The Sixth Labyrinth (The Child of the Erinyes Book 4) (67 page)

“She heard a voice speak from the darkest corner of her chamber.
Why do you weep?
She sat up, never to know how she looked in that moment, her hair tangled about her shoulders, her nightdress reflecting the glow of moonlight shining through the casement.”

Mackinnon stopped. His frowning gaze traveled over her, but it was distant, preoccupied. Morrigan wasn’t sure he saw her at all. Abruptly he pressed his hands against his eyes and scraped over his temples. He arched his face towards the blue sky as though trying to release a nagging ache. When he again took up his tale, his voice was hoarse.

“
My father has promised me to the Pictish king of
Innse Orc
, she said.
Will you not come to him tomorrow and claim me?

“He twined her hair in his hands.
I have nothing to recommend me but love
.

“
I am yours and you are mine. Would you see me wed to another?

“He silenced her with kisses, and promised to love her forever,
for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt
.”

Morrigan’s attention faltered. She’d heard that phrase when daydreaming about Ariadne, the queen from her Greek book of myths, or Aridela, as she preferred to call her. She’d believed it her own private invention, yet here was Mackinnon, repeating it. She stared at him, wondering if he had found a way to
see
her fantasies. He returned her stare intently, missing nothing.

“The next day,” he said, “Eamhair was told that the king had gone at sunrise, giving the excuse of pressing matters on his home isle. He left behind a man he trusted to carry out a proxy wedding and escort her north.

“Certain her lover would come and save her, she waited impatiently, fearful yet eager for his rescue. Her father wrapped silk around her wrist and the wrist of the proxy. He made the announcement, sent for musicians, and ordered a feast.

“When would he come? The longer he waited the worse would be the uproar, the anger and protests. Daylight faded into gloaming.

“Eamhair left the celebration. She found land’s edge, where mist washed the precipices and salt surf eroded the cliffs.

“She sang as the sun dipped into the ocean, leaving vast purple streaks across the sky. Beneath her feet, the earth trembled against the onslaught of the sea.

“She could submit to her father’s choice and live in the far north, where summer sparkled briefly between long months of bitter cold and sunless skies. Refuse, and he would doubtless force her, at the point of a sword if necessary. Or she could die. Everyone would believe it an accident, and there would be no shame on his house.

“Keeping her gaze centered on the clouds, speaking a prayer for her soul and family, she jumped.”

Morrigan’s hands flexed, relaxed, and flexed again.
Falling. Water cold as knife-blades
.

“The sea surged around her, yet almost immediately, something pushed her to the surface, to a glint of watered rubies and starlight. She saw the face she loved. The face she never saw in the day. The one who existed, yet, perhaps, did not.

“He carried her from the sea and placed her on the sand.
The songs you sang brought me to you
, he said.
I thought no harm would come of it, and I could not keep away. But I was wrong. Now we love each other and you have chosen death.

“For Eamhair, his voice merged into the towering rocks and blackening sky. She heard the music, not the words.

“
You and I can never marry
, her lover said
. We can never live as other people do
.

“Eamhair brushed his warning away like grains of sand from her skin.
This path is marked by my unknowable destiny
, she said.
I cannot escape it
.

“Her lover was also a king. He ruled over the vast, spraying ocean. Though he’d proven himself wise, strong, a ferocious warrior when necessary, he hadn’t the strength or ferocity to leave her, nor could she leave him. She pledged herself to him there, near the ocean at the tip of Scotland.

“When she returned to the fort, she stood before her father’s council and refused his decree. For days after, he and her brothers threatened her, shut her away without food, and made excuses to the northland man. But he saw she would never submit. The ill-concealed giggles of serving maids and the mockery of the other suitors rankled. He gave his host an ultimatum. Either the beauteous Eamhair would apologize by the following morning and accept that she was now married to his master, or he would return home and inform his king that the offer had been rebuffed.
He is proud,
the man warned.
He will likely declare war with you over this, and he will lay waste to everything you possess
.

“The chief whipped his daughter. He threatened starvation, and, with fair imagination, described the lives of slave women in far-away godless lands, hinting that she might meet a similar fate.

“But Eamhair would not be moved.
I have given away what you think is most valuable about me. I will love no other, and I will die before another touches me
.

“The northern king’s surrogate left. So did the other would-be suitors. They were no longer interested in Eamhair, calling her
used goods
, and
spoiled
.

“Eamhair’s father raged over his willful daughter’s defiance. She had made him a buffoon. Now he must go to bed at night terrified the northern king would appear at the head of an avenging army. His life was turned upside down, because of a
woman.
His wife pleaded for mercy, and received his fist in her face.

“Eamhair’s lover, in his magical way, passed through the thick oak doors and high walls of her tower prison. He waited in shadows, waking her with his thoughts, his need.

“Before long, a child quickened within her.”

Ah,
Morrigan thought. The imprudent girl could no longer make choices for herself alone. She would have to consider the helpless, dependent one growing inside her. Eamhair might be willing to die rather than be sold to the northern king, but now, if she died, so would this child.

If her father but knew it, he possessed the most powerful weapon that could be conceived to force his daughter’s obedience.

“It was an offence to Eamhair’s father that she continued to breathe,” Mackinnon said. “Since beating and whipping had no effect, the chief gave the order for his sons to kill her. They dragged Eamhair down the stairs and out of the fort. They forced her to the precipices and threw her over, laughing as she plummeted, and went home to receive their father’s praise.

“Eamhair lay on the rocks, bleeding. After some time she heard a seal bark, and managed to turn her head and look towards the sea. There was a currach on the beach, and beside it eight seals. Her arms were not broken, though both legs were. She was able, slowly and with great pain, to pull herself to the boat and lift herself inside. The seals pushed her out onto the water.

“Currents swept Eamhair far from land. Storm clouds built and the wind rose, but the seals guided the boat to an uninhabited island.

“One of them swam closer. As he drew near he transformed in the ancient way. He became a man, her lover. The king of the seal clans.

“He placed his hand on Eamhair’s stomach and felt the movement of his child. She saw his joy, and though she was suffering, she felt joy as well.

“
You will be free and happy
, the seal-king promised.
Our child will inherit my kingdom
.

“In the secret way no human knows, the seal changed Eamhair, and in the changing, healed her wounds and broken bones. Together the lovers swam away, and were never seen upon the land again.”

“I’ve not heard that particular tale before, Aodhàn.” Seaghan drank a swig of whisky and passed him the cup. Aodhàn only shrugged.

Seaghan turned to Morrigan. “Do you understand now why it’s such bad luck to kill a seal? One can never know which might be beast, and which might be human, and we Scots do love a good romance.”

Morrigan stared at the dark-eyed, long-whiskered creature in the water. She imagined him stepping out of the ocean, water running off his pale skin, regarding her from eyes like sunlight through waves. He seized her in his wet, cold arms and pulled her down to his sea kingdom.

Mackinnon’s tale spun a web that left the actual world little more than a dry, colorless shell.

The seals swam away. Seaghan poured the final dregs of whisky and gave Morrigan the last bannock. Morrigan fondly contemplated her companions. Seaghan was an enormous man with hands capable of inflicting fatal damage, yet he also owned a most gentle voice and kind eyes. He reminded her of a sweet-tempered Clyde. Mysterious Aodhàn told a story so well she wished she could slip into his fantasy. He seemed a dark member of the
daoine sìth
. Didn’t legend say they were taller than human men, with skin like ivory? And hadn’t she clearly seen the faery luminescence emanating from him more than once?

“You’re a grand
seanchaidh,
Mackinnon,” she said unevenly. “Your tale was so real, I saw you living it, and me as well.”

Mackinnon’s regard remained unsmiling, yet there was something in his eyes— Agnes would scraich that he was casting his glamour. Oh aye, Morrigan felt it worming through her flesh, seeking her soul. At this moment Curran seemed far away, not of her world or Mackinnon’s.

Seaghan laughed, breaking through the spell. “It’s
shen-a-chee
. You must learn how to speak properly if you want to live in these mountains.”

He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his legs, and sang:

“
I am a man upon the land
.

I am a selkie in the sea
,

And when I’m far from any strand
,

My home is in Sule Skerry
.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE REVERBERATING BOOM
of the fog-bell at the lighthouse woke Morrigan from a serene, dreamless nap. For one careening moment, she had no memory of where she was, and no amount of blinking could clear her vision. Mist concealed everything except the blanket on which she and Olivia lay.

Someone had covered them with the free side of the plaid, cocooning them in warmth. Giving Olivia a reassuring kiss on the forehead, she stood, putting her daughter against her shoulder and draping the plaid over them both.

She heard nothing but water lapping against the shore, and the muffled cry of a seabird. “Mackinnon?” she ventured. “Seaghan?”

Trepidation began to make its uneasy way through her backbone before she heard Seaghan’s voice, singing the seal-song, and felt her way towards it.

Aodhàn appeared, phantom-like, the mist feathering around him. “I don’t know how we’ll get home in this,” he said, his voice clipped.

Seaghan’s big comforting form materialized. He sent her a surreptitious warning glance from beneath his bushy brows.

She frowned. Aodhàn growled and vanished into the mist as though he’d stepped through a portal and closed the door. The fog swirled and danced, filling in the space where he’d stood.

Seaghan led her to the dinghy. A dead seal lay next to it, half-beached, its skull splintered and crushed, sodden torso undulating with the movement of the water.

“Aye lass.” He steadied her with one great hand. “It’s this has blackened his mood. He admires the beasts more than most.”

“What happened?” She settled into the boat. “It wasn’t here before.”

“Possibly an orca.” He gave the dinghy a mighty shove and joined her. “The tide probably carried it in.”

Aodhàn waded into the water and climbed into the boat. The fog-bell repeated, rumbling through Morrigan’s chest.

When they were on board the
Endeavor,
Aodhàn lit the lamps, port and starboard, and all three sails were unfurled in hopes of catching any wind. Seaghan worked the tiller to no avail, so they broke out the oars and rowed into open water.

Seaghan tucked the plaid more securely around Morrigan’s shoulders.

“You’re worried for Curran, aren’t you?” she asked, struck by his expression of guilt.

“Aye.”

Since she’d come home from the mountain bothy, Curran had been intensely protective. If only she could send him her thoughts.
I’m with braw men who’d give their lives to see me home safely
. “So am I,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re to blame for this, you and your red hair. The old superstition is proven. Oh lass, I was only teasing.”

“But it’s true,” said Aodhàn, who sat in the prow, smoking.

“Hist.” Seaghan patted Morrigan’s hand.

“I-I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve gone home.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aodhàn said. “Seaghan’s the one who insisted on bringing you out today. It’s his.”

“The wind will come.” Seaghan went up front to smoke with Aodhàn, and give Morrigan privacy to nurse.

They waited, listening to the wash of water. The thick sea haar swirled; the red and green fog-lights winked slyly. Olivia whined, warning her mother not to hold her so tightly.

Wind did stir with the onset of darkness. Seaghan rose, saying unnecessarily, “Here’s our breeze. Look, it’s clearing.”

She’d already felt it, a swell underneath that caused the boat to roll. The mainsail gave a ponderous flap.

Morrigan stared out at torn wisps of fog and an intermittent star or two as they made their way home. The boat’s sweet-tempered movement and rippling of the waves, accompanied by the murmur of male voices, lulled her into fanciful visions of selkies and wild, copper-haired lasses who loved unwisely.

Mackinnon’s voice came unexpectedly out of the darkness beside her. “You’ve a great trust in us, haven’t you?” As she turned and looked into his face, he added, so quietly she hardly heard, “I cannot bear him having you.” He traced her upper lip with one finger. “But sorrow and death bind you to me.”

At that moment the boat keeled then acquiesced to the pull of the buoy.

“Stop your dreaming, we’re home.” Aodhàn jumped away from her before she could ask what he’d meant.

Seaghan helped her into the dinghy and soon, Morrigan stood once again on Glenelg’s pier.