Page 132 of The Speed of Lightning
He hesitated. “How does one begin these things?”
The humor in his question struck her, and she snorted. He laughed with her and for a moment the dungeon filled with sound lighter than the dark deserved.
She leaned her cheek against the cold door, steeling herself. “I suppose you begin with honesty.”
He cleared his throat. “Dear God...” A silence stretched before he tried again.
“God of Heaven and Earth—I don’t know why we’ve been left here. I don’t know why a man like Alexander Stewart walks free. I don’t understand why raids ravage our kingdom, sparing the wicked and crushing the weak. I’ve long wondered why the most vulnerable bear the worst burdens. It makes me question if you’re there at all.
“And yet...” His breath caught. “Yet I’ve seen glimpses. Hope in men who will not bow to evil. A father’s devotion to the memory of his daughter. The courage of an island lass with nothing but a quill and a voice. You gave me a voice too, and for that I’m grateful—that I’ve not stood silent while evil spread.
“So I ask for deliverance. If you’re there, and you’ll hear a lapsed man with little more than a voice, give me another chance. And if not...then spare my friend here, Freya. Better yet—both of us. I’d like the chance to know her better. And the kindness in her heart.
“And...erm...forgive me for my sins. Especially for cutting up my sister Hilary’s poppet when I was eight and blaming the cat. The fibers stained the floor red, and Hilary got scolded for leaving her things about. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Perhaps you might send another poppet, to make amends.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Freya broke into wet laughter, wiping at her cheeks.
He chuckled with her. “Ah, I’ve made you laugh again.”
“Aye. You’ve a sister?”
Chains shifted. “One. Hilary. Our parents are long gone. She and her husband keep a stud farm in Sussex.”
Freya tilted her head. “England, then?”
“Partly. My father was a Scot—a Lowlander. I came north to serve at Scone thirty years past.”
She dabbed her cheeks dry. “And what drove you away?”
His voice hardened. “Alexander Stewart. I couldn’t stomach the things he did. Perhaps it was a foolish mistake.”
She puzzled. “Why do you say that?”
“I’ve been stony-broke ever since. I enjoyed the freedom, however. And the chance to do a little good every once in a while. Like for Týr MacLean.”
The name calmed her, the thought of his steady presence a balm to her heartbreak. “Týr was—he was my dearest friend. He loved me. Looked out for me.”
Chains rattled with his groan.
“Are you in pain? Shall I stop talking?”
“No, love. Keep on. It helps with the fear. …Týr believed in you. He knew what you carried was powerful. I thought you were his daughter. I had no idea you weren’t. Odd, that.”
She tucked her freezing hands under her arms. “What made you think we were related?”
“Well, he told me so. That you were his daughter.”
The word daughter seemed to strike the stone and linger, echoing back at her like a blessing. Her breath caught, chest aching. Papa had given her nothing but his contempt. Her true father had never once acknowledged her. But Týr—Týr had claimed her.
Her eyes brimmed over, hot tears tracing the bruises on her cheeks. Her voice broke. “He did?”
“Aye. He said his wife—Mariota, was it?—feared for your safety. They agreed you should be called the Storyteller, to shield you. But he told me this as well: ‘If anything happened to our daughter, Mariota would never recover.’
“I asked him why not leave the tales anonymous. He shook his head. Said they were too beautiful, too rare, too powerful to be left for a man to claim. He insisted his daughter must be named—if only by her sobriquet.” Brian paused, breath shaking. “He was most proud?—”
The dungeon door clanged open. A dim torch spilled down the corridor. Freya scrambled back onto her seat as Brian’s door creaked wide, and then her own.
