Page 62

Return from Cornwall

The centers that Viviane had established for the victims of the Viking slave raids were prospering.

Many of the surviving women now worked collaboratively to cultivate large fruit and vegetable gardens, care for the orphaned children they’d adopted, tend to animals, and complete household tasks, such as cooking, cleaning, and laundry.

Issylte often worked with Nyda and Cléo alongside the women, now that there were fewer patients at Le Centre.

Sometimes , a sick child needed an herbal tincture for ear pain or a tonic for a stomach ailment.

A few wounded soldiers were still recovering, including Tristan.

But the priestesses were able to harvest crops, collect eggs from the hens, shear the sheep—whatever was necessary to help the women and children recover.

Today, Issylte delivered a healthy baby boy to one of the young women who, having lost her husband in a slave raid, had come to Avalon pregnant and alone.

Both baby and mother were doing well, and Issylte was delighted to have welcomed a new life into the Women’s Center on the nurturing Island of Healing.

Walking now with Gwennol, who had become the resident supervisor of the Women’s Center, Issylte chatted about the new mother and baby, and the overall prosperity and positivity that the center had brought into so many lives.

Gwennol, one of the oldest women, had become a mother figure to them all, showering the victims with love as she healed her own broken heart.

Issylte and Gwennol strolled along the edge of the forest where a stream irrigated the gardens and watered the many animals.

The source of the stream was a natural underground spring, which flowed into a large pool, where the children loved to swim and frolic.

Nearby was the well which served as the source of drinking water for the residents of the two new centers, which had been built upon an open, grassy plain, surrounded by forest, nourished by the sacred waters of Avalon.

The two women sat down upon one of the stone benches to rest in the shade of a large oak tree, gazing at the turquoise spring which bubbled from the depths of the pool.

Dense foliage provided cool shade from the late July sun, the lulling sound of the gurgling spring restful and restorative.

Two white butterflies fluttered in the soft breeze, flitting upon the fragrant jasmine blossoms which perfumed the sweet air.

It was quiet and peaceful, for no one was swimming, and Issylte was content to enjoy Gwennol’s company for a brief respite from work amid the idyllic natural surroundings.

Gwennol told Issylte how she’d come from the southwestern coast of Britain in Cornwall, the kingdom of Tristan’s uncle, where she and her husband Paol, a commercial fisherman, had established a small seafood market.

Gwennol had worked in the kitchen of the castle of Tintagel, adding to the meager income they earned from their shop.

She and Paol were raising three teenage sons, avid fishermen and boatsmen like their father.

When her husband and sons were captured as slaves in the Viking attack on their village, Gwennol had been beaten and left for dead.

Fortunately, she’d been found by the local healer, who had arranged for Gwennol to be brought to Avalon, where Issylte had healed her wounds many months ago. And had now become her friend.

“Mara will be such a good mother,” Gwennol mused, referring to the young woman who had just given birth. “And the babe is nursing well already.”

Issylte smiled fondly. “Yes… he is a big, healthy boy. And the birth was relatively easy, so Mara will recover quickly. Be on her feet again in no time.” Seated companionably upon the stone bench, the two women enjoyed the warm weather and the cool, fresh breeze coming from the underground spring.

As she gazed into the turquoise depths of the pool, the aura of a sighting came upon her. Suddenly surrounded by stillness, enshrouded in darkness, her spirit delved into the gurgling waters of the spring as visions began to emerge.

Issylte glimpsed a dark forest—intuiting that it was sacred—where a fountain sprayed from an underground well, encased in stones, at the base of a tall pine tree.

She sensed Tristan there, for she felt his spirit.

This was the fountain she’d seen in his eyes when he’d first regained consciousness after his battle with the Morholt.

Her pulse quickened and her limbs trembled.

As the vision unfolded, a magnificent lake beckoned, its surface as smooth as glass. A mirrored lake. Something sacred was hidden in its dark depths. Something she had to protect. Magic danced in her veins.

A small, dark creature— a dwarf — emerged suddenly from the forest. A scavenger.

A predator. A hunter. He was searching for the sacred object, his intent evil.

Issylte had to prevent the dwarf from obtaining it, for the object was magic.

Her own verdant magic. It sang to her from the murky depths of the mirrored lake.

A different vision came into focus. A trio of figures clad in black. The sinister wizard with yellow eyes of a python. Her stepmother the wicked queen. And another dwarf—the same one she’d seen in the vision of her father being poisoned.

The three figures stood in a semicircle around a bedridden king.

A monarch Issylte had never seen. Transfixed with terror, she watched the wizard once again give a small vial to the queen, who poured it into a chalice, forcing the ill king to drink.

Mortified, Issylte saw the wizened dwarf raise his head from the king’s bedside to pierce her with penetrating black eyes.

He sees me ! Nausea surged as her stomach clenched and her bowels loosened.

Another image emerged onto the surface of the gurgling spring.

Issylte saw a young pregnant woman imprisoned in the tower of a castle, nestled deep in a forest. The same dwarf that Issylte had just seen standing with the wizard and the queen entered the prisoner’s chamber.

Again, the dwarf looked up, his malevolent gaze locked onto Issylte.

The black eyes of a lethal predator hunting her.

Lurking in the shadows. Waiting. She swooned, her head spinning, her stomach roiling. Saliva flooded her mouth.

Gwennol’s voice echoed in the distance. “Lilée! Lilée! Are you ill? Please answer me!” Issylte came back to her senses.

Warm hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her awake.

Shade from the oak trees, the gurgling bubbles of the spring.

Woozy, disoriented and shaken, Issylte rushed to the edge of the forest and retched, ridding her body of the horrific visions.

When her heaving subsided, she walked unsteadily back to the spring and cupped a hand in the cool waters to rinse out her mouth.

Gwennol crouched at her side, concern in her loving hazel eyes.

Issylte drank from the cool spring, the curative waters of Avalon calming and refreshing her spirit and body.

Returning to the stone bench, Issylte told her friend about the haunting visions.

“That’s Frocin.” Gwennol shuddered, rubbing her arms as if to ward off an ill chill. “He is a powerful dwarf who lives in a fortress—with a tower—in the dark Forest of Morois. On the outskirts of Cornwall.” Gwennol smoothed Issylte’s hair, her calming touch soothing.

“Frocin practices dark magic. He can read the stars and conjure evil spells. Whenever a wealthy lord wants to get revenge… or wants someone to disappear —he hires Frocin.” Gwennol’s eyes filled with foreboding.

“He must be working for the wicked queen.” Icy numbness crept up Issylte’s arms. Wolfsbane.

Her stepmother would poison another king. Issylte had to stop her. But how?

Gwennol met Issylte’s troubled eyes. “Let’s get you back to Le Centre .

You can tell the Lady Viviane about your visions.

Perhaps she’ll know what to do.” The older woman glanced across the plain to the Children’s Center.

“It’s nearly time for the evening meal. I must return to prepare supper for the children. Shall we walk back now?”

Issylte nodded, wiping her damp palms on her dark blue gown. “Yes, that’s a good idea. But I’m fine. You go on ahead to fix the meal for the children. I’ll catch Viviane on my way.”

With a kiss on each cheek— la bise that always reminded her of Tatie— the two friends bid each other a fond goodbye.

Issylte headed up the path towards Le Centre, still shaken from the visions.

Gwennol returned to the residence for the orphaned children who rushed up to hug her skirts and welcome her home.

Passing the vines bursting with fragrant jasmine blossoms, amid the aubépines that the Lady of the Lake loved so well, Issylte spotted the High Priestess coming to greet her.

Viviane’s lovely face beamed, her moonstone necklace glistening in the late afternoon sun.

“Lilée, I was hoping to see you! How was Mara’s birth? Did everything go well?” Viviane, a native to Bretagne like her beloved Tatie , kissed Issylte on each cheek in the familiar French greeting. It warmed Issylte’s heart as she returned the embrace.

“Yes, everything went perfectly. Both mother and baby are doing well. He’s a big, beautiful boy!

” Smiling, arm in arm, the two women walked to Le Centre to wash for supper.

Now that most of their patients had recovered, the acolytes had returned to rooms in their residence.

And Issylte, a full priestess now like Nyda, Cléo and Viviane, had her own individual quarters in Le Centre.