Page 128 of The Speed of Lightning
Marjorie nodded. “And now, I will take my leave. The matter is settled.”
She stepped back, her eyes fluttering over Freya one more time before she turned and walked toward the door, the men of the court rising as she passed.
Before she went, she stopped before Alexander, pinning him with a gaze sharp as a blade. “I wonder if my husband knew what his ties with Scotland would wreak upon the Isles, if he everwould have put Amie aside. Somehow I don’t think he would have. Choose your actions with care, brother. The Lord will not forget them.”
When the door clicked shut, Alexander rose, prowling toward her. “It seems to me that this is a simple matter of disputed lands. Perhaps the chit would be willing to surrender them to Rory MacDonald in payment for breaking her betrothal contract.”
Freya thought quickly. Surrendering Garmoran was tantamount to surrendering them to the Wolf himself. And yet, if she were free, she may be able to warn John Mór before any true damage could be done—he was, after all, her half brother. “For my immediate freedom and that of Aoife MacCormack, aye, I will be persuaded.”
Alexander clapped his hands, and a guard unrolled parchment across the table. He eyed her. “Come then, scribe your surrender.”
Her steps wavered as she approached, unease prickling. The charter for Garmoran lay ready, as though this moment had been long foreseen.
Alexander drew close to her, his body pressing against hers. “You can read and scribe, can you not?”
Drawing a breath, she bent to read:I, Freya Anna MacDonald, daughter of Amie MacRuari and John of the Isles, heir of Garmoran, do surrender the lands of Garmoran and all its estates and holdings to Rory MacDonald…
There was a space, a place for her to make her mark.She picked up the quill, her hand hovering.
Alexander leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Now is not the time for hesitation.”
She licked her lips, and signed.Freya Anna MacDonald MacLean.
Unsteady, but relieved that she would be going home, Freya rejoined Aoife who was casting her a terrified look. Freya took her trembling hand, squeezing it three times in comfort. Aoife’s hand pressed three times back in return.
Alexander examined the parchment. “Excellent. The lands are yours, MacDonald.”
Rory still did not look satisfied. “I was promised a bride. You promised that if I could not have her that there would be repercussions.”
Alexander’s mustache twitched in a smile. “Ah. And now, the most satisfying part of the tale.” He lifted a familiar bundle of parchment.
Freya blanched, recognizing the stack of drafts that she had given to Týr. Sickened, she stared at the pile, recognizing the blue ink, the curve of her hand, the embroidered ribbon she had tied them with.
“The Beithir, the Bird and the Lion, the Raid of Staffa, Thunder and Shadow…are these your works?”
He held up the charter beside the stack of ballads. “Of course they are. The hand matches perfectly. Tell me, Master MacDonald—how did you come by them?”
Rory smiled. “Recovered from Týr’s cottage by Ragnall, just before our raid.”
In one swift motion, Alexander’s fist collided with Freya’s cheek, and she flew across the stone floor, stars swimming before her eyes. Somewhere, she heard Aoife’s cries flickering in and out. She felt herself being dragged up, hands gripping her roughly, as she was hauled toward the king, then thrown to the stone at his feet.
Alexander loomed over her. “Tell me, Storyteller—where were you during the feast of Saint Valentine?”
Freya pushed herself up on her elbows, trying to look at him. “I—I was?—”
Rory’s boot slammed into her side, sending a wallop of pain up her rib cage.
“Telling tales at Findlugan,” Rory growled. “I followed her to Castle Tioram only days later. She ended with the same story—the Morven tale. I saw it myself from the audience.”
The doors opened again, and Cota Liath was dragged into the room, chains on his hands and feet, his mouth gagged. His face was a bloodied mess, his hands mangled. Hot, sharp bolts of fear shot through her at the sight, and she cried out at the same time as Aoife.
Rory’s expression lit with approval. “We got him after her performance. Found stacks of her tales among his belongings. He’s the one who’s been spreading stories from island to island, he’s admitted it.”
One of Cota Liath’s pale green eyes rolled toward her, and he lifted an eyebrow in what seemed a quirk of apology.
She looked up at the king, desperation rising in her throat. “Please dinnae harm him any more. Let him go. Let Aoife go. They are innocent of this. I am the one you want—I am the Storyteller.”
Dómhnall stared down at her, pitiless. “It is obvious you hold no respect for me as your king, nor for the people of your island, nor for this kingdom.”
