She looked up, distracted by a sound. Both Eleanor and Diorbhail were staring at her, and both were weeping. At first Morrigan couldn’t remember what she’d said, but gradually she was able to picture the child, Rosabel, a brown-haired, scarlet-cheeked, green-eyed baby who loved to laugh.
Klaus Berthold’s child.
“Hell is what Earth becomes without her mother,” Diorbhail said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AODHÀN KILLED THE first of his targets two nights after arriving on Barra. It wasn’t planned, but he happened across Peter Bateson, stumbling along half-drunk, his hair gone grey and sparse, his once-flat stomach deteriorated to the paunch of a man who drank too much. It was late, and dark; there was no one about. It was like a ready-wrapped gift. Aodhàn threw him to the ground and pointed a dirk at his face.
“It’s you!” Peter cringed. “I… I’m sorry, m’lord. Not a day has gone by where I don’t wish I… I hadn’t—”
“Where is Owen Anderson?”
Peter shook his head. “No one’s seen him since that night.”
“How did he make you attack us?”
Aodhàn watched the man’s eyes light; he was grabbing at this slender hope, hope that the enraged brute threatening him with a knife didn’t really blame him, but another who was long gone. “He plied us with whisky. Told us you and your wife… her especially… worshipped the Devil. He told us you were doing cursed things to your children, and that your evil was damning us all. He said you were the reason the potatoes were rotted! We were fooled by his lies, m’lord, all of us.”
At that point Aodhàn punched him, savoring the moment while Peter lay gasping and retching. He took his time ripping out his victim’s throat, in memory of Lilith.
He left the body there, sprawled and bloody, on the main path out of Castlebay, as a message to the others that he was coming. Then he went off to find Greyson Fullerton.
* * * *
It was a battered bothy, near the sea but far from any village.
Aodhàn stood looking at it for several moments. He didn’t really think Faith would betray him, but he had to be careful.
When he was quite young, long before he and his father moved to Barra, an Englishman had been hired to tutor him. It made little sense, as his father disliked the English on principle. Aodhàn had stared at Greyson Fullerton, wondering how this one had managed to slip past Kenneth Mackinnon’s guard. He also knew, even then, before the restoration of his memories, that this man was no stranger, though he couldn’t remember ever being introduced to him.
Later, when they were alone, his father confessed the man had been hounding him for weeks, plying him with references and recommendations. Kenneth had finally decided on a trial period. Greyson was indeed well-educated. There was little doubt he would ably prepare Kenneth’s son for Eton and Oxford.
As for Aodhàn, he knew within hours that he needed Greyson in some way he could not define.
But he didn’t know why, not then, and, as it turned out, neither did Greyson. That didn’t happen until after they moved to Barra, and Aodhàn met Lilith.
With the return of buried memories came recognition. His English tutor was Alexiare, the old slave.
Aodhàn knew what to do. He’d revived Alexiare’s memories three times by then, in other lives. He procured the mushroom from a wisewoman on the northern edge of the island, took Greyson into the hills where they wouldn’t be disturbed, and made him eat it. As usual, the man became violently ill, but after he’d vomited and proclaimed he was dying, he began to recover and remember. Within two hours, he was bowing, scraping, and calling Aodhàn “my lord.”
They had compared histories, and determined that neither had lived without the other since their last excursion, six hundred years ago, during the German Inquisition.
Greyson told Aodhàn his story. “I was a Londoner, and I had good prospects. My future was planned. Then it happened. The compulsion. I had to come to Edinburgh. I didn’t know why, but it was either obey or go mad. Once there, I had to search again, but for what, I didn’t know. It wasn’t until I was introduced to your father at his club that I began to feel I was getting close. One day I met him in Holyrood Park, and saw you playing there at his feet. I knew I had to find a way to attach myself to your father, and you. But my lord, I still didn’t know why. Not until now.” He’d pondered awhile, then he’d said, “Why does she keep bringing us together, my lord? She wants us to find each other. She makes it happen. But she knows my loyalty is to you. Surely she knows by now that I will always do my best to help you, which means I will always do my best to defeat her.”
“You’ve said it yourself, more than once,” Aodhàn replied. “Because of the curse.”
Selene’s curse.
It ran through Aodhàn’s thoughts as he stood above the silent, moldering bothy, preparing to go down and see his old slave.
You and your master will wander. Glimpses of joy will be ripped from you. You will follow and follow, without end.
Those ancient words sent waves of exhaustion through him. How many more times? How long could he keep fighting? What would appease her?
The one thing he would never give.
He ran down the slope to the bothy door and knocked. There was no response, but he heard shuffling, so he opened the door. It was dark inside, the shutters closed. There was a distinct smell of rotted food, unwashed human, and shit.
“Greyson?”
He discerned a shape, a shadow, hunched in front of the hearth. “Greyson?” he repeated. “It’s Aodhàn.”
The shape moved, uncurled, and rose. “M-m-master?”
“Aye, ’tis me.” The stench was overwhelming. Aodhàn strode to both windows and threw open the shutters to let in the sea wind.
“Ah, no. Not him. It’s not him… not him. He’s dead. Dead until next time. They’re all dead. Why haven’t I died? I won’t be able to find them.”
“I’m not dead.” Aodhàn stepped closer. He reached out and seized Greyson’s hand. “See? I’m real. Alive. It’s me, here in the flesh, and I’ve many questions.”
Why was Greyson so dirty? Why did he live in such squalor? “Come outside,” he said, wanting to escape the oppressive atmosphere. “Walk with me.”
Palsy had set into Greyson’s limbs. His hands shook, as did his uneven gait. He was bent. This was not the proper English servant Aodhàn remembered, who had always taken pride in his appearance. Moreover, he kept mumbling. Aodhàn pushed away the thought that he was to blame for this.
He led his one-time manservant towards the sea, not particularly concerned about anyone seeing them in such an isolated place.
“I killed Daniel,” Greyson said. “The master told me to. He knew I’d be punished for it.” He giggled. “He didn’t care. Lilith married the master. She wouldn’t have though, would she, if I hadn’t killed Daniel? She wouldn’t have if she’d known what we did to Daniel.”
“Stop talking about it!” What the hell. Who else had Greyson been telling their secrets to? “You’re not to ever repeat those things, d’you hear me?”
Greyson’s face sagged. “I do what I’m told.” He began to weep. “I obey. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
They came to a large rock. Aodhàn helped Greyson sit, since he looked as though he might collapse.
Greyson continued to mutter and scratch his scalp. He stared at a dead starfish, though before him lay a magnificent sea full of color, movement, and life.
Daylight was not kind. Greyson’s eyes were red, watery, and had a greenish pus-like substance crusted in the corners. He was unshaven, his beard thin and scraggly; the scant hair that remained on his head was greasy and lank, and no doubt full of lice. He resembled the aged slave from Crete more than a little.
What had happened here? Was it because Greyson had been drifting too long with no purpose? Maybe he should dose the old man with the mushroom again.
The very first time they had all been dragged out of death, it was Alexiare’s own mother
who suggested the mushroom. It worked, and had resurrected Chrysaleon’s staunchest, most loyal supporter to him in every life since.
Maybe another dose would clear out this insanity and restore the sharp-witted companion he needed.
But he had none of that special mushroom, and didn’t know where to get any.
Watching Greyson’s face for a reaction, he asked, “Do you remember the night we were attacked? The men who burned Bishop House? How did you get away? Faith says Romy is alive, too. Do you know where she is?”
Greyson stared at the starfish, mumbling. Aodhàn heard “Kaphtor,” and “Selene’s curse,” but other than that, understood hardly anything.
Aodhàn leaned over Greyson and grabbed the front of his stinking, blackened sark. “What’s happened to you?” he shouted, shaking him.
“Leave her alone,” Greyson said. “Don’t bring her into your curse. Leave her… leave her alone.”
“I wouldn’t harm her. She’s my child, as much as Evie and Claire.”
“She escaped you.” Greyson blinked and squinted as though the sunlight hurt his eyes.
For one brief moment, comprehension and recognition flickered across his face. “You ordered me to kill Daniel,” he said. “So I did. He’s one of hers. The triad. As much as you. Maybe more. Cannot… cannot kill them, not without a reckoning. I burn. I burn inside. It never stops. Every day, every night, I burn. For what you made me do.”
He swept a grimy palm across his eyes, wiping away tears. “Let me go. You’re here again. You can pay her reckoning. You.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Aodhàn said. “I still need you, Greyson.”
Greyson shook his head; the clarity vanished. “No, no more. I cannot hide it. The things he does to her. If she ever finds out she’ll use that knife on him. She’ll slice his heart from his chest and for-force him to watch it stop beating.” Bending, he picked up the rotted starfish and put it in his sark. “I’ll be alone, no one to follow, no one to love. The Lady is cruel. Everyone is dead. They’ve all been reborn and I’ve been left behind. I don’t know anyone anymore. What will he do without me? What will he do to her next time?”
“I’m right here, old man. I need your help. Wake up!”
It was no use. Growling a curse, Aodhàn left him. All he could do was search the hovel, though he realized others had probably already done so. If Greyson had saved anything the night of the fire, no doubt someone had stolen it long ago. But they would have searched for ordinary valuables like gold or jewels. What he hoped to find was different, and might have been overlooked.
He entered the blackhouse. It was still dim, though he’d thrown open the shutters. He lit two candles and began his search, disgusted by the piles of dried excrement, the swarming maggots, the decomposing rat. He went along the walls, inspecting every stone.
At last, on the wall facing the sea, next to the window, he pushed against a stone and it grated. He knelt and worked it loose.
Everything was forgotten: his frustration, his rage, Lilith, those cursed men who continued to live while she and their children turned to dust.
He laughed out loud as he withdrew the silver coffer and opened it, not allowing himself to contemplate the possibility of its contents being gone. The cushioning velvet he’d used was still there; he lifted the bundle and unwrapped it.
The knife was a beautiful work of art, the blade fashioned of glossy black obsidian. He knew it would slice him open, no matter how lightly he ran the edge across his flesh. The ivory hilt depicted Athene in flowing robes, an owl perched upon her shoulder.
Thank God none of those drunken louts had found this! They wouldn’t have known what it was. It might’ve been damaged, destroyed, sold for a pound, lost forever.
He held it to the light. It was flawless, as it had been three millennia ago on Crete, when Aridela used it to slay Harpalycus the Butcher.
Or so they thought. They couldn’t have been more wrong.
He started to replace the weapon in its casket but paused as he noticed something else on the velvet. It was a miniature portrait of Lilith, painted by a master artist in Freiburg. Lilith hadn’t wanted her portrait painted. It had been a fierce battle between them. He picked it up. Her dark eyes gazed at him, solemn, mysterious. For one agonizing instant he was thrown backward in time, and clenched his jaw to keep his emotion in check. He touched the edge of her cheek. Then, swallowing hard, he put it in his pocket and carried the knife outside. “Alexiare,” he called. “You’re in my good graces again.” He went around the side of the bothy, but the old man wasn’t on the rock. One set of dragging footprints led towards the sea and vanished at the water’s edge.
A scrap of paper lay next to the water, weighted down by the rotted starfish. Aodhàn picked it up, grimacing at the stink, and unfolded it.
One line, in shaky script.
It is sorcery beyond our understanding.
Aodhàn searched for over a mile in both directions, but there was no sign of Greyson Fullerton.
As he turned the knife over in his hands, watching it glitter, he decided to take it to Glenelg. But what then? It wasn’t something he could set on a shelf in Seaghan’s blackhouse.
He would bury it. He’d done that once before, long ago, in the underground warren of tunnels at Cape Wrath. It had been a good choice. The knife remained, dry, safe, and hidden for thirteen hundred years, until he retrieved it one summer when he was on holiday from Eton.
He alone would know where it was. If he were to die, it would remain undisturbed, waiting for him to dig it up in some future life.
This knife was dangerous. He knew instinctively that when Aridela used it against Harpalycus it acquired powerful magic. What else could explain how it managed to come, unscathed, through so many thousands of years, or how the slightest cut from the blade putrefied flesh and almost always caused death? No one knew its intended purpose, but every instinct warned him to keep it close and secret.
He gazed out at the water and lifted the knife in triumphant homage to his slave’s endless loyalty. “Rest well,” he said softly, “until next time, old man.” He patted his pocket, feeling the hard edge of the portrait. “You kept what was most precious safe, and I thank you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WINTER SET IN at Kilgarry, and still Aodhàn Mackinnon did not come home.
Morrigan could tell by the shadows in Seaghan’s eyes, his failure to smile except in a tight, unnatural way, that he suspected his old comrade had come to a solitary and unknown end.
Morrigan refused to consider that possibility. But Curran told her he’d never been gone so long; usually no more than two or three days at most.
She secretly set her birthday as the day he would turn up. He would burst into Kilgarry with a small gift, perhaps something he’d made.
She woke on her birthday to a fresh blanket of snow and the wean’s quickening. “Curran, Curran!” She shook him. “I feel something.” Eleanor had warned her what would happen so she wouldn’t be frightened. Still, it was a queer sensation, a fluttering, like a sparrow was flapping its wings inside her. She didn’t know whether to worry or laugh.
Curran placed his hand on her stomach. When the movement came, the poke of a foot too small to comprehend, his smile stretched into a huge grin, like a lad who had caught his first trout. “It’s kicking,” he shouted. “The babe’s kicking!” He brought Morrigan in, tucking her face against his whiskery throat, enclosing her in a protective cocoon. She closed her eyes as he massaged the small of her back with strong fingers, soothing the tightness and ache. One hand slid around to her stomach and he caressed the fullness there, murmuring about our bairn, our wean, an aye fond memory of that day on the windy moor.
Ibby had come the previous day. She gave Morrigan a dress she’d sewn for the final months of pregnancy. Curran gave her a necklace of matched pearls, and Janet made confections rich with butter, cream, and cheese.
But there was no Mackinnon. Morrigan kept her disappoin
tment hidden and called herself a daftie for conceiving such a fantasy then expecting it to actually happen.
Night fell, cold and clear, offering its own gift of twinkling stars and a display of the Northern Lights, which Curran told her was rare. They all went outside to admire the phenomenon, bundled up in wool and fur. Secretly, while the others exclaimed at the changing colors hanging in the heavens like vast curtains, Morrigan regarded the iron gates. The night was magical enough to believe that at any second, Mackinnon’s tall figure would come striding through them.
They trooped inside for hot cider. Soon after, the front bell was pulled and Morrigan’s heart leaped. It was everything she could do to continue to sit by the fire, sipping her drink.
Seaghan came in, wishing her a happy birthday. Morrigan waited, but no one followed. There remained that slight frown between his eyes, the shadow that spoke of grief he tried to hide. She clasped his hand longer than necessary, to let him know she understood.
Curran entertained them by relating the tale of the race between the two tea clippers, Cutty Sark and Thermopylae, which had begun in June and finished in mid October. “When they left Shanghai,” he said, “loaded with cargo, the two captains decided to try and outdo each other. Cutty Sark was ahead off Algoa Bay when a storm severed her rudder.”
Morrigan nodded, only half-listening.
“Captain Moodie could’ve made Cape Town, but instead he trusted the repairs to Cutty Sark’s carpenter, a Scot named Henderson, who rigged a makeshift rudder that brought them home a mere week behind Thermopylae. A miracle, don’t you think, considering?”
How his face lit up when he spoke of his boats, sails, and sailing gewgaws. “I mind the day you first told me of that race,” she said, and blushed, for that was the day they’d started this child who had changed both their lives so drastically. “Nicky was going to write about it for his newspaper.”
The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) Page 42
