Page 5 of The Speed of Lightning
Dear God, he’ll kill her.
He staggered to his feet, toes braced on the gudgeons, ready to dive—but a breaker slammed the boat broadside, pitching him across the boards.
“No!” He scrambled up again, eyes locking on Ragnall thrashing in the surf, Freya still trapped beneath the crashing waves. Desperate, he flung his arms toward the crowd on shore, toward his parents. “Save her!”
Relief washed over him so powerfully tears gushed from his eyes as his brave da crashed into the bay, his mother not far behind. “Save her!”
The impotent howl was lost in the thundering tide, the skiff sailing ever farther from the shore, from the home he loved, into the unknown.
Now small, he watched as Da wrestled Freya in Ragnall’s grasp, his mother joining the struggle to keep her alive, and then they were lost in the fog.
Wind whipped over Calum’s raw, stinging skin as the boat shot out of the bay and into the Sound. Chills prickled over the wolfhound on his chest as his isolation settled heavier with every passing moment. At his feet, the small canvas pouch rolled, knocking against his shoe and the prayer book he had cast in the bottom. He stared at them, unable to comprehend his own weakness. He had failed to protect her.
For hours he piloted the skiff on instinct, his gaze returning to the pouch. He was afraid to open it. Afraid of the clenching in his chest, the unyielding weight pressing there since the moment he held Freya in his arms.
When at last Duart rose on the horizon, he raised his flags to signal the guard. Only then did he stoop to gather the book and the pouch, knowing he would need Freya’s coin to pay the toll for entry. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he unwound the leather cords. It weighed heavy with damp silver groats—and something else glinted—a small gold ring clinking among the coins.
This he realized was everything she had, given freely for his survival. And he had sailed away, leaving her behind, not knowing if she still lived. It had taken his da to save her. The weight of it crushed him as he slipped the pouch over his neck. He would never be the man his father was.
Clutching the prayer book, he folded his hands.
“Keep her safe, O merciful God. Until I can return—keep her safe.”
Chapter 1
INVERLUSSA, JURA - SEPTEMBER 29, 1386
Alog popped in the fire and Freya jolted awake. The dream of her father’s grip still clung to her, leaving her sick with the memory. Panting with fear, and then relief, she wiped sweat from her brow and drew in the stuffy air of the longhouse.
The churning tide, her father forcing her beneath the waves, the ache of her lungs desperate for breath, her hands clawing wildly—a terrifying remembrance of the day that had changed everything. In times of turmoil, whenever her father’s will pressed too hard, the dream returned: the near-escape she had once tasted, tantalizing and cruel.
She rubbed at her eyes and glanced at the night-watch candle?1, burned down nearly two hours. Horror jolted her fully awake. Sweet juniper, she was late. If she dared fall asleep, she risked missing her chance to see the children.
She slipped beside her father, easing the earthen cup from his limp hand and tossing the last of the milk and henbane into the embers of the hearth. In case the draught failed, she arranged a blanket beneath her bedcovers, shaping it into the likeness of a sleeping figure—an illusion of obedience.
With no time for vanity, she plaited her hair back from her face and stole a half-glance at her reflection before dashing across the longhouse. Snatching her blue woad cloak from its hook, she swept it over her shoulders, its folds fluttering as she escaped into the only part of her life that felt her own.
The moon rode high as she followed its silver light down the trail through tall grass. Its beams caught the argent threads of embroidered starbursts and auroras on her cloak, and for a moment she felt enchanted—like the Storyteller who’d always lived in her heart, instead of the cowering girl who had to sneak out to escape her father’s careful control.
Pebbles crunched beneath her feet as she traced the cliff’s edge above the misty sea, staring out over black waves and the memory of that day ten years past. She had been so close to freedom—so close to another life.
She remembered it all—the feel of lean muscle beneath her hands as she tumbled into his arms, the surprise in his eyes as he touched her face, the brush of his ink-darkened thumb across her trembling lips.
Until then, Calum had been only a sympathizer—one who noticed her with pity when no one else seemed to see her at all. Yet she had always watched him more closely than she would ever confess, trailing after him with the quiet hope he might remember her. The way he had looked at her, spoken to her that day, had unsettled her, and made her question what he truly was to her, and why it was that she had followed him to the bay.
Her daring defiance of her father had followed her like a shadow longer than she could have dreamed.
When she woke in Calum’s bed the morning after his flight, her father sat stone-faced on the bench opposite. She cracked an eyelid and saw Mariota giving thanks to Jesus for her waking, while Papa cursed her openly to stop speaking such nonsense. Disoriented, Freya tried to sit, but Mariota’s warm, motherlyhands pressed her gently back into the soft bedding. Surrounded by the scent of clove from his pillow, urged into rest, she slept five more days out of sheer exhaustion. When she woke again, to her great relief, Papa was gone. Mariota hovered above her, holding out a spoonful of steaming broth. “Here. Take this.”
The tender sweetness of Mariota’s voice made Freya ache for her long-dead mother. Tears stung her eyes as she parted her lips and let Mariota feed her. Again she drifted into sleep—and so it went for three more days.
The third time she woke, her world had changed. Papa was under house arrest by Týr for nearly drowning her in the bay, and the elders had come to question her.
Had her father ever raised a hand against her before?
He had. Once. But how could she speak against her only blood, the only parent she had left? Feeling like a wide-eyed fledgling, helpless and uncertain, she had said nothing.
The elders pressed harder. What, then, had compelled her to chase after Cù Cogaidh?
