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She grasped Ronan’s strong hand. “My father convulsed, his face grimaced in terrible pain. They watched, Ronan. Waiting for him to die. I must do something! I must save my father. Before it’s too late!”

Her Elf held Issylte in his arms, stroking her hair, until she quieted. Lifting the blanket and shaking out the leaves, he folded it, retrieved their things, and said calmly, “Let’s return to the cottage. We can discuss this further.”

Settled now on the settee, wrapped in a blanket to calm her shivering limbs, Ronan offered her a cup of mulled wine and sat down beside her. He held her against his chest, encircling her in the safety of his thickly corded arms.

Issylte sat up suddenly, decisively, and turned to face him.

“Ronan, you once said that the weapons and armor you forge are unparalleled in performance.” She set down her cup and inched closer to him on the edge of the settee.

“Viviane told me how she brought her son, Lancelot, here to Avalon to train with the Elves. Because you are the fiercest warriors in the entire realm.”

She took his hand in hers, raising her eyes to search his rugged face.

“Ronan—will you be my champion? Will you lead an army of Avalonian Elves to sail with me to Ireland? So that I may challenge Queen Morag… and save my father?”

****

Ronan was lost in her desperate eyes. He gazed at the quivering lips he longed to kiss. The long blond hair he loved to touch. The woman who held his barely healed heart in her pale, fragile hands.

She’d asked him for the impossible. He couldn’t bear to face her. He’d do anything for her. Fight to defend her. Die defending her. But this request was beyond his power. He had to reach her—make her understand. His powerful legs trembled next to hers.

“Issylte,” he began, taking her hands in his. “You know that the Elves of Avalon have an extended life span.” She nodded, puzzled, searching for meaning in his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest.

“We live two or three hundred of your human years.” He released one of her hands and gently touched her imploring face.

“But our longevity is directly linked to la Fontaine de Jouvence—the Fountain of Youth—here in Avalon.” Her emerald eyes, filled with grief, searched his face as he broke the unbearable news.

“We may travel extensively throughout all of the islands of our realm. But,” he said, kissing her hand to soften the impact of his words, “if we Elves leave Avalon for a period of longer than four months…the curative effects of the Fountain of Youth disappear. And we perish of old age in the domain of humans.”

He lifted her chin to gaze into her forlorn eyes, his heart breaking to say the words she couldn’t bear to hear. “Even if I could muster enough of an army for you to challenge the queen…we Elves would die before the battle could even be fought.”

She stood abruptly, wanting to flee, but he caught her hand and stood to hold her.

“The voyage to Ireland would take a month, with the return trip of equal length. That would leave only two months to wage war against the Black Knight in the Viking stronghold he has established in Dubh Linn.” Issylte struggled to break free of his hold, but he needed her to listen.

“He has dozens of warships…and hundreds—if not thousands—of knights in the seaport of Dubh Linn. And, my princess, we would need to launch a second attack in the north, to secure your father’s castle.” He released her, and she stared at her feet as tears fell down her cheeks.

“We would have to divide our forces, with half sailing to Sligeach. With warriors, weapons, armor, and horses. Then, assuming we could even dock in the port, we would need to ride for a full day to reach your father’s castle, where we would establish a siege.”

He reached for her hand and tugged it so that she would look at him. Grief dulled her brilliant eyes.

“But Issylte, the Elves would die of old age… before the war could even be waged.” He pulled her into an embrace and whispered into her rose-scented hair. “I am so terribly sorry, my princess, but it is an impossible request.”

Angry, frustrated, and hurt, Issylte frapped her fists upon his chest. “If you cannot lead my army, Ronan, then I must find another way. I can’t just do nothing while my father is being poisoned!”

Ronan was frustrated and angry, too. She couldn’t challenge the powerful queen.

And the Morholt—the Scourge of the Celtic Sea.

An invincible Viking with an army of thousands.

With a fleet of hundreds of drakkar warships.

Issylte had no army—or even the means of raising one.

And, while her father still lived, she had no claim to the throne.

He had to convince her to abandon this outrageous plan.

“Issylte, you cannot simply sail to Ireland and challenge the queen. You have no army. Princess, you cannot do this. Please, Issylte…stay here where you are safe. Stay in Avalon… with me.”

She shook with emotion. “I am tired of being told I must keep myself safe. That I must remain hidden, while the queen unleashes evil! Ronan, she has killed everyone I love. She has taken everything from me. And now, she is poisoning my father!”

She tore at her hair in frustration. “We’ve been treating the victims of the Morholt’s attacks.

The women with empty souls, brutally raped by the Viking beasts.

The orphans whose parents were killed before their very eyes.

The men who tried to defend their families and lost an arm, a leg, or an eye… ”

Turning to face him, she lashed out, “Ronan, the same invaders who killed Yanna and Lo?c are now killing hundreds of others. And capturing slaves! I must do something. How can I save my father and stop the evil queen?”

Again, Ronan tried to reason with her. “I know you grieve for the victims, as do I. But you cannot just sail to Ireland and challenge the queen! If you were to claim that you are the Princess Issylte, the rightful heir to the throne of Ireland, she would declare you an imposter. The entire country believes that you died years ago. The queen would have you imprisoned and executed for treason. Please stop this insanity.”

He took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. He held her as she sobbed, rocking her gently, his deep voice soothing. “There is nothing you can do, my princess. Without an army… without a claim to the throne… you can’t challenge the queen. You must stay here in Avalon. With me.”

He lowered his lips to hers, pushing aside the torment which engulfed her, channeling it into the flames of passion.

He carried her to his bed, where he lavished her entire body with all the love in his heart.

When at last she lay quivering with pleasure, content in his arms, he prayed to the Goddess that she would listen.

****

Three days later, Ronan kissed Issylte goodbye and set sail for Bretagne to deliver the weapons and armor he had forged for King Hoel of Armorique.

Her eyes brimming, she kissed the amulet he wore—the pendant she had given him for protection during his travels—as she wished him a safe voyage and quick return.

She watched his ship sail away, then went back inside Le Centre to care for her patients, unable to shake the premonition of dread which hovered above.

An ominous, dark cloud, obscuring her path.

Two weeks after Ronan’s departure, news of the death of King Donnchadh of Ireland reached the island of Avalon.

Issylte was buried anew in grief. She—the forest fairy with verdant healing magic—had been unable to save her father.

Visions of his frail, leech-covered body tormented her.

Choked her. The evil queen and her vile viper forcing her bedridden father to drink the poisoned brew. His body convulsing in agony.

She hid in her room, unable to face anyone, drowning in sorrow. Her wicked stepmother had killed everyone Issylte loved. Impotent rage sickened her soul.

She kept to her room, visited frequently by Nyda, Cléo and Viviane. They tried to coax her to eat, to come sit by the fountain, to gallop across the plains or ride through the forest. Issylte couldn’t bear to leave her darkened room. Guilt and grief consumed her.

But, as the weeks passed, with more and more critically wounded soldiers and ravaged victims washing like waves upon the shores of the healing island of Avalon, Issylte forced herself back to work, caring for those who so desperately needed her.

Every one of the twelve rooms in Le Centre now housed four patients instead of one.

The conservatory had been converted into a hospital room where twelve more critically wounded soldiers writhed in agony.

The acolytes’ residence had become a second hospital, and the young priestesses now shared two rooms that had been part of Viviane’s private quarters in the main building of Le Centre.

Everywhere—in corridors, the library, the storage room of sacred stones—victims of the Black Knight languished in pain.

Some of the patients Issylte treated had come to Avalon from Ireland, escaping starvation and misery.

She learned that her stepmother the queen had raised taxes repeatedly over the past few years in order to fund the construction of hundreds of drakkar warships for the Black Knight’s merciless slave raids.

Issylte heard horrid tales of young women given as spoils of war to the Viking brutes who enjoyed their nubile bodies and reaped the rewards of additional slaves when the victims bore children as a result.

Captured young men were forced to row the Viking warships as they pummeled the coast of Cornwall to weaken the Cornish king.

Many slaves were forced to till fields and harvest crops to feed the voracious Viking soldiers while the people of Ireland starved, staggering under the weight of additional taxes to fund the Morholt’s insatiable army.