A/N: I hate doing this, but I need to give a very short PSA about the mention of abortion throughout this story. It is by no means meant to be a moral judgment on the issue either way, so please don't take it as such. This is a fantasy story set in a psuedo-historic world and not a reflection in any way on the modern issue. Moreover, abortion in the ancient world was widely practiced and not seen as a particularly moral or religious issue, which I know surprises a lot of people. So long as it happened early enough in a pregnancy (usually before the woman could feel a fetus moving, traditionally called "quickening") it was generally not a legal issue, either. When it was prosecuted, it was generally as a property crime against the father, and prosecutions were usually not against women choosing it for themselves, but against men who caused it to happen through violence. I realize this is a very different mindset for a lot of people, but it's the one I'm trying to work with. When you consider that most people were subsistence farmers or laborers and the addition of another mouth to feed during a poor harvest could mean the difference between life and death for a whole family, it starts to make a little more sense. Now that we're clear, on to the fun!

The Mountain

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Alternate
All standard disclaimers apply

Three heartbeats after Riona and Sinbad leave the dining hall, Maeve moves to follow.

Lachlan catches her arm. "She said to stay, leannán."

He touches her lightly, politely, and the discordance between the mild pressure of his fingers and the way Sinbad touches her, firm and steady, a grip meant for flesh and not glass, fires her anger beyond what's really called for. She jerks her arm free and wheels on him, lightning-quick, as if she were a stray cat and he just pulled her tail. Her words are a warning hiss. "You call me that one more time and Riona will have to find a new captain of the guard."

He backs down immediately, as he always does, lowering his hand and watching her with a calm and cultivated expression, his ice-blue gaze both colder and softer than Sinbad's sea-bright stare. He's known her for years—watched her for years. Her hair isn't visibly sparking, and while he can feel her fire flicker with irritation she's not yet blazing. He releases her without protest but doesn't step back, choosing to physically stand his ground.

Maeve's teeth clench with pique. She hates how everyone around her can feel the tides of emotion that fuel her fire—her fury, her passion. She can't control it and she's learned to accept and live with it, but she hates how Lachlan so blatantly measures her anger, judging how close to stay, how softly to deal with her. He's always done so but it didn't rile her quite so badly until she had Sinbad to compare him to. Sinbad isn't afraid of her. He's never been afraid of her. He doesn't modulate himself in response to her fire but takes her on face-to-face, anger or desire, however she comes. It's one of the many things she loves about him, and one of the things she's most unwilling to give up now that she has it.

"Did he just insult you?" Doubar shoves his way forward, Rongar barely a half-step behind.

Sweet men. Maeve's fire calms and settles at their instant defense of her. She's never had brothers before. Usually she finds any male attempts at protectiveness stifling, but Sinbad's crew are so sweet and well-meaning that she just can't take offense.

"No," she answers, forcing her body to relax, though she's still irritated at Lachlan. "It wasn't an insult. Not directly, anyway." She doesn't elaborate, dark eyes watching the captain of the guard carefully, speaking clearly her unvoiced warning. She never gave him permission to use that term, and with Sinbad in the picture his continued insistence on doing so is indeed an insult to both her and her sailor. But these are nuances of language her new southern family won't understand, and she isn't interested in giving a lesson in semantics right now.

Lachlan breathes steadily, his emotionless mask firmly in place. "Her majesty said to stay," he repeats, his voice flat and toneless.

"So stay. No one's forcing you to do any differently." Maeve clamps down on her fire. She outranks the guardsman and she doesn't appreciate him objecting to her behavior as if she were a child. He can't order her to do a damn thing, though that's never stopped him from trying. "I'm not going to spy on them. But I'm not going to just sit around and wait, either. I have things to do." Sinbad wants her to see Sorcha, and though she doesn't believe there's any cause for his caution, she doesn't want to argue with him about it anymore, either. She wants his body tangled with hers, hard and sweaty and wanting, and if a visit to Sorcha is what it takes to get what she wants, she'll do it.

"Her majesty won't like you leaving. She'll want this tale from your perspective next. She wanted to wake you yesterday to hear it, but Sorcha stopped her."

Maeve is almost sorry she slept through that dispute. Sorcha never backs down in defense of a patient, even from her queen. Like Maeve, her unique skills keep her safe from her monarch's wrath.

"If you're so worried about displeasing Riona, you shouldn't be wearing a color above your station." The corners of Maeve's mouth curl upward in a slight mocking smirk. She knows perfectly well that he's wearing the ruddy wine color not as a sign of rank he's not entitled to, but to fuck with Sinbad. It probably worked, too. Her sailor is fairly affable most of the time, but he doesn't like Lachlan any more than the captain of the guard likes him. Jealousy is something she usually does not tolerate from men, but part of her secretly likes it when she sees that possessive glint in Sinbad's eye. And she will never, ever tell him so.

"It's not above my station." He taps a scrap of scarlet silk ribbon pinned over his heart. "Her majesty promoted me yesterday."

Lovely for him. Maeve feels another flicker of irritation. He faced none of the challenges or dangers she and Sinbad did, but he was rewarded anyway. Her pretty mouth thins with displeasure, but she orders herself sternly not to care. So he now has the right to wear the next color down from royal crimson. It means nothing. She's leaving with her sailor, which is a far better prize: freedom, and love. The chance to abandon all this petty, courtly nonsense means more to her than any scrap of ribbon ever could.

"Congratulations. I'll leave you my wardrobe when I go." She turns for the door.

"You can't be serious about leaving." A hint of emotion bleeds into his voice, a feather of disbelief.

"Of course I am. I have no idea what outrageous things the local rumor mill has dreamed up, let alone what they're saying in Aven, but I'm going south as soon as Riona gives me leave."

Lachlan's pale blue eyes blink at her as if he's having trouble digesting her words. "Her majesty will never allow it. She'll take that sailor's head before she lets you go."

Maeve scowls. She doesn't want to stand here and argue with Lachlan, she wants to get this visit with Sorcha over with so she can have Sinbad all to herself once Riona's done with him. "He and I just saved whole clans' worth of her people. She owes me, and even if she didn't, she'd know better than to hurt him. You heard her." Her eyes narrow as she stares at the captain of the guard. "She knows that would be a very dangerous thing to do."

Lachlan stares back at her, face impassive. He's related to the queen, but only distantly, and they are not close. He's captain of the guard not through nepotism but due to his competency in battle and his exceptional organizational skills. He has extensive tactical knowledge and the ability to put theory into practice, though he lacks the power and charisma a fighting general needs. Men do not follow him because they love him; they follow him because they trust his brain. Riona trusts the same. Whatever he says now comes from careful observation of his queen, not her assertions. He is not her confidante and never will be.

"Maeve," Doubar says, tense at her back, "please tell me my brother's not in danger right now."

"He's not in danger," she snaps. "She won't be happy that I'm leaving, but she's not stupid. She had to know I wouldn't stay forever and she has no reason to take it out on him."

"She had every reason to think you would stay." Lachlan's pale eyes lighten when he gets agitated; right now his irises are nearly white. "You swore an oath."

"I was sixteen. A child. And the monarch can and does release people from their vows."

"Other people. Not you. You're too dear to her."

"Useful," Maeve objects, as she always objects when someone suggests Riona has any feeling for her. Maeve knows better. "I'm a commodity. I'm not indispensable. If I were, Riona never would send me on quests like this one." The odds of her not returning from this mountain were high, but Riona took that risk anyway. Maeve is grateful to her queen for it. That risk brought her Sinbad and the prospect of a freer life than she can remember.

Lachlan stares at her. He wants to speak, Maeve can see it in his eyes, but he doesn't quite dare. This irks her further. Sinbad has never been afraid to tell her what he thinks, even when he knows she won't like it. Maybe that's why sex with him is so much more satisfying. He's not afraid of her. He's no brute, but he's not exactly a gentleman, either. Her fire tries to flare in response to her thoughts and she clamps down hard on it. His sweet-rough nature and hard hands are exactly what she wants.

"Her majesty will not let you go," the captain of the guard says finally. His voice is flat; emotionless.

"I'd bet against you, but you have nothing at all that I want." Maeve glances at the scrap of scarlet ribbon pinned to his chest. "We'll see who's right at the end of the day. I have to say goodbye to Sorcha." She genuinely hopes he's happy with his promotion. Once more she heads for the door. This time he knows better than to stop her.

"What did you call her?" Doubar demands when the last swirl of her long skirt disappears through the doorway. He folds his arms over his big barrel chest, frowning at the ice-white man. "She didn't like it, which means I don't like it, either." Next to him, Rongar takes up the same position. His crossed arms bring his hands in close proximity to his dirks.

Lachlan doesn't answer. He inclines his head toward Rolly and Senna, deliberately excluding the humans in the room from the courtesy, and leaves with swift, irritated steps.

Doubar swears. "I thought I was done not understanding people when we left those hairy, growly fellows out on the mountain."

"I don't think he actually insulted her," Firouz says slowly. "Sinbad said it, too, and she didn't complain."

"I'm not well-versed in the language," Dim-Dim says, sinking onto a bench. "Rolly, can you enlighten us?"

The Fae man exchanges a glance with his wife. "It's a term of endearment," he says. "One he is not entitled to use, and may never have been."

"You mean she got mad at him for calling her 'sweetheart'?" Doubar settles next to Dim-Dim. "I know she lights quickly, but that seems excessive even for her."

"Not exactly." Senna fails badly at hiding her amused smile. "There's a sexual connotation."

"He's claiming the right to openly call her his lover, which she obviously rejects." Rolly frowns. "It's something a Fae man ought to know better than to push."

Senna steps close, kissing the baby in her husband's arms. "Palace rumor says there was a previous relationship. I'm skeptical. She's been snapping at him to knock it off ever since they arrived, well before Sinbad entered the picture."

Doubar looks disgusted. "I'd be happy to give him a little...friendly reminder to back off. That girl saved our lives. My brother's life. She's the hero here, not Mister Icicle, no matter how many ribbons he wears. She shouldn't have to deal with his pettiness."

Rongar grasps his shoulder, then points firmly to the south, where their ship sits waiting at the village of Ralgorōd for their return. He mimics heaving on a line to raise the sail.

"Rongar's right," Firouz says. "She's leaving with us. There's no need to make a scene. We'll be gone soon and likely never see him again."

"I still don't like it," Doubar grumbles. "I'll behave. I won't start an international incident. But I wouldn't be sorry if she decked him. And what's this about her queen not letting her go? I thought that was settled."

Dim-Dim opens his palms to the fire, warming his hands. "If she's given an oath of fealty it's a bit more complicated. I wouldn't worry, however. Sinbad is exceptionally good at getting what he wants."

"That he is," Doubar agrees, picking up his mug. "And something tells me she is, too."

"So relax," Rolly says as the child in his arms shifts, slowly waking. "Enjoy some wine and the fire. Let them figure it out."

"That's advice I'd be happy to take," Doubar says, "if I didn't know how good Sinbad is at getting into trouble. Especially with women. I think we'd best make sure we're packed and ready to leave, in case we have to make a hasty exit."

"It's not a bad idea, considering." Firouz puts his mug down. "Sinbad does have a way of finding trouble."

"Maeve has it, too," Doubar grumbles. "In spades. Gods help us if their children are the same." He heads for the door, the others close at his heels.

Despite telling Lachlan she has no plan to eavesdrop, Maeve wishes her magic would let her do just that. She's never been able to scry like a mage and it's one of the skills she most wishes she possessed. Her monarch relies on mages who can spy on rulers of unfriendly kingdoms and their power has kept her on her throne through at least two coup attempts. Maeve's own motives right now are entirely selfish and she feels zero shame about it. Riona and Sinbad are talking about her, she knows they are, and she hates it. She doesn't want anyone discussing her if she's not there to defend herself.

She's also forced to admit, as much as she hates it, that Lachlan's words have stirred some unease in her belly. She has Riona's favor and never particularly worried that her queen would refuse her this boon after all she's done for her. Now she's forced to wonder. What happens if Riona won't release her?

She could leave anyway, she supposes. Sail south with Sinbad, into parts of the world where the Fae queen holds little power. She's as human as any other Celt, and while she'll be seen as a foreigner by Sinbad's people, she won't be hunted down as a true member of the Fae would be. But she's never been an oathbreaker, never before even considered it, and she desperately doesn't want to be forced into such a position. That's not who she is. She doesn't duck and run from conflict, or from duty.

But Sinbad.

Her jaw tightens and she turns resolutely for the infirmary. Worrying is pointless, and she refuses to do it. She's going to proceed as if nothing is wrong. She needs to see Sorcha so Sinbad will stop concerning himself with her health, and at some point she needs to use a key to return to Aven, to collect the few things she wants to bring with her and dispense with the rest. Someone else will take up her rooms in the palace—hell, maybe even Lachlan, since he got his promotion. Everyone knows he wants to be named as Riona's heir, but Maeve doubts it will happen. If Riona favored him everyone would know it by now. He's a competent captain of the guard and good at playing the petty games of the court, but he's not part of Riona's innermost circle, nor is he her nearest blood-kin, though royal bloodlines have never been as important to the Fae as they are to human monarchs. The Fae want a capable ruler on the throne, someone they can trust. They care very little for the human obsessions with male primogeniture and royal blood.

She turns a corner and climbs a staircase, walking swiftly even as she muses. She'll be glad to leave palace life behind. She'll miss a few close friends, but she's happy to dispense with the rest of the pressures of the court. She stays with Riona because her talents are valued and appreciated, not because she enjoys politics or palace intrigue. The best parts of her job are traveling with the queen and tasks such as this one, when the queen sends her as a trusted weapon to quell a danger to her people. With Sinbad, that life can be hers permanently. She can protect him, his men and his ship, and see the world firsthand, close-up, as she could never do as Riona's lady. It's exactly what she wants, and even if it wasn't, she doesn't know that she could give Sinbad up now. She loves him too much.

She finds Sorcha in her private room off the infirmary.

The older woman is packing to return home, but she smiles and her busy hands pause when she sees Maeve. "I suspected you'd be by today."

"I'm fine," Maeve says quickly. She's still somewhat irritated with Sinbad for insisting on this, but she's done fighting about it. Now she just wants to get it over with. She wants his hard hands, his body hot against hers, and she's willing to do whatever she has to to get it. "But Sinbad doesn't believe me when I say it. Men are such babies."

"They are," Sorcha agrees, moving out into the larger ward, "but in this case his caution isn't entirely baseless. You did nearly die."

"Two days ago!"

"And you looked awful the other night when I checked on you." Sorcha presses lightly on her shoulders, urging her to sit on the end of an infirmary cot.

"I'd been out on the mountain for gods know how long. I'm not really clear on the timeline, to be honest." Maeve sits. "I was brawling with werewolves, fighting those demon-things, rescuing stray humans. I even went back in that fucking lake." Never again. She will never again get in that gods-be-damned lake. She absolutely refuses.

"Dear gods, why?" Sorcha takes her hands and examines the red scabs over her split knuckles. "Some of these probably should have been sewn shut. Your hands won't ever again look like a lady's hands should."

"I've been fighting since I could walk. My hands never looked like a lady's anyway, and I don't care."

"I have no doubt of that. I'm just saying." Sorcha releases her gently. "Your children are eventually going to want to know why their mama looks so banged up."

"They will not. Sinbad and his crew lead a rough life. My kids will know I earn my scars honestly."

Sorcha rolls her eyes. "I had some hope you'd eventually find a man who could keep you out of trouble. I suspect you've found the opposite."

Maeve smiles broadly. "The exact opposite," she agrees. Trouble seems to find Sinbad as easily as it finds her, and she loves it.

"And you were in the lake again because…?" Sorcha retrieves a small glass jar from a shelf. Removing the cork reveals smooth golden honey. She covers Maeve's knuckles and tops the sticky goo with bits of clean linen.

"The creatures we were hunting are afraid of water. My point is there was a reason I didn't exactly look ready for a royal reception when you saw me."

Sorcha wipes her hands on her apron and chucks the younger woman gently under the chin. "You really are a terrible lady-in-waiting, aren't you? All the danger you just listed and you loved every second of it."

"I did not!" Maeve protests. "I hate water! And I'm not so fond of snow anymore, either."

"Snow is water."

"I know," Maeve says bitterly. "I spent the last week in wet, chafing leather."

"Smart people put a layer in between. Where is the worst? Let me see."

Maeve obediently turns and lifts her long gown, exposing the tender backs of her knees, rubbed raw by wet leather.

"Ouch." Sorcha winces in sympathy.

"It's not so bad. Sinbad looks worse."

"He does, and the salve I sent up will work just as well on this as on his wounds. Provided you actually use it." Sorcha drops her skirt and Maeve sits back down. "Rumors are flying, you know. About a lot of things, but mostly about you. And him."

"I'm always the target of rumors." This has never bothered Maeve. People talk; she can't control it.

"I know you're leaving with him." A touch of sadness enters the older woman's smile. "I will miss you, firestarter. You do make Riona's court interesting. But I can't say I'm surprised."

"Why not?" Maeve frowns, shifting on the thin medical cot. "I didn't know I was leaving with him until after I rescued everyone. I was going to let him go."

"No, you weren't. You only thought you were." Sorcha watches her evenly. "It's amusing. You were always so sure you could control everything. Not Riona, of course, though not for lack of trying. But everything else. Then that sailor came along and knocked you spinning."

Maeve scowls. It's no more than the truth, but she resents it nonetheless. "I didn't mean for it to happen."

"I know it. You didn't even see it coming. That's what's so funny." Her smile shifts, gentling. "I didn't expect you to actually take the herbs I gave you, though. Were I a betting woman, I would have lost that one."

Maeve's arms fold uncomfortably over her torso. She doesn't want to talk about that. "I didn't."

"Didn't you?" Sorcha sits beside her on the cot. "You're bleeding, child."

"I know." She drops her eyes, staring at the floor. She wants to lash out at anyone who prods this ache, but it's Sorcha's job so she restrains herself. "About a million people have felt it was their duty to tell me what I already knew. But I didn't do it on purpose." Her arms tighten a little. She still can't decide how she feels about this, and she's uncomfortable with indecision. Ought she grieve? Feel relief? Guilt? She feels all of it at the same time, and it makes no sense.

"In that case, I'm sorry. It happens often. All the time. But that's little solace, and I know it."

Maeve's shoulders hitch, a halfhearted shrug. "Why'd you give me the cure, if you knew I wasn't going to take it?"

"You weren't ready to accept your life changing so drastically. You were angry and scared, which is very normal. Giving you the option gave you the perception of control over the situation. It let you come to terms with the idea of becoming a mother, quite possibly raising a child on your own. You didn't need to take the potion. You just wanted the option."

Maeve frowns. "How come you know me better than I do?" she demands.

Sorcha laughs. "I'm older than you. And in this case, you're no different than many, many young women I've tended to." She rises. "I can hurry along the discharge, if you like. It won't fix anything, but you'll physically feel better after."

Maeve nods slowly.

"Come, then. Does he know?"

"Everything." It's somewhere between a word and a sigh. She hadn't planned for him to ever know. She was going to go back home, back to the west, and raise her child on her own. No Fae would shame her for it. Even now she has no idea what she'd say if she had to tell him. Luckily she didn't have to. The magic spoke for her. This bond they share is soul-deep, and when she merged with him in the caverns he learned everything. She's glad she didn't have to say the words, because she doesn't know what words to say.

"It's for the best that he knows," Sorcha says, leading the way into the infirmary's bathing room. "It wasn't my place to tell him and I never would, but hiding things from each other is no way to start a life together."

"I know that." Maeve unlaces the front of her gown as Sorcha lifts the heavy skirt gently over her head. "But I wasn't planning to start a life with him. I was planning to leave him."

"Life doesn't always go as we plan, for better or for worse." Sorcha guides her deftly into a beaten copper tub much like the one in her own bathing room. She lifts her thin linen chemise over her head. "Here. I know you don't care about staining your clothes, but consider the laundresses."

"What are you going to do?" Maeve asks uneasily.

"Calm yourself. It will be as if the bleeding happened in ten minutes instead of over several days. It's not pleasant, but you'll feel better after."

Maeve desists, letting the healer do as she will. Sorcha touches her bare abdomen lightly, just for a moment. Her hand lights with her violet magic and Maeve forces herself not to flinch.

"You'll be happier out of here, child," Sorcha says, her hand falling away.

"With a man? I never particularly wanted one. Not to keep, anyway."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that you'll be happier free of Aven. And Riona." She guides her to sit in the bathing tub.

"Ow! That hurts." Maeve scowls, drawing her knees to her chest.

"Try childbirth sometime." Sorcha's hands hover over the valve. "Do you want water?"

"No. I'm sick of being wet."

"And yet you're leaving with a sailor." The healer desists. She stands at the side of the copper tub, looking down at the woman curled in it. "You were never meant to be a monarch's watchdog." She strokes her hair gently, tucking back the flyaway strands fallen loose from her red braid. "Don't misunderstand—you've done well. Not as a fine lady, perhaps, but as a protector. And Riona adores you. She won't be happy that you want to leave. But you weren't born to this life, and it doesn't suit you."

Maeve drops her head to the side, letting it rest against the older woman's knee. "I know."

"Maeve, I want to tell you something." She hesitates.

"What? I'm kind of a captive audience right now." This isn't comfortable at all. She'd tell Sorcha she changed her mind and wants to end the spell, but the healer did say only ten minutes. She can deal with it for ten minutes.

"I knew your parents."

"I know that." Maeve frowns up at the healer. They grew up in the same village, half Celt, half Fae, separated by their ages but not geography. This is not news, and she has no idea why Sorcha has decided to bring it up now.

"Hush. You talk too much, has anyone ever told you that? Try listening now and then. Riona thinks it's cute, but I don't know what the humans down south will say."

Maeve smiles. "Sinbad loves me the way I am. Everyone else can get fucked for all I care."

"That boy may very well be even cockier than you; I'm not surprised at all that he likes it. Be quiet. As I said, I knew your parents. They knew you were something special from the start. They were flaxen-haired, both of them, nary a redhead in either family tree. And they adored you. They'd been married for ten years and your mother had never quickened before. She thought she was likely barren. Then you came along."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sorcha's hand moves gently on her head. "Because I might not get another chance to. Nothing is sure in this world, firestarter, and you are going very far away."

Yes, Maeve knows. Leaving Sorcha and a few other friends will wrench, but leaving Sinbad would be far worse. She's honestly not sure she could anymore.

"When you started crawling, you aimed straight for the hearth. Every time your mother turned her back for a moment, you were there. She did her best to shield you—they both did—but she couldn't watch you every second of every day. Eventually the inevitable happened. You pulled yourself to your feet for the first time, took two steps, and fell face-first into the fire." Sorcha snorts. "That was the first set of clothing you burnt. Not the last."

No, not by a longshot. She's still losing clothes to the fire. Maeve lifts her head and watches the healer as she speaks.

"No one could explain your fire. No one had a name for what you were. You were nowhere in our lore, Celt or Fae. Your parents worked to hide it as best they could, afraid of what the pope's men would do if they heard of it. In their religion flames symbolize evil. But everyone who met you knew you were anything but. Stubborn, yes, even as an infant. Headstrong and tempestuous, but not evil. Never that. Though fire couldn't hurt you, you learned quickly that it did hurt others. Even when you were tiny you knew better than to unleash it on people."

Sorcha shifts and draws a slow breath. "I left for a time to be trained in Aven. It was an honor to be chosen to train with the queen's staff. I wasn't home when the Vikings came."

"I don't want to talk about that." Maeve's memories of the raid that killed her parents are chaotic, hazy with youth and the passing years. She remembers flames everywhere, and smoke, and big men with swords who looked like her own people but shouted in an unknown tongue and turned her world into a river of blood.

"You don't have to talk about it. I understand." Sorcha's pale eyes are kind. "I didn't see that raid, but I've seen my share." Her hand resumes its slow, steady caress of her hair. "Riona sent all of the healers in Aven, even students like myself, to do what we could. One of them found you hiding in the wreckage of a house with a handful of other small children. We helped where we could: bandaging the wounded, burning the dead. You kissed your mother's face and lit her pyre yourself."

"I know. I remember." She was five or six years old, too old not to remember when a man lifted her to kiss her unresponsive mother for the last time, her father's body beside her but too damaged for her young self to recognize. At the urging of the adults around her, she had put her hands on the pyre and lit it herself, saying farewell to the human parents who bore her and turning instead for a future among the Fae.

"What you may not remember is that I took you to Aven that day." The skin around Sorcha's pale green eyes tightens. She's troubled. "To the queen. I was only a student myself, and I had no real grounds to do it. But she took audience with me anyway, the gods alone know why. I showed you to her. Did my best to explain the power you control. I requested a boon of her—that she place you with a family to look after you. With your parents dead and our village gone, I was afraid of what might happen to you. Your father feared you falling into the hands of the pope's men, and I believe he was right to worry."

Maeve frowns, searching back through her earliest memories, seeking proof of the healer's words. She trusts her fully, but she has no memory of meeting Riona so young, no memory of walking through a Fae door from the destruction of her muddy little village to the opulence of Aven.

"I wasn't sure Riona would have mercy on a human child, even a Celt. Even one with such a powerful gift. But she did. She bade her then-captain of the guard to find a suitable family for you either among the survivors of our village or somewhere nearby, and to extend to them a royal stipend—nothing by her standards but plenty by theirs—for their trouble. And she bade me return you to her when you were fourteen, to see what had become of you."

This second trip Maeve remembers. The splendor of the capital city, built of shining pale stone, not mud and wattle. The queen, resplendent in snowy white silk and bright scarlet, the blood-red color only the monarch and her nearest family may wear. Riona bade her sit on the royal dais, at her feet. Maeve's foster parents had forced her to scrub thoroughly from head to toe and dressed her in wrinkled but clean undyed linen, flaxen-cream with flecks of darker brown. Riona had petted her as if she were a much younger child; Maeve grit her teeth and said nothing, though she hated it. The queen took her by the hand and they walked into a stone courtyard. She asked to see what Maeve could do. After the demonstration Riona took a ring with a red stone from her own royal hand. She placed it, warm with her body heat, on Maeve's right thumb: the only place on her child-sized hand where it fit. The queen told Sorcha her assistance was no longer needed; Maeve would not be returning to Eire.

Nor did she. She slept, those first years, in a little closet off Riona's private chambers, a tiny nook meant for a lady's maid or a wet nurse. She was treated at times like a doll, at others like a wild animal in need of taming. At the queen's command the palace servants scrubbed her down with hot water and rough wool twice a day, an edict she fought with feral violence until the fight became untenable even for a pigheaded fourteen-year-old. To a peasant child used to bathing in streams in summer and never at all in winter, and one with a natural aversion to water on top of that, this constant preoccupation with cleanliness made little sense.

Riona had her gowned in satin and velvet, gifted her with gold and jewels, but her will was unbending. When Maeve fought it, especially that first year, she was summarily beaten by big men with leather straps. Food was withheld. They tried leaving her outside in the cold overnight, but quickly learned this was no punishment. The cold did not bother her, and she was not afraid of the dark.

Slowly, not altogether unwillingly, she learned. Some lessons were easy: she took quickly to reading and writing, geography and languages, even music, to a degree. She adored her outdoor lessons—horseback riding and fighting, skills a poor peasant child had no reason to learn. She'd learned to track and hunt from an early age but not with hounds and hawks. She brawled from the time she could walk, and was decent with a bow, but swordwork was new to her. She took to horses and blades eagerly, and did her best when the court mages attempted to tame her magic. Every attempt failed, often spectacularly, and Riona finally put a stop to the magic lessons when the constant fiery damage to the palace outbuildings grew too great to ignore. In this one area the queen admitted defeat: her pet had powerful magic, but it could not be brought to heel.

The lessons of the court were harder, by far, than any others, but in this Riona was unbending. When Maeve arrived at court she didn't even know how to keep clean, let alone polished and pretty. Step by torturous step, the queen and her ladies civilized her. Often during those early years she felt like a chained bear trained to dance on command, only she could never learn the steps, could never find the rhythm. Many times she wondered bitterly why the queen even bothered. She wasn't of noble birth—wasn't even Fae, strictly speaking, though she'd grown up fostered in a Fae household. But Riona's court held plenty of other humans, ambassadors as well as permanent members of the household, mainly Celt, with a few members of more northerly tribes as well. She was never the lone human, though she felt exceedingly alone in other ways. She inhabited a strange in-between world, neither a servant nor a lady of the court. She was the queen's barbarian pet, her little project, and she loathed it as much as she felt the requisite gratitude for everything Riona gave her.

"I wonder, child," Sorcha says softly, "and have wondered many times, whether I did the right thing by bringing you to the queen." Her mouth twists, unable to decide whether to smile or frown. "I don't know what else I could have done. Our village was gone. The people who survived, human and Fae alike, had nothing. No homes. No crops. I don't know that anyone would have been willing to take you in without the queen's stipend. They would have starved with another mouth to feed."

"Many did anyway," Maeve says, dropping her eyes to the bottom of the tub. She's bleeding, a slow, thick, heavy flow that hurts to the point of extreme irritation, though not quite to intolerance. Now she knows why women don't insist on doing this every month. She closes her eyes, smelling blood and fighting back memories of those early days after the raid. People ate the bark off trees. They boiled and ate leather. They died slowly, eyes haunted by the shadows of those who did not survive the raid. Babies that would have been born were not. She didn't understand at the time, but she does now.

"I know," Sorcha says. "But it would have been worse. The couple that took you in received that first year's payment in food, not coin, and they shared out all they could. Without you, firestarter, and without the generosity of the people who fostered you, I don't think our village would have survived."

Maeve does not like hearing this, knowing this. She likes helping people, but she doesn't like knowing that the lives of so many depended on her when she was so young, when she herself did nothing but exist. Riona's whim saved those lives. Not her.

And Riona's whim is why she's here now, why she is what she is. Educated. Able to move freely between the glittering world of Riona's court and the stormy wilds of this snowswept mountain. She thinks about her parents, faces she barely remembers. Is she even truly their child anymore? She bites hard on the inside of her cheek. She doesn't look like them. Doesn't really remember them. She is thoroughly her queen's creation, and from far earlier than she previously realized. From the moment Sorcha first took her to the capital, skin still streaked with the soot of her parents' funeral pyre, she became Riona's. She's grateful, she supposes. How could she be otherwise, when a torturous early death was the alternative? But she doesn't like knowing how thoroughly her queen manipulated her childhood.

Maeve presses a hand to her cramping belly, biting her cheek hard enough to draw blood. "What was it all for?"

Sorcha shrugs. "It's not my place to question the queen's choices. She chose to save you, and since that time you've served her well. She got her money's worth and then some, if that's what you're asking. In my reckoning, anyway. But I'm glad you've found something more."

Maeve is, too. She wasn't unhappy in Aven and she would never claim to be. But she didn't know—had no idea—what it felt like to truly belong somewhere until Sinbad stumbled his way into her life. When she's with him, it feels like...like coming home, which is odd, considering that isn't a sensation she's ever felt before. Since the Viking raiders took her parents, she's lived in other people's houses, at other people's whim. But in Sinbad, this strange southern sailor, she's finally found her place. He is her home, and she's his. That's something she's not willing to give up, no matter what Riona wants. She loves him too ridiculously much to let him go now.

And the life he's offering her is exactly what she wants. He worries that she'll miss the trappings of court, the rich fabrics and pretty baubles, the opulent feasts and glittering revels, but he's worried for nothing. That's not who she is, and it never was. He's offering her a chance to see the world, to adventure with a band of truly good men, and honestly, even if she didn't love him, she'd want to go. She's not so sure about sailing, though she's willing to try, but a rough, honest life helping people and exploring the world is precisely what she'd pick for herself if given the choice. It's the freedom she lost when her world burned and Sorcha placed her in Riona's care, the freedom that was taken from her without her knowledge or accord.

"Lachlan says Riona won't let me go."

Sorcha makes a face. "What does he know? Is he privy to her musings? Last I checked he wasn't." She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "She won't be happy about it, but she's an intelligent woman. Quite possibly the smartest woman I've ever met. She did her best to keep you, but even she can't work against fate." Her mouth twists. "You were sixteen when you swore your oath."

Maeve knows. She was two years too young, legally, but Riona makes the laws and no one had the authority or the will to gainsay her. Maeve herself gloated at the time, proud that her queen wanted her vow and dazzled by the glittering reception held in honor of the occasion.

"Do you know why Riona made you swear so young?"

Maeve shakes her head wordlessly. She'd never really thought to question it, honestly.

"The men of the court were watching you."

"Oh." Maeve snorts. "That much I knew." She received more and more male attention as Riona and her ladies wrestled her under control, teaching her to dress fashionably, to stand and walk with grace, to not just pay lip service to manners but put the etiquette lessons she loathed to good use. Creepy old men and not-so-creepy younger ones alike watched her, their eyes both calculating and hungry. She was young—too young by Fae standards, but not by much—and in very close proximity to power. She technically had no power of her own before she swore her vow, but Riona adored her and let her get away with impudence no one else would dare attempt. That put her in a unique position, one that made her very interesting to men at court. They wanted her for her youth, her beauty, and her relationship with the queen.

Maeve well remembers being so young, on the precipice of adulthood but not yet legally marriageable. She disdained the creepy old men no matter how they tried to flatter her, what trinkets and gifts they brought to sweeten her temperament. The young ones...were another story. Even among the nobility virginity was not considered important, and hers was long gone before she swore her oath of allegiance. Riona knew it, too—the vile herbal brew that would keep her from conceiving showed up abruptly on her breakfast tray one morning when she was fifteen, and that was that. Maeve had learned enough by that point to understand without a lecture. She was free to dally with the young men of the court as long as she attempted a semblance of discretion, but an unplanned pregnancy would not be tolerated while she was so close to the queen. The message was perfectly clear, and it was one she obeyed until Sinbad came along.

The Fae sensibilities toward sex suited Maeve just fine. She sought touch, wanted pleasure, but had no real desire for emotional entanglements. Whether that was her own personality or a reflection of the world in which she lived, she doesn't know. Either way, she wasn't interested in finding herself a husband, though many of the men of the court felt otherwise.

"What you may not have known was the inconvenience all that male attention was to the queen," Sorcha says, dry amusement lacing her voice. "Had one of them convinced you to marry before you swore fealty, your first loyalty would have been to your husband, not your queen. Riona wasn't about to let that happen."

Was that the reason behind her early vow? Maeve stares at her old friend. "Seriously? She knew me better than that. She had no reason to worry."

"You say not, but young girls can be easily swayed by a pretty face and sweet words. It almost happened to Niamh, Riona's niece. She was the girl's legal parent and was thus able to step in and stop it before any vows were said, but it was a close thing, and she was not willing to let it happen again. She desperately didn't want to lose you."

Maeve scowls. "She should have known better," she insists. "I'm not like other women. I wasn't then, and I'm not now."

"No?" Sorcha's eyes glimmer with acerbic mirth. "You're preparing to leave with a very pretty man, aren't you?"

"Shut up." Maeve brings a hand to her mouth to chew on a ragged hangnail. The small sting is better than the caustic bite of Sorcha's words. Yes, Sinbad is pretty. Her gut cramps and she bites down harder. She's a sucker for those sea-bright eyes, the broad smile that shows his crooked teeth. It's why she wanted him, why she lay with him so soon after meeting. But, ultimately, it's not why she fell in love with him. "He's not some calculating courtier. He hates this part of me. You should have seen when he got a look at me this morning. He wanted to rip that gown off of me, and not in a good way."

Sorcha laughs. "With a man as handsome as that, I doubt there's a bad way. How are you feeling?"

"Not great. But like you said, having a kid is worse."

"Far, far worse," Sorcha agrees. "As I'm sure you'll discover before long. But my point was that Riona wanted you, and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure she was your first priority. That was why she had you swear your oath so young."

This doesn't bother Maeve particularly. Riona is the queen. She has to be calculating. It's her job to always be several steps ahead of any hypothetical upset. Maeve wishes her queen thought better of her back then—knew her loyalty lay with the crown, not the men surrounding it. But she doesn't resent Riona for demanding her oath early. Maeve is a dangerous weapon, and she knows it. It only made sense that her queen would want to keep that weapon close.

"Sixteen or eighteen, I don't know that it really made any difference to me. I would have served her the same regardless."

"I hope that's true. I still don't like that she compelled a child to make a vow you might not truly have understood at the time."

"I understood enough." Whether expressly ordered by the queen or not, her tutors went over the oath of fealty with her in exacting detail. She knew, as much as anyone her age could be said to know, what she was getting into. She made her vow willingly. She couldn't have known, couldn't possibly have expected, what would happen on a distant mountain so many years in the future.

And swearing her oath resulted in a number of advantages. Though she was two years short of her majority, she was moved out of the little servant's cubby in Riona's rooms and given her own suite close to the queen's quarters, rooms that had last been occupied by Riona's dead niece. Her lessons continued but for the first time since she came to live in Riona's care she had time to herself as well—free hours to use as she wished, unfettered by the servants that had previously monitored her every movement. Her oath gave Riona trust in her, which opened up possibilities in her life she had not before entertained. She sat in on the queen's council meetings, not permitted to speak but encouraged to ask questions afterward, to gain an understanding of how the kingdom functioned. Best of all, she began to travel with Riona when the queen left Aven instead of being left behind like an old sock lost under the bed. These privileges far outweighed the burden of her vow.

Until now. She shifts in the tub as the cramping in her belly eases, Sorcha's allotted ten minutes nearly up. She knew nothing about the world when she made her vow—only what Riona wanted her to know. She doesn't blame her queen for that, but she's grown beyond what her monarch's world contains. She loves a nomad. He wants her to wander with him. His mentor may be able to help her understand her magic when no one in Riona's kingdom could. She needs this chance to see what she can make of this life she's been given.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah." Physically, anyway. Her insides are still unsettled, and will be until she knows Riona won't raise a fuss about releasing her.

"Wash off, rinse out that tub, and you can get dressed again." Sorcha steps away. "I just wanted you to know, in case I never get another chance to tell you. I did this to you, every bit as much as Riona did. Even now I don't know what else I could have done, but for what it's worth, I never intended to trap you."

"You didn't, and neither did she. You saved me, and I'm grateful. I just need something else now."

"Well." Sorcha holds out a linen cloth to dry off. "Try not to fret. Riona won't be happy to lose you, but realistically, what can she do? If she demands that you remain in Aven, you'll either defy her outright or stay and be miserable. And frankly, when you're miserable everyone around you is, too."

"Thanks."

The older woman laughs. "The thing is, child, you're Celt through and through. Riona did her best to transform you into a Fae lady and in many ways she was successful, but she couldn't change what you are any more than she could snuff your fire."

Maeve reaches for her clothing as Sorcha talks.

"Celts, as you know, just aren't good at hiding what they feel. Your father's shout could shake the rafters when he really got going; that's something you share. If Riona doesn't release you she's setting herself up for a wretched rest of her life, and she's smart enough to know it." Sorcha moves to assist her with lacing the front of her gown back up.

Reassuring warmth fills Maeve's heart. She feels oddly comforted by Sorcha's assessment of her. Maybe she does have something of her parents left in her, after all. Maybe she isn't as completely Riona's creation as her queen thinks.

"There." Sorcha tosses the towel over her shoulder and wipes her hands. "You're good as new. Just remember to take caution if you don't want to conceive again. Once your moon-cycle returns it will be a possibility."

Maeve makes a face. "I liked it better when I thought I was barren."

Sorcha laughs. "Well, you and your sailor proved you're not, so now you have to take more care. I'll put together a batch of contraceptive herbs for you, if you like."

"Please. A big one." She's not sure when she'll be ready to start a family, but probably not for a long time.

"I'm supposed to return to Aven today, but I'll putter around here a bit. You come tell me what Riona says before you go." Sorcha hugs her tight and kisses her cheek. "He really has changed you, you know. I told you before, and I'm even more sure of it now. I can smell it—feel it. I can't explain it, but it's there."

Maeve knows. Even if she didn't believe it before, their union in the caverns erased all doubt. "I can feel him," she admits, rubbing the back of her neck with a soft palm. It's something she's mentioned to no one yet, not even to Sinbad. "When I went into the mountain to fight the demons I...merged with him somehow. I can't explain it, but for a handful of moments it was like we were the same person. I was inside him, or maybe he was inside me. I don't know. But ever since then, I can feel him. Like something moving just on the edge of my vision. He's there now, if I concentrate." It's unnerving, and were it anyone else in the world she would be at the door of the most powerful mage in Aven, demanding that he figure out how to undo whatever's been done. But it's Sinbad. She's not sure she likes the deep intimacy of this bond, but she's unwilling to sever it. They're in this together now. Kismet, as she told him when they met.

"It's fascinating. Were I a mage rather than a healer I would probably demand the right to study such a thing. I don't know of any precedent for a bond like that. But you've never played by anyone's rules except your own, so I'm not entirely surprised. And I can say, as a healer, that it doesn't seem to have harmed you. Changed, yes. But not harmed."

That much Maeve herself knows: Sinbad could never harm her. It's not in him. She hugs Sorcha one final time and leaves the infirmary, mind full of her conversation and her continuing worry about what Riona will do. Maybe Dim-Dim can explain this bond if she asks him. She's still a little unnerved by the little old man, but like everyone Sinbad is closest to, he's too good to be suspicious of for long. And if he can't explain it, Maeve won't mind. Defining this bond won't change it, just as defining her fire can't change who she is. These things just are. She accepts them fully, as she accepts Sinbad and the massive changes his arrival made to her life. As far as she's concerned, it's just part of a new adventure.

But as she glides on silent feet through the corridors of Odhran's mountain palace, the soft little spark in the back of her mind that is Sinbad dims. She freezes, feeling the flavor of his presence, salt-sweet but tinged with something alarming, something that tells her she needs to find him. Her feet lead her swiftly not down to the lower floor where she left him, but to her little chamber higher in Odhran's palace.

He's numb.

His feet stumble over nothing as he climbs stairs and passes through corridors. He's not clumsy and he never normally stumbles, but he feels divorced from his body. He can't feel anything. His head spins too fast to catch hold of any coherent thoughts save one: he's going to lose her. After everything they both risked, after everything they survived, he's going to lose her anyway.

Whatever guides his steps, it's not his mind. Instinct, maybe. His feet lead him not back to the dining hall, where he left his crew, but up to Maeve's little room higher in the large, rambling palace.

It's empty. He blinks, feeling a sort of blank stupidity that reminds him of a hangover. Of course her room is empty. He left her downstairs, too. The queen bade her stay when she took him away to talk. Maeve didn't like it but she obeyed, as she's always obeyed her queen. As she will continue to, even when Riona bids her to leave this place, to return west with her monarch. Once given Maeve's loyalty doesn't falter, and it was given to her queen first.

His chest aches, a physical pain far worse than the lingering ache in his healing gut. Something presses on his chest, constricting his lungs, clamping like a vise over him, hard and heavy, dense and dark. He's never felt like this before. Drawing breath grows difficult. Is this what a broken heart feels like? Like a shattered bone, something inside feels crushed.

He worried since learning of Maeve's oath that her monarch wouldn't release her, but he had no idea she was actually the heir. How could he? Maeve doesn't know it herself. He stares numbly out the window, inhaling the faint smoky sweetness that lingers in the room. For once, it doesn't soothe him.

He wants her desperately now, wants her here beside him for whatever time remains to them, but his feet refuse to move. This secret, this thing he knows and she does not, yawns like a gulf between them and he doesn't know how to cross it. It's not his place to tell her what he knows, and yet how can he not? How can he look her in the eye and pretend he doesn't know what her queen has planned for her—a life of luxury, yes, but also unending servitude? One she would not choose for herself. He knows her, and knows as surely as he knows his own heartbeat that she will not want what her queen intends.

And Sinbad himself? It's not his place to tell her. This is between Maeve and her ruler. He's involved only tangentially, an obstacle standing between Riona and her heir. He doesn't know how long Maeve has served her queen, but the relationship is far older than his. Deep, too, if he's any judge. Maeve doesn't seem very attached to the Fae couple who fostered her but she is attached to the queen who took her into service, who taught and elevated her. The tangled web of love and power strung between the two women is nothing he'll ever be able to truly understand. He loves his own mentor, the sorcerer who took him and his brother to raise after their parents' deaths, but it's not the same thing at all. Dim-Dim never saw him as a tool or a commodity, whereas Maeve is exactly that to Riona.

It's not an inherently bad thing, he tries to tell himself. Maeve benefits from her position as much as the queen does. But nothing in their association is simple or straightforward. Riona is far older. Holds the highest office in the land. She's also served as Maeve's teacher, her guide, molding the younger woman to be what she wanted her to be. But Maeve, like the fire at her heart, can't be subjugated as easily as that. She's a thing of near-myth, as both Dim-Dim and Riona stated. She is the only person alive with her unique talents. That gives her more power in her relationship with her queen than she otherwise would have. Whether she knows this or not, Sinbad honestly doesn't know. She's cheeky and impudent with her queen and gets away with it, but any pet favorite might do the same. Whether she really knows how much power she wields over her monarch, as a fire-child and also as the heir Riona so desperately needs, Sinbad has no idea. It's likely she's never had cause to truly rebel before.

She does now, but she doesn't know it yet. She doesn't know that her queen has no intention of releasing her from her vow, nor does she know that Riona wants her for her heir. And he can't tell her. It's not his place, and he doesn't want to be forced into it. He loves that woman with everything he is, and he desperately doesn't want to be the one to shatter her world so abruptly.

But will Riona confess, as he urged? He doubts it. She has no incentive to. Maeve is going to explode when she learns what her queen has planned; that was always going to be the case, with or without him. He wonders when Riona planned to tell her. On her deathbed, when Maeve had no room to refuse? His mouth twists bitterly. He doesn't want this to be a battle between him and the queen, but it looks like he has no choice. No matter what, Maeve is going to have to choose.

And she can't choose him. He leans his brow and forearms against the leaded glass window, ice-cold and streaked with rivers of half-frozen condensation. She can't choose him unless Riona releases her from her vow, and she has no reason to do that. Maybe if she loved Maeve more than she needed her, but she doesn't. Or, as she put it, she can compartmentalize. He believes her when she says she loves her firestarter. But she needs her heir more than she loves the wild Celt she tamed.

Through the wet glass the courtyard below looks like a white wasteland. Inside, Sinbad feels the same. Frozen. Numb. How is he supposed to trudge down this mountain and board his ship, sail south without her? A man can learn to live without sight, without hearing. Without a leg, an arm. Rongar manages without his voice. But Sinbad doesn't know if he can survive without his heart. If he can live with the memory of her bare arms wrapping around him, her tired voice as she agreed so easily, so happily, to come south with him. For a while, such a short while, everything was perfect, and perfectly simple. She didn't argue or fuss about traveling so far, learning to sail or swim. He didn't have to cajole or even compromise. She just tucked her sweet self against his chest, holding him tight, and said yes. Like an overturned boat, he was adrift and sinking while he struggled under the mountain, lost without her. That simple agreement righted his keel, but now he's sinking once more.

He doesn't blame her. He could never blame her. But fuck, this hurts. Losing Leah as a child changed his world but didn't end it. This new, looming loss feels like it's going to tip him over the edge into a void he can't climb out of.

A soft noise sounds behind him. The latch lifts, door opens.

"Leannán."

He still doesn't really know what that means, but it melts him when she says it. A tight knot forms in his throat. He struggles to swallow against it. Why can't they just run away? He has a ship, a fast one. They can be gone now, asail by nightfall. Down the river, headed for the Black Sea and ultimately home. He'll show her Constantinople, sail through the Bosporus, and from there the might of the south can protect them even if Riona tries to exact revenge. Both the caliph of Baghdad and the sultan of Basra protect him; surely Riona would know better than to take on two of the strongest rulers in the south?

But Maeve will never do it. He knows without asking. She'll leave her queen's service honorably or not at all.

Warm hands wind sensuously through his hair and ease over his shoulders. Her perfect, soft mouth touches his throat, her sweet, familiar heat pressing gently against his body. His eyes close spasmodically as he turns his head from the window, breathing her in.

"Tell me what happened." Her voice is level and even. "Whatever she said, we can figure it out."

She knows it didn't go well. How, he doesn't know, but he can't say he's entirely surprised. He's just glad she's here. His arms fall away from the cold window and he turns. He doesn't know how to answer, but he needs her. His arms reach for that warm, muscled body, gathering her tight against him. They clamp down, holding her too hard. His wounded gut protests. She does not. Her arms grip him firmly and she squeezes back, the strength of her hold lending him heart. He presses as close as he can get, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in, hot skin and smoky honey, warm and melting-sweet.

"My sailor." One hand glides up his back, hot on the nape of his neck before sliding into his hair. Her fingers wind through the silky brown strands. The heat of her palm bleeds into his scalp as she cradles his head, so warm, physically soothing though it does nothing for the ache in his heart. "I can hear you now, if I concentrate. Feel you there, in the back of my mind. Ever since the caverns. I know something's wrong. But together we're stronger than whatever it is."

So that's how she knows. If she were anyone else, even Doubar, he'd demand a way to stop it. That's too personal; he doesn't want anyone else to be able to feel what he feels.

Except her.

His arms tighten still further, almost shaking with the force of his hold. A little huff of air escapes her but she doesn't complain. Her hand continues to cup his head, stroking his hair just a little, warm and gentle.

"I can't." He's not a man of words and he's at a loss to explain to her everything he now knows. It will crush her.

"No?" She pulls away—not far, just far enough to meet his eyes. "Have you not a tongue in your head?"

His mouth captures hers forcefully. He has a tongue and he's very good at using it in various ways, as she damn well knows. Just not, at this precise moment, for speaking. He kisses her hard, her smoky-sweet taste filling his senses, her fire flaring high in response.

She bites his tongue, the pain sharp and hard. He welcomes it. She's always been aggressive about sex, taking what she wants, and they're wonderfully well matched in this. He holds her tight, willing her sweet fire to soothe the overwhelming pain of knowing he's going to lose her. He needs it to stop, just stop, so he can breathe again. Function again.

"Riona owes me." She moves her mouth away from his for a moment, speaking against his lips. "She can't tell me I can't go." That gorgeous mouth returns to his, sucking on his lip, her hands hard on his shoulders.

It's a nice sentiment, but it's not true. Her queen absolutely can tell her she's not going anywhere, and has. Maeve just doesn't know it yet.

But he can't let her go. Physically, right now, he just can't do it. He kisses the smooth, sleek line of her throat and his hands flex, fingers digging into that plush, gods-be-damned velvet. It's soft and perfect and he hates everything about it. His anger surges; he gathers fistfuls of fabric and yanks, ripping the skirt down the seam.

Maeve pulls her mouth from his, craning her head to see over her shoulder. "You could have just asked," she says mildly.

"I hate this." The velvet, yes. Everything else about this day, too.

"You hated my leathers, too. Told me to wear skirts like other women." She unties the silk cord lacing her into her gown.

Did he really say that? If so, he was crazy. That skintight leather may be difficult to peel her out of, but it's who she is. "I was wrong."

"As usual." She lifts yards of burgundy velvet over her head with swift grace. He helps, glad to be rid of it. "What did Riona say, Sinbad? I know she can be scary, but you don't usually let people get under your skin." Her hands fall to the lacing of his vest, swiftly undoing it. "I went to Sorcha while you were in audience with Riona. I'm fine, so that's twice today you were wrong." Her perfect, mocking smirk doesn't even irritate him right now. He kisses it, hungry for the taste of her. He'll be wrong all the time—he'll be wrong on purpose and let her rub his nose in it every time, just as long as he can keep her.

She kisses him back, hard and demanding and everything he wants. The taste of her smoky sweetness invades him, imprinting deep into his body, his brain. This sweetness is all his. She bites his lip, then sucks hard, as he releases her hair from its braid and digs a hand through those thick curls, holding her still as he kisses her. Pleasure crashes through him, sweet-hot and intense. He'll always melt for her. Every single time.

But he can't tell her what Riona said. She needs to know, but it's not his place, and he was tongue-tied even before she kissed him. Now he's hopelessly lost, seeking desperately to drown his sorrows not in wine but in her.

"Off." He tugs insistently on the thin, almost sheer linen chemise under her gown. It's not as offensive as that fucking velvet, but right now he hates everything that interferes with his eyes, his hands. His cock.

She lifts the fine linen over her head, dropping it to the floor next to the heap of wrinkled velvet. "Come here."

Always. Wherever she wants him, however she wants him. He's helpless when she looks at him like that, her eyes dark fire, her inner flame burning bright, prickling his skin. His mouth locks with hers once more.

She wants answers but for the moment she desists, her hands impatient on his clothing, her mouth eager for his kiss. He steps forward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she sinks willingly onto it. He follows instantly, covering that sweet body with his. The fear that he's going to lose her fuels his insistence that he's not giving up a moment of this. Not until he's forced to.

"I love you, leannán." He nips that gorgeous lower lip before taking it in his teeth and biting harder.

Her answering whine is high and sweet, her hands tightening on the leather of his borrowed trousers. "Love you," she pants, breathy with want, as her hands peel him out of his vest. His boots thud hollowly when they hit the floor. "But you have to talk to me. I tried keeping something from you and it didn't work out so great. I don't want to play that game again."

He's not playing anything, he swears he's not. The words just won't come. He nips her chin and presses tiny kisses along the silken line of her jaw as she eases his shirt gently free of his trousers, careful as the linen rubs his scabbed wounds. The salve has helped; nothing sticks. Even if it had, Sinbad doesn't think he'd care. His hands are on her hot skin and fuck, nothing else matters.

He reaches for what he most wants, palm sliding over her flat belly, intent on the wet heat between her legs. She said she went to Sorcha, he distinctly remembers her saying that, so he refuses to worry any longer. But, for the first time, she pulls away from his seeking hand.

"Nuh-uh." She shakes her head firmly, fingers light and teasing along the waistband of his trousers. "Not until you tell me what Riona said."

Fucking hell. He shakes his head tightly. She needs to know, but he can't tell her. "It's not my place," he says, willing her to understand. She needs to hear this from her queen, not from him.

Fire flares in those dark eyes, the sweetness gone, eclipsed by anger. Like a struck spark, she's instantly furious. "Your place?" she demands, voice incredulous. Her legs wrap around his, sleek and strong, and she flips them effortlessly. His back slams into the feather mattress as she straddles him. "Your place is with me."

Fuck, yes, it is. Preferably inside her, which is where he aches to be right now. She's perfectly placed, hot pressure just where he needs it, if the damn leather of his borrowed trousers wasn't in the way. His fingers dig into her hard thighs. "Not according to Riona."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Tell me what she said."

"You need to hear it from her." If she really can feel him in her mind as she claims, shouldn't she understand? "She might have me executed if I say something she doesn't want me to."

A speculative gleam enters those stunning dark eyes. She's so very beautiful. And so very deadly. "Are you more scared of her, or of me? Because most men are more afraid of me. Even when I'm not on top of them." Her hips rock firmly, pressing the melting heat between her legs against his clothed groin.

It's a very good question, and one he struggles to answer as he grips her tightly. She'll wear bruises in the shape of his fingers by morning. Riona is a tiny thing, but her captain of the guard hates him and will happily bring her his head if she demands it. On the other hand, Maeve is...Maeve.

Before he can even begin to formulate a tactful answer, she swears. "You want to be afraid of her? Fine." She lowers her head and kisses his mouth softly, which...isn't what he expects. "You're mine," she murmurs, a whisper against his mouth. "I'm yours. I'm sick of having to say it." Her hands yank hard at his trousers. They don't move much, but it's enough for what she wants.

"Don't move," she says, pecking his mouth gently.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"I want to try something."

He's not quite sure what she means—she's ridden him plenty of times. He likes it because it frees his hands to touch her. Now he holds his breath, watching as her body sinks down, aligning with his. And oh, fuck, he can't worry about whatever else she may or may not be planning in that head of hers, because her slick heat is pressing against the head of his cock. He groans, hands shifting from her thighs to her hips as, for the first time since he let himself be captured by the wendigo, he sinks into the wet heat of her sweet body.

She lowers herself slowly onto him a little at a time, accustoming herself once more to his thickness, the sweet stretch as he fills her. Her palms brace on his chest, a pleased moan leaving her mouth as she settles into place, his cock sheathed deeply within her.

She leans forward, draping her body along his, kissing him softly once more. "There you are."

Yes, there he is. Exactly where he wants to stay forever. He releases his bruising grip on her hips and slides his arms around her.

Her mouth opens, a sweet peck turning deeper. "Hold on, leannán," she breathes.

And dives.

Her fire blazes hot, hotter, expanding, unfurling like a kindled bonfire. She glows in his arms, red and gold-orange flickers traveling over her skin, but she remains a woman of flesh and blood, her body hot in his arms, tight as her inner walls squeeze him. He gasps, sucking in a harsh breath as a little tickle in the back of his mind uncurls, shimmering to life, a deliciously hot flame with a flavor he knows well. She's with him once more, as she was in the cavern under the mountain, a distinct entity but part of him, too. It's beyond intimate, intensely personal, as she strokes his soul softly. There's no way to hide what he knows, no way to prepare her or break it to her gently. What he knows, she knows. What she feels, he feels. He holds her body tight as comprehension dawns.

The shock that reverberates through them both doesn't surprise him. Neither does the torrent of other emotion that follows fast, lightning-quick flashes of grief, sorrow, and regret, a jumbled, confused tumult he feels as keenly as if it were his own. And yes, close upon the heels of that maelstrom of chaotic feeling comes a blinding tide of anger.

Has she ever been angrier? Not that he's witnessed. This isn't how he wanted her to find out, though there's nothing he can do about it now. He holds her tight, wraps himself around her both physically and psychically, knowing he can't cushion the blow but intent on giving whatever comfort he can. She quakes, the bright spark of her fire shuddering with the force of her shock. She curls into him, her cheek to his clavicle, her soul to his soul, body mimicking spirit as she instinctively reaches for support, for something steady to hold to as the foundation of her world shifts and then shatters.

With any other person, fear or sorrow might be the prevailing emotion. Grief. Regret. And yes, she curls into him, her arms tight around his body, seeking solace for a moment. But only for a moment.

I should have known. Her voice sounds inside him once again, as intimate and immediate as his own inner speech.

How could you? Her queen doesn't want her to know. You'll make an incredible queen. Of this he has no doubt. She'll hate it, but she'll be good at it.

I absolutely will not. Her disgust at the idea sparks through him as if it were his own. I'm going to be an indifferent sailor, but one hell of a partner for you. Never a queen. Her body shifts, her head untucking from its spot pressed against his throat.

Riona will not allow it.

Don't you ever bet against me.

Normally he never would. She's aggressive, used to getting her way, and prone to violence when necessary. But after just one conversation with her queen, he knows that woman is ruthless in pursuit of what she wants.

So am I. Maeve's words are hard and hot, spoken into his mind. She's not afraid of her queen, and she's not in shock anymore. Now she's just pissed off.

Her fire flares hotter, fury overtaking desire, burning through both of them. But she's not mad at him. He assumed she would be—she was, in fact, when he struggled to tell her what she wanted to know. Now her ire shifts, directed not at him but at her queen.

And, to his surprise, at herself.

I didn't do it on purpose. The flavor of her anger alters, turning bitter. My kid. But she's right. I should have known what would happen. I didn't think. I should have.

He holds her tightly, inside and out. He hates the bitter taste of her self-contempt, and hates her queen for putting that thought in her head in the first place. Could anyone else have gone into the mountain and freed everyone? Killed all the demons, with absolute certainty that none escaped?

No. The sullen tinge to her mind-voice says she does not want to admit this.

Then what difference does it make, whether you realized the cost before or not? What would it have changed?

Nothing, and she knows it. She would still have entered the caverns to free the captives and kill the wendigos. She had no choice.

Mourn all you like, sweetheart. Mourn what might have been. That's your right. But don't blame yourself when you had no choice.

She lets herself be soothed, at least for now. His body supports hers, his soul cradling her fire. This might-have-been will continue to haunt her; he can feel the shadow of it still falling along the bright spark of her soul. Not the miscarriage, which happens to nearly all women, but the dark spectre that whispers it was her fault. That she caused it deliberately, when she didn't. Riona put that whisper there, and he hates her queen for it.

Don't think about her. Not right now. Love me, please.

That's something she never has to ask for. He's hers for life, no matter what happens. His mouth touches hers and he flexes his thighs, his thick length shifting deeper inside her. The pleasure of that small movement burns through them both, a strange reverberation thrumming through him like an echo. Curious, he tries again.

And oh, that's so good. Beyond anything he's ever felt before. Her fire flares in her own delighted response, burning bigger, hotter, blazing like a beacon. He presses a hand between their bodies and strokes his thumb experimentally over her hard little clit. Pleasure burns through him, bright-hot, though he's not fucking her, not moving anything except his thumb.

She's as shocked as he as mutual pleasure redoubles and echoes through their linked bodies, but she recovers quicker. More, she begs, moving her pelvis slowly, rocking into him, basking in the intense sensation of merged pleasure, both his and hers, bleeding into a sensual puddle of blind desire. More. Please.

Always. She says not to bet against her, so he won't. He'll have faith that she can best her queen in this fight. Even if she doesn't, he'll never stop loving her. He's not capable of that.

His free hand covers her breast as she shifts, beginning to move slowly on top of him. It's pure bliss—not just a singular point of pleasure, not just the sensation of her tight heat gripping his cock. Her pleasure burns inside him, echoing and fueling his own. He can feel the touch of his own hands, bursts of heat and sensation as he strokes her skin, caresses her clit. He's there, wrapped around her, though he honestly doesn't know at this point where bodies end and souls begin, or if in this moment there's any difference between the two. He sucks on her tongue, moving more confidently within her as he accustoms himself to the sensation. Fuck, sex with anyone else is definitely ruined for him now.

It better be. Her amused thoughts filter through his own mind.

And if I lose you?

You won't. She's firm. I refuse. I am a weapon, not a leader. She hooks her arm behind his shoulders and rolls them, ceding her position on top, giving him control. Or at least the illusion of it, he concedes, which earns him a flicker of laughter from her. He's not stupid. He only has whatever control she grants him. He's freely admitted that from the beginning.

You can be my captain. She sucks in a slow breath of purely sexual pleasure as he strokes out and then back in, deep and sweet. I'll obey. Mostly. Probably.

He knows. She wants her own autonomy, but she doesn't seek power. Not over him, nor over a kingdom. I run a casual ship. I'll never ask for more than you can give.

The sensual purr that buzzes through his brain and body is her pleased response, though whether to his words or the way he's moving inside her, he doesn't know. Neither does she. She melts into the mattress, mouth locked with his as he fucks her, long, forceful thrusts, just as she likes. The muscles in his abdomen ache but it's a good pain. He'll feel this tomorrow, and he looks forward to it. He wants her touch seared into his skin, wants to wear her bruises like badges of honor. He wants to leave his seed in her so every gods-be-damned Fae in this gods-be-damned palace knows she's his.

They're well aware, leannán.

Good. Now if only her queen got the message.

I'll make sure she does. Even her thoughts within him hitch as his teeth latch onto the side of her neck and bite down. It hurts, and she loves it. She tips her head to the side, offering him a better angle, freely letting him mark her. Her pleasure bleeds through both of them. None of this is your fault, and she had no right to put you in that position. Nor to keep her plans from me.

Sinbad absolutely does not want to be around for that confrontation. He will never, ever bet against his girl, but Riona is much older, much more seasoned, and very accustomed to getting her own way. He's a little afraid for Odhran's palace and everyone in it.

Her soft laughter is like a bright shower of little sparks inside him. She shifts her hips and meets him at a different angle, and oh, that's good. For both of them. He groans and drops his head into the crease of her shoulder, fucking her deep, the thick head of his cock stimulating a spot inside her that makes her body sing. She tenses around him, nearing the edge.

Never this good before you. Even inside him her voice is tight as everything within her coils, tensing, aching for release.

It's your magic.

Our magic, she disagrees. I couldn't do this on my own.

He has never before been accused of having magic, but he's not going to argue with her. Especially not when her body moves like this, fucking him back so good, so deep, little panting whimpers leaving her mouth as she pleads wordlessly for what she wants, what she craves. The movements of her hips become erratic. He slips a hand between them and strokes her clit again, her liquid desire hot and slick against his thumb, allowing him to glide so smoothly as he fucks her, as he rolls the pad of his thumb over that hard little ruby. Pleasure laps around them like the warm shallows of a southern bay, lovely and sweet but not enough. She whines and pushes her hips against his, fighting for more.

He knows. Just as she knows everything, so does he. He takes her clit carefully between his fingers and pinches. Hard.

She explodes. As that gorgeous cunt contracts around him, he's helpless to do otherwise. Pleasure engulfs him and her fire flares hot, hotter, searing and sweet. Oh, motherfucking gods. He swears, just before greying out, that nothing could ever be better than this.

Sinbad blinks. Maeve's sweet smoke scent drifts around them as his mind slowly comes back into focus. He's alone in his body once more, but she's still physically with him. He has nothing to fear as long as that remains true. He collapsed on top of her minutes ago, and he can feel the aching sting in the meat of his shoulder that tells him yes, she bit him during that furious, blinding perfection as they came together.

His heart hasn't quite calmed and Maeve isn't pushing him to get off of her, so he stays where he is, his softened length still within her, his sweaty body tight against hers. A low hum of animal satisfaction leaves her body and her head shifts. She licks the throbbing spot where she bit him.

"I think you broke skin that time." Not that he really cares. She can bite him all she likes, as long as she stays.

"I did." She sounds sleepy and sated and immensely pleased with herself.

"You sure you're not part werewolf?" He strokes his palm along the hot, sleek skin of her flank. "You sure nothing happened when your fist knocked out some werewolf teeth out on the mountain?"

Her chuckle is low and lazy. "Nope. I'm all Celt."

All Celt is all good with him. His finger strokes the mark his own teeth left on her throat, more red than violet, though it will darken over the next day. He likes seeing it there. Far too much, in fact. Maybe there's something to this constant biting she does.

"That was…" He exhales, finding no words in his burnt-out brain to describe that encounter.

"It was," she agrees. Her palm glides down his sweaty back. "Let me turn?"

He raises himself enough to let her move. His length slips from inside her, which he hates, but he has no energy for a second round right now. She turns onto her side and presses back into him, inviting him to spoon. He does gladly, drawing her firmly against his chest, nestling his cheek into her damp red curls. "You're indescribable, leannán, but I don't know that I can take it like that every time."

"I don't think it will be." She yawns. "You were being weird about your talk with Riona, so I wanted to see if I could get it from you some other way."

She managed to do that and then some. He kisses her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." She lifts her hand, feeling blindly behind her until she finds his cheek. "Just don't hide from me. Please."

"I wasn't trying to. I wanted you to hear the truth from her. Not from me."

"I know that now, and I understand. But I'd rather you just told me." Her hand is gentle, her voice lazy and slow.

He tightens his arms around her. "What do we do now?"

"I'll deal with her. I don't want any part of her plan, and I refuse to give you up." A note of steel enters her voice.

"And if she still won't free you?"

She sighs unhappily. "I don't know yet. I'm not ready to think about burning that bridge unless I have to."

He knows. She owes a lot to her queen, though Riona owes her a lot, too. In a final reckoning he doesn't know who would come out on top. But Maeve's will is stronger than any he's ever encountered before, and while Riona may say she taught her everything, she didn't teach her that. That's all Maeve.

"I will never demand that you break your vow, leannán."

She already knows. She was just inside him. Her hand glides through his hair, her touch infinitely soothing. "I'm honestly a little insulted that she thinks bearing half-blood children will make me more acceptable to her subjects." She snorts lightly. "Celts have been bearing them time out of mind. There's no guarantee what they'll be. Look at me. Look at Sorcha. We're both mutts of some degree." She's facing away from him, but he can hear the roll of her eyes in her voice.

"She has a point. It's not unusual with royal marriages." He struggles to keep his arms gentle.

"She thinks someone like Lachlan can cool me down, but it's not gonna happen." She mutters something he can't quite hear under her breath. He suspects it's a curse. She has one of the filthiest mouths he's ever heard—in that respect she'll fit in well among sailors.

"You did have a relationship."

She returns to her back, dark honey eyes meeting his. "We have a professional working relationship, and an acquaintanceship. I don't know if I'd even call him a friend. But he wanted me from the beginning. I knew it. Everyone knew it. I was close with Riona, and he was envious of both of us because of it." She snorts humorlessly. "Maybe he saw what I didn't. What I should have." She scowls.

"There was no reason for you to know what she was planning." He draws her into his chest and kisses her forehead gently. "She didn't want you to know, and she's not stupid."

"She's the smartest person I've ever met. Except maybe that old sorcerer of yours." She frowns. "He's hard to fathom."

"He raised me and I still find him hard to fathom, so don't feel bad about it."

She winds her arm around his waist and nestles close. Sinbad melts. He loves her fire, yes, but when she's sweet like this she turns him to jelly. "In any case, I didn't have a relationship with Lachlan. Not the way you mean. I slept with him, yes, but for the Fae that doesn't have to mean anything. And it didn't."

Not for her. The iceman is another story. Sinbad has seen the way the man's ice-blue eyes linger on her, the envy burning in his veins when she touches Sinbad. He's been taught to hide it but he's not good enough to conceal everything. Sinbad kisses her soft curls. He holds her close and breathes that smoke-sweet scent. She's perfect, and he adores her. He can't blame the iceman for wanting her, for struggling to hold onto something he never had in the first place, but he needs to get a clue. So does his queen. Maeve's made her choice.

He stretches slowly, and for the first time takes note of their surroundings. "Sweetheart, that was beyond amazing, but I think I'm glad it won't happen every time I touch you."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure my ship would survive."

She frowns, withdrawing her head from its spot tucked against his shoulder, and reluctantly opens her eyes. She snickers as she surveys the damage.

His leather trousers were tangled on his thighs the last he remembers. They're ash now. The soft linen sheets have burned away, and he's lying directly on the thick canvas mattress, which was probably a drab undyed beige before he tempted Maeve's fire. It's black now. The heavy, pale silver wood of the bed frame thankfully isn't burning, though it is scorched black in places.

Maeve laughs.

"How is that funny? You complained about the price of replacing your clothes last time you burned them away. How much more does a bed like this cost?"

She sits up, stretching slowly. "Are you kidding? That's fucking hilarious." She laughs, staring at the charred, ruined mess of the big bed. "I blame Riona for all of it. If she hadn't put you in a mood, it never would have happened. Let her pay for it." She snickers and rises from the mattress. Her entire back, including that glorious ass, is black with soot.

"Those were my extra clothes, you know." He smacks the tempting curve of her ass, leaving a very clear handprint.

She yelps with surprise, but doesn't actually protest. "I'll find you something. Unless you want to borrow a gown."

"Don't even."

"The Celt men on Britannia like to wear wool skirts. They call them kilts."

"And plenty of men in many places wear long tunics and robes. I do not. Besides, I wouldn't fit in anything sized for you." He drops a kiss on her shoulder. "Come have a bath before you go fight with your queen." He's not much for this habit of constant bathing, and he'd love nothing more than for Maeve to leave the residue of their coupling on her body, in her body, but they're covered in soot yet again.

A flicker of irritation kindles in her dark eyes. "Serve her right if I went barging in just like this."

"Just like that?" He has no right to stop her if she really wants to, but he's not entirely keen on Odhran's entire palace getting that much of an eyeful. Not to mention his crew. On the mountain was one thing—she had to go into the fire in order to live, and fire and cloth don't get along. Storming out of her bedroom covered in nothing but ashes is a very different situation.

A slow, deviously speculative smile blooms across her expressive mouth. "Bet she wouldn't be so quick to try to name me her heir if I did that."

He knows that look in her eye. The firm set of her shoulders. She glances down at her body, which he knows full well she's brazenly unashamed of. Her lovely mouth shifts from speculative to determined. She's tall and pale and perfect, streaked black with soot and ash, peppered here and there with bruises and raw red marks from her struggles on the mountain. She's also wearing his handprint very clearly on the cute curve of her ass, his bite low on her throat, and his seed inside her. He can't smell himself on her, but everyone else in this palace will.

And that seems to be exactly what she intends. She presses a soft kiss to his mouth, pulling away with that wicked smile back in place. "This is going to be fun." She turns for the door, lifts the latch, and very deliberately steps out into the corridor.

Sinbad struggles for three heartbeats, unsure what to do. His loaned clothes burned, and his own haven't been returned to him yet. But this isn't a confrontation he can miss. With no better option, he winds a damp linen towel from the bathing room around his waist and hurries after her.