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The Sea Raven and the White Dove

Issylte recovered physically from the effects of her unnerving vision.

She returned to caring for her patients, collecting herbs, preparing remedies.

But the sighting of the blue-eyed warrior and the bloody battle against the Morholt had shaken her very core.

An ominous cloud of foreboding shadowed her every step.

Viviane’s description of the mating bond haunted her.

Issylte had indeed bonded with the warrior through her gift of the sight .

She’d been on the beach with him. In the saddle charging towards the enemy.

She’d hefted the mighty sword, embedding it deep into the Morholt’s skull.

And doubled over in agony as the poisoned blade tore into flesh.

Her gift had carried her through the sacred waters of the Goddess to the battlefield, entwining her essence with his. She’d sensed the tingling numbness of wolfsbane. The poison in the Viking blade. Her fate was finally revealed, Viviane said. The blue-eyed warrior was her destiny. But how?

Guilt tormented her. She loved Ronan. Her beautiful blond stallion. She missed him achingly. Thought about him constantly. How could a stranger in a vision be her mate ? It was unfathomable. Yet undeniable. She’d bonded with the blue-eyed warrior. The pulse of her magic was proof.

Issylte delved into her work. Caring for her patients—soldiers missing an eye or limb, women brutalized by Viking invaders, homeless orphans traumatized by loss—stoked the flames of rage which burned her insides like sizzling hot coals.

All were victims of the Morholt. The Black Knight of Ireland. The queen’s rabid wolf.

Now that her father had passed away, Issylte was the rightful heir to his throne. The rightful Queen of Ireland. She could claim her father’s crown. And stop the evil queen from destroying her kingdom.

But not without an army.

Impotent rage engulfed her. And the blue-eyed sea raven hovered on her horizon.

Two weeks after the sighting , Issylte was tending to a patient when there was a great commotion at Le Centre.

Sir Lancelot, Viviane’s son, had just arrived in Avalon on a Cornish ship, bringing with him a seriously wounded knight.

Several priestesses were quickly preparing a room to receive the injured soldier, who was being transported by four knights bearing Lancelot’s coat of arms. Viviane directed the porters to the prepared room and was now listening to Lancelot as Issylte approached.

“He’s Tristan of Lyonesse. The Blue Knight of Cornwall. Nephew and heir to King Marke of Tintagel. He slew the Morholt in battle. But the Black Knight’s sword sliced open his belly. A potentially mortal wound.”

Lancelot carefully unwrapped a blanket cradled in his arms, revealing an enormous sword caked with dried blood. “This is the Morholt’s weapon. A poisoned sword. I brought it here for you to identify the toxin. And hopefully administer the antidote.”

Lancelot held out the blade to Viviane, who sniffed it. Despair dimmed her eyes as she shook her head with regret.

“I don’t recognize the poison,” Viviane whispered.

“Nor do I,” said another. None of the priestesses were able to identify the poison on the enemy sword.

A tingling numbness crept up Issylte’s limbs. She sniffed the bloodied blade, immediately recognizing the damp, dark, woodsy scent of wolfsbane. “I recognize it. Wolfsbane. I have a tincture that will counteract it.”

She raced to her supply of herbs, rummaged through her remedies, and retrieved the infusion of foxglove. Her magic would tell her how much to give him. She had to trust it. Issylte scurried back down the hall.

The porters laid the patient on a bed in the hastily prepared room.

The injured knight was dressed in white armor, which confused Issylte.

In the sighting , the blue-eyed warrior had been wearing a surcoat with the image of a black bird.

She glanced at the ring on his hand. The blue topaz gem—the eye of the sea raven—winked in the sunlight.

Her magic thrummed. It was his sacred stone. She would use it to heal him.

Lancelot entered the room, carrying the warrior’s bloodied armor and surcoat. With the head of the sea raven. On a background of blue waves. Issylte’s verdant magic pulsed with power.

“I exchanged armor with him,” Lancelot explained as Viviane entered the room. “You enchanted mine with spells of protection, so I dressed him in it. Hoping it would keep him alive until we reached Avalon.”

Issylte and Viviane removed Lancelot’s white armor to cleanse the gore from the injured knight’s body with calendula soap and water from the sacred spring. The Lady of the Lake murmured to Lancelot, “It’s a good thing you did, son. For he would have died otherwise.”

The warrior’s pulse was barely perceptible.

His heart was faltering. Issylte needed to administer the infusion immediately.

But how many drops? Too much would be fatal.

Yet too little would not counteract the wolfsbane.

Three drops would kill him, she was sure.

Two might as well. But he was enormous—at least double her weight.

She held the vial, letting her magic delve into its essence and guide her.

Two. He needed two drops to accelerate and strengthen his heart.

Her legs trembled under her dark blue gown.

He was unconscious, so he couldn’t drink.

Issylte carefully lifted his tongue and placed two drops of the foxglove infusion so that it could be absorbed directly into his body without the need to swallow.

His muscular chest was covered with dark hair, dampened by sweat from his raging fever.

She would tend to that later. For now, she had to prevent the wolfsbane from stopping his heart.

Placing her two hands upon his chest, Issylte fueled her healing magic into his body as she whispered spells she’d learned from Tatie deep in the Hazelwood Forest. Verdant magic flowed through her, summoning the essence of foxglove coursing through the warrior’s body.

Forest fairy fingers pulsed power into his heart, which began to pound furiously.

She prayed the two drops had not been too much.

Enchantment whispered from her lips, channeling the divine power of the Goddess through her to heal him. She desperately wanted him to live.

After a few minutes, his heart rate stabilized into a strong, steady rhythm.

He became restless, and Issylte managed to get two swallows of water from la Fontaine de Jouvence into him before he lost consciousness again.

Now that she’d regulated his heart rate and counteracted the wolfsbane, she needed to address his life-threatening wound.

She was compelled to save this blue-eyed warrior.

Intuitively, she knew her fate was entwined with his.

Issylte meticulously washed the blood and grime from his naked body and examined the wound across his abdomen.

The slice was deep, but no vital organs had been punctured.

It had begun to fester; a noxious yellow ooze emitted a rank, putrid odor.

He was burning up, shaking violently with a raging fever.

The skin around the wound was blackened with decay; streaks of red radiated from the gash.

She would need to cut away the diseased flesh, flush out the wound, and drain the toxins with an herbal poultice. Adrenaline raced up her spine.

She burned sage to purify the air and sent two priestesses to fetch the herbs she would need.

Comfrey, yarrow, red clover, burdock root, elderflower, willow bark, raw honey.

As they hurried off to the herbal storage room, the brilliant star of the sacred spring flashed before her eyes.

The hidden sea cave where Ronan had taken her.

Where a bed of brilliant crystals reflected the celestial light of the Goddess at the base of the effervescent fountain.

Her magic surged with power. She needed this stone to heal the warrior. She needed it now.

Lancelot was sitting in a chair outside Tristan’s room, his head in his hands. Issylte rushed to his side. “I need your help. To save him. Will you please come with me?”

He jumped to his feet. “Of course. Where to?”

“ La Grotte de l’ étoile. I’ll take you there.”

Issylte motioned to Viviane, Nyda and Cléo. “Please watch over him until we return. Lancelot and I must obtain a sacred gem for his cure. We’ll be back in less than an hour.”

The priestesses agreed, and Issylte grabbed two mallets and a knife.

She turned to Lancelot, her heart pounding, her magic aflame.

“Do you have a sharp dagger?” He nodded, patting a knife sheathed at his waist. “Good. We’ll need it to cut some of the crystals on the floor of the sea cave.

It’s on the north side of the island. I’ll show you. Follow me.”

They sprinted down the hall and out to the stables.

A groom promptly readied two horses, and Lancelot and Issylte vaulted into the saddles.

They tore off down the hill, through the forest, to the cliff at the edge of the beach.

The afternoon sun dipped low in the sky; they had perhaps an hour of daylight left at most.

They tethered the horses and flew down the narrow path from the forested ledge to the flat sandy shore. Issylte dashed around the jagged rocky cliff, with Lancelot close behind, until they came to the hidden sea cave. La Grotte de l’ étoile . The Cave of the Fallen Star.

The turquoise water of the sacred spring surged with life, sunlight reflecting from the mouth of the cave into five jet sprays of a radiant star.

The roar of the fountain was deafening, the light from the crystal bed blinding.

Issylte pointed to the sparkling gems beneath the effervescent water as she handed Lancelot a mallet.