Page 110 of The Speed of Lightning
Her words slipped into their dialect, her breathing growing labored. “I’m a curse, Calum. What have I done? This is a mistake. I only wanted you to have what was yours, to undo what you lost. You should have given me back, you should have taken the chieftainship. What have I done? What have I wrought?”
He knelt, taking her face in his hands. Everyone was looking at her as if she spoke angelic language, and he realized they were waiting for him to interpret. An instinctive need to guard theprivate corners of her heart came over him, and he spoke in their language, ignoring the others.
“Freya, this is my plan, not yours. You are not—and have never been—a curse. None of this lies at your feet. It belongs to Dómhnall, who stole the throne from John Mór. To your father, who let greed rule him. To Rory, for daring to claim a woman who is part of my very soul. And to Alexander Stewart, who couldnae stay in Badenoch, who couldnae be content as a royal son, but hungers to rule in his father’s place. The blame is theirs, not yours.”
She looked at him, her eyes teary, fighting to hold her composure. “This will ruin the Isles. How many more will die? How many children? How many good people, like your parents?”
He shook his head. “It will not ruin the Isles. We are going to fight. We are going to end the Wolf. Perhaps not as soon as we hoped, but we will win this war.”
Her eyes were still downcast. He tilted her chin, bringing her blue-green eyes level with his. “Do you see how no one in the room has placed blame upon you?”
She nodded.
“That is because you are not to blame. Freya, this is a beneficial thing. I know it doesnae seem like it, but God’s greatest blessings often come through difficulty. I’ve spent months wondering why my prayers havenae been answered in the smooth way I imagined. But then I remembered—before the rainbow, there was a flood. Before the nation of Abraham, years of barren waiting. Before Lazarus was raised, there was death. And before the salvation of many, there was the cross. Life is not shaped by what we imagine, but by God’s will—and His will always accomplishes His plan for His kingdom. Though in the moment it may seem like stern providence, it is a good plan. He is never caught by surprise or forced to scramble; all that Hewills and works is part of His original design. He is sovereign over this.”
There was a new steadiness in her eyes. She looked around the room. “What will they think of me?”
He lifted a shoulder. “That you are just as worried as the rest of us.” He turned back to the group. “She is simply concerned about the impact her tales will have on the kingdom. She does not want anyone to be harmed. She wants peace.”
John Mór slid around his desk and took the chair beside her. “That is why I went to Scotland months ago—to try to persuade them to bring Alexander under control. It was futile, an utter waste of time, but I am not sorry I went, even though it gave my brother the chance to take the throne. Not one person in this room wants a war, of that I am certain. War is never a good thing, yet sometimes it is inevitable to protect the innocent. As we’ve seen, Alexander Stewart will not be dissuaded. That is why I am tasking you with another assignment.”
Freya blew out a heavy breath. “I’m not sure that is wise, Your Grace.”
He held up a hand. “Your performance of Bonnie Morven was the impetus for the uprising at Findlugan, the very heart of our Kingdom. Now I want to strike directly at the core of our resistance, in the very lands the Wolf has set his sights on. I want you to take Bonnie Morven to the people of Garmoran. Those lands have been in dispute for nearly thirty years, their citizens caught by the whims of whomever is in charge. We need them to remind their leaders to hold their ground against the Wolf and to cast their lot with the side of right.”
Astonished, Freya straightened. “But surely that isnae necessary. It was one thing to take on the first mission, the most important. But to continue as part of a team… I’m no’ sure I’m right for it.”
Angus shook his head. “You are right for it. The king is correct—we saw that performance, and it left us all stunned.”
Murdoch touched a hand to her shoulder. “Enthralled.”
Birdy signed, her hands moving in the pattern of a mother and child.
Léo interpreted. “She says it should be a woman to tell the tale of a child. There is an emotion within it only a woman could enact—something that binds the heart of the tale to its grief.”
Freya still looked rigid. “But surely Cota Liath could do just as well. He is far more experienced. He’s already seen it spread throughout the kingdom.”
Cota Liath raised his hat. “If I may, my lady?”
Freya swallowed. “Of course.”
The minstrel removed the copy of her story from his surcoat, his eyes lingering over the words. “From the first of your tales I carried, I saw how words can travel swifter than any army and cut deeper than any blade. Every telling was cherished, every audience held captive. Your stories are a lantern in the dark—revealing both the cost of silence and the hope of rising.”
He paused, running his hands over the page. “This was different. In compassion, you gave voice to the widow, the grieving father, and the orphan—all who suffered as High Chief MacKenzie’s family has. That compassion is your true strength, and it is why the people listened. When you stood by the fire and wove your tale, threading honesty and beauty into every word, it was as if the story itself rose from your lips and lived before them. You made grief, hope, and courage breathe in every heart. You made them believe. No one else could have.”
Calum’s pride in her made his chest swell. It was everything he had wanted to say, everything he had longed to put into words—but, being lame of tongue, he had never been able to express it.
David crossed his arms over his broad chest, his gaze steady and solemn. “I want no one else to tell this tale. My Morven… shedeserves the honor of being remembered rightly. Poet… you are the only one who can capture my lass.”
Calum eyed her, still picking up on the signs of distress at the edges of her countenance. He spoke to her in their tongue. “If you arenae willing Freya, you dinnae have to do this. I am for you. Whether you are a bard, or whether you are a broderer. If you arenae willing, neither am I.”
John Mór leaned forward. “If it’s risk you fear, be assured—this is far less. You’ll be on friendlier ground. My plan is this: my cousin Ranald holds the lairdship of Tioram. I’ll send word that I’m sending a bard for an evening of storytelling and song. Can you devise a few tales or songs to fill the night?”
Freya’s shoulders lifted in a small, bracing motion, betraying both anticipation and nerves. “I have a few pieces I’ve written that might suit.”
Excellent. Give them an evening of light amusements, then finish with Morven’s tale. I can arrange lodging at Moor Leathann Cottage, my cousin’s summer estate south of Castle Tioram. No need for hasty arrivals or escapes—only a measure of caution.”
Hector nodded. “I will bring Cara and an army of help. They can assist you in preparing for the performance, to do all the…” he wiggled his fingers in front of his face as if he were beautifying his eyes.
