Alienor closed her eyes and felt the healer woman’s hand at her brow, cool-palmed and soothing. She dreamed again of Aquitaine, of Bordeaux and Belin, of the roar of the ocean at Talmont. Of Poitiers and the deep green forests of the Limousin uplands. She flew above them on outspread wings like a white gyrfalcon, and her feathers were as cold as snow. The bird’s hunting cry pierced the frozen blue air, and she woke with a sudden gasp. For a moment she lay blinking, uncertain where she was, for the pure, cold blue had vanished and the air she breathed now was dark and scented with spices. She
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