathering in front of the Rian's House. I nod to the lad with the drum and he starts beating a slow cadence. My harp adds her voice in a hushed dirge, and a lass plays counterpoint on the flute.

Four strong warriors lift the beir and fall in behind us. The rest of the keep and the villagers trail behind. Three times we circle the structure, then Nevvyn gives the signal and the lads lift our lady onto the platform. They step back and the old man gives a druidic invocation.

It is now my turn. I take a deep breath and swallow several times, trying to rid myself of the lump in my throat. With another breath, I am ready. I caress Dairenn's finely-tuned strings and the lament floats out on the midsummer breeze. In a strong voice I recount her life; from the fire-haired lass who ran barefoot through these hills to the warrior woman who fought the outlaws to the last. The last chord rings out strong and hangs in the air. I silence the strings and step back.

Nevvyn calls out and someone hands him a torch from the Great Hall. With a few more words, he circles the pyre, touching the flame at the south, west, north and finally, the east. He steps back and commends her spirit to the otherlands as the flames leap up. Within moments, there is nothing to see but a wall of fire spiraling up to the skies. No smoke. No ash. Just pure clean golden light.

We stand around in respectful silence until the flames subside. Through the heat ripples, we see nothing but a thin layer of ash. Even that is quickly dispersed about the Green by an errant gust of wind. We repair back to the Great Hall, to eat and drink and relive the Rian's life in stories and in memories.