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Viviane sat in Issylte’s new room at the table which overlooked the fountain, just as it had in her bedroom in the acolyte’s residence.

The Lady of the Lake noticed the lovely collection of seashells, picking one up to examine more closely.

Issylte smiled, remembering the day on the beach with Ronan when they’d collected the shells.

“Isn’t that one beautiful? Ronan brought it back for me on his last voyage to Armorique.

” Guilt gripped her heart. Tristan would be leaving soon.

And Ronan would return. All would get back to normal after the sea raven warrior left. Then why didn’t she want him to go?

Issylte washed her face and hands with the fragrant jasmine soap, then turned to Viviane.

“Ronan should be returning soon. He’s been gone nearly three months.

” Anticipation, sadness, and guilt flickered in her heart as she dried her hands on a clean cloth, sat down beside Viviane, and gazed at the fountain from her window.

Issylte told Viviane about the visions. The hidden object in a mirrored lake that she needed to protect.

The wicked queen, snake wizard, and wizened dwarf forcing an unfamiliar king to drink from a poisoned chalice.

A pregnant woman held prisoner in a high tower hidden deep in a dark forest. The penetrating black eyes of the hideous dwarf transfixing her with terror as he pierced her soul.

“Who is this king? And the pregnant woman? The dwarf with malevolent black eyes, staring right through me. What do these visions mean? I don’t understand.”

Viviane replied, “Neither do I, Lilée. But I will send messages through the woodland creatures to see what information can be gathered. Perhaps we can discover who they are.” Viviane moved to stand up, but Issylte caught her hand, as if begging her to stay.

“Viviane, I am confused about what you said. That Tristan is my mate .” Issylte searched the profound depths of Viviane’s eyes, blue as le Lac de Diane .

“Tristan will be leaving soon. To return to Cornwall and his uncle King Marke. Or back to Camelot, with Lancelot and the Knights of the Round Table.” She held Viviane’s hand as her pulse raced and her mouth went dry.

“How can Tristan possibly be my mate— his fate entwined with mine — when he is leaving ?” Issylte noticed the shell Viviane had been admiring.

Her thoughts flooded with images of the handsome blond Elf returning to Avalon.

She raised her eyes to implore the Lady of the Lake.

“How can Tristan be my mate —when I have been so romantically involved with Ronan?”

Viviane gazed at the fountain in the center of the courtyard, illuminated by the pink and orange glow of the setting sun. Contemplating the glorious colors, immersed in reflection, Viviane murmured pensively, “Ronan obviously plays a very important role in your destiny.”

Directing her otherworldly gaze to Issylte, the Lady of the Lake whispered, “The Goddess works in mysterious ways. I do not know how Ronan will affect your future. But it is clear that he will.”

Viviane stared into the depths of Issylte’s eyes, as if peering into her forest fairy soul. “And it is also clear that Tristan is indeed your mate .”

Pausing for her words to reach Issylte, the Lady of the Lake murmured, “Have you not felt the truth of this when you look into his eyes? Can you not sense a spiritual bond between your soul and his? Do you not long for him—not just physically—but across all realms ?”

Issylte nodded, swallowing a surge of emotions.

“Yes, I have sensed a spiritual bond with him that is unmistakable.” Knowing that the guilt she felt in her heart must be written plainly across her face, Issylte confessed, “But I also long for Ronan. He and I have been lovers. Our relationship has been wonderful .”

Her eyes fixed on the Lady of the Lake. “Viviane—If Tristan is leaving Avalon, and Ronan is coming back to me, how can Tristan possibly be my mate ?”

Quietly, reverently, Viviane replied, “The Goddess will reveal the path you must follow, Lilée. We must be patient and trust in Her divine wisdom.”

The Lady of the Lake rose to her feet and smoothed her long white robe.

“Come, let us go to the dining area. Your patient, Tristan, has been training with some of the injured warriors as part of their recuperation. His encouragement and praise have been very good for them.” With a warm smile, she linked Issylte’s elbow with her own.

“I saw him near the fountain a little while ago. I am sure he’ll be eager to tell you about their progress at supper. ”

****

For the past few weeks, as Tristan gained more and more strength, he and Issylte had been riding through the forest, sometimes heading into the villages of Rochefort and Briac to obtain supplies or check in on her former patients.

To her delight, he loved seafood as much as she did, and they often brought back harvested shellfish and fresh catch for the cooks to use in preparing dishes for the priestesses and patients of Le Centre .

Now that he was nearly recovered, Tristan had been taking meals in the dining area, where most of the remaining patients also ate along with the priestesses and acolytes.

Tonight, as she and Tristan were finishing their evening meal of omelette aux fines herbes, Issylte glimpsed Lancelot through the windowed doors.

He had apparently just returned from Cornwall and was now striding briskly past the fountain towards the dining area.

He approached their table, and by his countenance, Issylte could tell that the news he brought from Tintagel was anything but good.

Tristan stood to greet his friend, clasping him on the shoulders in a friendly embrace and offering to fetch him some food, which Lancelot heartily accepted. When Tristan returned with a heaping plate, he sat back down at the table and anxiously awaited Lancelot’s report.

It seemed the Knight of Camelot did not wish to discuss Cornwall just yet, for he commented on Tristan’s apparent good health and remarkable recovery.

“You are looking very well, my friend,” he beamed, as he devoured the omelette and fresh vegetables that Tristan had served.

“How soon can you resume your training?”

“I’ve already begun,” Tristan smirked. “You know me. I am not one to sit idle for long, am I?”

Chuckling, Lancelot agreed and finished off another mouthful. Turning to Issylte, he asked with his charming boyish grin, “And you, beautiful Princess of Ireland, how do you fare?”

She smiled warmly at his weary, handsome face. “I am doing very well indeed, Sir Lancelot. I am most pleased with the rapid recovery of my diligent patient.” Tristan’s gaze washed her in a wave of blue.

****

Once Lancelot had finished eating, they returned to Tristan’s room, where the three of them sat at his table. Tristan, sensing the imminent bad news, blurted, “Out with it, Lance. Tell me.”

Lancelot raked his dark brown hair with his fingers. “It’s bad, Tristan.” His eyes glazed with grief. Tristan’s stomach sank and his mouth went dry. What had happened?

“Indulf claims to be the victor who defeated the Morholt.” Tristan shot Lancelot an incredulous look. “He offers the split headpiece as proof. He brags that it was his sword that clove the Black Knight’s skull in two.”

Tristan leapt to his feet and slammed his hands down on the table. Fury pounded in his temples. “The bloody bastard ! I slew the Morholt!! And he claims MY victory!”

Lancelot stood and turned to face him, his expression grave. “There’s more. And it gets worse.” The White Knight began pacing the length of the wall near the window. Tristan followed him with furious eyes.

“Indulf claims that you fled the battlefield, cowered by the Morholt. He denounces you as a traitor for abandoning your country. In a stolen ship. While the rest of the army faced the onslaught of the Viking assault.” Lancelot lowered his eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees.

He placed his head in his hands and said quietly, “They claim that I pursued you, tried to reason with you, and when that failed, I returned the ship—without you—to Tintagel.”

As if to minimize the blow of his words, Lancelot softened his voice.

“Indulf, in alliance with the dwarf Frocin—and backed by Vaughan and Connor, who claim to be witnesses—have convinced your uncle Marke to banish you from Cornwall as a traitor, a thief, and a coward—thereby stripping you of your status as heir to his throne.”

Tristan staggered, the words a painful physical blow.

“King Marke has agreed to the banishment. He’s rescinded you as his heir… and has proclaimed Indulf the new champion of Cornwall.”

Tristan stormed back and forth along the wall, his head pounding, his stomach roiling with rage. He couldn’t breathe. This was impossible. His uncle would never banish him. Or replace him with Indulf!

Lancelot said gently, his eyes wary, “There is more, Tristan. You should sit down to hear the rest. It gets worse.”

Tristan shot Lancelot a glance of utter disbelief. “ Worse ? What could possibly be worse?”

Lancelot stared at his feet, his voice barely audible.

“The dwarf Frocin—and his close friend Indulf—have suggested to King Marke that an alliance with Ireland is in the best interest of Cornwall. They have suggested a royal wedding . Between King Marke of Cornwall, and…” his eyes rose to meet Issylte’s.

“Queen Morag of Ireland.”

Issylte shot to her feet, her hands clasped over her mouth. “The queen who poisoned my father ?” She turned to Tristan, her eyes ablaze. “This dwarf Frocin. I have seen him. In my visions.”