Page 101 of The Speed of Lightning
She forced herself still, slowing her pounding heart, nodding once. Still he didn’t let go.
“If you so much as peep, you’re done. Do you understand?”
Spots danced before her eyes. She nodded again, tears spilling over his big hand. At last he released her. She sucked in air, head throbbing, keeping silent.
Rory drew his dagger, leveling the point at her chest. “We’ve had an interesting report from the Council of the Isles. A female minstrel performed on Findlugan, Saint Valentine’s Day. Told a tale about the MacKenzie whelp who died in one of the Wolf’s campaigns.”
Her mind raced, scrambling for what they might know. She schooled her face into stillness.
Rory leaned closer, the devil’s grin on his lips. “It reminded me of something.”
From his tunic he withdrew a roll of parchment tied with saffron ribbon. Unfurling it, he held it out—the tale she had written of Lochindorb.
She swallowed, masking the tremor in her hands as she took it. “What is it?”
Rory shook the parchment. “Do you see? Do you see who’s named within it?”
Pretending ignorance would get her nowhere; it would only incense them.
She nodded. “Aye. Cù Cogaidh.”
Papa’s grip on her arm tightened until it throbbed. “Did you know Rory was sent to root out the author? Did you know the king hunts him now for high treason?”
She drew a steadying breath, keeping her face smooth. “He sent Calum, not Rory. At least that’s what my husband told me after we wed. And yes, I’ve heard the king worries about the secrecy of the tales. Who wouldn’t?”
Papa’s eyes narrowed. “You used to be a biddable daughter. Now you speak with no respect.”
She lowered her gaze, feigning meekness. “Forgive me, Papa. I mean no disrespect. I only wish to be honest—to help you find the answers you seek.”
The lie stung her tongue. Anger kindled. How dare they? What right had they to detain her, to seize the clan, to rule as if they were gods when they were nothing but men? She could do this. She must—for Calum, for Týr, for Rock and Morven, for the mission.
Rory leaned in, breath hot on her cheek, his fingers clamping her chin, eyes boring into hers. “We’ve had more than one report from villagers claiming you have a talent for tales.”
This part was tricky. She drew a breath, considering her words. At last she gave a careful nod. “I’ll admit it—though I’m ashamed. Yes, I sneaked out a few times to tell stories, but only to the children of the clan. I swear it on my mother’s grave. I told them her stories—of Queen Boudica, Finn MacCool, of Kelpies, Merrow, Púca. How would I have known tales of Calum?”
It was the truth—or part of it.
Papa leaned close. “Týr. He could have told you.”
Freya blinked, praying the risk she was about to take would not endanger anyone else. “When would he have told me? Ask any of the families—Týr was never at our storytelling nights.They were faerie tales for children, not war reports for grown men.”
Papa snarled and thrust her hand over the flame of the candle. Heat seared her skin, and she gasped, chest heaving.
“Where did you tell these stories?”
“Different houses. Many different ones.”
“Whose?”
She cried out, Bog exploding against the door, claws raking. “There were many!”
“WHO?”
A scream tore from her throat.
Rory cursed at the rattling door and yanked the candle aside. Freya collapsed to her knees, trembling, clutching her scorched hand as Bog’s barking began to quiet. Rory loomed over her. “The woman was said to be dressed in foreign fashion, with a subtle accent. By all accounts, the evidence stacks neatly at your feet.”
Freya shook her head. “I was with Grufa and Balder MacSorley on Saint Valentine’s Day. Grufa has been trying to convince me to return to our gods. I brought the prayer book to share Calum’s God with them—to speak of Jesus. I wanted them to understand my questions about the Norse faith. To see if they had answers.”
