Page 95 of The Speed of Lightning
Cota Liath’s noble brow drew down. His mouth curved into a smile as he backed away from the fire, as much in awe as the rest of the waiting crowd. “Someone offers an entertainment?”
The draped figure lifted her arms overhead and unfolded her cloak like the wings of a butterfly. The crowd gasped as she dropped it at her feet, and she spun on her toes and into the steps of the dance.
A pulse of wonder throbbed in his chest as the coppery silk of her gown shimmered with each turn. The discs and beads woven into her Norsefletters sparkled in the light. A striped kestrel feather dangled from her right ear. Charcoal dusted her eyes and brow, creating a dark masque that set her gaze aglow with secrets.
She moved across the forecourt like a tempest. Her movements were precise, lightning-fast, and rhythmic. Her body was held taut with strength, yet moved with fluid grace, calling to him like a siren’s song, daring him to chase after her. Men rose to their feet around the clearing, evidently as entranced by her as he was.
Shadow leaned close, his voice a low rumble of amusement. “Your mouth is hanging open, lad.”
Poet spun before them, performing the cross he had once botched in the sword dance—a teasing signal that she saw him. Lightning’s mind jolted. This was not the girl who had cowered from her father.
Whistles and crude shouts broke the spell. A tall ruffian near the well winked, calling out, “Your hips sway like St. Ninian’s bell! Give us a ring, pretty one, and I’ll show you a coin!”
Possessiveness coiled in Lightning like a serpent. Rage flared sharp and blinding. He rose, dagger in hand—only for Shadow to yank him back by his plaid. “Are ye mad?!”
“The lecherous ba?—”
“Shh,” Shadow hissed, grabbing his kyrtill, not letting him go. “Ye have to stay put. Mission first. Focus on her, watch.”
He was watching all right. The memories of the lass she’d been paled in comparison to the woman before him. She gleamed with a radiance that felt almost untouchable. To the crowd she was a spectacle, a wild enchantress meant to dazzle and entertain. But to him she was a revelation—his childhood friend transformed into something bold, untamed, and glorious. He wanted to let out a savage roar as she circled before him, staking his primal claim.
The jig softened, its notes winding low and entrancing. She moved with it, prowling around the fire like a hunting cat. The rhythm drew the crowd in, their clapping slowing as every eye followed her. Torchlight caught the sharp planes of her face as she wove between the children gathered at her feet, her presence magnetic, commanding.
“Good citizens of the Kingdom of the Isles, gathered here on this blessed feast of Saint Valentine, hear my voice. I’ve journeyed from the amber veil of the skies, from the cliffs where the eternal watchfires burn. I have listened to the cries for justice from the hills where the sainted rest. I have gathered the testimony of our brethren. Hear it well, my friends and neighbors. Travel with me beyond the veil, and hear their words.”
The tune dwindled to a few soft notes. She swept her hand first to one side of the crowd, then to the other.
“Close your eyes but once, and the world is gone…”
Around her, the audience obeyed, lids fluttering shut. The flute wound its plaintive line through the stillness, twining with her voice.
“Open them again, and you are in my keeping. A voice has come to me in prayer… it bade me speak, lest the world forget.”She dragged her hands slowly down the night sky. “I bring you the Ballad of Bonnie Morven…”
She clapped, and a burst of powder flared into the fire—sparks shot upward, smoke curling into the wind. Gasps rose from the crowd, some faces alight with awe, others shadowed with fear.
The flute droned, low and mournful. For a moment, Poet’s eyes closed. Then she glided around the fire in tiny steps, as though walking on the palms of angels. Softness and peace radiated from her features. Passing among the children, she reached for a lass in the front. The child’s eyes shone as she took Poet’s hand, swinging it back and forth as they skipped together around the fire. Her voice rose in song, unfurling through the courtyard like a chantress in a cathedral, each note vibrant and warbling, carrying a holy reverence in its wake.
“O see the glen, where morning glows, golden and fair,
Little birds sing their bright anthems through the highland air.
Little Morven walks, her laughter a father’s delight,
Through heather and moss, beneath the soft sunlight.
‘My bonnie Morven, sweet, bonnie Morven,
Nothing can part us, all my heart you hold.’
She returned the girl to her seat and knelt down in front of her, bowing her head, making her voice sweet.
They wander the hills, the chapel’s quiet near,
Whispered prayers float softly, tender and clear.
“Keep my maw and my da close within your will,”
Her voice echoes gently—O bonnie Morven still.
