Page 60

Issylte accepted the praise with humility and returned to care for her patient. Lancelot promised to check in on him later that day as Issylte, la guérisseuse celtique, went back into Tristan’s room to stay by his side.

He slept peacefully, his handsome face serene.

Issylte took advantage of the opportunity to observe him as a man rather than patient.

His dark brown hair was wavy and thick, extending to the tops of his wide shoulders.

His forehead was broad; dark, thick brows arched over equally dark, thick lashes.

Her eyes traced the strong jawline, covered in stubble.

She spotted a scar on his left cheekbone, the vestige of one of his many battles as a warrior.

His bare torso was heavily muscled, with dark hair across his chest, extending down his abdomen to the stitches in his wound.

The knight’s arms were thickly corded with the same muscles that rippled throughout his body; Issylte found that he compared to Ronan in size and apparent strength.

At thought of her Elf, she chided herself.

Here she was, admiring the masculine form of Tristan while Ronan was returning to Avalon in a few short weeks.

While part of her longed to welcome her Elf with open arms, another part, newly awakened, yearned to discover more about this sea raven warrior.

As if he sensed Issylte’s attention, Tristan awoke and smiled at her.

His deep voice was hoarse and gruff. “The first thing I saw was your green eyes. And your face—illuminated with golden light.” He sipped the water that she offered from a cup and murmured, “I didn’t know if I were still in this realm or if I had passed into the next.

But I knew I was in the hands of the Goddess .

” He locked eyes with her, his voice reverent and hushed.

“ You are the vision I saw. I owe you my life.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Thank you, my green golden goddess .”

A surge of emotions flooded her—gratitude, joy, relief, wonder—as she gazed into the pools of his eyes.

As he held her hand, his touch thrilled her, sending pulses of sensation into her body.

Again, she thought of Ronan and withdrew her hand in a sudden flash of guilt.

Her palms were damp, her mouth dry. Her magic pulsed with power.

Lancelot and Viviane entered the room, both smiling broadly to see the patient in such good spirits. Issylte stood to greet them, and Lancelot joked to his friend, “Tristan, it’s great to see you’ve recovered. Ready to battle more Vikings?”

Tristan laughed, then winced and clutched his stomach. “I think I need a bit more time in the care of this most capable healer.” He smiled at Issylte, his brilliant blue eyes gleaming with gratitude. “I don’t even know your name, beautiful priestess.”

She replied, her voice hushed, “My name is Issylte. But here in Avalon, I am called Lilée.”

At the warrior’s raised eyebrow, Viviane explained. “Issylte is the only child of the late King Donnchadh of Ireland. The rightful heir to his throne. She was sent here for her protection when Queen Morag, Issylte’s stepmother, tried to kill her. Twice .”

Tristan’s eyes darted to Issylte, who nodded in agreement. “The Lady Viviane chose the name Lilée to hide my identity while I’m here in Avalon. She named me for the water lilies on le Lac de Diane . The beautiful lake near Le Centre .”

The corners of Tristan’s mouth curved softly. “A lovely name… for a lovely priestess.”

Lancelot flashed his boyish grin. “Tristan slew the Morholt—the Black Knight. Previously undefeated in battle.” He grinned at his bed-ridden friend. “And he’s also the only knight to have ever disarmed the great Lancelot of the Lake!”

Grasping Tristan’s arm in a friendly squeeze, the First Knight of Camelot said affectionately, “Thank the Goddess you survived. I saw the Morholt slice you open. I brought you here, to the Island of Healing.” Lancelot took Issylte’s hand and kissed it as he had earlier in the day.

“Thank you, Princess Issylte, Priestess of Avalon. For saving Tristan’s life. ”

Lancelot turned his attention back to Tristan.

“I borrowed one of King Marke’s ships to bring you here.

I’ll sail on the morrow to return it to Cornwall.

” He glanced at his mother. “I shall also bring a ship from Avalon, so that I may return here from Tintagel.” Viviane nodded, granting his request for the Avalonian vessel.

The White Knight addressed Tristan once again, his tone guarded and serious. “We repelled the Viking invasion, but I need to speak to Gorvenal about King Marke’s losses. Ascertain that the Knights of the Round Table successfully returned to Camelot.”

Lancelot leaned down to grip Tristan’s shoulder. “I’ll be gone for six to eight weeks, but I’ll return as soon as possible. In the meantime,” he drawled, grinning slyly at Issylte. “I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of our lovely priestess Lilée.”

Kissing Issylte’s hand once again, then Viviane’s cheek, the First Knight of Camelot bid them all farewell as he prepared to depart for Cornwall.

When a priestess delivered some broth for Tristan, Viviane said good night and left Issylte to care for her patient.

Issylte helped him elevate his torso a bit so that he could eat, spoon feeding him the vegetable broth, which he devoured.

“Could I please have more? I’m famished.

” She grinned at his request, quickly dashed to the kitchen, and returned with twice the amount as before, which he consumed with relish.

The white dove fluttered in her grateful heart.

After he finished his meal, Issylte changed his bandage, applying more of the antiseptic salve to his stitches before placing a clean dressing on the wound. She promised to return in an hour or so, placed the chamber pot within his reach and left to care for her other patients.

Vibrant shades of pink and violet streaked the summer sky with the last rays of the setting sun.

Issylte strolled through the jasmine scented gates of Le Centre, past the fragrant aubépines and apple blossoms, down the cobbled stone path to the new Women’s Center where Gwennol’s warm, smiling face greeted her approach.

With an affectionate hug, her former patient whispered, “Thank you for the tender care you’ve given me, Lilée. ”

Gwennol gestured to the women around her, bustling with activity.

Near the hearth in the large kitchen, some were chopping fresh vegetables from the garden while others added savory herbs and freshly plucked poultry to the simmering stew.

The familiar aromas of garlic and rosemary wafted through the cheerful residence where children scurried under foot, squealing with glee as they chased each other madly out the front door.

“Many of us are settling into new homes here,” Gwennol explained, hugging a little girl who bumped into her as the child raced to catch up with her friends. “And in the villages of Rochefort and Briac.” She took Issylte’s hand, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I must believe that my husband and sons are still alive. Even if they are slaves,” she choked. “I cling to the hope that the Goddess will reunite us one day.”

Gwennol gazed out the window of the large eating area to the spacious grassy plain where little ones frolicked in front of the adjacent Children’s Center.

“Unlike these poor children, who have lost everyone.” Her eyes glimmering, she whispered to Issylte, “I am sure that in your experience, Lilée, you know that the best way to heal oneself is to care for others.”

She hugged Issylte warmly, then turned to greet a small boy who had wrapped his arms around her knees before dashing off to play again. “Caring for these children—and each other—is helping all of us to heal.”

With another affectionate hug and a warm goodbye, Issylte returned to Tristan, her heart filled with hope.

Over the next few days, Issylte helped him stand and, with the aid of a walking stick, stroll down the hall of Le Centre to the conservatory.

When he spotted the harp, Tristan glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, asking permission to play.

With a bright smile and a nod, she watched as he eased himself carefully onto the bench and began to strum the golden harp.

To her delight, he was quite skilled, and soon Viviane, Nyda, Cléo and a small crowd of patients gathered to enjoy the lilting, lyrical notes pouring from his gifted hands.

As she listened to the ethereal music, her spirit soared as visions floated to her on the evocative melody.

She danced with him in a ballroom of a gleaming white castle, crystal chandeliers glowing in the candlelight, windowed doors opening onto a courtyard filled with fragrant blooms upon an ivy-covered trellis.

A pair of white swans swam upon a dark lake, rippling waves glinting in the moonlight under a starry night sky.

Viviane’s words returned to her. “As it is with swans, the beautiful white birds on le Lac de Diane, mates are bound for life.”

Issylte took in the smiling face of the Lady of the Lake, remembering how the High Priestess had once said that she hoped someone would one day grace Le Centre with the beautiful music of the untouched harp.

She met Viviane’s gaze, recognizing the gratitude she found in her mentor’s glistening eyes.

****

Tristan was anxious to resume his physical training, but Issylte insisted he wait another three weeks until his injury was more fully healed.

As she cleansed his wound to change the dressing, she was very aware of how he was responding to her touch.

She murmured, “It is a good sign that your body is returning to normal. You are nearly healed.”

He responded in a husky voice, “It is your touch, Issylte.” His hungry eyes locked with hers. “I long for more .”