Tristan was on his feet again, pacing with impotent rage. “I ambanishedfrom Cornwall. My name isruined, and my uncle isblindto the truth. Lancelot, what on earth can I do?”
At that moment, Viviane entered through the open door, her smile disappearing as she absorbed the tension in the atmosphere and the distraught faces of her son and hiscompanions, who were deep in conversation. “I am sorry to intrude,” she said quietly, “I simply wanted to welcome Lancelot back and say hello.” She met her son’s anguished eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
Lancelot stood to kiss his mother’s cheeks, offering her his chair. “I bring bad news from Cornwall.” After seating Viviane, Lancelot leaned against the wall and shared with her what he’d just told Tristan and Issylte.
Issylte explained how she’d described her most recentsighting—the poisoning of a king, a pregnant woman held hostage in a tower, the penetrating black eyes of the dwarf. How Gwennol had named the infamous dwarf Frocin.
Viviane listened intently and pensively, yet remained quiet, as the three resumed their discussion.
Tristan began pacing anew. “Indulf. And Frocin. Those two have plotted against me ever since the Tournament of Champions.” He glared at Lancelot, exhaled with disgust, and plopped down on the edge of his bead. “Their first attempt failed, but now… they’ve succeeded. They’vedestroyedme.”
Issylte looked inquisitively at Lancelot. He pulled up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal the same tattoo on his inner wrist that Tristan had shown her when the nightingale had fetched theéglantine.
“This is the mark of the Tribe of Dana,” the White Knight began, tracing the tattoo with his finger. “A band of warriors sworn to defend the sacred elements of the Goddess. And the entire Celtic realm.”
Issylte remembered the little bird with the wild rose in its beak. “Yes,” she replied, “Tristan told me about the Tribe, and his gift—l’herbe d’or—which allows him to speak to birds.” She smiled at the sea raven warrior.
Lancelot nodded, his dark brown waves tumbling into his face. He pushed them back with calloused hands, locking eyeswith hers. “It also allows him to communicate withwolves.” Issylte widened her eyes in surprise. She glanced at Viviane, who appeared equally intrigued.
“One afternoon, in Camelot, we Knights of the Round Table were competing in a hunt,” he explained, glancing at his friend. “In the forest, a wolf appeared to Tristan, warning him that Frocin and Indulf were waiting just up ahead in the trees. Ready to ambush him.”
“Fortunately,” Tristan interjected, “Lancelot led our group of hunters in the opposite direction. A few minutes later, we heard snarling and growling. Horrific screaming. A pack of wolves had attacked and killed a man—one of Frocin’s mercenaries. Identified by the dwarf’s coat of arms on the victim’s shield.”
From his seat on the bed opposite Issylte’s chair, Tristan said softly, “I was most grateful for the golden herb that day. The wolves of Morois saved my life.”
Tristan looked back at Lancelot and smirked, “Indulf and Frocin failed that day in the forest, but they’ve succeeded now.” He leaned forward on the bed, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m banished by my uncle—my king. I’m stripped of my title as Champion of Cornwall. I’m no longer heir to King Marke’s crown. I‘ve losteverything.” Lowering his face in grief, Tristan tore at his thick, chestnut locks, rocking on the edge of the bed in frustration and rage. He fixed his gaze on Lancelot, leaning against the wall. “Since I cannot return to Cornwall, I must return with you to Camelot.”
Lancelot cast sorrowful eyes at Tristan, then his mother, and finally Issylte. “That is impossible.” At everyone’s obvious bewilderment, Lancelot lowered his head in shame. “You and I are both banished from King Arthur’s court.” The White Knight dropped onto the bed beside Tristan, placing his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
Tristan stared at his friend in disbelief. “What do you mean? Lance,explain.”
Lancelot’s bleak face revealed despair, loss, and regret. “Frocin and Indulf have not only destroyed you, my friend. They have also destroyedme.”
The White Knight smiled sadly. “They have spread lies about my relationship with Queen Guinevere, claiming that I dishonor her with adulterous love in my heart.” His anguished eyes spoke volumes. “To prevent any harm to the queen’s reputation, Arthur has banished me from his kingdom.”
And, as if gathering strength to deliver the final, bitter blow, he sighed, “Out of respect for his ally, King Marke of Cornwall, who has accused you of treason and stripped you of all titles—King Arthur has banishedyoufrom Camelot as well.”
Bitter laughter erupted from Tristan. “What a pair of sorry bastards we are, eh, Lance?” he scoffed as he slapped his friend on the back. “Banished from our kingdoms. Homeless knights. Outlaws on the run.” Shaking his head in despair and rage, Tristan spat, “What the hell do we do now?”
Viviane spoke at last. Rising to her feet, she walked to the window and gazed up at the stars which were just beginning to wink in the darkening sky. Moonlight glimmered in the sacred waters of the effervescent fountain. “The Goddess has brought you all together for a reason,” she began, her voice ethereal and otherworldly.Turning to Issylte, she said, “You were theonlypriestess capable of healing Tristan, poisoned by the Black Knight’s blade, because you had been trained by Maiwenn—in Ireland, home of the Morholt.”
Facing Tristan, she continued. “Andyouwere brought here, to Avalon—to the only priestess in the entire realm who could heal you.” She cast her gaze at Lancelot. “And you, my son—trained by the Avalonian Elves-–taught Tristan how to defeat the infallible Morholt.”
Her limpid eyes glowed with preternatural wisdom. “And, because you had lived in Avalon, you were able to return to this Island of Healing—so that Tristanwould live.”
The Lady of the Lake sat down at the table to address all three. “The Princess Issylte has wanted for years to challenge Queen Morag.” Viviane gazed at Issylte, who nodded in agreement, her breath hitching with rapt attention.
“While her father lived, Issylte had no claim to the throne. Later, after his death, she had no army to challenge the wicked queen who ordered her death and usurped her rightful claim to the crown.”
The High Priestess turned to Tristan. “The Goddess broughtyou, the Blue Knight of Cornwall, here to Avalon—to meet Princess Issylte.”
Tristan and Issylte met each other’s gaze as they listened to the otherworldlyLady of the Lake.
“You, Sir Tristan, are the champion she needs to lead her army. The only warrior capable of defeating the formidable Morholt. And theonlyknight to have ever defeatedmy indomitable son.”
Viviane spoke softly to the two knights seated before her. “You both belong to a fierce Tribe of warriors who defend the sacred realm.” The weight of her prophesy hung in the air. “The Goddess Dana is finally revealing the fate—la fatalité—which entwinesyou three.”
Issylte was awed by the fierce, determined faces of the two warriors before her.My destiny lies with them.
