The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (16 page)

Clearings
. Every time she’d heard that word, it had been spoken in a hush or an angry hiss, and she’d learned young that to ask questions brought anger and censure, sometimes a clout or a beating, if Douglas’s mood was bad enough. So she’d stopped asking, and she didn’t now. The shadow in his eyes warned her.

Yet the question rose in her throat.
You found me, and my kin, half-dead in a forest?

“That started it,” he went on with a shrug. “What my father never knew was how the woods spoke to me after that day. I heard those dead folk, and I began to avoid the outdoors.” He glanced at her and made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Don’t look so troubled. I don’t think I’m ready for the madhouse.”

Her heartbeat stuttered; for one instant that seemed to flip her upside down, she felt as though her soul flew out and touched his. In that instant, he wasn’t the wealthy laird and she the penniless innkeeper’s daughter. For the first time, she realized how devastated she would be if he left and never returned.

She swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

“I know.” Rocking forward, he kissed the frown between her brows. “When I turned eleven, he sent me into the northern wilds with a primitive chieftain from the Shetland Isles named Fearghas. God only knows where he met the man or how he convinced him to nursemaid me.” He shook his head with a disgusted, one-sided smile. “Fearghas knew no English, and I hadn’t fully mastered the Gaelic, at least not his version of it. Gibberish, more likely— the language of Sholties. Anyway, I had no warning. My father thrust me out next to this tall thin hairy fellow and told me not to come home until I was as comfortable in the woods as my bedroom.”

“Oh.” Was there no end to what fathers were capable of?
What a piece of work is a man
, Hamlet had astutely stated.

He nodded, surprising her by adding, “I’m grateful now, but I hated him as Fearghas dragged me from the courtyard. It worked, as my father somehow knew it would. I vanquished my fear.”

“Was it this man, then, who hurt you…?”

“No, not Fearghas.” He slipped the tender stem of a weed from its stiff fibrous sheath with a faint
eeek
and chewed the end. “He often left me, though, days at a time, to fend for myself. One night when I was alone, up near Loch Torridon… d’you know where that is?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a bleak, lonely place north of Glenelg. I fell asleep beside a half-frozen tarn, and….” Again he stopped. He yanked another weed, glanced at her, and looked away. “It’s difficult to describe.”

Morrigan caught his restless fingers and caressed them. “Please?” Perhaps he’d murdered someone… Fearghas, no doubt.

He faced her again; his expression warmed her like a bottle of strong spirits.

“I say I was asleep,” he went on, “but it’s so vivid, and there’s this….” He flicked the scar. “I have a memory of waking and rising. The moon was full. Everything had a glow about it— the water, the rocks. I could see a glow around me as well. I walked to the tarn— and jumped in.”

He laughed, and Morrigan admired this image of him. Supple flesh, the stain of color in his cheeks, the way light seemed to adore his lashes, brows and hair, the warmth and pressure of his hand, and the indentations on either side of his mouth put there from an endless accumulation of smiles.

She wished she could capture this moment, fold him up, slip him into an envelope and carry him, tucked in her chemise next to her heart.

Only after this breathless moment of reverence did she comprehend what he’d said.

“You what?”

“As naked as the day my mother bore me.”

“But… you said it was half-frozen.”

“It was, but I don’t remember feeling cold. I saw a palace. The moonlight shining on it made it seem like layers of pearls. I swam towards it and a set of gates swung open. Should I stop now? I’ve never told another soul this, not my father, my mother, not anyone. I was afraid they’d think me… mad.”

“Don’t stop.”

“A lady was waiting, a beautiful lady with long red hair.” He gave her one of his slow, luxuriant smiles with the lowered eyelids. “Near bonny as you, I’d say.”

“Oh.” This feeling he caused… the fluttering, shyness, and yearning… was it love? Could one love another so quickly? No, no.
No
. Such a thing was impossible.

There would be time to contemplate that later, when she was alone.

“She took my hand,” Curran said, “and led me into the palace, all turrets, terraces, balconies, enormous chambers. We came to a long hall, and at the far end there was a throne. A woman sat there, holding a staff. She told me she was keeping the throne in trust for the rightful queen. These two ladies, one dressed in silver, the other white, led me to a door inlaid with pearl and carvings of runes, and snakes, and trees. The queen opened it. I could see only a few steps in— the rest was blackness. She told me I must enter, and conquer the beast. If I did, the enchanted palace would rise to the surface and be restored to its rightful place.”

“Could you breathe?” Morrigan asked.

Curran laughed. “Bless you.” He cupped her cheeks. “You haven’t once said I was dreaming or daft. I could breathe, I suppose, or I didn’t need to. I stepped through and they closed the door behind me. A candle was burning on a shelf; beside it was a knife, a wicked-looking thing with a curved black blade and ivory handle. I picked them up and followed a corridor through many twists and turns, and always, in the distance, I heard roaring.”

“The minotaur. The labyrinth on the isle of Crete. You were… you were Theseus.”

He smiled but his brows lowered. “Didn’t you call me Theseus once, the day we met? At the train station.”

“Aye.” She fought to halt the inner reeling, to display a calm demeanor though inside she was crying,
Theseus. My Theseus
. Even the inner lass seemed startled into rare silence.

For the first time she realized something that now seemed profoundly important. Not for a moment, not from the first kiss to the removal of her clothes, nor when their bodies joined, did she experience that inner revulsion that had sent her recoiling from Kit. With Curran, she’d wanted more and more, to go deeper, and deeper yet. Now that she thought about it, she remembered the wild inner Morrigan shouting,
It’s him. It’s him!

“Well, you’re right,” he said. “I was attacked in this maze, not by a man with a bull’s head, but a lion.” He paused. “Every time I thought I’d killed it, it sprang up again with more strength than ever. I was so tired. My wounds were bad, this one in particular.” He touched the crescent scar. “Never in my life have I wanted so much to give up, to lie down and die.”

“And then?”

“I heard weeping. I saw a woman behind the lion. She was chained at the wrist inside an oak tree upon a hill, and somehow,” he shrugged, “I could see through the wood. She was trapped, imprisoned inside the tree. Then the answer came. I dropped the knife.”

“You… but how could you….”

He shook his head. “The lion killed me, and it was as though I consented. It ripped out my throat.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“I was dying, but I saw the knife beside me. I picked it up and stabbed the lion through the heart.”

“So you both died?”

“It fell on me. I felt its breath on my face, the heaviness of it. Then… nothing. I floated, and the lion’s blood washed over me.”

Morrigan shuddered.

“His spirit entered me with his blood,” Curran said, “and I could breathe again. He and I were one. I’d never felt so strong and alive, and violently hungry. I ran up the hill and clawed through the oak. The woman welcomed me, and we drank wine from a chalice. Together, he and I… the lion, and me, we….”

She smiled, seeing what he couldn’t quite say.

He smiled too, and blushed. Oh, how she adored his shyness.

“So the lion made the scar?” Morrigan asked as she remembered the point of the tale.

He nodded. “I’ve never known such joy as that night, lying on the grass with her. I would’ve gladly stayed forever. She… that girl….” He stopped.

“What?”

“My God.” He was suddenly pale.

“What, Curran?”

He grabbed her hand and turned it, tracing the birthmark at her wrist. “I’d swear. Not the same, but somehow, you.
You
were the woman inside the tree. Your hair was black, you wore a crown, but you had this mark on your wrist.”

“Fate brought you to me, then.” She tried to be casual, but her smile was unsteady, and she suspected she might be as pale as he.

He contemplated her, emotion running swiftly across his face. “Fate.” After a moment he said, “I fell asleep with her, but when I woke, I was alone beside the tarn, in the darkness of old night. Yet another lady stepped from the water. Not the lass from the oak, not the queen or the gatekeeper. This woman’s hair was the color of the moonlight. She seemed familiar, and very solemn. She held up the knife I’d used in the maze, and the chalice I’d drunk wine from. I wanted to run away, but snakes were crawling over my arms and legs, binding me to the ground. The wounds were still there. I was in terrible pain, and screaming.”

“Did she hurt you?”

He shook his head. “Of all the wounds, even the one in my throat, this one beside my eye hurt the worst. She pressed the blade against the wound and it cauterized. She soothed me and wept over me, and then she said, ‘Do the same in the real world. Return honor to men if you would be reunited with us.’”

Morrigan watched her lover contemplate the horizon. A thrill raced through her as she recognized how seriously he considered the quest. A would-be hero sat here with her… a knight of old, like the Black Douglas or King Arthur. She had no doubt that he would give his life for the sake of the task.

Curran’s voice was low and hesitant when he continued. “She told me the wound would never fade, that it was my mother’s mark, to remind me of my origins.” He appeared confused for the first time. “I’ve never understood that, or what she said after. ‘Follow the sacred one, though she travels far and brings grief beyond endurance.’”

“You memorized it.”

“Aye, and gone over and over it until I….” He broke off another tall stiff stalk and rolled it between his palms until nothing remained but a damp green smudge. “Riddles. She held the chalice to my mouth and I drank. The wine tasted somehow like the lass I’d been with. I pledged myself to her, and every wound healed instantly.” He drew in a deep breath and regarded Morrigan. “Next I knew Fearghas was shaking me, gobbling about sleeping the whole day. Blood all over me, but no wounds, no sign of the lion fight, except for this scar, as you see it now.”

Morrigan propped her arms on her knees and cupped her chin in her palms. “Mark of the lion. Not the moon after all.”

“Moon?”

“When I first saw your scar, that’s what it seemed to me. A crescent moon.” She rubbed his hand between hers. “’Tis a fine vision, Mr. Ramsay.”

“Vision….”

“Well, if it was real, I want to go there. Will you take me?”

He laughed. “You’re not afraid?”

“No.” She grinned. “I’d like to see this lion.”

“I tried to find it again. I threw myself into the water— Fearghas thought I’d gone clear daft. He dragged me out, shook me like a dog, said in broken English that my father would roast him alive if anything happened to me. I realized for the first time my father hadn’t really deserted me.”

“And your quest? What is it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve searched… it’s made me half mad, knowing there’s something I need, and I can’t find it. I’ve felt empty and useless….” He stared at her, his voice faltering.

“Curran?”

“Oh aye.” Wonder again underlaced his voice. “It’s gone.”

“What?”

“That emptiness. It’s gone.”

A moment passed. He touched each of her fingertips, one by one, with his own. Closed his eyes tightly, frowning. “Morrigan,” he said. His voice caressed her name.

“Curran? Are you ill?”

He shook his head. “I think I’m finally well.”

* * * *

When the sleepy haze of late afternoon stained the sky, Morrigan sighed and said she must go. Amazement and misgivings buffeted her as she thought of what she’d done. He might leave now, simply abandon her to her fate. Yet hadn’t he promised a moment ago to bring her a copy of the
Iliad?

She sat on his frock coat and rolled her stockings over her knees. Four times she had taken him into herself and she knew she’d given him much pleasure, yet his enthralled expression as she held up her hair and asked him to fasten the buttons on the back of her apron suggested he wouldn’t refuse another round.

She stood, unable to block out the memory of Douglas and Kit as they struck each other, their faces ugly with hatred.

At last, fear blossomed. She stole another glance at the setting sun. Incriminating wrinkles creased her skirt and his frock coat. Though they tried to smooth them, both seemed to cry out,
You’ll be lashed until you’re dead for this
.

Curran’s roguish smile implied the afternoon was worth any number of wrinkles. What wonderful, easy confidence. How she admired and envied it, and wished he could wrap some up and give it to her.

As they strolled towards town, Curran told her about his father. “His memory is cherished to this day,” he said. “He bought Kilgarry in ’54, right after the clearings, and rebuilt homes for those who’d survived. Until the day of his death he oversaw everything, from the draining of peat bogs to the lashing of the thatch on his shepherds’ cots.”

“Is it a rich estate?” she asked, before remembering her Aunt Ibby admonishing her that a lady never discussed money in polite company.

“Hardly. It devours time and currency like a sinkhole. There are many who claim the Highlands provide little of value besides sheep and soldiers.”

He told her that Thomas was orphaned at ten and grew up alone, so poor there were times he’d survived on rotted food he picked up in alleys. Yet he made a fortune in the expanding railway business by working himself up the line from rough laborer to a respected engineer of the Caledonian Railways. He branched out and founded a shipping company he named
Uisge-Mor
, and joined in the tea and silk trade, using clipper ships. “Samuel Cunard and my father enjoyed their rivalry,” Curran said. “But they remained good mates. Ship owners always try to outdo each other. For instance, one old seaman— Jock Willis— spent a fortune a few years ago building his dream ship, the
Cutty Sark
. She’s sailing right now, racing the
Thermopylae
on the China run. Last I heard
Cutty Sark
is ahead.” He gazed over the rolling moorland, pushing hair out of his eyes as though he had no idea how beautiful it was with the wind dancing through it. “My father adored the sea and his clippers. It’s almost a shame steam has ousted them.”