The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (52 page)

He nodded, unable to speak. He put the ring in his vest pocket.

“So what do you want from me, Aodhàn Mackinnon?”

“The men who killed Lilith. Where are they?”

“Are you just now caring about that? I would’ve thought, if you weren’t dead, you would have taken your vengeance long ago.”

“Well, I didn’t, old woman. I couldn’t. I came the moment I could.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been in prison?”

“In many ways.”

“They said they killed you. They threatened to kill me too, for giving birth to Lilith. I’ve had to say and do things that near made me puke, to save myself. Sometimes I’ve wondered why I bothered.”

He was surprised to see tears build in her eyes. “I loved her, and her weans,” she said. “Evie, who never stopped chattering, and Claire, so solemn and kind, and Romy. She never lost that foreign air.”

Again, he was forced to grit his teeth. “Are the men still here, Faith?”

“All but Owen Anderson. They don’t look me in the eye. Never. If they see me, they go away fast.”

“Owen Anderson. Who is that?”

“The one who got them drunk and inflamed. He sent those men to your house that night. You didn’t know that?”

“No.” Frustration brought Aodhàn out of his chair. He paced, scraping at his cheekbones, trying to contain the flooding need to kill. “I mind no Owen Anderson.”

“The rest were naught but his boot-lickers. He’s the one truly to blame, though I’d like to see every one of them rot in hell.”

“Where is this man?”

“No one has seen him since. Some say he was never here, that the men who did it invented him, trying to shift the blame and appease their guilt.”

Aodhàn remembered a bag being shoved over his head. It stank, but still he’d caught a whiff of something else… of ashes, the smell of… of
Harpalycus!
And that crooning voice, before he was knifed and thrown over the side of the boat.
My father could not save you this time, could he?

Fury roared through his body. He’d believed Harpalycus dead the last six hundred years. His specially chosen band of trusted knights had sworn they’d found the inquisitor, Heinrich Baten, and his assistant, on the road between Wiesbaden and Mainz. They claimed they’d lanced Baten through the chest.

They’d either lied or Harpalycus had found a way to survive. He was nothing if not inventive.

Harpalycus had done one other thing that should have made it clear who he was. He’d wrapped the necklace around Aodhàn’s forearm. The bastard must have ripped it off of Lilith after his lackeys slaughtered her. He would have delighted in the thought that it would be lost at the bottom of the ocean, wrapped around Aodhàn’s skeleton.

It all made sense at last. Owen Anderson was Harpalycus. Rather than kill his enemy outright, he’d played one of his cruel games. Then he’d gone, of course. Nothing left on Barraigh to entertain him.

A creeping chill ran over his flesh. If Harpalycus lived, he would be drawn to them, especially now that the triad had come together. Aridela was alive. Menoetius was alive. He was alive. That meant Harpalycus would be near, or on his way.

Aodhàn had never learned Harpalycus’s secret for sensing them and finding them. But find them he did, and it always meant chaos and death.

I must be vigilant. I cannot risk being caught unaware again
.

Sometimes it felt like the prince of Tiryns always won. He did have an advantage, with that cursed trick of being able to enter the body of a stranger and take it over, along with the ability to sense and find Chrysaleon, no matter where he was in the world. Aodhàn would have killed Harpalycus long, long ago if he could manage either of those things, but he couldn’t. He never knew where Harpalycus was or what body he inhabited, not unless the bastard came close enough to smell.

Harpalycus’s ancient threat taunted him.
You and your entire House will perish. The world will forget there ever was a Mycenae
.

It was true. Who knew, anymore, of Mycenae? Only the crustiest historians.

He couldn’t think about that now. He’d go mad. Somewhere, some time, Aodhàn would have the opportunity to make Harpalycus pay for all he’d done.

The others would pay now. They’d best begin making their final confessions.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT BECAME A
common thing to see Morrigan, Eleanor, and Diorbhail together. Janet began calling them “the cronies.” Curran looked on indulgently, so it was easy for the trio to find ways to be alone, especially after Eleanor reassured Curran that fresh air and exercise were of utmost value to his wife’s health and the health of the growing baby. The weather was their accomplice, as sunny warmth went on and on, with few exceptions, deep into October.

Eleanor brought a jar of what she called “witch’s cap.” Hers was dried, and had little smell or taste.

“I’ve never heard of miscarriages with this,” she said, “but I want to be careful. Here, m’lady.” She gave Morrigan an amount no bigger than the end of her pinkie finger.

Diorbhail and Eleanor took the same small pinch and they all waited, but after an hour nothing had happened other than a tendency to giggle on Morrigan’s part.

“You need more than that,” Diorbhail said. “I could have told you.”

“I don’t want to take chances with the laird’s first child.”

“Might as well do nothing as take too little.”

“I learned my trade in Edinburgh, from trained medical men. Where did you learn yours?”

“I know when something’s not working. And I wager your city doctors know less than you or me about mushrooms. My mam gave this to women heavy with child. It soothed their fears and never did any harm.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Morrigan said.

Deep in the night, Diorbhail sneaked, quiet as a beetle, into the laird’s bedroom and woke the laird’s wife. Motioning, she pulled Morrigan into the sitting room, where she whispered, “The moon is full. Come outside.”

With a glance to make sure Curran hadn’t awakened, Morrigan went with her, not bothering with anything but a robe and slippers.

The night was briskly, invigoratingly cold. Diorbhail led her to a barrel in the stable courtyard. It was sliced to about a quarter of its original height and filled with water for the horses.

“You can see things in water, especially with the help of the moon,” Diorbhail said. “Look, see what you can see. The truth of things.” She ducked her hand in and stirred the water.

Morrigan knelt and waited for the ripples to still. Moonlight leaped, but as the surface smoothed, the bright circle acquired an indistinct face then a woman’s body.

Spinning day, spinning night
, Diorbhail sang.

Goddess alone has the sight,

Of fate we cannot comprehend,

Mother, daughter, sister, friend
.

The woman had hair the same shade as the moonlight— creamy, waving tresses that fell to the middle of her thighs. “It’s you, Diorbhail,” Morrigan said. “But you’re younger, and your hair is white. You have a sword and a bow.” As she contemplated the water, the warrior lifted her bow and strung an arrow.

“Can you picture her name?”

Morrigan concentrated. “Se… Selena? No, Selene. I saw her before, at the bothy. You were asleep, I think. I might have been as well.”

“Women have long proven themselves valuable as warriors,” Diorbhail said, “though that knowledge has been wiped out. They can be swift and merciless, but slaughter does no’ give them pleasure, unless they’ve been perverted by earthly misuse. They know the sanctity of life because it grows within them.”

“When I’m with you, I feel powerful,” Morrigan said. “I have worth. Until you came, I never felt that way. I was like a pebble in the ocean, at the mercy of the waves.” She struck her chest with her fist. “No one is going to take that away from me now. I won’t let it happen.”

Diorbhail nodded. “You’re learning.” She tipped her head to the side. “The woman you saw in the water….”

“Aye?”

“That
was
me, long ago, in another life. Even then, I was with you. I think we always will be together in some form.”

“Truly?”

“I’ve seen myself in that body many times.” She stirred the water again. “Look again. Maybe you’ll see someone else.”

Morrigan stared at the water, hardly daring to blink. Gradually another figure materialized. This one was eerily beautiful. Her long hair was done up in elaborate twists and knots; there was an upturned crescent shape painted or tattooed in the center of her forehead.

“I see someone,” she said. “Another woman.”

“Describe her.”

“She seems commanding. Proud. There’s a mark on her forehead like the moon, when it’s waxing or waning. I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful.”

“Picture her name.”

Eventually, after several tries, she got what felt right. “The-meest-ee.”

“Does she seem familiar?”

“Aye.”

“She’s your grand physician. Eleanor.”

They giggled. “Oh, my, she’s changed,” Morrigan said. “Does she know?”

Diorbhail shrugged. “She’s said nothing to me.”

“Let’s show her.”

Diorbhail nodded. “Soon.”

“Who else can I see?”

“Who d’you wish to see?”

“Curran!”

Diorbhail stirred the water and waited, now silent and subdued.

Morrigan stared at the surface, excited, anticipating her handsome husband in some equally handsome “other” version.

The ripples calmed and stilled.

Gradually, Morrigan saw a man in the silvery light. His eyes and brows were shaped like Curran’s. But his hair was dark and very long, and that horrible scar tore through his cheek, ruining any chance of him being described as comely.

The man in the mist!
At the bothy!
She remembered dreaming of that same man the day she and Curran spent the afternoon on the moor outside Stranraer.

The figure in the water wasn’t alone. He was holding a woman’s hand, gazing into her face, and she into his. Morrigan drew in a breath. The woman was the warrior, Selene, and she was heavily pregnant.

Morrigan looked up from the water at Diorbhail. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

* * * *

Papal inquisitors were adept at preventing death. Corpses could not make confessions.

The pulley creaked as it turned, drawing the rope taut. “Don’t,” Morrigan cried. “Please, please, stop….”

“But pain is the road to redemption. How do you do it, Caparina? Even bleeding and filthy, your bones broken, you tempt me like the seductress you are. Perhaps it is true, what my superiors claim, that women are the Devil’s creatures, and you are trying to trick me into releasing you. But I will not, do you understand? I’ll let every one of these men have you, and the soldiers in the courtyard, unless you give us your confession.”

The little man in the rafters worked the pulley’s handle. Rope ground over the wheel, lifting her into the air. Morrigan’s shoulder sockets were already dislocated. She’d give anything to escape this agony, but only death would grant release, and the inquisitors wouldn’t allow that.

Even if she confessed to the crimes they accused her of, she wouldn’t be pardoned. Still, she might confess anyway, if for no other reason than to end the torture. If they had their confession, they would let her die. The pain would end.

But then, what would stand between these monsters and her daughter? Nothing.

“Your own weak nature makes you subject. Do you confess your weakness? Or shall I demonstrate it?”

“I’ve done nothing. Nothing.” Then she could no longer stifle her screams.

* * * *

Eleanor’s face was ashen. “I have never witnessed anything like that in all my fifty-two years,” she said. “Never. How do you feel?”

“I’m not sure.” Morrigan coughed. “What happened?” Her throat felt raw and sore. Eleanor looked fearful and exhausted, as if she’d done battle with one of Agnes’s glaistigs.

Diorbhail helped Morrigan sit up, and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

They were in the cave Morrigan had found at the end of August, when she, Ibby, and Beatrice had come to Kilgarry the first time. She’d remembered it, and suggested it might be a good place to experiment with the mushroom, as it was so remote there was hardly any chance of being discovered or spied on.

She coughed again. Diorbhail found a curved piece of bark on the ground, filled it with water from the nearby burn, and carried it to Morrigan, who drank gratefully. “I don’t remember lying down,” she said. “When did I do that? My throat hurts.”

“I am not surprised,” Eleanor said grimly.

“You’ve been screaming,” Diorbhail said. “You had a vision. Can you recall it? Tell us before it fades.”

“Why was I screaming?”

“Well, because you—”

“Don’t,” Eleanor interrupted. “Let her tell us if she can.”

Diorbhail nodded and turned an expectant gaze upon Morrigan, as did Eleanor.

Morrigan closed her eyes, knowing she’d never mind a thing with those two staring at her like basilisks. She delved within and conjured a name— Klaus Berthold— which threw her headlong into the dream, or vision, or whatever it was, though as she watched it play out in memory, part of her knew it was more.

“Everyone has foreign-sounding names and strange clothing, but for the priests. They wear robes like Father Drummond’s.” Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she added, “I see stained glass windows. We must be in a church. There’s a priest. He points at me and says something….” She sought to remember. “Caparina Naske. I think it’s my name. He accuses me of witchcraft, and… and something he calls ‘heresy.’” She lifted her hands. “I don’t know what that is.”

“If you’d been raised Catholic you would,” Eleanor said. “Heresy is when a Catholic dares question Church teachings. A heretic is someone who denies Church authority.”

Diorbhail clutched at Eleanor’s forearm. “You see what this means? She heard a word in vision she doesn’t even know!”

“I’m aware,” Eleanor said. “Let her continue.”

“He says I’ve cast spells on… on…. He looks at the end of the chamber, and I look too. There’s a man, on a throne. He’s… let me think. I had his name a moment ago.”