The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (53 page)

“Klaus Berthold,” Diorbhail said.

“Wheesht!” Eleanor said impatiently. “Let
her
tell it.”

“She’s right.” Morrigan eyed Diorbhail suspiciously. “That name is right. Klaus Berthold. My lover.”

“Lover…?” Eleanor repeated.

“His hands are shaking. He’s sick with fear.” Morrigan delved into what she’d seen, and came up with another name. “The priest, Heinrich Baten, tells me I must confess my crimes. If I refuse, I will be purified.”

“Good, that’s good,” Eleanor said. “Go on.”

“Everyone wants to see what my lover will do. They’re all listening, hoping for some excitement.”

Morrigan’s memories were clarifying. She heard doves cooing in the rafters. She remembered her lover, Klaus, speaking against her throat before she’d been arrested.
Nina, my love
.

“Klaus can stop this with a single word. Yet he says nothing. He motions to one of his attendants, who holds up a basin for him to vomit in.

“If I confess, Klaus will be punished. That is Heinrich Baten’s real goal, to have Klaus at his mercy. Klaus is important. If it’s known that he’s taken up with a woman, it’ll be the end of him. Heinrich Baten is famed for burning folk alive. No one is safe. Not even Klaus.

“There’s no saving me unless Klaus orders Heinrich Baten to stop the interrogation. But he doesn’t. I’m taken to the dungeons. I’m hung from the ceiling by the arms and dropped until my shoulders are broken. I’m stretched with ropes. They stick things inside me that rip me apart. Heinrich Baten watches. He enjoys it. He strokes my hair as I scream.”

Morrigan opened her eyes, shocked out of her recollections by Eleanor grabbing her upper arms. She realized she was shaking, gasping as though there wasn’t enough air in the cave. She felt dizzy, and was grateful when Eleanor shoved her head between her knees, as it quickly eased the sensation of the cave spinning and bouncing.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and wiped sweat from her face with the edge of her cloak. Diorbhail gave her more water. She was uncommonly thirsty, and drank it all.

“That’s it, then,” said Eleanor after Morrigan’s breathing calmed. “No more witch’s cap for you, m’lady, no’ as long as you’re carrying a babe in your womb. I can only hope this once was not enough to do harm.”

“Wait,” Diorbhail cried. “She’s seeing the past. That was no mere dream. Her voice changed. She was there as it happened! She spoke words she doesn’t know!”

“I understand, aye,” Eleanor said darkly. “And I will do whatever I can to keep it from happening again. My first obligation is to her health, and the babe’s. No more witch’s cap.”

The memories retreated and Morrigan’s physical reactions subsided. Emotion took over. Agony from the betrayal. She’d truly believed Klaus loved her. And what about… about….

“Rosabel.”

“There’s more?” Diorbhail rubbed Morrigan’s hand.

“I’m lying on filthy straw,” Morrigan said. “It’s cold, and there’s blood all over me. The guard feeds me and gives me water. He puts a blanket over me. He promises to protect my baby, to raise her like his own child. He says he’ll tell her how brave her mother was. That makes me angry. I order him to tell her how stupid I was, so she won’t make the same mistakes. ‘Bocho,’ I call him, but that’s not really his name. He tries to be strong, but he’s weeping. We can’t hold each other because of my broken bones. He can only touch the palm of my hand.”

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.