The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (54 page)

At last, on the wall facing the sea, next to the window, he pushed against a stone and it grated. He knelt and worked it loose.

Everything was forgotten: his frustration, his rage, Lilith, those cursed men who continued to live while she and their children turned to dust.

He laughed out loud as he withdrew the silver coffer and opened it, not allowing himself to contemplate the possibility of its contents being gone. The cushioning velvet he’d used was still there; he lifted the bundle and unwrapped it.

The knife was a beautiful work of art, the blade fashioned of glossy black obsidian. He knew it would slice him open, no matter how lightly he ran the edge across his flesh. The ivory hilt depicted Athene in flowing robes, an owl perched upon her shoulder.

Thank God none of those drunken louts had found this! They wouldn’t have known what it was. It might’ve been damaged, destroyed, sold for a pound, lost forever.

He held it to the light. It was flawless, as it had been three millennia ago on Crete, when Aridela used it to slay Harpalycus the Butcher.

Or so they thought. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

He started to replace the weapon in its casket but paused as he noticed something else on the velvet. It was a miniature portrait of Lilith, painted by a master artist in Freiburg. Lilith hadn’t wanted her portrait painted. It had been a fierce battle between them. He picked it up. Her dark eyes gazed at him, solemn, mysterious. For one agonizing instant he was thrown backward in time, and clenched his jaw to keep his emotion in check. He touched the edge of her cheek. Then, swallowing hard, he put it in his pocket and carried the knife outside. “Alexiare,” he called. “You’re in my good graces again.” He went around the side of the bothy, but the old man wasn’t on the rock. One set of dragging footprints led towards the sea and vanished at the water’s edge.

A scrap of paper lay next to the water, weighted down by the rotted starfish. Aodhàn picked it up, grimacing at the stink, and unfolded it.

One line, in shaky script.

It is sorcery beyond our understanding
.

Aodhàn searched for over a mile in both directions, but there was no sign of Greyson Fullerton.

As he turned the knife over in his hands, watching it glitter, he decided to take it to Glenelg. But what then? It wasn’t something he could set on a shelf in Seaghan’s blackhouse.

He would bury it. He’d done that once before, long ago, in the underground warren of tunnels at Cape Wrath. It had been a good choice. The knife remained, dry, safe, and hidden for thirteen hundred years, until he retrieved it one summer when he was on holiday from Eton.

He alone would know where it was. If he were to die, it would remain undisturbed, waiting for him to dig it up in some future life.

This knife was dangerous. He knew instinctively that when Aridela used it against Harpalycus it acquired powerful magic. What else could explain how it managed to come, unscathed, through so many thousands of years, or how the slightest cut from the blade putrefied flesh and almost always caused death? No one knew its intended purpose, but every instinct warned him to keep it close and secret.

He gazed out at the water and lifted the knife in triumphant homage to his slave’s endless loyalty. “Rest well,” he said softly, “until next time, old man.” He patted his pocket, feeling the hard edge of the portrait. “You kept what was most precious safe, and I thank you.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WINTER SET IN
at Kilgarry, and still Aodhàn Mackinnon did not come home.

Morrigan could tell by the shadows in Seaghan’s eyes, his failure to smile except in a tight, unnatural way, that he suspected his old comrade had come to a solitary and unknown end.

Morrigan refused to consider that possibility. But Curran told her he’d never been gone so long; usually no more than two or three days at most.

She secretly set her birthday as the day he would turn up. He would burst into Kilgarry with a small gift, perhaps something he’d made.

She woke on her birthday to a fresh blanket of snow and the wean’s quickening. “Curran, Curran!” She shook him. “I
feel
something.” Eleanor had warned her what would happen so she wouldn’t be frightened. Still, it was a queer sensation, a fluttering, like a sparrow was flapping its wings inside her. She didn’t know whether to worry or laugh.

Curran placed his hand on her stomach. When the movement came, the poke of a foot too small to comprehend, his smile stretched into a huge grin, like a lad who had caught his first trout. “It’s kicking,” he shouted. “The babe’s kicking!” He brought Morrigan in, tucking her face against his whiskery throat, enclosing her in a protective cocoon. She closed her eyes as he massaged the small of her back with strong fingers, soothing the tightness and ache. One hand slid around to her stomach and he caressed the fullness there, murmuring about
our bairn, our wean, an aye fond memory of that day on the windy moor
.

Ibby had come the previous day. She gave Morrigan a dress she’d sewn for the final months of pregnancy. Curran gave her a necklace of matched pearls, and Janet made confections rich with butter, cream, and cheese.

But there was no Mackinnon. Morrigan kept her disappointment hidden and called herself a daftie for conceiving such a fantasy then expecting it to actually happen.

Night fell, cold and clear, offering its own gift of twinkling stars and a display of the Northern Lights, which Curran told her was rare. They all went outside to admire the phenomenon, bundled up in wool and fur. Secretly, while the others exclaimed at the changing colors hanging in the heavens like vast curtains, Morrigan regarded the iron gates. The night was magical enough to believe that at any second, Mackinnon’s tall figure would come striding through them.

They trooped inside for hot cider. Soon after, the front bell was pulled and Morrigan’s heart leaped. It was everything she could do to continue to sit by the fire, sipping her drink.

Seaghan came in, wishing her a happy birthday. Morrigan waited, but no one followed. There remained that slight frown between his eyes, the shadow that spoke of grief he tried to hide. She clasped his hand longer than necessary, to let him know she understood.

Curran entertained them by relating the tale of the race between the two tea clippers,
Cutty Sark
and
Thermopylae
, which had begun in June and finished in mid October. “When they left Shanghai,” he said, “loaded with cargo, the two captains decided to try and outdo each other.
Cutty Sark
was ahead off Algoa Bay when a storm severed her rudder.”

Morrigan nodded, only half-listening.

“Captain Moodie could’ve made Cape Town, but instead he trusted the repairs to
Cutty Sark’s
carpenter, a Scot named Henderson, who rigged a makeshift rudder that brought them home a mere week behind
Thermopylae
. A miracle, don’t you think, considering?”

How his face lit up when he spoke of his boats, sails, and sailing gewgaws. “I mind the day you first told me of that race,” she said, and blushed, for that was the day they’d started this child who had changed both their lives so drastically. “Nicky was going to write about it for his newspaper.”

He gripped her hand, his eyes darkening in sympathy.

She excused herself, saying she was tired. Seaghan followed her into the hall. “Did Aodhàn say anything to you?” he asked. “Anything that would give a clue where he’s gone, or why?”

“No,” she said. “I would’ve told you.” Mackinnon hadn’t spoken after he’d picked her up at the burn. He’d probably been trying to conserve his strength.

“What is happening in our village? First you go missing, and the moment you’re found, he vanishes.”

She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

“I almost feel you’re the only one I can speak to about it,” he said. “I feel you understand.”

“I do,” she said.

He hugged her, sent her on her way, and rejoined Curran in the drawing room.

Morrigan felt unsettled, and doubted she’d be able to sleep. Violet helped her into her nightgown, brushed her hair, plaited it, and went off yawning, leaving Morrigan to blow out the lamp and sit on the window seat, looking out at the night. Gradually, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and she saw the figure, straight and still like a statue beneath her window.

She rose onto her knees and pressed her hands to the glass.

He didn’t move, wave, or give any indication he saw her. Yet she felt his gaze. Her hand fumbled for the brass lever. It turned easily enough, but the window was stuck; dampness had swollen the wood. Using both hands, she pushed and pounded on it, groaning her frustration. Finally, it released and with a protesting scrape, swung open. She leaned out into a downy torrent of snow knocked loose from the casement.

“Mackinnon,” she whispered. But there was nothing there. Had she imagined it, that shadowy human form?

She stared into the night for some time, until she was shivering and ready to admit her eyes had played a cruel trick. She pulled the window closed and went to bed.

* * * *

Morrigan was awakened by a male voice reverberating from the sitting room. Curran, she noticed, was gone already. He always rose early and left quietly.

“Let me see her,” she heard, and while Violet tried ineffectively to stop him, Seaghan bounded into the bedroom. “Wake up, m’lady!” he cried. “You’re wasting this bonny day!”

The shadows were gone from his eyes, the frown as well. He was laughing, his face touched by sunlight through the south window, the one she’d wrestled with the night before. She sat up, pulling her nightgown around her throat, and smoothed her hair, embarrassed to be seen by a man in such a state, but he didn’t appear to notice a thing, or care one whit about his impropriety.

“He’s back!” Without waiting for an invitation, Seaghan pulled one of the chairs from the fireplace over to her bed. “D’you hear? He’s alive!”

“It’s all right, Violet,” Morrigan said to the flustered maid. “Maybe fetch us some tea?”

Violet bobbed a curtsy and left, grousing about the crudeness of fishermen.

The moment she’d gone, Morrigan stretched out her hand and Seaghan grabbed it, squashing it between his. “Mackinnon, I suppose you mean,” she said.

“And he’s sent you something for your birthday.” Seaghan pulled a wee box from his coat pocket and gave it to her.

It appeared to be handmade, of exquisitely carved and polished driftwood. The top had a beautiful Celtic design of knots and two herons, their long necks intertwined.

For some reason she wanted to be alone when she opened it, so she set it on the table beside the bed. “Tell me everything. When did he come back? What did he say? Why isn’t he here with you? Where the devil has he been?”

* * * *

Aodhàn did not visit, so Morrigan had to take Seaghan’s word that he’d returned. All Seaghan could say was that it was anyone’s guess where the man had been or what he’d been doing. “Aodhàn Mackinnon is a close-mouthed bloody fool, who’d as lief have iron shavings stuck through his gums than reveal anything about himself,” he added caustically.

Hiding her impatience, she had waited for Seaghan to leave before opening the box. Nestled in a padding of black velvet was a ring. It looked like a wedding band, made to fit a small finger. When she picked it up she saw an etching on the inside. She knew the word
gaol
meant “love,” and
mo
meant “my,” but she wasn’t sure about
chridhe
, though she felt she had seen the word before. The ring itself seemed hauntingly familiar. One thing was certain: Curran would be rightfully furious if he saw it. She told no one of the gift and hid it behind her dressing table.

Eleanor insisted Morrigan rest every afternoon, and took those opportunities to massage comfrey and lavender salve into her skin, to feed her strengthening herbs, and ply her with simmered quince tea, parsley, and watercress. She still approved of the mistress taking walks every day, so the three cronies were often seen together laughing in the snow or exploring the forest.

Diorbhail looked much nicer than she had at first. Violet had cut the snarls from her hair and had added a fringe that disguised the scar on her forehead. It now curled about her face in a most attractive way. Moreover, she was cleaner than she probably had been in years. She’d put on a little flesh, and lost much of that fearful, shy demeanor.

They went back to the clearing with the cave, but it had lost its appeal. The low, cavernous opening made Morrigan want to run away, but she was embarrassed of such feelings, and kept them to herself. Anyway, with the onset of winter, the inside was clammy and unpleasant.

“I’ve seen something,” Diorbhail announced as they circled the clearing, arm-in-arm. “In vision.”

“You’ve taken more mushroom?” Morrigan asked.

Both Eleanor and Diorbhail looked a bit sheepish before confessing they both had done so.

“Without me?” Morrigan asked, stung.

“It wasn’t like that,” Eleanor said. “You and the babe are healthy, and I want to keep you that way. You’ve no business taking something that could cause harm, and if you ask me, the last time did cause harm. Such strong emotions are not good for an expectant woman.”

“Well,” Morrigan said, “you’d best tell me what you saw.”

“A knife,” Diorbhail said, frowning. “With a blade of glass. You were holding it.”

“Hmm. A blade of glass, you say? That doesn’t sound very practical.”

“I don’t know what it means,” Diorbhail said, “but it’s important. We must find it.”

“Did the vision tell you where it is?”

“No.”

Giving a sharp sigh, Morrigan turned to Eleanor. “And I suppose you’ve seen amazing things as well?”

“I did see something I can hardly explain,” Eleanor said, “something that may or may not be important. But I will not share it with you when you’re in such a mood.”

“I never thought you would keep secrets from me.”

“It’s because we knew you would be like this. I assume you care about having a healthy child?”