“Connor, son of Donald Gallach, grandson of Hugh, and great-grandson of the Lord of the Isles,” she chanted as she circled, keeping his image in her mind, “may you be the chieftain who brings security and peace to our clan.
“May your feats be so great that the bards write poems and sing songs about them for many generations,” she chanted as she circled a second time.
“May ye live to be an old man,” she said, and in her mind’s eye, she aged his beloved face, giving him deep lines and snowy white hair. “May your children be bonded to each other by great affection, and may ye have grandchildren who bring ye joy.”
When she had circled three times, she flung her head back and raised her arms to the night sky. “May this circle protect and keep you until all these things have come to pass.”
Now that she had completed the simple protective charm of the circle, she was ready to begin the more powerful fire dance. With every movement of the dance, she must please the faeries and thereby win their favor. In exchange, they would employ their magic for Connor’s protection. Highlanders were good Christians, of course, and so the chant also called on God’s help.
Blades may cut you,
Yet none shall kill you.
False friends may deceive you,
Yet none shall kill you.
Allies may desert you,
Yet none shall kill you.
Enemies may trap you,
Yet none shall kill you.
Seun Dhè umad!
Làmh Dhè airson do dhìona!
Spell of God about you!
The hand of God protect you!
***
Connor knelt on one knee in the grass, mesmerized. So he had not imagined the dancing faery the night he stumbled into the faery glen injured and bleeding. Somehow, it made sense that his dancing faery was Ilysa. As her hair caught the light of the fire and her body swayed back and forth, he thought of her above him and the magic of their lovemaking.
When he left the castle, he had been lucky to spot her at the far edge of the field in the moonlight. He had kept close enough to protect her should trouble find her, yet far enough behind her that she would not sense him following. The distance she traveled had surprised him. The longer she walked, the lower Connor’s opinion sank of the man who had asked her to come so far alone to meet him. But when he recognized the odd, conical hills of the faery glen, he realized he had been wrong.
Instead of a romantic liaison, she had come all this way to reach the faery glen and recite some sort of spell. Connor set less store by the power of the Old Ways than most Highlanders—and clearly less than Ilysa did. With too little thought, he had dismissed the rumors that she was learning more from Teàrlag than headache cures.
He could not make out the words of her chant, for he kept his distance, not wanting to interrupt her until she finished her enchantment. Or curse. When he was injured and thought she was a faery, he had not seen her circle the fire with a stick as she was doing now. But he had fallen asleep that night and could easily have missed it.
As she circled the fire, long-ago memories of his mother cursing his father flashed through his head. What Ilysa was doing looked the same, and yet was markedly different. His memory of his mother was black as night, from the hate in her eyes, to her harsh words, to her hair writhing like snakes, while everything about Ilysa radiated light—her hair, her face, her robe.
When Ilysa began to dance around the fire, Connor forgot to breathe. Her movements were so erotic that desire swept through him like a storm. He imagined making love to her in the firelight and watching her dance above him with her golden hair falling all around him.
***
Ilysa dropped her arms and closed her eyes, drained by her effort. When she recalled the image of an aged Connor, she smiled to herself. Ach, he would be a handsome old warrior. Her smile faded as she remembered that she would not be there to see him grow old.
When she opened her eyes, a jolt of fear coursed through her. Across the fire, she saw the outline of a huge warrior coming toward her out of the darkness. Her heart raced. In this magical place, he could be the faery king or a warrior from the dead. She quickly made the sign of the cross.
“Ilysa.” The phantom said her name in a voice so deep she could feel it in her toes. “I was hoping to find ye here.”
Her mind had been so focused first on Connor and then on her fear that it was a long moment before she took in his disfigured shoulder and realized who he was.
What was Alastair Crotach, chieftain of the MacLeods, doing here in the Faery Glen?