Morag downed the rest of her wine. Lay down upon her lavender scented bed. And sobbed mournfully into her downy soft, elaborately embroidered pillow.
She ate little over the next few weeks. Word of the failed invasion spread like wildfire throughout the ravaged kingdom. The remainder of the vanquished Viking fleet returned dishonorably to the seaport of Dubh Linn, where the Morholt had left behind a few capable commanders. The staggering loss of hundreds of soldiers and dozens of prized warships was an irreparable blow to the naval forces of Ireland. An insurmountable, humiliating defeat.
When Voldurk returned from Cornwall, Morag received him in her private chambers. Royal servants left a bottle of wine and a platter of food, which the queen barely touched. The loss of her Black Knight had wounded her most unexpectedly. She hadbelieved him indomitable. Invincible. Infallible. And now he was gone. Her heart and body ached for him.
“My deepest condolences on the loss of your personal guard, my queen. I know that you were very fond of the Black Knight. A tremendous loss for Ireland.” Voldurk poured her a goblet of wine, which she gratefully accepted and quickly drained. She raised black obsidian eyes to search his.
“My trip to Cornwall, however, was most profitable.” He refilled her chalice and flashed her a cunning smile. She lifted an eyebrow, intrigued.
“The dwarf Frocin has agreed to our request. Now that he is aware of the Princess Issylte, he will be watching to see when she uses hergift.” Voldurk took a large swallow of wine and observed her over the rim of his goblet.
“When a fairy uses the power ofsight, it leaves a trail of magic that Frocin can trace. With his unique gift of clairvoyance.” He grinned wickedly at her, his golden eyes smoldering with molten flames. “The dwarf will track her for us. And his merciless mercenary knights will eliminate her.” Voldurk traced a finger seductively across Morag’s white shoulder, his scorching touch enflaming her frosty skin.
“Meeting Frocin was most fortuitous, my queen. Not only will he rid us of your damnably elusive stepdaughter. But he also introduced me to another most powerful ally.” Voldurk’s forked tongue flicked against her quavering neck.
“The sworn enemy of the accursed Blue Knight of Cornwall.” Morag widened her eyes in delightful surprise as her breath hitched. “Sir Indulf of Hame.”
She wiped damp palms along the sides of her black gown. Voldurk kissed the back of her neck, his breath hot in her ear.
“Sir Indulf is a knight of Tintagel anxious to denounce—and replace—Sir Tristan of Lyonesse as King Marke’s champion. A knight with powerful allies throughout the kingdom of Cornwall.A knight who will help us avenge the Morholt. And capture the Cornish crown.”
Her pulse quickened as Voldurk’s lips caressed her shoulder, nuzzling the crook of her neck where his finger had sizzled her skin.
He circled in front of her and retrieved a small flask from his pocket. She searched his gleaming, golden eyes. The eyes of a dragon that smoldered with passion. Liquid fire flowed through her loins.
He handed her the small black stoppered vial. It pulsed with power in her hand.
“What isthis?” she gasped with a quick intake of breath. Her pulse pounded in her throat.
“Your future, myBlack Widow Queen.” He leaned forward to take the vial, placing it on the table at her side. “The key to the throne of Cornwall.”
Morag locked eyes with her golden dragon. Her mouth went dry.
Voldurk raised her to her feet, a sly grin spreading across his darkly handsome face. His seductive voice slithered into the shell of her ear.
“Wolfsbane.”
Her heart fluttered wildly as he planted a lush kiss upon her eager lips. Morag melted into his arms as her legs gave out. Power was a potent aphrodisiac.
He carried her across the room. Stripped off her black garments of mourning. His wicked lips scorching her icy bare skin, the golden dragon laid his queen’s nude, quivering body upon the lavender scented bed. And engulfed her lovely, lonely loins in the blazing flames ofdragonfire.
Chapter 27
La Fatalité
With Ronan gone, Issylte lost herself in her work, keeping her inner demons at bay as she battled festering wounds, soothed severely burned skin, and amputated gangrenous limbs. She cradled traumatized women and children, easing her own agony by helping to alleviate theirs. Comforting herself as she consoled others. But the inability to stop the wicked queen and her murderous Morholt sickened Issylte’s soul.
One of her patients, Gwennol, was especially dependent on Issylte, having lost her husband and three sons, captured in a Viking slave raid in Cornwall. Too old to bear more children, who would become slaves themselves, Gwennol was left behind, worthless to the Viking invaders. The poor woman found comfort in the tender care of the young blond priestess with empathetic green eyes, soothing voice, and gentle hands.
Many victims found refuge in the Women’s Center and Home for Children that Viviane had built nearLe Centre. Some of the women who had survived the Viking attacks now nurtured the homeless orphans, forging new families to help them all heal. Issylte struggled to remain stoic, but as more and more victims arrived on Avalon, their bodies battered, their souls shattered, heartache was her constant companion.
Despite the best efforts of the priestesses, many patients succumbed to illness or injury. A funeral pyre burned—a blaze of grief amidst the beauty of apple trees and white hawthorn blossoms on the healing island of Avalon. The same flamesengulfed her soul. The loss of her father. Gigi.Tatie.Bran and Dee. Luna. Her life at the castle. Her life in the Hazelwood Forest. And now, missing Ronan terribly and surrounded by suffering victims of the horrific Viking slave raids…it was all she could do to bury herself in her work and not drown in despair.
Today, Issylte, Viviane, Cléo and two acolytes were gathering herbs at the edge of the forest near the eastern coast of the island. The weather was warm, and the women had walked down onto the beach to gaze out at the sea and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine before heading back toLe Centre. The roar of the waves and the salty tang of the ocean reminded her of Ronan. She forcefully swallowed her unbearable longing for her beloved Elf.
Issylte knelt to collect a shell, remembering the day they had strolled together along the beach not far from here. Where she’d found the enormous scallop shell as large as her palm. Where Ronan had tied up the hem of her gown so that she could feel the waves caress her bare feet. His familiar scent of woodsmoke, pine and leather stirred her soul.
She stared at the turquoise blue of the ocean, lulled by the rhythmic rocking of the waves. The sun was warm upon her face, the squawks of sea gulls a song to her heart. Without warning, darkness enveloped her with an otherworldlystillness as images began to appear on the surface of the sea.
