Page 13 of The Speed of Lightning
The room fell silent, every eye drawn to the blue-black Pictish marks that peeked from the short expanse of skin between his gauntlet and sleeve. They branded him other—savage, unbelieving, set apart from the civilized in the starkest of ways.
John Mór accepted the pages, his green eyes flickering uneasily from the Wolfhound to the text. “A difficult parting, you say?”
Calum grimaced. “I was young. I tried to stand on principle—on something I believed in. I should have—” He hesitated, the memory of Freya slipping beneath the waves searing him. “I should have prepared my father first. I should have talked with him honestly. Thought through the consequences. Faced it before—” His voice caught again, and he swallowed hard. “It doesnae matter now. What’s done is done. The result is that my father and I havenae spoken in ten years.”
Rory stepped forward, his glance sharp and sour. “Because he refused to complete his tànaiste ceremony. Shamed his father before the clan. Walked out on his duty as heir.”
Calum snapped forward in his chair, losing the fight to master his fury. “That is a lie.”
Dómhnall’s eyes narrowed, and Calum felt the weight of judgment before the words landed. “Juran savage. What man fails to uphold his duty?”
The king raised an admonishing hand. “Dómhnall, you think much too harshly. Everyone carries regrets. I have mine. Calum was but sixteen when his came upon him. I was in my forties when I made my mistakes.”
An indecipherable look passed between him and Queen Marjorie, and she squeezed his hand gently. “Our mistakes do not define us,” she said. “What matters is what follows after.”
Hector inclined his head. “I believe I’m proof enough of that.”
The king cleared his throat, his voice rasping with fatigue. “In light of your identity being revealed, Calum, I believe it prudent someone go to Jura and warn them of possible reprisals. My instinct is to send you to your father, to help him prepare and bolster patrols around the island. Yet—” his eyes shifted toward Rory, heavy with implication—“perhaps it is wiser to send Commander MacDonald.”
Triumphant, Rory edged forward in his seat. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am certain I can handle this mission. Organizing them should be a simple task.”
Calum’s audible scoff cut the air.
The king’s gaze narrowed. “You disagree?”
Calum leaned in, his voice edged with steel. “As individual fighters, aye—Jurans are skilled. Efficient. Deadly. But there is no formal guard on Jura beyond my father’s retinue. No watches. No drill. No structure at all. To command them would be near insurmountable, a task of years, not months. The defensive wall is crumbling, the ring forts little more than rotting stone. And even if you could patch the defenses and whip the men into order, you’d still face the greater impossibility—getting Jurans to agree on anything.”
King John’s face tightened in contemplation. “Rory has spent much time on Jura these past years, in courtship with a clan noblewoman.”
A deep throb of exasperation coursed through him. “I understand, Your Highness. But Rory is a coigreach—an outsider. He may live the rest of his days in Inverlussa and still be thought as such.”
Rory’s mouth curled into a smug sneer. “I’ve made allies of the hardest-necked pagans on Jura. More than you or your father ever managed.”
The slight to his father’s legacy, the disdain for his land, the insults he had endured all evening—together they struck like sparks against tinder. Calum surged to his feet, control shattering. In a heartbeat he lunged at Rory, seizing his cuirass and dragging him up nose-to-nose. His voice was a growl.
“Speak ill of my father or Jura again—and those words will be your last.”
Rory’s face twisted venomous. “Dinnae stand here and lie. We both know I’m the better choice. I’ve even won over the MacSorleys. It’s the daughter of one of their elders I’m to wed. You’re the coigreach now.”
Mhairi pushed her hands between them. “Please, for my father’s sake—cease this at once.”
Hector stepped forward, fury barely contained. Whether aimed at him or at Rory, Calum could not tell. He clenched his fists tighter, unwilling to let go. “Which MacSorley daughter?”
Rory’s grin widened. “Ragnall MacSorley’s child.”
The floor tilted. Calum’s throat went dry. “Freya?”
Faintness rippled through him, knees threatening to buckle beneath him. His grip weakened, and he released Rory.
Straightening his embossed cuirass with smug precision, Rory brushed at the leather. “You’re familiar with her?”
The pouch hanging at Calum’s neck seemed to grow heavier with every breath, dragging at him, though it had been long emptied of Freya’s meager treasure. He didn’t answer.
“Of course you must be,” Rory impelled, stepping back with slick satisfaction. “She helped you escape, didn’t she? Nearly sailed off with you like a siren.”
Until that moment, Calum had not known for certain that Freya lived. The knowledge staggered him—God had kept her safe, just as he had prayed. Relief and disbelief tangled in his chest. “She helped me launch my boat into the harbor, that’s all. I’m sure her father thought something untoward. Such was Ragnall’s way.”
His heart continued to pound.It can’t be. It can’t be. She accepted me. She swore to walk beside me. How could she have forgotten?
