Page 30 of The Speed of Lightning
His eyes fell over the daring gown, then slowly over her face, holding her. A lopsided, boyish smile made her palms sweat and her stomach curl. “You are breathtaking.”
The song ended. Before she could respond, someone stumbled into her side, jolting her away from him.
“Och—Odin’s nightgown! I’m sorry, Týr.” She stepped back, heart still racing.
The smell of mead clung to him, his grey eyes too warm, his smile too loose. White-blond brows bounced as he slurred, louder than usual, “Finally. You’re here. I’ve been—been hoping you’d come. We need some amusement in this dull… cay—cay?—”
“Ceilidh?” she supplied gently.
“Aye. Ceilidh!” He clamped her wrist and tugged her toward the dais. “Come.”
Confused, Freya pulled against his grip, panic rising. “Where are we—no, Týr, please…”
Pushing her up the step, he banged his horn against the massive pine table shoved to the wall. Conversation cut off like a snuffed candle as the clan applauded. Still gripping her hand, he held it aloft as though she were a salmon he’d hauled from Ardlussa Bay.
“We allllll know who this is!”
A roar of cheers erupted, loudest from the parents of the children who knew her tales by heart. Freya stiffened, horror clawing through her. At any moment one of them might blurt the truth. Heat rushed to her face; she ducked behind Týr’s massive arm, feeling as if she stood naked before the entire clan.
Whisper-shrieking into his ear, she hissed, “Are ye aff yer heeeid?”
But he only lifted her arm higher, his voice booming across the ceilidh. “Tonight…ye shall enjoy the talents of our beautiful, articulate sword-dancing champion. The wonderful sss—sss?—”
Afraid he might blurt her secret, she clapped a hand over his mouth. Hot laughter rumbled beneath her palm, his wiry mustache tickling her skin. He winked at the crowd, then pressed a finger against his covered lips as if to sayour secret.
Calum vaulted onto the dais, his face tight with concern. “All right, Da. I think ye’ve had enough. Freya doesnae want tae do whatever it is ye have in mind.”
But Týr planted a hand on his son’s chest and shoved him back as easily as if he were filled with air.
“NONSENSE!” he boomed, voice echoing through the feast hall. “We all know how talented this lass is. Whhhhho here would like tae see her perform for us this evening?”
Spontaneous applause broke out, and Freya stepped forward, pasting a compliant smile to her lips, scrambling to summon her storyteller’s poise—but she hadn’t the faintest idea where Týr meant to take this.Sweet juniper, now what?
Calum slipped an arm around his father and steered him back toward the high seat. Týr dropped into it with a graceless thunk, gesturing with his horn and half the mead within it toward Murdoch. “Play something lovely for the lass and let us enjoy a reel. My s-son tells me he’s been counting on a dance this eve!”
Murdoch bowed with mock solemnity before raising his flute. He closed his eyes, and the first notes unfurled—long and low, a hauntingcaoineadh?4 that drifted through the hall like mist curling in firelight.
A dance. Not a story. Relief broke over her in a giddy rush, and she gave a small, nervous laugh as she steadied her faceand tried to breathe again. The couples in the hall edged back, leaving the space around the fire clear, the melody dipping and repeating, tugging her into its rhythm.
Týr hollered from his seat, mead sloshing in his horn. “Come, let us see if you MacSorleys can still best the MacLeans in dance. Dance with my son, in celebration of his return!”
Calum’s head snapped up, his gaze locking on hers. Caught beneath it, Freya bit her lip, her confidence wavering.
From his cluster of admirers, Anneli stepped forward with a smug little curtsy. “I’ll dance with your son, Cù Ceartas. We wouldnae want to embarrass Freya the Foul.”
A ripple of laughter trickled through his hen party, but something fierce sparked inside her. The Storyteller lifted her chin, casting off the shadows of hiding. Freya aligned her toes with the dais, and let the sneer slide past her. Closing her eyes, she drew the music into herself, each note stitching courage into her bones, until her heartbeat matched the rhythm of the song.
The last strains of the caoineadh faded, ghostlike, into the rafters. Freya lifted her arms in a slow arc, fingers suspended as if she held the silence itself. Then the pluck of the reel broke loose, and with it she swept her hands down, vaulting into motion. Her knees sprang high, her heels tapped out a bright meter, her body spinning light as a flame. Her fingers traced the lines of her waist, and traveled up into her hair, before she let them fall, graceful as a falling leaf.
She claimed the hall with every step, leaping down from the dais and skipping around the fire as pipes and harp joined Murdoch’s flute. Her skirts swirled, her breath caught, the crowd clapped time to her rhythm. The music lifted her higher—she was no longer Freya the Foul, nor her father’s daughter, but the Storyteller made flesh.
She surged back toward the dais, head tipped, eyes flashing, and arched in front of Calum. The spin of her body, the swiftdouble clip of her heels—she performed the sword dance step he had once thrown away for her, winking at him as he whistled after her.
Leaving him behind, she spun back through the crowd, skimming around Anneli on the tips of her toes before bounding to the dais again. With a bold sweep of her arm, she beckoned Calum to join her. The clan erupted in cheers and stomps of approval.
The drum snapped into a march, rolling into triplets, leaping into a jig. Týr gave Calum a shove with his boot, sending him stumbling from the dais. His eyes caught hers, gleaming with challenge.
He seized her waist, circling her as the reel quickened. “Are ye afraid I’ll best you, foul MacSorley?”
