In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  Nephele tidied her mistress’s room. She folded a blanket and blew out two lamps, leaving one flickering on the table. On her way out, she picked up the papyrus Themiste had been working on, thinking she would stack it with the others.

  The name of the Zagreus caught her attention. She read on, shock and disbelief turning to panic.

  What is Chrysaleon’s obligation? To die. If he will not walk willingly to his death, I will drag him there.

  This is my last entry in the Oracle Logs.

  I must rectify my sins. I must silence the call of my queen’s blood, and earn my place at her side in lives still to come.

  I will not fail again.

  Aridela

  Robert Graves said Aridela’s name was actually a title, and meant “The Very Manifest One,” while Carl Kerényi defined it as, “The Utterly Clear.” Both men believed Aridela was actually a goddess, and that her story was deliberately changed later, turning her into the rather pathetic, abandoned mortal, Ariadne. Kerényi felt she was a powerful goddess of the moon, worshipped throughout the Mediterranean, but also more: he describes her as a deity who provides to each one of us that invisible spark that makes us unique.

  Graves, Robert. The Greek Myths, 1955

  Kerényi,Carl. Dionysos: Archetypal image of indestructible life, 1976

  I would never have had the courage to release this book without the assistance of a group of generous, awesome writing friends, who patiently read the manuscript and helped me see what was necessary. N. Gemini Sasson, V.R. Christensen, Melissa Conway, Janet Colley and Lucinda Elliot.

  Lorri Proctor, Sulari Gentill, Annia Lekka-Blazoudaki, the ever-patient members of Refiner’s Fire and the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative offered unceasing emotional support and advice.

  To those who provided invaluable technical and artistic talents: Lance Ganey and Linda Scott.

  And Paul Raymond, always.

  While still quite young, Rebecca Lochlann began envisioning an epic story, a new kind of myth, one built upon the foundation of Greek classics and continuing through the centuries right up into the present and future.

  This has become her life's work, although she didn't exactly intend it to be that way when she started.

  The Child of the Erinyes is mythic fantasy fiction, “Loads of testosterone, slaughter, and crazy magic,” says one reader. (With a love story, of course.)

  It took about fifteen years to research the Bronze Age segment of the series, and encompassed rare historical documents, mythology, archaeology, ancient writing, ancient religions, and vulcanology.

  The Year-god's Daughter is her debut novel: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes. The Thinara King is Book Two. Book Three, In the Moon of Asterion, ends the Bronze Age segment of the series, and kicks off the next phase in the lives of Aridela, Chrysaleon, Menoetius, Selene, Themiste, and the rest.

  Rebecca believes that certain rare individuals, either blessed or tortured, voluntarily or involuntarily, are woven by fate or the Immortals into the labyrinth of time, and that deities sometimes speak to us through dreams and visions, gently prompting us to tell their lost stories.

  Rebecca’s website offers bibliographies, details into the history, characters, research, and the arc of the series. (http://rebeccalochlann.com)

  Like Rebecca’s Facebook Author Page ( www.facebook.com/RebeccaLochlannAuthor ) to receive updates and publishing schedules.

  Send her an email at: rebeccalochlann@gmail.com.

  And here’s the link to sign up for new release emails.

  Please consider leaving a review with your thoughts at the point of purchase. A line or two can make a big difference and is much appreciated.

  If you enjoyed In the Moon of Asterion and would like to see what happens next, please look for the fourth installment.

  Read on for a preview of:

  THE SIXTH

  LABYRINTH

  BOOK FOUR, THE CHILD OF THE ERINYES

  Rebecca Lochlann

  PROLOGUE

  Glenelg, West Ross-shire County, Scotland

  November, 1853

  Fuadaich nan Gàidheal (the expulsion of the Gael)

  “It looks to be a hard labor,” Beatrice said.

  Isabel peered at her sister-in-law from the corner of her eye. If Beatrice Stewart, a woman who never wasted words, opened her mouth to say It looks to be a hard labor, well, it was no doubt going to be the worst labor ever seen in Ross-shire County.

  The forest pressed in, heavy, watchful. Isabel couldn’t stop shivering. Their meager fire threw menacing shadows, making the surrounding trees loom like baleful black giants.

  Beatrice seized Isabel’s arm, her grip as hard as fireplace pincers. “We’ll need water. Be quick.”

  Grateful for something to do, even more for distraction from brooding thoughts and fear, Isabel grabbed a bowl someone had brought along and ran to the nearby burn. She hefted a fallen tree limb and used it to break the ice. She wasn’t so far away that she couldn’t hear Hannah Lawton’s awful moaning as the poor lass struggled to give birth. The babe was a full two months early. Nothing could save it. They’d be lucky to save the mother without a midwife.

  She fought back helpless tears as she knelt to fill the bowl. Hannah had endured much this day. So had the rest of Glenelg. All the residents, Isabel’s friends and kin, everyone she’d ever known, had been evicted, forced to watch without recourse as everything, even the old kirk, was burnt to the ground. The men hired to carry out the landlord’s evil wishes had enjoyed their work. They’d inflicted many unnecessary cruelties. The terror, the devastation, and now this unrelenting, sodden cold— brought by the worst storm she could remember blanketing the entire coast in snow— surely these things would curse the coming infant and its mother.

  The damned bowl was cracked, but thankfully, didn’t seem to leak. Isabel tripped and struggled through frozen loam, snow, and hidden tree roots, handing the bowl to Beatrice then standing there, not knowing what else she could do. She glanced through bare branches and sweeping evergreen limbs into an ominous patchwork of clouds that promised more snow. Lord, help this woman, she prayed. Help us all.

  If God ignored her, they would die here, either of slow starvation or painful freezing. How many days could this pitiful band survive? Her mind declared, not many.

  Hannah screamed. “Seaghan! Seaghan!” The surrounding circle of trees magnified her cry, making Isabel want to cover her ears.

  She looked at each of her companions, those who had gathered here after the destruction of their homes. Tears flooded from her eyes. Yesterday, Glenelg had boasted over a hundred inhabitants. Now she counted seventeen. Five were children. The coming babe, if it drew breath, would make six.

  She turned away, not wanting these wounded, weary souls to see the defeat she couldn’t hide, or her conviction that they would all die here together.

  * * * *

  Wake up, daughter.

  Isabel rose on one elbow, rubbing at her eyes. Mist swirled, eerie and mystical. She half expected a unicorn or dwarf to appear.

  A miracle comes. Why do you sleep?

  Her neck shivered. “Miracle?” Though she peered in every direction, she was almost certain the source of the voice was inside her own mind.

  The mist split like a tattered sail, framing a woman who observed her in a curious yet arrogant way. Strange lady. Isabel had never seen anyone like her. She had long, curling black hair and pale skin, rather like an Irish lass. But unlike any Irish Isabel had ever seen, this woman’s forehead was adorned with a narrow silver band, supporting an ornament shaped like a boat with high-pointed prow and stern, or maybe it was a crescent moon lying on its spine. Her long white gown, bound with silver ribbons, rippled about her ankles. Isabel, who loved fabric and needlework, couldn’t help admiring such an uncommon garment, or the twinge of envy that followed.

  The holy child comes.

  “Who are you?” Envy vanished beneath a lump of fear in Isabel’s throat.

&n
bsp; Handmaid of Areia Athene, she who brings life and death to men. The crown flashed as the lady inclined her head. She brings life now, sacred life. Wake. See the child who suffers for your sake.

  “Suffers? For me?”

  For you and all miserable mankind, who cursed and abandoned her. Yet 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 wished she could listen to this voice for the rest of her life. Pure, warm as spring breezes, it cast away fear as well as hopelessness.

  But in front of her eyes, the lovely phantasm undulated as though she stood under water, or behind a mirror.

  “Wait…” Isabel cried.

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

  Isabel sat up, gasping, staring wildly. Someone had thrown a frayed cloth over her. It slipped down around her waist as she sought to get her bearings. Where was she? Why was it so cold? There was no mist. No lady. She’d had a dream, that’s all.

  Light from the nearby fire sent shadows dancing across the face of her brother’s ill-fated, suffering wife. The woman’s moans brought to mind tales of the bean-sidhe, 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 on Hannah’s knee.

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

  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 looked frightened. Their faces wore worry like black snowclouds on the summit of Ben Nevis.

  “I hate you,” Hannah muttered between groans. “Why did you do this to me? I’ll never forgive you for this.”

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

  “Siùrsach!” 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 ken where you are. You’ve made your bed—”

  “Stop it!” It was wee Nicky, Douglas’s son by his first wife. He was only three, but he twisted away from the man who held him and ran forward bravely. “Dinna hurt her!” He began to sob.

  Isabel had always been afraid of Douglas. She was afraid now, but she swore if that fist of his raised, 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, his jaw clenching, turned away. He picked up his son and carried him off, into the shadows.

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

  Douglas returned Nicky to the others and strode back, reaching out to catch Beatrice’s arm. Isabel started to rise, intending to throw herself over Hannah. But, “Save her,” was all he said, his voice hoarse and breaking. “Don’t let her die.”

  Isabel stared like her brother had transformed into Satan. Never in her life had she heard such a tone in Douglas Lawton’s voice. Was it fear? Distress? 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, crossing himself.

  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, in their swift movements. Sweat dappled their foreheads, though ice covered the overhanging tree limbs. Blood slicked their arms to the elbows.

  Hannah’s flush faded to greenish-white.

  At last the babe squeezed free. They cut the cord and smacked it on the rump, prompting it to give a shaky yowl. Beatrice fought to staunch Hannah’s bleeding while Isabel’s mother swaddled the newborn in a scrap of singed cloth.

  “Ibby,” her mother said, “hold the wean.”

  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. Could anyone lose so much blood and live? Isabel’s empty belly lurched when Beatrice wiped sweat from her forehead, leaving behind a glistening streak of scarlet.

  Once, long ago, Isabel had watched Hannah wade in a mountain burn, her skirts kilted above her knees, her hair trailing in the water. Laughing, she’d flicked the wet ends at some adoring lad. With her rich red hair, smooth white skin, wicked blue eyes and voluptuous body, she’d left great men fair stammygastered.

  It remained a mystery why the bonniest girl in Glenelg— maybe in all the Highlands— had agreed to wed Seaghan MacAnaugh, only to break the engagement and marry Douglas Lawton instead, without waiting even the barest interval to save Seaghan’s wounded pride.

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

  She was 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.

  He’d have to, wouldn’t he, if she lived, now that nothing remained of Glenelg but stinking, smoldering ruins. Burned, like their grasping landlord wanted. Cleared of homes and any hope of shelter, swept clean of bothersome humans, it was ready for the sheep he believed would bring him more coin. Most everyone Isabel had ever known, including Seaghan MacAnaugh, had boarded the ship to the New World. She’d never see any of those folk again. Her village, her world, had been pared down to these seventeen people.

  Hannah no longer moved. Douglas kissed her forehead. He muttered, “beannachd leat,” the Gaelic for goodbye, and drew the blanket over her face.

  Isabel cradled the newborn close. Wee thing, light as down, with a suggestion of reddish hair. Her niece. Was this wean truly the finest miracle she’d ever see? Fluids, blood, and pasty goo covered her skin. Her elfish crimson face screwed into a plaintive whine.

  “My sister wouldna want us sniveling over her,” Beatrice snapped. “I will no’ do it. Give me the child, Isabel.”

  Frightened of the woman’s scowl, Isabel handed the babe over.

  Beatrice unwrapped the blanket to inspect her. “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 made a quavering, wambly cry that brought a sting to Isabel’s eyes. Douglas returned her to Beatrice, shrugging. “It doesna matter.”

  Morrigan.

  Isabel swallowed and crossed herself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Stranraer, Scotland

  May, 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. Her skin prickled.

  With a sharp rustle of wing and startled cry, a curlew 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 scream, and slapped the flat of her blade against the tall dark figure swaying before her. It shivered, slowly toppled over, and fell apart.

  She stared, struck dumb. It was nothing but a crude stook, a bundle 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.

  “Silly quean. Don’t you know by now you’ll never best me? You’re a female, cursed by God and nature, and then there’s your hair. It’s useless.”

  “Aye, tell me yet again how everything I attempt is cursed because of the color of my hair.”