Page 12 of The Speed of Lightning
A ripple of chuckles moved around the room, easing the solemn tension for a breath. The king cleared his throat, voice rasping but steady. “Now, to the next matter. I have received word this evening from Clan Ranald, Clan Cameron, and Clan Morrison—they will send forces to support an attack, should it prove necessary.”
David straightened. “Highlanders?”
The king inclined his head. “Aye. Support for your cause is growing in the Highlands.”
Hector frowned. “Last we heard, those three clans had no wish to pursue the Wolf within the Isles.”
“It seems something has indeed changed their minds. Rory intercepted a rather unusual piece of intelligence on the matter. He was bound for Jura to investigate further—but I—I wished to speak with Tànaiste MacLean before making any final decision.”
Calum blinked, thrown off balance. “Jura, my King?”
“Aye.” The king’s voice dropped, heavy with import. “Your identity has been exposed—tied to the figure of Lightning in a rather remarkable tale.”
With a furtive kind of enthusiasm, Rory produced a folded sheet of vellum, unfastened the woven cord of bright saffron, and passed it to Hector.
Hector held it to the firelight, his thumb brushing over the raised beeswax seal. “Scripsit Relator.”
The words meant nothing to Calum. His mother’s careful instruction had never gone so far as Latin. “What does that mean?”
Léo’s brow furrowed. “It means, ‘Written by the Storyteller.’”
Hector handed the parchment into Calum’s hands. He fumbled with the saffron cord, cracked the seal, and scanned the page. Elegant script spilled across the vellum, a beautifully crafted tale recounting the destruction of the trebuchet on the Aird of Sleat. But as his eyes darted down the lines of the ballad, his stomach tightened. The tale did not rightfully credit Birdy for the act—it namedhim.
From the corner of his vision Calum caught a hand waving. He looked up as Birdy signed,What does it say?
He cleared his throat and read the last lines aloud for her.
Birdy’s face twisted; she signed with a sharp shake of her head.He’s got the details all wrong.
John Mór leaned in. “What’s she saying?”
Hector folded his arms. “That the bard muddled the details of the event. It wasnae Calum who loosed the arrow—it was Aileen. Calum only spirited her out of danger.”
Calum frowned at the page, a strange disorientation sliding through him, like an ankle giving way on loose gravel. “How would this bard have known I was there at all?”
Dómhnall crossed his arms over his narrow chest, his face clouding with contempt. “Obvious enough. From the dispatches of these reckless missions your band insists on carrying out.”
Around him, Calum felt his companions stiffen, their irritation palpable.
Queen Marjorie clasped her husband’s hand as he dissolved into a fit of coughing, her voice sharp with concern. “Peace, Dómhnall—you are upsetting your father.”
But Dómhnall pressed on. “What is this Cù Cogaidh the tale speaks of?”
Calum shifted uneasily, reluctant to cast light on his clan or the tenuous thread of loyalty that bound him to it. “My title,” he said at last. “I have not used it since leaving Jura ten years ago. It would become my style when I am chieftain.” He paused, the words heavy, his throat tightening around them. “IfI become chieftain.”
The king’s hazy eyes swept over them, face tight with concern. “This story was found circulating off Galloway.” He motioned toward Rory, who produced still more tales and placed them in Hector’s hands. “Another set of ballads were obtained by one of our guards in Badenoch.”
Hector’s glacial eyes scanned the script. “Lochindorb… the account of Cara’s recovery. Cù Cogaidh is named here as well, though the rest of us are called only by our sobriquets. The details are sharper, less muddled. Do you believe this is why the Highlanders have pledged their retinues?”
The king nodded gravely. “I believe it may be. It is a stirring tale, Hector. Your figure—Beithir—reads as though he carries a spark of God’s own judgment, raised to mete justice on evil-doers.”
Dómhnall scoffed. “It seems plain enough. A ploy of Tànaiste MacLean’s heathen clan, spreading tales to raise his standing and his popularity. They are the least respected in all the Isles. That is why his is the only name revealed. The fact that such drivel has stirred Highland support for this reckless war is nothing more than luck.”
Calum couldn’t contain himself. A sharp, indignant snort escaped before he burst out, “First of all, everyone knows Hectoris called Beithir. That name has been in circulation for three years—Aileen herself used it when she first came to Lochbuie in ’84.”
Birdy leapt to her feet, signing with emphatic strokes.Exactly right. Tell him, Lightning.
“Second of all,” Calum pressed, “you clearly have never set foot on Jura. They care nothing for their rank among the Isles. Left to themselves, as ‘heathens’ as you say, they’d sooner withdraw from the Council entirely. And last—” his voice caught, but he forced it through—“I havenae been home in ten years. My parting with my father and clan was…difficult. I assure you, they hold me in no special esteem.”
