gorse and bright pink heather bleached into gray. The wind breathed cool on their skin. On the slate-gray surface of the Lough, a flock of ducks suddenly took flight.
She clutched his tunic, trembling still from the force of the kiss. Magic seeped into the air around them. Her stomach clenched— Let him not come, not today, for no mortal man can survive one-on-one combat with a warrior of the Sídh . Her fingers dug deeper into his tunic. She wanted Conor—Conor—no other, man or god.
Then, suddenly, the light filtering through the ash leaves above them shifted and narrowed. The dappled shadows thinned and curled until pale crescents of light peppered Conor’s tunic, like the cloak of a revered Druid. She traced one of the tiny slices of moon as her heart swelled in her throat.
“My . . . my vision,” she murmured. “Tiny crescents on his cloak . . .”
He did not hear her. He jerked up, drawing her with him. He stepped out from the cover of the ash tree, grasped the hilt of his sword, and squinted up at the sky.
“By the club of the Dagdá . . . Look!”
She followed his gaze, her breath short and knotted in her throat . She knew what she’d see, for she’d seen it a hundred times before in her vision. The sun hung in a cloudless sky like a two-day-old moon. A blue green light deepened upon her skin. Soon, they would be plunged into an uncanny twilight. Soon, this unearthly moon-sun would burn metallic and white-hot in the sky.
Conor watched the last glimmers of light bead around the edge of the black disc of the moon. “The moon passes across the sun.”
The last bead of light hovered, and then died. The world plunged into deep blue darkness. High in the sky hung a black disk threading pearly, translucent light into the star-prickled sky. On the horizon, a dark orange glow hovered.
Brigid stared at Conor. The midday twilight tinged the planes of his face silver. She gazed upon his features, so new to her, yet as beloved as if her soul had known them for a hundred lifetimes. The shackles of her guilt fell away. It did not matter that this man had killed her brother in battle. It no longer mattered that he had conquered her tribe. He and she were fated long before his name had fallen cursed from her lips.
Stubble prickled her palm as she lifted a trembling hand to his face. The memory of the vision swept through her mind. The gray mists of her stubborn ignorance parted, finally. Now, now, she recognized the salt-sweet taste of his kiss, now she recognized the swell of her secret lover’s arms, now she recognized the scent of the Otherworld which clung to his skin. The answer had lain before her all these weeks, as plain as the moon, but she had not had the courage to see it.
She curled her fingers into his hair. “Och, Conor, I’ve been so blind.”
He unclenched his sword, his gaze sharp upon her. “Tell me what you see.”
It was a command, but with no anger. In this eerie twilight, in this meeting of night and day, in this merging of the worlds, the barriers they had held against each other crumbled into dust. There would be no more games between them.
“All my life I’ve been plagued by a vision—a vision of a man. My lover.” The words surged to her throat. “I never knew his face, but I knew I was destined for him. The Sight is wary and uncertain when it grants glimpses of one’s own fate. I did not understand the full of it until now.” She glanced at the black disk glowing in the sky like hot metal, then back at Conor’s face. “It was you I saw in my vision, mo rún .”
“Not some creature of the Sídh ?”
“It was fated we meet, Conor. Long, long ago.”
Her stomach clench ed, for there was more she knew now that the prophecy’s knot was unraveled. She knew why Conor was not like other men. She held her tongue. There would be time enough in the passing of the days to ease him into accepting the truth of his lineage.
“In my house, lass, you will have a place of
She clutched his tunic, trembling still from the force of the kiss. Magic seeped into the air around them. Her stomach clenched— Let him not come, not today, for no mortal man can survive one-on-one combat with a warrior of the Sídh . Her fingers dug deeper into his tunic. She wanted Conor—Conor—no other, man or god.
Then, suddenly, the light filtering through the ash leaves above them shifted and narrowed. The dappled shadows thinned and curled until pale crescents of light peppered Conor’s tunic, like the cloak of a revered Druid. She traced one of the tiny slices of moon as her heart swelled in her throat.
“My . . . my vision,” she murmured. “Tiny crescents on his cloak . . .”
He did not hear her. He jerked up, drawing her with him. He stepped out from the cover of the ash tree, grasped the hilt of his sword, and squinted up at the sky.
“By the club of the Dagdá . . . Look!”
She followed his gaze, her breath short and knotted in her throat . She knew what she’d see, for she’d seen it a hundred times before in her vision. The sun hung in a cloudless sky like a two-day-old moon. A blue green light deepened upon her skin. Soon, they would be plunged into an uncanny twilight. Soon, this unearthly moon-sun would burn metallic and white-hot in the sky.
Conor watched the last glimmers of light bead around the edge of the black disc of the moon. “The moon passes across the sun.”
The last bead of light hovered, and then died. The world plunged into deep blue darkness. High in the sky hung a black disk threading pearly, translucent light into the star-prickled sky. On the horizon, a dark orange glow hovered.
Brigid stared at Conor. The midday twilight tinged the planes of his face silver. She gazed upon his features, so new to her, yet as beloved as if her soul had known them for a hundred lifetimes. The shackles of her guilt fell away. It did not matter that this man had killed her brother in battle. It no longer mattered that he had conquered her tribe. He and she were fated long before his name had fallen cursed from her lips.
Stubble prickled her palm as she lifted a trembling hand to his face. The memory of the vision swept through her mind. The gray mists of her stubborn ignorance parted, finally. Now, now, she recognized the salt-sweet taste of his kiss, now she recognized the swell of her secret lover’s arms, now she recognized the scent of the Otherworld which clung to his skin. The answer had lain before her all these weeks, as plain as the moon, but she had not had the courage to see it.
She curled her fingers into his hair. “Och, Conor, I’ve been so blind.”
He unclenched his sword, his gaze sharp upon her. “Tell me what you see.”
It was a command, but with no anger. In this eerie twilight, in this meeting of night and day, in this merging of the worlds, the barriers they had held against each other crumbled into dust. There would be no more games between them.
“All my life I’ve been plagued by a vision—a vision of a man. My lover.” The words surged to her throat. “I never knew his face, but I knew I was destined for him. The Sight is wary and uncertain when it grants glimpses of one’s own fate. I did not understand the full of it until now.” She glanced at the black disk glowing in the sky like hot metal, then back at Conor’s face. “It was you I saw in my vision, mo rún .”
“Not some creature of the Sídh ?”
“It was fated we meet, Conor. Long, long ago.”
Her stomach clench ed, for there was more she knew now that the prophecy’s knot was unraveled. She knew why Conor was not like other men. She held her tongue. There would be time enough in the passing of the days to ease him into accepting the truth of his lineage.
“In my house, lass, you will have a place of
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