Page 57

La Fatalité

With Ronan gone, Issylte lost herself in her work, keeping her inner demons at bay as she battled festering wounds, soothed severely burned skin, and amputated gangrenous limbs.

She cradled traumatized women and children, easing her own agony by helping to alleviate theirs.

Comforting herself as she consoled others.

But the inability to stop the wicked queen and her murderous Morholt sickened Issylte’s soul.

One of her patients, Gwennol, was especially dependent on Issylte, having lost her husband and three sons, captured in a Viking slave raid in Cornwall.

Too old to bear more children, who would become slaves themselves, Gwennol was left behind, worthless to the Viking invaders.

The poor woman found comfort in the tender care of the young blond priestess with empathetic green eyes, soothing voice, and gentle hands.

Many victims found refuge in the Women’s Center and Home for Children that Viviane had built near Le Centre .

Some of the women who had survived the Viking attacks now nurtured the homeless orphans, forging new families to help them all heal.

Issylte struggled to remain stoic, but as more and more victims arrived on Avalon, their bodies battered, their souls shattered, heartache was her constant companion.

Despite the best efforts of the priestesses, many patients succumbed to illness or injury.

A funeral pyre burned—a blaze of grief amidst the beauty of apple trees and white hawthorn blossoms on the healing island of Avalon.

The same flames engulfed her soul. The loss of her father.

Gigi. Tatie. Bran and Dee. Luna. Her life at the castle.

Her life in the Hazelwood Forest. And now, missing Ronan terribly and surrounded by suffering victims of the horrific Viking slave raids…

it was all she could do to bury herself in her work and not drown in despair.

Today, Issylte, Viviane, Cléo and two acolytes were gathering herbs at the edge of the forest near the eastern coast of the island.

The weather was warm, and the women had walked down onto the beach to gaze out at the sea and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine before heading back to Le Centre .

The roar of the waves and the salty tang of the ocean reminded her of Ronan.

She forcefully swallowed her unbearable longing for her beloved Elf.

Issylte knelt to collect a shell, remembering the day they had strolled together along the beach not far from here.

Where she’d found the enormous scallop shell as large as her palm.

Where Ronan had tied up the hem of her gown so that she could feel the waves caress her bare feet.

His familiar scent of woodsmoke, pine and leather stirred her soul.

She stared at the turquoise blue of the ocean, lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the waves. The sun was warm upon her face, the squawks of sea gulls a song to her heart. Without warning, darkness enveloped her with an otherworldly stillness as images began to appear on the surface of the sea.

Viking warships with carved dragons on the prow and red striped sails were sliding upon the shore of a kingdom she did not recognize.

Heavily armed soldiers were disembarking onto a beach in front of a castle built high on a cliff, engaging in battle with knights defending against the onslaught.

The clash of metal and the screams of dying men pierced the skies as the raiders advanced.

Pools of blood and mutilated bodies were strewn along the water’s edge.

In the distance, a white knight with extraordinary skill fell several Vikings, his powerful sword infallible, his white horse magnificent.

Nearby, a knight in a white surcoat with the head of a black bird on a sea of blue captured her attention, her breath catching involuntarily in her throat.

Inexplicably, Issylte was drawn to the dark-haired warrior.

He was very tall—nearly a head taller than his fellow knights—and enormously built. His armor gleamed in the sunlight, waves of dark brown hair extending below his helmet. Atop his fearsome warhorse, exuding power and emanating strength, Issylte was captivated by the mysterious knight.

Another image flashed, and she glimpsed a ring, with the head of the same black bird as on the warrior’s surcoat. The eye of the bird was a sparkling blue stone, and Issylte intuitively sensed a connection between the warrior and the sea. Her magic thrummed in response.

As the sighting unfolded, the warrior’s brilliant blue eyes met hers. Transfixing her with the intensity of his stare. In his gaze, the earth moved beneath her. Inexorably, their fates were entwined.

More images flashed, and suddenly, the Morholt—the wicked queen’s Black Knight that Issylte had met the day of her father’s betrothal—emerged from the sea of invaders to challenge the blue-eyed warrior.

The Viking’s long red braids hung down below his helmet, his burly beard braided into two forks. The massive Morholt sized up his opponent, gnashing his teeth like a beast of prey. Issylte’s mouth went dry.

Breathless, her body quivering, Issylte felt as if she were the one engaging in battle against the Morholt.

As if she were wearing the surcoat with the black seabird.

As if she now sat atop the destrier, ready to charge the Viking with his enormous, black-plumed headpiece and blood-soaked sword glinting in the golden sun.

The young warrior spurred his horse, and Issylte was galloping with him towards the Morholt, whose monstrous sword was poised to strike, his black warhorse charging at full speed.

With a powerful slash to the front leg, the Black Knight felled the warrior’s horse, throwing him to the ground.

With fluid movement, the young knight regained his footing and, as the Morholt charged again, the Black Knight was thrown from his destrier, leaving the two opponents in hand-to-hand combat on the bloodied beach.

A golden dragon, dripping with blood, blazed on the Morholt’s black armor. Issylte’s pulse raced in her throat.

The blue-eyed warrior struggled to block the Viking’s savage strikes, sinking under the impact to his knees in the bloodied sand.

When the shield finally splintered under a staggering blow, the Morholt roared like the beastly dragon on his gore-splattered breastplate.

Issylte’s eyes widened and her heart stopped as the warrior—in a sudden burst of agility and finesse—swirled in a dance of death, burying his sword into the skull of the Black Knight, cleaving the ostrich plumed helmet in two.

Her stomach quavering, her legs trembling, Issylte watched in horror as the Viking simultaneously slashed his own sword across the warrior’s abdomen. The razor-sharp blade sliced through the chain mail armor and carved into the muscled flesh. Deep red blood spurted from the vicious gash.

Issylte screamed, doubling over in agony, desperately clutching her own stomach.

The burning, searing pain tore through her, as if her own abdomen had been sliced.

Her vision blurred; her mouth went dry. Her tongue swelled in her throat.

The chilling numbness of her stepmother’s hand crept up her arms and legs, her extremities tingling like shards of ice.

Issylte’s last conscious thought was poison . Wolfsbane !

When her eyelids fluttered open, Issylte glimpsed a white room alit with candles, fragrant with the smell of burning sage, yarrow, and beeswax.

She was on her back, in a bed, with several priestesses nearby.

Viviane’s face came into focus above her.

“Lilée, you are awake! Praise the Goddess—you have returned to us!”

Her head lifted by the High Priestess, cool water touched her lips as Viviane held a cup for her to drink. “This is the holy water from our fountain, with some sacred herbs to stabilize you. Drink, Lilée.”

She swallowed two gulps, then lay back against the soft pillow. Cléo and Nyda were at her side, relief apparent on their faces as they smiled reassuringly. After a few more sips of water, she was revived a bit, able to raise herself onto an elbow. She locked eyes Viviane. “Why am I here?”

At the Lady of the Lake’s nod, Nyda and Cléo left the room. Viviane sat down on the bed beside Issylte and took her trembling hand.

“The day we were on the beach, you stared off into the ocean. Your eyes clouded over, as if you were experiencing a sighting. Suddenly, you screamed. You bent over and clutched your stomach, as if in horrible pain. We brought you here, to Le Centre , so that we could care for you.” The Lady of the Lake wiped Issylte’s brow with a cool cloth.

“You have been unconscious for three days, Lilée.”

Issylte’s mouth dropped open. She gaped at Viviane in disbelief.

“Do you remember the vision?”

Issylte described the sighting— the invasion of Viking warships, the warriors engaging in battle on the beach before a castle high on a cliff. At the mention of the magnificent white knight on a white horse, Viviane’s head turned quickly, her face conveying recognition.

She told Viviane of the blue-eyed knight in a white surcoat bearing the head of a black bird.

Of the warrior’s ring—the same black bird, but with a dazzling blue stone as its eye.

How the warrior battled the Morholt, the Black Knight of Ireland she’d met at her father’s betrothal.

She tried to explain the intense bond she’d experienced with the knight, as if she herself had been the one in battle against the Viking.

How, when the blue-eyed knight slew the Morholt, and was in turn struck by the Viking sword, Issylte had felt the slice across her own abdomen as the warrior was critically wounded in the vision.

“What does it mean, Viviane? Never before has it seemed as if I were in the vision. In my other sightings , I was a spectator—merely observing. But this time, it was as if I were there —as if I were the blue-eyed knight !”

The Lady of the Lake stared into the distance, pensive and reflective.

“I have never witnessed it before with humans… But you do wield the verdant magic of a forest fairy.” Viviane’s deep blue eyes bore into Issylte’s.

In the fairy realm, an otherworldly connection such as you experienced in this sighting only occurs between fated mates. ”

Viviane rose to her feet and walked to the window to gaze at the moonlight shimmering on the rippling waters of the fountain . The High Priestess turned to face Issylte, her face luminous and ethereal.

“The mating bond is the joining of two beings across all planes—spiritual, emotional, physical. When one mate is seriously injured, the other experiences the pain, as you did when this warrior was wounded.”

The Lady of the Lake smiled softly. “Like the swans on le Lac de Diane , mates are bound for life. When they first meet, an otherworldly bond forms when they look into each other’s eyes. Their souls entwine, their spirits merge.” The Blue Fairy held Issylte’s rapt gaze.

“When mates share physical love and become one, the mating bond is finalized. Rendered unbreakable.”

Viviane stared at the moonlight waters of la Fontaine de Jouvence.

“When mates join together, it is celestial— the physical pleasure and spiritual bliss fill you with unimaginable energy, love, and joy.” Her eyes glistening, Viviane whispered, “That, dear princess, is the essence of life… a precious gift from the Goddess…to be treasured above all else.”

A sage smile spread across Viviane’s lovely face. “It would seem, Lilée, that the fate you have been awaiting for so long— la fatalité —has finally been revealed.”

She sat back down on the bed beside Issylte and took hold of her hand. “This blue-eyed warrior is not only your destiny. He is your mate .”