A/N: Thanks again to Sachita, Rachel Blacknight, and Stickelbatz for reviewing! I hope you will not be disappointed with this next chapter.


Caer Brannum

The stables were to Tristan's liking. They were spacious and clean and the stable hands knew what they were doing. However large they were, they could not house thirty extra horses, so some of them were brought to stables outside the villa complex. These were somewhat smaller, but in equally good condition.

After checking up on Griflet and Tor's horses, which had been stabled outside the villa, Tristan took a stroll through the town. Most of the houses and shops were very small and made of wood, though some had a stone foundation that looked rather new. The streets were not paved, but thanks to the clear weather, the ground was dry and free of mud. Tristan spotted signs of older palisades that had been partially removed to make space for more buildings. Caer Brannum was obviously still growing and developing. It was a large settlement, not much smaller than the one that had grown around the royal seat.

The townspeople studied him with open curiosity, heads closely together to gossip. Tristan paid no attention to them, searching for things that justified the prickling feeling of suspicion in his neck. He could not find anything. Muttering a curse under his breath, he had no choice but to admit that he was simply disturbed by Eirian's knowledge of their arrival. How on earth could he not have spotted her scouts?

How on earth could Griflet and Tor not have spotted them? He decided he would be having a talk with them to go over their reports again. He immediately dismissed the idea of asking Eirian herself.

Reaching the foot of the hill and the edge of town, Tristan stopped and studied the gate. It was heavily guarded, even more so than when they'd arrived. Was lady Eirian worried for her guests' safety, or was something else the matter?

The walkway behind the palisade was practically crawling with guards. It cost him only one look to decide that no one would be entering Caer Brannum unseen. No one would be leaving unseen either.

Arwel. Of course, Tristan thought. He reckoned Eirian would not be letting him out of her sight, now that she'd been forced to allow him back into Caer Brannum. Tristan turned on his heels and headed back uphill to the villa complex. And apparently she had placed the rest of her guards around the villa, Tristan saw as he neared the domus.

He didn't know what was going on, not yet anyway, but Eirian was certainly not behaving like the sheltered, vulnerable and unprepared heiress that Arwel had made her out to be.

He was itching to scout around, but a servant had already spotted him. The man scurried towards him. "Sir, my lady Eirian requests that you join her and your companions for supper."

Scouting around would have to wait. He gestured at the man to show him inside and was brought to a spacious room with two beds. One bed had Gawain's equipment strewn across it, on the other his saddlebags were waiting for him.

Tristan cleaned the travel dust from his face and hands and exchanged his tunic for a clean one. The servant led him through the complex to the atrium. Judging by its size, the villa must be one of the largest in this part of the island.

He had already spotted several storage rooms and guest rooms on his way to the atrium. Instead of leading him through the front door, the servant had taken the quickest way, unintentionally allowing Tristan to put together a reasonably good picture of the whole complex.

The scout understood this to be for reasons of haste. When he arrived the guests were already gathered in the atrium and about to move into the triclinium, where supper would be held. The smell of roasted meat drifted in from the back of the house, making Tristan suddenly ravenous.

"Tristan!" Gawain called out. "Where've you been?"

Tristan walked towards his brother-in-arms. "Taking a walk."

"I'm guessing you haven't even introduced yourself to your host yet?"

"Just got back."

"Seen anything interesting?"

"Enough guards to hold off an army." Tristan looked around the atrium for the lady. "Patrol rounds are good, if a bit too much. Can't get in or out unseen." He wondered who had adequate strategic skill in her service, since she'd deprived herself of the experience of Arwel and his closest men.

Arthur spotted him, Eirian on his arm. The king spoke to her and she looked at him from across the atrium, Arthur now leading her towards him.

"Put on your best smile, Tristan," Gawain grinned. "No need to frighten her with that glare."

Tristan turned his face blank and inclined his head politely when Eirian stopped in front of him. "Lady Eirian."

"Eirian, this is Tristan," Arthur introduced him.

"Ah, the famed scout," she said. "I'm honoured."

She took him in with the same shrewd glimmer he'd seen in her eyes in the courtyard, though her face was as blank as his. When she looked up to his face, the inscrutable expression vanished into a pleasant smile. It did not reach her eyes.

"You must be the person best-suited to tell me about your journey," she said. "How was it?"

Tristan hated small talk.

"It was uneventful. The weather stayed well and there were no problems," he answered.

Eirian waited graciously for details, but they did not come. Tristan expected her false smile to falter, but it didn't.

Gawain guffawed, breaking the growing silence. "My lady, our Tristan here is not a fan of elaborate speech. If you want a more thorough account of our journey, you'd best ask someone else. I'd be happy to tell you about it."

Eirian turned that charming smile to the blond knight and now it did reach her eyes. "Thank you, sir. I'm looking forward to hearing all about it from you. But I must confess, I've never had the opportunity of hearing a report from the best scout in the kingdom and it is greatly exciting to me."

Gawain gave her a friendly nod to show he wasn't offended and sent an amused glance in Tristan's direction, knowing how quickly Tristan's irritation was building.

Eirian looked back at Tristan. "Tell me, sir. There must be some stirring tale you could share with me. Were there really no difficulties? You did not see anything out of the ordinary?" The slyness had suddenly returned. "Or anyone?"

He stiffened. She knew. Her spies or scouts had observed their coming, and neither Tristan nor his apprentices had seen them.

"No, nothing that would warrant suspicion," he replied, barely managing to push the words past his gritting teeth.

Something flashed in her eyes, before it was quickly concealed. "That's very reassuring."

No doubt it was.

"Let me introduce you to my people," she continued, as if nothing had happened. She pointed at two young men, who were speaking to Lancelot. "That's Rhodri, my commander, and Llew, his second-in-command."

She turned to her left, pointing to an older man. "Ithel, my advisor."

As Tristan looked on, the white-haired man was approached by Arwel, who spoke with him shortly, before Ithel excused himself. Tristan glanced down at Eirian, who was watching with a stone-set face, not revealing anything.

The lady had invited Arwel to her supper? It was clever. She could easily have ignored his presence and forced him to spend the evening with the soldiers, who would be having a feast of their own with Eirian's men in the soldiers' quarters.

Instead she had opted to invite him and have him within her sight. She was not going for a petty victory by making him stay with the common soldiers, something well below his former rank. It wouldn't have gained her anything except Arwel's humiliation, but by keeping him in her presence she would be able to observe him all night. It was a tactical little manoeuvre that surprised him.

For the first time, Tristan really looked at Eirian. She was wearing another black gown, this one more richly decorated. Her dark, curling hair was held up by pins, hidden by the same black veil, though it was pushed farther back from her brow, revealing much more of her hair than it had in the afternoon. Her skin was fair, but looked very pale because of the swathing of black in which she was dressed.

She was young, younger than he'd expected. She must have been married at an early age, which was normal for Romans patricians, but Meirion had been a Briton. The late lord had had the succession to consider, of course, which was probably why he'd arranged Eirian's marriage at a young age. If only he had persisted and arranged a second marriage, they wouldn't have had to deal with the current mess.

"Please," Eirian said. "Let me show you to the triclinium for supper. You must be starving after your travels."

She led them into a room to the side of the atrium. The walls were painted in bright colours, depicting scenes from famous Roman tales, but Tristan also recognised a few pictures of local lore. He was shown to his place by waiting servants. He noticed that Arwel was placed between two of Arthur's younger knights, not allowing him to speak privately with anyone from Caer Brannum.

Eirian sat down on one of the couches and leaned on one elbow. Tristan intercepted the look between Arthur and Lancelot. Not only had Eirian spoken about "her people" a few moments ago, she was also lying down to eat, placing herself on equal standing with the present men, instead of using a stool, as was common in Roman dining rooms. It wasn't unprecedented, but it was a bold statement.

She was asserting herself as a ruler.

"Well, well," Gawain muttered as he reclined against the cushions. "This should be interesting."

Alas, it wasn't. The size of the dinner party ensured that there would only be chitchat, perhaps laced with an undertone of intrigue that Lancelot would pick up on, but Tristan found it all to be a dragging, endless affair. The food was good, so he just kept himself occupied with that, avoiding conversation with his clipped answers.

Eirian was holding court next to Arthur, playing the part of the interested, convivial host perfectly. Tristan watched the little gestures her hands made, the graceful smiles and effortless conversation full of insightful inquiries about the current state of the kingdom. It was all flawlessly orchestrated, designed to portray her as a capable leader.

Tristan clenched his jaw. So well-prepared, when Arthur's visit wasn't even announced. Again he was reminded of his failing as a scout. And she had dared to throw it in his face. The look he sent her through his black fringe was less than friendly.

"Something wrong?" Gawain asked.

Tristan glanced impassively at him. Gawain shrugged and stretched his arm to pick some fruit from the table. Tristan opted for some more bread and let his eyes glide over the other guests at the same time. Most of them seemed to be fooled by Eirian's act, but Arwel's face was gloomy as he stared at her.

The scout reckoned he himself wouldn't be looking too favourably on the person who'd cast him out either, especially not after having kept his lord's lands together during his sickness. And this upstart of a girl, who'd been born into privilege instead of having earned it, had exiled him on a whim.

No, Tristan did not blame the man for his dark look.


He met the younger sister the next morning. He'd got up before dawn after a quiet night and decided to explore the villa complex when most of its occupants were still in bed. He retraced the servant's route from the previous evening, taking a few detours, until he arrived back at the atrium.

Most Roman villas were built in the same fashion, so he easily found his way to the kitchens, which was already full of activity. The knight's presence caused a stir amongst the maids, not used to having important guests in the kitchen. He suffered the fuss with resignation, wishing for the kitchens back home, where a simple meal was always waiting for him at dawn thanks to Cook, who was used to having the early bird in her kitchen.

Just when Tristan was about to give up trying to make clear he just wanted some bread and maybe a few apples and he would be on his way, Cook's equivalent in Caer Brannum sailed in to see what the commotion was about. She shooed the girls out and pointed at a table. Tristan obeyed and sat down on one of the wooden benches. It never hurt to stay on a cook's good side.

"Just some bread is enough," he said.

"'S not out of the oven yet," the matronly woman answered. "We've just put it in." Her dress was dusted with a fine layer of white flower to prove it. "But I've got some porridge if you don't want to wait till breakfast."

"Thank you."

"There you go, sir," she said and placed a steaming bowl under his nose, putting a jar of honey next to it. She clapped her hands and the kitchen maids filed back in, going back to their chores, giggling and whispering.

He put some honey in the bowl and stuck a spoonful in his mouth. It was good, thick porridge and he tucked in. A hand pushed a cup of watered wine in front of him. He looked up at the cook's wrinkled face, flattered at the gusto with which he was eating her porridge. He gave her a nod and drained the cup.

"Heledd!" a young voice called out, followed by quick footsteps.

The cook turned her head towards the door. An untidy, blonde head peeked around the corner. "Good morning, my lady," the cook said. "Breakfast?"

"Morning," the girl said. She noticed the unfamiliar figure sitting at the table. "Oh!"

Tristan inclined his head to her. From the way Heledd, the cook, had addressed her, he gathered that this was Tegwen, Eirian's younger sister.

She seemed to be both nervous and interested at the same time, judging from the way she was bouncing on her feet. She was wearing a simple, linen dress, bare feet peeking out from under the hem. Her hair was loose, falling messily around her shoulders. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. She probably had.

"Good morning," she said carefully. "Who are you?"

"Tristan," he answered.

Her eyes widened. "Of the Round Table! You are my sister's guest!" she exclaimed. She grabbed her skirt and curtsied deeply, nearly falling over in the process. "I am Tegwen," she introduced herself once she'd straightened up, cheeks turning pink.

"Good morning, lady," he greeted her, ignoring her little slip.

She sat herself down at the table, opposite of Tristan, scrutinising him as he returned to his meal. "Why are you in the kitchens, eating the servants' breakfast?" she asked, breaking a long silence.

His spoon hovered halfway from his mouth. "It's good food," he answered, caught off-guard by the snobby question, and closed his lips around the spoon.

"I thought the great knights only ate the best foods and richest wines," she said.

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody," she replied. "It's in all the tales I've heard people tell."

Tristan scoffed. "Perhaps they should have told you the true history of those great knights. They'll eat anything, I assure you."

She stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination, and opened her mouth for a question. Heledd, the cook, placed a bowl in front of her, distracting her. Tegwen reached for the jar of honey and let some of it drip into her own porridge.

Tristan put his spoon in his empty bowl and watched the girl mix the two substances. "Why are you eating the servants' breakfast?"

She looked at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I like porridge."

He allowed a corner of his mouth to curl up. "Me too."


Tristan wandered around the villa complex for a few hours, not bothering to show up for breakfast after a second bowl of servants' breakfast, and cornered Griflet and Tor when they went to check their horses. He interrogated them about their scouting patrols so thoroughly that their nerves would be recovering for days.

Frustrated with himself and his scouts that none of them had come up with a satisfying answer as to where Eirian's scouts could have hidden themselves, he saddled Fedir and headed out of Caer Brannum. He knew his mood was deteriorating into a state of black fuming and hoped that a nice, long ride would help him work some of it off. Arthur would probably not appreciate him emanating this mood in the presence of their host. Even if she was the main culprit.

He rode farther and farther away, familiarising himself easily with the landscape. The valley which Caer Brannum overlooked from its hilltop had a few farms and orchards and in the next valley he found more farms and a small village. All of it looked prosperous. The fertility of the ground in this area made Caer Brannum one of Arthur's richest allies.

He found the tracks of horses and trailed them until he determined that they were made by patrols. This had to be Rhodri's work, the young commander who'd taken Arwel's place. He continued to follow them to study the routes the patrols took. It was good, but there was still much room for improvement.

The kind of improvement that came with experience. Rhodri was too young for his new post.

Tristan kept on tracking the patrol, until he found more confirmation of inexperience, this time making him uneasy. The patrol had ridden alongside a stream for quite some time, but had not crossed it, while there were some shallows.

He crossed the stream and explored the terrain, following his gut instinct. There they were, signs of a small group moving stealthily but not invisibly. The size of the footprints made it clear that the group consisted of adults. They were all quite deep, indicating that it were men that had passed here.

Boots, and quite heavy too. Peasants did not wear them. Tristan cursed and mounted Fedir again, steering his companion in the direction of the town. He was going to ask Rhodri about the possibility of the prints having been made by his men, but he already knew what the young commander's answer would be.

Caer Brannum's enemies were gathering at its borders.


He returned to the villa complex in a mood even fouler than when he'd left. A conflict was brewing, that much was clear. The obvious weakening of Arthur's richest ally was an incentive for war. If they did not show to the world soon that Caer Brannum was as steadfast as ever, all hell would break loose again.

Night had already settled over the town when he finished rubbing Fedir down and headed to his room. Gawain was there, cleaning a knife.

"There you are," he said. "Nobody's seen you all day. Where've you been?"

"Went scouting," Tristan replied. "Where's Arthur? We need to speak."

Gawain frowned, sheathing the knife. "Trouble?"

"Maybe."

"He should be with Eirian in the garden," Gawain said. "I left them only a while ago."

Tristan left the room, followed by his brother-in-arms. Arthur and Eirian were sitting on a marble bench, surrounded by well-kept bushes and torches to provide some light. There was no wind and the heat was stifling, even though night had already fallen.

Eirian was wearing the same black gown from the previous evening, once again topped by a veil, speaking quietly to the king. They looked up when Tristan neared them.

"Tristan," Arthur smiled. "I was just beginning to wonder whether we'd have to send out a search party for you."

Tristan gave a disdainful snort, making Arthur's smile widen.

"How are you finding Caer Brannum's lands, sir?" Eirian inquired.

"I found tracks that I do not think belong to your men, my lady," he answered, ignoring the attempt at chitchat.

"Where?"

"Past the stream in the south-east, a four-hour ride from here."

Eirian narrowed her eyes. "I see." She clapped her hands briskly, telling the servant who hurried towards her to find Rhodri and bring him here immediately. "Bercia lies on the other side of that stream, Saxon land," she then said to Tristan. "The last few weeks my commander has detected more movement, but the Saxons have not yet neared our borders this closely before. Did you find any tracks on our side of the stream?"

"No."

"I would appreciate it greatly if you would discuss your findings with Rhodri," she told him. "We have been expecting this since my father died, and we are prepared." She looked at the king. "I assure you that we can guarantee your safety, my lord."

Arthur watched her for a moment, her face a mask of firm resolve. "I have no doubt," he said.

Tristan realised he was looking at a young woman who'd been cast into the role of leader unprepared and inexperienced. Yet he could not find a trace of doubt or insecurity on her face. She played her part perfectly, confident and unaffected by the political whirlwind around her. So unruffled that not even a hair was out of place.

Normally not one to pay heed to physical discomfort, seeing her sit there cool as water suddenly reminded him of his damp hair sticking to his neck and forehead, the tunic covered in dust clinging to his body and chafing his heated skin.

She noticed him sizing her up and returned the same gaze. Looking him in the eye, she clapped her hands again and ordered some ale to wash away the dust in his throat and a light meal since he'd missed supper. "The villa is fortunate enough to have its own bathing room," she said, still not averting her eyes. "I'll have a servant show it to you if you wish to refresh yourself."

Tristan thanked her and sat down on a bench opposite her and Arthur, Gawain next to him. Rhodri entered the garden, a servant carrying a tray right behind him.

"My lady," the young commander bowed.

"Rhodri," Eirian said, "Sir Tristan here has some troubling news concerning Bercia's movements. Please mind his advice. I trust you will take appropriate measures."

"Of course, my lady," Rhodri answered and turned to Tristan. "I'm honoured, sir."

Gawain made room for the young man on the bench and the three of them discussed Tristan and Rhodri's patrol's findings. Rhodri proved himself to be an intelligent man, who had the potential to grow into an excellent commander. He'd risen in rank too soon, however, and without a more experienced superior he was bound to make mistakes. Fortunately, Rhodri was not above asking questions and listening to advice, and Tristan found himself suddenly on the receiving end of a volley of inquiries.

He agreed to have Griflet and Tor make patrols during their stay to help further increase frequency. He would be making rounds himself as well. Tristan intended to find out as much as he could about the scouts of Caer Brannum and figure out how he could have missed them on his journey here.

Eirian and Arthur looked on silently, following the quick exchange of information but not participating. The lady waved for some more drinks as it became clear that Rhodri was going to use this opportunity to extract every bit of information from the knights he could. A servant was dispatched to gather maps and Tristan pushed his fatigue to the back of his mind.

Gawain seemed to take a liking to Caer Brannum's commander. It was not long before the sound of deep, male laughter reverberated through the dark garden. Even Tristan was not completely impervious to Rhodri's infectious zeal and eagerness. The green-eyed, auburn-haired man had charisma, another item on Tristan's list on what made a good commander.

Eirian had made a good choice appointing her new commander. The scout looked sideways at her, finding the barest hint of a satisfied smile playing around her mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that all of this was going exactly as she had planned.

She stood, excusing herself to retire for the night and leaving the men to themselves, but not before asking Rhodri to meet with her before breaking fast the next morning. Tristan did not doubt that the commander would be giving a detailed account of the remainder of the evening to his lady.

When they had finished scheduling patrols for the next week, Tristan also left, following the still waiting servant to his promised bath. The bathing room was not particularly large and had only one bath, but it was heated to a degree that made Tristan's aching muscles relax instantly. He leaned the back of his head against the tiled edge of the bath, foregoing cleaning himself for a while to just enjoy the blissful warmth seeping into his bones.

Finally he scrubbed four days worth of dust and dirt off him and rested some more, until his eyelids grew so heavy he knew it was time to find his bed. He dried himself off, leaving the towels for the maids to find the next morning. A thoughtful servant had brought him a clean set of his clothes and laid it out for him.

Tristan stretched his arms over his head, joints and vertebrae popping back in place, and reached for his breeches. He quickly combed his freshly-washed hair and decided he would braid the more haphazard strands back into submission tomorrow. After slipping on his boots, he left the bathing room, the warm evening air cool on his flushed skin. He threw his linen shirt over his head and made his way back to his room.

On his way he passed the garden, which had been abandoned by the king and the two commanders, though there were still a few torches burning, casting a flickering light on the bushes and the surrounding pillars and walls.

He caught a flash of white and stopped in his tracks. Eirian was walking in the garden. She'd shed the black gown and was dressed in an ankle-length tunica of bleached linen, covered by a yellow robe which was not fastened around her waist. She was slowly following the small paths of the garden, her head bent. Her head was uncovered, though her hair was still pinned up.

Aware that he was intruding on a private moment, he stepped back, hiding in the shadows. He couldn't cross the garden to get to his room unseen, so he decided to wait until she left. He didn't know why he was allowing her this courtesy, but there was something in her posture and the hanging of her shoulders that made him reluctant to disturb her.

He heard a drawn-out sigh and then the sound of footsteps on pebbles stopped. Intrigued by the tiredness that had been audible in the sigh, he turned his body until he could see her again. Eirian sat down on the same marble bench she'd been sitting on earlier, and raised her arms to pull out several long pins from her hair. Curl after curl, the dark mass fell around her shoulders and down her back. She placed the pins next to her, the metal making a soft, tingling sound on the stone of the bench.

Eirian leaned forward and held her head upside down, fanning out her hair with forceful shakes of her hands, running them through it. She whipped her head back up and rubbed her hands over her face. There was nothing delicate or posed about her now. She was tired and affected by the summer heat.

Her hands stilled, still covering her mouth, and she stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Soundlessly moving further into the shadows, Tristan realised he was seeing her in a way she would never have allowed him if she'd known he was there. Or if anyone else had been there, for that matter. Here was a normal woman, troubled with worries, pacing and brooding.

She just stayed there quietly for a while and Tristan decided he should just find another route to his room, because he had a feeling she would not be leaving soon, but there was something entrancing about her and the way she simply sat there. He didn't move.

But someone else did. Tristan froze at the same time Eirian did. The scout blinked and there she suddenly reappeared. Eirian the lady, Caer Brannum's leader. There was not a trace of Eirian the woman left.

Arwel stepped into the garden from its other side. "Eirian," he said softly. "Having trouble sleeping?"

Eirian's face did not betray anything. She did not move to close her robe, despite her completely inappropriate state of dress. It would have been a sign of insecurity. "Good evening, Arwel," she merely said, ignoring his impertinent question.

Tristan tensed even further. What was Arwel doing here? It was a very strange and – given the state of things between Eirian and Arwel – unpredictable situation.

Because Eirian did not, Tristan did look around for guards, but there were none. Not that unusual for an inner garden, but the scout had not expected Eirian to let Arwel out of his room unguarded at night. Why was he permitted to wander the villa alone at night?

"I see you are walking freely without any of my guards," Eirian observed, as if she'd read Tristan's mind. "I must not have rooted out your followers thoroughly enough."

"The warriors still support me, Eirian," Arwel replied. "You'd have to exile all of my men."

The possessive claim brought a smirk to the lady's face. "Rhodri is on his way to becoming an even better commander than you. A commander who knows where his loyalties should be and who instils the same loyalty in his men. Once I've rid Caer Brannum of your presence again, you'll not be able to spread discord any longer."

"Rhodri is a whelp. My men do not follow him."

"Really?" she drawled. "It seems that they already do. After all, he was your most talented apprentice, or have you forgotten already?"

The blatant taunt brought a spark of anger to Arwel's face. Triumphant, Eirian leaned back.

Arwel smiled bitterly. "As arrogant as ever." He stepped closer to her, looming over her. She did not bat an eye, but Tristan's hand clenched around the hilt of his knife. "Listen carefully to me, girl, you and Rhodri can play lord and lady as much as you like, but Arthur will never allow two children to rule the richest and most important part of his kingdom. He will put you aside and back in your place, as your father should have done years ago."

She displayed that taunting and infuriating smirk again. "You will still be an exile, Arwel. Banished and homeless."

Arwel's mouth tightened. "I wouldn't be so sure. After all, I kept Caer Brannum steady during your father's sickness. Arthur knows this and Arthur has to act before a war breaks out. The most logical solution is a marriage between you and me. The daughter and the regent. The blood and the sword."

Eirian had stood up, forcing Arwel to straighten his back and stop his looming, but now he moved closer again, his eyes gliding openly over her body. "A chore, definitely. But all for the greater good of the kingdom."

She still showed no sign of shrinking back from him, but Tristan was ready to intervene, for he could see this spiralling out of control in mere moments.

"And of course," Arwel spoke, so softly that Tristan had to strain his ears to her him, "if you refuse to cooperate, there is always little Tegwen. The daughter and the regent, Eirian, it doesn't specify which daughter. Remember that."

Arwel turned around and walked out of the garden. Eirian stared at his back, her eyes wide and her jaw tight, but showing no other outward sign that his last words had affected her. Not until he'd vanished into the bowels of the villa.

Eirian's fists slowly curled, tighter and tighter, until they were shaking. Her lip trembled and she sucked it between her teeth and bit down hard. Blood gleamed in the light of the torches when she released it to clench her jaws together. Tristan heard her breath whistle through her teeth. Her face twisted in anger and fear, moist making her blue eyes glitter. She pressed a fist to her stomach, bending over it, muffling her gasps for breath with her other hand, trying to regain control over herself.

He released the hilt of his knife, still staring at her profile. She straightened, taking a deep shuddering breath.

Tristan didn't know what he was thinking, but he moved out of the shadows into the light of the torches, before she had a chance of composing herself. Eirian whirled towards him, shock evident in her eyes for a moment, before her mask slammed back into place, so quickly it was like a gate falling shut. "Sir Tristan," she said steadily.

He stalked towards her, determined to get some answers, and he noted with satisfaction that now she did grab her robe and yanked it shut, hiding the thin tunica from view. That little sign of weakness fuelled something dark in him and he did not stop until he was so close she had to look up at him. She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, the arrogance Arwel had accused her of evident in the set of her jaw.

He was standing so close to her he could feel the warmth of her body. She swallowed, her pretence failing. There was resentment and fear in her eyes – she knew what he was doing, but not why. Gods, he didn't know what he was doing himself.

"I think you have some explaining to do to your king, my lady," he muttered.

"I have nothing to explain," she answered. She took a step back from him, and though the defeat made the resentment in her face flare up for a moment, it also allowed her to gather more of her self-control.

He pursued her, stepping closer after a moment and having the satisfaction of seeing the façade unravel again. Tristan reached out one hand and hooked a finger in the bunched-up cloth of the robe, where one of her fists was still holding it together. She stopped breathing, going very still.

He tugged the cloth out of her grasp, the robe falling open again. A vein was pulsing very quickly in her throat, but she did not move.

"Aye, Eirian," he said softly. "You do."

Coming to his senses, he turned around and left the garden.