by Anna Elliott
The memory rose before her mind’s eye, and yet—strangely—seemed to come from outside herself. She closed her eyes again. Was that an answer to what she’d asked of the silence all around her before the men had come in? She didn’t know. But for the first time in all the time she’d spent at Trystan’s bedside, she felt a tiny, faint flickering, not of hope, exactly, but of feeling that at least she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. She drew in a shaky breath, lifted her gaze to Hereric’s, and said, “All right. I’ll tell a story. For Trystan.”
THE MEN WERE QUIET AS ISOLDE drew in her breath to begin the story she’d listened to on the ramparts of Dinas Emrys weeks ago. The night that Trystan had first come back. She could still hear, from the chapel outside, the low rhythmic chant of prayers. She could hear the soft sounds of movement as her companions settled more comfortably in place, and Cabal’s softly snoring breaths from the corner where he slept.
One by one, Isolde blocked them out, kept her eyes locked on Trystan’s face as she started to speak. “In a time that once was, is now gone forever, and will be again soon, a young woman’s lover was stolen away from her by the Fair Folk to pay the seven years’ tiend to the gods of the earth.”
All the time watching Trystan, counting his every slowly drawn breath, Isolde told the story of the maid’s search for her lost love amidst the cold and winter snows. Of how she’d found him again, blanched and thin and terribly altered from the man she’d loved. And of how he’d told her that to win him free of the Fair Folk, she must pull him down from his fairy mount on the night of the sacrifice and hold to him tight, no matter how he changed in her arms.
“And so she held the serpent fast. And again felt the form in her arms begin to change, until she held a great, snarling bear in her arms. The beast struck at her with its claws and roared with rage, and she could smell the blood of a kill on its mouth and fur. But again she held fast, and the bear’s body began to shift and change.
“And then the maid held in her arms a glowing, red-hot iron rod that burned her arms and hands until she almost screamed aloud with the pain. But she held in her heart the memory of her love’s own face, the boy she’d grown up with—”
The men had been listening in silence as Isolde spoke, but at that Eurig stirred in his place beside her. “Had they grown up together? You didn’t mention that bit.”
“Oh, yes.” Isolde nodded, not letting herself look up from Trystan’s face. “She’d known him all her life. Since they’d spat apple seeds at each other across a garden wall. Since she’d cried to see him taken away to train with the other boys who were to train for fighting men. Since he’d taught her to throw a knife and fish for river trout, even though she could never keep quiet and kept scaring the fish away.” Her voice wavered slightly and she swallowed hard. “Since she’d mended his hurts for him, because when he went into a fight he hadn’t the smallest care for keeping himself—”
She broke off, drawing in her breath with a sharp gasp, wondering whether she’d only imagined what she’d just felt because she’d wanted it so desperately. No …not just imagining. She could feel a faint, a very faint prickle of awareness. Of …cold. Bone-deep cold that ached like a tooth gone bad.
Isolde drew another shaky breath and turned to Eurig. “Do you think …could you leave me alone with Trystan for a while?”
Eurig looked a bit startled, but he nodded. “If that’s what you want, of course we can. But—” His eyes strayed to the still form on the bench, a furrow appearing between his brows.
Isolde’s every nerve was quivering with a wish to concentrate, to turn back to Trystan and continue with what she’d been about to do. But she made herself tear her thoughts away, focus on the men long enough to say, “Nothing’s wrong. And I promise I’ll send for you if …if there’s any change. It’s only that I think I’ve a chance of reaching him if we’re alone.”
She was peripherally aware of Hereric, signing something to the other three. Of Eurig, Piye, and Daka getting to their feet, bidding her good night and good luck. Of herself thanking them and asking them to take Cabal with them as well. Her attention, though, was already focused on Trystan. And on the stomach-twisting fear that what she’d felt had only been chance, an accident of some kind, and that she’d not be able to find that tiny thread of awareness again.
When the door had closed behind the men, though, she closed her eyes and reached out towards Trystan in her mind. When Kian had asked her to see Trystan back at Dinas Emrys, she’d had a brief indistinct glimpse of him. She ought to—had to—be able to break through to him again now.
At first she met with only the familiar blackness, and her heart lurched sickeningly against her ribs. But then she felt again that faint, featherlight brush of awareness, growing into …cold. She was cold to the bone, and locked somewhere in the—
The thread of awareness broke and snapped off.
Isolde drew in her breath and began again. Slowly, carefully …reaching …stretching out a hand to—
Unable to think. Unable even to move. Cold. Trapped somewhere where there was nothing but the dark and the—
But before she could try to speak to Trystan, in whatever place he now lay, before she could try to reach him in the midst of the cold prison that held him fast, the connection snapped again, leaving her bone weary and utterly alone.
Isolde closed her eyes, and this time she didn’t even have to conjure Morgan’s image from the darkness. Her grandmother’s face was simply there, bright against the blackness of her closed lids.
Please. Isolde wasn’t even sure whether she actually believed this might do good. Only that she was desperate enough to try. If you’ve ever helped me before, help me now. Show me what I’m not thinking of. Please, show me what I haven’t yet tried.
But she hardly needed to ask. Even as the words formed in her mind, the answer was there: a faint, distant echo of a nearly forgotten day that went through her like water rising from the rain-soaked ground and spreading from the roots to the leaves of a tree.
He almost never smiles, she had said.
Then her grandmother’s voice, unaccustomedly soft, It’s because he’s no one in his life to love him.
And her own child-self’s answer: I do. I will.
Whether this was Morgan’s answer or an answer to prayer—or both—Isolde didn’t know. Or for now, especially care. She didn’t let herself hesitate or even stop to think. Her hands were shaking, making her fingers clumsy, but she slipped off her boots, her stockings, untied the laces of her gown, and pulled it over her head. Finally, she stood in only her thin linen shift, shivering a little, the chill night air raising goose flesh along her bare arms. She drew back Trystan’s blankets and then, moving slowly and very carefully so that she wouldn’t jar his broken ribs, eased herself down to lie at his side.
He stirred just a little at her touch, and Isolde held herself very still. Then, slowly, slowly, she inched closer on the narrow wooden sleeping bench, fitting herself next to him so that she lay curled against his side, her arms about him and her head resting on his shoulder. His skin felt frighteningly chill against hers, and Isolde suppressed another shiver as she drew the blankets back up, covering them both.
She closed her eyes, and at first met with only the solid blackness again. But then she felt it. A faint, faint glimmer of connection in her mind. A sense of cold that seemed to leech into her very bones.
Isolde held her breath, afraid that this fragile thread of awareness would snap and leave her as helpless as before. She could feel the beat of Trystan’s heart under her cheek, the shallow rise and fall of his breath. She closed her eyes, trying to slow her own heartbeat, to match her breathing to his, all the while holding tight to the tiny, pinprick channel of awareness that had opened between them. His chest felt smooth and cool as polished stone against her cheek and the palm of her hand.
Isolde fitted herself as closely to him as she could, still mindful of the broken ribs and the bandaged wo
und in his side. She imagined the warmth flowing out of her own body and into his, like a hundred tiny hands, pulling him back from the place where he was locked in the cold and the dark. Pulling him back to her, back towards life.
Then she began, her voice just a whisper in the dark, silent room. “In a time that once was, is now gone forever, and will be again soon, there was a girl who had lost everyone she’d ever loved. She’d grieved so many times that she even made herself forget her whole past, because it hurt too much to remember everyone who was gone. But even that didn’t help, because she never really stopped looking back. And by the time she was grown, she never wanted to love anyone, ever again, because it hurt too much to think of losing anyone more. And then, by a wonder, one of those she’d thought lost forever came back to her. A boy she’d known when she was young, now grown into a man. And they set out on a journey together across lands she’d never been.
“And for most of the journey she was frightened and hungry and cold and exhausted, because they met with dangers she’d not even imagined. But at the same time she was …in a way, she was happier than she’d ever been. Just because she was with him. Because he made her laugh, and he took care of her when she was hurt and held her when she cried, and because he knew her better than anyone else had, ever in her life. And—”
Isolde’s whisper cracked, and she squeezed her eyes more tightly shut before going on. “And he kept her safe, even if it meant getting hurt himself. And when she was with him, she started to look forward instead of back into the past. She stopped missing herself the way she’d been years ago, and started to be glad of where she was now. But all the time, she kept telling herself, No, no, you can’t love him again. You’ll only break your heart.
“And so she left him, because she didn’t want him to be hurt any more than he already had been. And because …because she was afraid as well.” Despite her best efforts, Isolde could feel hot tears spilling out from under her closed lids and onto Trystan’s chest, but she went on, her voice barely a breath of sound now in the dark room. “But then he was hurt again—almost killed. And she realized that trying to push him out of her life would be like ripping the warp threads from a weaving on the loom. And that a part of her would die if she never got the chance to tell him what she felt.”
Isolde stopped, trying again to imagine warmth flowing from her to Trystan, trying with every part of her will, with every fiber in her body, to speak to him through the tiny channel that had opened between them before, to where she could still feel him lying, prisoned in the cold and the dark. And then she whispered, “I love you, Trys. Please, please don’t die.”
Chapter Nineteen
ISOLDE DRIFTED UP FROM A wonderful dream towards the surface of waking. Then remembrance tore through her and her eyes flew open. It wasn’t a dream. She’d somehow fallen asleep the night before and was still lying at Trystan’s side, her body fitted close against his. She felt a moment’s heart-stopping panic as she realized that she could no longer feel the beat of his heart under her cheek. And then she realized that that was because he’d shifted, drawing slightly away—likely that was what had wakened her—and that his eyes were open, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
Isolde stared at him with the same blank astonishment, for a moment unable to trust her own eyes, unable to let herself think that this was anything but part of the dream. And then remembrance of another kind ripped through her as she realized that she was lying in Trystan’s bed with her arms about him, dressed in nothing but her thin linen undershift.
She slid from under the blankets, jumped up, snatched up her gown, and yanked it over her head, pulling it on with such haste that she felt one of the seams give.
When she looked back at Trystan, her breathing gradually slowing, she saw that his eyes had drifted closed. For a moment, she wondered whether she’d imagined his ever having woken at all. Then his lids flickered open again, his brow furrowing as though the pale dawn light filtering in through the window hurt his eyes.
“Isa?”
Isolde had to swallow twice before she could make her voice work. Before she even knew she’d moved, she was kneeling by the bed. She couldn’t help reaching out to make sure he was actually there, alive and speaking to her. She touched the back of his hand lightly, smoothed the hair away from his brow. “Yes. I’m here.”
Trystan blinked again and turned his head on the pillow just a bit to look at her. His voice sounded hoarse. “I’m not dead, am I?”
Isolde shook her head. “No.”
Trystan closed his eyes against the light once again, and then he said, his voice still raspy and faint, “Good. Even in hell death shouldn’t feel this bad.”
Isolde gave a choked-up laugh, and before she could stop herself she’d again reached to smooth the hair back from his brow. “Next time keep to drinking yourself to death. I can almost guarantee it would hurt less.”
One side of Trystan’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He drew a labored breath, wincing a bit, then: “Isolde?”
“Yes?”
The furrow appeared between his brows again. “What happened? Where—”
“Shhh.” Isolde stopped him, lightly squeezing his hand, and spoke above the lump in her throat. “I’ll tell you. But later. Now you need to drink something.” She reached for the cup on the table beside the bed. “Can you take some water, do you think?”
ISOLDE PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR TO Trystan’s room in the guest hall. She’d helped Trystan to drink a cupful or two of water, had sat with him even after he’d fallen asleep again because she’d found she couldn’t stop watching the steady rise and fall of his breath, the healthy color slowly ebbing back into his face. But when he’d waked again towards afternoon, drunk a cup of broth sent up from the abbey kitchens, and then slept again, Isolde had at last torn herself away and gone to the kitchens herself to join Eurig, Piye, Daka, and Hereric for the evening meal.
She’d sent to them at once, that morning, to let them know Trystan was conscious. But she’d been ravenously hungry—and more than that, she’d wanted to share her brimming thankfulness with someone else, see the certain knowledge that Trystan would live reflected back at her in the eyes of the other four men. The abbey had been quiet, deserted save for the sisters and the travelers come to beg aid. Of Cerdic’s army there was no sign—which must mean that the forces of Wessex were still riding in triumph over the scattering remnants of Octa’s troops.
Now, returning from the kitchens, Isolde was expecting to find Trystan still asleep. But when she entered his room, she found he was awake—awake and propped up a bit against the pillows on the wooden sleeping bench, supporting his weight on his elbows.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” Isolde said.
Trystan grimaced. “Tell me.” He was still bare to the waist, and the bruises on his chest and ribs stood out like angry purple blossoms against his skin. He shifted a bit, the muscles of broad shoulders pulling taut, swore under his breath, and grimaced again. “I woke up a bit ago and you weren’t here. I was just trying to decide whether I was losing my mind or if you’d actually ever been here at all when you came in.”
He smiled a bit, and Isolde turned away to light the lamp, feeling the blood rise in her cheeks. She had no idea what—if anything—Trystan remembered of the night before. But still, now that the crushing weight of anxiety was lifted from her, she felt unexpectedly shy.
It took her three tries to get a flame started, but at last the lamp was burning, casting its pale yellow glow into the deepening shadows of the room. Isolde looked up to find Trystan watching her, his face unreadable in the dim light, his eyes startlingly blue.
“Isa—what happened?”
“You were hurt. Eurig and the others brought you here.” Isolde poured more water into the cup on the bedside table and handed it to Trystan, then settled herself on the low stool at his side. “It’s a house of Christian holy women. The abbey of Saint Eucherius.”
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Trystan took the pottery cup from her absently, but he didn’t drink. Instead, his head lifted quickly and he asked, “Eurig? And Hereric? They’re all right?”
Isolde nodded. “Safe. All of them. Piye and Daka, as well.” She stopped, wondering how she was going to even begin to tell him the rest. Before she could even make a start, though, he let out a breath and said, “I’m glad. But that wasn’t what I meant. I meant—” He stopped, drew in his breath, and went he went on, his voice was tight with control. “What in God’s name were you thinking of, going off on your own like that? At night—with Fidach and his men out hunting you. And Octa and Cerdic’s patrols roaming the area as well? Christ, Isa, you could have been—”
“I know.” Isolde stopped him before he could finish. “I know.” She pressed her eyes briefly closed. She’d been expecting this—bracing herself for it—ever since Trystan had first woken that morning. And she had sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to flinch from telling Trystan the whole. But before she could begin, he said, still in that dangerously calm tone, “Just tell me—did you drug me on purpose so that you could get away? Convince me to take a heavy draft of poppy just so you could get free?”
“Did I—” Isolde’s head jerked up and she looked at him, appalled. “Of course not. I know that maybe doesn’t make much difference. Since I left anyway. But I would never have done that. Never. It was just that I. …” She took a steadying breath and made herself meet Trystan’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Trys. Truly. You had fallen asleep. And I was sure—almost sure—I could get to this place, and Cerdic, on my own. I knew you’d argue, though, if I told you what I wanted. I knew you’d have kept your word to see me safely the whole way. But this journey had already cost you enough—more than enough. I wanted you to be free to turn around and go back to Hereric and go somewhere—the two of you—where you could be safe.”