Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  The bull stared down their approach, as if daring the forcados to try him. Tristan did not falter but moved ever forward. The bull snorted and stomped his hoof against the sand. Tristan led the men closer. The bull charged. Tristan rushed forward. But at the last second, Tristan stepped too far to the left. His body slammed against the bull’s head, one of the horns goring his belly.

  The arena fell silent. Then Tristan cried out. Arethusa clutched her throat as everyone in the crowd stood.

  “No,” Pai whispered.

  She heard Isabel scream as the crowd erupted into a cacophony of noise. The shouts of the other forcados struggling with the bull drowned out Tristan’s agonies as he clutched the bull’s horns. One of them grabbed the beast’s tail, distracting the bull long enough for two other forcados to lift Tristan off the bull’s head. The crowd erupted into cries and shouts as one of the men carried Tristan off the field.

  Pai touched her arm. “He failed for you, Arethusa. But I didn’t ask him to do this.”

  For a moment, she stared up at him, feeling emotions she could not name. Then he let her go. She pushed past the people in her row: a wealthy family with five children, an old man with a pipe, two businessmen—all staring down at the bull, all motionless with shock.

  When she reached the end of the row, she felt the stands reverberate beneath her feet. Someone grabbed her arm. Glancing up, she instantly wrenched away. It was Diogo, and the rage in his face mirrored her own.

  What is he doing here?

  “This changes nothing. Our engagement still stands.”

  Arethusa tried to push back. She had to reach Tristan. He needed her.

  “Let go of my daughter!” Pai shouted from behind her. When she glanced back at him, a vein in his forehead shone livid in his red-faced scowl. She had never seen him so angry. He stomped toward them, but Diogo stood his ground, defiant to the last.

  “She is my future bride. Do not forget our agreement.”

  All eyes in the vicinity turned on the three of them, but Arethusa’s fear for Tristan outweighed any embarrassment she might have felt. She tried to pull away from Diogo again, but he gave her a warning look.

  “That arrangement was rescinded the moment I found out what you really are,” Pai said, his words measured. “You think I would give my daughter over to her attempted murderer?”

  A gasp rolled through the crowd of bystanders and Diogo’s mask of confidence finally collapsed. He glanced around him, realizing that his reputation was at stake.

  “Release her, or I will send for the police.” Pai strode forward and pulled Arethusa from Diogo’s grasp.

  “The minister will be receiving a letter from me in the morning.” Diogo shook with controlled rage. “You are finished here, Conde Estrela.”

  Arethusa didn’t give one thought to Diogo’s threat and she did not hesitate. She fled down the steps toward the arena entrance, seeking Tristan, searching everywhere. When she found him, he was surrounded by the other forcados. A doctor knelt over him, pressing his red sash onto his side to staunch the blood that poured from his wound.

  Tristan’s teeth were bared and his eyes were squeezed shut. His chest heaved convulsively, as though he could not catch a breath. She collapsed in the dirt beside him and put her fingers to his dust-stained cheeks. He opened his brilliant eyes and forced a smile.

  “I chose you, Arethusa,” he said simply.

  She touched his temple, sorrow and joy at war in the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  A WEEK LATER, A VICIOUS STORM ROSE UP, slamming Terceira Island with rain and wind and hail. The doctor had finally let them take Tristan home, deeming him past the point of infection. Arethusa cared for him every day and unwillingly left him only to sleep. But on the night of the storm, a fever took hold of him and so she stayed to watch at his bedside all through the night.

  As the hours passed, his pain seemed to intensify. He moaned in his sleep and twisted under the bedclothes. When Pai came to check on Tristan in the early morning hours, a deep fear clouded his expression, partly, she believed, because he blamed himself for Tristan’s injury.

  As they stood on either side of Tristan’s bed, Pai fell into a coughing fit. When his breathing came easier, he caught Arethusa’s gaze. “I won’t see my son die from this wound. I will fetch the doctor now.”

  She shook her head and pointed to herself. Pai was falling ill again, and she would travel much faster on Tesouro if she went alone without the carrinho.

  He raised his hand. “No, I won’t allow you out in this storm. I will go. Tell the condessa. I have no time to waste.”

  Wind rattled the windowpane as Pai rushed out the door. Arethusa made out his huddled form in the carrinho through the sheets of rain. When she glanced down at Tristan, his eyes were closed in a death-like sleep and his skin was pale and clammy. A foreboding plagued her.

  What if I lose them both?

  When two hours inched by and Pai still had not arrived, she was near to hysteria. Even the condessa took to pacing Tristan’s room, but Arethusa knew she only worried for Pai and gave no thought to her son’s fate.

  Another hour slipped by before Pai and the doctor burst into the room. The storm had grown so violent that she hadn’t even heard the carrinho arrive. When she noticed that the doctor was holding Pai up and that his clothes were soaking wet, she hurried to his side.

  Pai’s teeth chattered. “It took so long to find the doctor—” His words fell into a deep racking cough.

  “Conde Estrela is ill.” The doctor motioned for the condessa. “You must get him into bed. He has come down with the lung fever.”

  “No!” The condessa fixed her accusing eyes on Arethusa. “Why did you let him go out in this storm?”

  “I wouldn’t let her go,” Pai said.

  “And if you die of this lung fever? What then?”

  Pai ignored her. “See to the boy, Doctor. He needs—”

  “I will see to him,” the doctor said, “but first we must get you to bed.”

  Arethusa wished she had made Pai stay. And now he had lung fever and it was all her fault. She rose to follow them.

  “Wait.”

  She glanced back at Tristan. He was awake. She rushed toward the bed and took up his hand.

  “I have been the cause of all this,” Tristan said, his voice a harsh whisper. He had heard it all: the laying of blame, the news of Pai’s illness, the condessa’s harsh words.

  She put a finger to Tristan’s lips, feeling a rush of compassion for him. She kissed his hand, wishing she could convince him somehow that the blame lay solely with her.

  He looked at her, his eyes soft and warm. “Stay?”

  *

  During the weeks that passed, Pai’s health declined as Tristan’s improved. The condessa stayed away from Tristan’s room, and Pai forbade Isabel from entering the house. Terceira Island slipped into July, and Arethusa heard no rumors of Diogo’s whereabouts. He seemed to have vanished, and she was grateful.

  Arethusa stayed by Tristan’s bedside every day. She brought him food and changed his bandages, and it reminded her of the days when she first came to the orphanage, yet now she had the privilege of caring for him.

  They spoke not a word about the bullfight. Arethusa didn’t know what to say, but she wondered if Tristan still felt the same way for her. A tentative and quiet peace connected them, but a lingering doubt gnawed at the back of her mind, for though Pai had all but given them his blessing, she knew the islanders would ostracize them and the church would denounce them.

  On the day the doctor deemed Tristan well enough to rise from bed, Arethusa gathered her courage and asked him the question that had burned inside her from the moment she saw him gored by the charging bull.

  Why? she wrote simply.

  For a moment Tristan did not speak, but he knew what she meant. He fiddled with one of his bandages and then bit his lip, unable to look at her. When he finally did risk her glance, she saw both pain and joy in his eyes. “When I
saw Isabel at the tourada à corda, I knew she was the one.”

  The one? Arethusa looked down, dug her fingernails into her palm. Does he mean Isolde the Fair?

  He touched her hand and their eyes met. “Don’t you see? If Isabel could be my Isolde of the White Hands, then our story could finally begin.”

  Arethusa opened her mouth to speak but she had no words.

  He winced at some phantom pain and touched his bandages with unthinking fingers. Then the lines of his face gradually softened and, in his eyes, she saw again what she had seen in her first vision of him aboard the Sea Nymph: sorrow.

  “I wanted you,” he said. “Always.”

  A chill ran up the length of her back. His words were a balm on deep wounds but the look in his eyes spoke of regret. Was this wanting against his will?

  He shook his head. “As long as we were here—brother and sister under the condessa’s watchful eye—it just couldn’t be.” He took a ragged breath and fussed with his bandages again. “I thought if I married Isabel... if I could try to care for her just a little, then maybe I would have you in the end.”

  He looked away, regret like a pinprick in his smile. “She was willing enough to play the part. Despite her... Isabel does feel some affection for me—though I can’t understand why.”

  Arethusa raised her eyebrow and gave him a half-smile. Tristan’s cheeks flushed pink, and it made her want to laugh.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “But I thought maybe I would let her beguile me if all came to naught. I thought if she could help me forget you, then I wouldn’t need you so much. Don’t you see how hard it is for me? How long I’ve been near you but unable to—to even touch you?”

  Arethusa could see the desire in his eyes—naked and raw. How had she not seen this before?

  Tristan cleared the emotion from his throat and began again. “When Pai told me the truth, I couldn’t go through with it. I’ve lost you so many times already. I won’t give you up again.”

  Arethusa twined her fingers around the blanket. Her hand was so close to his, but she was too nervous to touch him. His hand came to rest on hers instead, his long, thin fingers curling under her own.

  “I have loved you since I found you, but it’s not the kind of love I understand. I mean, you’ve been my sister for so long. But you know I have always felt something more for you.”

  “The myths?” she mouthed.

  “The myths pull at me now, but it wasn’t always so. When the padre first told us we were to be adopted, I felt like my prayers had been answered. You would be safe, I’d be there to watch over you, and maybe, just maybe, I could turn you into a Catholic.” His smile was only half in jest.

  She wrinkled her nose at him.

  “Don’t be mad. Nuns and a priest raised me up. It’s all I know. When you told me about your faith, all I knew was that I had to keep you away from the children. You saw how naïve they were. Knew nothing but what they were told. That was my fault. I scared them with talk of pagans and devil’s craft.

  “I didn’t know you as I know you now. I misjudged you. Thought you might someday turn them from their faith.” He ran a hand over his eyes.

  “I was wrong about that. I was wrong about a great many things. I thought you cared for me, and when I found you with Diogo in the girl’s dormitory—I know it was wrong. I know I had no right to you after the way I treated you...” Tristan looked away. “It was a torture seeing you like that. With him.”

  Envisioning that moment through his eyes now, Arethusa understood only too well. Her memory flashed back to her own vision of Tristan and Isabel kissing at the tourada à corda. It is torture. Arethusa squeezed his hand tight, afraid his words were just an illusion, that this was all just a dream from which she would soon wake.

  He peered at her, his eyes piercing in their softness. “Arethusa, what do you feel? When you kissed me, when you gave me your pendant, I thought—”

  The door swung open and the condessa barged in, interrupting the moment. Arethusa saw in Tristan’s face that he still sought her answer.

  “Yes, I see you are well enough,” the condessa said to Tristan. “The conde wishes to speak with you on urgent business.”

  “I will come at once.” Tristan began to rise from the pillows.

  “Don’t upset him,” the condessa said. “He is terribly sick, but then you know the reason why, don’t you?”

  “I do know.” Tristan dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Forgive me.”

  The look of acceptance in Tristan’s eyes angered Arethusa. It wasn’t true. Why would he take that burden upon himself? It had been Pai’s choice to go out into the storm last week to fetch the doctor. She, herself, had begged to go in his stead, but he refused even that. She realized it was his guilt over Tristan’s injury that drove him, but he could not have known what Tristan would do.

  “Forgive? You think you deserve forgiveness?” The condessa stood waiting at the door, arms crossed over her chest. “If he dies, it will be on your head.”

  Tristan began to rise from bed, his face tight with pain. “Will you help me, Arethusa?” he said, a weary resignation in his voice. She assisted him to his feet, letting him use her shoulder for support. But he let go when he had risen to his full height and made his way slowly past the Condessa’s disapproving eyes on his own.

  Arethusa met the Condessa’s cold stare with a stare of her own, and then the woman left them. From the hall Tristan beckoned to her. She moved instantly to his side, hoping to aid him as he climbed the stairs to Pai’s room.

  Tristan stood there a moment, smiling down at her. His thumb brushed her cheek and traced a line down her neck until his fingers tangled in her hair. She closed her eyes. This is what it feels like to be Isabel, to be Isolde the Fair.

  “This has to be a dream,” he said, kissing her forehead.

  It is, Arethusa wanted to say, but she only smiled.

  Tristan put his arm around her shoulder as she helped him down the hallway. It felt good to be so close to him, to see that rare light of joy in his face again. It was a small moment, helping him up the stairs, but she wished it could last forever. Never had she felt such happiness nor been more afraid of losing it.

  Arethusa knocked on Pai’s door and heard a faint “Come” from inside. Pai’s face was flushed with fever and his cough had worsened. The doctor had warned that his lungs were filling with fluid but, despite his ill health, Pai smiled as they entered. “She’s such a tiny little thing for you to be leaning on, Tristan.”

  “I’m grateful though.” He laughed. “I’d have had a hard time of it on my own.”

  Arethusa smiled and curtsied.

  “Come here, querida, and let me kiss you.”

  She went to Pai. A new light shone in his face, one of measured joy. Grasping his hand, she pressed her cheek against his palm.

  “It is good to see such happiness in your eyes,” he said. “I have wished this for you since first I saw you at the festa.”

  She drew back and looked into his face, her heart full.

  “But please excuse us for a moment,” Pai said, his smile fading. “I must speak with Tristan alone.”

  She nodded, wondering what was going on. This was the first time he had requested to speak with Tristan since the bullfight. Leaving the bedroom door ajar in case Tristan called to her, she sat at the top of the stairs and waited to help him back to his room. She didn’t realize she’d be able to hear their conversation, but her curiosity was piqued as their quiet voices reached her ears.

  “How are you feeling?” Pai said.

  “Much better. I’m anxious to get back on Tesouro and go riding again.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that. Right now, we must talk. You remember what I told you at the bullfight, about the myths being connected? That each of you have a part to play in both? I still believe that to be true, but now your paths are unclear to me.”

  “I feel the same,” Tristan said. “I don’t know how this will all end.”


  “I am to blame for your injury, Tristan. I misinterpreted the legend. I should have warned you before it went so far.”

  “Don’t worry, Pai. It isn’t your fault and it wasn’t your decision. If you hadn’t come to me, I would have made a terrible mistake.”

  “There’s more to it than that. It wasn’t as much about your decision as it was the choices I made. Mistakes I made before I even knew you. I will tell you as much as I can now, but soon you will know it all.

  “When I was sixteen, I fell in love. But I was poor and the girl’s father was a rich Freemason. He would not consent to my proposal, and she was forced to marry another.

  “After she married, I grew angry. I wanted to prove myself to her and to her father. I became obsessed with the idea of becoming a Freemason to gain wealth and power. I fed on it as I grew older and it fed on me. I realize now that it was never enough. Eventually, I married another. Inês—my Isolde of the White Hands—was to replace the hole left in my heart when I lost my Isolde—but how could she fill a void that could not be filled?

  “I have two regrets in my life: that I spent so much time seeking wealth and prestige for a woman who was not mine and that I married a woman I did not love to forget the first. Just because it was my fate to marry her, it doesn’t mean I don’t regret the pain I’ve caused her. She didn’t deserve this. I am the one who made her so bitter. She is the cross I bear, and it is because I will always love another.”

  A pause lingered in the air, and then Tristan said, “I am glad you told me this. I think I understand the condessa better now. Her anger—”

  “Yes, her anger has always and ever been toward me. But it is easier for her to direct it toward you and Arethusa. I truly regret that.”

  “I understand. I do.” Tristan’s soft voice was so accepting. “Every word is forgiven.”

  Another pause hinted at Pai’s reaction. She could only imagine how much Tristan’s forgiveness touched him. And what of her own? She didn’t know if she could forgive the condessa so easily.

  “What of Marquês Cheia’s proposal, Pai?”

  “Yes, Cheia,” Pai said, the bitter notes in his unsteady voice unmistakable. “As you know, he came to me the night of that first supper and requested Arethusa’s hand. But he also came bearing the message from Conde Branco about the contest for Isabel. He had said, ‘Let’s have some competition, just like the old days. Let’s have your boy fight for my little angel, and we’ll see if he’s worthy of her. If Tristan is victorious, he’ll win Isabel’s hand, and you’ll win the title of marquês and a higher seat in the Freemason government.’