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Inexplicably drawn to him, she inhaled his earthy scent, uneasy at her body’s awakening.

Thoughts of Ronan flooded her with guilt.

Unsure how to respond, she replied, “Come, let me show you where you can bathe. The natural spring which feeds the fountain flows into a waterfall that forms a wide pool. It’s perfect for bathing. ”

He was now more adept at standing and walking, no longer needing the cane.

They sauntered past the fountain to the bathing area for patients, enclosed by a stone wall covered in fragrant jasmine blooms. Placing the soap, towel, and clean clothing that she had brought for him on a nearby stone, Issylte prepared to leave, to offer him privacy.

But he said instead, “Will you join me? I might need some…assistance.” His beckoning smile made her heart flutter.

Her legs went weak as she envisioned joining him in the pool, but she recovered enough to respond. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for a healer to bathe with her patient. I’ll wait for you on the other side of the wall. Just call for me when you’ve finished.”

A while later, when she heard him call her name, she came around the wall to see him emerge from the pool and stand in front of her, his magnificent body naked and proud as her eyes absorbed every inch of him.

As she stood awestruck by the sight of him, he grinned as his body, responding to her attention, flustered her even more.

Swallowing with difficulty, she helped him dry off and don his clean clothing so they could return to his room.

Once he was settled at the table, his midday meal in front of him, Issylte left to care for her other patients, promising to take him for a walk in the nearby woods when she returned.

Later that afternoon, they strolled into the forest near the lake, enjoying the warm summer breeze and the heady fragrance of the jasmine flowers and aubépines in bloom.

The thick canopy of trees sheltered them from the hot summer sun as their footsteps fell softly onto the pine needles strewn across the forested earth.

Tristan told her of his childhood at le Chateau d’Or in Lyonesse, where he and his sister Talwyn—as royal children preparing for their future as monarchs—had studied astronomy, geography, music, literature, and French.

They’d learned to play the harp, dance with finesse, recite poetry, manage servants and household accounts, become proficient in equestrian skills.

He shared with Issylte how he’d been a squire in his father’s castle the fateful day he and the knight Goron had returned from their hunt to find le Chateau d’ Or under attack.

How an enormous Viking—much like the Morholt he’d killed in the battle of Tintagel—had executed his father and slaughtered both his mother and sister, as Tristan was forced to endure their screams. He shared his guilt and impotent rage at being too young to defend his family, the shame of being the sole survivor, sent to the castle of his uncle Marke, the king of Cornwall, to complete his training as a knight.

He told her of the Tournament of Champions, where the sea raven ring gifted by his uncle had led to his triumph.

How he’d been dubbed the Blue Knight of Cornwall, training with Lancelot to become a Knight of the Round Table of King Arthur’s Camelot.

He showed her the ring upon his left hand, the blue topaz eye of the sea raven sparkling in the dappled light. Issylte took his hand and touched the brilliant gem. “I saw this ring. In a vision I had of you.”

Reliving the bond on the battlefield, she murmured, stroking the jewel with her thumb, “I saw you. Wearing the surcoat with this same black bird.” She lifted her head and looked up at him.

“I saw your intense blue eyes.” His breath brushed her face.

Issylte’s stomach quivered. “I saw the Morholt charge you. You clove his skull in two. And Tristan…” she said, locking his gaze, “I felt the slice of his sword across my own abdomen as he wounded you.” Her voice wavering, she whispered, “I was unconscious for three days. Just as you were. When you were brought here to Avalon.”

Tristan’s voice was husky and deep. “When I awoke, I saw golden light, illuminating your face.” He stroked her cheek softly. “In your eyes, I saw a forest…plants and vines… small pink flowers.” He lifted her hand to his lips and whispered, “The Goddess herself…” as he kissed it softly.

Issylte withdrew her hand gently. “We should return now. You need to rest.” He grinned as she led him back to Le Centre , glancing at her sideways as she walked beside him through the fragrant pines.

She escorted him back to his room, applied a healing herbal salve to his stitches, and covered the wound with a fresh bandage.

With a smile, she left him in bed, promising to return in the morning for his continued care.

Tristan began to train his body once again, slowly easing into a less strenuous version of the routine he’d done as one of Lancelot’s knights.

One day, when Issylte came into his room and found it empty, she glimpsed him through the open window, exercising on the grassy area of the courtyard outside Le Centre .

As she paused to watch, he caught her staring, and flashed her a brilliant smile which took her breath away.

Quickly returning to care for her patients, she thrilled at the memory of his bare chest, glistening with sweat, rippled with strength.

Tristan of Cornwall was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

An enormous wave of guilt washed over her as she thought of her beautiful blond stallion.

Well, Tristan would be leaving soon with Lancelot.

The sooner the better. She swallowed forcibly and resumed her work.

Thoughts of Ronan flooded her. She was guilty and ashamed of her undeniable interest in Tristan.

It was foolish to feel attracted to a man who would be leaving Avalon soon, sailing back to Camelot once Lancelot returned.

Ronan would be home soon. Returning to her.

But Issylte wasn’t just attracted to Tristan.

Her spirit stirred in his presence. Her magic sang when he was near.

The kaleidoscope of images she’d seen in his eyes floated back to her.

She’d soared as a white dove with his sea raven over an open ocean.

Glimpsed a well in an enchanted forest, a white castle with swans swimming on a lake beneath flowered vines.

She’d been with him on the battlefield, her limbs going numb from the wolfsbane poison in the Viking blade that had wounded him.

Intuitively, she knew her fate was entwined with his. But how?

Ronan’s return filled her with unease, so very different from the excited anticipation she’d experienced when he’d last gone to Bretagne. She missed him terribly yet feared his return. Conflicted and confused, Issylte remembered Viviane’s prophecy.

“This blue-eyed warrior is not only your destiny—he is your mate .” How could Tristan be her mate when she was romantically involved with Ronan?

And how could he be her destiny if he were returning to Britain with Lancelot?

None of it made any sense. Issylte decided that in the meantime, she would concentrate on her work.

Fortunately, the number of patients coming into Le Centre had diminished, since the death of the Morholt had halted his slaving expeditions and the subsequent victims of Viking attacks.

Most of the injured soldiers treated by the priestesses of Avalon had either returned to their domains or relocated to the villages among the islands.

All the orphans had been adopted by families in the villages of Rochefort and Briac or by women victims, forming new families united by shared grief.

The newcomers were learning valuable skills—fishing, farming, building, weaving, and spinning wool.

Children were eager to learn to care for the many animals, such as sheep, hens, and horses, delighted to run and play in the forest and on the seashore of the island of healing.

For the first time in many months, hope bloomed among the beautiful white flowers of Avalon.

Tristan insisted on returning to horseback riding; he and Issylte rode frequently through the lush forest as he regained his strength.

One day, he stopped his horse and dismounted to pick several wild roses, which he grouped into a small bouquet.

“These are the pink flowers I saw in your eyes,” he said, caressing the petals.

His eyes aglow, he offered Issylte his floral gift.

She dismounted from her horse to accept the wild roses, inhaling the sweet fragrance so dear to her heart.

“In Ireland,” she whispered, her breath caught in her throat, “the forest fairies left a trail of these to lead me to Tatie’s cottage.

” Issylte gazed up into Tristan’s handsome face, his deep blue eyes fixed on hers.

“She named me églantine, as these wild roses are called in Bretagne , her native land. They will always be a part of me. And they will always remind me of her.” Tears welled as Tatie’s soft crinkled cheeks and enormous brown eyes twinkled in the trees.

Her forest fairy grandmother’s protective embrace. Issylte’s verdant heart was full.

Tristan said softly, “That’s why I saw them in your eyes. They’re a part of your soul. Your spirit. Your essence.” He kissed her hand, his eyes the brilliant blue of the sea raven ring. “They will always remind me of you, églantine .”

They walked through the dense oaks back to the horses.

Issylte heard a woodland bird’s beautiful song, and to her delight, Tristan imitated the call.

As she watched in amazement, a nightingale came to rest on his finger.

Tristan seemed to communicate with the bird, who flew off, returning with an églantine in its beak.

The Blue Knight grinned, took the flower from the bird, and handed it to Issylte, whose mouth was agape in amazement.

The rossignol perched on Tristan’s finger, eyeing her with interest.

“The nightingale wished to thank you for healing me.” He grinned, his face alit with delight.

Issylte’s magic fluttered, the wings of a white dove in her breast. “How did you do that?” she asked, breathless with wonder.

Tristan spoke wordlessly to the bird, who flew back to the highest branch of an oak and resumed his melodic song.

“This is the mark of the Tribe of Dana,” Tristan explained, pointing to the tattoo on his inner wrist which she’d noticed when bathing him.

“A brotherhood of warriors who defend the sacred elements of the Goddess.”

Issylte gazed into his deep blue eyes. A bubbling fountain surged from an underground well in a dark hidden forest. Verdant magic stirred in her soul.

“When I became a member of the Tribe,” Tristan said, his deep voice hushed with reverence, “I was given a gift of Druidic magic— l’herbe d’or.

” Chills shivered down her spine. “It allows me to communicate with birds.” He looked up at the rossignol whose lilting song floated through the forest. “I asked the nightingale to bring you this flower, as a special thanks for healing me.” Issylte lifted the églantine to her nose, inhaling the sweet wild rose scent.

Her forest fairy magic soared in response.

They returned to Le Centre , Issylte marveling at the wonder of this extraordinary sea raven warrior. The Blue Knight of Cornwall.

Whose destiny was inexplicably entwined with her own.