The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  His head throbbed, and his stomach felt as though sharp wires were tightening around it, sending gooseflesh and sweat in alternating waves over his skin.

  The hills behind Glenelg ascended higher and higher, eventually culminating on the other side of Loch Duich in the Five Sisters of Kintail, the summits of which touched the clouds. He didn’t plan on going that far, though, and hiked towards a glen he’d found once, a spot he loved for its beauty and solitude. It, too, claimed a cave, a small one. He had explored it, crawling deep into the earth, fascinated for some reason by the pungent, chilled aroma, and brief infuriating snatches suggesting he had been in a similar cave before, somewhere.

  Clouds were building. Wind moaned through pine branches. Out on the Kyle Rhea, whitecaps frothed, and he smelled the coming storm.

  Climbing relaxed him. The pressure and ache eased, though he felt his inner torment waiting, biding its time for another assault.

  No path marked the way, yet he continued forward, bending under branches, scuffing through crunchy piles of fallen leaves. At length he found the familiar lichen-spotted boulder, and inspected the hollow below. It appeared the same except for a squirrel’s bustling: silent, untouched, and pristine.

  Then he saw her. A girl, sitting before the mouth of the cave, so well camouflaged by a dark cloak, and so motionless, that it took him a moment to be sure she was really there. Following her gaze, he saw an eagle circling. Maybe the squirrel had caught its attention.

  With breathtaking grace, the eagle swooped. It passed over the squirrel, though, and stopped in a whoosh of outstretched wing above the girl, holding itself with a measured beat of great wings before landing on an egg-shaped rock next to her.

  Cocking its head to one side, the eagle opened its beak as though it wanted to say something, if it only could.

  She stood. Her brows lowered, lending her a dangerous expression that well matched the raptor.

  Aodhàn blinked, again doubting his sight. Not only was the lass confronting an eagle, she was surrounded by color— fragile lavender radiance instilled with a haze of sparkling gold. He fought a strange urge to seize this color in his fists. He wanted to drink it like whisky, to keep drinking until he was drunk.

  At that moment, the clouds tore open. The veil of color dissipated in the stronger yellow glare from the sun. Her uncovered hair transformed from brown to bronze, with highlights of red and gold, similar, Aodhàn thought, to the changing leaves. Scarlet suffused her cheeks. Every color of the autumn spectrum ignited in subtle flame.

  What manner of human could call an eagle from the sky and face it unafraid? Maybe this female was a member of the daoine sìth, and would vanish into the green mound of a sìthean, a faery hill. He watched, clenching the boulder.

  He could swear an angry swarm of mayflies had erupted inside his head.

  The eagle tilted its head the other direction, and she fell back a step. Then she spoke. He heard her, though she kept her voice low. “Mama?” she said. “Nicky?” Lower still, she asked, “Who are you?” Her voice was like an ebb tide. He knew the sound intimately, for every night that cold, unforgiving lover called to him. Fearing his head might burst, he rammed his fists against his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. Some malevolent fiend was twisting a giant screw into his skull.

  Squinting through a blinding net of agony, Aodhàn watched the raptor lift into the air. It flew right over him, so close he felt the displacement of air and heard the sound of wind through its feathers.

  The girl watched the bird’s flight then her gaze dropped. Though he knew the boulder and thick spread of pine branches disguised his presence, Aodhàn fought an urge to kneel and hide.

  Hot lightning seemed to shoot between them. He gasped.

  “Morrigan,” a female voice called from the other side of the glen. As one, he and the lass turned towards the sound. The spell broke, and he could breathe again.

  “Here,” she replied.

  A stout woman, dressed in black, emerged from behind the trees, her hair and face shrouded by a prim bonnet.

  He’d never seen another human being in this glen, ever, in all the years he’d been coming here. Now there were two.

  “This is rugged country, mind,” the newcomer said. “Curran would have my heart for breakfast if you got lost up here.”

  “Will the faeries steal me? I could believe it. In fact, I felt someone or something watching me a moment ago. Was it a faerie, d’you think?”

  “Pish. A rabbit, maybe, or a deer.”

  Laughing, the girl said, “This air sweeps the dust right out of my head.” Wrapping her arms around herself, she spun in a pirouette, lifting her face to the sky. “I’m drunk on Glenelg’s sunlight!”

  “Come along now, isoke,” the older woman said. She extended a hand and stopped the younger female’s cavorting. “We’ve been gone too long.”

  The lass straightened her cloak and secured a bonnet over her hair. Together they strolled across the grass and vanished into the forest.

  Aodhàn slumped to the ground with a weak exhalation.

  He kept seeing that strange halo of lavender and gold, like a magical net wafting around her. He’d half believed she might take wing and fly away with the eagle, or, as she said, join the faeries in a toadstool ring.

  That term. Isoke. He’d heard it somewhere. He felt his memories. He could almost grasp them.

  Crisp air washed through his lungs. Layers of fallen leaves gave off the heady scent of coming winter. He looked about, feeling as though he was waking from some endless dreary nightmare.

  I am alive. Alive after all.

  With a dawning sense of wonder, he realized what was different. The throbbing pressure, the tightening wires, the excruciating whine of voices… were gone.

  * * * *

  For the last night of their visit, Janet presented a special meal, beginning with fine bread and a traditional partan bree that smelled divinely of crab. She followed this with tender baked pheasant, creamed kail, fluffy tatties, cheese, and, finally, a golden sponge cake. Fresh raspberries from the east coast filled an enameled bowl, and she presented a dewy bottle of heather wine she’d made herself. Beatrice ate with a suspicious frown, but after consuming two slices of cake drenched in clotted cream and covered with fruit, a muttered, “She’ll do,” escaped.

  Ibby rose, lifting her wineglass. “Slàinte!” she cried.

  “Aye,” the others replied, raising their glasses. “Good health!”

  Curran dabbed Morrigan’s lips with his napkin. “Oh, I thought you’d smeared raspberries, but your lips are just that red.” Moving next to her ear, he added, “And as sweet.” He took her hand and folded the band of lace at her wrist so he could kiss the birthmark, something that was becoming a habit.

  “Behave yourself, sir.” Ibby shattered the moment by rapping her knuckles against the tabletop. “You’re not yet wed, and you’ve already caused….” She broke off with an anxious glance towards Janet. “Behave,” she finished lamely.

  Holding Morrigan’s gaze, Curran murmured, “You don’t know what you ask of me.” He brushed a final kiss on her knuckles before releasing her.

  Curran herded them onto the west terrace. An earlier rain shower had freshened the air. Bands of pastel colored cirrus clouds radiated like spider’s webs, sending the peaks of the mountains on Skye into sharp black silhouette. Curran assured Morrigan every sunset was this extraordinary, since no place on earth was as blessed as the west coast of the Highlands.

  Beyond a narrow stretch of tended lawn the forest encroached, hiding the rocky precipice that descended to the Sound of Sleat. Morrigan gripped the balustrade, picturing Kilgarry as a bird flying overhead would see it— a carved-out oasis surrounded on all sides by looming, ancient woodland.

  Faint, directionless, making her wonder if the mountains themselves played them, came the faraway drone of bagpipes.

  She turned a startled gaze to Curran and caught such a pleased expression that she knew he must have arrang
ed it. The unseen piper’s haunting music gradually faded into the blue-gold twilight.

  A migrating flock of wild, trumpeting swans flew overhead, so low Morrigan heard their wings beating.

  Her reverie was broken by a muffled sound. Feeling as though she was waking from a seductive hallucination, she glanced at Beatrice, shocked to see tears streaming over her aunt’s face.

  “Auntie?” She spoke low, reluctant to break the spell.

  “I didn’t know how I missed this place,” Beatrice said, and walked quickly away, hunching her shoulders.

  “Nor I,” said Ibby. “How could we have allowed Randall Benedict to clear us from our land? It’s good he hid himself in Edinburgh and ordered his factor to carry out the task. No doubt someone would’ve slit his throat had he been here, and thrown his carcass into the sea.”

  They stood without speaking for some time.

  “It’s time we were away to our beds,” Ibby said finally. “We must rise early and go home.” She waited, refusing like any good chaperon to leave Morrigan alone with Curran. It was silly. He’d already done the worst he could do. It wasn’t like he could put another child inside her, not yet anyway.

  Sighing, Morrigan followed her aunt indoors and prepared for bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She kept fighting the bedclothes that tangled around her like linen nooses, and remembering that brief but meaningful look Curran had given her as she’d left.

  It was easy to slink along the corridor to the master suite. Moonlight poured through the southern window, illuminating his uncovered body in white effervescence. She shrugged out of her nightgown and slipped into his bed. Instantly, he rolled over as though he’d been awake and expecting her.

  He rewarded her courage in coming to him by kissing her from forehead to toes, his tongue tracing the sensitive undersides of her arms, the hollow in her throat, where the babe grew, her thighs, even the backs of her knees and heels, speaking promises of more, for years and years to come, in this bed. Morrigan began to feel something new, an escalating, dizzying need. She pulled him in, driven beyond shyness by an urgency she couldn’t restrain. Their breaths became one and movement became perfect rhythm, building, like Chopin’s first ballade, ascending to the climax she finally understood, beyond where she had been or knew she could be. For an unknown length of time, awareness fell away, lost in an avalanche of consummation.

  Now I see, she thought when the ability to think returned. No wonder folk forget society’s rules and restrictions. No wonder.

  She wound her limbs around his and sank into almost instant sleep. The last sounds she heard were his words of love against her ear.

  * * * *

  The tip of a dagger prodded Morrigan’s throat, letting her know how easily it could slay her.

  Witch! Devil’s whore!

  She saw her husband fighting their attackers, but what was the use? He would never overpower so many men, and she didn’t want to live now her children were dead, their bodies bloody and torn, their voices forever silenced.

  This is Christian land!

  The blade pressed, splitting skin, spilling blood. She refused to cry out or beg for mercy. Curse them all.

  Follow your spawn to the Devil.

  “Morrigan… wake up. You had a nightmare, my lass.”

  “Aye.” She was safe, surrounded by serene moonlit shadows. No one had murdered her daughters. Men hadn’t forced her down and slit her throat as her husband fought to save her. She was Morrigan, Morrigan Lawton, not the name the man had shouted. Lilith. The terror faded. “I have many bad dreams.”

  Curran kissed her forehead. “When you’re my wife, you’ll never have another.”

  What she wouldn’t give if that could be true. Clinging to him, she pressed a hand against her stomach. The babe grew there still.

  What sort of world did it grow towards?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT RAINED THE morning of the Games, but by noon, clouds scudded on a breeze from the Sound and the sky was flooded with clear, dazzling light.

  Banners and flowers decorated the shop-fronts. Revelers from every nearby village and the Knoydart peninsula crowded Mallaig’s cobbled streets. Folk came from Skye, too, and the Small Isles— Eigg, Rum, Canna, and the tiniest, wee Muck. Everywhere one looked were fèilidhean, the kilts, and tartan sashes, silver brooches, cairngorm jewelry, and glengarry caps. Pipe music skimmed from the high meadows, and children swarmed around a Punch and Judy show.

  Curran, in Ramsay tartan with the addition of a black armband for Nicky and Douglas, arrived early to escort the ladies to Mallaig’s festivities. As soon as he appeared, Aunt Ibby emphatically stated for at least the tenth time that they were only going for the sake of Morrigan’s health, and as they left the dress shop she admonished her niece to retain a sober demeanor in keeping with her state.

  Morrigan wasn’t fooled. The excitement in Ibby’s eyes and her jaunty step betrayed her.

  The foursome climbed towards the sound of shrilling pipes. Kilted, bearded giants tossed the massive cabar to enthusiastic shouts from bystanders. In other areas, wrestlers strained and grimaced, surrounded by red-faced men who’d placed wagers on their favorite champions. Booths adorned with ivy and heather sold food; the mouth-watering scents of roasted meat and newly baked bread hung in the air. Curran bought them butter cakes, pies oozing meat juices, and tumblers of fresh, frothy milk. Women called, “Come sample my pastries,” and there was keen competition between a few locals with their jams.

  Five men, standing proud in their kilts, had entered the pìobaireachd contest and were, by turn, playing the ancient airs. Some distance away, a string of fiddlers, two drummers, and a man with a flute performed lively dancing music beside a large, roped-off area. Curran urged Ibby to dance with him, and she gave in after a few weak protests, dancing until she was gasping and her cheeks were scarlet. He returned her to the sidelines then grabbed Morrigan, giving her a kiss and pulling her into the ring. His complete lack of reservation struck her with envy. Could she ever abandon herself in such an uproarious fashion? Maybe, under his tutelage.

  “I don’t know how to dance!” she protested.

  “Aye? We’ll have none of that,” he said, and proceeded to give her a lesson.

  “Eilginn!” The voice thundered over the music. Morrigan looked up to find the biggest, thickest bearded, kilted colossus she’d ever seen, enormous hands propped on hips and a mouthful of huge teeth in a mat of shaggy brown hair.

  Curran grinned. “Seaghan!” Slipping his arm around Morrigan’s waist, he led her out of the ring. “Morrigan,” he said, “may I present Seaghan MacAnaugh, from Glenelg.”

  Since she’d already heard more than once of Curran’s great friendship with this man, she held out her hand with a timid smile. Seaghan gave an impressive bow and took it gingerly. It was like watching a tadpole vanish into the ocean.

  “I was hoping we’d see you,” Curran said. “Where’s Aodhàn?”

  “He didn’t come.” Seaghan’s eyes twinkled as he gazed down into Morrigan’s face. “Why in the name of all that’s holy are you wasting such a grand day with this dull fellow?” Releasing a bellowing laugh, the titan slapped Curran on the shoulder.

  “You’re speaking to my betrothed, I’ll have you know,” Curran said with obvious satisfaction.

  “What?” The giant swiveled. “At last! You’ve found yourself a lass who does no’ run from the sight of you?” His grin was as huge as the rest of him, but as his eyes traveled over her, taking in her mourning garb, he looked a bit puzzled.

  “I have another surprise.” Curran gestured to Beatrice and Ibby, who stood nearby, watching.

  Seaghan and her aunt stared at each other. “Beatrice.” Seaghan’s voice lowered to a barely audible rumble. “Beatrice Stewart.”

  “Seaghan,” she replied in her usual emotionless manner.

  “It’s been aye long,” he said. “An aye long time.” Morrigan thought she heard a tremble beneath his words.

  “That
it has.”

  “What’s brought you to the Upper Country?”

  “My niece.” She nodded towards Morrigan. “Mr. Ramsay’s intended.”

  Again Seaghan examined Morrigan, from her black ostrich-feathered bonnet to her trim black boots.

  “Niece…” he said. “Morrigan… Morrigan… Lawton?”

  “Aye.” Beatrice’s face remained inscrutable but for one lifted brow.

  “Douglas… Douglas and Hannah’s….” His ruddy face went frighteningly pale then flushed crimson. “Hannah’s wean….”

  “You knew my da and mam, sir?” Morrigan asked.

  He glanced at Beatrice, whose mouth curved into a brief, cold smile.

  “I did,” he said, still muted. “May I ask… who is it you’re mourning?”

  There was a pause; Ibby said hesitantly, “Douglas and Nicky. Both have slipped away from us.” Her face was full of something. Sympathy? Grief?

  Morrigan’s hardly heard what they were saying. Here stood someone who might be persuaded to speak of her mother, who might share those things she longed to know. It was nearly impossible to remain quiet and calm, to not burst forth with every pent-up question she’d ever had.

  “You have Hannah’s face,” he said.

  She knew that, from the daguerreotype, and nodded. “I know little about her. She died when I was born.”

  “Aye, and now you’ve lost your father and your brother? I’m so sorry, lass.”

  Ibby cut in. “You look shaky as a newborn lamb, Seaghan. Let’s find ourselves a dram of uisge-beatha.” She curled her arm under his. “Whisky has great rejuvenating properties.”

  “Sweet Isabel,” he answered, kissing her cheek. “It’s been too long. How have I not seen you in all these years?”

  “I’m away to taste the jams,” Beatrice said brusquely. She turned and walked off.

  “Dour as ever,” Seaghan said.

  “Pay her no mind.” Ibby preened and fluttered her lashes like a young girl. “We’ll be happy and lively without her here to remind us of our sins.”