by Anna Elliott
What others are saying about the TWILIGHT OF AVALON Trilogy
“Elliott brings the Arthurian world to rich life, creating a Britain both familiar and distinctly alien to fans of medieval romances.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Passion, conflict, danger and magic combine for an irresistible love story that will keep you turning the pages!”
—Michelle Moran, author of Nefertiti & Cleopatra’s Daughter
“… unique and delightful … filled with passion, courage, and timeless magic.”
—Library Journal
“… reinvigorates the celebrated romance between Trystan and Isolde … Fans of the many Arthurian cycles will relish this appropriately fantastical offshoot of the Arthurian legend.”
—Booklist
“Strongly recommended.” (Editors’ Choice Review)
—Historical Novels Review
“… a worthy addition to the Arthurian and Trystan and Isolde cycles, weaving their stories together with Isolde’s personal one. This Isolde steps out from myth to become a living, breathing woman and one whose journey is heroic.”
—Margaret George, author of Helen of Troy
“Our heroine has the spunk of a woman of our era, and this Isolde is one we can all admire and aspire to.”
—Anne Easter Smith, author of The King’s Grace and Daughter of York
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THE WITCH QUEEN’S SECRET
A story of TRYSTAN AND ISOLDE
from the TWILIGHT OF AVALON universe
by
Anna Elliott
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The Witch Queen’s Secret
Copyright © 2010 by Anna Elliott
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Please report errors to Anna Elliott at [email protected] so that they can be corrected in future versions. Anna would also love to hear your comments.
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Author’s Note
AS AN AUTHOR, I fall in love with my secondary characters, and often feel a bit guilty that their story has to take a backseat to narrating my main characters’ journey. Dera, the salty-tongued army harlot, was my favorite secondary character in Twilight of Avalon, and she tugged on my conscience all the time I was writing the next two books of the trilogy. I couldn’t find a way to fit her into the story arc of either Dark Moon of Avalon or Sunrise of Avalon—and yet I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about her, wondering what happened to her and her little boy Jory after we left them at the end of Book 1. The story I imagined for her grew more and more real in my head, until I just had to write it down.
So here is Dera’s story. Chronologically, it takes place between Twilight of Avalon and Dark Moon of Avalon. But it is self-contained; you don’t have to have read any of the Trystan and Isolde books to understand The Witch Queen’s Secret. Whether you know Dera already from Twilight of Avalon or are completely new to the trilogy, I hope you’ll come to care about her as much as I do, and I hope you’ll enjoy watching Dera win the ending I always knew she deserved.
To learn more, visit me on the web at www.annaelliottbooks.com. Happy reading!
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PART I
KNOWING THAT YOU’D GOTTEN your own self into a mess wasn’t all that much consolation when you were about to die.
Stop that. Dera made herself take a breath to quiet the drumming of her own heart in her ears. It was pitch-dark here in the forest. So dark it felt like dirt pressing against her face, and it didn’t matter whether her eyes were open or closed, Dera couldn’t see a thing either way. The spring thaw had come—but just now, you couldn’t prove it by her. Her fingers felt cold enough that she’d not have been surprised to hear them tinkle together like icicles when she moved. And the night air felt like knives stabbing her in the chest.
But she made herself draw another breath, then another after that. She wasn’t going to die. Jory needed his mam. And she needed to see her boy grow up.
The pounding of her heart kept on getting mixed up with her thoughts, turning them into a tangled, soggy mess like wet knitting yarn. But all right, she wasn’t going to die. It might seem about as likely as having a chat with one of the dragons that were supposed to live under the ground here—but she was going to keep Britain’s army from falling to Lord Marche and his traitor warriors tonight. Then she was going to get back to Jory and find a way to have a real, proper home for him. Somewhere with real beds—or at least pallets out of the rain—where she wouldn’t have to sell herself to soldiers so they could eat. Someplace where she could plant seeds for a garden, and Jory could have a dog. A boy should have a dog of his own.
Maybe she’d even learn how to cook. Miracles happened—wasn’t that what the Christ-God’s followers were always saying?
Somewhere in the trees above her head, an owl called.
Lady Isolde would look after Jory if Dera didn’t make it back to Dinas Emrys alive. Lady Isolde would love him, keep him safe—let him play with that big dog of hers as much as he liked. Assuming Dinas Emrys wasn’t burned to the ground, and Lady Isolde and Jory both lived through the—
Stop it. Dark or no, Dera squeezed her eyes tight shut and dug her nails hard into the palms for good measure. The only sounds were the rustles and creak of the winter-chilled branches in the night breeze.
Think of a joke. That was what her own mam had always said, when they’d been thrown out of another tavern or there wasn’t enough food to eat. You can’t laugh and worry at the same time.
The only joke she could remember now, though, was Cade grinning up at her from his pallet on Lady Isolde’s infirmary floor and saying, when she asked him how his head felt, “Pretty well. There’s supposed to be two of you, sort of shimmering round the edges, isn’t that right?”
Which made her smile, but it also hurt her chest even more than breathing in breath after breath of freezing air.
She’d hours since this made herself stop picturing Jory—imagining him asleep now in Lady Isolde’s workroom, flopped over on his belly like usual, with his eyes screwed up tight shut. Picturing how, if she were there with him—the way she’d been every night since he’d been born—she could bury her face against the soft crease at the back of his neck and feel his body rise and fall as he breathed.
But now, however hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself stop seeing Cade: his dark hair and eyes, his firm chin and square brow, and the mouth that always wanted to quirk up into a smile even when he was in pain.
Not that she’d any idea whether he would—or could—bring her any closer to giving Jory a proper home. Likely not; he was a fighting man, following High King Madoc’s army all the year round.
All the same, if she did somehow come through tonight alive, she had a feeling she might see something about Cade that would make this all worthwhile.
Worthwhile even apart from saving Britain’s armies, that was.
Dera opened her eyes, breathing the chill air, trying not to let leaves rustle under her feet. She couldn’t stop thinking, though. Not about Cade—or at least, not just about him—but about how it was she’d gotten herself here. From bedding soldiers for pay to spying on behalf of the High King, in less than a month’s time.
Dera shifted position—slowly, slowly, so she wouldn’t make any noise—to lean against a prickly-barked fir tree trunk and let herself remember. Until Lord Marche and the rest of his traitor warriors arrived, it wasn’t like she’d a
nything better to do.
PART II
