by Anna Elliott
“Can you reach me my medicine bag again?” she asked Trystan. “I should do a better job of cleaning the knife cuts now that we’re out of the rain.”
Isolde found her supply of vinegar brewed with rosemary and goldenseal. She untied the bandages on her ankle, unstoppered the vial, and poured a measure of the liquid over the angry-looking cuts. The sting of the vinegar made her eyes tear and a clammy sweat break out again on her skin. She gritted her teeth, soaked a clean linen pad with the mixture and pressed it hard over the cuts, then repeated the procedure twice more. The third time she caught her breath and bit her lip, and looked up to find Trystan watching her. The firelight shadowed his face and ran reddish gold along the stubble of beard on his jaw.
“You know, you could just scream if you want to,” he said. “There’s no one to hear.”
Isolde still felt dizzy and slightly sick to her stomach, but she managed to raise her eyebrows and say, “Screaming makes it hurt less?”
One corner of Trystan’s mouth curved in a brief, half-unwilling smile. “Yes, well, you’ve got me there. Here, let me do that.” He took the clean bandage Isolde had started to tie over the cleansed ankle.
His gold-brown hair was still damp with the rain, small droplets of rainwater still trapped on his eyelashes. The firelight gleamed on the lean, strong lines of his face, and his touch on her skin was warm and sure. And all at once, as their eyes met, Isolde felt something enter the room—something that crept in like sea fog and tightened her every nerve. She started automatically to pull away. “It’s all right—I can manage.”
Trystan didn’t let her go, but he made an exasperated sound that at least broke the moment. “Isolde, for once in your life will you admit you can’t do everything on your own? You may be a fine healer, but you probably pull your own hair out whenever a patient like you lands in your care.”
Isolde’s vision had started to shiver and darken again. Trystan’s face was half in shadow, half lighted by the fire. She leaned her head back against the wall, letting her eyes slide closed, trying to ignore the shivers of warmth that spread outwards from the touch of his hand on her ankle.
“That’s good, coming from you. You could have had a severed hand when you were younger, and I’d have had to knock you unconscious to so much as get within reach of it with a bandage.” She drew in a breath as Trystan tied a knot in the strip of linen, then said, “You’re right, though. I do hate being ill or hurt. That’s probably part of why I’m a healer.”
Trystan finished knotting the bandage and sat back. “Let me give you something to drink. You should take some water or something, at least.”
Her mouth did feel painfully dry. “All right.”
She let him help her to sit up again, let him guide the cup of water he’d poured to her mouth, his hand over hers. She drank the whole cupful but shook her head when he asked if she wanted more. “No. Thank you, though.”
The pain was receding slightly, and Isolde forced herself to say, “Trys, all this is my fault. I should have—”
She had to break off as a hot prickle of tears started again behind her eyes. Isolde blinked, ordering herself to stop. If she’d been careless enough to be bitten by the adder, she absolutely refused to dissolve now into tears. That was something else she might have forgiven herself when she was ten, but not now.
Trystan must have seen, though—or else she looked even more ill and pathetic than she’d thought—because he came to crouch down next to her. His hand moved as though he were about to smooth her hair back, but then he seemed to check himself and said, instead, “Your fault? That a snake bit you? You can’t blame yourself. Besides, haven’t you heard about an adder’s bite being good luck?”
Isolde smiled unsteadily, raising a hand to scrub at her cheek—and tried not to wish he’d touch her, put an arm around her so that she could lean against him. “You just made that up. And stop being so nice to me—you’ll make me feel sorry for myself.”
Trystan smiled, one eyebrow raised. “All right. Give me a moment, and I’ll think up some names to call you.”
Isolde smiled again as well, then she shook her head and sobered as she met Trystan’s eyes, on a level with hers. She felt that same prickling awareness start to creep into the space between them again, and she went on quickly, “I didn’t mean just the adder bite. I meant to say that I’m sorry for …for your boat. And because I’m not caring for Hereric now, when he needs me. And—”
This time, Trystan did touch her, brushing a stray lock of hair lightly back from her brow. Quickly as he took his hand away, Isolde still shivered. “I’ll sit up with Hereric,” Trystan said. “You can tell me what to do. Although”—a flash of bleakness crossed Trystan’s intensely blue eyes—“I’m not sure there’s anything either of us can do for him now beyond just waiting to see if he survives. But as for the boat and the rest—you were honest about the risks when we started out. I’d have had to be God’s own fool not to know there was danger of something like this happening.”
Guilt caught Isolde like a knife-sharp gust of wind—powerful enough that she forgot any unaccustomed currents in the room, forgot everything but the wish that she could sink through the stone-tiled floor. Or at least faint after all. I should tell him about Marche, she thought. I have to, now. Her throat felt dry and tight, though, and she couldn’t somehow make herself speak the words.
She shook her head. “You know,” she said instead, “I’d understand if you …if you wanted to leave. To just take Hereric and go.”
“And leave you here? Alone? Are you out of your mind?” Trystan shook his head, but then his expression softened as he looked at her. He took her hand, folding his fingers over hers. “Look, I’ll make you a bargain. If you won’t let me feel guilty for taking off Hereric’s arm, you can’t blame yourself for the boat’s being burned. Or because you can’t cure an adder’s bite with a snap of your fingers and get up to take care of Hereric now.” He shook his head again, a brief smile edging into his eyes. “Christ, Isa, God probably asks less of himself than you do.”
Isolde gave a choked-up laugh. “I—” She stopped short, hearing what she’d been about to say. She felt the blood drain from her face, and Trystan caught her, steadying her with an arm about her shoulders.
“Do you want to try to eat something?” he asked. “Or some of the poppy brew you gave Hereric?”
Isolde shook her head. The strong, solid warmth of Trystan’s arm around her, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the hiss of the rain on the tile roof above their heads all seemed to weave themselves together and settle around her like a golden web, at once the cause of her panic and yet oddly the only thing that held it somewhat at bay. So she sat still, letting herself lean against him for just a moment. Then, when she could trust her voice enough to speak, she drew slowly away.
“No, that’s all right,” she said. “Maybe I’ll try to sleep for a little while. Wake me, though, if Hereric needs anything more.”
TRYSTAN LEANED BACK, STARING ACROSS AT the patchwork of dancing shadows the fire cast on the opposite wall. The room was silent, save for the pop and crack of the flames, the sound of the rain, and the occasional snuffle from the dog, asleep at Isolde’s other side. After a time she said, “Trys? Have you any idea who the men who attacked us might be? I mean, did you see anything on them that might give a clue as to what lord they served?”
She was lying curled on her side under the covering of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the fire. The light gilded her pale skin and twining gold threads through her hair. Trystan forced himself to drag his gaze away and shook his head. “Nothing like that. I did look. But no. Someone bound on keeping you from reaching Wessex and negotiating an alliance with Cerdic, I’d say. You’ve no idea yourself who that might be?”
He heard the soft rustle as Isolde shifted a little. “Not really. If it’s a traitor to the council, it would almost have to be Cynlas of Rhos or Dywel of Logres. They were there, at Dinas Emrys, when we left. They could
most easily have learned of our plans. But I don’t know which of them is most likely. And there’s no way to tell, now. We’ve no way even of knowing what’s happened at Dinas Emrys since we’ve been gone.”
She stopped. Glancing down, Trystan saw a shadow cross the wide gray eyes, and said, “Don’t worry for Kian. He can mind for himself. And he’s been in worse places by far.”
Isolde let out her breath. “I know. It’s just—” And then she stopped, a strange look passing across her face. “Can you always guess what I’m thinking as well?”
Trystan shrugged. “Not always. Sometimes.”
She was silent, seeming to hesitate, and then she said, “Trys? Do you think you could come over here and just …lie down next to me for a little while?” A shiver racked her, and she curled up more tightly under the cover of her cloak. “I’m so cold—I just can’t get warm.”
Shades of hell. Trystan wondered briefly whether the adder that had bitten her could have been some petty god or wood spirit in disguise. One with a particularly malignant sense of humor, who had set all this up as a way of driving him completely out of his mind.
Isolde was still shivering, though, her teeth starting to chatter as well. All right. It wasn’t as though he were still sixteen years old. He could do this. Just think about wild dogs or knives or cleaning and gutting fish. Anything but what Isolde had just asked.
He said, “If you like.”
Trystan got up and moved to lie down beside her. Staying on top of the cloak that covered her. Not that it helped by much, because he could feel her still through all the layers of fabric, slender and small and fine-boned. He felt the warmth of her breath on his neck as she sighed and relaxed, the shivering slowing and then finally coming to a stop.
“Thank you.”
Trystan didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t answer, and Isolde was silent so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. But then she spoke again, her voice quiet in the high-ceilinged room.
“This place must have been beautiful once.”
Trystan turned his head to glance round the decaying room at the crumbling lime-washed walls, cracked columns, and dirty tiled floor. “Cost someone a good deal to build, at any rate.”
“Yes, it must. All this marble and carved stone.”
She was silent, and he felt her shift again, then draw in her breath as though in pain. The adder’s bite had to be hurting like fury, but she’d said nothing of it, and Trystan knew better than to bother asking how she felt. She’d been like that, always. Incredibly stubborn and unbelievably tough. Right now she’d probably get up and run if he’d said they had to.
She turned her head, looking round the room as he had, the softness of her night-dark hair brushing his cheek.
Wild dogs. Knives. Cleaning and gutting fish.
“My grandmother used to spit whenever she spoke of the Romans or their legions, I remember,” she went on. Even exhausted and in pain, her voice had a soft, musical lilt. “She would have agreed that places like this one were cursed. She used to say it was the fault of Rome that the old gods had fled from Britain and left a space open for the Christian God to steal in. That it was because of the Romans that all the old songs were forgotten and no longer sung. And that we’d lost the connection to the land and couldn’t drive the Saxons back when they came to these shores. Because the land was no longer ours to hold.”
“Did she?” Trystan asked.
Isolde nodded. “She used to say that a great darkness was rising, ready to sweep over Britain. And that even Arthur wouldn’t be able to hold it back in the end.”
“Yes, well.” Trystan shifted position a bit. “She was right about Arthur, at any rate.”
She was silent. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing beside him. “Trys?” Her voice sounded soft and a little sleepy, and she reached out from beneath the cloak to touch his hand. “I’m still sorry I dragged you along on this journey. But I’m so glad you’re here.”
Trystan held himself in check, focusing on not thinking about the way the feel of her lying close against him like this ran like flame through every fiber in his body—or about the way her lips would feel if he turned his head and touched his mouth to hers. Before he could even think what to say, her eyes had drifted closed. He felt the rhythm of her breathing change and knew she had finally fallen asleep.
He lay still a moment, drawing a little away and propping himself on one elbow so that he could see her face, tracing the glimmers of golden firelight running across her pale skin, the curve of her long dark lashes resting against her cheeks. Then he swore at himself, rose—carefully, so as not to wake her—and found an extra blanket to put over the cloak under which she already lay. And then he crossed to where Hereric lay like a dead man, putting half the room’s length between him and Isolde.
Not that it helped. He could still feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. Feel her, light and slender in his arms, the sweet weight of her head resting on his shoulder.
Trystan shut his eyes and wished he had a bucket of icy water to dump over his head.
Well, at any rate, he should have no trouble staying awake tonight.
HOURS HAD PASSED, AND TRYSTAN WAS still sitting beside Hereric—and still awake—when Isolde gave a sudden cry as though she’d been stabbed and sat bolt upright. Her eyes were open, but their gaze was unfocused, staring and wide, still lost in the grip of the dream. Trystan crossed and knelt beside her, touching her arm and feeling a shudder run through her from head to foot. She turned towards him, hiding her face against his shoulder and clutching at his shirt.
Definitely still asleep, then. Awake, she’d have thrown herself off a cliff before she clung to anyone like this.
After a moment’s hesitation, Trystan put one arm around her, steadying himself against the floor with his free hand. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. You’re all right.”
He felt another shudder shake her, and then she woke with a gasp.
“Trystan. What—”
“You were asleep—dreaming.”
“Dreaming.” She sounded dazed, still, but then she caught her breath and pulled herself abruptly away. Cabal had woken as well at the sound of her cry and now butted his head against her shoulder with a soft, high-pitched whine. Isolde quieted him with a hand on his neck, though Trystan had the impression that the movement was more a reflex than anything else. She drew a shaking breath, then smoothed a stray lock of hair away from her face and shook her head, pressing her eyes tight shut as though still trying to break free of the dream.
“It was just a nightmare.” Her voice wavered slightly, and Trystan saw her throat contract as she swallowed. Trystan ignored the irrational pulse of fury behind his eyes and made himself move back a step or two. Any closer, and he didn’t trust himself not to reach out to her again. When she went on, the words were steadier and she turned her head with a visible effort, meeting his gaze. “I’m all right, now.”
ISOLDE LAY ON HER SIDE UNDER the combined weight of her cloak and a rough woolen blanket, her eyes closed. She could feel Trystan’s eyes on her, though, and she dug her nails hard into her palms, forcing herself not to shiver or shake, because Trystan would see. Don’t ask, she willed him. Don’t ask. Believe I’m asleep.
Whether or not he believed it, she didn’t know, but he did finally turn away, returning to Hereric’s side. Isolde knew she should get up and join him, make sure Hereric was all right and needed nothing more, but she couldn’t make her muscles work. The adder bite in her ankle was no longer as painful as it had been, faded to a dull, pounding ache instead of a fiery throb. But still Isolde couldn’t make herself leave the shelter of her makeshift bed.
Nor could she sleep again. She could feel the clinging residue of the dream like a layer of cooking grease smeared over her skin. That was familiar, by now—but it was worse, much worse this time, with the memory of Trystan’s touch burning in every part of her body like a brand.
Why did that never occu
r to me? she thought. That Marche is Trystan’s father?
She’d known it, of course—she’d always known, in the same way she knew Trystan had blue eyes and gold-brown hair. But that was a far distant cry from the stomach-clenching awareness that gripped her now. She’d salved the bruises and cracked ribs Trystan had won trying to shield his mother from Marche’s blows more times than she could possibly count when they were growing up together. But even still, somehow she’d always managed to keep them separate in her mind.
She’d managed, too, these last five months, to keep Marche out of her thoughts, save for the nights when the dream came. Even when she summoned him in the scrying water, heard his thoughts, she’d kept him locked away in a tight cage of her own making, not even allowing a picture of him to form in her mind. Now, though, he seemed a palpable presence in the room, as real as though he’d clawed his way out of her dream and come to stand before her, somewhere on the tiled floor between her and Trystan.
A black-haired bear of a man, broad-chested and powerfully built, with a square-jawed face and strong, solid bones. Maybe handsome once, though age now had coarsened him, leaving his skin weathered and scored with broken veins, his dark eyes puffy and tired-looking, puckered with fatigue. Still, nothing outwardly at least to distinguish him from a hundred other fighting men—save maybe for something that moved, very rarely, beneath the surface of his dark gaze.
Isolde shut her eyes more tightly, as though that could block out the thought, but she couldn’t stop herself from imagining it, seeing the firelit scene play out in her mind as though it had actually happened that way. She imagined hearing Trystan ask her what the nightmare had been. And then hearing the words crawling against her will from her own mouth, and seeing the look on Trystan’s face once he knew what she’d dreamed.