Page 123 of The Speed of Lightning
He nodded. “But that’s the least of it.”
The brooch lay in the sand where it had fallen, glinting in the gray light. His father’s brooch. The symbol of everything he had lost now thrust back into his hands by a man so wicked he could hardly fathom it.
He pressed a shaking palm over his face, trying to wrestle sense from the storm in his head. Freya’s mother… Garmoran… the king murdered by his own son…Stewart’s takeover of the Isles… Rory scheming to force her into marriage. It was too much, too fast, confusing every thought.
One truth broke through, more terrifying to him than all the others. Freya. She was the center of it all—her inheritance, her bloodline, her secret. And she was in Rory’s grasp.
Chapter 35
ARDTORNISH CASTLE - MARCH 11, 1387
Freya stood very still in the semidarkness of a sumptuous room fit for a princess. Rising on her tiptoes, she strained toward the ceiling, listening. A soft thud fell against the floor in the corner. Then came a sharp, punctuated rap. It was early, even for the women of the house to be awake—but not too early for a maid. Not the maid of Moy Castle.
Heart thudding, she rushed to the corner, climbing the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. Balancing carefully, she lifted her hand, slipped off her wedding ring, and tapped it against the ceiling.
Tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap-tap.She signaled the short pattern again and again, praying it was Aoife, praying she would be heard. After nearly a minute she stopped. And waited.
Da-Dum. Da-Dum. Da-Dum. A muted knock answered, followed by a gentle rhythm. The rhythm of the Wolfhound song she had sung at Castle Tioram. Freya tapped the same rhythm back, and frantic taps followed in return. Her eyes grew hot. Aoife.
For long minutes they traded taps, unable to speak but unwilling to stop. That tiny link buoyed her heart after a day anda half of fear. She had been locked in this chamber more than a full day, consumed with dread and grief.
Time was running short. At dawn she would be hauled before the king, and—worse—Alexander Stewart. A thought of Morven MacKenzie pierced her heart: a girl of seven whose entire world had been her parents and her abbey. The Wolf had not hesitated to nail its doors shut and set it alight, burning her alive for no greater crime than being the daughter of David MacKenzie. How much less mercy would he show her?
Movement stirred above. Heavy footsteps pounded, Aoife’s lighter steps scrambling away. A muffled whimper. Then the scrape of a lock, wrenched open.
Freya pressed back against the wall, breath ragged. A whispered prayer sprang to her lips as thunderous footsteps charged down her corridor.
“Holy is His name. His mercy is from generation unto generation, to them that fear Him. He has shown might with His arm, He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their seat?—”
The door rattled.
“—and exalted the humble.”
The door burst open.
Chapter 36
INVERLUSSA, JURA - MARCH 11, 1387
Rory MacDonald was a dead man. The thought was not passing rage, but a blood oath, cold and iron-bound. Dawn bled across Ardlussa Bay as Calum leapt from the side of Hector’s borrowed bìrlinn, his stride hammering the sand like the beat of a war drum. Two days apart from Freya had been torment enough; now he would make the man who spun this nightmare choke on his own treachery.
He strode up the beach, eyes fixed on the ancient headlands of his home. His father had ruled these shores in unbroken peace for thirty-two years, holding Jura steady against upheaval. It had always been his intention to preserve that hard-won peace, but the moment Ragnall and Rory had conspired to steal his wife they had set his course. He was chieftain now, and his reign would not begin with treaties or caution. It would begin by unleashing the hounds of war. The sea had carried him away in exile; now it bore him back, Cù Cogaidh of Jura. Ready to strike.
The new watchbell rang out where his father’s cottage once stood. Another echoed farther inland. And then, the deep, heavy bell of the meetinghouse tolled. Villagers began to wander from the wood, down the slopes, lining the narrow path that led toSomerled’s meetinghouse. They beat their breasts in pulsating thumps, greeting him as their chieftain.
The thirty men he’d been training emerged from the crowd, flanking him. Balder jogged to their head, crossing his breast in salute. “We received your missive, Cù Cogaidh. The clan knows what’s been done to Freya. The Spirithorde is ready to strike at your command.”
His brow furrowed. “Spirithorde?”
Balder’s eyes gleamed. “Aye—we’re of one blood, one spirit. We’re ready.”
He drew a deep breath. “Spirithorde… very well. Then let’s make sure they remember the name.”
He strode up the steps of the meetinghouse as the doors were opened before him. He grabbed the chest from Fraser’s outstretched hands, then snatched the incense bowls for Odin and tossed them into the bottom. He strode through the feast hall and into the Chieftain’s quarters, grabbing the gold Ragnall had relocated—amulets, oath rings, Mjölnir, glittering runestones, all tossed into the hoard. The villagers streamed into the expansive room, helping collect the spoils of Somerled’s conquests and tossing them into chests.
He closed his hand around the heavy altar cross, thrown upside down in the corner, and hefted it. Striding back into the feast hall, he stepped onto the dais and slammed the cross into the center of the high table. The clan fell silent, all eyes on him, faces set with determination. For a moment he stood awkwardly, trying to recall how his father had begun clan meetings. He cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to heaven.
“Elders, if you support my chieftainship, I bid you take your place.”
