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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Aye, well, Seaghan thought it was a knife wound. Who knows? Aodhàn never said.”

  “That’s another thing. Why is he so secretive?” Quinn swirled the liquor in his glass.

  Curran had always accepted Aodhàn’s quirks, but Quinn’s questions made him wonder. Why was he so secretive? “I don’t know.”

  “Shall I go to Barra? No one will know you’re involved. Let me see what I can ferret out.”

  The idea made Curran not only uncomfortable, but ashamed. It seemed slightly reprehensible. After what he’d done to Morrigan, to wee, sweet Olivia, he’d tried to be more thoughtful in his decisions. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

  With a shrug, Quinn said, “If we can find this woman, and make the facts known, it could ease your concern and arrest any problem before it goes too far.”

  “Let me think about it,” was all Quinn could get that day from the Laird of Eilginn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  OLIVIA’S BAPTISM BROUGHT out all of Glenelg. Father Drummond grinned irrepressibly as he chatted with Aunt Ibby, his hands resting on the handle of his cane.

  Tradition demanded the father hold the newborn at the baptismal basin.

  The minister touched Olivia’s forehead with sanctified water in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Olivia, who had lost much of her original red, pinched look, gave an astonished, unhappy wail. Curran handed her to Morrigan and she instantly quieted, rooting at her mother’s breast. Disapproval narrowed William Watson’s eyes, but Morrigan no longer cared a fig and hoped he could read that in her expression. Puffed-up fool. Olivia knew what idiocy this ceremony was— man’s invention, nothing to do with her.

  These were evil, blasphemous thoughts. Morrigan glanced towards the kirk’s dim ceiling, half-fearful an angry patriarchal Creator might strike her dead. Curran and Mackinnon, both fine men, and many others, had labored tirelessly to find her when she’d gone missing at Michaelmas. Yet since Olivia’s birth, she seemed to see everything through an angry red veil. Why weren’t women honored for their qualities as men were? Why were they refused the same prospects? Was this to be her daughter’s fate as well?

  Murmurs of approval rose from the pews. Women nodded, pleased to see Olivia cry. “A wean who does not shed tears at its christening is in danger of dying young,” Fionna had told Morrigan the day before. “Everyone’ll be listening for it. Some parents secretly pinch the child’s foot.”

  After the service, much was made of Olivia. Each person pressed a coin into her miniature fist. Some she clutched and some she dropped, leaving confusion about whether she’d grow up to be frugal or a spendthrift.

  Seaghan acted the part of a proud grandparent. Though his pleasure was infectious, his comrade Aodhàn managed to remain guarded, and stood at the periphery of the group. Wouldn’t that always be his way? Grave, grave man. One of the gravest she’d ever met, yet she was convinced that deep inside, he longed to be merry.

  She glanced at Diorbhail, sitting in her shy, unobtrusive way at the rear of the kirk. Diorbhail claimed that Mackinnon couldn’t be trusted. But it was the rest of what she’d said that most worried Morrigan, the part about him being driven by some inner turmoil, and the possibility that he might do something harmful, who knew what?

  Morrigan returned her gaze to Mackinnon. He wasn’t smiling, and showed no pleasure in the ceremony.

  No! It could not be. Diorbhail’s suspicions had no weight. She herself had said it was no more than a feeling. Many distrusted Aodhàn, but Morrigan knew it was simply his natural reserve and somber attitude that made one think he was capable of grim things. She would never forget how he’d comforted her when she’d brandished a pair of scissors like a weapon. Why, any other person who’d come across her that night would have gone right to Curran and advised him to have his wife committed. Not Mackinnon.

  Dark thoughts fled as Seaghan wrapped his enormous hands awkwardly around Olivia. Morrigan giggled. Eleanor had only recently decided the infant was strong enough to be handled by others, so this was the first time any outsider had been allowed to touch her.

  “She’s bonny,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “and so like you, lass.”

  Everyone compared Olivia to her mother, though her fine hair was as blonde as her father’s. In some exasperation, Curran said, “You’d think I had nothing to do with this child at all.”

  Morrigan moved closer until she stood within the protective circle of his arm. Though it was quite improper, especially in a sacred setting, she turned her head up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

  Almost involuntarily, she glanced at Aodhàn. His nostrils were flared, his eyes narrowed. It was a brief reaction, easily missed if one wasn’t watching.

  Morrigan stifled an urge to smile, but as her gaze veered to Aodhàn’s left, she saw that someone else had been watching. Quinn. His canny gaze missed nothing, short though the exchange was.

  Heat rose through her cheeks. Damn her inability to control these blushes. He wouldn’t miss that, either, and would take it as a sign of guilt.

  Hugh Drummond interrupted her turmoil. “You’ve done a grand thing, Mistress Ramsay.” He kissed her. “I’m proud of you.”

  Curran sighed in mock exasperation, eliciting laughter.

  “Are you wanting credit for your labor?” Beatrice asked. “Let’s all applaud the master because he had a moment’s pleasure one day many months ago. She’s the one carried the life in her belly month after month and gave birth in pain and suffering. And who is it what teaches the child from birth to the moment it leaves home to make its own way? I’ve heard tell a rooster crows, but it’s the hen that lays the egg. Which one contributes more to the future of chickens?”

  The women cried aye, she’s right, and Beatrice sees the truth of things.

  “Menfolk do think themselves aye extraordinary for their wee bit,” Rachel Urquhart ventured.

  A flushing Padraig jerked his wife’s arm and hissed into her ear.

  Morrigan regarded the females surrounding her, half-shocked, half-pleased. In some ways, women were wound into a tight-knit, impenetrable circle. Perhaps, at least when it concerned children, females could be allies. She had a feeling that if she were to voice the unholy thoughts she’d had while lying in bed with this small miracle, they would nod in understanding, but only if no men were present, or anyone who would betray them.

  “I see I’ll receive no respect here,” Curran said in good-natured surrender, though Morrigan didn’t miss the annoyance that hardened his jaw. Cradling Olivia, he crooned, “You love me, though, don’t you, my wee lass?”

  “Is she truly healthy?” Agnes asked. “I’ve ne’er seen a babe so tiny.”

  “This child is as healthy as poppies in a cornfield,” Eleanor retorted, taking offense.

  Morrigan thought the midwife’s words strange and ill fated. They reminded her of the bothy, of the strange, visionary mushroom, and of Diorbhail’s murdered daughter.

  They used a horse to crush her like a china cup, and laughed. Nobody cared. None but me.

  She fought against it, but the cloudy memory sent a trickle of ice down her spine, where it joined the one formed by Quinn Meriwether’s penetrating stare.

  * * * *

  Olivia fascinated the dogs. Their ears perked whenever she made a sound. They paced, stiff-legged, tails wagging, trying to get a look at her, so Morrigan sat on the floor, the baby on her lap, so they could get to know her better. Antiope adopted a position beneath the cradle, steadfast and alert, often growling at the approach of anyone other than Morrigan, Diorbhail, or Curran.

  “I want to ride,” Morrigan told Curran, three days after the baptism, after Quinn, thankfully, had returned to London. “But for the kirking, I haven’t been outside these walls in ages. I crave wind and sunlight and the feel of a horse.”

  An additional impetus was that Patrick Hawley had taken himself away to continue his search for land. The absence of both the oily Hawley and the judgmental Quinn lighte
ned her mood considerably.

  “Has it been long enough?”

  “Aye, more than enough.” She came around the table and leaned down, running her hand over the knot of his tie then up, flicking his earlobe. “After I ride Stoirmeil, I’m going to come home and ride you, my fine stallion.”

  Curran started; his tea splashed, staining his crisp white shirt. He reached for a napkin with the admonition, “Has no one ever taught you that ladies mustn’t say such things?”

  Half sitting on the edge of the table, she gave a careless, one-shouldered shrug. “No, since that lesson would require speaking of subjects that are supposed to make us swoon. Do you want me to behave like other ladies?”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. He rose and deliberately pulled a lock of her hair free of its restraining pins. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Ibby entered the dining room as Morrigan scolded him for messing her hair.

  “Would you ride with me today, Auntie?” she asked.

  “Certainly.” Ibby eyed the sideboard. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Don’t caution her.” Curran finished what remained of his tea. “She’s set on it.”

  “Well, then, there’d be no use in trying.” Ibby piled fluffy yellow eggs on her plate. “I see you’re learning, Curran Ramsay. You’ve married a woman with a particularly stubborn backbone.” Her gaze turned quizzical. “Do you realize you’ve spilled tea on yourself?”

  They left Olivia yawning her way into a nap after receiving a belly-full of milk.

  “Come, isoke.” Ibby drew on her gloves. “Or we’ll miss this glorious weather. It’ll turn chilly later, and no doubt rain.”

  “Could I speak to you about the cough Olivia had the other day?” Diorbhail asked. “It’ll only take a moment.”

  Morrigan knew that look in the woman’s eye. “Of course,” she said, and sent Ibby off to the stables.

  “Well?” she asked when they were alone.

  “I’ve been wanting to show you something.” Diorbhail got on her knees and withdrew a bundle from under the wardrobe. She unwrapped it carefully.

  The curved black blade reflected sunlight from the window in an ominous glitter. Morrigan stared, enthralled by its deadly beauty.

  “D’you mind when I told you I’d had a vision of a knife?” Diorbhail asked.

  “When you and Eleanor used the witch’s cap.”

  “This is the knife I saw.”

  “You found it? How? Where?”

  “I saw light coming out of the ground. It was down in the earth, by the river.” She paused before adding, “I feel the age of it. It’s older than we can comprehend. I’ve been thinking that I was led to it for you. It’s meant for you, somehow. You’ll know when and how to use it.”

  She handed it to Morrigan. The hilt was carved in the shape of a woman, an owl perched on her shoulder, and was exquisitely detailed, down to the woman’s grave, resolved expression.

  “D’you mean to tell me you saw this knife in a dream, and then found that knife here, in Glenelg? Where did it come from? How did it get there? Whose is it?”

  “I… I don’t know any of those things. I feel it was brought from far away, but that’s only a feeling.”

  “Tell me everything you saw when you took the witch’s cap.”

  “The two of us were fighting side by side. This was a long time ago, before rifles or cannons. There were only swords and knives, spears and shields. You were using this knife.”

  Diorbhail’s anguish was clear to see, but Morrigan didn’t know how to comfort her. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Terror clings to this blade,” Diorbhail said, low. “Terror and hate. But its shape, the shape of the waxing moon, gives it sanctity. You wax, too. You’re growing. Changing. Maybe the Lady led me to it so I could give it to you. I think you’re supposed to have it. Keep it secret and safe; make it a part of you. When I first brought it out of the ground and held it, I had a sense that if it’s used as she wants, we’ll find peace and the wound in the world will heal. But I also saw that it could be perverted, used for evil. If that happens, there will be much suffering.”

  The knife made Morrigan weak and shaky, like she hadn’t eaten in too long. Deep inside, a picture formed. She saw the blade rip out a man’s throat, and heard a woman’s voice. I will feed your carcass to the sea! The image was brief, but the horror lingered. “‘Used as she wants….’ What if I use it the wrong way? What if I can’t use it, or I refuse?”

  “Then something that needs to happen won’t,” Diorbhail said. “I wish I had better Sight.” She clasped Morrigan’s elbow. “I can only tell you that this blade has power, and in the proper hands, it can right an ancient wrong. I believe those hands are yours.”

  An exhausting weight descended. Diorbhail asked much of her, yet her visions left more questions than answers, and made the right choice seem chancy, even unobtainable. Morrigan wanted to shout, Why do I have to be the one? Why can’t you tell me what I must do!

  “Don’t be afraid.” Diorbhail rightly discerned Morrigan’s expression. “Somehow, you’ll be shown what you need to see. And I promise, I will keep searching, trying to find out more.”

  Morrigan took the knife to her bedroom, meaning to hide it in her wardrobe, but she paused. She stared at the blade then slipped it into the pocket of her riding habit. The thing made her feel sick and strong at the same time, and seemed to demand she keep it close.

  Logan had their mounts saddled and ready.

  “I could show you where your father and I were born,” Ibby said as they cantered through the gate.

  Stoirmeil whinnied and tossed her head, making Morrigan realize she’d jerked the reins. She patted the mare’s neck in apology. “I’d like that.”

  They traveled north, stopping to speak when they passed Agnes and Rachel, and farther on, Malcolm.

  Beyond Glenelg, at the summit of a steep grassy hill, they paused to admire the village nestled against the bay. Hills rolled behind the township, gradually growing steeper, cutting off the area from the rest of Scotland. To the southwest glittered the Sound of Sleat and beyond, Skye’s blue-violet mountains. Below lay the straits of Kyle Rhea where, she’d been told, a sea serpent had boldly reared its head.

  “What a pretty spot,” Morrigan said.

  “Aye,” Ibby agreed. “And a perfect day. How d’you feel? Are you hurting?”

  “Not a bit,” Morrigan assured her, though the tough leather sidesaddle did seem more abrasive than it had before she’d been banned from riding. “It’s been three months.”

  It had either rained or snowed almost every day for a month, but now, at last, there was a shining sun and warmth. The earth smelled and looked scrubbed, reborn. She reveled in the fresh air, drawing it deeply into her lungs. Nothing would induce her to spend another day indoors.

  Away in the distance, someone cursed his horse as he broke ground, and out on the water, a skaffie trolled, slow and lazy. Sheep bleated across the hillsides, and nearer, a shaggy Highland bull observed the two riders in an aloofly disinterested manner.

  “Come away then,” Ibby said. “You can see what remains of our taigh-tughaidh.”

  In the lee below the summit of the hill, Morrigan made out stones, now covered with moss and lichen, spread in a blurry rectangle. Ibby led her through long, lush grass and hardy wildflowers to a flat area containing a few stunted pines, giving way to dirt and scree on the slope leading to the water.

  “Padraig Urquhart and his family lived there, beneath that burned stump,” Ibby said. “It used to be a great old ash tree.” She dismounted, letting the reins drag, and walked to the mounds of stone. “This was our home.”

  Morrigan remained on Stoirmeil; her hands tightened around the reins as disquiet crept through her.

  “We lived here together after my da— your grandfather— abandoned us. Mam, Douglas, and me. Later, after he came home from India, Douglas became Randall Benedict’s gamekeeper and went off to his own home
with Neala. After she died, he married your mother and took her away to Ireland. They returned a fortnight before the clearings. She didn’t like sharing space with the kye and the goat, and it was crowded, so he started building a byre, over there.” Her voice trembled as she added, “It wasn’t quite finished when the soldiers came. They burned it as well as the cottage, after they saw we’d not get on their ship. They didn’t want us using it for shelter.”

  Morrigan slipped off her horse. “It’s hard to believe that your home, everyone’s homes, were burned, and you were all left to die.” The toe of her boot grated against one of the stones.

  Because of rich men wanting to be richer, our folk were swept out like rubbish, Seaghan had said. After all these years, he’d still shaken with rage.

  “Randall Benedict paid to have us shipped to Nova Scotia. If we refused his offer, well,” Ibby shrugged, “he’d done everything he could, hadn’t he?” She squinted at the glittering water. “He wasn’t a man of the land. He couldn’t understand how we felt, how the legends nurtured and sustained us. He had no idea what it meant to grow up on the same land as our grandfolk and their grandfolk. Land they fought to protect clear back to Culloden and further, back to Scotland’s beginnings.” She paused. “We knew every stone. The course of every burn. All the secret spots where the red fish leap. We knew each tree and bush, where the rabbit holes were. How could we leave those things? How could they ask it? Better to die of starvation in our own hills, with the scent of home in our noses.”

  How many Scotsmen live on in other countries, never to see their own again?

  Sorry now that she’d agreed to come to this place that dredged up so many awful memories, Morrigan put her arm around Ibby’s shoulders, hoping to comfort her.

  Ibby wiped away tears with an impatient swipe. “Douglas was poisoned to it afterwards. Once he told me he heard the screaming, the sound of burning, every day and night. That’s why he left, moved you and Nicky to Stranraer. Gregor fetched me away to Mallaig. I never stopped missing my home, though. I think in the end, it was the same for your father.”