The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (2 page)

“Suffers? For me?”

For you and all miserable mankind. Though you cursed and abandoned her, my Mistress loves you still. She returns her daughter, who will live among you as she prepares for her future destiny. Here, in the sixth life, she shall be known as Morrigan, the very name my Lady was called in these islands once, though few now living remember it, any more than they remember her, for she has long been discarded in favor of newer gods
.

Isabel wanted to listen to this woman for the rest of her life. Pure, warm as spring breezes, her melodious voice cast away fear as well as hopelessness. But the phantasm was undulating as though she stood behind a waterfall.

“Wait!” Isabel cried.

You were once a queen, and gave her life. Grace and forgetfulness surrounds you for that. Go and look upon her. She is the finest miracle you will ever see
.

Isabel sat up with a startled gasp. Someone had thrown a frayed cloth over her. It sagged around her waist as she stared wildly. Where was she? Why was it so cold? There was no mist. No lady. She’d simply had a dream.

Light from the nearby fire sent shadows dancing across the face of her brother’s ill-fated wife. The woman’s moans recalled tales of the
bean-sìth
, ghostly female spectres who appeared, shrieking, when someone was about to die.

Beatrice knelt between Hannah’s legs. Isabel’s mother was there too, her hand cupped over Hannah’s knee.

It all returned in a torrent. The storm. The stench of flaming thatch. Screaming children. Folk ejected violently from their homes. One of the landlord’s hired outlaws had shoved Hannah, causing her to fall. She’d landed hard on her belly.

Isabel’s brother, Douglas, refused to let them board the ship for Nova Scotia. He’d said he would not be cast off like rotted fish, nor so easily forgotten. Instead he’d dragged them to this forest, and who could say in the end which choice would turn out worse?

His wife’s labor had gone on and on now, for hours. Isabel had smoothed Hannah’s hair and murmured nonsense meant to convey encouragement. At some point, there came a time of silence, of stillness. Hannah fell into sleep or unconsciousness and eventually, Isabel drifted off as well.

Now the labor was intensifying again. Something was wrong. The two women helping Hannah wore worry on their faces like black storm clouds on the summit of Ben Nevis.

“Why did you do this to me?” Hannah muttered. “I hate you.”

Isabel said, “Wheesht, dear, you’ll be fine,” and stroked her cheek, but Douglas had heard.

“
A shiùrsach!
” The father of the coming child leaned over his wife, his hands bunched into fists as though he meant to strike her. “You and Seaghan thought you could make a fool of me. Now see where you are. You’ve made your bed—”

“Stop!” It was wee Nicky, Douglas’s son by his first wife. He was only three, but he broke away from the man who held him and ran forward bravely. “Don’t hurt her!” He began to sob.

Isabel had always been afraid of Douglas. She was afraid now, but she swore if that fist rose, she would put herself between them. If Nicky could stand up to him, then so, by God, could she. Bad enough to call your wife a whore to her face while she was giving birth to your child.

But Douglas turned away. He picked up his son and carried him off into the dark.

Hannah sounded like a beast caught in a steel trap, the kind that broke bones and left its captive to die in agony. Her hair hung lank. Strands clung to her thin, pale face, and her eyes were huge, black with terror. Was this what giving birth did to a woman? By the good Lord in Heaven, Isabel would never make such a mistake. No man could speak sweetly enough to make it worthwhile.

Douglas returned without Nicky and reached out, catching Beatrice’s arm. Isabel started to rise, intending to throw herself over Hannah. But, “Save her,” was all he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t let her die.”

Isabel stared. Never in her life had she heard such misery in Douglas Lawton’s voice. She couldn’t trust her own ears. Perhaps he did care, after all.

“I’ll do my best.” Beatrice brushed his cheek with her fingertips, turning back to Hannah without expression when Douglas jerked away from her touch.

Gloaming crept into frigid night. “Saint Brigit spare the lass,” one of the villagers cried, making the sign of the cross.

Beatrice slapped Hannah. “Push, or this wean’ll kill you!”

Hannah sucked in a deep breath and bore down, screaming.

Desperation glimmered in the women’s eyes. They moved swiftly now, sweat dappling their foreheads, though above them, ice encased the tree limbs. Blood slicked their arms to the elbows.

Hannah’s flush faded to greenish-white.

At last the babe was born. The cord was cut and Isabel’s mother smacked it on the rump, prompting a shaky yowl. Beatrice fought to stem Hannah’s bleeding while Isabel’s mother swaddled the newborn in a scrap of singed blanket.

“Ibby,” her mother said, “hold this child.”

Hannah’s eyelids fluttered. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but no sound came.

Black clots of blood splattered the snow. There was a hot earthy smell. Steam rose from between the new mother’s legs. Isabel’s empty belly lurched when Beatrice wiped sweat from her forehead, leaving behind a glistening streak of scarlet.

Back in the spring, before all these troubles, Isabel had watched Hannah wade in a mountain burn, her skirts kilted above her knees, hair trailing in the water. Laughing, she’d flicked the wet ends at some enraptured lad. With her rich red hair, wicked blue eyes, and voluptuous body, she’d left great men fair stammygastered.

It remained a mystery why this bonny girl had accepted Seaghan MacAnaugh’s proposal only to break the engagement and marry Douglas Lawton instead, without waiting even the barest interval to save Seaghan’s wounded pride.

Gossip had enflamed the village. Snatches trailed through Isabel’s brain as she held the baby and regarded her sister-in-law.

She’s a slut
.

Seaghan is well rid of her, and Black Douglas Lawton has finally got what he deserves. Hope he takes her far from Glenelg
.

Nothing remained now of Glenelg but smoldering ruins. Burned, like their grasping landlord wanted, cleared of crofts and bothersome humans, ready for an influx of more profitable sheep. Almost everyone Isabel had ever known, including Seaghan MacAnaugh, had sailed away to a country on the other side of the ocean. She’d never see any of those folk again. Her village, her world, had been pared down to fewer than twenty people.

Douglas kissed Hannah’s forehead. “
Beannachd leat
, a ghràidh,
” he said, and drew the blanket over her face.

Isabel cradled the newborn. Wee thing, light as down. Her niece. Fluids, blood, and pasty goo covered the baby’s skin. Her elfish crimson face screwed into a plaintive whine.

“My sister would no’ want us sniveling over her,” Beatrice snapped. “Give me the child, Isabel.”

Unnerved by the woman’s scowl, Isabel handed the babe over.

Beatrice unwrapped the blanket. “She appears healthy, though born before her proper time. Come, Douglas, see your daughter.”

Douglas, still kneeling beside his wife, glanced up. After a moment, he took the baby. He looked confused, like he’d already forgotten the cause of Hannah’s death.

“Would you name her Morrigan, after our mother?” Beatrice asked.

The wee one’s cry was weak and pitiful, bringing tears to Isabel’s eyes. Douglas returned her to Beatrice, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter.”

Morrigan
.

Isabel crossed herself.

BOOK ONE

THE REUNION

CHAPTER ONE

STRANRAER, SCOTLAND

1872

MORRIGAN CROUCHED BEHIND
a boulder, willing herself to vanish into it. She heard a scrape, as of a shoe against stone, and tensed. Silence descended, so deep and thick it beat against her eardrums.

With a sharp flutter and startled cry, a grouse rose from the sedges to her left. She squinted, trying to make out details, but all was disguised in predawn shadows.

There was no time for hesitation. She must be bold. Drawing in a breath, she leaped, loosing a warlike shout, and slapped the flat of her blade against the tall dark figure standing with his back to her. He toppled, breaking apart in a most unwarrior-like fashion. She stared. Her Viking attacker was nothing but a crude stook of weeds, roped together like a massive corn dolly and propped upright.

A hand squeezed her shoulder, bringing her around with a stifled shriek. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?”

“Damn,” she said.

“Don’t you know by now you’ll never best me? You’re a female, cursed by God and nature. Sneaky, that’s what you are, just like your hair, until the sun comes out and reveals the truth. Lucky for you Scotland has many cloudy days.”

She couldn’t help it— she nudged her braid over her shoulder and out of sight almost guiltily.

Nicholas Lawton’s sardonic laughter echoed into the heavens. “No one with any wit is fooled,” he said. “Red hair on a lass is unlucky, and dark red’s the worst.”

Nicky never tired of these well-worn taunts. Having learned long ago that to argue only worsened things, Morrigan changed the subject. “Where were you?” She dropped her clumsy wooden sword on the ground, disgusted with it, herself, and most of all, her smug brother.

“Here… there… in the sky, the ground….” He poked her chest. “In your soul.” He hooked his thumbs under his braces, cocky as a Spanish matador, then plunged his own sword into the damp soil next to the boulder, where it stood, quivering like a naked girl.

Nicky polished his nails on the front of his grimy sark and threw out another round of derisive laughter. It echoed off cotton-wisp clouds and frightened a covey of partridges from their nests.

Goaded to fury, Morrigan bent and grabbed her sword. She thwacked at her brother, longing to rattle his unquenchable amusement, or at least inspire his respect, but he caught her around the waist, lifted her with no apparent effort, and, dodging the blade, tossed her into a patch of gorse.

She shrieked again.

He dusted his hands, planted them on his hips, and grinned. His teeth flashed briefly, framed as they were by ill-shaven cheeks covered in black stubble. “Mind what I tell you,” he said, shaking a finger before whistling at his horse. “The world’s designed for men, so you’re pretty much buggered.” He swung onto his nag and perused the sky.

A sharp throb diverted Morrigan’s attention as she untangled herself from the gorse. She knew what it was even before she looked. A thorn, embedded in her right index finger.

She pried it out, watching a crimson drop of blood balloon from the puncture.

When the gorse is not in flower, love is out of season
. So the saying went.

Instead of calling him some name he would only laugh at, she heard herself say, “Is that the way of love then, bonny, sweet, yet ready to sting when you least expect?”

He looked puzzled until he saw the blood. “If you don’t get home to your chores, you’ll never have the chance to find out.” His ready grin held a hint of devilry, as though he half hoped she would defy their da and his temper.

“I’ll be back before the train comes. Stay, Nicky. I’ll read you the tale of the labyrinth, and the black Minotaur. There’s plenty of time.”

“Jesus, one of these days you’ll fancy yourself Helen of Troy and we’ll have to put you in an asylum.” He leaned towards her. “Truth is, your head is full of
mince
. You’re far more trouble than use.” He shrugged. “Don’t greet to me about your bruised backside. You make your own bad fortune like you cannot bear a day of peace.”

That was Nicky, always trying to protect her from their father’s wrath. But in the end, he never told her what to do. He let her make her own choices.

As he galloped away, Morrigan opened her satchel and pulled out her beloved, dog-eared book,
A Translated Greek Mythology
. She settled on the grassy slope overlooking Loch Ryan, glancing with appreciation at the water’s indigo surface. “In truth, I’d love a day of peace,” she said, studying the sky, where a rosy blush trellised the eastern horizon, sweet with promise. It couldn’t yet be seven. The first train, on the Port Road from Castle Douglas, didn’t arrive till eight-thirty. Papa was in his fields, where he went every morning before dawn. As long as she made it home before him, he would never know she’d left at all.

Widdie pricked her ears and nickered after Morrigan’s brother. The sound was half-wistful, and the way the mare swung her head around and stared at Morrigan suggested reproof. Oh, she was imagining too much again. A reproving horse? Nicky loved to claim pagan faery blood ran through his sister’s veins, and this was what caused folk to stare at her in confusion half the time, lifting their eyebrows and giving each other those
I told you, didn’t I
glances.

Sometimes it did feel like she’d come from the stars rather than the Highlands. Perhaps she suffered from insanity as Nicky often suggested… but she preferred to think herself possessed by magic spells.